Читать книгу Shielding the Suspect - C.J. Miller - Страница 11

Chapter 1

Six months later

Brady shifted in his easy chair and stretched his legs in front of him, flexing his foot and rubbing at the pain that shot from his heel to his thigh. His right leg ached when he sat for too long. Sadly, most of what he did involved sitting, as well as thinking and occasionally taking the edge off with a cold beer.

He had nowhere to go and nothing to do except twice weekly rehabilitation appointments. One of those appointments was with the shrink from the hospital. He dreaded those visits.

It was late and most televisions stations were showing infomercials. He reached for the remote to change the channel, but stopped when a knock sounded at the door. Who was visiting this late?

He planned to ignore it and hope whoever it was went away. Instead, keys in the lock jingled and then his brother Harris’s voice called, “Brady?” as the door swung open.

Brady didn’t want to deal with a family visit right now. “What are you doing here?” he asked, knowing he sounded surly. But that was how he felt. Surly and angry. He didn’t like people dropping by unannounced. Lately, he didn’t like seeing people at all.

“Oh, my sincerest apologies. Am I interrupting your doing-nothing time?” Harris asked dryly.

“What do you want?” Brady asked. He wasn’t in the mood for a lecture.

“Since you aren’t returning your phone calls or emails, you left me the option of finding time away from an undercover operation so I could talk to you about something important.”

Guilt mushroomed through him. Brady should have returned his family’s phone calls, but he wasn’t ready. He didn’t want them—or anyone—to see him this way. Now he’d forced Harris temporarily off an undercover mission. He’d add that to his list of screw-ups. He shut off the television. “You’re here. Say what you need to say.” Whatever it was, Brady wasn’t going to like it.

“Reilly is in trouble.”

Brady hadn’t expected that and he rose to his feet. The words lit a fire under him and for the first time in months, Brady had good motivation to get off his butt. “What trouble?”

“Reilly was the first responder on a murder scene and he’s been accused of tampering with evidence,” Harris said. “He’s on administrative leave pending an investigation into the matter.”

Reilly, the middle Truman brother, was a celebrated detective, his recent promotion a reward for the tough cases he’d solved. He would never compromise the integrity of an investigation by hiding or manufacturing evidence. “That’s ridiculous. Why would he tamper with evidence? What idiot would believe something like that?” Brady asked.

“The mayor believes it.”

“The mayor?” Brady didn’t like the pompous windbag who served as mayor of Denver, but since when did the mayor insert himself into police business?

“Since the mayor is in tight with Lieutenant General Ambrose, and it’s his son who is the murder victim—”

Brady started. “Lieutenant General Ambrose? Justin’s father? Justin’s dead?” Confusion streamed through him. What about Susan? How was she dealing with her fiancé’s death?

“That’s right, Justin Ambrose. Your favorite person,” Harris said. “The mayor wants the guilty party found and he’s decided the guilty persons are Susan and Reilly.”

Brady’s blood pressure soared and disbelief tumbled through him. Susan killing someone was more ludicrous than Reilly tampering with evidence. “The police will find the real culprit and then the mayor will look like the idiot he is and eat crow.”

Harris snorted. “I’d agree if the lead investigator on the case wasn’t a ‘yes man’ jockeying for a promotion and too lazy to do actual police work.”

“It can’t be that bad,” Brady said.

Harris held out a folder. “It is. Look at the file.”

Brady had respect for his brother’s colleagues and had liked the ones he’d met, but every job had its share of incompetents. He opened the file and scanned Harris’s notes. It was bad. “What can I do?”

Harris sniffed and then wrinkled his nose. “The first thing you can do is call Mom so she can stop worrying about you. Then you need to take a shower, grab a shave, change into clean clothes and rejoin the rest of the world. This place is a dump. Take some pride in yourself.”

His brother’s comments were justified. Brady felt and looked like crap. He hadn’t had a reason to care. Until now.

“And once I re-civilize myself?” Brady asked, letting his voice drip with sarcasm.

Harris nodded at the folder he’d handed Brady. “Read that cover to cover. I’ve kept notes on the case, nothing you can’t read in the news. Justin’s yacht was found covered in his blood and Susan was the last person seen with him. She was at the scene with blood on her hands and clothes.”

“What? She was where with what?” Incredulity and concern tore through him.

“Susan was on the boat. Justin’s body hasn’t been found. The ME states with the amount of blood at the scene, Justin couldn’t have survived. The police are looking for a body.”

Brady closed the file. “She didn’t kill anyone.” He didn’t need to read reports about the case to know he was correct about that. “Was she with Justin when he died? How did she keep herself from being hurt?”

Harris blew out his breath. “Susan doesn’t remember where she was and she can’t explain what happened or why. She has no signs of a head injury or concussion, and the lab didn’t find anything in her system that suggests she was drugged or sedated. She has no alibi for the night in question. I don’t believe she killed him, but I can’t offer any evidence or theory to the contrary. She hasn’t been charged because Justin’s body hasn’t been found.”

When Susan was under stress, she shut down. She’d dealt with terrible things from her childhood, like having an abusive alcoholic for a father and an imbalanced mother, by ignoring them and pretending as if nothing was wrong. As an adult, Susan’s coping methods were better. She’d pour her emotions into her artwork, work through the problem and eventually talk about it, but her initial reaction was silence. The one sure way Brady had to get her talking was to get her into bed and let her direct the post-coital conversation. Whether it was the intimacy of the act or that she was relaxed and contented, Susan was most open with him during those times. But her old defense mechanism could be triggered if the situation was desperate enough.

No way would she hop into bed with him now. Not only had he lost his chance with Susan, she was grieving for her fiancé. “Stress-induced amnesia?” Brady asked, wanting Harris’s opinion.

“Could be. My best guess is that her inability to remember is psychological,” Harris said.

“What makes the police think Reilly is tied up in this? Because he was first on the scene? Wasn’t his partner there?” Brady asked, worry for his brother mingling with concern for Susan. Brady wanted to go to her, to see if she was okay, to talk to her and comfort her. Even as the thought crossed his mind, he squashed it. He was the last man she’d want to see or speak to. His presence would only make it worse for her.

“Reilly was first on the scene and when he realized it was Susan involved, he called for another team to investigate. He waited with Susan on the dock, while his partner waited at the marina for backup to arrive. He and Susan’s friendship survived your relationship and she still does freelance sketch work for the department, so they’ve kept in touch.”

Brady had met Susan through Reilly at a party. The image of Susan the first time he’d seen her snapped to mind. Her beautiful, shy smile had caught his attention. He’d approached her and found she was easy to talk with and eager to see the best in people and situations. Her positive attitude had been refreshing.

Harris continued, breaking through Brady’s thoughts. “Once it got out that Reilly was first on the scene, Lieutenant General Ambrose talked to the media and his pal, the mayor, and connected them through you and painted the picture like something unseemly had occurred. The media loves tidbits about Reilly. He’s a pseudo-celebrity after the cases he’s solved for the city.”

Not shocking. The media twisting a story into a lurid and seedy tale was common and nauseating. Brady was surprised anyone reacted to the sensationalism and irrationality of the story. The public could be riled into a frenzy with the right words, the right pictures and the right people pushing their buttons. Why didn’t anyone stop to think about the idea of a detective—a decorated detective—leaving Susan, the alleged killer, at the scene of the crime with blood on her hands? If Reilly had wanted to cover up anything, he would have dealt with that first. The accusations were ridiculous.

How could he help? Susan wouldn’t want to see him and Reilly was capable of defending himself. Sleuthing wasn’t his area of expertise. However, if they needed someone to bungle the investigation at a critical moment, Brady had some experience with that. “I’m not a detective and I’m impaired at the moment. What do you want me to do?” Brady rubbed his knee.

Harris snorted. “Cut the crap and quit acting like a sissy stewing in your own tears. Your knee is fine. Get off your lazy rear end and talk to Susan. Work with her to find out what happened the night Justin was killed. Her memories might come back, but the stress she’s under could be concealing something important.”

Susan wouldn’t withhold information if she had it. “Why can’t you talk to Susan?” Harris was the one trained in FBI interview and profiling tactics.

“Two reasons. My career gives me a few more boundaries. I’m working an operation at the moment and I can’t bail out or juggle both. Too much is at stake. Second reason, and more importantly, you know Susan better than I do. You can help her remember.”

It had taken Brady time to earn Susan’s trust and when they’d broken up, he was sure that trust had been demolished. “What makes you think Susan will talk to me about the murder?” Brady hadn’t told his family the details of why their relationship had ended or about her visit to the hospital when he’d been a world-class jerk to her.

“You’re a Truman. Your brother needs you. You’ll do whatever is necessary to help Reilly.”

Harris was right. The Trumans stood by each other. It was how they’d been raised. Integrity, honor and loyalty defined their family. This situation had to be killing Reilly and putting a strain on his marriage to Haley. They were a strong family and Brady felt like the weak link. Could he be useful in his current state? What if he made it worse for Susan and Reilly?

“Anything else?” Brady asked, shoving aside his self-pity. The idea of his brother suffering and having done nothing wrong had spurred him to act.

Harris hesitated. “There is one more thing. Reilly is worried about Susan. We don’t know why she wasn’t also a victim and why she didn’t sustain physical injuries the night Justin died. Since the police have decided to focus on Susan as a suspect, they’re not interested in providing her with police protection. Reilly believes there’s more going on and Susan’s not out of danger yet. While you’re helping her sort this out, you need to look out for her.”

Spending time with Susan had convoluted mess written all over it. He wasn’t the soldier he’d been before his accident. His body was damaged and weakened, his confidence shaken. Was he capable of protecting her from a killer? What if she was attacked? Would he respond and protect her or hesitate and get her killed?

Then again, what choice did he have? His brothers needed him. So did Susan. Despite the ugly history, he would talk to her and do what he could to help.

* * *

The constant gnawing dread never let up. Susan Prescott clocked out of work, sliding her employee badge through the gallery’s timekeeping system. It had been another horrendous day. She was leaving via the side entrance, hoping the reporters waiting to speak with her would remain in the front. She altered her route every day to avoid a confrontation.

Susan didn’t have answers to the questions they asked. Why had she killed Justin? Where had she put the body? Why wouldn’t she give closure to his family?

How did someone answer those questions? They were meant to bait her into saying something she’d regret. She didn’t know anything about Justin’s murder. She hadn’t been involved. At least, she didn’t think she had. Frustration worked at her. Why couldn’t she remember?

Susan pushed open the side door. Reporters and cameramen snapped to attention and began shouting at her. A jolt of anxiety ripped through her. Susan focused on her car parked a few yards away, blinking back the tears that sprung to her eyes, a combination of sadness, humiliation and grief. Anything she said would make it worse, but she wanted to shout the only answer she knew, which was she didn’t know anything.

A hand grasped her elbow and Susan pulled her arm free, spinning and coming face-to-face with Brady Truman. The last man she’d have expected outside the gallery. He looked disheveled and tired, not that she was in any position to judge. She was sure she looked worse. The aggravating thing about Brady was that even exhausted and unkempt, his charisma and good looks were undeniable. Every part of him tempted her.

It wasn’t the time to fixate on Brady’s tremendous appeal. Extending one muscular arm in front of them, he led her through the crowd, forming a path to her car. He took her keys from her hand, unlocked the doors and helped her into the passenger side. He climbed in the driver’s seat, fastened his seat belt, held down the horn in warning to the media to move and drove them away from the gallery and the crowd.

Susan shook off her shock and confusion. “What are you doing here? You told me to leave you alone.” She had tried to talk to him in the hospital. He hadn’t been interested in hearing what she had to say.

“I need to talk to you.”

Being this close to Brady, her heart raced and her skin tingled. He still had that effect on her. “About what?” The answer snapped to mind as the words left her mouth. “Look, if this is about Reilly, I’m sorry. I know he was placed on admin leave because he was at the scene. He’s my friend, and he and Haley have been wonderful to me. I never meant for that—”

Brady shook his head. “I’m not here to blame you. I’m here to talk. I know you, Susan. I know you’re a good, honest person. I want you to tell me what happened with Justin the night he died.”

Susan stared at him. She would have told him if she could. “I don’t know what happened to Justin. I didn’t kill him.”

“I know that.”

Susan stared at Brady for a long moment. “You don’t think I killed him?” Most everyone else did. Why not Brady?

“Things ended badly between us. That doesn’t mean I think you killed the next guy you dated,” Brady said.

A show of support from one of the last places she’d expected it. “Thank you for believing me, but I don’t see what I can do to help Reilly.”

Brady pulled her car to the side of the road and parked. He faced her. “Susan, come on. It’s me. I know how your mind works. This isn’t the first time you’ve been through something terrible and blocked it out. When you get upset, you shut down. I know what this must be like for you.”

Susan rubbed the heels of her hands into her eyes. “You know what this is like? Sorry, no, you don’t.” Justin was dead and everyone blamed her. Brady didn’t understand what that felt like.

“Susan, I know you better than almost anyone.”

Susan had trusted Brady once and confided in him her deepest thoughts. He had been her go-to person. He had been the man she had wanted to spend her life with. That was the past and she’d put it behind her. “You don’t know me anymore. Things have changed.”

“Things have changed. People don’t change. Not that much.”

“Brady, I’m in the middle of a disaster. I can’t deal with you or with whatever the reason is that you’re here.” Her words were similar to the ones he had spoken to her six months before, when he was a recovering patient in the hospital. They had wounded her fiercely. She hoped her words didn’t have the same effect on him.

“I can help you,” Brady said. His voice was low and soft.

Right. Help her how? Did he realize how bad her life had become? If he wanted her to help clear Reilly’s name, she didn’t think she could. “If anyone would listen to me, I would tell them that Reilly showed up at the scene and didn’t have a thing to do with Justin’s death. The police don’t want to hear my side of the story.” Susan had worked for the police as a freelance sketch artist for the past five years and it hurt that people who she’d considered friends had turned their backs on her.

“I know.” Compassion laced his voice.

“I’m followed everywhere by the media.”

“I know.”

“The mayor, Justin’s family and the police think I’m responsible for Justin’s death.”

“I know,” he said.

His simple, two word answers were annoying her. “Then you know everything I do, so why are you here?”

“I’m here to help you. To protect you,” Brady said.

A nice sentiment, but not one she’d buy. “You can’t protect me. No one can. I got myself into this and I’ll get myself out of it.”

“Don’t be stubborn, Susan. You don’t have to do this alone.”

She had never been able to count on anyone to stick around for her. How could she put her trust in Brady now? He’d left her once before. “Of course I do. I’m alone now. I’ve been alone all my life. I don’t want your help.”

Susan turned away from Brady, hating the pity she read on his face. Not everyone was lucky enough to be born into a family like the Trumans. For better or worse, some people had to muddle through life on their own.

* * *

Susan pulled another blanket over her. The draftiness of the old farmhouse didn’t usually bother her, but the past several nights, nothing had made her feel warm. Justin was dead. The guilt was crushing her and breaking her down. At different times over the past few days, she’d felt someone watching her. The police? Justin’s family? The media? She’d never actually seen anyone, yet the uneasy sensation persisted. Her world had been turned upside down and shaken, and now everything felt wrong and uncertain. Maybe she was losing her grip on her sanity.

She couldn’t remember what had happened the night Justin had died. She’d tried. Had she blocked out his murder because it was too traumatic to remember? Had she played a role in his death? They’d ended their relationship, but Susan hadn’t been angry with Justin when she’d met him on the boat. She hadn’t wanted to hurt him. She was the one who had told him it was over. She’d realized she wasn’t in love with Justin and Justin deserved better. Was it possible she had killed him, disposed of the body and didn’t remember it? The police and media seemed to believe so.

Had it been a robbery gone bad? She absently touched her necklace, a gift from Reilly’s wife, Haley, that she cherished. Nothing had been taken from the boat except her camera, and she wasn’t certain it had been stolen. Normally, she was exceedingly careful with her expensive camera and equipment. Where had she left it?

The confusion surrounding that night made it difficult to say that she hadn’t misplaced the camera, lost it or taken it somewhere and forgotten it. The more she tried to remember, the more frustrated she became. Her sleep-deprived mind was only half functioning. If she were rested and relaxed, could she break through the mental walls blocking her memories?

To add to her stress, Brady’s appearance a few days ago had shaken her. She had been too flustered and emotionally wrung to deal with him. Why was he offering to help now after making it clear six months ago he didn’t want her in his life?

Going over the incident outside the gallery, she was bothered by how rude and hostile she had been to him. Brady had walked out of her life over a year ago and she wanted to get over him.

She’d met Brady at a barbecue at a police colleague’s home. Reilly had brought his younger brother, the Special Forces pararescueman who was on leave from the air force. The attraction and chemistry had been instant and hot. Susan had never experienced a connection that strong with a stranger.

Brady had strolled over to her and introduced himself. Susan preferred to be the listener in conversations, but Brady had drawn her out. He had asked her questions about her work and her hobbies. She’d loved telling him about her artwork, her sketches, her paintings and the photographs she took. His focused interest in her had made it easy to talk to him. He’d made her feel as if everything she said to him was incredibly riveting.

By the time the party was breaking up, Susan and Brady had been talking for four hours. They’d spoken on the phone every day after that, had their first date a week later and remained together through Brady’s deployments over the next several years. His returns home had been wonderful and exciting.

She’d never seen the breakup coming.

Susan had told herself and her friends she was over him.

Then, six months ago, Reilly had told her that Brady had been injured in combat, and the fear that had struck her had left her physically shaken. Reilly hadn’t known much about his brother’s condition, only that he was en route to the nearest hospital for surgery. Brady had returned to America after a few days to recuperate and by that time, Susan had been engulfed with worry. She’d had to see him. She couldn’t stop herself. Susan had to know he was okay.

He hadn’t seemed okay. She had sensed a heavy, underlying resentment and anger in him. Though she could chalk some of that up to his negative feelings for her, more had been at play. Brady hadn’t been willing to confide in her. She’d wanted to help him, but he wouldn’t let her in. He had dismissed her, turning her worry for him to frustration with herself. What had she expected Brady to say to her? That he was sorry? To offer some explanation for why he’d broken up with her?

That his rejection had hurt was telling. She wasn’t over Brady. She couldn’t write him out of her life. Her unresolved feelings for Brady doubled her guilt over Justin. Why wasn’t she grieving for Justin as deeply as she’d grieved when she’d lost Brady?

Susan turned off the television. She wasn’t paying attention to it anyway. Though sleep had eluded her many nights, she was exhausted and her eyes were heavy with fatigue. If she were lucky, she would fall into dreamless sleep.

* * *

Susan awoke to the sound of Brady’s voice. Was she dreaming? Sweat covered her skin and her sheets were knotted around her body. Why was it so hot? What was that sound? She fought with the blankets to get some air.

A shadow appeared and grabbed her by the shoulders. Susan screamed and coughed, her voice choked by the heavy air. Her eyes were burning and adrenaline spiked in her veins.

“Susan, it’s Brady. Your house is on fire. We have to get out.” He tore the rest of the blankets away from her body.

Brady? What was he doing in her room?

She wore only a blue nightshirt, her legs bare. She needed clothes. Brady didn’t give her time to think or react. He dragged her to the ground, and the floor was hot under her hands and knees. She followed him at a crawl out of her room and into the hallway.

The front door at the bottom of the stairs was open. They crouched low as they thundered down the stairs. Brady stayed next to her, keeping one guiding hand on her back. Smoke warred with the oxygen in the air. Susan coughed, cupping her sleeve over her mouth, trying to draw fresh air. None existed. Brady’s gaze met hers, and alarm flickered in his eyes while the flames crackled and hissed around them.

“Keep going,” Brady shouted over the roar of the fire.

The heat from the fire was unbearable and her lungs heaved. Fresh air. They had to get outside. The house groaned and screeched under the assault from the fire. Dizziness assailed her and she grabbed at Brady to steady herself. He slid his hands around her and under her knees and carried her from the house.

The cold night air refreshed her, a dramatic change from the heat inside. Brady set her on the ground.

“Are you okay?” he asked. Susan stared at her home, now consumed in flames. Was she okay? No. She wasn’t. This incident alone was bad. On top of everything else, it was cataclysmic.

Confusion and sadness weighed heavy on her heart. How had this happened? She hadn’t lit a fire in the hearth that night. Hadn’t cooked dinner after work. Didn’t fix herself a cup of tea to relax. How had this fire, which was now consuming her home, her artwork and her possessions, started?

Questions flashed in rapid succession and she spoke the two that repeated most often. “What happened? Why are you here?” She’d made it clear outside the gallery she wouldn’t—couldn’t—see him. It hurt too much.

Then again, him saving her life put a fresh, bewildering twist on her feelings. Gratitude, desire and security mixed with guilt in a heady cocktail, jumbling her emotions.

Brady rubbed at his knee, pain written on his face. His injury! She’d been worried about herself and her house. What about Brady? He’d risked his life for her.

“Are you hurt? Is your knee okay?” she asked before he could answer her first questions.

He looked at her unblinking, emotionless. “I don’t know what happened. I saw the flames, called 911 and rushed inside. I didn’t hear your smoke detectors going off.”

Had they malfunctioned? Or was something more sinister afoot? Susan had never been the paranoid type, but events over the past week had put her on high alert. “Why are you here?” she asked again.

Brady shifted on his legs and stood, shaking out his right leg. “I explained the other day why I’ve been hanging around. Reilly’s gotten caught up in this and I need the truth. He’s worried about you, and given the current state of his career, he can’t look out for you. He wants me to.”

Susan’s jaw slackened. Her friendship with Reilly didn’t include talking about Brady often. He was a subject they both avoided. Reilly knew she wouldn’t be comfortable with Brady involved in her life. “I asked you to leave me alone and you were spying on me?”

He blew out his breath. “No, Susan, come on. I was making sure you were safe.”

Had he been the person she’d sensed watching her? She shivered, feeling a combination of cold and uneasy. “Did you look in my windows?”

Brady’s eyes narrowed in indignation. “No, dang, Susan, I’m not a creepy pervert. I was making sure you got home from work safely and no one was harassing you.”

“I’m trying to handle things.” She shivered again and rubbed her arms. Brady removed his jacket and slipped it over her body. It smelled like a combination of smoke and Brady. The scent of him was both comforting and arousing.

Brady glanced at her burning house. “I’m seeing a number of threats coming in your direction and while I know you’re independent and can handle yourself, I don’t know if you realize who you’re up against.”

Brady wanted to help her. Protect her. Had Brady figured out something she hadn’t? Susan had tried to sort out how her life had spun out of control. She had tried to remember what had happened the night Justin had died. She had come up empty on answers in both cases.

Every time Justin’s name came to mind, which was at least a hundred times a day, guilt and hurt slammed her in the gut. That she wasn’t emotionally shattered by his death only compounded the guilt. She missed him and she was sorry for his family and what they were going through, but she wasn’t experiencing the gut-twisting, heart-wrenching heartbreak of lost love. She had been on his boat before he’d died and she couldn’t recall anything to help the police. Had she been involved? She wasn’t a temperamental woman, but the circumstances made her question everything.

Justin had been a good man. He’d deserved better than a violent death. “I don’t know who I’m up against because I don’t know anyone who would do this to me.”

“Justin’s murderer.”

Susan tried to wrap her mind around Brady’s words. “If the person who killed Justin wanted me dead, they could have killed me that night, too.”

Brady’s face took on a serious expression. “My theory is that you were a good scapegoat for his murder and now that enough time has passed to leave the investigative trail cold, you’re a loose end that needs to be tied off.”