The Man Behind The Badge. Dawn Stewardson

and combed her fingers through her hair.

      She looked as awful as she felt, as if she needed a month’s sleep. But before she could try to get even one night’s she was going to have to finish talking to those detectives.

      Squaring her shoulders, she opened the bathroom door and walked back to the living room.

      “I’m sorry,” she said, pausing in the doorway. “My self-control is usually better.”

      “Don’t worry about it,” Travis Quinn said. “It’s awful news to get hit with. And we won’t bother you anymore while you’re so upset. But if you’d just tell us one more thing?”

      She nodded.

      “With your mother and brother dying so close in time... Detective Ballantyne and I were wondering if there could be any connection between their deaths. So if you’d just explain how your mother died?”

      That was hard to talk about, but she managed to say, “She was struck by a car. On Madison. The driver’d run a light and kept on going after he hit her. As far as I know, they haven’t caught him.”

      Both detectives mumbled sympathetic responses, then rose.

      “We’ll want to talk to you again,” Travis Quinn said. “Can we reach you here during the day?”

      “Usually. Now and then, there’s some reason for me to be at a publisher’s. But I normally work here.”

      He nodded, then took a card from his pocket and handed it to her. “My cell phone’s always on. If you think of anything that might help us with your brother’s case, anything at all...”

      “Yes,” she whispered. “Of course.”

      * * *

      “JUST WHAT WE FIGURED,” Travis said after he and Hank had left Celeste Langley’s apartment and were heading down the stairs. “There’s not a chance in the world she’d ever murder anyone.”

      “Oh?” His partner shot him a questioning look. “You’re sure about that?”

      “You’re not?”

      “How tall would you say she is?”

      “Five-five? Five-six?”

      “Right. Average height. Wearing heels, she’d be maybe five-eight. And don’t forget that Parker let his killer in. It was someone he trusted, someone he’d never have expected to shoot him.”

      “It wasn’t her,” Travis said firmly.

      Hank shrugged. “I’d have liked a chance to check her closet for a gray trench coat. And a big black purse.”

      “A gray trench coat and a big black purse. Oh, yeah, I bet there aren’t more than two or three women in the entire city who’d have both those items.”

      “Your sarcasm could use work,” Hank told him. “Besides, our wit said it might have been a briefcase. And an editor would have a briefcase. Right?”

      Travis ignored the question, but he was wishing he’d asked Celeste if anyone could corroborate her statement about being at home last night.

      It hadn’t been the time or place for that, though. The department didn’t run sensitivity courses so their detectives would inform a woman that her brother had been murdered in one breath and make her feel like a suspect in the next.

      Still, he’d sure like to know if she had anyone to back up her alibi.

      He waited until they were getting into the car before he said, “You don’t really think she could have done it.”

      Hank pulled his door shut, then looked across the front seat. “Well, she’s blond, thirty years old, and I’d say the word stylish fits her. Then we’ve got the mother dying so recently—in an accident. If it turns out that Ms. Langley had anything to gain from those two deaths...”

      “Hank, you’re—”

      “You know what else I think?”

      “What?”

      “That you liked her.”

      “I didn’t like her!”

      “No?” Hank did a poor job of concealing a grin. “Travis, how many people have we interviewed together?”

      “I don’t keep count.”

      “But it’s got to be thousands, right?”

      “Yeah, I guess. And your point is?”

      “That I’ve never seen you react to any of them the way you reacted to her.”

      “What’s that supposed to mean? How did I react?”

      “As if you liked her,” Hank said, no longer even trying to hide his grin.

      “I felt sorry for her,” Travis muttered, starting the engine. “That was all.”

      “Sure. If you say so.”

      Pulling away from the curb, he told himself to just let the subject drop.

      Celeste Langley was an attractive woman, no doubt about it. But recognizing that was worlds away from being interested in her.

      He wasn’t in the market for a woman. And even if he was, he’d never get involved with a suspect—whether she was an improbable one or not.

      CHAPTER TWO

      Monday, October 4, 8:36 a.m.

      FOR THE TENTH TIME in the past half hour, Celeste picked up the card Travis Quinn had given her and checked the number of his cell phone.

      Not that she needed to. By this point, she’d looked at it often enough that she had it memorized. Yet she wasn’t sure she should call him this early. Or even at all.

      Normally, she wasn’t indecisive. But she’d had another sleepless night—lying awake unable to stop thinking about Steve and her mother. And it had left her so wrung out that she just couldn’t stop vacillating.

      Part of her brain was telling her not to impose on the man. Besides which, she hated the sense that there was no one she could turn to except a virtual stranger. On the other hand, none of her friends would have the answers to her questions.

      Bryce would. Or if he didn’t, he could get them.

      She forced away those thoughts. Her estranged husband was the last person on earth she’d ask for help. Which really left only one option.

      Telling herself she’d make the call brief, she reached for the cordless and pressed in Travis Quinn’s number.

      “Quinn,” he answered on the second ring.

      After taking a deep breath, she said, “Detective Quinn, it’s Celeste Langley. I hope this isn’t too early to bother you, but—”

      “You’re not bothering me and it isn’t too early. What can I do for you?”

      There was concern in his deep voice. It made her feel a little less anxious.

      “Well, I didn’t think of it while you were here last night, but...I should be doing something about Steve’s death and I’m not sure what.” Oh, man, she was sounding like an imbecile.

      “There are the funeral arrangements to look after,” she continued. “And I’ll call the other relatives. But what about his friends?

      “I met the ones who came to the service for our mother, and if I had his address book, I’m sure I’d recognize at least some of their names.”

      “You don’t have to worry about contacting them. Detective Ballantyne and I will look after it. We have to talk to his friends, anyway—see what they know that might help. But can you recall even one of the names?”

      “Yes. Gary Cooper. It