Same Place, Same Time

by C. J. Carmichael

  “Not your type?”

  Maxine looked away before answering. “I was his friend. Believe me, if ever a man needed a friend, it was Daniel.”

  “I’ve been getting that impression, too. Do you know what the problem was?”

  “Not what. Who.” Maxine smoldered. “His wife made that poor man’s life hell, and you don’t have to take my word for it. Ask anyone, especially the secretaries who had to put up with her incessant calls. She was always checking up on him. I tell you, when he finally started having an affair, the only question in my mind was why he had waited so long.”

  “So you knew about the affair.”

  She laughed.

  “Who was it with?”

  “Ah…” She stopped laughing and looked at him consideringly. “That is the question, isn’t it?”

  Morgan sensed that she was annoyed. Was it because Daniel hadn’t told her who he was seeing? Or because he’d chosen the wrong woman for his affair? “So you don’t know who this woman was?”

  Maxine glanced away. “Daniel wanted to tell me. But he said this other person had too much to lose if her identity were to become known.”

  “Did you ever wonder why Daniel didn’t leave his wife?”

  “I think he wanted to. But he felt tied to her because they didn’t have children. Strange, isn’t it? Most unhappy couples stay together for the children. In their case, it was the opposite. He felt he couldn’t leave because she needed him so much, and he’d never been able to give her what she claimed to want most—a child.

  “I think it was all a hoax, though. Sylvia as a mother? She never could have shared the spotlight. The really unfortunate thing was that she never found herself a career. Why bother when daddy had all that money? If she’d had her own ambitions, she might not have pushed Daniel so hard in his.”

  “She pushed him?”

  “You’re darn right she pushed him. She wanted him to be dean. It could never happen, of course. Daniel just isn’t—I mean wasn’t—that sort of a man. He really enjoyed teaching—something you can’t say about most members of this faculty, myself included—and that was all he wanted to do.”

  Morgan sighed. Maxine was giving him a motive for Daniel to kill Sylvia, but what he needed was the reverse. It was hard not to feel discouraged. Especially since he’d found no evidence in the small office that would help identify Daniel’s mysterious lover.

  Unless it was Maxine. His eyes dropped to her legs again. One of her high-heeled pumps was dangling from her toe, and she swung her foot provocatively. He looked up and saw the same smile on her face that she’d had when they first met.

  “Sorry I haven’t been more help,” she said, eyeing him boldly. “But perhaps I could make it up to you by buying you dinner?”

  Morgan shook his head, softening his rejection with a smile. “Thanks, but I’m going to be working tonight. If you think of anything that might help the investigation, though, please give me a call.” He handed her a card.

  Maxine unfolded her legs and rose gracefully from her chair before accepting it. She now stood so close to him that their bodies were practically touching. Morgan would have stepped back, but he was right against the desk. Instead, he waited, until a rush of air from the doorway made them both turn. Trista stood outside in the hall, her expression carefully neutral.

  Maxine shrugged and stepped away. “Nice to have met you, Detective,” she said in a soft, husky voice before leaving the room, brushing past Trista without a word.

  “Maxine Pellicci?” Trista asked as she stepped into the office. When he nodded, she said, “Wonder what she’d look like in a trench coat and hat?”

  Morgan grinned. “I was wondering the same thing myself, only, believe it or not, I think she might have been one of the few real friends Daniel had.”

  “Oh, really? Women like that don’t have men friends, Morgan.”

  He was caught off guard by the intensity of her statement, as well as the words. It wasn’t like Trista to prejudge. Women like that. She turned away from him to inspect a title on the bookshelf, but not before he saw the flush on her cheeks.

  Morgan felt like laughing for the first time in at least a week. Trista Emerson jealous. Over him. It hardly seemed possible.

  CHAPTER NINE

  MORGAN DROPPED Trista off at her apartment, walking her to the door and checking the locks to make sure nothing had been disturbed.

  “What will you do now?” she asked, strangely reluctant to see him go.

  “I should check in at the office. They like me to do that every now and then.”

  “You don’t solve crimes sitting on your butt in headquarters,” she said automatically.

  He looked at her strangely. “Right.”

  Trista turned her back to the closed door once he was gone, wishing she had a busy schedule, enough work to leave her no time for thinking. But since she’d closed shop, the rest of the day and the evening stretched cavernously before her. She paced the apartment, feeling like a prisoner in her own home. The monotones of her decorating scheme—the off-whites, creams and beiges—had seemed at one time relaxing and comforting. Now they struck her as cold, almost sterile. She sat on her leather sofa, pulled the wool afghan around herself and tried to watch television, but it was no use. Nothing interested her. Or maybe the problem was, she couldn’t concentrate.

  She stood, allowing the afghan to pool to the floor, and began pacing from the patio door and back. The new lock Morgan had installed kept drawing her eyes, reminding her that he’d been here with her only hours ago.

  Trista ran a hand down the side of a curtain, the sheer fabric sliding lightly through her fingers. Hard to believe it was less than a week since he’d come back into her life. Did he have any idea how he’d shot her personal peace to hell? He kept accusing her of being so cool—did he really not know how much it hurt her to be around him?

  She thought of his gibes about the two of them needing to talk. Four years ago—yes, it was what they had needed. Now, too much time had passed. She and Morgan were divorced, had been for two years. They’d suffered so much, there was no way she could ever atone for all they’d been through. All he’d been through.

  Even to entertain the possibility was irresponsible. What if they did try, and it didn’t work out? She didn’t think she could stand the pain.

  Trista made a cup of instant soup for dinner, but couldn’t sit still to drink it. Instead, she paced her apartment with the mug in her hand and tried not to think about the happier days, when she and Morgan had been carefree and in love. Had he thought about those days as they’d walked briskly along the campus grounds? The solid oaks and homey maples were just budding with new leaves, the grass was fresh and inviting. She’d tried not to let it get to her, but it was difficult not to yearn for those simpler, easier, happier days.

  Somehow the soup was gone. She didn’t remember drinking it. Trista set the empty mug in the dishwasher, then sat on the sofa. Leaning back, she closed her eyes, and a picture came immediately to mind. Morgan, on the cushion beside her, looking at her intently and whispering into her ear, Take it off, Trista.

  She had wanted to pull that old sweatshirt over her head. Oh, how badly she had wanted it. Trista gritted her teeth and stood up. Madness. That was what she was toying with here. She had to get out, had to keep busy…

  Suni’s office. Trista hopped on the subway, hoping she could make herself useful. But when she arrived at the Runnymede address, it was after six. The place was deserted, except for Suni who was sitting at her desk at the back of the room.

  “You again? I’m starting to wonder if you’re looking for permanent employment.”

  “Perhaps I should.” Trista pretended to consider the offer. “I’ve closed my office for a few days and I’m bored stiff already.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  Trista glanced at a clipping from an editorial that was pinned on the bulletin board. In a section of the article, highlighted in bright yellow ink, was an app
roving mention of Suni’s reputation for standing up for her constituents’ rights. “It’s a long story. And not a very nice one.”

  “I’ve got nothing but time.” Suni patted the chair next to hers. “Come on, sit down and fill me in.”

  Trista was touched by her friend’s kindness. No matter how busy she was, Suni always made room for other people. “Thanks for the offer, but I’d hardly know where to begin.”

  “Your ex-husband wouldn’t have anything to do with this, would he?”

  Ex-husband. Trista’s thumb slid round the bare spot on her finger, where her wedding band used to be. “He’s working on a homicide investigation right now. It sounds horrible, but it involves some of my clients.”

  “Your clients?”

  Trista nodded. “It wouldn’t be appropriate for me to go into the details—”

  Suni looked at her thoughtfully. “Detective Forester is investigating the murder of Jerry Walker, isn’t he? I read it in the papers.” She gave a short laugh. “Don’t tell me Jerry was a client of yours?”

  Trista remained silent.

  “Oh, God, he was.” Suni looked away for a moment, toward the windows that fronted Bloor Street. “And that’s why you’ve closed your office?”

  “It’s actually worse than that.” Trista thought of the second murder, which hadn’t made the morning paper.

  Suni’s thin eyebrows rose questioningly.

  Trista sank into the chair beside her friend, and let out a long breath. “There’s been a second murder.”

  Horror registered in Suni’s expression. Horror and something else—morbid curiosity? Surely not, not Suni. “Another one of your clients?” she asked.

  “Yes. Daniel Hawthorne.” As soon as the name passed her lips, Trista worried she was not being as circumspect as she ought to be. But this information would be in tomorrow’s newspaper. She glanced back at her friend, and was worried to see that Suni was turning pale, withdrawing.

  And then it hit her. Would Suni want someone working on her campaign who was involved in a homicide investigation? No matter how peripherally? And how peripheral was her involvement, after all? If Brenda could be a suspect, why not her?

  Suni raised a hand to her forehead. Trista recognized the gesture—Suni often suffered from migraines.

  “Maybe I should cool it here until the investigation is wrapped up,” she suggested in a quiet voice.

  Suni shook her head. “Don’t be silly.”

  But her forehead remained lined, and Trista could see in the narrowing of her eyes a building pain. At the moment, Suni wasn’t capable of thinking clearly.

  “You should get home and take care of that headache before it gets out of control.”

  Suni nodded her head slightly. “It’s been coming on since lunch. I took a couple of painkillers hoping I could head it off. I should have known better.”

  Trista could almost feel the sharp shooting pains as Suni’s eyes flinched and her forehead wrinkled tighter. “Let me see you home.”

  “No need. Really. I’ll grab a cab. You know they always hang out at the pizza place on the corner.” Suni was pulling on her jacket as she spoke.

  “But—” Trista tried to argue with her, but Suni had already grabbed her purse and headed for the door.

  “The spare key is filed under E—for emergency.” Suni gave a weak smile. “Could you lock up on the way out, please? And make sure the windows are shut tight, too. The police warned us after the break-in last month that we have to be more careful.”

  Trista didn’t have time to answer as Suni practically slammed the door behind her. She didn’t mind locking up, but she wished Suni hadn’t insisted on leaving alone. She’d never seen one of her headaches come on so quickly before.

  AS MORGAN DROVE AWAY from Trista’s apartment toward headquarters, he tried to focus his thoughts on the homicide investigation and the work he had yet to accomplish. But images of Trista kept popping into his mind.

  He remembered going to see her when she’d first left him. He’d pulled a lot of strings to find her holed up in a cheap furnished apartment off of Bathurst. Even though he’d practically banged the door down, she’d refused to open it. So he’d waited until she went out, and cornered her a block away from the local grocery store.

  “Trista, you can’t just walk out on me—on us. Please come home. I know we can work this out, if you’ll only talk to me.”

  He’d seen the tears run down her cheeks from behind her dark sunglasses. “I can’t, Morgan,” was all she’d said. Was all she ever said.

  Did she blame herself for the accident? He’d told her over and over it wasn’t her fault.

  Did she blame him for not being there when Andrew was sick? He’d apologized for that a million times too.

  He’d tried to see her, called and written so many times those first few months, never getting any response. When she’d phoned Zed, to talk about a restraining order, he’d finally given up. She’d left him, and now he hated her for that. He needed to hate her for it.

  But it was getting harder. Despite the barriers Trista had put up between them, there were moments her defenses let down, moments when he could catch a glimpse of the old Trista. On those times, the look in her eyes—a yearning sadness—hit him like a punch to the gut. And on those few occasions when she’d smiled, turning naturally toward him, he’d felt a sudden joy that he hadn’t experienced in years.

  As soon as it happened, though, the moment would pass. It was as if a brick wall had risen up between them. It reminded Morgan of how he’d felt when their divorce had been finalized. Until the papers had been signed, he hadn’t been able to believe she would really end their marriage.

  Until that day he’d hoped. Hoped and prayed that time would heal the wounds. Hoped and trusted that her heart would open to him again. But he’d learned the hard way that there were some wounds not even time could heal. Not for her. And not for him.

  Morgan pulled into his parking stall and leaned his head against the steering wheel, giving in to a sudden attack of lethargy. This case had come up at the worst possible moment for both him and Trista. Just when he’d begun to accept that their time was over. Just when she’d started to pull her life together. What happened? Two of Trista’s clients were murdered and they were drawn together by circumstances beyond their control.

  It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair. Like so many other things…

  A honk from a car pulling in beside him drew him out of his reverie. He looked up and recognized the crown prosecutor behind the wheel. Groaning to himself, he got out of the car and waited for her to join him. Sydney was the one woman he’d been involved with since Trista, and he always felt uncomfortable on the occasions when their paths happened to cross.

  She was in her early thirties, like him, with honey-colored hair and thin, elegant features. Her physique was small and delicate, belying her robust nature.

  “I hear you’re on a new case.” Her expression was curious, interested, and she fell into step beside him, matching his brisk pace despite the eight-inch advantage he had in height.

  “Sure am, but it’s going slow. Won’t affect your workload in the foreseeable future, I’m afraid.”

  “I’ve heard you say that before. Then, just when I’ve got my holiday booked—wham! You hand over the culprit.” She smiled.

  “I wish I shared your confidence.” Morgan held the door open, then followed her to the Homicide Department. She stopped in front of a meeting room, where she obviously had an appointment, and in his mind they’d already said goodbye when she laid a hand on his arm.

  “I know it’s none of my business but I heard that Trista is involved in this case.” She looked up at him with an expression that seemed to be all solicitude, but Morgan had learned to question Sydney’s motives. “I can imagine how painful—”

  “Thanks for your concern, Sydney,” he said, forcing his lips to stretch into a nonchalant smile. “But it’s no big deal. Good luck in your meeting.” He took
a couple of steps backward, to get beyond her reach, then waited for her to say goodbye before he turned and headed with relief toward his desk.

  There were several things waiting for him, and the brief episode with Sydney vanished from his mind. Preliminary lab reports on Daniel Hawthorne’s death, interviews from the few motel occupants who’d been in their rooms at the estimated time of the homicide, the results of the fingerprint tests taken in Trista’s office the night her files were tampered with, and last, but not least, a brown manila folder that he’d requested a few days ago.

  Saving the folder for last, Morgan flipped through the lab reports. The initial estimate was that Daniel had died early Wednesday afternoon between one and two, making Sylvia’s alibi pretty well conclusive since she’d been with Trista from one to one-thirty. Also providing Trista with an alibi. Morgan made a mental note to include that fact in his report.

  Morgan moved on to the interviews of the motel occupants. As he’d expected, not many people had been in their rooms at one in the afternoon and those that were were none too pleased to be dragged into a police investigation. Morgan sifted through the brief statements, discouraged. He’d hoped that someone would have caught a glimpse of the mystery lover, maybe seen her remove her sunglasses or her hat. No such luck.

  Next, Morgan picked up the fingerprint results from Trista’s office. Only Trista’s and Brenda’s fingerprints had been found on the desk drawer and the metal box where the spare key was kept. The same results were found on the file drawer that Trista thought had been disturbed.

  Disappointing. But he hadn’t really expected anything else. Finally he turned to the folder that he had saved for last. The folder with the neatly typed label, “Malachowski, Brenda,” on the right-hand corner.

  Morgan skimmed the information quickly. He’d thought there was something not quite on the level with Trista’s secretary. His instincts had warned him that she was hiding something. Now he saw that he’d been right.