“I guess so,” Adam said grudgingly.
Patrick walked over to the corner of the room that served as a kitchen. His apartment had once been a warehouse, and it was basically one large room. A curving wall of glass blocks shielded the kitchen from the living area, and his bed was hidden by screens, but the bathroom was the only room closed off by a door.
He rummaged in a cupboard for his battered percolator and got the coffee out of the freezer. He filled the pot with water, dumped in a healthy amount of coffee, and turned on the gas. “Keep an eye on the coffee, will you?”
Adam grunted in response, and Patrick headed for the shower.
Twenty minutes later they sat under the window at the scarred pine table. Adam nodded thoughtfully as Patrick filled him in on the details of the previous night.
“I still don’t understand why they didn’t keep you in the hospital overnight,” Adam said when Patrick had finished.
Patrick laughed. “They wanted to, but I walked out. You know how much I hate hospitals. Besides, it’s just a concussion. There was lots of blood, but the cut in my head wasn’t deep. And the bullet only grazed my shoulder.” He took a sip of his coffee and grinned at Adam over the rim of the thick stoneware mug. “It’s the luck of the Irish, I guess.”
Adam scowled. “Don’t even joke about it. Six inches lower and you’d be dead. You know anyone with a reason to kill you?”
“Take your pick. Ex-cons. Guys I’ve busted.” Patrick took another swallow of coffee. “Ed Carmel, for that matter.”
“Carmel,? I know he hates your guts, but enough to kill you?”
“I wasn’t really serious.”
“He’s got it in for you, though.”
“Tell me about it. The look on his face when he took my badge and gun and told me I was suspended was pure glee.”
“And you talked to that guy?” Adam demanded. “You let him question yon?”
“I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“Patrick, you’re a cop. You know damn well you should have called your lawyer.”
“I don’t have a lawyer.”
This time, Adam swore. “You got a buck?”
“What for?”
“Just give me a dollar.”
Patrick stood and grabbed a can off the top of the fridge. He shook out four quarters. They clattered onto the table.
Adam slid them into his hand and stuck them in his pocket. “There. That’s my retainer. You now have a lawyer.”
“I already told you I don’t need one. The whole idea that I could have killed Marty is crazy. Carmel’s just going to ride my ass for a few days, and then the whole thing will blow over.”
“What about the prosecutor? Didn’t you say it was Helen Stewart?”
“Yeah.” The thought of her made his mouth curve in a smile. “I did.”
“She’s got a reputation for being tough. Almost ruthless. She have it in for you, too?”
“No.” His lips twisted a little as he remembered the things she’d said in the rain last night “At least, I don’t think so. But with women, who can really tell?”
Adam shook his head. “You said you knew her before. How?”
How? Memories skidded across Patrick’s senses. The scent of the ocean on her skin. The whisper of her fingertips across his hair. Her gasp of shock and pleasure when he’d tipped back her head and kissed her for the first time.
“Oh, no. No.” Adam clapped his hand over his eyes. “Tell me it’s not what I’m thinking.”
“What are you thinking?”
“You slept with her, didn’t you?”
“That’s a bell of a question to ask, brother.”
“So what happened? She doesn’t seem like the type to have a casual affair.”
“What makes you think it was casual?”
“Come on, Patrick. Ever since Jessica—”
Patrick’s jaw hardened. “Let’s not mention that name.”
“Okay. Fine. But you have to admit that since your divorce, all your relationships have been casual. As soon as a woman starts to get too close, you find some excuse to dump her.”
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t like that with Helen.”
“No? What was it like?”
He deliberately set his coffee cup back down on the table. “She was the one who broke it off with me.”
“Really?” Adam’s dark eyebrows rose. “That’s a first”
Patrick shot him a look. “Not exactly.”
“Other than Je—” Adam coughed. “Other than...your ex-wife, it is.” He paused. “So. Why did Helen break it off?”
“She never told me why.” Patrick couldn’t keep a tinge of bitterness out of his voice. Her words from last night came back to him again, stronger this time.
It was a mistake. You’re not my type.
What was her type? One night last winter when he’d been walking home from the bar, he’d caught a glimpse of her outside the opera house. She’d been getting into a Mercedes with a man whose cool blond looks were a match for her own. A man who looked as if he’d be perfectly at home in a boardroom, on a golf course, or in a fancy French restaurant.
Just like the man Jessica had married after their divorce—the man with whom she’d just had a child.
The old anger curled through his gut, and Patrick gritted his teeth. He wouldn’t think about that. Wouldn’t think about Jessica’s perfect husband and her new baby. And he wouldn’t think about Helen’s rich friend, either.
Because even if he wasn’t her type, even if he wasn’t the kind of man she wanted on her arm at the opera, there was still something between them. Last year they’d generated enough sexual heat to melt the North Pole in January. And she still wanted him. He was sure of it....
Adam’s voice dragged him back to the present. “Just as long as Helen doesn’t have any reason to hate you.”
“She doesn’t. Trust me.”
“Good. If both Carmel and the prosecutor had it in for you, you’d really be in trouble.”
Patrick stared at him. “You’re not serious. I didn’t kill Marty. It wouldn’t matter how much Helen or Carmel or anyone else hated me—it wouldn’t change the facts of the case.”
“We’ll see,” Adam said. “But for now, you should keep your head low. And do me a favor. Go see your doctor. I don’t like the sound of this memory thing.”
“I’ve got an appointment this afternoon. But the doctor at the hospital said concussion often brings on minor memory loss. It usually affects the few minutes before the injury.”
“Which is exactly what you can’t remember.”
“Right. It’s just—gone.”
“Do you know if it’s going to come back?”
Patrick shrugged. “It might or it might not, according to the doctor at the hospital. I’ll ask my own doctor more about it this afternoon.”
“You do that.” Adam shoved back his chair and stood. “I’ve got to get back to the office. Take it easy, Patrick. And for God’s sake, don’t talk to anyone from the P.D. or the prosecutor’s office, okay? Not without calling me first.”
“Okay, okay. I won‘t—”
A knock sounded at the door.
Adam tensed. “Are you expecting someone?”
“No.” Patrick stood as the knock sounded again. He grinned at Adam as he walked toward the door. “Some of us don’t plan our social schedule weeks in advance. Some of us are actually spontaneous.”
He opened the door. Two uniformed police officers stood there. Jefferson and Larkin. two of the rookies on the force. He’d played pickup basketball with both of them. Dispensed advice when they’d asked for it. Jefferson had even confided his troubles with his girlfriend to Patrick.
He held the door open wide. “Hey, guys, come on in. I just put on some coffee.”
Jefferson’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “I’m sorry, sir, but we’re here on official business.”
Patrick blinked. “What?”
Suddenly Adam was behind him. “I’m Detect
ive Monaghan’s lawyer. What do you boys want?”
“We have orders to escort Det—er, Mr. Monaghan, to the station to participate in a lineup.”
“And if he refuses?” Adam asked softly.
Larkin’s face went red and he looked down. “Then we’ve been told to arrest him.”
“You’re kidding,” Patrick said.
“It’s no joke, sir.”
Patrick swore, the word hissing out from between his teeth. “Carmel really does have it in for me.”
Jefferson gulped. “I wouldn’t know about that, sir. Will you—will you come voluntarily?”
“I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”
“No, sir,” Larkin said. “You don’t.”
Patrick’s mouth twisted in a wry grin as he looked over his shoulder at Adam. “I guess maybe I do need that lawyer after all.”
Helen squeezed her car into a spot half a block from the police station. As she climbed out of the car, a gust of rain blew into her face, sharp and cold. She gritted her teeth. Was it ever going to stop raining?
She’d grown-up in Seattle, only seventy miles south of Evergreen. She knew she should be accustomed to the rain, but today the relentless grayness of the late fall seemed more than usually depressing.
“Get a grip, Stewart,” she muttered under her breath. “You were the one who wanted to stay on the West Coast”
She snapped open her umbrella and stepped onto the crosswalk.
A rusty blue convertible screeched to a precarious halt only a few feet away. The police car right behind it almost slammed into its rear bumper. Helen started and jumped back. Her heel skidded on the rain-slick pavement, and she nearly fell. Her briefcase slipped out of her hand and crashed to the ground. She barely managed to hang on to her umbrella as her other arm windmilled, trying to keep her balance.
She straightened, anger pulsing through her. “What do you think you’re doing?” she yelled, whirling to glare at the driver.
A pair of eyes the color of rain met hers. Patrick.
Helen froze.
Ever since she’d seen Patrick last night, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him. Not the case, but him. Seeing him had brought so many dangerous memories to light. Dangerous memories... and dangerous feelings.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his face. It was scorched into her memory like a brand. Even on her morning run, she’d thought of him, and her damp skin burned with the memory of his touch. She’d run harder, faster, trying to forget. But the trickle of sweat down the side of her neck only made her remember the way he’d kissed her there, and the ache of her muscles reminded her of another, sweeter, kind of ache.
Back at the office she’d found herself staring at the black-and-white photo in his personnel file, remembering details long suppressed: his infectious grin, his exuberant laugh, the strange joy she’d felt as they’d walked on the beach that night.
She’d struggled to keep her mind on the facts of the case, but it kept slipping to the man. And what she knew of him wasn’t easy to reconcile with the facts. Sure, Patrick was no saint. He was charming, reckless and unpredictable. But a murderer? Could he really have shot another man in cold blood?
Helen tightened her lips. She’d assured Franklin that her personal feelings weren’t going to interfere in her handling of the case. And they wouldn’t She would control them as she always had.
Almost always.
“Are you going to stand there in the road all morning?” Patrick’s voice had a hint of laughter in it.
Helen jerked up her head. Patrick was leaning out the window of his disreputable car, a grin on his handsome face. To her horror, she felt herself begin to blush. What was wrong with her, standing in the road and staring at Patrick while rain seeped into her shoes and the wind blew her hair into a sodden mess?
Gathering the remains of her dignity, she shot him the glare that had reduced seasoned defense lawyers to ashes in the courtroom. “You were the one who nearly ran me over, Monaghan.” She leaned down and grabbed her briefcase, her chilly fingers fumbling with the handle.
“I’m sorry,” Patrick said. He opened his car door and unfolded his legs from the ridiculously tiny interior.
Heedless of the pouring rain, he left his car door open and strode toward her. Traffic was starting to pile up on the street behind his car. Horns blared, but Patrick ignored them.
He reached for her, his grin fading into a look of concern. “You all right, darlin‘?”
She retreated a step. She couldn’t let him touch her. Couldn’t risk a return of that sizzling heat that had ignited between them before. “I’m fine. And I’m not your darling.”
He came closer. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t,” she said hastily. The spicy scent of his aftershave, mingled with the crisp smell of the rain, wafted across her senses. She gulped as a fresh surge of memories raced through her. It had been raining that night, too. He’d smelled just the same way when he’d pulled her into his arms and kissed her before she could raise the wall of icy control that usually kept her safe.
“Helen?” He frowned slightly. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Another horn blared, punctuated by an angry shout. “Get your car outta the way, pal!”
It was enough to break the spell. Helen yanked her gaze away from Patrick’s pewter eyes.
“You’d better get back in your car,” she said, her voice low. “You don’t want to be late for the lineup.” Turning, she headed for the police building.
It was all she could do to force herself not to run.
Helen grimaced as she looked at herself in the cracked mirror. Her face was pale—too pale. She washed her hands and brushed back her short hair. The woman in the mirror stared back at her, her mouth a little uncertain, a little vulnerable. Where was Helen Stewart, the tough, ruthless prosecutor? The woman her colleagues referred to as the Ice Queen behind her back?
This woman looked more like the girl she’d once been. The girl who hadn’t yet had her illusions shattered. The girl she’d sworn never to be again.
Savagely, Helen grabbed a tube of lipstick from her briefcase and slashed some on. It didn’t help. Instead of looking cool and sophisticated, she looked like a ghost with red lips.
And would Patrick think she’d dolled herself up for him?
“Forget it,” she muttered. She grabbed a piece of paper towel and blotted the bright lipstick. When she was done, she wadded up the towel and threw it at the overflowing garbage can in the corner.
And missed.
She stared at the crumpled ball lying on the floor. Nothing was going right today. Nothing.
Resolutely, she walked across the washroom, picked up the paper, and deposited it neatly in the garbage. She couldn’t hide in here all day. It was time to get out there and face the witness—the witness whose testimony could put Patrick behind bars. The thought made her neck muscles tighten with tension, but she squared her shoulders and headed for the door.
She strode out of the washroom and down the hall to the room where the witness waited. Lieutenant Caramel looked up as she pushed open the door.
He scowled at her. “It’s about time you got here.”
She fought the urge to snarl back at him. Instead she ignored him and turned to focus on the witness.
Tammy Weston sat on the low couch in the corner, her hands clenched together so tight her knuckles had turned white. She was wearing a white nurse’s uniform, and her head was bowed so that Helen could see the dark roots that clashed with the red blaze of her hair.
Helen crossed the room. “Ms. Weston? I’m Helen Stewart, the prosecutor assigned to this case.”
The woman’s head came up, and Helen saw that her lips were tight and angry. “What’s this all about? The cops came and got me from the hospital in the middle of my shift. And he—” she gestured angrily at Carmel “—won’t tell me a damn thing.”
“We asked you here so you could try to ident
ify one of the men you saw last night,” Helen said.
Tammy’s narrow lips dunned. “That so? Well, I don’t want to do it. I didn’t think I’d have to.”
Helen bit back a sarcastic comment. Lots of people who reported crimes didn’t want anything more to do with them, and it looked as if Tammy Weston was one of those.
Great. It was just one more thing to worry about.
Pulling up a chair, she sat and looked Tammy in the eye. “Ms. Weston, you told the police that you were driving home from the hospital on the old highway when you saw two men arguing by the side of the road, is that right?”
“Yeah. I already told all that to the cops.”
“I know. But bear with me for a minute. Shortly after you drove by, you heard shots. You looked in your mirror and saw one of the men fall?”
Tammy shifted irritably. “If you already know what happened, why ask me again?”
“Because we have to be clear on exactly what happened. The man who fell was a police officer—and now he’s dead. We need you to identify the man who was with him.”
“I know he’s dead. But I don’t want to identify anyone!”
Helen pinned her with a glare. “You just agreed that you witnessed a murder. If you don’t cooperate now, I’ll subpoena you to the grand jury and put you on the stand. If you refuse to make the identification there, you’ll be in contempt of court. You could go to jail, Ms. Weston.”
“Jail? You can’t do that to me!”
“I can,” Helen said coldly. “And I will.”
Tammy slumped into the sagging couch. “Okay, okay. I’ll do it.”
Suddenly the door opened. Helen looked over her shoulder and saw a tall, dark-haired man walk into the room. She’d never actually met him before, but she knew he was Adam Monaghan, the well-known defense lawyer. Patrick’s brother.
The sight of him made her mouth go dry. The brothers had to be very close in age. Was their relationship close, as well? How much did Adam know about her and Patrick? There was no way to tell. Unlike his brother, his thoughts didn’t show on his face.
“You must be Helen Stewart,” he said.
“That’s right,” she said, careful to keep her voice cool and professional. “Adam Monaghan?”
Motive, Means... And Marriage? Page 3