Deadly Fall Read online

  Fuck.

  * * * * *

  Nick found Charlie sprawled behind his desk, where he had fallen after receiving a vicious blow to the head that had knocked him unconscious. He hadn’t even seen it coming, he’d told Nick after he came to. After making sure the boy was not suffering anything more serious than a bump the size of a chicken egg, Nick left him at his post to wait for the cavalry. He then went up to the penthouse to join his partner.

  Ethan met him at the door. Bright light spilled from the foyer behind him. Nick gave him a recap in short, succinct sentences.

  “I called it in,” Ethan said when Nick was done. “We have less than ten minutes before it becomes official.”

  “Did you find anything?” Nick asked as he followed Ethan into the foyer, pushing the front doors nearly shut with his foot so as to not mess up any prints.

  “No signs of forced entry. He either knew his visitors or didn’t bother to check the peephole. I did a quick walkthrough. Langan was worked over in his office before he went through the French doors leading to the terrace,” Ethan said. “But I haven’t checked out the rooms upstairs, yet. It’s a damned big penthouse.”

  Andrew Langan’s penthouse was a two-story apartment that only took up half of the entire floor. Nick got the impression of thick walls, high ceilings, airy rooms, hardwood floors, sleek furnishings and money. Mountains of it. No less was to be expected of the CEO and Executive Chairman of the Board of Langan Shipping Incorporated.

  What wasn’t to be expected was that he just took a twenty-seven-story plunge to his death.

  “Andrew Langan,” Ethan said softly, a trace of disbelief in his tone. “Poor guy. All that money and his wife still left him, and now this.” He shook his head. “Jesus Christ. Torie’s not going to believe this.”

  “Yeah, especially with her sleeping only eight floors below.”

  Ethan moved his shoulders in a circular motion in his jacket. “It’s chilly in here.”

  “How many entrances are there into this building from the ground floor?” Nick asked, moving into the formal living room.

  “Two. The front entrance and the service entrance. The service entrance door is locked at all times and the tenants don’t have the keys for it. Or rather, they shouldn’t.”

  “Charlie said he didn’t recall two men coming in together since he started his shift.”

  “You think they got in through the back?”

  Nick shrugged. “Can they get in through the basement parking?”

  “Possibly.” Ethan drew out the word as he considered it. “They could’ve tailgated someone in.”

  “The security cameras in this building aren’t just for show, right?”

  “I sure as hell hope not.”

  “Good. You go search the upstairs. I’m going to check the office.”

  Nick followed the draft to the home office that was nearly as big as his entire condo unit. Ethan had left the overhead lights on, flooding the room with an institutional white glow. Nick zeroed in on the source of the cold air. There was a big, gaping hole in one of the French doors that led to the terrace he had seen from the ground. Broken glass and splintered wood carpeted the hardwood in the room and the concrete terrace floor. A black leather executive chair stood a few feet away from the French doors, looking battered. Nick spotted dark stains on the floor around the chair. The muscles across his shoulders bunched. Not all of the blood was dry.

  He scanned the rest of the room. Only the desk was clean. The floor was littered with papers, folders, books and a wide assortment of office accessories. The file cabinet had been nearly ripped apart, with each drawer in varying degrees of openness. They were mostly empty. The built-in bookshelves had been equally violated, with most of their contents piled on the floor in front of them.

  Another scan of the room, but he didn’t spot a computer. Nick’s gut tightened and the back of his neck tensed.

  “The bedrooms don’t even look lived in,” Ethan said, coming into office. “All the closets are empty except for the master bedroom. And that walk-in’s only half full. It’s like a freakin’ museum.”

  “There’re bloodstains all over the floor by the chair over there,” Nick said, nodding in the direction of the chair across the room. “Computer’s missing. Someone like Langan would have one at home or bring his work one home.”

  “Bloodstains on the walls, too,” Ethan said. “Or at least on the light switches. I see a lot of smudges and no prints.”

  “Gloves.”

  “You didn’t get close enough to see their faces?”

  Nick’s jaw clenched. “No.”

  “You need a paramedic?” Ethan asked, his glance dropping to the dark smears on Nick’s hand.

  Nick shook his head. “Got the blood from the doorknob.” He returned his attention to the scene. “I see duct tape on the arms of the chair.”

  Ethan propped his hands on his hips. “Langan had information they wanted. Could be safe location, combination…whatever.”

  “Maybe. Did they get what they wanted?”

  “They wouldn’t have sent Langan to meet his maker otherwise.”

  “Maybe,” Nick said again, and did a slow three-sixty. “But there are better, more subtle ways of killing someone than throwing him over a terrace.”

  Ethan fixed his gaze on Nick. Quietly, he said, “We can’t rule out suicide just yet. Langan might’ve decided it was the lesser of two evils. If he was tortured, a quick death might be tempting. You chased two people down the stairs but that doesn’t make them killers.”

  “They took seven shots at me.”

  “Attempted murder. You didn’t actually witness them throw Langan off the terrace. And as for Langan, they can plead assault and unlawful confinement.” At Nick’s irate expression, Ethan threw up his hands. “Hey, I’m just thinking like a good defense scum-sucker.”

  Nick made a sound of derision and went to the bookshelves. The rich ones always thought having secret hiding places behind bookshelves and paintings was ingenious. “Roll up your sleeves, Ethan, and make like a good detective. We’re down to five minutes.”

  Chapter Three

  The banging on her front door pulled her from sleep into semi-wakefulness. Augusta Langan could hear it despite being buried beneath two blankets in her bed in the third-story bedroom. From the heavy pounding on her door, she knew her visitor wasn’t going away and rubbed at her gritty eyes. They felt puffy, the aftermath of a day and night of crying. She managed a shuddering breath that couldn’t quite fill her lungs.

  The musical ring of the doorbell drew her attention. Whoever was at her front door was trying for tact. She rolled to her side and glanced at the clock radio. It was well past noon. Normally by this time, she would have finished her first two lectures and would be reviewing her notes for the afternoon session. But normal went out the door after a visit from an NYPD officer yesterday morning.

  Augusta drew in a deep breath and blinked rapidly, trying to moisten her eyes to relieve the sudden sting. Pushing back the covers, she swung her bare feet to the floor and shoved her hair back from her face. She groped for the eyeglasses on the night table, put them on and, unmindful of her attire, hurried downstairs. The ringing continued incessantly until she fumbled with the locks. When she pulled open the front door, she found herself face to chest.

  “Dr. Augusta Langan?”

  She looked up at the man filling her doorway. She didn’t step back to let him inside. She couldn’t. She could barely breathe. Oh, God. It was a replay of her nightmare. Except it wasn’t simply a bad dream. It was yesterday morning all over again.

  The man before her reached inside his jacket and withdrew a black leather wallet. She blinked once and glimpsed a gold badge. After yesterday morning, however, she didn’t require more than that.

  “This is about my hus— Drew.” It wasn’t a question.

  “I’m afraid it is. I’m Detective Ethan Murtagh and this is Detective Nick Markov,” he said as he removed his dark s
unglasses and motioned to the man behind him, “of the NYPD. May we come in?”

  As if she actually had a choice. “Of course,” she said quietly, evenly, stepping back to let them into the narrow foyer.

  “We tried to find you at the university, but one of the other professors said you were taking a few days off.”

  Augusta nodded absently, as if she was actually hearing and processing the words.

  “Is there somewhere we can sit down?”

  She blinked, taking a moment to understand his question. “The kitchen?”

  “Lead the way.”

  Without looking back, Augusta drifted through the double doors just to her left and into the sunlit kitchen, aware of each step, feeling each grain and fiber in the cool hardwood that gave way to chilling tile in the kitchen.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I-I’m just going to wash my face.” She swept her hand toward the small breakfast table and high-backed chairs nestled in the nook, which flowed from the long kitchen and looked out on the quiet, tree-lined street. “Please make yourselves comfortable and I’ll be back shortly.”

  Without waiting for their response, she ignored the half-bath on the first floor and made her way to the master en suite, locked the door behind her, propped her elbows on the cool marble counter and buried her face in her hands, her eyes shut tight.

  After the panicky, suffocating feeling subsided, she lifted her head. She was too tired to cringe from the reflection of the worn woman who was much too young to be feeling so damned old.

  A short burst of laughter escaped her. Dear God, she was reaching the point of hysteria if paraphrased Garth Brooks lyrics were running through her head.

  The splash of lukewarm water on her face did nothing for the lavender bruises beneath her eyes or for the red puffiness, but it did make her feel better. Augusta rummaged in her drawer and found a silver hair stick to secure her mass of hair in a loose bun at the top of her head. She rinsed out her mouth, took a few calming breaths and left the bathroom.

  * * * * *

  When Augusta returned to the kitchen, the men rose as if they were there for a social call. She retrieved a pitcher of orange juice from the refrigerator and a glass from a cupboard.

  “Juice?” she asked them while pouring a glass for herself. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have any coffee.”

  They declined but didn’t return to their chairs. Instead, they waited silently while she finished off half the juice, then clutched the glass with all ten fingers. She leaned back until the edge of the counter dug into the small of her back, but she didn’t move away, suddenly conscious of the New York Rangers jersey ending inches above her knees and how the two men dominated the room with more than their physical presences. Augusta set aside the glass, wrapped an arm about her waist, hugging herself and fingered the hem of the jersey, pulling it down discreetly and failing. Her fingers faltered. The jersey was soft from countless washings because it was her first gift from Drew.

  She cleared her throat and blinked to clear the blurred edges of her vision. “I was already questioned yesterday by another police officer. Is there something he forgot?”

  It was Detective Murtagh who replied, “We just want to go over a few things again, Dr. Langan.”

  “I’ve told the other officer everything I know, answered every question he asked.”

  “You might remember something now that you didn’t yesterday.”

  Augusta rubbed the line between her brows. She took a slow, deep breath. “All right then. What do you want to know?”

  Detective Murtagh pulled out a chair. “Do you want to take a seat? You might be more comfortable.”

  Augusta took the proffered seat and the two detectives sat down across from her. She looked from one to the other. Ethan Murtagh was movie star-handsome despite the disheveled blond hair and bloodshot gray eyes. Good cop, she thought.

  His partner looked more like a thug than a cop. Nick Markov’s hair was blacker and thicker than hers and cropped close to his head. His eyes were deep set and startlingly blue in his tanned face. His features were rugged, with a broad forehead and cheekbones and square chin. There was a break in the line of his nose, suggesting it had been broken at least once. His sculpted mouth was oddly, erotically sensual in his hard face. Bad cop.

  “Dr. Langan?” Detective Murtagh asked.

  Augusta gave a small shake of her head. “Sorry.” She lifted her fingers to run them through her hair, recalled it was tamed into a bun and dropped her hands onto the table top. “Where would you like to begin?”

  “We can start with your relationship to Andrew Langan,” he said. “But before we start—” Detective Murtagh reached inside his jacket, pulled out a digital voice recorder and placed it on the table. “Do you mind if I record this conversation?”

  Is that what it’s called these days?

  Augusta waved a dismissive hand. “Of course not.”

  He checked the device, activated it and rattled off the date, time and their names. Finally, he looked at her and said, “Describe your relationship with the deceased.”

  Her mouth tightened. “Please don’t call him ‘the deceased.’ His name was Drew. Andrew James Langan.”

  Red stained the tops of Detective Murtagh’s cheeks. “Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “Please describe your relationship with Andrew Langan.”

  “We are—were—” She broke off, took another deep breath and tried again. “We were friends who made the mistake of getting married. Things didn’t work out and we filed for divorce.”

  “‘We’?” Detective Markov repeated, startling her with the sound of his low voice and the note of doubt in that single word. More than doubt. Bad cop.

  Nick kept his expression bland as he studied the woman across from him. She looked small and vulnerable, except for the eyes that told him to go to hell and made him wish they were alone. However, he had a homicide to solve, and she was a suspect. She was their best suspect, in fact.

  “You’re right. I filed for divorce but Drew didn’t contest it.”

  “He did at first,” Nick said.

  She tilted her head. “You talked to Adam.”

  Nick let her read the suspicion in his eyes. “What was the exact reason for the divorce?”

  She stiffened, then her large, brown eyes went as carefully blank as her expression. “If you talked to Adam, you already know.”

  Nick waited.

  “Irreconcilable differences,” she said finally.

  “Which can mean any number of things.”

  Her eyes narrowed and her lips thinned. “Drew came to me six months ago and confessed that he had a brief affair with…someone.”

  “How brief was brief?”

  “A week—not even. Maybe a one-night stand.”

  “With whom?”

  Her gaze slid away from him and she shook her head. “I don’t know. He never said.”

  Augusta Langan was a terrible liar, Nick thought, pleased despite the circumstances. “Was this the first time?”

  “Yes.” He could see her delicate throat muscles flex and ripple as she swallowed. “Drew said it would never happen again.”

  “But you didn’t believe him.”

  “No. I did believe him, but I realized then he and I shouldn’t have married in the first place.”

  “Why?”

  Augusta leaned back in her chair. “A lot of reasons. His family didn’t approve, which created a lot of tension. They thought I married Drew for his money, which wasn’t true, but I didn’t marry him for love either. I love…loved him, and he loved me, but we weren’t in love with each other.”

  She paused, waiting, and after Nick nodded, continued. “We thought we could make it work. It didn’t, and after four years and his affair, I realized that it wasn’t fair to either of us to be tied to each other.”

  The corners of Nick’s mouth dipped down further. “We have statements saying that the de—Andrew Langan didn’t want the divorce.”

  A faint smile
lit her eyes briefly, making Nick want to reach across and feel her smile with his fingers, and then taste it with the tip of his tongue. It was strong, this urge that had stealthily sneaked up on him.

  Nick reigned in the absurd impulse, but it was already too late. His heart was beating double time, pumping blood to his lower body and raising his temperature. Nick shifted subtly in his seat, trying to ease the tightness in his jeans—a tightness that had started since the first moment she opened the front door and he was teased with a vision of a tousled mane of inky hair and a body and face still flushed with sleep. Her half-lidded eyes brought to mind that satisfied exhaustion that comes after a bout of hot, sweaty, dirty sex. Nick had instantly become hard, and his erection showed no signs of subsiding any time soon. Thank God she hadn’t bothered to look down past his chest. He hadn’t returned the courtesy. He could still see the long, slim, smooth legs below the masculine jersey. The hockey jersey was much too big for her—at least four sizes too big—yet she didn’t look childish at all. Instead, she appeared fragile…extremely sexy and very, very fuckable. Hell, even her toes were sexy.