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“Sit.” He motioned to the two chairs in front of his desk. Sharp tone, choppy action. Someone was not happy.
Wait. Sit? “What about the tour?”
He arched a brow, a man assured of his power. “There won’t be a tour.”
What? “But I want to see the crime lab.”
“Then you should have gone home after the memorial service. GBH tours are only offered to well-behaved murder suspects.” His dry tone took the sting out of the label.
“Guess that means the cybersecurity unit is out, too,” she grumbled, trudging over to slump into the chair. Jane didn’t expect a response, and he didn’t give her one. “Am I here so you can scare me straight?”
“Someone needs to.”
Well, it wouldn’t work. She would be visiting Caroline Whittington and Emma Miller for a follow-up appointment, as planned, and that was that. Instincts she hadn’t known she possessed were screaming, So close to the truth!
His scowl deepened. “You have no business following leads. You’ll only go down the wrong roads, because you aren’t privy to all the facts.”
“You’re right. I’m not privy to all the facts. And I think we can both agree that’s one hundred percent your fault. But I’m from the town, and I know the people. I’m a resource. Why aren’t you making use of me? Think about it. You’re a straight line, and I’m a squiggly one. More creative. I can help you see things from a different perspective.”
“Like the flying turtles.” He steepled his fingers and sighed. “Go on. Elaborate.”
Now we’re cooking with gas. She scooted to the edge of her seat. “Well, I’ve already worked up multiple motives for multiple people. I’m sorry to say I’ve just thought of one for you. And it checks out. Solidly. The logic is bulletproof.”
He reclined in his chair, appearing more at ease. Even amused? “Please. Do tell.”
Warming up to the topic, she leaned toward his desk. “Picture this. Weeks before the murder, you passed through my town, spotted me, and instantly became obsessed with me.” Stranger things had happened. “You would have settled for any excuse to spend time with me. When you couldn’t think of one, you supplied one with murder.” Her gotcha tone drew a grin from him. A there-and-gone grin, but a grin all the same.
He rubbed his fingers over his mouth, eyes crackling with mirth. “Your bulletproof logic has a hole. The day we met is the first I’d heard of your town.”
“So you say. We both know murderers can be liars, too. But okay. Let’s pretend you’re telling the truth. That just means you saw my picture online and hired an assassin to provide the excuse. Though I notice you aren’t disputing your attraction to me,” she pointed out.
“I don’t think anyone can dispute my attraction to you, Jane.” He offered the mind-blowing statement casually before he continued on as if nothing had happened. “I gained permission to share other case details with you. But.” He pegged her with a hard stare. “I won’t be doing so until you agree to stop speaking with people of interest.” He extended his arm to offer her a stack of photos. “Consider the acceptance of these images agreement.”
Fighting to maintain her composure—just breathe!—she did, in fact, accept the stack. But accept his terms? No. Every image showcased a paper on display at the museum’s permanent mining exhibit, Gold Fever! Exclamation point included. The exhibit kicked off two years ago and quickly became a town staple.
“Wait.” Back to gold rather than romance? “You don’t suspect the fleur-de-lys is a merely being a decoy meant to distract from the murder? You believe Dr. Hotchkins was hunting for gold at my cemetery?”
“It’s a possibility.” Conrad stood, strode around the desk and sank into the chair at her side. A stronger hit of his dry cedar and spicy scent infused her next inhalation, and she nearly whimpered. So good!
Leaning over, his shoulder brushing against hers, he pointed to a highlighted name—Rhonda Burgundy. Plot 39. The spot Dr. Hots died. “Burgundy’s coffin was raided in the past, suspected of holding bricks of gold. She’s mentioned at the exhibit. So are several of your other residents. Maybe the doctor believed a stash of gold was overlooked during the raid.”
“That rumor has surfaced in the past, but longtime residents know it’s false. Dr. Hotchkins is a longtime resident.”
Conrad hiked a shoulder. “We believe he planned to meet a woman the night of his murder, but we don’t know which, only that she was a regular tap—his words, not mine. He tracked those regulars with a coded calendar in his office. We’ve identified some but not all.”
Women reduced to a code? Gross. “How many, um, taps, are there?”
“Eight. With an assortment of semiregulars and one-night stands mixed in. From what we’ve pieced together, he used the exam rooms as five-minute motels.”
