Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
“You’re sure that’s her?” Rhett kept his hand linked with Peyton’s.
Only because he didn’t want her to dart off into the crowd again.
Or at least that was the bullshit he told himself.
Never mind that her fingers meshed perfectly with his and she clung to his hold.
As they walked back to his car, the hair on the back of his neck stood up as if he’d just taken off a staticky blanket in the middle of winter.
Peyton stopped short before they broke away from the gathering crowd. “Positive. Same hair, same fingernails.”
“Fingernails?”
“She had a fresh manicure on the yacht. I noticed because of the neon color and unusual length.”
“I’ll call Eric and—”
“We need to get into Max’s unit. He could be inside and hurt.” Peyton’s free hand curled at her breastbone and worry contorted her features.
They couldn’t just waltz into a crime scene.
The smart thing to do would be to alert the authorities that they had a hunch as to which unit Vicky had come from, but then they’d get tied up with the cops and with that came questions.
And with questions came suspicion. Peyton would end up smack-dab in the middle of the investigation.
She was right, though. Max could be hurt.
Or dead. And the murderer would be long gone.
Besides, Vicky’s death directly related to his case, so he wasn’t doing anything he shouldn’t be by searching Max’s place.
He just had a head start on the cops. He nodded.
“They probably haven’t started to investigate where she fell from, so we have an advantage if we can hurry and get upstairs before they evacuate the building. ”
They turned back toward the crowd. An officer was monitoring the entrance, but residents were still coming and going. A young man entered the building directly in front of them. Rhett caught the door and Peyton preceded him inside.
“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.
She curled her fingernails into her palm to stop herself from grabbing the top of the rail.
No need to get close and have someone spot her.
By now, Vicky’s body would be on a stretcher and zipped up in a black body bag.
The cops were undoubtedly working their way through the units, but there were hundreds—it would take some time for them to get to Max’s.
Nausea crashed against her insides, and she gulped down a mouthful of air to prevent vomit from firing down on the unsuspecting people below.
Pressing her hand to her chest, she closed her eyes. Get a grip. Movement sounded behind her, and relief washed away the nausea. Rhett had that effect on her. She turned around to meet the wall of his chest, which her body so craved.
Instead, an unfamiliar black shirt filled her vision.
Fear pressed down on her tongue. She tilted her head back and stared into menacing eyes.
The man’s blond hair was gelled away from his pale face, and long whiskers jutted out in patches from his jaw.
Warning signals bleeped through her skull.
She lunged backward and opened her mouth to scream.
He shot his hand out and caught her windpipe, cutting off her air. Panic rushed through her veins. He raised her onto her tiptoes, and she gulped and sputtered against his leather glove.
No, no, no. She couldn’t die like this. Not by the hands of this monster.
He shoved her back against the railing, and the hard steel carved itself into her back. Pain radiated along her muscles. He stretched her head back over the railing. The sound of traffic and distant voices roared in her ears.
“Tell me Jenny’s address or you’ll end up like Vicky.” Spit flung from his lips and his eyes widened, accentuating the bright whites around his irises. His pupils tightened to the size of pinholes.
Tears gushed out of her eyes. Her neck screamed under the strain. Her face throbbed.
She shook her head and clawed at his wrist. Even if she remembered Jenny’s address, she couldn’t give up an innocent woman to save her own life. Rhett wasn’t far away. Her gaze shifted to the window beside the balcony. If she could just get his attention . . .
With the last of her resources, she forced a scream through her restricted throat. It came out as a weak gurgle.
The man’s laugh shook his body, and his eyes glinted maliciously. “Fine. I hope someone catches you.” He swept his hand underneath her knees. The sky filled her vision.