Remember the Night

by Linda Castillo

  “She was close to him.”

  “So were you.”

  The bellman opened the door and uttered something ridiculously cheerful. Blinking back tears, Michelle got out of the car. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  The full force of everything that had happened hit her the moment the car door slammed. She felt as if she were being sucked down into a deep, dark vortex of suspicion. Betancourt had made it clear he didn’t believe her. She knew he would do everything in his power to crucify her. Even Baldwin had seemed to doubt her. She didn’t want to think about how Danielle would react.

  If only she could remember!

  The bellman swung open the front door of the hotel for her. The lights of the plush lobby assaulted her eyes. Michelle tried to smile, feeling suddenly conspicuous in her faded jeans and denim jacket among the opulent lobby furnishings. She strode to the front desk, picked up her room key, then went directly to the elevator. She felt sick inside as she rode the elevator to the third floor. When the doors slid open, she rushed down the hall, searching frantically for her room. Relief flooded her when she spotted the number. She unlocked the door and stepped inside, barely noticing the scent of eucalyptus or the antiques strewn about. The room was as silent and cold as a tomb.

  The emotional dam shattered with a violence that left her weak and shaking. Pain clenched her so tightly she could barely breathe. The tears followed with a vengeance. She stumbled into the bathroom, fell to her knees at the commode and vomited. She felt cold inside and out, shivering uncontrollably, as if ice flowed through her veins. After shedding her clothes, she turned on the shower and stepped beneath the spray. The reality that she would never again see Armon struck her like a punch to the stomach. Pain stabbed through her. A sob tore from her throat, choking her. Bowing her head, she dropped to her knees.

  “No!” She slammed her fist against tile, hating the unfairness of it.

  Water sluiced over her, drowning out her sounds of grief, washing away tears she would never cry again.

  Michelle was at the office by eight o’clock the next morning. She hadn’t slept and felt the fatigue all the way down to her bones. Last night, after Baldwin had dropped her off at the hotel, she’d taken a cab back to her apartment. The officer in charge had let her pack an overnight bag and some clothes. Once back in her room, she’d wrangled a computer with Internet access from the hotel concierge and researched the phenomena of amnesia until the wee hours of morning.

  Finding information on the rare disorder had not been an easy task. There were several different types, but the most common—referred to as localized dissociative amnesia by psychologists—was usually brought on by a traumatic event. Michelle wondered if she’d seen something so traumatic that her subconscious had blocked it from her mind.

  The notion made her shiver.

  “I wasn’t expecting you so early this morning.”

  Michelle jumped at the sound of Baldwin’s voice. She stood abruptly, stunned to see him standing at the door of her office. “I thought you’d be with Danielle,” she said.

  His expression seemed strained. “Danielle and Derek are here.”

  “Here?” She came around the desk, but sensed something in the way he looked at her and stopped. “What’s going on?”

  “We’d like a word with you.” His voice rang cold and hard in the silence of the suite. “In the conference room.”

  “Of course.” Dread compressed her chest. Michelle didn’t know what was about to happen, but her instincts screamed it wasn’t good. She followed Baldwin past the reception desk to the formal conference room. Without speaking he took his seat at the head of the glossy, rosewood table. Michelle stood frozen at the door, her gaze skimming the room’s occupants. Danielle sat against the far wall, looking like a ghost, her green eyes swollen and unmistakably hostile. Derek sat next to Danielle, his shoulders slumped, staring into his untouched coffee.

  “Sit down, Michelle.” Baldwin’s voice snapped through tension-laden air like a whip.

  Numb, Michelle forced herself to the chair nearest the door. “What’s this all about?”

  Derek cleared his throat noisily. Michelle studied him, hoping she didn’t look as uneasy as she felt. His eyes were bright green behind his wire-rimmed glasses and held an emotion she couldn’t put her finger on. “We had a meeting last night,” he said. “Under the circumstances, namely our father’s death, we’ve unanimously decided to terminate your employment with Landsteiner & Associates.”

  The words registered like the business end of a baseball bat. Disbelief and a stark sense of betrayal pierced her. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Baldwin folded his hands on the desk in front of him. “We didn’t say you did. We just think things are better this way.”

  “Better for whom?” Michelle stared at him, shocked that they would do this to her. She desperately needed her job. As a part-time law student, she still had bills to pay. And her work had always been a big part of who she was, not to mention the sole source of the security she craved.

  “We’ve put together a generous severance package—”

  “I don’t care about severance pay.”

  “We’ll take care of any legalities with the work program at Tulane—”

  “I don’t care about that, either.” She rose and looked helplessly at the three people she loved like family. “I know you’re hurting. I know you must have doubts about me. But I swear I didn’t have anything to do with Armon’s death. Please. Don’t do this.” She’d known they would be grief stricken. She’d expected questions. Perhaps even suspicion. But she hadn’t expected this.

  Danielle pushed away from the table and approached Michelle. “You had your claws in him from the day he found you working in that restaurant. You took advantage of his kindness and compassion. You used him, you little swamp rat.”

  Michelle couldn’t believe her ears. Danielle had always been aloof, but Michelle considered her a friend nonetheless. “That’s not true.”

  The other woman’s eyes flashed contempt. She looked like a sleek predator about to deliver a fatal swipe with her claws. “Did you sleep with him? Is that how you controlled him?”

  Michelle stepped back, shaken and appalled. “I’m not going to justify that with an answer.”

  “Danielle, that’s enough,” Baldwin warned. “This isn’t helping matters.”

  Danielle ignored him, her lips pulled into a snarl. “My father was found murdered in your apartment. You won’t tell the police who did it. Instead you’ve made up some wild story about amnesia.” Her high-pitched laugh echoed through the room. “Who are you trying to protect, Michelle? Your boyfriend? Did you plan it together? Or was it a crime of passion?”

  “You’re wrong about me,” Michelle choked out.

  “Did he deny you something?” Danielle pressed a perfectly manicured hand against her breast. “Oh, no, my father never denied you anything, did he? Poor little poor girl from the wrong side of the tracks. You had him wrapped around your little finger, didn’t you? He gave you everything. Money. Security. What happened, Michelle? Did you get greedy?”

  The words hurt, made her feel sick and dirty. Vaguely, Michelle was aware of the roar of blood through her veins. “I’m telling the truth. I would never hurt Armon. I loved him—”

  Danielle’s hand shot out. Michelle didn’t see the blow coming. Pain zinged along her cheekbone. Her head snapped back.

  “You don’t have the right to love a man like my father!” Danielle spat.

  Michelle stumbled backward, but a pair of strong hands caught her from behind.

  “Easy does it.”

  She hadn’t heard the conference room door open, but she damn well knew that voice. Dazed, she tested her balance, then turned and came face-to-face with Philip Betancourt.

  Dark, stormy gray eyes assessed her. “You got your feet under you?”

  Speechless, she nodded.

  “Do you want to press assault charges against Ms. Landsteiner?�
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  He was so close, she could smell the woodsy scent of his cologne. His fingers pressed gently into her biceps. Warm. Strong. Foolishly reassuring. “No.” Michelle stepped back.

  Releasing her, he swept his narrowed gaze over Danielle. “You seem to have a penchant for violence, Ms. Landsteiner. Where were you last night at 10:00 p.m.?”

  Danielle’s face reddened. Crimson lips peeled back into a snarl. “How dare you!” A strand of blond hair fell into her face. She shoved it back, then thrust a red-tipped finger at Michelle. “I want that woman arrested.”

  Betancourt arched a brow. “I didn’t see her assault anyone.”

  “Not for assault! For murder! She was sleeping with him, for God’s sake! My father was killed in her apartment! All she’s ever wanted was his money.”

  Michelle felt as if she’d just gone over the edge of a cliff and fallen into a place she could only liken to hell. Her best friend was dead. The people she’d considered family for four years had turned on her like wolves on fallen prey. Now this detective with the hard eyes was probably going to arrest her for a crime she hadn’t committed.

  Danielle looked like a lioness about to leap. “If you don’t do your job, Betancourt, we’ll find someone who will.”

  The detective shot Baldwin a warning look. “I suggest you get her under control before she does something we’ll all be sorry for.”

  Baldwin shoved away from the desk. “Danielle.”

  Without warning, she launched herself at Michelle. “You have some nerve coming here! Gold digger! Murderer!”

  Baldwin moved swiftly, but Betancourt was quicker. He placed himself solidly between Danielle and Michelle. “You touch her and you’re going to jail,” he told Danielle in a quietly dangerous voice.

  Danielle’s gaze never left Michelle, animosity glittering in its depths. “Don’t come back. You’re not welcome here. You never were.”

  Michelle turned away, hurt slicing her clean through. At the door, she risked a glance at Betancourt, only to find his eyes already on her, gauging her, burning into her with an intensity that made her feel emotionally stripped bare, as if he had the ability to peel away her outer shell and see the pain twisting inside her.

  Her only thought as she headed toward her office was that she wouldn’t let them take her dignity. It was the last thing she had that was truly hers, the only thing that couldn’t be taken from her. No matter what, she wouldn’t give it up.

  Chapter 4

  It took Philip all of five minutes to realize the Landsteiners weren’t going to cooperate. Whether it was because of Philip’s history with Baldwin, or perhaps, because they felt themselves above suspicion in regard to their father’s death, they didn’t want a cop treading on their territory.

  Damn, he hated lawyers.

  After twenty minutes of frustration, he decided to switch tactics and question each Landsteiner separately—in the privacy of the interview room downtown. He knew fully the value of atmosphere, just as he knew what a little one-on-one did for a witness’s sense of cooperation.

  He didn’t expect to find Michelle in her office, especially after the ugly scene in the conference room. A person of lesser character would have made a beeline for the door after a trouncing like the one Danielle had doled out. He had to admit Michelle Pelletier had grit. Not the in-your-face kind he saw so often in his line of work, but a quiet strength balanced with a subtle toughness that inspired his admiration, even when it shouldn’t have. Still, he hadn’t missed the flash of hurt in her eyes when Danielle had tossed out the term “swamp rat.” He hadn’t known animosity existed between Michelle and the Landsteiners. Interesting development.

  He stood at the door to her office without notice, watching her. She moved with brusque precision as she stacked volumes, files and personal items into a cardboard box. Her hair was pulled back into a rebellious ponytail and secured with a bow at her nape. To the untrained eye, she might have looked composed and chic. But Philip saw through the carefully fashioned veneer. From her board-stiff spine to the tight set of her jaw, he knew Danielle’s words had hurt her more than she was letting on. Dark smudges of fatigue beneath her eyes revealed she hadn’t slept. Her hands shook as she shuffled through papers and files.

  The brown jacket and skirt fit her nicely, but lacked the crispness of a brand-new, store-bought suit. Her pumps were expensive, but scuffed beneath a carefully-applied layer of polish. Her only visible jewelry consisted of a single strand of pearls at her throat. She didn’t spend a lot of money on clothes. If she’d been sleeping with old man Landsteiner, why hadn’t he showered her with an expensive wardrobe?

  Philip’s gaze swept over the set of her shoulders, then lower. Even with the jacket, he could see that she was full breasted. The slender-fitting skirt hugged a narrow waist and the subtle flare of her hips, then fell conservatively to her knees. He told himself he wasn’t ogling, that a figure like hers would draw the attention of any red-blooded male, but he knew better.

  “Are you here to arrest me, Detective? Or are you just going to stare at me until I confess? Is that your usual modus operandi?”

  Her voice jerked him from his musings. Busted, he thought, and wondered how long she’d been aware of his examination of her. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other to accommodate the tightness in his groin, he reminded himself he had a job to do. Dammit, he was a cop and this woman was a suspect in a murder case that already had his commander breathing down his neck. What the hell was wrong with him, getting caught up in the way that suit swept over curves he was better off not noticing?

  “Or maybe you just needed a little entertainment to start your day. Danielle’s good at that sort of thing. Did you enjoy the show?”

  He cleared his throat. “I didn’t enjoy that scene any more than you did.”

  “You deliberately provoked her.”

  “I asked a legitimate question. I can’t help it if she’s got a temper. Not to mention a hell of a right hook.” He frowned, remembering the way Michelle’s head had snapped back when Danielle slapped her. “How’s the jaw?”

  She touched her left cheekbone. “I think a little bruise is the least of my worries.”

  From three feet away, Philip noticed the bruise forming beneath delicate skin. The urge to reach out and touch her was strong, but he resisted. He knew better than to play with fire.

  “You should have pressed charges,” he said.

  “No, I think you would have enjoyed that too much.”

  He smiled at her perceptivity. “You bet.” One day she would probably be a damn good lawyer—if she didn’t end up in jail first. “I stopped by to see if there was anything you wanted to add to your statement.”

  “I haven’t remembered what happened, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “I’ve got more questions.”

  “I figured you did.” She picked up a volume and set it in the box. “I may have remembered…some details. About last night.”

  His pulse jumped at the thought of new information. He didn’t have squat in the way of evidence, save for the Beretta and her blood-smeared sweatshirt. The remaining lab reports were due back this morning. “Talk to me,” he said.

  Her praline-brown eyes swept to the door. She shook her head. “Not here. I’m not sure how much of that scene you witnessed, but I’m not up to another one.”

  The emotion in her voice made Philip uncomfortable. He didn’t want to think of her on an emotional level. He didn’t want to think of her as vulnerable, either. But just beneath that tough facade, both lay side by side. “I’m sorry about your job.”

  Snapping the box closed, she bent to lift it. “We both know you’re not here to offer condolences, though, don’t we?”

  He looked down at the box in her arms and realized belatedly it looked too heavy for her. “I could use some caffeine. Why don’t you give me that box, and we’ll go get a cup of coffee and talk about last night?”

  Her expression told him she was capable of
carrying the box whether it was too heavy or not. But after a moment she conceded. “Since you’re the cop, and I seem to be your number one suspect, I guess you’re calling the shots.”

  Derek met them at the door as Michelle and Philip walked through the reception area to leave. “I’m sorry it worked out this way,” Derek said, handing her a sealed envelope that probably contained her last paycheck.

  Squaring her shoulders, Michelle met the other man’s gaze levelly. “So am I,” she said, accepting the offered envelope.

  Philip shot Derek a crisp smile. “Don’t take any trips, Landsteiner,” he said, and they left the office without looking back.

  Philip chose Café Ruby because it was quiet and the owner, a reed-thin Cajun woman with hair like Spanish moss, served the strongest French roast in town. He ordered his coffee black; Michelle ordered café au lait.

  When the mugs were on the table between them, Philip breached the silence with the question that had been eating at him since they’d left the office. “What kind of details did you remember?”

  She looked embarrassed. “I wasn’t sure if I should even bother you with this. I don’t know how important it is, or if it’s even relevant at this point, but…I had a dream last night. About the murder.”

  Disappointment rippled through him. He’d hoped for something concrete. Dreams were anything but concrete. “Tell me about it.”

  “I don’t normally remember my dreams. This one was vivid. I thought maybe it was my memory trying to resurface.” She took a deep breath. “Anyway, in this dream, I saw a man…dressed in black. He was in my apartment with a gun. I saw him murder Armon.”

  Philip’s interest flared. The neighbor had claimed to see a black-clad man running from the scene. “Did you see the man’s face? Did he look familiar?”

  A tendril of brown hair escaped her ponytail when she shook her head. “He wore some type of mask, so I didn’t see his face.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “No. But I got the feeling he wanted to hurt me.”