Jarek's attention sharpened as another card fell into place. "Arson?"
"Could have been. Real professional job."
"So, what happened?"
"Your guy's got twenty years in the department with no previous disciplinary action. What do you think happened?"
"The union negotiated a deal," Jarek concluded grimly. It made sense. The firefighters' union in Chicago had some of the best and bravest in the city. And almost as much clout as the police. They would protect one of their own.
"You got it. Well, there were no fatalities," Aleksy said. "And no proof."
"So the city paid him off and settled for him leaving town." Jarek made another note. "Okay. Thanks, bro."
"You owe me."
Jarek stood and reached for his jacket. "Fine. If this pans out, you can be best man at my wedding."
His brother swore, disgusted. "Hell, I've done that already."
Jarek tried not to let his brother's words get to him. "Maybe we'd both make a better job of it this time."
This time.
With Tess.
Just for a minute, as he hung up the phone and headed to his car, Jarek let himself feel really good thinking about it. He'd never figured when he moved to Eden that domestic bliss could come packaged in black leather pants.
But maybe they could pull it off. This time. It wasn't just that his prospective bride was different. The groom…well, he was different, too. Older, for sure. Wiser, he hoped. More attuned to what really mattered.
Jarek turned into a neat little subdivision of tidy lawns and semidetached garages.
What mattered now was Tess. Not just her happiness, but her safety. Because before Jarek could concentrate on being the man she wanted, he had to be the cop she needed.
He checked house numbers and pulled up in front of a small brick house with white trim, black shutters, and a bright wreath of plastic flowers on the door. He went up the swept walk to the curtained door.
A young blond woman—he recognized her from the church fund-raiser—answered his knock, her pretty face creased in puzzlement.
He showed her his shield. "Mrs. Brown? Heather Brown? Is your husband at home?"
Chapter 16
Tess shifted on the bar stool in embarrassment. "I wouldn't say I had an 'in' with the police, exactly."
Tim raised a knowing eyebrow. "Right. What would you call it? Exactly?"
"It—I'm…"
—sleeping with the chief of police.
Hot blood swept her cheeks. She hid behind her orange juice. "For heaven's sake, Tim, I'm a reporter. You hear things in my line of work."
"Mine, too," the bar owner said promptly. "And one of the things I hear—and this isn't necessarily my opinion— is that our new police chief is more interested in chasing tail than catching bad guys."
Tess winced. What she had experienced with Jarek was too new, too private, too precious for sharing. Even with a nice guy who had taken a chance on her brother.
Or maybe she was simply too confused to talk about it yet. Maybe she wasn't sure yet how this new relationship would fit into her life. How she fit into his.
But she didn't have any doubts at all about Jarek's integrity. Or his devotion to his job.
"He's a good man," she said, more sharply than she intended.
"Hey." Tim raised both palms in mock surrender. "I said that's what I heard. I didn't say I agreed with it. As far as I'm concerned, the chief is like Dick Tracy. He's Dudley Do-Right. Okay?"
She smiled. "Sorry. I guess I'm a little—" insecure, she thought "—touchy on the subject."
"Not a problem," Tim said. He slid a plastic bin of limes and lemons out of the refrigerator and set it next to the cutting board. "So, are you two serious?"
She didn't have the experience to judge. She didn't have the confidence to say. She watched the fruit fall into neat wedges beneath Tim's knife.
"He likes my underwear," she joked.
The knife—it was a big kitchen knife, a chefs knife— paused. "Only your underwear?"
Tess had a sudden memory of Jarek saying thickly, I like you better, and her body flushed with heat, and her muscles clenched deep inside.
But she was already regretting her flippant comment. She didn't want what she felt, what she shared with Jarek, reduced to a snigger over drinks in the bar.
So she said, more or less honestly, "I don't know how he feels."
"You have to have some idea," Tim said.
She shook her head.
"Hopes? Expectations?"
She didn't expect anything from anyone. If you let yourself hope, you could be disappointed.
"We're sort of taking things one day at a time," she said. "He was married before, you know."
The knife bisected a lemon with surgical skill. The two halves fell and quivered on the cutting board. "No, I didn't know that," Tim said.
It was remarkably easy to unburden herself to him. Bartenders were like priests that way, she supposed. Was this what her mother had been looking for all those years? Absolution?
She shook the thought away. "I get the feeling he'd like to put me in one kind of box and the rest of his life in another." Tess took another slug of juice. "I don't like it."
"You have to figure he knows best," Tim said gently.
"Best for him, maybe. He's a cop. He's had practice compartmentalizing his feelings." Tess stared morosely into her glass. "But I don't want to be relegated to some safe little niche he has picked out for me."
"You don't mean that," Tim said.
She was afraid he was right.
She was terribly afraid that she wanted Jarek, needed Jarek, so much that she would accept a future with him on any terms.
Her fear and her pride twined together like a braided lash. The impact made her flinch. She lifted her chin. "I like to think I've got more going on in my life than keeping his bed warm and his socks clean."
Tim smiled wryly. "You mean like Heather does?"
Oh, boy. She'd really put her foot in it this time.
Tess had enough trouble planning her own life. She was in no position to criticize someone else's choices. And she certainly hadn't intended to insult Tim. Or his cheerleader wife.
"No, Heather does—" Very little, Tess remembered. She thought back to the last time she had spoken with Heather, at the benefit dinner, with her mother and brother and the Tompkins and poor Judy Scott all sitting around the firelit picnic table. What was it Heather was talking about? "Well, she's going back to school now, isn't she?"
"No."
"But I thought—"
"That's your problem, Tess. You think too much."
Wow. Tim was really offended. She offered him a quick smile and a joke. "And here I always thought I just talked too much."
But he didn't smile back. "Heather belongs at home. She's happier there. Safer."
"Yeah, well…" Tess shrugged. "Maybe."
"I take care of her," Tim said, holding the knife motionless against the cutting board.
He was starting to creep her out.
"That's good, Tim. Whatever works for the two of you. I guess I'm just used to taking care of myself."
"You took care of your mother."
"Well, I tried."
He nodded. "And your brother. I admired you for that."
"Gee, thanks." Tess felt like she was hauling something slippery from the bottom of a pool. Something heavy was under the surface, and she couldn't quite get a grasp on it. She slid from her bar stool. "Listen, speaking of Mark, I've got to get to the hospital before visiting hours are up. Thanks for the juice."
Tim came around the bar, still carrying the chefs knife.
"Don't go."
She backed toward the door. "I really should."
It was stupid to feel nervous.
It was ridiculous to think that Tim—Tim, the original Mr. Nice Guy—could mean to hurt her or harm her in any way.
But he kept coming after her, a small, set smile on his face.
Ignoring reason, going on instinct, Tess turned and ran.
Two steps, three steps to the door. Her head jerked back as Tim yanked her by her hair. Her scalp screamed. Pain shot through her neck. He dragged her back against his body and pressed the knife in his other hand against her stretched throat.
Fear arced through her like an electric current, stopping her breath, shorting out her brain.
"You can go ahead and scream if you want," Tim said, sounding amused. "There's no one here to hear you."
The duct tape hissed as Tim wrapped the roll around her ankles.
"I'm sorry to do this, Tess. I liked you. You fooled me for a long time. But I have to take care of you now."
Tess was all for being taken care of. Preferably by someone who wasn't holding a large kitchen knife.
But there was nothing she could say. Nothing she could do.
She was sitting on the cold linoleum floor of the Blue Moon's utility closet, with her legs stretched before her and her arms strapped behind.
It was amazing how quickly duct tape went on. It was amazing how uncomfortable it was. Too tight at her wrists, it pulled at her skin and the fine hair of her arms. Stretched across her mouth, it dragged at her cheeks and burned on her lips. Tim cut it with his knife.
She had whimpered as the blade approached her cheek, the point dangerously close to her eye.
"Oh, Tess. Don't worry about the knife. I use my hands." He'd cupped her face in a parody of tenderness, his fingers trailing over the tape. "I always use my hands. I want to touch you."
Images of Carolyn Logan's battered, violated body flashed on her brain.
Tess couldn't scream. She struggled not to vomit. She tried to kick, and Tim pricked her with the knife.
"Oops," he said. "Careful."
She watched, disbelieving, as blood welled beneath the tiny rent and stained the leg of her jeans. The pain came after, burning her calf and catching her chest.
"I guess this knife is useful after all. There, that should hold you," Tim said cheerfully, slicing the tape by her ankles. "I don't have time to play with you now, but we'll have lots of time later. I'll move you tonight, after the bar is closed."
Tonight.
Tess's heart raced. Jarek would miss her tonight. She grabbed the thought like a lifeline. I'll be home by six, he'd promised her. Seven.
Oh, God, that was hours away. But if she wasn't there… If he cared enough to call… If he came looking for her…
Her hope unraveled like a fraying rope, too slender to support the weight of all those "ifs."
Tim checked her wrists a final time and stood. "I have to go move your car now. We wouldn't want your friend the police chief to find it parked in front of the bar. Be very quiet back here. Because if he comes looking for you—"
He turned in the doorway and smiled. "—I'll kill you both," he said.
Jarek knocked on the window. Behind the bar in the shadowed room, Tim Brown looked up, surprised. He crossed the room, wiping his hands on a rag.
Jarek heard the dead bolt click, and then the door swung open.
"Hi, Chief. We're not serving for another half hour."
"I didn't come for coffee," Jarek said. "I was hoping you could answer a couple of questions for me."
"About Mark DeLucca?" Tim shook his head in seeming regret. "What a shame. He won't be working here again, if that's your concern. Not that I believe everything I hear, you understand, but the women who visit my establishment have to feel safe."
Slick son of a bitch.
Anger licked through Jarek. With an effort he kept it from his face and voice.
Aleksy's background check on Brown had provided one connection. As a former Chicago firefighter, Brown could own red signal lights. Heather Brown's artless disclosures about her marriage and Brown's comings and goings on the nights in question had yielded a possible motive and a slim opportunity. But without reliable physical evidence, all Jarek had so far was an educated hunch. He didn't have the reasonable belief required to obtain a warrant and arrest the bastard.
"I have several concerns," he said. "I'd appreciate you coming down to the station to talk about them."
"We could talk here." Tim smiled and threaded his way through the tables, back toward the bar. "And I could get you that cup of coffee."
Jarek followed, his senses on full alert. "No, thanks." He wasn't drinking anything Brown set in front of him now. "Actually I'm a little shorthanded. It would be easier all around if we could do this down at the station."
Brown raised both eyebrows. "Do what?"
"Well, I hoped you might volunteer a blood sample," Jarek said. "Just as a matter of routine. We can get one without your consent, of course, but I figured you'd want to step forward."
Brown went very, very still. Something flickered behind his eyes and was gone. And then he shrugged. "Sure. Whatever will help you out. But right now I'm getting ready to open, and with DeLucca out of the picture, I'm shorthanded myself. What do you say I come by tomorrow?"
Jarek didn't like it. But he didn't have any real grounds to object.
Taking a suspect to the police station against his will constituted an arrest, whether Jarek charged Brown with a crime or not. And if a court decided the arrest was unlawful, then the evidence obtained as a result of that arrest— the blood sample that Jarek hoped could nail Brown for the rape and murder of Judy Scott—could be inadmissible for prosecution.
Jarek frowned. "I guess tomorrow would be—"
Crash.
From somewhere down the dim hallway that led to the kitchen, metal clanged, followed by a couple of staccato thumps as something—somethings—hit the floor. The clatter affected Jarek like an alarm and wiped Tim's face clean of expression.
"What was that?" Jarek asked.
Tess lay on her side on the cold linoleum floor, feeling the warm blood seep through her pants leg and stick the fabric to her skin. Her hip and shoulders ached. Her leg throbbed. The floor smelled bad, and Tess felt worse.
In the dim light that came from around the edges of the door, she could see shelves packed with cardboard boxes and plastic gallon jugs of cleaning solution. A rolling mop bucket stood next to some sort of shower cubicle.
Nothing she could use for escape, unless she could slide down the drain or Tim was obliging enough to free her and hand her a broom as a weapon.
Hot tears leaked from the corners of her eyes and ran across her nose and into her hair. Her hands started to go numb—first at the wrists and then in her fingers.
With dull hope, she heard someone come into the bar, heard footsteps cross the floor and the murmur of conversation. Maybe she could make a noise, kick the door, knock something over… And then she recognized Jarek's deep even voice, and hope died.
If he comes looking for you, I'll kill you both.
She couldn't take that risk. Her heart turned stone cold within her. Jarek was armed, but Tim was prepared. Jarek had no reason to suspect the bar owner, no reason to be on his guard. She had to accept responsibility for him, the way she had accepted responsibility for everything and everyone she'd ever loved.
Because when Tess weighed the certainty of Jarek's safety against the slim possibility of her own rescue, she realized she could not risk him.
She loved him.
But the realization brought her no joy. This is what love led to, she thought, as pain knifed through her constrained shoulders and adhesive pulled at the edges of her jaw. Once you let yourself love somebody, you were trapped. Screwed.
Murdered.
And yet lying on the floor, she felt a tiny spark of rebellion flicker in her chest, coaxed to life by the sound of Jarek's voice, by the memory of his hands. Long, blunt-tipped hands. Strong, capable hands.
The recollection of her own words infiltrated her consciousness, more persistent than the cleaning fumes that rose from the drain. I have that much faith in both of you.
She took a tight breath. D
id she really?
You'll find the person who did this. And you'll stop him.
Could she trust Jarek that much? Trust him to do his job, to be a cop, to rescue her and protect himself?
Could she put the control of their future in his hands?
She rolled across the floor, shutting out the numbness of her legs and the pain of her shoulder blades. With her chest heaving and her arms doubled uncomfortably under her, she raised her bound legs over her head and brought them down against the wheeled mop bucket.
It crashed to the floor. Brooms thumped. Her heart pounded.
Tess lay on her side in the silence, squirming away from the trickle of dirty water, and prayed.
Tim Brown froze.
"What was that?" Jarek asked.
Brown's shoulders relaxed. He shook his head. "God knows. This is an old building. We get all kinds of noises. Creaking floorboards, mice in the kitchen—"
"It would take a mighty big mouse to make that kind of noise."
Another, smaller clatter drifted from the hall.
Brown forced a laugh. "Maybe you're right. I guess I should check it out."
All Jarek's instincts were screaming at him to beware. No way was he letting Brown out of his sight. He eased back from the bar, his elbow automatically checking for the butt of his gun.
"Let me do it for you. Trust the job to a professional." Jarek smiled. "Just in case your mice are armed and dangerous."
"No, that's okay, I—"
"Or we can go together," Jarek suggested smoothly.
Brown pulled his lip as he considered. And then he nodded once, shortly. "I guess that would be okay."
He reached under the bar and pulled out a baseball bat, an old wooden Louisville slugger.
Jarek braced.
Brown grinned. "For the rats," he said, flourishing it. "I keep it handy in case the boys at the bar get a little too rowdy on Saturday night."
Damn. Jarek's heart was doing about a hundred and ten. He followed Brown down the poorly lit hallway, trying to control his breathing and his overactive imagination.
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