Twice Kissed - Lisa Jackson [154]
There was nothing out of the ordinary about Thane’s employee—except that she’d been on his payroll and had ended up dead in his ex-wife’s mangled vehicle. Had Renee borrowed Marquise’s Jeep? Stolen it? No—Marquise’s handbag had been in the backseat. The contents were as expected: wallet, brush, mirror, six tubes of lipstick, mascara, tampons, credit cards and sunglasses. A few receipts for gas. An address book that was battered and, from the number of crossed-out names, should have been replaced a while back. Most of the people had moved long ago. He knew. He’d called them all and come up dry. So, unless Renee had stolen Marquise’s purse as well as the Jeep, the natural assumption was that Marquise had been with her.
Or had she? Maybe she’d left her bag in the car and forgotten it when she’d handed Renee the keys.
Nah.
Henderson’s head pounded with unanswered questions.
Marquise’s Jeep had been examined by the best detectives in the department, men who were trained to search for clues, if there were any; but the vehicle looked normal aside from the traces of black paint on the mangled rear fender.
The paint was the one bright spot in the otherwise dark case. Already the analysts in the lab had discovered from paint scrapings taken from the wreck that the paint was a blend used by Chevrolet; the glass from the headlight, again from a Chevy product. A pickup or Blazer had helped nudge Renee Nielsen’s vehicle off the road.
But why?
Who had wanted to kill Renee? Or Marquise?
The answer was in the missing vehicle, and Henderson had communicated with all the law-enforcement agencies in the entire southwest to be looking for a dented black Chevy. DMV and dealership records would be scrutinized.
It was late, the department quiet. If he had any brains at all, he’d drive home to his apartment and put in a call to the kids. Instead he shuffled through his notes again. From the looks of it Marquise didn’t have much of an estate, and everything she did own would be left to her niece, Maggie’s kid. Marquise had two insurance policies. One named Maggie and Becca McCrae; the other was to a company that Marquise had helped found, MER, Inc., a local business-development company that didn’t do diddly as far as Henderson could see. Marquise was the CEO, what a joke, and Eve Lawrence handled the books, which showed a negative cash flow. Frowning, he shuffled through his notes, searching for more information on MER, Inc.
Before he could locate what he wanted, the door to his office flew open. Bang! It hit a file cabinet.
Hannah, her face flushed, her eyes sparkling, marched into the room.
“You’ve got something,” he guessed, sensing her excitement, the kind that comes only with a break in a stagnant case. He shoved the papers into his briefcase and turned his full attention to his partner. She was a pretty woman anyway, but when she’d figured something out, her cheeks flushed, her eyes gleamed and she was more attractive than ever.
“Could be.”
“What?”
“Okay.” She plopped down on the corner of his desk and he ignored the fact that her skirt hiked up a notch. She swung one leg and leaned closer to him. “What we’ve got is that of all the people connected with Marquise, several own late-model black Chevys.”
“Who?” Henderson asked.
“It’s an interesting list. Let’s start with Ron Bishop, the station manager at KRKY. He owns a Mercedes and a black Chevy pickup. His wife usually drives the Mercedes.”
“Check him out,” Henderson said, though he doubted Ron would kill off one of his stars, no matter how much of a prima donna and pain in the butt she was.
“Will do. Now there’s also Gillette.”
Henderson sat up straighter in his chair. This was interesting. “He did own a black