She didn’t even correct his use of her hated nickname. “You know he didn’t.” A dream fragment led her to believe he’d been returning from taking the kids to his parents in Boise for a visit when Wendy met him at the airport. Something like that. Maybe he had only gone to the airport yesterday to see Wendy’s car, as Cameron suggested.
“And I don’t think he’s a bad guy,” she added, then started the engine and pulled away from the curb.
“Your psychic powers at work? Or your libido working overtime?”
Wendy’s libido, certainly not Max’s own. “Simple deduction. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to return to the scene of his own criminal act. Besides, he had to read about it in the paper, which means he didn’t know exactly what happened to her.”
“Or he wanted to see if the police found anything that might incriminate him.”
“I know Remy Hackett killed her,” she snapped, instead of answering his accusation.
“You want him to be the killer. Why?”
“It’s a feeling.”
“It’s because you’re afraid for Nicholas Drake.”
“I don’t even know him.”
“Don’t you?”
It wasn’t a question that required an answer. They both knew just how strong Wendy’s feelings were. And how much they tugged on Max.
“Why was he fired, Maxi dear?”
“Don’t needle, Cameron. It stated in the file that his termination was voluntary.”
“Voluntary? That could mean any number of things. Like someone found out about his affair with the company bookkeeper, and he quit rather than be fired.”
“Wendy would have been fired, too.”
“Hmm.” His sound rumbled inside her chest. “Maybe he wanted to give it one more try with his little wife.”
“No.” The answer had a hard, angry bite to it. She couldn’t take back the sound once it was made. She couldn’t deny that she knew about the wife. The knowledge was there inside her, stabbing.
“Pricked a nerve, didn’t I? Is that what he told Wendy? That he was thinking of going back to his wife?”
The dead woman’s pain twisted inside her. Cameron was close to the truth—all he had to do was read her mind—yet Max couldn’t betray aloud Wendy’s fears of a reconciliation. “We haven’t proved they were lovers.”
“Don’t disappointment me, Max. You know exactly what they were to each other.”
But this time Cameron was wrong. She didn’t know. Mostly because she didn’t think Wendy even knew. Lovers, yes, but what else?
She felt a fresh thrust of despair that left her breathless.
Max didn’t say another word, but she was very much afraid Wendy’s emotions were getting stronger. And Wendy would do anything to prove Nicholas Drake wasn’t a killer.
Chapter Four
“Appreciate the call, Miss Starr.”
“Mrs.,” Max corrected lightly. After getting the detective’s number from Remy, she’d called right after clocking in from lunch. The cop had shown up in her office less than an hour later.
Detective DeWitt Quentin Long was nothing like she’d thought he’d be. The name conjured images of morticians, self-centered playboys, or toilet paper salesmen.
Somewhere in his mid-thirties, Detective Long was a man’s man. An inch or two over six feet. Big hands. Rambo-tough body without an ounce of fat. Thick blond hair and almost white eyebrows.
He was the antithesis of Cameron, or rather, of what Cameron had been; medium brown hair, medium build, medium height. She liked medium. This man was big, too big. So why the hell did he make her...breathless? Perhaps it was a lingering residual of Wendy Gregory’s erotic energy. Or maybe it was Detective Long’s dimple, an almost endearing Dudley Do-Right cleft in his chin.
Of course, the real Dudley had been rather insipid, and big men were sometimes slow and slumberous. The detective had yet to prove himself.
He wore a dark blue suit, white shirt, and an unimpressive, plain navy tie. When he sat, he had to unbutton the jacket disguising his imposing chest, and the suit pants stretched taut over his muscular thighs. She’d offered him the spare office chair, a rickety thing she was afraid he’d break like a twig.
Detective Long had too much brawn for Max’s taste. Most definitely. Even if her palms were just a tad sweaty, and she had a hard time tearing her gaze away from his over-sized hands. Masculine hands. Real hands. That was it. Her attraction was nothing more than a yearning for a taste of the real thing. As opposed to the ghostly thing.
Max had called him to determine if working with the cops was her best option. Of course, she would never withhold evidence, but if he was a bungler, she sure as hell wouldn’t let him botch any leads she came up with.
Like Columbo, his questions were dogged. That was a point in his favor. So was the fact that he pulled a notepad out of his pocket, flipped it open, his trusty Bic recording her every word. While he listened, his glance flickered over the bookcase, the desktop, the file cabinet, the box on the floor filled with Wendy’s personal items. He had an amazing ability to multi-task.
“Where’d you say you found the appointment book?”