The Second Son. Joanna Wayne

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      The back door was closed. He knocked. No one answered, but the door squeaked open. Just a few inches, but enough that he could hear someone rummaging around inside. Maybe looters, since he knew the woman of the house was not home. Maybe the person who’d shot Miss Gilbraith. Maybe not. “Police. Come out and identify yourself.” No one responded.

      Taking the safe approach, he eased his pistol from its holster. Soundlessly, he slipped through the open door and into a shiny kitchen, black chrome appliances, dirty dishes piled in the sink. The noises continued, coming from upstairs. He tiptoed up the stairs and across a carpeted runway that seemed more a loft than a hallway. He peered over the railing and into the lower-level living area.

      There was a big-screen TV, a sectional sofa in dirt-brown leather and a bearskin rug thrown down in front of the fireplace. And more empty beer cans scattered about among stacks of magazines and newspapers.

      He made his step light, making his way down the hall and past a series of closed doors. A crash of wood on wood, probably the forceful closing of a drawer, alerted him that he was getting warm.

      Stopping, he peered through the open crack of a bedroom door. The woman making the noise was facing the other direction, but there was no mistaking the gender. She was in a wedding dress, with rows of minute pearl buttons that went far lower than the tiniest waist he’d ever seen on a full-grown woman. Or maybe it just looked that way above the yards and yards of billowing satin that cascaded over her hips and fell to shapely ankles.

      She was bent over, ransacking her way through a dresser drawer. She pulled out a pair of short shorts and held them up for a second before stuffing them back in the drawer. If she was a looter, she had a strange way of dressing for the job, and she was apparently very picky.

      The room had French doors that opened onto a balcony and a terrific view of hilly land that sloped to the banks of a sparkling pond. A nice setup. Evidently Kate Gilbraith had changed her ways, or else found that crime did pay.

      He watched her for a few more seconds before deciding to let the woman in white know she had company. “Police. Keep your hands in plain view, and turn around nice and slow.”

      She jumped at the sound of his voice and then twirled around lightning fast, the one hand that was in view dangling a lacy scrap of underwear.

      “You don’t follow orders too well,” he said.

      “You scared me half to death.”

      “Not following police orders can get you the other half of the way. Why didn’t you respond when I knocked and called?”

      “I didn’t hear you.” She eyed his gun, her eyes flashing suspiciously. “Did Charles send you after me?”

      “Afraid not.”

      “Good.” She tossed the underwear she was holding to the bed. “Is this about Kate? Is she in trouble?”

      “Right now, it’s about you. Do you live here?”

      “No way.”

      “Then why don’t we start with you telling me what you’re looking for in those drawers?”

      “And if I don’t, you’ll shoot me? You San Antonio police are such a friendly sort. If you really are a cop. That doesn’t look like a police uniform you’re wearing to me. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to put that gun away and flash a little ID?”

      She twitched her head and an avalanche of auburn curls broke loose to fall around her face. She was prettier than he’d first noticed, a cute nose, full sensuous lips and a long, regal neck. Some guy was missing out on a hell of a honeymoon.

      Or maybe they’d already started, judging by a jagged rip in her skirt. So, there had to be a good reason for the bride to be ransacking someone else’s home.

      He holstered the gun, took out his wallet and shook it open. She stepped closer and peered at the small print on his ID.

      “I’d hate to have to shoot a bride,” he said when she averted her gaze from the wallet to his face. “Hate to even book one. You’d make too much of a scene at the jail. So why don’t you start talking?”

      She rubbed the back of her neck, stalling, probably coming up with a story she thought he’d buy.

      “I’m looking for my sister,” she said, turning back to the drawer and pulling out a pair of jeans.

      “I doubt she’d be in one of those drawers.”

      “A sheriff with a sense of humor. How novel.” She threw the jeans across the bed and kicked off a white shoe with a heel high enough to give her a nosebleed. Bending over, she rubbed the ball of her now-bare foot before kicking off the other pump.

      “I’m still waiting on an explanation as to what you’re doing in Kate Gilbraith’s apartment.”

      “Look!” She accented her call to attention by wildly gesturing with hands that showcased her long, painted nails. “I’ve already had a day you wouldn’t believe. Including a ride across town on the back of the police escort’s motorbike.”

      Lifting the hem of her skirt, she revealed a pair of shapely legs, one with a fresh burn on the calf where an exhaust pipe had apparently caught her.

      “What’s the matter? Was the traditional bridal ride in a limo too tame for you?”

      “Right. But I’ve had my quota of excitement for the day, so why don’t you just be a nice cop and tell me what’s going on with my sister?”

      Branson studied the woman in white. He didn’t notice a family resemblance. His instincts told him she was up to no good and that Kate Gilbraith probably wasn’t her sister. But his instincts had been known to be tainted.

      “When was the last time you talked to your sister?”

      “A week ago. We chatted on the phone. Actually, we argued on the phone. I thought that was why she quit taking my calls. Now I’m not so sure.”

      If she’d said sometime within the past two days, he’d have known she was lying. Now he had to consider that she might be telling the truth. “What makes you think I’d know what happened to your sister?”

      “I take it you’re not here doing routine security checks. And the gun you had out a few minutes ago didn’t indicate you’re here as a friend.” She threw her hands up, clearly exasperated. “Look, I know something’s up. You can tell me what it is. I just want to know that Kate’s all right.”

      “My turn to see ID,” he said. “Do you have any on you?”

      Her lips twisted into a defeated scowl. “Afraid not. The only thing I have with me is my beeper.” She ran her hands along her hips, smoothing the shiny fabric so that it hugged her curves. “No pockets on these dresses. Of course, you could call Mr. Charles Castile and ask him to identify his missing bride. I’m sure he’d accommodate you.”

      “I don’t believe I know the man, so I don’t know why I’d believe him any quicker than I do you.” Actually, he had heard of Castile. Nothing good. He was a rich attorney tied to the coattails СКАЧАТЬ