“Nothing concrete.”
This was where it got sticky. If Wendy had an affair, as Max was sure she had, then Hal Gregory had motive. Jealousy. Yet if Max said anything, then Witt would have a laundry list of questions like who, what, where, when, and how.
Which brought up Nicholas Drake.
Of course, the detective would wonder how the hell she knew this stuff. Instinct told her to keep the information to herself for now.
Or that was Wendy Gregory’s insistent voice inside her.
You’re hot for the detective. But she’s hot for the paperboy.
Cameron was right about Wendy’s emotions. A low level buzz flowed through her veins. She glanced at Taco Bell’s window. Nickie hadn’t returned. Later, if it was necessary, she’d consider telling the detective about him. Right now, there were a whole lot of other places to look.
Max went on the offensive. “I still don’t think you’re supposed to tell me all this stuff.”
“My lieutenant gives me a lotta latitude.”
“It sounds like information you’d want to keep to yourself to rule out copycats.”
Witt laughed outright, a deep-throated sound that vibrated in her chest. Gosh, he was damn cute when he laughed. “Gotta get you to stop watching TV. No multiple murder scenario here. She was bumped off by someone she knew.” Which was nothing new to Max. “And you want to help me find that person.”
The fact that he’d picked up on that so easily was enough to make her heart race . It wasn’t as if she’d done anything wrong, though. “What makes you think I want anything to do with this?”
“You called about the date book.”
“That was my civic duty.”
“Without a second thought, most people would have put it in the box of personal stuff for her husband to pick up.”
Max figured it was time to stop looking a gift horse in the mouth. He had information. She wanted it. What more could a girl ask for from an attractive detective, even if he did wear brown? “All right. We’ve got a deal. I’d look at Remy first. He’s not a middle-of-the-road kind of guy. They hate him or they love him. I looked through the personnel files. Did you know he’s terminated ten employees in three months?”
Witt’s blue eyes widened. “Terminated?”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re laughing at me.”
“Course not.” A car back-fired, Max leaned closer to hear him say, “Go on.”
She caught another subtle whiff of his enticing aftershave. Then she told him everything she’d learned that morning, except the affair part, none of which turned out to be news to the detective.
He drummed his fingers on the table. “Anything else?”
Damn. She was actually disappointed she hadn’t one-upped him with stuff she could tell him. “That’s all, folks.”
Skepticism was written all over his face. But Witt Long was a gentleman. He didn’t call her on it. Instead he gave her his card. Again. As if he thought she might have thrown out the other one. “Call me. Tell me whatever you find out. No matter how insignificant it seems.”
“Sure.”
“Don’t let me down.”
Max couldn’t see his eyes behind his dark glasses, and she was glad he couldn’t see behind hers. As it was, a telltale heat crept into her face. While it was sexual, it was also tinged with guilt. Still, he hadn’t mentioned Wendy’s keys or outright confirmed that the date book hadn’t been in the drawer when he’d checked. She felt justified in keeping a few things to herself.
At least she’d gotten something out of the whole deal—besides a really bad stomach ache—Hal Gregory had an alibi.
She’d chip away at it the first opportunity she got.
Chapter Seven
The opportunity came a lot sooner than she’d expected.
By the time she returned to Hackett’s, the copy machine was fixed, a bill lay on her desk, and Hal Gregory was on voicemail.
In an indirect way, he accepted her invitation for drinks. He was concerned about “developments.” He was “distraught” with the thought of staying at home another night when he should be out looking for his wife’s killer. He ended by asking Max to meet him so she could shower him with sympathy. Her words in his mouth, admittedly, but enough to tell her the man had another motive. That was okay. So did she, but the advantage was hers because Hal Gregory didn’t suspect her ulterior reasons.
Max smiled and called him back immediately.
She met him at her favorite hang-out, Billy Joe’s Western Round Up, at nine o’clock that night. It was Friday. The dance floor was a mass of bumping, grinding bodies as Brad Paisley ended his song about lost love on three big-screen TVs overhead. Max liked the Round Up. She liked the music, the noise, and the politeness of the California-suburban cowboys.