“The FBI’s not infallible.”
“But their computers are.” When he didn’t offer an argument, she returned to the letters in front of her. She ran Dara’s through the multifunction printer to make a copy, then moved on to the next.
There were no other references to Hal and trouble, no mention of problems either professional or personal. Maybe, as a rule, Olivia kept her problems to herself, or perhaps her life was as carefree as it seemed. And yet someone had killed her. Not a very carefree thing to do.
“It doesn’t make sense.”
Martin looked at her. Her feet were drawn up in the chair, her face was wrinkled in a frown, and one fingertip tapped her mouth. Her eyes were so clear, the blue a perfect complement for the pure blond shadings of her hair. Even scowling, she was… Not pretty, not like Eve Redtree or Stone’s wife. No, Juliet was as beautiful as her namesake. “What doesn’t make sense?”
“How could someone hate Olivia enough to want her dead with no one else around knowing it? That kind of passion can’t be easily hidden.”
“Oh, I don’t know. You keep your passions fairly well hidden.” He had first judged her—as a lot of people had, considering the gossip around the police department her first week—as cool and serene and more than a little aloof. After the way he had kissed her this evening, after the way she had kissed him back, he would never think of her as cool again. Her kiss had been wicked enough to tempt a saint, innocent enough to torment a sinner. If Hunter hadn’t objected to their invading his space, they would still be in her bedroom, and they wouldn’t be sleeping.
“Computers are my passion,” she said primly. “Everyone knows that.”
“Yeah, right,” he snorted. “So, back there in your bedroom earlier, why were you thinking about interfacing with me?”
Her face turned scarlet, and she squirmed in her chair. Interesting. The heat and restlessness of embarrassment weren’t really so different from the heat and restlessness of arousal. Which would win out if he stopped talking and started doing? If he kissed her, touched her, stroked her? If he coaxed her out of that chair and onto the floor, if he stretched out beside her, beneath her, on top of her?
It was no contest. He would win. But would she?
He wished he knew. She would enjoy the moment, but he couldn’t offer any guarantees for the future, and he wanted that. He wanted to be able to assure her that there was a future, that he would never hurt her, that she would never have any regrets.
But life didn’t offer guarantees. You buy your ticket, and you take your chances. But he was better equipped for taking chances than Juliet was. All her life she’d been protected—by her parents, by her shyness, by her career that surrounded her with a buffer of machines to keep other humans at bay. He’d been on his own literally longer than he could remember, had looked out for and protected himself. He knew all about taking chances, while he was the first and biggest chance Juliet had ever taken.
He got to his feet and stretched. “I’d better go home.”
“I can give you a ride.”
“Nope. You can walk me to the door, though.” When she did, he grinned. “Now you can lean over here and give me a kiss good-night.”
“I don’t think so.” Her voice was even, but her breathing wasn’t. It quavered just enough to catch his attention.
“Then I’ll kiss you.” Holding her hands, he drew her closer and was about to lower his head when a convincingly chilling snarl sounded.
“I don’t think so,” Juliet repeated.
Hunter stood a few feet away, his unwavering gaze fixed on Martin, his lip curled back to bare his teeth. Martin gave him a wounded look. “Is that any way to treat the man who helped you find a new home?”
The mutt gave him a look that was utterly unrepentant.
“He’s not going to be mean, is he?”
“Nah. He’s just looking out for you. We’ll do some training over the weekend.”
“What kind of training?”
“Teach him to protect you.”
“You know how to do that?”
Yeah, he did, he realized. He didn’t know how, but…
For a long moment, she regarded him solemnly, then smiled faintly. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” Stepping forward, she brushed a kiss to his cheek, then opened the door. “I’ll see you.”
He remained on the porch until he heard the lock click and her soft, sexy voice trailing away. “Come on, Hunter, let’s find a place for you….”
Too bad she wouldn’t take in one stray as easily as the other.
Martin went home and to bed, stretching out across the mattress to watch a late-night movie. The reception wasn’t the greatest, though, the picture fading in and out, the voices giving ground to static that built, then receded once more into words. For a time he hovered between sleep and wakefulness, then sleep won out.
Then the dream came.
Like the movie on television, the images appeared, faded, reappeared. The words were indistinguishable, the voices harsh and angry. He was watching, listening—the recipient of the anger or the cause of it?
Wake up. You don’t want to see this. That voice was his own, also angry, pleading, damn near desperate. Damn you, wake up! I don’t want to see this!
But he couldn’t wake up. The pure, overwhelming, sweat-breaking terror wouldn’t let him. It held him paralyzed, unable to speak or think or move, unable to do anything but feel, and he felt too much. Pain, fury, hatred, horror, grief, shock, sorrow. The smells were nauseating—burning flesh, blood, sickness, despair, death.
Then a whisper, frantic, panicked. He’s dead! Oh, my God, you’ve killed him! You’ve killed him!
For one brief instant, he felt satisfaction, peace. Then the images began shifting in rapid succession. Different voices, same sickness, another death, another and another until he couldn’t bear anymore, until he knew that, if he didn’t wake up, he would start screaming and never stop. With a strangled cry, he jerked awake, clamping his hands over his face to muffle any sound, to rub away the images that burned. His breathing was loud and ragged, his skin damp, his throat tight.
He had no doubt that the voice in the dream had been talking to him. He didn’t know who was dead, didn’t know what had happened, but he was responsible. He had taken another human being’s life. He had no proof, but he knew it.
He rolled from the bed and pulled on the jeans he’d discarded a few hours earlier. Restlessly he prowled the perimeter of the room, shutting off the buzzing television before stopping at the window that faced Juliet’s house. He couldn’t see it from here, of course. Trees and other houses blocked his line of sight. But he knew it was there, knew she was there. He could see the pretty little green house with its porch and darkened windows, the yard where she wanted flowers but now had a dog. He could see through the closed door, down the hall and around the corner into her bedroom, could see her in bed, wearing nothing at all, snuggled under the covers with her hair falling across the pillow.
And Hunter standing guard at the door, of course.
What would Juliet think if he showed up in the middle of the night, seeking comfort and distraction? She would probably offer something soothing to drink, an ear for his problems and maybe a bed in the guest room, but she wouldn’t offer herself, not in the way he wanted her.
She would never offer if he told her about the dream, if she knew that he had killed someone and, for an instant, had been glad. She would be appalled, frightened. Hell, he was, and he lived with the dreams.
But she had a right to know. Before things got any more serious, before he kissed her again, certainly before he made love to her, he would have to tell her. She had to know who she was inviting into her life…and her bed.
He just wasn’t sure he could bear it. He’d made friends in his months here, but none like Juliet. If he lost her…
He would have nothing.
With a sigh, he glanced at the bed, wondering if he could sleep again, if the dreams w
ould return. He decided not to tempt fate. It took him only a moment to finish dressing, grab a jacket and leave. He thought about going to Juliet’s—not to disturb her, only to stand outside—but decided against it. If the neighbors saw him and called the police, it was a toss-up who would be more embarrassed: him over getting caught or Juliet over his interest in her being made public in such a way.
Not that it was likely anyone would see him. He knew how to blend into the night, how to avoid detection. He could go anywhere unnoticed, could do almost anything unseen. The fact that he didn’t know whether that was good or bad was depressing.
The neighborhood was quiet—no barking dogs, no prowling cats. He headed downtown, away from Juliet’s house and his own. He walked straight to the diner, took a seat away from the counter and accepted a glass of warm milk and a sympathetic smile from Pete, the night cook. “Trouble sleeping again?”
Martin shrugged.
“Have a turkey sandwich. It’s good for what ails you.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“It’s not food. It’s medicine. Haven’t you ever fallen asleep after Thanksgiving dinner? It’s the turkey. Scientists have proved it.”
He didn’t know that he’d ever had a Thanksgiving dinner. His landlady had invited him to share her family’s celebration last year, but he hadn’t felt much like it. It was such a family holiday, and he wasn’t family to anyone here—maybe not to anyone anywhere. “Just the milk.”
With a shake of his head, Pete left. The only other person in the diner took his place. “Mind a little company?”
Martin offered a silent invitation, and Frank Sanderson sat down opposite him. The police chief looked tired. “What are you doing out so late?”
“We had a domestic dispute call.”
“You have officers to handle those for you.”
“This one was family,” Sanderson said grimly, and Martin didn’t say any more. “What are you doing out?”
“Some nights I don’t sleep.”
The chief nodded as if he understood completely. With one member of his family beating another, he probably did. “I’m getting too old for this business, Martin. You know, I’ve been a cop longer than you’ve been alive. I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe.” He gave Martin a piercing look. “Well, you probably would, but the average person wouldn’t. I’ve arrested friends, sent family to jail and buried my fellow officers. I need a break.” His voice softened, and his expression grew distant. “There’s a cabin up in the hills about sixty miles from here, right on the edge of the most beautiful lake you ever saw. The wife and I built it ourselves back when the boys were young. Back then, I loved being a cop. I lived for it. When I wasn’t working, I was thinking about working. Now…”
Now he was thinking about the cabin and the lake. “Sounds as if you’ve earned it.”
“That’s what the wife says.” Sanderson grinned. “Actually, she says she’s earned it for putting up with the job all these years.”
For a moment they sat in silence, Martin thinking idly about how tired he was and the sleep he needed but might not get. Just when he’d decided to give it a try, the chief spoke again.
“I had a visit from Hal Stuart the other day.”
Martin tensed, waiting for the inevitable warning.
“He said you and the computer person were at his sister’s house, asking questions about their mother’s murder.”
“Juliet.”
“Hmm? Oh, yeah. Anyway, he wasn’t too happy and wanted me to order you to stay away. I told him it was no crime to ask questions about a murder. If it was, I’d have to lock up everybody in town. But as long as you don’t do anything illegal, like use Julie’s—”
“Juliet’s.”
“Position to gain access to protected records, then I don’t much care.” Sanderson subjected him to another of those piercing looks. “You haven’t done anything illegal, have you?”
“No, sir.”
“You don’t plan to do anything illegal, do you?”
He thought of the credit report he’d asked Juliet to get, then forget, thought of her own brushed-off suggestion that they let themselves into Olivia’s house for a look around. “No, sir.”
“Good.” The chief stood up and stretched. “Can I interest you in a ride home? It’s on my way.”
“No, thanks. I’d rather walk.” Martin watched him leave, then slumped lower on the stool. The computer person. Sanderson was the second person in the department that Martin had heard call Juliet that. Even when the chief had made a stab at her name, he’d gotten it wrong. How must that make her feel? Insignificant. Damn near invisible.
Hell, she was the most significant person he’d ever met.
“Need a refill, Martin?”
“No, thanks, Pete. I’m heading home.” He left a couple of bucks on the counter on his way by.
“Good luck sleeping. Hope I don’t see you tomorrow night.”
Except for the diner and the police department in the opposite direction, the downtown area was deserted. The streets were empty, the stoplights flashing. The shops were locked up tight, and there was no sign of life until he reached the Monroe Building. The three-story building housed a print shop and dental offices on the first floor, an accounting firm and insurance agency on the second. Maxwell Brown, who owned the building and a good deal of the town, claimed the third floor for his own.
There were lights on up there, and Brown’s Lexus was parked in the narrow lot on the side. Martin supposed late hours weren’t uncommon for businessmen—and the more prosperous the business, probably the later the hours—but if he had half of Brown’s money, influence and success, he would be satisfied, and he would spend his nights at home with a family. With Juliet.
He turned the corner onto the side street that would take him home, via a short detour. The sound of car doors caught his attention as he approached the alley. Instinctively, he stopped, eased around the corner and pressed tight against the building in the shadows as he watched.
There was a car parked behind the Monroe Building, an older one, full size, a popular model in an indeterminate dark color. Two men stood on one side, their conversation loud enough for him to hear, distant enough that he couldn’t understand. One was smoking, the other jangling a set of keys
Burglars planning a break-in? Martin didn’t think so. There was nothing covert about their behavior. They acted as if they had every right in the world to be where they were at three in the morning. They probably had business with Brown, or were waiting for someone who did. It was no big deal. No reason for him to stand here in the darkness like some sort of spy.
But when he moved, it was only to creep farther into the alley, to take cover behind a garbage can, crouching in the shadows, staring hard at the men and the car. It seemed like forever, but the dim glow of his watch showed only ten minutes had passed when the back door of the building opened and two more men came out. One was Maxwell Brown, dressed as impeccably as if it were the middle of the afternoon instead of after midnight. The other, his face visible only for the few seconds the door was open, was a stranger.
The men talked for a moment, then Maxwell returned inside. The two men who had first caught Martin’s attention climbed into the front seat of the car, and the third man, a briefcase in hand, slid into the back. They drove away, lights off until the driver made the turn onto the street a block away.
Martin remained where he was. Two businessmen conducting business in the middle of the night. It was unusual, but not unheard of. It shouldn’t interest him in the least. But it did. It gave him a funny feeling centered right at the base of his neck, a niggling little what’s-wrong-with-this-picture feeling. Something was odd.
His calf muscles were cramping and he was about to stand up when the light above the back door came on, illuminating the width of the alley and twenty feet in each direction. Odd that Brown hadn’t turned it on for his business associates. It was almost as if they hadn’t wanted to be seen.
Brown came out, locked the door, set the alarm and turned toward his car. Martin crouched closer to the wall and the trash can, cutting his view down to a narrow slice. He was dressed in dark clothes, but without the black knitted cap he normally wore when he did this sort of thing, his hair—
Brown passed out of sight, and Martin sank to the ground. A black knitted cap. He could see it, could damn near feel it warm and close against his head. Who the hell wore dark clothes and black knitted caps when they went out at night? Who the hell worried about staying hidden, invisible?
Thieves, burglars, drug dealers, rapists, murderers. Criminals. And him.
Long after he heard Brown’s Lexus drive away, he sat there, shaken. Finally he forced himself onto his feet, out of the alley and back onto the sidewalk, which he followed to Juliet’s house. Everything was quiet, with the usual light burning in the front hall. She was probably sleeping soundly with Hunter curled up somewhere nearby. Lucky dog.
He turned toward home. He didn’t think sleep was going to come easily, but sooner or later sheer exhaustion would gain him a few hours’ rest. Until then he would lie in bed and pretend that he wasn’t tense and desperate for sleep, that he wasn’t dreading the lack of control that came with it, that allowed the dreams to slip in. He would pretend that he wasn’t the sort of man he feared he was, the sort of man Juliet would never settle for. He would pretend, wish and hope. He would pray.
For all the good it would do a man like him.
* * *
Before the library opened Tuesday morning, Juliet wandered through the stacks looking for Tracey. She found the reference librarian curled up in a cozy chair with a cup of convenience-store cappuccino in one hand and the latest issue of a popular magazine in the other. “You know, home delivery is an option with that publisher,” she remarked as she sat down in the nearest chair.
“Not when the library’s paying the bill. How’re you doing?”
“Fine.”
“I heard you’re seeing a lot of Martin Smith. Are things getting serious between you?”
She thought about the kiss, the touches, the looks and the things he’d said and uncomfortably shrugged. “Where did you hear this?”
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