Controversy (11 page)

T
hinking quickly, Frankie grabbed the remote from Joey and shut off the television.

“Isn't that the robe we chipped in for for Flex's birthday?” Sheldon asked, pointing to their baby brother's sobriquet scrawled across Kyson's heart.

Michael groaned as she sank her head deep into her palms.

“Uh, since I see you're a little busy,” Kyson said, backing up, “I'll just go back upstairs and, uh…get dressed.”

Michael didn't answer. She just kept her face buried in her hands.

Sheldon crossed her arms and answered for her younger sister. “Yeah…why don't you go do that,
Detective Dekker.
”

“Oookay,” he said. His confusion at her hostility was visible in his expression.

Three sets of eyes followed him out of the room and then rounded toward Michael, who apparently thought if she covered her face it somehow made her invisible.

“Well?” Frankie said. “Don't tell me that a cat has finally made off with your tongue.”

BAM! BAM! BAM!

Michael leaped to her feet while her heart bottomed out. “Oh my God! Who do you think that is?” she asked and then grabbed Joey's arm.

“Something tells me that it's not the Publisher's Clearing House,” Peyton said, pushing herself up on her feet.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

“Mikey, baby. You want me to get the door?” Kyson asked.

“No!” she shouted and raced out of the living room.

Her sisters stayed behind and looked at each other. “Mikey, baby?” they echoed.

Kyson frowned when Michael rushed into the foyer and had barely stepped out of the way before she ran him over.

She then planted herself before the door with her arms splayed wide. “I got this. Why don't you just go on upstairs and get dressed?”

Kyson's frown deepened. “Is everything all right?”

“What? Oh, yeah. Everything is peachy keen. Why do you ask?”

BAM! BAM! BAM!

“Ms. Adams, it's the police. Please open up.”

Kyson's expression melted and blocks of stone erected in its place. “Move out of the way, Michael.”

“No,” she said pitifully.

Her four sisters tiptoed into the foyer. Everyone's eyes darted around, waiting to see what was going to happen next.

“Ms. Adams!” the officer shouted. “We can stand here all day if you want.”

“Michael,” Kyson said sternly but patiently. “If you don't answer the door, I will.”

Michael's arms fell to her sides as her body deflated in defeat. Why did they ever get out of bed or, better yet, why had she uncuffed him from the headboard?

BAM! BAM! BAM!

Sighing, she turned around. “All right. All right. Hold your horses,” she complained and then opened the door. Immediately, her eyes flew to Detective Griffin, but this time he stood on her porch with a different partner—a thick-boned Latina with shaded eyes, crimson-stained lips and a hard jawline that made it clear she didn't take crap from anyone.

On any other day, Michael might have liked her.

“Can I help you?” Michael asked through a divided space that was just wide enough for her to poke her head through.

Griffin flashed his badge and looked as sour as his new partner. “Yes, Ms. Adams, we met three days ago? I was here asking you about your missing husband.”

“Ex,” she corrected out of habit.

“Right,” he pushed out through clenched teeth. “We've come back to ask you a few more…I don't know if you've heard—”

“I just saw the news,” she interrupted.

“Ms. Adams,” his impatient partner cut in. “Can we come in? We need to talk about a rather delicate matter,” she said matter-of-factly.

Michael definitely didn't want to let them in, but didn't see where she really had a choice. Intuition told her that either Kyson or her sisters would push her out of the way and invite them inside. If for no other reason than to pay her back for all the times she had butted into their business.

Damn it.

“Ms. Adams?”

Taking a deep breath, Michael finally relented and stepped back, pulling the door with her to allow them to enter.

Detective Griffin crossed the threshold first, but pulled up short when his eyes crashed into Dekker. “Kyson.”

“Griff.” He looked at the rookie. “Selena.”

Selena Martinez actually burst out laughing. “Oh, this is rich.” Her eyes darted around the crowded foyer. “Starting up your own harem, Dekker, or do you normally sleep with murder suspects on your day off?”

“Murder?” he thundered.

“Suspect?” Michael's sisters shouted at the same time.

Now six sets of eyes shot to Michael. “What?” she asked defensively. “I didn't kill him.”

No one said anything.

“Frankie,” Michael said, anticipating the feel of a different set of handcuffs. “I think I'm going to need those lawyers.”

 

“Did you have to kill him?” the woman asked.

“Is it my fault the man had weak bones?” the man snapped. “Besides, we've been more than patient with him. We had to show him we meant business.”

His partner swore and rolled her eyes. “But now we don't have the prototype or the money. When we show our faces to our bosses we're going to join Philip Matthews's body at the morgue.”

“It's not going to come to that,” he assured, picking up his binoculars to stare down the street at the unmarked police car outside Michael Adams's residence.

“Matthews didn't tell us exactly where our package is, but he gave us enough clues to get us started.”

“After that fiasco last night, I doubt we'll get anywhere near her—especially now that Matthews's body has been found. Cops are going to be crawling all over her.”

“We'll get to her,” he promised. “Where there's a will there's a way.”

T
he San Jose Police Department was the last place Kyson wanted to be on his vacation. And being raked across the coals about his indiscretion with Michael Adams—a
person of interest
in her ex-husband's murder case—would be a major blemish on his spotless record.

“Please try to make me understand,” Captain Rex Harris said with obvious pained restraint. “Go slow on the part where you thought it was okay to engage in sexual relations with a woman you questioned about an open missing person's case.”

The heat rising up Kyson's neck transformed into a blazing inferno by the time it reached his face. “No disrespect, Captain, but my personal life is my business.”

“I beg to differ, Detective,” Harris growled. “This is beyond whether you two are consenting adults. The fact that you met Ms. Adams during your investigation of her husband's—”

“Ex-husband,” Kyson corrected.

Harris slapped both hands against his desk and leaned forward. “Don't test my patience, Dekker.”

Kyson straightened in his chair, his temper barely in check. He knew his behavior with Michael last night breached no protocol. Questioning someone in a simple missing person's inquiry was not the same as seducing a primary suspect in a murder case—which, unfortunately, was increasingly turning out to be the case. Last night was complicated enough without throwing murder into the mix.

“Sir,” Kyson said as diplomatically as he could muster. “I know this is a bit awkward for the department—”

“You think?” Harris snapped.

“But if this is a matter of confirming Ms. Adams's whereabouts last night, we were both at Nicolino's for dinner.”

“Nice choice for a first date,” Harris drawled.

“We were with different parties, sir. I was celebrating my birthday with my brother and two, uh, friends, while Ms. Adams was at the back of the restaurant with her family. I believe she said it was her father's wedding anniversary.”

“And you saw this, did you?”

“Yes, sir. When she saw me, she came over and said hello.”

“Mighty convenient.”

“Sir, I saw when Ms. Adams left the restaurant around ten-thirty. It couldn't have been more than twenty minutes later when I also left the restaurant. I came across her, um, sort of stranded on Pacheco Pass.”

“Pacheco Pass, you say?” Harris said. “That's interesting.”

“Sir?”

“Well, it just so happens that Mr. Matthews's body was discovered off Pacheco Pass—near the reservoir.”

Kyson blinked.

“I take it you didn't know that. Don't you watch the news?”

Kyson cleared his throat, his gaze darting away. “No, sir. I didn't get a chance to see the news this morning. I was…we were, um…”

“Busy,” Harris filled in. “Yes, I got that much. Please, continue.”

Kyson cleared his throat. “Well, when I came across Ms. Adams, she was a bit hysterical.”

“Hysterical?”

Kyson licked his lips, knowing that his story was about to get a little strange. “Yes, sir. She was running up the highway saying…” He cleared his throat, but still hesitated to go on.

“Saying what, Detective?”

“That…someone was trying to kidnap her.”

Someone must have turned up the heat. Captain Harris's small office suddenly felt like a sauna. Kyson wouldn't have been surprised if small beads of sweat had appeared along his forehead.

In all the years he'd interrogated perpetrators, suspects and uncooperative witnesses, this was Kyson's first time in the hot seat himself.

“Someone tried to kidnap her,” the captain repeated as if he feared his hearing had failed.

“Yes, sir.”

Harris stood up straight and crossed his arms. “And what did you do when Ms. Adams informed you of this?”

Kyson again cleared his throat. “I drove up a stretch to where her car was located and then checked the perimeter.”

“And did you see these mysterious kidnappers?”

“Uh, no, sir. I just saw her car on the side of the road with a flat tire.”

“A flat tire?”

“Yes, sir. But I did notice the flat was a bit suspicious. It looked as if it had been slashed as opposed to being a blowout or the result of wear and tear.”

“Then what did you do, Detective?”

“I checked the area and then changed the flat. To be honest with you, I did think that she was behaving rather…”

“Odd?” Harris supplied for him.

Kyson didn't know how to answer that—not that he wanted to.

Captain Harris chuckled. “Detective, Ms. Adams has a long history with our department. I have always found her
more
than a little odd. But please, don't leave me hanging with this delightful little story.”

“Like I said, I changed the flat and then followed her home.”

“Let me get this right. A woman was screaming hysterically and running up a dark highway saying that someone was trying to kidnap her and you simply changed her flat and followed her home?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You didn't think to bring her in to file a report?”

“I tried to get her to come in a file to report, but she refused.”

“And you didn't find that strange?”

“At the time, sir, I did find it strange.” Kyson shifted in his chair.

“Uh-huh. So you followed her home, she poured you a drink and you guys fell into bed, I suppose? No offense but this sounds like a plot to a very bad skin flick.”

Kyson didn't know how he remained seated. At this very moment, he would have liked nothing more than to knock the smug look off Harris's face and then go wring Michael Adams's very lovely neck. Then again, it didn't have to be in that exact order. “It wasn't quite like that.”

“No?”

“When we arrived at her place, Ms. Adams stated that her door was open and she swore she'd locked it before she left.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that she feared there was an intruder on the premises.”

“Wow. The plot thickens.”

“I then went into the home and looked around.”

“Let me guess,” the captain said. “There was no one there.”

“No, sir.”

“Again, Ms. Adams decided to forgo filing a report?”

Kyson's answer struggled to fall from his lips. “Yes, sir. That's correct.”

“And did you find
this
behavior odd?”

“Sir, I'm starting to find some of this line of questioning offensive.”

“Good Lord.” Harris tossed up his hands. “I certainly don't want to offend you.”

The sarcastic tone silenced Kyson.

Captain Harris finally sat in his seat, his eyes locked on—up until now—one of his best detectives. “As you stated, this does put the department in an awkward position.”

“Yes, sir. I understand I won't be assigned to the case.”

“I wish it was just that simple.” Harris huffed.

“I don't understand,” Kyson said. “I'm Ms. Adams's alibi for last night.”

“Yes. That would be all well and good if Matthews was killed last night.”

Kyson blinked. “Sir?”

“According to early reports from the coroner, Philip Matthews has been dead for at least seventy-two hours.”

Kyson's heart sank like lead.

“I hate to do this, Detective Dekker, but effective immediately you are suspended until further notice. Please hand over your badge.”

 

Michael Adams's luck went from bad to worse.

Phil was dead. She drew in a deep breath and shook her head. No matter how many times those words repeated in her head, her heart had a hard time accepting it. Despite the rocky marriage, the ugly divorce and, of course, that little kidnapping thing, Michael still had feelings for her ex.

She might not have been still
in
love with him, but she still loved him—if that made any sense. Kyson had it right. You never really fall out of love with your first.

“Don't worry, Ms. Adams,” Ernest Billingsley said, patting her on the arm. “Everything is going to be all right. This is just a routine questioning. We'll give them a statement and then we'll leave.”

Michael glanced over at her new lawyer—the best that money could buy according to Frankie. Michael had her doubts. First off, the man looked as if he'd slept in his suit for the past week, while one side of his face still had little dabs of styptic paper from where he'd cut himself shaving. Could the man not afford an electric razor?

If this was Frankie's idea of a joke, Michael swore she'd kill her. She closed her eyes and groaned at her poor choice of words. The last time she swore to kill someone, he
did
turn up dead.

Michael fidgeted in her chair. Her fingers drummed along the interrogation table while her legs jumped like a runaway jackhammer.

“What's taking them so long?” she asked.

“Patience,” Billingsley said. “This is their way of psyching you out. They put you in a small room with nothing to eat or drink, crank up the room's temperature and then watch you sweat.”

“Well, it's a good tactic,” Michael complained, glancing toward the long panel of glass Billingsley had indicated.

Billingsley eyed her, undoubtedly wondering whether his new client was innocent or guilty of murder. It was a look she was rapidly getting accustomed to.

Twenty minutes later, the door to the interrogation room finally burst open and Detectives Griffin and Martinez calmly strolled inside. Neither cop said anything as they made their way over to the table. They took their time pulling back their chairs and then placing the digital recorder in between the two parties.

Detective Martinez had removed her sunglasses. This time, Michael stared into eyes the shade of black glass. Yeah. Detective Martinez was going to be the one playing bad cop.

She turned on the recorder, gave the date and time of the interview, and then finally gave Michael her full attention.

“Ms. Adams, we want to thank you for volunteering to come in here today for this interview. As you know, we are investigating the homicide of your husband, Philip Matthews.”

“Ex-husband,” Michael and Billingsley corrected.

Detective Griffin rolled his eyes, but still a smile curled his lips. Guess that confirmed his role as good cop.

“Ms. Adams,” Martinez said, clearly impatient to get started. “Why don't you state for us the last time you saw your
ex
-husband alive.”

A long silence filled the room. The first question and Michael was already in trouble. How could she admit that the last time she'd seen Phil he was tied up in the back of her Volvo?

“Um, two weeks ago,” she lied.

The two cops remained silent, their hard gazes calling her the liar she was.

“Ms. Adams, you told both Detective Griffin and Detective Dekker when they spoke to you a few days ago that you had been stalking your ex in previous months, is that not correct?”

“No, ma'am,” Michael said. “I wasn't stalking, I was spying.”

Griffin's smile ballooned wider. “Do you mind clarifying the difference?” he asked.

“Stalking has an evil intent. I was spying for information pertaining to my divorce. I was convinced that Phil was seeing someone else. You and Detective Dekker confirmed that information for me a few days ago.”

“Ms. Adams, do you normally
spy
on people?” Martinez asked.

Michael shrugged her shoulders and thought that it would be okay to admit the truth on this one. “Sometimes.”

Billingsley groaned. “Can we please stick to the point? My client just came in to give a statement. She wanted it on record that she had nothing to do with her ex-husband's murder. Though she and Mr. Matthews had a rocky marriage, it ended amicably. The terms of her divorce have been finalized. Ms. Adams had no motive to kill her ex-husband.”

“Why, sure she does,” Detective Martinez said, smiling for the first time. “She just admitted that she'd suspected Philip Matthews of cheating, and that my partner and Detective Dekker had confirmed this information to her just days ago. Sounds like motive to me.”

“Again,” Billingsley said, “my client has said she had nothing to do with Matthews's murder.”

Martinez turned her attention back to Michael. “Ms. Adams, you frequent a place called the Peppermill?”

Michael's mouth went dry.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Billingsley asked.