Читать книгу Christmas Confessions - Kathleen Long - Страница 9

Abby started a second pot of coffee while Jack Grant worked in the office’s shared conference room. She’d checked the schedule when she and Jack arrived late last night, and knew no one had the room booked for today. It was Saturday, after all.

“I need to raise a pertinent question,” she said as she headed back into the room where stacks of postcards covered every available space.

Jack grunted, his version of a reply, Abby had quickly learned during the hours they’d been working side-by-side, studying postcard after postcard.

“It’s Saturday. I need to post a new blog.”

The detective’s hand stilled on the card he’d been reading and he lifted his gaze to hers. “Any thoughts?”

Did she know what she wanted to say this week? Which secret confessions she wanted to feature?

She’d had three cards picked out and her thoughts ready to go, but that had been yesterday. Yesterday, before her sense of reality had been turned on its ear.

Today, she could think of only one message. One card.

She shouldn’t have ignored me.

“I want to flush him out.” She braced herself, expecting a harsh response from Jack.

Instead, the detective narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, reached for the outstretched coffee cup and took a long drink.

The man took his time before he answered, and Abby could almost hear the wheels turning in his brain. The depth of his concentration turned his caramel eyes chocolate and his sharp features smooth.

Abby swallowed down the sudden tightness in her throat at the precise moment the detective spoke.

“Do it.”

Abby blinked, surprised by his lack of objection. “Really?”

He shrugged with his eyes. “That’s the answer you wanted, correct?” Jack gestured to the piles of cards, the thousands they’d spent the night sorting.

Abby could follow his thoughts without him saying a word. They hadn’t found another card like the first two, and out of thousands and thousands of postcards, they’d found only a handful of cards without a postmark.

What were the odds the two cards—the photos of Melinda Simmons and Emma Grant—both happened to slide through the United States Post Office machines unscathed? Fairly high, she’d imagine.

Somehow, whoever had sent those cards had gotten around the system, but how?

“He either hand-delivered the cards or slipped them into your post office box,” Jack said matter-of-factly. “He’s closer than you think, Ms. Conroy. The sooner we find him, the better.”

Abby’s belly tightened. “How close?”

The detective dropped his focus back to the pile of postcards sitting in front of him. “That’s what I intend to find out.”

A SHORT WHILE LATER, Jack shifted his focus from the remaining stacks of cards to Abby Conroy herself.

He watched her as she sorted through a stack, pulling at her lower lip with her top teeth as she concentrated. She tucked a wayward strand of long, sleek hair behind her ear then abruptly looked up at Jack, as if she’d sensed him watching.

Her eyebrows drew together. “Something I can do for you?”

Even as exhausted as he knew the woman must be, determination and stubbornness blazed in her expression. She was a spitfire, of that there was no doubt.

Jack shook his head, realizing he must be more tired than he realized. He’d allowed the woman to catch him openly staring at her.

Busted.

Then he asked the question he’d been pondering since he’d first set foot inside the Don’t Say a Word office.

“I can’t help but wonder why someone like you felt compelled to solicit all of—” he gestured to the thousands of cards on the table “—this. Don’t you have demons of your own to contend with?”

Abby’s throat worked as if he’d hit a nerve. “Maybe that’s why I wanted to give others a vehicle, a safe and anonymous way to cleanse their conscience.”

“Because you don’t have a way?”

“Maybe I’m just a sympathetic person, Detective.”

Detective.

He had hit a nerve.

Abby dropped her focus back to the stack of cards, effectively telling him to buzz off without saying so. What she couldn’t realize was that her nonverbal response had set off the investigative portion of Jack’s brain.

The woman had tapped into his curiosity as soon as they’d met, with her all-American looks and her stubborn demeanor, but now that Jack had stolen a glimpse through the crack in her protective wall, he wanted more. He wanted the full story.

“You’re right, though,” he said, never taking his focus from her, wanting to read her response.

“Right about the site?”

“Right about the cards.”

That got her attention and she lifted her curious gaze, her eyes the color of a clear, winter sky.

“I think Melinda’s card was the first. There’s nothing here to suggest this guy’s reached out to you before last week.”

“But you think he’ll reach out again?” She spoke slowly, using his terminology.

Jack nodded.

“I don’t understand why.” Her voice tightened. “Why Don’t Say a Word? And what does he hope to gain?”

“That, Ms. Conroy, is the sixty-million-dollar question.”

She disappeared after that, claiming the need to clear her head. Jack couldn’t blame her.

They’d been working all night and the truth was, the cold, cruel world outside had marched right into her life the moment Jack had arrived on the scene and burst her crank-postcard-theory bubble.

He’d have been surprised if she didn’t need space at some point.

As for Jack, he’d finished sorting postcards and didn’t care if he never saw another so-called confession again in his life.

What he needed to do now was to get back to his hotel. He had calls to make and a former suspect to track down.

When footfalls sounded behind him, Jack never guessed anyone but Abby would be stepping into the conference room.

He rocked back in the chair without turning around. “I’m not finding anything.”

But the voice that answered wasn’t Abby’s.

“What was it you were looking for?” Humor tangled with curiosity in Robert Walker’s voice.

Jack straightened, pushing himself out of the chair to greet Abby’s partner. “Surprised to see you here on a Saturday.”

“I should probably say the same thing to you.” Robert looked as impeccable today as he had the day before. He held a cup of designer coffee in one hand and a newspaper in the other. “I had some paperwork to get caught up on. End of the month bills, et cetera.”

The other man’s gaze skimmed Jack from head to toe. The look of disdain in Walker’s eyes didn’t go unnoticed. Quite frankly, Jack didn’t give a damn. He knew he looked rough after traveling the day before and working through the postcards all night.

So be it. He’d rather worry about a case than his appearance any day. At this point in his career as a homicide detective, Jack had come to accept the fact that most days his appearance wasn’t much better than that of some of his victims.

Walker, on the other hand, appeared to be a man who put a high price on fashion and first impressions.

“We were out of cream, so I ran next door.” Abby’s voice filtered into the room several moments before she appeared. “I don’t know about you, but after last night, I’m not settling for black coffee.”

One of Robert’s pale brows arched in the moment before he shifted his attention to Abby.

“Robert.” She stuttered to a stop in the doorway. “I didn’t realize you were working today.”

“Just came in.” He smiled, tucking his newspaper under one arm to reach for the box of doughnuts Abby juggled along with two foam coffee cups.

“Thanks.”

An odd sensation rankled inside Jack’s gut as he watched Abby shift her load, transferring the box to Robert. Her features softened, her eyes brightened, and if he weren’t mistaken, she and Robert shared a lightningfast look reminiscent of the way Jack had seen lovers do.

Were Abby Conroy and Robert Walker more than business partners? Jack had seen no sign of that possibility at Abby’s apartment other than the occasional photograph. And she’d mentioned nothing of the sort, not that she would. The woman struck him as anything but someone who shared her thoughts easily. Ironic, considering she spent her days hoping the public would confess en masse.

“Something going on I should know about?” Robert asked, never taking his gaze from Abby.

She nodded, but it was Jack who spoke.

“There was another postcard in yesterday’s mail.”

Robert’s brows drew together as he frowned.

“I forgot to sort the cards.” Abby gave a quick shrug as she handed Jack his coffee then set her cup on the table. “I went by the post office box on my way in, but once I stumbled upon you and Detective Grant, I never took the mail out of my pocket. I remembered them last night after Dwayne left…”

Her voice trailed off noticeably toward the end of her sentence and Jack noted the angry look that flashed across Robert’s face.

Apparently Abby’s partner wasn’t a Dwayne fan, either, although he said nothing in response to Abby’s statement.

“Did you call the authorities?” Robert asked.

Jack nodded, pursing his lips. “I’m working with local police, keeping them abreast of any developments. And I dusted for prints myself.”

“And?” Robert’s features tensed.

“And they agree with me that as of right now we have nothing to go on except the fact both cards bore no useable prints and were prepared using materials that could have been acquired anywhere.”

“What about the photographs?” Robert asked.

“My thought—” Jack pulled the second postcard from his case file “—is that the photos used to make the postcards are scans of the originals.”

“And you’re some sort of photography expert?” Robert’s brows lifted toward his too-neat hairline.

Jack shook his head, not even trying to hide his amusement at Walker’s arrogance. “And you are?”

Walker shrugged. “I used to dabble. May I take a look?”

Jack handed the photo to Robert, studying the man as he stared intently at both sides of the card.

“I think you’re right. The quality isn’t that of a true photograph.”

“More like a high-quality personal printer.”

Robert nodded, continuing to scrutinize Emma’s photograph, his expression revealing not a clue as to what he was thinking. “Pretty girl.”

“She was.” Jack fought the urge to put his fist through a wall, something he had only done once in his life—the day Boone Shaw walked free.

“One of your victims?” Robert’s expression brightened.

“Yes.” Jack gave a sharp nod. “And she’s my sister.”

Robert let loose a long, low whistle. “My sympathies.” He turned over the card to reread the message, drawing in a sharp breath as if the words meant more now that he knew the victim was a relative. “When?”

“Same week as Melinda Simmons. Christmas week, eleven years ago.”

Robert handed the card back to Jack. “Why confess now? Why use our site?”

Jack tucked the card back into the file without looking at Emma’s full-of-life eyes captured in the photograph. How long had she lived after that moment? What hell had she suffered at the hands of her killer?

“I’d imagine he saw your People magazine feature and decided you were the surest means to an end.”

“An end?”

“His fifteen minutes of fame.” Jack gathered up his notes, tucking the folder and his papers back into his briefcase. “For some reason he’s decided now’s the time to get the credit he deserves.”

“I’m not following you.” Robert narrowed his eyes.

“You’d be surprised how many psychopaths reach a point where they want to be caught,” Jack replied.

A shadow crossed Robert’s face, an emotional response Jack couldn’t quite read.

“Isn’t that a bit clichÉd?” Robert asked.

“Perhaps.” Jack forced a polite smile. “But true. These killers work so hard not to get caught that there’s no notoriety for them. Sometimes they crack. They want the attention they feel they deserve.”

“The credit?” Robert repeated, as if weighing the word.

Jack nodded.

“Why now?”

“Maybe he’s sick or feels he’s running out of time. Maybe he feels threatened by a new killer. Maybe he’s simply bored with being anonymous.”

“Amazing.” Robert smiled, the move not reaching his unreadable eyes. “Good work, Detective.” Then he turned, heading toward the door. “Speaking of work, I’d better get to mine.”

With that, Robert was gone, leaving Jack and Abby to their roomful of postcards.

“Not a warm and fuzzy fellow?” Jack asked after Robert was out of earshot.

“He doesn’t like the cards.” Abby handed Jack a cup of coffee. “He probably broke into a cold sweat just being near this many.”

Jack frowned.

“Says they give him the creeps,” Abby continued.

“So why does he do this?”

She screwed up her features as if the answer were a nobrainer.

“He does it to help me.”

Jack said nothing, knowing from years of interrogation that sometimes silence was the fastest way to discover additional information. Abby didn’t disappoint.

“He handles the business aspect and the promotion. I handle the postcards and write the weekly blog.”

“And this keeps you both busy full-time?”

She shook her head. “I paint. Landscapes mainly. Murals. Robert does freelance marketing. Speeches. Brochures. Advertising design. Things like that.”

“So you both work here all day then work at home each night.”

Abby nodded. “More or less. We rarely put in full days here. This—” she gestured to the office in front of and behind her “—allows us flexibility to do our own things.”

“You working on a mural right now?” Jack asked the question knowing it seemed unrelated to the case at hand, but realizing you never knew where the facts of a case might lead you.

But Abby only shook her head. “Last thing anyone wants at Christmas time is a mural painter in their home or office.”

Jack scanned the stacks of cards filling the room. “Any income from this?”

“Only from the advertising. It’s enough to cover hosting and office expenses, but not much more. We really didn’t start this for the money, so that aspect doesn’t matter to either one of us.”

“Any enemies?”

His question visibly startled Abby and she took a backward step. “Not that I know of.”

Jack pushed away from the table. “Then we keep our eyes and ears open until we know for sure who’s on your side and who isn’t. And in the meantime, let’s go write that blog of yours.”

JACK STOOD OVER Abby’s shoulder as she worked, later than usual in drafting her weekly blog.

Typically, she tried to have the site updated just after midnight each Friday night. Considering it was now after noon on Saturday, she was running seriously behind schedule.

Robert had stayed less than forty-five minutes before he’d claimed to have forgotten a social event scheduled for that afternoon. Abby knew him well enough to know he hadn’t planned on having company here at the office. He’d probably packed up the bills to take home for processing.

As for the blog, Abby had tucked away the cards she’d planned to feature, working instead from only one.

The postcard and photo featuring Emma Grant.

The young woman’s smiling face haunted Abby. She couldn’t begin to imagine the kind of hurt the image had brought to life deep inside Jack.

For all of his hard-shelled bravado, the detective’s eyes provided a window into the pain he’d locked inside. Abby didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to spot his true emotions, and she grimaced on his behalf.

She hadn’t known him long, but she’d seen enough to know Jack wouldn’t be pleased by her observation. Some men prided themselves on being strong, resilient, alpha males. Jack Grant fell soundly into that camp—the camp that said real men didn’t show their feelings.

But as her gaze dropped again to Emma’s face, and Abby considered the magnitude of the loss Jack had suffered, she didn’t see how he could feel nothing, yet nothing was all he projected.

A man would have to be a robot to keep that sort of heartache locked inside forever. Sooner or later, he’d snap. Either that, or he’d shut down completely. How else could a person survive?

Jack stood behind her as she worked, the heat of his body warming the back of her sweater.

Well, the man definitely was not a robot.

Abby had never written one of her blogs with someone breathing down her neck, but she understood why the detective watched her every move, studied her every word. He’d made a commitment to clear a case, to catch a killer, to ease the suffering of the families left behind.

He was here because he thought Abby could help him. Plain and simple. He was here to make sure she didn’t misstep in their efforts to flush out the postcard’s sender.

She might be used to working alone, but Jack’s goal had become her goal, and she’d do whatever it took to help him in his cause.

“Am I distracting you?” Jack asked, as if reading Abby’s thoughts.

He leaned so close his breath brushed the strands of the hair she’d twisted up into a clip so that she could concentrate. In fact, she’d thought about the detective’s proximity long enough that she’d begun to imagine the feel of his breath against the bare expanse of her throat.