“He’s dead, isn’t he?”
The deep, smoky drawl took him aback. The voice didn’t fit her, seeming too rich and much too provocative for the tousled waif sitting on the bed. It was a voice one might expect from R & B singers in shady Bourbon Street jazz clubs. The kind of women he’d spent his years in vice busting for improprieties.
“I’m afraid so,” he said.
“Oh, God. I can’t believe it.”
Only when she spoke a second time did he notice the small gap between her front teeth. Another imperfection that only added to one of the most intriguing faces he’d ever seen.
“I’m Detective Betancourt. You’re Michelle Pelletier?” Even though he used the proper French pronunciation, his voice sounded coarse and unrefined in comparison to hers.
“That’s right.”
He pulled the notepad from his jacket. “Can you tell me what happened, Miss Pelletier?”
Her shoulders tensed, a minute gesture that told him the question struck a nerve. “I remember dialing 911. Seeing…Armon lying on the floor. But everything else…I don’t know.” She looked at Philip through dark, cautious eyes. “Things are…foggy.”
He stared back, trying to get a handle on her frame of mind. “Take your time.”
“Armon didn’t come over often. Never without calling first.” A sad smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “He was always such a gentleman.”
Philip watched her carefully, concentrating on her body language as much as her words. She was trembling, he noticed, but that could come from any number of emotions, so once again he refrained from drawing conclusions.
“I don’t remember opening the door. I can’t even remember seeing his face. Everything…seems distorted. The memory, I mean. Just when an image seems close, it fades away.” Her hands stilled. “My God, I can’t remember. How can that be?”
“You’re doing fine. Try to concentrate. Take a deep breath….” His voice trailed off when he spotted her right hand. It was clenched so tightly her knuckles were white. A drop of blood seeped from between her fingers. Moving forward, he reached for her hand, brought it to him palm up. Her fingers opened.
“What the…” A diamond cuff link glimmered in the light. She’d been holding it so tightly the post had cut her palm.
She blinked as if the sight of the cuff link stunned her. “I didn’t realize… It…belongs to Armon.”
Extracting a small evidence bag from his coat, Philip used it to scoop up the cuff link. “Where did you get this?”
“I—I’m not sure.”
He dropped the bag into his pocket for later analysis, then looked at her palm. The cut wasn’t deep, but it was still bleeding. Without thinking, he pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it into her palm. “Hold on to that.”
Startled eyes latched on to his.
He stared back, acutely aware of how small her wrist felt locked in his grasp. Her pulse fluttered beneath his fingertips. Another wave of unexpected heat rolled through him.
Releasing her, he stepped back. “Did you touch the body?”
Her thin, delicately arched brows furrowed. “I—I don’t know. I must have, but I’m not sure. When I try to remember, it’s like I’m…looking through fog.”
The cop in him didn’t buy it. Impatient, he rubbed a hand over his five o’clock shadow. “Go on.”
Silence thickened the air around them for a full minute, then she released a frustrated sigh. “This isn’t helping you. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Either she was stalling for time to get her story straight or she was truly in a state of shock. “Nothing’s wrong with you. You’re shaken up. Take another deep breath.”
Together, they slowly inhaled.
“Good girl,” he said. “Try again.”
She pressed her fingertips to her temples. Another minute passed. She fidgeted. “Things just keep getting jumbled in my mind.”
“Were you hurt in any way? Did someone hit you?”
She shook her head. “No, that’s not it.”
Another jab of impatience rippled through him, but he held it in check. He tried not to think about the body cooling in the foyer or the minutes ticking away. Forty-eight hours went by pretty fast when you were working around the clock.
“Try to concentrate on what happened,” he said.
“I was going to study. I’d fixed coffee.” Propping her hands together, she pressed her fingertips against her mouth. “I remember a tap on the door. Armon never used the doorbell. He had this big diamond ring he used to tap on the glass.” Her voice cracked with the last word.
“Was there anyone with him?”
“I don’t know,” she said slowly.
“Did you have a fight?”
“No.”
Something inside Philip quickened at the direct answer. If she was trying to lead him to believe that she couldn’t remember, she’d just screwed up. “So you do remember?”
“No…we…” she stammered. “He was a very kind man. We were friends. In all the years I knew him, we never fought.”
That could be checked, he thought, and scribbled a note on the pad. He had yet to meet a woman and man who didn’t fight occasionally. Personal experience told him it happened more often than most people were willing to admit. “What happened after you answered the door?”
“I—I’m not sure.”
“Did you invite him in?”
“Yes. I mean, probably. I wouldn’t leave him standing on the porch.”
“What happened next?”
“I…don’t…know.”
Exasperation inched through Philip. “Is there some reason why you can’t talk to me? If you’re…uncomfortable, there’s a female officer on the way. Sometimes that makes things easier.”
The woman’s eyes flicked to his. Philip found himself holding his breath in the moments before she spoke. He wasn’t sure if it was in anticipation of her response or of hearing that sultry voice.
“No, that’s not the problem.”
As annoyed with himself as he was with her, he frowned. “Maybe you should enlighten me as to what the problem is.”
Her lips parted. The movement drew his eyes to a soft, interesting mouth. Her lips were full and nicely shaped. The space between her front teeth was once more visible. Odd, but the tiny flaw added a great deal of appeal. More appeal than it should have, and he slapped the thought away.
“The problem is I…don’t remember.” She rubbed her forehead with her fingertips. “It’s like a nightmare. The kind that terrifies you, but you can’t recall what it was about.”
Either she was an award-winning actress or this woman truly couldn’t remember. Philip wasn’t sure which scenario was worse.
“There’s a body in your foyer and you’re telling me you have no idea how it got there? You expect me to believe that?”
“I just need a few minutes to pull myself together—”
“Time is the one thing I don’t have right now,” he snapped.
A wounded look flashed across her face, but she quickly masked it with a toughness he’d seen lots of times on the street. Times when someone had gotten in over his or her head and didn’t quite know how to swim. Philip wondered if she knew how to swim.
Her chin went up. “I’m doing my best, Detective.”
“You’re going to have to do better.” He knew he was being hard on her, but he didn’t care. A man was dead and this woman was all but holding a smoking gun. In the back of his mind, he wondered if her prints would turn up on the Beretta.
“Do you own a gun, Miss Pelletier?”
He saw the answer in her eyes even before she spoke—a mixture of guilt and fear tempered with a measure of defiance that told him she wasn’t necessarily sorry for it. The anticipation inside him stirred, sharpened. In that instant, gut instinct told him she knew more than she was letting on.
“That’s not against the law, is it, Detective?”
“Only if y
ou use it to kill someone.”
Anger flickered in her eyes. “If you’ve got something to say, I suggest you get it out in the open.”
“I think you’re the one who has something to say, Miss Pelletier. I’d like the truth. All of it. Now.”
She visibly swallowed, but didn’t look away. “Armon was my friend. I’d never…hurt him. Never. That’s the only thing I know for certain right now.”
Philip didn’t miss the anguish in her voice. Nor did he miss the pain in her eyes. He half expected her to break down and cry, but she didn’t. Judging from the stubborn set of her jaw, she probably wouldn’t, either. He wondered what it would take to cut through that tough facade and find the truth.
“Did you kill Armon Landsteiner?” he asked harshly.
Renewed temper flared in her eyes. She slid off the bed and approached him. “No!”
Philip’s gut tightened as he took in the length of her. She was taller than he’d first imagined. Just a few inches short of his six-foot frame. Even through the baggy sweatshirt he could see the subtle outline of curves he had no business noticing while acting in an official capacity. What the hell was the matter with him tonight?
“I’m merely trying to find out what happened, Miss Pelletier. Your inability to remember is making my job difficult.” His voice worked. That was good. Giving himself a quick mental shake, Philip glanced toward the door. Where was that female patrol?
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt awkward with a female suspect. He told himself it was because of all the sexual harassment charges flooding the system. Hell, it wasn’t safe for a male cop to be alone with a female witness or suspect. But, closer to the truth, Philip knew it was because this particular suspect appealed to him in a way that was as dangerous as the pistol that was on its way to the lab.
She blinked at him as if suddenly realizing they might still be on the same side. “I’m sorry you don’t believe me.”
Rather than debate the point, he switched tactics. Maybe some background information would help him fill in the blanks. “What kind of relationship did you have with Armon Landsteiner?”
“I’m an intern at his law firm, Landsteiner & Associates. He hired me through the work program at Tulane.”
Not the answer Philip was looking for, but he let it slide, making a mental note to look into the relationship later. “You’re in law school?”
She squared her shoulders. “I graduate in June.”
Philip bit back the antilawyer remark teetering on the tip of his tongue. He smiled instead, hoping to get her to relax. Witnesses were more likely to open up if a measure of trust existed between them and their interrogator. “How long have you worked for Landsteiner?”
“About four years. Armon hired me as an undergrad.”
“Where did you work before that?”
She folded her arms around herself and eyed him warily. “I was a waitress at Terrebonne’s.”
“In Vieux Carré?” He used the French pronunciation for the French Quarter.
She nodded, looking at him as if she were a cornered fox about to be mauled by an approaching hound.
So much for putting her at ease. “What about before that?”
“I didn’t work.”
Philip made a note to delve more deeply into her past should the need arise. “What time did Landsteiner arrive at your apartment this evening, Miss Pelletier?”
She opened her mouth, then clamped it shut. Her gaze swept to the alarm clock beside the bed. “I’m not sure. I usually arrive home from class around nine o’clock. Sometime after that.”
“You don’t remember.” Philip couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice.
“No.”
“Did you have any alcohol to drink tonight?”
Indignation flared in her eyes. “I don’t drink.”
For a crazy instant, Philip couldn’t look away. Despite his growing suspicions about her, another tug of attraction struck him squarely in the gut. Reminding himself she was an inch away from standing on the wrong side of the law, he forced his gaze to his notepad.
“Tell me about your relationship with Landsteiner,” he said.
“I’ve already told you.”
He glared at her. “We can do this downtown if you prefer.”
She flinched. “Armon and I were friends—”
“How close?”
“Very close.”
“Were you romantically involved?”
“I resent the implication behind your line of questioning, Detective.”
His patience slipped, putting an edge in his voice. “I realize these questions might not be to your liking, Miss Pelletier, but I intend to do my job thoroughly in spite of whether or not I offend you.”
He wasn’t sure if he was irritated with her for making his job more difficult, or with himself for letting her get to him in a way that was not only unprofessional, but went against his personal code of honor. Just because he spent most of his time alone these days didn’t mean it was okay to go off the deep end over a pair of big brown eyes.
Turning away, she paced to the opposite side of the room. She moved with graceful self-assurance, but to the perceptive eye, an underlying lack of confidence belied her cool exterior.
Philip swore he wouldn’t let his gaze drop, but his eyes drifted down her rigid spine to the soft curve of her backside. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so mesmerized by the sight of a woman’s behind. What was he thinking, letting his libido get away from him in the middle of an interrogation?
“I’m sorry,” she said, staring through the window. “I’m just…frustrated that I can’t remember. It scares me.”
He stared at her, letting the silence work.
“Armon and I were friends. I worked for him. Nothing more. We were never lovers.” She turned to face Philip. “And I didn’t kill him.”
The anguish in her eyes stopped him cold, and for a single, wild instant Philip believed her. Disgusted with himself, he plowed his hand through his hair and let out a sigh of frustration. “If you have nothing to hide, why don’t you just make this easy for both of us and level with me?”
“I am leveling with you. I’ve told you everything I remember.”
“Then we’ve got a problem.”
Taking a step back, she looked toward the door as if expecting someone to walk in and arrest her. “I know this must sound crazy to you, because it sounds crazy to me, but I can’t remember what happened.” The words hung between them like a lead weight. “I can’t remember anything that happened after I walked into my apartment after class and before I made that 911 call.”
Skepticism tumbled over him. He didn’t believe her. Not about her memory loss. Not about her relationship with the deceased. Philip hadn’t yet decided if she’d actually pulled the trigger, but he’d know more after questioning her thoroughly. Somehow, she was involved in this mess up to that pretty little chin of hers. If she was the killer, he was going to nail her to the wall.
He gestured in the general direction of the corpse. “This isn’t helping your friend, Miss Pelletier.”
She reacted as if he’d struck her. “You’re not going to find the real killer by badgering me.”
“A man was murdered in your house tonight. My gut tells me you know what happened. I’m not going to walk away and hope you’ll remember something important while I go bark up another tree. That’s not how I do my job.”
“Armon was my friend. I want to know what happened to him as badly as you do.”
“Then cooperate with this investigation.”
A sound of disbelief escaped her. “You think I’ve chosen not to cooperate? That I’m lying? That I shot a man in my own apartment, then called the police and claimed to have amnesia? That’s insane!”
Philip had been around too many years to believe in any thing as melodramatic—or convenient—as amnesia. It never ceased to amaze him the lengths people would go to keep themselves out of jail. “All I know is th
at you’re not answering my questions.”
“And while you’re standing here blasting me with questions, the real killer is getting away. Has that possibility occurred to you, Detective?”
He hadn’t expected her to challenge him; she didn’t look like the kind of woman to give a cop a hard time. But he supposed most murderers didn’t look like murderers, either. Well, if she wanted to play hardball, he could throw a curve with the best of them.
“It also occurred to me that you could be lying.”
“I didn’t kill Armon, damn you.”
“How did that bloodstain get on your shirt?” Despite his efforts to control it, temper resonated in his voice.
She looked down the front of her shirt. Her face blanched. “I…oh, God, I don’t know. I just…don’t know.”
Guilt seeped through his anger when her eyes filled. She’d been so strong until now that something inside him twisted at the thought of breaking her. But she didn’t cry. She stood silently with her arms wrapped around herself, looking as fragile as porcelain, as if another harsh word would shatter her into a thousand pieces.
The urge to comfort her surged through Philip with surprising force. For an instant he imagined what it might feel like to wrap his arms around her….
Eradicating the idea before it fully materialized, he took a mental step back, regrouped.
She stared at the stain on her shirt. “I’d like to change clothes.”
“Not now. We’re going to finish this interview downtown.”
Her gaze snapped to his. “That’s not necessary.”
“I’m afraid it is.”
“I know my rights.” Her voice quavered with the last word.
“Then you know I’m well within mine to take you downtown for questioning. As a witness.” For now, a little voice added. “I want to get to the bottom of what happened tonight, and you appear to be the key.”
“I don’t want to go downtown.”
“You don’t have a choice.” Philip knew he didn’t have a choice, either. He had a murder to solve, and he’d be damned if he was going to let himself be swayed by a smoky voice and a body designed by the devil himself.