Midnight Rain

by Dee Davis

  Frank shrugged.

  D’Angelo studied the man, wondering what it was about him that rang false. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. “Let’s go over what happened one more time.”

  “I walked in on Jonathan kneeling over Florence, holding the g-gun.” He swallowed, his complexion moving beyond pasty to a sickly green.

  “What were you doing in the building?” Tony walked up, ignoring the pallor of Frank’s face. “Seems a little late for business.”

  “Actually, I was on my way out.”

  “A bit out of the way, isn’t it?” The front door was down the opposite hall, closer to Frank’s office.

  “I was parked out back. It’s safer at night.” The man sounded positively insulted, and D’Angelo watched Tony fight against a smile.

  “And so you thought you’d stop in for a workout?” He knew that wasn’t the case, but if they kept Frank rattled, maybe he’d reveal something he hadn’t intended. If there was indeed anything to reveal.

  The man’s jaw worked for a moment, producing no sound, his pallor changing to an ugly shade of red. “I was walking by here when I heard a noise.”

  “A gunshot?” Tony’s amusement evaporated, his eyes narrowing in concentration.

  “No.” Frank frowned. “It was more of a thunk. Like something had fallen. Since Jonathan works out a lot these days, I was immediately concerned that it might be him.”

  “I see.” Eric blew out a frustrated breath. Frank’s story tracked with Brighton’s. According to John, he’d tripped over the body in the dark.

  “I pushed through the door,” Frank continued, “and flipped on the light.” Now that he’d started talking it seemed he wasn’t about to be silenced. “At first I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Just the gym equipment. But then I saw Jonathan over there with . . . with the gun . . . kneeling over Florence, and I thought . . . Oh God, I thought—”

  “You thought that John had shot Mrs. Tedesky,” Tony finished for him, his voice kept purposefully gentle.

  Frank nodded, his expression an odd combination of guilt and fear.

  D’Angelo frowned, trying to work out what it was that was bugging him. Nothing tangible obviously, but something in Frank’s story felt off. He glanced at Tony to see if he’d picked up on the same thing, but the big man’s face showed nothing of what he was thinking.

  “Can I take my brother upstairs?” Danny Brighton was back, his tone just this side of civil.

  Eric glanced over at John. The man looked physically sick, his face beaded with sweat, his pallor almost as bad as Frank’s. “Sure. I don’t see why not. Just don’t let him leave the building until I give the okay.”

  He watched as Danny and Frank flanked John, the two of them supporting him as they walked slowly toward the door. A united front.

  The big question, of course, was whether they were united in the trauma of the moment, or because they had something to hide.

  If he were a betting man, Eric would put his money on the latter. Of course, that still left him with the monumental task of finding out what it was they were keeping secret. But he’d conquered tougher cases, and he’d get to the bottom of this one. Although he couldn’t shake the notion that when he did, it was going to be about a hell of a lot more than a couple of dead bodies.

  Police cars and emergency vehicles surrounded the Guardian building, and Katie’s heart started pounding as her imagination went into overdrive. The forensics wagon could conceivably be there for a number of reasons, but the most likely one meant homicide.

  Oh God, what if something had happened to John?

  She broke into a run, cold sweat enveloping her body, punctuating her fear. She never should have left him. She’d let her emotions control her actions, throwing years of training out the window at the first sign of hormones, and now it looked like she’d done more than compromise her profession, she’d quite possibly cost someone their life.

  A large man in uniform stepped between her and the door, his intention clearly to stop forward progress, but she had adrenaline on her side, and with a forward thrust and a flying elbow, she was past him. There would no doubt be hell to pay for the action, but just at the moment she didn’t give a damn.

  The hallway was empty, but voices from the gym carried down the corridor. She ran forward, stopping in the doorway, her trained mind accessing the scene. A body sprawled on the floor, the telltale black bag obscuring the identity.

  But even at this distance she could tell it wasn’t John. Someone smaller.

  Female.

  The technician working beside the body shifted slightly, the face of the deceased white in the harsh light.

  Flo.

  Her stomach clenched and she fought a bubble of hysteria, an emotion somewhere between horror and intense relief tearing through her, leaving her feeling light-headed and weak. She clutched the door frame, using it for support, trying to pull air into her lungs.

  The policeman she’d punched arrived behind her, his breathing labored, his red face indicative of his displeasure. He grabbed her by the arms, obviously intent on getting her out of the building. But before words could be exchanged, D’Angelo caught sight of them, and with a wave of a hand, dismissed the officer.

  With a look worthy of a seasoned killer, the man released her and walked away, rubbing his rib cage and mumbling something no doubt unflattering beneath his breath.

  “Probably not the best way to make friends with the locals, Agent Cavanaugh.” D’Angelo raised his eyebrows, working hard to hold back a smile.

  She struggled to pull her rattled emotions into control, pushing away from the door frame, eyes locked with the detective’s. “How long have you known?”

  “I’ve suspected for a while. Was pretty sure the day Roswell was here. But I really wasn’t positive until just now.” His eyes still reflected amusement. She’d fallen right into his trap.

  “So you were fishing?”

  D’Angelo shrugged. “Considering you managed to wind Madison, I’d say it was more of an educated guess.”

  She nodded, her mind already back on the body. “What happened here?”

  “Shooting. She took it in the back. Probably never knew what hit her.”

  He sounded so impersonal. As if Flo hadn’t been a person at all. Which of course was exactly the way he was supposed to sound—the way she was supposed to sound. But somewhere along the way things had gotten personal.

  Her eyes fell to the plastic-encased body, the remains nothing like the wonderful woman she’d come to know. “She deserved better than this. Flo was a special person.” It wasn’t enough, but it was meant sincerely.

  “So I gather. Brighton’s taking it pretty hard.”

  “John’s here?” She pulled her gaze away from the body bag.

  D’Angelo nodded. “He found her.”

  “Oh God.” Her mind was spinning with possibilities. “Did he see the killer?”

  “No. According to his statement, she was dead when he found her.”

  Katie frowned. “You don’t believe him.”

  “I’m not making any judgments. But there is conflicting testimony.”

  She worked to keep her expression bland, her interest only professional. “Such as?”

  “Frank Jacoby walked in on Brighton standing over the body holding a gun.”

  “He probably picked it up on reflex. I’ve seen it happen a thousand times.” Maybe not a thousand times, but it did happen. People weren’t thinking in moments like that, and most of them managed to do something stupid. Something that compromised the crime scene.

  “We tested for powder residue. We’ll know something in the morning.”

  “That’s not conclusive and you know it. If he picked up the gun just after the shooting, he might still test positive.”

  “It’s possible. But if there’s other supporting evidence . . .” He broke off with a shrug, and her heart sank.

  “Do you have a preliminary time of death?”
r />   D’Angelo nodded. “The ME estimates she died right around the time Brighton found her.”

  She fought against a wave of panic, digging deep for control. This wasn’t the time to fall apart. “Where is he now?”

  “Upstairs.” D’Angelo tipped his head toward the door. “He was pretty shaken. Frank and Danny are with him.”

  “Danny was here, too?”

  “Yeah.” The cynical smile crossed the detective’s face. “It’s been a regular circus around here. And I expect there’ll be more before it’s all over.”

  “Any other witnesses?” The question was rote, her brain automatically searching for answers.

  “The janitor talked to Brighton a few minutes before. Said he seemed really upset about something.”

  “He say what?”

  “No. And he went back upstairs afterward, so he didn’t hear anything.”

  The implication being a gunshot. For all D’Angelo’s assertions about waiting for the facts, it certainly sounded like he thought John was the shooter. “What about before. Did he hear anything before he talked to John?”

  D’Angelo’s eyebrows went up again, as he shook his head. “No. He wasn’t on the floor. Came off the elevator to find John in the hallway.”

  “I see.” She chewed the side of her lip, considering the latest revelation. In court, the janitor’s testimony could easily be used against John even if in truth it amounted to nothing. “Does Roswell know?”

  D’Angelo shook his head. “Haven’t heard a peep. I guess I ought to tell him what’s up. Or maybe I should leave that to you?”

  “I’m undercover, remember?” She hoped to hell that she could convince John to let her keep the charade going. And in the meantime, there didn’t seem to be any reason to come clean with D’Angelo. She liked the man, but that didn’t make him her confessor. “Besides, I need to get upstairs. They’ll be wondering where I am.”

  D’Angelo’s eyebrows drew together in speculation. “Mind telling me where you were?”

  “You suspect me?” She was surprised to hear anger in her voice.

  “Right now, I suspect my mother. You know the way this sort of thing works.”

  Her anger dissipated as quickly as it had come. “Yeah, I’m sorry. I guess I’m a little jumpy. I was out walking. Clearing my head, trying to put things into some kind of order.” Which was the absolute truth, except that they were talking about two completely different things.

  D’Angelo accepted the information without question, his attention focused on one of the forensics folks, a kid with the face too damn young for work so horrific. They conferred for a moment, and the kid returned to the body, zipping the bag shut.

  There was a finality to it that hit Katie hard. Flo Tedesky had been so vibrant—so alive. And now she was dead. There would be no more midnight chats. No more tea and comfort.

  Flo had loved John like a son. She would have done anything for him. Anything. Even die for him.

  Which was exactly what John would be thinking. He’d be blaming himself.

  “I’ve got to go.” Katie didn’t even try to keep her voice casual. Let D’Angelo think whatever he wanted.

  Right now nothing really mattered except getting to John.

  John stood in the living room staring out at nothing, emptiness gnawing at his insides. Flo was gone. Dead. Things left forever undone, unsaid. Pain that wasn’t truly tangible, yet threatened to eat away at him until there wasn’t anything left to feel.

  He’d never felt so impotent. So alone.

  “I just got off the phone with Dr. Walters. I got him to prescribe a sedative.” Danny’s voice sounded like it was far away, coming to him through deep water.

  He blinked slowly, forcing himself to focus on the here and now. “I don’t need a sedative. I’m fine.”

  Danny came to stand beside him, his face creased with worry. “You need to rest. And you’re not going to do that on your own. I know you.”

  “I’m not going to take anything either. I’ve had enough things messing with my brain. I’m sure as hell not going to purposefully screw with it some more.”

  “Come on, Jonathan, it’s just a sleeping pill.”

  “I said no.” The words burst from him, staccato in tempo and explosive in tone. “Just leave me alone.”

  “I don’t think you should be on your own right now.”

  “You afraid I’ll do something desperate?” He’d meant it as a joke, something to ease the tension in the room, but instead it came out sounding pathetic. Everything had gone insane—reality turning inward on itself.

  “I don’t know what to think.” Danny looked down at the floor, refusing to meet his gaze, and John’s blood ran cold.

  “You think I killed her.” His pulse pounded against his temples, the cacophonous rhythm almost deafening.

  Danny lifted his gaze. “Frank said he saw you.”

  “He saw me holding the gun.” John struggled to maintain control. “I picked it up when I fell. You can’t honestly believe I’d hurt Flo.”

  “You wouldn’t have. Not before.” Danny shook his head, as if to underscore his words. “But now . . . I don’t know. You’re not the same anymore. There’s so much anger. And there are secrets, John. I see them in your eyes. I don’t want to believe any of it, but it’s getting to where I don’t have a choice.”

  He stared at his brother’s face, seeing far more than he wanted to. Danny thought he’d gone over the edge. He honestly believed that John was capable of murder. There simply weren’t words. Nothing he could say that would make it okay.

  Nothing he could do that would bring Flo back.

  Even if he hadn’t pulled the trigger, he was just as guilty of Flo’s death. His actions had led them to this place as surely as if he had ordered her murder himself. It was there in Danny’s eyes.

  “You didn’t kill him.”

  They both swung around, Katie’s voice filling the silence hanging heavy between them.

  “And nothing either of you say will make me believe that.” She walked toward him, her eyes clear, trusting.

  But then Katie was a liar.

  “You shouldn’t be here.” Danny took a step toward her, one hand lifted as if to ward her off. “Not after everything you’ve done.”

  He wanted to nod, to agree with his brother, but he was simply too tired. All he could see was Flo’s face floating through his mind, blood splashed crimson against the pale white of her cheeks. He sank down onto the sofa. “It’s too late.” His voice cracked, his gaze colliding with hers.

  “It’s never too late, John. Not if we truly care.” There was a plea in her eyes, one he desperately wanted to believe. But he couldn’t. She wasn’t for real. Nothing that had happened between them was real. And no matter how his soul yearned for her, he mustn’t let himself fall into her trap. “John, please . . .”

  She took a step toward him, but Danny cut her off smoothly. “Why don’t you let me show you the way out.” His words were polite, his tone was not.

  John summoned his last vestige of strength, and raised a hand to stop his brother. There were still things he needed to know. “That won’t be necessary, Danny. There are things Katie and I need to discuss.”

  “But—”

  He waved off both his brother’s protest and the flash of hope in Katie’s eyes. “She has information that can help us get to the bottom of this. And from where I’m sitting, I think she owes it to me to share that knowledge.” His eyes met hers, his gaze impassive.

  She nodded once, and moved to sit in the chair across from him. Danny followed suit, heading for a chair by the window, but again John waved him away. “I’d rather we had the conversation on our own.”

  Danny’s eyes narrowed. “Do you think that’s wise?”

  “Probably not.” John attempted a weak smile, but gave up the attempt. It simply required too much effort. “But at the moment, it’s all I’ve got.”

  Danny shot Katie a venomous look, and walked toward the doo
r. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

  John nodded his thanks, and then turned his attention back to Katie. She looked just the same. No Medusa snakes sprouting from her hair, no traitorous brand on her forehead. Not more than eight hours ago, he’d had such hope.

  But hope died easily. Just like Flo.

  Their gazes met and held. “I didn’t kill her.”

  “I know that. I said as much.”

  “Yes. You did. But I needed you to hear it from me.”

  “John—”

  “No.” He cut her off with finality. “I don’t want to rehash what’s already been said. It’s over, Katie. I just need you to tell me what you know.”

  She sucked in a breath, as if for fortification, her expression shuttered. “All right. Where do you want to start?”

  “Downstairs.” He struggled to maintain clarity, his mind rebelling, wanting only the oblivion of sleep, but he owed Flo more than that. He looked up to meet her gaze. “Are the police still here?”

  “Yes, but they’re about finished. For now.”

  He ignored the last remark, pressing onward. “And Flo?”

  “They were taking her out when I left.”

  “I see.” He nodded, the finality of it all hitting him hard. “We’ll have to make arrangements.”

  “Not yet. The medical examiner wants to do an autopsy.” She sounded almost automated. The consummate professional.

  He narrowed his eyes, studying her face. “How about D’Angelo, did he say anything to you?”

  “Nothing specific.” She held his gaze, her eyes steady.

  “He took the gun for a ballistics test. Hopefully it’ll tell us something. In the meantime, there isn’t much else to go on.”

  “Except the fact that a crazy man was found standing over the body.”

  “You’re not crazy, John. No one thinks that.”

  “Maybe not. But D’Angelo thinks I killed her.”

  “I don’t know what he thinks, but I can tell you this—the man’s a professional. He’ll get to the bottom of what happened. The truth will come out.”

  “And if he doesn’t there’s always the FBI, right?” He wasn’t surprised to hear sarcasm in his voice.

  “They’re certainly interested in the outcome.” She talked as though they were a separate entity from her, but he knew better.