Well, she’d paid for her impulse, he thought. Walking in on a vicious murder, barely escaping with her life—and with her memory of the incident and everything before it blocked for days.
He stepped into Grace’s bedroom, his heavylidded gold-toned eyes cooly scanning the brutally searched room.
And had Bailey James gone to the police even then? No, she’d chosen a P.I., right out of the phone book. Seth’s mouth thinned in annoyance. He had very little respect and no admiration for private investigators. Through blind luck, she’d stumbled across a fairly decent one, he acknowledged. Cade Parris wasn’t as bad as most, and he’d managed—through more blind luck, Seth was certain—to sniff out a trail.
And nearly gotten himself killed in the process. Which brought Seth to death number two. Timothy Salvini was now as dead as his brother. He couldn’t blame Parris overmuch for defending himself from a man with a knife, but taking the second Salvini out left a dead end.
And through the eventful Fourth of July weekend, Bailey James’s other friend had been on the run with a bounty hunter. In a rare show of outward emotion, Seth rubbed his eyes and leaned against the door jamb.
M. J. O’Leary. He’d be interviewing her soon, personally. And he’d be the one telling her, and Bailey James, that their friend Grace was dead. Both tasks fell under his concept of duty.
O’Leary had the second Star and had been underground with the skip tracer, Jack Dakota, since Saturday afternoon. Though it was only Monday evening now, M.J. and her companion had managed to rack up a number of points—including three more bodies.
Seth reflected on the foolish and unsavory bail bondsman who’d not only set Dakata up with the false job of bringing in M.J., but also moonlighted with blackmail. The hired muscle who’d been after M.J. had likely been part of some scam of his and had killed him. Then they’d had some very bad luck on a rain-slicked road.
And that left him with yet another dead end.
Grace Fontaine was likely to be third. He wasn’t certain what her empty house, her mangled possessions, would tell him. He would, however, go through it all, inch by inch and step by step. That was his style.
He would be thorough, he would be careful, and he would find the answers. He believed in order, he believed in laws. He believed, unstintingly, in justice.
Seth Buchanan was a third-generation cop, and had worked his way up the rank to lieutenant due to an inherent skill for police work, an almost terrifying patience, and a hard-edged objectivity. The men under him respected him—some secretly feared him. He was well aware he was often referred to as the Machine, and took no offense. Emotion, temperament, the grief and the guilt civilians could indulge in, had no place in the job.
If he was considered aloof, even cold and controlled, he saw it as a compliment.
He stood a moment longer in the doorway, the mahogany-framed mirror across the wide room reflecting him. He was a tall, well-built man, muscles toned to iron under a dark suit jacket. He’d loosened his tie because he was alone, and his night-wing hair was slightly disordered by the rake of his fingers. It was full and thick, with a slight wave. He pushed it back from an unsmiling face that boasted a square jaw and tawny skin.
His nose had been broken years before, when he was in uniform, and it edged his face toward the rugged. His mouth was hard, firm, and rare to smile. His eyes, the dark gold of an old painting, remained cool under straight black brows.
On one wide-palmed hand he wore the ring that had been his father’s. On either side of the heavy gold were the words Serve and Protect.
He took both duties seriously.
Bending, he picked up a pool of red silk that had been tossed on the mountain of scattered clothing heaped on the Aubusson carpet. The callused tips of his fingers skimmed over it. The red silk gown matched the short robe the victim had been wearing, he thought.
He wanted to think of her only as the victim, not as the woman in the portrait, certainly not as the woman in those new and disturbing dreams that disrupted his sleep. And he was irritated that his mind kept swimming back to that stunning face—the woman behind it. That quality was—had been, he corrected—part of her power. That skill in drilling into a man’s mind until he was obsessed with her.
She would have been irresistible, he mused, still holding the wisp of silk. Unforgettable. Dangerous.
Had she slipped into that little swirl of silk for a man? he wondered. Had she been expecting company—a private evening of passion?
And where was the third Star? Had her unexpected visitor found it, taken it? The safe in the library downstairs had been broken open, cleaned out. It seemed logical that she would have locked something that valuable away. Yet she’d taken the fall from up here.
Had she run? Had he chased her? Why had she let him in the house? The sturdy locks on the doors hadn’t been tampered with. Had she been careless, reckless enough to open the door to a stranger while she wore nothing but a thin silk robe?
Or had she known him?
Perhaps she’d bragged about the diamond, even shown it off to him. Had greed taken the place of passion? An argument, then a fight. A struggle, a fall. Then the destruction of the house as cover.
It was an avenue, he decided. He had her thick address book downstairs, and would go through it name by name. Just as he, and the team he assigned, would go through the empty house in Potomac, Maryland, inch by inch.
But he had people to see now. Tragedy to spread and details to tie up. He would have to ask one of Grace Fontaine’s friends, or a member of her family, to come in and officially identify the body.
He regretted, more than he wanted to, that anyone who had cared for her would have to look at that ruined face.
He let the silk gown drop, took one last look at the room, with its huge bed and trampled flowers, the scatter of lovely old antique bottles that gleamed like precious gems. He already knew that the scent here would haunt him, just as that perfect face painted beautifully in oils in the room downstairs would.
It was full dark when he returned. It wasn’t unusual for him to put long, late hours into a case. Seth had no life to speak of outside of the job, had never sought to make one. The women he saw socially, or romantically, were carefully, even calculatingly, selected. Most tolerated the demands of his work poorly, and they rarely cemented a relationship. Because he knew how difficult and frustrating those demands of time, energy and heart were on those who waited, he expected complaints, sulking, even accusations, from the women who felt neglected.
So he never made promises. And he lived alone.
He knew there was little he could do here at the scene. He should have been at his desk—or at least, he thought, have gone home just to let his mind clear. But he’d been pulled back to this house. No, to this woman, he admitted. It wasn’t the two stories of wood and glass, however lovely, that dragged at him.
It was the face in the portrait.
He’d left his car at the top of the sweep of the drive, and walked to the house sheltered by grand old trees and well-trimmed shrubs green with summer. He’d let himself in, turned the switch that had the foyer chandelier blazing light.
His men had already started the tedious door-to-door of the neighborhood, hoping that someone, in another of the big, exquisite homes, would have heard something, seen anything.
The medical examiner was slow—understandably, Seth reminded himself. It was a holiday, and the staff was down to bare minimum. Official reports would take a bit longer.
But it wasn’t the reports or lack of them that nagged at his mind as he wandered back,