Tomb With a View

I batted my eyelashes in a way that was completely unworthy of me, but necessary in a situation like this. “Scott doesn’t think I get in the way.”

“Scott . . .” Quinn tossed a look toward the office, where Scott was on the phone, quietly giving instructions to the units outside. “Scott is a jackass.”

“He happens to be very nice.”

“And you know this how?” Quinn tipped his head, listening for any sounds from upstairs, and when there weren’t any, he gave me that probing look of his, the one that had brought many a bad guy to his knees.

I was impervious. “We’ve been out.”

“Are you sleeping with him?”

“Is it any of your business?”

“We got the go!” Scott said, racing out of the office and taking the steps two at a time.

Quinn hurried up after him.

And me?

I stayed right there on the first floor. Not that I was worried about getting in the way. That would be the day. And not that I wasn’t dying to find out what was going on up there, either. But I wasn’t about to get between Quinn and Scott in the middle of a bust—not when they both had guns in their hands. In fact, I ducked into the office, which meant I had a ringside seat when they came back down, escorting a man whose hands were handcuffed behind his back. It was the pudgy Eastern European guy with the beard, the one who’d been in the memorial the last time Jack was there.

I didn’t see Scott that evening. But then, I think he was busy grilling the pudgy guy. The next morning while I was restocking the memorial brochures in the plastic holder outside the rotunda, he showed up. He was so focused on his case, he didn’t even bother with small talk.

“I spent most of last night with your friend, Detective Harrison,” he said.

I was going to say that I’d done the same thing on a whole bunch of nights, but something told me Scott and Quinn weren’t doing what Quinn and I used to do, so there didn’t seem to be much point.

I sized him up and decided maybe we weren’t talking about the case after all. Until I knew for sure, I put my game face on. “You don’t look all that happy about it,” I said, ever observant.

“Harrison . . .” He tossed off the name along with what was almost an eye roll. “Harrison is a jackass.”

I nudged the brochures one final time to straighten them, then turned to give Scott my full attention. “Can’t argue with you there,” I said, but surprise, surprise—no sooner had the words left my mouth than I felt guilty. Let’s face it, there was a time I liked Quinn. A whole lot. “He used to be . . .” I couldn’t exactly say Quinn was nice, but then, it was hard to say exactly what he was or exactly what we were to each other. It was hard to put my finger on the adjectives that would describe him or our relationship and not include words like hot

, sexy, or so good in bed, he made my toes curl. I stuck with the tried and true. “He used to be very nice.”

“And you know this how?” Scott crossed his arms over his chest, and the coat of his navy suit rode up and exposed his gun. I don’t think he meant the motion to be intimidating, but he had the whole federal agent mojo going on.

I may not have been impervious, but I could pretend with the best of them. My voice was smooth and my expression was blank when I tossed off that most noncommittal of phrases, “We used to date.”

“Are you sleeping with him?”

“Is it any of your business?”

He didn’t expect me to be so honest. Or so assertive. He caved, but then, I’d seen him in action (no, not when we collared our perp up in the ballroom, on those three dates!). Scott had the whole ubercop personality down pat. That included not wanting to get too personal, and talking about emotions . . . well, that was way too personal.

Since he didn’t want to go there, and I wasn’t feeling much like sharing the intimate details of my life with a man I barely knew, I asked the question that had been bugging me all night. “The guy you arrested—”

“Viktor Patankin.”

“Patankin. Is he the one who killed Marjorie?” Obviously more comfortable now that we were talking murder and mayhem, Scott cocked his head, inviting me to go into the office with him. He didn’t say another word until we were inside and out of sight and hearing range of anyone who might wander into the memorial. “Patankin claims he’s just the middleman.”

“For the counterfeited credit cards.”

His nod said it all.

“Which doesn’t eliminate him as a suspect in the murder. Marjorie had a phony credit card, remember. She was using it to buy her Garfield junk. Even though she wasn’t supposed to be up there, she must have found the cards up in the ballroom and scooped one up for her own use. That’s why she told Ray she had a get-rich-quick scheme.” I had filled Scott in on all these details when he arrived in Cleveland. I’d even turned over the credit card Ray had stolen from Marjorie’s and given to me, so he knew exactly what I was talking about.