Читать книгу You Must Remember This Part 3 - Marilyn Pappano - Страница 8

“Hal Stuart and Maxwell Brown?” Sherri grimaced. “You know, if I get caught giving you their credit reports, I could expect a little mercy from most people, but not those two. Firing wouldn’t be enough to satisfy them. They would want blood. What could they possibly have to do with finding out who you are?”

Martin Smith felt a twinge of guilt at misleading her but didn’t correct her. “I don’t know. It’s just a hunch.”

“For a man who didn’t want to go out with me even once, you’re asking a lot.”

More guilt. “It wasn’t you. I didn’t want to go out with anyone. There was just so much going on—”

“It’s okay. I’m over it.” She fell silent, and he didn’t speak, didn’t disturb her in any way. It couldn’t be an easy decision for her. Taking a risk for someone important to you was one thing. Doing it for someone who barely qualified as an acquaintance was, as she’d said, asking a lot.

After a while, she clasped her hands together. “I’ve liked you from the beginning, Martin. You’ve made the best of a bad situation, and you haven’t asked for help or handouts from anyone. I can’t even imagine what it’s been like for you, having no clue who you are. If you can promise me that no one will know about these—at least, no one besides Juliet…”

“You have my word.”

She returned to the desk, typed a series of commands into the computer, then, only moments later, presented him with the two reports. He folded them to fit into his hip pocket. “You don’t know how much I appreciate this. If there’s ever anything I can do…”

She smiled sweetly, a little sadly. “Oh, the answers I could have come up with to an offer like that four months ago. Good luck.”

“Thanks, Sherri. Thanks a lot.” He left the office and headed for the police department a few blocks over. Through the window in her office, he saw Juliet Crandall facing the computer. Her hair was pulled back at her nape and tied with a ribbon, and she was wearing his favorite of her dresses, the watercolor he had watched her button that first night at her house. He had helped her put it on this morning, had fulfilled one of his fantasies by buttoning the long row of small buttons himself, gliding his fingers over her skin, straying far from the task to caress and tease. Considering how easily he was aroused, she was lucky she’d gotten out of the house before noon.

He exchanged greetings with Stone, Jack and a few of the uniformed officers before going to her office. By the time he got there, the chair was empty, the computer unattended. She was sitting on the floor in front of the file cabinets, a thick file open in her lap, her head bent over the papers. He closed the door quietly, bent and pressed a kiss to her exposed neck.

The smile she gave him was sweet and a bit timid. She’d lain naked with him all last night without the least reticence, but today, fully clothed and in the businesslike confines of her office, she was shy. “Hi. Have a seat.”

He ignored the chair and sat on the floor near her. “Want to have lunch?” When she didn’t answer immediately, he offered another option. “Want to go home and make mad love? Or would you rather go over Hal Stuart’s credit report?”

“You have it?” One moment her face was alive with interest. The next she looked as if she had serious reservations. “You’re not having lunch with her? Why? Because you’re seeing her tonight?”

“Why, darlin’, it sounds almost as if you’re jealous. Good.” She still waited for an answer, so he gave it. “No lunch, no dinner. She gave me the reports free and clear.”

“You must have been very good.”

“I think I was. I think maybe I was a con artist. I was definitely a liar. Telling Sherri the truth felt awfully good, as if I hadn’t done it much in the past.” He considered that a moment, then gave her a nudge. “So…what would you like to do? Lunch, sex or work?”

She gave him a look that made his skin prickle and left no doubt whatsoever as to what was in her mind. The look was so intimate, though, that he knew he wasn’t going to get the most desirable answer. “How about if we go over the reports over lunch? Then we won’t have to do it tonight.”

Maybe that was the most desirable answer. She put the file away, exited the computer program and took her purse from a drawer before leading the way outside to her car.

They picked up burgers and fries from a drive-through, then went to Vanderbilt Park. With an old quilt from the back of her car, they found a sunny place that looked on distant mountains and settled in. While Martin unpacked the food, she smoothed the papers he’d pulled from his pocket. “Why did you get a report on Maxwell Brown? Isn’t he just a local businessman?”

He handed her a cheeseburger before unwrapping his own. “Monday night, after the dream, I was afraid to go back to sleep, so I went for a walk. I do that a lot. Brown was in his office downtown having a meeting with some guy. There were two other men waiting for them out in the alley. I’d been watching them for about ten minutes when Brown and the other guy came out. The three men got in their car and drove away, and Brown left in his own car.”

“What time was this?”

“Around 3:00 a.m. It gave me a funny feeling in the back of my neck. It just didn’t feel right.” He paused to take a few bites, washing them down with soda. “The next day I saw Brown and Hal having lunch together. Hal was not in a good mood.”

“So you think that not all of Maxwell Brown’s business is legitimate and that Hal might possibly be involved with him.”

“I don’t know. I just thought that getting his records was too good a chance to pass up.”

When they finished eating, she moved closer to him, and they studied the papers together. Hal’s risk score wasn’t very good. His credit cards—and there were plenty—carried high balances, and he was frequently late with his payments on everything from his car to his condo to his utilities. The sixty-six thousand dollars Olivia’s life insurance had paid would have made a good dent in his debt, but he still would have been up to his ears in it. Hell, maybe that was where he’d spent it and he still owed this much.

Maxwell Brown was a different story. His credit rating was perfect: reasonable balances, sensible debt and regular, on-time payments. There was no mortgage for a house or cars, which meant he must own those outright.

“So does that satisfy your curiosity about Brown?”

“It should.” Financially the man was as upstanding as they came. But that funny feeling was there again. If Martin knew only one thing for a fact, it was that he could trust that feeling.

“But it doesn’t. All right. Tomorrow why don’t you go by the courthouse and find out everything you can about him? I’ll check online and at the library.” She folded the papers, offered them to him, then slipped them inside her purse when he refused. “Grand Springs is such a pretty place,” she remarked with a look around. “It’s no surprise that Olivia loved it.”

“Coming here was a big deal for you.” Leaving her home, her family and friends, the only place she’d ever known, for someplace strange and new took courage that she probably hadn’t realized she possessed. “I hope you never regret it.”

“I never will. No matter what.”

He didn’t like the ominous undertones his mind supplied to her last words. Even after last night, she wasn’t convinced that there was no one in his past who could take him away from her. Truthfully, she was right to have doubts. There was the very strong possibility that someone in his past could separate them, though not another woman. The man he had been before the accident, the man who had killed, the man who knew too well how to live in the shadows—that man could come between them. He was his own biggest worry.

She withdrew a paper from her bag, then settled again even closer. “After talking with Stone this morning, I sent this out.”

He recognized the printout as being an NCIC entry—but how did he know that? It listed his name as John Doe, gave a physical description, including details on the scars, and asked each agency to check its records on shooting victims for the last six years.

“He says it could take a long time to get an answer, but unless you were shot outside the country, the chances of hearing something are pretty good.”

The suggestion that he might not have been in the country when the shootings occurred didn’t feel as foreign as it should. Had he traveled overseas often? Had he lived there? Maybe. It could explain why no missing persons report had ever been filed. It could also explain his fluency in Spanish.

After a time, they shook out the quilt and returned to the car. Juliet dropped him off at the church, drove the short distance to the library and went inside. Instead of going to her office, though, she headed for the reference section. She found an out-of-the-way computer and sat down, pulling up the files she needed.

The information available on Maxwell Brown was huge. There was coverage of business triumphs and charitable contributions. There was a wedding announcement, detailing a lavish wedding and featuring a picture of a handsome young man with a beautiful young bride. A few years later, there was a one-line mention of a divorce in the legal news column. He received honors and tributes by the handfuls and was active on Grand Springs’s social scene, though rarely with the same woman on his arm twice. His generosity apparently was exceeded only by his business acumen. His home, the site of charity balls and civic events, was nothing less than a mansion. He gave freely of his money and his time, the townspeople admired and respected him, children adored him, and he was kind to small animals.

He was almost too good to be true.

If Martin’s suspicions were correct, he was too good to be true.

There was much less to find on Hal Stuart, much less stellar. Most of the mentions of him dealt with city council business. There was an announcement of his engagement to Randi Howell, the bride who’d fled her own wedding and fallen in love with someone else. An older story covered his graduation from law school and setting up practice in Grand Springs, and there were mentions of his election and subsequent reelections to the council. There was nothing new or interesting.

With a sigh, she left the library and made the short trip to the police station. There was nothing more she could do for Martin. Now she needed to concentrate on her own work. Even if it was nearly impossible. Even if the hours did drag until the afternoon was finally over. With more relief than she would have believed possible, she shut down the computer, said goodbye to Mariellen and headed for the church.

She hadn’t offered to pick Martin up after work, and he might have already left, but it was only a few blocks out of her way. When she parked at the curb out front, she saw that she wasn’t too late. Several people were inside talking, and one was Martin.

The sidewalk led straight to the porch, where the double glass doors were propped open. She stepped into the hallway and hesitated until one of the men saw her and smiled. Martin turned and smiled, too, and held out his hand to her. He introduced her to the group—the Reverend Murphy and three of his parishioners, two older women and a man.

After a polite hello, one of the women continued talking. “Now, you see here in this picture, the carpet is definitely burgundy—and pretty new, too. This was taken thirty-three years ago at our oldest daughter’s wedding.” She beamed at Juliet. “She’s still married to the same man, and they have four children and three grandchildren. Now, this picture is of Emma’s grandson’s wedding, and it’s this same green carpet, and pretty new, too. This was taken—” She looked at the back, squinted to read the writing, then looked at the woman beside her. “When, Emma?”

“That was December. December 17, a Christmas wedding. His mother had always wanted a June wedding—”

“Of what year, dear?”

“Let me think. Their oldest boy just turned eighteen this month, so that means they’ve been married…” Emma’s fragile skin flushed a delicate pink. “Eighteen and a half years.”

No one blinked at the discomfort her grandson’s marriage-of-necessity still caused all these years later, but, out of sight, Martin gave Juliet’s fingers a squeeze.

The minister turned to Martin. “So you were here at some point at least eighteen and a half years ago but probably not more than thirty-three years ago. That’s more than a fourteen-year span. Not much help, is it?”

Martin was shaking his head when the other man spoke for the first time. “I don’t remember you. I’ve been here every time those doors opened for a service. I’ve known every family who worshiped here. I’ve been to every wedding, every christening and every funeral, but I don’t remember you.”

“He was a boy, Henry,” Emma said. “Maybe he’s changed.”

Henry stubbornly shook his head. “You look faintly familiar—it’s something about your eyes—but no. You weren’t a regular here, not even a semiregular.”

His very certainty gave Juliet cause to hope, and she said so to Martin once they’d said their goodbyes and reached the car. He gave her a flat, disappointed look. “Then you’re an incurable optimist, darlin’, because he didn’t leave room for hope.”

“What is the one physical feature that doesn’t change with age?” When he didn’t offer an answer, she did. “You can gain weight or lose it. You can straighten a crooked nose or put a crook in a straight one. You can cover a high forehead, reshape cheekbones, reconstruct jaws and straighten teeth. You can make your nose bigger or smaller, and you can change the way your ears lie in relation to your head. You can cut, curl, color or shave your hair. But the only thing you can do to your eyes is a tuck on the lids or change the color with contacts. Henry said there’s something familiar about your eyes.” She smiled. “They are your best feature.”

“They are, huh? And here I thought you were more interested in my—” He finished the sentence in a whisper, his mouth pressed to her ear, making her shiver and squirm before he kissed her mouth. It was the same sort of kiss he’d given her before work this morning, the sort that made her forget everything, including her name.

Sitting back in his seat, he fastened the seat belt. “How about stopping by my apartment? You can keep me company while I clean up.”

For a moment she looked blankly at him, her mind still occupied with sensations and not processing information. Finally, giving herself a mental shake, she started the car and pulled into the street.

His apartment was quiet, dimly lit and still full of the day’s warmth even though outside the temperature had begun its usual evening slide. Juliet wandered around the single large room, half her attention directed to the bathroom, where Martin was in the shower. Naked. Washing, touching himself. Such a simple, everyday task. Such erotic images. They left her throat dry and sent an edgy, dissatisfied feeling through her.

If she were bold, she would take off her clothes and be waiting in his bed when he came out. If she were brash and bold, she wouldn’t wait for him to come out but would shed her clothes and join him in the shower. She would take the soap from him, work up a lather in her hands and rub them over his body. She would tease and torment them both until they couldn’t stand any more, and then she would take him, first in her mouth, in a sinfully wicked kiss, then in her body, right there in the tub, with the water beating on them and around them, until—

Catching her breath on a groan, she stopped in front of one window and stared out sightlessly, all too aware of her body’s needs, of the tightness in her chest, of the tension deep in her belly. She had indulged in a few fantasies before—what woman hadn’t?—but the fantasy of Martin was more appealing, more enticing, than the reality of any other man she’d known. He wasn’t even in the room, but her breasts were swollen, her nipples achy, her muscles trembly. The man embodied pure, raw sexual fantasy, and he was a danger—

His arm wrapped around her from behind, and his fingers slid between buttons to stroke her midriff. He hadn’t made a sound crossing the room, but she could feel him now, could smell him—warm, damp, aroused, masculine. He came closer, until his legs brushed hers, until his erection was pressed against her bottom. Moving his hand lower, he worked a few buttons loose, then slid his hand inside her dress, his fingers leaving a damp, quivering trail across her belly, beneath the elastic band of her panties, probing between her thighs.

She gasped when he touched her, when he found her hot, damp and craving his attention. When he slid his fingers inside her, whatever sound she might have made was lost in the flood of sensation. He stroked deep inside her, then outside, concentrating his touches where her response was most powerful, his talented fingers drawing her closer and closer, coaxing her to feel more, to want more, demand more.

She clenched her fingers, then flattened them against the cool glass pane. She was so hot, so desperate, able to breathe now only in soft gasps that threatened tears, and still he tormented her, robbing her of everything but need, aching, killing need. It became unbearable, but she bore it, became painful, but she loved it, until finally, her body quivering, her back arched, with one great rush, with one writhing, whimpering shudder, she collapsed against him. She trusted him to hold her, to keep her on her feet, and he did. He wrapped his arms around her waist, held her tightly against him and spoke for the first time. “Hey, darlin’.”