Some sporty foreign job that still smelled new. She was never any good with makes and models. “Come on, Slick, it’s part of the act.”
He caught himself before he could speak again. He was making a fool of himself. His own investigation had verified that both morning men were married, with tidy homes in the suburbs. Frantic Fred and his wife were expecting their first child. Both men had been with KHIP for nearly three years,and he’d found no cross-reference between their pasts and Cilla’s.
Relaxing as the music began, Cilla gazed out the window. The day promised to be warm and sunny. Perhaps this would be the first hint of spring. And her first spring in Colorado. She had a weakness for the season, for watching the leaves bud and grow, the flowers bloom.
Yet in spring she would always think of Georgia. The magnolias, the camellias, the wisterias. All those heady scents.
She remembered a spring when she’d been five or six. Planting peonies with her father on a warm Saturday morning while the radio counted down the Top 40 hits of the week. Hearing the birds without really listening, feeling the damp earth under her hands. He’d told her they would bloom spring after spring and that she would be able to see them from her window.
She wondered if they were still there—if whoever lived in that house cared for them.
“Cilla?”
She snapped back. “What?”
“Are you all right?”
“Sure, I’m fine.” She focused on her surroundings. There were big trees that would shade in the summer, trimmed hedges for privacy. A long, gently sloping hill led to a graceful three-story house fashioned from stone and wood. Dozens of tall, slender windows winked in the sunlight. “Where are we?”
“My house. I’ve got to change, remember?”
“Your house?” she repeated.
“Right. Everyone has to live somewhere.”
True enough, she thought as she pushed the door open. But none of the cops she had ever known had lived so well. A long look around showed her that the neighborhood was old, established and wealthy. A country-club neighborhood.
Disconcerted, she followed Boyd up a stone path to an arched door outlined in etched glass.
Inside, the foyer was wide, the floors a gleaming cherry, the ceilings vaulted. On the walls were paintings by prominent twentieth-century artists. A sweep of stairway curved up to the second floor.
“Well,” she said. “And I thought you were an honest cop.”
“I am.” He slipped the coat from her shoulders to toss it over the railing.
She had no doubts as to his honesty, but the house and all it represented made her nervous. “And I suppose you inherited all this from a rich uncle.”
“Grandmother.” Taking her arm, he led her through a towering arch. The living room was dominated by a stone fireplace topped with a heavy carved mantel. But the theme of the room was light, with a trio of windows set in each outside wall.
There was a scattering of antiques offset by modern sculpture. She could see what she thought was a dining room through another arch.
“That must have been some grandmother.”
“She was something. She ran Fletcher Industries until she hit seventy.”
“And what is Fletcher Industries?”
He shrugged. “Family business. Real estate, cattle, mining.”
“Mining.” She blew out a breath. “Like gold?”
“Among other things.”
She linked her fingers together to keep from biting her nails. “So why aren’t you counting your gold instead of being a cop?”
“I like being a cop.” He took her restless hand in his. “Something wrong?”
“No. You’d better change. I have to be there early to prep.”
“I won’t be long.”
She waited until he had gone before she sank onto one of the twin sofas. Fletcher Industries, she thought. It sounded important. Even prominent. After digging in her bag for a cigarette, she studied the room again.
Elegant, tasteful, easily rich. And way out of her league.
It had been difficult enough when
He caught himself before he could speak again. He was making a fool of himself. His own investigation had verified that both morning men were married, with tidy homes in the suburbs. Frantic Fred and his wife were expecting their first child. Both men had been with KHIP for nearly three years,and he’d found no cross-reference between their pasts and Cilla’s.
Relaxing as the music began, Cilla gazed out the window. The day promised to be warm and sunny. Perhaps this would be the first hint of spring. And her first spring in Colorado. She had a weakness for the season, for watching the leaves bud and grow, the flowers bloom.
Yet in spring she would always think of Georgia. The magnolias, the camellias, the wisterias. All those heady scents.
She remembered a spring when she’d been five or six. Planting peonies with her father on a warm Saturday morning while the radio counted down the Top 40 hits of the week. Hearing the birds without really listening, feeling the damp earth under her hands. He’d told her they would bloom spring after spring and that she would be able to see them from her window.
She wondered if they were still there—if whoever lived in that house cared for them.
“Cilla?”
She snapped back. “What?”
“Are you all right?”
“Sure, I’m fine.” She focused on her surroundings. There were big trees that would shade in the summer, trimmed hedges for privacy. A long, gently sloping hill led to a graceful three-story house fashioned from stone and wood. Dozens of tall, slender windows winked in the sunlight. “Where are we?”
“My house. I’ve got to change, remember?”
“Your house?” she repeated.
“Right. Everyone has to live somewhere.”
True enough, she thought as she pushed the door open. But none of the cops she had ever known had lived so well. A long look around showed her that the neighborhood was old, established and wealthy. A country-club neighborhood.
Disconcerted, she followed Boyd up a stone path to an arched door outlined in etched glass.
Inside, the foyer was wide, the floors a gleaming cherry, the ceilings vaulted. On the walls were paintings by prominent twentieth-century artists. A sweep of stairway curved up to the second floor.
“Well,” she said. “And I thought you were an honest cop.”
“I am.” He slipped the coat from her shoulders to toss it over the railing.
She had no doubts as to his honesty, but the house and all it represented made her nervous. “And I suppose you inherited all this from a rich uncle.”
“Grandmother.” Taking her arm, he led her through a towering arch. The living room was dominated by a stone fireplace topped with a heavy carved mantel. But the theme of the room was light, with a trio of windows set in each outside wall.
There was a scattering of antiques offset by modern sculpture. She could see what she thought was a dining room through another arch.
“That must have been some grandmother.”
“She was something. She ran Fletcher Industries until she hit seventy.”
“And what is Fletcher Industries?”
He shrugged. “Family business. Real estate, cattle, mining.”
“Mining.” She blew out a breath. “Like gold?”
“Among other things.”
She linked her fingers together to keep from biting her nails. “So why aren’t you counting your gold instead of being a cop?”
“I like being a cop.” He took her restless hand in his. “Something wrong?”
“No. You’d better change. I have to be there early to prep.”
“I won’t be long.”
She waited until he had gone before she sank onto one of the twin sofas. Fletcher Industries, she thought. It sounded important. Even prominent. After digging in her bag for a cigarette, she studied the room again.
Elegant, tasteful, easily rich. And way out of her league.
It had been difficult enough when
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