Cold Target by Patricia; Potter

replaced.”
    He shrugged. “There’s not a lock that can’t be breached by someone who really wants to get in. I could probably break into any house in this city. And I’m not nearly as good as some of the burglars who operate here.”
    â€œThat’s encouraging,” she said dryly.
    â€œThe detective should have explained the facts of city life.
    â€œPerhaps he thought I should have realized them.”
    â€œI’ll have to have a talk with Morris.”
    She raised her eyes and met his. “How did you know it was Detective Morris?”
    â€œI checked,” he said equably.
    â€œDid he meet your approval?” she said, unable to prevent a twitch of a smile.
    â€œHe’s okay.”
    From the sound of his voice, that was probably his highest praise.
    â€œI’m glad you approve.”
    It was a snippy reply, but she reacted to the arrogant assumption that she couldn’t take care of herself. She’d always prided herself on handling her own problems. Mixed with that was a traitorous jolt of pleasure that he had taken the trouble.
    Faint amusement crossed his face. “Except I would have explained about the locks,” he added.
    â€œI didn’t give him a chance. I was somewhat rattled.”
    â€œI would have been more than rattled,” he replied.
    That unexpected admission really did rattle her. “I’m sorry. I’m really tired and—” It was intended as a brush-off.
    He didn’t take the subtle invitation to leave.
    â€œWhy don’t you stay with a family member? Or a friend?”
    Because she didn’t have anyone? She wasn’t going to admit that to him. “That’s not your concern.”
    He raised an eyebrow and she wondered why she was so short with him. Possibly because his presence was so strong, even overwhelming.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she said. “I’m tired. In any event, I thought you wanted to talk about the Prescott case.”
    He took a big bite of sandwich, chewed slowly, then sat back in his chair. “Do you remember him?”
    â€œBarely. He was a friend of my father.”
    â€œDo you recall where you were when he was killed?”
    â€œI was on a class trip to Washington, but I don’t understand why—”
    â€œI’m just talking to everyone who saw him during the days before his murder,” he said. “Your father couldn’t see me today. I thought you might remember something.”
    â€œI was only sixteen.”
    â€œSometimes you don’t realize that you do know something.”
    She didn’t reply, choosing to take another bite of sandwich instead.
    â€œWas Prescott at your home frequently?”
    â€œI truly don’t know. I was usually studying and avoided most of the social gatherings at my house. I remember seeing him. I don’t remember anything more than that.”
    â€œYour impressions of him?”
    â€œI didn’t like him,” she said flatly, “but then, to be honest, I didn’t care for many of my father’s friends.”
    A startled look crossed his face, then a slow, appreciative grin that sparked a frisson of pleasure in her before he continued, “Did you hear your father say anything about his murder?”
    â€œNo. He didn’t talk to me about things like that.”
    â€œWhat did he talk to you about?”
    â€œI think that’s between him and me,” she said tartly, wishing he would smile again. It transformed his stark face. She remembered when she had questioned Gaynor years ago and realized how he’d probably felt—like a butterfly on a pin—even though there was nothing to hide.
    She knew he was fishing. She also knew that’s what detectives did on cold cases. And it was logical to start with her father, who had been a close friend of Prescott’s and seen him last. Still, she couldn’t imagine her father having any knowledge of a murder.