by Marta Perry
“I like it,” she said firmly. “But not on a teacher’s salary, I’m afraid.”
“That really is too bad of Paul. If only you could talk to him about it...” She let that trail off invitingly.
“Impossible, I’m afraid, since I have no idea where he is.”
“Surely you’ve heard something from him.” Claire leaned toward her, intent. “I’d do anything I could to make this right again. After all, we were very good friends. Very good. You can count on me.”
Rachel pulled back, repelled by the avid interest that seemed so out of place from self-contained Claire. “Not a thing.” She stood. “If you were as close as all that, I’m surprised he hasn’t contacted you directly.”
For a moment the woman’s face froze, and then she produced her usual cool smile. “Naturally he’d get in touch with you, first. You were his wife.” She rose, picking up her bag. “I won’t keep you any longer, since you have another guest.”
She was not going to attempt any explanation. “Thank you for stopping by.”
When they reached the door, Claire paused again even as she stepped out. “Do tell Paul to give me a call.”
Rachel kept her lips firmly pressed together. Apparently giving up, at least for the moment, Claire left.
Rachel closed the door with a bit more emphasis than necessary and snapped the locks.
“If I were guessing, I’d say you didn’t like the woman much.” Clint spoke from behind her.
She turned to him, banishing the irritation Claire had engendered. “I’d say the feeling was mutual. Funny. Before tonight, I’d have said Claire never gave me a thought. Certainly not to the extent to dislike me. I wonder why.”
“Who knows? I wouldn’t let it worry you. Maybe she just resented anyone else horning in on the close relationship the four of them had.”
“Maybe.” But she doubted it. Claire didn’t seem troubled by the fact that Ian was married. Why should she be? “She seemed to be implying that there had been something going on between her and Paul. But why should I care? I hadn’t even met him at that time.”
She realized that Clint was studying her face as if waiting for something to hit her.
“I see. You think she meant that there’s been something between them more recently.” She tried to weigh how she felt about the possibility, but it was no use. She’d been so battered by all the other revelations about Paul that she was past feeling anything.
“Does that bother you?”
Rachel rubbed her temples. “No. Or maybe I’m numb. Our marriage was over long before we filed the papers. I’d just like to have my life back.”
An uneasy silence fell between them. She’d try to recapture that moment between them, but she was just too tired to think.
“Nobody can blame you for that.” Clint squeezed her shoulder and strode to the door. “I’m off now. Be sure everything is locked up and then try to get some sleep. You obviously need it. But take your cell phone with you.”
He left, not waiting for a response.
* * *
RACHEL WAS NURSING her second cup of coffee the next morning when the cell phone announced the arrival of a text. She stared blankly at her cell for a few minutes before realizing the buzz hadn’t been on her regular phone. It had been on the disposable phone she’d bought because of Paul.
Heart thudding, she dug in her bag for the phone. She’d stopped expecting a call from him...had nearly convinced herself that he’d left town, that she wouldn’t hear from him again. And here he was again. For a moment she hesitated, then she opened it.
The text was brief. Meet me at my place as soon as you can. Don’t fail me. Paul.
Her immediate reaction was of annoyance. How like Paul to assume, after everything that had happened, that she’d rush to his aid. She dialed his number. She’d have an explanation before she went rushing over there.
But Paul’s cell went straight to voicemail. Rachel stared at it, trying to think of an appropriate message. There didn’t seem to be one. Frustrated, she tossed the phone back in her bag. Go? Or ignore it?
She couldn’t ignore it. Not if this was the only chance she’d ever have to convince Paul to come forward and accept responsibility for his actions. He had to, or how could she ever be safe from whoever wanted him so badly they’d risk her life?
A doubting voice in the back of her mind questioned the likelihood of his doing any such thing, but she was already grabbing her jacket. Maybe there were those who could walk away, but it seemed she wasn’t one of them.
Rachel was already on her way to the car when she realized that she hadn’t done as she’d promised—she hadn’t let Clint know that she’d heard from Paul. And she was going off to meet Paul without telling him. Given his reaction the previous night, that probably wasn’t a good idea.
She stopped, pulling out her phone to call him. But his phone, like Paul’s, went straight to voicemail. Was no one where they should be this morning?
Biting her lip, she frowned at the phone. If she waited to hear back from Clint, Paul might very well be gone by the time she got there. She couldn’t risk that—not when seeing him could result in clearing this mess up once and for all.
Quickly, she left a message telling Clint about the text. Telling him she was going. And then, trying not to sound needy, she asked if he’d meet her there.
It wasn’t that she was afraid to meet Paul, but she’d feel a lot better knowing Clint was on his way. The truth was that she’d come to rely on his steady presence. She shouldn’t, but she did.
Violating her own policy about cell phones in cars, Rachel kept the phone on the car seat beside her as she drove to Paul’s. Hoping...well, she wasn’t quite sure. Was she waiting for a call back from Paul? Or from Clint?
In any event, she could have saved herself the trouble. No one called, and she pulled into the parking lot at Paul’s apartment with no other options. She’d have to rely on herself. Decide for herself. Wasn’t that what she claimed she wanted? Now that she had it, she wasn’t so sure.
So she’d see Paul, and make one final effort to convince him to do the right thing and get her off the hook. Whether he did or not, she was done. The divorce had never felt so final.
A young woman with a baby in a stroller was coming out as Rachel went in. Rachel paused, holding the door and complimenting the baby, then slipped through without the need for buzzing Paul’s apartment. The waiting elevator carried her quickly upstairs... Just as well, since the last thing she needed was to obsess about what she’d say to Paul.
The upstairs hallway stood empty. Most people would be at work at this time of day. Was that why Paul had chosen now to come back here?
She reached the door, her hand raised to knock, and saw that it stood ajar. She pushed it with her fingertips. “Paul?”
No answer. The living room, furnished in what she thought of as motel modern, stood silent. Leaving the door open behind her, she crossed to the small kitchen, but she could see already that no one was there.
“Paul?” she called again, louder. If he’d brought her over here only to play games, she wasn’t amused. “You wanted me to come, so here I am. Let’s get this over with.”
Still nothing. She considered walking out. The silence had begun to prey on her nerves, and her skin prickled.
Nonsense. Once again, Paul had let her down. She shouldn’t be surprised at that. She strode to the bedroom door. If he was there, he’d better have some convincing explanation for this whole thing.
She pushed the door open. Paul was there, but he wouldn’t be giving any explanations. He lay on the floor, and the back of his head—
She retched, clutching her stomach and trying to breathe. The college track trophy he’d won had always stood on the left side of his dresser, wherever they’d lived. Now it lay on the floor, the golden runner thick with blood.
&n
bsp; Rachel took a step back, then another, groping in her bag for her phone. She had to call help. It might not be too late.
But it was. She knew it. Holding the thought at bay, she punched in 911.
“What is the nature of your emergency?”
She stood, staring at the phone, not knowing what to say. Even as the 911 operator repeated her question, the outside door swung open. Two uniformed patrolmen stepped in, looking as surprised to see her as she was to see them.
“What’s going on here?”
She could only gesture toward the bedroom. The phone spoke again, and she thrust it into the hand of the nearest officer, stumbling to a chair. Her head was spinning, and blackness seemed to be closing in on her. She collapsed into the seat, bending forward, her head between her knees. Hold on. She had to hold on.
For a confusing interval the room buzzed with activity. One of the cops was asking her questions, but she couldn’t seem to focus. Finally, either taking pity on her or giving up on getting a straight answer at the moment, he went to the kitchen, returning with a glass of water.
Rachel sipped at the water, trying to make some sense out of what had happened. But she couldn’t.
One officer knelt by her chair. “Can you tell me your name?”
She nodded. “Rachel Hartline.” Realizing he’d want more, she gave him her address.
He jotted down notes, his face serious. He was young, she realized. Probably not as old as she was, and his face had a greenish tinge at the moment. Maybe, like her, he hadn’t seen anyone who’d died by violence before today.
“And the man in the other room?”
She swallowed hard. “Paul Hartline. He’s my ex-husband.”
Ex-husband. It really was final now, and a shudder went through her.
The two officers seemed to exchange glances. Did they think she’d done it? That she’d be capable of picking up the trophy Paul was so proud of and hitting...
A confusion of noise at the door heralded the arrival of more police. In a moment the small apartment buzzed with activity. People came and went past her, into the bedroom. She couldn’t see what they were doing—didn’t want to see.
An argument seemed to erupt at the door, and she heard Clint’s voice. He was obviously refusing to be turned away, and she caught a word here or there as he argued. Apparently he was successful, because soon he was kneeling next to her, gripping her hands.
“Are you hurt?” His voice was rough with demand, but she heard the caring under it and was thankful.
“I’m...I’m all right. But I found him. Paul. He wanted to see me...”
“I know. You left a message. I’m sorry I didn’t get here faster.” He squeezed her hands, his grip painful. “It’s all right. Just tell me what you found when you got here.”
“Maybe she’d better tell me, too, Mordan.” Another cop, in plain clothes this time.
“Ms. Hartline’s too shaken for any questioning, Phillips. So don’t be pushing.”
They knew each other, then. She wasn’t sure if that made it harder or easier. At least the officer was allowing Clint to stay.
“It’s all right.” She pushed a strand of hair back from her face, trying to collect herself. As long as she didn’t think of what she’d seen, she’d be all right. “I’d rather tell you what happened. I had a text from Paul, wanting me to come over and meet him. I told you.” She fixed her eyes on Clint, and he nodded.
“Why was that?”
Rachel blinked, looking at the other man. “Why did he want to see me? Or why did I tell Clint?”
“Both.” He gave her an interested look that was probably meant to encourage her to talk.
“I don’t know what Paul wanted,” she hedged, not sure whether she should mention the business with Attwood Industrial or not. “My phone...” She waved a hand toward the uniformed officers. “I gave it to someone.”
“That’s all right, Ms. Hartline. I have it. I may have to hold on to it.”
She felt Clint stiffen, but she just nodded. “That’s all right. You’ll have seen he didn’t say what he wanted. But he was going to sign a sales agreement to put the house we owned on the market, so it may have been that. Or...”
“Or?”
Rachel looked at Clint, hoping for guidance. He shrugged.
“You’ll see from Ms. Hartline’s phone that she’d been trying to reach him. That was at my request. Or rather at the request of our client James Attwood. You’re familiar with the firm?”
The other man nodded. “Some kind of think tank for tech products, isn’t it? You run their security, do you?”
Clint nodded. “Hartline didn’t turn up for work one day about...well, over a week ago now. Attwood thought his files had been tampered with, so he called us in. We’ve been trying to locate Hartline.”
“Industrial espionage, was it?”
Clint shrugged. “I can go into that with you at length later. Or James Attwood can. If you can finish up with Ms. Hartline, I’d like to take her home.”
“Not just yet. I have a few more questions.”
Rachel sensed a silent battle between the two men. Evidently the detective won, because Clint shrugged.
More questions. Exactly when she’d arrived, who might have seen her, when was the last time she’d heard from her ex. She answered as exactly and as briefly as possible. Attwood wasn’t going to like her saying anything, but the situation had become too serious to cater to him. Paul was dead.
Her head spun again, and Clint’s hands tightened on hers. She heard their voices as if from a distance. Whatever Clint’s argument, it must have been convincing, because a few minutes later Clint was taking her out to his car, one arm wrapped firmly around her.
* * *
RACHEL LOOKED A little better by the time Clint drove away from the apartment building. Not good, but better. He didn’t want to remember how he’d felt when he’d arrived and seen the police there.
“My car...”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll arrange to pick it up. Want to give me your keys?”
She nodded, fishing in her bag for a few minutes before seeming to remember that she kept them in an outside pocket. She handed them over, and he tucked them in the console.
“Thanks.” Rachel pressed her fingers to her temples, the way she did when upset or trying to think. “I’m glad you got there before they started questioning me. I didn’t know what to say about Attwood. He won’t like being involved.”
Clint shrugged. “I’m afraid Attwood will just have to lump it. It’s impossible to keep the information quiet now. At least the cops have another trail to pursue.” He stopped, knowing he’d said too much.
But Rachel didn’t seem surprised. “Besides me, you mean. Isn’t an ex-wife who finds the body automatically the chief suspect?” Her voice quivered only a little on the words.
“Maybe so, but the first steps they take will show it wasn’t you. Since you didn’t go into the bedroom at all, they won’t find any evidence you’d been there. And I’d be surprised if the person who swung that trophy didn’t get blood splattered.”
She winced, exhaling as if he’d punched her. Remorse swept him.
“Maybe someday I’ll learn to stop coming out with everything that enters my head. I’m sorry, Rachel.”
“It’s okay.” She clasped her hands firmly in her lap. He wanted to stop the car and pull her into his arms for comfort, but he couldn’t do that on a busy highway. “You actually made me feel a little better. What you said is true. I didn’t take even a step inside—just stood in the doorway for a moment. I...I could see there was nothing I could do.”
“That trophy. I couldn’t get a close look, but I assume it was his?”
“First place in the state in the long jump when he was in college. He...he was proud of it.” She firmed her voice and went on. “
It always stood on the left side of his dresser, so I suppose that’s where it was.”
Handy, he thought. The killer might have known it was there. Or a quarrel might have sprung up suddenly and the trophy snatched up. Or the killer might have seized it rather than use a gun, if the death had been planned.
“The woman I saw coming out of the building.” Rachel was obviously thinking back through her answers. “If they find her, she might be able to tell them what time it was.”
“Right. She might not, of course, if she’s not a person who notices such things, but it’s worth exploring. And they had the time of your 911 call. That will show you weren’t there long enough for a quarrel to escalate to that extent.”
“If she didn’t notice, there’s no one to say what time I left the house.”
She was starting to brood, most likely listing the possible evidence against her.
“Look, I know Phillips. He’s a good cop. He’s not going to jump to conclusions, especially without any physical evidence. So try to put it out of your mind.”
That wasn’t the brightest thing he’d said. He pulled into her driveway. Of course she wasn’t going think of anything else, at least for a time.
“You don’t need to come in,” she began, but he ignored her, going around to help her out of the car and hold on to her as they walked to the door. Just in case, he told himself. Or maybe because he wanted to touch her, support her.
He spotted the movement of a curtain at the house next door and hoped Mrs. Barton wasn’t going to rush over full of concern and sympathy. But apparently she thought he had things under control, because she didn’t emerge.
Once inside, he deposited Rachel on the sofa and pulled a quilted throw over her. “I’m going to make you a cup of tea. Just sit.”
“I’ll be fine by myself. Really.” But she didn’t sound convinced. “And I’m sure you have things you have to do.”
She was right about that, but most of them could wait. He did have to call Logan right away. He could do that while the water boiled.
“What’s going on?” Logan demanded. “I had a call from a cop to verify that you were my partner. What have you been up to?”