Cold Case Cop (2 page)

Monday, July 14, 10:05 a.m.

T
ara hadn’t figured that Alex Kirkland would give a quote on this case. He was too good a cop to let his cards show. But she had got a sense of his frustration. It did bother him that Kit’s case had never been solved.

And she couldn’t resist seeing for herself that he was truly on the mend. She’d kept tabs on him while he was in the hospital recovering from the shooting that had shocked everyone.

Kirkland had been shot during a routine investigation. He and Detective Matthew Brady had gone to the home of a wealthy doctor to ask him questions about his wife’s suspicious death. The doctor had answered the front door armed with a loaded shotgun. According to Brady, Kirkland had reacted instantly. He’d pushed Brady out of harm’s way as he’d drawn his own gun. The doctor had fired, hitting Kirkland in the chest and thigh. The buckshot had nicked the femoral artery in his leg and punctured his lung. Kirkland had fallen to the ground but had fired his own weapon. The single shot had killed the doctor.

The entire exchange had happened in a split second, but Brady recognized that Kirkland was in bad shape. He was still conscious but in terrible pain and bleeding badly. Kirkland had nearly bled out before the paramedics got him to the hospital.

Three days after Kirkland’s shooting, Tara had snuck onto the ICU floor at Boston General. She’d told the doctors she’d been checking on Kirkland’s progress for a follow-up article on the shooting. They’d allowed her to peer through the glass walls of his room.

What she saw nearly took her breath away. He’d been lying in the hospital bed, as pale as his sheets and barely conscious. There’d been so many wires hooked up to him. The sight had shocked her. She’d not had the nerve to go into his room, but had lingered several feet back. The doctor had said that the injury would have killed most.

Now, despite the July heat, the memory still had the power to send chills down Tara’s spine.

With an effort, she tried to focus on the fact that he looked good now. His tall, lean frame remained taught and muscular. Time in the sun had left his skin tanned and his newly cut brown hair a shade lighter. He looked good. Real good.

She parallel-parked her beat-up white Toyota on the exclusive, tree-lined Beacon Hill side street. This exclusive area of Boston screamed old money and privilege. And it set her nerves on edge.

She shut off the car engine. She didn’t do well with snobby, rich people. They made her feel awkward and somehow
less
because she didn’t have blue blood in her veins. Intellectually, she understood this was stupid, a reaction to a sad episode in her past, but no amount of inner pep talks quite erased her feeling of inferiority.

Skimming fingers over her ponytail, she reminded herself that she’d been a reporter for nine years and had interviewed some of the most powerful and dangerous people in Washington, D.C. and Boston. She’d written about politicians, murderers, arsonists and sophisticated white-collar crooks. An old rich guy living on Beacon Hill wasn’t going to throw her off her game.

Tara pocketed her keys and grabbed her briefcase, slid out of the car and closed the door. Halfway down the block her cell phone rang. She dug the phone out of her purse. Caller ID confirmed it was her editor, Miriam Spangler.

Tara flipped the phone open. “I am on my way to Landover’s as we speak, Miriam.”

“Remember, don’t piss him off.” Miriam’s voice was gruff, a product of thirty years of chain smoking. “His family is as powerful as the Kennedy clan. Rile him up and there could be hell to pay.”

That comment irritated Tara. “I can handle myself, Miriam.”

“You do have a temper, sweetie. It’s why you left D.C.”

“It’s one of the reasons I left D.C. And I’ve learned my lesson.”

As if she hadn’t spoken, Miriam said, “Don’t push this too hard. If Landover says to drop it, drop it.”

Tara’s blood shot past the boiling point in a second. “Yesterday you were salivating when I showed you the mock-up of the article and pitched the idea.”

Miriam blew smoke into the receiver. “I had all night and most of this morning to conjure a thousand devastating scenarios in my head. Most of them included me without a job or a pension. If and when this article runs, it’s going to be dicey.”

Tara muttered a few choice words. “When did you get to be so timid?”

“Since I realized I’m two years away from collecting a full pension.”

Frustration fueled Tara’s anger. “My readership has been growing steadily, and this is the kind of story that will hit home with them. Remember, you gave me the go-ahead to look into Kit Westgate Landover’s case.”

“I know. I know.”

“Think about it, Miriam. This is the stuff of Pulitzers. Network news coverage. Book deals. When I go to the top I’ll be telling everyone you were the star editor behind me. I will make you famous and position you for your own book deal.”

Miriam sighed. “We both know I didn’t want to fade quietly into retirement.”

She smiled, knowing she’d hit all Miriam’s hot buttons. “Exactly.”

“All right. Go for it. But please just be careful, Tara.”

“I will be fine.” Tara closed her cell and shoved it in her briefcase as she reached Landover’s house. Standing on the sidewalk, she stared up at the corner-lot mansion. The home had been built in the seventeen hundreds and was steeped in history. This had always been an exclusive pricey area of Boston, but in today’s market this place was worth a king’s ransom.

She climbed the stone steps to the black, lacquered front door. A pineapple brass door knocker hung in the door’s center.

Tara rapped the knocker twice against the massive door. The sound echoed inside the house. She moistened her lips and stood a little straighter.

Miriam’s and Kirkland’s words nagged her as she tried not to fidget. They were right. She had a hot head. Back in D.C., she probably shouldn’t have called that senator an idiot. But she was smart enough to learn from her mistakes. She could handle Pierce Landover if she could get in to see him.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway inside. If her luck held, she’d get Landover’s maid, or someone else who didn’t know her. She then might be able to get into the house and maybe see Landover. There’d been times in the past when she’d talked her way into situations and gotten great quotes.

But there’d also been times when she’d been tossed out and threatened with legal action.

That could be today’s scenario if Cecilia Reston, Landover’s personal assistant for the last twenty-five years, answered the door. Reston protected her employer with the ferocity of a bulldog. And she’d have no trouble reporting Tara to the cops.

Tara glanced at her black flats and, seeing dust on them, quickly rubbed them against the panty hose under her pant leg.

The door opened to a very young woman dressed in a maid’s outfit. She had dark, straight hair pulled back with a rubber band and big brown eyes that telegraphed naïveté. “Yes?”

Tara smiled brightly. “I’m Tara Mackey. I have an appointment with Mr. Landover.”

The young maid frowned as if confused. “I didn’t realize he was seeing people today. Are you here about the clothes he’s giving away?”

Tara wasn’t sure what she was talking about. “Clothes?”

“His wife’s clothes. He’s giving all her gowns away to charity.”

“Ah, yes. She had such stunning gowns. We have a ten-thirty appointment to discuss the gowns,” she said without blinking.

The maid nodded and stepped aside. “If you’ll wait here.”

Tara’s heart jumped, but she kept her cool as she stepped inside. “Thank you.”

So Landover was giving away Kit’s dresses. Was it a sign that the old man was moving on with his life?

The maid hurried up the carpeted spiral staircase and down the upstairs hallway. Her footsteps faded away. Tara was left alone in the foyer.

She studied the marbled foyer’s black-and-white polished floor. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling and caught the morning sunlight, which streamed in through a transom above the door. Across from the door stood an antique Chippendale table pushed against the wall. On the table sat a Chinese vase filled with fragrant, freshly cut roses. The understated decor was all very elegant and expensive and not to her taste at all. She liked simple and unpretentious pieces that were often used and had a quirky history.

To her left, a set of tall mahogany doors stood ajar, giving her a peek into the receiving parlor. Unable to resist, she moved to the open door and looked inside. Immediately her gaze was drawn to the huge painting of Kit that hung over the brick fireplace. In the portrait, Kit wore a soft pink strapless dress that cloaked her lithe body like a second skin. Her blond hair was swept up into a chignon, and a stunning diamond pendant necklace dipped into her full cleavage. Teardrop gems dangled from her ears, and a thick diamond bracelet circled her wrist. Tara recognized the gems in the portrait. They were the ones Kit had been wearing on her wedding day—the ones that had vanished with her and were reported to be worth fifteen million dollars.

Tara glanced up the staircase to see if anyone could see her. Satisfied that she was alone, she pulled out her cell phone, quickly snapped a picture.

The sound of footsteps on the landing had her stepping back into the foyer. She jammed her cell phone into her briefcase.

“May I help you?”

Tara turned to find a stern-looking woman descending the stairs. Dark brown hair was swept tightly back and accentuated sharp brown eyes. She wore a silk blouse, linen pants and high-heeled shoes.

“That’s a stunning portrait of Mrs. Landover,” Tara said. There was no sense hiding the fact that she’d been caught peeking.

The woman lifted a thin eyebrow as if she did not approve. “My name is Mrs. Reston. What can I do for you?”

Tara mentally regrouped. So much for getting in to see the old man today. “I’m Tara Mackey. I’m with the
Globe
. I spoke to you earlier about an appointment with Mr. Landover.”

Mrs. Reston’s lips flattened into a thin line. “I told you on the phone that Mr. Landover doesn’t speak with reporters.”

Tara smiled, trying not to look the least bit deterred. “I would only need about five or ten minutes of his time.”

Mrs. Reston quickly slid a bony finger under her pearl necklace. “No.”

“The one-year anniversary of his wife’s disappearance is coming up next week.” From her briefcase she pulled out the mock-up of her article. “The
Globe
is going to do a story about Kit Westgate. The hope is to spark the public’s interest. Maybe someone will come forward with new information about what happened to Kit. Either way, we’d love Mr. Landover’s comments for the piece.”

Thin lips dipped into a frown as Reston stared at the glowing picture of Kit. Jealousy burned in her eyes. Reston had clearly hated Kit. “No reporter has cared a wit for Mr. Landover or all the good works he’s done since Kit Westgate came into his life. Everyone just cared about her. Why can’t your type leave him alone?”

The
your type
comment had Tara bristling, but she kept her cool. “I just want to ask him a couple of questions. I only need a few minutes of his time.”

“I know Kit Westgate is just a story to you, but she devastated Mr. Landover’s life. The woman was in league with the devil as far as I’m concerned. And frankly, I don’t care if we ever find out what happened to her. Drop this story.”

The show of emotion interested Tara. “You really hated her, didn’t you?”

Mrs. Reston hesitated, realizing she’d let too much of her emotions show through her stoic Boston reserve. “Leave this house before I call the police and have you arrested for trespassing. And don’t ever come back here or try to speak to Mr. Landover again.”

Tara could just imagine Miriam’s and Kirkland’s expressions when word reached them that she’d been arrested for harassing Mrs. Reston. Kirkland’s dark gaze was the hardest to banish.

Tara crossed the threshold to the front stoop. She turned. “Mrs. Reston, when was the last time you actually saw Kit?”

Mrs. Reston slammed the door in her face.

For a moment, Tara stood there, staring at the polished brass knocker just inches from her nose.

It wasn’t even noon, and Kirkland, her editor and Landover’s personal assistant had warned her off this story.

Why didn’t they want the case reopened? Solving it would be a huge coup for the police and the paper. And it would bring resolution to Kit’s family.

Tara shoved the newspaper into her briefcase and started toward her car. Her body tingled like it did when she felt as if she’d hit upon a great story.

She sensed that if she kept showing her mock-up around Boston she was going to coax a few hidden facts out of someone.

Smiling, Tara started to whistle as she slid behind the wheel and fired up the engine. She turned on the radio and cranked it loud. “There’s no doubt about it. I’m on the right track.”

Monday, July 14, 10:45 a.m.

T
ara was glad to leave the Beacon Hill district. She cut through side streets, winding her way north for several miles until she reached the north end.

This part of town always brought her blood pressure down. She loved the narrow, winding streets and the four-story brick apartment houses. No one here had a yard, and during summer evenings neighbors often set up chairs on the sidewalk to chat. The taverns had a homey feel to them. The shops were practical, not pretentious. The food was hearty and not gourmet. This was where the working class people lived.

She checked her notes to confirm Marco Borelli’s address. Marco had been Kit’s chauffeur—the one man besides her husband who’d spent the most time with her. There’d been reports that the two had often talked quietly to each other, and some rumors suggested they had been having an affair. However, nothing was ever proven.

Tara wove down a collection of side streets into a poorer section of town. She parked in front of an apartment house that looked in need of renovation.

She got out of the car and climbed the stairs to the front door. Close up, she could see that the black paint was peeling and the threshold was rotting. Mortar between the bricks was chipped, and there was a strong smell of garbage. She tried the front door and discovered it was locked.

Frustrated, she glanced to the call buttons on the left side of the door. It was doubtful Borelli would let her in, so she pushed several at once, hoping one of the residents upstairs would buzz her in. In a clear voice, she said into the intercom, “Pizza.”

To her relief, the lock clicked open and she quickly entered the building.

Tara climbed the steps to the third floor. Her nose wrinkled at the blending smells of cabbage and trash. The hardwood floors on the steps were scarred and the banister was shaky enough to give way with the slightest amount of pressure. When she reached the third floor, she found apartment three-A and knocked.

No answer. She knocked again. “Mr. Borelli, are you home?”

Tara pressed her ear to the door and heard the faint sound of a TV game show. Someone was in there. She knocked again. “Mr. Borelli?”

Frustrated, she pulled a business card from her purse and wrote a quick note for him to call her. She tucked it in his doorjamb.

Tara was about to leave when Borelli’s door snapped open. Her card fluttered to the floor.

A man stood in the doorway, his wide, muscled shoulders filling the door. He had coal-black hair slicked back off his face, a wide jaw and a muscular build accentuated by a tight black T-shirt. Diamond studs adorned each earlobe and a gold chain hung around his neck.

In the pictures she had of Borelli, he was always in the background behind Kit, and was always conservatively dressed in a dark suit. He was part chauffeur and part bodyguard. “Mr. Borelli?” Tara asked.

He frowned. “Maybe. Who wants to know?”

“I’m Tara Mackey. I have a few questions for you about Kit Westgate.”

His scowl made his thick brow look heavier. “I don’t talk to cops.”

“I’m not a cop. I work for the
Boston Globe
. I’m a reporter.”

His expression darkened, and she suspected he liked cops better than reporters. “I’m done talking with reporters, too. You all are a bunch of bloodsuckers, if you ask me. You vultures just about hounded me to death a year ago.” He reached inside his apartment, grabbed a bag of garbage and then shouldered past her to the waste chute. His thick aftershave trailed after him.

“I am a fair reporter.”

He snorted. “Right. Between the cops and the reporters, my life was hell. I ain’t going back to that.”

She peered into his apartment. The small room was furnished with a sofa and a TV. Her gaze skimmed past a half-eaten pizza on the lone coffee table, and over the floor littered with empty beer cans.

Her nose wrinkled. “Did you have a party?”

Borelli muttered an oath. “None of your business.”

“Hey, I’m not here to cause you trouble. You were cleared by the cops of any wrongdoing in Kit’s disappearance. You were in New York the day the Landovers married and she vanished.”

He yanked the chute open and dumped the trash down. He released the door, and it banged against the wall. “That’s right. I was hundreds of miles away.”

“So it shouldn’t be a big deal for you to answer a couple of questions. Five minutes of your time is all I ask.”

He folded his arms over his chest. On his biceps there was a tattoo of a coiled snake holding a broken heart. “You’re gonna twist my words like those other reporters did.”

“I won’t. I just want to hear your side of the story.” And then, without waiting for a
no
answer, she said, “You used to live on the Landover estate, didn’t you?”

He glanced at his buffed nails. “Yeah, I had a guest cottage near the garage.”

“You must have had a sense of how Landover’s relationship was going with Kit. Do you think he could have killed her?”

Borelli’s face hardened. “Sure, he could have killed her. The guy had a temper, and I saw him slap Kit in the face once.”

“You tell the cops?”

“I sure did.” He leaned toward her, his tall frame towering over her. “Kit was afraid of Pierce. And I think she’d have backed out of the marriage if she could have. But she was afraid to.”

“She told you she was afraid?”

“Yeah. A couple of times.” He was a hard one to read.

“Why would Mr. Landover kill Kit on their wedding day? Especially with half the world watching.”

Borelli shrugged. “Who the hell knows? Rich people are different than the rest of us. All I know is that they fought often those last few weeks. Even on their wedding day they got into it. You hear a lot when you’re sitting in the front seat of a car.”

“What did they fight about?”

“Anything and everything. Mostly, he just didn’t like the way she flirted with other men. And she didn’t like being told what to do.”

This was a side of Kit she’d never heard about. “Did she flirt with anyone in particular?”

“Naw. She just liked men. And she really enjoyed wrapping them around her finger.” He frowned as if a memory jabbed at him. Abruptly, he moved around her to the threshold of his apartment. “I’ve said what I’m going to say. You’re making me miss
Wheel of Fortune
.”

Tara thought about the pictures she’d collected of Kit during her research. A sharp intelligence burned behind her sapphire eyes. “What about the missing gems? She was wearing fifteen million in ice when she vanished. Any theories on that?”

“How would I know? I’m guessing that whoever killed her must have taken them.” He leaned against the door frame, letting his gaze trail over her body. A smile played at the edge of his mouth.

When Kirkland’s gaze had glided over her this morning, she’d felt a thrill of desire. This guy gave her the creeps. “She was from California?”

“Yeah. Northern California. Wine country.”

“Did she ever keep up with anyone from her past?”

“Kit wasn’t the type that looked back.”

“If Pierce didn’t kill her, any thoughts on who else might have murdered her?”

“If I knew, I’d have told the cops. But I still say that it was Landover.” He flexed his biceps and the snake appeared to move. “So why you asking all these questions now? Kit’s yesterday’s news.”

“She was a beautiful woman and she died young, like Marilyn Monroe or Anna Nicole Smith. People never get tired of hearing about those women. Even after years, their deaths are still shrouded in conspiracy theories.”

“You’re wrong. Kit’s
old
news. Nobody cares about a spoiled, dead socialite.”

She tried to keep her voice casual. “You said
dead socialite
. So you’re sure she’s dead.”

He paused a beat to gather his thoughts. “She has to be dead. All that blood. No one could have survived.”

“No body was found,” she prompted.

Borelli grinned and, leaning forward, whispered, “Disposing of bodies is easy, lady. Just takes a few garbage bags and a saw.”

A shudder ran through her body. She’d interviewed enough career criminals to recognize one. “You speaking from firsthand experience?”

He winked at her. “My advice to you is butt out. Or you might end up like Kit.”

Her stomach knotted with tension, but she held her ground. “That a threat?”

Borelli smiled. A gold incisor glittered. “Friendly warning. Now go find yourself another story and stay out of my life.” He retreated into the apartment, slamming the door behind him.

Tara stared at the closed door and dug her hand through her hair. “Not exactly a home run, but it’s a start.”

She checked her watch. She had time for one more interview before her shift at the bar where she worked nights. She had taken a sizable pay cut to move north. Reporting now barely kept a roof over her head, and she needed the second job to pay off the mountain of student loans from college.

Reston and Borelli had been difficult but she suspected her next interview was going to be worse. She had to find a way to get into the exclusive Founders’ Yacht Club and speak to some of Kit’s old friends.

She’d not been to the club in a long time, and didn’t relish returning.

Alex spent the better part of the morning trying to forget Tara. But her visit had awakened so many unanswered questions that lingered from the Kit Westgate case.

He paced his office floor, ignoring the ache in his leg. Tara had said she was going to talk to Pierce. But he knew she would never get past Landover’s assistant. Mrs. Reston had made hardened cops cringe. And if Tara thought she’d get quotes from any of the old man’s friends, she was also mistaken. Boston society was an elite, closed group that didn’t like airing dirty laundry.

But Alex could step into Landover’s exclusive world. He’d been born into one of the wealthiest families in the state. He’d done his undergrad at Princeton and earned his law degree from Harvard. He’d been groomed to take over the Kirkland empire. And then his cousin had been slain by a mugger. The incident had rocked the family and changed the direction of his life. He’d quit the family business and joined the police force. The decision had cost him personally. His wife, Regina, hadn’t understood the decision and had left him. His parents and brother were also furious with him. Even now his relationship with his family was strained.

But he’d never regretted his decision for a moment. He belonged in the police department.

Alex dialed Detective Brady’s extension. Seconds later, the cop appeared at his door. “What do you need, Sergeant?”

Rising, Alex put the brunt of his weight on his good leg. “I’m going out for an hour or two. I want to follow up on a lead associated with the Kit Westgate case.”

“You have a lead after a year?” Brady sounded surprised. “What is it?”

“Let me chase it down first. It most likely won’t play out.”

“No problem.” Brady offered a crooked smile. “This got anything to do with Tara Mackey showing up here this morning?”

Alex wondered when he’d become so transparent. “Unfortunately, yes. She’s going to do a piece on the anniversary of Kit’s disappearance.”

“Jeez. That’s all we need.”

“To her credit, she raised a few good questions.”

Brady shook his head as if he were talking to one of his own five sons. “She’s trouble.”

Alex opened his desk drawer, pulled out his .38 and slid it into the gun holster on his belt. “Tell me what I don’t know. But I’ve got to do a little nosing around just to settle my own doubts.”

Brady’s barrel chest filled with a deep breath. “You don’t want me to ride along? I could drive.”

The two men had only spoken about the shooting once. Brady had tried to show his gratitude over Kirkland saving him by way of an awkward thank-you. But Kirkland’s own guilt over not being quicker on the draw had made it impossible for him to really discuss the incident. If he’d been a second slower, those five Brady boys wouldn’t have a father. “Thanks. But I got it covered. I’ll be back by lunch.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

It took Alex thirty minutes to cut through the city traffic and reach the exclusive Founders’ Yacht Club located on Dorchester Bay. The club was one of the oldest in the state and had been a familiar spot for Kit and Pierce during their courtship.

Alex always felt as if he were stepping back in time when he drove through the club’s brick-and-iron gates. Manicured lawns and discreet hedges lined the driveway that took him to the circle in front of the club’s entrance. The two-story building was made of white marble and had large white columns. Large sections of the exterior were covered with neatly trimmed ivy.

A parking attendant glanced at Alex’s police-issue Impala as if he weren’t sure what to make of it or Alex. But then he got a look at Alex’s face and relaxed. “Mr. Kirkland. Are you going sailing today?”

“No. This is a quick trip.” Alex left the keys in the ignition and the engine running. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes, so you might not want to park it in the annex lot.”

“Right. Thanks.”

Alex made his way up the stairs until he came face-to-face with a tall bear of a man. Dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and red tie, the man stood by the front door behind the reservation table, guarding the front gate of the club like a centurion.

“Danny,” Alex said.

The man’s stern face softened the instant his gaze met Alex’s. “Mr. K. How are you doing?”

Alex liked Danny. “Good, Danny. How’s that brother of yours?”

“Staying out of trouble,” he said, lowering his voice. “Thanks for the talking-to you gave him. I can assure you that he won’t be a problem again.”

When Danny’s brother Frankie had been arrested, the doorman had called Alex in a panic. Alex had pulled the kid out of holding and then taken him for a personal tour of the jail. By the time their visit had ended, the fourteen-year-old was pale, desperate to go home and vowing never to shoplift again.