Chapter Ten

My heart did a tap dance against my chest as a rush of warm embarrassment surged through my veins. My first inclination was to ignore him, but I couldn’t. I needed to explain my silly behavior. Besides, he might help convince his officers that I was innocent.

“Well, Chief Patterson. Were you coming to see me?” As the words left my mouth, I glanced beyond him. The door had a sign with his name. Damn, I hadn’t noticed I was walking by his office.

“Kimberly.” His nod was noncommittal, blue eyes watchful but wary. He appeared as uncomfortable as I felt. “I heard you were coming in to give a statement and be fingerprinted.”

I held up my blackened fingers, pleased they weren’t shaking like my insides. “Like a common criminal.”

Hank glanced at my fingers, and his lips turned up in a half smile, but his voice remained flat. “Normal procedure. You were at the wine shop. We need to eliminate extraneous prints.”

“Were you watching while they gave me the third degree?” I asked, gesturing with my head down the stairs toward the interrogation room.

He shifted, displaying discomfort. Behind us, an open office area buzzed with activity. “I knew you were giving a statement. I don’t normally take part in active investigations.”

With Hank looking uncomfortable, I couldn’t help putting a flirtatious note in my voice, producing a smile and batting my mascara laden lashes. “Even for me?”

His lips drew into a straight, narrow line and he stood like a military officer ready to march off. He wasn’t going to play games. And this was no time for frivolity. I lowered my 100-watt smile.

“Actually, I would like to talk with you.”

A quick glance at his watch produced a slight grimace. “I have a meeting...”

“I need to return your jacket.”

He glanced at the open area. Checking for eavesdroppers, perhaps? His hand gestured toward his office and I walked by him, inhaling the warm pleasant scent of sandalwood soap. He towered over me, even in my three-inch stiletto heels. In a well cut navy suit that emphasized his muscular shoulders, he looked more like a successful Hollywood player than police chief.

Part of me tingled—the very feminine part—and I wasn’t certain that pleased me. Here I was panting like a teenager, while he hadn’t indicated any interest in me. On the contrary, he appeared ill at ease.

He closed the door behind me. The room was small but pure Hank. The furniture was standard issue maple, like a department store layout displaying office décor. His desk was neat and orderly except for a stack of papers in one corner. Plaques and pictures dominated one wall while file cabinets and shelves filled with books—probably all law enforcement related—lined another. The third wall contained a long sweep of windows that provided a view of the short stretch of trendy galleries, boutiques, and restaurants that made up downtown Mira Loma. Strung out along a stretch of the Pacific Coast Highway, our city was known for surfing and beaches. In reality, it consisted of strip malls, intertwined with aging apartments, beach townhomes, and vintage 1940’s cottages.

“I suppose you’re wondering why the police chief doesn’t rate an office on the ocean side.” He gestured me to a chair in front of his desk.

I offered a smile as I sat. “I figure you requested this side. The Hank Patterson I know wouldn’t want the distraction of an ocean view to keep him from work.”

His laugh was quick, and my stomach did a minor leap at the sudden appearance of dimples. Hell, how could I have ever forgotten those dimples? And damn, did he look good in that suit! It brought out the vibrant color of his eyes, as pure blue as the Pacific on the other side of the building.

He perched in front of me on the edge of his desk, long legs stretched in front. “I was thinking about calling you.”

“About the jacket or business?” I tried not to study him closely, but I couldn’t help noticing the taut skin of his lean cheeks. His tanned face and neck provided sharp contrasts to the white shirt. His tie was slightly crooked and while tempted to straighten it, I knew better. Why had he never married?

His gaze lowered to the papers on his desk and he rearranged them. “Partly business.”

A shred of disappointment laced through me. I stifled the urged to ask what the other part was. “My attorney is gone. I can’t speak without him.”

“This isn’t about the murder.”

What could he want? Something personal? I put my purse on the floor and crossed my legs. The slit in the front of my skirt slid open. Tanning at the pool had given them a golden hue. I hoped he noticed.

He did. For an instant, his gaze fastened on my legs. Hell, he looked damn near hypnotized. I started to smile as I pulled the flap closed, but he shot to his feet and walked toward the window, as though he couldn’t turn his back to me soon enough. He looked outside. “Lots of press gathered down there.”

I didn’t want to think about that mess. I was more interested in what was happening inside this office, which was growing smaller by the minute. I could sense an electric buzz in the air. Was I imagining it? No, I’d seen a surge of heat flame in his eyes when he looked at my legs.

“They know you’re here,” he continued.

“Wonderful.” I knew they were hanging around hoping to catch someone coming in for questioning—like me. I’d expected them to leave me alone once Rick’s connection to Bobbi the Bimbo emerged, but according to Lindy, who was playing house sitter, photographers remained staked out near my driveway. Hopefully Oliver provided a statement when he departed, but I didn’t want to take chances. “Is there another way out? Maybe an officer can take me home and you can send over my car later?”

He stiffened and turned away from the window, lifting a finger, as though making a point. “That is why I wanted to talk to you.”

“The press?”

Hank returned to his desk, sitting behind it. He stared at me across the wide expanse of oak. I was good at reading body language. He wanted to put distance between us. He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands across his midsection.

“This is rough. How are you holding up?”

The change in subject surprised me. I lifted my shoulders in a shrug. “Iron lady. Isn’t that what you called me when we were working the Bates murders?”

His lips twitched into a smile. “I could have gotten fired for showing you those crime scene pictures.”

I’d insisted on seeing the disgusting photos, though they couldn’t be used on the air. While he expected them to make me sick—and they had—I wanted to see how brutal the killings were.

“I showed you those pictures as a favor,” he continued.

We became close during that murder case. Very close. “That was a long time ago.”

He spread his hands wide and shook them like he was shaking a Christmas present. “That is why I wanted to talk to you. We were once friends.”

I uncrossed my legs and leaned forward. “It was a little more than that.” For an instant I recalled those gesturing hands on my cheek, stroking it. I remembered the tension inside me as I waited to find out if Mr. Straight and Narrow meant to kiss me for the first time.

His hard voice broke the spell like a bursting bubble. “I don’t want to seem like I’m playing favorites. We had an actor arrested on DUI two years ago, and his parents thought they could buy him out of it.”

“They must have. I don’t remember that story.” I was upset over his comment about “once” being friends. The irritation made me perverse. “And we weren’t friends, we were lovers.”

“Now that you’ve gotten that out in the open, that is my point.” He leaned forward, looking directly at me, all traces of good humor gone, blue eyes so razor sharp they could cut. “I will not give you preferential treatment. I came to this position with the promise to be fair. The mayor will hold me to it. She’s already upset I visited you before seeing Wells’ sister.”

Despite the fierceness in his eyes, pleasure swelled inside me. His first thought on hearing of Rick’s death was to see me? I knew the reaction I was having to him. Given his look a few minutes ago, could it be possible he had the same thoughts about me?

“Should you be talking to me?” I pressed my tongue to my upper lip to keep from smiling. Poor Hank, caught in a crisis of conscience. I leaned back and crossed my legs, letting the slit fall open purposely, but his eyes remained glued to my face. He wasn’t going to get caught in that trap again.

“You’re here on business.” His tone was hard as granite and one brow arched. Yep, he meant business. “Don’t expect special treatment from me or my department.”

“All I want is fair treatment. Have your officers searched the Bimbo’s house? Messed it up like they messed up mine?”

His face transformed into a rigid, frowning mask. “You were one of the last people to see Wells alive. Your breakup was acrimonious, and you don’t seem distraught over his death.”

“How the hell would you know that?”

“People overheard arguments, and you were seen shopping on Rodeo Drive Saturday. That doesn’t sound like someone who’s upset.”

He was managing to upset me. A tremor of anger rippled through me, but I kept my voice steady. “How would you know I was shopping unless your guys are following me? Did they tell you what I bought? Toothpaste and underwear because your officers wouldn’t let me take anything from my house. Why did you call me in here? To interrogate me without my attorney?”

“You said you wanted to talk to me.”

I drew a deep breath. That was true. But what I’d wanted was...well, to get his people to leave me alone…

He waved his hand at the door. “In your typical manner, you sashay in here and ask me to hide you from the press or have my officers do a favor for you.”

Damn! I hated when someone successfully one-upped me.

“Screw you! The bottom line is I didn’t kill him. Put that on the record.” I bent over to pick up my purse to leave.

There was a tap at the door, and I heard Torres’ voice. “Hey, boss, I hear our anchor lady was here with her high powered attorney. Did the bitch confess...”

I jerked up. His gulp was audible when he saw me. Clutching my purse so I didn’t throw it, I glowered at Hank. “Maybe you should give your officers the ‘Favored Treatment’ speech, Chief.”

Torres turned so red, even his bald head flamed with color. “Miss delaGarza, I didn’t... ”

“Don’t say another word to me,” I muttered as I stomped by him. “Or I may punch out your lights with a baseball bat.” Let the pricks think what they wanted about my outburst.

****

I was ready to step outside before I realized my predicament. Through the glass front doors I could see my car, but between it and the door was a row of microphones. Several reporters, including Paula Gardner and Peter Murphy, lounged on a wall nearby.

Why was Paula, a weekday anchor, covering regular news? Wasn’t Peter off today? Why were two of my biggest enemies out there? Hell, they’d probably begged to cover the story.

I searched for another exit and spotted a side door, but reporters would see me when I ran for my car. Callahan probably had it placed in front on purpose.

Footsteps sounded behind me and I whipped around, surprised to see a familiar, but out of place, face—the silver-haired guy Delia accosted at Geneva. What was his name? Something to do with a pilgrim?

“Mr…Miles?”

He nodded and his smile displayed very white, very straight teeth. He was more striking up close than seen through the haze of martinis. His face might have been sculpted by a master geneticist—deep set eyes, strong jaw, and nicely formed lips. His gunmetal gray suit was perfectly tailored for his broad-shouldered physique and the light blue of his shirt turned his eyes blue-gray.

“Ms. delaGarza, how good to see you.”

The voice was like thick honey. I didn’t want to answer why I was at the station, so I didn’t ask why he was there. He cast a glance toward the front door.

“I’m not with that bunch,” I began in case he got the wrong idea. Whatever he was doing, he probably didn’t want to talk to the press either. “I’m trying to elude them.”

“But they’re your friends.” A hint of sarcasm laced his voice.

“Not today. They’re media vultures, ready to devour me for the evening news. I’m trying to figure out how to get my car without facing them.”

His quick chuckle eased my wariness. He gestured toward the side door. “My chauffeur is outside. Would you like me to have him bring it around?”

What luck! I thrust my keys at him before he could change his mind. “It’s a black Mercedes convertible with the license plate, Newsat11.”

“Be right back.” He stepped outside and talked to a uniformed man lounging on the steps. What had Delia said about this guy besides he was rich and unmarried?

He turned toward me, then stopped and pulled out a cell phone. He frowned at the display but remained outside to answer the call. I took advantage of the time to call Adrienne and let her know how things had gone with Oliver. It felt good to know that two of the best lawyers in the city were on my side.

When my car pulled up to the door, I signed off and peered outside. The side of the building was empty so I rushed through the door and down the steps to my car. The man put away his phone and held the car door for me.

I rewarded him with a smile as I slid into the seat. “Thanks. I owe you one.”

He closed the door and leaned forward, speaking in a low intimate voice. “I like to have beautiful women in my debt.”

Delia had been right. Definite tuxedo material. Hell, a possible King!

“Send me the bill anytime.” My laugh rang with flirtation. “You have my number.”

As I started to put the car in gear, something stopped me. I glanced up and realized that Hank stood at his window. Watching.

****

I was still reeling from the King’s warm smile and Hank’s frosty glare as I drove toward the street.

“Hey, Kimberly,” came a shout from my left, setting off a scramble of photographers.

I stepped on the gas and made a hard right onto the street, nearly colliding with a passing car. It honked and jerked around me. My heart thumped as I sped away. Luckily, no one in the media followed. The only car I glimpsed in my rearview mirror was a gray sedan that pulled away from the curb down the block.

I turned onto the wide strip of busy traffic that flowed along Sepulveda Boulevard to drive home. I needed fresh clothes and I wanted to pick up my jewelry, which was locked in my safe. I didn’t like leaving it there, even with Lindy’s presence. At the next red light, I pulled out my phone to let her know I was coming.

“I think there’s someone from Hollywood Happening and one of the cable networks outside,” she cautioned.

The jewelry could wait. I didn’t feel like another game of cat and mouse. No one would stake out the house twenty-four hours a day. I could go by later.

“Brad Singer called,” she continued. “I guess he doesn’t have your new phone number.”

“I’ll call him.” I had gotten a new cell number that morning. Even my mother didn’t have it yet. “No calls from Delia? She’s the only one you can give it to, understand?”

“She hasn’t called. What about the station? Like Mr. Adams?”

I doubted the general manager would call, but I assured her I would call him. I clicked off. Damn, that girl sounded timid.

A sign ahead pointed to an entrance to the 405 freeway. I gunned my car to pull right across two lanes to get to the onramp. Cars behind me honked as tires screeched. One came around me on the left with the driver holding up a middle finger.

Behind me, more cars honked and I heard a crunch. I glanced in my rearview mirror. The gray car that left the police station behind me, or one that looked like it, had attempted the same maneuver. Its front fender was smashed into the back of a car while a third was attached to its hind end.

Had that car been following me?