Memories of Us

by Linda Winfree

  “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.”

  McMillian’s jaw tightened visibly as he pulled the office door closed behind them. “Fine. Go get him. Tell him we’re ready to get out of here.”

  When she entered the squad room, Cook was seated at his own desk, phone at his ear. She rested a hand on the chair next to it and waited for him to replace the receiver. “McMillian wants to tag along to Moultrie.”

  Cook glanced up with a harried expression. “Can you handle that? I’ve got a sexual-assault call at the hospital and Calvert is God knows where. I have to take this one.”

  “Sure thing. Call me when you get done and I’ll fill you in.”

  “Great.” Cook pushed up from the desk. “God, I hate these calls.”

  She walked with him into the hallway. He waved and jogged to the side entry. With a deep breath, she turned to face McMillian, waiting by the front desk.

  A session in an autopsy lab with McMillian and a deceased child.

  Oh, she couldn’t wait.

  Chapter Three
>
  “I haven’t even done the preliminary yet.” Sara Ford, the GBI lab’s newest medical examiner, moved the overhead camera into position over the stainless-steel table. “We’re incredibly backed up.”

  “You’re always backed up.” Celia glanced at the baby’s unclothed body as Ford snapped a photo. She was so tiny and looked absolutely perfect. Where was her mother? Her father? An ache curled around Celia’s heart. What was McMillian thinking, standing so still and silent behind her? Was he thinking of his baby, the one he’d lost so long ago? Stupid question. He had to be.

  “You have no idea.” Sara shook her head, her wide hazel eyes the only part of her face visible between her face mask and surgical cap. “We still have body parts from the courthouse explosion in frozen storage waiting for DNA testing.”

  Celia’s gaze drifted back to the round little face. Dark lashes fanned over flawless cheeks. Minuscule fingers curled into small fists. Surely someone had counted those fingers and toes. “So what can you tell me?”

  Sara shrugged and snapped another photo. “Female, Caucasian, approximately six pounds, probably a few hours old.”

  “Nothing on the cause of death?”

  “No contusions, no other signs of abuse. No reticular hemorrhages in the eyeballs, so it wasn’t asphyxiation or shaken baby syndrome. Other than that? Can’t tell you until I open her up.”

  Celia suppressed a shudder. “Thanks. I need to know as soon as you have results.”

  Sara nodded. “I’ll call you. But it may be awhile. All I’m doing is the photos and finishing the intake paperwork now. You have the murder-suicide from Montley and the suspicious death from Pavo ahead of you.”

  “I’d appreciate it. We’ll get out of your way.” Turning, she met McMillian’s stony gaze and tilted her head toward the door. He strode ahead of her to the lobby and shoved the front door open, gesturing for her to precede him.

  “Well, that was extremely helpful.” His voice emerged as a frustrated growl, but Celia refused to rise to it.

  “You didn’t have to come, you know. This is the way it works sometimes—excruciatingly slow and frustrating.”

  He glared as they approached his car. “I’m aware of that.”

  “I’ll put it together, McMillian. I just need some time.”

  “Put what together?” He tugged the passenger door open for her and stalked around to the driver’s side. “The car was a dead end, your suspect offed himself rather than talk, and God only knows when the GBI will get their act together long enough to process your prints or complete your autopsy. What are you going to do with all that?”

  Celia relaxed into the lush leather and snapped her seatbelt. “First I’m going to keep digging. If John Doe wasn’t the baby’s father, she has parents somewhere. I’ve already called the Florida Department of Law Enforcement and the GBI and asked for their complete listing of missing children who might fit the time or age frame for this baby. Then we’ll go nationwide. But you have to chill out, McMillian. Cases don’t get solved overnight. You, of all people, should realize that.”

  His hand flexed on the wheel and he glanced over his shoulder before shifting into reverse. “Just keep me informed. I want to be apprised of what’s going on, every step of this case.”

  “I always keep you informed.”

  He looked at her, his expression softening somewhat. “I know. That’s why I keep you around.”

  Her breath faltered in her throat, somewhere between an incredulous laugh and a hurt sigh. Well. It was surely nice to know where she stood with him.

  McMillian kept her around because she kept him in the loop.

  God, he was a blind son of a bitch.

  Which made her a hopeless fool.

  —

  “Where have you been all day?”

  At Rhett’s question, Tom glanced up from the legal brief. As usual, the assistant DA strolled in without knocking. Tom rubbed at the nape of his neck, a tension knot lingering there. “I went to the GBI lab in Moultrie with Celia.”

  “Why?” A deep frown grooving his brow, Rhett dropped into the chair before Tom’s desk. “Let me guess…autopsy on that dead baby from Chandler County.”

  “Yeah.” Tom laid the brief aside and leaned back in his own chair, arms folded behind his head. “But they haven’t done it yet.”

  Eyes narrowed, Rhett stared him down. Tom refused to look away. Finally, Rhett spoke.

  “Why do you torture yourself, man?”

  “I’m not. I’m doing my job.”

  “That’s Celia’s job. The Child Death Task Force? Laudable as hell.” Rhett leaned forward, his gaze intent on Tom’s. “But it won’t bring Everett back and this sick-ass obsession of yours, feeling like you have to be hands-on with any case involving a kid because you lost yours…it ain’t healthy, Tom.”

  “What the hell do you know about losing a child?” The ice in his voice was apparent even to Tom, and he wanted to call the words back as soon as he uttered them.

  Shit. He shouldn’t have said that, not to Rhett, not with Amarie sick, not when there wasn’t a donor.

  “Nothing.” A muscle flicked in Rhett’s jaw. “I don’t know a damn thing.”

  Tom pinched the bridge of his nose. “Rhett—”

  “It’s all right, man.” Rhett’s heavy sigh hung between them. “I shouldn’t have said anything. It just pisses me off, you know, watching you do this to yourself.”

  “I’m not doing anything to myself. I’m fine.”

  “Sure you are.” Rhett lifted his chin in a silent challenge Tom ignored.

  He changed the subject. “How’s Amarie?”

  Rhett moved his shoulders, both hands waffling in his silent I-don’t-want-to-talk-about-it gesture. A bad day, then. Probably a bad week. Tom dropped his gaze for a moment. At least he’d lost Everett quickly, hadn’t had to sit back and watch him fade slowly, painfully away. Amazing to think there’d been anything close to a blessing in the rapid way SIDS had stolen his son.

  “So do Celia and Cook have anything on this case?”

  Rhett’s deep voice pulled him back to awareness. Tom exhaled hard. “Not much. The only suspect they had committed suicide while in custody this morning. Nothing on the car, nothing on where that baby came from.”

  Mouth tight, Rhett shook his head. “Watch it go cold.”

  “Yeah.” Tom grimaced. He hated the idea of that baby slipping into the nothingness of a cold-case file. Fuck, Rhett was right—he let himself grow too personally involved in each and every one of these situations.

  “I’ll get out of here and let you get back to—”

  “McMillian?” Celia spoke from the doorway, her voice cool. He tensed, every nerve ending going on alert. A matching strain tightened her posture, as it had since they’d left Moultrie. No, before that, since he’d accused her of being involved with Cook. Her blue gaze flickered between him and Rhett. “I’m sorry. The door was open and I didn’t realize you were in a meeting.”

  “We were just shooting the bull.” Rhett pushed up from his chair. “Come on in. I’ve got some calls to make.”

  Celia shifted to allow him to pass into the hallway. Tom folded his hands on his desk. “Did you need something?”

  “I’m leaving for the day. I’ll be over at the sheriff’s department if you need me.” She met his gaze head-on, a cynical smile playing about her mouth. “I don’t have anything new to report.”

  Something about the exchange niggled at him, almost as though she was mocking him, distancing herself. Pulling back, just like Kathleen. His spine went ramrod straight. The comparison was fucking ridiculous.

  There was no comparison. One woman had been his wife, cutting him out of her life. The other was his employee, maintaining a professional distance. So the visceral reaction he had to Celia’s shutting down was nothing more than annoyance with her reticence.

  He pulled the brief forward again and lowered his gaze. “Let me know when you do.”

  At his transparent dism
issal, silence pulsed in the room for long seconds.

  “Of course.” Her words held a distinct chill. Moments later, the door closed behind her with a soft, final snick.

  —

  Early evening shadows stretched across small, perfectly coifed lawns. With the stress of the day tugging at his neck, Tom pulled to a stop at the curb and squinted at the wooden sign swinging from chains on a large front porch. The Bell, Candle and Broomstick. Maybe he had the wrong place. He glanced at the other homes—colorful, renovated mill houses holding antique shops, a trendy down-home restaurant, a handful of clothing stores, a casual nightclub. He knew the area, a popular neighborhood where the proprietors lived in rooms behind or above their shops.

  He just hadn’t realized Celia lived here.

  At least he hoped he had the right address. His nerves still jangled from being in that autopsy lab, and if he was honest, from the weird tension that had drifted between him and Celia throughout the day. All he wanted was to pick up the file his administrative assistant was sure Celia had and go home. Maybe do some laps. Have a Scotch. Read the huge brief that idiot trying to defend himself had sent over.

  Is that really what you want?

  No. Tom closed his eyes. He wanted to see her, away from the office, to look into those crystal blue eyes and get another glimpse of the woman beneath the cool layers of her law-enforcement capability. He wanted to let the sweet lushness of her voice soothe away the unease unfolding within.

  Damn, he needed a life.

  He didn’t need the little thrills running over him just from the idea of being in Celia’s home, getting another glimpse of the person she was away from the office.

  Pushing the door open, he stepped out then walked up the brick walkway. Wind chimes moved in a tinkling rhythm at the edge of the porch, and music, some kind of metallic pinging blended with a flute, flowed from an open window in a soft wave. A bubble machine puffed sparkling spheres from the same window.