Motive, Means... And Marriage?

by Hilary Byrnes

  Helen looked down. “Oh.”

  Patrick’s jaw tightened as the memories flooded through him. That night he’d thought—Hell, he didn’t know exactly what he’d thought, but he hadn’t expected her to disappear like that.

  At first he hadn’t thought—hadn’t believed—she really meant it. So he’d called her. Left messages on her answering machine at home, on her voice mail at work. And she’d ignored him.

  He’d told himself he didn’t care. That he’d forgotten her, that it didn’t matter anyway. After all, it wasn’t as if he wanted a serious relationship.

  No. Jessica had cured him of that.

  With an effort, Patrick brought his temper under control. “I didn’t come here to talk about the past. I came because if you get that warrant, I’m going to be arrested tomorrow. Probably indicted by the end of the week. And if you go through with it, your career will be ruined.” He looked her in the eye. “I’m innocent, Helen. You have to back off.”

  “You’re right, you probably will be indicted by the end of the week. Franklin wants this case sewn up fast.” She spoke coolly. “But I fail to see how doing it will hurt my career.”

  “No? Who’ll take the fall when it comes out that the wrong man has been charged with the crime? Franklin...or you?”

  “That won‘t—”

  “Come on, Helen. Chambers loves the spotlight. Can’t you hear him on television? ‘I regret that an overzealous young prosecutor overstepped the bounds of justice and acted hastily in her pursuit of Detective Monaghan. I had no personal knowledge, et cetera, et cetera.’ He’ll throw you to the dogs without a second thought.”

  “Only if you get off. But I’ll get a conviction. Don’t you doubt it.”

  “And this case will make your career, right?” Patrick leaned forward. “But what about the cost? What if you convict an innocent man?”

  Helen’s mouth flattened. “We’ve got an eyewitness who says you and Marty were the only people out there on the highway last night. A lab report confirming that the bullets in Marty’s brain came from your gun. Gunshot residue on your hands. And you claim you can’t remember what happened. Innocent?” She shook her head. “I’ve rarely seen more compelling evidence of guilt.”

  He shot her an assessing look. “But what does your gut tell you?”

  She stared at him as if he was speaking Urdu. “My gut?”

  “Your instincts.” He waved a descriptive hand. “Your feelines.”

  She stiffened. “When it comes to my work, I don’t have feelings. I use logic. Not emotion.”

  “And was it logic that made you let me into your apartment?” Patrick reached across the coffee table and grabbed her hand. Electricity coursed through him as his fingers closed over hers. She gasped, and he knew she felt it, too—felt the fire that had brought them together a year ago, the fire that still sparked between them even now.

  “Is this logical?” he demanded.

  She tried to wrench her hand away from his, but he hung on. A tremor ran through her body, and an answering flash of heat shot through his. God, he wanted to kiss her. To run his hands into her hair. It would feel like silk, raw silk sliding over his rough hands, and—

  “Don’t touch me!” Her voice was high, almost panicked. She jerked away from him and leaped to her feet.

  He stared at her in confusion. Was that fear he saw in her eyes, in the rapid pulse at the base of her throat? Or was it something else?

  He shoved himself off the couch. “Helen—”

  “Stay here. I’m going to get a glass of water.” She whirled away and disappeared down the hall toward the kitchen.

  Helen ran the water for a good five minutes before she filled one of the heavy crystal glasses she’d bought herself last year as a Christmas present. She lifted the glass to her lips and took a long swallow. The water was cold and soothing as it slid down her throat.

  She stared out over the sink, past the window ledge filled with herbs in clay pots, toward the darkened street below. A lone brown sedan sat beneath the streetlight by the entrance to her building. Probably in exactly the same spot Patrick had sat when he’d looked up at her from the street that morning.

  That morning. The morning after the first—and last—time they’d made love.

  Helen sucked in her breath as the memories washed over her. Memories of Patrick’s laughter as he lifted his face to the rain. Of the feel of his warm hands on her wet, bare skin. Of his voice, low and rough and urgent as he’d lifted her against him. Of wanting... wanting...

  She thought she’d put those feelings—those crazy, dangerous feelings—away forever. But she’d been wrong. They were creeping up on her again, threatening her sanity, threatening everything.

  Sharp, bright fear stabbed through her. Dear God, she couldn’t let her emotions take over. Couldn’t risk losing control. She couldn’t risk becoming like her mother, the way everyone had always said she would.

  The memories burned like acid. “Helen’s a tramp, just like her mom.” “Hey, Helen, you wanna have a few drinks and a good time?” “Come on, babe, you gave it to Joe....”

  Desperately, she shoved the memories away. Taking a gulp of water, she struggled to think clearly, to come up with a plan.

  “I should throw Patrick out,” she said out loud. “Right now. Before anyone finds out I’ve talked to him.”

  Hut...but what if he really was innocent? Helen’s fingers tightened on the cold, smooth glass. Patrick had been right about Franklin. If anything went wrong with the case, she’d get all the blame. It could destroy her career in one stroke.

  Helen squeezed her eyes shut She couldn’t let that happen. Her career was all she had—it was what she’d worked for all her life. To get out of Seattle’s slums. To graduate from high school, college, law school. And she’d made it. She was a good lawyer, a good prosecutor—good enough to become the head prosecutor of a county one day.

  If she didn’t listen to Patrick, she risked losing it all.

  She was going to have to talk to him. And that wasn’t emotion, she told herself grimly. That was logic.

  Squaring her shoulders, she set her glass down on the counter and headed back into the living room.

  Patrick stood looking out the window, his legs spread, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. His shoulders looked very broad, the line of his back straight and lean. Untidy black hair brushed the collar of his shirt, and she felt the sudden wild urge to brush that hair aside, to stand on her tiptoes and press her lips to the back of his strong neck.

  Her heart thumped crazily and a wave of heat climbed her face. What was wrong with her, anyway? She had to get a grip. Concentrate on the case.

  She strode the rest of the way into the room and halted a few feet from the window. Clearing her throat, she looked pointedly at her watch. “You’ve got another half hour, Monaghan. If you have any proof you’re innocent, you’d better start talking. Fast.”

  Patrick turned to face her. He looked at her carefully. “Are you okay?”

  Suddenly she remembered the way she’d jerked away from him and charged out of the living room. Did he know why? The thought sent a burst of humiliation twisting through her. “I’m fine,” she snapped. “Just get on with it.”

  His expression changed, hardened. “Okay. I don’t have any proof. But I am innocent. I’m sure I’m being set up.”

  “By whom?”

  He shrugged. “By Carmel. Or whoever was out there with me and Marty last night.”

  “Why would Carmel want to set you up?”

  “He hates my guts.”

  “Why?”

  Patrick spread his hands. “He thinks I slept with his wife.”

  “And did you?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wanted to cut out her tongue. The last thing she wanted was for Patrick to think she gave a damn who he slept with.

  He shot her a look of pure outrage. “Of course not! What kind of guy do you think I am? I don’t mess around with married women.”
>
  “So why does Carmel think you did?”

  “Amanda told him so. Carmel was having an affair and she wanted to make him jealous.”

  He was telling the truth. She was sure of it—his face was so easy to read. Relief filtered through her, loosening the tension in her shoulders, but she kept her expression cool, as though it didn’t matter to her. Which it didn’t, she told herself sternly.

  She forced her mind away from Patrick’s love life. “You mentioned someone else being out there on the highway last night. Have you remembered something new?”

  “No, I wish I had. But if Carmel isn’t setting me up, faking the lab reports and so on, there must have been someone else there. I had a concussion and a cut on my head. Someone must’ve knocked me out and then used my gun to shoot Marty.”

  “How would that explain the gunshot residue on your hands?”

  His brow furrowed, his silver eyes narrowing in concentration. “Maybe I shot at my attacker.”

  “Patrick, there was an eyewitness. She saw only two men.”

  “She could be lying.”

  Helen’s mind spun back to Tammy Weston. She’d been tense. Angry. Hostile. And what was it she’d said? Something about thinking she wouldn’t have to identify anyone?

  Helen rubbed her cheek. Maybe...maybe somebody had paid Tammy to phone in a false report. And hadn’t told her she’d have to be involved after that. Helen’s heart began to beat a little faster. It was possible. Just possible.

  She looked at Patrick, at his handsome sculpted face and laughing eyes, and she knew that she wanted it to be more than possible.

  She wanted it to be true.

  She swallowed hard. “So you think someone came up with this elaborate plot to kill Marty and pin it on you. Why?”

  Patrick rubbed his hand over his shadowed jaw. “I’ve been wondering if it could be related to the case we were working on.”

  “What case? I left all your files at the office.”

  “It was a murder. A hooker called Jamie Lee Turner. Somebody strangled her on Saturday night down at the Lucky Seven Motel.”

  Helen frowned. She vaguely remembered Carmel mentioning that Patrick and Marty had been working on the Turner murder, but she’d pushed it to the back of her mind. Somehow it just hadn’t seemed that important.

  “What could that case have to do with Marty’s murder?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. But somebody killed Jamie Lee Turner. Maybe we were getting too close to the killer, and he decided it was time to get rid of us.”

  “Get rid of you both? But you’re still here, Monaghan. Whoever was out there Monday night only got rid of Marty.”

  “That might have been a mistake. He could’ve meant to kill me, too.”

  A ribbon of fear raced through Helen, chilling her to the bone. She pictured Patrick lying on that dark highway, blood seeping out of his head. The cold in her heart intensified, the room receding into darkness. A gust of sea wind blew through the window and she shivered violently.

  “Helen? Are you okay?” Patrick put his hand on her shoulder. Instantly heat flooded through her body, dispelling the icy-cold fear. Through the heavy wool of her sweater, she felt each of his fingers, felt them as clearly as though he was touching her bare skin. His thumb brushed the side of her neck, a feather-light touch, and her stomach lurched with longing.

  Violently she twisted away. “I’m fine. Just a bit cold.” She banged the window shut. Turning back to face Patrick, she realized that he was as close as ever. Too close.

  “So what do you think?” he asked.

  Think? When he was standing so close to her, she couldn’t think at all.

  Hastily, she backed up a few steps, fighting for control. “I think everything you’ve said is pure speculation. You don’t have proof of any of it, do you?”

  Patrick shook his head. “Not yet.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “And you want me to hold off on the arrest until...what? You come up with evidence that aliens killed Marty?”

  His face hardened. “No. All I’m asking for is twenty-four hours. To see what I can come up with.”

  “What do you think you can accomplish in twenty-four hours?”

  “A lot.”

  Helen sighed. “Give me one good reason why I should agree to this.”

  Patrick stepped forward, closing the gap between them. He bent his head toward hers, a spark of heat flaring deep in his eyes. Something deep inside her—something primal and female and altogether dangerous—shuddered to life.

  “Logic,” he said, his warm breath caressing her cheek. “If you move on an innocent man, you could jeopardize your career.”

  “Right. Logic.” The words came out so low and husky that she barely recognized her own voice.

  His sculpted lips curved in a hint of a smile. “So will you do it? Give me another twenty-four hours?”

  His deep voice slid over her nerves, and she closed her eyes briefly, struggling for control. Logic. Emotion. Her career.

  Her career.

  She opened her eyes. “Okay. I’ll give you twenty-four hours.”

  Patrick’s face broke into a huge smile, a smile so infectious, she had to fight the urge to grin back at him.

  Instead she shot him a steely look. “But if you don’t come up with anything solid by then, I’m going for the warrant. And I’ll be doing some checking of my own. If I find out you’ve lied to me about anything, the deal’s off. I’ll have you arrested like that.” She snapped her fingers.

  Patrick grinned. “Yes, ma‘am.”

  “And one more thing. I want you to promise me that for now, you won’t tell anyone we’ve talked. Not even your brother.”

  His grin faded, and his silver eyes turned serious. “Of course I won’t. Don’t worry. Nobody has to find out.”

  Early the next morning Helen unlocked the front door to the county prosecutor’s office suite. Flipping on the light, she turned to the glowing box on the wall and punched in the code to deactivate the alarm system. The box bleeped twice. Somebody else had already turned it off.

  “Hello?” she called. “Anyone here?”

  Silence.

  Whoever had come in earlier had probably just dropped off their briefcase and headed down to the ground-floor coffee shop.

  As she walked down the hall to her own office, Helen glanced at the clock on the wall. Quarter to seven. No wonder no one else was working yet.

  As usual, she would be the first one at her desk.

  She hadn’t slept well. After Patrick had left, she’d gone to bed and tossed and turned restlessly, worrying that someone might have seen him, might somehow find out they’d talked. When she’d finally fallen asleep in the small hours of the morning, she’d dreamed of Patrick—dreams that made her wake with her heart pounding, her body slick with sweat and aching with need.

  After that, she’d given up on sleep. She’d gone for her usual five-mile run and then showered and headed down to the office. Her mind—and her body—were in turmoil, and work was the only thing that would help her regain her balance.

  Work had always been her savior, her lifeline. It had been since she was a child. So often she had come home from school to find her mother half drunk and making out with some strange man. Sickened and ashamed, she would run—run to the public library, where she’d bury herself in homework and books.

  Her mother had jeered at her. “What’re you doin’ with all those books? You think you’re hot stuff, doncha, baby? Well, you’re no better’n me. You’ll see. Just you wait.”

  Helen grimaces at the memory. She must have heard those words a thousand times; her mother had been saying them since she was born. But she’d proved Lana wrong.

  Hadn’t she?

  “Stop it, Stewart,” she muttered as she fumbled with her keys. “There’s no point in thinking about it.”

  Because she had proved Lana wrong. She had a great career. A beautiful apartment. Everything she’d ever wanted.

>   Sure, other women might want husbands and children—might want love—but she never had. She’d focused all her energy on her career. And that was exactly how she wanted it.

  She frowned down at her keys and finally found the right one. Unlocking her office door, she flipped on the light.

  And froze.

  Her office was a shambles. There was paper everywhere. The file drawers that lined one wall had all been yanked open, their contents dumped out on the floor. Her desk had been upended, her chair knocked over. Even her prized Persian rug had been ripped off the floor and flung carelessly into a corner of the room.

  “Oh, my God,” she whispered.

  Hot tears stung her eyes as she walked into her office, her feet crunching against the piles of paper on the floor. The room was icy-cold, and she saw that the window was open. Rain had spilled in, and water ran down the wall and puddled on the floor next to the shattered remains of a crystal vase.

  Bile rose in Helen’s throat. This was her workplace. Her sanctuary. And somebody had systematically torn it to shreds.

  Her eyes blurring with tears, she scanned the room. What had they wanted? Her computer was still there, lying smashed on the floor. An expensive signed print still hung on the wall.

  Helen squeezed her hands into fists. Whoever had broken into her office wasn’t any ordinary thief. He—or they—had definitely been after something in particular.

  But what?

  Chapter 4

  Helen rocked back on her heels and surveyed the piles of paper on the floor. The police had come and gone, leaving black fingerprint dust, wet footprints, and a small raft-of cardboard coffee cups behind. She and David Holt, one of the clerks, bad been working for hours to clean up the mess.

  Righting the furniture and sweeping away the water and broken glass had been the easy part. Sorting out the masses of files and paper was something else altogether.

  “How’s it going over there, Dave?” Helen asked.

  “Not too bad.” Dave was crouched in the corner, surrounded by several precariously leaning piles of files. His wire-frame glasses had slid down his nose, and his tie was askew. “I think I’ve got most of the files for the Wilson case back in order.”