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tucking
     the photograph into his inner-jacket pocket. He straightened and listened with keen
     interest as Allan began asking questions.
    “You said Preston’s killer would never go to trial. What did you mean by that? Is
     the case still open?”
    “No. They caught the man, but he hung himself in his cell. No one ever discovered
     why he shot Rick.”
    “Why do you think he shot him?”
    Her gaze slid from Allan to him and back again. A ripple of confusion flashed through
     her eyes. “I have no idea.”
    “No idea?” Disbelief colored Allan’s words. “What did Preston work on before his death?
     Anything that had him worried? Did he say anything to you about being concerned that
     something was about to happen? Any cryptic messages like the one St. John delivered
     over the telephone?”
    “No. Rick never shared… He didn’t say anything to me.”
    “You had dinner that night. He didn’t seem upset, preoccupied?”
    The shaky laugh that slipped from Ms. Conroy surprised them all. Justin noted her
     unnaturally pale face as she closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “He
     seemed fine.”
    She was holding something back. What, he didn’t know, but she no longer looked at
     him or Allan. Instead, her attention focused just to the right of where he stood.
     As he studied her—so cool and collected, except for the slight trembling of her body—she
     pulled her full bottom lip into her mouth and bit down.
    Awareness surged, surprising in its intensity. Justin slid his hands into his front
     pockets and set his jaw against the unwelcome reaction. “Ms. Conroy—”
    “What do you want me to say?” she asked with impatience. “That night Rick Preston
     was attentive and caring. I thought things would turn out differently, but they didn’t.”
    “Because someone shot and killed him,” he countered.
    “Yes.”
    “And then hung himself in his cell before he could stand trial.”
    “ Yes. Look, I fail to see what any of this has to do with Lee’s murder. It’s been three
     years since Rick was shot.” Her bright green eyes took on a sudden awareness. “You
     think that Lee’s death is related to Rick’s.”
    “No one is saying that, Ms. Conroy,” Allan said simply.
    “Of course you aren’t, but you’re thinking it. Otherwise Rick’s death wouldn’t interest
     you so much.”
    When neither answered, she looked back at him. Her face was set, tension radiated
     from her like a physical force. Clearly, she wanted this interview over, didn’t appreciate
     the intrusion into her past. Or the painful memories his questions must have brought
     her. The misery in her eyes disturbed him more than it should have. He needed to keep
     things professional, remain objective. The fact that he found it difficult to do was
     worrisome.
    Justin rolled his shoulders in a vain attempt to loosen the muscles that knotted there.
     The small clench of empathy nagging at him grew as her eyes welled up with tears.
    “Are we done? It’s been a rough morning and I’d really like to go home.”
    “Almost,” Allan replied. “You’re not planning any trips are you?”
    “I’m…” She cleared her throat, dragged the heel of her palm across her forehead. “No,
     I’m not planning any trips. If you need anything more from me, you can find me at
     my studio.”
    “Your studio?”
    “I gave all this information to the uniformed officer who left me in this office.”
    “I understand,” Allan assured her. “But we’ll need the information as well.”
    Paige Conroy opened the purse sitting next to her on the desk and retrieved a business
     card from its depths. She turned, holding the card in Justin’s general direction.
    He took the card she offered, his fingers grazing hers. A frown formed between her
     eyebrows at the brief contact. She took a quick step back, then another.
    “Conroy Photography,” Justin read aloud.
    “I have my own studio.”
    “And when you’re not in your