Framed Page 2

  He cleared his throat. “I don’t mean to embarrass you, Ms. Robinson. But questions about a missing person’s background and lifestyle are standard procedure.”

  She reconsidered the harsh words she’d been about to speak. “No, I didn’t share the room with him, at least not during the last few months. I moved into the guest room when we split up.”

  “Why didn’t you make him move into the guest room?” Lynn asked. “It’s your house.”

  Jess could tell by the expression on Branson’s face that he, too, was speculating about the answer to that question.

  “Because I’m a doormat, okay?” she replied. “Might as well get it out in the open. I was a gullible idiot to get involved with him in the first place, and I was too weak to get rid of him once I was on to him.” She was mortified to hear her voice choked with tears.

  She expected Lynn and the detective to agree with her, but they were both silent for several moments. Finally Branson said, “Lynn, would you mind leaving your sister and me alone for a few minutes?”

  “Sure,” Lynn said. She abandoned the pile of CDs and slunk out of the room.

  “Sit down,” he said to Jess, indicating a straight-back chair.

  “Why?” she asked suspiciously. She felt like a kid about to be lectured by the principal.

  “Because I want to talk to you.”

  “You can talk to me while I’m standing up.” She knew she was being unreasonably defensive, but she felt so suddenly vulnerable and inferior and downright silly.

  “If you’re comfortable that way.” He sat down on the bed himself, looking perfectly at ease. “Look, there’s no reason for you to be embarrassed. I know Terry’s type. There are thousands like him out there—men and women who could charm the skin off a snake. Lots of people are taken in.”

  “But I shouldn’t have been,” she argued. “I’m smarter than that. I’m Phi Beta Kappa, for God’s sake. How could I be so stupid?”

  “Hormones are enough to make anyone stupid, myself included.” He paused, letting that sink in. “Everyone makes mistakes. You probably won’t do it again.”

  “Damn straight I won’t.”

  “Good. Meanwhile, I need to learn whatever I can about Terry Rodin so I can find the guy.”

  “And give him a swift kick when you find him, I hope,” Jess said, again hearing the surprising bitterness emerging in her voice.

  “I’d like to. But kicking private citizens is...you know, against the rules. I could yell at him for you. Would that help?”

  She knew he was trying to lighten the mood and put her at ease. To her dismay, it was working. “I don’t think yelling would work. No, brutality is the only answer, I’m afraid.” She smiled despite herself, then sat at the foot of the bed. It suddenly struck her that perhaps they shouldn’t be sharing the bed, even sitting up, fully clothed and several feet apart. To suddenly shift her position now would have drawn attention to the fact, so she stayed put.

  The same thought might have occurred to Branson, though she wasn’t sure. He did, however, immediately sit up straighter, put both feet on the floor and retrieve his notebook from his pocket.

  “What do you need to know?” she asked. “I’ll tell you all I can. I’ll confess that I’ve occasionally wished violence on him, but deep down I wouldn’t want anything to happen to him. He’s...disturbed.”

  “Distraught because of the breakup between you two?” Branson asked, his dark blue eyes snapping with renewed interest.

  “No, I wouldn’t say that. He was angry at me for kicking him out, and he definitely laid a guilt trip on me, trying to get me to feel sorry for him, but he wasn’t distraught.”

  “So you don’t think he was suicidal?”

  She hesitated before answering. “It’s occurred to me,” she finally said. “But I’d say he’s more the type to threaten suicide rather than actually carry it out.”

  Branson scribbled furiously for a few moments, then looked up, skewering her with those startling eyes. “Any other theories?”

  She gave the question serious thought, then shrugged. “I really can’t imagine where he’s gone. He claims to have no family, but I have reason to doubt everything he’s told me, so who knows?” She slipped off the bed and went to Terry’s seldom-used desk. “He has a Rolodex here. You’re welcome to take it. There’s not much in it, just a handful of friends and acquaintances, his tailor, his hair stylist—”

  “Hair stylist?”

  “His appearance is very important to him. I suppose you could classify him as vain.”

  “And did he have reason to be?”

  “He’s extremely good-looking,” Jess answered without hesitation. That, at least, was one indisputable fact about Terry Rodin. She’d never met a single woman who thought he was less than movie-star material. At one time Jess had taken a certain feminine pride in partnering with such a handsome man. Now it wouldn’t matter so much to her. Looks contributed very little to a relationship.

  Branson frowned slightly as he scribbled in his notebook. “I’ll take the Rolodex,” he said, his voice gruff. “Can you tell me about his favorite hangouts? Restaurants or bars he frequented? Did he go to church?”

  She stifled a laugh. “No church. And by his account he spent an ungodly amount of time at the UMKC Law Library, although I found out later he probably hasn’t been there in years. There is one restaurant he’s particularly fond of, called Papagallo’s.”

  “Oh, yes, I’m familiar with it. Mediterranean food?”

  She nodded. “He might go there. He claimed he had to eat there at least once a week or go into withdrawal.”

  “And I suppose you indulged him?”

  Now she was not only embarrassed, she was getting downright irritated. She folded her arms and looked Branson straight in those damnably blue eyes of his before she answered. “I gave him my credit card and let him take his friends,” she said. “I think we’ve established the fact that I was stupid, okay? Do we have to keep hammering on it?”

  At least Branson had the good grace to appear slightly embarrassed himself this time. “Sorry,” he murmured. “I’m not doing it on purpose. But you’re an attractive woman, and you certainly don’t seem slow. I find it difficult to believe you could be taken in, even a little bit.”

  He seemed sincere. Jess wasn’t sure if she should have been flattered by his assessment or insulted. “Like I said, Terry was good,” she murmured.

  “What do you do for a living, anyway?”

  “Freelance court transcriber.”

  “It’s hard for me to envision anyone getting the better of you.” This time his admiration was a little more obvious, a little harder to ignore. Surely he wouldn’t be coming on to her, would he?

  “Me too,” she said, her voice failing. She’d been wrong before. Kicking Terry out hadn’t been the hardest thing in the world; facing up to how stupid she’d been was definitely worse. But Branson was forcing her to do just that—out loud. “They say love is blind.”

  “That it is.” He gazed off at a far wall, unseeing, and she wondered if he’d ever loved unwisely. Then she decided that was impossible. He was too controlled, too selfassured, for that. It seemed more likely that he’d never succumbed to that weak emotion at all.

  “Are you married?” she asked impulsively, realizing even as the words left her mouth that the question was inappropriate.

  He smiled, his eyes twinkling. “No. Never have been. Never even came close.”

  She offered no follow-up question, in case he thought she was flirting or something. Her momentary curiosity was satisfied.

  They talked a few more minutes about Terry. She provided a photo, gave a detailed description of his habits and attitudes, right down to his favorite brand of beer. She actually found herself reluctant to have the detective leave, despite the fact that she’d bared herself to him, almost as if he’d seen her in her underwear.

  He made a closer inspection of the room, walking around with an easy grace, looking bu
t not touching anything. Finally he looked down at the carpeted floor. “Did there used to be a rug here? An area rug, I mean, on top of the carpet. There seems to be an outline defining an area that’s less worn.”

  “There—” Jess stopped. “Oh, my God.”

  “What?” Branson’s voice was laced with sudden tension.

  “He took my Oriental rug.” This was beyond belief. “That bastard took my rug. It was hand-woven silk over a hundred years old.”

  Scribbling again. “Worth a lot of money?”

  “Yes, I’m sure it was, but that’s not the point. It belonged to my great-grandmother. Why, out of all the things in this house, would he—”

  “Are you sure Terry took it?” Branson asked, once again the consummate cop. “When was the last time you noticed it?”

  She thought for a moment. “I don’t remember when I noticed it last. It’s been in this room ever since I moved in five years ago. And yes, I’m sure it was him. No one else has had access.”

  “But you didn’t notice it was gone until now?”

  “Not until you pointed it out.” It amazed her that her powers of observation were so dull, but lately she’d spent very little time in this room.

  “And he didn’t take it with him when he left two nights ago?”

  “Now that I would have noticed. He couldn’t have fitted it into the taxi, anyway. It was huge. He must have taken it and sold it at some point earlier,” she said, thinking aloud.

  “Did he need money?” Branson asked. “Was he on drugs?”

  “He always needed money, but not huge amounts. I’m pretty sure he didn’t do drugs. But I guess I didn’t know him nearly as well as I thought.”

  Branson nodded noncommittally, made a few more notations in his pad, then stuffed it back in his breast pocket. As he exited the room, he stopped, looking down at the floor in the hallway. “There’s a stain on the rug.”

  “Oh, really?” She was about to comment that it was rather uncalled for of him to point out the shortcomings in her housekeeping skills until she realized he was taking more than a casual interest in her carpeting. He stooped down and ran his fingers over the round, reddish brown spots.

  “Is this a fresh stain?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I never noticed it before, I guess.”

  “It looks like blood.”

  Jess’s heart skipped a beat. She bent down to have a closer look, bringing her uncomfortably close to the detective. She caught a whiff of his aftershave. She recognized it as one of the brands Terry wore, and she recoiled.

  “It could be blood, I suppose. Terry cut himself shaving last weekend, but I’m not sure the cut was bad enough that he would have been dripping blood.”

  Branson stared at her in a way that made her decidedly uncomfortable. She knew what he was thinking.

  “No way,” she said. “Terry was whole and hearty when he left here two days ago.”

  “And you’re sure he hasn’t been back?”

  “Positive. Well, no, not positive,” she said on second thought. “He could have slipped in when I was gone, but what for?”

  Branson didn’t answer. Instead he asked, “Does he have a key?”

  “He did, but he gave it back. I made sure of that. Although I suppose he could have made a copy. But I don’t think he’s that devious.”

  “Do you worry that he might return?”

  “Frankly, yes, and I want to prevent that at all costs. If he wants his stuff, I’ll box it up and deliver it to him, but he’s not setting foot through that front door ever again. It probably would take a bulldozer to get him out a second time.”

  Her attempt at humor fell flat.

  Branson rubbed his fingers over the stain one final time before standing. He gave her another one of those appraising looks, as if he wasn’t quite buying everything she said. Or as if he was wondering what he might do to make her talk.

  His silent assessment made her shiver. She’d done the best she could; why did he make her so nervous?

  As she walked him to the door, he said nothing else until he’d stepped onto the front porch. Then he turned and gave her a warning that chilled her to her heart: “Don’t wash the rug. Don’t touch it. We may want to check it out.”

  Dear God, did this guy really think some harm had befallen Terry in her house? And did he think...that she’d done it?

  Chapter 2

  “City Cab,” a bored dispatcher answered.

  “This is Detective Kyle Branson with the Kansas City Police Department,” Kyle said into the phone between bites of a blueberry bagel. “I’m investigating a missing-persons case, and I need to speak with someone who can check the records for—”

  “I’ll transfer you.”

  Kyle sighed. This was the sixth taxi service he’d contacted during the past hour. So far, none of them had any record of picking up a fare at 4201 Sycamore, Jess Robinson’s address, on the night Terry had disappeared. He hated to admit it, but he’d been hoping to find someone to corroborate Jess’s story.

  Another woman, this one with a bit more personality, came on the line, and Kyle made his request. While he waited for the woman to search the records, his thoughts returned to Jess. He wasn’t sure what to make of her. Normally he had a gut emotional reaction the first time he met a witness or potential suspect, and his instincts seldom proved wrong. However, with Jess, so far the only reaction she’d provoked was of a distinctly physical nature.

  He’d noticed her face first—classically beautiful, with large, dark eyes, high cheekbones, pillowy lips, straight, white teeth. Then he’d looked at the rest of her. She had a tall, sleekly muscled build, the kind that made him think she would be athletic in bed.

  After that uncensored thought, he’d forced himself to stick with business. But it had been difficult for Kyle to get past her sensual appeal to read the nuances of her expression, body language and tone of voice.

  Still, he’d persisted, with some degree of success. She’d seemed guileless enough, politely anxious but not overwrought, eager to be helpful. Yet there was a certain detachment about her, almost as if she was playing a part in a movie. Her reactions were almost too predictable. And the fact that she and her sister had been sifting through Rodin’s belongings was...peculiar.

  Rodin’s leaving his things behind bothered Kyle, bothered him a lot. It wasn’t the sort of thing a rational person did, which left him to believe that Terry was either emotionally or mentally unbalanced, or he’d become the victim of foul play.

  Unbalanced? Maybe. According to Kevin Gilpatrick, Terry was a happy-go-lucky guy, not exactly steady but not unstable, either, and certainly not depressed about anything, especially his ex-girlfriend. But Kyle hadn’t ruled out suicide, especially given Jess’s take on the situation, which was very different from Kevin’s.

  Jess thought her ex-lover needed psychiatric help, which gave Kyle pause. During his twelve years on the police force, he’d seen the handiwork a spurned ex-lover could do, and it wasn’t pretty. If Rodin really was unbalanced, Jess would be the natural target of his animosity. He could do anything from writing her nasty letters to filling her car with cement to blowing her head off. On the other hand, if Jess was the spurned lover... He closed off that line of thought, for now.

  So whose image of Terry Rodin was closer to the truth, Kevin’s or Jess’s? Maybe neither of them was lying. People saw what they wanted to see.

  Something else really bothered Kyle about this case, and that was the stain on Jess’s hall carpet. He was ninety-nine percent sure the stain was blood. And she wanted him to believe it had been caused by a shaving cut? Please. He’d already requested that an evidence tech collect the stained carpet. Jess would probably be livid when the guy sliced up her rug, but those were the breaks.

  He wished he hadn’t had to alert her to the fact that he found the stain significant. If she was to become a suspect—and it looked as if she might—he didn’t want her to know about it until absolutely necessary.

&
nbsp; The woman on the other end of the phone came back on. “Sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “We don’t have any record of a passenger being picked up at that address on October second.”

  “And is every fare documented?”

  “Yes, sir. Undocumented passengers are grounds for dismissal at City Cab.”

  “All right, thanks—” A crumpled piece of paper flew at him from an adjacent desk. Kyle caught it deftly in his left hand and threw it back at his grinning partner, along with a murderous glare. “Thanks for your help. Bye now.”

  “Bye now,” Blayney Cook mimicked in a syrupy voice. “Branson, you crack me up.”

  “Yeah, I’m so funny I’ll entertain everyone in the unemployment line after we both get fired for making no progress whatsoever on this case. What have you got on Kevin Gilpatrick?”

  Blayney, who at twenty-six was one of the youngest detectives in the department, immediately sobered. He was a wiseass, up for just about anything that would get a laugh, but he was a damn good investigator when he tried. Kyle had every hope that the guy would someday develop into a first-class detective, probably in homicide, which was where he eventually wanted to be. It was just unfortunate that Kyle was the one assigned to break the kid in.

  “Gilpatrick is an orderly at Blue Springs Medical Center. He has about a bazillion unpaid parking tickets on his record and one citation for drunk and disorderly several years ago. Other than that he’s clean. He lives in a little rented house in Raytown. The place looked like a normally messy single guy’s place, nothing out of the ordinary. He showed me the room he’d intended for Terry Rodin to move into.”

  “Furnished?”

  “No. Gilpatrick said Rodin had planned to bring some furniture from the girlfriend’s house, and that he’d rented a truck to carry it. Gilpatrick was waiting around that night, ready to help his buddy move his stuff in once the truck arrived. But Rodin never showed. Apparently the two of them had agreed on rent, and Gilpatrick had even installed a second phone line, so this wasn’t a casual arrangement. Rodin was very serious about moving in.”