Chapter One
The cool smell of autumn rain trailed behind the slim brunette as she pushed her way through a revolving glass door. Under her left arm was tucked a large roll of white paper. A bulky, blue purse hung from her right shoulder. She didn't bother to remove her raincoat—she thought it useless to take that much time shifting her belongings to peel off the cool pink layer—and continued walking across the white and black tiled floor, her brown heels clicking, a small puddle trailing behind her.
She smothered a laugh at the thought of the water dripping from her jacket, and straightened her poise. Wavy dark hair framed a heart shaped face with large green eyes and a delicate chin with a stubborn tilt. She was unaware of the appreciative glances she attracted as, pausing to ask directions from a red-suited bellboy, her well-shaped legs showed becomingly underneath a patch of gray fabric that had escaped from hiding beneath the wet raincoat. He pointed her towards the elevator.
“Here, let me help you, ma’am.” The bellboy rushed out from behind the desk and pressed the elevator button for her.
“Thank you.” She smiled and stopped her attempt at shifting her burdens. She shook a wisp of wavy hair back from her face, no hands free.
“Would you like me to go up with you? Help you carry your things?”
“No, thank you. I can mange.”
She watched the elevator hand move across the floor numbers as it continued climbing up the building. Squeezing the bulky floor plans tighter against her chest, she tried to twist her hand to see her wristwatch, hoping Professor Drake would be at home. It was almost eight o’clock and he hadn’t returned her calls, but the plans needed to be finished before tomorrow.
Leaning against the wood-paneled wall of the elevator, she forced herself to relax and took a deep breath, trying to push the upcoming deadline from her mind. Normally she wasn’t nervous or jittery, and her stomach didn't tie itself up in knots on a regular basis, but this was different than her other assignments—this was her first real job. She straightened her posture, determined to make sure it was done properly—including being done on time, even if that meant going to her professor's apartment in the evening, odd as it felt to her.
The ding of the elevator made her square her shoulders and say a little prayer of thanks for automatic doors. Two doors down, the bellboy had said. Two doors to your left is number 418.
In front of 418 she was forced to put down the bulky floor plan to knock on the door. “Professor? Professor Drake, it’s Katherine.”
A faint shuffling noise inside was the only response. She relaxed a bit. Silly, she chided herself. He was home, after all, and she could get rid of all her fears about having to stay up all night by herself to finish the stair plan, when she really had no clue how to do a stair plan. She stooped and picked up the precious plans again, shifting the weight around uncomfortably as she waited to be admitted.
Two minutes went by. What the blank was taking him so long? She put her weight on one leg, then the other. Of course she’d chosen today of all days to wear her three-inch heels when she had to carry what Wesley Grant called her “monster purse” and a heavy floor plan.
She sighed and replaced the plan back on the thick, carpeted hallway in order to pound on the door again, this time louder. Maybe he didn't hear me the first time. It was warm in the hall—too warm. Slightly irritated, she struggled out of her pink raincoat, shedding a sprinkle of droplets onto the carpet as she peeled off the outer layer.
“Professor Drake, it’s Katherine.” She rapped on the door until her knuckles turned pale and ached. Still no answer.
Maybe he wasn’t home after all—maybe she'd heard a cat or something. Did he even own a cat? When he didn’t answer a third time, she looked around the hall in exasperation. Could she just leave the floor plans here in the hall for him when he returned?
No, they were too valuable to be left where a stranger might take them. The mere thought of all her hard work disappearing made her shudder inside.
Debating what to do, she rested her hand on the doorknob and leaned against the door. It began to move. She quickly jerked up to avoid losing her balance as the door swung noiselessly open. I'll just slide the plans in and leave.
Pushing the door the rest of the way open, she took a step inside. That the room had a light on surprised her, and she tried calling again. “Mr. Drake?”
She sighed, turned on her heel, and dragged the floor plans inside. Her task completed, she paused for a moment. It was too quiet inside. The sound of her breathing was the only noise she heard. There was something eerie in the air, something she couldn't quite put a finger on. After the shuffling she’d heard earlier from the hall, she'd at least expected to see a cat. But the dead calm persisted.
Katherine tried to brush off the uneasy feeling that was beginning to settle in her stomach. It's just work stress getting to you. She stood still and allowed her eyes to adjust to the dim room, lit only by a light coming from somewhere in the living room? She couldn't tell. Beige curtains were pulled back from long windows to reveal the drizzling rain outside. The foyer area was painted in soft whites with a modern-looking desk resting under a mirror, a skinny black hat rack next to it. Opposite, on the other wall, hung a painting of some sort—she couldn't quite make it out in the weak lighting. Her stomach tightened further; something didn’t feel right. For a reason she couldn't explain, she was resistant to calling out to the professor again. There was a strange stillness that she didn't want to break. She felt as though her very presence had interrupted something. Stop being foolish, she chided herself, and to prove to herself that everything was A-okay, she walked into the living room. But her skin crawled nervously with every swish of her suit skirt that seemed to echo in the room.
The light was coming from a little lamp that sat on a low coffee table in the center of the room. She could see better now and noticed more white on the walls, noticed there were more drapes here too, these brightly colored and pulled back from more long windows. The rain ran in rivulets down the panes. It wasn't so quiet in this room though, and she became aware of the crackling of a fire, its heat coming from the right.
Turning slightly, she looked to the large fireplace that filled the wall of the living room. She gasped and instinctively drew back, clutching her throat and letting her blue handbag drop to the ground. She didn't notice the raincoat slip to the ground, didn't know how long she stood there, just staring in shock at his body.
Professor Drake was home. He lay facedown, his left arm outstretched towards the fireplace as though reaching for the sharp metal poker. A large shining pool of dark blood was slowly expanding beneath his head. It ran toward his right hand, which twisted in an awkward position holding a small handgun. She was so petrified her mind wouldn't think, wouldn't act. Finally, she let out a small involuntary sound, almost like a squeak, and ran towards the body.
“Professor—Professor Drake! Phillip!” She knelt, shook his shoulder lightly at first, then more fiercely as her voice rose in a sob. “Mr. Drake, can you hear me? Please say something! Don’t be silent, please don’t be silent!”
Finding strength she didn’t know she had, she put both her hands on his shoulder, and grunted, turning his heavy form over. A full-bodied scream escaped her throat as she looked down at his face, at the blank eyes that stared back at her, at the open, pain-twisted lifeless mouth.
“No, good grief—no.” She sobbed again, as she stood up with bloodstained hands and took a slow step back, staring at the professor's body as though he would come alive and attack her. The furniture began to form blobs and turn black; the world spun and she grasped out to catch her balance. The gray carpet came up to greet her in a wave and she crumpled to the ground next to Philip Drake's body.
Her consciousness drifted in and out of dreams; she was happily floating in a pool, basking in the sun. A lifeguard in a dark pinstriped suit came to stand over her, his shadow blocking out the sun.
“You’ll get your
nice suit wet.” She giggled up into the dark brown eyes that looked down at her.
“Kate, wake up!” Dark hair was combed smoothly back, framing a strong face with a square jaw, and those same dark brown eyes, disturbing eyes, looked down at her.
“I am awake, silly!” She saw him make a brief swinging motion, and then a wave of cold water splashed her face.
Shocked to her senses, she jerked up in a sit-up position and gasped for breath, brushing the streaming water away from her eyes. “Johnny! It is you.” Relief at seeing her fiancé coupled with the confusion of where she was and her memory of the evening surged back as she looked towards the body again before covering her eyes and moaning. She pulled her legs closer and hugged them tightly, shivering.
“There now, darling.” Jonathan Morgan knelt down and picked her up easily in his arms, carrying her to a white leather couch. She clung helplessly to him. He gently stroked her hair, blocking her view of the body. “Everything is all right now. You’re with me.” The shivering slowly subsided, but she still clung to him, not wanting to turn her head from his shoulder, to see what lay beside the fireplace again.
Gradually the shock left her body and she began to recall everything. He seemed to sense it and gently pushed her away, smoothing back her wet hair. “Want to tell me what happened? Why are you here?”
“I don’t know what happened.” Another shudder. “I just got here and found him—like that. I must’ve fainted. Then you came. It’s horrible; I feel sick. I’ve never seen a dead person before. Why would he kill himself? It doesn’t make sense.”
Johnny tilted up her chin and looked into her green eyes that shifted away in confused pain. “Don’t worry about him. We’ll let the police figure out what hap—why he wanted to kill himself. All I want you to worry about is yourself. Are you sure you’re okay?”
She nodded and sniffed, wiping her runny nose with the back of her pale hand. “I’ll be okay. Look what I’ve done—I’ve gotten blood all over your coat!”
He didn’t bother to look down at the lapels of his suit. “Don’t worry about it. It’s only clothing. Stay there. I’m going to phone the police. Then you can tell me all about it.”
“The police—of course . . ." She sat nervously on the edge of the couch, her eyes darting around the room, looking everywhere but the direction of the body. She took in the few ancient vases that lined the top of a looming bookshelf, looked again at the low coffee table that held the lamp she had grabbed at and missed trying to catch her balance. Her attention returned to the bookshelf, then to the painting that hung beside it. Anything was a welcome distraction from the lifeless form on the floor, and, legs trembling, she left the embrace of the couch to move forward and squint at the painting, trying to remember what she’d learned in college about art. Anything to take her mind off the present. Examine the handwriting, the brushstrokes, the composition, the use of color . . .
“Operator. Police station, please. I don’t know what district! Whatever district we’re in! I’m at the Fairview Apartments, yes, off Fairview Avenue. Fine, Station Fourteen. Hurry, please, it’s an emergency.” Jonathan’s words broke into her reflections; her mind ceased to comprehend the painting; she felt as though she were in a dream. Philip Drake was dead. This can’t be real. She glanced down at her hands; certainly the blood clinging between her fingers was real. The repeated red on her lacquered fingernails disturbed her now, echoing the mark of death on Drake.
She returned her gaze to Johnny, whose ruggedly handsome face was formed in a frown. The full lips set in an angry line while he waited for the operator. He'd asked her why she was here—what was he doing here? He barely knew the professor.
“Yes. Station Fourteen! What if I was asking for the hair salon? Would you still be as slow getting me the number?” Despite the gravity of the situation a half smile settled on Katherine's lips. Johnny was still as obnoxious as ever.
She diverted her attention and set about locating a washroom, holding up her bloodstained hands in response to Johnny’s questioning look as she moved away from the painting. He nodded and returned his absorption to the phone. “Yes. Sergeant Cooper? I have a suicide to report . . . ”
Kate decided to try the door to the left. It was large and covered with black leather squares, and when she pushed it, it swung on the same well-oiled hinges as the front door to reveal the modern lines which defined the drawing room. A white bathrobe had been lain out neatly on the bed, a matching pair of slippers below it. A white sock was on the floor in front of a large armoire. The edge of a suitcase peeked out from it. That's odd, she thought just before the reflection of a mirror caught her eye and she forgot the thought and rushed towards an open door into a comfortable yet simple bathroom. Trembling, she sank to her knees in front of the toilet as a wave of nausea swept over her body.
A few minutes passed before she regained enough composure to grip the side of the vanity and slowly pull herself up. Her hand groped for the light switch, flipped it up. It illuminated the whole room and sent rays bouncing off the surrounding white tiles. Startled for a moment by the brightness, she turned on the faucet and scrubbed her hands vigorously under the hot water. It ran red underneath her hands before finally turning clear, as the professor's blood washed down the drain.
Katherine studied her reflection in the mirror—she looked as terrible as she felt. Her normally smooth short brunette waves were damp and disheveled, the usually radiant face deathly pale. Black mascara was smeared under her eyes, and there were slight streaks in her foundation from her tears. A hard pinch on the cheeks brought back a little color. She dabbed a bit of water on her hair, smoothing it back into place. What is Johnny doing here? Not wanting to let in the thoughts that stood knocking on the door of her mind, she further distracted herself with her appearance. Gently rubbing underneath her eyelids with a wet finger, some of the mascara came off, but the rest left a dark smudge under her eyes.
Luckily the blood had somehow missed her white silk blouse and she tucked it more firmly into her gray skirt and returned to the living room.
Johnny had his back towards her when she entered, staring out the window into the rain. He turned when he heard her behind him. “Be careful what you touch, honey. Nothing is supposed to be moved when there’s a body.” He came closer to where she stood, his left foot dragging slightly behind him from the injury he gotten in South America, before he clasped both her hands in his and drew her to his chest. “You’ve just experienced a severe shock. Don’t worry if you don’t feel yourself right away.”
“You’re right.” She forced a weak smile up at him, hating herself for wondering if he had another motive for being here. “I am pretty shaken up.” How does he manage to look so handsome in every situation? A loud knock on the door ended that thought. She tensed, instinctively stepping back away from the sound, drawing Johnny with her until further retreat was blocked by a beautifully carved drafting table piled high with drawing supplies, an assortment of paints, and modeling materials.
“It must be the police. I’ll get it.” Johnny released her hand and she clenched the top of the desk, watching the door as if it were a coiled snake waiting to strike. He opened the door—had she shut it when she came in?—to reveal two uniformed police officers.
One was tall with a badly receding hairline and a small, trimmed mustache. The other was tanned, stocky but wiry looking—as though he knew his way around a dark alley.
Mr. Mustache spoke first. “Officer Green and Detective Bailey Marsh here . . .” His formal voice died as he recognized Johnny’s face in the light. “You don’t need an intro. Out of the clink now, are you?”
Johnny’s face had whitened considerably as he recognized the detective who had put him in jail in his teenage years. “Yes, I’m out. For over ten years now, thank you.”
Bailey was apparently the more professional of the two. “We had a report of a suicide. Is this the right address?”
“Yes. Right over here.” He stepped
out of the way for them to enter.
The two men politely removed their hats as they stepped into the plush room. The swarthy man nodded a curt greeting to Kate, who found she was still grasping the drafting table, her knuckles white. She made herself relax her hands. They mustn’t suspect anything—but there’s nothing to suspect, she told herself firmly.
Even so, she was sure Green would jump at another chance to throw Jonathan Morgan back in jail . . . and he couldn’t go back. Being locked up again would kill him.
The officers were standing next to the body, talking in low tones, and Johnny returned to her side. Kate turned her back, not wanting to witness the gruesome scene any longer. They were silent, Johnny slowly rubbing her shoulders while she closed her eyes, her thoughts taking unwanted possession of her mind.
When she’d first met Johnny he’d sworn that part of his life was behind him. After being sent up while still a teenager, he promised her it’d taken all the appeal away from a life of crime. She’d always been afraid he’d get sucked back in. Was her worst fear coming true? Who really was the man that was rubbing the tension out of her shoulders, the tension for which he had been partially to blame?
Retribution Page 2