Trust No One

by Barbara Phinney

  He jerked his head around to concentrate on the blaze. He'd told himself he wasn't doing her any favors making love to her, because he'd believed she was mentally ill and needed help.

  Now? Oh, no. He still wasn't doing her any favors, but this time because of a list as long as his arm and growing longer each day. He simply couldn't afford to get involved with her, a victim, a witness, a lonely woman who missed her dead father and who was worried about her missing mother.

  He couldn't fathom why she'd become involved with Cooms. Even only on a casual basis. The list went on.

  Damn, he had to do something to take his mind off her.

  "Hungry?" he asked, straightening.

  She looked up as he turned on a lamp, seemingly surprised he was even there. A realization of something skittered over her face. She glanced around the room and swallowed. When she nodded, she set her mouth into a tight resolute line, as if steeling herself. The weariness had vanished from her eyes.

  He'd take her nod as a yes, simply because if he didn't keep himself busy, he'd go crazy. Walking into the kitchen area of the home, he made a mental inventory of what food was there. He wasn't surprised when he found that there was nothing more than moldy cheese and half a bottle of flat ginger ale in his refrigerator.

  His freezer held more promise. Nick pulled out a couple of frozen entrées, wondering when he'd bought them. They'd have to do, but next time he was out, he'd pick up some decent food.

  "Can I help?"

  Nick turned. Helen stood there, at the very edge of the breakfast bar that separated the kitchen from the living room. He held up the boxes. "No thanks. TV dinners are my specialty."

  She smiled, however briefly, and he took it as a positive sign.

  "You could set the table, if you like," he suggested.

  "Sure." She gathered up the scattered papers he'd accumulated on the breakfast bar and tapped them into a neat pile, picking them up several times to get them perfect. Her hands shook and she glanced over at him. He offered her an encouraging nod and turned his attention back to the microwave.

  Behind him, he could hear the papers crackle and flip to the floor. He glanced over his shoulder in time to see her quickly gather up the ones she'd dropped. She was incredibly nervous and he couldn't blame her one bit.

  Don't embarrass her, he told himself, as he fiddled with the settings on the microwave. Don't make things worse.

  After a moment's silence, he figured she was looking for cutlery and plates. "Knives and forks are under the knife stand," he said without turning around. He tore the shrink-wrapped plastic off the second microwave dinner.

  What the hell were they supposed to do until the morning? The first, most obvious, most pleasing suggestion to hit his brain, he discarded immediately. What he should be doing was taking a statement from her. But she'd told Mark everything that had happened when she'd walked in on Cooms and DiPetri.

  Everything except his involvement. Why? he wondered. Did she know more than she was saying, something that connected her to Cooms in more depth than his fertile imagination conjured up?

  She had to know more about Cooms's illegal activities, even if she didn't realize it. He'd been laundering money for years, smuggling drugs of every description into the country for even longer. She may have only been a casual girlfriend, but Cooms must have conducted some of his business in her presence. He'd have been cocky enough to do that. Maybe even while he held Helen in his arms…

  Nick couldn't stop the gut-churning image of Cooms kissing Helen. Did she enjoy it? Did she allow him to grope her and take her to his bed?

  Aw, hell, why was he looking for trouble? Forcing the thoughts out of his mind, he peered into the microwave.

  And felt those tiny hairs on his arms rise up again. A warning as loud as the deafening silence that hit him square in the back.

  Something was wrong.

  Slowly, with precision borne of years of training, he turned, ready for anything.

  Helen stood less than a yard from him, wielding his largest—and sharpest—knife.

  Right at his heart.

  Chapter 7

  Helen could barely hold her hand still. Only thinking of her mother was she able to control the reflexive urge to shake.

  "Put the knife down, Helen." Nick's words were calm, controlled, confident. Even his body language portrayed that cool efficiency. He held up his hands slightly and though his shoulders were slightly stooped, he kept his chin straightforward. His expression was relaxed, but his eyes were wary.

  They locked stares. "Give me the knife," he said.

  "No." She shook her head. "I can't. You know that. I can't trust you."

  "You can trust me. Have I done anything to you, except save your life?"

  Oh, yes, you have. Heat surged through her as she recalled his passionate onslaught the night they met.

  "I'm sorry for that," he told her, reading her thoughts as clearly as if she'd spoken aloud. "I never meant for anything to happen. It won't happen again."

  "That's not why I've got this knife." She gritted her teeth to stop them from chattering with fear.

  "Why, then?"

  She took a step backward, shifting the knife to her left hand while she groped the breakfast bar behind her for the paper she'd found. "This fax. You were after me. You were using your connections with the police in Saint John to find me for Jamie. He wanted me dead. I saw him murder his best friend and that's why he sent you after me."

  "That's not true."

  "It is. And you were involved in that murder, too. I saw your bloodied knuckles that day. I know you beat up Tony just before Jamie shot him." She swallowed down the taste of her own fear. "I saw what you did to his face."

  "It's not what you think."

  "Yes, it is. And the only reason you haven't done anything yet is because Jamie is dead and you have to keep a low profile until his murderer is caught. Unless you had something to do with that, too." She glanced down at the fax through a blur of tears. The only picture she had with Jamie, taken at a restaurant he owned. She should have burned it. She'd been foolish to keep it.

  She put the fax down and shifted the knife back to her right hand. "First up, I want you to tell me where my mother is."

  Nick shook his head. "Put the knife down first and we can talk about it, okay?"

  "No!" She gripped the knife tightly. The tendons in her wrist ached with the pressure. "You tell me where she is now, or I'll…"

  "You'll what?" Nick dropped his hands and frowned. "I'm a hell of a lot bigger than you, Helen. I may take a few jabs and cuts, but it won't be hard for me to get that knife out of your hand."

  He was right, but she wasn't going to allow him to turn the tables on her. For once, she felt in control, a sensation she hadn't experienced for a long time. She shook her head. "I can do more damage than a few cuts and jabs. Now, where is my mother?"

  Nick sighed. "I don't know. Not yet, anyway. And I haven't been stalking you. I want to help you."

  "Yeah, right. Why do you have a photocopy of my picture, then?"

  He stepped toward her and she automatically backed up, her hip colliding with the edge of the breakfast bar.

  "I called Mark the morning after the storm." He glanced at his watch. "I asked him to see if anyone had reported you missing. You remember I found your necklace? That's how I knew your name."

  "So how did he get my picture?"

  "He called Saint John for me. They'd already had a call from your landlord and had turned over your file to the Major Crimes Unit. Mark asked them to fax a copy of the photo they got from your apartment."

  "So you used the police to confirm who I was. What were you going to do then? Turn me over to Jamie, or kill me yourself? I know you beat up Tony." She wanted to call him a bastard, but held her tongue. Profanity didn't come easily to her.

  "I didn't know who you were. When Mark told me, I could have kicked myself. I had a witness in my own house and I let her go."

  "I escaped."
<
br />   "From what, Helen? I wasn't holding you against your will. It was storming out."

  "You were." She shut her eyes. "We both know you wouldn't have let me go."

  "Helen." His quiet voice cut through her failing courage. She opened her eyes, finding him closer, but at the same time, not intimidating. It was so confusing.

  "Helen," he repeated. "I thought you were trying to kill yourself. Only after I found the strands of hair from your wig did I guess you weren't suicidal. After I learned who you were, I couldn't believe the coincidence. I had the one person who could prove my theories on Cooms and help us lock him up forever, and I'd let her slip away from me."

  What was he talking about? She bit her lip, watching his attention drop to her mouth. Did she dare ask him to explain?

  "I think you can also help me salvage my career."

  She laughed. "Which career? The one you had as a cop, or the one getting you rich with Jamie's illegal activities?"

  "Remember, I'm suspended."

  "They caught up with you."

  Nick shook his head, sagging slightly. Immediately, she tightened her grip on the knife. She wasn't going to drop her guard, like Tony had before he'd got himself beaten up and then murdered.

  "No, Helen. I was suspended because I broke a couple of piddly rules. Rules designed to protect undercover cops."

  She didn't understand. "What do you mean, undercover cops?"

  The microwave beeped, but both of them ignored it. "I'm with a joint task force set up to combat major crime. We work with the Saint John Police Department. I've been doing undercover work for them. We've been trying to stop the flow of drugs into the city for years."

  "You're lying." The knife in her hand had begun to shake. "Jamie didn't even smoke. And besides, if he was involved with drugs, he'd have made sure you got your share. To keep you incriminated."

  "That's right."

  Startled, she gaped at him.

  "I did take my cut. And I turned it over to the Major Crimes Unit as evidence. Sixteen thousand dollars last month." Not taking his eyes off her, he motioned to the drawer nearest her. "There's a file in that drawer. Take it out and look at it. I have receipts for everything I've taken from Cooms. Go on, look at it."

  She glimpsed out the corner of her eye at the drawer he indicated. Did she dare take a chance and open it?

  "It's all there, Helen. Even the claim forms for the condo I rented. Take a look. I won't move."

  Keeping the knife pointed at him, she yanked open the drawer. A blue folder lay across an assortment of other papers. She pulled it out and flicked it open.

  Receipts, and plenty of them, held together with a large paper clip, were tucked into the left side of the folder. On the right were claim sheets, stamped Paid by the City of Saint John. She was used to skimming official documents. The one on top was for two months' rent on an uptown condo.

  "Sorry my filing system isn't as good as what you might have at work. I'm a cop, not a secretary. But it's all there, Helen. All my receipts for everything Cooms ever gave me. Even the samples of the different grades of cocaine he told me he often hid in specially designed calling cards."

  "Calling cards?"

  "Yeah. Nice, good quality ones." He looked surprised. "Haven't you seen them?"

  Helen's stomach turned over sickeningly. She'd seen those cards once, even commented on how thick they were and what pretty colors he had for them. Jamie had told her laughingly he only used the best imported cotton blend watercolor paper for them. And only for his best clients. And then he'd put them away.

  "That receipt is on the bottom. Lift up the others," Nick told her. "The calling cards were ingenious. Peel off the top layer of paper and there it was, a sample of cocaine, spread thinly over the bottom paper. Different colored calling cards for different grades. He had them done up in South America."

  She lifted up the receipts with her left hand and read the description on the last receipt. For personal cards. She swallowed the nausea. She'd touched those cards. She'd touched cocaine and never even knew it.

  Feeling dizzy, she lowered the knife.

  Nick was beside her before the next heartbeat, removing the knife from her hand and carefully slipping it back into its home in the knife stand.

  "I'm sorry." She couldn't think of anything more to say. When she looked up at him, she found her vision blurring with hot tears.

  He said something that sounded like a soft curse, but she wasn't sure. All she knew was that he was pulling her into a hard embrace and she was welcoming it with everything she had in her.

  * * *

  Slowly, Nick let out the breath he'd held for the past five minutes. He knew he could have easily wrestled the knife out of Helen's hand, but not without the risk of one or both of them getting cut. Helen didn't need that kind of stress.

  He tilted his head down and his nose skimmed the top of her dark hair. Her warm body molded itself to his, soft against his straight, hard frame, and he found himself clinging back with equal fervor.

  All he had to do was tilt his head to one side, push his hand up to her chin and direct her face toward his. Once their lips were close enough, they'd kiss.

  He wasn't sure if she would welcome his kisses. Once the relief was over and the truth settled into her, he knew she'd be angry. Women didn't like deception. After squeezing her hard one last time, he peeled her away from him and waited for the backlash.

  "I suppose the only reason you didn't tell me was to protect yourself."

  He was right, sort of. Her words did have a slight sullenness to them, but not as much as he expected. "It's not just me, Helen. Don't ask me anything more about the investigation. There are other players in it, whose very lives depend on keeping their identities secret."

  She blinked. "I won't." She paused, throwing a quick glance up at him. "Why were you suspended? What piddly rule did you break?"

  He felt his jaw tighten. "It was nothing. I'd rather not talk about it." Her trust was too new for him to tell the truth.

  "But why did you tell me all of this, now?"

  "How else would you let go of the knife?" He shook his head, trying to sort out the jumble of mixed emotions he was feeling right now. Frustration, relief, worry. Attraction. All of it churning inside of him.

  "I'm sure you could have talked me into putting the knife down, somehow. Isn't that what undercover cops are good at? B.S.-ing?"

  Nick felt a small smile crack the corner of his mouth. "Yeah. But you're not just a witness anymore. You're a witness needing protection and I can't protect you unless you trust me completely. I thought you had when you decided to come home with me."

  Helen hugged herself. "I did a bit, but I was more interested in finding my mother. I couldn't let you out of my sight, in case you knew where she was."

  She wanted to find her mother so she'd stuck close to him. He wanted to find Cooms's killer, so he'd stuck close to her. And unless he got down to forcing out some facts he was sure she had inside her head, neither of them would get what they wanted.

  He turned back to the microwave. "Let's eat first. We can talk later."

  "Talk about what?"

  He reset the microwave and when the interior lit up, he turned. "I think you know a lot more than you realize. Someone wants you dead and someone had to have been helping Cooms launder money and distribute drugs."

  "And that someone killed Cooms." It was hardly a question.

  He heaved a sigh. "Don't jump to conclusions, yet. It's quite likely, but until we have the evidence, we have to keep an open mind or else the court will throw it out."

  "Do you think it was me?"

  "No." He really didn't. His gut told him no, and her alibi was obvious, damn it. Besides, he'd noticed that Cooms didn't do business with women. He'd told Nick once they were strictly for pleasure.

  Thrusting the sickening thought of Cooms with Helen out of his mind once again, Nick busied himself with supper.

  "Why don't you get those tapes out and we'l
l skim through them while we're eating?" he suggested curtly.

  Helen grabbed the plastic bag of tapes and sorted them out on the floor in front of his VCR. By the time he had supper on the breakfast bar, she'd started the first one.

  "I'm warning you. They're boring even to me, and I'm the star," she said, carrying the remote control to the bar.

  "Why don't we put them on fast forward?"

  She clicked the appropriate button. Abruptly, she smiled. He looked up at the television. A tiny, crawling baby with tufts of the same dark hair he'd just nuzzled, jerked around a living room in happy, fast-forward action. "This is better. You forget, I'm an only child. My parents doted on me."

  "Spoiled you?" He settled down in front of his meal.

  Helen picked at her food. "No, but I always had their full attention. Especially my father, when he came home from work. I would run to him, see if he had brought me a treat of some kind."

  "From the army? What kind of treat? A bayonet or two?"

  Helen laughed, a soft, throaty sound that tickled up his spine. "Nope. From his box lunch if he had been out in the training area. He worked for Range Control. I'd get a fruit cup or juice box or pack of cookies. He'd always save something for me."

  Nick watched a small toddler dashing for her father, then peering into the wide pockets of his combat shirt, her eyes expectant.

  Helen focused on the tape. "This one's almost over." She turned to him. "Where are your parents?"

  "Retired in Nova Scotia, pruning apple trees and playing with their hobby farm. I don't see them very often."

  She watched his hooded expression for a moment and guessing correctly that he preferred not to discuss his family, she turned back to the television. The tape had already ended.

  The next few tapes were the same, nothing seemed to be amiss with them. He may as well kill two birds with one stone and start asking the necessary questions. As she inserted the fifth tape, he asked, "How serious did you consider your relationship with Cooms?"

  "I told you. Not very serious. Not at all."

  She caught his skeptical look and explained, "You didn't know about me, did you? So how serious did you think it would be?"