Change of Life. Leigh Riker

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СКАЧАТЬ six-pack roiled in his belly, which he fully deserved, but if anyone spoke too loud in the next few hours, he wouldn’t pull his punches.

      Caine wasn’t proud of what he called his therapeutic drinking, which had started after his wife, Annie’s, death, but occasions like that three years ago, and at the moment this one, tended to throw off his good intentions. Right now, his job wasn’t helping him to reform.

      “Guess I picked the wrong line of work,” he said, but it was all he knew.

      Caine wound his way up the long, paved drive to the Whitehouse address.

      Good Lord.

      Did people really live this way? He knew they did. In his job Caine saw all kinds of homes: grand estates, middle-class brick ranch houses, single-and double-wide trailers. The small bungalow he’d shared with Annie popped into his mind as well. Neat and tidy, it had smelled of good food and furniture polish and most of all, love, when she was still alive. He hated going home now.

      Solitary confinement, Caine called his place, which echoed with a sense of emptiness now that she was gone. He’d never planned on living there alone, or being a bachelor again. Well, alone except for Annie’s cat. Caine was the orange tabby’s sole companion now, just as the tomcat was his. He guessed they suited each other, one of them as irascible as the other. Once, he supposed, they’d both been normal guys.

      What the hell. He might as well question Geneva Whitehouse about some petty burglary she’d reported earlier that morning or he’d start to feel tempted to go find a little hair of the dog and call a beer or two his lunch—not that Caine had ever done any drinking on the job. He didn’t expect the interview to amount to anything. Probably the Whitehouse maid had lifted an item or two, giving herself a nice five-finger bonus.

      He rang the bell and heard discreet chimes from within.

      The woman who answered would have sucked the breath from an ordinary man, one who still had red blood flowing through his veins. Reed-slim but full-breasted, Geneva Whitehouse wasn’t tall, yet she carried herself like a supermodel. An ash blonde with wide blue eyes, she wore a gold wedding ring on her hand next to a flashy diamond set in platinum that must weigh four carats.

      “Ms. Whitehouse. Calvin Caine.” He flashed his badge. “I’m the investigator assigned to your case. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

      With the introduction he handed her his card. As she studied it, the striking blue of her eyes went flat, like an unpolished stone, and the sparkle disappeared except from her ring.

      “Please come in.”

      Caine felt the back of his neck crawl. Right away his head began to throb again and he felt lost. The house was huge, in all ways. Big entry hall, big rooms, big ceilings, big air-conditioning system if the chill was anything to judge by. He thought of his own decrepit bedroom unit, cranking out stale air all night, not helping him to sleep. He kept meaning to replace it. Too bad he didn’t have the inclination to change the AC, his clothes, whatever.

      In the living room she studied him. “Would you like a drink? Soda, coffee, something stronger?”

      He must look as if he needed one. The temptation he’d suppressed rocked him back on his heels. “No, thanks. I’m on duty. I won’t take much of your time.”

      Geneva Whitehouse perched on the arm of a very expensive-looking sofa. She invited him to sit down, but Caine stayed on his feet. He took out his notebook and clicked open his pen.

      “The missing vase,” he said, prompting her to begin.

      “Yes, of course. I noticed it was gone this morning when I got up,” she said. “It’s quite valuable, although not of museum quality.” She named a figure that widened Caine’s eyes anyway. “My husband had it custom-made for me from his own design.” She blinked. “As you might guess, it has even greater sentimental value.” She worried her bottom lip. “Do you think you can get it back?”

      “We’ll try.” He scribbled on his pad. “When did you last see this vase?”

      With a longing look toward the hall, she indicated the now-empty space in the curio cabinet, a look that reminded Caine of himself at home in his empty house. “Yesterday afternoon, I think, just before five,” she said.

      Caine asked the usual questions about anyone who had access to the house or grounds, anyone who might know the layout and her daily routine. In his experience, most people followed the same schedule, in the same order, each day without any significant deviation. She mentioned the gardener, her cleaning service, the pool boy. “But they haven’t been here as recently as—” Her gaze popped open even more. “Oh, goodness. I’ve been so upset, I almost forgot. I’ve been interviewing interior designers. We’re going to have some work done on the house—” needlessly, Caine thought, but it was her money, or her husband’s “—and two women were here yesterday. One of them admired that particular vase. It does stand out,” she added.

      Caine needed specifics.

      “Nora Pride,” she murmured, sounding reluctant to say the name. “Her firm is Nine Lives, Inc. in Destin.”

      Sounded more like a pet store to Caine. She gave him the other woman’s name, Starr Mulligan of Superior Interiors, and Caine rolled his eyes. Geneva Whitehouse didn’t see him because she had glanced away, but when her gaze met his again, his cop instincts began to hum. Caine saw doubt in her eyes. She didn’t know whether to tell him something.

      “Anything you can give me, Ms. Whitehouse, will be a help. Sometimes the smallest detail can sound a bell.”

      She fidgeted with her ring. “Something else does bother me, Detective Caine. I’d be less than a good citizen—and not very helpful to you—if I didn’t tell you that when they were here, Starr and Nora argued.”

      Geneva Whitehouse gnawed on her lip again. It was a great lip, full and plump and ripe, but Caine reminded himself that he didn’t have much interest in women these days. His work had become his life. And besides, she was married. Caine liked to think he was a principled man.

      “I wasn’t in perfect earshot,” she continued, bringing him back to the reason for his visit. “While I was looking at the shelves and cabinets in the kitchen, Nora took Starr aside. I could hear the buzz of their voices, then they rose before Nora’s dropped a little…” She flushed, prettily.

      “Go on.”

      Geneva Whitehouse hesitated. “Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions. The vase was here when they left and later, I think, when I left home myself. I was supposed to meet my husband for dinner, but he was detained at work so I ended up eating alone in the restaurant.” She all but wrung her hands, looking more unhappy than her husband’s necessary lapse seemed to warrant. “I don’t see how anyone could have gotten into the house while I was gone. We have an alarm system and it’s always monitored. Earl insisted on it as soon as we were married.”

      And she had become a blue blood by law, Caine thought. He made a little “hmm” of encouragement. This was Geneva Whitehouse’s first marriage, he knew, but it was her spouse’s third trip around the matrimonial track, and each time he had downsized in terms of his bride’s age. Earl Whitehouse was a prominent local builder and Royal Palms was his project.

      Talk about career development. Without ever holding a job, Geneva Whitehouse had become an instant multimillionaire.

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