Jermy, Marie - Together Forever [The Andersons 1] (Siren Publishing Classic) (7 page)

“Oh, shit!” Jessica swore, common sense abandoning her as she rushed from the study. Just a few feet away, blood pooling around her head, Mrs. Williamson lay prone on the floor. The Senator was on his knees bent over her, the gun in his hand. “Shit! He’s just shot her!”

“Ma’am, can you get to safety? Units are on their way.”

“We’ll finish this when you return,” the senator said to his dead wife, stroking her hair and covering his hand in blood.

Jessica didn’t know what to make of that comment. A dead body and Senator Williamson blocked her escape so she returned to the study, closed the door, and, snatching up a paperweight, hid behind the desk. Yeah, right, as if either would offer protection from a gun-toting Senator Williamson. She’d be dead before she could pitch.

However, ten minutes later, and after a flurry of activity on the other side of the door, the only person to enter the study was Detective Scott Rafferty.

“Miss Ferris? You’re safe now.”

Jessica rose to her feet. “The senator?”

“In custody. I have a few questions, Miss Ferris.”

She groaned under her breath. She had the feeling the “few questions” would turn into a grilling. A more appealing plan of action came to mind. Return to Ross, screw up the note she’d left on the pillow, wrap her body around his, and make love to him until he cavorted with those little green men from Mars again. “Can’t it wait? It’s been quite an ordeal.” Her gaze flicked past Rafferty onto Mrs. Williamson’s body, covered in blood and the center of the CSI’s attention.

“I’m sure, but no, it can’t wait.” Rafferty closed the door and gestured for them both to sit. He took a small notepad and pen from his inside jacket pocket. “First question, what are the circumstances for your presence here?”

“I’m sorry, Detective Rafferty, but I’m not at liberty to divulge that,” Jessica replied, skirting the truth. “Client confidentiality and all that.”

“Call me Scott. So the senator was a client?”

She mustered a polite smile but didn’t answer and, instead, asked a question of her own. “How come you’re here? I didn’t think you worked on Staten Island.” This time, it was Rafferty who didn’t answer, and she could only wonder at his unfathomable expression as he stared at the closed door.

“What happened, Miss Ferris?”

“The senator and I were having a private discussion when Mrs. Williamson came in and stated she was leaving him for a younger model.”

“A younger model?”

“That’s what she said. They began to argue, then he pulled out a gun and shot her.” A wicked thought of handcuffing Ross to the bed warmed her body when she felt another draft, this time seemingly emitted from Rafferty himself. She quickly studied him. His charcoal-gray suit was as immaculate as the last time she’d seen him some hours ago. His eyes were just as black and dead.
As dead as the man himself?
In lieu of recent events, she filed that thought in the drawer marked “imagination running riot.” “Can I go now?”

“Not until you fill in with a bit more detail. What were you and the senator discussing?”

“No comment.”

“No comment?”

“Yes. Like I said before, Detective Rafferty—”

“Scott.”

“Like I said before, Scott,” Jessica said tightly, “client confidentiality and all that.”

“I see. This argument, what was said?”

“I don’t remember exactly.” She pressed a weary hand to her forehead, hoping Rafferty would take the hint. He didn’t. “He was shouting. I think he called her a bitch. She said he was a bastard and that she didn’t love him anymore. She loved this younger model. I then rang the police, and that’s when he shouted, ‘I’m going to kill you.’ Then he shot her.”

“Where exactly were you when this argument taking place?”

“Here. The senator and his wife were outside in the hallway.”

“So you called the police from here inside the study?”

“I was sitting in the chair you’re in,” Jessica clarified with a tight smile.

Rafferty’s smile was equally as tight. “Did you see the gun?”

“Yeah. A thirty-eight.” She instantly spotted her mistake. “I mean, after he said, ‘I’m going to kill you,’ several shots were fired. I ran out and saw the gun in his hand.”

“Did Detective Anderson tell you it was a thirty-eight?”

“Do you see him here?”

“What’s your relationship with him?”

“None of your damned business!” she retorted. “Can I go now?”

“No. After he fired the gun, what did the senator do next? Did he say anything else? Did he come after you?”

“No, he just stayed by his wife’s side. He did say something that was weird. He said, ‘We’ll finish this when you return.’” Rafferty’s pen faltered, and another unfathomable expression crossed his face. “Can I go now?” she asked hopefully.

“Yes.”

Finally! Before Rafferty had the chance to add a “but,” Jessica left the house, weaving through the mass of police officers and CSIs in attendance. Luckily, squad cars hadn’t hemmed in her Mini, but as she approached, she scowled at what looked to be a parking ticket under the wipers.

She looked around. All right, which overzealous cop had—No, wait a minute. It wasn’t a parking ticket, but a folded, ten-by-eight, black-and-white photograph. Of her. Taken, she guessed, at Ross’s apartment earlier that night, as not only was she wearing the same clothing, but she also had the bottle of Jack Daniel’s clasped in her hand.

She again looked around. Nobody was watching her. Nobody seemed interested that she was standing there openmouthed and with a face turning several shades of white. It had to be a joke. Then again, nobody was laughing, either. Her funky ringtone then sounded. Boy, wasn’t she popular tonight? “Hello?”

“Miss Ferris, William Tate from Brooklyn Security. I’m here at the Magnum Investigations’ office. Seems you’ve had a break-in. The door’s wide open, and the alarm has been deactivated. I’m just about to call it in to the police.”

Jessica almost laughed. She was surrounded by cops, one of which she couldn’t wait to get away from. What were the chances of Rafferty attending? Nil, she decided, but still wasn’t going to risk it. “No, don’t do that. I’ll be there in forty,” she told him.

And she was.

With white hair and owlish features, William Tate, Jessica decided when she met him outside the door to Magnum Investigations, would have looked more at home
at home
, feet encased in cozy slippers and surrounded by a dozen grandkids, than patrolling office blocks as a security guard. He fairly beamed at her. She checked the lock, which showed no signs of being forced. However, the glass panel in the top half of the door was smashed.

“When I saw the broken glass,” Tate said, “my immediate thought was why the alarm wasn’t sounding. But then I noticed the position of the glass. It’s on the outside. Meaning whoever did this was inside when they smashed the glass. I don’t know how they got in. As you can see the lock’s not been tampered with. And they must have deactivated the alarm by cuttings its wires or such.”

“So have you been inside?” she asked.

“No. I thought I’d wait for you. I reckon the perpetrator’s long gone, but would you like me to go in first?”

“No, that’s okay.” Jessica crossed the threshold, flicked the lights, and immediately examined the security system located just to the right of the doorjamb. Just as Tate had said, the alarm had been deactivated, but not through cut wires and such, but through somebody keying in the correct code.

A thoughtful frown knitting her brows, she stared at the six-digit code displayed on the alarm box’s LCD for a long time. Apart from herself and her father, nobody knew—not even Ross—that the alarm would sound ten seconds after the door had been unlocked. She again checked the lock. A key had definitely been used. Either that or somebody had expert lock-picking talents. She immediately dismissed her father being the perpetrator. Yes, he was an expert at picking locks, and even if he had guessed that the code she’d chosen to use was that of his first-born son’s birthday, why break the glass?

“Miss Ferris, do you know if anything has been disturbed or is missing?”

Tate’s question turned Jessica’s attention to the office itself. She might like the cluttered look at home, but she liked to keep a tidy office. She’d always thought that tidiness portrayed efficiency to any potential client. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed. Filing cabinet drawers were closed, as were the ones in the desk. However, there was something on the top that hadn’t been there before.

Jessica’s hand trembled as she picked up a ten-by-eight, black-and-white photograph identical to the one that had been left on her Mini. Only this time, written in red ink along the bottom, or it could have been blood, were the words, “Your choice. BlackBerry or your funeral.”

Friggin’ hell! She just about managed to stop herself from slapping her free hand over her mouth. Sure, she’d been threatened before. She could name quite a few people, police officers included, who hadn’t liked what she’d written about them during her reporter days. But they’d just been idle threats. They hadn’t been serious. But
this
…This was serious.

“Miss Ferris, are you okay? You’ve gone very pale.”

Jessica mustered a smile and forced a lightness to her voice that she didn’t feel. “Yes, fine. I’ll call somebody to clean this up.” She mustered another smile. “Why don’t you get off home now? It must be nearing the end of your shift. And I’d prefer it if you didn’t make a report. I know the paperwork can be very tiresome.”

“If that’s what you want, Miss Ferris.”

“It is.”

“I’ll say goodnight then.”

Jessica locked the door behind Tate and returned to sit at the desk, staring at the photograph. Somebody wanted her dead. Somebody who’d seen her take Harknett’s BlackBerry. But who? Despite somehow knowing she had taken it, it wasn’t Senator Williamson. He definitely had not been at the bar. Nobody could miss his outlandish attire.

And it certainly wasn’t Ross. Ross…Oh, boy, she sure could do with his strong and comforting presence right now.

She reached for her cell phone, but her finger hovered over the relevant speed dial button. No, she couldn’t—wouldn’t—involve Ross, particularly if it meant endangering his life, too. She loved Ross. To see him laid out in a wooden casket would be more than what she could bear. She had to protect him. Keep him alive. She tucked the phone back in her pocket and came to a firm decision.

And, oh, boy, did it hurt like hell.

Chapter 4

Ross woke when the alarm sounded. Flat on his back, he flung one arm out and switched it off, then stroked the bed beside him with the other. His hand touched cold, empty sheets. He turned his head. Jessica was gone, a sheet of folded paper in her place.

He sat up and read her note.

Had to go. Sorry. You looked too peaceful to disturb. Have a good flight and give my love to everyone.

Jess

P.S. Love you, too, and my answer’s still yes.

He groaned and flopped back against the pillow. He must have been in a sex-induced coma to have proposed. Yes, he loved Jessica, that wasn’t a lie, but marriage? Marriage was a big step and was not something to be taken lightly. And since he wasn’t planning on doing it more than once in his lifetime, he wanted to get it right. He groaned again. Never mind about a sex-induced coma, he must have been drunk. Rip-roaring drunk.

Making the promise to reduce his alcohol intake, Ross showered, dressed, and booked a cab to JFK Airport.