“How did her father die?” he asked carefully.
“An accident. A…tragic accident. Nikki hasn’t gotten over it yet, and I…don’t like to talk about it.”
“I understand. But if there’s even a slim chance that Nikki was on the roof last night, Mrs. Lockhart—”
“Thea,” she said quickly. Their gazes met for a moment, and then hers darted away. She poured the rest of her coffee down the sink and rinsed out the cup. “You can call me Thea.”
“That’s a very pretty name.”
“It’s for my grandmother,” she said, and then looked as if she wished she could take it back.
He smiled, trying to put her at ease. “Does your grandmother live here in Chicago?”
She almost smiled, too, as if recognizing his tactic. “My grandmother’s been dead for years, Detective.”
“John.” When she gave him a reluctant glance, he said, “I’m named for my father, Sean.”
“You’re Irish?”
“Very.”
“An Irish cop. That’s almost a cliché, isn’t it?”
“In that case, my whole family is a cliché.”
John had never seen a person’s demeanor change so rapidly. She’d been wary before, even a little frightened, but now her expression took on a frozen look, as if she’d donned a mask to hide her true identity, her real feelings. He’d wanted to put her at ease, but instead, her armor had grown thicker. She said stiffly, “You come from a family of cops.” It wasn’t a question, but a flat emotionless statement.
John shrugged. “Guilty.”
“I imagine you look out for each other. Take care of each other.”
John frowned at her tone. “Occasionally,” he said, thinking about his brothers. Actually he would be the last person Nick would come to for help, and Tony…well, Tony was another story.
Thea said quietly, “I’d like you to go now, Detective. There’s really nothing my daughter and I can do to help you.”
She was good, John realized suddenly. Too damn good. She’d distracted him from the questions he’d been intent on asking about her daughter, and all the while, convinced him he was the one in control.
He stared down at her, forcing her gaze to meet his. Her dark eyes were deep and unfathomable, a mysterious blend of fear, guile and cunning. A very dangerous mix.
“Just one more thing, Mrs. Lockhart.”
One brow rose slightly, and he could see that the fingers clinging to the tiny gold chain around her throat trembled. His gaze dipped, in spite of himself, to the curves beneath her sweater, and an image of that lacy white bra leaped to his mind. He could almost see her in it, her breasts straining against the fabric, his thumb stroking her through the silk—
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said hoarsely.
His gaze shot to hers. I doubt that, he wanted to tell her. Then again, maybe she did know. Maybe that was why the blush on her cheeks had deepened, standing out starkly against the ivory of her complexion. Her brown eyes flashed with sudden fire, and John thought absurdly that if he hadn’t met her under these circum-stances…if she wasn’t a recent widow…if his marriage hadn’t made him more than a little careful…
“You’re thinking that if Nikki was on that roof, you might have an eyewitness to Gail Waters’s death. It would be cut and dried. You could close your case. But you’re wrong, Detective. My daughter wasn’t on that roof. She couldn’t have been.”
“But what if she was?” John challenged, ignoring the flicker of fear in her eyes. “What if Gail Waters didn’t commit suicide?”
She gasped slightly, her face going paler.
“What if she was murdered and your daughter saw it all? What if she is the only one who can identify the killer? Have you thought about that, Mrs. Lockhart?”
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