“Just being within five feet of you is disturbing.”
She knew exactly what he meant. Any man—almost any man—towering this close to her tended to get her blood going. In one way or another. The detective managed to do it in every way. He wore the same low-key, musky aftershave. She hadn’t noticed it at first, not even when he was on top of her. Of course, at the time her nose had been pressed into the dirt.
“You were about to spell it out,” Max prompted when he just stood there a few moments longer than necessary.
He shook his head as if to clear it. “Nicholas Drake.”
“The owner of a green 4Runner.”
“And Wendy Gregory’s lover. But you knew that, didn’t you, Max? Theresa must have told you within five minutes of your arrival.”
“Actually, I think it took five days.”
“He arrived on a flight from Boise the night Wendy died, his flight number was written on a piece of paper found at the crime scene, and his fingerprints were all over the car.”
God, she was right about that damn piece of paper. When they got Nick’s DNA sample, they’d match it to the semen found inside Wendy. They hadn’t bothered with the condom. Max shuddered. Witt was so close, she was sure he must have felt her reaction. He’d probably think it was because of him, too. “He’s been your prime suspect all along.”
“Not prime. Simply the only one not around to answer any questions.”
“Which makes you suspicious.”
“He’s hiding. Innocent men don’t hide.” Witt glared down at her, his mouth grim.
Max’s neck ached from tipping her head back. Traffic had picked up on the road. Her head swam with the diesel scent of a delivery truck. “He’d have to be pretty stupid not to wipe his fingerprints off if he was guilty.”
“Killers are stupid all the time. How do you think most of them get caught so quickly? They leave a trail a mile wide.”
“Someone else could have followed Wendy there.”
“We’ve got a surveillance shot of every single car going in and out of that lot. They all checked out.”
“They could have gotten in the same way Wendy and Nick did. On the terminal buses.”
“The simplest explanation is usually the right one. Conspiracies are for television dramas.” He swept a hand out in disgust, his jacket billowing. The material brushed her breast as he moved.
Her mouth went dry. She should have pushed him away, forced him to back off. She was afraid to touch him. “He still wasn’t necessarily driving that Toyota just now.” She tapped her lips, her arm between them creating just enough breathing space. “Who reported it stolen?”
“His wife did.”
“Hah. Just think of her motive. Dead lover. Jealous wife.”
Witt cocked his head to one side, but said nothing.
“Don’t forget Hal. He told me Wendy left him for another man.”
“Dead wife? Jealous husband?”
“Exactly.”
“Awfully interested in saving Nick Drake, aren’t you, Max?”
Her insides froze up, and she knew how she sounded. Desperate. Like Wendy. “I just want to make sure you don’t miss anything by going for the simple solution, Detective.”
“There’s more here than meets the eye. Tell me what you know.”
Wedged between Witt’s persistence and the car door, she reviewed her options. She could tell him Wendy had thrown away the note with Nick’s flight number on it. That someone else had picked it out of the trash and put it in her car. That same person had been following Wendy long before Nick got off that plane. But Witt would want to know how she knew. She didn’t think he’d like her answer. He’d already scoffed the first time she’d called herself psychic. He’d also suspected her of murder over the Lilah dream.
She wasn’t about to test him again. Instead she picked on something they both knew was fishy. “Wendy’s appointment book wasn’t in the drawer that first day you went through her office.”
He smiled slightly. “Correct.”
“Theresa said Wendy took that appointment book with her everywhere.”
“Right.”
“Which means that someone stole it out of her purse and planted it for you to find.”
“Highly likely.”
“Did you also note that Wendy never used ballpoint, except in one specific instance?”
Witt stared at her. She couldn’t tell whether he’d figured that out or not. Couldn’t tell if that was admiration sparking his blue eyes. “Go on.”
“His flight time was written in for the night Wendy died. In blue ballpoint. She was strictly colored rollerball. So...why would Nick Drake forge an entry in her book, then plant it in the drawer when the only person he’d be incriminating was himself?”
Something changed in Witt, like a light going on. He backed up a step—thank God—straightened his shoulders, stared down at her, hard. “How’d you know that was a flight time?”