Framed: A Psychological Thriller (Boston's Crimes of Passion Book 2) (10 page)

“It was certified.” Brophy answered her question. “I found the receipt in her car. Who else knew about the package?”

She looked at him for a long time, but gave him no answer. She wanted to, but she hesitated. 
Why did she feel as if she were betraying the family if she answered?

Brophy went to the next question. “Your cousin talked about you in the hospital. A lot. He was worried about you. Why, Miss Ashcroft? Why did he feel the need to come here this morning? One of your neighbors said that he ran into him and he was incoherently mumbling that you were in danger.”

“He was high on whatever he had taken,” Riley insisted. “Delusional.”

Brophy ignored her reply. “Do you know any Stanfords?”

She hesitated. 
Where had she heard the name?
 She shook her head. “No. Now, please let me go. I have a headache.”

“Where, Miss Ashcroft? Are you going to stay here? Your door is in shambles. I understand your houseguests have all moved out. Are you going to feel safe in that big house by yourself? You are afraid, aren’t you?”

“Afraid? You think I’m afraid.” She stared at him incredulously. “You don’t know me at all, Detective. I have been on my own since I was fourteen. There isn’t much I’m afraid of…I can take care of myself.”

“My instincts tell me different. You don’t know what you are up against.”

“You’re wrong. I know exactly what I’m up against. Now we are done.”

She jerked her hand out of his and rose.

“Before you go, take my card. Call me if you remember anything…or need me.”

Riley took it and walked out of the kitchen.

* * * *

Going over emails, Kincaid sat at his desk with the morning broadcast filtered through his computer. He clicked on one from Malcolm Bryant, the assistant district attorney of the Charleston County District Attorney’s office, who sent an attachment. He kept going back to this one while doing his research.

Although the trial was public record, Cruz had reached out to an old colleague at the FBI, who had help procure a copy of the file of evidence against Harrison—a mountain of evidence, physical and eyewitnesses.

Though no one directly saw Harrison shoot the officer, they saw the aftereffects. The scene lent to only one conclusion—that Harrison Taylor killed Officer Steiger.

Kincaid had gone over the evidence at least ten times. The only thing that seemed odd was the drug screen that was done at the hospital when Harrison Taylor was admitted the night of the shooting. He had been positive for benzodiazepine, along with cocaine.

But the report didn’t state what the benzodiazepine was.

Interesting.
Jack Ashcroft had requested an independent lab to analyze the blood, but Kincaid couldn’t for the life of him find the results.

He needed to see the defense’s files.

His phone rang. Reaching over, he saw the ID.
Cruz.

“Hello.”

Kincaid dropped everything— a patrol car had been dispatched to Riley’s address.

The house was nestled in a quiet residential area of Dedham, not far from Fox27 studio. Driving as fast as he could, he made good time, but it seemed most of the Dedham police department had already responded.

He pulled in behind one of the patrol cars and approached the yellow taped-off area. His heart raced when he saw the ambulance.

Pulling out his credentials, he hung them around his neck. He hadn’t brought his crew with him, but used his usual approach—sound intelligent in a commanding way—with the cops guarding the entrance.

“Officer,” Kincaid addressed the uniformed officer at the entrance. “I need to get through.”

“Sorry. Orders to keep everyone back.”

“It’s personal, sir. My girlfriend, Riley Ashcroft, lives here.” Kincaid spoke the words without hesitation, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “I need to know that she is okay. She’s not answering her phone.”

The officer gave Kincaid a hard look, not sure whether to believe him or not. “Wait here.”

Kincaid watched the officer converse with another for a few minutes. He walked back to Kincaid and shook his head.

“Can’t let you in, Mr. Kincaid, but I can tell you that Miss Ashcroft is fine. I will let you know when it’s clear for you to enter.”

Thanking the officer, Kincaid stepped back. He expected the response. At least Riley was safe. But it did little to ease his frustration.

Exasperated, he watched the ambulance drive out of the driveway. 
Who the hell broke into her house? Who was in the ambulance?

“I saw him earlier this morning,” the voice said behind Kincaid. “He was stumbling down the street. I was putting the garbage out and asked him if he needed help. He fell. When I reached down to help him up, he pushed me off. I knew then he was in trouble.”

Kincaid turned to see a short, gray-haired man walk up beside him. “You know him?”

The man nodded. “Yeah, it’s Riley’s cousin. Think his name is…Jimmy…no…Freddy.”

Taped-off areas served as a magnet for curiosity seekers, much like when cars slowed down to see a car accident on the opposite side of the road. Most observers came to see what was going on; a few had a need to connect themselves to the scene.

“So you must know the family.”

“Yes, I’ve known the Ashcrofts for years. Been here for forty. We have the only houses that haven’t changed hands during that time.” He pointed to his house across the street. “I’m Howard Hillman. That’s my house. My daughter, Amanda, is a friend of Riley’s. Riley boards her dog at Amanda’s kennel time to time. I’ve met her cousin a few times, but I’ve never seen him like this.”

“Like what?”

“His clothes were dirty…ragged. He was always so immaculate, clean-cut. He seemed… confused…perplexed. Mumbled something like he didn’t need help. Riley did. He had to find her…to protect her. I swear he said someone was trying to murder Riley.

“He wasn’t making sense…I think he was high.”

“Could be,” Kincaid answered absently and looked back over his shoulder. “I wonder where he came from. Did you see?”

“Come to think of it.” Hillman looked back with Kincaid and pointed to the street sign. “It was strange. He was dropped off at the corner.”

“By whom?”

Hillman shook his head. “Didn’t have my glasses on. Black car is about all I can tell you.”

“Did you see who was driving?”

“Afraid not.” Hillman paused, as if remembering he was talking to a virtual stranger. “Did I catch your name?”

Kincaid smiled and extended his hand. “Josh Kincaid. I’m dating Riley. I came as soon as I heard. Obviously, I’m concerned about what has happened, but the officers told me I had to wait until the scene had been cleared.”

“I saw her briefly walking around the kitchen when I was talking to one of the officers in the driveway. She seemed upset, but unharmed. Shame. Nice girl.” Hillman went on before he eyed Kincaid closer. “Do I know you…?”

Holding his hand up, Kincaid paused Hillman’s thought. “Pardon me, but I see someone I need to talk to.”

He watched as Brophy exited the guesthouse and ducked under the tape. Looking none too pleased, the detective stepped toward his car.

Kincaid didn’t waste any time. He called to Brophy as the man opened his car door. “Detective! A moment!”

Brophy got in his car. For a moment, Kincaid thought the detective was going to drive off, but the passenger window slowly slid down.

Kincaid leaned against the car’s side. “What happened? How is Riley?”

Brophy thinned his lips, his fingers ready to turn the key. “On the record or off?”

“Off. I don’t even have my crew with me,” Kincaid stated firmly. “Who went out on the ambulance? Her cousin?”

“You don’t know? Come on, Kincaid. I know you better than that.”

Kincaid nodded. “Okay. I heard it was Freddy Ashcroft and was told he was muttering about Riley being in danger.”

“Got that from the neighbor, did you?” Brophy cocked his head to the side. “What about you, Kincaid? What do you know about this?”

“Nothing.”

Brophy considered him for more than a minute. Finally, he asked, “Do you know anything about a package that might have been delivered to Miss Ashcroft from Helen Barlow?”

Now it was Kincaid’s turn to take a moment. “Pictures. She said Mrs. Barlow sent her pictures.”

“Pictures…” Brophy said the word slowly, as if he didn’t believe it.

“You think it’s connected? Do you think it was the reason the woman was killed?”

“All I’ll say is that your 
girlfriend
 isn’t being cooperative. Talk some sense into her. I think she’s way over her head and it’s going to get her killed.”

* * * *

From her window, Riley waited until the last vehicle left. She went around the house to check that everyone had left and cleaned up the kitchen, sweeping up the broken glass and washing away the blood.

The back door…there wasn’t much she could do for it at the moment but push a chair against it. The frame had been busted.

She would have to take care of it tomorrow. She had other things that needed her immediate attention. First, though, she had to take a shower…with her gun within reach.

She had been taught at a young age to respect a gun, how to clean it and most importantly, how to use it. Daddy had always said unless she was certain she could pull the trigger, don’t have one.

For years, she had never seen the need. Today was a different story. On her last trip to Charleston, she had been given the pistol for protection. She was prepared and more than able to pull the trigger if the need arose.

Detective Brophy assumed she was afraid. He had not been far from the truth. She had been overcome with the emotional toil of Helen’s death. Frozen in panic that her scheme wouldn’t work and then scared it would.

Now, though, she was mad as hell.

Fear had slowed her down. Helen’s death. Freddy’s hospitalization. The police. A murderer on the loose, who, according to Freddy, had her in line as his next intended victim.

Her anger gave her something else to focus on, something besides the picture of her cousin lying unconscious on her kitchen floor, something besides the vision of the man shot between the eyes…the memory of her father…

Let 
him
 come.

Turning off the water, she reached for her robe and put it on. Tying the belt, she stepped out of the shower. Immediately, she caught sight of a figure in the doorway, with Bailey happily wagging her tail beside him…readily recognizing her uninvited guest.

She frowned. “Josh Kincaid, what the hell do you think you are doing in my bathroom?”

“What the hell are you doing with a gun?” he countered, holding it to his side. She saw he wasn’t the least bit repentant.

“I know how to handle one… Do you?” she retorted, tightening the belt securely. “Now give it back and get the hell out of here.”

He ignored her. “You know, I could have been anyone walking in here. You didn’t even hear me. Whether or not you know how to use a gun, what good will it do if someone uses it against you?”

Not willing to acknowledge she let her guard down, she murmured under her breath. “I have Bailey.”

“Yep! She did a fine job of welcoming me inside,” he said sarcastically. He turned the gun, checked to see that the safety was on and stuck it in the back of his jeans. “The kitchen door was wide open, swinging in the wind. I latched it up as well as I could and called a guy I know who will be able to fix it up for you. It won’t be until tomorrow.

“Considering what happened, I think it will be for the best if you pack a bag and come with me.”

“Best for whom?” she asked warily.

He gave no answer. He didn’t have to. His eyes skimmed over her, as if drinking in the sight of her half naked. She flushed with a sudden feeling of vulnerability. She took a step back, tripping over the lip of the shower.

Before she knew what was happening, Kincaid caught her and pulled her up into his arms. She stared at him for a long moment, hit hard with the realization of just how attracted she was to him.

Her whole body surged with heat and emotions so intense she found it hard to breathe. 
What was wrong with her? 
She reprimanded herself. She didn’t have time for this distraction.

Wiggling away from him, she pushed back against his chest. She wasn’t in the mood to play games. “Do you always barge in on a defenseless woman in a shower?”

“I don’t think you’re that defenseless—with or without your gun,” he said in a low, controlled voice. “Get dressed. We need to talk.”

* * * *

Kincaid waited impatiently in the kitchen. Common sense told him that he shouldn’t become involved with this woman. Hell, she had even warned him.

He had told himself it was because she had agreed to help him with the story. If the investigation panned out, it would be a major scoop. That should have been enough. But, for some strange reason, he wanted more from her.