Incriminating Passion. Ann Peterson Voss

barbell. Every instinct he had screamed for him to stay as far away from this case—and as far away from this woman—as possible. He’d been through this grind before. A beautiful woman witness to a crime. A sad story. A need for his help. And him racing in on his white steed only to be bucked off. He’d be a fool to subject himself to that kind of torture again.

      A fool or a masochist.

      As if she could see the path his mind was traveling, she thrust her chin forward. “Listen, I can take care of myself. Just find out who murdered Win. We may not have had much of a relationship, but he was my husband. He deserves justice.”

      John pushed back from his desk and rose to his feet. The recliner and belt of Jack would have to wait because it didn’t look like he was going home any time soon. “I’ll look into it. But I’ll need your permission to search the house. I want to bring in the county sheriff and a crime scene unit.”

      “Anything. I’ll call Marcella, our housekeeper. She can let you in and give you any help you need.”

      “Good.” The ache in his shoulders eased slightly. The evidence. All he had to do was trust the evidence. Trust the facts and leave feeling out of this. “I suggest you check into a hotel. At least until I can figure out what’s going on.”

      Her head bobbed in a tight little nod. She was scared. Of that he was sure. And if someone had run her car into the Green Valley quarry as she claimed, she had damn good reason.

      “If you let me know where you’re staying, I’ll ask the Madison police to keep an eye out.” He gave her his best attempt at a reassuring smile. “You’ll be okay.”

      ANDREA SLID the deadbolt home and followed it with the security chain. She’d been afraid a lot in her twenty-four years, but never as afraid as she was now.

      She crossed the no-frills hotel room and lowered herself onto the bed. “Everything is going to be okay,” she murmured to herself. “I’ll survive this. I always do.”

      She’d faced the streets of Chicago alone at fifteen years old. She’d faced Wingate’s temper alone. She’d faced the decision to leave him, even if she hadn’t gotten the chance. She’d faced all of it and she’d survived. So far. But she’d never had someone trying to kill her. And worse yet, she’d never faced the loss of her memory—her very mind.

      She glanced at the phone sitting on the nightstand. She wasn’t totally alone. At least not as alone as she had been in that car last night. John Cohen had agreed to look into her story. He’d asked the Madison police to drive by the hotel and check on her. He’d promised to call as soon as he found anything.

      When she’d first entered his office, she’d thought she was sunk. His dark intense eyes had seemed to drill right through her. His narrow face had seemed to harden against her, icy with cynicism. But as she told her story, she’d seen a transformation in him. Although he might still be skeptical, he’d listened. And when she’d finished explaining the unexplainable, he’d even seemed concerned. Far more than she’d gotten from another person in longer than she could remember.

      And she still didn’t know what to make of it.

      She slipped her legs under the sheets and blanket and pulled the covers up to her shoulders, hoping the warmth would still the shaking in her bones. She had to keep her wits about her. She had to be strong. Because although John Cohen had offered to help, she knew better than to rely on him. Or anyone. And if an enemy of Wingate’s had now set his sights on her, she might be up against more than she could handle this time.

      Chapter Three

      John sized up the man on the other side of the handshake. Even if Police Chief Gary Putnam wasn’t dressed in blue, the average neighborhood thug would make him as a cop from a mile away. Close-cropped hair, wide shoulders, and slightly square demeanor, he was the kind of man the public trusted. The kind of cop John loved to put on the witness stand.

      Andrea Kirkland’s suspicions about the Green Valley police scrolled through his mind. If he was to pick a dirty cop—one who might want to silence the witness to a murder—Gary Putnam would be one of the last ones on his list.

      Chief Putnam released the handshake and gestured John into his office. “Come in. It’s quieter in here. We can talk.”

      John glanced over his shoulder at the tiny Green Valley police station. The place wasn’t exactly a hub of activity. A young woman dressed in plain clothes hunched over an old typewriter, employing the hunt-and-peck method. Other than that, the place was quieter than a morgue.

      John stepped into the office anyway and settled in a plastic-seated chair.

      Not bothering to close the door, the chief sat behind a cheap-looking desk, the office furnishings of a public servant. “You want to know about Andrea Kirkland? Yes, she phoned last night. About dusk.”

      “And a woman named Ruth talked to her?”

      “Yes. I was out on a call. Ruthie talked to Mrs. Kirkland just before she went home for the night.” He nodded in the direction of the young woman typing. “She radioed me immediately. Mrs. Kirkland said her husband was missing.”

      “Did you check out her story?”

      “I checked into it this morning. Very interesting situation.”

      “How so?”

      “Seems no one has seen Wingate Kirkland for a week. Both his office in Madison and his company headquarters in Chicago were under the impression he was spending the time at his estate. Seems he’s an avid deer hunter. The interesting part is that Mrs. Kirkland waited the entire week to report him gone.”

      Interesting indeed. Of course, there was a chance she was telling the truth about that, too. John had heard of instances where a person blocked a traumatic event from his or her mind only to have it surface later. “She says she must have blocked his death. That the memory didn’t return until last night.”

      “Is that what she says? She had amnesia or some damn thing? That’s a new one. I guess it goes along with what she told Ruthie.”

      “What did she tell Ruthie?”

      “Ask her yourself.” He glanced in the direction of the woman typing. “What did Andrea Kirkland say to you last night, Ruthie?”

      The typewriter quit tapping. John turned in his chair in time to see the young woman cross the office. Her shoulder-length hair was expertly styled. Her skin was flawless. And her clothing, though baggy and a lifeless brown color, was obviously expensive and ultimately tasteful. Ruthie dressed as though she was twenty going on fifty. “She said she heard gunshots and saw Wingate lying on the floor. Anything else, she didn’t remember.”

      The chief focused his sharp eyes on Ruthie. “And didn’t she say something about an oriental rug?”

      “A Persian rug,” she corrected. “She remembered seeing Mr. Kirkland’s head resting on a Persian rug.”

      That also squared with what she had told John. So far, so good.

      Ruthie frowned slightly. “The funny thing was, I saw a man loading a rug into a van in front of the Kirkland house about a week ago. I assumed Mrs. Kirkland was redecorating or having it cleaned.”

      “When exactly did you see this?”

      “Last Monday, I think. I remember because Mrs. Kirkland was outside giving the man directions.”

      A pain stabbed John’s gut. The ulcer kicking up again. “Are you sure it was Mrs. Kirkland?”

      “I think so. It’s a long driveway. And the gate was closed. But there was a blond woman out there who looked like her. At least the way I remember Andrea Kirkland looking.”

      Not the most reliable witness testimony he’d heard. Not by a long shot. “You haven’t seen Mrs. Kirkland in a while?”

      “I’m afraid not. Even though I live