The Passion Of Sam Broussard. Maggie Price

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СКАЧАТЬ to me,” she said. “Then you can get on with your vacation.”

      “Yeah.” He tapped his fingertips against one arm of his chair. “First, though, I’d like to hear the details on the homicide the Colt links to.”

      Liz eased out a breath. She felt unnerved and antsy because her personal life was in such disarray. That was no reason to shove Broussard out of her office before he was ready to go. After all, if she had recovered evidence that linked to a homicide in another jurisdiction, she would instinctively want to know about the case.

      Setting her coffee aside, she opened the file folder containing the details of the thirty-year-old murder. The reports inside smelled dry and dusty, slightly enhanced by something so subtle, Liz could only ascribe it to ancient memories.

      “The victim was Geneviève Windsor.” Liz retrieved a photo clipped inside the folder. The black-and-white picture showed a smiling, attractive young woman with long, wavy hair.

      “A looker,” Broussard commented when Liz handed him the photo. “Young.”

      “Twenty-three years old. She worked as an admin assistant to the CEO of an oil company. The day she died, she told a coworker a guy wouldn’t leave her alone. Geneviève didn’t say who he was, but the coworker assumed it was the marine Geneviève had been dating.”

      “His name?”

      “Max Hogan. That night, Geneviève called police dispatch, begging for help. When a patrol cop arrived, her apartment was on fire, and she’d been shot and had fallen off the rusted fire escape behind her building.”

      “Did Hogan shoot her?”

      “It was assumed he did, since his body was found near hers. He apparently was also on the fire escape, which collapsed under his weight. His neck was broken in the fall.”

      “What about the murder weapon? Did the detectives back then speculate why it wasn’t found at the scene?”

      Liz nodded. “There was an alley right behind the apartment building that was on the route from the downtown bus station to a homeless shelter. The detective’s theory was that Hogan dropped the Colt when the fire escape collapsed. The gun landed in the alley and was scooped up by some homeless person before the cops secured the scene.”

      “What about the marine? When his body was found, was he wearing latex gloves?”

      “No, and no gunpowder residue was found on either of his hands.”

      “There would have been if he’d fired a gun that night.”

      Liz nodded. “After you called me, I talked to the CSI in your lab who ran the DNA profile from the tissue found inside the Colt. The profile isn’t complete yet, but the blood type doesn’t match the marine’s.”

      “So, there was a third person at the crime scene.”

      “The killer.” Liz added the reports Broussard had given her to the folder.

      “What’s your game plan?” Broussard asked. “Who do you talk to first?”

      Liz pursed her lips. Broussard wasn’t acting like an off-duty cop, itching to start his vacation. “An interview with David York. He was an attorney thirty years ago when he reported the Colt stolen during a burglary of his residence.”

      “Any suspects in the burglary?”

      “More than just a suspect. Patrol cops nabbed a guy who worked a deal for reduced jailtime by confessing to over one hundred burglaries. York’s was one of them. Since his Colt wound up in your jurisdiction, I imagine you’re going to want to take a close look at the burglar to see if you can link him to any old crimes in Shreveport.”

      Broussard nodded. “You’re reading my mind. You said York was an attorney thirty years ago.”

      “He’s a federal judge now. I have an appointment to see him this morning in his chambers.” Liz checked her watch, saw it was nearly time to head to the courthouse. “So, Broussard, are you ready to go to the property room?”

      “Sure,” he said, but made no move to stand.

      “Not to be inhospitable, but aren’t you in a hurry to get on with your vacation?”

      “No.” He rose, his gaze locked on her face.

      “No?” She didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until an odd wave of emotion tightened her chest. “Why not?”

      “Your case has snagged my interest. And I’d much rather spend time sitting in on your interview with Judge York than get on with a vacation I have no interest in taking.”

      She studied him, trying to get his measure. “My session with York is just standard operating procedure. A cold case gets reopened, everyone involved has to be reinterviewed.”

      “I’m familiar with investigative procedures, Sergeant.” He tossed his empty coffee cup into the waste-basket beside her desk, then turned back to face her. “You have a problem with my observing your interview?”

      Liz refused to wither beneath his flinty stare. And her problem, she thought when the pulse in her throat started throbbing, seemed to be Broussard’s effect on her hormones.

      Wonderful.

      “I don’t have a problem, Detective,” she said coolly. “You recovered the murder weapon, which makes you a principal in this case. You want to spend your free time working instead of relaxing, that’s fine by me.” She lifted a brow in subtle challenge. “Just remember who’s in charge of this investigation.”

      One corner of his brooding mouth quirked, just a little. The smile, if that’s what it was, didn’t reach his eyes. “Something tells me if I did forget, you’re more than capable of taking me down a notch.”

      “More than one,” Liz countered, biting off the words. She grabbed her tote, annoyed that just the deep timbre of Broussard’s voice made her feel as if she were plugged into a two-twenty line.

      Chapter 2

      Sam Broussard wasn’t sure what the hell was going on. He could maybe write off his hinky feeling over the Colt to a cop’s instinct, but that still didn’t explain the sense of familiarity he’d felt the instant he saw Liz Scott.

      Then there was the close-to-electric sensation he’d felt when they shook hands. Something was going on, and he was damn well going to figure out what it was.

      So, here he sat at a hubcap-size table in the coffee shop at the Oklahoma City federal courthouse, waiting to observe the cold case cop’s interview with a judge who’d gotten held up in a hearing that had run long.

      Sam slid his gaze to Liz Scott, who sat beside him sipping coffee while she reviewed the details of the judge’s thirty-year-old burglary report. She had some face, Sam reflected. No man could ever forget that flawless skin, the sculpted nose and direct green eyes.

      Which was why he was positive now they had never met. So why had he been hit with the wave of recognition?

      Maybe it was because he’d known СКАЧАТЬ