Kitabı oku: «Secret Agent, Secret Father», sayfa 3

Chapter Six

“Why didn’t you tell him?”

“Tell him what?” Jacob asked.

“That you won’t take the morphine he’s bringing back.”

She was right, of course. He couldn’t risk being doped up if trouble started. “For a person who doesn’t know me, you understand me pretty well,” he commented dryly.

“One doesn’t discount the other,” she countered. Her gazed drifted over his face. “You’ve lost weight.”

“Really?” Jacob’s mouth twisted derisively. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Yes, well—”

“I didn’t tell him I didn’t want the morphine because I thought you needed some breathing room,” he lied. “But I agree with your father, Grace.”

“A man you just met.”

“Technically, I’ve just met you, too.”

Her body grew rigid. “You remembered Aspen.”

He’d hurt her with his comment. A vulnerability he could take advantage of, if needed. “I stand corrected.”

“For the record, I agree with my father, too.” At Jacob’s raised eyebrow, she added, “To a certain point. But that doesn’t mean I can do what he wants. We need to get you out of here before he gets back.”

“We?”

“I have to find out what happened last night and you’re my only lead to the answers.”

“I thought I was to have bed rest.”

“I couldn’t risk his overhearing anything else,” she said impatiently. “He would’ve stopped us. You’re not safe here.”

“What if I don’t ever remember, Grace?” When she didn’t answer, he continued, “Why not let the police handle it?”

“They can’t be trusted. Not yet. Not until we find out who killed Helene. Don’t you see?”

“If I remember right, the police are the ones who find murderers.”

Her head snapped up, and what he saw was genuine fear. “Not if they’ve already decided on a suspect.”

“Me.” When he tried to maneuver his feet to the floor, she placed a hand against his good shoulder.

“Please, let me help you. If you move too fast, you could break open the stitching.” Before he could stop them, her fingers drifted across his skin.

He caught her wrist, but this time with gentle fingers. His intent was to stop her, but the action brought her closer.

He caught her scent, breathed it in. Without thought, his thumb skimmed her pulse. When it jumped, his did, too. Slowly, he pulled her toward him until her hand rested against his chest. Her eyes met his and what he saw made him stop. The desire was there, but more than that, he saw panic.

He let her go. “I’m not so weak I can’t put a pair of pants on.”

Pink flushed her cheeks, but from embarrassment or temper, he wasn’t sure.

She stepped back, letting her hands drop to her sides, but not before she made them into fists.

Temper, then.

When she walked to the closet, her actions were fluid, almost regal. And when she yanked open the door, he almost smiled.

She skimmed the hangers with her hand, pulled out a pair of slacks and a sweater. Judging from the high-end material of the charcoal V-neck sweater and the black chino slacks, he wasn’t hurting for money.

“These should do.”

“I guess they will.” When he reached to take the hangers from her, pain exploded in his shoulder. He swore and grabbed at his arm, locking it to his side. “I’m going to need your car.”

She tossed the clothes onto the corner of the bed. “Don’t be stupid. You’re not in any condition to drive.”

He had to give the woman credit; she did snooty with a certain sex appeal.

“You’re going to need someone to get you around.”

Pointedly, he glanced at his gun. “I have a feeling I’m pretty self-sufficient.”

But what he wasn’t was flush. He needed cash.

Money, he knew, would open many more doors. “Did I have a wallet?”

She picked a slim, brown wallet from the dresser and handed it to him. “There’s almost a thousand dollars, a few credit cards and your driver’s license in there.”

Instead of opening the billfold, Jacob laid it on the bed beside him. He’d search through it after she left the room.

“Now, do you want my help dressing?”

“No, I can handle it myself.” He was in no mood to deal with the fluttery touch of her hands against him again.

“There’s a brand-new toothbrush in the bathroom’s medicine cabinet and fresh towels on the rack,” she noted, then walked over and turned on the bathroom light for him. “You’re not strong enough yet to take a shower. And even if you think you are, you can’t risk getting your bandages wet.”

“I’ll manage.” He leaned back against the headboard and studied her through half-closed eyes.

“You didn’t take me to the hospital because I’d be vulnerable.” The fear was back with his statement, tightening her features, only for a heartbeat but long enough for him to see. And understand.

“Running will only protect me for so long. And like your father said, puts you at risk whether you’re with me or not.”

“I told you I want answers. And once your memory returns I’ll get them,” she replied. “And I’m hoping neither of us will need protection.”

“About my other scars.” When her eyebrow lifted in question, he clarified. “You wouldn’t know how I acquired them, would you?”

“No. We were never that close,” she replied evenly. But at what cost, he thought.

“Then why is it that little bits I am remembering seem to revolve around you?” Even without her reaction to him a few minutes prior, his instincts were telling him they’d been intimate. The tightening of his groin, the itch at the base of his spine, told him that if he didn’t watch himself, they just might be again.

“Maybe because I knew Helene.”

“Maybe,” he replied, but he didn’t believe it. “Do you have a picture of her?”

“Yes.” She went to her dresser and slid open the top drawer. After a moment of digging, she pulled out a newspaper photo. She crossed the room and gave it to Jacob. “This was taken the day we opened The Tens. Our bar. Her bar,” she corrected, then sighed. “Actually, I have no idea whose bar it is now.”

“We need to find out,” he decided. “Could be the new owner wanted a premature switching of titles and I got in the way.” He studied the picture. It was a waist-to-head shot. Even with that, Jacob could tell the woman was tall and on the athletic side but not enough to detract from her overall femininity. He glanced at the deep cut of the buttoned jacket with no blouse to ruin the sleek, cool effect of the navy business suit.

One of Helene’s arms was casually looped around Grace’s shoulders. Her hair was a deep red, spiked softly around the sharp angles of her cheeks, emphasizing a long nose, its feminine point.

“Do you recognize her?”

“No,” he said, taking one last look before glancing up. “Can I keep this?”

When she nodded, he placed it by his wallet.

“Do you need help to the bathroom?”

He contemplated the wide span of hardwood floor between him and the bathroom door. “I can manage,” he said and hoped he was right.

“Then I’ll make you some toast. And some coffee.” She turned to leave.

He waited until she reached the door. “Grace. Were you telling the truth earlier? Are you absolutely sure I didn’t kill Helene?”

She hesitated for a moment, her hand clenched on the doorknob. “I’m not absolutely sure of anything. Least of all, you.”

JACOB COULDN’T SAY he felt better, but he felt more human after cleaning up and putting on clean clothes. The itch was off his skin and his stomach had settled. His shoulder and head still throbbed, but he managed to find some aspirin in her cabinet. He’d found a razor and new blades also, but decided against a shave. No use causing more damage with a shaky hand.

Like the bedroom, the bath had a decidedly feminine appeal. The combination hardwood floor and bead-board paneling presented a casual coziness that was only emphasized by a pedestal sink, distressed vanity and an eclectic collection of candles.

Curious, Jacob grabbed the shampoo from the corner of the bathtub. He took a whiff, then read the bottle. Honeysuckle.

A small mystery solved.

For the first time, he simply focused on the facts of his situation and systematically sorted through what he’d learned over the last half hour.

In his mind, he saw flashes of pictures. From parks to fields to coliseums. He couldn’t bring names to mind, or locations. He couldn’t say if he’d been to these locations or merely seen them in photos or on television. They held no connection to him on any level.

The only thing, only person who seemed familiar to him was Grace.

A lead—his only instinctive lead. One he planned on pursuing.

The coffee aroma hit him as he stepped out of the bedroom. “Smells good.”

The neutral colors, the rustic pine floors triggered no memories, but this time he hadn’t expected them to. “How often have I been here?”

“Many times. Too many to count.”

The walk to the kitchen caused his legs to shake. Enough that he was grateful for the stool when he slid onto it.

“Go ahead and have some while I get things together.” She placed a travel mug in front of him, along with a plate with toast. “You liked your coffee black.”

He lifted the mug. “Let’s see if I still do.” When he took a swig, the heat of it punched him in the belly. Enough to make him grunt and draw a slanted look from Grace. “It’s good. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” She grabbed two chocolate chip cookies from a nearby plate.

“So, do you and your father disagree often?”

“No more often than most fathers and daughters.” She came around the counter and leaned a hip against the side. “I turned on the news while you were getting dressed and checked my computer. The shooting wasn’t mentioned on either.”

“You just changed the subject.”

“You noticed.” She took a bite of her cookie, chewed, then waved the remaining piece like a pointer. “Helene’s death should have made the morning news.”

“A murder would be hard to keep out of the press,” he reasoned, even as a cookie crumb settled on her cheek, distracting him. “But the police have done it before.”

Giving in to the urge, he leaned in and brushed the crumb away with the pad of his thumb. But instead of keeping the touch light, the gesture simple, he found himself cupping her face in his palm—told himself that he was only searching for memories. Answers.

“Jacob—”

“Shh.” His thumb stopped her mouth, midmotion, leaving her lips slightly parted. He slipped between to the warm smooth touch of her teeth, felt her intake of breath rush over his skin—

The doorbell sounded, jolting them both apart.

Jacob swore, low and mean. His body went rigid, his hand already reaching for the gun in his back waistband. “Your father?”

“He wouldn’t ring the bell,” she answered, trying to get her heart back down from her throat. Not from the interruption but from the realization that in another minute, probably less if she were honest, she’d have been in Jacob’s arms.

“Is your car out front?”

“Yes. It’s parked under my carport.”

“Then you’d better answer.” Jacob’s face turned cold, almost savage. The fact he reached for his gun only fed her trepidation.

“Leave my plate. It will look like you’re eating breakfast alone. I’ll wait in the bedroom,” he whispered while he checked his clip. “But I’ll be watching, so no worries.” This time when he cupped her cheek, it was for reassurance. “You’ll be okay. Just stay calm.”

After Jacob disappeared into the bedroom, she walked slowly to the front door.

A second chime rang out just as she peered through the peephole. Two men stood on her front porch, both dressed in navy-blue suits, both holding badges in their hand. The law enforcement insignias glared in the sunlight.

“Who is it?”

“Annapolis Police, Miss Renne. We need to speak with you.”

Her hand tightened reflexively on the knob. She glanced at the closed bedroom, unlocked the dead bolt and opened the front door. “Can I help you?”

“Miss Renne?” At her nod, the thinner of the two, a nearly bald man with a flat face and heavy eyelids, stepped forward.

“I’m Detective Webber.” He pointed to his partner, a man with steroid-typical muscles packed into a tailored suit and crisp, white shirt. “This is Detective Sweeney. We’re both with the Annapolis Police. Homicide Division.”

“How are you, Miss Renne?” Sweeney’s smile was a grim line but it was his gaze that drew her attention. Gray eyes studied her from under two rather thick eyebrows, before shifting past her shoulder to sweep the room behind her.

Grace resisted the urge to shut the door. “Fine, but uncertain how I can help you, Detective.”

First one, then the other flipped his badge closed and pocketed it. “Can we talk to you about Helene Garrett?” Sweeney asked, his gaze back on hers.

“My bar manager called me earlier about her death and I’m really not up to answering any questions just now.”

“You mean your ex-manager, don’t you?” Sweeney placed his foot in the doorway. “It’s either here or downtown, Miss Renne. Your choice,” he advised. His tone, while professional, left her with no alternative but to believe him. “We have a murderer on the loose. What happened to your friend wasn’t a robbery or an accident. And I’m sure you would want her killer caught as soon as possible.”

“Of course, I do.”

“The longer we wait, the less chance we have of catching him.” Sweeney pushed against the door with his knee with just enough pressure to emphasize his point—if she wanted them to get physical, they would.

“All right, gentlemen.” Grace released the door, allowing the two men to enter. She led them to the middle of the room, but didn’t offer them a seat. “How can I help you?”

“You can start by telling us where you were last night at approximately eleven o’clock.” Webber fished under his suit and pulled out a notebook and pen.

“I was here baking cookies.” She gestured to the plate on the counter.

Neither man glanced over. “Was anyone here with you?” Webber continued.

“I’m afraid not.”

“Did Helene Garrett have any enemies? Anyone who might have wanted her dead?” Sweeney asked. Once again those gray eyes skimmed the room, touching on the closed bedroom door before moving over to the window and back to Grace.

Grace shifted until she blocked his line of sight. “No one that I know of.”

“How about her friends?” Webber remarked, his frustration breaking through. “Do you know anyone who was close enough to Miss Garrett to give some insight into the last few days of her life?”

“Helene didn’t have friends, she had business acquaintances. Too many for me to know.”

“You mean to tell us that after three years of being partners, you have no idea how Helene Garrett conducted her life? Who she associated with? Can’t make a guess at who could have killed her?”

Grace hesitated.

Are you absolutely sure I didn’t kill Helene?

No.

She put her hands in her sweatshirt pouch and pressed her palms against her stomach. She felt the weight of her baby against the burden of her decision.

The police would do their best to keep her safe. But she understood deep down that their best would not be good enough.

“I’m telling you exactly that, Detective Webber,” she said. “Helene was a private person. She didn’t share much about herself with anyone. And I wasn’t her only partner. Her capital was tied into many business ventures.”

“We’re finding that out,” Sweeney admitted wryly. “You recently sold your half of the club to her, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Did you know the new owner is Jacob Lomax? He was one of those business acquaintances you mentioned earlier.” The shock of Sweeney’s statement nearly shattered her rigid hold. But then Webber smiled with venom and Grace’s nervousness gave way to anger.

“No, I didn’t know Mr. Lomax was the new owner, but I’m not surprised.”

“How well did you know him?”

“Not very well at all. In fact, I didn’t remember him until you just mentioned his name. I met him briefly, about eight months ago, but shared no more than a handshake.” Grace and Jacob had kept their affair private. But if the police dug deep enough, they would discover the truth.

“Even if I had known, it wouldn’t have mattered.” She nodded at the boxes in the living room. “As you can see, I’m moving. Out of state, actually. And I didn’t want to manage a business long-distance. Helene understood that.”

“Can I ask why you are moving?” Sweeney walked over to the nearest box and lifted the flap.

Grace swallowed a nasty comment about minding his own business. “A change of climate.”

“When was last time you saw her?” Sweeney asked, before returning. He glanced over to the counter, took in the breakfast dishes.

Another lie was there on the tip of her tongue. But too many people could have known about their meeting the day before. “Yesterday at the bistro down on Main. We had lunch together. A farewell of sorts.”

“Do you mind?” He nodded toward the cookies.

“Not at all.”

“Thanks.” Sweeney helped himself to a cookie, took a bite and nodded his approval. “You and Miss Garrett parted on good terms?”

“Yes, we did.” The hair prickled at her nape. There was no doubt in her mind that Jacob was observing her conversation with the detectives. “Is that all, gentlemen?”

“For now.” Sweeney finished his cookie in one more bite, then reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a business card. “If you think of anything else that might help us, please contact me.”

Grace didn’t take the card from him fast enough and it dropped between them. Sweeney bent down to retrieve it and paused, his eyes on the hardwood floor. “Miss Renne, did I mention that Helene Garrett managed to shoot her killer just before she died?”

“No, Detective. You didn’t. But I don’t see how that—”

“There are bloodstains on your floor.”

Grace followed his line of vision. More than a few red streaks smeared the varnished cherrywood. Marks she’d missed in her hasty cleanup the night before. “Those are mine. I cut my foot yesterday on some broken glass. I must have missed a few spots when I cleaned up.”

Sweeney automatically looked at her bare feet. “There’s no bandage.”

“It was a small cut.” Her chin lifted. “I’m not going to show you the bottom of my feet, Detective.”

“She’s lying,” Webber inserted, obviously pleased by the prospect. He shoved his notebook back into his pocket.

Indignation worked its way into her words. “You honestly cannot think that I’m somehow involved in Helene’s death—”

“You’re right, I don’t.” Sweeney stood, scuffed the stains with his foot. “Where is he?”

Webber took a threatening step toward Grace. Out of sheer willpower, she stood her ground.

“Where is who?”

The blow came from out of nowhere. Pain ripped through her cheek, burst behind her eyes. She staggered back, just managing to keep herself from hitting the floor.

“My partner is much more polite than I am,” Webber warned. “Where is Jacob Lomax?”

Grace straightened, her legs shaking. She could taste blood on her lip, but her hand automatically went to her belly. “I told you I haven’t seen the man in months.”

When Webber raised his fist again, a gun exploded from behind Grace. Screaming, the big man doubled over, one meaty hand wrapped around the other. Blood oozed through his fingers and dripped to the floor.

“Move, Grace.” The words came low and mean. Grace automatically stepped out of reach, giving Jacob an unobstructed view of the two men.

“Looking for me?” With one shoulder against the doorsill, Jacob shifted his 9 mm slightly until it pointed at Sweeney. Jacob’s face hardened into savage lines.

Slowly, Sweeney raised his arms away from his sides, but shock flickered across his face before he masked it. “I am if you’re Lomax.”

“That’s what I hear.”

“You son of a bitch,” Webber wheezed. He slumped to his knees and cradled his injured hand to his chest. “You just shot a police officer.”

Jacob let out a derisive snort, ignoring Webber’s gasps of pain. “Most cops don’t hit potential female witnesses. Or wear suits that cost more than a year’s salary.”

Sweat broke out on Jacob’s forehead. Grace could see the tremors in his left hand and understood he wouldn’t stay standing very long.

He tilted his gun, just a bit to put Sweeney’s chest in his crosshairs. “Want to try telling me who you both really are?”

“We work for a private investor that is extremely interested in your relationship with Helene Garrett,” Sweeney answered, cautious.

“And this is how you get your information?” Jacob mocked. Out of his peripheral vision, he caught Grace wiping the blood from her lip. Rage strained against reason, pushing the limit of his control. “I think you boys need to work on your approach.”

With a growl, Webber grabbed for his gun. Jacob fired and Webber stumbled back. Blood flooded from the man’s neck. He struggled, groping the wound with his hands even as he crumpled choking on his own blood.

Sweeney charged Grace. Reacting swiftly, she slid on her hip, taking out his legs and toppled Sweeney like a bowling pin.

Jacob slammed his pistol into Sweeney’s head, knocking him out cold. “Let’s see how you like headaches,” he murmured, then dropped to his knees, shaking.