by Jordan Dane
Then, it struck him.
Fiona wasn't smiling. And her body language showed tension. It was etched in her face. In contrast to her young husband, who clung to her like a prize, she showed no such affection. The single-word description on the back was purposefully written, without embellishment. Not even the location had been given, so contrary to what a newly wed might have done.
Sifting through other photos, he began to see a pattern. Why hadn't he noticed it before? Christian knew the woman well enough to grasp it.
Fiona hadn't loved Charles. And the years hadn't improved their relationship, chronicled in the many pictures spread before him. A discernible pattern.
"Why, Fiona? Why did you marry a guy you didn't love?" he muttered. It didn't make any sense, given the strength of the woman he'd grown to love. He couldn't imagine her being coerced into a loveless bond.
As he picked up the honeymoon photo once again, another thought roused him from out of the blue— something Raven had asked him at the armory.
Can you think of anyplace else that Mickey might have kept some kind of locker? I found a key— Raven's voice teased his memory.
An image popped into his mind.
Now, Christian knew where to look for the answer.
But tomorrow would be soon enough. The tension and stress of the day invaded every sinew. Standing, he stretched the muscles of his back. His stomach growled in emptiness, but he was too restless to indulge it. He wandered to the French doors and onto the balcony off Fiona's bedroom.
After sucking in the chilly night air, he exhaled a warm breath in a vapor trail. In no time, the cold absorbed into his shirt, chilling his skin with every brush of the fabric. The sensation invigorated him, clearing the fog from his brain. With only the dim radiance from Fiona's room shining through white window sheers, the grounds of the estate were cast in a bluish haze, charged by the moon's energy. Shining brightly, the moon loomed overhead, growing larger by his estimation. The night sky cloudless, it proudly displayed its dazzle. He felt small and insignificant.
Yet despite the beauty above, his thoughts of Raven moved him far more. The woman had burrowed deep under his skin, never allowing him to forget her. Her beguiling infiltration had been subtle, with a rare sensuality. But the self-inflicted wound, named Raven Mackenzie, had not been without pain. With every remembrance, Christian felt just how lonely he'd allowed his life to become. And the thought that he could lose her made his stomach churn.
Given the firepower of the attack launched against her partner, Christian feared for her safety. By all reports, her partner's home had been annihilated. By turning down his offer of protection, Raven was in denial about her ability to defend against such an assault. Her modest home would be indefensible. Yet if he was being truthful, he'd have to confess his attraction to her stirred him more than he cared to admit.
Damn it! Why had everything gotten so . . . complicated?
Her dark eyes haunted him. Still, he contemplated betraying Raven's trust, for Fiona's sake. Tomorrow, he'd investigate on his own, looking for the secret that Mickey might have kept under lock and key. But depending upon what he found, he'd have a decision to make.
Would he share it with Raven?
CHAPTER 11
The details of the Blair file blurred on the page as she searched for anything she might've missed. Her ability to focus had waned, and it was only midmorning. She hadn't slept well. Raven pinched the bridge of her nose and shut her eyes. When she opened them again, she caught sight of Tony's clip-on tie tossed on his desk. The image left her hollow. Now, her eyes trailed to his empty chair, her misery complete.
A distinct chill lingered in the room. She couldn't shake it. Despite being dressed in jeans with layers under a black cable-knit sweater, she still found her skin prickled in goose bumps. No amount of layering or rounds of hot coffee fended off the cold.
"Did one of you guys turn down the thermostat again?" Normally, the question would've generated profuse finger pointing and offers on ways to stay warm, but not today. All she got was polite smiles and a few shrugs.
And the clock on the wall ticked away at an interminably slow pace. The world hadn't stopped altogether. Tony's absence loomed like a dark cloud in the bullpen. Out of respect, her fellow officers were uncharacteristically quiet. Their sideways glances and sympathetic expressions reflected their concern. Every time her phone rang, their eyes shifted nervously her way. She knew they wondered if the call meant news from the hospital. The calm made her anxious. Even her Cubs cap, turned around rally style, hadn't provided any comfort.
Feeling like a fleshy chunk of her had been carved out, she ached for her missing partner. Her early-morning visit with Yolanda at the hospital hadn't remedied her concern. He'd had a bad night. Tony still wasn't out of the woods. But a familiar face drew her back into focus, warming her soul.
"Hey, honey, got any coffee for the old man? I could use a whole pot in a very large syringe." Lieutenant Sam Winters held a cardboard box in his arms, grinning ear to ear.
"Hey, LT. Thought you'd be sleeping?" she teased, glad for the distraction.
"Got to thinking about your daddy's old cases. Been searching through the archives after I got off shift." He set down his burden on Tony's desk. "Care for a temporary partner for today, while yours is on the mend?"
Sam spoke as if Tony had a bad case of the flu. Somehow, his denial reassured her, like everything would be all right.
"I'll get you that coffee. But the preferred method of dosing around here is Styrofoam. The syringe is up to you."
By the time she returned from the break room, he had settled into Tony's desk, laying manila folders in piles.
"Figured I'd go through these, set aside any that stick in my brain as possibles. I got your old man's case notes. You ever looked at 'em?" he asked. He handed her a black spiral notebook. Her father had kept them by year. "Your daddy was the best cop I ever worked with. I still miss him."
"Good partners are like that." She fought the lump in her throat. Her hands reverently brushed the top of a bound notepad.
She knew looking into his old cases would take time. But the malicious act of the bastard who'd invaded her home and destroyed her father's photo provided insight into the man's egotistical nature. And she was determined to capitalize on his mistake.
"This is gonna be a long shot, Sam."
"Yeah, but when you're a Cubs fan—" he replied with a crooked grin, setting her up. In unison, she joined him in one of her father's old sayings, "—long shots are what we do."
The waterfront off Lakeshore Drive glistened in the sun like a jeweler's case. The dazzle caught Christian's eye as he neared the Chicago Yacht Club. Boat masts normally speared the sky, but were noticeably absent. The vessels had been pulled from the lake and dry-docked for winter. Set near the Chicago Loop amidst a myriad of cultural offerings, the yacht club was a focal point to many sporting activities and home to Lake Michigan's finest regattas. Even with the change in season, the dock drew people to the waterfront and its adjacent trail system. Nature's tranquillity was a magnet. Compared to the hustle of downtown, the harbor reflected serenity, an oasis from a more hectic pace.
Christian turned his SUV into the Monroe Street parking garage, then walked across Lakeshore Drive toward the two-story Monroe Harbor Clubhouse and the sign indicating the marina office.
Seeing the harbor in the photo of Fiona's honeymoon had jogged his memory. At one time, he had heard that Mickey owned a boat and kept it in a slip at the yacht club. Perhaps the man still had a connection to the posh facility. As Christian neared the water's edge, a breeze humbled him, coming through his khaki cargo pants. The bright sun held little warmth. Winter heralded its arrival with the wind off the lake. He zipped the front of his leather bomber jacket, covering his ivory cardigan. His hiking boots echoed his approach along the wooden pier.
Just as he remembered, a set of glass doors revealed the location of lockers, near the guest shower facility. Althoug
h the area was open now, instructions printed on the door laid out the hours for the secured card key access. Then his eyes found one security camera, and another, his training made him a creature of habit. The upscale facility would have suited Mickey's taste.
Raven's mystery key might have a home after all. Still, he hadn't decided if he would share whatever news he might find with her. The thought sent a pang of guilt jabbing at his conscience.
He followed the walkway past the office, his eyes drawn beyond the shoreline. Without the narrow building to break the sporadic gusts, the chilly breeze stole his breath as he rounded the corner, tousling his hair. And the untainted smell of the lake carried on the wind, beckoning like a haunting siren's call.
The irresistible view drew him to the railing, his hands stuffed into his jacket. Even under dark glasses, his eyes watered with the cold. The expanse of water churned, mesmerizing him with its swells. Thoughts of Raven crept into his mind. Surely, such beauty was meant for two.
"She's like a mistress you can never forget." A man's voice interrupted his thought.
"Excuse me?" Christian turned to see an older man standing farther down the wooden pier. It took him a moment to realize the stranger had been talking about the appeal of Lake Michigan.
The man was dressed in layers. His gray hair peeked out from under a navy wool hat pulled over his ears, his bulbous nose red with the cold. The sparkle of the lake had been captured in his engaging eyes, despite the man's age.
"The lake. She's kept me coming here like an addiction." The old man's voice fit him, raspy and gnarled like his weathered skin. "You visiting? I haven't seen you here before."
Christian didn't offer a reply. A faint smile curved a corner of his mouth. He treasured his anonymity far too much to reveal anything to this stranger.
"Have a good one, mister. Enjoy your day." Turning, he walked back toward the office and left the old gent. Time to move on.
Down from the lockers, another set of glass doors under an awning led to the small marina office. Once inside, he slipped off his sunglasses, his eyes adjusting to the darker interior. An unrecognizable melody wafted from overhead speakers. The walls were covered with dark wood veneer and cork message boards. Sitting between a sofa and armchairs, an evergreen shrub had seen better days. Beyond the vacant counter, a small office with metal filing cabinets was abandoned. No one manned the desk.
Just then, the door behind him opened. And the old man from the wharf entered, sporting a grin on his face.
"What can I do for ya, young man? Folks consider me Father Confessor 'round here. Talk to me. You'll find I'm a good listener."
Christian returned his smile, sharing his subtle brand of humor. "Yes, sir. And I just bet they'd be right. Was wondering if you could tell me if Mickey Blair still leases a boat slip here? Or maybe has a locker?" He hoped no other information would be asked of him.
The man stepped behind the counter. The humor faded from his lined face. "That information is generally considered private, mister. Did you know him?"
"Not well," he cautiously replied. Christian narrowed his eyes and cocked his head to one side. "Couldn't help but notice you used the past tense. You hear what happened to Mick?" Christian followed his instincts. As long as he kept him talking, the man might eventually cooperate. The trick was to get more information than he had to shell out.
"Man's gotta keep up with things, right?" Aged eyes held Christian's stare. "Guy's dead anyways. Couldn't hurt, just talking. He used to keep a boat here. The Freelancer. But he gave that up earlier this year. Said he was going someplace warmer."
"No doubt." If there was a hell, Christian suspected Mick felt plenty of heat now. Mickey would have been as secretive about himself as Christian was, but somehow, this man had kept an eye on him—and had gotten him to talk. Interesting.
And the guy continued to amaze him.
"And as for a locker, he still has it until the end of the year. Membership has its privilege. But I guess you could say Mr. Blair expired before his locker did." The man's abrupt chuckle filled the room. "Anyway, I saw him down at the docks from time to time, carryin' a duffel bag like he still had business here."
"Have you told the police about his locker?"
"Nope. Figured I'd get around to it sooner or later. What're they gonna find in a locker anyway, some old sneakers and a snorkel? Besides, I'm not the kind of guy that'd stick his nose in other people's business."
Christian fought to keep a smile from his face.
"I don't know. You look like a man that keeps up with the goings-on around here. Don't suppose you could tell me which of these lockers is his." Christian reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out his wallet. Thumbing through his bills, he waited for—
"Yeah, I've always been real good with numbers." The man smiled and gave a wink, hand outstretched. "And mister, a man could always use a new friend. What did you say your name was?"
"Ulysses S. Grant." Christian smiled, handing over a fifty-dollar bill.
"You don't say. What's the S stand for?"
"You get me into that locker—and S will stand for satisfied."
The old man's laughter sealed their arrangement. But the image of Raven's dark eyes kept Christian from enjoying his small victory.
With a bite missing, a chili cheese dog loaded with onions sat atop Raven's desk, alongside a mound of untouched fries. The smell hovered in the air like a living, breathing thing. Sam's choice of lunch had no appeal. In contrast, the man was finishing the last bite of his foot-long like he'd never get another.
"You gonna eat the rest?" He raised both eyebrows, waiting for her answer. Once again, Raven looked up from her father's case notes, smiling when Sam's face reminded her of a big yellow Lab she had as a kid.
"With your schedule, you better keep up your strength. Go ahead, LT."
"Thanks, baby girl." After taking a mouthful, he kept talking. "I got a handful of cases here we can talk about—everything from a scumbag that killed his pregnant wife with a hunting knife to a DUI that got nasty. Where do you wanna start?"
His voice buzzed her ear, not fully sinking in. A note in one of her father's cases unexpectedly caught her eye. "What, Sam? Sorry, I was just reading—"
"You got something?"
"I don't really know." Her voice trailed off into a whisper, her eyes engrossed in her father's handwriting. "Just a car theft. Some teenager. But Dad sure seemed agitated by the guy. He even makes a personal note here."
"What did he write?"
"Just three words, printed and underlined in the margin—Gray dead eyes. Most of his work deals in the facts of each case. But this is different. Do you remember this one, Sam?" Raven handed over the black notebook, opened to an entry dated two years before the death of her father.
With one glance at the name of the car thief, he focused his attention to the stack of manila folders to his left.
"Hadn't gotten to that pile yet." With a grin, he found what he was looking for. "Yep, here it is. Logan McBride."
Quietly, he read through the material, narrowing his eyes with concern. "I remember this loser. A young punk with heaps of attitude." He looked up, tossing her the file.
Raven knew what her father had seen in the man. His black-and-white booking photo was chilling. Defiantly, gray dead eyes stared back at her, without an ounce of contrition—or fear.
"Logan McBride," she whispered to herself, trying to imagine the confrontation between her father and this man. She committed the face to memory.
Sam spoke, bringing her back to the present. "Looks like we got plenty of possibles. Let me give you the rundown so far, then we can make our top-ten hit parade. Sound like a plan?"
Before she could answer, her phone rang. Raising an index finger to Sam, she picked up her line. "Mackenzie."
"Raven? It's Christian. We've gotta talk."
"You sure this is gonna be okay? Maybe we can find someplace else." Given the look of concern on Christian's face, Raven had only one o
ption for a reply. She lied.
"Yeah, this is fine. I love hot dogs."
Having a serious case of deja vu, she didn't have the heart to refuse his choice of pseudocuisine. It was the only food readily available this late in the afternoon. By the time she'd finished with Sam's case run-down, the lunch hour was long gone.
Just her luck. Hunger had come back with a vengeance. After Christian heard her stomach growl at the station house, she lied about not having eaten, hoping he'd pick a quiet bistro. His only suggestion, a deliberate one, was a walk toward the yacht club.
Now, she held a mystery-meat Popsicle in her hand, minus the stick and wrapped in foil. No amount of yellow mustard and relish could hide it. The only thing that made it palatable was the view and the man walking by her side.
Lake Michigan looked breathtaking, glistening in the afternoon sun. As they meandered back toward the waterfront, she filled her lungs with fresh air and nibbled at her slice of Americana in a bun. But she did a double-take when she glanced over to Christian. He was suspiciously eyeing his hot dog, avoiding his first bite. No doubt he'd chosen the red-and-white-striped hot dog stand more for expediency than for the culinary wizardry of the vendor.
"Why'd you bring me here, Delacorte?" She raised an eyebrow. "You on a first-name basis with the maitre d'?"
She found humor in her own remark, but he appeared distracted, avoiding her stare. Instead, he dodged her question by taking a bite of his dog. By the look on his face, it'd been a bad choice.
Forcing it down with a swig of bottled water, he finally replied, "Was just wondering if you had a chance to dig up the old Dunhill files? I've come up against a brick wall on my end, got nothing so far."