by Leslie Kelly
“Hey, pal, long time.”
“Yeah, Reg, very long time.” Mike kept the phone to his ear, but most of his attention was directed on the door between the bathroom and the bedroom. Jen had closed it completely when she’d left. Either to give him privacy…or to keep him away.
Hell, he was getting paranoid. Seeing motivations that weren’t there. She was just tired, that was all.
“Figured you’d want a heads-up on this. One of the uniforms brought in a suspect on a carjacking last night.”
Not his purview, but he kept listening.
“Guy wants to cut a deal. He says he knows something about the attempted murder of a New York City police officer on a street corner last weekend.”
Mike immediately stiffened in response. “Who is he?”
“Perp’s a low-level thug, but he says he can direct us to the stolen van, and tell us who jacked it.”
“I’ll be there in an hour,” Mike said, wanting to be on hand for any arrest in the case. He hoped the suspect implicated Ricky Stahl, himself, because he would dearly love to get more charges piled on to the mountain he was already facing.
Disconnecting, Mike pulled on some clothes and went into the bedroom, his mouth already open as he prepared to apologize for bailing on her on his day off. But the look on Jen’s face—and the small white card in her hand—stopped him cold.
She had tears in her eyes. But the tension in her shoulders and the jut of her jaw said she was furious. Remaining seated on the edge of the bed, she flipped the card at him. “It fell out of your laptop case when I grabbed for your phone.”
Mike didn’t pick up the small piece of cardstock lying at his feet. He’d caught a glimpse of the logo and the type. It was one of his business cards. “Okay…so what’s wrong?”
Jen shot up off the bed and stalked toward him. “You work in the NYC police Cold Case and Apprehension Squad?”
Mike suddenly realized where she was going. He’d told her he was a cop…. He hadn’t told her what, exactly, he did. “Yes.”
“You don’t work Vice catching pimps and dealers. You lied.”
“I didn’t lie,” he said, “I told you I transferred out of Vice earlier this year after a high-profile case.” He was about to continue, to add that the call he’d received might well have been about that same case—which he still thought was connected to the attack on them outside the bodega last week.
Before he could get a word in, she jabbed a finger at his chest, poking him, hard. “Cold cases—like in that TV show where they go after people for crimes that occurred decades ago?”
Oh, hell. Now he knew why she was so upset. “Jen…”
“That’s why you wanted to know so much about Aunt Ivy.”
He couldn’t lie—the case had intrigued him and he hadn’t been entirely honest about how far he’d gone in looking into it.
He knew he should have. But damn, she was already so ticked off. So he started at the important part. “Look, I don’t think your aunt bludgeoned her husband.”
“Of course she didn’t.”
“I did look into the case a little,” he admitted, “but only because I was worried about you. She has threatened you, Jen, and if she has a history of violence, who knows whether or not she might someday act on one of her crazy threats.”
Her jaw dropped open. “You reopened a murder case on my elderly aunt to protect me? Good Lord, you do take this protector crap way too seriously, Mike.”
“I didn’t reopen the case,” he explained, keeping calm, as he always did in a crisis. This was definitely shaping up to be a crisis, one he’d never anticipated when he’d woken up today.
Your fault, asshole, you should have told her up front.
“It was never solved, so it was never officially closed. I pulled it out and took a look at it through fresh eyes, the way I would any other cold case. Just me, nothing official, no commitment to investigate it further.”
That didn’t seem to help because her jaw was still working hard, as if she was biting the inside of her cheek to prevent herself from screaming. So far, she’d done a pretty good job. Though, if her eyes were laser beams, he’d be a steaming pile of protons right now.
“I screwed up by not being honest with you right up front.”
“Yeah. You definitely did. And you wasted your time. Aunt Ivy is innocent, she had an alibi, you admitted it yourself.”
Knowing he should keep his mouth shut, he couldn’t help clarifying. Because he still was not convinced Ivy posed no danger to anyone—his grandfather…or Jen. “She had an alibi for the bludgeoning. A neighbor saw her leave the building, then heard Cantone fighting with someone next door an hour later, while Ivy was in public with a lot of other people. He was definitely alive when she left.”
“Don’t forget she could barely lift the murder weapon, much less swing it with enough force to crush his skull.”
“I know.” He almost continued, almost admitted the suspicion he’d had in recent days, since he’d finished reading the case file. Including the autopsy report, which had never been released in its entirety to the public. But that would add a whole new level to this conversation and he didn’t have the time to deal with it right now. “Can we talk about this later?” he asked as he continued pulling on his clothes and shoes. “I have to go to the precinct. There might be a break in last Saturday’s hit-and-run.”
She nodded absently. He’d have thought she’d look a lot more interested. Obviously, Jen’s concern about her aunt Ivy’s dark and dangerous past exceeded her concerns about her own present. More reason to keep her away from the crazy woman.
Just as he was stuffing his wallet and badge in his pocket, Jen cleared her throat. “I might not be here when you get back.”
“What?”
Jen’s chin went up in visible determination. Any evidence of tears had dissipated during their discussion about her aunt’s case. Right now, she merely looked determined. Resolute. Unreachable. “I can’t stay here forever.”
“You can stay here until I get back.”
She shrugged. “What’s the point?”
“How about your physical safety? We still don’t know who broke into your place.”
“And I’m supposed to put my life on hold, hide and play house in a rich man’s apartment from now on? Forget it, Mike. Fantasy time’s over. It’s back to reality for me.”
He suddenly had the feeling she was talking about a whole lot more than just her physical address. It was as if she was saying the past few days—here, with him—had been a fantasy from which she now wanted to escape.
His heart nearly stopped as the implication washed over him. What if she was done—finished—with him?
He’d worried this moment would come. That she’d realize he wasn’t the right guy for her. He just wasn’t ready for it to happen so soon. Especially not since he’d realized she was every bit the right woman for him.
“Wait until I get back,” he insisted, wondering if she could hear the way his voice shook with emotion. Did she know his order was actually a plea? Mike had never been afraid of much in his life, not since his parents had died. But he was afraid right now. Afraid she’d walk out the door and not return. “Never mind, I’ll call back and tell them I can’t come in.”
She waved a weary hand at him. “Go. You know you need to.”
He still wasn’t sure. “I don’t have to.”
“Yeah, you do.”
She was right. He’d sleep better—be able to deal with things better—if he found out for sure who’d tried to run them down. “I’ll only be gone an hour or two. By then I’ll have a better idea if the guy who tried to run us down was targeting me because of the drug case and not…”
She stared at him, watching him closely as he fell into silence. He should have known better than to think she wouldn’t know exactly where he’d been headed. “Not me. That’s what you’ve been thinking, right? That the person who almost mowed us down was targeting me because he’s the
one who’s been harassing me?”
He couldn’t deny it. “Yeah. I’ve considered it.”
“But you never thought to share that.”
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
She fisted her hands and jerked them onto her hips. “Do you have any idea how much I hate this protective macho crap?”
The sparkle in her magnificent eyes almost brought a smile to his lips. Because oh, yeah, he knew. He liked that about her.
But old habits died hard. He protected the ones he cared about. And he cared about Jennifer Feeney more than he’d ever cared about another living person in his entire life.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” Swallowing as he acknowledged there was more to apologize for, he added, “Not only for keeping my suspicions about our accident from you. But for not telling you I was actively looking at your late uncle’s case file.”
She slowly nodded but the anger in her voice didn’t fade one bit. “I know you’re sorry. But you still did it. You investigated an old woman I love for murder. And you lied about it. I can’t forgive you for that, Mike.”
He’d gotten so used to hearing Jen bitch about her relatives he’d almost forgotten how much she loved them. He’d suspected it—he’d seen glimpses of it—but he hadn’t realized until right now how deep her feelings went. “I shouldn’t have—”
“You deceived me,” she snapped. “You kept me in the dark about your suspicions regarding our accident.”
He nodded, not even trying to get a word in this time.
“You blazed on, the big man, taking care of everything and leaving little old me in the dark out of this crazy need you have to take care of everyone whether they need it or not.”
“Maybe,” he said with a helpless shrug, completely unable to defend himself. “I can’t change who I am overnight.”
Her anger visibly faded. Now she merely appeared dejected. Almost devastated. “I know,” she whispered. “I know you can’t.”
So, it appeared, they were at an impasse. They stared at one another for a long moment. Mike found it hard to believe it had been less than an hour since they’d climbed out of that wildly rumpled bed where they’d spent one of the most amazing nights of his life. He wished they’d never left it, that everything that had happened this morning had been a bad dream.
“I won’t go to my apartment,” she mumbled, as if wanting to set his mind at ease, even though she was still upset.
He breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. Wait here for me and we’ll talk this out when I get back.” He stepped closer, reaching out to her but not touching, somehow knowing she wouldn’t want him to. “Give me a chance, Jen, this is all new to me.”
Jen lifted a hand to her damp hair and swept it away from her beautiful face. “I won’t be at my apartment because I’m going to go back to Trouble. I want to talk to Ivy. If a police investigation is going to come crashing into her life again, I have to prepare her and apologize for my part in it.”
Mike stepped toward her, his body tense with tightly controlled anger. “You are not going near that woman.”
“So much for changing your overprotective ways.”
He clenched his muscles, took a cleansing breath, trying to remain calm and controlled. What he really wanted to do was go all caveman on her, drag her back to bed and not let her out of his sight. Everything that would be entirely right in the short term but so very wrong in the long one.
“I told you, I didn’t do anything official with the file, nobody else knows I’m looking at it, the wrath of the law is not about to descend upon your crazy aunt’s head.”
“Don’t talk about her like that,” she insisted, though she’d called the woman worse since the day he’d met her.
“Jen, she’s dangerous.”
“Nonsense. You admitted she’s not a killer.”
“No, I didn’t,” he snapped before thinking better of it. “I admitted she didn’t hit her husband with a statue. That doesn’t mean she didn’t set her house on fire.”
Jen’s eyes flared. Crossing her arms over her chest, she began shaking her head. “No. The articles all said whoever bludgeoned Leo set it to try to destroy evidence. Ivy got there after the firefighters were on the scene.”
“She had left the restaurant early enough to get home a half hour before the fire was called in.”
“No.”
“She could have set it,” he insisted, “then left and come back to make a big commotion once the firefighters were there.”
Jen was shaking her head, her whole body tense, as taut as a wire. “Why? What possible reason would she have?” Then she turned away from him. “And what does it matter, anyway? She still didn’t kill anybody. Whoever hit him killed Leo Cantone.”
Mike hesitated for a second, wondering if he should reveal what he’d discovered when reviewing the Cantone case. Telling Jen the true contents of the autopsy could make her realize the seriousness of the question of who started the fire.
It could also make her more determined to defend her lunatic aunt against anyone on earth—even if she placed herself in danger. Even if she did it at Mike’s expense.
Been there, done that enough in one lifetime, lady.
Unable to prevent himself, he lifted his hand and rubbed at the scar on his chest, even though a voice in his head ordered him to stop even considering this situation to be anything like that one. “You need to accept the possibility,” he murmured.
She spun around to glare at him. “Why? Why does it matter?”
“It matters,” he replied flatly. “Because the autopsy showed the victim had smoke in his lungs. He was hurt—not dead—when the blaze started. Meaning, whoever set that house on fire is the one who really killed Leo Cantone.”
EMILY HADN’T DECIDED EXACTLY how to execute her “plan of attack” as Allie called it until Saturday morning when Roderick had called to invite her to lunch. He’d asked her if she cared to go up to the next town, to a decent restaurant where they’d eaten once before, and she’d said yes.
But she had already been planning something else, instead. Because the drive to Weldon would take them right past the lovely little park where they’d had their picnic the previous day. And Emily was in the mood for another one.
Digging through the garage, she finally found her mother’s old picnic hamper. Its gingham lining was a bit dusty and the wicker faded, but it cleaned up all right.
She spent the rest of the morning preparing what she considered a romantic lunch—grapes and cheese, crusty bread fresh from her bread maker. Even the bottle of wine she’d been saving since Christmas. What the heck—today she was going back to being herself. That was cause for celebration, wasn’t it?
When he arrived at noon to pick her up, she put a broad-brimmed hat on her head, a pair of sunglasses on her nose, and strolled to the door. She was carrying the basket, as well as a large blanket, and wearing calf-length dungarees that reminded her of the cropped pants girls had worn back in the fifties.
Seeing her, Roderick’s eyes grew wide. “Why…Emily…”
“Good afternoon,” she said with a cheery smile. Be yourself, Allie had said. Stop acting like a helpless romance-movie heroine and be the Emily we all know and love.
Well, the Emily everybody seemed to know and love was the Emily who laughed and baked, smiled and enjoyed herself. Not the quiet, helpless lady with the fluttering hands and the quivering heart, the one waiting for her white knight to carry her away.
If Roderick wanted to carry her away, that would be delightful. But she was no longer going to be the meek, spineless female, waiting for him to do it.
“I don’t think I care to go to that stuffy restaurant after all,” she informed him as she handed him the picnic hamper. She kept the blanket in her arms, sailing out the front door. Striding toward his car, she felt stronger and younger than she had in ages. “I would like, instead, to go on another picnic.” She waited by the passenger side door, and as he stepped up to open it for her, Emily
peeked at him through half-lowered lashes. “Only the two of us this time.”
He cleared his throat and turned a little pink, from his cheeks up to the tips of his ears. How utterly adorable! “If you desire,” he murmured, that formal British voice of his sounding incongruous when accompanied with a blush.
She didn’t imagine Mr. Potts had blushed in decades. But Roderick still had enough of that proper British gentleman inside him to be a bit taken aback by a forward woman.
Well, tough, as Allie would say. “I have been meaning to tell you,” Emily said as they pulled out of her driveway, “I don’t know a single thing about art. It’s been bothering me that I gave you the impression I did when we visited the gallery.”
Roderick glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She’d swear a tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it could have been a shadow cast by the car’s sun visor. “I did realize you might not be familiar with the styles and movements, but you have a remarkable eye, Emily, and very good taste.”
“I know a bit about Impressionism from watching Jeopardy!”
She waited for him to gasp in shock. But instead, he chuckled. “It’s amazing what one can learn from watching television. Mortimer and I have quite expanded our vocabulary with some of these new shows.” Shrugging, he added, “I, for one, never imagined that someone would accuse another person of nosiness by saying they were all up in my bizness.”
“Yes!” she exclaimed, immediately knowing what he meant. “Imagine, I used to think of bling as only the sound the gambling machines made at the casinos in Atlantic City. Now it refers to all manner of jewelry.”
“Who knew dead presidents would someday refer to money?”
“Or that kickin’ it would mean to relax?”
“That having junk in the trunk would not refer to winter blankets and tire-changing kits in the boot of a car.”
The two of them were laughing now, the first comfortable, relaxed laughter she’d shared privately with the man.