All I've Ever Wanted (3 page)

M
ax parked his car behind Dossman's Buick and took a quick glance at his watch. Five-fifteen. He wasn't too late. He climbed out of his car and stared up at Underwood's impressive three-story home. “I knew I should have gone to law school,” he mumbled sarcastically under his breath.

Slowly, he pivoted on his heel and took in the long spiraling driveway, the lush landscape and the idyllic location. “Nice.”

When he heard the front door open, he turned and locked gazes with his partner. “Can you believe this place?”

“Wait until you see the inside,” Dossman said.

Max shook his head and followed his partner inside. His brows rose with suspicion at the home's picturesque décor. “You've got to be kidding me?”

“Wish I was.”

“Exactly how much does an A.D.A. make?”

“You tell me and then we'll both know.” Dossman shrugged. “This has to be the cleanest place I've ever been in. I'm almost afraid to touch anything.”

“Was anyone here when you arrived?”

“Yeah, the ex-wife.”

“Judge Hickman is here?” Max asked, surprised.

“Believe it or not, she lives here.”

“Where is she now?”

Dossman tilted his head toward the ceiling. “She's upstairs, crying her eyes out.”

He didn't believe it. “I was under the impression that she hated Marion's guts.”

“Well, she did marry the man three times. He must have been doing something right.”

“They'd also divorced three times.”

“According to Judge Hickman, they'd reconciled their differences and were engaged to be married again next month.”

Max lifted his brows in incredulity.

Dossman shrugged. “What can I say? If at first you don't succeed…”

Just then their attention was drawn to the sound
of footsteps overhead. Seconds later, Judge Sandra Hickman descended the staircase.

Sandra, a handsome, statuesque woman with kind eyes, met the men's gazes and lifted her chin. A veteran of her courtroom, Max had difficulty believing that the subdued woman standing before him was the same tyrannical judge who would hold a person in contempt for having looked at her the wrong way.

“Good evening, Detective Collier.” She smiled politely, and wiped at her tear-reddened eyes.

He nodded in acknowledgment. “Judge.”

“Can I get you gentlemen anything from the kitchen?”

“No, ma'am,” the men answered in unison.

Her smile wavered briefly. She turned, and stopped. “Is there anything I can do to help you with your investigation?”

Max didn't know what to make of this gentler Judge Hickman. He'd fully expected to have to fight her for the smallest piece of information.

He decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. “If you have a few minutes, I would like to ask you a few questions.”

“Of course. Why don't you two join me in the kitchen for some tea.”

Max glanced at his partner and saw the surprise on his face.

“Go ahead,” Dossman encouraged. “I need to make a phone call. Mind if I use the phone?”

“Not at all. There's a phone in the den,” she answered.

Max nodded and said, “Call me if you find anything,” then followed Hickman.

As they walked down the long hallway, Max continued to be impressed by the lavishly appointed home.

“This is a beautiful home,” he said as they entered the kitchen.

“Thank you.” She gestured toward a table. “Won't you have a seat?”

Suddenly, Max suspected that the tables had been turned and that he was the one about to be interrogated. He suppressed a smile at having been sucked in by the judge's demure act.

“Detective Dossman informs me that you are the lead detective on my husband's case.”

Good old Dossman passing the buck. “I understood that you and Mr. Underwood were estranged.”

“Only on paper,” she said.

Who was he to question her claim of true love? It wasn't like
he
knew the secrets to a successful marriage. But marrying the
same
person three times…?

He took out his notepad. “Did your husband have any enemies?”

“Come on, Collier. You knew my husband. It would be quicker for me to give you a list of his friends.”

He looked up from his pad.

“You're wondering why I was attracted to him.”

He didn't respond.

“That's a question I've been asking myself for more than a decade. I'm no closer to an answer now, than I was the night he proposed to me—the first time.”

“But you
did
love him.”

“I still do.”

He believed her, and for a moment felt something akin to envy. No matter what his personal feelings were toward Underwood, the man had achieved something in his life that seemed out of Max's reach: he'd found unconditional love.

“Maybe I should rephrase my original question. Did you know of any of your husband's enemies who wanted him dead?”

She looked at Max with raised brows.

“Humor me,” he said.

“Let me answer your question this way. My husband had his share of secrets. I can only guess what some of them were. Even now, I'm not sure that I really want to know. But I do know his death deserves justice. Are there any leads?”

He thought about revealing his belief that there might have been a witness, but he knew better. “No. Not at this time.”

The judge picked up a kettle and filled it with water.

“Have you been to the D.A.'s office? Maybe his
death had something to do with a case he was working on.”

“Checking that is definitely on our list,” he assured her. He noticed that she had stopped making eye contact, and wondered what she was hiding…until he noticed her eyes had the glassy sheen that showed they were filling with tears.

“You know his boss couldn't stand him.”

“D.A. Judith Mason?”

Judge Hickman nodded. “She wasn't too keen about me, either.”

Max already knew the story, but asked anyway. “Why do you say that?”

“Come on, Detective. I'm sure your partner has filled you in on his ex-partner, Jaclyn Mason, and her relationship to my husband.”

Max killed the innocent act. “They were married once.” He watched as Hickman's body stiffened and her movements became jerky.

“He realized he'd made a mistake,” she defended.

Compared to the three he'd made with her? Max wondered, shaking his head to clear his negative thoughts. “I'll make sure that we talk to Mrs. Mason, as well.”

Sandra sighed and let her shoulders slump. “I doubt if she had anything to do with this. It's not in her character.” She finally met Max's gaze again. “Don't mind me, I'm just reaching for straws.”

He wanted to say, It happens. And it was true. Loved ones were often left struggling to make sense out of senseless crimes.

When he left the kitchen, he didn't have any more information than when he'd gone in. He hoped that his partner had had better luck with the search. He followed Hickman's directions to the den, and found Dossman poring over a book of some kind.

“Any luck?” Max asked, stepping into the room.

Dossman looked up briefly, then returned his attention to what he was reading. “I found a calendar. It's filled with names and numbers. I can't say that I recognize any of them.”

“Were you supposed to?”

“I was hoping for a break, yes.”

“What was on his schedule for Friday night?”

Dossman held up the book and pointed to an empty block. “Nada.”

“Seems like we're on a roll.”

Zone Five Precinct
Monday, 12:45 p.m.

Max slammed the phone down and released a long stream of profanities. No one knew, saw or heard anything. “Isn't that just great?” he muttered.

“I take it we've hit another dead end,” Dossman said, slouching in his seat.

“Gee, how did you guess?”

He laced his fingers together. “Let's just call it a hunch. Maybe we're looking too hard. We didn't find anything in Underwood's house or his office. Even his car, which we found parked two blocks from the crime scene, didn't turn up anything we could use.”

“Yeah. But I'm not buying that the victim decided to take a leisurely stroll through one of the highest crime areas in the city.” He thought for a moment. “I agree with you. We must be looking too hard.”

“Okay, then let's start over.” Dossman shuffled through the papers stacked on his desk until he recovered his worn notepad. “We know that on Friday Marion Underwood left his office at 7:35 p.m. We also know from the autopsy that the time of death was around midnight.”

Max nodded while he pulled out a copy of the coroner's report. As he reread it, he pointed to one item. “Where did he eat dinner?”

“Another mystery.”

“According to the autopsy, he
did
eat.”

Dossman failed to hide his irritation. “Do you have any idea how many restaurants are in Atlanta?”

“I'm not concerned about how many restaurants are in Atlanta. I'm only interested in how many are between Underwood's office and the crime scene.”

“There's no proof that he had dinner at a restaurant.
He could have gone to a friend's house, or some lady's house. According to Hickman, he didn't eat at home.”

Max's brows rose as he studied his partner.

“What? There are still a few women out there who'll cook a homemade meal for their man.”

“Then why hasn't she come forward?”

Dossman held up three fingers and counted the possible reasons. “Doesn't want to get involved. Wants to avoid suspicion. May be an accomplice to the murder.”

“Okay, okay. I see your point.”

“But do you know what's been bothering me about this whole thing?” Dossman met his partner's gaze as he leaned forward. “His car.”

“What about it?”

“A top-of-the-line Mercedes, left on M.L.K. for over twenty-four hours, and nothing was disturbed? What are the chances of that happening?”

“I wondered about that, too,” Max admitted. “It made me think about who controls that area of town.”

“Controls?” Dossman frowned, then slowly his eyes widened with understanding. “The Skulls.”

Georgia Diner
Monday, 1:15 p.m.

Kennedy's head swam as she watched another news report regarding the slaying of A.D.A. Marion
Underwood. This time the coverage had made headlines on CNN. She swallowed the lump lodged in her throat, rushed to her locker to find some aspirins. With any luck, the pills would not only clear her headache, but also eliminate her guilt. The right thing to do wasn't necessarily the easiest.

“Kennedy, put some pep in that step. Your station is full.” Bennie's booming voice shattered the silence.

She jumped and dropped the bottle of aspirin. “I'm coming, I'm coming,” she said, kneeling to gather the pills.

A few minutes later, she returned to her station and resumed taking orders from impatient customers. All the while, she made sure she kept her smile bright and cheery. But, inside, her stomach twisted into knots.

How do you keep something like this a secret?
she wondered, as her thoughts returned to the possibility of making an anonymous call.
Too risky
.

One of Kennedy's female customers screeched at her companion. “I don't care, Reggie. I don't want to be the last one there when this story breaks. Do you know what this could do for my career?”

“What about our source that said Collier's looking for a possible witness?”

“An unreliable source,” she reminded him.

Kennedy assessed the woman with a quick glance and immediately classified her as high maintenance.
“Can I get you two anything else?” she asked with a plastic smile.

“Yeah. A miracle witness to the A.D.A. murder,” came the woman's cynical reply.

The water pitcher slipped from Kennedy's hand. Its contents splashed everywhere, including all over Ms. High Maintenance's obviously expensive suit.

“You idiot!” The woman jumped from her chair and frantically wiped at the water-stained material.

“Ohmigosh. I'm so sorry.” Kennedy's face heated with embarrassment as she scrambled to clean up the mess.

“What in the hell were you thinking about, you nitwit?”

Kennedy stiffened.

“Aaliyah, don't…” the woman's companion warned.

“Didn't you see what she just did, Reggie? Look at me.”

“I
said
I was sorry.”

“A hell of a lot that does me.”

The women's heated gazes clashed.

Bennie quickly appeared and started doing what he did best: brownnose. “Ma'am, I'm terribly sorry for…”

Tired of having to put up with people talking to her like a second-class citizen, Kennedy turned to storm off, but was unprepared for the towering wall
of muscular man that stood between her and the door.

She hit the floor and the wind rushed out of her lungs. Stars danced before her eyes for several dazzling seconds, and then cleared to reveal a breathtaking stranger.

“Are you all right, ma'am?”

Entranced by the man's seductive brown eyes, she hardly noticed his hand stretched out to help her.

“Ma'am?”

Kennedy blinked to clear the haze in her head. The sense of connection between her and the stranger intensified when she slid her hand into his and allowed him to pull her to her feet. It seemed as if every cell in her body reacted to him, forcing her to wonder who this strong and debonair man was.

“Detective Collier.” The reporter's syrupy-sweet voice seemed to float in the air behind Kennedy.

Both Kennedy and Collier frowned.

A cop? He's a cop?
“Excuse me,” Kennedy said, trying to move around him.