Cold Case Cop
Cold Case Cop
Mary Burton
www.millsandboon.co.uk
For the Virginia Romance Writers
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
Chapter 1
Monday, July 14, 9:00 a.m.
Catcalls from the homicide squad room had Sergeant Alex Kirkland looking up through the glass walls of his office. His gaze skimmed past the six grinning detectives and settled on a tall, leggy redhead who stopped to greet each person in the room.
Tara Mackey.
A visit from the Boston Globe’s crime beat reporter meant his first day back on the job wouldn’t be as quiet as he’d hoped. But it would be interesting.
Grinning, Mackey wore her trademark getup—dark dress pants, a snugly fitting crisp white shirt and a severe ponytail tied at the base of her skull that accentuated high cheekbones. Some of the detectives called her The Librarian. But Mackey was anything but dowdy or ordinary. She had a killer figure, full lips and a spark in her green eyes that always had Kirkland’s body tensing.
Mackey was a Bostonian by birth but had gotten her start in journalism in Washington, D.C. She’d worked for the Post for eight years. She had returned to Boston to work the crime beat less than a year ago. She covered every homicide, regardless of the time of day or social status of the victim, and she had gotten to know all the names of the division detectives on both the day and night shifts. The cops didn’t always like her hard-hitting questions, but they liked her. Intelligent articles combined with overly sensational headlines had earned her a following in the city.
Closing the file on last night’s homicide report, Alex rose and allowed a second sweep of his gaze over her body. Too bad he didn’t date reporters.
Mackey broke away from the detectives and came into his office. She moved well. “Welcome back.”
Alex shoved his hands in his pockets and rattled the loose change in his left pocket. “What do you want, Mackey?”
Tara’s grin reached her eyes. She was clearly unaffected by his gruffness. In fact, she seemed to get a kick out of irritating him. “I see your near-death experience hasn’t improved your social graces, Kirkland.”
Her direct reference to his near-fatal shooting caught him off guard. No one except the department’s shrink had directly discussed the ambush with him. His injuries reminded family, friends and especially other cops that a policeman’s job was very dangerous. Very aware of this, he had, in the days leading up to his return to work, spent extra time sailing his boat on the bay so that the sun tanned his skin until it had regained its healthy glow. He’d lifted weights at the gym to build up his muscles. And this morning he’d taken additional time dressing.
Alex was aware that the cops in the squad room were listening, even if their gazes were averted. He moved to his office door and closed it. “Did you come to talk to me about manners?”
She laughed. “No. May I sit?”
It was a great laugh. “Sure.”
Mackey made herself comfortable in the chair that was positioned in front of his desk. She crossed those long legs as he moved behind her and around to his chair. He realized she’d changed her perfume. No longer spicy, this scent was soft and feminine. He liked it. A lot.
He sat behind his desk. “So you came all this way to welcome me back to work? I’m touched, Mackey.”
“Park your ego, sport. I’m here about an article.”
“Really? And here I thought your visit was all about me.”
“Not exactly.”
“I didn’t think so.” His swivel chair squeaked as he leaned back.
She dug a file out of her slim briefcase. “I’m embarking on a new project.”
“And I should care why?”
“It directly affects one of your old cases.”
“An old case? I’m up to my ass in alligators, including three new homicides last night alone. Today is not a good day to discuss new projects or old cases.”
A few of his men gawked at Mackey through his office’s glass walls. Irritated, he glared at them. They all had the sense to get back to work.
“I won’t take too much of your time, Kirkland. Besides, you owe me.”
Alex folded his arms over his chest. “Is that a fact?”
She cocked her head. “When you asked the media to write a series of articles on those vagrant murders three months ago, everyone turned you down but me. And as I remember, you got an arrest because of the tips my article generated.”
Kirkland had broken the case because of her help. “The fact that you stepped up to the plate then is the reason I haven’t thrown you out yet. But my patience is wearing thin.”
Mackey laid an inch-thick file of news clips in the center of his desk. “I’ve decided to do a little digging into one of your department’s cold cases.”
The muscles in his back tightened as they always did when trouble lurked too close. “Which case?”
She smiled and paused for dramatic effect. “Kit Westgate Landover. Remember her?”
“How could I forget? You couldn’t have picked a more volatile case.”
“I know.”
Kit had been a West-Coast socialite who’d taken Boston society by storm two years ago. After landing the city’s most eligible, albeit much older, bachelor, she’d vanished during her wedding reception a year ago. The huge affair had been held at the Landover estate and had been the social event of the season. Over five pints of Kit’s blood, enough to kill anyone, had been found splattered all over the estate’s greenhouse. However, no body had been found. “Why are you digging into this case, Mackey?”
Her eyes brightened with excitement. “Why wouldn’t I? When a rich, beautiful woman vanishes, it’s big news. This story ate up headlines for months.”
Because of the endless news stories, the brass and Kit’s new husband, Pierce Landover, had screamed for the cops to find Kit and to make an arrest. Kirkland and a half-dozen other cops had worked nonstop for months. But there’d been no sign of Kit or her killer. “Pierce Landover won’t appreciate this.”
If she were concerned, she didn’t show it. “I can handle him.”
Kirkland shook his head. “Landover went to the mayor and then to the governor to have me fired when I couldn’t crack the case. My arrest record and a few connections of my own barely saved my ass.”
Her eyes narrowed a fraction. “Can you confirm that you think that Kit’s dead?”
He drummed his fingers on his desk. “I didn’t say that. We never did determine what happened to Mrs. Landover.” And that fact still bothered him. He hated unsolved cases. “Look, Mackey, the Boston Police Department has a dozen homicides pending right now—cases with bodies. If you want to play Nancy Drew cover one of them.”
She ignored him. “Care to have a peek at a mock-up of next week’s Metro section?”
Alex watched as she dipped long fingers into her briefcase. “Why do I have the feeling I won’t like this?”
“You may really love it.” Her voice had a throaty quality that had him wondering what else she might love. “My articles have helped you solve cases before.”
“Let’s have it.”
She laid the Metro section in front of him. “This is how I envision the story laying out. A friend of mine in production did it for me.”
Above the fold was a full-color picture of Kit Landover. The woman was stunning. In her late twenties, she had that magical combination of womanly confidence and flawless looks. Her hypnotic gaze stared at the camera lens as if she knew a secret that everyone else wanted to know.
It had been two years since he’d seen Kit in the flesh. She’d arrived at a gallery opening on Pierce Landover’s arm, and had immediately stopped conversation. An indigo silk halter dress had clung to her high, full breasts, small waist and sizzling, tight body. Rich blond curls, parted on the side, had accentuated seductively high cheekbones and enhanced violet eyes.
Every man in the room had entertained erotic fantasies. Every woman in the room had oozed resentment.
Alex flipped the paper over and read the bold headline just below the fold. It read Socialite’s Disappearance Still Unsolved After One Year—Paper Seeking Tips. He shoved out a breath. “You’re opening a hornets’ nest, Mackey.”
Two slim gold bracelets jangled on her wrist as she ran a hand over her ponytail. “That was the idea. Anniversaries have a way of stirring things up, and I’m hoping this mock-up shakes people up and gets them talking to me. After a year, I’m banking on the fact that someone will remember something about Kit they hadn’t shared a year ago.”
He laid the paper down. “Do yourself a favor and drop this case.”
The glint in Mackey’s eyes told him his warning had fallen on deaf ears. “Do you have any theories on what happened to Kit?”
Tension rippled through his muscles. “I don’t comment on open cases.”
“Murder. Killing. Open. It’s not like you to be so unguarded, Kirkland. You must have a theory on this case.”
He didn’t usually make rookie mistakes around reporters. He stiffened and frowned. “Don’t use my words against me.”
She leaned forward, matching his glare. “There is more to this story, Kirkland. I can feel it.”
If he dropped his gaze a fraction he’d have a clear view of her cleavage. “What made you choose this story?”
She shrugged and glanced at her mock-up. “I’ve had the idea to do a cold-case article for a while. And the Kit Westgate case seemed the perfect choice.”
His gaze dropped to her breasts. Nice. He moved his gaze to her pale face and the faint sprinkle of freckles on her nose. “Find another case.”
She straightened. “No can do, Sergeant.”
“I’ve given you a friendly warning. Stay out of this.” But she was right. There was more to Kit’s disappearance, only he hadn’t been able to figure out what it had been.
She grinned. “Kirkland, please. Since when have I ever listened to your warnings?”
He almost laughed at that one. “Never.”
“Exactly.”
Mackey possessed a spark—a vitality—that made other women uninteresting. “Whoever was involved in Kit’s murder or disappearance covered their tracks carefully. You’re not going to shake anyone up with a mock-up.”
She rose as if sensing she’d get nothing more out of him. She picked up her briefcase. Her fingers were long, but her nails were neatly trimmed, unpolished and not fussy. “We’ll see. I’m betting something does happen.”
Rising, Alex ran his hand down his tie. “You’re a good, solid reporter, Mackey. Why stoop to a sensational case like this one?”
She frowned. “Regardless of her social standing, something bad happened to Kit Westgate Landover. And she deserves justice.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Come on, this isn’t really about justice. This is about headlines and advancing your career.”
She leaned forward, giving him a better view of her breasts. “Sure. I won’t lie. The headlines are a definite advantage. But I also want to know what happened to Kit.”
“This is still an open investigation. If you find something, bring it to me. And if I find out you’re holding back information, there’s going to be trouble.”
She smiled, moved toward his office door and rested her hand on the doorknob. “I would never hold back on you, Kirkland.”
“That’s a load of bull, and we both know it.”
She laughed and opened the door.
He watched her walk toward the elevator and muttered an oath. Damn, but he did admire the way her hips swayed.
Alex had the feeling that all hell was about to break loose.
Chapter 2
Monday, July 14, 10:05 a.m.
Tara hadn’t figured that Alex Kirkland would give a quote on this case. He was too good a cop to let his cards show. But she had got a sense of his frustration. It did bother him that Kit’s case had never been solved.
And she couldn’t resist seeing for herself that he was truly on the mend. She’d kept tabs on him while he was in the hospital recovering from the shooting that had shocked everyone.
Kirkland had been shot during a routine investigation. He and Detective Matthew Brady had gone to the home of a wealthy doctor to ask him questions about his wife’s suspicious death. The doctor had answered the front door armed with a loaded shotgun. According to Brady, Kirkland had reacted instantly. He’d pushed Brady out of harm’s way as he’d drawn his own gun. The doctor had fired, hitting Kirkland in the chest and thigh. The buckshot had nicked the femoral artery in his leg and punctured his lung. Kirkland had fallen to the ground but had fired his own weapon. The single shot had killed the doctor.
The entire exchange had happened in a split second, but Brady recognized that Kirkland was in bad shape. He was still conscious but in terrible pain and bleeding badly. Kirkland had nearly bled out before the paramedics got him to the hospital.
Three days after Kirkland’s shooting, Tara had snuck onto the ICU floor at Boston General. She’d told the doctors she’d been checking on Kirkland’s progress for a follow-up article on the shooting. They’d allowed her to peer through the glass walls of his room.
What she saw nearly took her breath away. He’d been lying in the hospital bed, as pale as his sheets and barely conscious. There’d been so many wires hooked up to him. The sight had shocked her. She’d not had the nerve to go into his room, but had lingered several feet back. The doctor had said that the injury would have killed most.
Now, despite the July heat, the memory still had the power to send chills down Tara’s spine.
With an effort, she tried to focus on the fact that he looked good now. His tall, lean frame remained taught and muscular. Time in the sun had left his skin tanned and his newly cut brown hair a shade lighter. He looked good. Real good.
She parallel-parked her beat-up white Toyota on the exclusive, tree-lined Beacon Hill side street. This exclusive area of Boston screamed old money and privilege. And it set her nerves on edge.
She shut off the car engine. She didn’t do well with snobby, rich people. They made her feel awkward and somehow less because she didn’t have blue blood in her veins. Intellectually, she understood this was stupid, a reaction to a sad episode in her past, but no amount of inner pep talks quite erased her feeling of inferiority.
Skimming fingers over her ponytail, she reminded herself that she’d been a reporter for nine years and had interviewed some of the most powerful and dangerous people in Washington, D.C. and Boston. She’d written about politicians, murderers, arsonists and sophisticated white-collar crooks. An old rich guy living on Beacon Hill wasn’t going to throw her off her game.
Tara pocketed her keys and grabbed her briefcase, slid out of the car and closed the door. Halfway down the block her cell phone rang. She dug the phone out of her purse. Caller ID confirmed it was her editor, Miriam Spangler.
Tara flipped the phone open. “I am on my way to Landover’s as we speak, Miriam.”
“Remember, don’t piss him off.” Miriam’s voice was gruff, a product of thirty years of chain smoking. “His family is as powerful as the Kennedy clan. Rile him up and there could be hell to pay.”
That comment irritated Tara. “I can handle myself, Miriam.”
“You do have a temper, sweetie. It’s why you left D.C.”
“It’s one of the reasons I left D.C. And I’ve learned my lesson.”
As if she hadn’t spoken, Miriam said, “Don’t push this too hard. If Landover says to drop it, drop it.”
Tara’s blood shot past the boiling point in a second. “Yesterday you were salivating when I showed you the mock-up of the article and pitched the idea.”
Miriam blew smoke into the receiver. “I had all night and most of this morning to conjure a thousand devastating scenarios in my head. Most of them included me without a job or a pension. If and when this article runs, it’s going to be dicey.”
Tara muttered a few choice words. “When did you get to be so timid?”
“Since I realized I’m two years away from collecting a full pension.”
Frustration fueled Tara’s anger. “My readership has been growing steadily, and this is the kind of story that will hit home with them. Remember, you gave me the go-ahead to look into Kit Westgate Landover’s case.”
“I know. I know.”
“Think about it, Miriam. This is the stuff of Pulitzers. Network news coverage. Book deals. When I go to the top I’ll be telling everyone you were the star editor behind me. I will make you famous and position you for your own book deal.”
Miriam sighed. “We both know I didn’t want to fade quietly into retirement.”
She smiled, knowing she’d hit all Miriam’s hot buttons. “Exactly.”
“All right. Go for it. But please just be careful, Tara.”
“I will be fine.” Tara closed her cell and shoved it in her briefcase as she reached Landover’s house. Standing on the sidewalk, she stared up at the corner-lot mansion. The home had been built in the seventeen hundreds and was steeped in history. This had always been an exclusive pricey area of Boston, but in today’s market this place was worth a king’s ransom.
She climbed the stone steps to the black, lacquered front door. A pineapple brass door knocker hung in the door’s center.
Tara rapped the knocker twice against the massive door. The sound echoed inside the house. She moistened her lips and stood a little straighter.
Miriam’s and Kirkland’s words nagged her as she tried not to fidget. They were right. She had a hot head. Back in D.C., she probably shouldn’t have called that senator an idiot. But she was smart enough to learn from her mistakes. She could handle Pierce Landover if she could get in to see him.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway inside. If her luck held, she’d get Landover’s maid, or someone else who didn’t know her. She then might be able to get into the house and maybe see Landover. There’d been times in the past when she’d talked her way into situations and gotten great quotes.
But there’d also been times when she’d been tossed out and threatened with legal action.
That could be today’s scenario if Cecilia Reston, Landover’s personal assistant for the last twenty-five years, answered the door. Reston protected her employer with the ferocity of a bulldog. And she’d have no trouble reporting Tara to the cops.
Tara glanced at her black flats and, seeing dust on them, quickly rubbed them against the panty hose under her pant leg.
The door opened to a very young woman dressed in a maid’s outfit. She had dark, straight hair pulled back with a rubber band and big brown eyes that telegraphed naïveté. “Yes?”
Tara smiled brightly. “I’m Tara Mackey. I have an appointment with Mr. Landover.”
The young maid frowned as if confused. “I didn’t realize he was seeing people today. Are you here about the clothes he’s giving away?”
Tara wasn’t sure what she was talking about. “Clothes?”
“His wife’s clothes. He’s giving all her gowns away to charity.”
“Ah, yes. She had such stunning gowns. We have a ten-thirty appointment to discuss the gowns,” she said without blinking.
The maid nodded and stepped aside. “If you’ll wait here.”
Tara’s heart jumped, but she kept her cool as she stepped inside. “Thank you.”
So Landover was giving away Kit’s dresses. Was it a sign that the old man was moving on with his life?
The maid hurried up the carpeted spiral staircase and down the upstairs hallway. Her footsteps faded away. Tara was left alone in the foyer.
She studied the marbled foyer’s black-and-white polished floor. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling and caught the morning sunlight, which streamed in through a transom above the door. Across from the door stood an antique Chippendale table pushed against the wall. On the table sat a Chinese vase filled with fragrant, freshly cut roses. The understated decor was all very elegant and expensive and not to her taste at all. She liked simple and unpretentious pieces that were often used and had a quirky history.
To her left, a set of tall mahogany doors stood ajar, giving her a peek into the receiving parlor. Unable to resist, she moved to the open door and looked inside. Immediately her gaze was drawn to the huge painting of Kit that hung over the brick fireplace. In the portrait, Kit wore a soft pink strapless dress that cloaked her lithe body like a second skin. Her blond hair was swept up into a chignon, and a stunning diamond pendant necklace dipped into her full cleavage. Teardrop gems dangled from her ears, and a thick diamond bracelet circled her wrist. Tara recognized the gems in the portrait. They were the ones Kit had been wearing on her wedding day—the ones that had vanished with her and were reported to be worth fifteen million dollars.
Tara glanced up the staircase to see if anyone could see her. Satisfied that she was alone, she pulled out her cell phone, quickly snapped a picture.
The sound of footsteps on the landing had her stepping back into the foyer. She jammed her cell phone into her briefcase.
“May I help you?”
Tara turned to find a stern-looking woman descending the stairs. Dark brown hair was swept tightly back and accentuated sharp brown eyes. She wore a silk blouse, linen pants and high-heeled shoes.
“That’s a stunning portrait of Mrs. Landover,” Tara said. There was no sense hiding the fact that she’d been caught peeking.
The woman lifted a thin eyebrow as if she did not approve. “My name is Mrs. Reston. What can I do for you?”
Tara mentally regrouped. So much for getting in to see the old man today. “I’m Tara Mackey. I’m with the Globe. I spoke to you earlier about an appointment with Mr. Landover.”
Mrs. Reston’s lips flattened into a thin line. “I told you on the phone that Mr. Landover doesn’t speak with reporters.”
Tara smiled, trying not to look the least bit deterred. “I would only need about five or ten minutes of his time.”
Mrs. Reston quickly slid a bony finger under her pearl necklace. “No.”
“The one-year anniversary of his wife’s disappearance is coming up next week.” From her briefcase she pulled out the mock-up of her article. “The Globe is going to do a story about Kit Westgate. The hope is to spark the public’s interest. Maybe someone will come forward with new information about what happened to Kit. Either way, we’d love Mr. Landover’s comments for the piece.”
Thin lips dipped into a frown as Reston stared at the glowing picture of Kit. Jealousy burned in her eyes. Reston had clearly hated Kit. “No reporter has cared a wit for Mr. Landover or all the good works he’s done since Kit Westgate came into his life. Everyone just cared about her. Why can’t your type leave him alone?”
The your type comment had Tara bristling, but she kept her cool. “I just want to ask him a couple of questions. I only need a few minutes of his time.”
“I know Kit Westgate is just a story to you, but she devastated Mr. Landover’s life. The woman was in league with the devil as far as I’m concerned. And frankly, I don’t care if we ever find out what happened to her. Drop this story.”
The show of emotion interested Tara. “You really hated her, didn’t you?”
Mrs. Reston hesitated, realizing she’d let too much of her emotions show through her stoic Boston reserve. “Leave this house before I call the police and have you arrested for trespassing. And don’t ever come back here or try to speak to Mr. Landover again.”