“I can imagine.”
“No. You really can’t.”
She took out her notebook. “Doctor, does the name FC Incorporated mean anything to you?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
She watched his eyes closely. “What about Markov? You know anyone by that name?”
“Mark Hoff?”
“Markov. A last name.”
“No.” His brow furrowed. “What’s the first name?”
“Andre Markov.”
“Never heard of him.” He looked at Brock. “Why?”
“We’re looking into possibilities,” Charlotte said vaguely. “Do you remember your wife ever mentioning anyone by that name?”
Quinn’s face clouded at the mention of his dead wife. His jaw twitched. “No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe you could take a look in her address book, if she kept one. Just to be sure.”
He nodded. “I will. Now, you want to explain what this guy Markov has to do with Ava?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe nothing.”
Quinn leaned forward on his elbows, and his eyes looked intent. Feverish. “Did he do it? Is that what you’re saying?”
“I’m not saying anything, Dr. Quinn. I’m merely asking questions.”
He shot a look at his lawyer.
“We’d like to understand what this is about,” Brock said reasonably. “Can you elaborate?”
Charlotte studied Brock’s eyes. She got the impression this wasn’t the first time he’d heard the name Andre Markov, and she figured he knew more about what Kira Vance was up to than she did, which pissed her off because it was her damn case.
Brock’s client, however, seemed surprised by the name. He was still watching Charlotte, on high alert, his cheeks flushed pink now.
“Who is he?” Quinn persisted.
“I don’t know.”
“Was he having an affair with her? Is that what this is?” His face crumpled, and he rubbed his hand over his eyes.
“His name came up in connection with a case. That’s all. Are you sure you don’t know him?”
A slight head shake. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “No.”
The man looked haggard, well beyond caring whether a stranger saw him cry. Or maybe the tears were generated for her benefit. She’d certainly seen all the tricks.
Charlotte checked her watch. “I appreciate your time tonight.”
His face fell. “That’s it?”
“That’s all for now. I’ll call you if any more questions come up.” She stood, and the men stood, too. She turned to Brock. “Thank you for coming.”
“Of course.”
She picked up her purse and looked at the doctor. “You mind if I use your bathroom before I leave?”
“Sure. Down the hall on the left.”
Charlotte felt their eyes on her as she walked away. She entered another windowed corridor with a view of the treetops. Dusk was coming early because of the rain, and the house was utterly gloomy without any lights to speak of. She passed several doors and found a small powder room.
Charlotte turned on the faucet and then took out her notepad and jotted some notes. She liked to get things down while they were fresh in her mind. Then she flushed the toilet and stepped out.
The corridor was quiet and empty. She peered to her left but didn’t see anyone lurking about. She crept to a doorway and peeked inside. It was a small guest bedroom, from the looks of it. The queen-size bed was rumpled, and throw pillows littered the floor. Charlotte noted a highball glass on the nightstand beside a TV remote and a stack of books. Beside the stack was a framed photograph of a dark-haired woman.
Ava Quinn.
Another glance down the hallway, and Charlotte crept to the end. Peering through the doorway, she found a spacious master suite. The giant bed in the center was piled with pillows, and a huge stone fireplace occupied the wall opposite a large window overlooking the treetops.
She studied the bed again with its perfectly arranged pillows. Plush gray carpet covered the floor, and she noted the vacuum lines.
Ava Quinn had been murdered right in this room. She’d been bound and shot between the shoulder blades while she lay prone on the floor. The carpet had obviously been replaced since then, and Charlotte wondered if the room had been slept in. Probably not.
“I didn’t kill her.”
She turned around, cursing herself. Gavin Quinn stood behind her, silent as a mouse.
“It happened in here?” she asked. No point in pretending she wasn’t snooping.
“By the closet.” He nodded at the door beside the fireplace. “That’s where the safe is.”
Charlotte didn’t comment. She knew the details already, right down to every hair and fiber recovered, from reading through the murder book.
Quinn watched her intently. He had a fire in his eyes now. He’d had it since she mentioned the name Markov.
“Well.” She smiled slightly. “I’ll get out of your way.”
He stepped aside to let her pass him. She backtracked to the living room as Brock stepped in from the hallway, looking suspicious. “Everything okay back here?”
“Fine.”
Brock led her to the front door and opened it, and Charlotte stepped into the muggy August air. Clouds gathered overhead. They were in for more rain.
She looked at Brock. “Thanks for meeting.”
“No problem.” He gave her a thin smile. “And next time you want to talk to my client, call me first.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
A FEELING OF dread nagged at Jeremy as he stepped into Kira’s hotel room. It had been hard enough being around her at her house, but it was going to be even harder now, cooped up in a two-room hotel suite with a bed just footsteps away.
Trent was perched on the sofa arm, flipping through TV channels. He’d been responsible for getting Kira and her stuff moved to her new luxury accommodations. The agents were still staying at their original motel ten minutes away.
“How’d it go?” Jeremy asked.
Trent shook his head. “She had a shit-ton of luggage, but fine other than that.”
Jeremy crossed the suite to the bedroom. Standing in the doorway, he surveyed the two queen beds with pristine white linens. A pair of large black suitcases lay on the bed closest to the window. Shopping bags lined the wall, and another black suitcase was parked beside the dresser. Looking at all of it, someone might think Kira was a clothes freak, but Jeremy had seen her tiny closet.
Kira was out on the balcony with her back to the door, talking on the phone and gesturing as she gave someone an earful. Brock Logan, maybe? Jeremy hoped so.
Again, he surveyed the clutter. On the dresser were several Tupperware containers of muffins, along with the glass pitcher he recognized from Kira’s kitchen. She’d even brought her damn goldfish.
“I wouldn’t have pegged her for a techie.”
He glanced at Trent. “What’s that?”
“Kira. You wouldn’t believe all the stuff she brought with her. Check out her camera equipment.” Trent indicated a small dining table, where Kira had her Canon camera and two telephoto lenses spread out. “And look at this.” Trent walked past him into the bedroom. “She was sorting through it all earlier.” Trent flipped open the unzipped top of one of the suitcases. It was chock-full of surveillance equipment. Trent picked up something shaped like a satellite dish.