She opened her mouth, closed it, shook her head. “I am not.”
“You are.” He laughed. “Admit it, St. John. You’ve got a thing for the asshole DA.”
“Right.” She pinned him with a cool look. “You’ve figured me out, Cook. He’s my true heart’s desire. I lie awake at night fantasizing about him. I doodle
his
initials on
my
reports.”
He snickered, but thankfully dropped the subject. They killed an hour at the local diner, tossing around case theories and bemoaning the time it would take to get their lab work. Celia nibbled at a piece of toast and pushed scrambled eggs around her plate while Cook wolfed down a hearty breakfast platter. Afterwards, they walked the two blocks to the law offices that lined the courthouse square. Construction continued on the new courthouse structure, the din of hammers, saws and jackhammers filling the air.
The narrow stairway forced them to climb single file. Celia stopped on the landing and knocked at the frosted glass-paned door belonging to Judge Alton Baker.
“It’s open.” The judge’s gruff voice wafted into the hallway.
Celia turned the ancient metal knob, the door shuddering as she pulled it open. Judge Baker sat at his desk, packing boxes scattered around the room, half a ham biscuit resting on a greasy wrapper atop a stack of files. The room reeked of old law books.
She stopped just inside the door. “Good morning, Your Honor.”
He looked at them over his half-lenses, a shaft of sunlight picking out gray strands in his head of thick brown hair. “St. John and Cook. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Smiling, she extended her warrant request. “We need a blood sample from a suspect.”
Accepting the paper, he glanced at it and eyed her, his piercing gaze assessing. “This have anything to do with that dead baby?”
“Yes, sir.” Cook leaned against the doorjamb. “We need to check the suspect’s DNA against the baby’s to prove or disprove paternity.”
With a harrumphing sigh, Baker reached for a pen and scrawled his signature at the bottom of the page. “There you go. Make sure you nail the son of a bitch to the wall.”
“Yes, sir.” Celia took the paper back from him. “Thank you.”
In the hallway, with the door closed, Cook let out a slow, audible breath and grinned. “Son of a bitch actually makes me nervous.”
Celia laughed and waved the warrant at him. “Come on. Let’s go make Mr. Doe’s day.”
They crossed the street to the sheriff’s department, located behind the courthouse construction. At shortly after nine, the jail was coming to life. Celia followed Cook down the stairs to the holding area. In the hallway beyond, prisoners called to each other, and a jailer admonished them to keep it down. A lone voice groused about greasy, undercooked bacon.
On the way down the stairs, Cook flipped through the keys at his belt. “Rise and shine, Doe. We need to see you a sec.”
Celia stopped dead as they entered the holding area. Doe lay sprawled, legs at an unnatural angle, his arms twisted beneath him. Blood pooled under his head. Adrenaline pumped through her, her heart rate kicking upwards. “Cook, get that door open.”
“Shit.” Stress vibrated in his voice. He fumbled the key into the lock and slammed the door to the side. “Son of a bitch, St. John. He did a header off the top bunk.”
Memories of the fear in Doe’s eyes beat in her head. They’d screwed up. She should have played on that fear last night, gotten him talking. Now it was too late. “Oh, hell.”
Cook pressed a finger to the carotid pulse point. “He’s dead. Damn, I gotta call the GBI. And the sheriff. Man, he’s gonna have a hissy fit.”
She eyed the blood, mixed with brain fluid, her stomach dropping. “Guess we didn’t need that warrant after all.”
Tom dropped his files and legal pad in his briefcase. Forty-minute drive to the Darren County courthouse, only to have his case placed on continuance. The aggravation didn’t improve his mood.
Hefting the leather case, he turned toward the door. His gut clenched, an oddly familiar lift and fall. Just inside the entrance, Kathleen stood talking with her partner at the GBI. Agent Altee Price had been slated to testify for his prosecution. Kathleen hadn’t seen him yet and he watched her. The navy polo of her GBI uniform highlighted the coppery hair framing her pale face and its fine features. She waved a hand as she talked, her thin gold wedding band glinting.
Damn, he hated the way seeing her still kicked him in the balls.
He frowned. It had been years. The marriage had died long before they’d signed the divorce papers. Those last years, he’d been the only one trying. Why did her remarriage, the news she was pregnant, bother him so badly? It was over and he needed to just let go.
Celia could help him do that.
He shook off the thought and headed for the door. All Celia was going to do was help wrap up this baby case. With his court appearance rescheduled, he could catch up with her, see how that investigation was progressing. Find out if she was still as infuriated with him as she’d been when she’d walked away with Cook that morning without a backward glance.
He strode up the aisle. Kathleen and Altee had disappeared and he pushed open the door. Small groups of people stood in the rotunda area and Kathleen caught his gaze as he exited the courtroom. A polite smile curved her mouth.
Nodding, he forced a smile in return. “Kathleen. Agent Price.”
Kathleen tilted her chin. “Tom.”
A small chime rang out and Altee tugged her cell phone from her waistband. “It’s Botine. I need to take this. Excuse me a minute.”
She walked outside, leaving him in a bubble of isolation with his ex-wife. Nerves jangled in him and Tom cleared his throat. “I hear congratulations are in order.”
Her smile faltered slightly. “Yes.”
“I’m glad for you.”
Surprise bloomed in her dark eyes. “Thank you, Tom.”
“Give Harding my congratulations.” She nodded and he jerked his head toward the door. “I’ve got to go.”
At least she couldn’t tell the words stuck in his throat. Glad she was pregnant again? With another guy’s baby? Yeah. More proof she’d forgotten their son. His throat tightened. After Everett’s death, he’d ached to talk, to share his memories of that precious boy with her. She’d not allowed him to speak the baby’s name in her presence. He’d never been able to forgive her for that.
“Tom?”
Her pretty voice stopped him. He’d always liked the way her smooth cultured tone seemed to caress his name. Wonder what his given name would sound like coming from Celia’s lips?
He turned. She glanced away, then swung her rich brown gaze back to his. “I heard about the donation you made to the women’s center, in Everett’s name. I think…I think that was a wonderful way to honor his birthday.”
At her mention of their child, his heart folded in on itself. Damn, that pain never lessened. “I think so too. Goodbye, Kathleen.”
When he reached for the door handle, it pushed inward. Altee stuck her head around the door. “Kath, we need to head out. Cook called in that Chandler County has a dead prisoner.”
Kathleen’s lips parted. “You’re kidding.”
Altee shook her head. “Apparent suicide.”
“Tom, it was good to see you.” Kathleen moved toward the door. “And thank you.”
“Sure.” He frowned. “Price, you said Cook called in?”
With a wary expression, she nodded. “Yeah. Why?”
Tom shook his head. “He’s working a case with St. John. Wondered if maybe it was connected.”
Kathleen shrugged. “If you don’t have somewhere else to be, follow us back and check on the way to your office.”
He gave a curt nod. “I will, thanks.”
Holding the door for her, he waited for her to precede him. He hurried across the street to the parking lot, images of blood and incredible pain flickering in his head, fading into blackness. He had a really bad feeling about this.
Celia blew out a long breath and stared at the ceiling in the tiny office she’d been ushered into to await the arrival of the GBI. Just her luck she’d get Calvert’s space, the closet with the dead fish on the walls. Cook was probably kicked back in the sheriff’s leather chair. She was afraid if she kicked back, the ancient desk chair would disintegrate.
A sharp rap at the door preceded McMillian’s entrance. She lifted her eyebrows, concealing her surprise at his presence. What was he doing here? Probably checking to ensure she wasn’t making out with Cook while waiting to be questioned.
“I thought you were in court. Do they think I need a lawyer now?”
“Continuance.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Looks like your suspect found a permanent way to avoid talking.”
She thought about falling six feet headfirst into a concrete floor and shuddered. There had to be easier ways to die. “He was terrified last night. I kept seeing it in his eyes, but I didn’t push because I wanted the leverage of prints or blood tests or something. Maybe I should have.”
“You couldn’t have known he was going to take a dive like this.”
Restlessness throbbed in her and she rose to look out the tiny window. “Without him, we don’t have anything.”
“You’ll find it. I have faith in you.”
She cast him a pithy glance over her shoulder. “Sure you do. You’re the same man who accused me of throwing myself at Cook at a crime scene.”
His mouth tightened. “I admit I didn’t handle that the best way. These cases get to me and I took that out on you. I’m sorry.”
Eyebrows raised, she turned away again.
“Celia.”
“What?”
“Did you hear me?”
“I did.” But his sorry sounded suspiciously insincere. How many times had her mother’s men said they were sorry for one slight or another? How many times had she heard it from Brian Turello? The words “I’m sorry” came awfully easy to some men. And this man was really good at bluffing in difficult situations.
Pretty damn good at manipulating people too. Turello had been a master at that as well.
“Ms. St. John?” Kathleen Harding asked and Celia spun. Her gaze jerked to McMillian’s face. With Kathleen’s entrance, some emotion flickered deep in his sharp blue eyes, gone before Celia could identify it.
Celia fiddled with her necklace. “Yes?”
“I need your version of events, please.” Kathleen held up her notebook. She glanced sideways at McMillian. “Tom? Are you staying?”
His gaze intent on Kathleen’s face, he nodded. “If you don’t mind.”
“No problem.” Kathleen tugged a silver pen from her pocket. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Celia launched into the retelling, grasping the window ledge behind her. While she talked, she watched McMillian watch his ex-wife. His face remained unreadable, but that same flicker of feeling moved through his eyes occasionally. Again, the sense of irrational hurt and disappointment filtered through her. She’d known he was still hung up on the other woman. So why let it get to her?
Maybe because she’d never had to stand around and watch him moon before. Gossip was one thing. Telling herself he wasn’t over the woman was too. Seeing his reaction to Kathleen was another. She released the ledge and flexed aching fingers.
What had she thought? That at some point, he’d see her as more than a cop? More than a colleague? That he’d turn to her? Talk about a hopeless pipedream. Damn, she had more of her mother in her than she thought.
“Okay.” Kathleen snapped her notebook closed. “I think we’re done here.”
“As in, I’m free to go?”
Kathleen nodded. “Your story matches Cook’s, we’ve already verified the time you were in Judge Baker’s office and there’s no evidence at this point that the John Doe’s death was anything but self-inflicted. If we need anything further, I’ll call. I’m sure you have plenty of work to do.”
“Thanks.” Celia pushed away from the window. McMillian rose from his perch on the edge of the desk and wrapped a hand around the door’s edge, holding it open as Kathleen exited.
Once she was gone, he pushed it closed. Celia glanced up at him in inquiry. He folded his arms across his chest, the fine cotton of his gray dress shirt stretching over his biceps, the dove color making his eyes bluer. “So what’s next on your agenda?”
She shrugged, trying to still the way her belly fluttered at his nearness. God, she was pathetic and this office was entirely too small. “A trip to Moultrie. I want to check on our fingerprints, see if the preliminary autopsy is in on the baby.”
“Want some company? My calendar was already cleared for court.”
“Are you sure? You want to see this baby like that?” She wished the words unsaid as soon as they left her lips. He was a criminal lawyer, for God’s sake. He’d seen plenty of dead children over the past few years. She was acting like some goofy, besotted rookie, filled with concern because she couldn’t imagine the horror he’d experienced personally.
“I think I can handle it,” he snapped. She sighed inwardly. Yes, she’d stepped on his toes with her concern. He jerked the door open. “I guess we need to take Cook with us?”
She passed by him, the light spice of his cologne filling her senses. She glanced back at him. “He is the investigator on point.”