Guarding His Midnight Witness Read online

  One guy was a uniformed security guard she’d noticed earlier and the other...

  Greta gasped and nearly dropped the glasses. “Jack.”

  Except he wasn’t smiling. Not one little bit.

  Chapter 3

  Greta Renault might be many things, Jack thought. Beautiful, interesting, eccentric. One thing she was not, he realized as he caught her peering at him through what he suspected were binoculars, was stealthy. What in the world was she doing?

  “Pretty great view, right?”

  “Stunning.” Jack turned away from the window as Fritz approached. He cleared his throat. “Love the historic buildings in this part of town.” He took in every inch of the office space he could. As he was not here officially, he couldn’t very well pull out his cell phone and start snapping pictures. But he could appraise and determine if there was cause to come back. It was a crossed line, but one he could live with if it meant getting to the bottom of this.

  The pale green walls were no doubt an effort to evoke a sense of calm, but seeing the unfinished chaos of the office, that was a long way off. Long, thin boxes held what he could only assume were framed art pieces awaiting to be assigned a wall. A large clear plastic tarp had been whipped haphazardly over what looked to be an antique desk large enough even Napoleon wouldn’t have a complex. Giant rolls of carpet sat against the wall like drunken guardsmen. The glass element extended beyond the windows and around the room as floating shelves, no doubt to display Fremont’s countless awards and accolades waiting to be unpacked. The only other furniture at this time was a small circular table in the front corner along with two metal folding chairs. Cheap by comparison. They didn’t quite fit.

  “Mr. Fremont picked this office specifically,” Fritz told him as if talking like a proud father. “He says he can see the entirety of the city from the rooftop garden.”

  “Your boss does seem to always have his eye on the prize,” Jack agreed. “Has he been out of town long?”

  “A few days,” Fritz wandered over to the side counter where a pod coffee maker had already been set up. “You want?”

  “Sure. Whatever you’ve got.” Jack pinned his attention to the cement floor as he wandered the perimeter of the room. If this was where Greta had seen Fremont murder his victim, there should be some indication. Dead bodies were messy, whatever the cause of death and yet, try as he might, he didn’t see any indication one had been in this room.

  Jack crouched, set his cell on the floor to check for dampness. Dry as Death Valley. He took a deep breath, smelling for any hints of bleach or industrial cleaner. Nope. Nothing there, either. Just that stomach-churning stench of new construction and paint.

  “You drop something?” Fritz asked.

  “Yeah, my cell.” Jack picked it up and accepted the paper cup. “Seems like this place will be up and running pretty soon.”

  “By the end of the month, if all goes according to plan,” Fritz said. “We’re getting the security cameras hooked up this week. The renovations have been done in record time, only six months, but when Mr. Fremont sets his mind to something... Hey, this is all the boring stuff. The rooftop garden is something out of a magazine. He’s even growing fresh vegetables and herbs up there for the organic restaurant.”

  “The guy’s almost too good to be true.” Jack started to follow Fritz out, then something glinted under the table. “Oh, hang on.” He patted his jacket. “I think I dropped my glasses, too. Sometimes I’m afraid I left half my brain on that operating table,” he joked.

  “You’re lucky to be alive,” Fritz called over his shoulder as he held open the door. “I heard that bullet missed your heart by nothing.”

  “A little more than nothing, thankfully.” Jack backtracked to the table, bent down and looked at the piece of round, recognizable glass.

  “Find what you were looking for?”

  “I sure did.” Jack angled his phone to snap a picture. Greta had said the supposed victim had been wearing round-rimmed glasses. It wasn’t solid evidence of a crime. Not by a long shot, but it backed up part of her story. As much as he wanted to retrieve the lens, he had to leave it where it was. He stood and followed Fritz to the elevator just as the doors dinged open.

  “Afternoon, Fritz.”

  “Mr. Fremont.” Fritz sucked in about an inch of gut and straightened his spine as Jack skidded to a halt beside him. “Good to have you back, sir. I was just showing one of my former colleagues around the place. Detective Jack McTavish, Doyle Fremont.”

  Jack had seen enough photographs of Fremont to have recognized him without an introduction. The camera loved the guy, as did the papers, both legit news and tabloid. Always with the gregarious smile and generous attitude, Fremont had earned his reputation as one of the good guys by funding local and national charitable causes and promoting his reputation as being approachable, not to mention carefree and single. Jack had often heard of the man’s so-called legendary charisma, much like powerful politicians or A-list Hollywood celebrities who drew in similar individuals like a gravitational force. To even consider this man a murderer should be enough to end his career.

  “McTavish.” Fremont offered a well-manicured hand, which Jack accepted. “I’m familiar with that name. Aren’t you the detective who was shot last year protecting Dr. Allie Hollister?”

  “That’s me.” That really was going to be the epithet on his tombstone, wasn’t it? “Except it’s Dr. Kellan these days.”

  “That’s right. I’d heard she got married recently. To a former firefighter, if I remember correctly. Come on in while I drop this off.” He hefted the soft-sided leather case and jerked his head. “Fritz, you, too.”

  “Actually, sir, I need to check on the boys downstairs, if you don’t mind?”

  “Of course not.” Fremont offered an understanding smile that brightened his already wide brown eyes. “That’s why I hired you. Top of your game. That’s what I’m counting on. Detective, please. Join me while you finish your coffee.”

  Why did that sound more like an order than a request?

  “The benefits are great,” Fritz told Jack under his breath as he stepped into the elevator. “And you won’t get shot in the heart.”

  Jack gave him a nod of acknowledgment as the doors slid closed.

  “What brings you by, Detective?” Doyle Fremont’s casual tone didn’t quite ring true, but for now Jack was willing to chalk that up to his own radar being off.

  “Curiosity.” Jack returned to the office, leaned against the wall as he watched Fremont settle behind his polished redwood desk. He sipped his coffee, taking in the man’s pristine image of professionalism. Even in casual dark slacks and crisp polo shirt, the adaptability was on display. The man could command a boardroom as easily as he could a boat deck. He matched Jack in height and stature and moved with a casual confidence that came with success. Again, Jack understood the guy’s appeal, but was Jack’s distrust genuine or influenced by a certain blonde artist across the street? “I’m exploring other employment options,” Jack said. May as well stick with the one lie he’d already told today.

  “Really?” Doyle flipped the plastic tarp off the intricately carved wooden desk and looked Jack directly in the eye as he wrapped it up and shoved it in the trash can. “After all your hard work to get back on the force, you’re thinking of walking away? I’m not sure I buy that.”

  Jack sipped more coffee. So Fremont knew more about him than just his name. “No?”

  “No.” Doyle took a seat and gestured for Jack to do the same.

  Jack grabbed one of the metal chairs and dragged it over, hoping, praying that Greta had stopped playing spy and put the ridiculous glasses away.

  “You know what I think?” Fremont asked as Jack crossed an ankle over one knee.

  “Not a clue.”

  “I think someone sent you here to check up on me.”

  J
ack kept his eyes steady on Fremont’s. “Who would have sent me?”

  Whether Fremont meant to or not, his dark gaze flickered lightning quick over Jack’s shoulder. The hairs on the back of Jack’s neck leaped to attention. There was only one thing in that line of sight. Greta’s loft.

  “I’m being paranoid, I’m sure.” Fremont returned his focus to Jack and leaned back in his expensive leather chair. “If I had to guess, I’d say the mayor might be worried I’m going to run against him in the next election.”

  “And if I had to, I’d say you’re guessing up the wrong tree.” Because he suspected it would annoy Fremont, Jack mirrored the man’s posture, appearing to shrug off any suspicion.

  “Maybe a bigger tree, then? The governor?”

  “You golf with his lieutenant,” Jack reminded him as he began to understand the rules of the game. If Fremont thought he could wind Jack around his finger, he clearly didn’t know him at all. Jack had spent almost a decade as a cop in Chicago. He’d gone up against men ten times as ruthless as Doyle Fremont and lived to tell about it. A familiar twinge of guilt struck him between the ribs. Was that why he was so determined to believe Greta even when what she said made no sense? Jack wondered if he was trying to make up for mistakes he’d made in the past.

  “I’m thinking you’d already know if someone had you in their sights, Mr. Fremont. I’d bet most people find it difficult to keep secrets around you.”

  “Doyle, please. And you’d be right. Secrets are a passion of mine.” His smile would have frozen water. “They’re powerful. It’s amazing what people will do to keep them. They run. They hide. They try to pretend to be someone they’re not. Pushing their buttons, holding those secrets over them, it’s a kind of addiction, but one I’m not going to apologize for. It’s given me a rather ruthless reputation that has made aspects of my business far easier. A reputation I’m sure you disapprove of.”

  “I’m not sure why my approval should mean anything. But it does beg the question. What would you do—” Jack asked because it would have been rude not to walk through the door Doyle had opened “—to keep your secrets?”

  “You must not listen to rumors, Detective.” Doyle smiled, but for the first time, the humor didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I don’t have any secrets. I am that rare open book who will answer any question at any time. But the same can’t be said for others.” He sat forward, folded his hands on top of the desk and pinned Jack with a look Jack suspected had scared off more than a few business rivals. “Whatever curiosity brought you here, Detective McTavish—”

  “Jack, please.”

  “Jack it is.” Impatience flashed across his normally controlled features. “Whatever curiosity brought you by, I hope it’s been quieted. I can assure you, there’s nothing here for you to find.”

  “At least, not anymore, right?” Jack got to his feet and offered his hand. “Appreciate your time, Doyle. I’ll see myself out.” As he strode off, he put a mental check next to the name Doyle Fremont. He’d be seeing him again. And soon.

  * * *

  “What on earth is he doing there?” Excitement pounded through Greta as she watched Jack bend down to examine the floor. She bit her lip. My, but he was beautiful. She shook her head in an attempt to clear it. “Did he find something?” Was it possible...

  Her heart thudded as Jack stood and followed the security guard out of the office. Hope took a tiny bounce inside her as she lowered the opera glasses. Maybe she wasn’t as alone in this as she thought. Why else would he be over at Doyle Fremont’s office? Unless he was feeling guilty about how his deputy had treated her the other night.

  She looked down at Cerberus, unwilling to admit out loud even to her oblivious cat, that she didn’t like the idea of Detective McTavish thinking she was—what was it Deputy Bowman had called her?—kooky.

  Disappointment, all too familiar to her, clanged inside her like a forgotten, rusted church bell. She’d been called worse over the years. A lot worse, but she’d learned a long time ago to shake those comments off. Unless they had a connection to a detective with kind eyes and a wounded soul.

  Her back ached, reminding her she’d spent far too much time hunched over waiting for...whatever was going to happen across the street. What did she think would happen? That Doyle Fremont was going to wave to her this time? Point to wherever he’d hidden the body? She shivered. He wasn’t that stupid. Or careless.

  And yet she’d seen him.

  She lifted the glasses again, did another scan of Doyle’s office. Deputy Bowman’s question about how the man with the birthmark had been killed gnawed at her, which had her chewing on her lip. She hadn’t seen a gun. Or a weapon of any kind. She could only remember that Fremont had moved like a rattler, coiled to strike. A fast movement, so quick it was imperceptible to her frantic mind trying to grab hold of every detail. Searching her memory wasn’t doing her any good. Staring at the window for endless hours wasn’t helping, either.

  “I need to get this on paper.” If there was one thing that had always grounded her, it was putting a pen or pencil in her hand. What she’d seen that night had been playing over and over in her head. She may as well commit it to paper, right?

  She was climbing off her stool when a flash of movement in the office across the street caught her eye. She gasped, kicked the stool back and dived for cover. She inched out, just enough to angle the glasses at the window.

  Doyle Fremont was back.

  Looking at him, in his neat, casual clothes, one would never have guessed he’d killed someone. Greta shivered.

  She dialed the focus on the glasses to see if she could zoom closer, but they only blurred. She was asking far too much of the antique device. She struggled to find a hint of guilt, any hesitation or motion of self-doubt indicating he’d made a mistake in the actions he’d taken, but he showed none. He moved with purpose and grace, dropping his briefcase onto the chair behind what she assumed was a desk, his lips moving as he seemed to be speaking to someone out in the hall.

  Someone who soon joined Doyle in his office.

  “Jack.” What was he still doing there? She thought he’d left. Why hadn’t he left? And why were they chatting as if they were lifelong friends? All the years she’d spent alone, observing other people go about their lives, she really should have taken up lipreading. And as much as she knew she should keep her focus on Fremont, her attention kept drifting to Jack right up to when he left.

  That’s when she should have looked away, but she didn’t. She angled the glasses back to Fremont where he sat at his desk, leaning back in his chair, a finger pressed against his lips as he appeared to stare blankly ahead.

  Chills erupted on the back of her neck. She scooted back as Fremont got to his feet, walked around his desk and stopped at the window. His gaze never wavered as he skimmed the line of her loft, back and forth. Back and forth.

  Her heart thudded in her ears. She didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe for fear of fluttering the thin curtain bunched near her face. Could he see her? Or was he just playing some kind of game to entertain himself?

  She yelped as Cerberus wound himself around her bare feet again. “Don’t do that, Cerb. I’m scaring myself enough. I don’t need help.” She picked up the cat to nuzzle his fur, wishing not for the first time she could turn back the clock. If only she’d ignored what had happened, what she saw, then nothing in her life would have changed.

  Instead, now, she was left to wonder and worry about which side of her sanity she’d landed on.

  The intercom buzzed. Greta jumped, and her heart just about exploded in her chest. She stood there, blinking, barely breathing as her mind raced. To be safe, she returned to the window, leaned over just enough to peer back into Fremont’s office. Doyle Fremont was still there. The intercom buzzed again. She scrubbed her damp palms hard against her bare thighs and walked to the door. Her hands shook as she pressed the button
to activate the front-door camera. She sagged against the wall, half laughing and relieved to see the detective.

  She buzzed him in and stood waiting behind the closed door until she heard the stair door creak open. Only then did she open her own door, but only by a crack. She tried not to notice how the blue of his shirt made his eyes glint, or how just the sight of him made her feel better. But she did notice. Both. She also noticed he was more than slightly out of breath, despite trying to hide the fact. “Detective.”

  “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

  His words sliced straight through her. “Excuse me?”

  “What were you thinking spying on him like that?” He braced his hands on either side of the frame and glared at her. “You may as well be holding up a sign that says Here I am. Come and get me.”

  Whatever gentleness and understanding had been in his voice the last time they’d spoken had completely evaporated with the steam coming out of his ears. Anger sparked in his blue eyes, like tiny orange flames erupting in the ocean. Fascination tempered her offense as her fingers itched for her brush, a pencil, her notepad. “I beg your pardon.”

  “Don’t. Just don’t, Greta.” She caught a glimmer beneath the anger, beneath the irritation. Was it...concern? Was he worried about her? Something odd and light fluttered in her chest. “You need to stay out of this from here on. You need to stay away from Doyle Fremont.”

  “Why?” Her chin inched up, her fingers tightening around the edge of the door.

  “Don’t do that, either.”

  “Do what?” She frowned.

  “Hold that door between us like it’s some kind of shield. I’m not going to hurt you.”