Cold Midnight (12 page)

“Nope. Sorry,” she said. “Should get a report on the prints tomorrow morning. I planned to have it today, but we’ve been swamped.”

“I’ll be surprised if you get anything. Kylie said the guy was wearing gloves.”

“He might have handled the bat before he put them on.”

Chase was doubtful, but he’d known other thugs to be as stupid. “That’d be a lucky break, but I’m not holding my breath.”

Sylvia tugged at an earring, an unconscious gesture that Chase recognized as a signal that she was about to switch gears on him. “Shame about the story in the paper today,” she said.

Chase gave her a sharp look. He’d overslept this morning after a restless night and hadn’t had a chance to open the newspaper before he’d rushed out the door to meet Sylvia here. “What story?”

“About Quinn McKay’s shirt being found with the bat.”

“Ah, hell,” he breathed. “That’s not supposed to be public knowledge.”

“Uh-oh.” She frowned. “You can rest assured that no one in my office leaked that information. They know I’d rip them bald.”

Chase smiled at the very Sylvia-like expression. “Yeah, I know.” He wondered what he should do, if anything. Kylie had to be tied up in knots over this, but seeing him would just tie her up even more.

“Just curious here,” Sylvia said, “but where you do stand on Quinn McKay? To an outsider like me, he and Kylie seem pretty close. When you see them together in public, they’re more like good friends than siblings.”

“They are now, but that wasn’t the case back then.”

“Ah. I wasn’t living here yet. I knew the attack was big news, though. People still talked about it when I got here, what, five years ago.”

Chase nodded. “It was huge.”

“So Kylie and Quinn weren’t best buddies back then, huh? Was it your typical brother-sister animosity or more than that?”

Chase met her striking eyes. She wasn’t just curious. She had a specific point to make. Not that he minded. She had a sharp mind that he’d taken advantage of plenty over the years. “You’re going somewhere with this,” he said.

She shrugged. “Well, I have to admit I’m a wee bit curious about why you haven’t arrested him.”

“We don’t have enough evidence.”

“You’ve got means, motive, opportunity and his shirt buried with the weapon. I assume you also have a theory.”

Chase stretched his neck from side to side, wincing as guitar-string-tight tendons protested. Jesus, he hated being put on the spot, especially when the other person meant well—and was right.

“So let’s hear it,” Sylvia prodded. “Let’s hear this theory you’re keeping to yourself.”

He took a breath then blew it out. Okay, it wouldn’t hurt to run it by an objective professional. “Quinn ended his sister’s career because he was jealous of the attention she got. He dumped the bat and shirt here, then he was so guilt-ridden, he turned himself around. When she picked this place for the tennis center, he started the sabotage to slow down construction hoping he could find the bat and shirt before anyone else did.”

Sylvia nodded, forehead lined with concentration. “So why haven’t you arrested him?”

“We’re waiting on the results on the shirt. If that’s not Kylie’s blood—”

“Mind if I share an opinion?”

“I’d appreciate it, actually.”

“If your gut is telling you her brother took out her knee, make the arrest. By the time the grand jury takes a look at the case, you’ll have the results on the shirt. Simple.”

“I wish it were that simple.”

“Let me put it to you this way, Chase. Go look at the pictures of what was done to her and ask yourself if you’re willing to risk that happening again. If her brother did it, he’s probably desperate to avoid getting caught. For all you know, he’s the one who took the bat to her windshield. He knew where to find her alone and when. He had proximity, and he, as well as anyone, knows best what’s going to freak her out the most. Didn’t you say the video surveillance of that parking lot was blank? He knew how to deal with that, too.”

Chase’s gut felt like he’d swallowed rocks. He hadn’t even
considered
Quinn for the windshield. What the
hell
was wrong with him? What Sylvia said made perfect sense. But Quinn had looked more shaken than Kylie had. Not that that was a good comparison, considering Kylie’s game face. “I just can’t imagine he’d—”

“He might,” Sylvia cut in. “That’s all I’m saying. If he’s the guy, he’s already proven once that he can take a whack at her with a weapon. A bum knee could end up being the least of her problems.”

18

KYLIE WAS HALFWAY TO QUINN’S WHEN HER CELL
phone rang. Relief—it had to be Quinn, because she’d left him three messages already—made her fumble the phone before she was able to hit the right button to answer it.

“Quinn?”

“It’s Chase.”

The sandpaper sound of his voice sent a chill through her, and she hit the rental car’s brakes harder than necessary to stop for a traffic light. What could he possibly want? “I’m kind of busy at the moment.”

“The story in the paper didn’t come from the police department.”

“Where else would it have come from?” she asked, glad he couldn’t see the flush that heated her cheeks. He hadn’t said one sexy word, yet her insides fluttered and clenched as if he’d whispered something erotic into her ear.

“I honestly don’t know.”

“The police are the only ones who know about it.”

“The construction workers—”

“Didn’t know the shirt was Quinn’s,” she cut in.

He sighed before he tried again. “Quinn knew he was a suspect because Sam talked to him, so none of this is news to him.”

There was that annoying this-is-how-cops-respond-to-hostility tone again. It made her want to scream. “All of Kendall Falls didn’t know,” she snapped back, not caring how bitchy she sounded. This was
Quinn
they were talking about. “Can you seriously not grasp that this could destroy him? He’s not just a face in an LA crowd. He has a life here, a history.”

“And I’m sure that whatever happens, he’ll deal with it. He’s not completely innocent, you know.”

“What the hell does that mean? Of course he’s innocent. He didn’t—”

“I’m not talking about your attack, Ky.”

She stiffened at the nickname. Damn it. Why did that throw her off every damn time? “Then what are you talking about?”

“He hasn’t always been the brother you know now.”

“Oh, for God’s sake. Teenagers are unpleasant. You had your unpleasant moments, as I recall.”

“I never had a hate-on for my sister.”

“You don’t have a sister. And, besides, Quinn did not
hate
me.”

Silence.

She knew he was waiting her out, using his lack of response to try to rattle her and make her talk. To say what, she wasn’t sure. To implicate Quinn? Fat chance. She clamped her lips together and thought about hanging up on him. But, no, he’d consider that a win. So, as the light turned green and she resumed the drive to Quinn’s, she tried to take control of the game.

“If resenting me back then is all the evidence it takes,” she said evenly, “then you should look at Jane. If anyone
hated
me, it was my little sister. I got all of our father’s attention, and she got nothing. Once, the newspaper referred to her as Kylie McKay’s gangly, coltish sister who would probably never grow into her sister’s grace. If anyone had reason to take me out of the game, it was Jane.”

“Ky—”

“And don’t forget my stepmother’s issues. She and Dad had blow-the-roof-off-the-house fights about how he spent every moment of every day obsessing over my tennis career. It’s why they got divorced. So, hey, you know what that means? Everyone in the family’s got a motive now. Maybe all three of them got together and ambushed me. But, no, there were only two attackers. Oh, wait, I know. Mom was the mastermind, and she sent Quinn and Jane to do her dirty work. That makes perfect sense. I bet they even—”

“Kylie, stop.”

She squinted her eyes against the burn behind them. No crying.
No
crying. “I have to go. I’m almost at my brother’s.”

He sighed into her ear. “Will you call me if you need me?”

Yeah, right. “Sure, okay.”

“I mean it, Ky.”

“Thanks.” She cut off the call and tossed the phone into the passenger seat. Bastard. Son of a bitch. Jerk.

Tears again stung her eyes, and she angrily swiped at them. Eye on the fucking ball.

She didn’t even know why she felt like crying. She’d lost nothing. There’d been nothing to lose.

As she turned into Quinn’s neighborhood, she saw three TV news vans parked along the street’s sandy shoulders. Sharply dressed, perfectly coiffed broadcast journalists milled around, chatting and peering at Quinn’s small, light blue stucco house with dark blue shutters and terra-cotta roof tiles. With the blinds drawn, the house looked uninhabited, but Quinn’s beige Accord sat under the carport.

Her heart began to drum in her ears, her palms growing slick, as she parked in the driveway. Watching the journalists in the rearview mirror as they raced up the drive to converge on her, she steeled herself to get out. Memories of the claustrophobic crush of bodies, microphones and shouting voices filled the silence of the car. She recalled hobbling out of the hospital on crutches, wobbly and uncertain but grateful that the nurse had let her leave the wheelchair behind once they’d reached the lobby.

She’d wanted to slip out a back door, but her father had insisted that the media—and, therefore, the world—had to see her walk out on her own. If she avoided the cameras, rumors would fly. She hadn’t really cared one way or the other, but then Chase had made the best argument of all: If you hide, they’ll keep coming after you. Smile for the cameras, stop for a brief chat. Give them what they want, and maybe they’ll go away.

So Kylie had walked out into the Florida sunshine, smiling and nodding because waving was impossible with both hands occupied by crutches. While Chase stayed by her side, Quinn had run interference like a defensive lineman. She’d been surprised at that, surprised at his sudden attentiveness. As if the violent end to her career had somehow awakened him from his resentful stupor. He’d become a different person overnight. Even after she’d moved away, he’d kept up the phone calls and e-mails, always light and airy and funny.

And this was how he got repaid, she thought bitterly. Accused of being responsible. The unfairness felt like a razor-sharp spear through her heart.

Eye on the ball.

Oh, fuck the damn ball. Why did she even bother chanting that? It didn’t work.

Taking a deep breath, she let it out in a long stream, then slipped on her sunglasses and shoved open the car door. As one, the mob stepped back to let her out, then moved forward again, shouting the nickname the media assigned to her long ago. “Mac! Mac!”

Keeping her head down, she aimed for Quinn’s front porch. Screw the smiling and chatting. She knew this routine just as well, had had to employ it for several days after she’d made the announcement that there would be no more Grand Slam victories in her future. Leaving all of this behind had been such an incredible relief.

“Just a word, Mac!”

“How do you feel about your brother being a suspect?”

“The paper said construction of the tennis center is delayed indefinitely. Is the project in any danger of folding?”

She kept moving without acknowledging that she’d heard any of them. She’d almost reached the porch when one of them blocked her path. He was tall, blond and good-looking in that TV reporter kind of way.

“Come on, Mac, give us a break,” he said with a toothy, saccharine grin.

Smooth, crafty, fake. Just like the ones who’d stalked her every limp ten years ago. Tension stiffened her back, and she clenched a fist at her side, wanting to ram it into his oily smile. “You’re on private property,” she said in a low voice.

His grin didn’t falter as he thrust a microphone at her chin. “Do you think he did it? Be honest.”

A beat went by in which she considered letting her fist have its way with the bastard’s face. But then the whine of a siren and the play of flashing red and blue lights bouncing off the sea of suits in Florida pastel told her the police had arrived.

Oh, goody. Maybe she could have some of the media wolves ticketed for trespassing. But then another thought struck her. Had the blood tests come back on the shirt? Was Quinn about to be arrested? Oh, no. Oh, crap.

She made a break for the front door. Maybe she could barricade it once she got inside and keep everyone, including the cops, away from her brother, much the way he had protected her when she’d left the hospital that first time.

Her steps faltered, though, when she heard a familiar, raised voice.

“Unless you want to get arrested for trespassing, I’d suggest you move off of Mr. McKay’s property.”

She turned to see Chase striding up the driveway toward her, a charming smile belying the sternness of his words. The way his faded jeans formed to his body, molding the muscles in his thighs, bulging at the crotch like there was something in there that wanted out, made her mouth go dry. God, he looked good in jeans. In fact, even his simple white polo made something flutter deep inside her, with the way the sleeves stretched to accommodate his biceps, the ribbed material clinging to abdominals ridged with the hills and valleys of ruthlessly developed muscles.

He was absolutely, unbelievably beautiful, the perfect manifestation of affable authority. Strong, capable, sexy.

By the time he joined her on the porch, she had her hormones under control and whispered, “What are you doing here?”

He continued to smile as the newshounds moseyed over to the other side of the road. “I thought you might need some reinforcements.”

So he was being helpful. For some reason, all that did was irk her. Fending off this unreasonable yearning for him would have been so much easier if the guy were a jerk.