“Don’t worry about it,” Davidson said. “It’s just added protection for you.” He focused on MacElroy. “Let’s hear what you’ve got.”
The detective folded thick arms against the diamond-patterned sweater he was wearing. He looked first at Susan and then at Lieutenant Davidson. “We’ve found the murder weapon. It was buried in the atrium at Cavanaugh’s Inn at the Park.” Cavanaugh’s was a four-star hotel in Riverfront Park, across the Spokane River from Archer’s hotel.
Susan listened with bewilderment. “That’s very interesting, but I don’t see what it has to do with me.”
His eyes narrowed. “Were you in Cavanaugh’s lobby the afternoon your husband was murdered?”
Her insides turned to jelly. “No, of course not. You know where I was that afternoon. In my car on Argonne Road, trying to help an airman’s wife.” She stared at him accusingly. “I never went near Cavanaugh’s.”
“You already know all this,” Lieutenant Davidson interrupted. “Lieutenant Wade told me she gave you this information in a signed statement.”
MacElroy kept his eyes pinned on Susan. “Witnesses at Cavanaugh’s claim to have seen a woman who matches your description in the lobby shortly after your husband was murdered.”
Susan could hardly believe her ears. The stuffy little room tilted, and she heard a muffled roaring in her ears. When she opened her mouth to speak, nothing happened.
The witnesses are wrong, she wanted to scream. I’ve never been there.
Beside her, Lieutenant Davidson spoke. “Captain Wade was killed more than two months ago. How can these people remember a specific day?”
“It was a holiday—Martin Luther King’s birthday. Remember?” A smug smile crossed the detective’s face.
“That’s right,” Davidson returned. “Two months ago. Why have these employees taken so long to come forward?”
“Because a gardener just found the gun today.” MacElroy’s expression sobered. “When we asked for a description of people in the lobby that afternoon, several remembered a woman with long blond hair and brown eyes, about Mrs. Wade’s height.”
“That’s impossible,” Susan blurted.
“The witnesses especially remembered your long blond hair and the short white dress you were wearing.” MacElroy shot her a contemptuous sneer, as though positive he’d find the dress if he searched her closet.
“Not my hair,” she corrected him. “And I don’t have a short white dress.” She flashed him a look of disdain. “I never wear white.”
His lips twisted into a cynical smile. “If you say so, Lieutenant Wade.” A probing query came into his eyes. “Since you’re so positive, I’m sure you won’t mind letting us take your picture and fingerprints.”
Lieutenant Davidson jumped to his feet. “You can’t tell me you’d arrest Lieutenant Wade on the strength of a photo ID! Any fool knows how unreliable pictures are.”
Unperturbed, MacElroy leaned back in his chair. “Settle down, Lieutenant. A photomontage is just another step in the process.”
Davidson leaned over MacElroy’s desk. “What’s this about fingerprints?”
“If you’ll sit down, I’ll explain.”
Reluctantly, Davidson returned to his chair.
MacElroy’s eyes bored into Susan. “We need your prints to compare with some partials we found on the weapon.” He lifted a bushy eyebrow. “Incidentally, the weapon was a 357 Magnum revolver registered to your husband. Ever remember seeing it around your house, Lieutenant?”
Clenching her hands so tightly they hurt, Susan forced herself to look directly into MacElroy’s accusing eyes. “No, Brian kept his gun at the squadron. It was stolen last November, around Thanksgiving.”
“Was the theft reported?”
“I honestly don’t know. Brian didn’t say.”
MacElroy’s eyes narrowed, and she could tell he thought she was lying through her teeth.
She hadn’t believed Derek Archer, she remembered, increasingly anxious. She’d thought he was a con man, trying to work a swindle on her, and now she was in the same position. The image of his expressive face appeared in her mind. What she wouldn’t give to be back with him in the Riverfront Hotel right now, worrying about something as unimportant as an insurance policy.
Chapter Three
When the staff vehicle finally reached the Riverfront Hotel where Susan’s car was parked, she clambered out so quickly her purse slid to the ground. Bending to pick it up, she saw Derek Archer stride through the lobby doors.
After what she’d been through, she didn’t want to talk to him, and turned away, hoping he wouldn’t follow her to her car. She didn’t want him to see her like this, flustered and scared, afraid the police might actually indict her for Brian’s murder.
He didn’t take the hint, easily catching up with her as she hurried away from him. “I hope you don’t have to go back to work, so we can finish our business.”
She looked up at his face. Taller and broader than she remembered, he let his cold blue eyes, now strangely seductive, drift from her face down to her uniform-clad breasts and back to her face again, in a sweeping, deliberate movement.
Her face flushing with unexpected heat, she almost increased her pace and told him to leave. But that would be a cop-out. His insolent glance was a conscious challenge, and Susan couldn’t ignore it, no matter how decrepit she felt. So instead she turned and faced him. “It’ll have to wait until tomorrow, Archer.”
“I don’t want to pry into your business, Susan, but I’m a good listener,” he said, buttoning his overcoat in the gathering darkness.
So he was curious about what had happened at the police station, was he? That’s what his challenge had been about. Disconcerted, she stepped off the driveway onto the sidewalk, trying to decide whether or not to tell him.
Behind those sexy eyes of his lurked a bitter cynicism that made her distrust him. After being photographed and fingerprinted at the police station, her earlier suspicions about him seemed silly. But he was still a stranger, not somebody she could discuss her personal feelings with.
“No, I’ve got to get home.” Susan started toward her car again. “I’m bone-tired. Our business will have to wait.”
He fell into step beside her. “So what’re you going to do? Go home and have a good cry?”
His abrupt, taunting words took her breath away. “Wha-what do you mean?” At the base of her throat, she felt a pulse beat as though her heart had risen from its usual place.
“Isn’t that what you were about to do? Huddle down in a corner somewhere and cry?” His iridescent blue eyes focused on her so accusingly that she shivered.
“I’m not upset,” she lied, unable to meet his gaze.
“Of course you are. The police have you scared witless. Now you’re going home and giving up, just like a world-class quitter.”
Susan could feel her eyes filling and swallowed hard, trying to force the tears away. He was right, damn him. She had planned to go home and spend the night feeling sorry for herself.
They’d reached the end of the sidewalk. He stopped and faced her. “What’d they do? Accuse you of killing your husband?”
She blinked her tears away. “How did you guess?”
“I took one look at your face when you got out of that