“You don’t even sound surprised he knows them.”
“Nothing surprises me if you’re somehow involved.”
She ignored that, not sure whether she’d been insulted or complimented. “The cops must have their eye on him or they wouldn’t have mentioned his alibi to you.” After all, Witt had nothing to do with the case. His info, she assumed, came over drinks at the local cop hangout. Though keeping on her butt the way he did, she hadn’t a clue when he found the time to hang and drink.
“Actually came in the form of prominent citizens who gave Julie La Russa her alibi.”
Max spread her hands. “Don’t you see? They’re all giving each other alibis, Baxter, Julia, Bud...” With Bud Traynor pulling the strings, God knew who else might somehow be involved.
He raised a skeptical brow. “Conspiracy theory?”
“Well, they each have a motive that’s a helluva lot better than Angela’s non-existent one.”
“Traynor’s being simply that he’s evil?”
Since Witt didn’t look like he was planning to leave any time soon, Max leaned back against the door. Her feet finally giving in to the stress of high heels, she kicked off her shoes. Witt watched that, too. Her nipples tightened beneath the schoolgirl blouse.
Why didn’t they do something besides talk?
Dipping her head to avoid his eyes and praying he didn’t notice her telltale nipple hard-on, she pleaded her case. “Hasn’t he had a motive in every case so far? Hasn’t he been involved somehow?”
“Not involved, Max. In every case, he was proven not to be the guilty party. And motive? Don’t think even you could articulate his in each case.”
Much to Max’s chagrin, Witt was right. She still believed Traynor somehow had a manipulative hand in everything. If that was obsession, then yes, she was obsessed.
Witt stroked his chin. “Tell me. How do you know the name Baxter Newton and why aren’t you surprised Traynor knows the dead man’s wife?” Neither his facial muscles nor the look in his eye gave away a single emotion.
So he hadn’t made any assumptions about her newspaper reading habits. She should have known that was coming. “Traynor did the introductions.”
His cheek muscles rippled as if he’d tensed his jaw. “And how did that happen?”
“He came here, then drove me to Julia’s house. He gave me a reason to go back again if I needed to.”
“A reason?” Frost slipped into his voice.
She might as well tell it all. “He said I worked for him, his personal assistant. He offered my services to Julia La Russa.” Max made sure to add the last so Witt wouldn’t question her emotions concerning the dead man’s wife.
“Do you like having your services offered about?” God, he sounded like he was talking about sex, about the things Angela did, and the implication bothered her.
“Not usually.” She folded her arms across her chest, certainly not protective—okay, she needed a bit of emotional distance. “What’s wrong? Why do you have that tone in your voice?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Oh that. “I haven’t actually had an opportunity to talk to you,” she said, a pointed reminder of last night’s lack of talk before he whomped on her, then his little mind-body game at daybreak, followed by his abrupt departure. She hadn’t had time to even think about telling him.
“Don’t keep things from me.” His tone firm, almost dire, gave her images of dreadful consequences.
“I haven’t.”
He raised a brow.
“Okay. I won’t from now on.” With that over and a sigh of relief, she went back to the original topic. “I’m almost there with Angela. I need a little more time to get her to trust me.”
He laughed derisively. “She’s a hooker. Trust doesn’t exist in her vocabulary.”
“It will if I...” She remembered then she hadn’t wanted to broach the subject until she had him at a safe distance and in daylight.
His eyes narrowed. “If you what, Max?”
He wouldn’t leave now until she told him. She swallowed, then jumped in. “She wants me to do a trick tomorrow night.”
“Fuck.” Bad sign. He rarely used that particular expletive in front of her.
She went for a joking tone to ease the tension. “Actually, yes, that’s what she wants me to do. With a man of my choice.”
Without raising his head, he fastened his gaze on her. “And you want me to be the john.”
She stared. “How’d you know?”
“I may let you walk all over me with your damn high heels, but I’m not stupid.”
Gee, now he was using full sentences, uncharacteristic for a man who preferred the fast-spoken word. And usually an indication that he was getting a tad pissed, perhaps even more pissed than when he found out she hadn’t told him about seeing Traynor. Boy, the evening got better all the time. She attempted a salvage operation. “It’s a perfect idea. We can fake it.”