A Priceless Find. Kate James

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СКАЧАТЬ be kidding,” the detective retorted. “Well, get her out of here.”

      “No. Wait!” Chelsea interjected. The detective and Miller both turned to her, but she barely noticed Miller. There was something commanding in the detective’s eyes, in his bearing. She supposed he was good-looking, in that tough-and-rugged way, but the frown and obvious exasperation in his eyes didn’t do much for his appeal. “It’s not the officer’s fault,” she said. “So there’s no point scolding him.”

      The detective raised a brow, and she thought she saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

      “I’m Chelsea Owens,” she continued and stuck out her hand with such resolve she didn’t give him much choice but to shake it. “I’m a sales associate at the Sinclair Gallery next door. Please, let me stay with Mr. Rochester. He’s hurt and...” She motioned around them. “And all this. This store means everything to him and Mrs. Rochester. He could use a friend right now,” she said, as the paramedic finished applying a bandage and joined his colleague at a nearby gurney.

      The detective held her gaze for several heartbeats. The strong jaw and sharp features seemed to soften—definitely adding to his attractiveness—and he nodded. “All right. But stay with him. Don’t move around and don’t touch anything. Miller,” he called to the other officer. “Don’t let her contaminate the scene. If she causes any problems, I’m holding you responsible.” Lowering his voice, he murmured something to Miller that Chelsea couldn’t hear.

      “Understood, Detective Eldridge,” Miller responded.

      “Just a minute,” Chelsea interrupted, drawing Detective Eldridge’s attention again. The look in his eyes, not altogether unfriendly but...daunting, made her think better of arguing.

      She remained silent and watched him move away. He was tall. At least a couple of inches over six feet. Broad-shouldered, with a confident, efficient gait. Admonishing herself for getting distracted at a time like this, she turned back to Mr. Rochester.

      * * *

      SAM ELDRIDGE WALKED OVER to a couple of crime scene technicians who were taking pictures and dusting for prints.

      The older technician, Mike Kincaid, looked up at him. “What’s your call on this one?” he asked with a grin. “Prints or no prints?”

      It was a game the techs liked to play with Sam. He was right far more often than he was wrong about whether they’d find any evidence. In this case, he didn’t want to hazard a guess. Pros tended to leave very little behind. He’d dealt with enough of them in Boston to know that for a fact. But he was getting mixed signals about this incident. There were indications that pros were involved. They hadn’t come in through the broken front window. They’d entered from the back without forcing the door open. On the other hand, once they were inside, not only had they broken the large front window, they’d gone to town on the interior. There was too much damage for a pro. Whoever did this would’ve had time to steal much more if he—or they—had caused less damage. Could it have been personal? “I’m not putting odds on this one,” he replied.

      “That’s a shame,” Mike said. “I might’ve had you this time.”

      “You’ve got something for me?” Sam asked hopefully.

      “No, but if I was to put money on it...” Mike looked around. “This is sloppy. Amateurish. I’d say we’ll find some kind of evidence.”

      Sam slid his hands into his pants pockets and nodded. “I hope you’re right.” He glanced over at a display table filled with sparkly diamond engagement rings. He’d done plenty of research when he’d bought Katherine’s ring, wanting it to be perfect. The bittersweet memory of the giddy excitement he’d felt back then at the prospect of marrying his high-school sweetheart taunted him. In the years since she’d left, he’d resigned himself to the likelihood that he’d never feel that way again. But despite the passage of time, he remembered enough to know that the display case contained pricey pieces. None appeared to be missing.

      It didn’t make sense.

      Looking around, Sam considered again whether the motivation was something other than theft or if whoever had broken in had lost his temper during the process. But if theft wasn’t the point, what was?

      He turned back to where Rochester, the owner, was sitting. The guy had to be in his seventies. He’d been injured, which—considering the time of the break-in—probably hadn’t been part of the plan. Blunt-force trauma had rendered him unconscious. For how long was undetermined. The paramedics had bandaged his temple and were getting ready to transport him to the hospital to be checked for concussion.

      The young woman—Chelsea Owens—was sitting close to Rochester, an arm draped around his shoulders and one of his hands held in her own. She was talking to him so softly that Sam couldn’t make out the words, but it was obvious that she cared about the old man.

      The way she’d charged into his crime scene was...peculiar. It was extraordinary enough that he’d asked Miller to run her to see if anything popped.

      Sam took a moment to study her.

      She had enormous green eyes, delicate features and a full mouth painted a strong red. She had short black hair. He figured it took some sort of product to get it all spiky like that on top. She wasn’t very tall, five foot four or five at most. She wore a short black dress under a black coat and appeared to have a slim, athletic build. He glanced down and noticed her black stockings. They had a sexy pattern on them. He had to admit there was no faulting her legs.

      Not that he’d dated much since Katherine had left him, but when he did, his taste ran to the tall, blonde, leggy type. Chelsea had the legs, but that was about it. Yet he felt a stirring, a tug of attraction that wasn’t customary for him. It wasn’t entirely because of how she looked. It was the courage she’d shown. She was feisty, and that appealed to him. So did how gentle and caring she was with the old man.

      He caught himself smiling. How many people would barge into a crime scene out of concern for the well-being of an acquaintance? And, no small feat, get by a couple of burly cops to do it? He knew that the psychology of some criminals was to come back to the scene of the crime while it was under investigation. That was the reason he’d asked Miller to run her, although he hadn’t truly believed Chelsea Owens had anything to do with the break-in. As he’d expected, Miller reported that other than a speeding ticket, she was clean. There was nothing on her record that suggested criminal activity.

      Sam turned his attention to Rochester again. If he hadn’t come in early—deviating from his normal routine because he hadn’t been able to sleep and thought he’d get the month-end inventory done before the store opened—the place would’ve been unoccupied. Rochester hadn’t seen his assailant, nor did he have any recollection of what had happened. Short-term memory loss wasn’t uncommon with the type of head injury he’d sustained.

      Did the perpetrator or perpetrators go ballistic because they’d expected to find the store empty, and Rochester had spoiled whatever they’d had in mind? Then again, the intruder should’ve known someone was inside since the alarm system hadn’t been armed. If not, that pointed to an amateur again.

      At Rochester’s age, the blow could’ve been fatal. Sam’s anger, immediate and intense, was unproductive, but he couldn’t help it. Despite having been in law enforcement for over a decade, he hadn’t become so calloused that he wasn’t affected by the plight of a victim. He hated to see anyone hurt, but children, the elderly and—label him what you will, he was old-school in some ways—women СКАЧАТЬ