Who was he kidding? He shouldn’t take her on a police matter even though she was involved in the case, but he worried about leaving her alone, unprotected. She’d be safer with him. Or so he told himself.
To be honest, he liked being with her, became lost in her warm green eyes and dreamed of touching her soft skin. Today, when he’d driven her home, he’d caught her glancing his way a couple of times. The moment he caught her eye, she tossed him a little smile before looking away. Man did his heart skip a beat or what.
Fuck it. He dialed her number before he changed his mind.
“Tom Hardy.”
“Tom. Hunter Markum. Is Kerry around?”
“Sure. I’m not letting her out of my sight if I can help it.”
Hunter smiled. He liked Tom.
A moment later she was on the phone. “Hunter? Did someone call about the reconstruction?”
He hated to dampen her hope. “No, I’m sorry. Janet Kopetski’s second husband just returned my call. He’s willing to meet.”
“That’s great.”
“Do you want to come with me? I thought maybe having—”
“Yes. When?”
He chuckled at her enthusiasm. “How soon can you be ready?”
“I’m ready now.”
“I’ll be there in two.” He hung up before she questioned why he was nearby.
She wouldn’t be happy he was circling her house, but too damned bad. The caller was a potential killer and posed a threat to her.
Hunter pulled into her drive and smiled at the picture she made standing outside her front door. He liked how the lamps around the base of the trees illuminated the leaves and cast a nice glow on the single-story home. It was harder for someone to sneak up to the place.
When Kerry climbed into the cruiser, a mixture of sweet and sour hung in the air—like lemons and cinnamon, a scent he’d remember a lifetime as Kerry’s.
“Thanks for inviting me.”
The chocolate richness of her words pulled him out of his sensual journey. He inhaled, needing to move back to safer ground. “You didn’t receive any more calls, did you?”
“No. Why?”
“You never know with some crackpots.” He didn’t want to scare her too much. “I did some digging into Janet’s first husband, Stanton Grayson. Seems he was, or rather is, an accomplished lawyer. While they lived in Connecticut, she filed for divorce and stated abuse as the reason. It was thrown out of court for lack of evidence.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. The husband probably pulled enough strings to get the court case tossed.” She crossed her arms over her chest.
“Probably.”
“Did you find any evidence hubby tried to reconcile?”
“No.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if Grayson wanted to see her one more time after he’d broken her jaw.” She set her purse on the floor between her legs. “Maybe he feared she’d try to reopen the lawsuit. A lawyer wouldn’t like to be exposed as a wife beater.”
“That’s true.” Hunter backed out of her drive. “Let’s see what Kopetski has to say before I contact Stanton Grayson.”
“Good idea.” Kerry leaned her head back against the seat. She looked as exhausted as he felt. He wished the police had the manpower for around the clock surveillance, but until Kerry was physically threatened, he’d have to be content to motor past her place himself.
He handed her the directions to Kopetski’s place. In less than twenty minutes, they were at the man’s home, or rather his shack. His living accommodations were not what Hunter had expected, given Janet had married well the first time around.
In the dark, it was hard to see how much the paint had faded on the one-story wood-framed house, but the missing shutter on the front window told him Kopetski didn’t visit Home Depot on a regular basis. The grass, or maybe weeds, hadn’t been cut in weeks. The trashcan by the curb had been knocked over and its contents littered the drive. The heat mixed with the rotting food filled the air with a rancid stench.
Kerry stepped around the strewn beer cans and other unidentifiable contents but didn’t comment.
Kopetski jerked open the door on the first knock. Legs wide, he scowled, narrowed his eyes and planted both hands on the doorframe. The odor of alcohol rolled off him. The stained wife-beater T-shirt only added to the cliché of an abuser. At least the elastic-waist nylon shorts, flip flops, and too tight shirt gave him no place to hide a weapon.
Why had the man returned his call? To see how much Hunter knew?
“Mr. Kopetski?” Hunter asked, flashing his badge.
Kopetski grunted, turned around, and headed toward the living room. The guy didn’t stagger. Good. Nor did he acknowledge Kerry—a good sign he might not be the one hunting her.
Hunter and Kerry followed him into a musty, smoky living room. He debated asking Kerry to return to the cruiser to wait until the interview was over, but right now, he needed her expertise.
Without waiting for an invitation, Hunter sat on the sofa, leaving the cleaner-looking chair to Kerry. A dirty plate and half empty coffee mug sat on a table between the sofa and the two chairs. The slob had tossed two pairs of Jockey shorts on the floor in the corner.
“Mr. Kopetski, when was the last time you saw your wife, or rather your ex-wife?”
He scratched his chin. “Must be over a year now.”
“Why did you two divorce?” Hunter wondered if he’d admit to the abuse.
“Irreconcilable differences.”
“Was that before or after she landed in prison?”
“Before.”
“Did you talk to your ex-wife after she was released from prison?”
The man’s shoulders stiffened and his lips firmed. “And if I did?”
Hunter scribbled a note in his pad about Kopetski’s belligerent response. “I’m here only to gather information. We found the remains of a woman with a tattoo on her ankle. The particular shape led us to her father who identified the tattoo as belonging to your ex.”
“So?”
So? What an asshole. “Did you stay in contact with Janet throughout her incarceration?”
Kopetski swiped a hand across his mouth. “I tried, but she wouldn’t talk to me.”
Hunter didn’t buy the guy’s story. “When she was released, did you contact her?”
“Maybe.”
If Kopetski had nothing to hide, why wasn’t he more cooperative? And why call back? Disgusted, Hunter caught Kerry’s attention, jerked his head in the direction of the door and raised his brows.
Kerry held up a discreet finger. “Mr. Kopetski, I’m a forensic anthropologist, which means I examine bones. Janet had a broken right collarbone shortly before her death. Do you know what happened?”
Kopetski looked to the right, then to the left. “Yeah. She was carrying a heavy suitcase downstairs from the bedroom. She was almost to the bottom when her foot caught, and she fell.” He glanced to his feet, then back at Hunter. “Say, do I need a lawyer or something?”
“Only if you killed your wife.”
Kopetski jumped up from the couch, his lips pulled back in a sneer and his fists clenched at his side. “Fuck that. I didn’t touch the bitch. She fell on her own.”
Hunter shot to his feet and stepped in front of Kerry, his hand on his weapon. “I merely asked a question.”
“Fuck the question. I didn’t do shit.”
Hunter wondered how he could get Kerry out of there without a confrontation. Before he formulated a plan, Kopetski crumpled back to the sofa.
Hunter released his breath but remained standing. “What were you doing with her the night she fell?”
“I found some stuff of hers in my garage, so I called her to come pick up her crap.”
This place didn’t have stairs. He must have been living somewhere else—or else he was lying. “Did you take her to the hospital after the accident?” There’d be a record if he did.
“She wouldn’t let me. She called a friend who came and picked her up, along with her stuff.”
“Do you know the name of this friend?”
“No.” Kopetski stood.
Enough was enough. “Thanks for your time. If you leave town, let me know.” Hunter dropped his business card on the coffee table.