Cold Case Cop by Mary Burton Page A

settled between the four, and finally Robert cleared his throat.
    “Tara,” Alex said. “Ready to see my sailboat? I did promise you a tour.”
    She grinned brightly at him. “I thought you’d forgotten.”
    Alex glanced at Stanford. “If you’ll excuse us.”
    Stanford nodded. “Sure.”
    Alex didn’t bother with goodbyes, and seemed glad to see them go. He escorted her through the crowded room out onto the club’s patio. Stars twinkled in the sky above and danced on the calm waters of the bay. The air was warm but had lost the biting heat of midday.
    Outside, Tara felt as if she could breathe. She stared out on the water at the sailboats moored on the docks. Their sails were down for the evening and their tall masts jutted proudly toward the sky. Most of the boats looked as if they could sleep eight to ten people.
    Tara took a long sip of her beer. “So who told you about Robert?”
    “My grandmother,” Alex said without apology. He stood close to her, staring out over the water.
    “Good news travels fast.”
    “If it’s any consolation, Stanford is an idiot.”
    That did make her smile. “Thanks. And thanks again for being a stand-in date.”
    “No problem, Mackey.” He sipped his beer.
    “So do you really have a boat?”
    “I do.”
    “Which one is yours?”
    “The one at the far end.” She followed his outstretched arm out to a seventy-four-foot boat moored in the last slip. Teak decks and brass accents gleamed.
    “So does it sleep like twenty or thirty people?” she asked jokingly.
    “Just six. Three staterooms and three heads.”
    “Wow.” She took a long sip of her beer.
    He stared down at her as if trying to read her thoughts. “You ever been sailing?”
    “Not since Robert took me. I got seasick each time.”
    “That’s because Robert didn’t and still doesn’t know what he’s doing. You sail with me and you’ll love it.”
    She glanced up at him. His gaze held no hint of humor. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
    “Sorry?”
    “That I would like it too much.”
    A hint of a smile touched his lips. She realized several people were staring at them.
    And then Alex’s gaze rose and fixed on a point behind her. “And speak of the devil.”
    Tara turned and followed his line of sight. Pierce Landover cut through the crowd, his sights set on Tara. Alex had the urge to protect her, but checked himself. She might have appreciated the chivalrous gesture when Stanford had approached, but Landover was different. He was the man she’d come to interview and if Alex knew anything about Tara, she was a tough interviewer. Still, he decided to remain close.
    Pierce stopped beside Tara and sipped his neat single-malt scotch. “I understand you are asking questions about my late wife.”
    Tara didn’t flinch. “Yes, I am. I’m doing a story on Kit for the Boston Globe . I had a few questions for you about Kit.”
    “I make it a policy not to discuss my late wife with the media.”
    Tara’s head cocked a fraction. “You refer to Kit as your late wife. Her death was never proven. Do you believe she’s dead?”
    His lips flattened. “Yes, I do. And I’m in the process of having her declared dead. It’s time I move on with my life.”
    This was news to Alex. The last he’d heard, Pierce had vowed never to stop looking until he knew what had happened to Kit.
    “Any theories on what could have happened to her?” Tara asked.
    “Whatever I know, I shared with the police. Now do us all a favor and drop this story.”
    Tara met his gaze. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. In fact, the more people who warn me away, the more I have a tendency to dig in my heels.” She barely took a breath before asking, “Do you have any idea what happened to the gems Kit was wearing?”
    “No.” Pierce studied Tara with an assessing gaze that reminded Alex of a cat toying with a mouse before the kill. “Ms. Mackey, Tara if I may.”
    “Sure.”
    “Tara. My wife was quite unstable. Beautiful, but