by Rachel Lee
And the strength of his arms around her back answered some long-buried yearning, filling an emptiness—and making her feel safer than she had felt since the last time he had held her this way.
“Carey …” He barely whispered her name, then bent his head and covered her mouth in a deep kiss that wasted no time heading straight for her soul Her palms spread on his back, feeling his heat and strength through the thin layer of cotton, and her hips instinctively sought to press against his. And today and yesterday and tomorrow all slipped away as she spun dizzily into a maelstrom of need.
“God, I've missed you …” His words were husky, broken, as he lifted his mouth from hers and dragged air into his lungs. “Carey …”
Her name on his lips had sometimes sounded like a curse, but right now it sounded like a prayer. She dug her fingers into his back, hanging on for dear life, wondering how she could have survived for so long without this wild, heady, warm feeling he gave her. How could she have forgotten …
His mouth covered hers again, his tongue took possession of its hot, wet depths, driving away thought. His hands stroked her back, memorizing her slender contours, awakening nerve endings to forgotten pleasure, fueling the heavy ache between her thighs.
More … oh, she needed so much more! Impatient anticipation gripped her, causing her to hold her breath in hope that his hands would move to touch her aching breasts, or to draw her up more tightly against him. Every cell in her body was aching with the need for more and more…
And suddenly an icy tendril of fear wormed its way into her awareness, freezing her.
What was she doing?
Her hands gripped his shoulders and shoved, tearing her away from him. Breathless, aching, hunched almost as if she expected a blow, she stared at him, and said hoarsely, “No… no.”
His hands had already begun to reach for her again, but they froze in midair. He closed his eyes, drew several deep, ragged breaths, then nodded.
When he looked at her again, she could see hurt, disappointment, and yearning. But she could also see determination.
“Good night,” he said, and walked out, closing the door behind him.
She cried into her pillow before she fell asleep, probably the best reminder of why she didn't want to get involved again with Seamus Rourke. He was the only person in the world who could do that to her.
She had done the right thing by breaking it off. Even though her entire body, which had long since turned off any strong sexual impulses she might have felt, felt almost raw with aching need. Even the brush of the sheets on her skin seemed to have an erotic effect, reminding her of what she had just turned away, reminding her that she hadn't made love in five years, and that a young, healthy body wasn't happy being celibate.
But she knew where it would have led. For her, sex could never be divorced from emotion. If she invited Seamus into her bed, she'd be inviting him back into her heart, and the price on that was too high to bear.
So she tossed and turned restlessly, and took aspirin for the headache that crying had given her, and sucked on a lozenge to soothe a throat sore from sobbing, and wondered why life seemed to have turned into a living hell.
For a while she stared at the darkened ceiling and played a what-if game with herself. What if she'd never met Seamus? Would she be happily married to some other lawyer right now, with rugrats sleeping in the next room?
But she couldn't imagine a life wherein she'd never met Seamus Rourke. He was too large, too significant, too much a part of the person she had become. He overshadowed any possible image of a life in which he'd never played a part.
And John William Otis was beginning to shadow her in the same way. In fact, if she didn't find a way to save that man, there was going to be a blight on her life.
Men. Sometimes she wished she'd gone into a convent.
By four, Carey was out of bed again, smoking a cigarette and drinking a glass of milk in the hope that it would soothe her enough to let her sleep. Absently, she pulled the stack of clippings toward her and started scanning them again. She read four of them, found nothing she didn't already know, and decided she was probably wasting her time by reading the rest.
She was about to toss them all back into the box when she saw that there were several in the stack from an Atlanta newspaper. Otis's brother lived up there, she remembered. It would be interesting to see what spin they had put on the murder and trial.
More of the same, basically. She was beginning to yawn seriously and rub her eyes about the time she pulled the next one toward her, but the headline snapped her wide awake again.
Killer's brother committed.
The younger brother of Florida killer John William Otis was committed to Channel Mental Hospital last week, sources close to the family say. James Henry Otis, 18, of Atlanta, apparently suffered a nervous breakdown in the wake of the sentencing of his older brother to death.
The Otis brothers were involved in a previous murder trial eight years ago when John was charged with murdering their father. The older Otis was acquitted on grounds of self-defense when it became known that the two brothers had suffered years of physical and sexual abuse at the hands of their father.
James Otis was adopted at the age of eleven by a Florida family who subsequently moved to Atlanta. “Jamie,” said one source, “has been torn up by his brother's trial.”
Since coming to Atlanta…
Committed. The word seemed to swim and grow before Carey's eyes.
Committed
Unstable. And caring enough for his brother to suffer a nervous breakdown when he was sentenced.
And it had happened after the sentencing, when the verdict was already in, when no one would have been looking for any new information.
Her heart slammed, hard, and she stared blankly across the room. But James Otis had an alibi. There was a sworn affidavit in his brother's file. He had been home in Atlanta the weekend of the Kline murders. Worse, he had been just a kid. How could a kid have come all the way down here?
But who else would John Otis be so determined to protect?
And who would be more likely to lie to provide an alibi than James Otis's adoptive mother?
CHAPTER 15
7 Days
Seamus decided that lack of sleep had made him crazy. So crazy that he was glad to stop tossing and turning and get up and go to work. So crazy that he actually hatched a lunatic plan. He tried to tell himself it was all Carey's fault, but he knew better. He'd been the one who'd kissed her.
He hadn't planned what had happened in the foyer with Carey, and he'd have been a lot happier if it hadn't occurred. He hadn't really thought about it before, but it was beginning to seem that he lacked the promiscuity that appeared to characterize the rest of the males he knew. That might have been a blessing if his marriage had survived, but it was proving to be a curse instead.
Where was the constant searching for greener pastures that most men seemed to experience? Carey was a familiar pasture to him, yet she could still light a fuse of desire in him that hadn't been lit since they split up.
For the first time he thought about the fact that he hadn't seriously dated a woman since her, or even thought of bedding a woman since her. He had thought he'd reached some plateau of maturity where he didn't respond to just anything in a skirt. Now it seemed he didn't respond to anything but Carey, and his response to her was as strong as any he had ever felt.
And he didn't like that at all.
The two of them couldn't get along for any length of time, no way, no how. Sooner or later they were at each other's throats. There was his guilt that drove her crazy, and her obsessiveness that drove him crazy, and there was no way in hell they were going to change their basic natures. They were both the types to get fixated on something and not be able to shake loose of it. That'd be okay if they got fixated on the same thing, but otherwise it could be maddening.
So, as the guy once said, the thing you most dislike in other people is the thing you most dislike in
yourself.
Peas in a pod, too similar to live together, that's what he and Carey were.
But all the rationalization in the world didn't ease the need that was crawling along his nerves now, a need that only she could assuage.
He figured that little scene with her qualified him for the jerk-of-the-year award. Hadn't his dad always told him that it was best to let sleeping dogs he?
And this was one sleeping dog with a hell of a bite.
So it was a relief to go to work, and lack of sleep had made him crazier than usual. Only craziness would have made him come up with this idea. Lack of sleep had his mind following paths it didn't ordinarily tread.
He knocked on Ed's door and was told to come in.
“Got something for me on the Barnstable case?” Ed asked.
“Not yet.” He certainly wasn't going to tell the man what he was thinking about that, not until he had something to hang his suspicion on besides a string of coincidence. “I want to talk to you about the Mayberry case.”
Ed pointed to a chair. “Well, that's good, too. You get a break?”
“Maybe.” He sketched his and Gil's conversation with Sam Hollister the other day. “The thing is, Hollister seems to think there might be some neighborhood involvement in the death.”
“He got any proof?”
“Just the way people were talking. The thing is, there's too little information in that neighborhood. People were home at that time of the murder, yet nobody heard or saw a thing? I'm not buying it, and neither is Gil. Put that together with what Hollister said, and you get the feeling that we need to scratch the surface a little harder.”
“Just how are you planning to scratch it?”
“That's what I wanted to talk to you about. I want to ask a few of these good citizens to come into the station for questioning.”
Ed looked as if he'd just experienced acid reflux. His expression soured. “Won't that look good in the papers.”
“None of them are going to talk to us if their neighbors see cops coming to the house.”
“Shit.”
“Well, there's another way to handle it. We could leak something to the papers about a suspicion of community involvement in the murder, then deny it when the media ask about it That might scare somebody into talking.”
Ed leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “Worse and worse. You do this just to drive me nuts, don't you, Rourke?”
“That's a side benefit.”
“I always suspected it.” His dark eyes snapped open.
“Let me think about it. I'll need to discuss it with the brass. They'll be the ones taking the heat.”
“That's why they have the brass.”
Ed almost betrayed himself with a smile. It showed faintly around the corners of his eyes. “What about the Barnstable case?”
“She was the forewoman on the Otis jury.”
Ed's mouth opened just a little, but he didn't say anything.
“Yup,” said Seamus, rising and heading for the door, content that all his little bombs had been dropped,” I kinda felt that way myself.”
He made it back to his chair before he heard Ed swear.
“What'd you tell him?” Gil asked.
“Nothing he wanted to hear.”
“I already figured that out I got us interviews this afternoon with two people who volunteered with Barnstable at the literacy project. And the neighbor who found her said she'd be glad to see us at noon. I'm still trying to find out who she might have hung around with at USE.”
“Probably nobody. At her age she was pretty much a fish out of water socially on campus, don't you think?”
“Maybe. But she wasn't the only middle-aged woman going to school. We might dig up something.”
Reaching for his messages, Seamus started leafing through them. The real estate agent had called, could he please call back around noon? Might be tough, Seamus thought, considering the appointments he and Gil had scheduled.
The M.E.’s office had called. The prelim suggested that the same or similar weapon had been used in both the Downs and Barnstable killings. He passed that one over to Gil to read.
“No shock,” was all Gil said.
A message from forensics about an unidentified partial print lifted from the glass door at Barnstable's place. “Our guy may be slipping,” he said, passing that one on to Gil, too.
“Jeez, no size fifteen hand-made Italian shoe print?”
“Sorry.” He picked up the phone and called Oslo Mankin in forensics. “I got the message about the partial in the Barnstable case, Os. What can you tell me?”
“It looks like it was transferred through a surgical glove.”
“Oh, I love it when they mess up.”
Os laughed. “You and me both. I figure he had an itch to scratch and got some skin oil on at least one fingertip. There's some latex powder mixed in the oil, and it's a little blurred, but it would be enough to hang the guy if you find him.”
“I can't thank you enough.”
“So you buy the beer.”
“Anything else?”
“Just the usual bloody shoe prints. They match the ones at Downs, but the shoe is a size nine, with a rippled synthetic sole. Your typical cheap import, sold by the thousands at discount stores. No question the perp is the same guy, though. There's a distinctive cut across the left sole that matches in both cases.”
“I love ya.”
“I'll let my wife know. She's looking for somebody to take me off her hands.”
He hung up and looked at Gil. “Os wants to marry me.”
“That's not the way I heard it. So what's up?”
“We got a partial that'll link our guy to Barnstable, and a shoe print that links Barnstable and Downs.”
“Major progress.”
“I thought so. Now all we have to do is figure out who all this belongs to.”
“Don't remind me.”
The phone rang, and Seamus answered it
“Seamus,” said Carey, “what would you say if I told you that John Otis's younger brother was committed to a mental hospital for a nervous breakdown right after Otis's sentencing, and that the guy has spent the better part of the last five years in a mental institution in Atlanta. He was released just one month ago.”
Seamus gave a low whistle and felt the back of his neck start prickling. “I'd be very interested indeed.”
“Well, don't tell anybody I had to impersonate a lawyer to find this out.”
“I wouldn't dream of it.”
“I'm going to Atlanta to talk to his family.”
“You're not going alone. Give me some time to get a couple of days off.”
“We don't have any time!”
“I didn't mean days. I meant twenty minutes. Where are you?”
“At home. I spent the last two hours on the phone trying to find out this little bit.”
“I'll call you back once I clear this.” He hung up and looked at Gil, trying to decide how much to tell his partner.
“You're not leaving me?” Gil said.
“Just for a couple of days.”
“Hell. Now? What's so damn important?”
“You don't want to know. Plausible deniability.”
Gil regarded him steadily. “Otis.”
“I didn't say that.”
“It's printed in neon on your forehead. Okay, I don't know anything. What can I do?”
“See if James Henry Otis has a DMV record here or in Georgia. I'd kinda like to know his address.”
“I'm not asking why.”
“Smart move.”
“Where are you going?”
“You don't want to know.”
Gil sighed. “So call once in a while, so I don't worry. And bring me back a surprise.”
Now, thought Seamus, rising, he had to convince Sanchez to let him go.
“What now?” Ed asked as Seamus reappeared.
“We've got a definite link between the Barnstable and Downs homicides.
”
Ed put down his pen. “And?”
“And a partial print that will link the perp to the scene.”
“Better and better. Got any ideas who to look at?”
Seamus hesitated. “Trust me on this one, Ed. I need to go to Atlanta for a couple of days. And believe me, unless I'm right, you don't want a whisper of what I'm doing to get around.”
Ed frowned, his dark, patrician face looking uneasy. “What wild hare have you got now?”
“Call it a personal problem.”
“I've got to have something more than that to put on a travel voucher.” He shook his head. “Talk, or don't go.”
Seamus hesitated, knowing he was about to put his foot in it. “Otis.”
“Otis?” Ed looked as if he were about to launch for the moon. “Tell me you're shitting me! You're hanging around too much with that radio bitch.”
Seamus shook his head sharply. “Wait. Both Barnstable and Downs were involved in the Otis trial, Ed.”
“So were a lot of other people.”
Seamus blew an impatient breath. “Look. John Otis has a younger brother. That younger brother spent the last five years in a mental institution. He got out just one month ago.”
Ed stared at him for a long moment. “You're sure?”
“My source is solid. Tie that in with the calls to the radio station, and you've got a definite possibility that this younger brother is out for revenge.” He didn't mention the possibility that James Otis could have committed the original murders. This sell was tough enough without convincing Ed he was haring off on some wild-goose chase that would do nothing but bring the department bad publicity. Nobody, but nobody, wanted to hear that John Otis might be innocent, not without a hell of a lot more proof than this. But as a suspect in the Downs and Barnstable killings, James was prime.
He decided to add a little more incentive. “I'll front this myself. Call it a vacation for personal reasons. If I'm right, I'll submit a bill when I get back.”
“Two days?”
“Probably. Certainly no more than three.”
“Go. Just bring me back something.”
Carey waited impatiently for the phone to ring. She could go to Atlanta by herself, but she was glad Seamus wanted to go along with her. It would lend her visit an official capacity that might open more doors than simply going as herself. The family would probably be a whole lot more willing to talk to a cop than to a radio talk-show host.