Читать книгу The Paediatrician's Personal Protector - Mallory Kane - Страница 7

After the police finished questioning Christy, they cordoned off and locked Cottage Three, holding it as a crime scene until the CSI team could process it the next day.

Ella Bardin insisted that Christy sleep in the front bedroom of the main house of the Oak Grove Inn, the Lakeview Room. It didn’t look out over any lake Reilly had ever seen, but there were photos of famous lakes all over the room, including Lake Pontchartrain. After Ella made sure the room was in perfect condition, she excused herself, saying she had an early morning. Tomorrow was French toast day and she had to get up at five o’clock.

Reilly deposited the few items the officers had allowed Christy to grab from her cottage onto the antique dresser and turned to say good-night to her.

She was standing in the middle of the room, watching him carefully. She definitely looked the worse for wear. She’d twisted her glossy black hair into some kind of knot, but it was coming undone. Her torn skirt would have been indecent if not for the black lace slip. Her stockings were in shreds, and she’d long since discarded the single shoe and her jacket.

Her expression reflected her experience. It was at once angry, bewildered, frustrated and scared. Reilly felt an odd urge to cross the room and pull her into his arms. But Dr. Christmas Moser wouldn’t appreciate him peeking beneath her tough exterior. In fact, he knew what she’d say if he tried to offer comfort.

That does not accomplish anything, Officer. Surely you realize that.

“I heard your father had a heart attack,” he said. “He’s in the cardiac unit?”

She nodded.

“I’m sorry. You don’t need any more stress right now.”

“What’s on your mind, Officer Delancey?”

The question surprised him. He’d already noticed her keen observation of the officers as they checked out her and her story. His grandmother’s saying, “doesn’t miss a trick,” certainly applied to her.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” he parried.

“I doubt that.”

He inclined his head in agreement. If she was up to answering questions he had plenty to ask. “All right. How long did you say you’d been in Boston?”

“Six years.” She reached up with her right hand to push a strand of hair out of her eyes and winced when the cast got in her way.

“Six years. And did you say you hadn’t been home?”

“No. That’s not what I said,” she answered firmly, although Reilly thought he saw a flicker in her eyes that indicated that she wasn’t telling the whole truth. As a sniper and sometimes leader of the hostage negotiation team for the St. Tammany Parish SWAT team, he’d made it a practice to study kinesiology—facial expressions, body language, all indicators of stress.

“I believe I said I hadn’t known how badly my father was taking Autumn’s death. Of course I’ve been home in the past six years.”

“How many times?”

Christy lifted her chin. “Is all this on the record, Officer?”

He shook his head.

“Then I’d rather wait and give my statement once only, at the police station.”

“No problem,” he said. “I’ll pick you up at eight o’clock, out front.”

Her eyes went wide. “What?”

He smiled and nodded toward her right hand. “You can’t very well drive with that cast on.”

“Certainly I can,” she shot back, but her right fingers twitched.

“Yeah? Touch each of your fingers to your thumb.”

She set her mouth and lifted her hand. But the cast was too restrictive. She couldn’t make her fingers and thumb touch. “I told the EMTs not to immobilize my thumb,” she complained.

“Eight o’clock,” he repeated. He thought he heard a feminine growl. “And in the meantime, you call me if you need me.”

“There’s no reason for you to appoint yourself my chauffeur. I’ll take a taxi.”

Reilly lay his hand on the cast where it covered her knuckles. “There is a reason. You asked me to help you.”

She looked at his hand, then up at him. One day, he promised himself, he was going to explore that vulnerability she kept locked behind her snapping green eyes.

“I thought you were your brother at the time.”

“Still,” Reilly said with a grin. “You did ask. And you called me when you were attacked. I figure that makes it my responsibility to keep you safe. I have no intention of letting that guy get within a hundred yards of you. Consider me your knight in shining armor, until I’m sure you’re no longer in danger.”

“I don’t need a knight—”

“Don’t start with me, damsel,” he said teasingly, touching her lips with his forefinger. “Whether you think you need me or not, you’ve got me.”

CHRISTY WAS FUMING by the time Reilly Delancey left. She prided herself on being able to handle any situation. As a pediatrician specializing in trauma, her working life was all about emergencies.

Involving kids. Not herself. She glared at the cast on her wrist. How careless of her to break her wrist. Still, it shouldn’t hinder her too much. As if to mock her, a throbbing ache began beneath the cast.

Reilly Delancey was a bully. Somehow, and she wasn’t sure how, he’d gotten her to agree to ride with him. She sniffed. It was ridiculous. She could drive. A simple wrist cast wouldn’t be that big a problem.

She wriggled the fingers of her right hand. A shooting pain made her gasp. Well, she amended, she could drive if she had to.

She was disgusted with herself. She should have been more careful. She’d seen dozens of children with wrist fractures because they instinctively reached out to break their fall. Tucking arms into the body and rolling was much safer. If one had time to react.

To be fair, she’d had no time. But now she had to live with a pink cast for several weeks.

She held up her hand and grimaced. Pink. Her colleagues in Boston would give her hell about that. Almost any color would have been better than pink. But the EMT had sworn the only colors of paste he had were pink or fluorescent green.

Now that she thought about it, wasn’t the color added after the paste was mixed? And wasn’t the default color of the paste white? At the time she hadn’t felt like protesting. So she had a pink cast and there was nothing she could do about it tonight.

She glanced at her watch. After ten o’clock. Reilly Delancey had told her he’d pick her up at eight in the morning. She needed to get some sleep.

Stepping into the bathroom, she reached up with her left hand to loosen her hair as she looked in the mirror. And stopped cold.

The EMT had applied a pink strip bandage with ladybugs on it. Ladybugs. She frowned at her image. Reilly Delancey was behind this. She was sure of it. He was nothing but trouble, and she didn’t need any more trouble than she already had.

She quickly undressed, dropping the skirt and the shredded stockings into the trash can in the bathroom. Digging into her suitcase, she unearthed her pink satin pajamas.

Staring at them, her face flamed, even though she was alone. Damn those EMTs and Reilly Delancey. How had he known—?

She stopped that thought right there. He couldn’t have known that she loved wearing pretty, feminine lingerie under her utilitarian work clothes. Although—his blue eyes were awfully sharp, and it looked as if he never missed a trick.

After a painful few minutes spent getting the pajamas on, she turned back the covers awkwardly and climbed into bed. But when she tried to relax and clear her mind, she couldn’t stop her thoughts from racing.

—where you came from or you’re as dead as your sister.

—Mr. Moser, do you understand that by pleading guilty, you are giving up your right to a trial?

—I did it. I killed those girls.

Your father has had a heart attack—

Christy turned over and squeezed her eyes shut. But closed eyes couldn’t block the mental image of the emergency room technician loading all the heart monitors and IVs onto her father’s gurney and wheeling him onto the elevator to take him up to the cardiac care unit.

Christy hadn’t been able to take her eyes off her dad. Against the white sheets he looked small, frail, vulnerable. He looked nothing like the man who’d reared her and her sister.

Her eyes stung and hot tears squeezed out between her closed lids. Sniffling and telling herself that tears never solved a problem, she turned over again and tried to find a comfortable position for her wrist.

But despite her resolve, the tears kept on coming. They slid over the bridge of her nose and down her cheek to the pillow. When had her family fallen apart? When had her dad changed from a big, strong parent, raising two daughters on his own, into a deranged killer?

WHEN REILLY GOT TO THE Oak Grove Inn the next morning, Christy was waiting in the foyer.

“Morning,” he said with a smile, which faded as he took in her injuries. “Wow, they weren’t kidding about that bruise. Did you put ice on your forehead?”

“Of course. Otherwise I would have a black eye. You’re late.”

Reilly nodded. “Miss Ella caught me as I was leaving last night. She told me to wait until eight-thirty so you could eat breakfast. French toast day today, right?” He reached out and wiped a speck of powdered sugar off her chin. “Hard to eat with a cast on, isn’t it? Think how tough it would be to drive.”

Christy swiped at her chin with two fingers. “Are you ready to go? “

“Yep.” He opened the front door and stepped aside to let her precede him out the door. This morning she had on brown pants and a cream-colored top with long sleeves that stretched over the cast on her wrist and a short brown sweater. He didn’t see any buttons anywhere. She’d picked an outfit that was easy to don.

“You look nice,” he commented as he followed her to his car.

“Thank you,” she said stiffly. She reached for the passenger-door handle with her left hand, but he stretched around her and opened the door. When he did, her hair brushed his cheek. A bolt of lightning-hot lust shot straight to his groin.

Damn. His reaction surprised him. So much that he’d almost gasped. He immediately straightened, putting the door between him and her, but not before his nose caught a subtle floral scent that was very familiar to him. Christy Moser smelled like the gardenias that grew in his grandmother Lilibelle’s garden.

As Christy climbed into the car, Reilly swallowed. When had he gone from merely admiring her figure and feeling protective of her to lusting after her? Of course, as soon as he asked the question he knew the answer. About two seconds after he’d first spotted her walking across the courthouse lobby.

In fact, he’d woken up in a very uncomfortable state this morning, with the dregs of a sexy dream involving the two of them and dozens of ladybugs floating in his head.

He tried to make small talk on the way to the sheriff’s office. He pointed out the Christmas decorations that lined the streets of Covington and made comments about Christmas in the South, where shorts and sandals were more appropriate attire than parkas and boots.

Christy seemed distracted, staring out the window at nothing. Probably thinking about her attack the night before and the statement she was going to have to make in a few minutes.

As he pulled into the parking lot at the sheriff’s office, she turned to him. “I never heard from Detective Delancey. I need to talk to him.”

Reilly winced. He’d forgotten to call Ryker. “I’ll let him know. I’m going to see him this morning.” He wanted to ask Ryker about Autumn Moser’s case. Whether, after Albert Moser’s confession and the connection between the murders he committed and his daughter’s death, the case was going to be reopened.

If it was—

“You told me you’d let him know yesterday.”

“Yes, I did,” he said rather testily. “But the day got busy, for you as well as me.” He cut the engine and got out of the car. He knew that Christy had more than one reason to be upset and irritable. And he couldn’t deny how beautiful and sexy she was, but he was getting a little tired of her officious attitude.

He walked around the car and opened the passenger door for her.

“Thank you,” she muttered as she got out. He followed her into the building and directed her down the hall to the interview rooms.

Buford Watts was standing near the break room, drinking a cup of coffee. When he saw them, he set the coffee mug down on the top of a bookcase and stepped up to Christy.

“Morning, Ms. Moser.”

Reilly started to correct him, then bit his tongue. If Christy wanted to remind the man that she was a doctor, she could do it herself.

“Good morning,” she responded evenly.

“I’ve got a room set up for us. It’s right through there.” Buford pointed the way to Interview Room Two. The door was open. Christy entered and Reilly followed, but Buford stopped him at the door.

“Don’t you have something to do this morning, Delancey?”

Reilly shook his head. “This week the SWAT team is practicing and recertifying weapons skills. I finished yesterday.” He gave Buford a bright smile. “You said I could sit in on the interview.”

“The interview last night. Nobody said anything about this morning,” Buford said.

“Well, do you have a problem with me sitting in?”

The deputy muttered something under his breath and went into the room. Reilly entered behind him. Buford indicated a chair for Christy to sit in, then sat directly across from her, with the tape recorder in the middle of the table.

Reilly moved a chair to a neutral spot at the end of the table, neither on Christy’s side nor Buford’s.

Buford turned on the tape recorder and went through the required preliminary information—date, name, location and so on. He quickly and casually ran through the questions he’d asked Christy the night before.

Then he leaned forward and picked up a folder that was lying near his right hand. “Ms. Moser—Dr. Moser that is—our crime scene investigator team went over to the Oak Grove Inn this morning and checked out Cottage Three. They didn’t find any trace evidence specific to your case.”

Christy stiffened. “What do you mean? Are you saying I made up the attack?”

“Now, now, Miss. I’m not doubting you were attacked. That was obvious. But as good a housekeeper as Miss Ella is, there was a lot of hair and dust and stuff on the floor of that cottage. CSI told me they didn’t find anything that could be definitely linked to last night.”

Christy tried to fold her hands in front of her but the cast interfered. The fingers and thumb of her left hand played with the edge of the cast. Her gaze flickered to Reilly and away.

“What about the pickup that followed me into the parking lot?”

“Well,” Buford reached into his pocket for a small notepad. “That belongs to a Chester Ragsdale. He lives over in Covington. Him and his wife had a spat over the weekend, so he’s been staying there in Cottage One the past few days. He said he’s gonna try to go home today.” Buford took a breath. “My partner talked to him and to the couple from Mississippi who were in Cottage Two. None of them saw or heard anything.”

Reilly saw and felt Christy’s frustration.

“So you’re telling me there’s nothing you can do to find the man who attacked me?”

“I’d like you to think back on last night. I know you’re awfully upset about your daddy. I don’t suppose anyone can blame you for that. And I’m sorry to hear that he’s in the hospital. But I do have to ask these questions. When the person knocked you down, tell me again what he said.”

She eyed him narrowly. “He said, ‘Go back where you came from or you’re as dead as your sister.’“

Buford tapped his pencil on the desktop and watched it. “And you’re sure about that?”

“Yes.” The word was coated in frost.

“Why do you think somebody would go to all that trouble to warn you to get out of town?”

“Officer Watts,” Christy said in measured tones. “Five years ago, my sister was shot while I was on the phone with her. I heard her scream. I heard the—shots.” She took a breath and sent a quick glance toward Reilly. “The only times I’ve been back in Chef Voleur since her funeral were once for a seminar three years ago, and then two weeks ago. I flew down here to check on my father after I was notified about his first MI, while he was in jail.”

“MI?”

“Myocardial infarction—heart attack.”

Watts nodded.

Christy brushed her hair back, a typical sign of discomfort or deceit. Reilly didn’t think she was being deceitful.

“I flew back to Boston the same day.” She stopped and looked at Watts.

He looked at the eraser tip on his pencil, then back up at her. He raised his eyebrows. “You flew in when your father was put in the hospital. What about when he was arrested?”

She shook her head. “I was busy—on call. I couldn’t leave my patients.”

The detective nodded and wrote something on his notepad.

“Don’t you see?” she asked. “The man who attacked me is the man who killed my sister—” Christy’s voice gave out. She swallowed and spread her hands. “He knew I’d be here for the sentencing.”

Her words hung in the air. She looked at Buford, then at Reilly, then back at Buford. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. “Isn’t it obvious? The man who killed my sister knows she was on the phone with me. He obviously is worried that I heard something and can identify him.”

Reilly didn’t say a word. Buford sat still, his eyes on Christy, as if he were weighing her words. Then he sat up straight. “All right. I think that’s all for now, Ms. Moser.” He reached for the tape recorder.

“What?” Christy stared at him. “That’s all? Are you saying you don’t believe me?”

Buford punched the off button on the recorder, ejected the tape and stuck it into his shirt pocket. Then he pushed his chair back. Its legs screeched along the floor. He stood with a grunt.

“Why, no, ma’am. I’m not saying that at all. I am at a loss to explain how this man who you think killed your sister found you, watched you and followed you, when you’d only been in town for around twenty-four hours.”

Christy didn’t stand. “You’re at a loss? I don’t see how it could be any clearer, Officer. My father’s arrest and arraignment were in all the papers. If my father is right about my sister’s death, and I believe he is, then the man who killed her is the married man she was seeing.” She stopped long enough to take a breath.

“He knew she had a sister. Even if he didn’t know who she was talking to on the phone, her phone is missing. Isn’t it logical to infer that he took her phone and saw my number? Naturally, he would expect me to show up at the courthouse. It would be simple for him to spot me there and follow me. Wouldn’t it?” She addressed that question to Reilly before turning her icy gaze back to Buford Watts.

“I have to agree, Buford,” Reilly said. “It’s a theory.”

Buford nodded his head. “It coulda happened that way. I just can’t make a case for it.”

Reilly thought of something. “What about her clothes?” he asked.

Buford had picked up his pencil and was studying the end of it. He frowned at Reilly.

“Her clothes. The skirt, jacket and blouse. Did CSI test her clothes?” Reilly asked him.

The older officer picked up the manila folder and paged through the sheets. “I don’t reckon they did.”

“Nobody thought about testing her clothes?”

Buford sent Reilly a narrow gaze. “You were there, and being so all-fired helpful. Why didn’t you think of it? Hell, you coulda hired somebody to do it for you.”

Reilly didn’t bother answering him. The resentment had been bound to surface sooner or later. He and Ryker both caught a lot of flak because of their infamous, wealthy grandparents. It was no secret that the Delancey grandkids weren’t hurting for money, or that a lot of that money had been made in Louisiana politics, off the backs of citizens.

“I put the skirt and stockings in the trash,” Christy interjected. “In the bathroom.”

“Buford, call them now. Before Ella Bardin puts out the trash. Get the skirt and stockings. Her blouse and jacket too.”

Buford nodded irritably and left the room.

Reilly looked at Christy and gave her a rueful shrug.

She sniffed. “Why do you think I left Louisiana?” she said archly.

“It’s not the place,” he said. “It’s the people. There are good people and bad people everywhere.”

When she winced, he realized that his words had hit too close to home.

IT WAS AFTER ONE O’CLOCK before Deputy Watts was done with questioning Christy and forcing her to read her transcribed statements. She’d slowly and meticulously made changes to the transcription using her left hand.

To his credit, the deputy had ordered in po’ boy sandwiches and iced tea for lunch. To his discredit, the po’ boys weren’t seafood. They were piled high with ham and cheese and mustard—loads of mustard. Christy had picked at hers, tearing off bits of the delicious French bread and washing it down with sweet tea.

Reilly stayed with her the whole time. She didn’t want him to know how much that meant to her. She didn’t want anyone to know that. It bothered her that in two days Reilly Delancey had become the one constant in her suddenly out-of-control life.

She’d heard of the Delanceys. Everyone who’d grown up in Louisiana had. Because of their infamous grandfather, they were all stinking rich. Didn’t have to work a day if they didn’t want to. So why had Reilly and his brother become cops? She assessed Reilly. He looked sincere and genuinely delighted with his sandwich. But she didn’t know him. She couldn’t take the risk of depending on him.

She’d never allowed herself to depend on anyone—never looked to a man for validation—except her father. She wasn’t happy that Reilly Delancey had appointed himself her protector. Even if she had no idea how she’d have gotten through last night and this morning without him.

“Are you sure you don’t want something else to eat?” he asked for the third time as he drove her to the hospital to see her father.

“I’m positive,” she responded shortly. Her stomach was growling, but she was about to see her father for the first time since he’d been admitted to the cardiac care unit. Even if she could have eaten, she was pretty sure she wouldn’t have been able to hold it down.

Reilly placed his hand at the small of her back as they walked through the halls to the doors of the CCU.

“Thanks for bringing me here,” she said dismissively. “What time will you pick me up?”

Reilly looked at his watch, then at a sign beside the door. It listed visiting hours as twenty minutes every hour between 7:00 a.m. and 7:00 p.m.

“I’ve got a few things to do. What if I pick you up at four-thirty? Then you can have three visits with him.”

She nodded. “That’ll be good. The nurse told me yesterday that if it wasn’t too busy this afternoon, I could stay a little longer.” She took a shaky breath and sighed.

“Christy? You’re sure you’re okay? I can get back here earlier if you need me to.”

She shook her head. “No. I need to be with my dad as much as I can, before—”

Reilly gave her a searching look before nodding. “I’ll see you at four-thirty then.” He turned and headed back toward the front of the building.

She knew what Reilly was thinking, as clearly as if he’d spoken aloud. How could she sit there at her father’s bedside, knowing he’d killed four young women? How could she still view him as her dad, as the man who’d reared her and taught her the values she now embraced?

“I don’t know,” she whispered as she pressed the automatic door opener and showed the nurse her visitor’s badge. She braced herself for the woman’s reaction when she said, “I’m here to see Albert Moser. I’m his daughter.”