ToServeAndProtect (6 page)

Tyson already sat in the office. “Close the door,”
Captain Baird said. He moved to the far side of the room and sat behind his
desk.

Captain Baird was well respected by the troops. Thirty
years of service, a decorated officer, and an admirable leader. His officers
didn’t just give him respect. He’d earned it working alongside them. “We’ve had
an interesting detail develop in the last five minutes. I want your opinion on
how to handle it.” He glanced at Tyson. “Where do we stand with Ms. Porter?”

Tyson looked at Dustin. Since the hospital Dustin had
made it clear he’d deal with McKenna, and he told the captain, “I thought I’d
handle the interview. She seemed nervous with me yesterday. Thought I’d use it
to my advantage.”

The captain nodded his head. “Now for the interesting
development. Tyson, you’ll handle this. Dawn Wilson is in room two.”

Dustin turned to Tyson and cocked an eyebrow. They had
already learned of Ms. Porter’s friend. Bosom buddies since elementary school.

“I guess I’ll go have a talk with her.” Tyson stood
up. “Good luck with the princess,” he said to Dustin.

“I met Dawn at the hospital. My friend, you’re the one
who needs luck. If McKenna Porter is the princess, Dawn Wilson is the royal
bitch. I think you’ve met your match.”

“Just a minute,” Captain Baird said as Dustin and
Tyson headed for the door. “I think they might be in on this together. Give
them enough rope to hang themselves.”

“Give us a little credit, Captain,” Tyson said with
his hand on the doorknob.

The captain nodded his head and looked at the papers
on his desk. “I’ve already had a call from District Attorney Butler.”

Nothing more needed said. Dustin and Tyson left the
office.

Tyson nodded toward the main corridor. “Here’s the
princess with her high-priced attorney.” An elegantly dressed McKenna walked
into the room. Designer suit, cut perfectly to her svelte body, in a shade of
sapphire blue that set off her blonde hair.

“She seems to have recovered.” Dustin tracked her
movements as she walked across the room. Their eyes locked, and a crackle of
awareness caused the hairs on his arms to tingle.

“Our princess could pass as royalty,” Tyson said. “Too
rich for my tastes. A woman like that would expect champagne, caviar, and
romance when all a man wants is a steak on the grill, cold beer, and good sex.”
He shifted his glance to Dustin. “Most men.” He elbowed Dustin in the ribs.
“I’ll go talk to the best friend.” Tyson headed toward interrogation room two.

McKenna’s attorney stood protectively close. He
approached Dustin and introduced himself.

Dustin estimated Albert Wells somewhere in his late
sixties. He wore a dark gray, tailored suit with precise lines to conceal a
midsection bulging from too much of the good life. The wire-rimmed glasses
perched on his rather large, bulbous nose couldn’t hide deep lines at the
corners of his eyes. Still gifted with a full head of snow-white hair, Albert
Wells kept each hair on his head combed in a perfectly placed wave flowing to
the back of his head.

“How’re you feeling this morning?” Dustin asked
McKenna.

She turned to her lawyer.

“Ms. Porter is as well as can be expected.”

For the first time, her lips tilted into a small
smile. Obviously her lawyer intended to speak on her behalf. Smart, that would
keep her from making a mistake in her story.

“Should we get started?”

McKenna raised her eyes to meet his again and nodded.
Shiny locks of hair fell softly around her shoulders, framing the delicate
features of her face. Her nose, thin and straight, seemed to turn up in
defiance as she met his stare.

Arrogance. He couldn’t believe the audaciousness. She
thought she could waltz onto his turf and throw her haughty attitude around
with her high-profile attorney.

“This isn’t your specialty,” he said to Wells.

“I’m not here as a defense attorney, Detective. As I’m
sure you’re well aware.” He didn’t extend his hand but shifted his briefcase
from his right hand to his left. He then placed his hand protectively on
McKenna’s back. “Ms. Porter is here to answer any questions you might have.
You’ll discover there won’t be sufficient evidence to charge her with whatever
happened in that room.”

“Oh we know it was murder.” He stared at the scrapes
and bruises on McKenna. “And we know Dr. Porter was in that room. I guarantee,
we’ll find out exactly what happened.”

Dustin pointed to the open door on the other side of
the bustling room.

McKenna found it impossible to stop her hands from
shaking. The eyes of every officer in the room bore into her back with no less
pain than the bullets in the guns holstered on their utility belts would
inflict if fired.

Once she entered the interrogation room, Detective
Pearce shut the door. Plain white walls closed in on her. She took a deep
steadying breath and sat in the cold metal folding chair Albert held out for
her. She rested her clasped hands on the edge of the scratched and dinged
table.

“McKenna?” Albert laid his hand on her knee.

“I’m sorry.” She looked at the detective across the
table. He wore a beige suit, tailored to accentuate the breadth of his
shoulders and the trim lines of his waist. He looked nice. Nothing like the
impression he’d left in the hospital, respectable, rather than menacing.

“A drink,” he repeated. “Coffee, cola, water?”

She took a deep breath and tried to sound as she had
rehearsed with Dawn. Flutters filled her stomach, and a lump lodged in her
throat. She swallowed and looked directly into the detective’s eyes. According
to Dawn, that she appeared confident was paramount. “Please, don’t patronize me
with polite conversation when I know what you’re thinking.”

The detective raised an eyebrow and shifted on his
chair. She nearly stumbled over her rehearsed words. A sparkle lit his hazel
eyes, and his lips hinted at a smile. She couldn’t squash the flash of
awareness of his masculinity.

“I would never patronize you, Ms. Porter.”

No, but he could break her if he showed her
compassion. “I’d like to get this over with, so ask your questions, Detective.”

“Where were you Sunday night?” Detective Pearce took
out a yellow legal pad and made notes as McKenna spoke.

“Every Sunday I go to a yoga class. The class is held
in a studio above the coffee shop, Conversations. I’m a regular. They have a
sign-in sheet if you find it necessary to verify.”

“I do,” he said while he wrote. He glanced up. “I find
it necessary to verify every detail. Nothing is insignificant, so please be
detailed in your recounting of the night’s activities.”

“Sometimes we get coffee before class. Last Sunday I
was late so after class Dawn and I had coffee with another yoga student.”

“Why were you late?”

“Just late,” she said.

“Ms. Porter, I’m looking for motive and opportunity.
You might want to consider being forthright with your responses.”

“Traffic, daydreaming, I run late,” she said sounding
as exasperated as she felt. “You can verify that, too. I was once told I was
born two weeks late and was still trying to catch up.” She took a breath
remembering her objective today was not to establish an alibi as much as
to
spike the curiosity and interest of the detective
as Dawn put it.

Dawn might not be so free with her advice if she knew
about the sputter in McKenna’s heart every time she met the detective’s stare.
Or maybe, Dawn would tell her to take it further than flirtation and innuendo
and do him. Dawn knew how to use all the weapons in her arsenal to her best
abilities. And if Dawn were attracted to the detective as McKenna was, she’d
act on it. McKenna would have enough trouble keeping her story straight.

“After coffee, we walked down Twenty-Fifth Street. A
jazz band was playing at the amphitheater,” she continued. “Do you ever go to
the free evening concerts, Detective?”

He paused with his pen. “I don’t like jazz.”

Deep, steady breathing, focus, try to maintain the
outward cool confidence she didn’t feel. McKenna saw Dawn’s face in her mind
and smiled at the detective. “Miles Davis, Sidney Bechet?”

Detective Pearce shook his head. “More like Bruce
Springsteen and Fleetwood Mac.”

McKenna crinkled her nose. “Sorry, I never developed
an appreciation for classic rock.”

“Just the classics?”

“Yes.” She twisted an emerald and diamond ring that
had been her mother’s around her finger.

“You missed out.”

Intentionally her lashes fluttered closed, when she
looked up their eyes locked, sending an electrical volt coursing through her
body. He was attractive, although he looked tired. If he’d slept, it hadn’t lessened
the lines at the sides of his hazel eyes. “Maybe you could introduce me to some
of your favorites?”

“I think we should stay on the subject,” Albert Wells
said, narrowing his eyes on the detective and then McKenna. “We need to
remember the point of this meeting.”

A slow, triumphant smile crossed McKenna’s lips, but
she quickly banked the sentiment. She had successfully redirected the conversation.

Dawn was right. She needed to forge a partnership with
Detective Pearce if she wanted to find out what happened to her father without
meeting the same fate. As long as she remembered their association served a
purpose. It had been a long time since she’d spent any real time with a man.
Detective Pearce was too attractive. She’d need Dawn to keep her focused. More
importantly, she needed to keep her story straight.

“You’re right, Albert.” She looked across the table at
the detective. “The concert ended a little after dark.”

“Did you go straight home?”

McKenna glanced down and to the right. This was where
her story grew complicated. She spoke just as she’d rehearsed with Dawn. “No,
Dawn and I stopped for dinner at the Chalet.” She glanced at the detective.
“Have you eaten there?”

“Yes, but continue.”

“I picked up takeout for Elliot. He loves German
food.” She wanted to be vague but give enough to convince the detective she’d
given the whole story. Too much information and she risked blowing their story.
“Dawn and I ended up talking. It was late when I got home. I thought Elliot was
asleep. The house was dark. I put his dinner in the fridge.” She closed her
eyes and swallowed the effects of the revolting memory. The roiling in her
stomach continued. “Then I stepped in blood on my way upstairs.” She stopped
speaking.

“Wait a second. You seemed to have left out some
details. How did you get the injuries on your hands and face?”

She glanced down. Deep red welts and bandages marred
her hands. “My feet are hurt, too,” she said in a distant voice. “I must have
stepped on glass after I broke the vase.” Her face heated as she remembered
sliding through the ribbons of blood crisscrossing the hall.

“That’s enough, Mickey.” Albert put his hand on hers.
“Give her some time, Detective.” He stood and pulled McKenna’s chair out for
her.

“She can have time when we’re finished, but I have a
couple more questions,” Detective Pearce said as he leaned forward.

Albert reseated himself.

“What was your relationship with Elliot Porter?”

The question confused her.

“You refer to him as Elliot, not dad. I wondered why?”

“He preferred it after my mother died.”

“Then can you explain the note left on the counter?
Did you have a fight?”

Like a deer caught in the site of a hunter’s rifle,
she felt the approaching trap. The note had completely slipped her mind. She
and Dawn had not thought of a contingency plan regarding the damn note. “No, we
don’t argue.”
We barely speak.
“I can’t explain it.” She looked at
Albert for help. “The note didn’t make any sense.”

D
etective
Peace took the folded paper from the envelope and placed it on the table in
front of Albert and McKenna.

Albert took the note and looked carefully at the
handwriting. “I fail to see the importance.” He slid the note back.

Next the detective pulled out a folder. “We tested the
blood against hair from your father’s hairbrush. We ran your DNA report. Here
are the results.” He placed the report in front of her. “Elliot Porter was not
you father.”

Chapter
Five

Tyson Jones sat across from Ms. Porter’s pal. He’d
seen the type before. Strong exteriors, when hit hard enough in the right place,
shattered like eggshells. “Ms. Wilson, what can I do for you?”

“I admit I’m impatient. Rather than waiting for you to
get around to questioning me, I thought I’d save you the trouble.”

“That was thoughtful of you.”

“Mickey was with me Sunday night.”