A muscle in his jaw twitched. The answer was yes, and the answer was no. Ryan knew more than he should, but not enough to make sense of what his mother had given him, and he sure as hell didn’t want to say the wrong thing. He bought himself some time. “Can you be a little more specific?”
“We want to know who she spent time with. Beyond Stefano,” he said, dropping the name of the shooter, who was also behind bars.
“I’d just finished eighth grade.” Ryan was keenly aware of his own body language, of how he was sitting, how he was trying to strike a mix of casual and interested. Even though he was innocent, even though he didn’t have first-hand knowledge of the murder, he had intel about his mother that he didn’t intend to share, and that made him hyper-vigilant. Never say a word. He’d taken that directive from her to heart when he was younger, and as the years went on, too. Besides, what he knew would have no bearing on his mother or her freedom. But rather than focus on the classified documents inside his head, he narrowed in on the truth as he answered. “I didn’t have a great sense of the conversations she was having with that guy or any others—beyond the customers who came to our house to pick up clothes and costumes.”
Winston nodded and rubbed a hand over his chin, slowing as he seemed to consider. “We just want to get a better understanding of everything that happened. Something that might seem innocuous to you could actually wind up being a key piece of information for us. Were there new people in her life? Did she have any new friends?”
Ryan’s senses tingled as his analytical mind played connect-the-dots. “Does this mean you think there were others involved?”
Winston leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs, the classic pose for trying to get somebody to open up. “Listen, I’m really just trying to get a better picture of what her life looked like at the time of your father’s murder. Trying to understand who she was involved with. It could be relevant to the investigation.” Winston made an encouraging gesture with his hands. “The customers you said would come over to pick up clothes—was there anyone new in the months or weeks prior?”
Ryan scrunched up his forehead, rewinding time. “Around then she was sewing leotards for a local gymnastics team. She tailored dresses for some of the girls in the neighborhood going to prom. She joked once that she had so much leftover fabric that she was going to start making dog jackets,” he said, and Winston’s lips quirked up in the barest grin.
“I like dogs,” Winston said.
“Same here.”
“Any idea who her clients were? Beyond the gymnastics folks? Her friends?”
“Sorry. I honestly didn’t keep track of who her friends were,” Ryan said, speaking the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
“Listen, if anything comes to you, I’d greatly appreciate if you could share it with me,” Winston said, turning off the recorder then pushing back from his seat and standing up.
Ryan tilted his head. “What is it you’re looking for, detective? It would help me if I knew what sort of info you think would be useful.”
“Honestly, anything,” he said, emphasizing the last word with a touch of desperation. “Even if it seems like nothing—even if it seems like the smallest piece of evidence,” he said as he opened the door to his office and escorted Ryan through the main office, which reeked of the late afternoon scent of TGIF even though it was Thursday, as weary cops and detectives finished phone calls, shuffled papers, and glanced at the clock as if they were all counting down the minutes ’til quitting time.
Ryan couldn’t blame them. He was eager to end this workday and get on his phone to sort out his new evening plans at Aria. He said goodbye to the detective and left, returning to the blanket of heat outside, where he dropped his shades over his blue eyes and scanned for the Aston Martin. The car was still there, but the blonde was gone.
Damn. He wouldn’t have minded another chance to drink her in. She would be a balm after that conversation with the detective, which had stirred up too many memories and far too many buried emotions. The past was such a thorny son-of-a-bitch. Diving back to his younger years was not a favorite hobby of his. Those days were messy and dangerous, and he wished he could leave them behind him.
He’d never been able to, though. They had dug claws into him. Grown knotty roots inside his head and his heart.
All the more reason to focus on the things that would take his mind off his obsession with the past.
Like tonight, and the chance to see the sexy blonde again. As he walked down the steps, he wondered briefly what kind of business she had at the municipal offices. One thing he was fairly certain about—she probably wasn’t talking to homicide detectives about an eighteen-year-old case.
A case he’d love to know more about. What he wouldn’t give to know what was inside John Winston’s head.
Chapter Two
Sophie knocked twice on the glass window. John looked up and flashed her a brief smile. Such a hard worker. Always had been. Always would be. He’d be burning the midnight oil tonight, either here at the station or at home.
Her brother, at thirty-three, was two years older than her, and she hadn’t been surprised to find him bent over his desk, one hand pushed through his dark blond hair, the other flipping through some papers. Probably some case he was hell-bent on solving, since that pretty much described her brother’s single-minded mission in life.
He came to the door and let her in. She’d just finished her phone call with her friend Jenna. Well, that call had then morphed into another one with her ex-husband Holden, but she always loved chatting with him, so the pair of them had kept her occupied as she’d strolled outside, gabbing with some of her favorite people.
“Hey you,” John said, and dropped a quick kiss on her cheek.
“Hey you to you,” she said, her voice bright and bubbly because she was still in a fantastic mood thanks to Mr. Green Tie. She was hoping that handsome man—wait, make that devilishly handsome, because he’d had a wicked glint in those dark blue eyes—would pick up the trail of breadcrumbs she’d left behind. The way Mr. Green Tie had looked at her on the street…she’d never felt so deliciously naked while wearing clothes. A man like that, bold enough to walk right up and talk to her…he was exactly the kind of man who would show up tonight at Aria.
The kind of man she’d never experienced.
But wanted to.
Oh, how she wanted to know what a direct, confident, and forward man was like.
Anticipation knitted a path up her spine. She barely knew the guy, had uttered all of ten words to him, but Sophie thrived on moments like this. Moments that could unspool into decadent possibility. She had a feeling about him. A good feeling. A sexy feeling.
Okay, fine. She supposed it was entirely possible he could be a serial killer or an axe murderer.
But that was highly unlikely.
And it wasn’t as if she’d stupidly invited him to a deserted house at the end of an isolated road. She’d invited him to a ballroom event at Aria that cost a pretty penny for a ticket, where security would be top-notch because the attendee list had the sort of net worth that required it. Not that money was indicative of a man’s character or date-ability, but she’d been able to tell by the cut of his pants and the silk of his tie that he would be able to afford the ticket.
The ticket was a pre-screening. A show of faith in his interest. A sign that he’d jump through the first hoop to see her.
She crossed her fingers that he’d show.
“You’re in a good mood,” John said then grabbed her arm protectively. He tipped his head to the chatter and hum of the men at the desks behind her. “And get in here. Everyone is staring at you. Don’t you own a jacket?”