pulse didn’t quicken at the possibility; his heart didn’t leap into his throat. He closed the pin inside his palm and stood. This could be a problem.
The question was, did he tell his partner?
Or did he take care of it himself?
A.J. TUCKED HIS NOTEPAD AND PEN inside his leather jacket and knelt down to brush his fingertips across the polished sheen of the mahogany floor in the executive waiting area. While Josh did what he did best, and handled most of the interview questions, A.J. had taken his time to walk around the top floor and study every posh nook and imported treasure of Cain Winthrop’s state-of-the-art decor.
He wasn’t thrilled with the mix of eagerness and melancholy he felt at returning to the expensively hallowed halls of the Winthrop Enterprises Building. What had he been—seventeen? eighteen?—the last time he’d been here? He’d come in to see his father while Antonio, Sr. worked the night shift, vacuuming carpets and buffing floors, doing the minor repairs that kept the building in working shape.
He’d come here to bum money off the old man. Probably for something stupid, like the cigarettes he used to smoke or gas for the car he drove too fast and wrecked too often.
He splayed his fingers across the cool wood and admired the exotic decor, wondering if any of this was his father’s handiwork. Wondering how many times his father’s footsteps had crossed this floor.
Wondering why he couldn’t have appreciated his father for the man he was until it was too late.
Eighteen years later, A.J. had finally come back.
Not to pay homage to his father, but to investigate a homicide.
Customarily, though, when two detectives were summoned to the scene of a murder, there was usually a dead body involved.
A.J. rolled the kink from his bum shoulder and pushed to his feet, squinching his face against the three itchy stitches that closed the gash along his left cheekbone. If it weren’t for the location, he’d probably appreciate the diversion of a call. Even an apparent wild goose chase like this one was turning out to be. After the week of desk duty he and Josh had been assigned to following the explosion last month in front of the Jazz Note—which had sent him to the E.R. and stalled out their investigation into the drug dealer murders—A.J. was ready for a little action.
But coming to the Winthrop Building after all these years, looking Cain Winthrop in the eye and remembering the last words his father had spoken about the man, left A.J. feeling unsettled rather than relieved to be back in the game.
Despite the hysterical tinge in Claire Winthrop’s distorted voice, she seemed absolutely sure that she’d witnessed a murder here. Both times he’d asked her to relate her story, she’d been clear and vehement about her facts—and unable to explain why Winthrop’s office was spic-and-span tidy, with nary a bullet hole, speck of blood—or a body—in sight.
It wasn’t the first time someone had reported a crime in the Winthrop Building that evidence said hadn’t taken place.
No one had believed his father, either.
Well, one person had. One person believed Antonio Rodriguez’s story enough to kill him.
A.J. lifted his gaze up to the vaulted ceiling and pondered the odds of something like that happening twice in the same location. No wonder he didn’t feel right in his skin on this one.
There were too many secrets in this place. Too many lies. World-class players walked these hallways, as well as invisible men like his father had been. His father deserved better than what he had gotten. He deserved the truth.
So did Claire Winthrop. A.J. could feel something funny going on here all the way down to his bones. He couldn’t put his finger on it yet, but he trusted that instinct more than what his eyes told him.
“I’m gonna make this right,” he whispered out loud. He didn’t know if he was making a promise to his father or Claire Winthrop or to the powers that be.
His determination might not show on the outside, but it was a vow he intended to keep.
“I don’t mean to make light of the situation.” A.J. tuned in to the conversation across the waiting room as Josh followed Cain Winthrop out of his office.
“But could your daughter be mistaken in what she saw? She did leave the alleged crime scene. The guard downstairs said she was the only one who checked in for the 26th floor. Without his pass key to override the lock, no one could take the elevator to the penthouse floor. Maybe she got off on a different floor and we’re in the wrong place.”
The white-haired millionaire shook his head. “Everyone who works on this floor has a pass key. They wouldn’t have to sign in, even after hours. But Claire would. If she said it was the 26th floor where she saw something, then I believe her. She wouldn’t make a mistake about that.”
Josh asked the right question. “Is there something she would make a mistake about? Is it possible this is a cry for some attention? Or the repressed memory of another crime?”
“She’s been known to have an active imagination, if that’s what you’re hinting at, Detective.” Winthrop shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his charcoal wool slacks. When he pulled out his left hand, he was fiddling with something at the end of his key chain. “Claire lost her hearing when she was three. To the same illness that claimed her mother’s life. She had a very lonely childhood. I know she filled her time with books and stories she made up inside her head. Sometimes she’d get so lost in her imaginary world that it was hard to reach her.”
“So you think she’s making this up?” A.J. strolled over and invited himself into the conversation.
Winthrop narrowed his gaze, studying A.J. as intently as he had when they’d first arrived on the scene and introduced themselves. “Are you sure I don’t know you, Rodriguez? You look damn familiar.”
So he was a dead ringer for his father. If the man had a good memory, he might be able to make the connection. But A.J. wasn’t about to give Winthrop any information that might color his answers or affect his cooperation. He came up with an honest response and steered him back to the interview. “No sir, we’ve never met. You were telling us about your daughter?”
The older man shrugged, his expression perplexed. “I can’t imagine why she’d be making up a story like this now. Those episodes were years ago, when she was a child. Tonight she seems so certain. But it’s impossible. Maybe I should have called a doctor instead of—”
A.J. sensed the man striding up behind him and turned before he heard the gruff interruption. “Cain. I should have been notified if there’s a situation.”
“Whoa, buddy. Who are you?” Josh stepped in to deflect the verbal attack with an easy smile.
The man in the corduroy blazer and jeans matched Josh in both height and brawn. But there was nothing easy about the grim set of his pale gray eyes or the blunt cut of his hair. “Marcus Tucker, Chief of Security, Winthrop Enterprises. Who the hell are you?”
A.J. didn’t hesitate to square off against the bigger man. “Rodriguez and Taylor, KCPD.” He flashed his badge and nodded toward the bulge beneath Tucker’s coat at the side of his waist. “You got a permit to carry that weapon, Chief?”
The big man’s cheeks ruddied as he schooled his temper. A.J. braced on the balls of his feet as Tucker wisely pulled open his coat to reveal the Smith & Wesson he carried. At the same time, he slowly reached inside the jacket to pull out his wallet and show his permit and ID.
The man was legit. But A.J. never relaxed his guard and Tucker never answered his question. Instead, the security chief pointed a blunt finger at his employer. “I shouldn’t have to hear about a shooting on the premises from my contact at KCPD.” He thumped his own chest. “I should have been your first call.”
“You have a contact at the department?” A.J. asked.
“I