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Authors: Sally Berneathy
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worthless life."
"About your motorcycle accident—"
"Don't change the subject!"
She knew he would anyway.
"I was worried about you. You took a really bad tumble, and I was afraid you wouldn't be able to make it back to the highway. I helped you. I saved your life. Doesn't that count for something?"
Amanda frowned. "So you were there. They told me you couldn't have been because you were dead."
"Of course I was there. You needed me, and I was there." He looked quite pleased with himself.
"Oh, yeah, you're always there when I need you."
"Maybe I haven't been, but I will be now. I think maybe that's what this is all about, this hanging around after Kimball shot me. I'm here to take care of you. "
Amanda closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. Getting something out of Charley when he didn't want to tell it was always painful and frequently futile.
She gave him her sternest gaze. Probably not as effective as his riveting gaze, but it was the best she could do. "Charley, either you tell me something that makes sense about this…this whole thing…the gun your friend stole, why you aren't dead, what kind of scam you're up to this time…or I'm calling the cops right this minute to report a break-in and a stolen gun."
She rose, crossed the room, picked up her phone and punched in 9-1 .
"Last chance." When she looked up, Charley had left the room. Well, he couldn 't have gone far. S he hadn ' t heard the front door close. With a sigh, she punched the last 1 .
W hen two uniformed police officers arrived fifteen minutes later, she still could n ot locate her almost-ex, almost-deceased husband. He must have somehow slipped out without making any noise. It wouldn't be the first time.
"Come in," she said, stepping back. "The box where the missing gun was stored is in the bedroom."
The tall, lanky officer stepped into her living room and pulled a small notepad from his pocket while the other man studied her front door frame.
"Are you Amanda Randolph?"
"I am."
"You called 911?"
"I did."
"Can you tell us what happened, Ms. Randolph?"
"Someone broke in while I was gone and stole my gun," she said.
"No sign of forced entry." The second officer loo ked up from the door frame .
" It was unlocked," Amanda said.
"You left the door unlocked?"
"No, of course not." She glanced at the man's name badge. "Officer Penske, I've been away from home. In the hospital. When I came home this evening, the door was unlocked."
"Who has a key to your apartment?" the tall policeman asked. His badge identified him as Robbins .
"My assistant in the shop downstairs. That's the only person besides me. I changed my lock recently."
Robbins made a note. "Your assistant. What's his name?"
"Dawson Page."
"Do you have an address for this Dawson Page?"
"Yes. Why? I'm sure he didn't mean to leave my door unlocked. He's usually very conscientious."
"He left the door unlocked?"
"No. I don't know. Maybe. But I don't think so since my gun's missing. "
"Did he know you owned this gun?"
"No! Are you implying Dawson would steal from me? No way! The thief's name was Kimball."
Both officers looked at her. "You know the thief's name?" Penske asked.
" M y ex-husband…well, he's not my ex yet, but he will be. He's the one who told me someone named Kimball stole my gun."
"Is that the same ex-husband who was shot and killed?"
Amanda whirled to see Jake Daggett standing in the open doorway. His hair was still a mess and he still needed a shave. Tonight he wore faded blue jeans and a Pink Floyd tee-shirt and looked even less professional than he had at her interrogation.
" What are you doing here? I thought you were a homicide detective. "
He shrugged. " You ' re a homicide suspect. "
" At the moment, I ' m the victim of a burglary. "
" In which a suspected murder weapon was
"About your motorcycle accident—"
"Don't change the subject!"
She knew he would anyway.
"I was worried about you. You took a really bad tumble, and I was afraid you wouldn't be able to make it back to the highway. I helped you. I saved your life. Doesn't that count for something?"
Amanda frowned. "So you were there. They told me you couldn't have been because you were dead."
"Of course I was there. You needed me, and I was there." He looked quite pleased with himself.
"Oh, yeah, you're always there when I need you."
"Maybe I haven't been, but I will be now. I think maybe that's what this is all about, this hanging around after Kimball shot me. I'm here to take care of you. "
Amanda closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. Getting something out of Charley when he didn't want to tell it was always painful and frequently futile.
She gave him her sternest gaze. Probably not as effective as his riveting gaze, but it was the best she could do. "Charley, either you tell me something that makes sense about this…this whole thing…the gun your friend stole, why you aren't dead, what kind of scam you're up to this time…or I'm calling the cops right this minute to report a break-in and a stolen gun."
She rose, crossed the room, picked up her phone and punched in 9-1 .
"Last chance." When she looked up, Charley had left the room. Well, he couldn 't have gone far. S he hadn ' t heard the front door close. With a sigh, she punched the last 1 .
W hen two uniformed police officers arrived fifteen minutes later, she still could n ot locate her almost-ex, almost-deceased husband. He must have somehow slipped out without making any noise. It wouldn't be the first time.
"Come in," she said, stepping back. "The box where the missing gun was stored is in the bedroom."
The tall, lanky officer stepped into her living room and pulled a small notepad from his pocket while the other man studied her front door frame.
"Are you Amanda Randolph?"
"I am."
"You called 911?"
"I did."
"Can you tell us what happened, Ms. Randolph?"
"Someone broke in while I was gone and stole my gun," she said.
"No sign of forced entry." The second officer loo ked up from the door frame .
" It was unlocked," Amanda said.
"You left the door unlocked?"
"No, of course not." She glanced at the man's name badge. "Officer Penske, I've been away from home. In the hospital. When I came home this evening, the door was unlocked."
"Who has a key to your apartment?" the tall policeman asked. His badge identified him as Robbins .
"My assistant in the shop downstairs. That's the only person besides me. I changed my lock recently."
Robbins made a note. "Your assistant. What's his name?"
"Dawson Page."
"Do you have an address for this Dawson Page?"
"Yes. Why? I'm sure he didn't mean to leave my door unlocked. He's usually very conscientious."
"He left the door unlocked?"
"No. I don't know. Maybe. But I don't think so since my gun's missing. "
"Did he know you owned this gun?"
"No! Are you implying Dawson would steal from me? No way! The thief's name was Kimball."
Both officers looked at her. "You know the thief's name?" Penske asked.
" M y ex-husband…well, he's not my ex yet, but he will be. He's the one who told me someone named Kimball stole my gun."
"Is that the same ex-husband who was shot and killed?"
Amanda whirled to see Jake Daggett standing in the open doorway. His hair was still a mess and he still needed a shave. Tonight he wore faded blue jeans and a Pink Floyd tee-shirt and looked even less professional than he had at her interrogation.
" What are you doing here? I thought you were a homicide detective. "
He shrugged. " You ' re a homicide suspect. "
" At the moment, I ' m the victim of a burglary. "
" In which a suspected murder weapon was
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