Secrets and Seduction: 5 Romance Novels (26 page)

“No, that’s not possible. I couldn’t make this design work at a shorter length.”

“But you drew the changes.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“It’s your signature on the blueprints I showed you, just like on every other blueprint associated with the Densmore.”

“That’s not possible.”

“It is.” Too bad she didn’t have a free hand to unroll the blueprints. But her memory was excellent.

“Ms. Healey, I know that design. I put my heart and soul into it.”

“I look at facts, Mr. Ziko, and the evidence shows your signature on the revised drawing.”

“I want to see that drawing.”

She sighed. He was going to become obsessive about it. “Listen, Mr. Ziko, your firm has a copy of the drawing. Look it up.”

“The cops confiscated it.”

She thought quickly. “There’s a copy on file with the county. I’m sure you can go to the city planner’s office and look it up.”

“Why don’t you bring your copy with you when you come over?”

“I’m not coming to see you.” God, wouldn’t that be a conflict of interest? She could picture Cal having an apoplectic fit.

“I need to show you the date on this drawing. I need to prove my innocence.” His voice was insistent.

“I’m hardly a neutral party, Mr. Ziko.”

“So you’re not interested in my innocence?”

“That drawing doesn’t prove you’re innocent, while my drawing actually makes you look guilty. So do the DesignCorp test results.”

“There’s no talking to you. Your mind’s made up. You’ve reached a verdict and you’re not going to accept any evidence that doesn’t support your theory, despite what you told me. I’m sorry I called.” He hung up.

Ziko’s accusation stung. She’d always been fair and impartial in her investigations and had never turned in a biased report to Michigan Casualty. But he was a guilty man desperate to use any method to get someone to listen to his pitiful plea. He thought she’d be easier to sway than the grand jury.

Well, he was wrong. She pulled out the documents to confirm her assertions. Unrolling the blueprints, she carefully traced his signature on the bottom of each page. He’d drawn these, and then he’d lied to her about it. Why?

Gabrielle sorted through the numerous papers until she found the DesignCorp report. It didn’t give specs, just named the Densmore project.

It was a fill-in-the-blanks type form with DesignCorp’s logo and address at the top. It listed the tolerances to which the design was tested and the parameters within which it passed. All routine. They needed a better printer, because even though she was looking at a copy of a copy, it appeared hand typed, not computer generated. Probably another case of cost cutting, where the company should upgrade but didn’t. She saw it a lot in her investigations — old wiring, buildings not up to code, insufficient smoke alarms — and all because building owners didn’t want to part with their profits.

No, Ziko was wrong. Hers was the drawing used to build the Densmore, and it was his design that failed.

She pulled her keyboard toward her. In twenty-five minutes she had completed her summary and condemned Christian Ziko’s design as the reason for the Densmore’s collapse. Cal would be extremely pleased. If he kept his word, she’d be sitting in his office soon and receiving a fat raise. Yet she hesitated, saving the file instead of sending it to Cal. She hoped he hadn’t been stringing her along about that promotion.

• • •

Christian slammed down the phone. “Damn.” He’d thought Gabrielle Healey would jump at the news about the blueprint. But she’d shrugged it off. Didn’t anybody want the truth? Didn’t anybody care if an innocent man went to jail? It seemed like no one did.

He had enough time to visit the City Planning office before his appointment with Paul’s frat brother, Bryce Gannon, the hotshot defense attorney.

As he drove out of the garage, Christian’s Jeep was immediately surrounded by people with cameras and microphones.

“Mr. Ziko, do you have any words for the families?”

“Mr. Ziko, is it true your business is in financial trouble over the Densmore fiasco?”

They were jackals, the worst kind of predators, circling the injured, waiting to get in a kill shot. He shuddered and drove past them without stopping.

That last reporter’s question made his chest tighten. Was his company in financial jeopardy because of the Densmore? He hadn’t discussed anything with Roger in the past few weeks. Yesterday they hadn’t gotten past their argument. He needed to know if Barrett and Ziko was in trouble.

While he navigated the streets, he called his office, but Brittany told him Roger was out.

Christian had a brainstorm, “Are the police gone?”

“Yeah. They took all our files on the Densmore and they made a real mess doing it.”

“Did they take the blueprints?”

“Yep, everything.”

“Damn. I’m on my way to City Planning to look at what they’ve got on file, but I was hoping not to have to go there.”

“What do you think you’ll find?”

“I don’t know. But I want to see if I signed the blueprints.”

“You must have. You designed the building.”

“I’m going to see for myself. Thanks, Brittany.”

At the City Planning office, Christian knew the man at the counter. Josh Morgan was thirty-something, with nut brown hair and a look of dismay on his face. His brown eyes went wide and his mouth dropped open.

“Christian Ziko.” He said it like he couldn’t believe it.

“Josh. I need to see the building plans for the Densmore Building.”

If Josh had been dismayed before, now he was outraged. His face reddened. “What the hell for?”

“I’m trying to prove I’m innocent.”

“I don’t think I can let you back here.”

“Dammit, Josh, everybody making a case against me has a copy of the damn drawing. How can I defend myself if I don’t know what I’m defending against?”

“There is no defense against what you did.”

“But I didn’t kill anybody and I’m going to prove it. Are you going to let me back there or will it make you feel better if an innocent man goes to jail?”

Josh glowered, but then he reached below the counter and the door buzzed.

“Thanks.” Christian took a seat in one of the conference rooms set up for people to look at blueprints.

When Josh delivered the drawings, Christian paged through them until he located the one of the third floor. His finger traced over to the lower right-hand corner. There was his signature.

A wave of despair washed over him, and he dropped his head into his hands. It couldn’t be possible. He couldn’t be a murderer. No. A black pit opened up in front of him, threatening to engulf him. For a moment his vision darkened. He remembered every project he’d ever worked on, remembered lovingly sculpting the Densmore. But this revision … his mind was a blank.

Christian swam out of the dark. He wouldn’t have changed this drawing, not this one. He knew how he drew lines and angles, joints and fittings, how he wrote numbers. Frowning, he traced over the dimensions again. This wasn’t his work.

Elation practically doubled him over. He crossed his arms across his midsection, barely preventing an animal groan from escaping his lips. He wasn’t a murderer.

No, he was an accessory to murder. He’d handed the gun to whoever pulled the trigger. He’d signed off on the work. Jesus.

He straightened up and stared at the unknown lines again and then he looked down at his signature, but he couldn’t recall a single instance of signing off on a drawing without looking at it first.

As he looked even closer, he noticed the signature seemed shaky. He’d always had fine motor control, so it might just be a poor quality copy. Quickly he grabbed a magnifying glass. Under the larger magnification, he could see the letters weren’t fluid, as though the person writing it had stopped midway through and started again.

His heart lurched and then began beating more rapidly. It wasn’t his signature. He drew in his breath. Someone had forged his signature.

His first thought was Roger, but this wasn’t Roger’s work. He had a heavier hand when he designed, very confident and bold, and he wrote his numbers differently.

So who’d drawn it and signed it?

If Roger had authorized it, and he must have, why hadn’t he said anything to Christian about it and why hadn’t he done the work himself? He should never have given this to anyone else to work on, and if he had, why hadn’t he signed his own name to it once the revision was finished? It didn’t make sense.

So who else at the firm could have revised the drawing and why forge Christian’s name to it? He didn’t think Paul’s son Jeremy would do it. As far as he knew, Brittany couldn’t do architectural drawings. That only left the college intern who’d been with them for a semester, but the Densmore was far above internship level work.

Before Christian could go crazy trying to find an answer, he needed proof this wasn’t his signature. The cops had handwriting experts. He should take the drawing to them and ask for their help. But after yesterday’s handling, he wasn’t sure how much cooperation they would give him.

Maybe Gabrielle Healey could help him. But first he needed to update Roger on what he’d found. Christian called the office hoping Roger was back from his meeting. But the answering machine came on immediately. Where was everybody? A glance at his watch showed it wasn’t even lunchtime yet.

Josh poked his head into the room.

“I’ll need a copy of this page,” Christian told him.

As Josh stalked off with the blueprint, Christian dialed Gabrielle’s number. When she answered, he identified himself and told her, “It’s not my signature on the drawing.”

She made a sound of exasperation. “Of course it is.”

“No, it’s not. I checked it under a magnifying glass. Someone forged my name, probably by tracing a copy they already had. I need a handwriting expert to verify what I’m saying. Can you help me, because I don’t think the police will.”

Gabrielle blew out her breath. “All right.” He heard papers shuffling on her end. “Call Alex Kernfelter at this number and tell him I recommended you to him.” She rattled off the number.

“You don’t want to call him first?”

“No. I can’t get directly involved with this.”

“I see.” He was still persona non grata with her. “Well, thanks for the name anyway.”

“Mr. Ziko?”

“What?”

“Please let me know the results.”

“I’ll have Mr. Kernfelter call you.”

When he hung up from her, he felt distinctly bereft. How strange, when every time he spoke to her she didn’t believe him.

Christian called Kernfelter and agreed to meet him in twenty minutes if he didn’t have to duck reporters.

He felt Josh’s stare burning into his back as he left with a copy of the drawing. He’d thought it would be easy to prove his innocence, but people didn’t seem to want to hear what he had to say. He was guilty until proven innocent, apparently.

As he exited the County offices, he was mobbed by a handful of reporters.

“What are you doing here, Mr. Ziko?”

“Were you trying to get in to see the mayor, Mr. Ziko?”

“What’s that in your hand?” An eagle-eyed reporter spotted the drawing.

Christian gripped his evidence tighter. He wondered if telling the reporters what he’d found would be to his benefit. But he needed to warn Roger first. He didn’t want his partner blindsided by this.

So he pushed his way through the reporters to his Jeep without saying a word. They were persistent buzzards, though, firing questions at him despite his lack of response.

He drove out of the parking lot, heading away from the crowded downtown area. He thought one of the reporters followed him, because a black SUV kept pace with him one car back.

Christian turned right at the next stop light. The black SUV turned right a moment later. Damn reporters. He gunned the Jeep and turned left in front of oncoming traffic. Horns blared. He made another right at the next corner and then a second right a few moments later. There was no sign of the black SUV. Good.

Kernfelter’s company, Forensic Sciences, Inc., occupied the entire first floor of a two-story brick building. A matronly woman manned the front desk.

“My name’s Christian Ziko. Mr. Kernfelter is expecting me.”

“Yes. Let me buzz him. Oh, there you are, sir.” Her gaze swung to the right where a middle-aged man with sharp, dark eyes and crisp brown hair leaned past her so Christian could see him.

“Mr. Ziko, come around to the door. I’ll meet you there.”

As promised, Kernfelter opened the inner door as Christian reached it. The older man ushered him through. As soon as the door was closed behind him, Kernfelter stuck out his hand and introduced himself.

Alex Kernfelter had a strong grip. He was eye level with Christian and his gaze was piercing. “Come into my office before we discuss anything. Our staff is extremely discreet, but I want privacy when we begin.”

Kernfelter waved him to a seat in a brown leather and wood chair. “Do you think someone sabotaged the Densmore, perhaps as a way to destroy you or your firm?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

Kernfelter’s mouth twisted. “I didn’t want to believe it, but I wondered. Let me see the drawing.”

Christian unrolled the drawing across the desk. Pointing to the signature, he stated, “There. If I had to guess, I’d say somebody traced my handwriting.”

Alex studied the writing with a magnifying glass, before lifting his head. “It’s certainly not a steady hand. Someone like you who’s young and healthy wouldn’t ordinarily write with a shaky hand. I’ll need several samples of your signature and to see your driver’s license and credit card signatures for comparison as well.”

Christian pulled out his wallet and deposited the requested items on top the drawing. By then, Kernfelter had a blank piece of paper he handed Christian.

“Write your name ten times. Write as you normally would when you sign a blueprint, at whatever speed you would usually use. Don’t think about what you’re doing, just write.”

Christian did as he was told. It was difficult not to concentrate on making his name legible, or to want his signature to appear different than the one on the drawing. When he was finished, Kernfelter took the page and compared it to the signatures on his driver’s license and credit cards.