drop the arrest talk, whatever we find tonight, we share. Deal?" Removing a glove, he extended his hand to seal the agreement.
Now he'd turned into Mr. Handshake! He'd turned the tables of getting caught in the act to one of mutual collaboration. Well, no way, buster! Yet after considering the words he'd chosen about "dropping the arrest talk," she wasn't exactly assuring him she wouldn't arrest him at all. It only meant she'd stop talking about it. If it came to snapping on the cuffs, she hoped he'd appreciate the subtle distinction.
"So where's the compromise, Delacorte? Sounds pretty one-sided to me."
"I had the displeasure of knowing Mickey. Can you say the same?" he challenged. When she found herself mute on the subject, he continued, "And I know computers. While you search the other rooms, I can—"
"Oh, no. I've got a specialized forensics team coming in here tomorrow to seize Blair's computer. You're not messing with my chain of custody report for any evidence found on his PC. If we come up with something of interest, I'll consider making a call to you." She glared at him, enjoying her advantage. "You haven't exactly given me a warm and fuzzy in the trust department."
Mr. Subtle let his guard down enough for her to see his resentment. His main purpose for the late-night home invasion had undoubtedly been centered on Blair's computer. Given his background, it was one of his specialties. With that not an option, she figured his "spirit of cooperation" would be in the dumper.
Raven was ready to slam the door shut on him, kicking him out on his delectable ear. But she saw this confrontation as an opportunity, one she couldn't pass up.
"Tell me why you came here. And not something I already know."
With his head down, Christian took a deep breath, deliberating her demand. Walking by her, he finally raised his chin and faced the living area with hands on his hips. She waited for his answer.
With barely a glance over his shoulder, he spoke. "I think your instincts on Mickey's lifestyle were dead-on. He subsidized his income. His closet is filled with designer duds—Armani, Versace, Dolce & Gabbana. And I can't explain it. As head of security, I know his salary. And by tomorrow, you will, too."
Turning to face her, he reluctantly continued, "We should be looking for a sniper rifle. Knowing Mickey and his field of expertise, that'd be my guess. It would be his style. But who hired him and for what purpose, I have no idea."
He hesitated for an instant, then added, "Neither does Fiona. She's in the dark about Mickey's time outside of work. I just spoke to her at home before I came here."
At first, his revelation pleased her. Christian admitted much more than she expected. Maybe this little chat had been worth the effort. She believed Mickey Blair to be a strong arm for the Dunhills, but a freelance assassin? Delacorte claimed to be unaware of Mickey's extracurricular activities—but was he? Doubt crept into her speculation. If Raven remained objective, she must consider that Christian had just tossed a red herring into the murder investigation. Even if she wanted to believe him, Fiona Dunhill herself may have kept secrets from Delacorte. But why?
His voice pulled her back. "Now you. Tell me something about this investigation I don't already know." His eyes were demanding yet skeptical.
Turnabout was fair play. But had he been honest with her? She'd expected full disclosure from him; now it was her turn for a sign of good faith. What would she offer? Once again, she trusted her gut instincts regarding the man standing before her. She looked him directly in the eye, to emphasize the risk she took.
"After your little stunt here tonight, I don't owe you anything." After she'd captured his full attention, she began. "But I will offer this. You already know Mickey's throat was cut. But there were bruises on his body. We suspect paintball pellets caused the marks." She let the theory register with him. His eyes fogged in
Now he'd turned into Mr. Handshake! He'd turned the tables of getting caught in the act to one of mutual collaboration. Well, no way, buster! Yet after considering the words he'd chosen about "dropping the arrest talk," she wasn't exactly assuring him she wouldn't arrest him at all. It only meant she'd stop talking about it. If it came to snapping on the cuffs, she hoped he'd appreciate the subtle distinction.
"So where's the compromise, Delacorte? Sounds pretty one-sided to me."
"I had the displeasure of knowing Mickey. Can you say the same?" he challenged. When she found herself mute on the subject, he continued, "And I know computers. While you search the other rooms, I can—"
"Oh, no. I've got a specialized forensics team coming in here tomorrow to seize Blair's computer. You're not messing with my chain of custody report for any evidence found on his PC. If we come up with something of interest, I'll consider making a call to you." She glared at him, enjoying her advantage. "You haven't exactly given me a warm and fuzzy in the trust department."
Mr. Subtle let his guard down enough for her to see his resentment. His main purpose for the late-night home invasion had undoubtedly been centered on Blair's computer. Given his background, it was one of his specialties. With that not an option, she figured his "spirit of cooperation" would be in the dumper.
Raven was ready to slam the door shut on him, kicking him out on his delectable ear. But she saw this confrontation as an opportunity, one she couldn't pass up.
"Tell me why you came here. And not something I already know."
With his head down, Christian took a deep breath, deliberating her demand. Walking by her, he finally raised his chin and faced the living area with hands on his hips. She waited for his answer.
With barely a glance over his shoulder, he spoke. "I think your instincts on Mickey's lifestyle were dead-on. He subsidized his income. His closet is filled with designer duds—Armani, Versace, Dolce & Gabbana. And I can't explain it. As head of security, I know his salary. And by tomorrow, you will, too."
Turning to face her, he reluctantly continued, "We should be looking for a sniper rifle. Knowing Mickey and his field of expertise, that'd be my guess. It would be his style. But who hired him and for what purpose, I have no idea."
He hesitated for an instant, then added, "Neither does Fiona. She's in the dark about Mickey's time outside of work. I just spoke to her at home before I came here."
At first, his revelation pleased her. Christian admitted much more than she expected. Maybe this little chat had been worth the effort. She believed Mickey Blair to be a strong arm for the Dunhills, but a freelance assassin? Delacorte claimed to be unaware of Mickey's extracurricular activities—but was he? Doubt crept into her speculation. If Raven remained objective, she must consider that Christian had just tossed a red herring into the murder investigation. Even if she wanted to believe him, Fiona Dunhill herself may have kept secrets from Delacorte. But why?
His voice pulled her back. "Now you. Tell me something about this investigation I don't already know." His eyes were demanding yet skeptical.
Turnabout was fair play. But had he been honest with her? She'd expected full disclosure from him; now it was her turn for a sign of good faith. What would she offer? Once again, she trusted her gut instincts regarding the man standing before her. She looked him directly in the eye, to emphasize the risk she took.
"After your little stunt here tonight, I don't owe you anything." After she'd captured his full attention, she began. "But I will offer this. You already know Mickey's throat was cut. But there were bruises on his body. We suspect paintball pellets caused the marks." She let the theory register with him. His eyes fogged in
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