Читать книгу Falling For Him - Morgan Hayes - Страница 9

IT WAS HER LAST SHIFT of a week on midnights. Claudia glanced up from the file on her desk and out the windows of the sixth-floor Homicide offices. At five o’clock the city hall dome was taking on the first rosy reflections of the morning sun. Her optimism grew. The squad might just make it through the night without a call. One more hour and the next shift would be in to relieve them. Then she could go home to a long-awaited and well-deserved bath, and finally to bed.

Claudia stretched. She’d been up twenty hours straight, and every muscle was stiff with fatigue. From the main office around the corner where the rest of her squad had spent the night in front of the TV, she heard the early-morning news. Again she prayed for the phone not to ring.

If memory served her, she actually had the weekend off. And she planned to make it two glorious sleep-filled days. Turning back to her desk, Claudia confirmed her schedule on the wall calendar. Had she not looked, she probably wouldn’t have taken note of the day. October 16, the anniversary of their first kiss.

It hardly seemed an entire year ago. She could still recall the scent of Frank’s aftershave. Throughout their two-year partnership in Homicide she’d smelled it on him, but on that particular night, his very ordinary aftershave had suddenly become intensely arousing. She remembered the feel of his hand and the taste of his kiss, with the subtle hint of red wine. But then, it wasn’t a kiss easily forgotten, Claudia decided as images of that initial encounter whispered through her memory. And definitely not a night easily forgotten—filled with tenderness and passion, deep love and mutual respect. And the two brief months that followed had been the best in her life.

Claudia cast her gaze to the desk abutting hers. Frank’s desk—clean, neat…empty. After ten months, it continued to be unassigned, in part because of budgetary constraints, but primarily because it remained a silent memorial. Sarge had cleared out any necessary papers, but the rest went untouched. Even the calendar blotter was still there, left at last December, as though time had stopped after Frank’s death.

But hadn’t it? Hadn’t time stopped for Claudia since that night?

She glanced at the stack of open case files on her desk. Her work had certainly gone on, even if her life hadn’t. There had been no easy answers, no real way to deal with the loss. She’d spent weeks after Frank’s death arguing with herself and with others in the unit that he wasn’t capable of suicide, that Frank Owens wasn’t a quitter. It wouldn’t have mattered how intensely Internal Affairs had hounded him with their false allegations of evidence tampering, Claudia had contended. Frank had withstood the pressure and could have continued doing so. He would have pulled through IAD’s investigation, untainted, proved innocent and, most of all, alive.

Yet, as the months slipped by and the inquiry into his death had come to a conclusion, even Claudia had begun to wonder if Frank had been a quitter. She’d wanted to believe he’d been murdered, but in the end, she’d only been wasting time and energy searching for a nonexistent killer. The final reports hadn’t lied; the facts were there in black and white—suicide.

With no evidence proving otherwise, Claudia had found herself reevaluating the superb detective she’d known, the strong man she’d loved.

Claudia looked to his desk again, the empty chair, his folded reading glasses and an unopened box of Cracker Jacks that no one would even think about touching. In a way, she blamed herself; she should have listened to Frank that last time she’d seen him, when they’d argued about IAD’s unrelenting pressure. Maybe then she would have seen the signs.

But she couldn’t hold herself entirely responsible for Frank’s suicide, Claudia thought, leaning back in her chair and closing her eyes. Internal Affairs was as much to blame—especially whoever had suspected Frank in the first place. If they’d done their job properly, the allegations would have been cleared up quickly, and the real person behind the evidence tampering would have been caught.

Instead, the department, the entire force, had let Frank take the fall. His suicide had sealed a guilty verdict in the minds of his co-workers and allowed the true perpetrator to go free.

Yes, IAD had pulled that trigger as surely as Frank had, Claudia decided long ago. And if there had been any way for her to find out exactly who had headed the inquiry into the corruption, she would have.

She’d tried early on. But from the start the IAD probe had been hush-hush. It had taken weeks of rumors before anyone even knew what it was IAD was looking into, and no one could identify the lead investigator. Not that it was general practice to publicize that kind of information. But usually with a few well placed questions to someone who knew someone else, an answer could be had. In this instance, however, Claudia had been met with nothing but closed doors and tight lips.

“Are you still alive back here?”

“Not really,” she said, her eyes shut. “You wanna call Homicide or should I?”

Tony Santoro laughed softly. Claudia heard the hard-soled click of his shoes as he crossed the room. And when she opened her eyes, she watched a playful smile brighten his usually careworn expression. After six years with the unit, there was no denying the job had taken its toll on Tony’s otherwise handsome face. Dark circles under his eyes and deepening creases along his forehead were telltale signs of the long shifts and too much overtime.

Frank had begun to take on that appearance, Claudia recalled. And when she glanced in a mirror she’d be greeted with similar features. It was definitely a hazard of the job.

Tony perched on the corner of her desk. “You do look sorta dead, Parrish. Why don’t I call it in?” he joked. “Any suspects?”

“Sure. You can start with the State’s Attorney Office.”

“Oh yeah, you had the Brown arraignment yesterday.”

Claudia nodded. “Not that it made any difference. Brown’s out on the streets right now, probably shooting someone else.”

“I heard they dismissed it. I’m sorry.”

She straightened in her chair and closed the Brown file, wondering why she’d even bothered to look at it again. Just another drug-related shooting.

“Oh well,” she said. “I guess that’s what happens when you can’t manage something as simple as maintaining a murder weapon. Without it, the State’s Attorney Office had no case.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“No? It was my investigation. The evidence was my responsibility.”

Tony moved behind her and lowered his hands to her shoulders, gently massaging out the knots of tension for her. He seemed to recognize that no words were necessary. It had been ongoing and completely random—missing or tampered-with evidence. And, according to IAD, the source wasn’t Evidence Control. Claudia wasn’t the only detective in Homicide who had fallen victim to it. Even Frank, with all his careful work, had had three cases thrown out at the arraignment stage because of lost evidence. No doubt, this had been the reason IAD had targeted Frank.

Still, for Claudia, losing a case because of “misplaced” evidence was not something she ever figured would happen to her.

Obviously aware of the topic’s sensitivity, Tony changed it. “By the way, since you’ve been holed up back here working on your files all night, I bet you didn’t know the new guy was in.”

“New guy?”

“Yeah. Monaghan.”

“I thought he was with the other shift.”

“He was until today. He switched over. Been in Sarge’s office for about three hours. Swapping war stories. Sounds like he’s got some heavy-duty experience under his belt.”

“Oh, please. Are we talking about the same guy? Just finished a stint driving the commissioner’s car?”

“Yeah, for a year. But who can blame him for taking a cushy job after eight years with DEA, and several before that with Homicide in D.C. That’s pretty heavy-duty, if you ask me.”

Claudia nodded. Obviously she’d been too buried in her own work these past few weeks to catch enough of the rumors circulating the unit.

“So I guess this means Sarge is counting on Monaghan’s vast experience to boost our clearance rates, hmm?”

“Oh, no, Detective Parrish,” Tony said with comedic flourish as he reclaimed his position on the corner of her desk. “We’ve got you to do that for us.”

Claudia gave him a sarcastic smile and started putting her files away.

“So what do you think?” Tony asked, stretching his arms over his head. “Ready to pack it in? Other squad should be here soon. Guess we’re not going to get a call now.”

His words still hung on the last shred of silence in the office before it was shattered by the warbling ring of the phone.

“Kiss of death, Tony. You do it every time,” Claudia muttered as she reached for the receiver. “Homicide. Detective Parrish.”

Sure enough, it was a call. Over the phone, Central Dispatching gave Claudia the details, and by the time she had jotted down the address, she glanced up to see Sergeant Gunning enter the room.

“All right. We’re on our way.” Hanging up, she wheeled back her chair and stood. “Five hundred block of Boston Street,” she told her sergeant. “White male. Looks to be a shooting.”

“Do you want me to take it, Sarge?” Tony asked. “I think Claudia here is running on empty.”

Under normal circumstances, Claudia would already have been out the door, but today “running on empty” hardly began to describe her exhaustion.

“No,” Gunning responded at last, scratching at what had to be two-days’ worth of stubble. “I want Claudia on this one.”

She kept her groan to herself. Then again, it wasn’t as if she couldn’t use the extra work to keep her mind off other things.

“I’m on it, Sarge.” She took her gun from her desk drawer and holstered it, shoved a fresh notepad into her jacket pocket and started for the door. “I’ll just get my coat and—”

“And take Monaghan with you,” he added.

Claudia stopped dead. “Pardon me?”

“You heard me. You’re partnering up.”

“Sarge, I haven’t partnered on a case since—”

“I know. That’s why I want you to take Monaghan.”

“Uh, Sarge,” Tony interrupted, obviously hoping to rescue Claudia. “Look, why don’t I go with Claudia on this one. We’ll get it wrapped up before breakfast and be done with it.”

Gunning shook his head. “This isn’t Claudia’s case. It’s Monaghan’s. I want you to back him up, Claudia.”

“You’re assigning Monaghan as the primary detective?” She tried to curb the disbelief in her voice. “Come on, Sarge, he’s only just started with the squad. You can’t honestly tell me that he’s ready to lead his own investigation.”

And then, as if on cue, a man stepped around the corner. He cleared his throat quietly, and Claudia felt the immediate flush of embarrassment warm her cheeks.

There was no doubt in her mind regarding the man’s identity. In fact, he even looked the part of the commissioner’s driver, so clean-cut and crisp that she could easily imagine him in some chauffeur’s monkey suit. Immediately Claudia found herself hoping Tony was right about Monaghan’s experience, because the man bore little resemblance to a seasoned detective who’d reputedly been run ragged by Drug Enforcement and Homicide.

With his jet-black hair clipped short, the angular lines of his face seemed even more pronounced—regal, almost. They accentuated a strong jaw and square chin.

He towered over Claudia, and as he looked down at her, his mouth curved into a charismatic smile. But it was Monaghan’s eyes that riveted Claudia. They were absolutely penetrating, and every bit as dark as the brows that arched over them in an almost expectant expression. It was obvious he’d heard her last remark.

“Claudia, Gavin Monaghan,” Gunning introduced. “Gavin, this is our illustrious Detective Parrish. You can just ignore the foot in her mouth. And don’t let her give you any grief. If she does, I don’t wanna hear about it.”

Monaghan extended his hand in greeting. “It’s good to meet you, Claudia.”

She should have anticipated his smooth voice. It matched his looks, rich and seductive. The kind of voice that probably swept most women off their feet at the mere sound, Claudia decided, returning his firm handshake with one she hoped would make him flinch. He didn’t.

“Sergeant Gunning’s told me a lot about you.”

“Well, maybe you’ll get to hear my side of the story sometime,” she said quickly, wishing she could break her gaze from his. “But right now, I have…I mean, we have a homicide.”

“I’ll get our coats,” he offered, turning on the heel of one perfectly polished black wing-tip oxford. His stride was assured as he walked down the corridor. She watched him, unable to resist admiring the impressive outline of his body, his broad shoulders and tapered waist. The expensive suit looked good on him, she decided. Probably better than any monkey suit. Then again, with a body like that, Gavin Monaghan probably looked good in just about anything.

“He needs to get his feet wet,” Sarge said, as Claudia saw Gavin veer into the main office out of sight. “He’s put in his time with Homicide in D.C. In fact, I’m sure he could even teach you a few tricks, but I still want you to show him the ropes around here.”

As though foreseeing the impending argument, Tony mumbled something and made a hasty exit.

“Sarge—”

“No, Claudia.” He held up one thick hand. “No arguments. I’ve catered to your wishes long enough. You know this unit works on the premise of partnerships. I can’t exclude you from that any longer. It’s time. You gotta put the past behind you. You’re working with Monaghan.”

In his hard, gray-eyed stare, Claudia recognized that protest would get her nowhere. She took a deep breath and adjusted her suit jacket. “Fine. I’ll show Monaghan the ropes.”

Sergeant Gunning gave her a solemn nod. “I’m expecting you to make this partnership work,” he told her over his shoulder as he left for his office.

Optimism, Claudia thought as she watched Gavin Monaghan step into the corridor again. She’d give him the benefit of the doubt, and with any luck he’d prove to her that all his experience counted for something.

He held her trench coat in one hand and clipped his holster with the other as he joined her. “I’ve got the keys,” he said, heading for the elevators. “I’ll drive.”

AT FIVE IN THE MORNING, with minimal city traffic, it took only fifteen minutes to drive from Central to the Eastern District. Still those minutes seemed like an hour for Claudia. She wondered if she should apologize to Monaghan. He’d been silent during the entire drive, and no doubt he’d stay that way unless she spoke first.

She snatched another quick glance at him, as she had throughout the drive, then cleared her throat. “Listen, Gavin, about what I said back in the office…I should probably explain.”

“Hey, you don’t owe me an explanation.” He flashed her a look of apparent understanding. “I’ve been around long enough. I know no one likes being saddled with the new guy until he’s proved himself.”

Claudia felt another twinge of regret. “Actually, that’s not the real reason I objected. Honestly. I know you’re not a rookie. It’s just—”

“No, but you probably think I’m burned-out. Driving the commissioner’s car around for the past year doesn’t exactly give people a lot of confidence in my abilities.”

Studying his chiseled profile in the soft shadows of morning, Claudia had to admit she appreciated his candor.

Gavin slowed the white unmarked Lumina at a red light, double-checked for traffic and accelerated through the intersection. “Look, if it makes you feel better,” he said, “I promise you won’t be stuck picking up after me on this investigation. But there’s something else, right?”

He caught her quick glance this time.

“You can’t escape the rumors,” he continued. “I’m aware that you’ve refused to work with anyone else on the squad since your partner died.”

“You mean since my partner shot himself, don’t you?”

“I was trying to be tactful.”

“Well, if we’re going to be partners, you don’t need tact. Besides, I’ve dealt with it.”

She directed her gaze out the windshield and saw the sign for Boston Street zip past them. “You missed the street,” she said, and Gavin braked. “I guess the Commissioner never had much need to come out to this armpit of the city, hmm?”

She caught the enticing amusement in his glance before he turned the Lumina around. “All I’m saying is I respect the fact that you prefer working alone. It seems to me Gunning is determined to partner us up, but if you’re going to have a problem working with me, perhaps we should speak to him together. I can certainly handle a homicide on my own.”

“Oh right, and you actually believe you’ll get out of working with me that easily? I don’t think so. If you screw up, it’ll be me taking the grief from Sarge.” She wasn’t sure why she said it; she should have welcomed Gavin’s offer to work on his own, to relieve her of playing his shadow on every move in this investigation. Perhaps it was that honesty and candor of his, but for the first time in months, the idea of working with a partner—particularly Gavin Monaghan—was beginning to have appeal. Besides which, as Sarge said, it was time. And what better time to put Frank behind her than on the day of their anniversary. Not to mention the fact that maybe she could learn a thing or two from Gavin.

The north side of the five-hundred block of Boston Street was lined with aging row houses, some boarded up, others literally crumbling to the sidewalk. The south side of the seemingly deserted street was dominated by the old Marmack Bed & Mattress Company, a weather-beaten red-brick warehouse that had been converted, apparently unsuccessfully, into a series of offices. Parked outside the building’s main entrance were a couple of police cruisers, and Claudia realized that in the time it had taken her to argue with Sarge about Gavin, the crime-scene unit had got the jump on them.

Gavin pulled to the curb, and Claudia was out the door before he’d taken the key from the ignition. In moments he was at her side, his long stride keeping easy pace with hers as they headed down the sidewalk to the main doors. She directed another glance at him, half-expecting to find Frank at her side. It felt odd, she thought, responding to a scene with someone else.

And she wasn’t the only one who seemed to think so. The uniformed officer who greeted them at the door—a young rookie she recognized from previous scenes—gave her a quizzical look, obviously surprised to see her with someone.

“Detective Parrish.” His greeting had a questioning lilt.

“Hey, Marty. How’s it going?”

“Good.” He touched the brim of his cap and then eyed Gavin.

“This is Detective Monaghan. He’s in charge.”

“Oh.”

“Can you tell us what we’ve got? Or is it a surprise today?”

“Nah. No surprises. Looks like a shooting,” he said. “Maybe a burglary gone wrong. Who knows? That’s your job, Detective.”

“Do we have a name on our victim?”

“Early-morning cleaning staff found him. They verify it’s James Silver. Runs a PI business.” He pointed to the Silver Investigations sign in the only lit window on the first floor.

Claudia nodded slowly, muttering a thank-you, and started for the doors. James Silver. A numbness came over her. She struggled to cover the reaction, but it didn’t work.

Gavin put a hand on her arm, stopping her in the foyer. “What is it, Claudia? You okay?”

She straightened her shoulders. “Yeah. Of course. I’m fine.”

“Do you know this guy? James Silver?”

She looked down the hall to the sign over the PI’s door.

“Claudia?” he prompted her again.

“Yeah,” she said at last, and headed toward the open doorway. “Yeah, I know him.”