“Megan. Gently lower the painting
to the floor and back away.”

“Back away?” she repeated, her voice reedy.

He took her by the shoulders. “Lower the painting.”

Slowly, she let it fall, and the painting came to a rest on the floor of her closet. She stepped back, allowing him to propel her toward the front door. He captured her outstretched hand before she could touch the knob.

“We’ve contaminated the scene enough,” he said, and pulled out a pair of rubber gloves. He slipped one on and opened the door.

When they cleared the threshold, he used his cell phone to call dispatch.

Megan looked so small and vulnerable. He resisted the urge to take her in his arms. He had to stay objective. “We’ll wait for the CSI team.”

“And then?”

Regret lay heavy across his shoulders. “Then I have to take you in.”

MILLS & BOON

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TERRI REED

At an early age Terri Reed discovered the wonderful world of fiction and declared she would one day write a book. Now she is fulfilling that dream and enjoys writing for Steeple Hill Books. Her second book, A Sheltering Love, was a 2006 RITA® Award Finalist and a 2005 National Readers’ Choice Award Finalist. Her book Strictly Confidential, book five of the Faith at the Crossroads continuity series, took third place in the 2007 American Christian Fiction Writers Book of the Year Award. She is an active member of both Romance Writers of America and American Christian Fiction Writers. She resides in the Pacific Northwest with her college-sweetheart husband, two wonderful children and an array of critters. When not writing, she enjoys spending time with her family and friends, gardening and playing with her dogs.

You can write to Terri at P.O. Box 19555, Portland, OR 97280, visit her on the Web at www.loveinspiredauthors.com, or leave comments on her blog at http://ladiesofsuspense.blogspot.com/.

Terri Reed
DOUBLE THREAT Christmas

Every good thing bestowed and every perfect gift

is from above, coming down from the Father of

lights, with whom there is no variation,

or shifting shadows.

—James 1:17

To my family, for putting up with the long hours

at the keyboard. I love you all.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

EPILOGUE

DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

ONE

“I didn’t kill those men!”

The declaration so angrily delivered by the petite curator of New York City’s Sinclair Art Gallery held more sincerity than most perps’.

Even so, homicide detective Paul Wallace barely managed to contain his scoff. He’d heard those exact words way too many times during the course of his law-enforcement career.

And denial was the fallback in every situation for most suspects.

Even suspects as lovely as Megan McClain.

Upscale all the way in her well-fitting, short-sleeved red dress and intricately patterned black pumps. Not exactly attire suited for the December snowstorm raging outside. She probably had a change of clothes stashed for the trek home—a planner.

Paul gauged her height at five feet five without the two-inch heels. She was about a hundred and ten pounds of slopes and angles. Raven-black hair fell past her shoulders, and her vivid blue eyes, the pupils dilated slightly, were set symmetrically within her pale, heart-shaped face.

The rapid beat of her heart was evident at the carotid pulse point on her graceful neck. Was she experiencing shock or remorse?

Paul glanced around, quickly assessing and cataloging the crime scene. Beyond the faintest trace of spent gunpowder and the coppery odor of blood, he detected a citruslike scent. On the yellow walls of the room they stood in, painted works of art were hung, and little display lights threw a glow on the framed pieces, creating a half circle of light on the floor beneath the bodies.

He noted that across the top threshold of each doorway, leading to other rooms full of artwork, a black seam hid a gate that would drop down if the security system was activated. Those gates were up. No alarm had been sounded. High in the corner of the room was a security monitor.

Pulling his focus back to Ms. McClain, he shrugged out of his overcoat and laid it across the crook of one arm.

“Did you hear me, Detective…?” she demanded, all spitfire and ready to explode. “Why would I call 911 if I’d killed them?”

Paul ignored her question as irrelevant, because too often the perpetrator of a crime was also the one to call 911 in an attempt to deflect the police from looking too closely at themselves. He would consider Megan McClain a suspect/potential witness, until he knew more.

“Detective Wallace,” he supplied, and flipped open his notebook to reread what he’d already learned from the responding officer. “You were read your Miranda rights. Do you fully understand these rights?”

She waved an impatient hand. “Yes, of course.”

“Good. So you were working here alone. Is that correct?”

“Yes. I mean no. I thought my boss was upstairs. I already went through all this with the other officer,” she huffed, and pushed a lock of hair back behind her ear to reveal sparkling stones. “And then again with those other people who practically strip-searched me.” A shudder rippled over her.

The CSI team had performed a routine exam of her person for trace evidence, checking her hands for gunpowder residue, taking any out-of-place fibers off her clothing and looking for blood droplets that would match the victims. The team had done their job.

Now it was his turn. Interviewing the suspects and witnesses was a vital aspect of any investigation, especially done as closely to the crime as possible while the person’s memory was fresh and they hadn’t had time to embellish or minimize any details.

“I understand that, ma’am. Nevertheless, I need you to go through it again with me,” Paul explained.

He’d look for inconsistencies in her account of the events and for ways to dig deeper and sift truth from lies.

She blinked her long lashes. “Fine. My assistant had an appointment, so she’d left early. I was alone in the workroom preparing the Wahlberer painting for transport when Mr. Drake—” She gestured to one of the two dead men lying on the floor to the right.

Ms. McClain seemed momentarily frozen as she stared at the dark-haired man sprawled on the shining cherrywood floor. A pair of long-handled sheers protruded from the man’s gut, and blood spilled out to stain the floor a deep crimson. The click and flash of the CSI tech’s camera documenting the death echoed in the room along with the hushed whispers of those working the scene.

A stabbing indicated a crime of passion.

“Mr. Drake came in…” Paul prompted, wondering if there was enough fire in her blood to make her commit murder.

She turned sharply back to him, visibly refocusing, her breathing a bit irregular. “Mr. Drake arrived early. He wasn’t due for another fifteen minutes. I wasn’t ready. I asked him to wait in the red room.”

Paul arched an eyebrow. “The red room?”

She made a sweeping gesture with one elegant hand toward the doorways. “The different art collections are housed in separate rooms. Each room is color-coded.”

“I see. So Mr. Drake went into the red room.”

“No.” She pointed to the other vic lying a few feet away. “He—Mr. Vanderpool—stormed in even before Mr. Drake had taken five steps.”

Vanderpool was as Nordic as they came with his white-blond hair and large features. His wounds were consistent with a gunshot wound. But they wouldn’t know for certain until the medical examiner did the autopsy.

“You say he stormed in? Why do you say it like that?” Paul watched her closely, gauging her response.

Would her gaze dart upward and to the right, searching for a fabrication, or would her eyes go up and to the left, recalling events and words of description?

She stared straight at him with those eerily blue, sharply intelligent eyes, no shifting, no blinking. “Mr. Vanderpool and Mr. Drake both wanted the Wahlberer painting. At the auction last night both men created quite a stir when they tried to outbid each other. Mr. Vanderpool stormed in claiming the painting was supposed to be his.”

She gave a look that spoke volumes of how dumbfounded she was by the men’s behavior. “I thought it strange that either would find the painting that valuable since Wahlberer is so new to the art world.” She gave a delicate shrug of her slim shoulders. “People who are passionate about art are an eclectic breed.”

Paul wouldn’t know since he wasn’t much interested in art. His focus was on contributing to society by getting the job done and putting away the bad guys. “And where is this Wahlberer now?”

The painting had not been found in the workroom as she’d claimed it should be.

Her mouth pressed into a thin line. “I don’t know. I last saw it in the workroom on the table, wrapped in brown packaging. I hadn’t yet put the string across to secure it before I was interrupted.”

“By Mr. Drake?”

“Yes. By Mr. Drake.” Frustration clearly marked her words.

“What was your relationship with Mr. Drake?”

She stared at him aghast. “There was no relationship. He bought art through the gallery. That’s it.”

Her denial rang true. “How much is the painting worth?”

“Mr. Drake bought the painting for a hundred thousand dollars.”

Ah. Motivation enough for someone to kill and steal. Even an art curator. He made a note to check into Megan’s finances. “Who knew that Mr. Drake was coming to pick up the painting?”

“The staff. But none of them would do this,” she protested, her lip quivering.

That remained to be seen. “You left the painting on the table.”

“Yes.”

He noticed she didn’t fidget or hedge.

When she remained silent he pressed, “And then?”

“I went to find my boss, Lester Sinclair. I thought he was in his office upstairs. But he wasn’t.”

“Did you knock or just go in?” He’d have the CSI team check out the second floor and hall for any trace evidence.

She folded her hands together in front of her. He noted her nails were short and her skin red and dry. As if she’d scrubbed at them. Possibly washing away blood? He made a note of his observation on his notepad.

“I knocked first and then I went in. His office was empty,” she stated, her voice curiously flat.

“Is there a back way from the offices upstairs to the gallery floor?”

Two little lines appeared between her black arched eyebrows. “Yes. There’s another staircase that leads to the back of the gallery, near the restrooms.” Horror filled her expression. “But you can’t think Mr. Sinclair could have done this. He’s nearly seventy years old. Why would he commit such a heinous crime?” She tugged her bottom lip between her white, straight teeth.

He arched his eyebrow. “If you’re sure he wasn’t in the building, then why’d you go looking for him?”

“I didn’t know he wasn’t in the building at the time,” she replied, her eyes widening, expressing her agitation. “Only now I know.”

“And you didn’t hear anything?”

“I heard the gunshots.” She blinked rapidly as if to hold back tears. “I ran back downstairs and found them. My scissors were in Mr. Drake’s stomach.” She shuddered.

Practiced at not being moved by displays of emotion, he consulted his notes again. “Gunshots? As in more than one?”

She nodded with certainty. “Yes. Two.”

He made a note to tell the crime-scene techs to look for a stray bullet since they had only one GSW. “And your assistant, Lacy Knight, had an appointment. Where?”

She shook her head; her dark hair swayed slightly. “I don’t know. I don’t keep tabs on her or the other employees.”

“How many employees were here today and when did they leave?” he probed.

Without hesitation, she answered, “Joanie, the receptionist, left at five as always. Donny and George are the daytime security guards. They both left at six.”

The call came in to 911 at five minutes to seven. “There was no night-shift guard?”

“Usually there is.” She frowned, her pert little nose crinkling slightly. “But Mack didn’t show. Lacy said he called in sick. Mr. Sinclair was going to get a temp from the security company we use but I didn’t hear what happened with that.”

“We’ll need the names and numbers for all the employees.”

“You’ll have to talk to Mr. Sinclair,” she stated as her gaze fixated on the men from the coroner’s office as they began to remove the two bodies from the gallery floor.

Paul positioned himself in her line of vision. He wanted to keep her focused. “Is there an exit through the workroom to the outside?”

Giving herself a little shake, she shifted her bright blue gaze to him. “Yes. But it’s locked. If anyone had come in or out, the alarm would have gone off. And the security camera would record it.”

“We’ll need the video feed on the camera from the time of the murders,” Paul said.

“You’ll have to talk to Mr. Sinclair about that.”

“Hey, Wallace,” Andy Howell, Paul’s partner for the past six months, called from the doorway to the workroom. He’d also taken off his overcoat to reveal his navy suit, one most detectives couldn’t afford, but Andy’s wife owned a clothing shop and liked her husband to dress well.

More than six feet tall, Andy had once been a college basketball player until he blew out a knee. He still had a slight limp, but Paul wouldn’t trust his back to anyone else. In the short time they’d been partnered, Paul had come to admire and respect Andy.

“We found the other murder weapon,” Andy stated as he approached.

Paul’s gaze jumped to Megan to see her reaction. She showed no effects of Andy’s announcement. Innocence? Or confidence?

Paul nodded to a uniformed officer standing close by. “Take Ms. McClain to the station.”

Her blue eyes widened with panic, her body stiffened, her arms straight and held tight against her sides, her knees and feet pressed together. “You want me to go to the station.”

“Yes,” he replied, forcing patience into his tone. That’s usually what happened to murder suspects, but he refrained from pointing that out. “We’ll need a formal statement.”

“How?”

He frowned. “How what?”

She seemed to have trouble finding her voice. “How…how are we going to the station?”

“By car. I certainly don’t plan on making you walk ten blocks in a snowstorm.” His trousers were still damp from when he’d walked the short distance from the car to the gallery entrance.

“Car,” she repeated. “Cars are safe.”

His curiosity piqued by her odd behavior, Paul said, “Officer Johnson will escort you to find your coat and then he’ll take you to the station. I’ll see you again there.”

“Can I change? My shoes at least?” she asked, her expression nearing panic.

Paul hid a smile at having pegged her correctly and sought for a soothing tone. “Of course you may.”

She moved stiffly to a panel of wall behind the reception desk. With a little push the panel opened, revealing a closet.

Paul exchanged a curious glance with his partner.

“I’ll tell Sims,” Andy stated and retreated back to the workroom to inform the lead CSI of the secret hole in the wall.

Megan retrieved a pair of tall, black snow boots. Methodically, she unzipped each boot then grabbed an aerosol can from a shelf inside the closet and sprayed the insides of each one. The scent of lemon filled the air.

Then Megan slipped one foot out of a pump, while balancing on the other heeled shoe while she carefully placed her stocking foot into the boot. She repeated the process with the other foot then bent to zip up each boot.

Figuring she was done, Paul started to turn away, but stopped to watch in rapt fascination as she once again reached for something on the shelf inside the closet. This time she pulled out a moist square sheet, which she used to thoroughly wipe each pump down before putting the shoes in the closet where the boots once had been.

Then using the same moistened wipe, she ran the cloth over the door panel where she’d touched the wall before pressing the wood back into place. Using the tips of two fingers, she dropped the cloth into the wastebasket.

With a tenuous smile, she announced to Officer Johnson, “I’m ready.”

That was some routine. The woman became more interesting each passing second. And by the time he was done he’d get to know her a whole lot better.

Paul noted the stiff way she held herself as Johnson helped her don her long woolen coat. Johnson took her elbow to lead her out and she shied away. Like someone once abused? Or did she just not like being touched?

The officer shrugged, dropped his hand and opened the gallery’s front door for her to pass through. At the last moment, before stepping outside, she turned her head and met Paul’s gaze.

There was panic in her eyes. Fear, maybe. But also something else, something vulnerable, that slammed into his gut.

Hating that he’d let his guard slip even a fraction, Paul shook himself and dispensed with any softening toward Ms. McClain.

Obviously, if he saw fear in her eyes it was only because she was guilty.

Fifty-two steps.

That’s how many footsteps Megan counted as she was led to the waiting police vehicle at the curb. She shivered as flakes of snow covered her hair and landed on her face. Her heart thudded in her chest, making breathing difficult. Horror nearly choked her. She fought for control, but any semblance of control had been taken away from her.

By a murderer.

Two men had been killed, and she was the number one suspect.

With a father who had been a cop on the Boston police force and a brother who was a sheriff, she knew the law would shield her. The maxim “innocent until proven guilty” would hold, but it wouldn’t save her from accusations and assumptions. Her only real protection would come from God.

Just as her psychologist, Dr. Miller, had suggested she do when she was confronted by any source of fear, she whispered the mantra over and over, “When I’m afraid, I’ll trust in the Lord. When I’m afraid, I’ll trust in the Lord.”

She took comfort in her faith even as disbelief and terror that this whole nightmare was happening took hold of her stomach and twisted her insides into tight knots.

Officer Johnson, twentysomething with a clean-shaven jaw and a lump at the bridge of his nose, opened the back door of the white cruiser with the blue lettering of the NYPD across the side.

Her gaze strayed to the ten-story building a half a block away. She counted the windows up three floors and across six to her apartment. She just wanted to go home and cocoon herself inside the four walls where everything was neat and orderly. Where there were no dead men, and no police detective who looked at her with accusation in his jade-colored eyes, making her feel like she were scum on the bottom of his shoe.

“Ma’am,” Officer Johnson prodded with a gesture to the interior of the car.

Swallowing back her panic, she told herself, Cars are safe. She’d be safe. Nothing bad was going to happen to her in the car. Only in a car she wasn’t in control. Walking, she could control. She could control her steps, her pace and her path.

She slid onto the seat in the back of the cruiser, the cracked leather creaking beneath her. The car smelled like stale coffee and greasy food, making her stomach riot with nausea. She shuddered, wishing she had her lemon-scented air freshener handy.

Officer Johnson slid into the driver’s seat and soon they were sloshing their way through the late evening traffic.

She stared straight ahead and briefly met the officer’s gaze in the rearview mirror. Did he, too, think she killed those men?

Quickly she averted her eyes to watch the neighborhood go by. She counted how many people she saw wearing brimmed hats, beanie caps and how many were braving the elements with bare heads. But she kept losing count as the frightening picture of the two dead men crept into her mind.

The image of her scissors embedded deep into the stomach of Mr. Drake would forever be imprinted on her brain.

She gagged, fighting to control her body’s need to lose the salad she’d had for dinner.

She replayed the whole evening over and over again, looking for some way to make the outcome different. But that was an impossibility.

The past could not be undone.

A lesson she’d learned long ago but still struggled to come to terms with. She so wanted to be able to turn the clock back, to force events to be redone so that her father wouldn’t have been murdered and her life shattered by grief and illness.

Stop it, she commanded herself. She wouldn’t go down that road. Not now. Now, she had to think about tonight and the two men who had died in the gallery.

She’d been in the workroom tending to the Wahlberer, a lovely landscape of the Mexican Riviera, with lots of color and bold strokes that were softened by featherlight shading that inspired, giving the onlooker a sense of place that only the masters usually accomplished.

But she’d met the artist Wahlberer, a talented young upstart out of Canada who’d flirted shamelessly and hadn’t really taken seriously his good fortune at having his work displayed at the Sinclair Gallery. His flippant attitude about his art and the gallery had grated on her nerves.

As she’d told Detective Wallace, she couldn’t understand the compulsion of either of the two dead men to buy the painting. The amount had been way above the value, and, yes, a boon for the gallery and the artist, but a poor investment in her mind.

Then when Mr. Vanderpool had shown up, saying he’d been told that he could have the painting, the yelling had started. Overwhelmed by the feral angriness of the two men, Megan had retreated in search of her boss.

Why hadn’t Sinclair been in his office? He always worked until eight. A shiver hit her flesh as possibilities of what could have happened ran rampant through her brain.

There had been another person in the gallery. But who? And why murder the two men?

A thought clamped on to her mind and wouldn’t let go. If she hadn’t gone in search of her boss, would she, too, have been killed?

TWO

“A 9 mm revolver,” Andy said, holding up the weapon with his pencil through the trigger guard. “Found in the Dumpster out back.”

Paul moved to the exit leading to the back alley of the building. Putting his overcoat back on before stepping outside, he blinked to clear his vision as a sheet of cold snow hit him in the face. A streetlamp provided a small measure of light over the Dumpsters, while lamps had been set up to illuminate the work area for the CSI team as they continued their part of the investigation.

Paul found the team leader and asked her to extend the search in the upper part of gallery.

“Already on it,” Barbara Sims stated in her no-nonsense way. “We’ve dusted the door and lifted at least a dozen prints on the outside, but inside, everything…” She paused to emphasize her words. “And I mean nearly every square inch of that workroom has been wiped clean.”

Megan rubbing down her pumps before using the cloth to set them on the floor of the closet flashed in Paul’s mind.

Had her routine with the shoes been for real or for show?

He reentered the workroom, his gaze taking in the orderly way the room was arranged. Packing materials lined up neatly in one corner, brushes hung upside down from a rack, shortest to longest. The worktable where Megan claimed to have been working hardly looked messy at all.

A ball of string sat on one corner of the table, a tape dispenser beside it, a ruler next and a roll of brown packing paper, all lined up with the beveled edge. Everything one would need to secure a package, except the scissors.

“Lemon,” Paul said as he breathed in the scent.

Andy held up a can of lemon-scented air freshener. One of five that were lined along the bottom shelf of the workbench. “This.”

The same spray Megan had used earlier. Paul also noted the dozen boxes of antibacterial wipes stacked next to the air-freshener cans.

A commotion back in the gallery drew Paul’s attention. He and Andy moved together out of the workroom and found a uniformed officer trying to prevent a short, thin, elderly gentlemen, wearing a long trench coat, from entering the crime scene.

“What’s going on here?” the man asked, his nasally voice echoing off the walls. “I’m Lester Sinclair. I own this gallery.” Mr. Sinclair spotted Paul and directed his words to him. “I demand you tell me what’s going on this instant.”

Paul nodded for the officer to let Mr. Sinclair pass. “Sir, I’m Detective Wallace and this is my partner, Detective Howell. There has been a double homicide on the premises.”

Mr. Sinclair’s face turned ashen. “Oh, mercy no. Is Megan…?”

“Ms. McClain is fine. She’s been taken to the station for further questioning.” Paul pulled out his notepad. Keeping meticulous records of all interviews had served him well over the years, especially when some ambitious defense attorney tried to reinvent testimony.

“Who’s been killed?” Sinclair rose on the toes of his brown loafers, trying to look past Paul’s shoulder.

“A Thomas Drake and a Henry Vanderpool. Do you know them?”

Recognition registered in Sinclair’s green eyes. “What was Mr. Vanderpool doing here? He lost the bid on the painting last night.”

“That’s a good question.” So that confirmed what Megan had said about Vanderpool not being expected, only Drake. “Where have you been for the past three hours?”

Sinclair’s eyes widened. “I was here, until 6:00 p.m. Then I went out to get a bite to eat since I skipped lunch.”

“And where did you dine tonight?” Andy asked.

Sinclair cast him an irritated glance. “What does it matter?”

Andy leaned in intimidatingly closer. “Establishes an alibi.”

Sinclair blanched. “Oh. Oh, well, I was at Figaro’s.”

Paul arched an eyebrow at the name of the well-known restaurant where reservations were required to be made at least a month in advance. And Sinclair just decided to pop in for dinner? “Did you inform your curator that you were leaving?”

Sinclair frowned. “I don’t answer to my staff.”

Almost the same statement that Megan had made. “What about a night-shift security guard?” Paul questioned.

“Mack called in sick. It’s the third time this week. I think I’m going to have to fire him. The security company we use was supposed to send someone over at five. I assumed since Megan hadn’t said anything to the contrary that the guard had arrived as scheduled.”

Interesting. Megan claimed she didn’t know what was happening with the security guards. “So you informed Ms. McClain that a replacement guard would be arriving at five.”

“Yes.” He paused for a moment, a thoughtful look crossing his thin face. “Or maybe I just told Lacy.” He shook his head, his gaze befuddled. “I don’t really recall. Oh, what a mess. This will be bad for business.” He grabbed Andy’s arm. “Can you keep this out of the paper?”

“Doubtful, once the pariah of the media get a whiff of murder,” Andy stated with contempt and shook off Sinclair’s hand.

“The assistant who’d left early for an appointment?” Paul asked to keep the focus on the investigation. He wasn’t concerned with Sinclair’s business or reputation.

Sinclair sighed. “Yes. She’s always running off to one appointment or another.”

Convenience or coincidence? Paul would find out. “I’m going to need the names and addresses of all your employees and anyone else who has the security codes for the gallery.”

“Yes, of course. You can have anything you want,” Sinclair said, and pointed up with his long, bony finger. “All that information is in my office.”

“We’ll also need the video feed from the monitors in the yellow room and if there’s one in the workroom,” Paul stated.

Sinclair grimaced. “Actually, the video monitors are deterrents only. Our security is set up to stop theft, not catch a murderer. All the pieces of art are wired so if they are removed or tampered with, the gates go down.”

Frustration beat a steady tattoo at Paul’s temple. Video of the murders would have been so much more efficient in apprehending the villain.

Paul escorted Sinclair upstairs, and after getting a nod to go ahead from the CSI techs, they entered the plush, opulent office. A wall of windows overlooked Lexington Avenue. Paul made a note to check the building across the street and find anyone who might have seen something at the gallery.

Sinclair went to his glass-topped desk and fired up his notebook computer. “Everything is computerized these days,” he said as he hit some keys. The printer on the glass sidebar started to hum and spit out papers.

“How would you describe Megan McClain?” Paul asked.

Sinclair’s chin rose and pride entered his voice. “She is an exemplary employee. Trustworthy, hardworking and…and very organized.”

“And Lacy Knight?”

“Ah, Lacy.” His chin dropped and his voice softened. “Young, a bit flighty but she tries. She’s my great-niece, you know. Some day she’ll make a good curator,” Sinclair replied as he gathered the papers from the printer and handed them to Paul.

Taking the printed sheets with the employee records, Paul met his partner at the front door.

“I’ve sent some uniforms to canvass the neighborhood,” Andy informed Paul.

“Good.” Paul headed toward the entrance. “We need to find the assistant, Lacy. I have some questions for her.”

“Detectives,” called Sims from the doorway of the women’s restroom. “There are traces of blood in the sink and drain.”

Megan’s raw, red hands popped into Paul’s mind. “Get back to me on any DNA you find besides the vics’.”

Sims inclined her head in acknowledgment and went back to work.

Andy shook his head. “I think what happened was McClain hadn’t wanted to give up the painting. She gutted Drake but didn’t expect Vanderpool to show up, so she used the gun on him. Now instead of just one body to deal with she had two. So she calls 911 and makes up the story about going to find her boss.”

For some reason the whole scenario bummed Paul out.

Megan McClain had definitely become a full-fledged suspect.

“Wallace. Howell.” A man just entering the building called to the detectives.

Paul glanced at Andy and saw the same surprise reflected in Andy’s dark eyes that was shooting through Paul. What was Chief Erickson doing here?

“Chief,” Andy said to the older, balding man.

Chief Erickson shook the snow off his hat as he moved closer. “I heard about our double homicide. I know the victims.”

“I’m sorry,” Paul said, sympathy coating his words.

Erickson’s brown eyes revealed sadness. “Me, too. So tell me what you have.”

Paul filled the chief in on their suspect Megan and explained what little evidence had been gathered so far. “After we inform the families, we’ll check out the alibi for the owner and find out where the other employees were at the time of the murders.”

“I’ll inform the families,” the chief said, his voice gruff.

A jolt of relief sparked through Paul. Telling the victims’ families of their loved ones’ death was never pleasant.

“You want one of us to go with you?” Andy asked, compassion evident in his voice.

The chief shook his head. “I’ll take Gonzales and a uniform with me. I think I’ll call Shelia Wells, as well.”

Paul thought having a crisis counselor on hand when delivering the heartbreaking news a brilliant idea. And taking Detective Maria Gonzales was also another smart move. Maria’s ability to calm people and at the same time gain information was legendary within the department. The chief knew what he was doing when he called Maria. Paul respected the man and looked forward to many years of tutelage under his command.

“We’ll go do our interviews,” Andy said, and headed toward the door.

Paul followed Andy out the gallery entrance and into the deluge of snow; within seconds Paul’s hair was soaked. They hustled into their unmarked sedan, Andy at the wheel.

“So what do you think?” Andy questioned as he maneuvered the car around some pedestrians hurrying across the street, their heads tucked low.

“It doesn’t look good for Ms. McClain,” Paul stated.

Means, motive and opportunity.

But a niggling of doubt lifted the hairs at Paul’s nape. Somehow he couldn’t see Megan, who exercised extreme sanitary measures, leaving behind such a bloody mess.

The phone rang. Once, twice. Then was answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

“It’s done,” the caller said with a slight tremor.

Silence met the announcement, followed closely by a sigh. One of relief or regret, the caller didn’t know. And didn’t care. This was about money, not emotion.

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t do this for your gratitude. And I want double the money since it was double the trouble,” the caller stated in harsh tones.

“What? What do you mean double? I am not paying you more than what we agreed on.”

“Oh, yes, you are.” The caller’s voice took on an edge of steel. “Because I’m not going away. If you think I haven’t taken steps to protect myself on this, you’d be wrong.”

A strangled sound came over the line. “I’ll get you the money.”

“I know.” The caller hung up.

“Let’s follow up on Sinclair’s alibi. There’s something about the guy that sets my teeth on edge,” Paul said, thinking how convenient it was that the owner would leave early just in time for the murders to take place.

Within a few minutes, they’d made the trek to Figaro’s. The savory smells of spices filled Paul’s senses, making his stomach rumble. The clinking of expensive dinnerware and hushed voices could be heard over the soft classical music playing in the background. Paul’s gaze swept over the mirrored walls, plush seating and white, linen tablecloths where the powerful came to do business and be seen.

A long, oak bar with high stools and brass appointments ran the length of the restaurant. Men in business suits and women in high-fashion styles nursed drinks while assumedly waiting for an available table.

Paul and Andy flashed their badges to the hostess, a pretty woman in her late twenties with long, straight, red hair, which covered her shoulders and made a stark contrast to the silky green shift she wore.

She blinked, her gaze shifting from Andy to Paul and back.

Andy gestured to Paul. “We have a few questions.”

The young woman beamed and thrust out her ample chest. “Sure, anything for you. I’m Gina.”

“Gina, do you remember a Mr. Lester Sinclair coming in earlier this evening?” Paul asked. “Short, thin, sixties?”

Her head bobbed. “The art guy, sure. He’s a regular.”

Paul pulled out his notepad. An expensive habit. “What time did he come in tonight?”

Gina thought for a moment. “He came in at about six something. He wanted to sit in Angela’s section, so he had to wait for a bit.”

“Why did he want Angela?” Paul inquired.

Gina’s smile turned sly. “She’s more his speed.”

“Can we speak with Angela?” Andy asked.

“Let me get her,” Gina replied, and sashayed away.

A moment later, Gina returned, followed by a tall, regal-looking older woman dressed in black slacks and blouse with a white apron.

Judging by the lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth, Paul put her at fifty-five-ish, but her figure belied her age. Her dark hair had been swept back into a sleek twist, and the woman exuded a graceful elegance that was indicative of Figaro’s.

“Gentlemen, can I help you?” Angela’s throaty voice held just a hint of mild curiosity.

“We’d like to ask you a few questions about Mr. Sinclair,” Andy stated.

Angela inclined her head. “Ask away.”

“We understand that Mr. Sinclair was here this evening, is that correct?” Paul asked.

A coy smile played at her red lips. “Yes. He came in and, as usual, waited to be seated in my section. He had the house specialty. Then he moved to the bar for a cocktail.”

“So he is a regular?” Paul asked.

“Yes. Twice a week for the past, oh, gosh, five years.”

“So you know him pretty well?” Andy asked.

She gave him a haughty stare. “Yes. I like to get to know my customers.”

“When would you say he left the restaurant?” Paul inquired, drawing her attention.

“I really couldn’t say. He sat at the bar for a while.” Angela gestured to the bar. “You should ask Rod.”

“We will,” Andy said, and moved to the bar.

“Thank you for your time,” Paul said. “Just one last question. Does Sinclair normally come in on Tuesday nights?”

Angela’s eyebrows drew together. “Now that you mention it, no. Usually Thursday nights and Friday afternoons for lunch. I often sit with him for a while on Thursday nights. But tonight we were slammed, so I wasn’t able to.”

Paul narrowed his gaze. “Do you usually sit with your customers?”

She gave him a bold smile. “Only the ones that tip well.”

“Ah. Thank you. If I have any other questions, I’ll know where to find you.” Paul joined Andy with the bartender, Rod.

“Rod, here, was just saying that Sinclair joined a young woman at the bar tonight,” Andy informed Paul.

Paul recorded the information in his notepad. “Did you happen to hear the woman’s name?”

Rod, a muscular man with a crew cut and a scar on one cheek, shook his head. “No, sorry, dude. She came in and sat here nursing a glass of house wine. When Sinclair got up to leave, she halted him and invited him to sit with her. I got the impression he was surprised. They both drank a scotch and sat talking for about forty minutes, maybe longer. I was busy, so I didn’t hear any of their conversation.”

“What time did he leave?” Paul asked.

“Eight-ish, I think.”

Paul exchanged a glance with Andy. So far Sinclair’s alibi checked out. “Was he here the whole time?”

Rod shrugged. “I don’t know what time he came in. He ordered his first drink from me sometime after seven.”

“Did the woman pay with a credit card?” Andy asked.

Rod shook his head. “No. Actually, Mr. Sinclair picked up the tab.”

“For her wine, as well?” Paul asked.

“Yeah.”

“Can you describe her?” Andy asked.

Rod raised his hand shoulder height. “She was about so tall, curvy in the right places. Blond, blue-eyed. Pretty.”

Paul gauged Rod to be about six feet. If the woman came only to his shoulder, she was about five-five or-six. “Had you seen her before?”

“No. First time on my shift. But I could tell she wasn’t comfortable here. A couple of guys tried hitting on her, but she made it clear she wasn’t interested.”

Paul exchanged a curious glance with Andy.

Paul closed his notebook. “You’ve been a big help.”

Andy handed the guy a card. “If you think of anything else about Sinclair or the lady, let us know.”

Rod slipped the card into the pocket of his black silk dress shirt. “Yeah, sure.”

“Just a sec,” Paul said to Andy. “I have one last question for Angela.”

He tracked her down near the kitchen doors.

She paused with a plate of salad greens in hand and a pepper grinder tucked against her body by her elbow. “Detective? Was there something else?”

“One last question. Did Sinclair stay in his seat the whole time he was in your section?”

She thought for a moment. “No. He actually was gone for about ten minutes. I assume he used the facilities.”

Time unaccounted for. Paul jotted that down. “Thanks.”

Paul preceded Andy out of the restaurant and to the car. He shook off the snow and climbed in. Once they were moving, Paul said, “Alibi has some holes. And he changed his pattern. Angela said he usually comes in on Thursdays for dinner and Fridays for lunch. Why’d he go to Figaro’s tonight, exactly when the murders were taking place? And she said he left his table for a while. The gallery’s not that far from here. He could have slipped out the back and gone to the gallery, killed Drake and Vanderpool and then returned without anyone questioning him.”

“Yeah. Could have happened like that. He must be one quick clean-up artist though,” Andy stated dryly. “What’s with the woman? Random or what?”

“I don’t know. But it’s interesting that Sinclair didn’t mention the lady. Probably more worried about his wife finding out.” Paul consulted the papers with the employees’ addresses on it that he’d received from Sinclair. “Let’s go see the assistant.”

Paul gave Andy the address to an apartment in SoHo on Prince Street. Andy parked a few blocks away from the prewar, six-floor, elevator apartment building. They hustled down the street and under the overhang to the building to get out of the snow and took the elevator to the fourth floor. The dimly lit hallway extended to the last apartment, 4D.

From the other side of the door, music blared. The metal door had a round peephole. Paul knocked and held up his badge. Paul knocked harder. The music abruptly stopped, and the door was yanked open.

Paul stared in surprise at the curly haired, little girl standing in the doorway. He guessed her to be about six. “Is Lacy Knight here?”

The girl frowned. “Lacy’s out. What do you want?”

“Is there an adult here with you?” Andy asked, his gaze searching beyond the girl.

“Momma!” the girl yelled, and moved away from the door, leaving it wide open.

Paul shared a look of disbelief and anger with Andy. They could be serial killers. What was this kid doing opening the door to strangers?

A young woman stumbled out from a doorway to the right of the small kitchen. She had the same curly blond hair and blue eyes as the kid. She wore floral flannel pj’s and fuzzy slippers. Her eyes widened when she saw Paul and Andy. Paul held up his badge for her to see.

She rushed forward. “Is something wrong? What are you doing here?” She turned toward the little girl now sitting on the couch tucked under a blanket. “Susie, go into the bedroom.”

“Aw, Ma,” little Susie huffed but took her blanket and stomped away.

“Ma’am, we’re looking for Lacy Knight,” Andy stated, his voice harder than normal.

The woman waved her hand. “Lacy’s not here. She’s staying with her parents uptown. Susie and I are just camping here for a few days.”

“And you are?” Paul took out his notepad to record her name.

“Jasmine Oliphant and that’s my daughter, Susie.”

“How do you know Lacy?” Paul asked.

“We met a few years ago at an AA meeting. Is Lacy in some kind of trouble?”

“No, ma’am. We just have some questions. You said you met at an AA meeting. Is Lacy an alcoholic?”

Jasmine’s gaze grew defensive. “Recovering. Just as I am.”

Paul made a note of the information in his notepad. “If you could give us her parents’ address?” Paul asked, his pen poised to take down the address.

Jasmine’s mouth turned down. “I don’t know it. I never asked for their address. She works uptown at some art gallery, though.”

“Yes, we know.” Frustration knocked at Paul’s ribs.

He’d have to wait until Lacy came in to work tomorrow to interview her. He flipped his notepad closed. “Sorry to have bothered you.”

“No bother.” She smiled, two dimples appearing near her mouth.

“Ma’am, I’d suggest you have a stern talk with your daughter about opening doors to strangers,” Andy stated. “We wouldn’t want to have to come back to find you both raped or murdered.”

Jasmine paled. “Yes. Yes, I’ll do that.”

Paul stared at Andy. He wasn’t usually so harsh.

Just as they were stepping into the hall, Paul thought to ask, “Where were you this evening?”

She blinked, her gaze shot up to the right. “Here. Here with Susie.”

She was lying.

She was about the right height, blond and blue-eyed, as Rod described. But Rod hadn’t mentioned the dimples and they were hard to miss. Looked like Paul would be revisiting Figaro’s. “Thank you. Good night.”

Back in the sedan, Paul gave his partner a sidelong glance. “What was that about?”

“What?”

“You know what. You deliberately tried to scare that woman.” Paul had been just as bugged by the lack of child safety, but Andy’s blunt words had taken Paul by surprise.

Andy sighed. “When my sister was about eight, she opened the door. She wasn’t as lucky as those two were tonight. Alesha can’t have kids now from the attack and she’s still plagued with nightmares.”

“Oh, man. I didn’t know.” Empathy for Andy’s pain dug at Paul. Nothing like that had ever touched Paul’s life. At least not here in the States. He’d seen more death and destruction during Desert Storm than he’d care to think about.

“Yeah, well. Life goes on and all we can do is try to help others not make the same mistakes,” Andy said, his voice grim.

“You got that right,” Paul agreed. Fighting in Iraq had been hell on earth. But the war they fought every day in New York City, trying to keep their piece of the world safe, was just as fraught with heartache and devastation as a battlefield.

Sometimes Paul missed the military life. At least then he knew who the enemy was supposed to be. Here…the enemy could be a blue-eyed art curator with a propensity for cleanliness.

“Let’s head to the station. I think we’ve let Ms. McClain cool her heels long enough,” Paul stated.

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