Colby Conspiracy

The door opened and Detective Franko stepped into the room. Good. She pushed a polite smile into place. Maybe they could get this over with now. She had things to do for her father, as well. And, the truth was, she couldn’t bear to think about his manner of death. If she dwelled on it, she would never be able to maintain her composure and she simply couldn’t fall apart. There was no one else to do what needed to be done.

Detective Franko looked to be about thirty-five. Tall, thin, kind, the sort of man who looked as if he would be an animal lover. The weapon that bulged beneath his jacket didn’t fit with his persona, she considered as she watched him sit down across the table from her.

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Emily.”

“That’s all right. Do you have any leads on my father’s case?” She prayed his case would be resolved quickly. The people here who cared about him needed that closure as much as she did.

The detective glanced at the file in his hands. “Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Her nerves jangled. Had they found her father’s murderer already? She’d been in such a daze she’d barely noticed that Chicago PD had a car watching the house—watching her, actually. It followed her everywhere she went. She supposed it was just a precaution, since the police couldn’t be sure of the motive behind her father’s shooting.

Franko looked from the file to her. “Emily, how would you define your relationship with your father the past year or so?”

To say the question startled her would be a vast understatement. But she’d never been involved with a homicide investigation. Maybe this was part of the routine.

“I don’t know,” she said, considering the question carefully before answering. The truth made her sound like a bad daughter. But, she reasoned, it made her look no more like a bad daughter than it did her dad as a bad father. “We talked on the phone occasionally, but I didn’t get back here often and he was always busy, so we hadn’t seen each other in a while.”

She didn’t see any reason to tell him it had been two years. She’d persecuted herself about that reality since learning of his death; enduring the look she would no doubt get from this detective was more than she could deal with just now.

“So you have no idea about any personal relationships he might have gotten involved in over the past year?”

A frown furrowed across her brow. “No. He never mentioned anything but work when we talked.” She shrugged. “And I haven’t found anything around the house that would indicate he entertained or kept in contact with anyone in particular.” That fact saddened her. She wished her father could have gotten on with his life like her mother had. Well, maybe not exactly as her mother had, but similarly.

“I noticed you speaking with Victoria Colby-Camp at the service yesterday,” Franko commented. He made the statement offhandedly, but there was nothing casual about his scrutinizing gaze.

What did her having spoken with Victoria Colby-Camp have to do with anything?

“Yes, she shook my hand and told me how sorry she was my father had died.” Emily shrugged. “She mentioned that they were friends.”

Her frown deepened. “You’ll have to excuse me, Detective, but I’m not following here. What does my talking to someone at the service have to do with my father’s murder investigation?”

“You also had a delivery sent to her at the Colby Agency, didn’t you? First thing this morning, I believe.”

Irritation needled Emily. “What are you trying to get at, Detective Franko?” she demanded. Enough was enough. She was beginning to feel like a suspect rather than the victim’s only family.

“We have reason to believe the Colbys were involved with your father’s murder,” he said bluntly.

“You’re saying the woman I met yesterday had something to do with my father’s murder?” How was that possible? Had Emily been in such a daze that she had so thoroughly misjudged the woman?

“We found evidence at the scene that implicates her son, James Colby, Jr.”

The name echoed inside Emily. She thought of the name on the letters. Surely he couldn’t be the same James Colby…

“I’d like you to tell me what you sent to the Colby Agency this morning. It may be relevant to your father’s case.”

This didn’t make sense. The letters were old. She hadn’t read the contents of any of them. There had been no reason to.

“I’m sorry, Detective,” she said, confusion and uncertainty reigning supreme. “I don’t understand what a handful of old letters has to do with my father’s murder.”

“Tell me about the letters,” he pressed.

Why hadn’t she looked at the letters? It had seemed like nothing at the time. How could it be significant to the investigation?

“I didn’t read them,” she explained, exasperated. “The postmark was nearly twenty years ago and they weren’t addressed to my father.”

“Who were they addressed to?”

“James Colby.”

Franko leaned back in his chair. “We’re going to need to execute a search warrant of your father’s home, Miss Hastings. Is that going to be a problem? Just so you know, we’ll be executing several.”

A search warrant? What would they expect to find in her father’s home? Would he be doing this same thing at the Colby Agency, too? No doubt.

“Of course it’s not a problem,” she said, her thoughts fragmenting as she tried to make sense of what all Franko’s questions meant. “But I don’t understand. You’re telling me that you have evidence that James Colby, Jr., had something to do with my father, and I get the impression that I’m a suspect, as well. What’s going on, Detective Franko?”

His gaze fixed on hers. “Right now, Miss Hastings, anyone connected to your father is a suspect.”

This was insane. She hadn’t even been to Chicago in years.

“As difficult as it is to say that to you, Emily,” Franko went on, “this is standard procedure. It’s not personal.”

She blinked, unable to rally a response. Her father was dead, for God’s sake. There was no way it could be anything but personal.

Her father had been murdered and she was suddenly a suspect. This couldn’t be right.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

VICTORIA SAT perfectly still, uncertain she could bear to hear what Lucas had to say. But it was, unfortunately, necessary. She couldn’t let this fester. The hurt twisted inside her, tearing apart all she’d ever believed in…all she’d managed to rebuild.

Lucas sat down in front of Victoria’s desk and heaved a weary sigh.

He’d wanted to discuss this at home, but she’d refused. She felt stronger here at the Agency. She needed that strength right now, that and more.

“Yes, I knew about Madelyn.”

Victoria’s eyes closed as the hurt squeezed her heart.

“But it wasn’t what you think—”

Her eyes snapped open. “Don’t even try to pardon what he did.” The words roared out of her with more strength than she could have imagined she possessed just now.

Lucas leaned forward, settling those caring gray eyes on her. “Victoria, I’m not pardoning anything. The truth is, I’m not certain there is anything to pardon.”

“I read the letters, Lucas!” How could he tiptoe around the issue? James Colby had had an affair. Pain stabbed deep all over again.

“That was a tough time for both of you,” Lucas reminded her, as if he’d needed to. “The strain on your marriage was immense. James needed someone to talk to. To my knowledge, that’s as far as the relationship went.”

“She was in love with him,” Victoria countered, the word relationship making her seethe.