Anderson jotted something down. “I’m going to search the parking lot. See if he’s out there, then I’ll need to finish getting your statement. You sure you’re okay?”
She nodded, her white blond hair whispering around her shoulders. Her blue eyes looked almost doe-like, large and scared. Pretty woman, Brit thought, and he tried to guess her type. Was she the doormat, a fighter, or did she just have a thing for make-up sex after being knocked around? Admittedly, he knew there were a few women who just got caught up in something ugly, but what were the odds of that?
Anderson nodded at Brit, then started for the door.
“You’re not leaving?” she asked, as if she hadn’t heard anything he’d said.
Practically a rookie, Anderson shot Brit a desperate look. “Uh, Detective Lowell is going to ask you a few questions.”Brit’s shoulders tightened. He didn’t want to get involved. Unless a body appeared, he’d come only as backup. Backup didn’t ask questions; backup didn’t write reports. Backup didn’t care. Brit didn’t want to care. He had enough to care about.
He cast her another glance. She fiddled with a bracelet around her wrist. Brit did a rundown of the surroundings, partly so he wouldn’t get caught up with Mickey again, and partly to search for signs of a struggle. No signs. Even the books on the shelves appeared to be in perfect alignment.
Maybe too perfect? Suspicion pricked his gut. “Can I take a look around?”
She brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “He...left. I locked the deadbolt. He doesn’t have that key.”
“Can I look around?” he repeated.
“I don’t mind.” She yanked at the bracelet as if it were a handcuff. Frowning, she dropped her hands in her lap.
He moved in and inhaled. The scent of shampoo and sleepy woman filled his lungs. But his nose had failed before. “Been drinking?”
Her scared beautiful gaze shifted up. “No.”
He felt himself go a little soft. Tension coiled inside his body as he fought the emotion back. “Drugs?”
“No.” Her frown tightened.
Before he got caught up in her oh-so innocent eyes or Mickey’s ears, he walked down the hall to the bedroom. Nothing seemed out of order. Everything seemed almost too neat. A few clothes hung over a chair, not tossed, but carefully laid out. He opened the closet—no body—mostly women’s clothes, but a few hangers with men’s shirts and jeans. He looked down at the floor where six pairs of colorful high heels waited like dominos. When he closed the door, the smell of cigarette smoke hit him again.
Moving to the bedside table, he opened a drawer, thinking he might find a gun. Only a pack of condoms and a book of poems. So she read poetry and liked sex. But was she into make-up sex after a knock-down, drag-out? He ran a hand over the pillow when someone touched his shoulder.
He swung around. Nothing. Yet chills ran down his spine. Damn, he needed some sleep.
Giving the room one more glance, he turned to leave, but something caught his eye. A movement. A flutter in the bed skirt. He drew his Glock then slowly he got to his knees.He stared at the white bed skirt, not knowing what he’d find behind it. A body? A boyfriend trying to avoid a trip to the county jail? He pinched the cotton ruffle between his thumb and forefinger, and with his other hand he pointed his gun. Slowly, he lifted up the cotton fabric.
Nothing. Well, nothing except normal below the bed stuff, like a baseball bat and a pair of men’s tennis shoes.
Letting out a breath of frustration, he got up and walked out of the bedroom. He ducked his head into the bathroom. It smelled like the woman on the sofa, a clean flowery scent. The smell stayed with him as he ambled back into the living room where he found her as he’d left her—looking like a woman in need of a shoulder. He dug his hands into his jean pockets and tried to decide what he thought was the truth.
“You want to tell me what happened?”
She frowned. “My boyfriend started beating on the door. It was late. I asked him to leave.”
“This boyfriend live with you?” The question made her twist her bottom on the sofa. Discomfort usually meant a story loomed right beneath the surface. “He live here?”
She wiggled again. “Only until his apartment becomes available.”
“So he came home banging on the door and then what?”
She blinked. “And then he shot...”
She hesitated, and Brit waited for her to say who had been shot, to explain the blood on the front door, but she pointed across the room and said, “…my lamp.”
Brit moved over to the victim, the lamp, and saw the bullet lodged in the brass base. “You two have a fight?” He knelt to get a closer look at the bullet. Looked like a .38.
When she didn’t answer, he asked, “What was the fight about?” He stared at her.
She buried her straight, white teeth into the soft, pink flesh of her lip. “A silly argument.”
“Humor me,” he said, with no amount of humor in his voice. When she didn’t reply immediately, he pitched another question in her lap. One she’d feel obliged to answer and prep her to answer the others. “What’s your name?”