Читать книгу Bulletproof Hearts - Brenda Harlen - Страница 8

When the shrill beep of his pager sounded, Dylan was watching television—or pretending to, anyway. His feet were propped on the coffee table, a half-empty, forgotten bottle of beer was at his elbow, and his eyes followed the action on the screen while his mind continued to be preoccupied with thoughts of a certain assistant district attorney.

It was a preoccupation that baffled him. Natalie Vaughn wasn’t even his type. Not that he had a type, really. He and Beth had started dating when they were teenagers, their friendship developing naturally and comfortably into a love they’d both believed would last forever. Then Beth had died, and Dylan had been alone.

There had been other women since, but none who had ever meant anything more than a way to satisfy his most basic needs. He wasn’t proud of that fact, but he was always careful to ensure that those women wanted the same thing he did: simple, no-strings sex.

There was nothing simple about Natalie Vaughn. And after a single encounter in her office, she was haunting his thoughts. The sound of his pager was a welcome interruption of those thoughts.

Fifteen minutes later, he pulled up behind the black and white parked in front of Merrick’s apartment building. He nodded to the uniformed officer guarding the door and stepped into the apartment.

Roger Merrick, or what was left of him, was slumped in a chair facing the television. His eyes were open, wide; his chest open even wider. At least three, probably four, shots at fairly close range. A .45 caliber, he guessed, surveying the extent of the damage to the body.

He needn’t have worried about rushing over. There was no doubt about it—Merrick was dead. And so was any hope of getting to Conroy through him. He swore under his breath.

It was possible, of course, that Merrick’s brutal and untimely end was merely a hazard of his occupation. But in his gut, he knew different. Merrick had possessed information that could have taken down Conroy, and that information was the reason for his murder. Dammit.

He scrubbed his hands over his face. Regardless of what the man had done, he hadn’t asked to die like this, and now it was Dylan’s job to find his killer.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to be done until the evidence techs had finished with the scene and the ME had examined the body. Detectives Morin and Shepard were already canvassing the neighbors, although in this building, he knew it was unlikely that anyone had seen—or would admit to having seen—anything.

Shaking his head, he turned away from the body.

And saw her.

Fury joined with the frustration pumping through his veins, and he bridged the short distance between the living room and the kitchen in a few quick strides. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Natalie jolted at his question. Her eyes, when they met his, were wide, terrified. Her face was pale, almost white. She blinked, but didn’t say anything.

He turned his attention to the techs in the room. “Does the phrase ‘secure the premises’ mean anything to you people? What the hell is she doing here—other than contaminating a crime scene?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Natalie rise, not quite steadily, to her feet. “I—I called 9-1-1. I f-found him.” Her gaze darted back to the body, then quickly away.

Dylan scrubbed his hands over his face again. The absolute last thing he needed right now was the complication of this woman who’d walked out of his unwilling fantasies and into his crime scene. “And how did you happen to find him?”

Her fingers clutched the handle of her briefcase so tightly her knuckles were white. “He c-called me. W-wanted to t-talk. Asked m-me to m-meet him. Here.”

He wasn’t sure if it was shock or nerves that were causing her to stutter, but obviously she was shaken. Not that he could blame her. He’d seen more than a few nasty scenes in his years with the Fairweather P.D., and this was one ranked right up there with the worst of them. One bullet would have been enough to end Merrick’s life. Whoever had pumped those shots into his body hadn’t been satisfied with murder, he’d been sending a message.

Dylan filed those thoughts away and forced his attention back to the woman in front of him. She was still dressed in the fancy suit she’d worn at the office earlier—yesterday, he amended. The shadows under her eyes were dark against the paleness of her skin, and she looked as if she was going to topple over in the thin heels she wore.

He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her out of the apartment. The air in the hall, although not exactly fresh, at least didn’t carry the stench of violent death. The light was dim, but it seemed that some of the color was slowly returning to her cheeks. “I can’t figure out if you’re incredibly brave or incredibly stupid. What the hell were you thinking, coming here?”

She straightened her shoulders and met his gaze. Her eyes were focused now, and stormy. “I was doing my job.”

Dylan just shook his head. “How long have you been in town?”

“Three weeks,” she admitted.

“Well, let me tell you something about Fairweather,” he offered. “We don’t have a lot of crime, but what we do have mostly originates in this corner of the city.”

“I didn’t pick the location of the meeting,” she snapped back at him.

“But you agreed to meet with him!” He knew he was yelling; he didn’t care. He was angry. Furious that his chance to nail Conroy was as dead as the man inside apartment 1D. Even more furious that Natalie had willingly put herself in danger by coming here.

It was a personal reaction rather than a professional one, a natural protective instinct born of growing up with three younger sisters. Three very independent younger sisters who had never appreciated his protectiveness or concern—an experience that should have prepared him for this woman’s response to his outburst.

Natalie’s own temper worked its way through the numbness of shock that had blanketed her emotions.

“What was I supposed to do?” she challenged. “You’re the one who told me that Merrick was the key to getting Conroy. I couldn’t ignore his call.”

“You should have called me.”

“I did,” she snapped back.

But Creighton gave no indication of having heard her. “If I’d known he was meeting with you, I would have known he was in danger.”

She flinched at the coolly delivered statement, at this confirmation of something she hadn’t wanted to consider. She’d had no idea that her brief conversation with Roger Merrick was his death sentence. How could she have known?

But as she’d stood in that room waiting for the police to arrive, staring blindly at his mutilated remains, she’d realized it was something she should have considered. She should have found some way to protect him.

“What did he tell you?” Creighton demanded. “What did he say to get you over here? What information did he have that was worth dying for?”

“He didn’t tell me anything,” she admitted, some of her anger deflating. She was too tired to stay angry, the situation too futile. “He refused to discuss anything over the phone, insisted that I meet him.”

“Someone else was equally insistent that the meeting not take place.”

She couldn’t respond. There was nothing she could say or do to change what had happened tonight. A man had died—murdered in cold blood—and she couldn’t help but feel responsible.

She’d worked murder trials before, from the defense table. She’d detached herself, forced herself to focus on the law rather than the victim, manipulated the facts to her client’s advantage. She’d never let herself think about the loss of life, the brutality of the crime. After seeing what had been done to Roger Merrick, she didn’t think she’d ever be able to think about anything else.

“Was this your first murder vic?” he asked, a little more gently.

“I’ve worked homicide cases before,” she said defensively.

“So you’ve read reports and seen photographs,” he guessed.

There was no censure in his tone, just compassion and understanding. “Nothing that prepared me for…” She didn’t know how to describe the sense of horror that had overwhelmed her when she’d walked into Roger Merrick’s apartment and saw what had been done to him.

“Nothing can,” he told her.

Natalie nodded.

“Is it safe to assume you’ve seen more than enough here?”

She could only nod again.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

Her already unsettled stomach pitched precariously. “Thanks, but I try not to drink coffee at 2:00 a.m.—it keeps me awake.”

Creighton smiled at her lame attempt at humor, and—for the second that those dimples flashed—she forgot about the gruesome scene in apartment 1D.

“You were just up close and personal with a dead guy,” he reminded her. “I don’t think you’ll be getting any more sleep tonight.”

He was right, of course. But almost as unnerving as the view of what a bullet could do to the human body was Lieutenant Creighton’s sudden hint of compassion. “Don’t you have to collect evidence or something?”

“The CSU is taking care of that,” he told her. “And the ME is ready to take possession of the body.”

“Merrick,” she said, hating the cold formalities of death that reduced the individual to a designation.

It didn’t matter to her that the victim had been an accused drug dealer with a record of arrests longer than her arm, he’d been a person. An hour or so earlier, she’d spoken to him on the phone. He’d been scared when he’d called her. She’d recognized the fear, the apprehension in his voice. Had he known, even then, that his time was running out?

She couldn’t help but wonder what might have happened if she hadn’t vacillated over her decision to meet with him. “If I’d come right away—”

“You might have ended up like Merrick,” Creighton interrupted before she could complete the thought. “Whoever did this to him wouldn’t have thought twice about taking out any potential witnesses.”

Natalie shuddered. She hadn’t allowed herself to consider that possibility, hadn’t wanted to admit—even to herself—how foolhardy her actions had been in coming here tonight.

“Coffee?” he offered again.

This time, she drew a deep breath and nodded.

The sign in the window of Sam’s Diner advertised breakfast twenty-four hours a day. It was one of the reasons it was such a popular establishment with the local cops.

“Are you hungry?” Dylan asked, sliding into the vinyl booth across from the A.D.A.

Natalie started to shake her head, paused. “I shouldn’t be. But I missed dinner, and something smells really good.”

“They do a great ham-and-cheese omelet.”

“Maybe I’ll try it,” she agreed, turning over her cup as the waitress approached their table with a pot of coffee in hand.

“Good morning, Sylvia.” He greeted the waitress who was already filling their cups.

“Morning, Lieutenant. Ma’am.”

Natalie frowned; Dylan grinned. “This is Natalie Vaughn—our newest assistant district attorney,” he said.

“Pleasure to meet you, ma’am. Will you be wanting breakfast or just coffee this morning?”

“Breakfast,” he answered. “Two ham-and-cheese omelets.”

“Can you make mine with egg whites only?” Natalie asked, emptying a creamer into her cup. “And whole-wheat toast, please. No butter.”

Sylvia nodded and disappeared back into the kitchen.

Dylan shook his head.

“What?” Natalie demanded.

“It’s a greasy spoon. You want to eat healthy, you should go to one of those yuppie delis that serve alfalfa sprouts on everything.”

“I like alfalfa sprouts,” she told him, sounding just a bit defensive.

“I could have guessed.”

“That must be why you’re carrying the badge.”

He laughed, pleasantly surprised by her bland touch of humor. He’d invited her for coffee because he’d wanted to get her away from Merrick’s apartment. He wasn’t happy that she’d been at the scene; he was even more unhappy about his fading prospects of apprehending Conroy.

But there was no point in remaining angry with Natalie when Merrick was dead, and nothing to be gained from yelling at her anymore when she looked as if she was beating herself up enough for the both of them. And he had to admire the way she’d held herself together at the scene. He’d have expected her to be crying or throwing up, at the very least cowering.

She’d been shaken, there was no doubt about that. But she’d held her ground and she’d answered his questions, and she’d proven—at least on this matter—that he’d underestimated her.

“Other than tonight, how are you enjoying the new job?” he asked.

The cup Natalie had picked up trembled slightly in her hand. “It hasn’t been boring.”

“I’ll bet you thought you were getting away from the problems of the big city by coming to Fairweather.”

“I did,” she admitted.

“If it makes you feel any better, this town doesn’t have a high rate of violent crime.”

“Except in the neighborhood I walked into tonight,” she reminded him.

“But still relatively low compared to the bigger cities.”

“I’m sure that will help me sleep,” she said dryly.

The simple offhand comment brought to mind images of Natalie in bed. In his bed. Her sexily tousled hair spread over his pillowcase, her stormy eyes heavy with desire, her lips erotically swollen from his kisses. The image was startlingly vivid, the longing achingly real. “If you’re having trouble sleeping, maybe I could help.”

Her cup clattered in the saucer as she set it back down, and her eyes were wide and wary as they met his. Obviously his offer had surprised her. No more than it had surprised him.

She cleared her throat. “Are you propositioning me, Lieutenant?”

Was he? If so, that scene in Merrick’s apartment must have shaken him more than he realized. He hadn’t shared his bed with anyone since Beth died, nor had he wanted to do so. “No.” He considered. “Maybe.”

Natalie chuckled. The soft sexy sound suited her, he thought. It was as unconsciously seductive as everything else about her.

Sylvia returned from the kitchen with two plates, set them down on the table.

Dylan waited until the waitress was out of earshot before continuing. “What would you say if I were propositioning you?”

“No.” Her response was quick and unequivocal.

“Ouch.” But he was more relieved than insulted.

She smiled as she toyed with the fried potatoes on her plate. “It’s nothing personal. I’m just not in the habit of going to bed with men I’ve known less than twenty-four hours.”

Nor was he in the habit of propositioning women he’d known less than twenty-four hours, but he wasn’t going to admit that to her. Acknowledging the uncharacteristic reaction would be too close to acknowledging his feelings—and he wasn’t even sure what those feelings were.

Instead, he played it casual. He glanced at his watch. “I’ll get back to you later, then.”

“Don’t bother. I’m also not in the habit of getting involved with people I work with.”

“There are always exceptions to a rule.”

“Not this one,” she said firmly, digging in to her omelet.

He knew she was right. In fact, he’d come to the same conclusion himself—and had promptly forgotten his own resolution the minute she’d sat down across from him.

“Besides,” she said, “I find your sudden interest more than a little suspicious when you’ve made no secret of the fact that you don’t approve of my being hired to fill the vacancy in the D.A.’s office.”

“It doesn’t matter if I approve or disapprove, and I distinctly remember telling you that I was reserving judgment.”

“You were quick enough to pass judgment when you found me in Merrick’s apartment.”

“And I’m not going to apologize for that,” he told her. “You shouldn’t have been there. However valid your reasons for agreeing to meet with him, you should never have ventured into that neighborhood on your own without telling anyone where you were going.”

“I called you,” she admitted.

That surprised him. “You did?”

She bit into a piece of toast. Frowned. “It’s buttered.”

“I’m sure your arteries will survive.” He slathered jam onto his own bread. “When did you call me?”

“Before I left to meet with Merrick. I left a message on your voice mail.”

“Oh.” He usually left his cell phone in the car when he was home. “Why didn’t you tell me that earlier?”

She smiled wryly, drawing his attention to the fullness of her soft pink lips. Kissable lips, he thought again. And glistening now with traces of butter. He tore his gaze away, gulped down a mouthful of bitter coffee.

“I tried,” she said. “You weren’t listening. You just steamrolled past without giving me a chance to explain.”

Well, he was paying complete attention to her now, and he wasn’t entirely comfortable with the feelings she stirred inside him. Feelings he hadn’t been aware of since Beth’s death. Feelings he hadn’t thought he’d ever experience again. Not with another woman. Grief, guilt and regrets assailed him, not just because of Beth and everything they’d lost, but because he’d treated Natalie unfairly. He hadn’t expected the instantaneous attraction, and he’d immediately taken an adversarial stance with her to avoid examining his feelings.

“I guess I should apologize,” he said, although she wouldn’t know he was referring to more than just his behavior at Merrick’s apartment.

She shook her head. “I just want to forget everything that’s happened in the past few hours.”

“That’s not likely. Not once the press starts sniffing around.”

She groaned. “I’ve stepped in it up to my knees, haven’t I?”

“Yeah, but you’re wearing nice shoes.” He’d noticed those immediately. Expensive designer shoes like the ones his sister Hannah favored. With skinny heels that added at least two inches to her height and emphasized her slender ankles and shapely calves. There wasn’t much about Natalie Vaughn he hadn’t noticed.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m glad you find this amusing.”

“In my job, if you don’t learn to find the humor in things, you don’t last very long.”

She pushed her plate aside. “How long have you been a cop?”

“Almost fifteen years.” He dumped salt on the potatoes left on her plate, then scooped up a forkful and brought them to his lips.

“You keep eating like that, you won’t last another fifteen,” she warned him.

He grinned. “It’s nice to know that you’re worried about me.”

“I just hate to think of the loss to the Fairweather P.D. if you die of heart disease.”

“Yeah.” He put his fork down. “Tierney might get my job.”

“I met him yesterday, at the courthouse.” She picked up her coffee cup, sipped.

“Then he stopped by your office this afternoon and invited you to dinner.”

She frowned. “How did you know that?”

“He told me he was going to.”

“Oh.”

“Obviously you turned him down.”

“I’m working sixteen hours a day, just trying to get up to speed on my files.”

“Is that the only reason you declined his invitation?”

“I don’t mix business and pleasure,” she reminded him. “And even if I wanted to, I don’t have time for complications in my life right now.”

Dylan didn’t think Ben wanted anything more complicated than sex from Natalie, but he wasn’t going to tell her that. Not when he had to admit his own thoughts had gone down that same road. “Complications are what make life interesting,” he said instead.

“I’ll keep that in mind. But I’m a little too tired for a philosophical discussion right now.” She pushed her cup aside. “And I should try to catch an hour of sleep before I have to get ready for work.”

He nodded. “I’ll keep you posted on the Merrick investigation.”

“Thanks.” She slid out of the booth. “Do me another favor?”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t tell Detective Tierney I had breakfast with you.”

He grinned. It was a tempting thought. “I think I can restrain myself.”

“Thanks,” she said again.

He watched her walk away, enjoying the subtle sway of her hips in the slim skirt and the flex of finely toned muscles in her calves.

Then he paid the tab and headed out of the diner to return to the scene of the crime.