Victoria hung up the phone and buzzed for Mildred. “Tell Zach I need him ASAP.”
Mildred didn’t ask any questions. She would recognize the desperation in Victoria’s voice, had heard it before…far too many times.
Grabbing her coat, Victoria rushed to the door, forgetting the letters. She didn’t have time to worry about the past right now.
Right now, she had to help her son.
Zach Ashton was the best attorney on staff at the Colby Agency. She needed him on this. And Ian, she considered on second thought. She could use Ian Michaels, as well.
Just then, it didn’t enter Victoria’s mind; she was too caught up in the frenzy Tasha’s call had set off. But later, when she’d had time to think, she would wonder what it was about her old friend Carter Hastings that had suddenly turned her entire existence upside down.
CHAPTER TEN
EMILY SAT IN the stiff chair of the small conference room. Detective Franko, the homicide detective in charge of her father’s murder investigation, had called her just before noon and asked her to come in for a meeting.
She had expected to receive an update on her father’s case and perhaps answer any final questions as to how they could reach her if need be. Not that she was in a hurry to get back to California. She wasn’t, not really. She wanted to close up her father’s house and take care of his affairs.
But the moment she had arrived at the homicide division, she had been hustled into this cramped conference room with a cup of stale coffee. And that had been almost an hour ago. She had things to do. Sitting here idly wasting time was not on today’s agenda.
She exhaled loudly and tucked her impatience away. Her father’s fellow officers were doing all they could to find out what really had happened in that alley on Monday night. She shouldn’t be cross about having to wait a few minutes. She wanted her father’s killer found, wanted him brought to justice.
The door opened and Detective Franko stepped into the room. Good. She pushed a polite smile into place. Maybe they could get this over with now. She had things to do for her father, as well. And, the truth was, she couldn’t bear to think about his manner of death. If she dwelled on it, she would never be able to maintain her composure and she simply couldn’t fall apart. There was no one else to do what needed to be done.
Detective Franko looked to be about thirty-five. Tall, thin, kind, the sort of man who looked as if he would be an animal lover. The weapon that bulged beneath his jacket didn’t fit with his persona, she considered as she watched him sit down across the table from her.
“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Emily.”
“That’s all right. Do you have any leads on my father’s case?” She prayed his case would be resolved quickly. The people here who cared about him needed that closure as much as she did.
The detective glanced at the file in his hands. “Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
Her nerves jangled. Had they found her father’s murderer already? She’d been in such a daze she’d barely noticed that Chicago PD had a car watching the house—watching her, actually. It followed her everywhere she went. She supposed it was just a precaution, since the police couldn’t be sure of the motive behind her father’s shooting.
Franko looked from the file to her. “Emily, how would you define your relationship with your father the past year or so?”
To say the question startled her would be a vast understatement. But she’d never been involved with a homicide investigation. Maybe this was part of the routine.
“I don’t know,” she said, considering the question carefully before answering. The truth made her sound like a bad daughter. But, she reasoned, it made her look no more like a bad daughter than it did her dad as a bad father. “We talked on the phone occasionally, but I didn’t get back here often and he was always busy, so we hadn’t seen each other in a while.”
She didn’t see any reason to tell him it had been two years. She’d persecuted herself about that reality since learning of his death; enduring the look she would no doubt get from this detective was more than she could deal with just now.
“So you have no idea about any personal relationships he might have gotten involved in over the past year?”
A frown furrowed across her brow. “No. He never mentioned anything but work when we talked.” She shrugged. “And I haven’t found anything around the house that would indicate he entertained or kept in contact with anyone in particular.” That fact saddened her. She wished her father could have gotten on with his life like her mother had. Well, maybe not exactly as her mother had, but similarly.
“I noticed you speaking with Victoria Colby-Camp at the service yesterday,” Franko commented. He made the statement offhandedly, but there was nothing casual about his scrutinizing gaze.
What did her having spoken with Victoria Colby-Camp have to do with anything?
“Yes, she shook my hand and told me how sorry she was my father had died.” Emily shrugged. “She mentioned that they were friends.”
Her frown deepened. “You’ll have to excuse me, Detective, but I’m not following here. What does my talking to someone at the service have to do with my father’s murder investigation?”
“You also had a delivery sent to her at the Colby Agency, didn’t you? First thing this morning, I believe.”
Irritation needled Emily. “What are you trying to get at, Detective Franko?” she demanded. Enough was enough. She was beginning to feel like a suspect rather than the victim’s only family.
“We have reason to believe the Colbys were involved with your father’s murder,” he said bluntly.
“You’re saying the woman I met yesterday had something to do with my father’s murder?” How was that possible? Had Emily been in such a daze that she had so thoroughly misjudged the woman?
“We found evidence at the scene that implicates her son, James Colby, Jr.”
The name echoed inside Emily. She thought of the name on the letters. Surely he couldn’t be the same James Colby…
“I’d like you to tell me what you sent to the Colby Agency this morning. It may be relevant to your father’s case.”
This didn’t make sense. The letters were old. She hadn’t read the contents of any of them. There had been no reason to.
“I’m sorry, Detective,” she said, confusion and uncertainty reigning supreme. “I don’t understand what a handful of old letters has to do with my father’s murder.”
“Tell me about the letters,” he pressed.
Why hadn’t she looked at the letters? It had seemed like nothing at the time. How could it be significant to the investigation?
“I didn’t read them,” she explained, exasperated. “The postmark was nearly twenty years ago and they weren’t addressed to my father.”
“Who were they addressed to?”
“James Colby.”
Franko leaned back in his chair. “We’re going to need to execute a search warrant of your father’s home, Miss Hastings. Is that going to be a problem? Just so you know, we’ll be executing several.”
A search warrant? What would they expect to find in her father’s home? Would he be doing this same thing at the Colby Agency, too? No doubt.
“Of course it’s not a problem,” she said, her thoughts fragmenting as she tried to make sense of what all Franko’s questions meant. “But I don’t understand. You’re