Safe In His Arms. Kay David

point that out. Investigators who did things like that ended up getting even more calls. “I’m on my way.” He pivoted then found his progress blocked by Blanco, his eighty-five-pound yellow Labrador.

      “I’m sorry, buddy.” Bishop bent over and stroked the animal’s head. “I got a dead lawyer off Smith. I’ll call Brenda for you, okay?”

      The dog seemed to sigh, which Bishop took as an exasperated okay. Opening his front door, Bishop called the girl down the street who walked the dog when Bishop couldn’t. She agreed to take him out as Bishop climbed back inside his Crown Vic. The seat was still hot as he started the engine. It was May in Houston. Everything was hot. The city had already had more murders than it had had by the middle of last year and there didn’t appear to be an end in sight. Every HPD cop Bishop knew had more cases than he could handle.

      He put the car in gear and headed out. Twenty minutes later he reached downtown, lights from half a dozen cop cars bouncing off the offices and restaurants and bars that lined the busy area. Parking as close as he could, Bishop flashed his gold badge at the uniforms guarding the perimeter. They lifted the tape and let him in. The jagged gasps of a crying woman cut through the warm night air. She sounded out of control and he winced.

      “Who’s bawling?”

      Jackie Hunter lifted her head as Bishop spoke, one camera in her hand, two more strung around her neck. She snapped another picture of the body stretched out on the sidewalk then answered. “One of the waitresses is grief-stricken. Apparently they got real close when she took his drink order.” The crime scene tech used one of her cameras to point south of where they stood “That’s the widow.”

      A fancy upholstered chair had been hauled out of the restaurant and set in front of the valet’s stand. Between the milling cops and frightened witnesses, the woman who occupied it looked as incongruent as the chair itself. Ivory skin, auburn hair, an ethereal air… Except for the splash of red that stained her white jacket. She should have been in a church, Bishop thought unexpectedly, frozen over the altar, her hands crossed over her chest. He’d never seen anyone sit so still. Especially at a murder scene.

      When their husband was dead on the ground ten feet away.

      He filed away the image for future examination. “Who was the responding?”

      Hunter flapped a hand toward a group of uniformed officers huddled beside the curb. One of them lifted his head at the movement and peeled away from the others to come toward them. He was a rookie named Carter and he did good work. Shaking Bishop’s hand, the cop briefed him quickly.

      “Witnesses?” Bishop asked when he finished.

      “Too many to count,” Carter said. “But none of them saw a thing.”

      “Drive-by?”

      “No one noticed a car. Lot of folks milling around, though. Shooter could have disappeared in the crowd and no one would have caught it.”

      Bishop glanced at the high-rises around them. “You checked out those offices?”

      “Doing it right now.”

      They went over a few more details then Bishop nodded toward the redheaded woman. “I understand that’s the widow.”

      Flipping through the small notebook he’d been consulting, the younger cop read from his notes. “Anise Borden. Self-employed. 6789 Seventeenth Avenue.”

      “I thought you said they were married.”

      He looked up from his notes. “They are…or were, I guess I should say. But she uses her name. She’s some kinda artist.”

      “What else?”

      “That’s it.” Carter dropped his voice. “I took a statement from her but maybe you can make more headway. It was ‘yes’ and ‘no’ and not much else. She couldn’t have plugged the guy herself since she was standing right beside him but she’s an icicle.”

      “Is she in shock?”

      “The medics checked her out and said she’s fine.”

      Bishop stared at the widow. “Then I guess I better see what I can do.”

      “Good luck. I think you’re gonna need a blow-torch to thaw that one out.”

      Bishop made his way toward the woman, stopping first to check with the medical people then talking with some of the other crime scene investigators. He wanted to give her plenty of time. It took some folks longer than others for reality to soak in.

      Ten minutes later, when he stood directly before Anise Borden, she lifted her eyes. He would have bet green, but they were blue. A pale, almost colorless blue.

      “I’m Daniel Bishop,” he said. “Investigator, HPD. People call me Bishop.”

      She held out her hand and he shook it. In contrast to the rest of her polished perfection, her palm was rough, the skin etched with lines. He wondered about it then spoke. “I’m sorry about what happened here tonight. It’s bad enough to lose someone but to have to go through this, too.”

      “Thank you,” she said. Her voice was low and soft, as controlled as her expression. “Can you catch whoever did this?”

      “We intend to,” he said. “But we’ll need your help.”

      “Of course. I’ll do whatever I can.”

      He studied her as she spoke, the details he’d missed from down the street registering now. Beneath the white jacket, she wore jeans and a black T-shirt. She didn’t have on a wedding band, but the rest of her jewelry, a gold chain and hoop earrings, was simple and elegant. He’d dated a woman once who worked at Tiffany’s and she’d told him nice jewelry was like a designer swimsuit—the less there was to it, the more it cost. An equally expensivelooking leather handbag sat at Anise Borden’s feet. It was covered in blood.

      He asked her to tell him what had happened and she did, her manner composed. He interrupted once to ask her to point out where she’d been standing and when she finished, he spoke bluntly.

      “I’ll need to question you more later but the first thing I want to ask is the most obvious. Do you have any idea who might want him dead?”

      She blinked then looked him straight in the eye. “I know exactly who wanted him dead. Unfortunately I don’t have a clue what her name is.”

      THE TALL COP DIDN’T REACT to her words. He simply nodded. “Tell me more.”

      Anise handed him Kenneth’s cell phone. “He got a call right as we were leaving the bar. I answered it because he was in the restroom. It was a woman and she said—no, she promised—she would see him dead.”

      “That must have been upsetting.”

      “I was surprised, to say the least. When he came out, I gave him the phone and asked him about it, but he said it wasn’t important. He said he had a client who was in trouble with the IRS and she’d been threatening him for quite some time.”

      “What was her name?”

      “He didn’t tell me. We walked to the curb and then…” She stopped and gathered herself. “Then he was shot.”

      “What did Mr. Capanna do?”

      “He’s an attorney. A tax attorney. He helped people manage their income so their taxes would be as low as possible. He assisted with audits and things like that—”

      She broke off when she looked at her hands. They were still red with Kenneth’s blood, the lines and scars filled with it. If she didn’t know better she would have thought she’d been using Gamblin’s alizarin crimson with maybe a bit of cadmium red medium thrown in to bring out the blue. The color under her nails would have matched the paint perfectly. Her chest went tight in midbreath, a band of disbelief cutting off air as the cop spoke again.

      “Had he lost any big cases lately? Someone who might be mad at