Kansas City Secrets. Julie Miller

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СКАЧАТЬ relaxed back in his seat, maybe assured that Max was with him in the here and now. “I think she’s worth checking out. Other than her brother’s attorney, she’s the only person who visits Stephen March down in Jeff City. If he’s going to confide anything to anyone, it’ll be to his sister.”

      “What’s he gonna confide that’ll do our case any good?” Max stepped on the accelerator to zip through a yellow light and turn into the suburban neighborhood. Hearing the engine hum with the power he relished beneath the hood, he pulled off his sunglasses and rubbed the dashboard. “That’s my girl.”

      “I swear you talk sweeter to this car than any woman I’ve ever seen you with,” Trent teased. “But seriously, we aren’t running a race.”

      “Beats pokin’ along in your pickup truck.”

      Besides, today of all days, he needed to be driving the Chevelle. The car had been a junker when Jimmy had bequeathed it to him. Now it was a testament to his lost commander, a link to the past, a reminder of the better man Max should have been. Restoring this car that had once belonged to Jimmy wasn’t just a hobby. It was therapy for the long, lonely nights and empty days when the job and a couple of beers weren’t enough to keep the memories at bay. Or when he just needed some time to think.

      Right now, though, he needed to stop thinking and get on with the job at hand.

      Max put the sunglasses back on his face and cruised another block before plucking the cigar from his lips. “Just because the team is working on some theory that this cold-case murder is related to the death of the reporter Stephen March killed, it doesn’t mean they are. We’ve got no facts to back up the idea that March had anything to do with Bratcher’s death. March used a gun. Bratcher was poisoned. March’s victim was doing a story on Leland Asher and his criminal organization, and there’s no evidence that Richard Bratcher was connected to Asher or the reporter. And Stephen March sure isn’t part of any organized crime setup. If Liv and Lieutenant Rafferty-Taylor want to connect the two murders, I think we ought to be digging into Asher and his cronies. The mob could have any number of reasons to want to eliminate a lawyer.”

      “But poison?” Trent shrugged his massive shoulders. “That hardly sounds like a mob-style hit to me.”

      “What if Asher hired a hit lady? Women are more likely to kill someone using poison than a man is. And dead is dead.” Max tapped his fingers with the cigar on the console between them to emphasize his point. “Facts make a case. We should be investigating any women associated with Asher and his business dealings.”

      But Trent was big enough and stubborn enough not to be intimidated by Max’s grousing. “Even if she turns out to be a shriveled old prune, Rosemary March is a woman. Therefore, she meets your criteria as a potential suspect. Doesn’t sound like such a wild-goose chase now, does it?”

      Growling a curse at Trent’s dead-on, smart-aleck logic, Max stuffed the cigar back between his teeth. It was a habit he’d picked up during his stint in the Army before college and joining the police force. And though the docs at Walter Reed had convinced him to quit lighting up so his body could heal and he could stay in fighting shape, it was a tension-relieving habit he had no intention of denying himself. Especially on stressful days like this one.

      Feeling a touch of the melancholy rage that sometimes fueled his moods, Max shut down the memories that tried to creep in and nudged the accelerator to zip through another yellow light.

      “You know...” Trent started, “you take better care of this car than you do yourself. Maybe you ought to rethink your priorities.”

      “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 СКАЧАТЬ