Loving Again: Book 2 in the Second Chance series (Crimson Romance) by Peggy Bird Page A
Authors: Peggy Bird
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facility was only a small portion of the operation. The factory, where the glass was made, took up most of the space.
Although the retail store was closed while the police continued their investigation, the owners showed up early, too, to be on hand to answer more questions for the police, their employees and to cancel classes for the day. They brought coffee and scones and made space available on the second floor overlooking the murder site so Sam and his partner could continue their interviews.
The detectives asked each person about any possible problems Eubie Kane and Robin Jordan had recently had. Little they heard about the young instructor helped. She was single with no local family, loved her job, and was a good teacher and a skilled artist. She seemed to have no enemies.
Only two interesting pieces of information surfaced. The first was that recently she’d been wearing an expensive-looking gold bracelet. Sam had seen it on her body, another sign, he thought, that the motive for the murders was not robbery. One of her colleagues thought it was a gift from her new boyfriend — the second piece of information. Robin had been secretive about him, not wanting to jinx the budding relationship, she said. The only thing the woman who reported it knew was Robin had met him at a nearby coffee shop about two or three months before.
Eubie Kane was quite a different story. If he didn’t have enemies, he didn’t have many friends either. Described by more than one person as petulant and over-sensitive, his only connection with Robin Jordan seemed to be that he’d been in a couple of her classes. Robin’s friends laughed at the idea he might be her new boyfriend, saying he wasn’t her type and he certainly couldn’t afford that gold bracelet.
Since a good portion of the staff working the retail store had been witness to it, both detectives heard versions of Kane’s confrontation with Amanda St. Claire. Most of it tracked what Amanda had told Sam weeks before — for no reason anyone could figure out, Kane had threatened to sue her for stealing his ideas.
Last, they heard about Kane having a run-in with a gallery owner. Everyone assumed it was the owner of one of the two galleries where he showed his work: The Fairchild Gallery in Portland or He Sells Seashells, at the coast.
Leaving his partner to finish up the interviews, Sam returned to Central Precinct where he found waiting for him the list of what had been in Eubie Kane’s pockets and Robin Jordan’s purse. The only thing interesting was from Kane’s pocket — a piece of paper torn in two on which the words “ Not only no but hell no ” were written. The message was on the back of a piece of brown paper on which there was part of a shipping label. Sam called the gallery on the label but got voice mail. He left a message asking for a return call.
A report on the fingerprints on the weapon found with the bodies, which was also on his desk, was more problematic.
Sam knocked on the open door to Christopher Angel’s office. The lieutenant in charge of the homicide detectives in Central Precinct was on the phone but signaled Sam in and waved him to a chair while he wrapped up the conversation.
A fifty-six-year-old, tall, slim man with dark hair shot through with the white he swore came from parenting five daughters rather than his work, Angel had been in his job for four years. His solve rate was impressive, the press loved him, and the Chief relied on his impeccable instincts about both homicide and public relations. His detectives had a nickname for him — L.T. The casual use of the initials was less about their recognition of his rank than a sign of their regard for him.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said as he hung up. That was the Chief passing along a message from the mayor. Mr. Mayor wants Kane/Jordan cleared quickly so it doesn’t, and I’m quoting here, ‘give the business community the impression that it’s not safe to operate in
Although the retail store was closed while the police continued their investigation, the owners showed up early, too, to be on hand to answer more questions for the police, their employees and to cancel classes for the day. They brought coffee and scones and made space available on the second floor overlooking the murder site so Sam and his partner could continue their interviews.
The detectives asked each person about any possible problems Eubie Kane and Robin Jordan had recently had. Little they heard about the young instructor helped. She was single with no local family, loved her job, and was a good teacher and a skilled artist. She seemed to have no enemies.
Only two interesting pieces of information surfaced. The first was that recently she’d been wearing an expensive-looking gold bracelet. Sam had seen it on her body, another sign, he thought, that the motive for the murders was not robbery. One of her colleagues thought it was a gift from her new boyfriend — the second piece of information. Robin had been secretive about him, not wanting to jinx the budding relationship, she said. The only thing the woman who reported it knew was Robin had met him at a nearby coffee shop about two or three months before.
Eubie Kane was quite a different story. If he didn’t have enemies, he didn’t have many friends either. Described by more than one person as petulant and over-sensitive, his only connection with Robin Jordan seemed to be that he’d been in a couple of her classes. Robin’s friends laughed at the idea he might be her new boyfriend, saying he wasn’t her type and he certainly couldn’t afford that gold bracelet.
Since a good portion of the staff working the retail store had been witness to it, both detectives heard versions of Kane’s confrontation with Amanda St. Claire. Most of it tracked what Amanda had told Sam weeks before — for no reason anyone could figure out, Kane had threatened to sue her for stealing his ideas.
Last, they heard about Kane having a run-in with a gallery owner. Everyone assumed it was the owner of one of the two galleries where he showed his work: The Fairchild Gallery in Portland or He Sells Seashells, at the coast.
Leaving his partner to finish up the interviews, Sam returned to Central Precinct where he found waiting for him the list of what had been in Eubie Kane’s pockets and Robin Jordan’s purse. The only thing interesting was from Kane’s pocket — a piece of paper torn in two on which the words “ Not only no but hell no ” were written. The message was on the back of a piece of brown paper on which there was part of a shipping label. Sam called the gallery on the label but got voice mail. He left a message asking for a return call.
A report on the fingerprints on the weapon found with the bodies, which was also on his desk, was more problematic.
Sam knocked on the open door to Christopher Angel’s office. The lieutenant in charge of the homicide detectives in Central Precinct was on the phone but signaled Sam in and waved him to a chair while he wrapped up the conversation.
A fifty-six-year-old, tall, slim man with dark hair shot through with the white he swore came from parenting five daughters rather than his work, Angel had been in his job for four years. His solve rate was impressive, the press loved him, and the Chief relied on his impeccable instincts about both homicide and public relations. His detectives had a nickname for him — L.T. The casual use of the initials was less about their recognition of his rank than a sign of their regard for him.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said as he hung up. That was the Chief passing along a message from the mayor. Mr. Mayor wants Kane/Jordan cleared quickly so it doesn’t, and I’m quoting here, ‘give the business community the impression that it’s not safe to operate in
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