Risking Trust (14 page)

“Hey,” he shot. “I’ll give all the time necessary.”

“Good. Then send me the tapes. You’d recognize her better than I would so maybe we can set up our laptops next to each other. You work on one set of tapes, I’ll work on another. If I see someone I think might be a match. I’ll ask you to confirm.” Roxann snapped her fingers. “I also need to continue going through your investigator’s files. Bring those when we review the tapes. If you trust me to keep the boxes, I’ll go through them at home. How’s that?”

Would he trust her? Did she even have the right to ask considering she’d been upfront about her tentative faith in him? But hadn’t she let him inside her home? And left him alone the night before while she showered? She would never have done that if she didn’t trust him. At least on some level.

And she wasn’t seeing a whole lot of evidence from the police that proved Michael was a murderer. Maybe he was just convenient. A way to take the pressure off someone who might or might not work for the mayor.

“I’m in if you’re in,” Michael said. “You know I trust you. I wouldn’t have let you see any of this stuff if I didn’t.”

“He’ll see you now, Ms. Thorgesson,” the desk sergeant at police headquarters said.

“Thank you. I know the way.”

Heading toward Max’s office, Roxann noted the smell of fresh paint and new carpeting. Though recently remodeled, the walls were a dull gray, the carpets even duller, but she supposed a police station wasn’t meant to be a day at the spa.

The corridor stretched with each step and she wondered if Max chose the last office so he could check in with his subordinates along the way. Given that it was the weekend, most of the offices sat empty. Except for Max’s. He worked constantly.

“Knock, knock,” she said when she reached her uncle’s office.

The dark beige walls—out of the cold into warmth—held various photos of Max with high ranking city and state officials, and Roxann spotted a few shots of Max and the mayor at various functions. So complicated.

He swung around his desk, the knot in his tie sagging and the top button of his shirt open, but his salt and pepper hair remained neatly combed. He kissed her on the cheek, gave her one of his infectious smiles and the strain between them momentarily vanished.
If only it could stay this way
.

“What brings you here?”

Admission time. She could tell the truth and risk him thinking she was crazy, or she could give him a hypothetical situation. This
situation
would include a friend who thought she’d had a break-in and, Roxann, being a great gal-pal, wanted to see what Max thought.

Yeesh.

Dumbest idea ever.

She cleared her throat. “I think someone broke into my house.”

Max focused on her with such intensity, she burrowed further into her chair. “You think? Someone did or didn’t, Rox, which is it?”

“I don’t know. Nothing was stolen. There were certain things out of place and I know I didn’t move them.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“Do you want to file a report?”

“Doesn’t seem worth it. Other than to put it on record. I wanted to talk it over.”

Max scooped up his pen and made a note. “I’ll have someone get over there and dust for prints. Who do you think broke in?”

“I’m not sure. All the windows and doors are intact.”

“Who has keys to the house?”

“Janie, my mother and you.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“Then someone copied your key. Who has access to your key ring? Have you valet parked or had your car serviced?”

She rolled her eyes. “Please. Growing up around you, you think I’d be crazy enough to leave my house key with a stranger? I always use my valet key.”

Max smiled. “Good girl. What about the office. Who has access to your keys at the office?”

The thought had been nagging her all day. “Anyone in the corporate suite has access, but I don’t think it was any of them. Someone from outside of corporate must have snuck in and grabbed my keys. If Mrs. Mackey were away from her desk, it would be easy for someone to do.”

“After your pressroom vandalism, do you think it was someone from there?”

Roxann shrugged. “Possibly, but they’re all on furlough. The pressmen have friends in the production department. One of the production people could have copied my keys and handed them off.”

Max held up a hand. “What would they be looking for?”

“Information regarding a new contract. Maybe they wanted to be prepared.”

He had his cop face on. The serious, mentally-reviewing-every-detail face where he squinted his eyes and tapped his forefinger against his lips.

“That’s crap,” he said. “You’re already having the paper printed elsewhere. What’s the rush on a contract while the men are on furlough? And why risk jail time for a preview of your latest offer?”

She hadn’t thought about that. She was too busy being paranoid. “Then I’m stumped.”

Max propped his feet on the desk. “How about your friend Mike Taylor?”

Just great.
“You think
Michael
broke into my house?”

Max closed his eyes, shook his head in that way that inferred she was an imbecile.

“Maybe he thought he could find some information on his case. He’s facing life in prison. He’d probably risk jail for a breaking and entering charge.”

Despite the lunacy, she considered the idea. Michael certainly had opportunities to grab her keys and copy them. He’d been in her office and in her house. She kept a spare on a hook inside one of the cabinets. He could have taken the key, made a copy and replaced it before she’d noticed it missing. A torrent of disappointment forced her to drop her head forward. No. She would
not
do this. He’d been nothing but kind to her through this.

He couldn’t have.

Could he?

“It makes sense,” Max said.

Roxann raised her head and saw smug all over him.
So not giving in to smug.
“It also makes sense that someone other than Michael—
Carl
perhaps—wanted information on the case.”

“Michael Taylor has connections.”

She knew where this was going and wasn’t it typical of Max to bring it up? “Meaning Jerry Foyle? They were friends in high school. So what? Janie and I were friends in high school.”

“Janie’s not associated with organized crime. Foyle is.”

Roxann sighed. The Jerry Foyle argument wasn’t a surprise. She had assumed Max would use it at some point and, unfortunately for her, she had no worthy response. Jerry Foyle
was
linked to criminals and he and Michael
were
friends. A plus B didn’t necessarily equal C, but it was a fair assumption.

“I’ll take it under advisement,” she said, not wanting to believe Michael would break into her home.

Max sat back. “For now, put in a security system like I’ve been telling you.”

“I’ve already done that.” She hoped Max wouldn’t pursue it, but she should have known better.

“Don’t tell me
he
installed it.”

The sarcasm in Max’s voice swarmed and Roxann squared her shoulders. “His people did. Yes.”

Her uncle leaned over his desk. Mad face.
Exceedingly
mad face. “He’s in nice and tight, huh?”

“Max—”

“Change the goddamned code as soon as you get home. It won’t stop him if he wants to get in. He’ll know how to bypass his own system. Where the hell is your head at?”

The question of the month. She didn’t know where her head was anymore. All she had wanted was a great story for the newspaper, but she’d let herself savor someone wanting to relieve her pressure. Between the grief, managing the pressroom situation and being at war with the mayor, why not? Michael seemed to be the only person willing to help. Why shouldn’t she accept it? She had thought his motives were pure. Now she wasn’t so sure.

Would he have done this to her? She pushed herself out of the chair and balanced on shaky legs. “I—I need to go.”

Max hurried toward her and grabbed her arm. “Rox, I didn’t mean to yell, but you need to get smart about this guy.”

“I don’t know what I have to do. I’m confused. Everyone has an agenda. Including you.” He released her arm. “You can’t possibly deny it. You’re connection to City Hall makes you want me off the Alicia Taylor story. I appreciate your opinions, but I don’t think Michael killed her. And it has nothing to do with our personal history. This is business. It’s about justice for a murdered woman.”

Max strode to the door. Held it open. “Business. Right. We’ll see.”

If ever there was an I’m-done-with-you look, Max wore it. She’d had enough of him trying to push her around. When had she ever let any man do that? Never. She marched past him. “Thanks for the advice.”

Still, his concerns were plausible and she wanted answers. Fortunately for her, she knew the person who had those answers.

Michael stood in front of his refrigerator, sweat pouring off him by the truckload after hauling ass up thirteen flights of stairs for the extra cardio push. He grabbed a bottled water and chugged half. He could have used the drinking fountain down in the gym, but who knew whose mouth had been on that sucker.

His house phone rang and he checked the caller ID. Doorman.

“Hey, Hal.”

“Evening, Mr. Taylor. I have Roxann Thorgesson down here to see you.”

Michael clucked his tongue. The night just got better. “Send her up.”

He looked down at his smelly, soaked through T-shirt. Nice. He’d let her in and go shower, but what the hell was she doing here? Those damned manners of hers always prompted a call before visiting.

He opened the entry door and waited for the ding of the elevator. When she stepped out, the frigid glare she gave him made him sweat for other reasons. Jeez, he couldn’t keep up. One minute she wanted to get screwed stupid and the next he was three-day-old bread.

She took a few steps in, stopped, scoped out the living room and whirled on him.

“Did you make a copy of my house key and go through my stuff?”

The accusation seared him, and his empty water bottle slipped from his fingers and bounced off the entryway tile. “Excuse me?”

“Are you avoiding the question?”

Huh? What the hell? He ran a hand over his face.
Settle down. Don’t blow your stack.
“I’m going to give you five seconds to tell me why you think I would do that. I can guess who put that crap into your head.”

She turned away from him, traipsed down the three steps leading to the living room and went to the sliding glass doors that lined the far wall.

“Your five seconds is up. I don’t deserve this, Roxann. I put myself and two of my best guys at your goddamned disposal today and you come in here and accuse me of breaking into your house?”

He slapped the door shut and strode over to where she stood. She continued to stare at the lake, but her shoulders hunched an inch.

“Yeah, now you’re quiet,” he said, the hurt from her accusation still smarting.

Without turning from the window she held out her hands and pressed her fingers against the glass. “I don’t know who to believe anymore.”

“So, you believe the last guy you talked to? That sucks for me, doesn’t it?”

He left her by the door and stalked down a short corridor into the kitchen for another bottle of water. Maybe he’d dump the thing over his head to cool off before he said something stupid.

She still didn’t trust him. He’d known she had doubts, but he also thought they’d made progress. He must have been kidding himself.
Schmuck
. How were they supposed to get anything done—business or personal—if she didn’t believe in him?

He leaned against the counter, looked past the breakfast bar and dining area to where Roxann waited.

Should he give her a break? She’d been through some nasty crap, but it didn’t give her the right to accuse him of breaking into her house when he wanted to help her. Nope. He’d stay pissed awhile.

She finally turned from the window and glanced around the living room. “Your home is lovely.”

There it is. The olive branch. She’d never had a taste for modern furniture, but she knew quality and he had plenty of that. He set the water bottle on the counter and spread his hands across the granite. Maybe the cold from the surface would soak through him.

After a moment of clearing his head, he walked back to the living room and dropped into his favorite chair. Screw the sopping wet T-shirt and the noxious fumes.

She stared down at the steel gray sofa. “Can I sit?”

“As long as you don’t accuse me of stealing the couch,” he muttered. Yeah, he was being an ass, but he wasn’t hearing any apologies. She remained standing, a testament to her will, or was it good breeding? He wasn’t sure, but he knew she wouldn’t sit unless invited. “Sit, Roxann.”

She lowered herself onto the sofa, crossed her long legs and ran both hands up her forehead. “I’m sorry. I let my imagination go wild. There’s no excuse. Not after you helped me today.”

“Apology accepted. This time. But if we’re going to work together you have to be prepared for Max to come at you. I don’t know what he said and I don’t care, but I know he manipulated you.”

She shook that off. “He didn’t manipulate me. After talking to him, my brain went haywire.”

Michael held up a hand. “I know he’s your uncle and is probably concerned, I get that, but he’s also trying to close a homicide. He’ll do what it takes to make that happen.”

“He just wants it over. The P.D. is getting a lot of attention. You, of all people, know that.”

“I want it over too, but I’m not willing to convict an innocent man. That’s the difference between him and me. You either trust me or you don’t. Pretty simple, Rox.” He sat back and waited, because as much as he wanted to see where things between them might go, he wouldn’t be her fool.

“You certainly know how to get a girl’s attention.”

“The truth always seems to work.”

She stared at her shoe. “Everything Max said touched a nerve. For the first time in my thought-out life I made a rash decision and rushed over here.” She abandoned the shoe and turned to him. “I can’t even be mad at Max. I let him convince me and I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

Her accusation hurt like hell, but he didn’t want to argue. He’d let it go. The silence between them grew, but he refused to move. He’d wait. Opening his trap now would end up bad.

Roxann shifted toward the windows. “I’d love this view. Amazing.” She stood, walked to the doors again. “Do you mind if I go out?”

“Be my guest. How about a drink? I’m having a bourbon.”

Maybe ten.

She nodded. “That sounds good.”

A few minutes later he joined her on the balcony with two glasses and the sweatshirt he had grabbed from his bedroom. Why freeze his ass off in shorts and a sweat-soaked T-shirt.

“If I lived here, I’d be in this spot every night. What a perfect way to unwind.”

Michael gazed out over the lake. He’d grown used to the view and took for granted the slashes of orange and blue sky that meant sunset.

“Mornings are spectacular. When it’s warm enough, I have breakfast out here.”

She placed the glass on the table, sat in one of the two cushioned chairs and took in his soaked shirt as he slid the sweatshirt on.