Trace opened the door.
Alex waited on the other side. He had his badge clipped to his waist. Two uniformed officers were behind him.
No, most people wouldn’t have been able to get past security and get up to the penthouse. But a detective wasn’t most people.
“I-I’m sorry, sir!” A voice called out, and she saw John Ford, the building manager, as he peered around the cops. “I had no choice but to bring them up because they have—”
“A warrant,” Alex finished. He pulled out a folded piece of white paper. “I’ve got a search warrant for your penthouse. So, Weston, step outside and let us do our job.”
***
It wasn’t going to be good. Trace knew the truth, even before the uniforms called for back-up and more techs swarmed his penthouse.
They were tearing his life apart, one piece at a time.
“It’s all right,” Skye said. Alex had given her a chance to dress. A fast few minutes in the bedroom. Trace still wore his pajama pants—is that supposed to bother me, Alex? Cause it doesn’t. Trace didn’t give a damn what he wore or didn’t wear.
Skye was a different matter. If the cops hadn’t given her time to dress, Trace would’ve had every single one of them pulling traffic duty by the end of the day.
But Alex hadn’t hesitated with Skye. She now wore a pair of form fitting yoga pants and a loose top. Her hair was pinned up. She looked beautiful and worried and too good for me.
He didn’t want to lie to her anymore. He wouldn’t. “You know he found something to tie me to Parker’s death already, or else no judge would’ve given him a warrant.” The judges in this town should have been too afraid to issue those warrants under any circumstances.
Milligan. Vermont Milligan. He’d been the judge to issue this warrant, and Trace’s lawyer was out earning his retainer right then as he attempted to figure out just what the hell was happening.
What did Alex find that led him back to me?
But then two of the techs spilled out of the penthouse. They were carrying several clear, plastic bags. Trace saw a few of his shirts in those bags.
Alex exited behind them.
Trace lifted a brow. “Looking for some new apparel, Detective?”
“Actually, I found some recently.” Alex sauntered toward him.
The building manager was huddled in the corner, watching nervously.
Skye was still at Trace’s side.
“I went dumpster diving earlier. Not my favorite sport. Well, technically…” Alex looked over his shoulder. One of the uniformed cops had just come to join them. “It was Officer Coleman here who had the honor of that first retrieval.”
Skye stepped in front of Trace. “Just what are you talking about?”
“We found a shirt—a shirt very similar to the others that Weston owns—thrown in a dumpster a few blocks away from the Parker Jacobs crime scene.”
Sonofabitch.
“The shirt was covered in blood.” Alex’s eyes looked over Skye’s head, at Trace. “Arterial spray will do that, you know. Cover an attacker in his victim’s blood.”
“I didn’t kill Parker,” Trace snapped. “I told you that already.”
“Actually, you told us that you were at your office, working, but your assistant spun a different story. When I interviewed her, Sara Kramer told me that she came into your office, wanting to talk with you, but you weren’t there.”
Trace kept his expression blank.
“She didn’t like turning on her boss, but when I showed her the crime scene photos, when I let her know just what type of man she was dealing with, Sara was fast to tell the truth.” Alex’s gaze flickered down to Skye. “Some women can see the monsters in front of them. Others stay blind.”
Skye reached back and took Trace’s hand. “Trace told you he didn’t kill Parker.”
“And is that what he told you, Skye? Or, when you were alone, did he tell you the truth? Did he tell you a story about how he worried for you? How he just couldn’t keep on knowing that Parker was out there, that he might hurt you?”
Parker would’ve hurt her, but Trace hadn’t killed the bastard. He’d had other plans for Parker. Plans that involved a jail cell.
“Trace didn’t tell me any story about that. He just said that he didn’t do it. I believe him.”
“I don’t.” Flat. “He has no alibi, and I’m betting the bloody shirt we recovered—hell, I could tell it was one of those fancy-ass, too expensive shirts like Weston wears from the first glance.”
“Good for you and your fashion eye,” Trace muttered.
Alex glared at him. “I bet it’s yours. I bet you left your DNA on it. A strand of hair. A drop of your blood that you don’t even remember losing when you were slashing out with that knife. Something will tie back to you.” Alex’s glare gave way to a shark’s smile. “And then you’re done, man. You won’t be on the streets anymore.”
He was supposed to be afraid. Only this cop didn’t scare Trace, not after all he’d seen and done. “I get that you’re trying to do your job, and I even understand why.”
John Ford had crept closer. No doubt, the better to overhear. Trace figured that the building manager’s eyes couldn’t get much bigger before they exploded from his head.
The uniform, Coleman, also leaned toward them.
“I know what happened to your sister,” Trace said.
Alex’s gaze cut to Skye.
“She didn’t tell me. I have a damn security company. I can learn anyone’s secrets, just with the press of a few buttons.”
Fury blazed in Alex’s eyes.
“I’m sorry you couldn’t save her,” Trace said and he meant those words. “But I’m not the bastard who hurt your sister. And no matter how many times you try to put me away, it won’t bring her back.”
Alex stumbled back a step.
“Here’s something else for you to think about,” Trace added, voice low and rumbling. “If I’d wanted Parker Jacobs dead, I could’ve just made the man disappear. No evidence would have ever been left behind. He would’ve vanished in an instant.” Trace snapped his fingers. “Just like that because that is the kind of power I have. A sloppy kill wouldn’t be my style.”
“But you did get sloppy,” Alex snapped. “You screwed up!”
“No.” Skye’s certain voice captured everyone’s immediate attention. “Someone is trying to set him up, don’t you see that?”