Heather Graham (24 page)

And others seemed to know damned well that he wasn’t.

Damned well.

Mark sat with Lee Minh in his office, reading Jane Doe’s autopsy report.

“Cause of death...strangulation.” He set the report down. “She was found in the water—”

“With a nylon stocking ligature around her neck,” Lee finished. “That’s the obvious, the easy.”

“Okay, so—”

“No water in her lungs. She was dead before she was thrown in.”

“Naked.”

“Right.”

“And she’d had sex with a man whose basic blood type is O positive—”

“The same as half the world’s male population.”

“So, sex, then strangulation. Our murderer is male.”

“Unless she had sex, then found someone else who was angry with her.”

“Someone strong?”

Lee shrugged. “Well, it wasn’t a weak child. But if you were to get behind someone so with a noose already slipped into the ligature...”

“I see. You wouldn’t have to be strong.”

“You could be.”

Mark sighed with exasperation. “So we’re nowhere.”

“Maybe not. I’m still working on the contents of her stomach. We know where she drank her Bloody Marys—but not with whom she drank. Maybe we’ll find out where she ate dinner.”

“And if she ate with company,” Mark agreed. “I’ve already sent her picture and the artist’s conception of her appearance before death around to the local restaurants. Hopefully, we’ll have something soon.”

“We will,” Lee assured him.

“I just hope it’s soon enough,” Mark said.

He thanked Lee, then called the hospital and asked about both Gregory’s condition, and Jon Marcel’s. Both men were slightly improved. Gregory had gone from “critical” to “serious.” Mark was relieved. Gregory had always been a friend to everyone around him; he deserved the very best. If God was paying any attention at all, he’d look after Gregory.

Marcel was beginning to look really good, but no, he hadn’t actually come out of the coma; he certainly hadn’t spoken. Still, the doctors were optimistic.

He left Lee Minh’s office.

And headed for Ann Marcel’s house.

She was curled up on her couch, drinking hot chocolate, trying to convince herself that she didn’t need to find a shady doctor who would put her on tranquilizers until this was over, when she heard the knocking at the door. She tensed, staring at it.

“Ann!”

She didn’t reply. Maybe he would think that she wasn’t there, and go away.

“Ann!” He kept pounding.

She set her hot chocolate down, feeling as if its heat now brewed in her blood. She walked silently to the door, listening.

He kept pounding. How the hell did he know that she was in there.

“Ann, damn you, what’s the matter with you; open the door! It’s Mark.”

She leaned against the door. “I know who the hell it is!” she assured him.

There was silence for a moment. “So...why aren’t you letting me in?”

She was ready. “Because you’re a self-serving bastard, worse than all the rest of them.”

“What?”

“All but boxing and gift wrapping an innocent man to hand him over to the courts—
when you’re every bit as likely a suspect as he is
!”

“What the hell—”

“Oh, yeah, what the hell! You were sleeping with her, too, you wretched bastard!”

“So what?”

“So you’re a suspect.”

“I wasn’t wearing her blood!”

“And you weren’t stabbed, and you’re not in a coma!”

“Ann, let me in—”

“Go the hell away.”

“This isn’t any way to solve this—”

“Solve what? You’re a cop. I’m Jon’s ex-wife. If he lives, I’ll see you in court.”

“Damn it, Ann—”

“Go to hell, go away.”

“No.”

“Son of a bitch! I’ll call the cops.”

“I am a cop.”

“There are other cops, you know.”

“Ann, damn it, let me in.”

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

“You never asked.”

“And you didn’t think that it mattered?”

“We weren’t the affair of the century, and we weren’t sleeping together when she died.”

“Oh. Was she just sex?”

“Ann, I don’t want to keep talking to you through a goddamned door!” he exploded.

“Then go away!”

She spun away from the door, furious. Let him rant and rave. She strode over to her easel, where she’d been working on the sketch of Cindy. She picked up her pencil, shading in the eyes.

He didn’t pound on the door again. He didn’t say anything else at all.

She paused, gnawing on her lip. Then she walked back to the door and leaned her head against it, listening.

Nothing.

She turned away from the door and gasped.

He was standing in her living room, a brow arched as he watched her at the door.

“Damn you!” she cried, racing for her bedroom. He came after her.

“Ann!”

She tried to slam the door on him.

He stopped it with his shoulder. The door shuddered on its hinges. And swung open.

And for the life of her, as she backed away staring at him, she didn’t know if she was more furious than ever...

Or just glad that he was damned persistent.

M
AYBE IT WAS SOMETHING
he should have discussed with her, Mark thought, seeing the indignation in her eyes. He’d never meant to avoid telling her the truth; it had just never come up between them.

And now...

She was in a soft velour robe, as dark a green as her eyes. Her hair was freshly washed, fluffing around her face. He was itching to go to her, sweep her up, find what he had found last night, drown everything else out in the feelings he had found for her.

“You know, I think this could be considered police brutality,” she informed him.

“I haven’t touched you.”

“You’ve done unbelievable damage to my bedroom door.”

“Why the hell won’t you talk to me?”

“You had a relationship with her.”

“Yes. Why are you so furious about that? I didn’t know you then—”

“Close enough. Were you sleeping with her when she died?”

He grated his teeth together hard. “To the very best of my knowledge, no one was actually sleeping with her when she died.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No.”

She was silent. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Does that mean you think that I’m lying?”

“I don’t know. Why didn’t you tell me about her?”

“Well, let’s see. When I first met you, it was really none of your business.”

“When you first met me, you were after my husband.”

“Your ex-husband.”

“It was a cut-and-dried case. He’d been sleeping with her. He had to be guilty.”

“He was covered in her blood. How do you keep missing that minor fact?”

“I don’t! But there’s an explanation for it.”

“What’s that?”

“He was trying to help her.”

“Oh? Maybe he thought she was better off dead?”

“Get out!” she snapped at him.

Mark inhaled deeply, fighting the war that waged within him. He wanted more than anything in the world to just walk over to her, take her into his arms. But that wasn’t the way to end this fight.

Not to mention the fact that his pride was deeply injured that he could be so easily cast aside for what she considered a past digression.

He settled back on his heels, watching her with a growing irritation and fury as he realized her
sudden
knowledge. Gained today.

“When I left you this morning, I told you to go home.”

“Well, Lieutenant, I did come home this morning. Not that you have the right to tell me to do anything. I am a grown woman.”

“I told you to go home and stay home.”

“You have no right to tell me to do anything—”

“I should arrest you.”

“For?”

“Reckless endangerment.”

“Of...?”

“Of everyone around you. The club is dangerous; haven’t you figured that out yet?”

“The club is only dangerous if Jon is innocent.”

He couldn’t help himself—he strode over to her. He balled his hands into fists and crossed his wrists at his back, determined not to touch her.

He saw her pulse racing.

She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue.

But she stood her ground.

God, her throat looked good, leading to cleavage exposed by her velour robe. Nearness, she had told him, made a man want a woman.

Emotions made a woman want a man.

And want to kill him, so it seemed.

“I granted you the fact that your precious Jon might be innocent—bloodbath and all. That being the case, you’re an idiot to hang around the club. Another woman—
last seen alive in that club
—murdered. With Jon Marcel in a coma. So whether Jon did or didn’t kill Gina, someone else killed our Jane Doe. Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

“No!” She pointed a finger at him, then poked it against his chest. “I’m trying to get you out of my house.”

“You did go to the club.”

“Will you go home.”

“And someone at the club told you about Gina and me.”

“You do have a home, don’t you?”

“She was there when I was really in pain, can you understand that? And I got to know her, like your ex-husband did—”

“Yes, that’s the point, isn’t it?”

“She was a special woman.”

“So I have heard.”

“She became a friend. A good friend. She was looking for something solid and permanent. I had just been struggling for help. We stayed friends, she fell in love with Jon, and he fell in love with her. Damn you, what is it that you’re so unwilling to forgive?”

“You kept the truth from me.”

“I never did so intentionally.”

“You came after Jon like a bulldog! You’d have hanged him on the spot if you could have done so.”

“I’m not judge and jury. I’ve never tried to be judge and jury. You—”

“I just want to be alone tonight. Now!” she told him angrily.

She was still too close. She slammed her palm against his chest, trying to force him from the room.

He lifted both hands, backing away from her. “You want to be alone. You little fool. Does it ever occur to you that you might be in danger.”

“I’m safe in my home. What can happen to me here?” she demanded, green eyes glittering like emeralds, chin high.

He arched a brow to her. “I’m in here, aren’t I?”

“Because I left the balcony open—”

“I’m in here, aren’t I?”

“I would have closed up before I went to bed—”

“Yeah, and if I had been a murderer, what were you going to fend me off with, your paint brush?”

“Would you get out of here?”

Yes, he would. He was completely exasperated.

He wanted a cold shower. He wished he was back in the damned swamp after the rain storm so that he could just dunk himself in the cold water and stay there until the heat that fused his body cooled completely.

But...could he leave her? Safely?

“All right, listen, you’re really angry, right?”

Her eyes widened as she stared at him. “Lieutenant, you are some detective. Your powers of observation are simply beyond human belief.”

“I’ll sleep on your sofa.”

“What?”

“Police protection.”

She pressed against his chest, pushing him out of the way.

He struggled with himself as she tried to brush by him.

Struggled, fought.

Won.

Lost.

He grabbed her elbow, swinging her back around to face him. “Damn you, you’re just throwing everything right away!”

His arms curved around her, drawing her up tight against him, forcing her thighs, her sex, her belly, flush to his body as he found her lips. She held stiff...

For seconds.

Just seconds. Her hands pressed against his chest, fighting him, her lips primly clamped...

Then opened.

Her body softened. He drew the caress of his fingers up over her derriere, along her spinal column, down again. Her mouth parted more and more freely to his...she tasted of chocolate, of warmth. Her mouth was so sweet, so sensual as she slowly gave in to the assault, as her tongue stroked his in return, as the softness of her body melded to the movement of his hands...

He drew away, staring down at her. She was trembling; he could feel it.

“Damn you, Mark—”

“Fine! Have it your way.”

He released her, and spun around to stride back out to the living room. He slipped off his jacket, then removed his gun and shoulder holster, placing them both on the coffee table. He sat down, slipping off his shoes.

She had come to stand in the bedroom doorway; stunned perhaps, the back of her hand against her damp, swollen lips. “You’re—you’re not staying! I’m safe.”

“The hell you are. Go to bed. I won’t touch you. You are a big girl. You get to make up your mind on what you want.”

A cry of exasperation escaped her. She slammed her way into her bedroom—or tried to slam her shattered door. It didn’t actually close; she seemed to pretend that it did.

She didn’t come out.

At first, the night was endless. He tossed, turned, swore she had the most uncomfortable sofa in the universe.

At midnight, just when he had begun to doze, a sound awakened him. He opened his eyes, waited. Yes, there was something outside.

He rose quickly, his socks making his steps silent as he made his way through the darkness to the balcony doors he had never closed.

Clouds covered the moon in sporadic bursts, spun past it, covered it again. There were shadows everywhere, cast by the street lamps, as well as the moon.

There was a shadow...

Coming over the balcony railing.

The shadow paused, as if it sensed Mark in the darkness. It turned, and leapt back down to the street.

Mark swore, leaping after it.

Maybe the shadow was a little bit younger than he was; it made the fall to the pavement more easily than Mark. He landed hard, but came to his feet and started to run.

But the shadow was gone, and Mark knew that he wouldn’t find it. Too many of the clubs remained opened; there were too many nooks and crannies in the various alleys into which the figure might have run.

He trudged back to Ann’s house, made a weary reentry through the balcony, and tapped on her bedroom door.