“Really?” His raised eyebrow hinted at disbelief. “You were partners for five years, and you never knew he had an apartment near Federation Square?”
“I was his partner, not his keeper.” Then she frowned. “How in hell could Jack afford an apartment in a precinct like that?”
“Same way you can afford to own an apartment opposite the beach in Brighton?”
The blood drained from her face, only to be replaced by a rush of heated anger. He didn’t trust her. Not entirely, at least. Despite his earlier words, he still suspected she was involved in something with Jack.
“I inherited that apartment when I turned twenty-one. I have no idea who my benefactor was, and the attorney wouldn’t reveal his identity.” An edge of anger crept into her voice, despite her efforts to remain calm. This wasn’t the first time she’d heard these accusations, but, for some reason, this time it annoyed her more than usual. Or maybe it was just her own unease over owning the apartment bubbling back to the surface. “The only previous owner I could find said he sold it to the Panjet Corporation. They’ve refused to answer any of my queries over the years.” She hesitated and clenched her fists. “You can accuse me of Jack’s murder, you can accuse me of being his lover, but don’t you ever accuse me of being crooked!”
“And yet that’s how it looks.” His voice still held an edge, his eyes still intense. Yet something in his manner suggested he believed her. “And it is something they will bring up in court, if this ever gets that far.”
“Let them. I have nothing to hide.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” He held out a hand. “Shall we go?”
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him to go to hell, but she had a feeling she needed his help far more than he needed hers. Someone out there was setting her up for a fall, and like it or not, he was the only thing that currently stood between her and a prison cell.
Nodding briefly, she ignored his outstretched hand and brushed past him, walking to the door. One thing was certain—Jack had better provide some answers tomorrow night, or she might just be tempted to shoot him again.
SAM CLIMBED FROM THE CAR, shouldering her bag as she stared up at the three-story building in surprise. With its soaring white pillars and vast expanse of windows, the house looked as if it belonged in America’s Deep South, not sitting here among the gums in the genteel suburb of Toorak—although it was part of what was commonly called Millionaire’s Row. And the other houses on this block were even more extravagant in design than this.
She glanced at Gabriel as he moved around the car. “You didn’t tell me your friend was wealthy.”
He shrugged. “It isn’t important.”
When someone was trying to poison him, it was. Wealth was often a motivating factor. “You’ve seen his will? Investigated his beneficiaries?”
His smile was somewhat grim. “There are two. His wife, Lyssa, and me.” He motioned her up the stairs. “And if it is Lyssa, wealth won’t be a motive. This house is hers—it’s been in her family for several generations.”
She raised an eyebrow. He was an heir? Why?
“That’s some friendship you have there, Assistant Director.”
His gaze met hers. “Yes, it is. And I have no intention of losing it.”
He pressed a button near the door. A bell chimed softly in the distance, then the security screen came to life.
“Gabriel.” The woman was young and blond and had a voice that could only be described as sultry. “You’re late.”
“Sorry, Lys. Trouble at work.”
“I see you’ve brought some of it along with you.” The blonde sighed dramatically. “Come on in.”
The door clicked open. Sam glanced up at Gabriel as he ushered her inside. “Is your friend’s wife an actress, by chance?”
His expression, she noticed, was thoughtful. There was something about the woman’s manner that didn’t sit well with him, and she had a feeling it wasn’t her overly dramatic ways. “Anyone would think so.”
“How did she know I was one of your assignments?”
“One cop shooting another is big news these days. Your face has been plastered all over the media, I’m afraid.”
So much for the right to an unprejudiced trial. She took off her coat and handed it to him so he could place it in the cloak closet, but kept a grip on her bag. The hallway in which they stood was all white marble and gold fittings. And it was all real, all worth a king’s fortune. His friends were obviously more than just plain old wealthy.
“This way.” He caught her elbow, his touch light but warm as he led her down the hall. Their footsteps echoed through the silence, and the air was chill, almost stale. Maybe this part of the house wasn’t used much.
It wasn’t until he opened a set of French doors and ushered her into a smaller hallway that any real warmth came into the house. In this section, the walls were a mellow sandstone color and the doorways a rich turquoise. The floor was wood—real wood, not that plastic stuff they’d used in her apartment—but covered by a runner that was red, gold and turquoise diamonds. Even the air smelled different—warm and rich, with the scent of sandalwood combined with a faint hint of lime.
“I like your friend’s taste in colors.”