Detective Cormier stretched his smooth brown arm across the open hotel elevator door, keeping it from closing. Jessica and Nick faced him from inside. “Professor, we may want to ask you some more questions. It would be helpful if you stayed in town.” Cormier glanced at Jessica. “Miss James, good to see you again,” he said with a smile. “I’m sure a possible murder mystery will keep you in town.”
She cringed. Was she getting a reputation with the Chicago homicide unit? True, trouble seemed to follow her. But it was never her fault—well, hardly ever. This time, for sure, it wasn’t. She’d never even met Nick’s father, and now she never would.
“Am I a suspect?” Nick asked. “Good lord. My father’s lying in there dead—” He put his head in his hands.
“No, Professor,” Detective Cormier said in a reassuring voice.
But something in his tone told Jessica he did suspect Nick. She knew the detective well enough to know there was something he wasn’t saying.
Detective Cormier held out a business card. “Call me if you think of anything that might shed light on your father’s death.”
Nick’s hand trembled as he took the card. “Please call me as soon as you get the autopsy report. I want to know how he died.” He looked ten years older than he did an hour ago.
“Poison,” Jessica said under her breath. “Someone poisoned him,” she said louder, then bit her cuticle.
“Perhaps.” The detective took his hand away from the elevator door.
“Poison!” Nick exclaimed as the doors shut. “Why do you say that?”
“Well, I won’t be surprised if it turns out to be poison.”
“You’ve been reading too many detective stories instead of writing your dissertation.” He leaned against the wall of the elevator.
Maybe Nick was right. She’d been involved with too many murders recently, and now she was seeing them everywhere. “Guilty as charged.” She stared up at the illuminated numbers. She knew if she looked at Nick, she wouldn’t be able to resist touching him. Anyway, she had a boyfriend, didn’t she?
Again, she thought of poor Jack stuck in prison. It wasn’t like she was in a relationship with him. They’d only kissed once, right before he’d been busted for liberating the animals at the research hospital last year. Really, they were just friends, really good friends. She glanced over at Nick and guilt wrapped its grubby paws around her innards and squeezed. Her sort-of-boyfriend was in prison because of her. Why had she asked him to free the poor chimp from the research lab? And here she was fantasizing about another man. Now wasn’t the time to think of romance . . . with Nick or Jack. She’d just been in a suite with a dead body, for God’s sake.
She pulled her phone from her jacket pocket, tapped it awake, and called Amber. Instant voice mail. Amber had her phone off. Thumbs flying, she sent her friend a text message: Call me! She had to find out how Amber’s tea bags had ended up in the dead man’s cups.
Her phone beeped, indicating she had her own voice mail waiting. She clicked and . . . Wait. What? Jack had called. Crapulence! He’d used his precious minutes on his super-expensive inmate phone card. She glanced over at Nick while she listened to the message. Another twinge of guilt pinched her heart when Jack signed off with “I love you, cowgirl.” Every time he said it, she cringed. She never knew how to answer. Usually, she just said, “I know. Me too.”
“What’s wrong?” Nick asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“It’s nothing,” Jessica lied. Nick was dealing with his own ghosts—all too fresh. She didn’t need to resurrect her own.
“Are you hungry?” Nick asked. “I don’t have an appetite, but I could use a drink.”
Like most starving grad students, Jessica never turned down free food or drink. “Me too.” Eating always cheered her up. Maybe it would take her mind off poor Jack, rotting in that prison cell . . . and her appetite for Nick.
When Nick put his hand on the small of her back, a jolt of electricity rushed up her spine. Damn! With Jack, it was a slow burn, but with Nick, it was a spontaneous combustion. Her heart was playing tug-of-war with her brain.
Nick led her into the restaurant. With its crystal chandeliers, satin chairs, carved wooden tables, and patrons dressed in fancy evening wear, the place reminded her of the dinner scene on the Titanic, right before it sank. In her scuffed red cowboy boots, balding suede jacket, and faded jeans, she was severely underdressed.
The hostess seemed to know Nick—either that or she wanted to get to know him. She was very friendly as she led them to a table in the corner.
Candlelight, a jazz pianist, a single rose in a cut glass vase—under other circumstances, it would have been very romantic. But with Nick’s father lying dead on the fifth floor and her dream of getting a PhD on its last legs, the dinner felt more like a wake.
Nick ordered a neat single-malt scotch with a name she couldn’t pronounce. She was tempted to get her usual Jack & Coke, but decided on a cosmopolitan instead. More sophisticated.
She scanned the menu for vegetarian options. Well, it wasn’t going to take her long to decide. There was only one—pasta with kohlrabi, rocket, and blood orange reduction. Sounded more like a homicide at the International Space Station than a meal.
Nick ordered a bowl of Moroccan soup.
“That’s all you’re having?” she asked.
In answer, he held up his empty glass and ordered another Lagavulin.
“Tell me about your dad,” she said, avoiding eye contact.
Nick made a weird snorting sound. “My dad.” He shut his eyes. “He always bragged he was a ‘self-made man.’ Grew up on the streets of the Bronx and died in a penthouse suite.” He twisted the ring on his little finger as his refill arrived.
“So, he wasn’t always wealthy?” Jessica asked.
“No. He hustled his way to the top in New York real estate and then bought a couple of nightclubs, a coal mine, and a casino.” Nick chuckled again. “He bragged about his street smarts and belittled my book learning.”
“He didn’t want you to become a professor?” she asked.
“He didn’t want me, full stop.” Nick downed his scotch and signaled the waiter for another.
She shifted in her chair. She could relate. She always thought her dad wished she’d been a boy. She gulped down her drink. “Do you think his new wife might have had something to do with his death?” She couldn’t bring herself to say murder.
“Chrissy?” Nick’s eyes flashed. “Who knows? She’s a schemer.” He shook his head. “But a killer? Hard to believe.”
“Why isn’t she here with your dad?”
“Probably on a catwalk in Paris or Rome.” Nick arched his brows and sipped the drink that had just arrived. “She usually travels without Dad. I suspect that’s not all she does without him, if you know what I mean.”
Yes, I do. She stared at the napkin in her lap. She couldn’t help it. As much as she tried to purge her feelings for Nick, she couldn’t. Seeing him this vulnerable was like pouring gasoline on the burning embers of her heart.
“What’s wrong, Dolce?” he asked.
Jessica pushed a rocket (aka arugula) leaf around her plate with her fork. When she glanced up, her eyes met his. She jumped up from the table to avoid bursting into tears. She must have looked a mess, because she didn’t even have to ask—a waiter pointed her to the bathroom. Pull yourself together, cowgirl. Must be PMS. She wasn’t usually this emotional. Or maybe it was sitting across from Nick Schilling. She wanted him. She might even love him. She felt like she might barf.
When she returned to the table, Nick was sporting another full glass of whiskey. Was that his fourth? She was getting worried. It was barely two in the afternoon.
“Are you okay?” Nick asked.
“Just thinking about your dad,” she lied. “What was his interest in the Center?”
“At first, I thought he was trying to reconcile with me.” He fiddled with his ring. “Then last week one of his business associates showed up giving me instructions on my dad’s paintings: which to sell, which to keep, and how the money would be split. I started to wonder . . ." He took another sip of whiskey and then glanced at his fancy wristwatch. “I’ve got to get back to the Center.” He sat his glass down on the table. “Would you like to come along? I could show you around and introduce you to the staff.” He smiled. “The job offer’s still on the table.” He patted the tablecloth for emphasis.
She nodded and finished her Cosmo.
“Do you mind driving?” He handed her a Porsche key fob. “I may have had a wee bit too much scotch.”
Ten minutes later, cruising down Lake Shore Drive, weaving in and out of traffic, she glanced over at Nick. He forced a sickly smile. The Porsche was itchin’ to break the wimpy 45 mph speed limit on this poor excuse for an expressway. She missed the wide-open freeway in Montana, where the speed limit was 75 and even the farmers in their pickup trucks did 80.
“Take the Touhy exit up ahead,” Nick said. “That’s it on the right.” He pointed. “The one with the stained glass window.”
“Oh my god. That’s beautiful.” She couldn’t believe her eyes. “You built that?”
“Well, I didn’t actually build it.”
“You know what I mean.”
The building was a cross between a Gothic church and a Spanish Colonial townhouse in the French Quarter of New Orleans. At one end, there was a stunning stained glass window framed by ornate stone, and at the other, a white stucco building with wrought iron balconies and a red tile roof. The two sides of the building were at war. She’d never seen anything like it.
“I love it,” she said as she pulled the Porsche into the side parking lot.
An expansive concrete stairway with fanning metal handrails and a wheelchair ramp lead to the entrance of the Center.
Nick opened one of the two glass doors and she scooted inside.
“Wow!” She gawked at the polished wood floors and then up at the ceiling two stories overhead.
If on the outside, the Center for Russian Art and Culture looked like an eighteenth-century convent meets Bourbon Street, on the inside, it was futuristic glass and steel.
“Come on,” Nick said. “I’ll show you the offices and introduce you, and then we can take a tour of the collection.”
“Amazing.” In a daze, she followed him through the foyer and down a side hallway. The tap of her boots across the floor echoed through the building. She felt like she’d been shushed by an invisible librarian. Embarrassed, she tried to walk on her toes.
Along the corridor, there were four glass doors. Only one of them was open. Jessica stopped in her tracks when she saw a familiar hunched silhouette through the opaque glass: Dmitry Durchenko, Lolita’s dad. The philosophy department’s brooding janitor always seemed to be hiding from something. What is he doing here?