TRACE EVIDENCE

by Carla Cassidy

Again their conversation was interrupted, this time with the arrival of their meals. Clay had ordered lasagna and she had ordered linguine with Alfredo sauce and fresh vegetables. Her stomach growled as the waitress set the plate in front of her.

  "It looks good," she said.

  "Mine looks better." He smiled and again she was struck by the powerful sexual appeal he possessed and seemed utterly unaware of.

  For the next few minutes they were silent as they began to eat. The music might be cheesy, but the food was beyond compare and the ambiance of the restaurant itself was comfortable.

  Even the silence between them wasn't a strained or uncomfortable one. It was only when they both reached for the breadbasket at the same time and their hands made physical contact that she felt tension spring to life inside her.

  "Sorry," she said and quickly drew back her hand. "No problem." He took a slice of the warm Italian loaf and buttered it, then handed it to her. This time when their fingers made contact she was ready for the jolt of electricity the mere touch created.

  "Thanks." The good thing about her bronze complexion was that blushes were difficult to discern, but she felt the warmth of a blush sweep through her. What was it about this man that affected her so strongly, affected her on such a visceral level?

  Once again they fell silent and focused on their meals. Tamara's linguine was delicious, but she found the man seated across from her detracting from her appetite.

  "So, why are you teaching? I understand from my sources that your paintings are quite a hot commodity," he said, breaking the silence that had begun to grow too long to he comfortable.

  "Painting is a very isolating kind of work. It's just me and my canvases. The time I spend painting is intense, all-consuming and exhausting. Teaching makes me interact with other people, keeps the balance in my life that is so important to my well-being." She hesitated a beat, then added. "You should try it some time."

  "What? Teaching?"

  It was obvious he was intentionally being obtuse. "I'm not even going to dignify that with a reply," she said dryly.

  He laughed. It was the first time she'd heard his laughter and the sound, as smooth as whipped cream, as rich as hot cocoa, warmed her from the inside out. With laughter on his lips, his eyes lightened and tiny starbursts of wrinkles creased his skin, making him impossibly attractive.

  "I suppose at some time or another my mother has told you that I'm not much into balance. Work is what counts with me and that pretty much sums up my life."

  "And I suppose at some time or another your mother has told you that's not a healthy way to live."

  The light that had momentarily illuminated his eyes was doused and his features grew taut. She'd obviously stepped on toes and brought up a painful subject. "But we each make the choices that are most comfortable for ourselves," she added, hoping to dispel the darkness that suddenly clung to him.

  "Yeah, I suppose, and I guess you just hope that in making your choices you don't wind up hurting anyone else," he said.

  She leaned forward, wishing to find the words to dispel the pall that had swept over him so suddenly. "But that's the basis of the Cherokee philosophy, to do no harm, to foster respect and harmony with the world and nature."

  One of his dark brows rose as he gazed at her. "Are you lecturing me, Ms. Teacher?"

  She was pleased to see a teasing light in his eyes. "Probably," she replied, then laughed. "And I apologize, I didn't mean to. It's second nature to me as a teacher."

  "I guess it's like cops who interrogate rather than communicate." Once again he looked relaxed.

  "Is that what you do? Interrogate rather than communicate?"

  He smiled and reached for another slice of the bread. "According to my sisters I don't do either very well. I'm sure you've met my sisters, Breanna and Savannah."

  "Yes, although I don't know them well. I did hear that Savannah might be leaving the police force."

  "She's talking about transferring to the Sycamore Ridge Police Department. She's recently moved in with Riley Frazier and they're planning on getting married. But he's a home builder and lives in Sycamore Ridge."

  "When are they getting married?" she asked, hoping the touch of wistfulness that swept through her wasn't evident in her voice.

  "I'm not sure. I don't think they've made definite plans. And I just found out the other day that Breanna is pregnant."

  "Oh, isn't that wonderful. You're going to be an uncle."

  "I'm already an uncle. Breanna has a daughter, Maggie." A smile once again curved his sensual lips … a warmer, sweeter smile than she'd ever seen. It was obvious Maggie held a special place in his affections. "And those two sisters of mine were the last women I expected to see married and happy."

  "Why is that?" Tamara pushed her nearly empty plate to the side.

  "They both had their hearts banged around pretty badly in the past. Breanna's first husband stayed in her life just long enough to get her pregnant with Maggie, then left her. Savannah's husband died when his car crashed and went into the Cherokee River. They were both pretty torn up for a long time, I figured they'd wind up old spinsters."

  "What about you? A broken heart in your past?" she asked lightly.

  The light in his eyes grew hard, glittering like silvery diamonds. "Not me, never put my heart on the line where it had the potential of being broken. And never intend to, either."

  There was an unspoken warning in his words, in his eyes, but he needn't have bothered. She knew not to expect anything from Clay James, except the meal they had just shared. She wanted nothing more from him. She'd never again be a fool with her heart.

  "How about some dessert?" he asked.

  "Nothing for me," she replied. "I ate too much pasta and didn't leave room for dessert."

  At that moment a faint ring sounded. Clay grabbed a small cellular phone from his breast pocket. "Excuse me," he murmured to her, then flipped the phone. "James," he said into the phone. "Where?" He set up straight in his chair, tension positively oozing from his pores. "What time?" He glanced at his wristwatch and frowned. "No … no … I'm on my way. I should just be able to make it."

  He flipped the phone, returned it to his pocket and was half out of his chair before he looked at her as if startled to see her sitting across from him. "Look … something has come up. I've got to get to Shadow Hills before nine o'clock." It was obvious he was in a hurry and didn't know what to do with her.

  "Shadow Hills? Where's that?" she asked as she rose from the table.

  "It's an hour drive from here if I push the speed limit a bit."

  "Then I guess we'd better get going," she said.

  He hesitated a moment, as if contemplating his actions where she was concerned. She knew he was figuring how much time he'd lose in taking her back home then getting on the road to Shadow Hills. "You don't mind taking the ride with me? It's nothing dangerous."

  "We're wasting time," she said.

  With a curt nod, he threw bills on the table, then took her by the elbow and led her out of the restaurant.

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  «^»

  It was the first break they'd had on his parents' case and as Clay pointed his car toward the small town of Shadow Hills, he prayed that it was the break they'd all been waiting for.

  He shot a surreptitious glance at Tamara. On the one hand he was grateful she'd agreed to come along, erasing the extra time he'd have had to spend to take her back to her place.

  On the other hand, he found her nearness in the small confines of the sports car disturbing, just as he'd found the entire dinner experience disturbing.

  The turquoise and coral dress and accessories did amazing things to her skin, enriching the bronze tones and making it look intimately touchable. Her scent hadn't been lost to the fragrance of garlic and tomato sauce in the restaurant. Rather, it had seemed to surround his chair, invade his pores.

  More than anything, what he'd found disturbing was how much he liked the way her smil
e lit up the gray of her eyes, how much he enjoyed talking to her, and how much he wanted to kiss those lips of hers again … and again.

  "What's in Shadow Hills?" she asked, breaking the silence that had enveloped them since they'd gotten into the car.

  "Lucky's Pawnshop," he replied.

  "And what's at Lucky's Pawnshop?"

  His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. "Hopefully a couple of pieces of my mother's jewelry and an identification of the person who pawned them."

  "Oh, Clay." She reached over and placed her warm fingers around his forearm. "Maybe this is the beginning of a trail that will lead to her whereabouts."

  "Let's hope," he said, grateful when she removed her fingers from his arm. An instantaneous fire had licked in his stomach, coupled with a tightening of his groin at her touch.

  "When Mom first went missing, none of us thought to check on the jewelry she kept in a secret compartment in their bed headboard. None of the jewelry in her jewelry box on the dresser had been touched and in the aftermath of the crime, none of us thought about the other jewelry."

  He was talking less to her and more to himself, trying to get his focus back on what was important rather than dwell on what it was about Tamara Greystone that had his brain confused and his body on full alert.

  "Anyway, last week Savannah remembered about the jewelry hidden away in the headboard and she checked and was surprised to find it gone. We immediately sent out descriptions of the pieces to the pawnshops in the state, hoping that something like this would happen."

  "The pieces are distinctive enough that you'll know for sure if they're your mother's?"

  He nodded. "The jewelry that was missing was all custom-made pieces that my father had done by a particular jeweler. They were mostly turquoise and silver pieces, but very distinctive in design."

  "And do you think they were pawned with a legitimate form of identification?" she asked.

  He frowned. "If they weren't, then Lucky is going to become extremely un-Lucky. If I find that the shop didn't adhere to the proper procedure for a pawn, I'll close the shop down." He heard the hardness in his tone, felt the sharp cutting edge of anticipated frustration crawling up his throat.

  Pawnshops were always a crapshoot when it came to those that functioned within the law and those that functioned outside the law. He hoped to hell Lucky's was one of the good places that adhered to state laws and regulations, because if they weren't, then he'd have no lead to follow on his mother.

  "Are you okay? Cool enough?" he asked. "Want the radio on?"

  "Clay, you don't have to worry about me. I'm fine. If I get too warm, I'll tell you. If I want music, I'll ask for it. I know your mind must be racing with a million thoughts. You don't have to make small talk with me if you don't feel like it."

  Oddly enough, her words made him relax a bit. She was the most undemanding woman he'd ever met and that simply served to increase his attraction to her.

  "Are you always this easy to get along with?" he asked.

  "Of course not." Her voice held a teasing lilt. "You've just managed to catch me on two good days."

  "Lucky me."

  "Actually, as far as I'm concerned, there isn't much in this life that is important enough to fight about. I pick my battles, and I only fight the big ones."

  "That's refreshing. In my line of work I see people who fight about everything, people who get beat up or even killed because somebody lost their temper." He felt her gaze on him and turned to see those gray depths studying him. "What?"

  "I just realized how utterly grim your work must be. You've chosen a field where you see the aftermath of violence over and over again. You see the worst of human emotions. You see hatred and anger, twisted passion and jealousy, murder and avarice."

  "That's true," he agreed.

  "But Clay … do you ever give yourself an opportunity to see the other side of human emotions?"

  "Of course I do," he said, a hint of sharpness back in his voice. The last thing he needed at the moment was Tamara Greystone giving him the same kind of lecture that his mother had given him on numerous occasions.

  His mother. His thoughts raced once again. This had to be the break. This had to be the break they'd needed to find her.

  As he stared out the windshield into the dark night ahead, he tried not to get his hope up, knowing how easily hope could be shattered, leaving behind a sick emptiness that burned and ached in the pit of the stomach.

  He glanced at the clock on the dash. They were about fifteen miles from Shadow Hills and it was eight-forty. He knew the pawnshop closed at nine and if he didn't get there before then, the investigation might have to wait until morning.

  Urgency forced his foot down harder on the gas pedal. He was grateful that Tamara said nothing for he wanted his thoughts clean and focused for the task to come.

  Shadow Hills was so small it didn't even rate a dot on the maps. It boasted a large truck stop, a fried chicken drive-through, a post office, a grocery store and Lucky's Pawnshop.

  Clay pulled to a halt in front of the large building where the lights were still on inside and the neon sign across the top flashed the Lucky name.

  He and Tamara got out of the car and entered the shop to the accompaniment of a jingling bell hanging above the door. Clay took in the scenery in a quick scan. It was a typical pawn setup.

  Shelves of stereo equipment, computers and miscellaneous electronic gadgets were on one side of the shop. Chain saws, lawn mowers and workout equipment were on the other side. At the back a counter stretched the width of the building. This would be where the jewelry for sale was displayed. The pieces were either sold outright to the store or were pawned and not retrieved within the usual ninety days.

  Clay's adrenaline shot through him as he saw a video surveillance camera anchored on the wall up by the ceiling.

  Behind the counter stood a middle-aged man who was busily closing out the register. "If you want to do business, you'd better do it fast, I'm closing up for the night," he said without looking up.

  Clay pulled out his wallet with his police badge and slammed it down on the counter. "I believe you called us."

  The man looked up and raked a hand through his dirty blond hair. His blue eyes radiated a weary resignation. "Yeah, I called, but I didn't expect anyone to show up here tonight." He frowned with a touch of irritation. "Let me lock up, then we'll get to this business."

  Clay fought a burst of impatience as the man walked around the counter and headed for the front door, keys jingling in his hand.

  He looked at Tamara, who stood next to him. She was looking in the counter at the display of rings. There were cocktail rings, diamond wedding rings and fiery opals, all in either white or yellow gold settings.

  "Just think," she said softly. "Each of these rings must have a story to tell."

  "Yeah, probably stories of betrayal and heartache."

  "Maybe some of them," she agreed, "but some of them might be stories of hope and happiness."

  They fell silent as the man returned to the counter. He picked up Clay's identification and studied it for a minute. "Officer James, I'm Leonard Wilson, aka Lucky. I got the descriptions of the stolen items last week, but I wasn't working when they came in. I've been going over inventory today and realized we have a couple of pieces that might be what you're looking for."

  It was obvious he intended to cooperate, and for that Clay was pleased. It would make things so much easier. Again he had to fight against the hope that buoyed inside him.

  Maybe … finally … a break. "I hope you keep good records, demand proper identification when items are brought in for pawn or sale," Clay said.

  Lucky nodded. "Look, I know pawnshops generally have a bad rap, but I run a clean business. I don't deal in guns or weapons of any kind, I don't knowingly take in stolen items and I keep impeccable records."

  "Good, then we shouldn't have any problems." Clay returned his wallet with his badge and ID to his back pocket.

 
"I need to go into the back to get the items," Lucky said, and disappeared into a doorway that led to the back of the store.

  Again Clay turned to Tamara. "See anything you like?" he asked, gesturing to the ring display she'd been studying.

  She looked up at him and shook her head. "I'm not much into diamonds."

  "I thought every woman loved diamonds."

  She smiled, the warmth of the gesture lighting her gray eyes. "Not all women. I much prefer semiprecious to precious stones. Coral is my favorite." She touched one of the buttons of her dress, drawing his attention to the thrust of her breasts against the colorful material.

  Despite the circumstances, in spite of their location, a wave of intense desire crashed into Clay and nearly buckled his knees. There was nothing he'd like more than to unfasten the buttons that held her dress together, shove aside the material and seek the warmth of her breasts in his hands, taste her sweet skin with his lips. God, but she was getting under his skin.

  "Here we are," Lucky said as he returned to the counter with a large, sealed brown envelope.

  Clay drew a deep breath to steady himself as the momentary burst of desire left him. He stared at the envelope on the counter, his fingers itching to rip it open and see if it contained his mother's items.

  "These pieces were brought in for pawn last Thursday at two in the afternoon." He tore open the top of the envelope and spilled the contents on the counter.

  Clay's heart leapt into his throat as he stared at the familiar items. There was a turquoise necklace, intricate in design and matching the bracelet next to it.

  Clay remembered the last time he'd seen his mother wear the jewelry. She and his father had been on their way out to dinner and Rita had been a vision in a white sundress with the jewelry providing its colorful accents.

  Anguish squeezed his heart, anguish that was quickly chased away by a sense of rage … that somebody had taken what belonged to Rita and brought them here, that somebody had taken Rita and had her someplace where she couldn't be found.

  "Were they pawned or sold?" he asked, his voice sounding far away as anger roared in his head.