Free Killing Time by Linda Howard

this?”
    “Legwork,” she said, staring straight ahead. “No one thought I’d stumble into anything.”
    “Then why send you here? Even more, why try to kill you, because that sure let the cat out of the bag?”
    Cat?
Rapidly she considered the context of his statement and decided on the most likely meaning. “I don’t know,” she finally said. “I can’t make sense of it. I’ve just been doing basic investigation, gathering rough data and sending it to Quantico for the brains to assemble.” That, at least, was the truth—as far as it went.
    “You saw something, questioned someone, and uncovered a crucial piece of the puzzle.”
    “I can’t think what, and certainly nothing that the local investigators hadn’t initially uncovered.” She shook her head, then said, “Going back to the original subject, I’d feel very uncomfortable staying in your house—”
    “Even if I’m not there?”
    “Even if,” she said firmly. “It’s such an imposition—”
    “Not to me. Like I said, I’m not there much. I work long hours, and the house is mainly just a place to crash for a few hours’ sleep.”
    “You’re not married?”
    “No.” An expression flitted across his face, so fast she couldn’t read it. “The other investigators are, though, so I let them have as much time at home as I can.”
    That was nice of him, she thought. Overall, he seemed like a very nice guy. Suspicious, but nice.
    They reached the house and she halted, looking around at the pretty home and the nicely landscaped lawn. The trees were in full leaf, and colorful flowers grew in neat beds. There were some places on earth where murder seemed to fit in, as if it were some basic part of the surroundings, but not here.
    “Has the bullet been recovered?” she asked, indicating the hole in the house. “It’ll be interesting to see if the ballistics match.”
    “Match what?” he asked.
    She knit her brows, giving him a puzzled glance. “With the one that killed Mr. Allen, of course.”
    “Oh, yeah, that one.”
    Proof positive that he didn’t trust her, Nikita thought. She knew Taylor Allen hadn’t been shot, but that little fact had been held back from the news item release. She’d given Knox Davis an opening wide enough to drive through, but he hadn’t told her about the spear.
    She was discouraged, the sun was high and hot, and she wanted shade. Returning to the front porch, she sat down in one of the white wicker chairs. The green-and-white-striped cushion cradled her, enveloping her in comfort. This was a house kept with care and pride, she thought as she took out her EN and began making more notes.
    “I assume Mrs. Allen has been investigated,” she said absently when her persistent shadow propped himself against the railing in front of her, his long legs crossed at the ankle.
    “Ironclad alibi. She was with friends. I’m still looking into the possibility that it was murder for hire.”
    “Big insurance policy?”
    “Big enough.”
    “Boyfriend?”
    “Not that I’ve been able to find.”
    She pursed her lips. “Girlfriend, maybe? His, not hers. Though hers would be a possibility, I guess.”
    “Again, nothing that I’ve found. They seemed to be happily married.”
    “Not so happily, if she had him killed.”
    “That’s just a string I’m tugging on, one of many. You just tied a bunch of them in knots, though.”
    “Not deliberately.” She tilted her head back and studied him, noting the calm intelligence in his lean face. Celtic heritage, she thought, remembering that this portion of the country had been heavily settled, pre-Revolution, by the Scots-Irish, and not diluted much in the two and a half centuries since. That lean, high-cheekboned, blade of a face was a look that could be seen in hundreds of carefully preserved old photographs.
    “Where are you from?” he asked abruptly. “I can’t place the accent.”
    And wouldn’t it be amazing if he could, she thought with amusement. “Florida,