LITMIR.BIZ

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realize he’d been holding his breath until the word came out in a hiss. “So, what did kill Ormiston?”

      “I found a minute puncture on the right side of his neck,” McClandess answered. “He was given an injection, Sergeant. Of what, we won’t know until the toxicology results come back. Whatever substance he was injected with caused the muscles necessary for respiration to shut down. Official cause of death is respiratory paralysis.”

      Jake’s eyes narrowed. “So, the guy suffocated?”

      “Basically, yes.”

      “You got any idea what it was someone pumped into Ormiston?”

      “It’s conjecture at this point. Certain drugs could bring on that kind of paralysis. A few poisons come to mind, too, all undetectable except by chemical analysis.”

      “How fast can you get the tox test results to me?”

      “A week.”

      “That’s too long, Doc.”

      McClandess sighed. “I’ll put a rush on the tests, but I can’t promise anything. Our lab is as backlogged as OCPD’s.”

      “Yeah.” While his mind cataloged the steps he needed to take to get the Ormiston investigation rolling, Jake rubbed his gritty eyes, then glanced at the tidy desk that butted against the front of his. Whitney had a few days to go on her honeymoon. He hoped to hell she was enjoying herself.

      “Okay, Doc, what’s your best guess on time of death?”

      “The air-conditioning in the house was on a low setting. The victim was lying on a marble floor, which cooled his body at a faster rate than normal. I estimate Ormiston had been dead about five hours before he was found, give or take an hour.”

      Jake slashed notes across the pad. He knew that establishing time of death was more elusive than most people thought. It couldn’t be pinned down exactly unless the death was witnessed or the victim’s Timex stopped ticking during the crime.

      “So, you’re saying the killer showed up at Ormiston’s house between four and six yesterday afternoon.”

      “Yes.”

      Jake tapped the end of his pen against the notepad. They hadn’t found an appointment book at Ormiston’s house to indicate he had anything scheduled yesterday afternoon. Jake hoped his luck would change when he got to Ormiston’s office.

      After checking a few more facts with the M.E., Jake hung up, eased back in his chair and gave an idle glance around the office.

      At this time of the morning, most of his co-workers were out on calls, doing follow-ups or cooling their heels in court. Only two other cops—Grant Pierce and his partner, Elizabeth Scott, were at their desks. Scott, an expert on statement analysis, had replaced Pierce’s mentor, Sam Rogers, who’d died of a heart attack. Jake made a mental note to ask Pierce how Scott was working out before he shifted his mind back to his case.

      “Respiratory paralysis,” Jake muttered, his gaze settling on the notepad. “By injection.”

      Nothing at the crime scene indicated the killer had gained entry other than by knocking on the front door. There had been no sign of a struggle. No defensive wounds on Ormiston’s hands to indicate he’d tried to protect himself. It was logical, then, to go with the assumption that the two knew each other, that Ormiston felt no immediate threat, even trusted his killer to some extent. Could be a family member, Jake mused. A friend. Maybe someone Ormiston knew on a more casual basis. Someone he’d dated?

      Last night, the guard at Stonebridge had copied the log of every person and vehicle who’d gained access to the gated community in the past twenty-four hours. The only person logged in to see Ormiston was Nicole Taylor. That didn’t mean a lot, Jake acknowledged. The list didn’t cover people who Ormiston might have buzzed through the gate while the guard wasn’t around. It also didn’t list everyone who lived there, or the yard crews, housekeepers and other service workers who knew that month’s security code. And Jake knew that the killer could have parked his car outside of Stonebridge, scaled the seven-foot brick wall that surrounded the complex, then walked to Ormiston’s house. If that were the case, the killer had to be in good shape.

      Maybe someone who owned a gym and played racquet-ball on a regular basis?

      He opened his desk’s bottom drawer, hefted out the yellow pages and checked the address for Sebastian’s. Lifting a brow, he realized the gym shared space in the same building with Meet Your Match, Nicole’s dating service.

      When Jake caught himself wondering just how chummy Nicole and Sebastian-of-biorhythm-fame were, he scowled. He ought to be entertaining that thought solely because they both had links to a homicide victim, but Jake knew that wasn’t the case. Dammit, he couldn’t get Nicole out of his head. He’d spent most of the night picturing how she’d looked at the crime scene when he first saw her sitting in his cruiser. Her spine had been board-stiff, her face bathed in a mix of thready light and shadow that made her skin look pale. Too pale. Her eyes had been closed, and he could have sworn she’d been doing some sort of deep-breathing exercise. The vulnerability that had seemed to wrap around her had touched off twin urges inside him to take and protect.

      He expelled an oath that had both Pierce and Scott swiveling their heads in his direction. Holding up a palm, Jake muttered, “Forget it.” The partners exchanged a look, then shifted their attention back to their own work.

      Jake shoved the yellow pages back into the desk and slammed the drawer shut. Where Nicole Taylor was concerned, he wasn’t going to take or protect. She was a material witness in what only minutes ago had turned into an active homicide investigation. Nothing more, nothing less.

      During their initial interview he’d gone by the book, treated Nicole like any other witness. He had given her every opportunity to lie to him, yet his sixth sense continued to send the message that she’d told him the truth. Plus, there were logical points in her favor. She’d discovered and immediately reported finding Ormiston’s body. Admitted her connection to the victim. Had no compelling, obvious motive to kill.

      When murder was involved, all those things added up.

      What didn’t add up was that he couldn’t seem to wipe the woman from his mind. That alone was dangerous. She was a temptation, and he was a man who didn’t want to be tempted.

      Right now, what he wanted didn’t matter, Jake reminded himself. The job mattered. Now that he knew for sure her client had been murdered, he had no choice but to pay Nicole a visit.

      With the late-morning sun beaming behind him, Jake shoved through a revolving door and stepped into the cool, sumptuous foyer of the sleek office building that lanced upward from a forest of blue and purple hydrangeas. Raking his fingers through his hair, he crossed the wide lobby with its pink marble columns and glossy ornamental trees. He paused near a bank of elevators to check the building’s directory. Names of high-priced boutiques, specialty shops and several cosmetic surgeons were listed. As were a beauty salon and skin-care clinic with French-sounding names. Seconds ticked by while he continued scanning the list of trendy businesses that occupied the building’s ten floors. His gaze paused on the name Sebastian’s. He slid a hand into the pocket of his navy sport coat, fingered the key ring he’d found in Ormiston’s desk drawer when he’d searched the victim’s office. The instant he’d seen Sebastian’s and the number seventy engraved on the key, Jake realized Ormiston had a locker at the gym. He’d called dispatch and had them send a patrol cop to the gym to make sure no one opened the locker. Jake then called Gianos and Smith. Right now, the two detectives were getting a search warrant. While he waited for the paperwork to arrive, Jake figured it would be a good time to see Nicole.

      He needed to get a lead on something soon, he thought, punching the elevator’s call button. Except for the key, the office from which Ormiston had operated his funeral home empire had been devoid of clues. There had been nothing on the man’s calendar to show he planned to meet anyone yesterday afternoon. Neither his secretary nor his assistant—or anyone else—knew of anyone who wished Ormiston

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