Capturing Cleo. Linda Winstead Jones

she drove away. He couldn’t hear her, but he saw her mouth move. Maybe she was cursing his name. Then again…

      “Now, that’s a woman,” Russell said, and Luther turned around to see that the kid was leaning against the car with an annoyingly jaunty air.

      “Too much woman for you,” Luther said as he headed for the driver’s side.

      “But not for you,” Russell said, with a smile, hurrying to the passenger seat so he wouldn’t be left behind.

      “Maybe she is,” Luther said, starting the engine. And then he thought about the way she’d looked fresh from bed, in her cat nightshirt with her hair going in every direction; the expression on her face, the fire in her amber eyes when he’d licked the jam off his finger; and the hint of vulnerability that had flashed over her face when she’d agreed that somehow she was involved in her ex-husband’s death.

      “And then again, maybe she’s not.”

      “Did she do it?” Russell asked, as Luther pulled onto the street. His bright smile faded rapidly as they got back to business.

      “No.”

      “Does she know who did?”

      Luther sighed. “I’m not sure. I’m going back to the club tonight. Whoever did this might be there to see Cleo’s reaction to the murder. If he’s fixated on her, he might be there every night.”

      “So what are you gonna do, take up hanging around bars as a part of the job? Can I come?”

      Luther opened up his very clean ashtray and plucked out a peppermint, unwrapping it expertly and quickly. At times like this, he wanted a cigarette so bad he could almost taste it.

      Truth was, another pair of eyes would be a good idea. Russell looked at everything from a different slant, and, like it or not, that made them good partners. What one missed, the other often saw.

      “Sure,” he said. “And don’t forget to bring your ID.”

      Russell growled, and Luther smiled. The last time they’d gone out for a drink, Mikey had gotten carded.

      “Dress casual, and let’s go in separately and keep it that way.” Yeah, another pair of eyes would be great. “There’s a barmaid about your age, pretty girl named Lizzy. You can cozy up to her and pick her brain over the next few days.”

      Russell nodded. The kid loved undercover work, even something as simple as this. “That’s great. What about Cleo? Should I try to pick her brain, too?”

      It was true, Luther usually let Russell interrogate the women. They just seemed to crumple when he smiled and asked them questions. A woman who was intimidated by Luther would fold in a heartbeat for Mikey.

      But he had a feeling Cleo never folded. Besides, she’d chew the kid up and spit him out before he had a clue he was in trouble. Besides…

      “Cleo is mine.”

      Chapter 4

      The last person Cleo needed or wanted to see, as she pushed through the club door, was Malone. The man was a menace. And he stood at the bar talking to Edgar as if he owned the place! Confident, supremely relaxed, he looked like he belonged here as much as she did. And it was her place!

      He turned to watch her walk toward him, his eyes squinted against the afternoon sun that shone brightly behind her as the door swung slowly shut.

      “We’re not open yet,” she said.

      “I know.” Malone nodded to Edgar. “He let me in.”

      First Syd and now Edgar! Her friends were turning against her. Cleo gave Edgar a warning glare, and received a shrug in return. She headed for the office, and heard the annoying clip of Malone’s step as he fell in behind her.

      “I suppose you’re here for a reason,” Cleo said, without glancing over her shoulder.

      “Maybe I just wanted to say hello.”

      Cleo snorted softly as she opened her office door. “You don’t strike me as a social butterfly, Malone. I doubt you ever drop by anywhere just to say hello.”

      Every nerve in her body went on alert when he shut the office door behind him. She didn’t like being this close to him, pinned in, wondering why he was here. She didn’t have to wonder long.

      “Jack didn’t jump,” Malone said curtly.

      Her heart lurched. “How can you be sure?”

      “He was probably unconscious when he went off…when he died. There was a substantial amount of a drug in his blood—not enough to kill him, but more than enough to knock him on his ass for a while.”

      Cleo rounded the desk and sat down. Something about Malone and the news he always carried with him made her knees weak. “Maybe he took it on purpose. Trust me, Jack wasn’t above a little recreational—”

      “No grown man uses furniture polish for recreational purposes,” Malone interrupted. “Even if it is a furniture polish that takes a nasty turn when ingested.”

      Cleo tilted her head back and looked up at the detective. Usually she didn’t care for this position. She preferred eye-to-eye and nose-to-nose. Not right now. “So somebody gave Jack something to make him…easy to handle, and then pushed him off the roof?”

      Malone stood on the other side of her desk, his eyes on her. Did he still think she might have killed Jack? For the first time, Cleo was really scared. No one had wanted to see Jack dead more than she. If she were investigating the case, she’d definitely suspect her.

      “It doesn’t make any sense,” Malone continued. “There are easier ways to kill an unconscious man than throwing him off a roof. It looks like he was already out of it when he was taken up there. That wasn’t easy.”

      Cleo swallowed, wanting nothing more than for this man to leave. Quietly. Without another word. Without another opportunity for argument. “Why are you telling me this?”

      Malone placed his hands on the desk and leaned forward, bringing his face close to hers. Eye-to-eye, nose-to-nose. “I don’t think you killed him,” he said. “But I think you know the man who did.”

      “How do you know it’s a man?”

      “Ever tried to drag a body up several flights of stairs, across a roof, and then toss it over the side? There was a four-foot rail. Whoever tossed Jack over had the strength to lift that unconscious body over the rail. You don’t have that kind of strength.”

      She wanted to argue with him. These days she didn’t let any man tell her what she could and could not do! But he was right. And she would be a complete fool to argue with him about that particular point.

      “Why do you think I know the man who killed Jack?”

      Malone shook his head. “If whoever did this just wanted Tempest dead, he could’ve poured more furniture polish down his throat, or smothered him with a pillow. The job could have been finished in any one of a dozen other ways that were simpler and cleaner than this. That’s not what happened. When the killer tossed Jack and the grapefruit over the side of the building, he was sending a message.”

      “To me?” Cleo whispered.

      “To you.”

      Malone backed away slowly, and withdrew a small notebook from his jacket pocket. A slim pen followed. The way he sat there, half sitting, half leaning against her desk, made his dark jacket gape open. His shoulder holster rested at his side, snug and somehow natural looking against the plain white shirt. The gun housed there was small, a compact.

      “I’m going to need the names of everyone you’ve dated in the past two years.”

      “I don’t date.”

      Malone latched his dark eyes to hers. “Come on, Ms. Tanner. You don’t expect me to believe that, do you?”