Читать книгу Moment Of Truth - Maggie Price, Maggie Price - Страница 9

Hart kept his eyes on Joan’s retreating form while she moved across the lobby toward the bank of elevators. Despite her pink high heels, her walk was still the smooth, fluid glide of an athlete. Yet, he could tell by the stiffness of her shoulders she was as tense as wire.

Even after she stepped onto an elevator and the doors slid closed, he kept his gaze focused there while memories that still oozed blood stormed through him. He hadn’t known, hadn’t realized so much bitterness still simmered inside him, just below the surface.

He knew that Joan, too, had her own emotions to deal with.

The surprise he’d seen in her eyes that had quickly transformed into stunned incredulity was understandable. A logical reaction to someone suddenly appearing without warning from one’s past.

Hart narrowed his eyes. More was going on with her, though. As a cop he knew all about body language. Joan’s had been stiff, defensive. Serious stress, he thought. And he’d seen something more than mere surprise and stunned incredulity in those whiskey-dark eyes. Panic. Glints of panic.

Why, he wondered? They’d had no contact for a decade. What the hell did she have to feel panic about?

“‘Texas’?”

The curious lilt in Bonnie Brannigan’s voice had Hart switching his mental focus to the Lone Star’s general manager. “What?”

“You called her Texas.” Bonnie’s blue eyes glittered with a meaningful look. “Obviously, you and Joan know each other.”

“We ran into each other the summer I worked here.”

“That’s right.” Bonnie waved a slim hand that sent the small gold charms clattering on the thick-linked bracelet circling her left wrist. “Flynt Carson—this year’s club president—mentioned you’d been a groundskeeper here years ago.”

Hart didn’t know Flynt Carson personally, but anyone who spent any time in Mission Creek knew of the Carsons. The Wainwrights, too, for that matter. The families controlled two of the largest ranching empires in Texas. From what Hart remembered, sometime in the twenties Carson and Wainwright ancestors had deeded a thousand acres each of adjoining land to create the Lone Star Country Club. After that, a vicious feud split what most had considered an unbreakable bond between the families. As recently as ten years ago that feud still festered.

Bonnie nodded. “Flynt said you worked here the same summer as Spence. Imagine that. He’s now the district attorney and you’re a police officer. A bomb expert.”

“Mrs. Brannigan—”

“Bonnie.”

“Bonnie, I learned a long time ago that it’s best to clear the air with people. I left my job here because the man who was that year’s club president accused me of stealing money from the golf shop’s till. If you were around here then, you maybe heard about it.”

“I was a member then—my late husband played golf every day.” Bonnie tilted her head as if to gain a new perspective. “If he had heard about money stolen from the golf shop, he’d have mentioned it. So would a lot of other people. I never heard a thing about it.”

Hart stood silent while his anger built. He knew he hadn’t stolen money, but back then he’d been too young and green to realize Zane Cooper had lied about that to chase him out of town. Until this moment he hadn’t realized there had probably never been money missing from the golf shop’s till.

Bonnie pursed her mouth, painted the same traffic-stopping red as her suit. “So, if there actually was money stolen, did you take it, Sergeant O’Brien?”

“Hart. No. I’ve never taken anything that didn’t belong to me.” He slicked his gaze toward the elevator in which Joan had disappeared. Except her, he conceded. She had never been his. Never intended to be his, past that one night.

“Well, Hart, I’ve got a real fondness for men who don’t beat around the bush. You’re obviously one of ’em.” Bonnie shifted her stance to give ample room to a bellman wheeling a brass cart piled with luggage. “I appreciate you getting that out in the open. Since you’ve worked here before, you probably know that old secrets have a long life around this place. If you don’t clear the air, you’re liable to find yourself knee-deep in some awkward situation before you realize it.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Hart’s thoughts flashed back to the scene that had played out between himself and Joan’s father. Awkward wasn’t the half of it. “That’s why I told you.”

“Now that you have, let’s put it to rest. What’s important is the reason you’re back in Mission Creek.”

“I agree,” Hart said, banking down any emotion. He had come here, intending to keep his mind on business. Now that he knew it wasn’t just memories of Joan he would have to deal with—but the woman herself—he was even more determined to control his thoughts. Since there was no more serious business than a bomb, he doubted he would have a problem. “I’d like to look at the crime scene now.”

“I thought you would,” Bonnie said, her eyes going somber. “That’s one reason I wanted to know when you arrived. I told the desk clerk to have your bags sent up to your suite. I also contacted Captain Ingram and asked him to join us at the site.”

“Captain Ingram?” Hart asked while Bonnie led the way across the lobby.

“Yance Ingram. He’s a retired Mission Creek PD captain.” As she spoke, Bonnie escorted Hart beneath a graceful arched entry into a wide hallway, its floor a long sweep of the same cool pink granite as in the lobby. “Yance now runs the club’s security operation. All the police officers report to him.”

“You have commissioned cops instead of civilians working security?”

“Yes. Our whole force is off-duty Mission Creek police officers.”

Hart’s thoughts went to the vague mention Spence had made about two MCPD cops who’d kidnapped a little boy who had survived the bombing. One of those cops had died during apprehension, the other committed suicide. In another case, two cops were charged with attempted murder. Hart planned to get the details about those incidents when he and Spence met that night.

Hart gave Bonnie a sideways glance as they made their way down the long hallway. “Does having all those cops around make you feel safe?”

“Before that bomb exploded it did.” She paused before a makeshift wall of plywood that stretched along the remaining length of the corridor. Nearby was a plywood door, secured by bright silver hinges, a hasp and padlock. “I’d feel a whole lot safer if one of ’em figured out who set the bomb,” she added, sliding a key from the pocket of her jacket. “It’s been over two months, and everybody around here is feeling more and more unsettled. Knowing that the bomber is still free has cost a lot of people to lose sleep. Including me.”

“I’ve tracked down my share of bombers. I’ll do all I can to find this one.”

She patted his arm. “You don’t know what a relief it is to have someone with your expertise here. When Spence called and asked me to book your room, he said you might need to spend a lot of time at this scene.” As she spoke, she handed the key to Hart. “Keep this for as long as you need it.”

“Thanks.” He glanced at the padlock. “Who else has access to this site?”

“Captain Ingram and I are the only Lone Star staff members. Yance mentioned that all the officers on the bombing task force also have a key.”

Hart slid the key into the padlock, twisted it, then pulled open the plywood door. The smell of doused ash, sour and acrid, instantly swept into the hallway.

“Oh, that smell.” Cringing backward, Bonnie rubbed a hand across her throat, tears brimming in her eyes. “Every time I get a whiff of that smoke everything about that horrible day hits me again.”

When he saw how her face had paled, Hart instantly swung the door closed and gripped her elbow. “Do you need to sit down?”

“No. No, I just need a minute to steady myself.”

“Bonnie, something like this can’t help but get to you. I can check the site, then ask you any questions I have later.”

Nodding, she pulled a lacy handkerchief from the pocket of her suit jacket. “By now I shouldn’t get so emotional. It’s just… The people who died—Daniel and Meg Anderson—were salt of the earth. Of the survivors, their son, Jake, was the most seriously injured. He’s only five. The sweetest little boy you’d ever want to know.”

Since color had settled back into her cheeks, Hart dropped his hand from her elbow. “How is Jake doing?”

“Fine. Better.” Dabbing at her eyes, Bonnie took a deep breath, then forced a watery smile. “Adam and Tracy Collins, a lovely couple, have given him a home. They’ve put the wheels in motion to adopt him.” Bonnie shifted her gaze down the hallway. “Here’s Yance Ingram now.”

Hart turned. The man striding toward them was medium height, toughly built and compact. He had a round face and a neatly cropped mustache the same dark brown as the hair that had receded halfway down his head. Midfifties, Hart judged when the retired cop got closer. Dressed in a starched white shirt, red tie, blue blazer and gray slacks, Ingram looked comfortable and competent.

“Yance, thanks for meeting us,” Bonnie said. “This is Sergeant Hart O’Brien from the Chicago PD bomb squad.”

“Pleasure, Sergeant,” Ingram said. When he extended his hand, light glinted off the small gold pin in the shape of a lion affixed to his right lapel. “Glad you’re here. Any help we can get on solving this bombing is welcome.”

Hart returned the man’s brisk, sure handshake. “I hope I can help.”

“I spent twenty years on the job, and I never saw anything as terrible as this,” Ingram said. “I’m not proud to know that some bastard managed to sneak a bomb in here on my watch. You can damn well bet I let my security people know that, too.”

Ingram turned to Bonnie, his eyes softening. “Why don’t I take over and give Sergeant O’Brien a rundown on things while he has a look at the scene? When we’re done, I’ll give you a call.”

“I appreciate that, Yance.” Turning back to Hart, Bonnie squeezed his arm. “I’ll just run up and make sure everything’s perfect in your suite.” Her mouth curved. “We’re going to take good care of you here at the Lone Star. So good you’ll be tempted to call your boss and tell him you’re staying forever.”

Hart gave a meaningful look at the huge diamond that glittered like the tail of a comet on Bonnie’s left ring finger. “If some man hadn’t already laid claim to you, I’d make that call right now.”

She chuckled. “Oh, you’re a devil, Hart O’Brien. A real devil.”

Hart waited until Bonnie disappeared down the hallway, then shifted his gaze to Ingram. “She could charm a dead man.”

“You’ve got that right. We’re going to miss Bonnie like hell when she leaves.”

Hart arched a brow. “Leaves for where?”

“She’s decided to quit her job when she marries C. J. Stuckey—he’s a rancher with a huge spread east of town. The Lone Star board offered C.J. a dues-free lifetime membership if he can talk Bonnie into staying on after they’re married.”

“Think he can?”

“Not so far,” Ingram said. “She claims she intends to stay home and tend to C.J. Lucky man, is all I can say.”

“I agree.”

Ingram nodded toward the plywood door. “You ready to have a look at the crime scene?”

“Ready.” Hart swung open the door and gestured for Ingram to step in before him.

“This room is…was the Men’s Grill,” the retired cop explained across his shoulder as Hart followed him in. “Part of the original structure. If what’s left of the walls could talk, they’d tell you about the hundreds of big-money land, cattle and oil deals they’d seen sealed over grilled Texas beef, whiskey and cigars. Sad to say, a lot of the Lone Star’s history went up in smoke the morning that bomb went off.”

The security chief flicked on a bank of portable lights sitting just inside the door. “The club brought these in to help the lab boys see what they were doing,” Ingram explained. “They’ll stay here until this investigation is wrapped. So feel free to use them. Move them around wherever you need them.”

“Thanks.”

With the stink of smoke hanging in the air, Hart took in his surroundings while particles of soot and dust danced in the bright beams. He saw immediately that the explosion had occurred somewhere near the rear of the restaurant, blowing outward toward where he stood. The chairs and tables nearest him had been toppled by the force of the blast, but left intact. Across the room, the furniture was reduced to splinters. Throughout the restaurant, pieces of charred ceiling, insulation and boards had rained down, crisscrossing on top of the furniture and floor.

Ingram shifted his stance. “Has the D.A. already briefed you on the specifics of what happened? Given you copies of the reports?”

“No. I told him I wanted a look at the scene first. Gather my own impressions.”

Usually at a fresh bomb scene, hot spots, jagged glass, nails and other debris made moving around treacherous. Those times Hart wouldn’t take a step before pulling on the pair of steel-soled boots he kept in his field kit. Here, though, the scene was ten weeks old. The lab techs who had worked it had cleared a narrow footpath as they dug through the rubble.

Hart followed that path, snaking around toppled tables and chairs and other charred debris toward where the damage visibly worsened. Getting closer, he thought.

A few inches from a gaping hole in a wall, he found the crater. The shallow depression measured about four feet across. Crouching, he narrowed his eyes. Although the illumination from the portable lights on the far side of the restaurant was dim, he could see that the blast had ripped through the wood flooring but had barely chipped the concrete slab below. A shallow crater was characteristic of a low-velocity blast.

The ache that began working its way up from the bottom of Hart’s skull told him volumes about the bomber’s explosive of choice. Frowning, he rubbed at the back of his neck.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” He rose, stepped back from the crater. “A dynamite headache, is all.”

“Dynamite headache?”

“There’s traces of nitroglycerine in the crater.”

Ingram’s eyebrows slid up his broad forehead. “How the hell do you know that?”

“Nitro gives some people, including me, a headache. Has to do with its instant ability to thin blood.”

“Okay, Spence Harrison hasn’t briefed you on what happened. You haven’t read any lab reports on the bomb. From what I hear, there’s a lot of explosives out there these days. Why do you automatically assume the bomber used dynamite?”

“I’m not assuming anything. First, when it comes to explosives, nitro is used almost exclusively in dynamite. Finding nitro in any other type of explosive would mean the bomber used something pretty far-fetched and exotic.” Hart gave his neck another rub. “Second, I get hit with a headache at a scene, I’m 99 percent sure I’m dealing with a dynamite bomb. Third, this bomb left a shallow crater, the type of blast commensurate with dynamite. The crater’s size confirms what the ache in my head is telling me.”

“I’ll be damned,” Ingram murmured. “You’re right, Sergeant. The bomber used a nitroglycerine-based dynamite.”

Turning, Hart glanced though the jagged teeth of a gaping hole in what was left of the restaurant’s rear wall. Beyond the hole was a dark, yawning expanse where the worst of the fire had raged. He knew the dynamite itself wouldn’t have sparked the flames unless an accelerant had been present.

He looked at Ingram, who had moved in and now stood a few yards away. “What started the fire?”

“Beyond that wall is the fried remains of the billiards room. Had big, megaexpensive pool tables, thick mahogany paneling on the walls, leather sofa and chairs, a lot of brass antiques. A real man’s room.”

“None of those things started the fire.”

“I’m getting to that.” Ingram pointed a finger. “A janitor’s closet was there, sandwiched between the Men’s Grill and the billiards room. At the time of the blast, it was filled with cleaning supplies, cans of paint and thinner.”

“Paint and thinner? I expect the fire marshal had something to say after his people found out about that.”

“Yeah. Everybody agrees—the stuff shouldn’t have been in there.”

“Why was it?”

“A paint crew was scheduled to start work on the kitchen the day after the bombing. When one of the crew members hauled in their supplies, he stuck everything in the closet where it’d be handy to the kitchen when they started the job the next day.”

Hart slid his hands into the pockets of his khakis. “So, when the bomb exploded behind the closet, the blast ignited everything flammable inside, blowing flames out into the billiards room.”

“You got it, Sergeant.” Ingram ran a hand over his balding head as if smoothing down hair that was no longer there. “Some of the club’s board members wanted the painter gone. His name’s Willie Pogue and he’s not exactly the most sterling employee around here. Bonnie talked the board out of firing him. He’s got a wife and new baby, and a case of guilt a pasture wide. Nobody had to tell Pogue his carelessness made things worse.”

“A lot worse,” Hart agreed.

“Even so, I sided with Bonnie. We don’t need to spend our time hammering some guy for an innocent screw-up. We need to find the sick scum who planted the bomb.”

Unless Pogue was that scum, Hart thought. And he stacked the accelerant in the closet to intensify the damage.

Adding Pogue to the list of items he planned to bring up with Spence, Hart looked back at Ingram. “Other than the two fatalities and their injured son, how many people were hurt?”

“Fifteen. That includes club members and wait staff. Thank the Lord none were hurt worse than little Jake Anderson.” Ingram checked his watch. “You going to spend a lot of time in here tonight? If so, I can give you a hand with whatever you need.”

“Thanks, I’m almost done for now.” Ingram had been nothing but congenial and cooperative. Eager. Still, Hart had worked hundreds of investigations; he knew that many things were not as they appeared on the surface. Things or people. When he worked this scene, he intended to do it alone.

He shifted his gaze back to the crater. Like all bomb investigators, he paid attention to details. He moved slowly and methodically, building puzzles often made of many small pieces over postblast investigations that lasted weeks, sometimes months. This investigation was no different. He would find out everything there was to know about the dynamite bomb that had exploded out a pressure wave with the capacity to kill in one-ten-thousandth of a second. Then, if luck and evidence were on his side, the remnants of that bomb would lead him to its maker.

That wasn’t the only puzzle he intended to piece together, Hart realized as the image of Joan slid uninvited from a dark corner of his aching brain. He thought again about the flash of panic he’d seen in her eyes as she faced him across an expanse of ten years. Why panic? he wondered again. Why the hell panic?

At one time his love for her felt as though it was killing him. He’d gotten over her long ago, and he had no intention of taking a ride on that same roller coaster again. Still, he was curious. So much so that he intended to find the reason for that panic before he left Mission Creek.

Hours later Joan tucked the last of her laundry into a dresser drawer. Tightening the belt of her silky white robe, she eased a hip onto the edge of her pillow-piled bed.

“It’s nine o’clock,” she said to her daughter, clad in leopard-spotted pajamas and sprawled on her stomach crosswise on the peach-colored comforter. Propped up on her elbows, the young girl leafed through the pages of a family photo album.

“I think I’ll use this one of you.” Helena pointed a red polished fingernail at a photograph in the center of a page. “It looks the most like me. Grandma Kathryn took this picture of you, right?”

“Yes.”

The photo showed a nine-year-old Joan, dressed in pink tights and tutu. Positioned in the center of the stage at the Mission Creek Grade School, she stood on the tips of her toes in pink satin pointe shoes, her arms twined exquisitely above her head. Her childhood dream of becoming a prima ballerina had faded the instant she took her first tennis lesson.

Joan’s mouth curved. “Your grandma had a new camera that night. I think she snapped two entire rolls of film during the three minutes I spent on stage. I wasn’t even the star.”

“I miss Grandma Kathryn.”

“I do, too, sweetheart,” Joan said softly. Her grandmother’s death a year ago had devastated Helena. Joan knew that her own father’s rapidly failing health also hung heavy on her child’s mind. Helena didn’t need any more emotional trauma in her life right now. Which would be exactly what she would get if Hart O’Brien learned the truth.

Dread clamped a vise on Joan’s chest, making it almost impossible to breathe. With an unsteady hand, she stroked her palm down Helena’s long dark hair that streamed to her waist. “I think the two pictures you’ve picked are good choices for your Brownie project,” she managed.

Helena plucked up a photo of herself dressed in similar ballet attire that she had already removed from a different photo album. “I’m standing in an arabesque position instead of en pointe, like you,” she said, studying the photo. “But that’s okay. Mrs. Rorke said to bring a picture of ourselves and a picture of one of our parents doing the same activity.”

“We’re both dancing ballet, so you’ve got it made,” Joan said, then closed her eyes. There was no way Helena could have chosen a photo of her father doing anything, because there were no photos. None. When Helena had first asked why, Joan told her that her father had been gone so soon after they’d fallen in love there hadn’t been time for pictures. That was basically the truth, except Joan had been the only one in love.

“Mom, can we take these albums with us the next time we visit Grandpa Zane?”

Blinking, Joan forced herself to concentrate on Helena’s question. “I’m not sure he would look at them, sweetheart.”

“Well, if he did look, maybe that would help him know who we are again. He’s in a lot of these pictures, too.” Flipping pages, she touched her red fingertip to several photographs of her and her grandfather smiling together. “Maybe seeing them would help him remember us. If he could do that, maybe he’d get well. I just want him to get better.”

Joan slid an arm around her daughter’s thin shoulders, grasping her in a tight hug. The Alzheimer’s that had slowly taken over Zane Cooper’s mind had robbed Helena of the only father figure she had ever known. “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re one special kid?”

“Grandpa Zane did all the time before he forgot who I was,” Helena said wistfully.

“He was right. And the next time we visit him at Sunny Acres we’ll take one of the albums with us.”

“Girl Scout’s honor?”

“Girl Scout’s honor.” Joan dropped a kiss on Helena’s head, drawing in her child’s sweet, clean scent. “Now, it’s time to go to bed in your own room.”

“I’m not sleepy. Can’t I look at the pictures a little longer?”

“No.” Rising, Joan rearranged the throw pillows to one side of her bed. “Tomorrow’s a school day,” she continued as she nudged down the comforter and sheets. “And I have to get up early and meet a new client. In fact, I’ve got several new clients scheduled to begin programs at the spa, so I have to be there early every morning this week.”

Not for the first time Joan sent up silent thanks that, when the Lone Star Country Club evolved into a nationally known resort, the board of directors added living quarters for upper-management employees. Joan’s moving into one of those suites meant Helena could come home each day directly after school, instead of going to day care. Joan smiled at the thought of the checklist her nine-year-old daughter had made for herself. Each afternoon after her homework was done, Helena touched base with certain employees on her list to see if they needed her help. From assisting with swim classes to stuffing envelopes to folding napkins in the restaurants, Helena had her routine so perfected that Joan could pretty much check her watch and know Helena’s exact whereabouts any given afternoon.

“How early do you have to leave for the spa?” Helena asked.

“Even before your ride to school gets here.” Joan gathered the albums off the bed and slid them into the bookcase beside the tufted slipper chair that matched her comforter. “You’ll have to come up to my office each morning and tell me goodbye, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Oh, I almost forgot. Chief Stone called and invited us to a cookout at his house tomorrow night.”

“Can I play Frisbee with Warrant?” Helena asked, referring to the chief’s golden retriever.

“I doubt I’d be able to stop you.” Two months ago Ben Stone had surprised Joan by asking her to dinner. He was forty-five to her twenty-eight; growing up, she had thought of him only as a police officer. Now she was cognizant of him as a handsome, attractive man. One whom she sensed would soon like their relationship to move into intimacy. That was a step Joan wasn’t sure she wanted to take.

She slid a finger down Helena’s nose. “Chief Stone said to tell you he’s making your favorite homemade ice cream.”

Helena grinned. “Chief Ben makes almost as good chocolate ice cream as Grandma Kathryn used to.”

“Off to bed, now,” Joan said, giving Helena a firm but loving tap on the bottom.

Reluctantly Helena crawled off the bed and made her way out the door.

Joan followed, saying, “I’ll turn off the lights in the living room, then come in and kiss you good-night. Be sure and brush your teeth before you climb into bed.”

“Okay, Mom.”

Fifteen minutes after kissing Helena good-night, Joan stood on the dark balcony that jutted off her living room, staring at the starry night sky. The cool little breeze that swirled the hem of her silky white robe around her ankles made her shiver.

The suite she and Helena lived in was on the club’s third level. Before dinner Joan had used the computer in her office to look up which suite Bonnie Brannigan had reserved for Hart. That suite was on the same level, three doors away.

Stepping to the waist-high railing, Joan leaned, counting each separate balcony where ivy and geraniums spilled over the wrought-iron railing. Her gaze settled on Hart’s suite. The drapes were closed in both the living room and bedroom. She could see no light seeping around the edges.

She eased out a breath. Ten years ago she’d been eighteen, broken-hearted and pregnant, and would have given anything to have him near. Anything to have just known where he was.

And what would she have done if she had known? she asked caustically. Gone after him and begged him to want her? Begged him to love her the way she did him? Begged him to want and love the child she was carrying?

Hart had walked out on her. All her going after him would have done was enhance the despair and mortification she had felt when she realized his claiming to want and love her was a lie.

She shoved at a wisp of hair the breeze batted against her cheek. Ten years ago she had made a vow not to let her unborn child down. To give her the best life possible. To protect her.

Joan had no idea what kind of man Hart O’Brien had become. She could not second-guess what he might do if he discovered Helena was his daughter. Ignore his child? Befriend her? Walk away as easily as he had done ten years ago, leaving Helena with a shattered heart?

No, Joan thought as the need to protect welled inside her. Hart O’Brien had made his bed a long time ago. He had stepped on her own heart, but he wasn’t getting a shot at Helena’s.

For the first time Joan gave thanks for her parents’ unending need to maintain appearances. That need had motivated them to send her to stay with her aunt in Dallas when they found out she was pregnant. When she brought Helena home to Mission Creek, Joan had learned her parents had told everybody she’d had a whirlwind romance with a Dallas attorney who had died weeks after they’d eloped. Everyone in Mission Creek had accepted the story. Joan had done nothing to change that. Why should she? Why not protect her child from the stigma of being illegitimate?

Everyone believed Helena’s father had died before she was born. There was no reason Hart shouldn’t believe that, too.

No reason to tell him Helena was his.