In Harm's Way (9 page)

He laced his fingers through hers and turned back toward the cabin, walking slowly, looking at the ground as he spoke. “Let's stay here awhile just in case. If they're going to look for you at Kick's, they'll do it in the next day or so. When it's time for the inquest, it should be safe to head back and go to his place. Meanwhile, nobody knows where we are but Nate.”

“And he wouldn't tell even if someone asked,” she guessed.

Mitch shook his head. “No. Nate and I have been friends since we were kids.”

Now that surprised her. “You're serious?”

He sat down on the edge of the porch and indicated she should do the same. “Nate's had a rough time over the years and looks a little ragged around the edges, I know. But he has a good heart, Robin. He'd do anything in the world for me just as I would for him.”

This sort of loyalty and longstanding friendship was foreign to Robin, but she had to trust that Mitch knew what he was talking about. It gave her yet another view of him, this time of a man who had cultivated a very eclectic set of friends.

There was that former FBI guy who was also a lawyer, whom Mitch said would be glad to help him out. And Nate, who seemed to be on the other end of the spectrum, an undereducated ex-boxer who carved bears and Indians.

Yes, she was Alice, and Nashville was Wonderland.

“This will be fine,” she told Mitch. “I can adapt.”

“I believe you will.” His beam of approval did strange things to her insides. She leaned against the log column that supported the porch and took a deep breath to calm her nerves. It was peaceful here and she imagined she would get used to the smell of fresh air.

Mitch absolutely reveled in teasing her. He liked to think it was to provide a distraction, so she wouldn't be worried about the disk and who was after it, but he knew better.

Robin was just so susceptible to jokes and so totally unpredictable about how she reacted to them.

“Nate modeled this one from life,” he told her, resting one hand on the fierce, blocky statue of the bear that dominated a backyard filled with sawdust.

“He did not.”

“Oh, yeah. Kept the ol' fella chained up over there by that tree. He finished getting a likeness, then turned him loose.”

She looked at him askance, then surveyed the surrounding woods. “He let it go?”

“Sure did. Big mistake, too. The brute ate a fisherman who'd come up from South Georgia. Polished off his day's catch for dessert. Nate advises everybody to put food out in the woods every night to keep the bears from breaking into the cabins.”

“You liar. There are no bears,” she declared, her laugh a little nervous. “And, anyway, bears don't eat people!” A small hesitation. “Do they? I mean, I realize they must bite, but…”

He shrugged. “They
are
carnivorous. Check it out. This is
part of a wildlife refuge, and they say the bears are multiplying like rabbits around here.” He walked over to the edge of the woods where the ground was clear and pointed down. “See there?”

Frowning, she peered down at the huge paw prints he had made earlier by adding “claws” to footprints Nate had left there. After a short perusal, she straightened and glanced toward their cabin. “Well, leave the food if it's necessary,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact. She was walking fast, not running, trying hard to conceal her haste in getting away from the bear signs. “But don't leave the cookies. Sugar can't be good for them.”

Mitch hid a smile. She'd acquired an addiction to Oreos and rationed them like a smoker would the last pack of cigarettes.

The two days they spent at Nate's camp would have been perfect if not for his overactive hormones. Seeing her clad only in that tacky orange T-shirt when she was ready for bed made him…well, ready for bed. But certainly not for sleep. He knew he was going to be seriously sleep deprived when they left.

She, on the other hand, bloomed in the wilderness like a wild violet. The absence of makeup, the slight two-day tan and the couple of pounds she had gained gave her a healthy glow.

“There's an outdoorsy person in you,” he teased, pinching her determined chin. “And she
likes
it here.”

Robin angled her head away from his touch. “And she will be damned glad to return to civilization! Air-conditioning! Dishwashers! Restaurants!”

“You don't like cleaning fish?” he asked innocently, watching with interest as she mangled her attempt at the chore.

Her glare should have slain him on the spot. Mitch laughed and took over before she sliced him up with the filet knife.

He could have stayed here with her forever and been completely happy. Well, happy if he thought they could
really
be together, which he knew was a fantasy. Staying three days was pushing his luck. Hunford or Kick, himself, would put out an APB on her if Mitch didn't return her as promised.

“We'll be in tonight,” he told Hunford on the phone during his daily call in. But he didn't tell him exactly where they would be going. He stowed the phone and spoke to Robin. “I guess we have to go.”

Did he imagine he saw a flash of disappointment in her eyes before she lowered them? Maybe it was only fear of giving up the safety of the camp.

“I should call Damien. We need to get that disk turned in.”

She looked as if she wanted to say something about that.

“What is it?”

“Never mind. You're right, I guess.”

But Mitch knew she had been about to suggest something else.

As if by mutual agreement, neither of them had discussed either the disk or the case since coming here. She had needed to get away, to get rid of some of that fear that kept her so tense.

Much as he would love to shield her from it and avoid it himself, he knew they had to go back and face the music.

“So, where to? Detective Taylor's house?” she asked.

“That's the plan. He did offer.”

R
obin allowed Mitch to assist her out of the truck. “Goodbye, Nathan. Thanks for the squirrel.” She clutched the small, carefully hand-carved animal to her chest and smiled at Mitch's friend. “I love it.”

Nathan beamed, the gap in his teeth not objectionable at all, now that she was used to looking at him.

“Aw, it ain't nothin',” he said, ducking his head.

“It's something to
me,
Nathan,” she said, meaning every word. The man did have talent. Mitch was right. Nathan was more than he seemed at first glance. A regular Gentle Ben. Bear guy. Eccentric artist and sometime pugilist.

She assessed Detective Taylor's house and grounds as Mitch made his farewell and waved Nathan off.

Then to her surprise, Mitch led her around to the back of the house, took a credit card from his wallet and promptly
opened a door with it. She'd read about people doing that and had seen it done on TV, but was stunned that a member of the police force had so little security at his own home.

It helped immensely when she saw Mitch open a metal box just inside the doorway and punch in a numbered code to shut off an alarm system. “Top of the line,” Mitch told her. “In-stalled it myself for him.” He flipped on the cold fluorescent lights.

“That was nice of you. I remember you discussing that silent alarm with the waitress at Dylan's Diner. Do you have stock in an alarm company, by any chance?” she asked.

He nodded as he closed the little door on the alarm housing. “In a way. Pop owns one. I get discounts for friends.”

She considered the sterile kitchen that looked as if it had never been used. Stainless steel everywhere. Extremely modern. No homelike touches, no curtains, no color.

They walked through the dining room and into the living area. Again, sleek lines, monochromatic, functional furniture that looked incredibly uncomfortable. She wished for the cabbage roses and potpourri of the other borrowed apartment. “This gives me the creeps,” she muttered.

She was unaware that she'd spoken out loud until Mitch laughed. “Me, too. As for the decor, Kick was…uh, dating…an interior decorator for a while there.”

“Her first job, no doubt,” Robin said. “I believe I like Nathan's taste more than hers.”

He chuckled again and tossed the plastic bag containing their toiletries and extra shirts onto one of the Eames-style chairs. “Well, make yourself at home as much as you're able. I have to make a call.” He pointed to a corridor leading off the living room. “Find us a couple of bedrooms. Kick's is the first one on the right. I wouldn't open that door unless your shots are up to date.”

He flopped down on the sleek sofa and pulled out his phone.

Since he'd said that about the bedroom, she had to look, of course. She twisted the knob and peeked inside his partner's room. Just as quickly she closed the door. Mitch was right. Calling the room a mess would have been kind.

It made her wonder just what sort of man Kick Taylor was. Definitely one who prized outward appearances and kept his slovenliness a closely confined secret. She would bet he took his women to one of the other bedrooms when he brought them home.

“Told you so,” Mitch called to her.

Robin sauntered back to the living room. “You think you know me so well, don't you?”

“Better than you think. I knew you'd look,” he quipped as he met her gaze with one of amusement.

“All right. I admit to being curious. I simply wanted to see how he
really
lives,” she said in defense of her snooping. “That says a lot about a guy.”

“Difference between Kick and me is that he likes to put up a good front. In my case, what you see when you walk in the door is pretty much what you get.”

Yes, and that seemed very significant to Robin. Mitch Winton was an open book. True, she hadn't seen all the pages yet, but they were there for her to turn if she wanted to. People who deliberately hid their faults from the world made her uneasy. It was exactly what she did.

“How long has Detective Taylor been your partner?”

“Not long. He got a promotion and transferred over from Vice a few months ago when he made sergeant. Why?” He frowned.

“He seems very…eager,” she commented.

“Yeah, I guess,” Mitch said with a humorless laugh. “He'll outgrow that, believe me.”

Robin feared that might not happen soon enough to help her. Kick Taylor had made it clear he believed she had killed James.

“He thinks I'm guilty,” she said.

“Maybe not anymore,” Mitch said. “He has to be wondering why somebody stole your computer and suitcase from the crime scene and is now chasing you around town.”

“He doesn't know about the disk yet,” Robin reminded him. “That might convince him I'm not the only one who could have done it.”

“I'd like to run it by Damien first, I think.” He looked at the phone and back at Robin. “I think that's our best bet.”

 

Mitch made the call but got Damien's answering machine. Saying that you had a disk with several pages of Russian on it that people were willing to shoot you for was not a message to leave anywhere. He decided to try again later.

The name he had recognized on the disk really bothered Mitch. Rake Somers he had known for a long time. The man was crooked as a dog's hind leg, but no one had been able to pin anything specific on him.

Mitch had had one run-in with Somers soon after coming over to Homicide. A body had turned up down at Mose Landing, the victim a former chauffeur of Rake's who had just rolled over as a paid informant. He'd died wearing his wire. No doubt Somers had ordered the hit. But there wasn't a shred of proof linking him to it.

Vice had Somers under surveillance most of the time, but he always seemed to come up squeaky clean. It was rumored the feds were investigating him, too, hoping to implicate him in a highly organized shoplifting racket that covered three or four states. So far, no one had gotten lucky.

The killing of James Andrews
was
probably due to rage,
as Mitch had first suspected. Andrews refused to give over the disk with the numbers of the accounts he'd set up and got popped for it. Somers wouldn't have handled that personally, of course. If another body turned up, Mitch wouldn't be surprised. The shooter had made a bad mistake, not getting his hands on that disk first.

Until the firing board gave clearance, there wouldn't be anything official Mitch could do. About the most he could hope for was to compile enough information to clear Robin and redirect the suspicion where it belonged.

The pizza he had ordered and shared with Robin felt like fire in his stomach. Probably getting an ulcer.

Robin had excused herself to shower. Mitch looked up as she wandered into the room, toweling her hair, wearing the same clothes she had worn before. No makeup. That had been in her purse. Amazing how young she looked without that subtle mask of cosmetics. And how beautiful.

“Find everything you needed?” he asked.

She nodded and took the chair nearest where he sat on the sofa. “Did you figure out any of that?” she asked, looking at the page he was holding.

“Are you sure you don't know any of these people?”

“Never heard of them, I swear,” she replied. For a while she was silent as if mulling over something. Then she sat forward and asked him earnestly, “Mitch, would you trust me to work on this? I mean, really work on it.”

“What do you mean? How?”

“Instead of giving that to your friend or your partner today, get me a computer. All I need is a few hours. Maybe less. Let me see what I can find out?”

He looked down at the list and back up at her. “Something you haven't told me yet, Robin?”

“Maybe…there are programs I could access.”

“Hack, you mean?”

Her shrug was as good as an admission. “I was just thinking that the bureaucracy might slow this down if you turn it over.”

“And that won't happen if you do it yourself,” he said, tongue in cheek.

“Well, no.” She faced him squarely, her gaze intent. “You can watch over my shoulder. Give me a shot at it first?”

“Robin, be straight with me, please. Do you know something about this that you haven't told me?”

“No. But I've been thinking about something James mentioned casually—almost too casually now that I think about it—when he called me about bringing the disk. I thought then it was simply idle conversation, but now I'm not certain it was. He was planning a vacation.” She raised one beautifully shaped brow and tilted her head in question. “Want to guess where?”

“Russia?”

“No. He mentioned George Town,” she said with a quirk of her eyebrow. “That's in the islands. The Caymans.”

“Numbered offshore accounts,” Mitch said. “Well, that's what we suspected all along. No big surprise there.”

“I know, but the only way James could have gotten the numbers is if he set them up
for
these people.”

“Then he was to give the numbers to the individuals on the list. They wouldn't need to use their names, only the codes to access their accounts.”

“Accounts he could easily access himself,” she said.

“Maybe he did. So why was the disk in New York in the safety deposit box? Why not here in Nashville?”

She shrugged. “I have no idea unless he figured that was the last place in the world anyone would expect him to put it.”

“In a locked box his wife had access to,” Mitch guessed.

“Exactly. Maybe he was holding those numbers ransom or
something, trying to extort more money for himself. But first of all, we need to find out if these really
are
numbered accounts, don't you think?”

“Can you do that?” he asked, his suspicion mounting. Why would she want to involve herself this way?

“I can try. No promises. If I'm successful, this could establish that someone else had a motive to kill James.”

“Besides yourself,” Mitch reminded her. “All right, I'm game. We'll give it a shot and see what you come up with. What about the other file?”

“Nothing I can do about that,” she told him. “I suppose I could get an online translation, but what if the information on it shouldn't be broadcast anywhere? I think we'd better leave that to your friend.”

He'd been watching for a sign that she lied and saw no real indication that she was. No telltale fidgets or glancing away to the left or arms crossing over her chest. Her breathing looked even, regular, her eyes totally untroubled as her gaze met his.
Deliberately
met his, as if she knew it had to or he wouldn't believe her.

That bothered him. The cloak of composure she threw on every once in a while could probably conceal most anything she wanted to hide. He wanted to rip it off, get down to some honest feelings, at least, even if she wasn't keeping secrets associated with the murder. Now might be the best time.

He laid the paper aside. “First, I need you to tell me more about Andrews. About your marriage.”

Her lips worked as she raked them with her teeth. Slowly as if she were thinking, not rapidly as if his demand made her nervous. A tremulous smile replaced the tic, and her gaze softened. “James was…considerate.”

“Considerate? He cheated on you, Robin,” Mitch reminded her.

She shrugged that off as if it didn't matter. He had the feeling that it really didn't. She hadn't loved the man.

“You were more friends than lovers, even during your marriage,” he guessed. Not a stretch, since she had all but said so before.

“Yes. Friends. I was coming out of a bad relationship. He helped me through that. A sort of attraction developed between us. Nothing earthshaking, but it was, I guess you'd say, comfortable. For both of us, I think. At least for a while.”

Mitch resisted the urge to scoff. He just couldn't imagine marrying anybody on those terms. “So when he decided he wanted to get out of the marriage, he began to cheat? You said you thought he planned for you to find out?”

She looked sad, shook her head a little, but agreed with him. “He admitted that. The clues were pretty thick on the ground.” Her small laugh sounded just a tiny bit angry. “Receipts for jewelry and flowers. He left them in his pockets where I'd be sure to find them when I took his clothes to the cleaners. Hang-up phone calls when I would answer. That sort of thing.” She flipped one hand lazily as if she hadn't minded much.

“Was everything else…satisfactory? Sex, I mean.” God, he hadn't wanted to ask that.
Why
had he asked that?

Her fake smile faltered. “Not really. Do we have to talk about this?”

“It's as good a time as any to get it out of the way. I don't like it any more than you do, but if I don't ask you, somebody probably will. The autopsy is tomorrow and the inquest will be held later this week. It's a sure bet it will be classified a murder and you will be asked about your relationship with the victim. In detail. So far you're the only suspect, though I don't think there's enough for an indictment. Be warned, that could change as the evidence comes in.”

Fear rippled through her visibly before she could contain it. Mitch felt like a heel, but he needed to learn more if he was going to help her. “Robin, look at me.”

She did.

“Tell me what I need to know. I'll do everything within my power to get this mess cleared up. If you don't, I can't help.”

For a long time she just looked at him as if trying to see whether he meant business. Then she gave a resigned nod.

 

Robin took a deep breath and tried to organize her thoughts. How much would Mitch need to know? What was important and what could she safely withhold?

He sat on the sofa across from her, leaning forward, elbows on his knees and hands clasped between them. The casual way he was dressed, the lock of hair that tumbled over his forehead and his friendly encouragement could almost make her forget he was a detective, that he still must suspect her of being somehow involved in James's death.