Free Murder Mile High by Lora Roberts

answered on the third ring.
    “Maud?”
    “Yes, who is it?”
    “This is Liz Sullivan.” I cleared my throat. “Tony Naylor’s ex-wife.”
    There was a moment of silence. “Who?”
    “Tony Naylor. He’s dead, you know. He was killed last night.”
    More silence. Then she whispered, “Who told you to call me? Was it Kyle?”
    “Er—no one told me. I just remembered that you and Tony—I wondered if you knew—”
    “Look,” she interrupted. “I don’t know you or what you’re talking about. The police already asked me about this Tony person. Evidently he’d stolen my credit card somehow. I don’t know anything more about it, okay? Just leave me alone!”
    The phone banged in my ear, and the dial tone buzzed gently. I set the receiver back in its cradle.
    Ten years is a long time to remember anyone’s voice, but I thought she’d recognized mine. No matter what she said, Maud Riegert knew something about Tony. And she’d told me something, too.
    Kyle. Kyle had been Tony’s buddy, and I’d met him many times—mostly when they were both drunk, but sometimes on ordinary occasions, when he’d been kind to me. A couple of times, when Tony had taken a swing at me, Kyle had stopped him. Once, shortly before the end of my life in Denver, he’d come over when Tony wasn’t home, and I’d received the distinct impression that he would be glad to comfort me, especially in the bedroom. By then sex was not my idea of a treat, and fear of Tony’s retaliation would have kept me from enjoying it anyway, but I had appreciated the offer, which briefly made me feel like a woman again instead of a cowed, beaten thing.
    I tried to remember Kyle’s last name, standing there with my hand on the receiver, but it eluded me. Instead, I went back into the library and consulted the phone book again. Among a list of brokerage houses I found the one Tony had worked for.
    Digging out all my change, I lined it up on the little shelf by the phone where a phone book was supposed to be but wasn’t. I summoned my best office-temp voice, and when the receptionist at Baker Mulshine Hollenbeck answered, I asked dulcetly for personnel.
    “I’m verifying a reference,” I cooed when personnel answered. “This is for a job that requires a great deal of background checking.”
    “Oh, at Rocky Flats?” The woman on the other end sounded inclined to be chatty.
    “I’m not allowed to say,” I said primly. “But you’re close.”
    “How can I help you?”
    “The applicant wrote down your firm on his employment history—although his handwriting is difficult to read.” That much was true, anyway—Tony always had a horrible scrawl. “One of his references also works for you, but I can’t make out more than Kyle Something.”
    “Can you tell me the applicant’s name? We have two Kyles here.”
    “It’s Anthony Naylor.” I held my breath hopefully.
    “Naylor, Naylor,” she muttered. “Was he recently employed here?”
    “The date he left is smudged, but the start date was several years ago.”
    “Oh, Tony. Tony Naylor. He was—terminated—over a year ago.” Her voice was a blend of curiosity and formality. “It must be Kyle Baldridge he put down as a reference. They were always close.”
    “Was Mr. Baldridge his supervisor?”
    "No, that was Mr. Tobin—Leonard Tobin. He recently retired. And Kyle’s been on leave for the past month—he won’t be back until the beginning of October. Just a minute.” She put me on hold, long enough to make me wonder if she had some way of tracing my call. I fed the phone when the digitized voice told me to, and hoped it wouldn’t ask for more.
    “Sorry about that.” She was back. “When did you get an application from Tony?”
    Someone had obviously just filled her in. Suppressed excitement simmered in her voice.
    “It was a couple of weeks ago.” I made my voice sound apologetic. “I’ve been on vacation, too, and it came in while I was gone. I can’t get hold of Mr.