Just in case he hadn’t gotten the point already.
She’d exited the bathroom five minutes after the call from the police wearing jeans and a sweater. She’d started to put on her wet tennis shoes in the foyer. Sean had halted her, insisting she put on those same high-heeled boots that now tapped out her irritation at him like some kind of universal female version of communication, like Morse code on estrogen.
He sighed.
Sue
him for not wanting her to go out in a snowstorm again wearing wet shoes.
Sean followed her off the elevator, telling himself it figured things got a little rocky between them when they’d been going smooth as silk. He hadn’t tried to defend himself as they got in his SUV. He was too busy worrying; first about this latest crime against Genny’s property, and then later about safely getting them through the thick, snow-laden streets without getting stuck.
Not two minutes after they’d pulled out of the parking garage, Genny pointed at the two-story warehouse on the north side of Jackson Boulevard.
“That’s it,” she murmured, sounding more preoccupied than irritated at this point.
Sean followed the lead of a patrol car and a white, four-door Crown Victoria and put his SUV into park directly on the street. The unfortunate people who had parallel parked along the curb wouldn’t be driving anywhere for weeks until the snow melted. Their vehicles had been buried in about five feet of snow, thanks to the passing plows.
They got out of his SUV and walked toward the storage facility. Even though the snowplows had probably already passed several times today, Genny and he still trudged through four inches of snow. He caught Genny’s gloved hand, keeping her steady in her heels.
“What’s wrong?” Genny asked quietly when she saw the way Sean inspected the white car as they passed.
“I can’t wait to find out why it’s necessary for both a patrol car and an unmarked to show up at a storage facility break-in during one of the worst snowstorms Chicago’s had in decades,” he mumbled. “What the hell did you have in storage?”
“Some furniture from my old Streeterville apartment, boxes of stuff from my college years . . . just a bunch of junk that didn’t suit the Lake Forest house.”
Sean studied her closely as they walked, taking in her perplexed expression. “You’re sure there wasn’t anything else?”
“Like
what
?” she asked, turning to him. Her movement caused her to slip. He caught her before she plunked down on the pavement. Sean pushed her long, tousled hair out of her eyes gently.
“Don’t worry about it, okay? We’ll find out soon enough.”
She smiled, and the agitated, anxious expression in her eyes eased.
Despite his attempts to reassure Genny, he wasn’t really shocked when they entered the unlocked entrance and he saw the figure of an imposing, bald black man wearing a long, dark blue wool coat standing next to two uniformed cops. He felt Genny freeze on the threshold of the door and pulled on her hand gently.
The door slamming shut behind her sounded unusually loud.
“Detective Franklin,” Sean greeted the man who had headed up Max Sauren’s murder investigation three years ago with a nod. “Things must be slow in the city tonight, if they’re sending out homicide detectives to investigate storage locker break-ins.”
Franklin flashed a white grin.” Well you know what they always say, Mr. Kennedy. Storms have a way of bringing the rats out of their holes. I was having a boring evening at the station, and these two hard-working officers were kind enough to let me tag along.”
Franklin’s velvety, puppy-dog eyes shifted over to Genny. Sean resisted an urge to block her from the detective’s seemingly benign gaze. Franklin glanced back at Sean again and his smile widened. He stepped forward and put out his hand in greeting.
“Imagine . . . seeing you two together like this. After so long. And in the middle of a snowstorm.” A polite, slightly dazed expression overcame his jovial face as he shook Sean’s hand.
Sean met the man’s round-eyed stare and tried to hide his irritation. “We haven’t seen each other in years. Ms. Bujold was at the Sauren-Kennedy Solutions office when the police called. So was I.”
Franklin ignored Sean’s glare and stepped toward Genny. “Ms. Bujold. So nice to see you again.”
Genevieve’s gray eyes flickered over Sean’s face uncertainly before she grasped Franklin’s outstretched hand. “Detective Franklin? I don’t understand. What are you doing here? What’s this about? It was an Officer Ellerson who contacted me.”
Franklin nodded solicitously. Sean remembered the detective’s style all too well—the deep, slow baritone, the expression of compassion in his dark brown eyes . . . the feeling you were talking to a social worker or psychologist instead of a man who had you on his short list for possible murder suspects.
Franklin was good. Too good for Sean’s comfort. Maybe it was the fact that Franklin was a fellow Southerner. Sean knew firsthand how people tended not to notice the razor-sharp edge when it was coated in thick, sweet syrup. He’d used a similar device way too often to be unfamiliar with it.
He recalled trying to warn Genny not to fall for Franklin’s mild manner. She was so trusting—especially with people who seemed sincere. He’d been worried to death she’d be lulled by Franklin’s warmth and kindness. He’d tried to contact her in regard to that specific issue, but of course she’d made a point of ignoring his calls following that New Year’s Eve.
Although, he guiltily recalled that she
had
tried to reach him several times on the afternoon of Max’s murder. Sean had been in a meeting; his cell phone turned off. He’d often wondered why Genny had tried to contact him. He’d missed his window of opportunity with Genny while he’d sat through a boring, but crucial meeting with the Assistant Secretary of the Treasury of the United States. Genevieve must have been desperate to try to reach him, but Sean hadn’t been available to her.
And following Max’s murder, she’d gone right back to avoiding him.
He examined a smiling Detective Franklin. Most of the detectives he’d known throughout his life didn’t take too kindly to having an unsolved murder in their files. Sean had gotten the distinct impression Franklin could be downright relentless, despite possessing a face that any Southern mama worth her salt couldn’t resist pinching. He’d been irritated when he saw Franklin standing there with the uniforms, but he wasn’t surprised.
Not in the slightest.
“Yes, it was Officer Ellerson who called you,” Franklin explained, waving at the youngest and burliest of the two cops. “And this is Officer Gonzalez. It’s been quite a while since we’ve spoken, Ms. Bujold.”
“Yes. It’s been several years now,” Genevieve replied. She glanced over at Sean and then back to Franklin. “Officer Ellerson? You gave me the impression that I was here to look into a matter of a storage unit that I rent being broken into. Isn’t that correct?”
“That’s right, ma’am,” Ellerson said.
Genevieve once again glanced at Sean, bewilderment and a trace of anxiety written clearly on her face. “Well then . . . what are you doing here, Detective Franklin?”
“Apparently the detective is aware of the fact that your house burned down last night,” Sean said dryly.
“Right,” Franklin nodded. “Real shame, that is. I had an auntie whose house burned down to the ground in Mississippi. She lost everything. Terrible tragedy. I was so sorry to hear about you suffering something similar, Ms. Bujold.”
“Thank you,” Genevieve murmured.
“And it came to my attention that you called in a report just today about your store being broken into? I asked to be informed if your name came up in any other incidents.” He spread his big hands and smiled engagingly. “And so here I am.”
“What?” Genevieve asked, looking at him as if she hadn’t heard him correctly.
“The detective is just following the tracks,” Sean said.
“The tracks?” Genevieve mouthed. Her expression suddenly stilled. Her eyes flashed to Franklin. “Wait . . . you can’t mean that this”—she pointed toward the entrance to the storage lockers—“and the break-in at my store . . .
and
the fire had something to do with Max’s murder?”
“I ’spect that’s exactly what the detective thinks,” Sean muttered.
“Detective Franklin, is that true?” Genny demanded.
Franklin gave her an apologetic smile. “I believe I did tell you the last time we met a couple of years ago, Ms. Bujold, that an investigation such as this is
never
closed until the person responsible for committing murder is found, and—”
“Why don’t we find some place to sit down and have this chat?” Sean interrupted in a hard tone when he saw every last vestige of color wash out of Genny’s face.
Genevieve felt foolish sitting while Detective Franklin and Sean both towered over her. Not foolish enough to refuse the chair Sean had urged her toward—not with her knees having gone so weak when she’d heard Franklin mention that he was at the warehouse in association with Max’s murder.
The owner of the storage facility—a Matt Michelson—had been contacted about the break-in and was sitting in his office filling out a form when Detective Franklin ushered them inside. Michelson was a young man who wore a goatee and wire- rimmed glasses. He politely gave them use of his office. After shaking hands with Genevieve and Sean, and giving his condolences to Genevieve about the break-in, he left them with Detective Franklin.
“I don’t see how someone breaking into a storage facility has anything to do with Max’s death,” Genevieve said once Michelson shut the door behind him and Sean had eased her into a white plastic chair.
She’d been shocked at how much anxiety and fear went through her when she saw the detective’s all too familiar face. Seeing him here so unexpectedly had made so many memories come back—so many feelings.
Having Sean standing by her side, her hand in his, made the whole experience that much more surreal.
That much more frightening.
Franklin leaned his large frame against the metal desk. Genevieve had always been amazed that such a tall, bulky man moved with so much grace. Despite the fact that he was at least six feet four and probably weighed two eighty, the detective looked quite elegant perched so precariously on the corner of the desk.
“Whoever broke into this facility was only interested in one locker, Ms. Bujold,” Franklin explained.
“Mine?”
“That’s right,” Franklin said.
“But . . . still.” She glanced up at Sean, whose sharp eyes were pinned to her face.
“It’s the third thing that’s happened to you in twenty-four hours, Genny.”
Genevieve barely stopped herself from wincing when she heard her name on Sean’s tongue. She wished he wouldn’t seem so familiar with her in front of Detective Franklin.
“That’s right,” Franklin agreed. “First the fire at your house, then the break-in at your store, now this.”
“The fire wasn’t set, Detective.” She glanced at Sean for confirmation.
“That’s what I understand,” Franklin replied. “Still . . . all of it is a bit strange, wouldn’t you agree?”
Genevieve laughed. She couldn’t help it. Both men looked so somber, and for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why.
“I’m obviously missing something here.”
“It’s too many coincidences,” Sean stated.
“So what are you saying? That someone burned down my house and now is running around, breaking into my property for kicks, and then not stealing anything? That’s ridiculous. And even if it were true, what would that have to do with Max?”
“How do you know nothing was taken from your locker?” Franklin asked.
Genevieve started at the unexpected question. “I don’t. I just know there’s absolutely nothing in there worth taking.”
“No? No old bills or mail. Medical records . . . things of that sort?”
Sean’s head turned slowly. Genevieve noticed his narrow-eyed stare on Franklin. A sick feeling swelled in her gut.
“I . . . I don’t know. I suppose there are some old files—”
“Were any of Max Sauren’s records kept in there?”
“No,” Genevieve replied, her panic mounting. She blinked and answered more firmly. “
Everything
in that storage locker came from the time period before I married Max. There’s no way it could relate to his—” She swallowed convulsively, unable to finish the sentence. “That’s just preposterous.”
Franklin shifted his polite gaze to Sean. “Well, maybe there isn’t any connection. What do you think, Kennedy? Any ideas about all of this?”
Sean shrugged.
“Maybe I should ask you that question. You’re the detective on the case. It’s clear you have information that we don’t.”
What the hell is going on?
Genevieve wondered in rising anxiety as the two men engaged in a staring match, all traces of easygoing, Southern amiability completely absent from both of their rigid expressions.
The only thought that kept arising in her brain was that she wished Franklin hadn’t seen Sean and her together. Sean had been right when he’d warned her so long ago not to be too open with the detective. He may look like an enormous teddy bear, but Franklin was observant and smart.
What was he thinking about Sean and her arriving hand in hand? She wondered in rising panic. She’d been so careful to avoid Sean during the investigation, and for all those years afterward, as well. What rotten luck, for Franklin to see them together after all this time—
Franklin broke the tense silence, grinning broadly. “If I had as much information as the head man at Sauren-Kennedy Solutions, I’d be the superintendent of police by now.”
Sean’s expression remained stony.
“I don’t like any of it, but I can’t say I understand what’s going on. I’m on as much of a fishing expedition as you, Detective.” Sean hitched his chin toward the door. “Are you okay to take a look at the locker, Genny?”