Kansas City Christmas (8 page)

Her quick smile didn’t ring true as she snapped the phone shut and stuffed it back into her pocket. She grabbed the evidence bag off the counter and headed toward her office. “I’d better get this locked back up.”

Edward fell into step right behind her. “Is somebody hassling you?”

She shook her head and pulled out her keys. “That call was nothing.”

Uh-uh. Not buying it. “Was it the same guy who called you last night at your car?”

Her eyes darted up to his, wide and nearly pure green. But she looked away just as quickly and concentrated on unlocking the evidence cabinet. “There was nobody there. I mean, somebody was there—I could hear him breathing. But he hung up before I could tell him he had the wrong number.”

“You didn’t want to take that phone call last night, either. You were spooked.”

“You were the only thing that spooked me last night.” She closed the cabinet, locked it tight then nudged him aside to reach her desk. “It’s an annoyance, that’s all.”

The pale cast to her skin was more convincing than the comment. “How many calls have there been?”

She shuffled through a stack of folders. “You mentioned before that you’d heard about a bullet similar to this one. Your uncle or someone you know makes them?”

“Caldwell Technologies created a prototype disintegrator in their lab. My friend Bill Caldwell says they decided not to manufacture them because there’s no viable market. How many calls have you gotten like that one?”

Holly picked up the folders and carried them to a file cabinet. “Caldwell Tech? I know someone who works there.” She opened a drawer and thumbed through the tabs. “Is it possible to get a sample of the prototype so that my lab could compare it to the ones from the murder victims?”

Edward reached around her and pushed the drawer shut. “How many calls?”

A heartbeat passed. He inhaled the warm vanilla scent of her hair. A second one passed. If he leaned forward a fraction of an inch, he could nuzzle the long nape of her neck. On the third heartbeat she inhaled deeply and her back pressed into his chest. At the instant of contact, she caught her breath and moved away, half a step closer to the file drawers. “Twenty-seven.”

Edward wasn’t inclined to move away. “Over how many weeks?” She was frozen, hugging the folder tight to her chest. To heck with it. “Over how many
days
?” When she didn’t answer he drew his hand back to cup her shoulder. “Holly?”

Her muscles flinched beneath his touch, but she didn’t pull away. “Since I started working the split shifts Saturday night. I’ve been staying late, re-inputting information from evidence reports that were sabotaged back in April.”

He turned her, wanting to read in her eyes that she didn’t think it was an interesting coincidence that the calls had started when she turned her attention to the files Z Group had tried to destroy. “Twenty-seven wrong numbers since you started looking at the Z Group victims again?”

Holly kept her back against the file cabinet. “It’s a slow time of year for the lab. It’s just what I happen to be working on.”

“Are you here alone at night?”

“There are other people in the building.”

“But you’re alone in the lab?”

“I like the solitude. I get a lot of work done.”

“Not when somebody’s calling you twenty-seven times.” He brushed a strand of mahogany off her cheek, forgetting that he wasn’t ready to do the man or cop thing right now. “Did you report the calls?”

“The phone company says someone’s probably trying to call whoever had this phone number before me.”

“If you told them the number had changed, he wouldn’t keep calling. I meant, did you report it to the police?”

Dropping her gaze, she moved one hand from the folders to the middle of his chest where she seemed conveniently fascinated with plucking an invisible thread from the front of his sweater. “Where’s the threat in a wrong number?”

“Twenty-seven times in less than a week?” He covered her hand with his own, stilling the manic movements and capturing her chilled fingers against the warmth of his chest. “That’s not a wrong number, Stick. That’s harassment. Report him.”

“‘Stick’? Did you just call me ‘Stick’?”

“Am I interrupting something?” The spiky-haired lab tech who’d followed Holly into the parking garage last night materialized in her office doorway.

Edward couldn’t tell if the kid was embarrassed or concerned. But the speed with which Holly pulled her hand from beneath his reminded him that to an outsider they’d been standing in what probably looked like an intimate embrace. The fact that she slipped so quickly back to her desk reminded him that it had felt like some kind of embrace. The kind of embrace he wasn’t ready for.

Scraping his palm over the top of his hair, Edward turned with an irritated huff. “I was just leaving.”

But the young man blocked the doorway, his scowl turning into a suck-up smile. “Lieutenant Kincaid, isn’t it?” He extended his hand in greeting. “Rick Temple. I couldn’t place you last night, but now I do. We met on the André Butler case.”

“Rick—” Holly whispered.

“Sorry that I thought you were giving Holly some trouble last night. We never see her with any man around here, so I guess we figured she didn’t date.”

“Rick, we’re not—”

“At any rate, Lieutenant, once I figured out where I’d seen you before, I wanted to apologize. I’m the guy who ran the ballistics tests on weapons you seized from one of Butler’s crack houses. We were able to tie the guns to several area crimes. And then you killed the bastard and we ended up not needing any of the—”

“Rick, stop talking.” Holly’s warning confused the young man into silence and made Edward feel like some kind of weak invalid who needed people to tiptoe around the heartbreaks of his past.

“Did I say something wrong?” Rick asked.

“No, kid.” Edward shook his hand and pulled him out of his path in the same movement. What was he doing, getting involved with this woman? With any woman? He’d be lucky if he could make it as a cop again. He didn’t need to muddy up the job by getting personal with someone who could wind up getting hurt because of him. “Report the calls,” he said on his way out. “I have to go find out about a bullet.”

“Hey, Jamal. Thanks for calling.”

Edward was glad to have the chance to stretch his muscles and divert his attention to something other than Holly Masterson’s warm scent and frightened eyes. He hefted his cane and then picked it up altogether as he lengthened his stride to cross the crime lab’s parking garage in a limping gait that was just short of a jog.

It was about time one of his old street connections he’d called got back to him. “Have you had any luck?”

“Finding your ring? Heck, no.”

Edward could imagine the black man’s occasional huffs for air meant he was chain-smoking another cigarette, not partaking of any physical activity. It had always amazed him how a man who spent almost his entire day sitting on a bench inside a barbershop could know so much about what was going on in the hidden corners and back alleys of Kansas City. “Then why are you wasting fifty cents on a pay phone?”

Jamal’s croaking laugh turned into a cough. Several seconds passed before he spoke again. “You know, Kincaid—when you tell me to chat up my sources because you’re looking for a ring, but you can’t tell me anything about what it looks like except that it’s gold, that’s like telling me to find one particular piece of paper at the city dump. Do you have any idea how many rings are hocked around this city every day?”

“What if I tell you that there may be more than one ring like it? And that it might be designed with or engraved with a Cyrillic
Z
.”

“A what?”

It was Edward’s turn to chuckle. “It’s fancy foreign writing. Looks like a number three.”

“Why didn’t you just say a number three?”

“Why don’t you just tell me why you called if you haven’t heard about any ring.”

“I’ve been hearing some words about your brothers.”

“Words?” Edward stopped beside his SUV. After walking so fast, his pulse rate had increased only a fraction, and he wasn’t breathing hard at all. The weight training and sobriety were paying off. But Jamal’s cryptic comment made his heart beat faster than the physical exertion had. “What do you mean?”

“Well, there’s not a brother on the street who doesn’t know your daddy got gunned down earlier this year. Folks around here were talkin’ about the deputy commissioner’s murder for weeks.”

A steadying breath kept Edward from flashing back to the pain of his father’s funeral. “And…?”

“News about that died down after a while. You know, as one thing or another gets to be more important around here. One of the gangs acts up…or the weather turns or…” Jamal wheezed into another coughing fit. Edward unlocked his Jeep and climbed inside to wait. “You still there, Kincaid?”

“I’m here. Tell me what you heard about my family. If your info’s good I’ll make a call to guarantee you’ve got a bed in one of the city shelters every night the weather’s bad like this.”

“Well, now that’s right nice of you. I do hate waitin’ in line whenever—”

“Jamal.”

“Right. What do I hear about the Kincaids.” Edward drummed his fingers atop the steering wheel, mentally bracing for the report. It wasn’t unusual for a criminal community that lived and worked on the streets to talk about a certain cop—but usually it was one who walked their beat or was running an investigation on a local crime, or one who was in the news for some reason or another. Talking about an entire family of cops was a different story. “Well, for one thing, somebody’s been asking about what your brothers are up to.”

“Somebody? Who?”

“Some woman. I haven’t had the privilege of talkin’ to her myself. I just hear things.” A quiet pause indicated he might be lighting up another cigarette. Or that he was about to drop a real bombshell. “It’s kinda funny, really. Some woman’s out there
asking
what your brothers have been
asking
folks about.”

“Hilarious.” Whether this woman was keeping tabs on Sawyer, Atticus and Holden’s work assignments or looking for something more personal, that kind of scrutiny wasn’t a good thing. “Has this woman been asking about me?”

“No. But then you ain’t a real cop no more, are you?”

A real cop
. His badge and gun were still locked up at home. But if it walked like a cop and talked like a cop…“You haven’t mentioned my name to anyone since I called you yesterday, have you?”

“You know me better than that. I’m always discreet.”

“Let’s keep it that way. I don’t want anyone to know that we’ve been talking.”

“If you say so.”

Edward turned the key over in the ignition. “Any chance you could get me that woman’s name, Jamal?”

“I can do some
asking
myself.”

Edward was too busy buckling up and backing out of the parking space to laugh along with him. “Consider your bed reserved.”

“I thank you, sir. Anything else I can do for you?”

He punched the Jeep into Drive. “You find me one of those rings, and I’ll buy you your own apartment.”

H
OLLY COULDN’T REMEMBER THE LAST
time she’d worn a dress when the temperature was twelve degrees outside. But when she had seen Jillian walk out of the apartment in a red-sequined mini-dress and strappy silver heels, she had had a feeling her Santa Claus sweater and green corduroy slacks wouldn’t do the trick. She needed to fit in as a guest at Caldwell Technologies’ Christmas party, not stand out as the trespasser she was.

In Caldwell Tech’s grand lobby she tugged self-consciously at the hem of her black silk shift and wondered if crashing a party in order to sneak her way into the back rooms of the CT building was the stupidest idea she’d ever had. No, wait—she’d already topped that list this afternoon in her office when she’d nearly burrowed into the inviting warmth of Edward Kincaid’s chest.

A swell of compassion at seeing him transfixed by the empty autopsy room had quickly changed into a much more raw emotion when
Unnamed
had decided to call her again. If she’d ever considered the eldest Kincaid son weakened because of his injuries or moods, he’d laid that fallacy to rest. He’d read her fear the way a veteran cop read a suspect who was ready confess. He’d asked her tough questions, given her straight advice and…touched her.

The man had to stand six-three or six-four, had shoulders like Achilles in fighting form, rasped his way through a conversation as though he was some gnarled old character actor—and yet he generated warmth and tenderness the way a gentle, caring man would. He’d earned a reputation as a tough cop who could hold his own with the bad guys in the hidden corners of Kansas City’s drug world. And yet the man who’d stroked her cheek and held her hand and calmed her fears had tempted her to forget common sense and decorum, and curl up inside his gentle strength.

“Miss?” Holly snapped herself from her thoughts. Right. Since crashing the Christmas party was mistake number two, it should be a cakewalk by comparison. The man at the refreshment table had asked her a question. “What flavor of hot chocolate would you like?”

Leaving the impulse to tell him to change the “Miss” to “Doctor” on her tongue, Holly smiled. “Amaretto, please.”

While the tuxedoed server prepared her nonalcoholic drink, Holly tucked her chin and made a quick survey of the grand lobby, which had been converted into a festive reception area. Built more like a luxury hotel than an office building, Caldwell Tech’s marble lobby had been decorated with evergreen trees around its entire perimeter. Each draped with hundreds of white lights, they gave off a piney smell that should have reminded her of the season instead of the fact that her sister Jillian was here somewhere.

Even with the lobby chandeliers dimmed, the place was bright enough to scan the faces of the hundred-plus employees and their guests. Holly wanted to make sure that she spotted Jillian before she or Blake Rivers spotted
her
so that she could avoid an awkward confrontation, an accusation that she didn’t trust her sister and was spying on her date—and the whole getting-tossed-out-into-the-snow part when the security guards stationed discreetly around the building discovered she was neither employee nor guest.

Some of the women coming through the beveled glass doors of the first floor lobby were wearing fur coats and ankle-length gowns. They paused to greet their host, William Caldwell, a distinguished-looking man with silver at his temples and a serenely beautiful brunette woman by his side. A few of the guests went on to chat with a television reporter Holly recognized from the local news, Hayley Resnick. Though it seemed odd for a woman who seemed to be making a career out of reporting hard news to be at a posh society party, Ms. Resnick certainly fit in with with her elegant gown and sparkle of jewelry around her neck.

Holly had managed to sneak in a side door with one of the servers who’d been outside on a break. Now she needed to blend in until she could locate the product development labs and snoop through some computer programs or file cabinets to find out more about bullets that couldn’t be traced.

And she needed to do it without running into her sister, a television camera or security—and having to explain herself. Normally, she wouldn’t break the rules of etiquette any more than she’d break the rules of the state of Missouri. But when Edward Kincaid had mentioned that William Caldwell’s company had made a prototype of the bullet like the ones showing up in so many autopsies, she knew she needed to see one of those bullets, unfired and unscathed.

“Here you go, Miss.”

“Thank you.” Tucking her evening bag beneath her arm, Holly cradled the cup of hot chocolate between her hands and mimed a few sips to mask her face while she moved through the crowd to the elevator bank. Since she couldn’t very well ask for directions to the research section of the building, she’d have to rely on finding a directory and pray that the doors leading to other floors wouldn’t be locked.

An hour or so later, Holly was about ready to give up and go home. She’d found her way to CT’s development section on the twelfth floor and had been able to go in and out of various offices, which had been left open for an open house tour. Upstairs, the building’s marble floors had been replaced with fabricated concrete, which looked modern and aptly state of the art for a technologies company. But the hard surfaces reflected every little sound, so Holly had traded cold toes for stealth, carrying her black pumps with her as she moved from office to office in her stockinged feet, carefully staying out of sight of the visitors taking a tour and the security guards who made routine sweeps of each level.

But her daring impulse was turning into a wasted night. Each of the research labs had been locked up tight and required some kind of pass card or keyed-in code to enter. She’d searched through the open offices, but she lacked the know-how to get beyond their computer network’s security system. And all she’d picked up from the file cabinets she’d sorted through was a paper cut. She hadn’t found a single schematic or memo about the disintegrator prototype.

Puffing out a sigh that lifted her bangs off her forehead, Holly called up the search command on Blake Rivers’s computer one last time. Located at the end of the hall farthest from the elevators and closest to the labs, Blake’s office had seemed like the ideal place to hide out while she looked for answers. But none of the logical request words had given her any leads—she’d type in
bullet, ammunition, weaponry, disintegrator, bang
and
killer.
Not found. Not found. Not found. Nothing. With the evening winding down and her frustration ratcheting up, Holly typed in one last search command.
Z
.

“Then you’d better go back to finding answers through normal channels,” she admonished herself. “Science is one hundred percent more reliable than spying.” At least for her.

While the computer searched, she tucked her feet beneath her and spun the plush office chair, taking in the cushy digs of a successful young man. More impressive to her than snagging a corner office, Blake’s neat space had a private access door to the lab itself. But repeated tries at opening it had proven just as successful as every other dead end she’d reached tonight.

Either through daddy’s money, the prestige of an M.I.T. degree or actual hard work, Blake must have proved himself a valuable asset to the company. Maybe she’d done him a disservice this afternoon with her knee-jerk reaction to him asking Jillian to tonight’s party. If Jillian had turned her life around after her rebellious teenage years, maybe Blake had transformed himself as well.

Her speculation into Blake’s grown-up character ended when a gray file folder icon appeared in the middle of the computer screen. “What the…?” Holly touched her toes to the carpet and stopped spinning. Beneath a row of red
X
’s was a pair of words that sped her pulse and made her think she was finally onto something.
Access Denied
.

Should she print out the screen? What exactly did locating the file prove if she couldn’t open it? Should she try to punch in a password? What if a mistake triggered some kind of security alarm or system lockdown?

“Cool it, Holly. Think.” She pressed her fingers to her lips and took in a deep breath. Finding a file marked “Z” might not mean anything. “Okay.
Z
doesn’t necessarily mean
Z Group
. This is a networked computer system, so the file could be on the server from someone else’s work station, not necessarily Blake’s. Yet I know he works in development. He’d have access to prototypes.”

Trusting the idea that she needed to consult with someone who knew more about this than she did, Holly hit the Print command. She could show the paper to Edward Kincaid—to
Lieutenant
Kincaid. Heck, not only was he a detective, but he was a high-ranking one. Wouldn’t running an “unofficial” investigation jeopardize his career? What would happen when he was ready to go back to being a cop? Or didn’t he want to be one anymore? He seemed like such a natural. As surprisingly skilled a cop as he was an enigma of grumpy moods and tenderness.

The distinctive beep of the elevator echoed around the corners of the stone hallways. “Someone’s showing up now?” The printer whirred as it prepped to produce the single page document. But now that she finally had something to show for her efforts, she could hear the elevator doors opening to the sounds of footsteps and laughter. “You have got to be kidding me.”