“In here.” Max turned in her ergonomic chair to pull the pencil drawer open an inch.
They sat in her office, a small, windowless room the size of a walk-in closet. Pressboard bookcases stood floor-to-ceiling on the left wall. Two lateral files and a copy machine took up position on the right. Too much stuff crammed into the narrow space gave her claustrophobia. The desk stood at the opposite end from the door and was piled high with binders, most of which she’d already glanced through. For the detective’s visit, she’d closed the door since the noise from the bullpen outside would be distracting.
“The book was at the back of the middle drawer,” she explained.
Long arched one eyebrow, giving himself an enticingly devilish flair despite the light color. “Suppose that’s why I missed it the first time around.”
Yeah, right. Knowing the police had already searched the office bugged her and was the reason she suspected the detective might blow Wendy’s case. How on earth did a cop worth his brawn miss something as important—and potentially incriminating—as the murder victim’s date book?
“I’m sure you did a thorough search.”
She waited for his flash of irritation at her sarcasm. It didn’t come. His gaze again roamed over the contents of the office, and his words and tone, slightly testing, turned the interview back in his favor. “As thorough as yours, it seems.”
She met his suspicion head on. “I want to do everything possible to help.”
“Why?”
His immediate retort threw her for a moment. She recovered quickly. She’d actually prepared an answer, though she hadn’t really believed anyone would care enough to ask. Maybe Detective Long was no slouch despite his laidback, casual manner.
“I sit at her desk, work with her things. I feel for the poor woman. Wouldn’t anyone want to help under those circumstances, Detective?”
“Not everyone.”
“I’m not everyone.”
“Bet you’re not.”
He raised one of those brows. She couldn’t decipher the meaning behind his comment, but it stirred something inside her. Her nipples chafed against her bra. The physical reaction was not good, not good at all. Wendy’s libido again?
She thought she heard Cameron snicker.
“Miss Starr—”
“Mrs.”
“For a temp, you’re awfully interested in Wendy Gregory.”
“How did you know I’m a temp?”
“I’m a detective. My job is to flush out information.”
Hmm, that put her in her place. “I’m a bit of an amateur sleuth myself, Detective. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”
“Not if you don’t get yourself in trouble, ma’am.”
She had a million questions clamoring for answers, but one thing she’d learned from good old Columbo, cops got suspicious when you asked too many questions or supplied too many answers. She’d said too much already. It was obvious he hadn’t just “missed” Wendy’s date book, and the fact that Max had been the one to find the calendar was not a point in her favor.
“I’ll do whatever I can to help,” she volunteered, as neutral a statement as possible.
“Sure.” Detective Long nodded sagely, then tossed her another question. “Her desk drawers were a mess. Always thought accountants were extremely neat.”
Max thought of a few she’d encountered on audit and shuddered. “Accountants are pack rats. They never throw anything away.”
Though certainly neither the meticulous nature of Wendy’s appointment book nor the state of her paperwork supported that she suffered from that particular mania.
Long looked at the rows of binders in the bookcase. “Suppose you’ll go through the whole office to get up to speed on the job.”
“All two square feet of it, Detective.” Max smiled congenially.
He put his notepad in his shirt pocket. “Anything else we missed the first go round...” The sentence trailed off as he pulled out a business card and set it on the desk, tapping it with a thick finger.
“If I find some cryptic note written on the edge of a ledger page, you’ll be the first person to know.”
“Thank you for your sar—cooperation,” he said within the same beat. He didn’t smile.
Did anything besides an automaton lurk beneath his beefy exterior?
Then, as if he might have heard the acerbic thought, he said, “I see you’ve hurt yourself, Miss Starr.”
Her hand went reflexively to her throat, her bare throat. She had only the one turtleneck she’d worn yesterday and that needed to be washed. Today, she’d had to don her usual dress shirt, complete with red and black tie. It didn’t hide the scratches. The way the detective tracked her movement affected her like a physical touch, giving her a dry mouth which had nothing to do with fear.
Ooh, bad reaction to the man investigating Wendy’s murder.
“Bug bites,” was the first explanation to burst out of her mouth.
“Don’t let the bed bugs bite,” he quipped softly.
“I don’t have bugs in my bed.”