Kansas City Secrets (4 page)

“And maybe you ought to mind your own business.”

“You're my partner. You are my business.”

Max glanced over at his dark-haired nemesis. Conversations like this made him feel like Trent's pop or Dutch uncle, as if life had aged him far beyond the twelve years that separated them in age. Still, Trent was the closest thing he had to a friend here in KC. The younger detective dealt with his moods and attitude better than anybody since Jimmy. Nope. He wasn't going there.

“Bite me, junior.” Max pulled up to the curb in front of the white house with blue shutters and red rosebushes blooming along the front of the porch.

“I know today is a rough one for you.” Trent pulled his notebook from beneath the seat before he clapped a hand on Max's shoulder. “But seriously, brother. Did you get that shirt out of the laundry? You know you're supposed to fold them or hang them up when you take them out of the dryer, right? Did you even shave this morning?”

“You are not my mama.” Although part of him appreciated the concern behind Trent's teasing, Max shrugged his hand away and killed the engine. “Get out of my car. And don't scratch anything on your way out.”

Max set his cigar in the ashtray and checked the rearview mirror, scrubbing his fingers over the gold-and-tan stubble that he probably should have attended to before leaving for work this morning. Although the crew cut was the same as it had been back in basic training, the wrinkled chambray of his short-sleeved shirt would have earned him a demerit and a lecture from Jimmy. What a mess. One beer too many and a sketchy night's sleep had left him ill-equipped to deal with today.

Swearing at the demons staring back at him, Max climbed out, tucking in the tails of his shirt and adjusting the badge and gun at the waist of his jeans as he surveyed up and down the street. Looked like a pretty ordinary summer morning here in middle-class America. Dogs barking out back. Flowers blooming. Kids playing in the yard. Royals baseball banners flying proudly. Didn't look like the hoity-toity neighborhood where he expected a millionaire crackpot to live. Didn't look much like a place where they could track down clues to a six-year-old murder, either.

But he had to give Trent credit for dragging him out on this fool's errand. Driving the Chevy and breathing in the fresh air beat being cooped up in the office with a bunch of paperwork and his gloomy thoughts. Max tipped his face to the sunshine for a few moments, locking down the bad memories before he took the steps two at a time and followed Trent up to the Marches' front porch.

“What is this? Fort Knox?” he drawled, eyeing the high-tech gadgetry of the alarm on the front door, along with the knob lock and dead bolt. “My grandma lives in a brand-new apartment complex and doesn't have this kind of security.”

“The woman does live alone,” Trent reminded him.

Max peered in through the front bay window while Trent rang the doorbell. The front room was neat as a pin, if stacks of boxes and piles of papers on nearly every flat surface counted. But not a cat in sight. He refused to believe that the noise of dogs barking out back might in any way disprove his theory about crazy Rosemary March.

“Yes?” Several seconds passed before the red steel door opened halfway. He could barely hear the woman's soft voice through the glass storm door. “May I help you?”

Trent flashed his badge and identified them. “KCPD, ma'am. I'm Detective Dixon and this is my partner, Max Krolikowski. We're here to ask some questions. Are you Rosemary March?” She must have nodded. “Could you open the outside door, too?”

“If you step back, I will. I'll disable the alarm and come out.”

Max moved to one side while Trent retreated to the requested distance between them.

Max had expected that shriveled-up prune from his imagination to appear. He at least expected to see a homely plain Jane with pop-bottle glasses. He wasn't expecting the generously built woman with flawless alabaster skin, dressed neck to knee in a gauzy white dress, exposing only her arms and calves to the summer heat. Although her hair, the color of a shiny copper penny, was drawn back into a bun so tight that words like
spinster
and
schoolmarm
danced on his tongue, he hadn't expected Rosemary March to be so...feminine. So curvy. He wasn't expecting to see signs of pretty.

He wasn't expecting the Colt automatic she held down in the folds of her skirt, either.

Chapter Three

Max's fingers immediately went to his holster. “Gun!”

The redhead nudged open the glass storm door and slipped the pistol behind her back as though they wouldn't notice it. “I asked you to step—”

“Damn it, lady. Keep that thing where we can see it.” Max put up one hand to swing the door open wide and folded the other hand around her arm, sliding it down over her wrist until he had the barrel of her weapon in his grasp.

“Get out of my house—” The redhead gasped and recoiled, tugging against his grip. “Let go of me.”

No way. Even if she didn't mean them any harm, he wasn't trusting that a fruitcake like her wouldn't accidentally fire off a round. “Damn it, lady, relax. We're just here to talk.”

She curled both hands around the butt of the weapon now. If her finger reached that trigger... “Please don't swear like that. It isn't polite.”

“And pointing a gun at us is?” Two of her hands against one of his was no contest. She stumbled out the door, uselessly trying to hold on while he pried the weapon from her grip. A rush that was more anger than relief fired through his veins when he realized how light it was. “Oh, hell, no.” He turned aside, dropping the empty magazine from the handle and opening the firing chamber. “This thing isn't even loaded.”

Her gaze was as icy cool as her skin. “May I please have it back?”

Max turned the gun over in his hands. “This thing is Army issue. About twenty years old.” He reset the magazine and thrust the Colt back at her, butt first. If she recoiled half a step at his abrupt action and loud voice, he didn't care. “It isn't yours.”

“It was my father's.”

“Didn't he ever tell you that you damn sure never point an empty weapon at a guy whose gun can really shoot? Hell, what if I'd pulled my sidearm instead of grabbing yours?”

Her eyes were the silvery color of twilight as she angled them up to him, searching for the intent behind his mirrored glasses. She finally took the gun from him and hugged it near her waist. “You're swearing again.”

“Looking down the barrel of a gun does that to me.”

“I didn't point it at you,” she snapped. “You had no reason to—” And then she inhaled a calming breath and turned to Trent, as though raising her voice to Max violated some code of conduct she wouldn't allow. “I was putting away my father's pistol when the doorbell rang. If I had known you were the police, I would have locked it up first. But I thought it was my friend here to give me a ride into the city, and he would understand. He knows I don't keep it loaded.”

Jimmy's hand had held an Army pistol that fateful day, too. Max's mind went hazy for a split second as the gruesome image tried to take hold. But he ruthlessly shoved it aside. Of all the stupid, fool stunts for this woman to pull today. “You don't carry a gun around unless you're prepared to use it.”

“And you don't just grab a person because you—” Her chin jerked up to give him a straight-on look at the pink stains dotting her pale cheeks before she clamped her mouth shut and dropped her gaze. Well, what do you know? Crazy Dog Lady had a temper.

“Ease up, Max,” Trent warned.

Those gray eyes flashed in Max's direction although she turned her body toward his partner, rightly suspecting that Trent would be the one more apt to listen to a reasonable explanation. “You should have called first. I have an appointment this morning with my attorney. I wasn't expecting anyone else to come to the house.”

“Maybe we should start this conversation again.” Trent raised his notebook between them and intervened, leaving Max wondering if it was his partner's presence or some snobby code of behavior that made her check her tongue when she clearly wanted to lambaste him for putting his hands on her. She turned her full focus on the taller man, dismissing Max. Trent pulled off his sunglasses and tucked them into his chest pocket. “I apologize for my partner here. His PR skills might be a little rusty, but believe me, he's a good cop. You're perfectly safe with him. There's no one else I trust to have my back more. Are you Rosemary March?”

“You already know that or you wouldn't be here.”

Trent managed to keep the patient tone Max hadn't been able to muster. “First of all, is everything all right, ma'am? It tends to put us on alert to see someone carrying a weapon. I assure you, Max was only trying to prevent an accident from happening.”

Her gaze darted up to his. “Is that true?”

Max shrugged. “I don't like to get shot.”

“But that's why you touched me? You thought I was going to...?” Her voice trailed away and her focus dropped to the middle of his chest. “Sarcasm, right?”

“Oh, yeah.” With a clear lack of appreciation for his cynical humor, her gaze bounced across the width of Max's shoulders, up to the scruff on his chin, over to the large bay window and finally down to the brass badge clipped to his belt. Prim and proper Miss Rosemary March was hiding something, buying herself time to come up with the right thing to say. Why? Something had her spooked. Was it the badge? His very real, very loaded gun? Was it him? Six feet, two inches of growly first sergeant in need of a shave could be intimidating. Was it Trent? Max's partner was even taller, still built like the defensive lineman he'd once been. And she had to be, what, all of five-five?

A chill pricked the back of his neck. That instant wariness, much like the split-second warnings he'd gotten over in the desert before all hell broke loose, put him on alert. Maybe he and Trent weren't the reason she was carrying that gun. Thinking he ought to be worried about more than that empty weapon, Max rested his hand on his holster and looked beyond her into the foyer. “Is someone in the house with you?”

“No.” Too fast an answer.

When he reached for the door, she sidestepped to block his path. She put her hand up to stop him from opening the door. Max put on the brakes, but with his momentum he swayed toward her, breathing in a whiff of her flowery soap or shampoo. He heard her suck in her breath and felt her fingers push against him before she curled them into a fist and pulled back almost as soon as they made contact with his chest.

“Lady, I'm trying to help—”

“I said no.” Although the firm tone drew him up short, the warning was directed to the button on the wrinkled point of his collar.

And she was shivering. In this ninety-degree heat, he could see the fine tremors in the fist clutched to her chest.

Max huffed out a frustrated breath that she turned her face from. He scrubbed his hand over the stubble on his jaw and wisely backed away before he muttered the curse on the tip of his tongue. He wasn't able to read this chick at all. She wasn't wrinkled. She wasn't old. And the only thing prunish about her was the snooty tone that attempted to put him in his place time and again. And, hell, he had to admire anyone who dared to stand up to him on a day like today.

First, she'd been an imposition on his time. Then she was a threat. Now he could smell the fear on her, but she refused to admit to it.

And how could he still feel the imprint of five fingers that had barely brushed against him?

He splayed his hands at his waist and demanded that she start making some sense. “Are you hiding something? Is that why you don't want us inside?”

“No, I just don't like having anyone...” She pressed her pink lips together in a thin line, stopping that explanation. “It's a mess.”

The boxes and piles of papers stacked in the room indicated she was telling the truth. Still, there was something off about this woman—about this whole situation. “Nobody comes to the door with a gun because she's embarrassed about her housekeeping. That thing is an accident waiting to happen.”

“I'll explain it again.” Oh, right. In case the dumb cop couldn't figure it out. “The gun was still out from last night. I've been going through my parents' things for months now and found it in my father's desk. I was putting it away before my ride comes to pick me up this morning. The doorbell rang while I was straightening up. I thought it was my attorney. I didn't want to keep him waiting.” Despite the even, articulate tone, her soft gray eyes kept glancing up to him but wouldn't lock on to his questioning gaze. Probably because he wasn't letting her see it. She drifted a step closer to Trent. “I wasn't expecting anyone to come to the house. The officer took a report over the phone last night. I thought someone would come over then. But no one ever did so I assumed KCPD had dismissed my call.”

Huh? That comment short-circuited his fuming suspicions. Max traded a look with Trent before asking, “What report?”

“The one I called the police about last night.” Last night? He'd missed something here. Had she gone back to making spurious calls to 9-1-1? While Max was wondering if his communication skills had gone completely off the rails, Rosemary March's body language changed. Her free hand went to the stand-up collar of her dress and she puffed up like a banty hen trying to assert herself in the barnyard pecking order. “Would you mind taking off your sunglasses, Detective Krolikowski? It's rude not to let someone see your eyes when you're having a conversation with them.”

“What?”

“Take off your glasses. I insist.”

“You insist?” Max bristled at her bossy tone. “Boy, you've got to have everything just so, don't you.”

“I don't think common courtesy is asking too much.”

“Max.” Trent nodded at him to do it.

Really? Max pulled off his glasses and hooked them on the back of his neck. She wanted the glasses off?
How about this
,
honey?
He folded his arms across his chest and glared down into her searching gray eyes until they suddenly shuttered. She must have had her fill of cynicism and impatience because she retreated until her back was pressed against the glass door.

He didn't need to hear the breathy tone of her polite thank-you to recognize the sudden change in Miss Rosie's demeanor or feel like a heel knowing he was the cause of it. What had he done? Most people got in his face or blew him off when he got in a mood like this. But Rosemary March was different. So what if this conversation wasn't making any sense to him. He knew better than to let anybody's odd behavior get under his skin. His presence here clearly agitated her. She breathed harder, faster, and Max topped off his jackassery by noticing her full, round breasts pushing against the gauzy white cotton of that dress.

That little seed of attraction he hadn't expected to feel was clearly agitating him. “Ah, hell. Ma'am, I didn't mean... I wish I could explain where my head is today, but it's too long a story. Are you sure you're okay?”

She nodded, but he'd feel a lot less like a scary bastard if she'd get some color in those pale cheeks or lecture him again. Putting his hand on her and crowding her probably hadn't been the smartest moves. Something about the gun must have drummed up memories of Jimmy and put him on his worst behavior.

But that was a lousy excuse for a man sworn to protect and serve. This was about more than a soldier's or a cop's hardwired reaction to giving anybody a chance to get the drop on him or his men. And he could hardly explain his skepticism regarding her usefulness as a witness on this anniversary of Jimmy's senseless death. He owed her some kind of apology for scaring her. For being a jerk. But the words weren't coming. Not today.

When had words ever been his strong suit?

Thank God, he was part of a team and could rely on Trent's handsome face and friendly smile to salvage this interview. Max cleared his throat and backed toward the front steps. “I'll, uh, just do a quick walk around the place if that's okay with you.”

Miss Rosemary gave him a jerky nod, her gaze breezing past his chin again. “I left the message in the cabinet on my patio out back.” Message? Trent glanced over his shoulder and traded a confused look, but Max wasn't about to ask. “The dogs will bark, but they don't bite.” And then her twilight gaze landed on his. A fine, coppery brow arched in what might be arrogance. Or a warning. “At least, they haven't bitten anyone yet.”

Nope. Didn't have to hit him over the head more than once. He had no business trying to make nice with anybody today.

“I'll look.” He nodded to Trent. “You talk.”

Max trotted down the steps and breathed a lungful of humid summer air into his tight chest while he made another cursory scan of the well-kept front yard. When he realized the lady of the house wasn't answering any of Trent's questions with him still in sight, he muttered a curse and followed the driveway around the side of the house.

Message in a cabinet? Was that code for something? Like
Scram
,
Krolikowski
? And that thing about the dogs not biting anyone
yet
—was that an attempt at humor to ease the friction between them, or her demure version of a threat?

He peeked through the window of the separate garage to see her sedan parked inside, along with a neatly arranged array of storage boxes and lawn equipment. She was right about the dogs barking. As soon as he came into view, a deep-voiced German shepherd with a cloudy eye and a yappy little bundle of curly tan hair charged the chain-link fence and let him know they knew he was there.

A fond memory of Jax, the big German shepherd who'd served with his unit, made him smile. Jax had died in that Sector Six firefight where the captain had been captured. The victim of a hidden bomb. A single bark had given them their only warning before the blast. Jimmy had taken the dog's death as hard as the loss of his men. “Son of a...”

Really? Just like that, whatever positives he could summon today crashed and burned. Irritated with his inability to focus, Max fixed the friendliest look he could manage on his face and approached the fence.

“Hey, big girl. Do you sit? Sit. Good girl.” When the shepherd instantly obeyed his command, he figured the poodle was the one he had to win over. He squatted down and held his fist against the chain-link fence to let the excited little dog sniff his hand. They certainly hadn't had a feisty little fuzz mop like this one with the unit. “Hey, there, killer.”