Jan Coffey Suspense Box Set: Three Complete Novel Box Set: Trust Me Once, Twice Burned, Fourth Victim

by Jan Coffey

  “On the day of the transfers, both the bank officer and I went into that room with no briefcases. There was no way that I could have—or that he could have—taken anything of value without the other one noticing it. Besides, Judge Arnold never questioned me about it. If anything were missing, his first response would be to ask if we’d seen such and such a thing.”

  “What if he didn’t want to bring any attention to this missing item?” Owen pressed. “What if it were something illegal. Something incriminating.”

  “I…” She opened her mouth to argue, but then closed it.

  “This could be the common link between your alleged murder and Judge Arnold’s arrest.” Owen’s fingers pressed her hand. She didn’t pull back from the touch. “Before running into you—just going on what I’d read in the papers—I thought your judge was an incredibly stupid murderer.”

  Her gaze was fixed on him.

  “Shooting you in your apartment and then taking you on his own boat to dispose of the body? And never getting around to cleaning up after himself?” He shook his head. “But what was even more unbelievable was that he had not even thought to arrange an alibi. This didn’t sound like a guy who’s been on the bench for so many years as the judge has. It was just so obvious that he was set up, that I couldn’t understand why the police didn’t see it. In the end, I figured there was more that the newspapers weren’t printing.”

  “But maybe this is the whole point,” she said. “Maybe the police were setting him up from the start.”

  “Maybe…if this missing item has anything to do with them.” Owen leaned back against the sofa, his fingers still entwined with hers. “I remember hearing the initial reports of the arrest. He wasn’t fighting it. He wasn’t making any kind of statement about being innocent. He was looking and acting guilty, but I couldn’t figure it.”

  She sat back too, her head leaning back against the cushions, her eyes staring at the ceiling. “I wonder if anything has happened to Ed Brown.”

  “Who’s Ed Brown?”

  “The bank officer who was with me during those transfers.”

  Owen glanced at his watch and came off the sofa. “Most banks are still open at seven on Friday nights. Do you have the bank’s number?”

  She looked up the number for him, and he called the bank only to get as far as the receptionist. No, Ed Brown wasn’t available. Mr. Brown was on a medical leave. Would he like to speak to the bank manager? Yes? Hold, please.

  Owen’s introduction was smooth. The manager knew him instantly. Owen was interested in having the bank handle some of his money. Ed’s name had been given to him by a friend.

  The manager was delighted by the movie star interest, and within five minutes of dialing the phone, Owen knew all about the unfortunate circumstances that had been dogging Ed Brown for these past three weeks.

  As soon as Owen hung up the phone, Sarah was in his face. “Please, don’t tell me he’s dead.”

  “No, he’s not dead,” he said right away. “But as it happens, on August 1—interestingly enough, the day before your disappearance—Ed Brown was in a very serious car accident on his way to work. As bad luck would have it, on the same day his house was broken into and burglarized, with a lot of damage to his personal property.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Still in Newport Hospital. He was only moved out of intensive care two days ago. Between the broken bones and the head trauma, it could be at least a couple of months before he returns to work. Or at least, that’s what my new best friend, Jessica-the-bank-manager, thinks.”

  “So there was something in that box.” Sarah turned to stare at the computer.

  “A letter. An envelope. It could be something small, unnoticeable. Did you two have anything—pads of paper, a file folder—anything with you?”

  “Yes, we did.” She glanced back at him. “A yellow legal pad the first day. Paper and a couple of manila folders the next day. There might have been a couple of folders the first day, too. I really can’t remember.”

  “Think back, Sarah. Where was the folder? Where were the boxes? Did the two come in contact at any time? Is it possible that anything, even a piece of paper, could have gotten transferred to the wrong pile?”

  She sat on the edge of the sofa, her face buried in her hands for a long time.

  “Come on,” Owen said encouragingly. “We’re getting close here. Start with the first day.”

  Chapter 16

  The state road near the entrance to the Warner home was crawling with local and state police cars, ambulances, uniformed officers, and other officials. Two of the Providence television stations had their vans set up beside the road, their transmission antennae fully extended, jutting forty feet upward into the night sky.

  Even after flashing their badges, Bob McHugh and Dan Archer were forced to stop at the beginning of the long gravel drive while the local uniform radioed ahead. Finally getting the go-ahead, the officer waved them through. Within a quarter of a mile up the winding road, the Newport detectives were flagged down at a spot where a half-dozen unmarked cars lined the shoulder.

  A few uniformed officers had already opened a pathway into the woods, and flashlights could be seen bobbing and weaving through the trees. A Wickford detective approached Archer and McHugh as they got out of the car. Introductions were short.

  “Before you go up to the house, you need to see this,” the Wickford man said.

  “I hear it’s not a pretty sight up there,” Archer replied as McHugh tossed him a flashlight.

  “A package delivery guy found them. He went to the back door, where he usually goes, and found it open. It was impossible not to see the mess,” the detective told them, leading the way to the edge of the woods. “A professional job, from the looks of things. No fingerprints. No sign of forced entry. No witnesses. Not a thing left behind, as far as we can tell. The house was trashed, but so far we have no idea what might have been taken. We were figuring armed robbery by pros until we found something else on the property.”

  Archer pushed at the branches of the undergrowth, following closely behind.

  The Wickford detective flashed his light ahead toward a group of officials securing a site straight ahead. “A direct tie-in to the mess you’ve got going on across the bridge. We’ve got Sarah Rand’s car.”

  Archer heard McHugh curse under his breath behind him. The Wickford man broke out of the undergrowth and into a small grassy opening. Archer moved past him and took in the scene. Yellow police tape already marked the perimeter of the site. Two uniforms were setting up floodlights and a couple of cameras were lighting up the area with sporadic flashes. A large tarp that must have been covering the vehicle had been pulled back and laid out for the fingerprint crew. A photographer was taking close-up shots of the windshield.

  “The vehicle hasn’t been here too long.” The local detective pointed his flashlight at the natural debris around the tires. “We figure it was driven in here during the storm Wednesday night at the earliest. Thursday morning latest. Nothing in the trunk or the backseat. We haven’t dusted for fingerprints yet, but there are no obvious bloodstains, either.”

  Archer walked methodically around the car, peering in and then pointing the beam of the flashlight on the mark of the tire threads in the dirt. He took a few steps back, turned and studied the path.

  “We’ve traced the tires back to the main road.” The local detective offered. “From the windshield breakage, it looks like someone was shooting at the car from behind. We haven’t found the spot yet, but it can’t be too far. Would’ve been a bit difficult driving in the rain with the windshield like that. The driver must have pulled off the main road and tried to ditch the car in the woods.”

  “Footprints?” Archer asked.

  “We’ve made casts of a few so far. A lot of people have been around this thing. Dogs, too.”

  “Have someone trace those.” McHugh pointed his light at two sets of tracks by a muddy embankment beyond the tape. “See if
they lead back to the house.”

  Archer nodded to the Wickford man.

  McHugh walked back to them. “Nobody got any tire tracks on that drive, either, did they? You muttonheads ruined them before anybody even gave it a second thought, I’ll bet.”

  The annoyance was obvious in the local detective’s shout as he barked an order at one of the uniforms.

  “As a matter of fact, smart guy, there was a high-toned shindig at the Warner house Wednesday night, the night of the storm. The tire tracks of everybody of any importance in the whole fucking state can be found on that drive.” He turned his attention back to Archer. “This sure as hell throws your ‘Bang, bang, Judge Arnold did it’ theory to the fish. If you want my gut reaction—”

  “As a matter of fact, I don’t. We’re not paid to think with our gut.” Archer started back toward the road. “Now give me a tour of this freak show.”

  ~~~~

  Sarah dropped the pen on the desk and reached back to rub her aching shoulder. “I think this is all of them—all the cases I was working on the week of June 28. But if I did take something by mistake, it could have been buried in any of these files.”

  She heard him approach and then felt Owen’s strong hands on her shoulders. He leaned over her, rubbing her stiff shoulders as he read the list.

  Allowing, enjoying, wanting such casual contact with him still surprised Sarah a little, but there was a reassuring feeling that came with his touch. A familiar, comfortable nonchalance in the way in which he gently kneaded the knots out of her aching muscles. A pleasant warmth spread through her.

  “Where would these files be?”

  “At the downtown office. I would bet that Linda had them all filed away before the August break.”

  His spice scent, the brush of his shirt against her hair, the feel of his fingers—Sarah bit her lip in an effort to keep from melting onto the desk.

  “Could we somehow get in there?”

  “I have a key,” she whispered. “There are night custodians who clean all the offices in the building. Tomorrow is Saturday. We can try to get in early in the morning.”

  “That’s a date.”

  His fingers went to work on her neck, and Sarah fought down the sigh of contentment rising in her throat. To keep her head clear, she reached for the stack of letters she’d noticed before on his desk.

  “Did you know most of these letters are from the same person?”

  “Really?” There was no note of interest in his voice.

  “Someone named Jake Gantley at the Rhode Island ACI.”

  His fingers were massaging her scalp, but he stopped and leaned over her again to take a look.

  “Since we started this TV show, prison letters follow me wherever I go. Sometimes hundreds a week. Most of them go to the network or the production company offices.”

  “Do you ever read the ones that come to you?”

  “Never. When I think of it, I pass them on to one of my assistants. I think they have a form answer they send.”

  “These are addressed to Newport—to this address. Isn’t it strange that this guy knows where you live?”

  “Sometimes it happens. One person tells another person, and then that person tells somebody else.” His voice was gentle, as soothing as his touch. “I don’t let it bother me.”

  “A couple of these have been opened.” Sarah pulled the open letters out and put them on top. “I thought you never read them?”

  “Well, I had to show off my letter opener to Archer yesterday morning.”

  “Oh yes. Through the closet door, I heard you tell him about Mel’s sword. Braveheart, huh?” She smiled, holding one of the letters up. “May I? I’ve never read a fan letter.”

  He chuckled. “Be my guest.”

  Sarah leaned back against the chair, and her head accidentally resting against his hard stomach. She shivered as his hands traveled up and down her arms. She couldn’t remember her body ever being so charged with sexual tension as it was now. She opened the envelope and took out the letter. Forcing herself to focus on the juvenile-looking script and disregarded the spelling errors, she read aloud:

  “Dear Owen Dean,

  Just in case you have not had a chance to read my previous letters, my name is Jake Gantley. I am forty-two years old and presently incarcerated at the Rhode Island Adult Correctional Institution. Known to all around here as ACI. I have been serving a prison sentence for nine years now give or take some.

  I am a huge fan of you for years and having started following your latest television production, the idea came to me that someone with my depth of experience in criminal life…”

  The words withered on Sarah’s lips as she felt his hand move from her shoulder down to the front of her blouse. The brush of his fingers was feathery-soft, but her body’s reaction was immediate and intense.

  …experience in criminal…

  Sarah tried to focus on the words again, but he reached over and took the letter out of her hands, dropping it on the desk. She allowed herself to be pulled to her feet and turned in his arms.

  “What are you doing?” she managed to whisper as his lips brushed against her brow, the side of her face.

  “I’m trying to release some of the tension in your body.”

  “But I—”

  His mouth brushed against her lips, and Sarah lit up with the heat he’d unleashed in her. Before she could stop herself, she found she was threading her fingers into his hair and kissing him with a passion that was nearly blinding in its power.

  His arms were bands of steel around her, molding every contour of her body to his.

  “Sarah!” he whispered hoarsely against her mouth. “I want you. I want you now.”

  A wild surge of emotions ripped through her. Desire was battering down old barriers of propriety, protective walls of common sense. A flicker of a thought struck her—she was putting him in danger by becoming more involved than they already were. But that thought was fleeting, as she felt herself being swept away into a world in which she had little experience. A world of longing for another human being. A world where the sometimes faltering dynamic of emotional connection suddenly sprang to life and accelerated—tangling, churning, spinning, weaving—propelled onward and outward by the pure kinetic energy of physical desire.

  Sarah found herself lifted onto the edge of the desk.

  “Owen,” she whispered as his mouth blazed a trail from her lips to her neck. “I…I don’t think…we should—”

  “Then tell me to stop.”

  The feel of his mouth moving down the front of her shirt, pressing the fabric against her flesh, made Sarah gasp, clutch at his shoulders and bring his mouth back to hers. She kissed him back—again and again—until the very air around them became charged with their heat. His hands were beneath her shirt. The clasp of her bra came undone. His palms were pressing her aching breasts.

  She saw him through a haze of desire. He was even more stunningly handsome than she’d always thought. But now he wasn’t up there on some stage or movie screen with some other woman. He was here with her, pressed against her with such a jumbled mix of tenderness and desire. No, this moment belonged to them…to just the two of them.

  Emboldened, she kissed him again. Her fingers reached for him, touching the muscles on his back and chest before pinching open the buttons of his shirt and pressing her lips against his skin.

  “You’re killing me,” he whispered, digging his fingers into her hair and dragging her mouth roughly to his.

  The sound of the phone on the desk startled them both, and he let out a frustrated groan.

  “No way,” he growled. Sarah smiled as he took her hand, pulling her off the desk and starting toward the bedroom.

  She cast a parting glance at the clock on his desk. “Wait. Maybe it’s something important. It’s eleven-thirty at night.”

  “It’s the damn West Coast people. The machine will pick it up.”

  In the bedroom, Sarah suddenly felt the panic was
h through her as Owen sat on the edge of the large bed and pulled her toward him. His blue eyes caressed and devoured her with a single sweeping glance.

  “Where were we?”

  “I…I don’t usually do this.” She had to force out the words before she forgot her own name.

  “I know. I saw your appointment calendar.”

  “No…I mean, I don’t get involved…this soon after just…”

  The look in his eyes was tender. “I know that, Sarah. I don’t think that what we—”

  She could hear the beep of the answering machine.

  “Mr. Dean, this is Carol Doyle, the academic dean of Rosecliff College.” The woman’s grave voice came through loud and clear. “I’m sorry to call you so late in the evening. But I have…I have some terrible news. It has to do with Andrew. He…well… he…”

  As the caller’s voice broke down, Owen picked up the phone beside the bed. “Hello, Carol. This is Owen. What’s happened?”

  Instantly, Sarah felt those same icy claws clutch at her insides. She knew the feeling now. It was becoming a part of her everyday existence. She sat down on the edge of the bed for fear of crumbling to the floor.

  Owen’s face became hard, but she glimpsed anguish behind the mask. He wasn’t saying a word, only listening to what was being said.

  When he sat down himself, Sarah knew. Her car. She had left her car on Warner’s property. She closed her eyes and prayed, knowing that it was too late.

  “Are you there now?”

  Owen’s question drew her gaze. In the dim light of the bedroom, she saw the tear that slipped down his cheek.

  Two thoughts struck her at once. She wanted to go to him, to console him. But at the same time, common sense told her that she should simply walk out of this apartment, clear out of his life. For all his efforts to help her, she had just brought him pain and suffering. Perhaps even worse to his friends. Perhaps he would be next.

  “Thank you for calling, Carol.”

  Sarah watched his hand shake as he hung up the phone. He sat in silence, lost in thought, one hand vacantly rubbing the day’s growth of beard along his jaw.