Though he’d never been a big man, prior to the accident he’d carried about twenty
more pounds on his build. But grief had accomplished what people paid Jenny Craig
and Weight Watchers big bucks to do. Deeper hollows under his cheekbones made his
eyes brighter, his lips fuller. The spare, sinewy tone of his shoulders and arms reminded
her of a feral wolf—desperate, but strong, snarling, and powerful. Two years later,
he still hadn’t regained all the weight he’d dropped, yet he was even more beautiful
today than before the tragedy. Because he was
here
. He wasn’t in a casket under a mound of earth. He was alive.
She shifted on the seat. Shifted again. Even with the upholstery pressing into her
back and thighs, she could still feel the hard wall of his chest imprinted on her
shoulders and spine. Still sense the brand of the concave bowl of his hips and thick
length of his erection wedged against her bottom. The evidence of his arousal had
drop-kicked the air from her lungs. Her heart had stutter-stepped, then raced with
the speed of a freight train. Desire had clenched her stomach, streamed through her
veins like the most potent, addictive narcotic.
Then he’d touched her, splayed his long fingers across her abdomen, and gently kissed
her hair. The muscles in her stomach clenched, then fluttered as if his hand still
touched her, his lips continued to brush a caress over her head.
She rolled to a stop at an intersection. As a nonstop line of cars whizzed by, Boston
traffic in full swing with commuters heading home at the end of another work day,
she risked closing her eyes, reliving the moment when she’d been granted a preview
of what making love to him would be like. Sensual, hungry, tender…
Slam!
The impact shook her truck. She was jolted forward but the seat belt across her chest
and hip snapped tight, slapping her back against the seat. She clapped her teeth shut
around a pained gasp. For a long moment, silence rang in her ears. Hissing, she uncurled
her fingers from around the steering wheel, stretching them.
“Damn,” she muttered.
Are you serious? A car accident?
She fumbled for the safety latch at her hip. From the force of that blow, her bumper
had to look like a horseshoe…
Slam!
Jesus Christ
. The truck skidded forward several inches with a squeal. On reflex, she crashed her
foot to the brake pedal. Her hands jerked back to the wheel, gripped it until the
ridges bit into her skin.
Oh, God. What
…?
Tires shrieked. The acrid odor of burning rubber stung her nose even through the raised
window. Her heart pummeled her ribcage; terror choked her. She glanced in the rearview
mirror, but all she could see was the glare of headlights. And she felt like the proverbial
deer trapped in their beams.
Just ahead, the intersection loomed closer. Cars zoomed past the nose of her truck,
their horns honking indignant blasts and warnings. She had to hold out a few seconds
more. Only a few more. Until the light changed.
Oh, God
. She cried out, and a dull ache resonated in her leg as she fought not to ease the
weight on the pedal.
Another slam sent her torso jerking forward, and she screamed from the force of it.
The truck shuddered. Skidded. Moved.
The whir of passing vehicles filtered through her windshield like a ghost’s eerie
howl, luring her closer and closer to death…
Green
.
She lifted her foot, and time sped from zero to sixty. She spurred the truck forward
like a stone propelled from a slingshot. Another scream climbed up her throat as a
car sped through the red light and clipped the front end of her truck before zooming
on through the intersection. Her truck pitched left. She wasn’t going to make it across
the street.
Christ!
She yanked the steering wheel, hurtling past an oncoming vehicle close enough to
detect the enraged driver’s bellow. The truck swung to the side as she slammed her
foot on the brake. The high-pitched whine of rubber against road was abruptly cut
off by a corner streetlamp.
A sharp crack like a gunshot exploded then the air bag deployed in a cloud of acrid,
white powder. Air whooshed from her lungs seconds before the seat belt snatched her
back. The din of screams, horns, and hissing radiator water battered against the car’s
windows, demanding entrance into the vehicle. She coughed. Shuddered. Whimpered.
Frantic, she twisted around, the flash of pain in her neck, shoulders, and back secondary
to the possibility of being plowed further into the lamppost by the lunatic who’d
attacked her. But horrified pedestrians, blinking hazard lights, and haphazardly parked
cars filled her vision, not a rampaging vehicle.
Thank God
.
She wilted against the deflating air bag and steering wheel.
“Hey! Are you okay?”
She whipped her head toward the sharp rap on the driver’s window, an animal cry escaping
her lips. A pale face stared at her, a palm plastered on the glass.
Am I okay? That requires an answer, doesn’t it?
“Yes,” she croaked.
For someone who had just been the victim of attempted murder, she was A-okay.
Chapter Eleven
Leah pressed the brake pedal, and the small, cheap rental squeaked to a stop.
“Damn,” she muttered, rocking forward. With another curse, she slid the gearshift
into park. After driving a truck for years, navigating the sporty compact was like
piloting a clown car. She grimaced, disgusted. The vehicle dinged her pride. But on
such short notice, the rental company had provided her with the first available car.
An early morning appointment for another client had shaved her options down to who
opens at nine. Hence the Homey-the-Clown vehicle.
Grateful
, she reminded herself, switching off the ignition.
I should be grateful I’m unharmed after a hit-and-run and not complaining about what
car I’m driving
.
Well, mostly unharmed. She bit back a groan as she opened the driver’s door, gingerly
eased from the seat, and stood. Last night her body had been mostly numb, but this
morning her aches had made themselves known. Loudly.
All of it—the “accident,” the crash—would seem like a scene out of a grainy smash-n-grab
crime video if not for the dull throb of pain in her arms, back, and legs. Fear and
the sudden pull of the seat belt on impact caused residual soreness in her chest.
Accident. Yeah, sure. When the police arrived and examined the scene while she’d given
her statement, their anger had been palpable. From the witness statements and the
damage to the rear of the car, it was obvious someone had deliberately rammed into
her. The cops’ outrage and concern on her behalf—a former sister-in-blue—had gone
a long way toward assuaging the terror of the night.
Stepping onto the sidewalk, she deliberately shoved thoughts of the night before from
her mind and focused on the tan and brown two-story home belonging to Brian Connor.
If she dwelled on the terrifying events, she might drive home, huddle on her couch,
and jump at every shadow. By no means did she scare that easily. She popped a peppermint
into her mouth and stuffed the wrapper in the front pocket of her jeans. While on
the force, she’d faced down some drug-addled bruisers and assholes that could give
the Hulk lessons in rage and brutality. But last night had been personal; someone
had deliberately tried to hurt, if not kill, her. And she had no idea who or why.
Had it been some kind of gang initiation? Bored kids with more time on their hands
than brains? Or what if the intent been something more sinister? Would she need to
constantly glance over her shoulder for another attack?
But damn, how did she protect herself against a phantom assailant?
“What the hell happened to your truck?”
A muffled cry escaped before she could corral it.
Shit
. She fisted her fingers instead of splaying them over her pounding heart, and willed
her stomach from her throat.
Gabriel. It’s just Gabriel
.
She forced her muscles to relax as she met his dark frown.
“Hey,” she said, but the casual greeting sounded strained even to her ears. “I didn’t
see you come up.”
The frown deepened. “You told me to meet you here at four o’clock,” he reminded her.
“What happened to your truck? Why are you driving that Matchbox toy?”
She grunted, silently agreeing with his assessment of the rental vehicle. “Had some
car trouble last night.”
Standing outside the home of the detective who had originally investigated Richard’s
disappearance was not the right setting to drop the bomb about a hit-and-run that
had culminated with her hood wrapped around a streetlight. Especially when the possible
outcome would have eerily echoed Maura’s and Ian’s deaths. Their car had been T-boned
by an oncoming vehicle in a busy intersection. Gabriel would immediately associate
his family’s accident with Leah’s incident, and she refused to be the cause of pain
clouding his eyes.
“What kind of car trouble?” he asked, shifting closer into her space. Concern roughened
his voice, and he cupped her chin, tipping her face up. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, fine.” She twisted, freeing herself from his touch and avoiding his intense
scrutiny. “Just a few aches. Nothing major.”
“Aches?” His brows slammed down and an ominous growl rumbled out of him. “What the
hell hap—”
“Can I help you two?”
She wheeled around to face the house and the man who stood on the porch peering down
at her and Gabriel. Stocky, ruddy-cheeked, with a shock of white hair, Detective Brian
Connor was as Irish as his name.
Correction
, she amended, eyes narrowed on the man.
Detective Brian Connor, Retired
.
Tracking down the detective who had investigated Richard’s case had been a little
trickier than she’d anticipated. When she’d called the police department, she’d been
informed he’d retired a year earlier. Unearthing Brian Connor’s unlisted phone number
and home address had required several hours of work and a few lies, but she’d finally
obtained them.
Now if he’d just agree to speak with her, all her scheming would have been worth it.
He waited for their response with seeming patience, but she noted the stillness of
his body as if ready to move at a moment’s notice. The retired detective may have
traded his suit and tie for a plaid shirt and khakis, but that didn’t prevent him
from still thinking like a cop.
“Yes,” Leah called out and retraced her steps up the sidewalk. She paused at the bottom
step, Gabriel directly behind her. “Good afternoon, Detective Connor. My name is Leah
Bannon. I was hoping I could talk with you regarding an old missing-person case you
worked about twenty years ago. Richard Pierce.”
Recognition flared in his eyes before he squinted down at her. “Who did you say you
were?”
“Leah Bannon,” she repeated, and climbing a couple of the porch steps, extended her
hand to the man. “I’m a private investigator. I’m looking into the disappearance of
Richard Pierce.” She withdrew a black wallet containing her PI license from her jacket
pocket. Flipping it open, she passed it to the detective. He studied the slip of paper,
then handed it back to her.
“A little late, aren’t you?” he asked, resuming their conversation.
She shrugged. “Murder doesn’t have a statute of limitations.”
After a long, silent moment, his attention switched from Leah to over shoulder. “And,”
she said, half turning to wave a hand toward Gabriel, “This is—”
“Gabriel Devlin,” the detective interrupted. “I’m a fan.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Detective,” Gabriel’s low rumble vibrated against her back.
She suppressed her body’s shiver of awareness.
“Don’t you mean ‘to see you again,’ son?” Brian asked. “It’s been at least twenty
years, but we’ve met before.”
A pause. “Yes.”
You can’t kick him
, she reminded herself in irritation. At least not now.
The detective gave a rusty chuckle, then turned and pulled open the storm door. “Come
on in.”
Relief sucker punched her in the chest. She nodded, then glanced over her shoulder.
Gabriel met her gaze blandly. “Try not to take over the interview with your chattiness,”
she ordered under her breath. Gabriel rolled his eyes and followed her up the steps
into the home.
“May I ask how you came by my address?” Brian inquired as he led them down a short
entry hall and into a large, airy living room with huge windows and built-in bookshelves.
Glancing down, Leah wondered if the refinished floors had been a retirement project.
“Since I want to start off our meeting on a good note by not lying to you, I would
say, no, don’t ask,” she answered easily.
Again, the detective loosed a laugh that resembled a creaky garage door. He waved
them toward the couch and sat in the leather recliner next to it.
“Can’t argue with that kind of honesty,” he said. Settling his large frame in the
chair, he pinned her with a piercing gaze that she imagined didn’t miss much. “So
what can I do for you?”
She fished in her bag and withdrew her pen and notebook.
“I wanted to find out if you remembered the case and perhaps get your take on it.”
“Of course I remember. I was in the Missing Persons Unit then. But this particular
case stuck with me because of the victim. A well-to-do Weston businessman. They usually
don’t pull vanishing acts.” His fingers drummed on the worn leather of the chair’s
arm. “There was almost no evidence. None of his clothes or personal items were missing.
His suitcases remained in his closet, his bank accounts hadn’t been touched. Only
he and his car were gone.”
Leah frowned. “I hadn’t realized his car vanished, too.”
“Yes.” Brian nodded. “It’s why we considered the possibility of him taking off.” A
wry smile twisted his lips. “But his mother disabused us of that notion real quick
when we broached the subject. A real mother bear, that one.”
“She was very protective of Richard,” Leah agreed.
The detective’s gaze sharpened. “You knew her?”
“I have more than a professional connection to this case, Detective,” she admitted.
“Richard Pierce was like an uncle to me. He was my father’s best friend.”
The detective emitted a soft, noncommittal noise. “Anyway,” he continued, “we interviewed
nearly everyone he’d been in contact with—his family, business partner, employees,
his girlfriend, his girlfriend’s son,” he paused and flicked a look at Gabriel, “her
son’s friends. No one had a clue what could have happened to him, or if anyone held
a grudge strong enough to incite foul play.”
Leah digested his abbreviated rundown of the case’s facts. He hadn’t revealed anything
more than she’d come up with in her search. Beside her, Gabriel was sprawled on the
couch, but the casual slouch didn’t fool her. Tension had invaded his tall frame at
the detective’s mention of Chay, Malachim, and Raphael. His foot kept up a light,
steady tap, his leg bouncing beside hers.
What was he thinking?
“What was your impression about the case, Detective?” Gabriel asked. He settled an
arm along the back of the couch, and his calloused fingers slid to the nape of her
neck and kneaded. She smothered a groan as he unerringly massaged muscles sore from
the car playing tag with her bumper. A sidelong glance revealed his attention focused
on the detective, yet his touch conveyed his concern for her. A flutter took up residence
somewhere between her chest and stomach.
Brian scrubbed a palm over the buzz haircut he continued to keep regulation short.
“Like I said, this one stayed with me even after all these years,” he confessed. “It
didn’t make any sense, you know? A wealthy man from one of the best families in Weston,
a successful businessman without a whisper of scandal attached to him, with a loving
girlfriend, just decides to go walkabout? Why? He didn’t seem to have a care or enemy
in the world.” He lifted a shoulder then dropped it. “At least none that we could
locate.”
“That’s what I determined as well,” Leah murmured.
“Even his ex-wife had nothing negative to say about him.” He shook his head. “That’s
not natural. Ask my ex about me, and she’ll have you believing I gave Jack the Ripper
a run for his money.”
Gabriel snickered, and Leah smiled.
“Renee Pierce,” she said, jotting the name down and circling it. Catherine had mentioned
Richard’s ex-wife as well. It would probably be a long shot, but right now she couldn’t
afford to let anything slip through the cracks.
“Right,” he added. “She lived in the Back Bay area at the time. I kept all my notes.
If you’ll hold on”—with a grunt, he levered himself up from the recliner—“I can get
them for you.”
Hope leaped in her chest. “That would be wonderful,” she said. “I can’t tell you how
much I’d appreciate it.”
The detective nodded then walked toward the back of the house, leaving Leah and Gabriel
alone. He didn’t let up in his massage, and this time she let loose the small moan
of pleasure she’d contained when Brian was in the room.
“Must’ve been one hell of a car accident,” Gabriel murmured.
“Mmm.” The sound was as much an avoidance as a testimony to his talented fingers.
“What do you think are the odds of us discovering something in Detective Connor’s
notes?”
“Slim to none,” he said flatly. “He investigated the case initially and has had twenty
years with all the facts to come up with a theory regarding Richard’s disappearance.”
Gabriel paused, his touch stilled. “Leah, what happens if your searching leads to
a dead end? Can you accept the possibility you may not find the answers you’re seeking?”
Maybe it smacked of conceit, nostalgia, or desperation, but she hadn’t considered
failure—or rather, had decided not to dwell on failure. It wasn’t an option. Too much
rode on this investigation: closure for Catherine, justice for a good man.
And her own questions needed answers.
“No.” she shook her head. “I refuse to accept that outcome. Richard deserves to rest
in peace, and Catherine should be able to finally have the truth about her son’s death.
More important, a murderer has gotten away with his crime for twenty years. He stole
a son, friend, and lover. He took an uncle from me. We’ve lived all this time with
questions and uncertainty. Richard’s killer owes us.”
“So this is about revenge?”
“No!” she said, and the vehement objection reverberated in her mind. Hadn’t she stated
the same to Catherine? To ensure the other woman understood the investigation was
not a vendetta or vigilante hunt? A sliver of hurt wormed beneath her chest and into
her heart. How could he believe her capable of such pettiness? “I’d think you, more
than anyone else, would understand.”
He stiffened. “Why do you say that?”
“A theme in all your books is the search for the truth and the idea of atonement.
The victims are eventually given voice through the capture and punishment of their
violators. Are you telling me those ideals are just fiction?”
Gabriel cupped her nape, his palm and fingertips pressing into either side of her
neck. Unruly sable curls framed his strong-boned Celtic face.