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Authors: Janice Kay Johnson
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the interviews."
On the way to the parking garage, Nell asked Hugh, "Relieved?"
"That we're almost done?" He seemed preoccupied. "Yeah. Sure. Aren't you?"
She let out a soundless sigh. "Yes. It's been … disturbing."
Male that he was, he only grunted. She took the sound as agreement.
"I want to drive today," she said.
He shot her a startled look, eyebrows raised. "Yeah?"
She asserted her right about once a week. Hugh was always surprised, and seemingly agreeable. Then he'd spend the day double-checking that lanes were empty, glancing at the speedometer, and stamping down on the floorboard if she didn't brake quickly enough to suit him.
It was easier to let him have the driver's seat, but not good for their working relationship, which was why she insisted often enough to keep him on his toes. Today she only wanted to have something to occupy herself. Otherwise, she'd brood.
"Who first?" she asked, buckling in.
He lifted the clipboard. "Donald St. Clair." He named an address in Old Town. "We've met him. He was in the first office on the left, the guy who was hiding while the last victim was gunned down."
She remembered: the rustling sound, the sudden start of fear at their carelessness. One more shell-shocked office worker had stumbled around the partition, scarred already by guilt because he hadn't done something heroic and suicidal to save his colleague.
Not all wounds, she reflected, were physical. Almost every local employee of Greater Northwestern would carry a remembered ache of some kind for the rest of their lives. She wondered if some were already planning a lawsuit against their employer, hoping riches would palliate the pain.
She drove quietly and efficiently, ignoring Hugh's jerks and exaggerated head turnings every time she changed lanes.
The street number belonged to an enormous Victorian mansion that had been skillfully remodeled into half a dozen condos. St. Clair's was on the top floor, boasting, it appeared from the ground, access to a wrought-iron enclosed widow's walk atop the roof.
Entering the marble-floored lobby, Hugh muttered, "This place must have cost a mint."
Nell looked down at the clipboard. "According to this, St. Clair sells insurance packages to employers. You know, convinces them to drop Blue Cross, that Greater Northwest will give them a better deal on employee medical coverage. Wonder if he's paid on commission."
Hugh called up, using a brass-plated intercom. A muffled voice told them to come ahead, and the elevator opened soundlessly.
A smaller lobby on the third floor had only two doors opening from it. A middle-aged man was waiting in one.
Nell couldn't have even said he looked familiar.
Shock and fear had distorted his face. She remembered the sweat beading his high forehead more than she did his eyes or the shape of his mouth.
He had a thin, ascetic face, a receding hairline and a tall, athletic build. In corduroy slacks and a sport shirt, he was an urbane, attractive man with a wry smile.
"Come in. We've met."
"If you can call it that," she agreed. "How are you, Mr. St. Clair?"
His smile faded. "A hell of a lot better than too many others." He gave an odd, abbreviated shrug. "I'm okay." He led the way into a living room that, while open to a dining alcove and the kitchen, still had the feel of the original house. Ceilings were a good ten feet up, windows were small-paned, and the creamy white walls were offset by gleaming wood floors and broad molding.
"Nice place," Hugh said, turning to take in antique rugs, leather furniture and art deco bronze statues.
"Just bought it last year." The owner glanced around. "They did a hell of a job, didn't they? I can give you the architect's name, if you're interested."
"Can't afford an architect on a cop's salary," Hugh said curtly.
"Ah." He seemed momentarily taken aback.
Nell gave Hugh a look. He obviously didn't like St. Clair, but he should know better than to show it.
Hoping to distract from her partner's
On the way to the parking garage, Nell asked Hugh, "Relieved?"
"That we're almost done?" He seemed preoccupied. "Yeah. Sure. Aren't you?"
She let out a soundless sigh. "Yes. It's been … disturbing."
Male that he was, he only grunted. She took the sound as agreement.
"I want to drive today," she said.
He shot her a startled look, eyebrows raised. "Yeah?"
She asserted her right about once a week. Hugh was always surprised, and seemingly agreeable. Then he'd spend the day double-checking that lanes were empty, glancing at the speedometer, and stamping down on the floorboard if she didn't brake quickly enough to suit him.
It was easier to let him have the driver's seat, but not good for their working relationship, which was why she insisted often enough to keep him on his toes. Today she only wanted to have something to occupy herself. Otherwise, she'd brood.
"Who first?" she asked, buckling in.
He lifted the clipboard. "Donald St. Clair." He named an address in Old Town. "We've met him. He was in the first office on the left, the guy who was hiding while the last victim was gunned down."
She remembered: the rustling sound, the sudden start of fear at their carelessness. One more shell-shocked office worker had stumbled around the partition, scarred already by guilt because he hadn't done something heroic and suicidal to save his colleague.
Not all wounds, she reflected, were physical. Almost every local employee of Greater Northwestern would carry a remembered ache of some kind for the rest of their lives. She wondered if some were already planning a lawsuit against their employer, hoping riches would palliate the pain.
She drove quietly and efficiently, ignoring Hugh's jerks and exaggerated head turnings every time she changed lanes.
The street number belonged to an enormous Victorian mansion that had been skillfully remodeled into half a dozen condos. St. Clair's was on the top floor, boasting, it appeared from the ground, access to a wrought-iron enclosed widow's walk atop the roof.
Entering the marble-floored lobby, Hugh muttered, "This place must have cost a mint."
Nell looked down at the clipboard. "According to this, St. Clair sells insurance packages to employers. You know, convinces them to drop Blue Cross, that Greater Northwest will give them a better deal on employee medical coverage. Wonder if he's paid on commission."
Hugh called up, using a brass-plated intercom. A muffled voice told them to come ahead, and the elevator opened soundlessly.
A smaller lobby on the third floor had only two doors opening from it. A middle-aged man was waiting in one.
Nell couldn't have even said he looked familiar.
Shock and fear had distorted his face. She remembered the sweat beading his high forehead more than she did his eyes or the shape of his mouth.
He had a thin, ascetic face, a receding hairline and a tall, athletic build. In corduroy slacks and a sport shirt, he was an urbane, attractive man with a wry smile.
"Come in. We've met."
"If you can call it that," she agreed. "How are you, Mr. St. Clair?"
His smile faded. "A hell of a lot better than too many others." He gave an odd, abbreviated shrug. "I'm okay." He led the way into a living room that, while open to a dining alcove and the kitchen, still had the feel of the original house. Ceilings were a good ten feet up, windows were small-paned, and the creamy white walls were offset by gleaming wood floors and broad molding.
"Nice place," Hugh said, turning to take in antique rugs, leather furniture and art deco bronze statues.
"Just bought it last year." The owner glanced around. "They did a hell of a job, didn't they? I can give you the architect's name, if you're interested."
"Can't afford an architect on a cop's salary," Hugh said curtly.
"Ah." He seemed momentarily taken aback.
Nell gave Hugh a look. He obviously didn't like St. Clair, but he should know better than to show it.
Hoping to distract from her partner's
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