Читать книгу Bulletproof Hearts - Brenda Harlen, Brenda Harlen - Страница 9

Natalie jolted at the quick knock at the door. She’d been jittery all day, unable to banish from her mind the sight of Roger Merrick’s bloodied body. Unable to stop thinking about Lieutenant Creighton’s reminder that she might easily have met the same fate on her nocturnal adventure.

“I heard you had some excitement last night.”

There was no sympathy in John Beckett’s clipped tone, nor had she expected any. She’d known this confrontation was inevitable, but her boss had been tied up with jury selection for a conspiracy trial all morning, thus allowing a brief reprieve.

“More than I wanted,” she acknowledged, careful to keep her tone light.

“Not even a month on the job and you stumble into the middle of a murder scene. The press is going to have a field day with this,” he grumbled.

“It’s not like I went out looking to find a dead body,” she pointed out.

“You went looking for trouble,” he insisted.

“I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Then your being in Roger Merrick’s apartment building at 1:00 a.m. was just an unfortunate coincidence?”

“You hired me to do a job,” she said. “That’s what I was doing.”

“Well, you made a mess of it, and you’re going to clean it up.”

“How?” she asked wearily.

“You can start with the press.” He dropped a fistful of pink message slips on her desk.

Natalie swallowed. “What am I supposed to say?”

“Molly is typing up your statement now.” He turned toward the door, pausing only long enough to offer a parting shot over his shoulder. “Remember—your position in this office is still a probationary one.”

She didn’t need the reminder—she was all too aware of how precarious her situation was, how easily her new life could come crashing down around her. Moving to Fairweather had been a big step, one she hadn’t taken without careful thought. As much as she’d been desperate to get her son out of the low-income, high-crime neighborhood in which they’d lived, she’d been wary of the offer.

You don’t get something for nothing, Shannon had warned.

Her sister was always spouting clichés. “Look before you leap” was another of her favorites.

But in this case, Natalie believed the trade-off was worth it. Getting Jack out of Chicago would be the best thing for him. She’d agreed to let him stay with Shannon until he’d finished out the school year, and to give Natalie a chance to find a home for them. It was all she really wanted—a place where they could both feel settled. And that would happen only if she managed to keep this job.

She shoved the stack of messages aside and buried her face in her hands. She didn’t blame her boss for being annoyed. She had overstepped her bounds. Her decision to meet with Roger Merrick had been impulsive and clearly—in retrospect, anyway—unwise. But Beckett had given her the case, and complete discretion to handle it. In fact, he’d seemed more than pleased to get the file off his own desk. If he hadn’t thought she was capable of doing the job, why had he given her the case? Why had he ever hired her?

She hadn’t gotten any further than these questions when an unfamiliar figure stormed into her office. Natalie hadn’t yet had the dubious honor of being introduced to Randolph Hawkins, but she had no doubt that the immaculately dressed man with silver strands woven through dark hair and cold blue eyes glaring angrily across her desk was the infamous defense attorney.

No, angrily wasn’t an accurate description, she realized. Dangerously was much more appropriate.

“You stepped over the line, lady.” The words were as sharp and cold as broken glass.

“My name is Natalie. Natalie Vaughn,” she told him. “And I’m guessing you’re Mr. Hawkins.”

“Then you’re not a complete imbecile, after all,” Hawkins retorted.

Her back stiffened. Regardless of what had happened, he didn’t have any cause to treat her with such blatant disrespect. “I understand that you’re upset about your client, Mr. Hawkins, but—”

“You knew Roger Merrick was my client?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then why did you attempt to meet with him without my presence?”

“I didn’t request the meeting,” she said coolly. “Mr. Merrick did. I’m sorry—”

“Sorry?” he snapped. “You should be a damn sight more than sorry. You killed him.”

“Now, Randolph,” a cool, almost amused voice chided from the doorway. “You know very well that Ms. Vaughn didn’t pump those bullets into Merrick’s body.”

Natalie’s gaze flew to the lieutenant leaning casually against the open door. Creighton had been the first in line to chastise her for her actions of the previous evening, so although she was skeptical about his apparent defense she was also grateful for the interruption.

“She signed his death warrant when she agreed to meet with him.” Hawkins practically spat the words at Dylan.

“I didn’t know he was in danger,” Natalie protested.

Hawkins turned back, directing the full force of his anger at her. “Were you also unaware that meeting with a defendant in the absence of his counsel is a violation of both his rights and professional ethics?”

“I told Roger Merrick that I couldn’t meet with him without his lawyer,” she said.

“And yet you did.”

“He was the one who insisted on not contacting you.”

A brief moment of silence followed her announcement.

“Why was that, do you suppose?” Creighton wondered aloud, pushing away from the door and moving into the room.

“This is none of your damn business, Creighton.”

“But it is,” the lieutenant assured him. “Murder is very much my business.”

Hawkins chose to ignore him. “It doesn’t matter what you claim my client said,” he told Natalie. “You knew he had counsel, and you had an ethical duty to talk to him through me.”

She flinched, because she knew he was right and because it was her determination to prove herself and her eagerness to hear about Conroy that had caused her to overlook that obligation.

But again the lieutenant came unexpectedly to her defense. “You’re a fine one to talk about ethics when Zane Conroy has you on retainer.”

“Mr. Conroy is a pillar of this community.”

Creighton laughed. “If he’s the pillar, we’re all in trouble.”

“In any event,” Hawkins continued, “I came here to discuss Roger Merrick, not Mr. Conroy.”

He turned his attention back to Natalie. “I’m considering filing a complaint with the state bar association. I’ll definitely be making my displeasure known to your boss.”

She groaned inwardly, Beckett’s reminder of her probationary status fresh in her mind. She’d been on the job only three weeks and she was already in danger of losing it and all her hopes for her and Jack’s future along with it. But before she could respond to Hawkins’s threat, somehow plead her case, he’d stomped out of her office, the glass rattling in the door as he slammed it behind him.

She sank back into her chair and buried her face in her hands.

“You’d have been prepared for the theatrics if you’d ever seen him in court.”

Natalie pushed her hair away from her forehead and forced a smile. “I probably won’t be here long enough to have that privilege.”

The lieutenant dropped into the chair across from her desk. “He was bluffing.”

“Do you think so?” She hoped he was right; she didn’t want to start job hunting again.

“Hawkins likes to intimidate.”

“He’s good at it.”

Creighton grinned, flashing those killer dimples and making her forget—at least for a second—about her more immediate concerns.

“He won’t make any formal complaint about your secret meeting with his client,” he assured her. “If he does, it’s bound to come out that Merrick was the one who requested the meeting and the secrecy. It will raise questions about his client’s unwillingness to have counsel present. Which, by the way, is something you neglected to mention last night.”

“I didn’t even think about it.” She rubbed her fingers over her forehead, trying to assuage the throbbing ache that had settled there. “I was thinking about Roger Merrick, not legal ethics.”

“Is there anything else you forgot to mention?”

“No.” She shook her head. “I don’t know.” She pushed her hair back again. “I don’t remember what I told you.”

“We’ll go over it all again some other time. You look exhausted.”

She stifled a yawn. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.” She shuddered, the image of Merrick’s corpse still too vivid in her mind. “I’m not sure I’ll get any more tonight. And I know you have more questions you need to ask.”

“They can wait.”

“Why are you being nice to me all of a sudden?”

“I didn’t think it was all of a sudden.”

She recognized the attempted diversion, but she wouldn’t be diverted. “I’ve faced a barrage of accusations since my late-night phone call—the first of them from you. And now you’re the only one who’s standing by me.”

He shrugged. “You already know how I feel about your visit to Merrick’s apartment. There’s no point in rehashing that.”

True, but Natalie sensed there was more to it.

“And last night brought back memories,” he admitted. “I’ve been on the job a long time. So long I’d almost become immune to the horrors of it.”

He shook his head. “Not immune, really. I don’t think anyone could ever get used to seeing some of the things I’ve seen. But as a cop, you learn to shut down a little. You have to close off your emotions in order to get the job done.”

She’d been in practice long enough to understand what he was saying. As a defense attorney, she’d learned to distance herself from the details to maintain objectivity. She’d trained herself to think, not in terms of guilt or innocence, but in the parameters of the law and the defenses available to her client.

Still, nothing she’d seen as a defense attorney had prepared her for the grisly scene in Roger Merrick’s apartment. She shuddered again, unable to prevent the instinctive reaction.

“When I saw you there last night,” Creighton continued, “the shock and horror in your eyes, I remembered my first murder scene. I couldn’t send you away from there on your own.”

“Well, thank you. For understanding. For not making me go back to an empty hotel room in the middle of the night.”

His gaze sharpened. “Hotel?”

“I’ve only been in town a few weeks,” she reminded him. “I haven’t had time to find anything else.”

“What hotel?”

“The Courtland. Why?”

He ignored her question to ask another of his own. “Who knows you’re staying there?”

She frowned. “My sister. My boss. The hotel staff. Why?”

“Roger Merrick.”

She felt the chill crawl over her skin.

“You said he called you,” Creighton reminded her.

“H-he did.”

“At the hotel?”

She swallowed, nodded.

“How did he know you were there?”

“I don’t know. I mean, it’s not a state secret or anything.” But her flippant response didn’t stop the questions that swirled through her mind. How had he known? Could he have followed her after work one night? She wouldn’t have realized if he had—she’d never set eyes on him before last night. But if he had, why?

“But it’s not common knowledge, is it?” he persisted.

“No,” she agreed hesitantly.

He stood abruptly. “I’m going to check into this.”

She just nodded and watched silently as he moved to the door Hawkins had slammed shut a short while before.

It was late when Dylan finally left the police station that night. Glancing toward the D.A.’s office, he noticed there was a light on in one of the main-floor offices. Natalie’s office.

He paused, car keys in hand. He should go home, cook some dinner, put his feet up on the coffee table, watch a ball game. But his house would be dark, empty.

He glanced toward her office again—watched her silhouette through the window as she pulled her chair away from the desk and sat down. Her hair fell forward to curtain her face as she studied the papers on her desk.

He imagined brushing the hair away from her face, the silky strands sliding through his fingers. He could practically smell the lemony fragrance of her shampoo, the same scent that had brought her image to mind as he’d walked through the produce section of the grocery store earlier.

He turned away from his car and toward the D.A.’s office. If the door was locked, he would go home. He had no reason to interrupt her work.

No reason except that he hadn’t stopped thinking about her all day. Even as he reviewed surveillance reports and witness statements, she was there—lingering in the back of his mind, haunting him. There were secrets buried in the stormy depths of her eyes. And scars. He recognized both—not just because he was a cop, but because he had plenty of his own.

He pulled on the handle of the heavy glass door, and it opened.

He thought again of Beth—of everything they’d once shared, everything they’d lost. Because of him. It was his job to serve and protect, yet he’d failed to protect the woman he loved.

His life had changed with her death. He still went through the motions of working and living, but it was as if he existed in an emotional vacuum. Nothing got past the wall he’d erected around his heart—no one had even come close.

Until now.

Which was just one more reason he should stay far away from Natalie Vaughn. He had no interest in opening up his heart again. And he was terrified by the possibility that he might fail someone else.

As he expected, the outer office was deserted, silent. He heard Natalie’s voice in the distance, followed the sound toward her office. He could see her through the narrow opening of the door, the receiver of the phone tucked beneath her chin as she typed away at the keyboard of her computer.

“I just have too much work to do.” There was an edge of frustration in her voice, as if she’d already made this explanation numerous times. “Please try to understand.”

There was a pause as she listened to the response of whoever was on the other end of the phone. She stopped typing and the corners of her mouth curved upward slightly. When she spoke again, her voice was softer. “Me, too. And I’ll see you on Friday, Jack. I promise.”

Dylan stepped back from the door, trying to interpret what he’d overheard of the conversation. Who was Jack? A friend? A lover? Definitely someone she still had ties to. But if she was involved with someone in Chicago, why would she have moved seven hundred miles away?

And why did the possibility that Natalie was involved with someone else fail to diminish the attraction he felt?

He shook his head, annoyed by the irrationality of his own thoughts. He turned away, determined to walk out the door, away from her. But as he turned, he felt something crunch beneath the heel of his shoe. He winced and glanced down at the offensive instrument—a now broken No. 2 pencil.

“Hello?”

He stepped forward, through the door of her office. “It’s just me.”

“Oh.” Natalie frowned, obviously surprised to see him.

“I was leaving the station and saw your light on,” he explained. “What are you still doing here?”

She smiled wryly. “I haven’t been fired yet.”

He chuckled. “I meant, why are you still in your office at seven o’clock on a Tuesday night?”

“Because I have a ton of work to do.” She gestured to the stack of files on her desk, sighed. “Since John Beckett has decided not to fire me—at least, not yet—and since I no longer have the Merrick trial at the end of the month, he’s given me several more cases to deal with.”

“Probably so he could go home early.”

“That’s the whole point in having subordinates, I guess.”

Dylan shook his head. “You know what they say about ‘all work and no play’.”

“Sure. All work and no play means I’ll keep my job another day.”

He smiled. “I really don’t think Beckett will fire you. Other than your ill-fated decision to visit Merrick’s apartment, your work has been exemplary.”

“How would you know?”

“It’s a small town,” he reminded her. “Word travels.”

“Thank you, I think.”

“Besides, that position was vacant for quite a while,” he told her. “If Beckett gets rid of you, he’ll just have to advertise and interview for the position again. I can’t imagine that’s something he’d look forward to.”

“I’d like to think that he’ll keep me on because of my work, not because it would require too much effort to replace me.” She pushed away from the desk and moved to the bookcase to retrieve another text.

She rolled her right shoulder, clearly trying to alleviate the tension. He stepped behind her and laid his hands on her shoulders. She stiffened at the contact, slowly relaxing when his fingers started kneading the tense muscles.

It had been an instinctive gesture, not unlike what he’d have done for one of his sisters. Except that, as soon as he touched her, he realized his mistake. Natalie Vaughn wasn’t his sister, and the way his body was responding to hers wasn’t remotely brotherly.

She moaned softly, almost inaudibly, but the sensual sound tortured his imagination. Would she moan like that while making love? Would she scream with the pleasure of her release? He focused his gaze on the textbooks, concentrated on reading the titles rather than fantasizing about what he couldn’t allow to happen. Objectivity, he reminded himself again.

“I didn’t see Richardson in his office,” Dylan said, referring to the other A.D.A. Conversation, he decided, would stop her from making those sexy little sounds that were driving him insane.

“Greg’s been here longer than I have,” she said. “Besides, he has a wife and family to go home to. There’s nothing waiting for me in my hotel room except the television.”

And a big, wide bed. Which was definitely not something he should be thinking about right now.

“If you’re going to work late, you should lock the door,” he advised. “You never know who could walk in.” And if she’d locked the door, he wouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t be touching her, wanting her and torn between longing and guilt.

“I’m waiting for a delivery,” she told him.

“Dinner?”

She nodded, evoking mixed feelings of relief and disappointment when she stepped away from him. “Thanks. That feels a lot better now.”

Maybe for her. He was definitely feeling a little tense. “What are you having?”

“Kung Pao Chicken.”

“Where’d you order from?”

“The Golden Dragon.”

Dylan grimaced.

“Bad choice?”

“Not the best,” he agreed.

Natalie sighed. “It’s one of the things I already miss about Chicago—knowing where to get the best takeout.”

One of the things. Was Jack another? He wasn’t going to speculate; he wasn’t going to ask.

“Don’t you cook?” he asked instead.

“Not if I don’t have to,” she admitted. “Do you?”

“All the time.”

“Really?” She sounded shocked.

“Is that so hard to believe?”

“Yes. Are you any good?”

He grinned. “I’ve been told my marinara sauce is to die for.”

“Marinara sauce, hmm?” She sounded interested, almost in spite of herself.

“I also make a great meat loaf.”

“And you’re still single?”

He felt a pang, sharp and swift, but gone as quickly as it had come. Maybe too quickly. That was something he’d have to think about later. Now he shrugged. “You want to skip the Kung Pao Chicken for a home-cooked meal?”

“It’s tempting,” she told him, “but I’ve already ordered, and I really do have a ton of work still to do.”

“Maybe some other time?”

“Maybe,” she agreed vaguely.

It wasn’t an outright refusal, anyway. He decided to quit while he was ahead. “I’ll let you get back to work,” he said. “Make sure you lock up behind the delivery man.”

Dylan’s instincts had always been good. Of course, fifteen years on the force had taught him a lot about people and helped him to hone his natural intuition. But he was still undecided about the new assistant district attorney.

Were his hormones confusing the issue?

Possibly.

Probably.

He couldn’t deny that he was attracted to her. She was an attractive woman, and he was a fully functioning man with all the normal impulses. But he had no intention of acting on those impulses.

Despite his clumsy overtures, he kept his personal life separate from his job—no exceptions. To cross that line would hamper his objectivity, and without objectivity he couldn’t be a good cop. Dylan had always prided himself on being a very good cop. It was more than his job, it was his identity. And it was all he had left.

So he wasn’t happy that thoughts of Natalie Vaughn occupied an inordinate amount of his time. Of course, it didn’t help that she’d walked into the middle of a murder scene and thus firmly planted herself in one of his cases.

The investigation of which was proving to be surprisingly fruitful in the early stages. A .45 caliber pistol had been found hidden behind a bush outside Merrick’s apartment. Preliminary reports showed no prints on the gun, which wasn’t surprising. But the fact that the serial number on the weapon had been filed down gave him hope. It was unlikely the perp would have bothered with such a task unless the weapon was registered in his name. Or maybe he got the gun from someone else who’d used it for illegal purposes. In either case, once the lab guys retrieved the number, the police would have—if not the killer—at least a starting point in their search for whoever had pulled the trigger.

While awaiting the results from the lab, he had other avenues of investigation to follow—and one of those led him to Natalie’s hotel room.

She answered the door wearing her pajamas.

Silk, he guessed, based on the way the dark green fabric shimmered and molded to her curves. A deep V-neck revealed a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage and a simple gold heart on a delicate chain resting against her creamy skin.

He forced his gaze upward, noted that her eyes were more green than blue tonight, and shadowed with fatigue. Her face was bare of makeup, those full, lush lips unsmiling.

“What are you doing here, Lieutenant?”

“I needed to ask you some more questions about what happened the night of Merrick’s murder.”

She sighed. “I was really hoping to get some sleep tonight.”

“It won’t take long,” he promised.

She stepped away from the door to allow him to enter.

He took a quick survey of the room. The wallpaper was cream-colored with wide gold stripes, the carpet deep and plush, the furniture made of glossy cherry wood. Tasteful, classy. Of course, the Courtland Hotels had a reputation for luxurious accommodations and exceptional service—and a five-star price tag. Obviously the new A.D.A. was being well paid.

The queen-size bed was still made, although the spread was slightly rumpled and there were files and notes scattered on top. The television was on, but the volume was low. A small desk was in front of the window, a battered leather briefcase open on top of it. A single glass of red wine sat on the table beside the bed, half-empty.

“Can I get you a drink?”

He shook his head.

Natalie perched on the edge of the bed, gestured for him to take a seat.

He remained standing.

She picked up her glass, sipped.

“Were you drinking that night?”

“Do you disapprove of my having a glass or two of wine, Lieutenant?”

“I simply asked a question.”

“No, I wasn’t drinking that night,” she told him. “I’m only drinking tonight because I’m hoping that a few drinks might help me forget what I saw in Merrick’s apartments at least long enough to get some sleep.”

“It won’t,” he told her. It was always difficult to face death—violent death was the worst. The scene in Merrick’s apartment would have made a lasting impression on anyone, and he knew it would be a long time before Natalie would sleep without being haunted by dreams of what she’d seen. The realization stirred his compassion. “I wish I could tell you the memory will fade, but some memories never do. You just have to learn to live with them.”

“Do you?” she asked. “Learn to live with them, I mean?”

“There’s nothing else you can do,” he told her. What he wanted to do was to offer comfort and understanding. He knew how hard it was to face the darkness alone, and he wished he could spare her that.

Objectivity, he reminded himself, and took a mental step back.

“All right. Let’s get through your questions.”

He pulled the chair from behind the desk and straddled it, facing her. “What time did you receive the phone call?”

“Twelve-twenty.”

“You’re sure about that?”

She nodded. “I’d fallen asleep. The first thing I did when I heard the phone ringing was look at the clock.”

“Did the caller identify himself?”

“Didn’t we cover all this already?”

“I want to go over it again, to make sure we haven’t missed anything.”

She sighed.

“Did the caller identify himself?” he asked again.

“Not right away.”

“But he did give you his name?” Dylan prompted.

She paused, frowning. “No.”

“Then why did you assume it was Roger Merrick?”

“Because he talked about making a deal, and when I said he should talk to his lawyer, he said Hawkins couldn’t help him. I guessed his identity, and when I called him by name, he didn’t deny it.”

“But he didn’t confirm it, either.”

Her frown deepened. “No.”

“How did you know where to find him?”

“He gave me the address and I scribbled it down while I was on the phone with him.” She rose and moved toward the desk, her knee brushing against his thigh. Silk against denim, yet the brief contact sparked like flint on steel.

She froze, her wary gaze locking with his for just a second. But in that brief moment of connection, he saw it in her eyes: awareness, attraction. Then she turned away, rustled through her briefcase.

Dylan had to remind himself to breathe, to remember the purpose for his visit. He was here to do his job—it was his only hope of getting justice for Beth.

She handed him a single page with the hotel insignia at the top. He gave it only a cursory glance.

“That’s the address he gave me,” she told him.

“The address the caller gave you,” he amended.

“That’s what I said.” She picked up her glass again, her fingers trembling slightly. Was she shaken by their brief contact—or was her nervousness a result of the topic of their conversation?

It didn’t matter—he was here to investigate Merrick, not the A.D.A. The reminder didn’t cool his hormones, but it at least focused his thoughts. “What if I told you that Roger Merrick didn’t make that phone call?”

“But—but I spoke to him.”

“Had you ever spoken to him before?”

Natalie shook her head. “Why would I?”

He ignored her question to ask another of his own. “How long did it take you to get to Merrick’s apartment after you left here?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I don’t remember.”

“Approximately?”

She shrugged. “Twenty minutes. Maybe half an hour.”

He’d followed the route earlier that evening. It had taken twenty-two minutes to drive from the hotel parking lot to the front door of Merrick’s apartment building.

“Did you leave your room as soon as you got off the phone?”

“No.” She studied the contents of her glass rather than meeting his gaze. “I tried calling you first. And when I didn’t get an answer…”

She hesitated, and he thought he saw a touch of color rise in her cheeks.

“When I stopped to think about it, I wasn’t thrilled about the idea of driving across town at that time of night on my own,” she admitted. “It took me a few minutes to talk myself into it.”

The embarrassment, the hint of vulnerability, made him want to reach out to her, to offer comfort and reassurance. But he wasn’t her friend, he was a cop—and he needed to act like a cop. “A few minutes—five? Ten?”

“Maybe ten.”

“Which would put you at his apartment by one o’clock?”

“I guess so.”

He nodded. He’d been paged about fifteen minutes later, which corroborated her version of events. Almost.

He folded his arms over the back of the chair, his eyes locked on her. “I just don’t understand why Merrick would ask you to meet him on the other side of town if he was already here.”

Natalie frowned. “What do you mean?”

“We checked the hotel’s phone records,” he told her.

“And?”

“The call that came into this room was made from one of the courtesy phones in the lobby.”