Authors: Sandra Marton
He looked at her and chuckled. "Amazing, how all you broads think alike."
"Conor O'Neil, you're impossible."
"But sexy. Remember that."
"I could never forget it," she said softly.
Their gazes met and held. Conor smiled and reached for her hand.
"So," he said, "here we sit, just a pair of overgrown delinquents."
"Well, not anymore. We've both got completely respectable jobs." Miranda straightened in her seat, tossed her head and gave him the kind of smoldering look she'd given Manuel's camera. "I," she said in tones of deepest drama, "am a famous model. And you are an internationally recognized private investigator."
A muscle knotted in Conor's jaw. "Yeah," he said, after the slightest hesitation, "that's me, all right."
"Were you an investigator when you met your wife?"
"Ex-wife," he said, his fingers lacing through hers. "No, I was in college when—"
"College?" She thought back to the evening in the park and the frayed Columbia sweatshirt he'd been wearing, and she began to smile. "Don't tell me. Boy enlists in army rather than follow orders and go to law school, boy survives army and grows up in the process, boy gets his discharge, enrolls in law school—"
Conor laughed. "Some rebellion, huh?"
"Absolutely. You got the degree because you wanted it, not because your father wanted it. But how come you aren't practicing law?"
Because Harry Thurston, that smooth-talking bastard, got hold of me and convinced me I'd be doing the honorable thing for God and country if I went to work for the Committee instead.
"My ex used to ask me the same thing." He shrugged his shoulders, let go of Miranda's hand, picked up the remaining half of his sandwich and then put it down and pushed the plate aside. "I don't know. Law seemed too tame after Special Forces."
"Is that why you got divorced? Because your ex wanted you to be a lawyer instead of a detective?"
Conor looked at Miranda. He could almost see the lies he'd told her stacked up between them, pulsing with the glow of their duplicity.
"I'm sorry," she said quickly, "I don't know what's gotten into me. It's none of my business. I never ask anybody so many ques—"
"It's very much your business," he said, clasping her hand again as he leaned towards her. "I want everything about me to be your business. It's just that—that..." Anger knotted in his gut. "Dammit to hell, why couldn't we have met like anybody else? Over a bowl of pretzels, at a party, or on a plane."
Miranda's face went white. Her hand shot out, as if she were warding something off, and her glass of iced tea toppled over.
"Oh God," she said, "I knew it! It's him!"
"Who?" Conor was already on his feet, swinging around and scanning the street.
"Moratelli."
The name thrummed through Conor's blood. He took a step forward, all his senses fixed on the street that stretched before him, but he saw nothing, no one that could be the man who had terrorized Miranda.
"Where?"
"He's gone, but he was there a second ago, I swear it, just beside that lamppost. I thought I saw him before, when you were getting our lunch."
"Dammit," Conor growled, spinning towards her, "why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I was sure I'd imagined it. Because I didn't want to bring back all the awful stuff that happened in Paris. God, what does he want?"
The million dollar question, Conor thought grimly, and he still had no answer.
"I don't know but I'm sure as hell going to find out. Listen to me, Miranda. I want you to sit right where you are while I—"
"No!" She reached out and grabbed his hand. "Don't leave me here!"
There was terror in her eyes and in her voice. Hell, he couldn't leave her, not when she was so frightened, and anyway, that might be just what Moratelli wanted, to lure him off and leave Miranda unprotected.
He held out his hand and drew her to her feet.
"It's okay, baby," he said softly, "it's okay."
She shuddered and burrowed into his enfolding arms.
"Conor," she whispered, "please, let's go home."
* * *
He phoned Thurston on his cell phone from the taxi that took them back to her apartment.
"Moratelli's in town, Harry."
"How do you know that?"
"Miranda saw him, that's how." He could hear the barely controlled rage in his own voice, feel it in the tightness of his muscles. "I want to know when he arrived. I want everything you can dig up on this guy, and never mind telling me that he's just a small-time hood."
"I can't help it if that's what he is."
"Don't hand me that crap, dammit! Go deeper. I want to know everything he's ever done, starting in the sandbox. You understand me?"
"Are you all right, Conor? You don't sound well."
"Just get me the information, and fast."
"Conor? Where are you calling from?"
Conor looked at Miranda. Her face was still pale; she was huddled in the corner of the taxi, her eyes glued to his face.
"I'm in a taxi," he said coldly, "just turning onto Fifth Avenue. Miranda Beckman is with me."
"Are you insane?" Harry's voice turned sharp. "You're going to blow the whole thing, O'Neil. Have you forgotten who you are?"
"I'm only just starting to remember," Conor said, and flipped the phone shut.
"Who was that?" Miranda asked. "Somebody who works for you?"
Conor reached for her. Trembling, she went into his arms.
"A business acquaintance." He drew her closer still, until his face was buried in her hair. "But I don't think we're going to be working together, not for much longer."
* * *
Thurston rang at six.
"Call me back on a landline," he said, and hung up.
Conor flipped his phone shut. He was sitting on the sofa in the living room, with Miranda's head in his lap. She was sleeping after he'd finally convinced her to let him pour her a double brandy. He'd been watching the news on TV, but with the sound turned off.
Gently, he eased her head onto a throw pillow. He pressed his lips to her forehead, drew the light afghan further over her shoulder, and made his way to the bedroom.
Harry picked up on the first ring.
"Okay," Conor said, "what have you got?"
"Not much more than I had the first time."
"And for that, we're playing spy games?"
"We're exercising appropriate caution, something you seem to have decided to ignore."
"Skip the lectures, Harry. Just tell me what we know now that we didn't know before."
Thurston sighed with impatience. "Nothing vital, I assure you. I can tell you where Moratelli was born."
"Don't you mean where he was hatched?"
"At Bellevue Hospital," Harry said, in the tones of a man whose feelings have been deeply wounded.
"Great. At least now we know that he had a mother. What else?"
"He was raised on Anton Street. That's down around—"
"I know where it is," Conor said. He sure as hell did. Anton Street was in the middle of his father's old precinct. "What else?"
"Nothing else. I kicked over every rock I could find. There's nothing on the man. Nothing official, anyway. You need more, you'll have to turn it up yourself."
"Okay, I'll see what I can do. Meanwhile, do the digging I asked for on the Winthrops."
"Are we back to that? I'll remind you again, they've
been
checked out. You told them so."
Conor smiled coldly into the telephone.
"You have a conveniently short memory, Harry. I also told them I'd check out the note Eva had received." He turned his back to the door and let his voice drop to a whisper. "That's what you want me to keep on doing, isn't it?"
There was a short silence and then Harry Thurston sighed.
"You know, O'Neil, you're one of the few people I know who can say the words, 'or else,' without speaking them."
"There's something that one or the both of them isn't telling us, and I need to know what it is."
"What about you? Have you come up with anything new?"
"Nothing."
"I see you've insinuated yourself appropriately into the Beckman girl's life."
Conor's jaw tightened. "Meaning what?"
"Meaning, you've managed to get into her bed—not that I'm chiding you for it, mind. Living with her, sleeping with her, may be the only way to keep her alive until we find out what's spooking the Winthrops."
"I don't give a flying fuck about the Winthrops," Conor said furiously. "You got that, Thurston? If they get through this, it'll only be because Miranda makes it. And what I'm doing or not doing with her isn't any of your goddamn business."
"Temper, temper, my boy."
"I told you not to call me that."
"You told me a lot of things, Conor. Perhaps you've forgotten who's in charge here."
"You want your pal's nose kept clean or not?"
"You've made your point," Thurston said coldly. "Anything else?"
"I assume you've put a tap on this line?"
"I'm not a fool. Certainly, it's tapped."
"What about the Winthrop phone? Are you on that?"
"Well, no. I suggested it but Hoyt didn't feel—"
"To hell with Hoyt's feelings. Tap their lines. All of them."
"Are we finished?"
Conor reached for Miranda's appointment calendar and leafed through it. She was going to be at the Papillon offices the next day for a business luncheon.
"Miranda has a meeting at Papillon tomorrow. She'll be tied up from one o'clock until three."
"How interesting for you," Harry said dryly. "Perhaps they'll be good enough to offer you suggestions on how to spruce up your wardrobe."
"I'm going to be elsewhere while the meeting's going on," Conor said, ignoring the remark. "Have somebody cover for me. Make certain they understand that things may be heating up. They need to be prepared for any eventuality. And for crissakes, don't send that ass, Breverman. Get Sorenson to do it, or Hank Levy."
"Certainly, Mr. O'Neil, sir. May I be of any further help?"
"Conor?"
Conor turned around. Miranda was standing in the doorway, barefoot and looking sleepy and rumpled in her pale yellow robe. He smiled and held out his hand, and she smiled back and came towards him.
"No," he said into the telephone, "but when I think of something, I'll let you know."
He hung up the phone while Harry was still sputtering. Miranda stepped into his arms.
"Hi," he said softly. "How do you feel?"
"Much, much better."
It was true, she did. Perhaps she'd imagined seeing Moratelli and even if she hadn't, this was a free country. The man had a right to walk the streets of New York. Whatever that had been about, the notes, the picture, the break-in, she'd left it all in France. She was here now, with Conor, and it was as if her life had begun all over again.
She smiled and looped her arms around his neck.
"Honestly, I feel fine."
"Good." He stroked a skein of silken hair back from her cheek. "How about some supper?"
Her stomach gave a ladylike growl and they both laughed.
"I'll make us something," Conor said.
"I'll do it."
"No, you won't. You'll sit down, take it easy, and watch me scramble some eggs."
"I told you, I'm fine." She kissed his chin. "There's a couple of steaks in the freezer. I'll broil them and make a salad."
"What's the matter, Beckman? Don't you trust my cooking? I'll do the steaks. I'll even whip up my very own version of
sauce bearnaise.
How's that sound?"
"Too good to be true. What's your version of
sauce bearnaise?"
"Well," he said, straight-faced, "you start with a couple of tablespoons of Hellman's mayo..."
Miranda laughed. She leaned back in his arms and spread her hands over his chest. He felt so warm and solid; the steady thump-thump of his heart seemed to seep through her palms and into her own blood. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, she came awake trembling from dreams she couldn't quite remember. Putting her head on Conor's chest, listening to the beat of his heart, always comforted her.
"Okay," he said, his smile tilting in the way she loved, "so it's not recommended by Martha Stewart, but it's good."
God, how she loved him! Her body sang with it, and her soul.
"What're you smiling at, Beckman. You think just because I'm male and you're female—"
"Good grief, O'Neil, is that right? By golly, I knew there was some kind of difference between us but I just wasn't sure what it was."
His smile tilted even more. "Really."
"Uh-huh."
"And just when did this occur to you?"