Page 41 of Straight Shooter

“Do you know where his unit is?”

“Yeah, fourteenth floor.” She led them to the elevator and hit the button.

Inside the cart, Peyton curled her hands around the rail at her back. Her face had taken on a pasty-white hue. The color his kiss had brought to her lips and cheeks only an hour before was a fading memory. She kept her stare on the tiled floor at their feet. He wanted to reassure her, but fuck. If Vicky was dead and she’d been pushed out of Max’s apartment, it didn’t bode well for Priss’s friend—or his case, for fuck’s sake.

The elevator slowed, and he stepped out first and scanned the floor. A woman at the far end of the hall entered her unit, and an older man on the opposite end locked his door and strode in their direction. Rhett resisted the urge to pull his gun. People were already spooked, and if the man saw someone on his floor with a weapon, the cops would be on top of them in minutes.

Peyton came up beside him and pointed in the direction of Max’s suite. For once, she didn’t jet ahead and make him chase her but stuck close by his side. He glanced over his shoulder and watched the man enter the elevator. His empty hand itched for the security of his Glock. “Whoever killed Vicky could still be around.”

“You don’t think they would’ve left right away?”

Rhett shrugged. “Probably. I don’t want to take any chances, though.”

Peyton’s footsteps slowed. “This is it,” she said, gesturing to the unit.

He studied the closed door and reached for the handle. The cool metal filled his palm. “Let me sweep the place first, okay? Just wait inside by the door.”

Unease clouded her eyes, but she nodded. He pressed down on the handle and the door swung open. Not locked, which wasn’t a surprise, given that the last person in the room would likely have been Vicky’s killer. Rhett finally grasped the gun at the small of his back and pointed it at the floor as he entered. The open-concept design allowed copious amounts of light to shine through the floor-to-ceiling windows and glass patio door. As Peyton moved inside, he shut the door behind her then swiftly moved through the masculine, dark-toned space. When he finished in the bedroom and office, he returned to the kitchen-entryway area and let his weapon hang at his side.

“It’s clear.”

Peyton’s frown made him stop. “Did you find something?”

“Come here,” she said, beckoning him to the front door. She pointed to the handle. “Don’t you think it’s strange there’s no sign of forced entry? I mean, if Vicky was here with Max and someone was after her—or them—the killer would have come in unannounced, right?”

Rhett slid his hand over the smooth black door casing. It was an observation he would have made had he not been so personally invested in the case. Shoot, who was he kidding? It wasn’t the case he was invested in but the woman who sent his dick into a frenzy every time he got within arm’s reach—like right now. “You’re right.” He dropped his hand and pinched his bottom lip. In his time at the bureau, he’d seen many cases that didn’t add up, and this one was rapidly turning into a circus. She wouldn’t like what he had to say, but the agent in him couldn’t avoid the obvious possibility. “Unless it was Max who killed Vicky.”

Peyton inhaled sharply and pulled back. “Max isn’t a murderer.” Her voice rang with certainty, but something flickered in her eyes. Doubt?

He bit back what he wanted to say. How many times had he heard that phrase? So-and-so isn’t a killer. No one was a murderer until they committed murder. He held up a hand in his defense.

“No point speculating too much right now. Let’s have a look around. We need to hurry before the cops come.”

Peyton glanced toward the kitchen. Dishes cluttered the counter. “What are we looking for? Max isn’t here.”

“It doesn’t make sense that Vicky would have been here by herself unless the two of them were closer than just colleagues.”

Priss wrinkled one corner of her top lip. “It’s possible, but Max didn’t mention that he was dating her—or anyone, for that matter.”

For a moment, Rhett’s heart felt as if it had been struck with a rubber band. Jealousy wasn’t lining her voice, but something was. Surprise? Disbelief? It hadn’t once crossed his mind that Peyton could be involved with anyone. She hadn’t given any indication that she was romantically tied up, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have history with Max—or fuck, maybe more.

This was bad. He was making himself crazy over a woman he hadn’t even slept with yet. Yet. He forced the hopeful word from his mind. If he didn’t get a handle on his shit, he’d be a useless, quivering man with nothing but blue balls to show for his pathetic attraction to Priss.

He worked the grogginess from his throat. “It would make a big difference if they were dating. In fact, I’m sorry to say it, but it would heighten the chance that Max murdered Vicky. I’ll check the bedroom for women’s clothes.”

Peyton breezed over to a laptop on the kitchen counter. “I’ll see if I can log in to his computer. Maybe his email will reveal who he’s been working with.”

“Make sure to wipe down anything you touch.” Rhett returned to the front door and snapped the dead bolt in place using the material of his shirt then headed to the bedroom. A rumpled charcoal-colored duvet coated the mattress, and throw pillows were stacked neatly between the wall and nightstand. Not many men Rhett knew had throw pillows—a signature female touch. He moved around the room and a cloud of perfume, sweet and powerful, floated from the closet. He sneezed, stepped forward, and peeled apart the hangers of clothes.

A red corset and whip dangled between a pink trench coat and black leather pants.

Either Max had a night job, or Vicky was more than just a colleague.

Incorrect password.

Dammit. Peyton wiped down the keyboard with a dish towel and closed the screen. Scanning the living room, her gaze landed on the patio door, which was open a crack. A breeze floated through the gap and lifted the sheer curtain covering the glass, making it billow toward the couch. She crossed the living room and stopped at the door. Two patio chairs sat on the balcony with a table wedged between them. The concrete was free of anything that would indicate there had been a struggle.

She gripped the handle with the dish towel and the door coasted open. She stepped onto the balcony. A strong wind carried over the rail and lifted her hair. A knot of unease built inside her gut as she inched toward the steel bars. The many vehicles still trying to get down the clogged street honked repeatedly.