Читать книгу The Passion Of Sam Broussard - Maggie Price - Страница 8

Sam Broussard wasn’t sure what the hell was going on. He could maybe write off his hinky feeling over the Colt to a cop’s instinct, but that still didn’t explain the sense of familiarity he’d felt the instant he saw Liz Scott.

Then there was the close-to-electric sensation he’d felt when they shook hands. Something was going on, and he was damn well going to figure out what it was.

So, here he sat at a hubcap-size table in the coffee shop at the Oklahoma City federal courthouse, waiting to observe the cold case cop’s interview with a judge who’d gotten held up in a hearing that had run long.

Sam slid his gaze to Liz Scott, who sat beside him sipping coffee while she reviewed the details of the judge’s thirty-year-old burglary report. She had some face, Sam reflected. No man could ever forget that flawless skin, the sculpted nose and direct green eyes.

Which was why he was positive now they had never met. So why had he been hit with the wave of recognition?

Maybe it was because he’d known other women who exuded the same sensuality she did. Other women who could pull a man in with a single look. Or he could be doing what he’d done since he was a boy—feeling certain he’d met someone before when doing so would have been impossible. His grandmother often declared that he experienced the hazy sense of familiarity because it was in his blood.

There’d been a time in his past that Sam had discounted his grandmother’s herb bags, crystals and the spirit bottles she hung in trees, and just accepted her as the lovable eccentric who’d raised him after his parents died in a car wreck. That was before Tanya came along. Sam knew for the rest of his life he would feel a raw ache over the casual way he’d ignored his grandmother’s portending of doom.

He tightened his grip on his coffee mug and shifted his dark thoughts to the woman sitting beside him. How the hell could she be in his blood when she’d gotten married two weeks ago? He had never poached on another man’s woman and he wasn’t about to start now. Still, he couldn’t help imagining himself slowly sliding each pin from Liz’s thick braid until that fiery mane tumbled down her back.

The thought put a knot in his chest. Tanya had had red hair, too, but not the same shade as Liz Scott’s. He’d plunged his fingers through Tanya’s hair uncountable times. Then, over the years, their marriage had gone to hell. He’d wound up hurt and angry and hadn’t even wanted to touch her.

Then he’d as good as gotten her killed.

Since then, he’d worked relentlessly. His job was all he had, all he’d wanted. All he would ever allow himself to want.

At that instant, Liz lifted her gaze and looked him right in the eyes. Damn if he didn’t feel a jolt go straight through him. He hadn’t seen big, smoldering green eyes like that since—

Since he didn’t know when.

“J. D. Temple hit the jackpot when he broke into York’s home,” Liz said. “In addition to the Colt, the loot stolen included a large coin collection, high-dollar jewelry, loose diamonds and numerous serving pieces of solid silver.”

Sam squinted past her shoulder at the poor-quality microfilm copy of the burglary report. “York’s law practice must have done pretty well back then.”

“That, and he’s an author. He’s written several books on the English legal system, and is considered an expert on medieval law. He still lives in the same house he did thirty years ago, which is in the snooty part of town.”

Her dry use of the term had Sam’s mouth curving, even while his senses ran wild with her alluring scent. She smelled good, like the flowers that bloomed in his grandmother’s garden at night.

He didn’t want to notice Liz’s scent any more than he wanted to notice the slender arch of her throat. Or any of the other attributes he found impossible to ignore. Because he couldn’t help himself, he drew an appreciative breath and felt the knockout punch of desire. Don’t go there, he cautioned himself and forced his thoughts back to the three-decades-old burglary.

“Did any of Temple’s other victims live in the snooty part of town?”

“The majority of the one hundred burglaries he confessed to were within five miles of the judge’s house.”

“So, Temple was a discerning thief.” Sam sipped his coffee. “In the property we recovered at the bust in Shreveport, there were a lot of pieces of silver—coffee services, trays, vases. Also jewelry and coins. The judge’s Colt wound up there. I wonder if there were other items from the burglaries Temple copped to.”

“Highly possible. I’ll be sure and ask him what fences he dealt with when I interview him at the state pen tomorrow.”

Sam raised a brow. “Don’t tell me he’s still in slam for those thirty-year-old burglaries?”

“No, his lawyer worked a deal that got him ten years for those. Temple kept a low profile after his release until he broke into a house owned by a rich widow. After assaulting her, he charged out the back door where the woman’s chauffeur tackled him and called the cops. That bought Temple a ticket back to the pen.”

Sam watched while Liz aligned her notes, tapping the edges neatly together before returning them to a folder with WINDSOR printed on the tab in bold, precise letters. He wondered how all that controlled organization transferred into her personal life. And if her new husband found it as intriguing as he did.

“Sounds like you spent a lot of time while you were on leave digging through the background on this case.”

With what looked like careful deliberation, she slid the folder into her tote. “Like I said, I’m dedicated.”

“And your husband must be a real understanding guy for you to take work on your honeymoon. He a cop, too?”

“No.” Her gaze stayed on his for a split second, then flicked away. “Look, I…When we got to Vegas we didn’t…I just couldn’t go through with it.”

She looked back at him, and for the first time Sam realized she was wiped out. The fatigue was hard to spot, but it was there—in the sight drooping of her eyelids, the faint shadows under them.

Without conscious thought, he softened his voice. “You didn’t get married?”

“No.”

Sam felt his gut clench. The thought that she was no longer forbidden fruit was entirely too appealing. “Maybe you’ll be able to piece things back together.”

“No.” The almost whispered word rang with finality.

He was aware that everything inside him was now at attention. “If you had doubts, calling off the wedding was the smart thing to do.”

A line formed between her brows. “You an expert on marriage, Broussard?”

He hesitated, thrown off balance that he’d nearly told her he was a widower. He never talked about Tanya. Couldn’t even think about her without seeing her lying in a pool of blood, and feeling the slicing guilt because he’d as good as put her there.

He set his jaw. Maybe he’d almost dropped his guard with Liz because of the fatigue and vulnerability he’d just seen in her face.

He didn’t know. All he knew was he was going to have to keep a tight rein on his emotions.

“Broussard?”

Realizing Liz was waiting to find out if he considered himself an expert on marriage, he shrugged. “A common-sense observation, is all.”

Just then, the cell phone she’d placed on the table trilled. Thirty seconds later, she ended the call, then dropped her phone into her tote and met Sam’s gaze. “That was Judge York’s secretary. He’ll see us in his chambers now.”

“Great.” Sam could have sworn he felt Liz’s gaze like a touch. So much for the tight rein on his emotions, he thought and rose.

For Liz, it was a relief to get out of the coffee shop. The entire time there, she struggled to stay focused on York’s burglary report. More than once she’d lost her train of thought and found herself watching Broussard’s hands. Noting how solid, strong and long-fingered they seemed.

And ringless.

What the heck was going on? she wondered as she and Broussard stepped onto an elevator where two maintenance men were debating the reasons why the heating system on the building’s upper floors had gone wonky. While the elevator zoomed upward, Liz reminded herself that her thoughts should be centered on the Geneviève Windsor homicide. Instead she felt her senses being pulled—tugged at—by the gray-eyed Shreveport cop who planned to leave town as soon as this interview with the judge was over. Considering her overall brainless reaction to the man, that couldn’t happen soon enough.

“After you,” Broussard said when the elevator reached the courthouse’s sixth floor.

“Thanks.” Stepping past him into the overwarm corridor, Liz caught a whiff of his subtle woodsy cologne, and felt her pulse rate bump up. Enough, she told herself. She hadn’t even felt this edgy, all-consuming pull to Andrew, and she’d almost married him. Twice.

The reminder of how her personal life had done a one-eighty had Liz’s fingers tightening on the strap of her leather tote. Then there was the damn dream she’d had to contend with night after night that had left her weary beyond measure. She had to come up with a plan to get rid of her macho Dream Lover. Tonight.

Feeling marginally better, she tugged open the heavy wooden door that displayed Judge David York’s name.

Moments later, a middle-aged secretary escorted Liz and Sam into the judge’s chambers. The large office, which was even warmer than the corridor, had the feel of an old-world study with dark paneled walls, leather chairs and a polished mahogany desk the size of a helipad.

The man sitting behind the desk was lanky, with sharp features and silver hair that lent him a distinguished air. From the background check she’d run, Liz knew that David York was in his mid-sixties, yet he looked a decade younger.

“Judge York, I’m Sergeant Scott, this is Detective Broussard,” she said, flashing her badge as they moved toward the desk. Making the introductions automatically identified her as the lead detective. At this point, there was no reason to explain where Sam was from or why he was there.

“Have a seat.” York gestured toward twin leather visitor chairs, his gold cuff link glittering with the movement. “The hearing this morning that pushed your appointment back has crimped my schedule. I have to be in court shortly, so I don’t have a lot of time.”

“I’ll be brief, your honor,” Liz said, settling into the chair beside Sam’s. “The cold case office has reopened an unsolved murder in which the weapon used was a.45 automatic. A check of all unsolved shootings around the time of the homicide revealed that this particular murder was our only one in which a .45 was used.”

The judge lifted one salt and pepper brow. “Perhaps because a .45 is an unusually large caliber weapon for street crime.”

“It is,” Liz agreed. “When we ran a check of all .45’s reported stolen during the time frame of the murder, we got a hit on your residential burglary.”

York blinked. “You’re here about my burglary? From thirty years ago?”

“Yes.” While working in Homicide, Liz had learned to always keep details close to the vest. Judge or no judge, York didn’t have a need to know at this point that his Colt had been recovered, much less that it had been identified as a murder weapon. “More specifically, we’re here about the man who confessed to breaking into your home and stealing your .45 Colt.”

“I had my own law practice at that time,” York said. “After he confessed, a police officer told me the man’s name, wanting to know if I’d ever represented him. I hadn’t.” York remained silent for a moment, and Liz could almost see his mind working behind his dark brown eyes. “Apparently you’re thinking that the burglar committed the murder? With my Colt?”

“It’s possible,” Liz said. “By his own admission, he stole the same caliber weapon used in a killing around the same time.”

When she leaned to pull her copy of the burglary report from her tote bag, her gaze flicked to Broussard’s right hand, resting on his thigh. In the next heartbeat, she imagined those long, tapered fingers pressing against her flesh. Her pulse began to thrum.

Liz swallowed hard, appalled she had allowed that type of thought to intrude while she was conducting an interview. Fatigue, she reasoned. Sleep deprivation had made her punchy.

Squaring her shoulders, she glanced down at the burglary report. “Judge, you told the officer your home was broken into while you were on vacation, so you couldn’t be sure when during the week you were gone that the break-in occurred.”

“That’s correct.”

“After this much time there’s no way for me to know if all follow-up reports about your break-in wound up in the file, so I need to ask you a few questions.”

York flipped a wrist. “Go ahead.”

“Were you ever able to narrow down the time frame of when your house was broken into? Maybe learned something later from a neighbor who watched your property? Or your paperboy? Delivery people who might have routinely made calls in the area?”

“No, Sergeant. Unfortunately. However, it did occur to me later that the Colt might not have been stolen by the burglar.”

Liz leaned forward in her chair. “Why?

“Not long before I went on vacation, I had some construction work done at my home. Part of that involved minor renovation to the kitchen. Numerous workmen were in and out, and it’s possible one of them took the Colt before the burglary occurred.”

Liz nodded. “Did you give the information about the workmen to the burglary detective assigned to your case?”

“I phoned him,” York answered. “He said he would make a note for the file.”

“Do you remember the name of the construction company that did your renovation?”

“Sorry, no,” York said. “It was a long time ago.”

Nodding, Liz glanced at the report. “You didn’t have a security system, right?”

“Correct.” York gave her a rueful look. “I had one installed the day after I returned home and discovered the burglary.”

When Liz noted the judge checking his watch, she said, “Just a couple more questions, your honor. The report states you purchased the Colt a few months before it was stolen.”

“Yes.”

“Did you fire it? Perhaps take it out for target practice?”

“No, I never shot the Colt.” He pursed his mouth. “You look disappointed, Sergeant Scott.”

“Just trying for a long shot, Judge.” With the office so warm, she shoved up the sleeves on her jacket. “I was hoping you took your gun to a friend’s acreage for practice shooting. And that the friend still owns the property.”

She saw something akin to shock settle in the judge’s eyes, then astonishment crossed his face. The look was replaced by uneasiness as his skin paled.

Liz exchanged a look with Broussard. He seemed as baffled as she by York’s reaction.

She eased forward. “Your honor, is something wrong?”

“No.” He rubbed a hand across his jaw. “I just…It’s the heat in here.” His eyes narrowed on her face. “Ballistics,” he said after a moment. “You were hoping I had fired the Colt so you could go to the property and try to retrieve cartridges it ejected. Then compare them with the bullet that killed the victim in your reopened homicide. Sergeant Scott, do you honestly think the cartridges would still be there after thirty years?”

“Odds are against it. But stranger things have happened.”

“Yes,” York agreed. “Time doesn’t destroy everything.” He leaned back in his chair, regarding her. “I’m impressed, Sergeant. Very.”

The way his gaze had locked on her sent an uneasy sensation whispering through Liz. “I’m just doing my job.”

“A job you’ve had a very short time.”

She kept her expression neutral. She had never met York, had never testified in any trial he’d presided over. Had he checked up on her after she called and scheduled the appointment with his secretary? If so, why?

“That’s right,” she answered. “The cold case office has only been open a couple of months.”

“Since I was instrumental in obtaining the federal grant to fund the office, I’m very aware of that.” He steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “In fact, I had been told your name when you requested a transfer from Homicide to work cold cases. I intended to arrange to meet you soon.”

And here she was, feeding him a certain amount of disinformation by purposely failing to mention his Colt had been recovered when her current assignment probably depended on staying in his good graces. “I’m a little low on the food chain to be aware of departmental politics, so I didn’t know you had anything to do with that.”

York shifted his gaze to Sam. “There is only one position in the cold case office. What is your connection to this investigation, Detective Broussard?”

Liz held her breath while tension knotted her belly. Had she made a mistake letting Broussard sit in on this interview? If he told York he’d recovered the Colt, the judge would instantly know she hadn’t been totally candid with him. Considering York’s connection to the cold case office, she could be looking at a transfer to the department’s Information Desk.

“I’m with the Shreveport P.D.,” Broussard said. Although the rich, Southern cadence of his voice was casual, Liz caught an adversarial glint in his eyes.

“I got a tip that the man who confessed to yours and the ninety-nine other burglaries here may have spent some time in Louisiana years ago,” Broussard continued. “When I learned that Sergeant Scott was trying to connect him to an unsolved homicide, I touched base with her. We’ve got some old crimes in Shreveport that we’d like to clear, if possible.”

A wave of relief rolled over Liz. She owed Broussard big-time for not tripping her up with the judge.

“I see.” York rechecked his watch. “I’m due in court. Sergeant Scott, have I given you the information you need?”

“One last question,” she said as she and Broussard rose in unison. Again, she was aware of his height, of his tanned forearms sculpted by hard muscle, his dark hair that a rake of one of his wide-palmed hands had disordered.

“Your question?” York asked when she hesitated.

Liz tore her thoughts from Broussard and noted the annoyance marring the judge’s smooth features. Great, her scattered thinking was close to putting her in York’s bad graces.

“You submitted a form listing all property taken from your home,” she said. “Did you discover anything else missing later? Maybe some inconsequential property you didn’t bother reporting?”

“No, the information on the initial form is complete. My insurance company reimbursed me for my losses long ago.”

York rose and moved around the desk with the ease of a man with total confidence. Probably didn’t hurt that he raked in big bucks from the books on English medieval law he wrote, Liz thought, taking in the polished tips of his black shoes and the tailored cut of his single-breasted dark suit.

“A pleasure to meet you, Sergeant Scott,” York said, offering her his hand. “I’d like to drop by your office and see just what the grant has enabled the OCPD to do.”

“Sure.” There was almost something possessive in York’s handshake that forced her to hold back a shiver. “Just let me know when you can fit a visit into your schedule.”

By the time Sam walked onto the sidewalk outside the federal courthouse, energy was shooting through him. He had no explanation for the instant, intense dislike he’d felt for York. Or the sudden protective instinct that had dropped over him like a net. But he instinctively knew who he was supposed to defend.

Liz Scott.

He paused beside her, his jaw tight. Why would she need protecting? At present, he was off duty and unarmed; the cold case cop had a .357 automatic holstered at her waist. If anything went down, she’d probably be doing the majority of the defending.

“That’s one strange reaction,” she said.

Wondering if she had somehow sensed what was going on inside him, Sam shifted to face her. When he saw her narrow-eyed gaze was focused on the courthouse instead of him, he used the time to examine her.

It was a beautiful October day, warm and smelling of fall and in the bright sunlight her hair was ablaze. For the second time that day, he had the quick image of his hands unplaiting that thick braid, of his fingers plunging into those long tresses….

Wishful thinking, he told himself and scrubbed a palm across his stubbled jaw. “What reaction?”

“York’s.” She met Sam’s gaze, her green eyes filled with speculation. “I ask him if he took the Colt out to target practice thirty years ago and he looks like I hit him. Then he turns pale. Can’t help but wonder what that was about.”

“I’m wondering, too.” And not just about York’s odd reaction, but his own, Sam added silently. There were too many things linked to the Windsor murder investigation niggling at him, bugging him, things he couldn’t logic out. What was it about this case? And the woman assigned to investigate it? Both seemed to have reached out and grabbed him by the throat.

Liz hitched the strap of her tote higher on her shoulder. “I don’t imagine we’ll figure out what’s going on with the judge by standing around here.”

“Agreed,” Sam said and fell into step with her.

“Speaking of York, I appreciate you not messing me up with him,” she said while slipping on her sunglasses. “Especially now that I know he pulled the strings to get the grant that funds my present position.”

Sam shrugged as they reached her unmarked cruiser parked in one of the cop slots on the side of the courthouse. “Like with any investigation, the less information that gets out, the better.”

“Amen to that.”

While he fastened his seat belt, Sam watched Liz dig a key ring with two keys out of the console and drop it into the pocket of her turquoise jacket. “What’s next on your agenda?”

“Dropping you off at your car.” She checked for traffic before pulling out of the lot. “Then I’m taking a look at the building Geneviève Windsor lived in.”

“The fire the night of the murder didn’t burn down the place?”

“The building’s mainly brick and the hose jockeys got there fast, so the damage was mostly confined to Geneviève’s apartment. Over time, the place traded hands, then was boarded up for over a decade. A developer named Lassiter has started renovations. He lent me the keys so I can get in.”

“The building’s close by?”

“A couple of blocks.”

“I’ll ride along if you don’t mind,” Sam said, and caught the look she shot him while they cruised through an amber light.

“For a man who’s supposed to be headed to Colorado for vacation, you don’t seem like you’re in a hurry to get there.”

What Sam was in a hurry to do was find some answers. For two and a half years he’d immersed himself in his job, working nonstop while guilt and bitterness ate a ragged hole in his gut. He’d gone through the motions of a cop, believing there was nothing left of himself to put into the cases he worked.

Then he recovered the .45 Colt and felt a spark, the echo of the fire-in-his-belly he hadn’t felt about the job in years. And believed was lost to him forever.

Now, he felt an almost urgent need to find out every detail about the case the Colt was connected to. And the investigator in charge.

Out of the corner of his eye, he studied Liz’s profile, both angular and soft. He had no explanation for why his system churned with the inexplicable need to protect her. All he knew was he wasn’t going anywhere until he found out why.

“Let’s just say I’m more curious about your murder investigation than in a hurry to get to Colorado,” he said.

“Suit yourself.”

“I usually do.”

Liz flexed her fingers against the steering wheel. In the car’s close confines she was aware—too damn aware—of the heat from Broussard’s body, of his nearness, of his scent seeping into her lungs. Why wouldn’t the man just leave? Already she could feel her energy flagging from all the hours of sleep she’d missed over the past two weeks, thanks to Dream Lover. The last thing she felt prepared to deal with was her libido’s off-the-chart reaction to a man who at times seemed remote to the point of being cold. Which, perversely, made her wonder what it would take to warm him up.

At least he didn’t see the need to make idle chitchat while she wove through the heavy downtown traffic. Instead he used the time to call his partner. The call obviously went to voice mail, and Liz listened while he relayed the information about J. D. Temple. Broussard ended the call after asking his partner to run local checks on the convicted burglar, then get back to him.

Seconds later, Liz whipped the car into a space across the street from a four-story brick building. A skeleton of scaffolding had been erected spanning its entire front. Two men were on the scaffolding, installing a pane of glass in one of the upper window frames.

“When you told me the building was on the direct route between the bus station and a homeless shelter, I envisioned some sort of hovel,” Broussard said. “This place looks good.”

“Thirty years ago this area was leaning toward shabby,” Liz said before opening the driver’s door. When she rounded the hood to where Broussard waited, she added, “There’s a revitalization of the entire downtown going on now.”

Inside the building, the air carried the scent of fresh paint with a trace of sawdust.

“Lassiter said all of the interior work is done except for carpet installation,” Liz said as she bypassed the elevator and headed for the stairs.

“What floor did Geneviève live on?” Sam asked, keeping pace on the staircase beside her.

“Fourth.”

“You have something against using that elevator?”

“Just want to get some exercise.” And avoid putting herself in as many small, potentially intimate settings with him as possible. Sliding him a look, she anchored her sunglasses on top of her head. “Having a problem keeping up, Broussard?”

“I’ll let you know if I do, Scott.”

At the top of the staircase they both paused. There was a closed door on each side of the landing.

“Which apartment was Windsor’s?” Sam asked.

“On the left.” Turning, Liz pulled the key ring out of her pocket and approached the door to the apartment where Geneviève Windsor had lived and died.

With each step, Liz felt the air around her turn hotter. Staler. The scent of sawdust and fresh paint was replaced with the smell of mold, dust and years of cigarette smoke and sweat.

“Broussard, do you…smell something?” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded far away.

“Fresh paint.” He gave her a swift glance. “Are you okay? You look a little pale.”

“Yeah…I’m fine.” The strange odor grew heavier, suffocating. She felt sweat sheen her forehead.

Taking tiny breaths through her mouth to try to lessen the cloying smell, Liz jabbed the key in the dead bolt and grasped the doorknob.

Instantly heat seared her palm. Pain shot up her arm as she jerked her hand away. Her tote bag slid off her shoulder and landed with a plop on the floor.

“I can’t…” She swayed suddenly, surprising them both.

“Steady.” Sam clamped his hands on her shoulders. She’d gone deathly pale, and beneath his palms she felt as limp as if every bone in her body had melted.

“I’m…fine.” Liz made a weak attempt to pull from his grasp, only to wobble against him.

“Whoa.” Sam steadied her. “You look a long way from fine.”

“Air. Just need…fresh air.” Head spinning, she jerked from his grip, intent on heading for the stairs.

Her knees began to buckle. She stumbled sideways against the wall.

“Hey!” Sam caught her upper arms as she swayed.

“I’m fine.” She struggled to pull back from him. “Fine.”

His mouth was set in a grim line, his eyes sharp with concern. The realization swirled in Liz’s brain that he’d gazed down at her with the same fierce look once before. But that was impossible.

“You damn well don’t look fine.”

With that, Sam swept her into his arms and headed down the stairs.