Книга - The Man Behind The Badge

The Man Behind The Badge
Dawn Stewardson






Sworn to Protect

Celeste Langley may be the NYPD’s prime suspect in her brother’s murder, but Detective Travis Quinn is convinced she didn’t do it. She’s too kind and warmhearted…and his feelings for her are far too strong.

But before they can have any kind of future, Travis must keep Celeste safe. First from the very system he has sworn to uphold, and then from a cold-blooded murderer who has marked Celeste as his next victim. Now the safest place for her to be is in the shelter of Travis’s arms.…


Dear Reader,

Home, family, community and love. These are the values we cherish most in our lives—the ideals that ground us, comfort us, move us. They certainly provide the perfect inspiration around which to build a romance collection that will touch the heart.

And so we are thrilled to offer you the Harlequin Heartwarming series. Each of these special stories is a wholesome, heartfelt romance imbued with the traditional values so important to you. They are books you can share proudly with friends and family. And the authors featured in this collection are some of the most talented storytellers writing today, including favorites such as Roz Denny Fox, Amy Knupp and Mary Anne Wilson. We’ve selected these stories especially for you based on their overriding qualities of emotion and tenderness, and they center around your favorite themes—children, weddings, second chances, the reunion of families, the quest to find a true home and, of course, sweet romance.

So curl up in your favorite chair, relax and prepare for a heartwarming reading experience!

Sincerely,

The Editors


DAWN STEWARDSON

After spending most of her life in Toronto, Ontario, Dawn has lived for the past ten years in Victoria, on Vancouver Island, with her husband, John, and their two large dogs. They all enjoy the mild climate, the ocean, hiking in the mountains and the city’s huge assortment of wonderful restaurants. (The humans enjoy those in person, the dogs via doggie bags.)


The Shelter of His Arms

Dawn Stewardson






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


With special thanks to fellow authors

Linda Markowiak and Judith Arnold

for sharing their expertise.

To John, always


Contents

CHAPTER ONE (#u46ba1b21-2968-5b28-bd6f-4476173ffc09)

CHAPTER TWO (#u54ab63b1-4619-5d08-8f5e-b8a60a9b0268)

CHAPTER THREE (#uf5bbdcf2-0356-59ab-9221-8831dc8aeb81)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u627dec99-c4a4-5cfc-8052-cda08cab328a)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE

Sunday, October 3, 8:03 p.m.

THE UPPER EAST SIDE is arguably the best neighborhood in Manhattan and the old building was elegant—not the sort of place that would routinely have a crime-scene van and blue-and-whites sitting outside the entrance.

Travis parked behind one of the cruisers, then he and Hank climbed out into the gathering dusk and headed up the front steps.

“Homicide.” He flashed his detective’s shield at the officer guarding the door.

“Top floor,” she told them. “Apartment 507.”

As they passed the double row of entrance buzzers, he noted the gray residue of powder that said the buzzers had been dusted for prints.

Given the time elapsed, there wasn’t much hope anything useful would come of it, but he was glad the crime-scene techs were being thorough.

On five, another uniform was posted outside 507. Yellow police tape secured the hallway in front of both it and the adjacent apartment.

“What’s with the second apartment, Officer?” Travis asked, showing his badge again.

“It’s actually one apartment with an adjoining office. The victim was a psychiatrist.”

Travis nodded. “What else do we know?”

“Name was Steve Parker. Lived alone. Divorced, according to the next-door neighbor. And it looks like he was shot sometime yesterday.”

“Nobody heard anything?” Hank asked.

“Well, our people are questioning the other occupants, but nobody called in a shooting. And in a building like this, if someone heard shots... I’d say the perp used a silencer.”

“I’d say you’re probably right,” Travis agreed. “How about the doors? Any sign of forced entry?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Who discovered the body?”

“The building manager. He had an appointment to see the vic about some repairs. And when Parker didn’t answer his door...”

Travis nodded. “We’ll want to talk to him, but we’ll have a look inside first. The medical examiner arrived yet?”

“Uh-huh. Ten minutes ago.”

When the officer turned to open the door, an all-too-familiar feeling of uneasiness crawled up Travis’s spine. Even after four years in Homicide, walking in on a murder scene hadn’t become routine to him. Each was different, and you never knew just how grisly any particular one would be.

This didn’t seem too bad, he saw, relaxing a little as they stepped into the apartment. Nothing gruesome. Not at first glance, anyway.

A large, expensively furnished living room lay beyond the foyer—the body of a white, middle-aged man sprawled on the floor. Rob Gentry, an M.E. Travis and Hank had crossed paths with several times before, stood over it, making notes. A couple of the tech team members were methodically working away in the room. The others would be scattered throughout the rest of the apartment.

Hank closed the door; Gentry looked over and nodded a greeting.

Travis nodded back, breathing shallowly as he pulled on a pair of latex gloves. At his very first homicide, the coppery smell of drying blood had made him throw up. Since then, he’d been more careful.

“I hear he was a psychiatrist,” he said to Gentry.

“Right. In private practice. His office area is through there,” he added, gesturing in the direction of a hall that ran off the far corner of the living room.

“Forty-five years old, according to his driver’s license.” This time, Gentry gestured toward the coffee table. Its surface was clear except for a drugstore photo envelope sitting at one end and a wallet at the other.

“Wallet was in his bedroom,” he said as Travis focused on it. “One of the techs brought it out.”

The M.E. turned toward the body again and continued giving them details. “Killed last night between about nine and midnight. Four .38-caliber wounds to the chest from close range. Died almost instantly. Nothing indicates he was trying to defend himself.”

“So he probably knew the killer. Had no concern about letting him in, then got taken by surprise.”

“That’s how I read it. Oh, and from the angle of the entry wounds I’d say the perp was quite a bit shorter than Parker. Probably not more than five-seven or -eight.”

“Possibly female, then,” Travis said to Hank. “That could explain why the vic was taken by surprise.”

He nodded. “A .38’s a lady’s gun.”

“By the way,” Gentry said, “there’s a contact-in-emergency card in his wallet.”

Travis picked up the wallet, flipped through it and removed the card.

Originally, “Adele Langley” and “Mother” had been printed on the next-of-kin and relationship lines. That information had been scratched through and replaced with “Celeste Langley” and “Sister.” The phone number had been changed, as well.

Absently, he wondered whether the mother had died or if Parker had just decided the sister would make a better contact.

“Langley, not Parker,” Hank said, peering at the card. “Mother must have remarried before she had the daughter.”

“Hey, you should be a detective,” Travis told him.

He grinned. “Yeah, well, guess we’d better send a uniform to the sister’s and let her know what’s happened. Give me that number and I’ll get an address to go with it.”

As Hank took his cell phone from his pocket, Travis handed him the card. Then he walked over to one of the techs and asked if they’d come across an address book.

“Uh-huh. There’s one in the end table.”

“Good. If it hasn’t already been checked for prints would you mind doing that right away? I’d like to take it with me. And there’s got to be an appointment book in the office. Same thing with it. Oh, and if there’s a Rolodex, it, too.”

“Sure.”

“Thanks.”

He’d have to call Parker’s Monday appointments and cancel them, then get one of the support staff to do the same for the rest of the week.

The apartment would remain a restricted crime scene until they were sure they had everything they needed. And he didn’t want any patients showing up, expecting a session, and finding yellow tape and an officer outside the door.

After glancing around the room and seeing nothing else that grabbed his attention, he headed back across to the coffee table and picked up the photo envelope. The label on it was dated a year ago; the snapshots looked as if they were from a family gathering of some sort.

On the back of each picture, in the same neat printing as on the next-of-kin card, were the names of the people in the shot.

There were three of Parker with the same older woman. Printed on them was “Me and Mom.”

After flipping past a few more pictures, Travis paused at one of “Mom” standing beside a much younger woman—an attractive blonde.

“Not bad,” Hank commented, finishing his call and sticking the phone back in his pocket. “But her hair’s too short.”

Travis turned the photo over. It bore the words “Mom and Celeste.”

“The sister,” he said, just as the officer outside the door opened it and called, “Detectives?”

“Yeah?” Hank said.

“Got a minute?”

Through the doorway, Travis could see a second uniform in the hallway—clearly dying to tell them something.

“There’s a guy who’s been staying with a friend in 501,” he began before they’d even stepped out of the apartment. “He came home around ten last night. And when he got off the elevator a woman was in the hall here, hurrying for the stairs. He’d never seen her before, but like I said, he’s only a visitor.”

Travis glanced toward the staircase at the end of the hallway. Few people on the fifth floor of a building would choose the stairs over an elevator. Not unless they were trying to avoid being seen.

“Did your guy have any idea which apartment she’d come from?” Hank was asking.

“No.”

“Would you mind checking that out for us?” Travis said. “See if anyone on this floor had a female visitor last night. And if they did, get an ID and ask what time she left.”

“Sure. But I already know nobody’s home in a few of these apartments.”

“Well, get answers where you can. And if nobody on five can tell you who she was, we’ll want to ask all the occupants about her. How good a description do you have?”

“Not very. The guy only saw her from the back. But he figured she was in her twenties or thirties and...” The officer checked his notebook. “She looked ‘stylish.’ I don’t know how he could tell that from the back, but it’s what he said. She was average height, with short blond hair, and was wearing a gray trench coat. Had a big black purse slung over her shoulder. Or it might have been a briefcase with a strap. He wasn’t sure.”

Travis barely registered the last sentence. His mind had caught on the “short blond hair.” He turned to Hank, reading his own thoughts in his partner’s eyes.

There were probably half a million young women with short blond hair in New York City. Even so, instead of sending a uniform to notify the sister they’d go themselves.

* * *

CELESTE REREAD THE SENTENCE a third time. There was something decidedly awkward about it, but she couldn’t quite figure out how to fix it. Finally, she gave up and set her pencil down on top of the manuscript.

She just hadn’t been working up to speed lately—a serious problem when publishers always wanted a fast turnaround. However, past nine-thirty at night was definitely time to give up.

After switching off the desk lamp, she wandered from the spare bedroom she used as her office to the living room and stood staring down at the street, wondering how long it would be until she began to feel human once more.

Months yet, her friends had warned her. Probably a year before she was her old self again. She’d been close to her mother, so she couldn’t expect to just bounce right back to normal.

Aunt Nancy had even suggested grief counseling, but that simply wasn’t her. She’d always coped with her problems on her own.

Telling herself that things could only get better, she absently watched a black Mustang pull up in the No Standing zone outside her building’s entrance.

The two men who climbed out were both tall, dark...and, yes, she’d give both of them handsome, too. They were somewhere in their thirties, and the driver put her in mind of Alec Baldwin.

That thought had barely formed before she recalled how annoyed her estranged husband used to get when she’d say that someone reminded her of a movie star. Bryce had always told her comparisons like that were stupid.

Of course, he’d thought a lot of things she did were stupid. Particularly toward the end.

As she looked down at the street again, to where the two men stood talking in front of the car, Snoops leaped onto the window seat and arched his back, demanding attention.

When she picked the cat up and cuddled him, he nuzzled his cold nose against her neck—his version of a kiss.

“Thanks, little guy,” she murmured. “I needed that.”

* * *

TRAVIS AND HANK had almost reached the stairs of the stately old brownstone when Travis decided the element of surprise would be a good idea. If they could simply knock on Celeste Langley’s door, without giving her any advance warning...

“Let’s wait outside a few minutes,” he suggested. “See if we can get in without pressing her buzzer.”

“Exactly what I was thinking,” Hank said.

That was hardly a news flash. Hank was three years older than Travis and had been in Homicide longer. But they’d been partners for long enough that they generally thought alike—which was exactly what they’d been doing tonight.

During the drive over from Parker’s apartment, they’d agreed there wasn’t much chance his sister was their killer. Aside from anything else, they never caught the cases that were easily solved.

And even if Langley had been visiting her brother last night, it hardly proved she was a murderer. Parker could well have been alive when she left.

Still, you never knew what the element of surprise would produce.

“I’d say we just got lucky,” Hank said as a teenager came along and started up the steps with keys in his hand.

“Excuse me?” Travis said. “NYPD detectives,” he added, showing his badge when the kid turned toward them. “You mind letting us in?”

“I...” He glanced nervously at the gold shield, then shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”

They took the stairs and headed along the hall to 304, Travis not looking forward to what lay ahead. Informing the next of kin was never a fun job, so they took turns with the ones they did themselves. And this one belonged to him.

Hank knocked on the door, then held his badge up toward the peephole when they heard a faint noise from inside. “Police detectives, Ms. Langley.”

“How did you get in?”

“Someone coming home.”

“Do you have other identification?”

She was, Travis thought as Hank produced his photo ID, a typically suspicious New Yorker—which wasn’t a bad thing to be.

A couple of locks clicked, then the door opened and Celeste Langley gazed warily out at them.

The snapshot hadn’t done her justice. In living color, her eyes were the deep blue of sapphires. Her mouth was positively lush, and while in the picture she’d been wearing a tailored suit, tonight she had on a dark silk shirt and slacks that revealed slim curves.

Reminding himself why they were here, he said, “I’m Detective Ballantyne’s partner, Ms. Langley. Detective Travis Quinn. May we come in? We need to talk to you.”

For a moment he thought she was going to ask what this was about, then she simply stepped backward and ushered them inside.

Travis closed the door and followed her and Hank into the living room—wishing he were just about anywhere else. He knew she was assuming they’d come with bad news. People always did. But that didn’t make delivering it any easier.

He glanced around as they sat down, doing his standard quick assessment. The room, large enough to easily serve as a combined living and dining room, was tastefully decorated with quality furniture. The antique dining room suite was undoubtedly from the 1800s, or even earlier, and he’d guess that the artwork was worth a fair bit.

After taking a second to psyche himself up, he focused on Celeste Langley. “Steve Parker is your brother?”

“Yes...my half brother, actually.” She paused for a beat, then said, “What’s happened to him?”

“I’m afraid he was murdered last night. I’m sorry.”

Her eyes filled with tears, and even though she managed to blink them back she suddenly seemed so fragile that Travis’s heart went out to her.

That wasn’t good, he told himself. He made a point of staying as detached as he could from cases. It went a long way toward helping him maintain his sanity. But, sometimes, keeping his emotions completely in check was tough.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

When Celeste nodded, he could tell she was trying hard not to let her tears escape.

After giving herself a few seconds, she focused on him again and said, “How did it happen?”

“He was shot. In his apartment. If it makes things easier, he died instantly.”

“I...thank you for telling me that. And...who did it? Do you have any idea?”

“Not yet. We were hoping you’d be able to help us with that. Thought you might know if he had any enemies, or if there’s been recent trouble in his life.”

She slowly shook her head. “If Steve was having problems he didn’t mention them to me. We didn’t have the sort of relationship that...we weren’t very close.”

“He’d listed you as his next of kin,” Hank Ballantyne said.

“Well, yes, I’m...I was the closest relative he had in the city. But...” Celeste paused. Even at the best of times, it was hard to explain that she barely knew her own brother.

“Steve’s father was my mother’s first husband,” she continued. “After they’d divorced and she married my father, before I was even born, Steve went to live with his father. So he wasn’t around much while I was growing up. And since he was fifteen years older than me...”

“I understand,” Travis Quinn said, sounding so much as if he truly did that she tried to smile at him.

It didn’t feel like much of a smile, but it was the best she could manage.

Then Hank Ballantyne was saying, “Ms. Langley, it’s possible your brother had a female visitor shortly before he was killed. So just for the sake of elimination, I have to ask if you were in his apartment last night.”

“No. I haven’t been in his apartment since...not since our mother’s birthday, back in March. And I wasn’t anywhere last night. I mean, I was right here. Working.”

“On a Saturday night?”

“Yes. I’m a freelance editor, and I have a deadline looming.”

The detective nodded. “Okay, then getting back to your brother, when was the last time you saw him?”

“A few weeks ago. Our mother died in July, and after her service we decided we wanted to work on building more of a relationship. Neither of us had other siblings, so... Well, we had dinner together around the start of September and were going to make it a monthly date, but now...I...would you excuse me for a minute?”

She pushed herself up and headed to the bathroom, her tears making good their escape before she reached it.

Normally, she wasn’t a crier. Her father had come from stiff-upper-lip English stock, and she’d learned early to conceal her emotions—especially from strangers. But first her mother’s death, and now learning that Steve’s life had been cut short, too...

They might not have been close, but that didn’t mean she’d had no feelings for him. And the thought of someone murdering him had her completely torn up inside.

Leaning against the closed door, she stood with her eyes shut until she’d more or less regained her composure. Once she had, she splashed cold water on her face, wondering whether those detectives figured she was a basket case—then trying not to think she really might be.

Telling herself she was simply into emotional overload, she checked her image in the mirror and combed her fingers through her hair.

She looked as awful as she felt, as if she needed a month’s sleep. But before she could try to get even one night’s she was going to have to finish talking to those detectives.

Squaring her shoulders, she opened the bathroom door and walked back to the living room.

“I’m sorry,” she said, pausing in the doorway. “My self-control is usually better.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Travis Quinn said. “It’s awful news to get hit with. And we won’t bother you anymore while you’re so upset. But if you’d just tell us one more thing?”

She nodded.

“With your mother and brother dying so close in time... Detective Ballantyne and I were wondering if there could be any connection between their deaths. So if you’d just explain how your mother died?”

That was hard to talk about, but she managed to say, “She was struck by a car. On Madison. The driver’d run a light and kept on going after he hit her. As far as I know, they haven’t caught him.”

Both detectives mumbled sympathetic responses, then rose.

“We’ll want to talk to you again,” Travis Quinn said. “Can we reach you here during the day?”

“Usually. Now and then, there’s some reason for me to be at a publisher’s. But I normally work here.”

He nodded, then took a card from his pocket and handed it to her. “My cell phone’s always on. If you think of anything that might help us with your brother’s case, anything at all...”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Of course.”

* * *

“JUST WHAT WE FIGURED,” Travis said after he and Hank had left Celeste Langley’s apartment and were heading down the stairs. “There’s not a chance in the world she’d ever murder anyone.”

“Oh?” His partner shot him a questioning look. “You’re sure about that?”

“You’re not?”

“How tall would you say she is?”

“Five-five? Five-six?”

“Right. Average height. Wearing heels, she’d be maybe five-eight. And don’t forget that Parker let his killer in. It was someone he trusted, someone he’d never have expected to shoot him.”

“It wasn’t her,” Travis said firmly.

Hank shrugged. “I’d have liked a chance to check her closet for a gray trench coat. And a big black purse.”

“A gray trench coat and a big black purse. Oh, yeah, I bet there aren’t more than two or three women in the entire city who’d have both those items.”

“Your sarcasm could use work,” Hank told him. “Besides, our wit said it might have been a briefcase. And an editor would have a briefcase. Right?”

Travis ignored the question, but he was wishing he’d asked Celeste if anyone could corroborate her statement about being at home last night.

It hadn’t been the time or place for that, though. The department didn’t run sensitivity courses so their detectives would inform a woman that her brother had been murdered in one breath and make her feel like a suspect in the next.

Still, he’d sure like to know if she had anyone to back up her alibi.

He waited until they were getting into the car before he said, “You don’t really think she could have done it.”

Hank pulled his door shut, then looked across the front seat. “Well, she’s blond, thirty years old, and I’d say the word stylish fits her. Then we’ve got the mother dying so recently—in an accident. If it turns out that Ms. Langley had anything to gain from those two deaths...”

“Hank, you’re—”

“You know what else I think?”

“What?”

“That you liked her.”

“I didn’t like her!”

“No?” Hank did a poor job of concealing a grin. “Travis, how many people have we interviewed together?”

“I don’t keep count.”

“But it’s got to be thousands, right?”

“Yeah, I guess. And your point is?”

“That I’ve never seen you react to any of them the way you reacted to her.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? How did I react?”

“As if you liked her,” Hank said, no longer even trying to hide his grin.

“I felt sorry for her,” Travis muttered, starting the engine. “That was all.”

“Sure. If you say so.”

Pulling away from the curb, he told himself to just let the subject drop.

Celeste Langley was an attractive woman, no doubt about it. But recognizing that was worlds away from being interested in her.

He wasn’t in the market for a woman. And even if he was, he’d never get involved with a suspect—whether she was an improbable one or not.


CHAPTER TWO

Monday, October 4, 8:36 a.m.

FOR THE TENTH TIME in the past half hour, Celeste picked up the card Travis Quinn had given her and checked the number of his cell phone.

Not that she needed to. By this point, she’d looked at it often enough that she had it memorized. Yet she wasn’t sure she should call him this early. Or even at all.

Normally, she wasn’t indecisive. But she’d had another sleepless night—lying awake unable to stop thinking about Steve and her mother. And it had left her so wrung out that she just couldn’t stop vacillating.

Part of her brain was telling her not to impose on the man. Besides which, she hated the sense that there was no one she could turn to except a virtual stranger. On the other hand, none of her friends would have the answers to her questions.

Bryce would. Or if he didn’t, he could get them.

She forced away those thoughts. Her estranged husband was the last person on earth she’d ask for help. Which really left only one option.

Telling herself she’d make the call brief, she reached for the cordless and pressed in Travis Quinn’s number.

“Quinn,” he answered on the second ring.

After taking a deep breath, she said, “Detective Quinn, it’s Celeste Langley. I hope this isn’t too early to bother you, but—”

“You’re not bothering me and it isn’t too early. What can I do for you?”

There was concern in his deep voice. It made her feel a little less anxious.

“Well, I didn’t think of it while you were here last night, but...I should be doing something about Steve’s death and I’m not sure what.” Oh, man, she was sounding like an imbecile.

“There are the funeral arrangements to look after,” she continued. “And I’ll call the other relatives. But what about his friends?

“I met the ones who came to the service for our mother, and if I had his address book, I’m sure I’d recognize at least some of their names.”

“You don’t have to worry about contacting them. Detective Ballantyne and I will look after it. We have to talk to his friends, anyway—see what they know that might help. But can you recall even one of the names?”

“Yes. Gary Cooper. It stuck in my mind because of the movie star.”

“Good. We’ll start with him and he can tell us who else we should talk to. We’ll inform your brother’s regular patients, as well.”

“And he was seeing a woman. You’ll be sure to contact her?”

There was a momentary pause before Travis Quinn said, “What’s her name?”

“Jill Flores. She was at my mother’s service, too. I should have mentioned her last night when you said you thought Steve had had a female visitor. But my mind just wasn’t working right.”

“No, of course not. You were in shock.”

“I...yes, I guess. But...even if you call the others, don’t you think I should talk to Jill?”

“No, you shouldn’t do anything. Really. Leave it all to us.”

She heard the quiet sound of pages being turned, then Travis Quinn, said, “Yes, she’s in his book. We’ll get to her today. As for the funeral, you could make some tentative arrangements if you feel up to it. But until the autopsy’s been done...”

The autopsy. Her stomach felt queasy. “When will that be?” she made herself ask.

“I’m afraid I don’t know. Not for at least a few days, maybe even a week or so. Things are always backed up.”

She closed her eyes, but that didn’t stop her from imagining Steve’s body lying inside a drawer in a cold, impersonal morgue.

“Ms. Langley?” Travis Quinn said when the silence lengthened. “Was there anything else you wanted to ask about?”

If there had been, the questions had entirely escaped from her head, so she said, “No, that was all.”

“Well, as I mentioned last night, we’ll be talking to you again. But if there’s anything else in the meantime, don’t hesitate.”

“Thank you,” she murmured. “Bye.”

“Bye.”

As she clicked off, Snoops turned from watching the sparrows outside and fixed her with a green-eyed stare.

“He seems very nice,” she told him.

* * *

THE ICE MAN started the file printing, then let his thoughts drift back to last night’s conversation.

“Hello. I got your number from Giovanni,” the caller had said. “I was looking for...an exterminator. He told me you’re one of the best.”

“I’m the best.” He smiled, liking that he’d had the chance to use that line again. It was a good one.

“Ah, I see,” his caller had continued. “And he said you aren’t too expensive.”

“Depends on how tough the job is.”

“It shouldn’t be hard.”

“Well, you tell me who and I’ll check things out. Call me again. Let’s say tomorrow night. If you like my price we’ll get together.”

“Good. But there’s one other thing. You couldn’t do it just any time at all. I’d have to let you know when.”

“You talking exactly when?”

“No, there’d be a couple of days’ time frame. I just don’t know which days yet.”

“Okay, not a problem.”

“Fine. Then you want to check out a woman named Celeste Langley. She lives on West Seventy-fourth.”

Celeste Langley. The Ice Man silently repeated the name he’d already grown familiar with, then glanced at the computer screen—thinking that modern technology was making his job easier all the time.

Used to be, he’d sometimes spend days just learning what he needed to know about a target. Now he could find out a lot of it on the internet.

Of course, that meant getting into the right databases. Ones with detailed information about people. And most of them were supposedly restricted. But if you knew what you were doing, privacy was a thing of the past.

He reached for the page his printer was spitting out and skimmed the facts again.

Celeste Langley. Thirty. Born and raised right here in Manhattan. Both parents dead. Separated from her husband. No car. Lived alone and worked out of her apartment.

That was going to bump his price up some.

A job was easier when the target had a regular pattern. Went out to work same time each morning and came home same time each night. Then you could just pick a place along the route.

Someone who worked at home, though... That might mean having to waste her in her apartment, and he didn’t much like inside jobs.

Oh, he did them now and then, but more could go wrong. So maybe he should have a look at her place before he decided on his price.

He glanced at the address again. West Seventy-fourth.

It would be one of those old brownstones. Three stories. Not many apartments in the building. No doorman.

After thinking things over, he decided it shouldn’t present much of a problem. So he wouldn’t bother checking it out just yet. He didn’t like to put too much work into something until he had the money in his pocket.

* * *

IT WAS A FEW MINUTES past four-thirty when Travis and Hank arrived at the NYPD crime labs for their meeting with Saban Mustac—head of the crime-scene team assigned to Dr. Steve Parker’s place.

The techs had finished up early this morning, then he and Hank had done their own search through the apartment.

After that, they’d interviewed some of Parker’s neighbors. They’d also seen Gary Cooper and gotten a list of Parker’s other friends.

Overall, they had a lot to go on now, which had Travis feeling far better about the case.

Most victims know their killers. That was rule number one in Homicide. And since Parker had let his murderer in, the rule undoubtedly applied. So after they finished with Saban, they’d get back to interviewing people. Starting with Jill Flores.

By this point, their team had established that none of the other residents in Parker’s building had had a blond female visitor on Saturday evening. Which left little doubt that their mystery woman had been there to see him. And if Flores fit the description...

Travis glanced at Hank as they stepped onto an elevator, thinking back to Celeste Langley’s call. When he’d told Hank about it, the first thing he’d asked was what Jill Flores looked like. And Travis had been really embarrassed at having to admit he didn’t know.

He should never have forgotten to ask something so basic. And he found the reason he had very unsettling. Because the reason was Celeste Langley.

The instant he’d heard her voice his brain had gone fuzzy around the edges—something he couldn’t recall ever happening with any other woman, let alone one on a suspect list.

The elevator reached six and stopped. As they started down the hall, he began wondering, yet again, whether Hank seriously figured Celeste could be their killer.

Tempted as he was to ask, he didn’t. One round of Hank’s “You like her” routine had been enough.

He hated it when his partner picked up on something faster than he did, which was exactly what had happened in this situation. He’d realized that even before Celeste had called.

After all, if he’d actually merely felt sorry for her last night, he’d hardly have woken up with her on his mind this morning.

When they reached Saban’s cubbyhole of an office, the man was on the phone. He waved them in and cut his call short, then flipped open a folder, muttering, “Let’s see, what have I got for you so far?”

Once he’d glanced at the notes, he focused on them.

“Okay, we lasered the vic for prints and fibers but came up empty. The door handles were nothing but smudges. There were a couple of prints other than Parker’s in the kitchen, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up. My read is that the shooter came in, did his thing and left. Didn’t stay a second longer than he had to.

“We bagged a fair amount of trace evidence from the apartment—including a few hairs that obviously weren’t the vic’s. Plus, there’s everything we vacuumed up. I’ve sent it all for analysis, so now it’s a question of waiting to see what the lab boys make of it.”

“What color are those hairs?” Hank asked.

“Blond.”

“How long?”

Saban glanced at his notes again. “Four to five inches.”

“Longer than your average male’s,” Hank said.

“Uh-huh. And the angles said the perp wasn’t real tall. So maybe the he was a she. You’ve got a female suspect?”

“Two possibles.”

Two. Then Hank did seriously think Celeste might have done it.

Travis checked his watch, telling himself that could well change when they talked to Jill Flores. Hey, maybe they’d really luck out. Maybe, when they told her why they’d come to see her, she’d admit she was their killer.

Of course, that was way too much to realistically hope for. But he and Hank were so overdue for a gimme of a case that you never knew.

* * *

CELESTE SPOONED OUT Snoops’s dinner, then stood gazing into the open fridge, trying to decide what she’d make for herself.

She really had no appetite, but—

Her phone began to ring, delaying the need for a decision. When she picked up, Bryce’s voice greeted her.

She swallowed hard. She had no appetite for talking to him, either.

“Celeste, Nancy called to tell me about Steve. And I just wanted you to know how sorry I am.”

“Thanks,” she murmured, guiltily thinking she should have called him herself. But when Aunt Nancy had offered to do it, she’d gratefully accepted.

She didn’t like phoning Bryce at his office, because since they’d separated, his assistant always managed to make her feel as if she’d picked the worst possible moment.

And she liked calling him at home even less. The few times she’d had to—for one reason or another—his live-in girlfriend had answered.

“You’ve been having a bad time of it lately,” he said.

“It hasn’t been the greatest, but I’m coping.”

“Good. You know...I hadn’t talked to Steve since your mother’s service. And, of course, we were never close. But...something really strange happened on Saturday evening.”

When Bryce paused, she gave him the “Oh?” he was waiting for.

“Donna’s in a play, so she was at the theater,” he continued. “And I was home alone, catching up on some work. And...I got this feeling I just couldn’t shake. One of those vague feelings that something’s wrong, you know?”

“Uh-huh.” Bryce was prone to vague feelings about all sorts of things.

“And something certainly was wrong.”

She realized he expected a comment about his being psychic, but she simply wasn’t in the mood to humor him any further.

“So,” he continued when she said nothing, “you’ll let me know when the service will be?”

“Bryce, you don’t have to come.”

“I feel I should. Unless it would upset you to see me.”

“No, it wouldn’t upset me, but—”

“Good. Then let me know. And if there’s anything I can do in the meantime...”

“Thanks, but I don’t think there will be. I made most of the arrangements today, so it’s just a question of how soon the...”

“Autopsy?” he said.

“Yes,” she murmured, certain she’d never hear that word again without thinking of Steve.

* * *

AS THEY NEARED Jill Flores’s door, Travis suggested that Hank do the talking.

It was easier to concentrate on reactions and body language when you didn’t have to think about the questions you were asking. And if Flores turned out to be blond, he didn’t want to miss a thing.

Hank knocked. A few seconds later, a woman inside the apartment said, “Yes?”

“Ms. Flores? Police detectives.” Hank held his ID up to the peephole.

The door opened—and Travis wondered if they would be lucky this time around.

She was closer to forty than thirty. But their witness had only seen the back of the woman in the hall. And Flores was “stylish,” with short blond hair that was a shade or two darker than Celeste’s.

“May we come in and talk to you?” Hank asked.

“What about?”

“It would be better if we came inside,” he said.

The woman was clearly uneasy, but most people were when a couple of detectives appeared at the door. After another look at Hank’s ID, she led them into the living room.

“We’re here about Steve Parker,” Hank began after they sat down. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but he was murdered on Saturday evening.”

“Oh, no,” she whispered.

Her eyes grew misty as Hank elaborated. When he was done, she murmured, “That’s so awful. Sometimes I wonder why people live in this city.”

After giving her a minute, he took his notebook from his pocket and said, “I’m afraid we have to ask you some questions.”

“Yes. Of course.”

“How long had you been seeing Dr. Parker?”

She hesitated briefly. “You aren’t under the impression that I’ve seen him recently, are you?”

“We’re only aware that you dated him.”

“Yes, I did. But it was from early June until about a month ago. Then we decided things just weren’t working out.”

“I see. And have you had contact with him since?”

“No. We...well, we didn’t see any sense in pretending we were going to remain friends when we wouldn’t. So the end was the end.”

Hank nodded. “What about enemies? Do you know if he had any?”

“If he did, he didn’t tell me about them.”

“And when the two of you called it quits? Did that have anything to do with another woman?”

“No, it was...basically, we’d just come to realize that we didn’t have much in common.”

“And what about another woman since? Were you aware that he was seeing anyone?”

Flores hesitated again before saying, “No. As I told you, there’s been no contact. Not even a phone call.”

“Well, the reason I asked is that we believe he had a female visitor on Saturday evening. Would you have any idea who it could have been? Did he have any women friends who might have just dropped by or—”

“You think a woman killed him?”

“We’d simply like to question his visitor. So, as I said, if you have any idea...”

“I don’t. I’d like to help you, but I really don’t.”

Hank nodded. “I’m sorry I have to ask this, but just for the record, where were you on Saturday evening?”

“I was with a friend,” she said slowly. “A female friend. She came over around seven, we had dinner here, then watched an old video. The English Patient. We’re both Ralph Fiennes fans. And it’s a long movie, so she didn’t leave until after midnight. Do you want more details?”

“No, but I need your friend’s name and number. Again, it’s only for the record.”

“Her name is Rhonda Stirling. And her number is 555-1623.”

Hank jotted that down, then closed his notebook and thanked Flores for her time.

Travis added his own thanks, gave her his card and asked her to call if she thought of anything that might help them.

“Anything at all,” he added before she closed the door.

“What do you think?” he said as he and Hank started down the hall.

“Same as you. Our wit put the blonde in the hall around ten. M.E.’s estimated time of death is between nine and midnight. Flores was watching her video the entire time.”

“You know that’s not what I meant. Do you think she was lying?”

Hank shrugged. “Always a possibility.”

“I’ve got a feeling that either she was or there’s something she held back. And she knew Rhonda Stirling’s number without looking it up. Which probably means they’re pretty good friends.”

“You’re saying good enough that Rhonda might give her a phony alibi?”

“It wouldn’t be a first.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll check it out. But at this point Flores is a whole lot lower on my list than Parker’s sister.”

Travis frowned. He and Hank rarely had different gut reactions to people, and he’d be a whole lot happier if they’d read Celeste Langley the same way. As in, innocent.

They reached the elevators and silently waited—until Hank caught his gaze and said, “I was right last night, wasn’t I. Something about that woman got to you.”

He shook his head. “I told you, I just felt sorry for her.”

Hank eyed him, clearly not buying that. But when he spoke again he simply said, “Good. ’Cuz I’d hate you to start feeling anything more, then discover she’s our perp.”

* * *

A LITTLE BEFORE TEN, Travis and Hank called it a night and started uptown, heading for Manhattan North Homicide so Hank could pick up his truck and get home to Jersey.

He had a house on a couple of acres, not far from Madison. It was a bit of a commute, but he’d bought there because his ex-wife had wanted to live in the “country.” They weren’t there long, though, before Jane left him. Like so many cops’ wives, she just hadn’t been able to take the night work and impossible hours.

They made marriage a risky proposition for a cop, and one Travis intended to continue avoiding—despite his mother’s hints that thirty-three was more than old enough to be settling down.

Turning his thoughts back to their newest case, he began mentally reviewing the evening.

They’d made six stops after leaving Jill Flores and had caught five more people at home. Three of Parker’s friends and two of his long-term patients.

All had professed shock at hearing he’d been murdered. Each had seemed sincerely upset. None had told them anything helpful.

Of course he’d given them all his card, so there was a chance that one of them would think of something useful and get back to him. Or maybe a detail neither he nor Hank had picked up on immediately would fall into place later.

That often happened. One person you questioned said something that eventually came together with what another one told you.

Adding up bits and pieces was how you usually solved homicide cases.

He turned onto East 119th, and as they neared the parking garage, he asked Hank, “What do you want to do in the morning?”

“Sleep in.”

Travis grinned. “I can live with that. How about I see you here at ten?”

“I could probably manage nine-thirty. That would let us talk to a few more people on our Parker list, then spend the afternoon playing catch-up.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Despite the pictures Hollywood painted, big-city homicide detectives didn’t have the luxury of devoting all their time to a single case. He and Hank routinely had more of them on the go than they could reasonably juggle.

They reached the garage and his partner climbed out, then turned to give Travis a tired wave. As he disappeared into the garage, Travis started back downtown.

One of the good things about both living and working in Manhattan was you were never very far from where you were going. Which meant that in mere minutes, barring a traffic crunch, he’d be home.

Just as he was debating whether the first thing he’d have when he got there was a hot shower or a cold beer, his phone rang.

Hoping it wasn’t someone calling about a fresh homicide, he dug the phone from his pocket and answered it.

“Detective Quinn, it’s Celeste Langley again.”

Instantly, he felt the edges of his brain growing fuzzy.

“I’m so sorry to phone this late, but—”

“Don’t worry about it. I barely finished working,” he said, thinking she sounded upset. “In fact, I’m still on my way home.”

“That’s a very long day.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“I...Detective, I just had a call from a man who told me he was one of Steve’s patients.”

Travis felt an icy numbness at the base of his spine, the sensation he always felt when he knew he was hearing something not good.

“He said that you and Detective Ballantyne had been to see him, and—”

“What was his name?”

“Evan Reese.”

Definitely not good. Reese had been seeing Steve Parker five days a week for the past three years, but he was clearly a long way from being cured of whatever his problem was.

Not that Travis figured he was any expert in the field of psychiatry, but it didn’t take Sigmund Freud to recognize a mentally unbalanced person. And his read on Reese was that the man might be dangerous.

“We talked to him a couple of hours ago,” he said, keeping his voice calm. “Why did he phone you?”

“He said he wanted to offer his condolences. But...well, the thing is, the conversation got weird enough to make me nervous.”

Weird. Crap. They were well beyond not good.

“Even so, I wouldn’t be calling except that I simply couldn’t figure out why you’d tell him about me, let alone give him my number. So I decided that if I bothered you for just long enough to get an explanation, I’d sleep a lot better.”

“Ms. Langley...did he say we gave him your number? Or are you only assuming—”

“No. He said you happened to mention Steve had a sister, and that when he told you he’d like to offer me his sympathies you gave him the number.”

“Well, he lied.”

“You mean about your giving him my number? Or do you mean you didn’t even mention me?”

“Not a word.”

“Oh,” she murmured.

Her tone told him he’d just upped her anxiety level.

“Then how did he even know I existed?” she asked.

“Your brother must have talked about you.”

“No, that can’t be it.”

“He wouldn’t have had to say much.”

“But he wouldn’t have said anything. I wasn’t an important part of Steve’s life. I don’t imagine he ever talked about me to anyone, and he’d definitely never have said a word about his personal life to his patients.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. It would have been inappropriate, and one thing I do know about Steve is that he was very professional.”

Okay, if it wasn’t Parker who’d told Reese...

Travis tried to think of another possibility but came up empty—probably because his mind was so closely focused on the fact that since Reese had Celeste Langley’s number he likely had her address, as well.

That thought reminded him he’d forgotten to ask an obvious question, so he said, “Regardless of how Reese knew about you, is your number listed? Could he have gotten it from Information?”

“Uh-uh. It’s unlisted.”

“Then I think we’d better talk some more about this face-to-face. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

“No, wait. Coming here at this time of night would be crazy. I can—”

“Five minutes,” he repeated. “Ten, max. And...” He hesitated.

What would happen if Reese showed up at her place?

He considered the question for a couple of seconds, then decided that when she’d been so cautious about letting him and Hank in last night, she’d never open her door to a stranger. Especially not one like Reese.

And that meant there was no point in warning her not to. It would only make her more upset.

“And what?” she said.

“Nothing. Nothing that can’t wait till I get there.”


CHAPTER THREE

Monday, October 4, 10:23 p.m.

GAZING OUT INTO the night, stroking Snoops’s soft gray fur while she watched for Travis Quinn, Celeste couldn’t help feeling a little dumb for not even considering that Evan Reese might have been lying.

If that possibility had occurred to her, she’d never have bothered Quinn. But she had. And despite her guilt about that, she wasn’t entirely unhappy that he was on his way over.

She was feeling a chilliness that had nothing to do with the room temperature. If Reese hadn’t gotten her number from the detectives, then where?

And how had he even connected her to Steve when their last names were different? Obviously, he’d somehow learned Steve had a sister, but just how had he honed in on her?

While she anxiously watched the street, a car sped down it and pulled to an abrupt stop in front of her building. A black Mustang. The car Travis Quinn had been driving last night.

A sense of relief enveloped her as she watched him climb out. There was something about him that she found extremely reassuring. Something in addition to his being a cop.

In part, she knew, it was simply that he looked like a man accustomed to taking charge. He moved with a fluid confidence, and his features, regular as they were, were decidedly masculine.

But there was more to it than that. And although she hadn’t managed to put her finger on exactly what it was, she’d caught herself wondering about it a dozen times during the day.

All she felt certain of was that it had to do with the way he’d watched her last night. She’d been aware of his eyes on her almost the entire time.

Strangely enough, it hadn’t made her uncomfortable. In fact, it had made her feel as if he was on her side.

Oh, she realized that didn’t make sense. He and his partner had simply come to tell her about Steve. There’d been no question of “sides.” Yet, whether it made sense or not, that was how she’d felt.

She continued gazing down at him until he’d walked halfway up the front steps and disappeared from view. Then she hurried to the entrance hall.

“Hi,” she said, pressing the intercom button after her buzzer sounded.

“It’s me.”

“I know. I was watching for you.”

Once she’d released the downstairs lock, she opened her door so she could wait for him in the doorway. A minute later he strode out of the stairwell and started along the hall toward her.

He was taller than she’d remembered him. And even more attractive. His dark eyes were the color of rich chocolate, and the little laugh lines around them were appealing.

Appealing. Her choice of that particular word surprised her.

Since her marriage had fallen apart, she’d only been aware of good-looking men in the abstract. And thinking in terms of “appealing” was moving from the abstract to the concrete.

Be careful, she warned herself. The last thing she needed was her thoughts wandering along those lines.

“I feel terrible about dragging you over here so late,” she said, gesturing him inside.

“You didn’t drag me—I insisted. And the time doesn’t matter. There’s nobody waiting at home for me, and if I cared about nine-to-five, I wouldn’t be a cop.”

“Well, even so... Can I at least get you something? Coffee? Or soda? I don’t have any beer.”

“Do I look like a beer kind of guy?”

“Aren’t most men?”

He smiled. She smiled back, aware it was the first time she’d felt like smiling all day.

“A cold soda would be nice,” he said.

He trailed along as she headed for the fridge. When she turned to set the cans on the counter he seemed to have completely filled her little galley kitchen with his presence. It made her far more aware of him than she felt comfortable with.

Telling herself a second time to be careful, she reached for the tab on the first can.

“Want me to do that?”

“Sure. I’ll get the glasses.”

By the time she had, he’d opened the sodas. He poured them into the glasses, then followed her into the living room.

“So,” he said as they sat down. “Tell me more about Reese’s call.”

She hesitated, suddenly afraid that once she had he’d think her phoning him had been downright silly.

“You said the conversation got weird,” he prompted.

“Well...yes, it did, although it started out normally enough. I mean, I was surprised when he introduced himself as one of Steve’s patients. But if he’d simply said he was sorry about what had happened, I probably wouldn’t have given his calling a second thought.”

“He said more, though.”

“Yes. First, he got into how awful the timing was for me—with my mother having died so recently.”

“How would he know about that?”

“I assume Steve told him. I know I said he’d never talk about his personal life with a patient, but he canceled some of his appointments after the accident. So, if he canceled one of Reese’s I guess he explained why.”

Travis Quinn nodded for her to continue.

“Initially, he just seemed concerned about me. But then he began getting personal.”

“Saying...?”

“Well, for example, he asked if my father was alive. And when I said that he died a few years ago, Reese said he certainly hoped I had somebody to lean on.

“I suppose that sounds innocent enough when I repeat it, but when he said it...”

“How did you respond?”

“I told him I had some really supportive friends. Then I wondered if, instead of that, I should have said I was in a serious relationship.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

She waited a beat, half expecting him to tell her how he thought she should have handled it. When he didn’t, she said, “At any rate, the next thing he asked was whether I lived alone, and that was when I really began getting nervous.”

“And you said...?”

“That there was no need for him to worry about me. That my building’s very secure and the neighbors all watch out for one another.”

“Your building isn’t bad. Is the part about the neighbors true?”

“Not exactly. The ones I’ve met seem nice enough, but I barely know them. I haven’t lived here long.”

He didn’t ask for more details. However, his expression said he’d like them, so she added, “I left my husband in January and took a sublet while I looked for something permanent. I’ve only been here since June.”

“Ah.” He slowly rubbed his jaw, which drew her attention to his four o’clock shadow and reminded her how long a day he’d had.

“Detective Quinn—”

“Travis,” he said. “Why don’t you call me Travis.”

He hadn’t even spoken all the words before he began wondering what he was doing. He was here because he was a cop, not to get friendly with the woman.

She looked a little surprised, but smiled and said, “Call me Celeste, then.”

Nodding, he told himself he’d only suggested they drop the formality because it felt strange to be sitting here drinking soda with her and calling her Ms. Langley. It had been nothing more than that.

Sure, buddy. Let’s be honest and admit you like her.

The imaginary voice sounded so much like Hank’s it almost made him smile.

Of course, he didn’t know her well enough to really like her yet. But he’d admit to finding her attractive. After all, he’d been admitting that—to himself, at least—since last night.

And the fact that he did was hardly surprising. Her smile was fantastic. And she had a beautiful mouth. Basically, she had a beautiful everything.

It made him curious about what sort of idiot her husband must be—to have given her reason to leave him. But that was not what he should be thinking about.

Scrambling to remember where they’d left off, he said, “So, getting back to Reese, you told him not to worry about you and then...?”

“He said he couldn’t help it. Because... This was what truly scared me. He said the two of us are cosmically connected.”

Travis felt that icy numbness at the base of his spine once more. “Cosmically connected. Did you ask exactly what he meant by that?”

“Uh-huh. And he said part of it was that I was an editor and he was a writer, so we were like two halves of a whole. But, far more significant, I was Steve’s sister. And Steve had been a very important part of his life. Which meant we had to look out for each other. So he’d keep in touch.”

Terrific. Just what she needed.

“Travis, he left me with such a creepy-crawly feeling I didn’t know what to do.”

“Well, you did the right thing by phoning me.”

“Then you don’t think I overreacted?”

“No. In fact, I’ll pay him another visit tomorrow. Make it clear he’s not to contact you again.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh. Reduce fear is one of the mandates in the department’s mission statement.” Not that he was going to worry about reducing Reese’s fear. He’d threaten to hang the guy up by his ears if he ever called her again.

“I’ll get back to you after I’ve talked to him,” he added. “Let you know how it went.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

He pushed himself up, knowing he’d better get out of her apartment—pronto.

Until he and Hank were certain she hadn’t killed her brother, she was a suspect—regardless of whether he believed she could have done it or not. So he had to leave before he did something even more stupid than telling her to call him Travis.

* * *

CELESTE LOCKED HER DOOR, then resisted the temptation to head straight to the window so she could watch Travis as he left the building.

Instead, she sat down with her still half-full glass and asked herself what on earth was going on.

Her life had been heavy on emotional turmoil lately, and until she started feeling a lot closer to normal she’d be crazy to even contemplate getting involved with a man. Yet she couldn’t deny the tug of interest she felt toward this particular one.

Likely, she decided, that was the “something” she’d been trying to put her finger on all day. Last night, she’d been so upset she hadn’t consciously realized she found him attractive. But tonight had been a different story.

After he’d said there was nobody waiting at home for him, the statement had lingered in her mind. And she doubted he routinely asked people he was interviewing to call him Travis.

Snoops skulked into the room and leaped onto her lap, deciding it was safe to come out of hiding now that the company was gone. She began to stroke him, her thoughts turning back to Travis.

She felt immensely better than she had earlier, and that was entirely due to him. She’d told him what was bothering her and he’d come up with a solution. He’d talk to Evan Reese and set things straight.

It had been a while since she’d had someone offer to take care of a problem for her. And clichéd as it might be, she really did feel as if he’d lifted a weight from her shoulders.

Of course, as he’d said, it was part of his job. But even so, she had the distinct sense that he was going above and beyond for her.

I just hope you have somebody you can lean on.

Thinking of Reese’s words again made her wonder if that could be what she was doing with Travis. Was she leaning on him? When he was a virtual stranger? Who’d only come into her life because he was investigating Steve’s murder?

After considering the possibility, she decided she’d better give a lot of thought to exactly why she was attracted to him. Because not doing so could be very dangerous.

* * *

WHEN HIS PHONE rang at seven-thirty Tuesday morning, Travis groaned and pulled his pillow over his ears.

He hadn’t gotten home from Celeste’s until midnight. Then he’d tossed and turned, unable to sleep because visions of her kept wandering through his brain.

That had started him wondering whether someone could have hypnotized him without his knowing—and given him a post-hypnotic suggestion that was keeping her constantly on his mind.

Deciding whoever was calling wasn’t going to give up, he grabbed the phone from the bedside table.

There was a moment’s silence after he answered, then a woman said, “Detective Quinn, this is Jill Flores. You and your partner came to see me yesterday. About Steve Parker.”

“Yes, of course.” He sat up in bed, trying to force away his grogginess. “What can I do for you?”

“First, I should apologize for calling so early. But I wanted to do it before I left for work. I don’t have much privacy on the job.”

“That’s okay.”

She didn’t continue immediately, so he said, “Did you remember something that might help us with the case?”

She cleared her throat. “It wasn’t really something I remembered. I just didn’t mention it yesterday.”

So his sense that she was holding out on them had been right.

“Then I started thinking I’d better tell you,” she added.

“Good. You never know what will prove useful.”

“Yes...well, your partner asked if Steve had been seeing anyone since we broke up. And I said I had no idea, but that wasn’t exactly true.

“A couple of weeks ago, he asked one of my friends out. One he met through me. I only knew about it because she called to check that I wouldn’t mind.

“At any rate, she’s seen him a few times. I didn’t say anything about her last night because she’s the sort of person who’d get upset about being questioned by the police. So since I knew she couldn’t possibly have been involved, I didn’t see the sense in putting her through it.

“But after I’d had time to think, I realized Steve might have said something to her that would give you a lead.”

“I’m glad you reconsidered,” Travis said, grabbing a pad and pencil from the bedside table. “And her name is...?”

“Ah...do you think you could avoid saying that I told you about her?”

“No problem.”

“Thanks. Her name’s Beth Winston. I’ll give you both her office and home numbers.”

He jotted them down, then said, “And she works...?”

“On Wall Street. For a law firm called Mitchell and Conlin. She has her own office, so if you wanted to talk to her there I think it would be all right.”

“Great. And thanks a lot for calling. I really appreciate it. By the way, just out of curiosity, what color is her hair?”

“Oh...about the same shade as mine. Why?”

Another blonde.

Resisting the temptation to ask if Beth owned a gray trench coat and a big black purse, he said, “Oh, it really was just curiosity.”

After saying goodbye, he put down the phone and glanced at the clock. If Beth Winston started work at nine, he had enough time to be there waiting when she arrived.

That would make him late meeting Hank, but he wouldn’t care. Especially not if this woman turned out to be their mystery blonde.

He phoned and left a message for Hank at the precinct, then got the coffee started and headed for the shower.

Barely half an hour later, he was climbing into the Mustang. Not many detectives drove their own cars on duty, but he’d had enough bad experiences with ones from the pool that he always did.

Despite the morning traffic, he arrived at the offices of Mitchell and Conlin before nine. Even so, Beth Winston had beaten him there.

“Is she expecting you?” the receptionist asked.

“No.”

“And your name?”

“Travis Quinn,” he told her, thinking he’d only say he was a police detective if he had to.

Since Beth Winston was the type of person who’d get upset at being questioned by the police, she’d probably get even more upset if her coworkers knew about it.

The receptionist didn’t press him. She just buzzed Beth, then directed him to her office.

When he reached its open door, the woman behind the desk said, “Travis Quinn? Should I know the name?”

“No.”

He handed her his card, then appraised her as she eyed it.

Maybe thirty-five and definitely “stylish.” She might well be their woman. And there was a gray trench coat hanging on the coatrack in the corner. Seeing it started his hopes climbing.

When she looked at him again, he decided Jill Flores had been right. He hadn’t asked a single question yet, and Beth Winston already seemed upset.

“Would you like me to close the door?” he said.

“Please.”

Once he had, she gestured for him to sit down and said, “I assume this has to do with Steve Parker.”

“You’ve heard, then.”

“Yes. One of his friends called me last night.”

“I understand you were seeing him.”

“I’d been out with him three times. And I...” She paused and shook her head. “I could easily have been with him on Saturday. He asked me to a movie, but I already had plans.

“My sister moved away from New York last year, and she was coming home for a week. So I’d asked a few of her friends over.”

“To your place, you mean.”

“Yes. Just an after-dinner thing. Drinks and catching up. You know.”

He nodded.

She had an alibi. He’d check it out, of course, but she was probably telling the truth.

“Except for that...” she said.

“You would have been with Steve Parker.”

“Yes. I can’t quite get over it.” She nervously drummed the surface of her desk for a couple of seconds, then murmured, “What time was he killed?”

“Sometime between nine and midnight.”

“Then if I’d been with him he’d still be alive. We’d have gone someplace after the show.” She shook her head, looking close to tears.

“I liked him,” she said at last. “It’s very sad.”

“Yes. It is. And I’m sorry I have to make you talk about it, but I need to ask a few more questions. Have you ever been in his apartment?”

“Only once. And just briefly. We stopped by because he had to get something.”

But she had been in it. So those blond hairs the techs bagged might be hers rather than the killer’s.

“Is there anything you can tell me that might help with the case?” he said. “Was Dr. Parker having problems with anyone? Did he ever say something was bothering him? Anything at all?”

Watching her slowly shake her head again, Travis wondered how many dead ends he’d hit since he’d earned his shield. But there was no value in dwelling on that.

* * *

TRAVIS TURNED into the Manhattan North Precinct’s parking garage and began watching for a space. After he found one, he headed inside.

Hank looked up from his desk as he approached and said, “What’s been happening?”

“Jill Flores called me first thing—to tell me she actually did know who Parker’d been seeing lately. So I paid the woman a visit.”

“And?”

“She turned out to be a blonde with a gray trench coat. But she has a solid alibi for the time of the murder. I got the names of the people she claimed she was with and called a few of them on my way here.”

“And aside from that? She have any ideas for us?”

“Nada.”

Hank’s shrug said You can’t win ’em all. “So, what do you want to do now?” he asked.

Show time. Travis didn’t want to tell his partner about going to Celeste’s place, but he had to. “We’ve got to talk to Evan Reese again,” he began.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I had a call from Celeste Langley last night. Just after you headed home.”

Once he’d elaborated, Hank said, “You figure that was a smart move? Going to see her without me?”

“What should I have done? Called and told you to turn around and meet me there?”

“No,” Hank said slowly. “But you could have just gotten the details over the phone.”

“We know Reese is a nut bar. And he scared the devil out of her.”

Hank shrugged again.

“So I stopped by. Her apartment was practically on my way home, anyhow. You’ve got a problem with that?” he added when Hank said nothing.

“How long did we work yesterday? Twelve hours? Thirteen?”

“More or less.”

“Well, if anyone else had called at that point, I doubt you’d have headed right on over just because she was scared.”

“I might have.”

“Travis...man, I could say a lot of things you already know. But only one of them really matters. That woman is our prime suspect.”

“She’s your prime suspect.”

“And who’s yours?”

“I’m not there yet.”

After a moment’s silence, Hank said, “Hey, buddy, you realize you’re not acting like yourself, don’t you? It’s as if you met Celeste Langley and something short-circuited in your brain.”

Ignoring that, he said, “Let’s go.”

Hank shook his head. “There’s no point in both of us wasting our time with Reese.”

He bit his tongue to keep from saying he didn’t consider it a waste of time.

“So why don’t I take care of some other stuff while you go talk to him. We can start in on the rest of the people on our Parker list later.”

“Yeah. Why not. Good idea.”

Travis turned and started away, unable to stop himself from thinking about what Hank had just said—and worrying that he was right.

Scientifically improbable as it might be, maybe meeting Celeste Langley really had short-circuited something in his brain.

What else would explain why he couldn’t stop thinking about her for more than two seconds straight?


CHAPTER FOUR

Tuesday, October 5, 11:31 a.m.

EVAN REESE LIVED on the Upper East Side, in an apartment not far from Steve Parker’s, which meant that by driving through Central Park Travis made the trip from Reese’s to West Seventy-fourth in only a few minutes.

Even so, by the time he reached Celeste’s block he’d told himself twelve dozen times that he shouldn’t be going to her place. He could keep his promise to “get back to her” simply by phoning.

Of course, the problem with that was he wouldn’t get to see her. And he wanted to—despite knowing it was a bad idea.

He shook his head, thinking how his sister was forever telling him that sooner or later he’d meet a woman who’d knock him off his feet. And that the longer it took, the harder he’d fall.

His response was always just to laugh, yet now he was wondering if she’d been giving him a female version of Hank’s short-circuit theory.

Maybe so. But regardless of anybody’s theory, he knew that if he was smart he wouldn’t go near Celeste again without Hank along. Not until they’d established who killed her brother.

After that, he could see as much of her as he liked. Assuming he was still interested. However, until then...

He almost managed to make himself drive straight past her building. He would have, except for the empty parking space directly across the street. In Manhattan, if that wasn’t an omen he didn’t know what would be.

He wheeled into it, cut the ignition and got out of the car—glancing up at her living room window, half expecting to see her standing there.

She wasn’t, but she was home. And just the sound of her voice, when she responded to his buzz, was enough to make his pulse skip.

Telling himself he was here on police business, he started up the stairs to the third floor.

She was waiting for him in the doorway again, wearing a pale yellow sweater and jeans.

As absurd as it might be, the mere sight of her warmed him. Then she smiled and his temperature rose another couple of degrees.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi. I’ve been to see Evan Reese, so I figured I’d stop by for a minute.”

“I’m glad you did.”

As he passed her on his way into the apartment, he caught the faint scent of her perfume. It put him in mind of a sultry summer night—which did absolutely nothing to cool him down.

“Coffee?” she asked, gesturing him toward the living room.

“No, thanks. I won’t stay long. I just wanted to tell you about Reese face-to-face, because...”

He paused, gathering his thoughts. There was a fine line between warning someone to be careful and scaring the wits out of her.

“Because?” she prompted.

“Because he told me it never even occurred to him that he’d make you nervous by calling. And that since he had, he wouldn’t do it again. But I don’t think you should count on it.”

“Ah. And is he...should I be seriously worried about him?”

“It’s hard to know. He lied when I asked why he’d told you we gave him your number. So we obviously can’t believe anything he says.”

“What was his story?”

“That he didn’t say a word about how he’d gotten it.”

“He did.”

“I know. But that’s not what he said this morning. He claimed he simply got it from Information.”

“Did you tell him it’s unlisted?”

“Uh-huh. He just shrugged and said they must have given it out by mistake.”

“Is that possible?”

“It’s very unlikely. And...look, he didn’t mention anything about why he was seeing a psychiatrist. And I can’t go rummaging through your brother’s medical records without a search warrant, but...”

“Should you get one?” she asked quietly.

He’d love to. But it wasn’t really an option.

“That’s not as easy to do as TV makes it seem,” he told her. “I’d need a good reason. One specifically related to the case, I mean. But even without knowing exactly what his problem is... Well, I think he’s pretty unbalanced.”

“Then I should be seriously worried.”

“You should be seriously careful. If you notice anything suspicious... He’s in his late thirties, short and slightly built, with dark hair and glasses. If anyone who fits that description shows up here or seems to be following you, phone me right away.”

“Following me,” she murmured.

“I’m not saying he will. I’m only saying it’s possible he’ll call again. Or try to see you. With any luck, though, you’ve heard the last of him.”

Celeste slowly pushed her hair back from her face. “What about his saying he’s a writer? Is he? Or was that just part of his cosmic gibberish?”

“It might be true. At least it’s consistent with what he told Hank and me yesterday. He said his work’s published in small, esoteric magazines.”

“They don’t pay much.”

“No, we already thought of that. He probably tips the concierge in his building more at Christmas than that sort of writing would bring in. So whether he actually writes or not he must have another source of income. A trust fund or something was our best guess.”

Celeste said nothing more, and as the silence grew Travis made himself say, “I’ve got to go. I just wanted to bring you up to speed.”

“Thanks,” she said, rising when he did. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. And...I did what you suggested and made the basic arrangements for Steve’s service. But until I can tell them...I guess you still haven’t heard when the autopsy will be?”

“No. I’ll let you know as soon as I do.”

“Thanks,” she said again. Then she led the way to her door.

“I’ll call you.” He stepped out into the hallway. “Take care.”

“I will,” she promised, giving him a wan smile.

He started away, silently congratulating himself. He’d handled that pretty well for a guy with a short circuit in his brain.

After closing the door, Celeste watched through the peephole while Travis strode down the hall. Then, unable to resist the temptation this time around, she walked over to the living room window and stood waiting for him to appear on the street below.

When he did she felt a funny little flutter in her chest. She liked the man. Really liked him.

As he reached his car, he turned and looked up at her.

Her face suddenly felt warm. Then he raised his hand and smiled, making her a little less embarrassed about being caught watching.

Once he’d driven off she headed for her office, glad she had that deadline looming. It was forcing her to work, and even though she’d been having trouble concentrating, once she finally managed to lose herself in a manuscript she stopped thinking about other things.

Like her mother’s accident. Or Steve’s murder. Or the fact that her husband had been screwing around on her for who knew how long before she’d caught him at it. All in all, this hadn’t been the best year of her life.

Telling herself dwelling on that would be a bad idea, she sat down at her desk. She hadn’t even reached for her pencil when the phone rang.

The caller ID display was reading Caller Unknown, which made her hesitate about picking up. And as soon as she did, she wished she hadn’t.

“This is Evan Reese,” he announced.

A chill ran through her as she said, “Yes?”

“Why did you tell that cop I scared you?”

She thought rapidly, trying to remember precisely what Travis had said he’d told Reese. Something about his call making her “nervous.” That was it.

“I didn’t say you scared me,” she said. “I only mentioned that you made me a little nervous.”

“Sure you did.”

She swallowed uneasily, suddenly suspecting that what Travis had said to her wasn’t quite what he’d said to Reese.

“I don’t really recall the exact words I used. But maybe I said you made me kind of anxious. I’m not used to strangers phoning and—”

“Kind of anxious? If that’s all you told him, then the guy’s a wacko. Listen, Celeste, I didn’t like the way he talked to me this morning. And I didn’t like the way he went racing to your place afterward, either.”

He’d followed Travis here! The cordless still to her ear, she pushed back her chair.

“So you tell him that, huh? Tell him I’m wise to his tricks and I don’t like them.”

“Yes, I will,” she said, hurrying out of her office.

“Don’t forget. And tell him he hasn’t heard the last about his visit here. Tell him I’ve got friends in high places, and he’s going to be very sorry he tried to lean on me.”

“I’ll tell him.”

As she reached the living room window, Snoops scurried down off the window seat and ran to hide, clearly sensing her fear.

Cautiously, she peeked out. No one was standing on the street, but the man could be hiding just out of sight. Or maybe he’d even gotten into her building. That thought sent a fresh ripple of anxiety through her.

“Are you still there?” Reese demanded.

“Yes,” she said. “But I’m afraid I have to go now. Someone’s at my door.”

Without another word, she broke the connection. Then she took a few deep breaths, trying to stop her heart from pounding. After it had slowed to somewhere near normal, she pressed in Travis’s number.

* * *

CELESTE SOUNDED as if she was terrified but was doing her utmost to hide it, and each word she spoke made Travis feel more like killing Evan Reese.

“Want me to head back to your place?” he asked when she’d finished.

She hesitated, the silence lasting long enough to tell him she did.

Just as he was about to make a U-turn, she said, “No. Thanks, but I’ll be fine once I calm down. And I’m sure holding my hand isn’t in your job description.”

That was true, although the thought of doing so was far more appealing than anything that was in his job description.

“But what about you?” she asked. “He really seemed intent on causing trouble.”

“Let him try. The C.O.’s used to complaints. But, look, is your phone a cordless?”

“Yes.”

“Then take it with you into the hall. Make sure he isn’t there. Check the staircase, too. I’ll hold on.”

“All right.”

While he listened to the faint clicks of her locks turning he had a horrible vision—her discovering that Reese was standing just beyond where she’d have been able to see him through the peephole.

“All clear?” he demanded at the sound of the door opening.

“Seems to be.”

The vision took so long to fade that he almost told her to forget about the staircase. Then he stopped himself. If Reese had gotten into the building, better she discovered it now than later.

His chest strangely tight, he imagined her walking down the hall, its carpet swallowing the whispers of her footsteps. She should be about reaching the stairs and—

The stairway door creaked faintly.

“I still don’t see him,” she said.

“Good.” Of course, that didn’t guarantee he wasn’t there someplace. However, her cordless couldn’t have much more range, so going further wouldn’t be safe.

“Should I head back to my apartment?”

“Yeah. He’s probably home by now. But if anything else worries you, just call.”

“Thanks,” she murmured.

He began picturing her again—with her brilliant blue and eyes and pretty smile. It was enough to make him reconsider the idea of going straight back over there.

“I’m just locking my door,” she said after a few moments.

“Okay. I’ll check in with you later.”

“Thanks, but you don’t have to.”

“Following up is in my job description.”

“Ah. Well...I wouldn’t want you not doing your job.”

Her tone made him suspect she was smiling, although that might only be wishful thinking.

“Talk to you later, then. Bye.”

“Bye, Travis.”

After pressing the End button he began thinking about paying Evan Reese yet another visit. However, that wouldn’t be a wise move. He was too mad to face the guy.

Besides, leaning on him obviously hadn’t helped matters. Instead of scaring him off Celeste, it had only made things worse.

He was still mentally kicking himself about that when he reached Manhattan North Homicide. And it didn’t improve his mood to find that Hank wasn’t there, ready and willing to discuss the situation.

According to the other detectives in the squad room, he’d left shortly after Travis had headed for Reese’s place.

After fishing out his phone, he was about to press the speed dial for Hank’s number when Len Espizito, C.O. of Homicide, materialized.

“My office, Quinn,” he said, turning on his heel.

Travis stuck the phone back in his pocket and followed the lieutenant, wondering what was up.

It didn’t even occur to him that the problem was Evan Reese until Espizito shoved his door shut behind them and said, “Okay, let’s hear your version of the visit you paid this Reese character.”

“You mean the one yesterday or the one this morning?” he asked, buying himself a few seconds to think.

“Which do you figure I mean?” Espizito snapped. “The guy phoned me ten minutes ago, screaming police brutality.”

“What? I didn’t touch him.”

“Maybe not, but did you threaten to?”

“I told him to leave Parker’s sister alone. That was basically it.”

“Then you headed directly to the sister’s apartment? On your own?”

He shrugged, glad he’d already known that Reese had followed him. Otherwise, Espizito would have caught him even more off guard.

“Did you?” he demanded.

“Yes.”

“And Reese says you were at her place last night. And that since it was after he called her it had to have been late.”

Crap. Instead of implying he’d merely talked to Celeste on the phone, he’d specifically told Reese he’d gone there. As a way of emphasizing how upset she’d been. But it looked as if he shouldn’t have gotten specific.

“Is that true? Were you there alone with her last night, too?”

“Lieutenant, the guy had called and scared her. Hank was already on his way home, and I just wanted to—”

“Don’t give me any crap, Quinn. Reese said it’s obvious you like her. Do you?”

Travis mentally kicked himself once more. His partner realizing he found Celeste attractive was one thing. But it must be written all over him for a stranger to have picked up on it.

“Do you?” Espizito repeated.

“No. She seems like a nice woman, that’s all.”

“Ballantyne was in earlier. And I asked him about the Parker case. According to your own partner, this nice woman—who, by the way, he mentioned is a looker—could be our killer.”





Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Получить полную версию книги.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/dawn-stewardson/the-man-behind-the-badge/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.