He nodded and shook her hand briefly. “I want to make it clear that my client has agreed to this lineup solely for the purpose of elimination.”
“Can we get on with it?” Carmel interrupted. “I’m a busy man. Unlike you fancy lawyers, I’ve got work to do.”
“Fine,” Helen said tightly. “Let’s go ahead.”
Carmel spoke into the microphone that was mounted on the wall by the two-way mirror. “Bring ‘em in!”
Helen took a deep breath as a line of dark-haired men filed in on the other side of the glass. Patrick was fourth, and her heart gave a little jump at the sight of him. He flashed a quick grin in her direction. She knew he couldn’t see her through the mirror, but it didn’t matter. Heat flooded through her body—heat and something dangerously like desire—and she had to fight the crazy urge to smile back.
Her heart thumping, she forced her gaze away from him. What was wrong with her? There was no way she should let Patrick’s smile—or anything else about him—affect her like this.
She stepped back and turned away from the glass, trying to recover her composure.
She nodded to Tammy. “Okay, Ms. Weston. Come and take a look. Tell me if you can identify the man you saw last night.”
Tammy got to her feet. In the silence of the little room, the faint creak of her nurse’s shoes seemed very loud. She stepped up to the glass.
“Number four,” she said flatly.
Helen sucked in her breath. For an instant the room darkened and she fought a wave of dizziness. “Are you absolutely sure?”
Tammy was already turning away. “I’m sure. Now can I go back to work?”
“Of course.” Her voice sounded hoarse and strange, even to her own ears. She swallowed hard and nodded to Lieutenant Carmel, who took Tammy’s arm and led her out of the room.
For a moment Helen just stood there. She could feel Adam Monaghan’s curious gaze on her face, and she knew she had to somehow get moving, but her limbs felt heavy and frozen, her hands ice-cold.
Finally she made herself move. Stepping over to the microphone, she flipped it on. “All right, gentlemen. We’re done.”
A uniformed officer opened the door on the other side of the glass, and the men filed out.
Helen turned to Adam. “Your client is free to go,” she said, her voice cracking. She paused and cleared her throat. “For now.”
The door was flung open, and Carmel strode back in. “Helen. I’ve gotta talk to you.” He waved some sheets of paper in the air. “We’ve got him now! These just came in—take a look.”
Adam stepped forward. “Oh? I assume you’re discussing my client?”
Helen snatched the papers away from Carmel before he could say any more. She scanned the top one quickly. It was a lab report on the bullets that had been retrieved from Marty Fletcher’s brain. They were both perfect matches with a test bullet that had been fired from Patrick’s gun.
Her throat closed, and she forced herself to flip to the other piece of paper. The tests for gunshot residue on Patrick’s hands had come up positive. He had fired a gun last night. There was no doubt of that.
The words on the page swam before her eyes and bile rose in her throat. Positive. Gunshot residue. Matching bullets. How was it possible? How could Patrick have done this? It was a nightmare... a nightmare that was rapidly becoming all too real.
“He fired his gun, shot Marty in the head. We’ve proved it now.” Carmel gave Adam a look of pure triumph. “You go tell your brother we’re gonna arrest him.”
“No!” Helen blurted. The word flew from her lips before she could stop it. “I mean—”
Carmel spun around. “You. I should have known you wouldn’t want him arrested. You have the hots for him, don’t you? You and every other woman for a hundred miles.”
A hot wave of fury washed through her body, fury that threatened to engulf her. She wanted to shout, she wanted to scream, to deny his words.
Control, she told herself frantically. Control.
She dragged in a deep breath. She had to keep her cool. But she couldn’t back down now. If she did, it would be practically admitting that Carmel’s words were true, that she didn’t want Patrick arrested because she had feelings for him.
And that wasn’t the case, she told herself fiercely. Logic dictated that they shouldn’t arrest him yet. Logic, pure and simple. After all, if they went to trial with the wrong judge, a premature arrest could result in important evidence being excluded. The case might even get thrown out.
She couldn’t take that risk. Not with a case as important as this one.
She took a step closer to Carmel and looked him straight in the eye. “I’m in charge of prosecuting this case, Lieutenant. And you’ll do as I say. We’re going to wait for an arrest warrant. If we start the paperwork right now, we can probably get Judge Gove’s approval by morning.”
Suddenly the door banged open. “Adam? Are you ready to go?”
The deep voice was Patrick’s. It slid down Helen’s spine, sending slivers of heat dancing through her. She turned to face him just as Carmel did the same.
“You! Get outta here!” Carmel clenched his fists, his face darkening to purple. “Murderers don’t get the run of the police station.”
Patrick’s silver eyes narrowed and his lazy smile vanished. “What did you say?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous.
Adam stepped toward him and took his arm. “Time to go, Patrick,” he said swiftly. He turned back to Helen. “Call me when the warrant comes down. I’ll arrange for him to turn himself it.”
“Warrant!” Patrick spun around. “What are you—”
“Later,” Adam snapped.
Patrick shrugged away his hand. “Helen?”
The cold fury in his voice ripped through her, and she gulped. “I’m applying for a warrant to arrest you. For murder.”
The look in Patrick’s eyes made her want to crumble. Suddenly she realized that she’d rarely seen him when he wasn’t smiling. There was usually humor in his silver eyes, along with a dancing light of mischief and reckless charm.
But now he looked like a man who’d been cast abruptly into hell.
And she felt like the devil who had put him there.
Chapter 3
The M.G.’s wipers swished across the windshield. Rain hammered down on the cloth roof. Patrick hadn’t gotten around to patching the tiny crack in the roof, and cold water seeped through it to trickle down his cheek.
“I don’t believe I’m doing this,” he muttered as he turned onto Ocean Drive. “No way she’s going to listen to me. I should just turn right around and head over to Callahan’s for a drink.”
But he couldn’t. Not so long as there was a chance of convincing Helen to hold off on the arrest.
A fist of tension tightened in his stomach. Until this afternoon he hadn’t taken this whole thing seriously. Not at all. But now...now, he just hoped Helen would listen to him. Hoped their past meant something to her.
It had to, he told himself grimly. It just had to.
Patrick braked the car in front of Helen’s building and peered up through the bare tree branches toward her apartment. Light filtered out from between the slats of her blinds. Relief threaded through him. At least she was still awake.
He found a place to park a block away and jogged back through the rain, reaching the entrance to her building just as a well-dressed couple was leaving. They held the door open for him, and he walked inside.
He crossed the lobby, glancing around curiously. His wet shoes squeaked against a gleaming hardwood floor. Giant plants were scattered artfully around. Several long skylights overhead would let in the sun, if it ever stopped raining. The room had the feel of a conservatory—green, hushed, and very expensive.
It had been years since he’d been in a building like this one. On a social call, at least. None of the guys from the department could afford to live like this, and the women he usually dated were way too down-to-earth.
He bet
everyone in Helen’s building was a lawyer or a banker. The kind of people who sat around discussing vintage wine and stock options and their latest trips to Europe.
The kind of men who were probably her type.
Patrick’s jaw tightened at the thought. This was Helen’s world. Was it really any wonder she hadn’t stuck around that night? That she hadn’t wanted to get involved with a cop whose name proclaimed his Irish Catholic background, who was proud of his working-class roots, and who hated opera and snooty restaurants and all the other things that seemed to go along with money and power and success?
Jessica hadn’t been able to forgive him for those things, either. For failing to meet her expectations of what a man should be. She’d walked away, too—but not before she’d destroyed his most cherished dream....
Patrick curled his hands into fists and shoved the thought of Jessica out of his mind. “Forget it, Monaghan,” he said under his breath. “It doesn’t matter. Just get on with it.”
He punched the elevator button and rode to the third floor in silent luxury. When he stepped out of the elevator, he turned right and headed toward Apartment 312. His feet sank noiselessly into the plush carpeting on the hallway floor. Perfect for a surprise attack, he thought wryly.
As he knocked on Helen’s door he heard the faint sound of music coming from inside. Violins. His lips twisted. God, he hated classical music. He’d heard enough of it with Jessica to last him a lifetime. And then some.
He knocked again, louder this time, and the music switched off. Footsteps echoed faintly.
“Who is it?” Helen’s voice sounded suspicious.
“It’s Patrick.”
Silence.
He braced himself against the door frame with one hand and knocked again with the other. “Helen?”
Her voice was muffled, but he heard the tension and anger that threaded through it. “Go away, Patrick.”
“I have to talk to you. About the case.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now.” He tried to keep the frustration out of his voice. “Helen, I—”
Behind him, Patrick heard another door opening. He looked over his shoulder and saw a well-fed man wearing a heavy brocade robe standing in the door to Apartment 311. He was scowling.
“Must you carry on your conversation in the hallway? And at this time of night?” the man demanded. “Some of us are trying to get to sleep.”
Patrick shrugged. “Sorry I woke you.”
The man glared at him. “Just keep it down. Or I’ll call the cops.” He banged his door closed.
Patrick turned back to Helen’s door and knocked again. “Helen? I’m not going away. I told you—”
A chain rattled. He heard a lock click, and then Helen pulled open the door.
He stared at her. She looked beautiful. And completely unlike the cool, professional lawyer she’d been that afternoon. Her hair was tousled, her face devoid of any makeup. She was wearing a heavy, cable knit sweater, the creamy wool thick and bulky over her slender frame. Her legs were encased in leggings the color of heather, and her feet were bare.
He looked down at her feet. They were long and narrow, and her toes were knobbly at the ends. To his amazement, a shaft of heat shot straight to his groin.
What was happening to him? They were just feet, for God’s sake.
He yanked his gaze back up to her face, feeling off balance with a woman for almost the first time in his adult life. “Uh, hi, Helen.”
“Patrick.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him inside, slamming the door behind him. “What are you doing here?”
“I told you, I have to talk to you about the case.” He rubbed his hand over his arm where she’d touched him. He could almost swear he still felt the warmth of her hand, even through the layers of cotton and leather.
“You should’ve called my office in the morning.” Helen stepped back a pace and dragged her fingers through her hair in what he could tell was a nervous attempt to tidy it. For him? If he meant absolutely nothing to her, surely she wouldn’t try to fix her hair.
A spark of hope ignited in his chest.
“By tomorrow morning it might have been too late,” he said. “I caught your boss on the news. He said an arrest was expected tomorrow.”
“That’s right.” Her voice was low.
He looked her in the eye. “You’re making a big mistake.”
“Am I?”
“You don’t really believe I’m a murderer.” He gave her his most charming smile. “I know you don’t.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “Really. And you know so well what’s going on in my mind.”
He could tell by the hard look on her face that she wouldn’t appreciate it if he suggested she had any kind of feelings for him. And making her angry was definitely not part of his plan.
Instead, he chose the logical approach. “If you believed I’d shot Marty, you wouldn’t have let me into your apartment.”
“Letting you in has nothing to do with what I believe. The last thing I need is Gary across the hall calling in the cavalry and having the cops find you hanging around my door.”
“Why would you care?”
Color spread across her cheeks, and she looked away. “Franklin knows we were...involved last year. If he heard you’d been seen at my apartment, he might think—” She ground to a halt. “It wouldn’t do my career any good.”
“Your career is the only thing that matters to you? Even more than your safety?” He watched her closely. This might—just might—be a way of getting her to listen to him.
Her gaze snapped back to his. “My feelings about my career are none of your damn business!”
Bingo.
“Helen, we have to talk. Having me arrested and pursuing prosecution could end up ruining your career.”
“If anyone finds out I’ve talked to you, that could ruin my case. And my career.”
Patrick stared into her eyes. “It’s up to you. You’re taking a risk either way. But if you talk to me now, nobody has to find out. And if you don’t...”
Her lips tightened. “Are you threatening me?”
“No,” he said bluntly. “I’m just pointing out the facts.”
“What are you saying?”
“That’s exactly what I want to talk to you about.”
She stared at him for a long moment. He saw the play of emotions on her face, emotions she couldn’t quite hide.
He took a step closer to her. “Please.”
Their eyes caught, and Patrick’s breath snagged in his throat. What was it about her beautiful blue eyes that made him feel this way? As though there was something far more at stake than whether or not she would talk to him tonight?
Just when he thought he couldn’t stand it anymore, she broke the gaze and turned away. “All right. I’ll give you an hour. No more.”
Relief flooded through him. He was past the first hurdle. She would listen to what he had to say. Now all he had to do was convince her that he was telling the truth.
He shrugged out of his jacket and left it hanging on the carved wooden rack behind the door. Helen led him through her foyer and down a short hall. A kitchen opened onto the left; he caught a glimpse of tiled countertops and gleaming appliances before she whisked him into the living room.
Patrick glanced around. The room had a kind of rich, understated elegance that immediately made him feel uncomfortable. Out of place. Damn, he wished he could take Helen down to Callahan’s and talk to her there.
The corner of his mouth tipped up at the thought. Yeah. And he could just imagine how much Helen would like the place, too. Probably about as much as he liked the opera.
The faint boom and crash of the ocean made him glance toward the window. It was open a crack. He crossed the room and looked out over the black, foaming water.
“Sit down,” Helen said sharply.
He turned away from the window and sat on her butter-yellow leather sofa. It was soft and luxurious—so different from h
is own battered couch—and he leaned forward to keep from sinking into it too far. Papers were strewn over the coffee table in front of him, and he angled them a glance. She’d been working, obviously. On his case? Or—
She swept the papers out from under his nose. An antique roll-top desk stood in one corner of the room, and she dumped the papers onto the work top and banged down the cover.
“Don’t do that again.” She sat in a morris chair across from the sofa, keeping the coffee table between them like a barrier. Tension crackled in the air.
Trying to relax the atmosphere, he stretched out his legs and tossed her a lazy smile. “Nice place you’ve got here.”
He didn’t miss the little flash of pride on her face before she covered it with a frown. “How did you know where I live?”
“Looked you up in the phone book.”
“You can’t have. I’m unlisted. What did you do? Follow me home from work?”
“Nope.”
Her lips tightened. “Don’t play games with me, Monaghan. How did you know where I live?”
“I’ve known since last year.” He weighed his words carefully. “I got one of the guys at the station to look you up.”
Her face went rigid. “Why? So you could gloat every time you drove by? Do you do this with all your conquests?”
He felt the fuse of anger that had ridden deep within him since he’d woken up alone that morning a year before suddenly ignite. First she dumped him without a word, then she insisted that what had happened between them was a mistake, and now this?
The words spilled out before he could stop them, before he could tell himself he didn’t care, it didn’t matter. “You want to know why I looked you up? It was because I went to bed one night with a woman in my arms, and when I woke up in the morning she was gone without a trace. No note. No phone call. I didn’t know what happened to you. It scared the hell out of me.”
“I’m supposed to believe that?”
“Damn right. I called the station and got your address and went tearing out of my place like a fool. I didn’t know if you were ill, or if you went out for a cup of coffee and got mugged, or what. And when I got here, I saw you standing by your kitchen window.” He gave a harsh laugh. “You were watering your plants.”
Motive, Means... And Marriage? Page 4