Mystery Heiress. Suzanne Carey

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СКАЧАТЬ himself in a jam. Maybe he’d tried to do so already.

      “My dear, dear friend…please, go home and wait for him to call you,” she begged. “Keep the line open, just in case. Let me know when you hear from him.”

      A bit grumpily, because he’d planned on having breakfast with her, Sterling arose. “As always, I’m at your service,” he murmured.

      “If he calls, you’ll go with him to the police.”

      “Of course.”

      Though he doubted she’d make a habit of it, Kate surprised him with a swift, spontaneous hug before ushering him out the door.

      Jake awoke in a run-down motel, with a sour taste in his mouth. He’d drunk to excess the night before—he knew that much. His stomach felt like crap, and his head was pounding. Seconds later, the painful throbbing of his injured shoulder brought back the whole frightening, humiliating scenario that had taken place. Groaning, he shut his eyes as the details of what he’d been running from invaded his memory and settled there. The argument with Monica. Her coming at him with a letter opener. A thrust of pain that had made him gasp. Him pushing her away, and her falling against the marble fireplace…

      Like a fool, or some desperate kind of idiot, he’d gone to her house to confront her over the way she’d been blackmailing him—threatening to reveal to the world that his father was a poor slob of a foot soldier who’d died in World War II, not the self-made, illustrious Benjamin Fortune, who’d married his mother and placed a silver spoon in his mouth.

      It was news his power-hungry half brother, Nate, would glory in hearing, and Jake had been determined to keep it from him at all costs. He should have known Monica would refuse to return the stock he’d sold her under duress, or promise to keep his secret—that she’d try something crazy, like trying to kill or injure him.

      Because of her insane and jealous machinations, he’d all but destroyed the company his family had taken a half century to build, and lost most of the respect he’d once had for himself. Now she was dead, a corpse discovered lying facedown on her living room floor, according to the news account he’d watched before bolting from his parents’ former Lake Travis house the night before.

      I didn’t kill her! he thought frantically. I know I didn’t! She was alive when I left. She’d regained consciousness, and I’d helped her to the sofa. I should have stuck around, I suppose. Phoned for help and stayed until it arrived. But she didn’t seem to be hurt that badly. She was shouting gutter language at me, threatening to come at me again, and I wanted to get out of there as fast as I could.

      Who had killed her then? Jake didn’t have a clue, any more than he knew whether someone had seen him leave the house. If his departure had been observed, he might not have been recognized. Yet his fingerprints would be all over the scene. His blood, too, he guessed, would have dripped from the wound in his shoulder. Plus, she’d scratched him. Bits of his skin would be found beneath her long red fingernails. His DNA would be everywhere. If he’d been placed by someone at the property near the time of death, the police would be looking for him. He’d be facing a mountain of evidence.

      Fear congealing like an undigested meal in his gut, he got out of bed and paid an overdue visit to the bathroom. He was still wearing the clothes he’d worn the night before—thankfully, the clean pullover and slacks he’d changed into following the shower he’d taken at his daughter Natalie’s insistence, not the torn and blood-soaked shirt and soiled trousers he’d stuffed into an upstairs bathroom hamper. Unfortunately, his breath still smelled of Scotch. And he didn’t have any toothpaste.

      He shook his head. What must Natalie have thought when she came across the lake and discovered him, wounded, drunk and babbling? Now that he’d disappeared, she must be worried sick. Somehow, he’d have to make it up to her.

      In the meantime, he’d concentrate on getting out of the mess he was in. For one thing, he didn’t know precisely where he was. He only knew that, after learning of Monica’s death, he’d hit the road and driven for hours, stopping finally at a run-down motel somewhere in Wisconsin’s north country.

      A quick scan of the checkout card revealed that he’d spent the night at the Heart’s Desire Motel on Round Lake, near the town of Hayward. It occurred to him that, under the circumstances, his out-of-state flight wouldn’t look good. He might need legal representation.

      Though it seemed like years since he’d run from Monica’s house and sped away in his car, less than twenty-four hours had elapsed. It was Saturday. Sterling Foster wasn’t likely to be in his office. Racking his brain, Jake managed to come up with his home number and dial it with trembling fingers.

      After leaving Kate’s apartment, Sterling had returned home. But he hadn’t stayed put, the way he planned. Instead, a worried call from Natalie had propelled him to her house, across Lake Travis from the Fortune mansion. She had things to tell him about Jake’s involvement with Monica the night before—things she didn’t feel comfortable confiding over the telephone.

      Annoyed that he had to go when Kate had suggested he remain at home and make himself available for Jake’s call, he’d quickly decided the trip had been worth it when he heard Natalie’s tale of an argument between Jake and Monica at her house, possibly over blackmail, Monica’s fall and Jake’s assertion that he’d cut his shoulder. According to the secondhand information he’d received from her, the aging star had been alive and ready to continue their argument when Jake left the house. As for his comments about blackmail, Jake hadn’t been specific. In fact, he’d backed off from them.

      His claim that Monica had been alive when he left had alleviated the lawyer’s concern only a little. Coupled with the fact of her death, the circumstances Jake had described to his daughter spelled big trouble for him, in his opinion. Kate had thought so, too, when he reported to her on returning to his apartment shortly before 11:00 a.m.

      When his phone shrilled just seconds after they finished their conversation, he picked up on the first ring. “At last!” he exclaimed in response to Jake’s tentative utterance of his name. “Where in the hell are you? Monica Malone’s murder is all over the newspapers and television. The Minneapolis Police are seeking you for questioning.”

      The bottom dropping out of his feeble hope that someone else had been caught and charged with Monica’s murder, Jake told Sterling where he was. “You’ve got to believe me…I didn’t kill Monica,” he begged like a penitent child, “though we did have a run-in. She was alive when I left. Still, if the police are looking for me, I suppose I’m in a heap of trouble. I’m going to need your help.”

      Sterling calculated that the motel where Jake had spent the night was roughly a two-and-a-half-hour drive from Minneapolis. An unannounced and unaccompanied return might not be wise. It was entirely possible that the police had alerted their fellow officers throughout Minnesota and the neighboring states to be on the lookout for him. If he was arrested on his way back, or even detained for questioning, he could protest all he wanted that he’d planned to turn himself in and still not be believed.

      In Sterling’s opinion, the best course of action he could take would be to drive to Wisconsin and bring Jake back, after notifying the authorities that the Fortune CEO would appear at police headquarters voluntarily that evening and answer all their questions. That way, he’d have a chance to hear the full story from Jake’s mouth—ask whatever questions he deemed necessary, and help him settle on the official version—before the detectives got a crack at him.

      For Jake, the silence on Sterling’s end of the line was deafening. “For God’s sake,” he pleaded, “say something. Tell me СКАЧАТЬ