Книга - Same Place, Same Time

Same Place, Same Time
C.J. Carmichael


Detective Morgan Forester's resolve is as steely as his gun and the badge he wears with pride. And he'd once belonged to Trista Emerson–until a tragedy drove them apart.Now, two of Trista's clients are dead, and Morgan is back, sexier than ever…and convinced Trista might be the killer's next victim.Faced with Morgan's twenty-four-hour brand of protection, Trista has to admit the truth–she still loves him. This time, she vows to reach the man behind the badge–and show him she was, and always will be, his woman.









Same Place, Same Time

C.J. Carmichael







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




C.J. CARMICHAEL


Hard to imagine a more glamorous life than being an accountant, isn’t it? Still, C.J. Carmichael gave up the thrills of income tax forms and double-entry bookkeeping when she sold her first book in 1998. She has now written more than twenty-eight novels for Harlequin Books, and invites you to learn more about her books, see photos of her hiking exploits and enter her surprise contests at www.cjcarmichael.com.


For my husband, Michael, with thanks and love.




CONTENTS


PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN




PROLOGUE


“EXCUSE ME,” she called to the desk clerk. He’d watched her walk in the motel entrance, but hadn’t stirred from his chair by the television screen. “My husband’s locked us out of our room. Number 14.”

The clerk had colorless hair and skin, and a long lean body that looked as though it might snap in half if he moved too quickly. There seemed to be no danger, however, of that happening. He unfolded himself and stepped slowly to the counter, his pigment-free eyes fixed on the buttons of her trench coat.

“Your husband, hey?”

He was leering, the pervert. Would he think it was so funny if he knew what she had in her pocket? Wouldn’t it be fun to show him… But she had to play this cool.

“That’s right. My husband. John Doe.” She forced herself to smile, then held out a gloved hand. Was it her imagination or did he pause before dropping the large brass key into the cup of her leather-clad palm?

Perhaps he thought it strange that she was wearing gloves in May. But the air was cool today, reminiscent of the cold winter Toronto had endured this year. She felt his gaze between her shoulder blades as she turned to leave, and it was a relief when the door finally closed behind her.

There. That had gone well enough. Now she felt a calm sense of inevitability. The pangs of nervousness and anxiety she’d suffered last night were gone. She dug her right hand into the pocket of her coat and gripped her gun reassuringly. Mentally, she reviewed the remaining steps of her plan. The worst was almost over.

Room 14 was located conveniently at the end of the motel, down a long concrete walkway and as far from the office as possible. Traffic on the Gardiner Expressway was loud and constant. The perfect backdrop for murder.

At the door, she paused. There was no one else around. No sounds other than engines and the incessant rumbling of wheels over concrete and asphalt.

The key slid easily into the doorknob. As she twisted, a tantalizing cooking odor seeped out the crack around the door. What in the world…?

She held her ear to the small space between door and frame and thought she heard singing. A man’s voice, attempting opera. Clearly the song was coming from another room.

With her gloved hand she pushed on the knob and slipped into the room, closing the door behind her. She walked around the king-size bed, where a red rose lay on one of the white pillows. Such a romantic touch.

The sleeping quarters were separated from a kitchenette by a ceiling-hung set of cupboards and a long, waist-high counter. Between the two, she could see the midsection of a man. His clear, tenor voice worked its way to the climax of “The Music of the Night” from The Phantom of the Opera.

She stepped forward cautiously. Her gun was ready and so was she.

A creaking hollow in the linoleum gave her away as she stepped off the carpet into the kitchenette. The man turned, obviously expecting someone, but his smile of welcome slipped down from the corners of his mouth as he stared at the barrel of the gun pointed at his chest. He stiffened and stepped backward, pressing against the metal edge of the stove where the contents of a large iron pot boiled. It was tomato sauce, she saw now.

“What are you doing with that gun? What do you want?”

Dispassionately, she watched the bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed once, then again.

Calmly she uttered five carefully chosen words.

His eyes widened. Good. It was important that he understand why this was happening. She pulled the trigger.

He jerked backward with the impact of the bullet, knocking the pot of tomato sauce over on its side. Then his body slowly slid down and forward, until he collapsed on the floor. Sauce from the overturned pot poured unchecked off the stove, landing precisely on the small balding area at the back of his head. There was no reaction from him as the scalding hot sauce hit his bare skin.

She allowed herself a slight smile. It had gone according to plan.

Jerry Walker was dead.




CHAPTER ONE


“SOMETIMES I FEEL like taking that gun out of his night table and shooting the television! Right in the middle of Star Trek!”

Chartered psychologist Trista Emerson pressed the stop button on the tape recorder, cutting off Nan Walker’s explosion of rage toward her husband, Jerry. It marked the first time Nan had been anything but meek and agreeable, and Trista had taken it as a very good step forward. But now Jerry and Nan had missed their four o’clock appointment and Trista didn’t know what to think.

The Walkers were relatively new clients, part of a recent trend that she’d been trying to avoid.

Marriage counseling.

Trista preferred individual therapy, but often it was impossible to separate the two. A client might come to her initially because of personal problems. If that client was married, however, often the problems spilled out into the relationship.

When that happened, she was honest about her own history.

“I have training and counseling experience in this area. But you should know that my own marriage ended in divorce.”

For some reason that knowledge turned very few of them away.

“Your own trauma has made you wiser, more sympathetic,” a trusted colleague had told her—a man she’d gone to for therapy following the breakup of her marriage.

Certainly the results she’d seen in her practice gave testimony to his opinion.

But sometimes, she wondered. Was she the best person to advise these people? Like Nan and Jerry Walker. She’d been seeing them for a couple of weeks now, and she was determined to do her utmost to help them in the one-month trial period they’d all agreed upon. But it wasn’t a good sign that they’d missed this session.

Trista put the Walkers’ file in her out basket for her secretary, Brenda, to file later. She might as well go home—theirs had been her last appointment of the day. But she didn’t want to leave her office. She never did.

For three years now, since her separation and divorce, she’d been alone, and she still couldn’t get used to facing an empty apartment at the end of each day. Not that it had been any better than the last year of her marriage. Neither counseling nor time seemed to lessen the pain of her losses, the memories hanging like dark storm clouds on the horizon of her mind. The past. Her present. The eternity of a future that stretched unendingly before her.

When she concentrated on the problems of others, her malaise lifted. Her work, in this way, had become her salvation.

After work—that was the problem.

Expelling a breath, Trista stood up from behind her desk and walked over to the window. Her office building was located just south of King Street, and her suite on the south side of the top floor had a nice view of Lake Ontario. Usually the sky was hazy, and the lake broody and gray.

But today the spring sun shone, and the water sparkled, blue and inviting. A deceptive appearance, for in fact Lake Ontario was so polluted that swimming was considered dangerous.



“GOOD GOD.” Detective Morgan Forester considered himself a hardened cop, but he wasn’t prepared for the sight that met his eyes as he stepped inside the motel room at five-thirty Tuesday afternoon.

The deceased, a large man in his late forties, sat on the kitchen floor by the front of the stove. Thick lumps of meat and tomato sauce covered his head, and had dripped down over his shirt, merging with the dark red stain marking the bullet wound in his chest. The sauce and the clotting blood had congealed into a thick red pool around the body.

Adding to the scene’s repugnance was the smell. Although the body had only been there for about twenty-four hours, the scent of death in the room was unmistakable. That, combined with the cloying odor of the day-old tomato sauce, was lethal. Morgan shook his head, feeling damn weary of his job.

“Any fingerprints?” He turned away from the body and walked over to the table where Kendal, one of the I-dent officers, was finishing up his work.

“Some. But they’re probably the maid’s and the deceased’s. I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”

Morgan raised his eyebrows. “I never get my hopes up. I suppose you guys have already talked to the desk clerk who was on duty?”

“We have. A Mr. Kyle Litherman. He says that at about twenty past one yesterday afternoon, a woman wearing a tan trench coat, leather gloves, hat and sunglasses walked into his office. He didn’t notice a car, figures she probably took a cab. They usually do. Who wants to risk having their vehicle identified in a motel parking lot in the middle of the day?

“Anyway, the woman told him she and her husband were locked out of room 14. He gave her the key and says he didn’t notice anything unusual after that. Which isn’t surprising, given how far this room is from the office and the proximity of the expressway.”

He rolled his eyes, indicating the traffic noise which was clearly audible even with the exterior door closed.

“You questioned the other motel occupants?”

“Yup. No one heard a thing.”

“Of course not.” Even if they had, Morgan doubted they’d be willing to cooperate, on the same principle Kendal had just stated. Who’d want to admit to being in this motel on a weekday afternoon? “So, are you guys finished here?”

“Just about. We’ve taken the photos. We just need to bag the rest of this stuff and send off the body, but we knew you’d want to see everything first.”

Morgan gave a short nod of approval. “What about time of death? Does the coroner’s estimate coincide with the timing of the woman asking for the room key?”

“Yes.”

“She sounds like the one we want, all right. Now tell me about the deceased.”

The officer flipped open a notepad and began reading from his notes. “The guy’s name was Jerry Walker, although he booked into the room as John Doe. He runs a chain of five hardware stores, with a main office on Queen Street. We talked to his wife this morning.”

Morgan shook his head. Arriving late on the scene like this—it was far from ideal. He’d received the call from Inspector Zarowin around eleven, but he’d been out of town tying up loose ends from a previous case. Fortunately the crew on the Identification Unit knew what they were doing.

“Who found the body?” He stretched his shoulders, fighting the ache from his six-hour drive. No sense thinking about how tired he was. The day that had begun at six that morning would doubtlessly be continuing far into the night as well.

“The maid. She was doing her rounds and reached this room at about 10:00 a.m.”

“And how did Mrs. Walker take the news?”

“She broke down. We couldn’t get much out of her, but she did say her husband wasn’t in the habit of spending nights away from home, and she’d been worried sick.”

Morgan looked around the motel room as he listened, rubbing his hand over the stubble on his chin, wishing he’d had time to shave that morning. As he scanned the room, he took in details without conscious effort.

The table was set with flowers and candles. A bottle of red wine sat open beside two clean wineglasses. He picked up one of the white plates from the table and fingered a chip, barely visible to the human eye.

“The dishes are from the kitchenette,” the I-dent officer told him. “Walker must have brought the candles, flowers and wineglasses himself.”

Morgan’s eyes settled on a rose that had been placed on the untouched bed. “He went to a lot of trouble here. What did you find in his pockets?”

“Wallet, with a hundred and sixty dollars, and identification. Some matches, a couple of condoms—pretty optimistic for an older guy.” He pointed to the items, already packed away in a plastic bag on the table.

Morgan ignored the attempt at humor. He wondered about the woman this guy had been waiting for. She must have been something special to warrant all this effort.

“Well, pack it up. I’ve seen enough.” He nodded to the other officers, then turned on his heel and left the room. Back outdoors, he took a deep, reviving breath of fresh air. He hadn’t eaten in over eight hours, but he no longer felt hungry. And it would be a long time before he’d be able to face a dish of spaghetti again.



TRISTA’S FINGERS paused over her computer keyboard, the phrase she’d been about to write slipping out of her mind.

She’d heard something. Hadn’t she? She listened for several seconds, but all was silent. Her gaze slid to the clock on the edge of her desk and she was surprised to see that it was already past nine.

The building was probably all but deserted by now. Maybe she’d heard the security guard making his rounds.

She finished her sentence then saved the document. That was enough for one day. If she went home now she’d have just enough time to eat dinner and watch a program on television before going to bed.

Scooping up the day’s tapes from her desk, she headed for the reception area out front where she dumped them into Brenda’s in box to be transcribed tomorrow. She was about to return to her office for her jacket and briefcase when she heard something that sounded like a chair leg scraping against the floor. The sound had come from the direction of the file room.

Trista stared at the closed door. Was someone in there? The idea of an intruder was ludicrous—the only money in the place was a fifty-dollar petty cash fund that Brenda kept locked in her top drawer—but she was reluctant to open the door and check.

If someone was there, the last thing she wanted to do was surprise him. Trista backtracked to her office and shut the door with a loud bang, and locked it behind her.

She could have sworn she heard the sound of another door opening, then footsteps. Picking up the phone, she called building security. Joe Wilkins answered immediately.

“I think someone may have broken into my suite, Joe. I just heard some strange noises in the file room, and Brenda went home hours ago.”

“Don’t worry, Ms. Emerson. I’ll be right up to check it out. We had a squirrel in the offices above you last week. Could be the same rascal.”

“I’m not sure, Joe. It sounded like footsteps to me.”

“I’ll be right there. Are you in your office?”

“Yes. And the door’s locked.” Trista set down the receiver, and waited. A few minutes later, the sound of voices in the hall made her adrenaline surge. Joe worked alone downstairs. Who could he be talking to?

Unless it wasn’t Joe coming at all, but somebody else. The same somebody she’d heard earlier in the file room? She looked around her office for something, anything, that might serve as a weapon. A pair of scissors lay conveniently on the corner of her desk. She grabbed them, then hid behind a bookshelf on the wall next to the door.

Trista grasped the scissors handle so that the metal dug into her skin. The voices drew nearer. She could tell that both were men. The one who was doing the most talking could have been Joe, but the other voice was deeper, and something about the cadence of the speech made her stomach clench into a hard knot. He spoke only a few words—she couldn’t make out—then the first man spoke again, and now they were close enough that she knew for sure it was Joe.

With a relieved sigh, she let the scissors drop from her hand. Crossing the carpeted floor, she opened the door.

“Joe! Thank goodness, it’s you. My imagination must be working overtime. I thought…” The words froze on her tongue when her gaze fell on Joe’s companion.

The man’s eyes were the exact shade of dark blue-gray as the storm clouds that built over Lake Ontario during the hot, humid summers. And they were fixed on her with a ruthlessness that made her feel like an insect about to be squashed.

Trista wanted to turn and run, but there was nowhere to go, and Joe would surely think she was crazy.

“Here you are, Ms. Emerson.” Joe sounded cheerful. “Detective Forester walked in the front door just after I got your call, so he decided to come with me to check out those noises.”

“How convenient.” She was amazed at how cool her voice sounded.

“Pretty good timing all right. And they say you can never find a cop when you need one!” Joe chuckled, not noticing that the other two people in the room were definitely not amused.

Although she’d been looking at Joe as they spoke, Trista felt her gaze being pulled back to the detective. Neither of them had acknowledged that they knew one another, but he hadn’t taken his eyes off her for a second. He was still watching her, his expression grim and unyielding.

“Let’s check out that file room,” he said.

The deep rasp of his voice shocked her. Only vaguely did it resemble the voice she remembered, in the way a young red wine compares to a rich port. Both from grapes, yet… “It’s out this way,” she said, striving for the same cool tone she’d used earlier. She walked around Joe and led them past reception.

Trista paused in front of the door to the file room. “This door is ajar. Just before I called you, Joe, it was closed.”

“Are you sure?” Joe asked.

Was she? She thought so, but now she wondered if she’d merely assumed it was closed. Frowning, she led the way inside.

Initially, all appeared as normal. The photocopier stood against the far wall. To its right were the file cabinets, the table with the coffee machine on it and a row of ceramic mugs. Then she noticed that one of the file drawers was partially open. That wasn’t like Brenda.

“Looks okay,” Joe said cheerfully, walking into the room and examining the ventilation screens carefully. “I can’t see any signs of squirrels, though.”

“I’m sorry, Joe. I really thought I heard something.”

“No problem. Best to be safe about these things. Well, I’d better get back to my post. Coming, Detective?”

“I was actually hoping to have a moment with, um, Ms. Emerson.”

Trista’s heart sank. She should have known she wouldn’t get rid of him that easily.

“Okay, then.” The sound of Joe’s whistling traveled down the hall, fading out once he’d closed the main door behind him.

Trista stared at a picture on the wall, knowing full well that those stormy eyes were on her again, seeing far more than she wanted him to see. She’d thought of Morgan often over the years—more often than she wished—and always with the hope that he’d put the past behind him and gone on to live the full and happy life that he deserved.

With the lines of anger and bitterness that outlined his mouth and creased his forehead, however, she could see that her wishes had been in vain. And now she couldn’t find the strength to face the bleakness that she saw staring out of his eyes. What had brought him here, tonight of all nights? What could he possibly have to talk to her about?

“There was something about this room that bothered you when you first walked in, wasn’t there?” His voice, although quiet, reverberated through the space like ice cracking on a frozen pond.

Trista frowned. She wasn’t surprised that he’d noticed. He’d always had a sixth sense about things like that. “Yes. It was that drawer.” She pointed at the open cabinet. “My secretary, Brenda, locks those every night. I’ve never seen her forget.”

He walked across the room and stopped where she had pointed. “This one?”

She nodded, then watched as he flipped through the files. It was a relief to have his attention elsewhere. Now she could examine him more closely. His hair was still dark, no signs of gray. And he still wore it so short you couldn’t tell it was naturally curly. He’d kept in shape, his body had the sinewy leanness that comes from a life of physical activity. As he bent over the drawer, the black leather of his jacket stretched tautly across his shoulders.

“Are these your notes on client sessions?” he asked.

“Yes, they are.”

He looked at the label on the outside of the drawer. “I suppose this is where your file on the Walkers would be kept?”

“Yes.” Trista caught her breath. “How did you know the Walkers—”

“The file’s missing.”

“I know the file’s missing. But you haven’t answered my question. How did you know the Walkers are my clients?”

“What do you mean, you know the file’s missing?”

They were speaking at cross-purposes, and Trista had to summon her patience to keep calm. “I’ll answer your question, Morgan, once you answer mine.” She bit her lip. It was the first time she’d said his name, and it was clear that he’d noticed.

He stood tall and stared. They were several feet apart but she could read the condemnation in his eyes, and she had to look away. Several seconds passed before he spoke again.

“I don’t want to shock you, but Jerry Walker is dead.”

“Dead?” She felt behind her for the solid support of the wall.

“Yes. He was murdered. In a motel room. Probably sometime yesterday afternoon.”

Morgan seemed to get satisfaction from each one of the facts he hurled at her. Trista clutched at the door handle, trying to hide her sudden dizziness. Jerry Walker dead? Murdered? “Are you sure?”

“Let me see. Bullet hole in chest. No pulse, no breathing, eyes staring forward, never blinking. Yeah, I think I can say that I’m sure.”

Trista caught her breath at the beginning of a sob, knowing he’d meant to be cruel, and refusing to let him see he’d hit his mark. “Right. Dumb question.” She thought for a few minutes. “It happened in a motel room?”

He nodded, leaning back on the cabinet behind him. “Seems he had a romantic afternoon planned. And I don’t think it was with his wife.”

Poor Nan. She would have to deal with death and infidelity, all in the same blow. Not to mention murder…

“And I suppose you’ve been assigned to the case?”

He rubbed a hand over his chin, his gaze confirming her suspicion. “Can we sit down? I have some questions for you.”

Questions? Trista didn’t like the sound of that. Back in her office she sank into one of two armchairs, while Morgan perched across from her, on the edge of the sofa. She knew from past experience that his eagle eyes were recording every detail about her appearance: the stylish new haircut, the fact that she’d lost weight since he’d last seen her, even the new, tiny wrinkles that had developed around the corners of her eyes. Nothing would escape him. She sat still, resisting the urge to squirm, to turn away from his open staring. Eventually he spoke and the tension in her shoulders eased slightly in response.

“What time did you hear the intruder?”

“Just after nine.” Trista glanced at her watch. It was quarter to ten now. She watched him reach inside the breast pocket of his jacket and pull out a notepad.

“You said Jerry was shot?” she asked.

Morgan nodded. “Died instantly.”

At least there’d been no suffering. “Was the gun found at the scene?”

A half smile twisted Morgan’s mouth. “No.”

She shrugged. “Not that I would have suspected suicide.”

“Nice to have that thought confirmed.” Morgan’s eyes gleamed for a moment and she knew she’d been indiscreet.

“So what brought you here, just at the precise moment I called security?”

“The timing was fortunate. The reason I’m here…” He broke off for a moment, his eyes drawn to the dark night outside the window. “We were looking through Walker’s financial papers and saw a canceled check made out to you. It seemed a point worth checking to me. Married man is killed while waiting for his lover to show up. The same married man is going to marriage counseling with his wife. Interesting paradox, don’t you think?”

What had he thought when he’d recognized her name on that check? What had he felt? He gave no indication now that he cared one way or the other. But Trista knew it must have been a shock.

“Rather despicable if you ask me. But how did you know to find me here? You couldn’t have known I’d be working late.”

“Why not? You usually do.”

Trista put a hand to her throat. There was such familiarity in those words. Had he been checking up on her over the years?

“I did try calling you at home first,” Morgan conceded.

Trista fingered her key chain nervously. Morgan had her unlisted home number? Of course, the police would have access to that sort of information. Still, it was kind of unsettling.

“Where did it happen?” she asked. “The murder.”

“The Night’s End.”

“The motel with the flashing neon palm tree along the expressway in Etobicoke?” It was hardly one of the area’s finer establishments.

“Yes. I think Jerry had been meeting this woman there for a few weeks now. They seemed to have a routine going. Now you’ve got your questions answered, so how about answering mine? Why did you know that the Walkers’ file would be missing?”

“Because I had an appointment with them today. Which they did not show up for, obviously. The file is sitting in the out basket on my desk.”

“Lucky for that or it would be missing right now.”

“You think the intruder was after the Walkers’ file?”

Morgan didn’t deign to answer. “Who has access to your office? The outside door is in perfect condition. Whoever got in here had to have had a key.”

Trista noticed that he wasn’t doubting that there’d been an intruder, the way Joe had. “Only security and my secretary have keys. And mine’s still here.” She held up the chain she’d been playing with earlier.

“You’re sure there’s no other?”

“Well, there is a spare. We keep it in the petty-cash box. I think there’s an extra one for the file cabinets, too. Just a minute. I’ll get them for you.” She walked back into the reception area and unlocked the top drawer of Brenda’s desk. Inside was a small metal box. She opened the lid and pulled out two twenties and a five. A few dollars’ worth of change remained on the bottom. “That’s odd.”

“What is it?” Morgan had followed her. Now he held her gaze with his own, and she saw that tension had stretched his mouth thin.

“Our keys.” Trista looked back at the box. “They’re missing.”




CHAPTER TWO


MORGAN LOOKED OVER Trista’s shoulder into the metal box. “Are you sure your secretary kept the key here?”

“Of course I am.”

“Does anyone else have access to it?” Morgan asked, undaunted.

“This is a small practice. There’s only Brenda and me.”

“Well, what about when Brenda goes for lunch or to the washroom—does she lock the drawer?”

Trista felt her patience snap. “We keep a fifty-dollar petty-cash supply in there, Morgan. Hardly a fortune.”

He ignored her flare-up. “So any one of your clients might have had the opportunity to take that key?”

Trista bristled further at his assumption. “Why does it have to be one of my clients? Perhaps it was a deliveryperson, or a courier. Why, even the young man who comes in every week to water our plants could have found that key as easily as any of my clients.”

“That’s a good point. Why don’t you make a list of all the deliverypeople, etcetera, that you’ve had through the office in the past few weeks?”

Trista sighed. She was sorry now that she’d ever mentioned anything about the noises she thought she’d heard. “Isn’t this a lot of fuss for a simple office break-in? Especially when nothing has been stolen?”

“You know darn well I wouldn’t go to these lengths for a simple break and enter.” Morgan’s eyes flashed dangerously.

Trista was silent for a moment before asking, “You really think someone was after the Walkers’ file? That there’s a connection with the murder?”

“I do.”

His blunt answer shook her as much as anything else had that night. She didn’t need these problems in her life.

“Well, I don’t.”

“Really? You don’t find it suspicious that someone has been nosing around in your files just one day after your client was murdered?”

“Ever heard of coincidences?”

“Heard of them, but I don’t believe in them. And if you thought about it, I think you’d agree with me. You’re just so anxious to get me out of your office you can’t think straight.”

Trista looked away. Yes, he was right. She did want to get him out of her office. Their past was an emotional minefield capable of blowing them both to bits. “This is doing neither of us any good.”

“I agree. But unfortunately, I have a job to do. Now, would you please check your office and make sure the Walker file is still there.”

Biting back a sarcastic comment on the virtual immobility of a manila folder, Trista left the reception area and went back to her office, scooping the slender file with the Walker label from the out basket on her desk. While she was at it, she slipped the cassettes from the Walkers’ two most recent sessions into the file. When she returned, she saw Morgan’s attention focus on the file and realized that he was interested in more than making sure the file was here. He held out his hand expectantly, but she ignored it.

“This is confidential information, Morgan. You know that.”

“Goddammit, Trista! This isn’t some stupid university-ethics course.”

Trista’s memory provided her with an instant flashback. It was early spring, just about this time of year. They were in university and Morgan was sitting against the trunk of a large maple tree, quizzing her on professional-ethics scenarios from one of her psychology courses. The air had smelt rich and sweet with the spring’s new growth and Morgan’s smile had made it very hard to concentrate on finals, even though they’d only been days away.

As quickly as the memory came, it was gone, leaving her with a dull aching sensation of sadness and loss. They’d been such kids back then, with no idea of the trials ahead of them.

“This is a murderer we’re dealing with, Trista. And that murderer could have been the person who was in your office tonight. Doesn’t that worry you?”

Trista swallowed. She hadn’t thought of it quite that way. “That doesn’t excuse me from releasing confidential information. Especially when you have no evidence that the information in these files could be useful.”

“Who says I don’t? You know as well as I do that’s an issue for the courts to decide. Anyway, Jerry Walker is dead. What does his confidentiality mean to him now?”

“He may be dead, but his wife isn’t.” Trista spoke defiantly, but she recognized the determined look in Morgan’s eyes. If he wanted to be stubborn about this, she knew he could apply to the courts for access to her files. Whether it would be permitted or not was another question. If possible, the whole situation was one she’d rather avoid.

“Look, I’ll go over the file tonight. If I see anything that might be pertinent, and if it’s something that can be revealed without compromising my clients, I’ll tell you.” She offered the concession, hoping Morgan would be satisfied.

But he just shook his head. “I don’t mean to question your intelligence, but what makes you think you’re in a position to judge what might or might not be pertinent to this case? Come on, Trista. If you won’t let me take the file, at least let me look through it here. You can watch, if you like.”

“You know I can’t do that! Why are you being so stubborn? I’m trying to cooperate. If you insist, I’ll review the file right now.”

Morgan looked at her bleakly. He knew she was acting in accordance with her legal responsibilities. Which put him in a pretty weak bargaining position. “Oh, damn it to hell, Trista. I guess if that’s the way you want to play it…”

“It is.”

“Okay then. But we’ll do it tomorrow, after you’ve had some rest.”

The understanding in his words was not reflected in his expression, which was full of the anger and bitterness she’d seen when he first walked in the door. As for leaving this for tomorrow—Trista knew it was wise, but the idea of unfinished business, of having to face him again…

“I’d rather get it over with tonight.”

“No. It’s too late.” Morgan turned from her. She could see the stiff set of his shoulders, feel the anger radiating from him.

She bit down on her lower lip. This was as hard on him as it was on her. She shouldn’t forget that part of it. After gathering her briefcase and jacket, she walked over to the master control and began switching off the lights.

Morgan met her in the hall, watching as she locked the main door behind her. “Tomorrow you should have your secretary check more thoroughly to make sure nothing’s missing. And have the locks changed.”

She nodded. They rode the elevator together, and paused at the outside door.

“See you tomorrow then,” she said, waiting for him to walk away from her.

But he didn’t budge from her side. “I’d like to drive you home.”

“Really, Morgan. This is getting to be a little much. You know how safe the Toronto subway system is.”

Stubbornly he stood beside her. “I’d feel better if I saw you safely to your door.”

What about her? She definitely wouldn’t feel better with him beside her. “Do you really think it’s necessary to be so cautious?”

He turned to face her, his eyes bleak. “When you’re dealing with a murderer, it never hurts to be cautious.”



“THIS IS IT.” Trista pointed out a low-rise brick apartment building with bay windows and small, square balconies with white wooden railings. Across the street, the newly budding trees that bordered the northern boundary of High Park stretched long, twisting branches into the blue-black sky. The park, which covered several hundred acres, represented sanctuary to Trista. The man sitting beside her represented quite the opposite.

“I know,” Morgan said as they pulled into a rare parking spot in front of the building.

The moment he stopped, Trista had her hand on the door handle. Quickly she turned to say goodbye, only to be faced with the back of his leather jacket as he stepped out of the car.

He was at her door and helping her out of the passenger seat before she was able to say, “I’m fine, really. There’s no need to fuss.”

His hand on her arm was familiar, and oddly enticing. Trista’s reaction frightened her and she pulled away, earning a look of pure scorn. He made no attempt to touch her again, however, as she led the way up the sidewalk and unlocked the security door to her building. When he held the door open for her, she once again prepared to say goodbye, only to find him following behind her.

“Really, Morgan. I should be just fine from here.”

The ground beneath them trembled as a train passed through the underground subway that ran along Bloor Street. In the pale light of the apartment lobby, Trista could see Morgan’s mouth form a determined line.

“I’m not doing this for the fun of it. You obviously prefer to risk facing a murderer in your apartment than five more minutes of my company. Or perhaps it hadn’t occurred to you that if someone was desperate enough to search your office, they might also be desperate enough to search your home? That they might actually be in there right now?”

Trista drew a quick breath. He was just trying to frighten her. Wasn’t he? Still, she didn’t protest as he followed her up the stairs to her apartment. Nor did she question that he knew exactly which door was hers. She handed over her key to his waiting hand and watched as he first listened at the door, then turned the key in the lock.

“Wait here for a minute while I look things over.”

It was as dramatic as the movies, but she complied, staying in the hallway while he conducted a search of her apartment. It was a full five minutes before he reappeared at the door.

“It looks okay.”

She could hear the relief in his voice. “Of course it’s okay,” she said matter-of-factly, trying to keep her own fear out of her voice. They traded positions. Now he stood in the hall, and she in the apartment, her hand on the door, eager to close it and to wipe the image of him from both her eyes and her mind.

“I’ll come by your office tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “Around four.”

She nodded. “Fine.” She tried to close the door, but his hand forestalled her.

“What about the file?” he asked, his eyes on the briefcase in her hand.

She didn’t understand what he was getting at. “It’s in here,” she said, lifting her black leather bag.

Impatience creased his forehead. “I realize that. But do you have a safe?”

“No, I don’t. But I really don’t think—”

“Then let me take it. I do. If someone broke into your office today to get their hands on the file, then it’s much too important to leave lying around.”

Trista shook her head in a slow, exaggerated motion. “Definitely not.”

He leaned against the wooden door frame. “Why? Don’t you trust me? Afraid I’ll read the file when you’re not looking?”

“I just don’t think a safe is necessary.”

“Since when did you become the expert on crime?”

Okay, he had a point. Trista opened her briefcase and took out everything but the Walker file. Closing the metal clasp, she spun the combination wheel, knowing the small lock would hardly keep Morgan out if he decided he wanted in. But he wouldn’t do that. At least, the man she remembered wouldn’t. She was beginning to realize there was a big difference between the two. The knowledge that part of that was her fault flooded her with guilt.

“Take it,” she said, suddenly not caring if he did decide to break in. What were professional ethics compared to what she owed this man?

He eased the handle out of her hands, gently. “I won’t open it, Trista.” His voice was suddenly, heartbreakingly, soft. “You can trust me.”

Reaching her other hand to an itch on her cheek, Trista felt the dampness of a tear. Ashamed, embarrassed of her own weakness, she closed the door between them without another word. After turning the dead bolt firmly into place, she leaned against the cold steel of the door and listened to the sound of his footsteps fading as he walked down the hall. She could feel her throat tighten and she swallowed hard, willing the tears to stop before they had a chance to get out of control.

She needed something to calm her down. She went to the kitchen and picked up the kettle. Hand shaking, she tried to hold it steady under the stream of water from the faucet. Water sprayed over the stainless-steel sides, spotting the sink and surrounding counter area. The cold metal hissed when she placed it on the burner.

Why did this have to happen? Why? Why? The quiet refrain pounded in her head as she waited for the water to boil. Why would someone murder Jerry Walker? Could it have been the woman he was having an affair with? Had Nan known he was having an affair? She must have suspected, yet neither one of them had mentioned anything in their sessions. Was it possible Morgan was right and there was a connection between the murder and what had happened in her office tonight? If so, what was it?

Trista frowned, thinking of the professional dilemma she was facing. As the Walkers’ counselor, she was bound to keep her clients’ information confidential. If there truly was information in her files that could help bring Walker’s murderer to justice, however, morally she would feel bound to reveal it.

Trista thought back over the past sessions she’d held with the Walkers. She couldn’t think of a single fact that might help Morgan in his investigation. Of course, she’d have to review her notes to make certain. With any luck she’d find nothing and then she wouldn’t have to worry about the issue of confidentiality. Assuming Morgan believed her, that was.

Morgan. Trust him to insist on keeping the file at his place. Always playing the role of the protector. She felt her stomach twist into knots at the thought. Not that she didn’t trust him with the file, because she did. It was knowing that she would be talking to him and seeing him again that made her so anxious. He’d been right in what he’d said to her tonight. She would almost prefer taking her chances with the murderer to facing Morgan again.

As the kettle began to whistle, claiming her attention, she found that same refrain repeating itself in her head. Why? Why? Only this time she pondered not Walker’s death, but the great misfortune that, of all the detectives in the Toronto police force, Morgan Forester had been the one assigned to this case.



MORGAN LAY NAKED between his cool, white cotton sheets, unable to sleep despite his state of near exhaustion. God, how he hated her! And he hadn’t even realized it until he’d seen her standing there at her office door, still so beautiful, elegant and slim, with fiery hair that contradicted her frosty demeanor. Her ivory skin had whitened at the sight of him, her eyes had looked more green than brown as she stared at him in shocked dismay. Not that he’d expected her to welcome him…but did she have to look at him as if he was a serial killer or something? Talk about adding insult to injury. It had taken all of his self-control to mask his fury, to resist the urge to grab her by those frail shoulders and shake some sense into her.

As for her, she was obviously far from pleased at having him suddenly drop back into her life, but that was her problem. How did she think he felt about it? Did she imagine he wanted to have to work with her? Anger rose like bile in his throat, and he clenched his fists beneath the light covers. There was nothing to be gained by letting the situation get to him. It wasn’t her fault her client had been murdered, any more than it was his fault he’d been assigned to the case. There was nothing either one of them could do about the circumstances, so they’d just have to make the best of it.

He thought about the break-in at her office and wondered if the Walker file had been the motive behind it. Trista didn’t want to think so, but he was convinced there was a connection. And since the intruder hadn’t managed to find the file, it was certainly possible he might try Trista’s home next. He felt his gut twist at the thought. Ironic that as much as he hated her, he still felt this need to protect her.

Protect her. What a laugh. He’d noticed that she hadn’t liked that he knew things about her. Like her phone number and address, where she worked, the hours she kept. She probably thought he’d found all that out tonight, when he’d learned of her involvement in the case.

But he’d always known. Whether she liked it or not, he had kept tabs on her, and would continue to do so. Despite everything else, he still felt it was his duty.

The file, locked in his safe, called to him. He longed to read it. Not only to check whether there was any information pertinent to the case, but because of its link to Trista. He found himself hungry for the sight of her strong, slanted script. For comments and thoughts she might have written that could shed some light on her own thoughts and opinions. Was she happy? Did she ever think of him? Were there regrets…?

Morgan turned, pulling the top sheet with him over to the other side of the bed. He wouldn’t look at the file—and it wasn’t the locked briefcase that was stopping him—so why was he torturing himself thinking about it? And more important, why was it that after three years, just the sight of her had his emotions tied up in knots?

This was a case like any other. And she was just another witness. As long as he remembered to keep things in their proper perspective, he’d be okay. He had to believe that, or he’d go crazy.



“I SUPPOSE WE WERE as happy as the average couple.” Nan Walker crossed and then uncrossed her legs, obviously uncomfortable with Morgan’s questions about her marriage.

They were sitting in her living room, she in a tall wingback chair, Morgan across from her on an overstuffed love seat. In her early forties, Nan looked the part of a mourning widow in a black wool dress, dark stockings and black high-heeled shoes.

Nan Walker was attractive, with even features, and expensively styled hair. But all that black made her look washed-out and dull—an impression furthered by her body language and voice. An aura of uncertainty and self-consciousness surrounded the woman. As she spoke she wrung her hands, and Morgan noted her fingernails were bitten to the quick.

She must have noticed him looking. She said quickly, as if ashamed, “It’s a bad habit I’ve had since I was a girl.”

Bit of a mouse. Morgan jotted his notes in the steno pad he usually carried in his breast pocket. He’d begun a new page, starting up after the notes he’d written at Trista’s office last night. Trista. Now he shifted uncomfortably in his chair, remembering his sleepless night and the look of her dark, empty windows when he’d driven past her apartment that morning on his way to work.

He’d been going to offer her a ride to her office, but she’d already left. He guessed she took the subway to Spadina, then caught the streetcar to King. With the hours she kept, he wondered why she bothered with a home address. She might as well set up a cot in the corner by her desk.

Across from him, Nan squirmed distressfully. He remained silent, knowing that eventually she’d feel compelled to fill the awkward silence.

“We have—I mean had—” she stumbled over the tense as people in these situations often did “—the business, and of course our son, Jason. We’d built a life together.”

“Jason’s in university, is that right?”

Nan sat a little higher in her chair. “Yes. He’s taking summer courses at Queen’s University, in Kingston. He’s studying business administration even though he swore to his father that he wasn’t interested in taking over the family business.” Nan’s smile faded a little at this.

Family dispute over son taking over the business. “And how do you feel about your son getting involved with the hardware stores?”

“Oh, I’d like it, of course. It would keep him here, close to home. I’d certainly see him more. But he has to do what makes him happy.”

Right. The answer was a little too pat. Morgan briefly wondered exactly what family problems she was attempting to smooth over before he went on to his next question. “He’s coming home?”

“Tonight.” Her face brightened at the thought. “He may withdraw from his courses so he can help me sort out the estate.”

Adores her son. “Perhaps you could ask him to contact me when he gets in.”

A frown creased Nan’s forehead. “Is that necessary?”

“Routine questioning. Nothing to worry about.” They’d already confirmed that Jason Walker had been in class at the approximate time of his father’s death. And Kingston was several hours by car from Toronto.

Likewise, Nan Walker had an alibi. She’d been at work in the hardware store on Queen Street all day, except for a half-hour lunch break. As the motel was a good twenty minutes from the store, it seemed unlikely that Nan could have done her husband in rather than order a tuna on whole wheat as she’d claimed to do. Further solidifying her alibi was that the clerk from the diner remembered preparing the sandwich—apparently, requesting mustard on tuna was a little unusual.

“How’s the business doing?” Morgan continued in a conversational tone. Their investigation had already turned up tax returns for the past four years that showed a very healthy profit in each year. But he wanted to hear what Nan had to say on the topic.

“Fine. Excellent, as a matter of fact.”

“I understand you do the accounting?”

Her expression brightened. “Yes. All five stores. The accounting is centralized at our main store on Queen Street.”

Proud of her work. “Was there anything unusual about your husband’s behavior recently? Any changes in his habits, new people that he was seeing?”

Nan colored at his words. “If you’re referring to the fact that they found him in a motel room, the answer is that I have no idea what he was doing there. I suppose you think he was having an affair or something.”

“Is that what you think, Mrs. Walker?”

Nan’s gaze dropped from his. “I don’t know,” she said softly. “I’ve sometimes suspected him of being unfaithful over the years, but we’d just started marriage counseling. I guess I hoped he was sincere when he told me he was willing to work on some of our problems.”

Lying about husband’s affair.

Nan looked back at him, her expression earnest now. “It’s been difficult with Jason away from home. Our counselor says it’s not uncommon for couples to go through a period of adjustment after their children are gone. To be honest, it was me that found it particularly hard. When Jason was at home his friends were always over, involved in one activity or another. And I volunteered at his school and drove for all his hockey games.”

Morgan nodded sympathetically. “So when Jason left, life seemed pretty empty?”

“Oh, I still had my work. But evenings could be lonely. Jerry never felt like doing much when he got home—he was happy to sit around watching television. Quite honestly, I have a hard time imagining him having the energy to have an affair.” The underlying bitterness of her last comment had obviously been unplanned. Her mouth tightened the second the words left her lips and her eyes became fixed on a point somewhere to the left of Morgan’s head.

“Do you know the contents of your husband’s will?”

“Yes.” Her gray eyes flashed at him, objecting silently to the question, but she answered. “I get the house, both cars and retirement fund. The business will go to Jason, of course.”

“Entirely to Jason?” Morgan feigned surprise.

Nan lifted her chin. “Of course. He’s our son.”

Morgan shrugged. The value of Nan’s inheritance was not insubstantial, but it paled in comparison with the worth of the business. “Sure. But your husband could have left you with a life bequest, with the shares to revert to Jason on your death. I mean, in a divorce, you would have been entitled to half of his assets. It just seems odd, that’s all…” Morgan’s voice tapered off, and he pretended to look uncomfortable, all the while watching Nan’s face closely for any signs of resentment. He saw none.

“Our retirement fund is not insubstantial. I’ll be well provided for. And of course I draw my own salary out of the business. And I’ll receive a pension when I retire.”

“Of course,” Morgan was silent for a moment, as if thinking something over. “But what will your son do with the business? You said earlier he wasn’t interested in working there.”

“Perhaps he’ll change his mind. Or he could always hire someone to run it for him,” Nan pointed out reasonably.

“You perhaps?”

“Me? Good heavens, no. Lorne Thackray would be the most likely choice, I’d say.”

Lorne Thackray. Morgan wrote the name down on his pad and circled it twice. “Does he work there?”

“He’s the manager at the Queen Street location. Jerry was talking about increasing Lorne’s responsibilities by adding another store. I imagine he could handle all five if he had to.”

Nan was sitting straighter in her chair now, and her voice was firmer. Morgan found the changes very interesting, but he sensed this was not the time to dig deeper. “That’s all for now, Mrs. Walker. If you think of anything that might help us out, please give us a call.”

Once the initial shock wore off, people’s memories tended to loosen up. Knowing this, Morgan tried not to feel discouraged by the lack of information Nan had provided.

In a homicide of this type, the spouse was an obvious suspect. The marriage had been in trouble and Morgan was almost certain Nan had known her husband was having an affair. And while Nan certainly seemed anxious and distraught, Morgan had a feeling it was more because of his questions than the loss of her husband.

On Nan’s side, of course, was her alibi. And the fact that she didn’t exactly come away with a fortune in the will certainly stood in her favor. On the other hand, alibis could be discredited, and money wasn’t the only motive for murder.

Morgan shook his head, momentarily clearing his mind of the conflicting facts and motives. If he went on gut feel, he’d have to say he didn’t think she’d done it. And why?

Maybe it all boiled down to this: he didn’t think Nan Walker had the balls to cold-bloodedly plan and carry out the murder of her own husband.




CHAPTER THREE


IT WAS NOON. Trista sat and stared at her hands, folded motionless on the top of her desk. Usually she worked through lunch, eating a sandwich as she read files, or making notes on her morning appointments. Today, however, she wasn’t hungry. And her thoughts were uncharacteristically scattered.

Maybe the problem was lack of sleep. But whenever she tried to close her eyes to catch a quick nap, she saw Morgan’s face—the way it was now, not the way she remembered it from before—and she was stricken with guilt.

She’d ruined his life. She still felt that way, despite the months of therapy she’d undergone in an attempt to make peace with her past. He was angry and bitter, and worst of all, she couldn’t blame him, nor could she criticize him for not having moved on with his life. How could he, when she hadn’t either? Weak and foolish she might be, but she wasn’t about to add hypocritical to the list.

How had he survived these past few years? Same as her, she suspected—by throwing himself into his work. At least now he would have Jerry Walker’s case to keep him busy. He wouldn’t be in her position, sitting in an empty room with nothing but her own thoughts to drive her crazy. His job demanded action. Gathering evidence, interviewing suspects—he wouldn’t have time to sit and stew.

Trista separated her hands and tapped her long nails against the wooden surface of the desk. She still found it difficult to believe that Jerry had been murdered, although the basic facts had been confirmed in the morning paper.

But why? And who could have done it? His wife, Nan? It seemed impossible for such a quiet, self-effacing woman. Did her mild exterior conceal the rage it would take to commit murder? Certainly there were negative feelings, repressed hostility. But murder?

Once Nan was ruled out, though, who did that leave? The woman Jerry had been having an affair with? But why would she kill him? Because he wouldn’t leave his wife, perhaps? For some reason, that scenario didn’t sit right with Trista either. Who was this woman he had been seeing? Were there any clues in her session notes?

Trista was relieved when a knock interrupted her fruitless speculations.

“Yes?”

The door opened and a large woman with jet-black hair and piercing dark eyes strode into Trista’s office.

“Sylvia,” Trista said, surprised. Sylvia and her husband, Daniel Hawthorne, were former clients. They’d come to her after Sylvia had found out her husband was having an affair, and stayed in therapy for about two months. Trista had been sorry to see them quit the sessions. It was obvious there were still issues that needed to be resolved.

“Sorry to barge in.” Sylvia spoke in her customary booming voice and didn’t sound sorry at all. “That secretary of yours wasn’t at her desk.”

“Brenda’s on her lunch break.” Trista invited Sylvia to sit down. “Can I get you a coffee?”

“I’m fine,” Sylvia said as she lowered herself into one of the wingback chairs.

Inwardly Trista scrambled for the particulars of the Hawthornes’ situation, wishing Sylvia had given her notice so she could have reviewed her files. She remembered that Daniel had been a sweet, intelligent man. In their conversations, he’d often been dominated by his overpowering wife.

“He’s at it again,” Sylvia said in quiet fury. “I asked him to take me out to lunch today—Wednesday is when he used to meet his girlfriend, remember?—and at the last minute, he canceled.”

Trista assumed she was talking about her husband. “Did he say why?”

Sylvia flounced her hair with one hand. “He said they were having a faculty meeting. So, of course, I phoned the university after he left to check—”

Trista made mental note of that of course. Did Sylvia routinely check up on everything Daniel said?

“—and they said there was no meeting and that Daniel had even canceled his afternoon class!”

Trista remembered that Sylvia had a strong jealous streak, predating Daniel’s affair. Whether those feelings were justified in this case, Trista had no idea. “Before you jump to any conclusions, I think you should talk to Daniel. Perhaps the meeting was rescheduled. Perhaps he wasn’t feeling well. There could be many reasons why he had to cancel his class.”

Sylvia shook her head. “No. If he wasn’t well, he’d have come home or at least phoned me.”

“You won’t know for sure until you talk to him.”

“But I don’t even know where he is! How can I talk to him?”

“I guess you’ll have to wait until he gets home.”

“But that could be hours!”

“I’m sorry. Sometimes we have no choice but to wait. Once you’ve had a chance to discuss this with your husband, I’d be happy to talk to both of you, or you alone, if you’d prefer. Just phone Brenda and make an appointment.”

They sat quietly for several moments before Sylvia finally gave a reluctant nod of agreement. Despite the woman’s abrasive nature, Trista felt sorry for her. Waiting was never easy, especially for a woman of Sylvia’s impatient nature. As Trista ushered the distraught woman out of her office, she saw that Brenda was back from lunch.

“Could we talk a minute, Brenda?”

“Sure.” Brenda waited until Sylvia had walked out the main doors before standing and smoothing the skirt of her navy suit. She was about the same age as Trista, 32, but appeared older, probably because of the premature gray streaks in her hair, and a naturally sallow complexion. Trista had often thought that some hair color and a little makeup would make a world of difference, but those sorts of personal indulgences simply were not Brenda’s style.

Closing the door behind them, Trista got right down to business. “I meant to tell you this earlier, Brenda. I think someone broke into our office last night.”

“What?” Brenda looked disbelieving. “How did they get in?”

“With a key, apparently. The spare in your desk is missing. Wait—” She held out a hand to stop Brenda as she went to check. “I want you to be aware that a detective may be calling with some questions.” She looked out the window before continuing, “His name is Morgan Forester. I think he’ll probably want to know the last time you saw the key, and whether you remember anyone suspicious hanging around your desk, that sort of thing.”

“The key was there Monday morning, when I needed money to buy cream,” Brenda said slowly. “What was stolen?”

“Nothing that we know of, but maybe you could check the files to make sure. I’m going to call security and have the locks on our door changed.”

Brenda went to leave, then paused at the door. “Work must be slow if they’re sending detectives to investigate office break-ins these days.”

The remark caught Trista off guard. Brenda didn’t offer her own opinions very often. Obviously she was expecting more of an explanation. When Trista didn’t say anything, Brenda continued, “Does Detective Forester think our break-in had something to do with Jerry Walker’s murder?”

Trista sighed. Jerry’s murder was something else she should have discussed with Brenda, and she felt like a coward for having avoided it. “I suppose you read about it in the papers?”

Brenda nodded.

“I’m sorry. I should have told you before my ten o’clock appointment.”

“Is there a connection between the break-in and the murder?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? Trista thought about the Walker file and Morgan’s expectations that she review it. The prospect both exhausted and frightened her. It was a big mistake for her and Morgan to spend time together. If only this could be one of those rare cases, the kind that got solved quickly and simply.

Brenda was still waiting, her expression cool but expectant. Trista raised her hands helplessly. “I don’t know. It’s possible, I guess. But I sure hope not.”



MORGAN WAS LATE for his appointment with Trista. As he rushed off the elevator and through the main door, he was disappointed to see the receptionist’s chair empty, her desk cleared of the day’s work. He’d asked Brenda a few questions over the phone about an hour ago, and had hoped to catch her before his meeting with Trista.

Behind the reception area, Trista’s office door stood slightly ajar. Morgan walked up to the threshold, somehow reluctant to announce his presence. The silence was unsettling. With a slight push of his hand the door swung open.

Trista was on the sofa, asleep. Her body was curled in an S shape, with her auburn hair spilling loosely over the arm she had tucked under her head. She’d kicked off her shoes, and her long, narrow feet, encased in sheer hose, were resting on a pile of books on the far cushion.

As Morgan stepped closer, he was able to see more. Her face was pale, her eyelids almost translucent, her lips pulled down at the corners as if even her naps were haunted by sad dreams. Her narrow skirt had ridden to almost the top of her thighs, and his breath drew in at the sight of her long, slender legs. As far as he could see, they were as flawless as when he’d first known her, and he felt a thumping in his chest in response to awakened memories.

White-hot anger suddenly replaced the stirrings of desire. Teeth together, he sucked in his cheeks, took a deep breath and tried to fight off the vicious pull of emotions. Turning his back to her, he picked up the phone to make a quick call. He spoke quietly, but soon heard the rustle of her suit against the stiff fabric of the sofa, and the soft intake of her breath, signaling that she was waking. He didn’t turn around. The next time he looked at her, he wanted her to be back together, without so much as a hair out of place.

When he hung up, she asked, “What time is it?” in a voice husky from sleep.

“Five-thirty.” He spread his hands, gripping the edge of her desk, surveying the spartan neatness of the work top and trying to erase the picture of her long, almost bare legs from his memory. This was all about business. He’d be okay if he just kept reminding himself of that fact. “Sorry if I kept you waiting.”

In the background he heard sounds of smoothing and pulling, and he imagined her tidying her hair, reorganizing her clothes. Her arm must have fallen asleep, it would be tingling now. Would she guess that he’d taken a moment to stop and study her while she was asleep?

“No problem. I guess I needed the rest.”

Her words were cool, composed, and suddenly he knew that it wouldn’t have occurred to her that he might have been watching her. And even if she’d known, she couldn’t have cared less. He felt the rage building in him again. How could she be so distant and impersonal? Even caught off guard taking a nap, she didn’t give an inch. From her reaction, he might as well be the night janitor, asking if he could empty the trash from her office.

He tightened his hold on the edge of the table and bowed his head. Get a grip, he told himself. You can do this.

“Can I have the file?” she said, stepping behind her desk into his range of vision. As he’d suspected, her hair was smooth and her suit was impeccable once more, barely a trace of a wrinkle in her brown linen skirt and jacket.

He pushed the locked briefcase across the desk surface, noticing as she reached for it how smooth and even-colored the skin on the back of her hands was. They in no way betrayed the pain and unhappiness of the past. Unlike the circles under her eyes and the gauntness of her frame.

Her long nails were tapered, with a flawless covering of polish. A different color than yesterday, he noticed. God, he was falling apart and she was coordinating her nail color with her change in clothing.

Before she could open the file, he stopped her with one quick touch to those picture-perfect hands. “I think I should fill you in on the latest developments before you start.”

Her nostrils pinched in as she drew a deep breath. Because of his touch, or the suggestion? Did she think he was prolonging their encounter for the fun of it?

“The more background information you have, the more likely you’ll be able to pull any relevant information from your notes,” he explained.

She nodded tightly in response. “Let’s sit down then.”

Carefully avoiding the sofa—he imagined he could still see the imprint of her body on the soft cushions—he sat in one of the chairs, pulling out his notepad and resting it on one knee.

“Obviously my main interest is in identifying the woman Jerry was having an affair with,” he began, trying to pretend this was just another briefing. “Beyond that, let’s start with Nan Walker. Both she and her son have motives, but they have alibis as well. Nan claims to have been at the store Monday afternoon, while Jason was at school in Kingston.”

Trista nodded, and he continued, “She claims she didn’t know Jerry was having an affair. I got the impression she was lying. What do you think?”

Trista uncrossed her legs and leaned forward on her lap. “I can’t dispute what she told you. The topic of an affair never came up in our sessions, and I never pursue those avenues unless it seems necessary.”

Morgan checked his impatience with her carefully worded reply. God, talking to Trista was like dealing with a lawyer. “Well, it’s pretty clear he was having an affair. Nan found a note among his personal effects today.”

That shocked her at least, he observed with satisfaction.

“A note?”

Morgan nodded. On his way here, he’d stopped at the Walkers’ to pick it up, which was why he’d been late. “Nan found it this afternoon when she was sorting through Jerry’s papers. It’s typed on a piece of stationery with flowers across the top. It says—” he lowered his eyes to his notepad to read the exact words “—Let’s make it Monday this week. Same place, same time.”

The room was silent as Trista absorbed the information. “Poor Nan,” she said finally, taking a deep breath with the words. “Having to cope with this on top of everything else.”

“Women have murdered for less.” He saw Trista cringe at the harshness in his tone.

“Who else have you talked to?” she asked. “Besides Nan.” Her voice was low, quietly encouraging. He imagined her using that same tone to inspire the confidence of her clients, and he felt the anger surge inside him again.

“The cleaner at the Night’s End. She said Jerry had been coming to the motel for several weeks now, never staying more than three or four hours at a time. She’d pretty much figured out what was going on in that room and she wasn’t impressed.”

“Did she ever see the woman he was meeting?”

“Only from a distance. She said the woman looked like a spy from the movies. Big trench coat. Hat. Sunglasses. Arrived in a taxi, left in a taxi. Ring any bells?” he asked sarcastically. As a description it didn’t have one thing to commend itself. The cleaner hadn’t even been willing to guess as to weight or height.

Trista shook her head, as if sharing in his disappointment.

“The desk clerk wasn’t any better,” Morgan continued. “According to him, Jerry always picked up the room key. Except this last time the woman came to the desk saying her husband had locked them out and she needed another key.”

“That’s strange.”

“Isn’t it, though? Something else that ties in with the note Nan Walker found—the clerk said they normally booked their room for Wednesdays. This was the first time they’d met on a Monday.”

“That has to mean something.”

“I agree. But what?”

“I wish I knew.” Trista held her hands out helplessly.

“Tell me about your secretary. Brenda.”

Trista looked surprised at the question. “Brenda Malachowski? She’s been working for me since I first opened my practice.”

“Is she married?”

“No. She lives alone in a condominium on King and Bathurst.”

“Does she date anyone in particular?”

“Not that I know of, although she goes out a lot.” She frowned. “Is this really relevant? I don’t like talking about people behind their backs.”

Morgan felt his patience snapping. “Answering questions in a homicide investigation isn’t exactly gossiping. But maybe you should take a look at that file now.”

Once Trista was settled at her desk, Morgan turned to the forms he’d brought with him. Unlike a lot of cops he knew, Morgan enjoyed doing the paperwork on a job. It was a chance to sit and think, to pull the strands of an investigation together.

Still, it was easier to do when you’d had some sleep in the past forty-eight hours, and he’d had precious little. Slouching down in his chair, he put his feet up on the coffee table. Trista looked exhausted as well, despite the catnap he’d interrupted. Had she, too, found it impossible to fall asleep last night?

He tried to concentrate on his papers, but it wasn’t long before the lines in front of him blurred then went double. He slouched down farther in his chair. The hand holding his pen went slack and the pen slipped down, soundlessly, onto the plush carpeted floor.



“YOU WANT TO KNOW what I think? You won’t like it, I’ll guarantee you that. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with our marriage. She just needs to broaden her own interests a little. Ever since Jason left for university she’s been moping around the house and acting miserable. Who feels like talking to a person like that?”

Jerry’s voice came loudly over the earphones Trista was wearing. She adjusted the volume slightly downward.

“What do you have to say to your husband’s comments, Nan?”

There was so much that a tape recording left out. Trista could remember the hostility in Nan’s eyes, the way her lips had compressed into a tight, thin line. But then, in a matter of seconds, her anger seemed to have disappeared, and she replied in a typically unassertive manner.

“I know I haven’t been very good company lately, but I do have other interests. I work, after all. Maybe we need to go out more. Do things together, as a couple—”

“We do go out. We went to the Easter Seals thing just a few months ago. And before that there was the political fundraiser…”

“The one for Suni Choopra. But those aren’t the sort of things I was talking about.”

That was where Trista had met the Walkers. She’d been at the fundraiser as both a friend and supporter of Suni’s. Federal elections were being held in six weeks, and Suni looked like a shoo-in as the incumbent member of Parliament for Toronto West.

“No kidding! You stood by yourself, in a corner of the room, for most of the evening. It was damn embarrassing, let me tell you! You’d think a woman over forty would have learned a few social skills already!”

“They were your friends. And you didn’t introduce me to any of them.”

At this point, with their time almost over, Trista had felt obliged to break in.

“Are you talking about more intimate activities, Nan? Just you and Jerry? Maybe going out for dinner or to a movie?”

“Exactly.”

The sound of light snoring caught Trista’s attention. She stopped the tape and looked at Morgan. He was slouched down in his chair with his head tipped back, fast asleep. Papers were strewn over his lap and on the floor beside him. She couldn’t help but smile. Morgan had always survived on a series of power naps rather than a decent night’s sleep, and it seemed he hadn’t changed the habit.

After a moment she forced herself to look away. There was something so intimate about seeing another person asleep. They were so vulnerable… She wondered what Morgan had thought when he’d walked into her office to find her napping on the couch. Had he felt, like her, that he was getting a stolen glimpse of something he had no right to see?

Remembering her state of disarray, how high her skirt had risen, she felt her face go hot. But then reason prevailed. Morgan had probably spared her only the briefest glance before making his phone call. After all, he’d so resolutely kept his back to her while she’d tidied herself up.

Morgan had looked at her with desire once, but he would do so no more. And that was exactly the way she wanted it. A slight pain nagged at her forehead as she turned her attention back to the papers on her desk.

She listened until the end of the tape, then clicked the machine off. Sighing, she lifted the earphones over her head, and rubbed the tired muscles at the back of her neck reflexively.

“Find anything?”

Her hands froze at the sound of his voice breaking the almost eerie after-hours silence in the office. Now she remembered his uncanny ability to wake, fully alert, from the deepest sleep. Another thing about the man that hadn’t changed.

“I warned you not to expect too much.”

“Believe me, where you’re concerned, I’ve learned never to expect too much.”

Trista cringed at the bitterness of his words. There was a temptation to lash out, to defend herself, but that was short-lived. If she was honest, she knew his anger was justifiable, but more to the point, it didn’t matter anymore. She couldn’t let herself care, not now.

“There’s nothing in this file about any affair. You can believe me or not, but that’s the truth.” She looked down at her hands for a second before adding, “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry.” Morgan’s words came out hard and bitter. “Why don’t I believe you? I guess you’d say anything to get me out of your life again, wouldn’t you?” He stood and walked toward the desk. Unlike hers, his dark hair never looked mussed. It was too short. And his clothes hadn’t suffered for the brief nap. She saw the dangerous glint in his blue eyes as he drew closer. He was angry. And making no attempt to control it.

“How disappointed you must have been to see me standing outside your door last night. Upsetting the balance of your perfect little life,” he said in a mocking tone. “Working day and night, sequestered away in this ivory tower, going home alone every night, to that lovely, sterile apartment of yours. And don’t tell me about your busy social life, because I’ve been keeping my eye on you and I know you don’t have one.”

With the last of his words, he leaned over her desk, his face a mere six inches away. She could see the dark stubble on his chin, the sheen of perspiration on his upper lip. When her gaze reached the blue fire of his eyes, she looked away quickly, scorched by the contact.

“Are you happy, Trista? Is this—” he waved one arm to indicate her office “—what you wanted?” And when she didn’t answer right away, he pounded his fist on the desktop. “Answer me, dammit! Are you happy? Is it enough?”

She wheeled back in her chair, putting some distance between them. It was an effort to stay calm, to keep her cool. She stared at the wall, just beyond him, and struggled to keep her own emotions out of bounds where they belonged. “This is the life I’ve chosen, Morgan, and I don’t want to talk about it.”

He straightened himself and shook his head bitterly. “Of course not. You don’t want to talk about anything, do you? Nothing that matters, anyway.” He looked away for a few minutes, drew in a long breath.

“Well, I’ve got bad news for you, lady. You’re going to have to continue talking with me. Until I solve this case, or we both go crazy with the effort.”




CHAPTER FOUR


WEDNESDAY WAS Trista’s evening to volunteer at Suni Choopra’s campaign office. The small one-room headquarters was located just east of the Humber River, in Bloor West Village, amid the small delicatessens, cafés and boutiques that gave the area its charm. Trista rode the subway one stop beyond her own, to Runnymede, then ran up the concrete steps to the sidewalk. Flowers and tubs of fresh vegetables stood outside the small grocery shop beside the campaign office, and Trista stopped to pick up a potted mum for the front desk.

Campaign posters covered the glass front of Suni’s office. Her beautiful East Indian face, with its classical proportions and unusually pale complexion—inherited, along with her height, from her Nordic mother—was arresting in itself. Then you saw her record and you were really impressed. That was why Trista was here. Suni was going to change things, and Trista wanted to help.

When she opened the door, a cacophony of noise greeted her. The headquarters was usually a madhouse in late afternoon, and now, at least a dozen other volunteers were scattered in the modest, five-hundred-square-foot space. Trista placed the mums on the reception desk and smiled her hellos. Suni was at the back of the room, talking intently with her campaign manager.

“Everything okay?” Trista asked one of the other volunteers.

“Couldn’t be better,” was the cheerful reply. “Early poll results were in this morning. Suni’s holding on to her ten-point lead.”

Then why did she look so tense? Maybe they would have a chance to talk later. Trista began folding the flyers that she and other volunteers would be delivering door-to-door later in the campaign.

At the back of the room, Suni was now standing alone. For a moment Trista thought Suni was looking at her, but then she realized the older woman was staring into space, one delicately boned hand held up to the side of her face. Her expression was one Trista recognized. She’d seen it often enough in her own mirror. What in the world was the matter? She didn’t get a chance to ask until hours later, when the other volunteers had left for the night.

“You look tired,” Trista observed quietly, stacking the finished pamphlets into a mailbag as Suni went about the business of closing down the office.

“It’s been a long day.” Suni’s smile was an obvious effort.

Trista was concerned, but she wasn’t going to pry. She slipped on her jacket and stepped outside, pulling her collar around the base of her neck as protection from the cool nip of the spring evening. As she waited for Suni to lock the front door, Trista’s eyes scanned the street casually, stopping at the sight of a familiar car parked across from the office.

The tempo of her heartbeat picked up and she frantically tried to gather her defenses. She wasn’t surprised that Morgan had found her here—he seemed to know so much about her—but she was very surprised that he would want to talk to her again so soon after that scene in her office.

As she watched, the car’s engine started and its lights flickered on. At a lull in the traffic he pulled a U-turn, stopping just feet from where she and Suni stood. He got out of the car, and even with the vehicle between them, she couldn’t meet his gaze.

“I have some more questions, Trista.”

Of course he did. Trista glanced nervously at Suni, who was watching the scene with avid interest. “Can’t they wait until tomorrow?”

“If they could, I wouldn’t be here.” The blunt meaning of his words was only too clear. He didn’t want to be around her any more than he had to.

“Where are we going to talk? In your car?” The thought of being confined with him in such close quarters panicked her.

“Why not over dinner? The café down the street is good. They make a mean borscht.”

Suni nodded. “Good cabbage rolls, too.”

Morgan’s glance flicked over to the politician then back to Trista. “I’ll park my car and meet you there.”

Trista watched as he drove off, wishing she had the nerve to ignore him.

“What was that all about?” Suni asked, her eyes also on the departing taillights. “Who’s the dark handsome stranger?”

Since Morgan’s car was unmarked, Trista realized that Suni had no idea Morgan was a cop. In their two years of friendship, Trista had resisted several of Suni’s gentle efforts at matchmaking, and so she couldn’t really blame her friend for being curious about a man suddenly showing up on the scene. Forcing herself to rise above her own reticence, Trista fought down the wall of coldness that she worked so hard to maintain. Suni was a good friend. She deserved an answer.

For a minute she contemplated telling Suni about the break-in and its possible connection to Jerry Walker’s murder. Then she decided against it, opting for the more painful truth.

“He’s Morgan Forester. My ex-husband.”



THE RESTAURANT WAS cafeteria style, with a clean European atmosphere and mouthwatering aromas. A counter lined with stools ran along the windows, and plain wooden tables and chairs filled the rest of the space. There were racks with newspapers available to the customers, and a small counter in the center of the room with a jug of ice water and glasses.

Trista picked up a tray and joined Morgan in the lineup. She came here often and wondered if he did too. He seemed familiar with the place. What if they’d met here by chance one Saturday afternoon, what would that have been like?

It would have been preferable to meeting over a homicide investigation. But the end result would have been the same. Disaster.

“The bread here is fantastic,” Morgan said. He stood back to let her go ahead of him in the line, and she felt self-conscious as she chose a fat slice of rye and a bowl of soup. They found a table near the back of the restaurant, which was busy despite the late hour.

Focusing on the food in front of her, she could feel her stomach tightening with anxiety. “So what was it you forgot to ask me?” she asked, unnerved by Morgan’s silence. There was no place in their relationship for idle chitchat. Other ex-spouses might become friends, might find it possible to join each other for a casual dinner. But not her and Morgan. The only safe topic of conversation for them was the investigation that had brought them together in the first place.

“Nothing like getting right down to business.”

She forced down a mouthful of soup, aware that he was watching her every move.

“Okay then.” He sighed, setting down his fork. “I need to know certain things so I can get the timetable down right. When did you normally see the Walkers?”

“Tuesday afternoons.” She wondered what he was getting at, why this would matter.

“So, if the last time Nan Walker was in your office was last Tuesday, she couldn’t have stolen the spare key, since Brenda claims it wasn’t missing this Monday.”

“I guess that’s right. But I thought Nan was off the suspect list already. Didn’t you say she has an alibi?”

“Yes, she does. I’m in the process of checking it out, and so far, it’s like she says. She went out for lunch from one to one-thirty. The clerk at the café remembers her ordering her sandwich. One of the hardware-store cashiers can verify the time Nan returned because he asked her a question about a malfunctioning cash register.”

“That sounds pretty airtight.”

“Call me cynical, but it seems almost too airtight to me.”

“How can an alibi be too airtight?”

“Seems planned, that’s all. What if she was working with a partner?”

“This is Nan Walker we’re talking about, right? I don’t know, Morgan. There has to be some other possibility. Do you have any other suspects?”

“I’d love to get a lead on the identity of the lady in the trench coat. I have to admit, I was hoping you’d come up with something. There are other angles to work on though. Like Lorne Thackray. He’s likely to take over as manager of the entire hardware chain now. And he has no alibi for that afternoon. He went out for lunch at one and didn’t return until almost three. He claims he ate alone, then went to check prices at some of his competitors in the neighborhood. Did his name come up in any of your sessions with the Walkers?”

“No. We focused on the relationship between Nan and Jerry. The only other person they sometimes talked about was their son.”

“Okay, tell me more about that secretary of yours.”

“Again? She’s wonderful. Very organized and dependable. That’s why, if she says the keys were there on Monday, I believe her. And if she says she locked up every day, then I’m certain of that, too.”

“You’re very trusting. I assume you checked her references before you hired her?”

Trista narrowed her eyes. Was he implying that she was wrong to trust Brenda as much as she did? If so, was it only because he never took anyone at face value, or was there something more concrete behind his question?

“She had all the qualifications for the job, and then some. Plus she had an excellent letter of reference from her previous job.”

“Did you phone her employer to confirm the information?”

“No, I didn’t,” Trista said defensively.

“I see.”

Trista sighed with exasperation. “Why do you ask? Do you know something about her that I don’t?”

“I just wondered if you checked her references. It’s a fairly common business practice, after all.”

Trista flushed under the implied criticism. She felt worse, knowing that he was right. But in this case it hardly mattered, did it? After all, Brenda had worked out perfectly. “Why are you so interested in Brenda? You can’t think she’s responsible for any of this?”

He didn’t answer, just picked up his fork and started eating. She tried to concentrate on her food, but it was impossible to keep her eyes off Morgan for very long. She noticed little things, details she hadn’t thought about since she’d left him. The way he held his utensils, as if they were too small for his strong, capable hands. The way he slouched back in his chair slightly as he ate. The way his strong shoulder muscles bulged beneath the thin knit of his navy shirt. Morgan had always looked good in dark colors.

If he was aware of her covert glances, Morgan gave no sign. For once, his penetrating blue eyes were not focused on her. As he ate he glanced around the café casually, but Trista knew that weeks later he would be able to give a precise and accurate description of the restaurant and the people in it—including approximate ages, and educated guesses about what each of them did for a living.

“There was another reason I wanted to talk to you tonight,” Morgan admitted when his plate was empty.

“Oh?” She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear this.

“To apologize. For getting off track at your office. I appreciate that you’re trying to cooperate on this case, and I realize that the only way it’s going to work is if we avoid personal topics.”

“That sounds reasonable.” Trista sipped her water, marveling at how cool and calm they were being all of a sudden. What had happened to Morgan’s all-consuming anger? She decided she didn’t want to know.

“So what do you do at Suni Choopra’s campaign headquarters?” Apology over, he now steered the subject matter to neutral ground.

“I’m a volunteer there.” She didn’t bother to ask how he’d known where she was tonight. With all the information he had on her, she didn’t need to.

“Really?” Morgan shot her a puzzled glance. “I don’t remember you being interested in politics.”

“Things change.” Wasn’t that an understatement? “I met Suni two years ago. She was knocking on every door in my apartment building, asking how we felt about certain government policies.”

Morgan was right. She’d never had much interest in politics. But Suni had struck her as different. Within minutes of meeting, they were sharing a cup of coffee and talking like old friends.

The bond, she’d realized, was loneliness.

Most people would find it impossible to believe someone with a life like Suni’s could be lonely. She spent her days and most evenings surrounded by people. Her social calendar was full and her workdays long and varied. Yet Trista had soon realized that Suni had sacrificed many things for her political ambition, including a normal family life, with a husband and children.

“Didn’t you say that you met the Walkers at one of Choopra’s fundraising parties?” Morgan asked.

Trista nodded.

“And you started your practice what—two years ago?”





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