Dead to the Max (10 page)

Max shuddered, trying to cover it with a shrug. God, did everyone know her dirty secrets? Or had Cameron had psychically nudged the man into asking simply to get her to talk about his death. And what came after they shot him.

Not even I’m that callous, my love.

She swallowed with difficulty. She should have known that. “What I meant was thanks for the condolences, but I’d prefer not to discuss it. Not
any
of it. Did you do your research before or after I gave you Wendy’s calendar?”

“Before. Right after you called.”

“Why yesterday’s game with calling me Miss?”

He smiled, neither contrite nor sheepish. “Cops enjoy a little push. Make a statement; wait for a reaction.”

“I feel like
I’m
being investigated.” It was a very uneasy feeling.

“You passed, for now, if that’s any consolation.”

“You mean my name’s not on your list of suspects, and asking me to help you isn’t some weird Columbo ploy?”

He cocked his head. “Did he do that kind of stuff?”

“You’re avoiding the question, Detective.”

“Call me Witt. Say you’ll help.”

The plea skittered across her flesh, made her quiver. Why did everything the man said have to seem sexual?

Because you’re hot for him.

She’d have liked to shake her finger, or worse, at Cameron. Instead she turned the tables on the detective. “Something’s going on here I don’t quite get. The police on TV never involve civilians like this.”

“Obviously you watch too much TV.” He held up his hands. “No ulterior motive here. Truth is, the longer a case goes on, the lower the odds of solving it. Cleared every case I’ve ever had. And I don’t intend for this killer to escape justice.”

Every victim deserves justice. Nice sentiment. She wondered if he really believed that or if it was some public service line they taught in cop school. “So what you’re saying between the lines is you can’t pin it on Hal Gregory.”

He shook his head, a slight smile creasing his face. He found her terminology amusing, she was sure. “His alibi is rock solid. For the time being. He was with the father of the victim during a three-hour window surrounding the ME’s—sorry, medical examiner’s—estimated time of death.”

“I know what an ME is.” TV
was
useful for some things. “What about Wendy’s mother, was she there, too?”

“Deceased. Died when the victim was born.”

The flat statement didn’t surprise her. In fact, she’d have been far more surprised if Witt had told her Wendy’s mother was alive. In many ways, she and Wendy were alike. Here was an example. Max had lost her mother when she was very young, eight years old. Then she’d gone to live with her uncle, and... “Okay,” she said, shaking off the suddenly bad thoughts, “so the husband’s got an alibi. What about motive?”

“Nothing concrete.”

This was where it got sticky. If Wendy had an affair, as Max was sure she had, then Hal Gregory had motive. Jealousy. Yet if Max said anything, then Witt would have a laundry list of questions like who, what, where, when, and how.

Which brought up Nicholas Drake.

Of course, the detective would wonder how the hell she knew this stuff. Instinct told her to keep the information to herself for now.

Or that was Wendy Gregory’s insistent voice inside her.

You’re hot for the detective. But she’s hot for the paperboy.

Cameron was right about Wendy’s emotions. A low level buzz flowed through her veins. She glanced at Taco Bell’s window. Nickie hadn’t returned. Later, if it was necessary, she’d consider telling the detective about him. Right now, there were a whole lot of other places to look.

Max went on the offensive. “I still don’t think you’re supposed to tell me all this stuff.”

“My lieutenant gives me a lotta latitude.”

“It sounds like information you’d want to keep to yourself to rule out copycats.”

Witt laughed outright, a deep-throated sound that vibrated in her chest. Gosh, he was
damn
cute when he laughed. “Gotta get you to stop watching TV. No multiple murder scenario here. She was bumped off by someone she knew.” Which was nothing new to Max. “And you want to help me find that person.”

The fact that he’d picked up on that so easily was enough to make her heart race . It wasn’t as if she’d done anything wrong, though. “What makes you think I want anything to do with this?”

“You called about the date book.”

“That was my civic duty.”

“Without a second thought, most people would have put it in the box of personal stuff for her husband to pick up.”

Max figured it was time to stop looking a gift horse in the mouth. He had information. She wanted it. What more could a girl ask for from an attractive detective, even if he did wear brown? “All right. We’ve got a deal. I’d look at Remy first. He’s not a middle-of-the-road kind of guy. They hate him or they love him. I looked through the personnel files. Did you know he’s terminated ten employees in three months?”

Witt’s blue eyes widened. “Terminated?”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re laughing at me.”

“Course not.” A car back-fired, Max leaned closer to hear him say, “Go on.”

She caught another subtle whiff of his enticing aftershave. Then she told him everything she’d learned that morning, except the affair part, none of which turned out to be news to the detective.

He drummed his fingers on the table. “Anything else?”

Damn. She was actually disappointed she hadn’t one-upped him with stuff she
could
tell him. “That’s all, folks.”

Skepticism was written all over his face. But Witt Long
was
a gentleman. He didn’t call her on it. Instead he gave her his card. Again. As if he thought she might have thrown out the other one. “Call me. Tell me whatever you find out. No matter how insignificant it seems.”

“Sure.”

“Don’t let me down.”

Max couldn’t see his eyes behind his dark glasses, and she was glad he couldn’t see behind hers. As it was, a telltale heat crept into her face. While it
was
sexual, it was also tinged with guilt. Still, he hadn’t mentioned Wendy’s keys or outright confirmed that the date book hadn’t been in the drawer when he’d checked. She felt justified in keeping a few things to herself.

At least
she’d
gotten something out of the whole deal—besides a really bad stomach ache—Hal Gregory had an alibi.

She’d chip away at it the first opportunity she got.

Chapter Seven

The opportunity came a lot sooner than she’d expected.

By the time she returned to Hackett’s, the copy machine was fixed, a bill lay on her desk, and Hal Gregory was on voicemail.

In an indirect way, he accepted her invitation for drinks. He was concerned about “developments.” He was “distraught” with the thought of staying at home another night when he should be out looking for his wife’s killer. He ended by asking Max to meet him so she could shower him with sympathy. Her words in his mouth, admittedly, but enough to tell her the man had another motive. That was okay. So did she, but the advantage was hers because Hal Gregory didn’t suspect
her
ulterior reasons.

Max smiled and called him back immediately.

She met him at her favorite hang-out, Billy Joe’s Western Round Up, at nine o’clock that night. It was Friday. The dance floor was a mass of bumping, grinding bodies as Brad Paisley ended his song about lost love on three big-screen TVs overhead. Max liked the Round Up. She liked the music, the noise, and the politeness of the California-suburban cowboys.

Cameron hated the place. And the men. He hated that Max sometimes needed to come here to— She cut off the thought. She had to concentrate here, not dwell on things that were best left alone.

Over the music and the laughter, Max couldn’t hear Hal and he couldn’t hear her. She moved in closer. “Sorry, guess a dance bar was a bad idea.”

She unbuttoned her jacket and hooked her heels over the rungs of her stool. She hadn’t bothered going home to change. She owned four black suits, six white shirts, five silk ties, all with a dash of red in them. She didn’t think Hal Gregory would appreciate the difference.

Besides, it wasn’t a date. It was a fishing expedition.

Hal shifted uncomfortably. “It’s a little difficult to talk in here.” He winced as Martina McBride hit a particularly high note. “Could I suggest somewhere else?”

He wasn’t at home in the down-and-dirty atmosphere. That was her point. He’d ordered a gin and tonic as cowboys tilted longnecks. His striped button-down and linen slacks flew in the face of the attire of choice: boots, jeans, and hat. He sat straight in his seat like he had a stick up his butt when slouching with elbows on the lacquered table tops was the regular mode.

Max stared at her Corona’s sizzling bubbles. “I don’t know you, and this place is a little less...threatening than somewhere quiet.” The objective was to get him off-balance, then swoop in with an apology and a comforting hand.

Hal Gregory fell for it, wrung his hands and sputtered an excuse. “I, uh, didn’t think of it from a woman’s point of view.”

She wondered if Hal had ever thought of anything from anyone else’s point of view, especially his wife’s. Her belly rumbled with...rage? No, nothing that strong. She couldn’t put her finger on it, as if Wendy had lived through her marriage with the mute button pressed.

Max brushed Hal’s thigh with her knee, then pulled back as if it had been an accident. “You sounded upset when you left that message.”

He stared at the dance floor a moment, then turned back. “I probably shouldn’t involve anyone in this. It’s my problem.”

“Involve me? In what?” She laid a hand on his arm, leaned closer so that the scent of her hastily donned perfume rose from her barely there cleavage. Sexual attraction was power. She’d use it on him without compunction. “I meant it when I said I was a good listener. There isn’t anything you’re going through right now that I didn’t feel at the time my husband died.”

His lips tensed and whitened. His nostrils flared. “Did they hold his body for days on end while they ran test after test?” Images of what the coroner would have done to Wendy Gregory’s body flashed across her mind before she could stop them. Then she thought of Cameron. Her stomach turned queasy. Autopsy. She
hated
thinking about that.

The bent of the conversation didn’t seem to affect Hal; he was on a roll. “Did they claim it was ‘evidence?’ No funeral, no end to it all. They won’t even let me have the car. It’s a crime scene.” He caught himself then, heard what his words sounded like, blanched. “Of course, I’d never drive it again. I’d sell it.”

Self-centered asshole or pissed as hell that his wife was having an affair? “Of course, you couldn’t bear to use it.”

“Exactly. You understand. I just want to get rid of it. The reminders, you know.” He touched her hand. Wendy’s skin shriveled. Max couldn’t define the emotions, but none of them felt like love.

“You’ll feel it’s over when they find her killer.”

“Is that when it was over for you, Max?”

Peppermints in the air. Cameron was near, his soft breath in her hair, the only thing that kept her sane while she answered Hal’s question with far less than the whole truth. “The police never found my husband’s killers.”

Most people would have offered sympathy. Not Hal Gregory. She wasn’t sure what she would have said if he had. “Killers?”

“Three men.”

“What happened?”

She saw it all, a mental Polaroid. Cameron amidst crushed bags of Doritos, broken jars of salsa, and a hole in his forehead. There hadn’t been all that much blood, but there should have been. That’s what she’d been thinking when the men had dragged her out of there. Such an odd thought at a time like that.

“A simple robbery.” Her hands were cold. Cameron blew warmth on them. Nothing had been simple since the evening they’d walked into that place to buy his last pack of cigarettes.

“I’m sorry.” Ah, finally the words, though she doubted Hal Gregory could even begin to understand.

She stuffed her memories back down and went on with her act. “I know it’s hard to believe, but with time...” Her words trailed off.

Not all things healed with time. And Cameron had never really left her.

Mired in his own pain, oblivious to hers, Hal laughed, a derisive, hollow sound. “I seriously doubt that trite phrase.” Softening the bitterness in his voice, he put his hand on top of hers and squeezed. “My wife was cheating on me.”

In her excitement, Max ruthlessly crushed all vestiges of self-pity. Motive. Just as she’d suspected, the man
had
known. She didn’t even worry about whether this was something she’d tell Detective Long. Right now, her only intention was to milk it for all it was worth.

Max let her eyelids fall. She sighed deeply, then shook her head. “Oh Hal, I’m so sorry.” Biting her lip, she then took a deep breath as if she’d suddenly come to a major decision. “I’ve never told anyone this before. I’ve always felt it was so...shameful.”

An avid light lit Hal’s eyes. “You don’t have to share your secrets.” But he begged her to with a press of his fingers.

“I want to, Hal.” The weepy tone, the near-tears sheen in her eyes, the earnest tremble of her lips—she deserved an Academy Award. If she didn’t puke first. “Cameron was...there’s no easy way to say it. He was a philanderer.”

God, she loved that word. Cameron, however, did not. A gust of wind ripped across the table and toppled her beer bottle. She caught it just in time.

“What the hell was that?”

“Sorry, I knocked the table with my knee.” Of course, it was bolted to the floor, and her leg was six inches from contact.

Hal Gregory actively molded her fingers with his slender, bony ones. His palm was damp. His body odor was off. The man had a nervous sweat. He was angling for something from her.

“Did you hurt yourself?”

Nah, I’m used to my dead husband knocking over my beer bottles.
“Are you sure about your wife?”