Her Deadly Secrets Read online

  Charlotte pulled out a copy of the suspect sketch. Brock raised an eyebrow when he saw it.

  She passed Quinn the picture. “I wanted to see if this man looks familiar to you.”

  The doctor fished a pair of reading glasses from his pocket and nestled them on his face. Now he looked even older than his forty-three years and more doctorly.

  “No.” He looked at her over the tops of the lenses. “Why? Who is this? This is a police sketch, so this person obviously committed a crime.”

  “This is a suspect seen around your lawyer’s house the night he and his investigator were shot,” she said.

  Quinn turned to Brock. “This man killed Oliver Kovak?”

  He nodded.

  “Is this sketch from you?”

  “No,” Brock said. “I never saw his face, remember? He was wearing a ski mask.”

  “You’re sure he’s not familiar to you?” Charlotte asked, pulling Quinn’s attention back to the sketch. “Really look.”

  Quinn looked. He stroked his beard, and she noticed his fingernails were bitten to the quick.

  He took off the glasses. “I don’t know him.” He handed her the picture and leaned back in the chair.

  She tucked the folder back into her purse. “Dr. Quinn, did your wife owe anyone money that you’re aware of?”

  “No.”

  “What about you?”

  “No.” A heavy sigh. “We went through all this back when it happened. We owe money on the house and the cars. That’s it. I paid off my med-school loans five years ago.”

  “What about anyone who owed her money? Or you?”

  “No, okay? We didn’t loan money to people. Even people who hit us up all the time, like her deadbeat brother. We had a thing about it, especially family. ‘Just say no’ was our motto.”

  “Why’d you have a thing about it?” Charlotte swept her gaze over the room. “Seems like you and your wife had money to spare.”

  “Yeah, well, you’d be surprised. I had the med-school loans. And then all the insurance I’m required to carry. Was required to. Before my practice went to shit.” He shot a look at Brock. “And now there’s my security, my legal fees. This thing’s eating me alive.” He rubbed his hand over his face.

  “I can imagine.”

  “No. You really can’t.”

  She took out her notebook. “Doctor, does the name FC Incorporated mean anything to you?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  She watched his eyes closely. “What about Markov? You know anyone by that name?”

  “Mark Hoff?”

  “Markov. A last name.”

  “No.” His brow furrowed. “What’s the first name?”

  “Andre Markov.”

  “Never heard of him.” He looked at Brock. “Why?”

  “We’re looking into possibilities,” Charlotte said vaguely. “Do you remember your wife ever mentioning anyone by that name?”

  Quinn’s face clouded at the mention of his dead wife. His jaw twitched. “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe you could take a look in her address book, if she kept one. Just to be sure.”

  He nodded. “I will. Now, you want to explain what this guy Markov has to do with Ava?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe nothing.”

  Quinn leaned forward on his elbows, and his eyes looked intent. Feverish. “Did he do it? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I’m not saying anything, Dr. Quinn. I’m merely asking questions.”

  He shot a look at his lawyer.

  “We’d like to understand what this is about,” Brock said reasonably. “Can you elaborate?”

  Charlotte studied Brock’s eyes. She got the impression this wasn’t the first time he’d heard the name Andre Markov, and she figured he knew more about what Kira Vance was up to than she did, which pissed her off because it was her damn case.

  Brock’s client, however, seemed surprised by the name. He was still watching Charlotte, on high alert, his cheeks flushed pink now.

  “Who is he?” Quinn persisted.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Was he having an affair with her? Is that what this is?” His face crumpled, and he rubbed his hand over his eyes.

  “His name came up in connection with a case. That’s all. Are you sure you don’t know him?”

  A slight head shake. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “No.”

  The man looked haggard, well beyond caring whether a stranger saw him cry. Or maybe the tears were generated for her benefit. She’d certainly seen all the tricks.

  Charlotte checked her watch. “I appreciate your time tonight.”

  His face fell. “That’s it?”

  “That’s all for now. I’ll call you if any more questions come up.” She stood, and the men stood, too. She turned to Brock. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Of course.”

  She picked up her purse and looked at the doctor. “You mind if I use your bathroom before I leave?”

  “Sure. Down the hall on the left.”

  Charlotte felt their eyes on her as she walked away. She entered another windowed corridor with a view of the treetops. Dusk was coming early because of the rain, and the house was utterly gloomy without any lights to speak of. She passed several doors and found a small powder room.

  Charlotte turned on the faucet and then took out her notepad and jotted some notes. She liked to get things down while they were fresh in her mind. Then she flushed the toilet and stepped out.

  The corridor was quiet and empty. She peered to her left but didn’t see anyone lurking about. She crept to a doorway and peeked inside. It was a small guest bedroom, from the looks of it. The queen-size bed was rumpled, and throw pillows littered the floor. Charlotte noted a highball glass on the nightstand beside a TV remote and a stack of books. Beside the stack was a framed photograph of a dark-haired woman.

  Ava Quinn.

  Another glance down the hallway, and Charlotte crept to the end. Peering through the doorway, she found a spacious master suite. The giant bed in the center was piled with pillows, and a huge stone fireplace occupied the wall opposite a large window overlooking the treetops.

  She studied the bed again with its perfectly arranged pillows. Plush gray carpet covered the floor, and she noted the vacuum lines.

  Ava Quinn had been murdered right in this room. She’d been bound and shot between the shoulder blades while she lay prone on the floor. The carpet had obviously been replaced since then, and Charlotte wondered if the room had been slept in. Probably not.

  “I didn’t kill her.”

  She turned around, cursing herself. Gavin Quinn stood behind her, silent as a mouse.

  “It happened in here?” she asked. No point in pretending she wasn’t snooping.

  “By the closet.” He nodded at the door beside the fireplace. “That’s where the safe is.”

  Charlotte didn’t comment. She knew the details already, right down to every hair and fiber recovered, from reading through the murder book.

  Quinn watched her intently. He had a fire in his eyes now. He’d had it since she mentioned the name Markov.

  “Well.” She smiled slightly. “I’ll get out of your way.”

  He stepped aside to let her pass him. She backtracked to the living room as Brock stepped in from the hallway, looking suspicious. “Everything okay back here?”

  “Fine.”

  Brock led her to the front door and opened it, and Charlotte stepped into the muggy August air. Clouds gathered overhead. They were in for more rain.

  She looked at Brock. “Thanks for meeting.”

  “No problem.” He gave her a thin smile. “And next time you want to talk to my client, call me first.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY

  A FEELING OF dread nagged at Jeremy as he stepped into Kira’s hotel room. It had been hard enough being ar
ound her at her house, but it was going to be even harder now, cooped up in a two-room hotel suite with a bed just footsteps away.

  Trent was perched on the sofa arm, flipping through TV channels. He’d been responsible for getting Kira and her stuff moved to her new luxury accommodations. The agents were still staying at their original motel ten minutes away.

  “How’d it go?” Jeremy asked.

  Trent shook his head. “She had a shit-ton of luggage, but fine other than that.”

  Jeremy crossed the suite to the bedroom. Standing in the doorway, he surveyed the two queen beds with pristine white linens. A pair of large black suitcases lay on the bed closest to the window. Shopping bags lined the wall, and another black suitcase was parked beside the dresser. Looking at all of it, someone might think Kira was a clothes freak, but Jeremy had seen her tiny closet.

  Kira was out on the balcony with her back to the door, talking on the phone and gesturing as she gave someone an earful. Brock Logan, maybe? Jeremy hoped so.

  Again, he surveyed the clutter. On the dresser were several Tupperware containers of muffins, along with the glass pitcher he recognized from Kira’s kitchen. She’d even brought her damn goldfish.

  “I wouldn’t have pegged her for a techie.”

  He glanced at Trent. “What’s that?”

  “Kira. You wouldn’t believe all the stuff she brought with her. Check out her camera equipment.” Trent indicated a small dining table, where Kira had her Canon camera and two telephoto lenses spread out. “And look at this.” Trent walked past him into the bedroom. “She was sorting through it all earlier.” Trent flipped open the unzipped top of one of the suitcases. It was chock-full of surveillance equipment. Trent picked up something shaped like a satellite dish.

  “I don’t even know what half this shit is.”

  “That’s a parabolic collector dish,” Jeremy said.

  Trent’s eyebrows arched.

  “Picks up conversations from about a hundred yards away. Put it back.”

  He dropped it into the suitcase and closed the lid. Jeremy glanced at the balcony, where Kira still had her back to them.

  “She’s a trip.” Trent folded his arms. “So what’s the schedule? Are you on or off?”

  “On until midnight. Then it’s you and Keith from twelve to seven.”

  “Works for me.” Trent checked his watch. “If you’re good now, I was thinking I’d get some food. With the schedule shuffling, I missed dinner.”

  “Go.”

  He left, and Jeremy watched the door close behind him, feeling a twinge of regret over giving him the night shift. But this was for the better. Really. The dead-last place Jeremy needed to be tonight was in a hotel with Kira, even if he was a room away or stationed outside the door.

  The slider opened, and she stepped in from the balcony. She wore black yoga pants and a loose white T-shirt, and her hair was twisted up in a knot.

  “Where’d you disappear to?” she asked.

  “Had something to take care of.”

  She walked to the minibar and took a bottle of water from the fridge. “ ‘Something to take care of.’ Like last night?”

  He’d known she’d bring it up. “That was recon.”

  “You went back to Channelview, didn’t you? I freaking knew it.” She plunked the water onto the desk. “I should have come with you.”

  No, she shouldn’t have.

  “What did you find?” She folded her arms. “And don’t even think about leaving anything out. Or making stuff up. I can spot a lie a mile away.”

  Jeremy hadn’t planned to lie. But he also hadn’t planned to tell her everything he’d seen.

  A sharp rap on the door had her turning around. She grabbed her messenger bag off the sofa and pulled out some money.

  “Wait.” He caught her arm and walked around her to check the peephole. “Did you order a pizza?” He looked at her over his shoulder.

  “Yes.”

  He held out his hand for the bills. She rolled her eyes and passed him the money. “Give him a good tip.”

  “It’s a she.”

  The woman had a long blond ponytail and a butterfly tattoo in the middle of her neck. Jeremy accepted the warm box that smelled like pepperoni and handed her the money as she eyed Kira’s expensive camera equipment.

  “Keep the change,” he said, and closed the door.

  Kira was busy moving chairs around and tossing decorative pillows to the floor. Jeremy set the box on the coffee table as she dropped onto a pillow.

  “Sit,” she ordered.

  Yes, ma’am.

  She opened the box, and Jeremy’s stomach growled. He sat on the edge of the sofa, putting some space between them.

  “So this recon was so urgent you had to go right back out in the middle of the night?” she asked.

  He watched her, and he didn’t want to tell her that was only part of the reason he’d left. The other part was that he didn’t trust himself in her house alone with her. Not after that kiss.

  Jeremy was known for his self-discipline, but he didn’t want to test it. He wasn’t sure what had possessed him back at the ship channel, only that yanking her to the ground after the gunshot and then hustling her to safety had kicked off a reaction inside him. He’d pulled over to make sure she was okay, but then he’d made the mistake of touching her, and that was it. Game over. Next thing he knew, he was dragging her into his lap, shocking the hell out of both of them.

  He should have known better. He did know better. And he had to rein this in. If they slept together, he’d have to resign from her detail, and he couldn’t do that. He wouldn’t. He’d been committed before, but Shelly Chandler’s murder had ramped up the stakes.

  “Hello? Earth to Jeremy?”

  She was still waiting for an answer.

  “It was important,” he said. “I couldn’t wait till morning.”

  She lifted an eyebrow. “Well, I want to hear what you found.” She picked up a slice of pizza, snipping the ropy cheese with her fingers, then handed it to him. “Don’t edit anything out.”

  “I went back to Xavier Shipping.”

  “I figured. Careful, that’s hot.” She picked up a slice for herself and folded it like a taco. “You park in the same spot?”

  “No.” He chomped into the pizza, burning the roof of his mouth.

  “What’d you see?”

  “Couple interesting things.”

  She got up and walked to the minibar, where she grabbed another water bottle. She handed it to him and sank onto the pillow again, folding her legs.

  “Such as?”

  “The cars were gone,” he said. “Only one I spotted was the night watchman. I got his tag, if you’re interested.”

  “I’m interested.”

  Jeremy was, too. The guy’s convenient disappearance last night right before the two vehicles pulled up told him the man was involved in the operation, whatever it was.

  Kira sipped her water, watching him and waiting for more.

  “I found some evidence of trafficking in and out of the location,” he said.

  She didn’t look surprised. “You mean like drugs or people?” She licked sauce off her finger.

  “Maybe both. Definitely people, but I’m guessing some contraband, too, based on the handoff we saw.”

  “You mean the duffel bag.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why do you say ‘definitely people’? What are your tip-offs?”

  “ICE, for one,” he said. “They were patrolling that area for a reason.”

  “Maybe just as a deterrent.”

  He shook his head. “Remember the ten-foot security fence? I found a hole in it on the east side, closest to the highway. It was cut out with wire cutters, and it was big enough for a man to squeeze through. Also found a faint path through the grass from the hole in the fence to a clump of trees.”

  “Yeah, but . . . the ship channel?” She looked skeptical. “Seems like a tough entry point.”

  He
shrugged. “It’s an entry point. You have to assume people are coming through. Stowaways on the tankers. Maybe some of the boat workers themselves. People get picked up at the docks, then hit the city and disappear.”

  She sighed. “Damn it.”

  “Yeah.”

  He studied her face, fairly sure she was thinking the same thing he’d been when he first saw that handoff. The target Ollie had been surveilling last week—presumably Andre Markov—was involved in something big. And he was likely just the tip of the iceberg.

  Kira took another sip of water. “The question is, who’s Markov working for? His age and his rap sheet don’t line up with him being in charge.”

  “I agree.”

  “Maybe Brock will find something,” she said.

  “More likely, Spears and Diaz will.”

  “Don’t underestimate Brock Logan. He’s very resourceful.” She glanced at the TV, where a muted news anchor was giving the top-ofthe-hour headlines. It was after eleven, and Jeremy needed to go.

  “So.” She took a deep breath. “That brings us to Shelly Chandler.”

  “What about her?”

  “I believe the same person who killed Ollie also murdered Shelly Chandler. So do the police. They think it’s all connected. But you and I both know Ollie was focused on Markov, and it was Markov’s car we saw at the ship channel last night at the same time someone followed Shelly home from a bar. So Markov probably didn’t kill her. And anyway, the man I saw at Brock’s house looks nothing like Markov’s mug shot, which means someone else is the triggerman.”

  “Sounds logical.”

  “And that means we’re talking about multiple people, and they’ve got multiple targets. So far, Ollie, Brock, and Shelly, all of whom—”

  “Don’t forget you.”

  “And myself, yes. All of us are working on—or were working on—the Gavin Quinn case, which goes to trial in less than two days. Seems obvious someone wants to derail that trial, and they’re willing to kill to do it.”

  Jeremy just looked at her. She sounded so calm and matter-of-fact about it, but underneath that, he knew she was deeply unsettled.

  Just the other night, she’d seen her friend gunned down. This morning, she’d been to the funeral, but she hadn’t shed a tear, although she’d come out looking white as a sheet. From what he could see, she was processing everything the way he did, putting her emotions on lockdown.