by Maggie Price
“You’re not sick,” she said, forcing her voice to remain calm.
“My numbers are good,” he agreed quietly. “For now.”
“Maybe forever.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
The absolute lack of emotion in his eyes started a slow, molten anger burning inside her. “I suppose you view your walking out of my life as a gift you need to bestow on me every so often,” she shot back, and jerked her hand from his. “No more gifts, Sloan. I don’t think I can stand another one.”
“We can’t be together, Julia. You know that.”
She closed her eyes while pain washed over her. “What I know is that after all we’ve been through...even after last night, you’re still only willing to share scraps of your life with me.”
“That’s all I have to give—”
“All you’re willing to give.” She shoved aside the sheet and rose. “I need to go home and get some dry clothes. You said I have a couple of swimsuits here, right? I can wear one to drive—”
“Julia—”
“I want to get dressed,” she snapped.
Tiny lines etched their way from the corners of Sloan’s mouth as he stood. He walked to the pine dresser at the far side of the room, slid open the top drawer and pulled out a black tank suit. Slowly, he pushed the drawer closed, then turned to face her. “My leaving is for the best.”
“Right, you’re protecting me.” Naked, she fisted her hands on her hips and faced him. His frustrating coolness fueled her temper. “You think you might get sick again, and you don’t want what happened to your mother to happen to me.”
“What happened to her won’t happen to you.”
“Dammit, I’m not fragile.” Shoulders stiff, she walked across the room and snatched the suit from his grasp. “Not weak. I can handle both the good and the bad. I would have thought you’d have figured that out by now.”
His eyes flicked over her face, then slid down her body, betraying nothing. “I don’t think you’re weak.”
“Damn right I’m not.” She pulled on the suit, the black maillot molding to her curves. “I can take whatever happens, and then some. So why don’t you just tell me you fell out of love with me over the past two years? Why don’t you admit that now that you’ve had me again, you want nothing more to do with me?”
His hands curled against his thighs. “Because that would be a lie.”
“Oh, so you do love me?” She walked back to the bed, jerked up her purse. “And you’re not planning on tossing me aside and taking off for another state?”
He stared at her, his face set in stone. “My leaving has nothing to do with tossing you aside.”
“Right, you think you’re being noble.”
“A realist,” he cut in, taking a step toward her. “I’m being a realist.”
“You’re being an ignorant, flaming... jackass!”
His hands shot out with such speed she had no time to react, could only utter a gasp when he jerked her against his rock-solid body.
“Listen to me, dammit!” Fingers digging into her arms like shafts of steel, he leaned over her, his eyes glittering. “My father survived his cancer the first time it hit. A few years passed, and the doctors declared him cured. But he wasn’t. It was still inside him and it came back with a vengeance. That time it killed him. It killed my mother, too. She shriveled up and died, right before my eyes. That’s not going to happen to you.”
“I’m a cop,” Julia said with ferocity. “Do you think cops have the greatest life expectancy in the world?”
“That has nothing to do with this.”
“It has everything to do with it,” she countered, her voice shaking. “Each day I walk out the door, I can’t guarantee I’ll come back in. But knowing that doesn’t stop me from wanting to share my life—be it long or short—with you. I’m willing to take a chance, Sloan. I’m willing to try to beat the odds. I see now that you don’t care enough about me to even try.”
He uttered a ragged curse. “Why the hell won’t you listen to reason?”
“Because I haven’t heard any,” she shot back, knowing with heartbreaking clarity there was no way to get through the wall he’d erected between them. “All I’ve heard are excuses,” she continued, fisting her hands against his bare chest. “Earlier, before you came in, I fooled myself into thinking that what we shared last night had changed things. I thought somehow I could convince you to stay. I was wrong. It’s obvious now all we had was a one-night stand with great sex—”
“It was a hell of a lot more than that!” His eyes darkened with the fury she heard in his voice.
“For me it was, because I’m still in love with you. It galls me, knowing that, but it’s true. And because it’s true, I want to spend my life with you....” Julia’s voice faltered as razor-sharp pain surged through her. “But you won’t let that happen because of some perverse idea that you have to protect me. I don’t need your protection, Sloan. I don’t want it.”
His hand came up, gripping her jaw. “I can’t offer you a future when I don’t have one to offer.”
“You don’t know that. You don’t know what will happen.”
“I know what might happen.” He ran a thumb over her lower lip. “What could very easily happen.”
“Fine.” She jerked from his hold, the need to get away from him so fierce it nearly strangled her. “You’ve made your decision. I’ll be damned if I stand here and offer you what you don’t want to take.”
“God, Jules—” His voice broke and he dragged in a ragged breath. “Do you think this is easy for me?”
“Sorry, but I don’t give a damn how you’re feeling right now.”
He reached for her, but she lurched back, evading his hands. “I don’t want you to touch me ever again. I’m not weak, Sloan, but I’m not made of steel, either.”
She took another step back, holding on to the slippery edge of control. “I’ll contact your lawyer if I have questions regarding the case. Don’t leave town until you’re officially cleared. I’ll send word when that happens.”
Mouth tight, eyes bleak, Sloan took a step toward her, but made no move to touch her. “How can I make you understand?”
“I do understand,” she rasped. “You’ve chosen to let ‘what-ifs’ rule your life. I hope that makes you happy, because in the end that’s all you’ll have. A bunch of hollow, meaningless ‘what-ifs.’”
She pulled open the door, then shut it behind her with heart-wrenching finality.
An hour later, freshly showered and dressed in a starched shirt and stovepipe, suspendered trousers, Julia walked into the Homicide detail.
“Boss wants to see you.” The message came from the division secretary, who had to raise her voice to be heard over the busy din of ringing telephones and conversation.
Lieutenant Ryan’s desk was its usual clean sweep of wood. All that lay on top was an open file folder, the reports inside in perfect alignment. The dust-free credenza displayed framed photographs of his grinning teenage daughter and his wife, A.J., who ran the department’s Crime Analysis unit. Sitting amid the calm orderliness, Lieutenant Michael Ryan locked his ice-blue stare on Julia as she lowered onto the edge of the chair he’d waved her into.
“According to your report, the night before Vanessa West died she threatened to ruin Sloan Remington and his company. He was well aware that Miss West had the ability to do just that.”
“Correct,” Julia said.
“The following morning he drove into the parking garage minutes after her arrival. Not too long after that, someone pumped a .22 slug into her back. Remington is an excellent marksman. He could have easily made an accurate hit with a .22.”
“He could have.” Julia curled her hands in her lap. The evidence against Sloan was all circumstantial, but hearing it outlined in stark detail started her stomach churning.
“The man has no alibi for the time of the murder,” Ryan said as he closed the file folder, then crossed his forearms. “He had the means
to kill her, the opportunity and ample motive. Why haven’t you charged him?”
“We have no witnesses to the crime,” Julia said, forcing an evenness into her voice. “We can’t tie Remington to the murder weapon. There’s no physical evidence that links him to the scene.” She waited a beat before adding, “He didn’t kill Vanessa West.”
Ryan arched a dark brow. “You sound sure of yourself.”
“I am.”
“Can you prove it?”
“ Not... yet.
“Who killed her?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re one of my best investigators, Cruze.” Ryan leaned forward, his fingertips tapping against his desktop. “That’s why I’m giving you twenty-four hours to eliminate Sloan Remington as a suspect. If you don’t, book him.”
“Yes, sir.”
Julia walked back to her desk on weak legs, dropped into her chair and went to work.
Late that afternoon, Julia parked in a visitor’s space near the entrance to Remington Aerospace’s corporate office.
She walked through the sluggish heat, catching her breath at the sudden sweep of cool air that hit her when she shoved through the revolving door. The vast, woodand-etched-glass lobby seemed to stretch forever. Hiking the straps of her leather tote higher on her shoulder, she walked along a marble bank of glossy-leafed plants and azaleas heavy with white blooms. She paused at the curved receptionist’s desk that rose from dove-gray marble tiles.
“Sergeant Cruze to see Rick Fox.” As she spoke, she flashed her badge at the woman in a sleek black suit. On the desk, a purse and set of car keys sat beside a computer’s darkened monitor.
“Do you have an appointment, Sergeant?” the woman asked in a soothing, polite voice.
“No.”
She nodded, giving a discreet glance at the clock on her desk that had just clicked on 4:59. “I’ll see if Mr. Fox is in.” She swiveled and punched a button on her phone. A moment later she replaced the receiver. “Please take the elevator to the top floor. Mr. Fox will meet you.”
“Thanks.” Reclipping the badge to her waistband, Julia headed for the far side of the lobby. There, she punched a button, then stepped into the cool confines of an elevator. Classical music drifted on the air; a small chandelier tinkled overhead as the cab began its smooth ascent.
Julia closed her eyes, grateful for a few moments of calm. After leaving Lieutenant Ryan’s office, she had spent hours at her desk reviewing the case, going over evidence, looking for something—anything—that would shift the momentum of the investigation away from Sloan.
She’d found nothing.
The only pieces of evidence that had escaped her reexamination were the videotapes from the security cameras at the entrances to the parking garage and the building. Cursing that they’d been coded for playback only on the company’s specialized equipment, she’d stuffed the cassettes into her leather tote and headed across town.
She raised a hand to massage her temple and leaned against the elevator’s paneled wall. Since the moment she’d left Sloan standing in his guest house, she had not allowed herself to think about what had happened between them. Now she did.
She hadn’t thought there was pain worse than that which she’d experienced two years ago when he told her he didn’t love her, couldn’t marry her. She’d been wrong. This morning, something inside her had shattered, and she knew she would never be whole again.
A soft chime sounded, announcing the elevator’s arrival at the top floor. The doors parted. Rick Fox, dressed in a neat black blazer and gray slacks, met her when she stepped into the carpeted hallway.
“Julia, this is a surprise.” Louisiana sounded in his warm greeting. “What can I do for you?”
“I brought the surveillance tapes we confiscated from your cameras the day of the homicide. I need to review them.”
Rick’s lips pulled back in a smile. “Fine.”
From the corner of her eye, Julia caught him glancing at his watch as they walked the length of the paneled corridor.
“Is this a bad time?”
“I’m meeting someone for drinks in a little while.”
“The bank vice president?” she ventured. They turned a corner and crossed the dim reception area where the secretary’s desk sat empty.
Rick paused at his office door, a look of genuine confusion in his eyes. “Bank...?”
“At the funeral home you mentioned you were dating a bank vice president.”
He flashed a quick grin. “Give me a break. That was a couple of days ago. I’ve moved on.”
His office was large and roomy, the furniture leather and masculine. Julia glanced at the panel of monitors built into one wall. Their screens displayed separate, real-time images fed from security cameras located inside and outside the building. One screen showed a slow, sweeping panorama of the parking lot, where her detective cruiser sat near the front entrance. Another monitor displayed the main lobby and the now-vacant reception desk. Still another flashed the image of the basement, where massive pieces of machinery squatted amid yards of pipe.
“You must know everything that goes on around here.” Julia crossed her arms and watched two men dressed in regulation corporate suits and ties chat as they walked along a corridor.
“That’s my job.”
Turning, she moved to a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf that displayed uniform hats from various law enforcement agencies. She touched an index finger to the rim of a bobby’s helmet. “I didn’t get a chance to look at these the day of the homicide when I was up here. You’ve added to your collection over the past two years.”
“Yeah. You know, I still haven’t managed to get one from OCPD. Think you can help me out?”
“Sure. I’ve got an extra uniform hat in my closet.”
She watched him put the flame of his gold lighter against the end of a cigarette. A glance at the polished, dark-wood desk revealed a brass ashtray heaped with stubbed-out butts.
Rick pulled off his blazer and draped it across the back of his leather desk chair. Julia’s eyes narrowed. “Do me a favor.”
“What’s that?”
“Stow your Glock in your desk while we talk.”
“It’s legal, Julia. I’ve got a permit to cany.”
“I know.” She shrugged. “No offense, but armed civilians make me nervous.”
His gaze dropped to the Smith & Wesson holstered beside the badge on the waistband of her slacks. “I could say the same thing about cops.” He smiled. “But since I used to be one, I won’t.”
With an air of casualness, he pulled the holstered automatic off his belt and placed it in a desk drawer. “Now what?”
“We watch the tapes.”
“I’ll cue them up from our network system,” he said as he closed the thin blinds against the late-afternoon glare.
“No.” Julia slid the tape cartridges out of her tote. “I want to view the copies we confiscated the day of the homicide.”
He raised a brow. “Like you said, they’re copies. The quality of the tape in our system makes for better viewing.”
Julia held up the cassettes. “These are what we booked into evidence. They may get shown in court someday. These are the tapes I need to watch.”
She almost missed the slight jerk of the muscle at the comer of his mouth. “Whatever you say.”
He took the cassettes, walked to the wall of monitors, where a built-in shelf held a television, VCR and high-tech stereo. “Are you close to solving Vanessa’s murder?” he asked while pushing buttons on the VCR.
“Maybe.”
She reached into her tote, pulled out the small tape recorder she’d checked out of Supply before leaving the station. The quick image of her own recorder sinking into the steamy water of Sloan’s hot tub shot through her brain. Squaring her shoulders, she forced away the thought. She was conducting an interview, she silently reprimanded herself. She had to keep her mind focused. Clicking on the recorder, she placed it on the edge of the desk.
“So I don’t have to take notes,” she explained when Rick glanced over his shoulder.
Expelling a stream of cigarette smoke, he slid the tape into the VCR. “Catch,” he said, then tossed her a remote control. “Make yourself comfortable.” He gestured in the direction of a pair of visitors’ chairs.
“I think better on my feet.”
“Suit yourself.” He eased back in his chair, propped his tasseled loafers up on the desk. “Hit the Play button when you’re ready.”
“One question before we start. That night at the art museum, did you witness the argument between Sloan and Vanessa?”
“No.”
“Did you take Vanessa home?”
“That’s two questions.”
“Did you?”
He met her gaze with unwavering blue eyes. “Come on, Julia, I was a cop long enough to know when someone’s fishing. The day Vanessa died, I had to call our personnel office to get her address. I wouldn’t have needed to do that if I’d have known where she lived.”
“True.”
Julia clicked on the security tape, then watched in silence as the entrance gate to the parking garage appeared. The lower right corner of the screen showed the date and time of the recording. She held down the Fast Forward button until a white car appeared in the dusky dawn light.
“That’s Zack Sheraton,” Rick said, watching a darkly tanned man lean from the car’s open window and swipe a laminated ID card through the security reader. Seconds later, the gate slid open.
“He opens the gym every morning, right?”
“Right,” Rick confirmed.
Sheraton was one of the S’s on Julia’s list who could have been Vanessa’s mystery lover. But the man’s presence in the gym at the time of the murder had been verified by several witnesses.
“Zack usually gets here around 5 a.m.,” Rick added.
“Early bird,” Julia commented. “As I recall, you scanned your card at six that morning.”
“Something like that.”
She leaned a hip against the desk and again hit the Fast Forward button. “This is your car,” she said when Rick’s blue Lincoln drove into view.
“Six-oh-nine,” he said, reading the time off the screen.