SEE HER DIE (3 page)

It was eight a.m. and Mac had opted to leave Duncan back at Twenty-Six Federal Plaza to work on yanking Detective Brannigan’s chain regarding the origin of the murder weapon. Truth was, Mac preferred questioning a suspect alone the first go-around.

He’d arrived at Elizabeth Young’s small Leonia apartment at seven sharp. On the Jersey side of the Hudson, the apartment was actually the attic-turned-living-space portion of an older home owned by an elderly woman who lived alone. According to the landlady, who acted as a sort of answering service, Miss Young had already left for the job site this morning. Another step in the wrong direction for Mac. The most effective interviews were conducted on the suspect’s home turf where they were the most comfortable.

Who’d have thought she’d be up and at ‘em so damned early?

Mac checked the street and number he’d jotted down. Almost there. He drove past some of the city’s finest cast-iron architecture with the ornate facades and over sized windows until he reached the SoHo address the landlady had given him. He parked in a nearby alley and walked to the entrance of the four-story building. Scaffolding and indications of ongoing plaster repair cluttered the would-be lobby. An ancient warehouse turned residential lofts, eight in number and with price tags, no doubt, to match the upscale address.

He boarded the old-style freight elevator and set it into motion. Despite being in a state of refurbishment, the building, and location were a far cry from Elizabeth Young’s current home address.

He’d read all about her poignant Cinderella story. Her defense attorney would use that saga to sway sympathy from the jury when the time came. Small-town girl falls in love with big-city boy and follows her heart in hopes of making her dreams come true. Then, as dreams have a way of doing, they’d crashed down around her. The love of her life had turned out to be a lying, cheating, smooth-talking womanizer.

Poor Elizabeth had suddenly found herself on her own in the big, bad city.

The elevator came to a stop, groaning loudly in protest. Somehow, Mac thought with a twinge of respect that annoyed the hell out of him, she’d managed to land on her feet. She’d found an affordable, yet tolerable place with reasonable rent, and she’d fallen back on the trade she’d learned from her father—painting. Not the artsy kind, but the plain old, elbow-grease-required, refurbishing sort.

In the past eight months she’d built a solid reputation and enough business to merit hiring a helper. Mac walked down the corridor toward the open door on the right. There were two large lofts on each floor, one on either side of the centrally located elevator and corridor. Since the other door was closed, it made sense to go for the open one first.

Her helper would be around here somewhere. She’d picked herself a real winner there, too. Mac wondered if she had any idea the con artist she’d hired had a rap sheet as long as his arm. But then, her own rap sheet was nothing to scoff at—which was something else they had to discuss. According to Detective Brannigan, the lady didn’t like to talk about her past. Mac felt fairly certain she wouldn’t care for any of his questions, especially after the report he’d read this morning.

The preliminary report from the medical examiner confirmed that Harrison had sex prior to his death. The only substantial clue as to the identity of the person with whom he’d had sex was a single pubic hair that didn’t belong to the deceased. Well, that and a few healthy scratches on his neck that were only a couple of hours old at the time of death. DNA testing was already under way. All they needed was a comparison sample to try for a match.

Miss Young wasn’t going to like that part either.

Mac paused in the open doorway and surveyed the scene before him. Keith Beaumont, better known as Boomer to his friends, stood on a ladder using long brush strokes of white paint as he edged the wall around the expansive windows. According to his file, he was just over six feet tall and a wiry hundred and forty pounds. His twenty-second birthday had come and gone a month ago, but his crime-ridden teenage years had left their mark on his thin face. A white scar, which stood out despite his fair complexion, stretched downward from his hairline through his right eyebrow, leaving a permanent part. He’d buzzed his blond hair to the point of baldness. A number of nasty-looking tattoos adorned any visible flesh below his neck. The tattered jeans and black tee-shirt completed the untrustworthy picture.

Mac couldn’t imagine what Elizabeth saw in the kid, unless it was a kindred spirit. And there was no time like the present to ask. His gaze slid across the empty room to her location facing the wall farthest from him. She rolled on the paint in a sort of zigzag pattern, carefully covering the newly re-plastered surface with a fresh coat of pristine white paint. Her hair was secured high on the back of her head in a long ponytail. She wore baggy overalls and a plain white tee-shirt. A red shop cloth, stained with a bit of white paint, hung from her right rear pocket.

The image was incredibly innocent looking. Another image, one from the video, abruptly appeared before his eyes. He blinked, shattering the picture that had burned into his brain, but not before it had its usual effect. Even with her head thrown back in ecstasy, she looked somehow vulnerable, innocent and every damned muscle in his body reacted.

A muscle pulsed in his jaw. Looks could be deceiving. He was halfway across the room before she sensed someone’s presence and turned around.

“Miss Young, I hope this isn’t a bad time.”

Her surprise immediately turned to annoyance. There was a tiny splatter of paint on the lower edge of one lens of her glasses. Boomer turned to check out their visitor. To his credit he kept his mouth shut. Mac hoped he stayed smart that way.

Elizabeth braced for trouble. She remembered this guy from the funeral. What was his name? Something MacBride. Tall, good-looking, charming. He’d offered her his handkerchief. She remembered he’d smelled just as good as he looked. The earthy scent had been subtle but impossible to ignore. What was he doing here? And why was her heart suddenly pounding so hard?

New York City was full of handsome guys. But this was the first time one had tracked her down. She squared her shoulders and ignored her silly reaction. Nerves, that was all it could be. She’d had a hell of a week. Maybe the guy needed a painter. If so, he’d come to the right place.

“We met at the funeral,” he offered, apparently taking her silence as a sign that she didn’t recognize him. “Collin MacBride.”

He extended one broad hand and smiled that charming smile that was a perfect complement to his polished appearance. The navy suit was obviously tailored just for him, the white shirt crisply starched, and the tie was a rich blue that brought out the color of his eyes. The black leather shoes suggested Italian craftsmanship. Those high dollar soft soles explained how he’d sneaked up on her.

Get it together, Elizabeth.
She passed the paint roller and handle to her left hand, swiped her right on the leg of her overalls before accepting his. He was probably just an insurance salesman. Didn’t those guys always hang out at funerals?

The zing of electricity that passed between them as their palms touched startled her all over again. She snatched her hand back and instantly went on the defensive. “Do you make a habit of looking up all the women you hit on at funerals, Mr. MacBride?”

One side of that full mouth hitched up a little higher. “Only on occasion, Miss Young.”

She resisted the urge to rub her still-sizzling palm against her leg. He was looking at her—no, not just looking—studying her. Who was this guy? When she could bear the scrutiny of those piercing blue eyes no longer, she spoke up, “So what’s the occasion?”

He reached into his interior coat pocket and pulled out a black leather case. Her frown deepened with growing confusion and then she knew.
He was a cop
. Damn. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Just what she needed, more questions she couldn’t answer about an event she seriously wanted to forget.

He displayed his credentials for her inspection, then tucked them back into his pocket.
“Agent
MacBride,” he clarified for her benefit in case she hadn’t read the fine print on his Federal Bureau of Investigation ID. “I’m looking into the murder of Dr. Ned Harrison. Your landlady said you’d be here.”

A draining sensation made her sway before she could recapture her balance. “I’ve already answered the police’s questions. I don’t know anything else.” Dammit, why did her voice have to sound so shaky?

The paint roller felt suddenly too heavy to hold. She swiveled stiffly and placed it in the pan. Her thoughts raced around in her head like a competitor at the Daytona 500 as she straightened. She’d have to talk to Mrs. Polk about giving out her whereabouts to strangers. She doubted that would have stopped this man. One flash of his official ID and Mrs. Polk had no recourse but to answer whatever he asked. What did he want with Elizabeth? She’d told the police everything she knew. There was nothing else that needed telling. Not if she could help it anyway.

“I just need to clear up a few discrepancies. Routine procedure.”

Déja vu hit like a blow to her midsection. The blood on her hands, her ex-brother-in-law screaming in agony. The police handcuffing her and forcing her into the patrol car. Routine procedure often included unjust incarceration. She couldn’t afford to miss any more work. The developer would refuse to pay her the remainder of her contract if she failed to finish on time. She had to have these two lofts finished by the end of next week.

She moistened her lips and adopted an outer calm she in no way felt. “I don’t know how I can help you, Agent MacBride, but I’ll do what I can.”

Boomer was watching, his mounting uneasiness radiating clear across the room. She wanted to say something to reassure him, but at the moment she could only stare into the eyes focused so intently on her. Those haunting memories from the past she’d worked so hard to put behind her kept clawing at her shaky determination.

“According to Harrison’s appointment book, you were scheduled to have dinner with him at seven the evening he was murdered.”

It wasn’t a question. He already knew the answer. So did the detectives who’d interrogated her on two different occasions. But he wanted to analyze her as she answered. This was a man who checked his facts carefully, made his own measured evaluations. He would never take anyone else’s word for anything. He wasn’t like the two detectives who’d interviewed her already.

Judging by the set of his broad shoulders and the intensity of his gaze, he already knew more about her than she wanted him to know. Far more than the other detectives had bothered to glean. He’d read her file, made calls, had her pegged as a suspect. Had known exactly who she was when he approached her in the church. Dammit she didn’t need this right now. Didn’t want to go through this kind of emotion-twisting investigation again.

Once in a lifetime was more than enough.

Why had she lost control during the service? She’d never convince anyone that it had nothing to do with Ned’s death and everything to do with fear for the life she’d worked so hard to build here. Selfish she knew but the truth. It must have looked as if she’d been overcome by grief—or guilt. And the video... what if he’d found the video? The other two men hadn’t mentioned it. Maybe Ned had thrown it away or locked it up somewhere.

“Miss Young?”

“That’s right.” The words were hers but the voice sounded as if it came from someone else. “But Ned—Dr. Harrison—never showed up at the restaurant.”

MacBride slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and inclined his head, his relentless gaze never deviating from hers. “The maître d’ confirmed Harrison never arrived. Where did you go when you left around eight?”

Breathe,
she instructed.
In and out
“Like I told the other gentlemen,” she explained, her impatience showing a little, “I went home.” She tried not to sound curt but it was hard not to. She hadn’t done anything wrong and she hated being made to feel as if she had. How could this man or anyone else see her as a suspect? Just because of a broken dinner date she hadn’t even wanted to accept? Apparently Ned, the bastard, had screwed her one last time before getting his.

No, she decided on second thought, that wasn’t it. MacBride was basing his theory on her past.
You can never outrun it
.

He took a step closer. She drew back a step, feeling intimidated by the idea of why he was here and somehow overwhelmed by
him
. The intensity in his eyes pressed against her, made it difficult to breathe.

“Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts?” His tone was calm, but she could feel the fierce determination beneath the innocuous words. “It would be very beneficial to you if someone could corroborate your statement.”

“What’s up, Elizabeth?”

Boomer planted his long lanky form right between them. She hadn’t even heard him climb down from the ladder.

“Who’s the suit?” His voice was calm but his body was braced for battle.

“It’s all right,” she said quickly in hopes of heading off any trouble for the kid. He was loyal to a fault. Always her protector, especially when they worked in rougher neighborhoods, which she’d had to do a lot of in the first few months of getting her business off the ground. But he needed to stand clear of this one. “Agent MacBride is with the FBI. He has some questions about Dr. Harrison’s death.”

Boomer didn’t appear impressed. He folded his skinny arms over his chest and continued to blatantly size up the agent. “Just let me know if he gives you any trouble. He doesn’t look too friendly to me.” He gave their guest a final glare before stalking back to his work.

Elizabeth almost sagged with relief. Things were bad enough without Boomer getting involved. From the unyielding expression on MacBride’s face, she was pretty sure he felt nothing that even remotely resembled relief. Indifference or disapproval quite possibly, but definitely not relief.

“The answer to your question is no,” she said to the agent. “I don’t have anyone who can verify my whereabouts. I’m sure that was in the detectives’ report. My landlady was out that night and I live alone.”