The Wharf

by Carol Ericson

  “It was the brakes. They failed.”

  He still had to blow into the cop’s face, but since he showed no outward signs of drinking and the cop couldn’t smell any alcohol on his breath, he didn’t have to take a Breathalyzer.

  Once he showed the officers his own badge and they realized he was Sean Brody’s brother, he got the kid-glove treatment.

  Kacie didn’t have any severe injuries, but that red spot on her face from the air bag was going to turn into a nasty bruise.

  “Were you having problems with your brakes before, Chief Brody?”

  “You can call me Ryan, and no. I drove down here from Crestview and didn’t have any issues with the brakes. Brakes were fine when we went to eat, and then it was sudden, like the lines were cut.”

  The officer raised his brows, but he wrote Ryan’s suspicions in his notebook. “We’ll have the car towed and our mechanic will check that. Anyone we need to question?”

  Yeah, the same guy who’d beat up Cookie Phelps.

  “I can’t give you any names, but I’m almost positive this was no accident.”

  The cop took more information from Ryan and then offered to give them a lift to their hotel.

  They made it back to the hotel and he didn’t even have to ask Kacie to join him in his room. She collapsed on the bed, clutching the ice pack the EMTs had given her.

  He pointed to the blue pack. “That’s supposed to go on your face.”

  “When did he do it?”

  He reached into his travel bag and pulled out a bottle, then popped a couple of ibuprofen in his mouth and chugged some water. “Must’ve done it while we were at the taco stand.”

  “That means...”

  “Someone’s been following us.” He shook the bottle of gel caps at her. “I think you need a couple of these.”

  “No kidding.” She held out her hands and he tossed her the bottle. “Maybe that’s how he found out we met Cookie yesterday.”

  “Somebody knows we’re working on Dad’s case, and they want us to stop. Do you still think it’s someone who wants us to preserve the commonly held belief that Dad was a serial killer?”

  “I never said I believed that. I was just throwing out the possibility.”

  “Okay, I get it.”

  “Here’s another possibility.” She pressed the ice pack to her face and wrinkled her nose. “What if the brakes tonight don’t have anything to do with Cookie or your father?”

  He stopped pacing. “Really?”

  “Think about it. Duke Bannister warned me about Walker. Someone locked me in the sauna, sent that doll and then killed Bannister. Maybe that’s the person who tampered with your brakes. Maybe this is Walker’s work.”

  “I think you’ve got it backward, Kacie.” He rested his forehead against the cool glass of the window and watched a homeless man navigate his cart around a bus stop.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe all of those previous incidents are connected to my father and this book. Maybe Walker was telling the truth for once in his life—he had nothing to do with the sauna or the doll or Bannister. After that interview you did on TV, plenty of people knew this was your next project.”

  She sat up and the ice pack fell to the floor. “You just rocked my reality. I never thought of that possibility before.”

  “I’m surprised. You’re a good, insightful reporter. If you’re in the business of looking at all possibilities, I’m shocked this one never occurred to you.”

  Hunching forward, she gathered the bedspread in her fists. “So, right from the beginning, before the two of us even met, someone was on my tail, harassing me, wanting me to believe Walker was after me. And all the time it was this book.”

  “That’s what it’s beginning to look like to me. This was never about Walker.”

  “Then Bannister was working for someone else.” She bounced on the mattress, clapping her hands.

  “That’s what he wanted to tell you at the end. He was going to come clean about who sent him.”

  “He was murdered before he could do it.”

  “Just like Cookie was beaten before she could give us any more information.”

  “This is big, Brody, if it’s true.” This time she couldn’t contain her excitement and she bounded from the bed. “We’re onto something and maybe it starts with your father’s suicide. Maybe he said something to Cookie before he jumped. Maybe he implicated someone else.”

  “And that someone else is alive and well in the city of San Francisco.”

  “Alive and well and targeting people who dare tell the truth or try to.”

  “There’s just one problem.” He crossed his arms and leaned against the window. “This is just a theory. We have no hard evidence to back it up, and we have no line on any suspects. We might as well be at square one.”

  “No, no.” She shook her head and winced. “This is so much better than square one, Ryan. This is clarity. This is truth.”

  “This is supposition.” Her reaction puzzled him. The pithy facts they had before them didn’t warrant Kacie’s level of excitement. Maybe she had a concussion. “Are you feeling okay?”

  “A little sore. But more than ever I’m ready to tackle this project.”

  “I’m glad the car crash energized you, but you need to get some rest. We’re both going to be feeling it tomorrow.”

  She folded her hands in front of her and dropped her lashes. “Can I stay with you tonight, Ryan? After everything that happened today, I’m feeling jittery. This person, whoever he is, must know we’re staying in this hotel.”

  He crossed to the bed in two strides and gently enfolded her in his arms. He kissed the top of her head and the scrape on her face, which was already turning into a yellow bruise.

  “Of course you’re staying here tonight.”

  She held up one finger. “Give me a few minutes. I’m going to run to my room and brush my teeth and all that stuff.”

  “Do you want me to come with you?”

  “I’ll be okay. I promise not to get into the elevator with any strangers.”

  “I’ll see you downstairs and wait outside your room just in case.”

  She kissed his mouth. “I knew you would.”

  Several minutes later back in her own room, Kacie changed into her pajamas. In the bathroom, she leaned toward the mirror and smoothed some night cream over the abrasion on her face.

  She’d been so focused on her vendetta against the Brody family, she hadn’t even considered there may be more to the story. Someone knew she was writing this book about Joey Brody and was trying to stop her from uncovering the truth—that Brody had been innocent.

  That truth would smooth over everything between her and Ryan, giving them a clear path to some kind of relationship.

  She just had one small detail to take care of first.

  She wrapped the hotel robe around her body, grabbed her purse and swung open the door to find Ryan propped up against the wall outside her room. “You didn’t have to wait out here.”

  “No problem. Made me feel better to get a clear view of the hallway.”

  “All quiet?”

  “Except for a couple too drunk to walk straight? Yeah.”

  She joined him in the hall and he escorted her back to his room. She hung her purse over the back of a chair and then stood in the center of the room, twisting her fingers in front of her.

  Ryan turned on the radio and whipped the covers back from the bed. “My bed is yours.”

  She liked the sound of that. She shed her robe, crawled under the covers and fluffed up a pillow against the headboard.

  He pulled off his T-shirt, and wearing a pair of boxers low on his hips, he slid into bed next to her.

  Was she expected to keep her hands to herself with this prime male specimen sprawled out next to her?

  He rolled to his side and slid his hands beneath her pajama top. As he cupped her breasts, he nuzzled her ear and whispered, “Do you always overdress for bed?”
r />   Her nipples peaked beneath the rough pads of his fingertips and her insides melted.

  “Do you?” She slid her hand along the waistband of his boxers and rolled them down to expose his readiness. He was already hard, his erection filling her hand.

  He sucked in a breath and nipped her earlobe. “You’ve been manhandled enough today. I promise to take it nice and easy.”

  She sighed and yanked off her top. “You can take me any way you like.”

  His grin widened as he rolled on top of her and slid both hands beneath her bottom, then moved down her body, taking her pajamas off along the way. “Let’s start by releasing some of this tension.”

  He dipped his head between her legs, and she couldn’t remember her own name, let alone the events of the day.

  True to his word, they made love nice and easy, but every time he took her over the precipice she felt as if she’d died a thousand deaths.

  Spent, they lay in each other’s arms, their limbs tangled, their bodies joined with no beginning and no ending. The picture from the TV cast a flickering blue light across Ryan’s strong face. How had she fallen so hard and so fast for this man?

  She’d started this project placing Ryan Brody, all the Brody boys, in the role of the enemy. She couldn’t help it. Even though the sons weren’t guilty for the sins of the father, she’d put a black mark next to every Brody. But Ryan had torpedoed that role the very first night they’d met when he’d carried her from the sauna.

  They’d do this together. They’d prove his father’s innocence, perhaps find a measure of justice for her mother and write a kick-ass book in the process.

  But first things first.

  She picked up his heavy arm, which lay across her midsection, kissed the inside of his forearm and placed it across his chest.

  He murmured and kicked one leg. She should wait until he was sound asleep, but then she’d be sound asleep, too.

  She watched the reality show on TV for a few more minutes, listening to Ryan’s steady breathing. She rolled away from him, and he tossed his head to the side.

  She reached out and stroked the ridges of muscle that formed his chest. What a beautiful man—and he wanted her, thought she was beautiful and desirable. Made her feel beautiful and desirable for the first time in her life.

  Her adoptive mom had always told her most men liked a woman with healthy curves, but it took Ryan Brody’s unabashed lust for her body to finally make her believe it.

  She kissed one of the brown nipples on his chest, her tongue flicking over the saltiness. He didn’t move.

  Releasing a breath, she rolled to the edge of the bed and swung her legs over the side. The bruised spot on her hip thudded with pain.

  The glow from the TV cast enough light in the room that she could make it to the box by the window without tripping over anything. She knelt beside the box and tipped off the lid.

  Her pulse quickened. The victim file was no longer on top, where she’d left it. Had Ryan been going through the files?

  She dug in the box and found the file halfway down the stack. Glancing over her shoulder at Ryan’s sleeping form, she pulled out the file and sat cross-legged on the floor with the folder in her lap.

  She shuffled through the papers to get to each photo until she found the one she was looking for. She pulled the picture out of the stack and stuffed the file back into the box beneath the other folders.

  With trembling fingers, she gripped the edges of the picture, her gaze sweeping the room. She couldn’t very well go back to her room right now. If Ryan woke up while she was gone, she’d have way too much explaining to do. She’d have to hide it in this room and take it with her when she returned to her own room in the morning.

  She considered and then rejected several options before deciding on her purse. She’d have to fold the picture, but she planned to shred it anyway.

  She tiptoed to her handbag, still hanging on the back of the chair, and creased the photo in half before stuffing it into the depths of her purse.

  She brushed her hands together. Ryan didn’t ever have to know about that.

  She crawled back into bed and snuggled against his warm body, running her hand up his muscular thigh before draping her leg over his.

  This was going to work out. She’d make sure of it.

  * * *

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Kacie opened one eye and groaned.

  Ryan looked up from the table by the window, fully dressed. “I think it’s best if you hit the ibuprofen as soon as possible. I’m just beginning to be able to move my limbs without hissing in pain.”

  She smacked her lips and croaked. “Good idea.”

  “I put a couple of gel tabs and a glass of water on the nightstand for you.”

  “Thanks.” She popped the pills and gulped down the water. “What are you working on so early?”

  “I’m contacting my department to see if they can request a trace on that blocked phone number on Cookie’s phone. It might lead to nothing, but then, that’s why they’re called leads.”

  “Glad someone’s thinking clearly this morning.”

  He tapped some keys on the keyboard. “I need Cookie’s number and the times of the calls. You still have her phone, right?”

  “Uh-huh.” She yawned.

  “You put it in your purse before the accident last night.”

  Her heart slammed against her rib cage. “Yeah, it’s still in my purse. I’ll get it.” She yelped as she scrambled to a sitting position.

  “That’s how I felt this morning. Let the meds take effect before you start moving around. I’ll get the phone.”

  With her muscles screaming at her almost as loudly as the voice screaming in her head, Kacie clenched her teeth and sat up, flinging the covers from her body. “That’s okay. I’ll get it.”

  Too late. Ryan had her purse in his hands, spreading it open. “I’ll find it.”

  “My purse is a mess. Toss it over here. I’ll dump it out on the bed.”

  “I can do that here.” Before she could say another word, he dumped the contents of her purse onto the table.

  With wide eyes, she watched the folded photo drift to the floor. Maybe he’d leave it there.

  He plucked Cookie’s phone from the table. “Got it. That wasn’t so bad.”

  He began to gather the rest of her items and shove them back into her purse.

  “That’s okay, Ryan. I’ll do that.”

  “Sorry. Something fell on the floor.” He crouched down and pinched the corner of the photo between two fingers.

  Kacie held her breath, her heart pounding.

  He couldn’t have picked up the picture in a worse way. It flipped on its side as he dropped it onto the table, the stamp from the SFPD clearly visible.

  He tapped Cookie’s phone and Kacie’s breath came back in short spurts. She eased from the bed. No sense in tempting fate. She had to get that photo back into her purse.

  She made it halfway to the table when Ryan’s gaze shifted from the phone’s display to the photo on the table.

  “What is this? It looks like a piece of evidence, a photo.” He squinted at the stamp on the white background. “It’s a photo of a victim.”

  Kacie reached out one hand. “I-it’s...it’s...”

  Ryan unfolded the picture and smoothed it out on the table, his eyebrows colliding over his nose. “I know this picture.”

  Kacie crossed her arms over her belly, her nails digging into the flesh of her upper arms.

  Ryan’s head jerked up as he stabbed the photo with his index finger. “This is the same picture you have in your wallet. What the hell are you doing with a picture of one of the Phone Book Killer’s victims in your wallet? Who is she?”

  She dragged in a shaky breath and closed her eyes. “She’s my mother.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Ryan blinked. Her mother. Her mother was that cool blonde on her laptop. She’d told him this woman was her grandmother. He grabbed the picture and held it close to hi
s face.

  Grandmother? How could he be so stupid? Judging by the woman’s hair and clothing, this photo belonged to the eighties. This woman was too young to be Kacie’s grandmother—but not too young to be her mother.

  He reread the label in the corner of the picture, the label that tagged this woman as a homicide victim.

  The Phone Book Killer had murdered Kacie’s mother twenty years before. The reality of it slammed against his chest, knocking the breath from his lungs.

  He hunched over the table, flattening his hands against the surface on either side of the picture. The aches and pains of the car accident flooded his body until he became a single ball of hurt.

  “Ryan.”

  He turned his head, and his eyes flicked over the naked woman standing before him, her arms crossed over her perfect body. Her delectable breasts heaving with every harsh breath. Her lush, lying lips parted and moist.

  His hands bunched into fists on the table and a muscle in his jaw ticked wildly. He swallowed the rage at how she could keep something like this from him that threatened to overtake all his senses.

  He cleared his throat to make sure he could speak. “Why did you want to write this book about my father?”

  She brushed a hand across her face and trailed unsteady fingers through the tangles of her hair. “It’s a good story, Ryan.”

  “Don’t—” he held up his hand “—lie. And for God’s sake, put some clothes on.”

  She pivoted and scooped up the pajama bottoms he’d removed from her body, inch by seductive inch, a million years before. She stepped into them and dug through the covers to pull out her pajama top. She pulled it over her head and sank to the edge of the bed.

  “I wanted to write this book to get to the truth, to exact justice for my mother.”

  “I said, stop lying.” He smacked his open hand against the desk, and the photo of the beautiful dead woman floated to the floor once again. “You thought you already had the truth, and you came here to crucify my father. Why else would you be lying to me all this time about your mother? You came here to put the nail in the coffin of his reputation. You came here to trick me, to use me.”

  She pinned her hands between her bouncing knees. “You’re right. I thought your father was guilty of murdering my mother, but it wasn’t my plan to trick you.”