Megan. Gently lower the painting
to the floor and back away.
Back away? she repeated, her voice reedy.
He took her by the shoulders. Lower the painting.
Slowly, she let it fall, and the painting came to a rest on the floor of her closet. She stepped back, allowing him to propel her toward the front door. He captured her outstretched hand before she could touch the knob.
Weve contaminated the scene enough, he said, and pulled out a pair of rubber gloves. He slipped one on and opened the door.
When they cleared the threshold, he used his cell phone to call dispatch.
Megan looked so small and vulnerable. He resisted the urge to take her in his arms. He had to stay objective. Well wait for the CSI team.
And then?
Regret lay heavy across his shoulders. Then I have to take you in.
MILLS & BOON
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TERRI REED
At an early age Terri Reed discovered the wonderful world of fiction and declared she would one day write a book. Now she is fulfilling that dream and enjoys writing for Steeple Hill Books. Her second book, A Sheltering Love, was a 2006 RITA® Award Finalist and a 2005 National Readers Choice Award Finalist. Her book Strictly Confidential, book five of the Faith at the Crossroads continuity series, took third place in the 2007 American Christian Fiction Writers Book of the Year Award. She is an active member of both Romance Writers of America and American Christian Fiction Writers. She resides in the Pacific Northwest with her college-sweetheart husband, two wonderful children and an array of critters. When not writing, she enjoys spending time with her family and friends, gardening and playing with her dogs.
You can write to Terri at P.O. Box 19555, Portland, OR 97280, visit her on the Web at www.loveinspiredauthors.com, or leave comments on her blog at http://ladiesofsuspense.blogspot.com/.
Terri Reed
DOUBLE THREAT Christmas
Every good thing bestowed and every perfect gift
is from above, coming down from the Father of
lights, with whom there is no variation,
or shifting shadows.
James 1:17
To my family, for putting up with the long hours
at the keyboard. I love you all.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
EPILOGUE
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
ONE
I didnt kill those men!
The declaration so angrily delivered by the petite curator of New York Citys Sinclair Art Gallery held more sincerity than most perps.
Even so, homicide detective Paul Wallace barely managed to contain his scoff. Hed heard those exact words way too many times during the course of his law-enforcement career.
And denial was the fallback in every situation for most suspects.
Even suspects as lovely as Megan McClain.
Upscale all the way in her well-fitting, short-sleeved red dress and intricately patterned black pumps. Not exactly attire suited for the December snowstorm raging outside. She probably had a change of clothes stashed for the trek homea planner.
Paul gauged her height at five feet five without the two-inch heels. She was about a hundred and ten pounds of slopes and angles. Raven-black hair fell past her shoulders, and her vivid blue eyes, the pupils dilated slightly, were set symmetrically within her pale, heart-shaped face.
The rapid beat of her heart was evident at the carotid pulse point on her graceful neck. Was she experiencing shock or remorse?
Paul glanced around, quickly assessing and cataloging the crime scene. Beyond the faintest trace of spent gunpowder and the coppery odor of blood, he detected a citruslike scent. On the yellow walls of the room they stood in, painted works of art were hung, and little display lights threw a glow on the framed pieces, creating a half circle of light on the floor beneath the bodies.
He noted that across the top threshold of each doorway, leading to other rooms full of artwork, a black seam hid a gate that would drop down if the security system was activated. Those gates were up. No alarm had been sounded. High in the corner of the room was a security monitor.
Pulling his focus back to Ms. McClain, he shrugged out of his overcoat and laid it across the crook of one arm.
Did you hear me, Detective? she demanded, all spitfire and ready to explode. Why would I call 911 if Id killed them?
Paul ignored her question as irrelevant, because too often the perpetrator of a crime was also the one to call 911 in an attempt to deflect the police from looking too closely at themselves. He would consider Megan McClain a suspect/potential witness, until he knew more.
Detective Wallace, he supplied, and flipped open his notebook to reread what hed already learned from the responding officer. You were read your Miranda rights. Do you fully understand these rights?
She waved an impatient hand. Yes, of course.
Good. So you were working here alone. Is that correct?
Yes. I mean no. I thought my boss was upstairs. I already went through all this with the other officer, she huffed, and pushed a lock of hair back behind her ear to reveal sparkling stones. And then again with those other people who practically strip-searched me. A shudder rippled over her.
The CSI team had performed a routine exam of her person for trace evidence, checking her hands for gunpowder residue, taking any out-of-place fibers off her clothing and looking for blood droplets that would match the victims. The team had done their job.
Now it was his turn. Interviewing the suspects and witnesses was a vital aspect of any investigation, especially done as closely to the crime as possible while the persons memory was fresh and they hadnt had time to embellish or minimize any details.
I understand that, maam. Nevertheless, I need you to go through it again with me, Paul explained.
Hed look for inconsistencies in her account of the events and for ways to dig deeper and sift truth from lies.
She blinked her long lashes. Fine. My assistant had an appointment, so shed left early. I was alone in the workroom preparing the Wahlberer painting for transport when Mr. Drake She gestured to one of the two dead men lying on the floor to the right.
Ms. McClain seemed momentarily frozen as she stared at the dark-haired man sprawled on the shining cherrywood floor. A pair of long-handled sheers protruded from the mans gut, and blood spilled out to stain the floor a deep crimson. The click and flash of the CSI techs camera documenting the death echoed in the room along with the hushed whispers of those working the scene.
A stabbing indicated a crime of passion.
Mr. Drake came in Paul prompted, wondering if there was enough fire in her blood to make her commit murder.
She turned sharply back to him, visibly refocusing, her breathing a bit irregular. Mr. Drake arrived early. He wasnt due for another fifteen minutes. I wasnt ready. I asked him to wait in the red room.
Paul arched an eyebrow. The red room?
She made a sweeping gesture with one elegant hand toward the doorways. The different art collections are housed in separate rooms. Each room is color-coded.
I see. So Mr. Drake went into the red room.
No. She pointed to the other vic lying a few feet away. HeMr. Vanderpoolstormed in even before Mr. Drake had taken five steps.
Vanderpool was as Nordic as they came with his white-blond hair and large features. His wounds were consistent with a gunshot wound. But they wouldnt know for certain until the medical examiner did the autopsy.
You say he stormed in? Why do you say it like that? Paul watched her closely, gauging her response.
Would her gaze dart upward and to the right, searching for a fabrication, or would her eyes go up and to the left, recalling events and words of description?
She stared straight at him with those eerily blue, sharply intelligent eyes, no shifting, no blinking. Mr. Vanderpool and Mr. Drake both wanted the Wahlberer painting. At the auction last night both men created quite a stir when they tried to outbid each other. Mr. Vanderpool stormed in claiming the painting was supposed to be his.
She gave a look that spoke volumes of how dumbfounded she was by the mens behavior. I thought it strange that either would find the painting that valuable since Wahlberer is so new to the art world. She gave a delicate shrug of her slim shoulders. People who are passionate about art are an eclectic breed.
Paul wouldnt know since he wasnt much interested in art. His focus was on contributing to society by getting the job done and putting away the bad guys. And where is this Wahlberer now?
The painting had not been found in the workroom as shed claimed it should be.
Her mouth pressed into a thin line. I dont know. I last saw it in the workroom on the table, wrapped in brown packaging. I hadnt yet put the string across to secure it before I was interrupted.
By Mr. Drake?
Yes. By Mr. Drake. Frustration clearly marked her words.
What was your relationship with Mr. Drake?
She stared at him aghast. There was no relationship. He bought art through the gallery. Thats it.
Her denial rang true. How much is the painting worth?
Mr. Drake bought the painting for a hundred thousand dollars.
Ah. Motivation enough for someone to kill and steal. Even an art curator. He made a note to check into Megans finances. Who knew that Mr. Drake was coming to pick up the painting?
The staff. But none of them would do this, she protested, her lip quivering.
That remained to be seen. You left the painting on the table.
Yes.
He noticed she didnt fidget or hedge.
When she remained silent he pressed, And then?
I went to find my boss, Lester Sinclair. I thought he was in his office upstairs. But he wasnt.
Did you knock or just go in? Hed have the CSI team check out the second floor and hall for any trace evidence.
She folded her hands together in front of her. He noted her nails were short and her skin red and dry. As if shed scrubbed at them. Possibly washing away blood? He made a note of his observation on his notepad.
I knocked first and then I went in. His office was empty, she stated, her voice curiously flat.
Is there a back way from the offices upstairs to the gallery floor?
Two little lines appeared between her black arched eyebrows. Yes. Theres another staircase that leads to the back of the gallery, near the restrooms. Horror filled her expression. But you cant think Mr. Sinclair could have done this. Hes nearly seventy years old. Why would he commit such a heinous crime? She tugged her bottom lip between her white, straight teeth.
He arched his eyebrow. If youre sure he wasnt in the building, then whyd you go looking for him?
I didnt know he wasnt in the building at the time, she replied, her eyes widening, expressing her agitation. Only now I know.
And you didnt hear anything?
I heard the gunshots. She blinked rapidly as if to hold back tears. I ran back downstairs and found them. My scissors were in Mr. Drakes stomach. She shuddered.
Practiced at not being moved by displays of emotion, he consulted his notes again. Gunshots? As in more than one?
She nodded with certainty. Yes. Two.
He made a note to tell the crime-scene techs to look for a stray bullet since they had only one GSW. And your assistant, Lacy Knight, had an appointment. Where?
She shook her head; her dark hair swayed slightly. I dont know. I dont keep tabs on her or the other employees.
How many employees were here today and when did they leave? he probed.
Without hesitation, she answered, Joanie, the receptionist, left at five as always. Donny and George are the daytime security guards. They both left at six.
The call came in to 911 at five minutes to seven. There was no night-shift guard?
Usually there is. She frowned, her pert little nose crinkling slightly. But Mack didnt show. Lacy said he called in sick. Mr. Sinclair was going to get a temp from the security company we use but I didnt hear what happened with that.
Well need the names and numbers for all the employees.
Youll have to talk to Mr. Sinclair, she stated as her gaze fixated on the men from the coroners office as they began to remove the two bodies from the gallery floor.
Paul positioned himself in her line of vision. He wanted to keep her focused. Is there an exit through the workroom to the outside?
Giving herself a little shake, she shifted her bright blue gaze to him. Yes. But its locked. If anyone had come in or out, the alarm would have gone off. And the security camera would record it.
Well need the video feed on the camera from the time of the murders, Paul said.
Youll have to talk to Mr. Sinclair about that.
Hey, Wallace, Andy Howell, Pauls partner for the past six months, called from the doorway to the workroom. Hed also taken off his overcoat to reveal his navy suit, one most detectives couldnt afford, but Andys wife owned a clothing shop and liked her husband to dress well.
More than six feet tall, Andy had once been a college basketball player until he blew out a knee. He still had a slight limp, but Paul wouldnt trust his back to anyone else. In the short time theyd been partnered, Paul had come to admire and respect Andy.
We found the other murder weapon, Andy stated as he approached.