Motive, Means... And Marriage?

by Hilary Byrnes

  “Do it now!” The shout came from the other man, the man whose car was blocking the road.

  Scowling, Patrick turned to Marty. “What’s he talking ab—”

  Marty swung around to face him, his bloated face twisted with hate. Too late, Patrick saw the pistol in his hand.

  Marty raised the gun and fired.

  Patrick flung himself. out of the way. The bullet creased his shoulder. Pain ripped through him, hot searing pain. As Marty’s gun cracked a second time, he dove for cover, reaching under his jacket for his own gun.

  His hand closed over the grip of his pistol just as something exploded against his head.

  Blackness took him.

  Standing alone in the road, Patrick flung back his head. “Noo-oo!”

  His own partner had shot him. His own partner had tried to kill him.

  There’d been no love lost between him and Marty, but knowing that Marty had actually tried to kill him filled him with a terrible rage and sadness.

  Crock! The sound of Marty’s gun echoed in his ears. Crack!

  “Patrick?” Helen’s arms went around him, holding him close as he shuddered with the memory. “Are you all right?”

  He couldn’t help himself. He wrapped his arms around her and pressed his face against her hair, breathing in her scent, taking comfort in the feel of her. “I remember,” he said, his voice a harsh rasp. “I remember everything.”

  “It’s okay.” She stroked her hands up and down his back. “You’re safe now. We’ll get him. Carmel—”

  Abruptly he jerked away from her. He didn’t deserve her comfort. He didn’t deserve her touch. Not after the way he’d failed her—again.

  “Patrick?” The concern in her voice pierced his heart. “What is it?”

  Dragging in a breath, he forced himself to speak. “It wasn’t Carmel who tried to kill me.”

  In the beam of the headlights, he saw the shock on her face. “It wasn’t? Then who was it?”

  “It was Marty.”

  Helen gasped. “Marty? He tried to kill you? Why?”

  “There was another car here, blocking the road. Marty stopped our car, and we got out. The other man shouted to ‘Do it.’ And Marty shot me.”

  Her hand flew to her mouth, her stiff fingers covering her lips. “Then he shot you on purpose. It was all planned—he lured you out here to kill you.”

  “That’s right. Marty lied to me. There never was any informant. That was just an excuse to get me out here.”

  “But...but I don’t understand. If Marty meant to kill you, then who killed Marty? What happened?”

  “I dove forward when Marty fired. I must have hit my head on the door. Head wounds bleed a lot, even superficial ones. The killer probably thought I was dead, that Marty’s bullet had found its mark. He picked up my gun and used it to shoot Marty. Marty wouldn’t have expected it, not from his partner in crime.”

  “And the gunshot residue on your hands?”

  “The killer probably wiped his fingerprints off my gun, wrapped my finger around the trigger, and fired an extra shot.”

  Helen’s hands trembled as she raised them to her face. “So if you had died, it would have looked like you and Marty shot each other.”

  “It would’ve been perfect,” Patrick said grimly. “The killer would have gotten away with it for sure. He must have gotten some kind of shock when he found out I was still alive.”

  Helen shuddered. “And to think that I sat there with him in that little interrogation room while he tried to find out how much you remembered. And he was the killer all along.”

  “No.”

  Helen looked up sharply. Her face was stark white, her eyes filled with fear and confusion. “What do you mean? I was there, remember? Carmel sat there threatening you, taunting you about your memory.”

  “It wasn’t Carmel,” he rasped.

  “What?”

  “Carmel wasn’t out here on the road that night.”

  “I don’t understand.” Her voice was faint. “We—we were so sure.”

  “We were wrong.” He gritted his teeth, anger and guilt burning through him. “I was wrong.”

  “But if it wasn’t Carmel, then...who was it?”

  “It was your boss. The esteemed Evergreen County Prosecutor.” Patrick took a deep breath. “Franklin Anthony Chambers.”

  Chapter 15

  Patrick’s words hung in the air like a living thing. The only sounds were the rain slashing against the pavement and the distant purr of the engine.

  “Franklin,” Helen said. Her lips felt stiff, frozen. “It was him all along.”

  “Yeah. He was the one they were blackmailing, not Carmel. He killed Jamie Lee. And Marty. And he tried to kill me, too.”

  Helen raised her hands to her temples. The darkness, the chill rain, the pounding in her skull—all seemed surreal. She wasn’t really here on this deserted highway. Patrick’s own partner hadn’t tried to shoot him. Her boss hadn’t committed murder, here on this very spot, only a few days before.

  Only that was exactly what had happened.

  Helen’s mind spun with a sickening whirl. “Franklin. I...I had no idea it was him.” She swallowed rapidly and looked up at Patrick. In the beam of the headlights, she saw his jaw tighten, his eyes glitter with anger.

  “Neither did I.” He gave a harsh laugh. “If I hadn’t remembered, I would have charged off to Carmel’s to try and make him confess to a murder he didn’t commit.” He swiped his arm over his forehead with a jerky, angry movement, brushing away his tumbled wet hair. “I must be the biggest idiot in the world.”

  She stared at him. “You’re not blaming yourself, are you? For not knowing?”

  A muscle twitched in his jaw. “I could have put your life in danger. And jeopardized your career even further. Breaking into the house of a police lieutenant—an innocent police lieutenant—would’ve made things even worse for you.”

  “But I wanted to come. I didn’t want you to go alone.” She reached for him, wanting to comfort him, wanting to ease the pain she saw in the set of his jaw, in the darkness of his eyes. Her fingertips tingled as she touched his rough cheek.

  Patrick jerked away from her as though he’d been burned.

  Pain tore through her body. So he didn’t want her to touch him, not even in comfort. How she must disgust him, now that he knew the truth about her, about her mother. No wonder he’d wanted to take her back to Moira’s. He’d probably wanted to leave her there, to get rid of her as soon as he possibly could.

  The thought made her want to curl into a little ball of shame and misery, to hide in the darkness forever.

  But she couldn’t. Whether he liked it or not, Patrick needed her. Until this case was over, they were partners.

  And it wasn’t over. Not yet.

  She struggled to sound calm. “There’s so many things I don’t understand. Why would Marty want to kill you?”

  Patrick clenched his fists. “Chambers must have bribed him to do it.”

  “But why?” She rubbed her temples, trying to ease the pain that pounded in her skull. None of it made any sense.

  “I don’t have any more answers than you do.” Patrick’s voice was bitter and harsh.

  She stared blindly into the rain, trying to fit it all together. “So Franklin was the one who tried to kill me.”

  “Yeah. Must’ve been.”

  “But...but why?”

  “That’s what we’re going to find out.” He turned on his heel and marched toward the car.

  He was angry. Helen could tell by the set of his shoulders, by the stiff way he walked—so unlike his usual carefree saunter.

  The chill inside her intensified. No wonder Patrick was angry. Back in Seattle, he’d blamed himself for not knowing the truth. But she was really the one to blame. After all, she’d worked for Franklin. She knew him well. And she hadn’t ever suspected he might be involved.

  Helen squeezed her eyes shut. Looking back, she saw so many little clues. T
he way Franklin had looked at the police station on Monday night—rumpled and damp, like a man who’d been standing out in the rain. Which he had, Helen thought with a shudder. He’d stood out in the rain and shot Marty Fletcher.

  But there was more. Franklin had repeatedly emphasized the vital necessity of winning the case against Patrick. He’d even tried to bribe her with a job offer, an offer that was only good if she won the case. She’d thought it was just his obsession with being reelected, but in truth, he’d been trying to cover his tracks.

  And then there was the fact that he’d assigned her to Patrick’s case, even though he knew she and Patrick had been lovers. It was a classic conflict of interest, but he’d given her the case anyway. Helen’s lips twisted. Franklin must have assumed that Patrick was the one who’d ended their relationship. He’d probably thought her anger, compounded by her vocal dislike of ladies’ men in general, would blind her to any hints of Patrick’s innocence. And even if she did decide he was innocent, all Franklin had to do was tell everyone about their affair—just like he’d done—and her credibility would be shot.

  So many hints. So many clues. And she hadn’t seen the truth. She’d even handed Franklin back the only piece of evidence against him—the money he’d used to pay off Marty.

  Guilt and misery washed through her. Why hadn’t she seen it? Why hadn’t she realized? She lifted icy hands to her cheeks. They were wet, soaking wet, and she wasn’t even sure if it was from the rain or from her tears.

  Abruptly, she forced her eyes open. She couldn’t just stand here, crying in the rain. Couldn’t let herself fall apart. Patrick still needed her—there was still so much work to be done.

  Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and hurried after him.

  He halted by the car and swung around to face her. “Where does Chambers live?”

  “Where does he—” She squeezed her hands into fists, digging her nails into her palms. It was another clue. Another detail she’d overlooked.

  “Helen?” Patrick said.

  She lifted her head and looked into his face. His eyes were hard, his jaw tight. In his face, there was nothing left of the tender lover, nothing at all. The man in front of her was a hard, angry cop. A strangler.

  She gulped and pointed northeast. “He lives right...right over there.”

  He turned and looked. “Franklin lives on a farm?”

  “No, on the other side of that farm, just down Snohomish Road. He...he and Olivia built a home out here last year.” Helen bit down on her lip until she tasted blood. “I went to a Christmas party there last year.”

  Patrick stalked around to the driver’s side. “Let’s go.”

  Racked by guilt, Helen sat silently as Patrick gunned the engine and roared down the old highway. He squealed around the corner onto Snohomish. The back tires skidded on the slick pavement, and the car fishtailed wildly.

  Helen gripped the dashboard with fingers that were numb with cold and fear.

  Patrick’s deep voice penetrated the haze of misery that surrounded her. “How far up is the house?”

  She swallowed hard and leaned forward, searching the night with her gaze. “Not very far. Maybe up around that next bend.”

  He slowed the car and shut off the headlights. They crawled down the road, tires crunching against gravel. “Who else lives with Chambers? Wife? Kids?”

  She struggled to remember. “Olivia—his wife—is in Hawaii this week. Both kids go to college back east. So he should be alone.”

  They rounded the bend and inched their way past a stand of Douglas firs. Through a gap in the trees, Helen could just make out the faint gleam of a security light. “I think this is it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  Patrick shut off the engine. The silence was thick—thick and charged with tension, like the hot, electric air that comes before a thunderstorm. With every second that passed, Helen felt the taut wire of anxiety inside her stretch tighter and tighter.

  “What now?” she rasped.

  “Now we’re going to get some answers.” The hard determination in his tone sent shivers down her spine. “Have you got a tape recorder?”

  She nodded and opened her purse to pull out the mini voice-activated recorder she’d brought for the interview with Candy.

  “Put it in your pocket. We’re going to need it.” He reached under his jacket and pulled his gun from his shoulder holster. As she watched in horrified fascination, he slid the clip out of the grip, checked it, and smacked it back inside with his palm. He shoved the gun back in his shoulder holster. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  “Patrick, wait.” She fought to think clearly. “You can’t bring your gun. A coerced confession won’t stand up in court.”

  He wrenched around in his seat and looked at her, his eyes burning. “The last thing we should be worrying about is the chain of evidence. Chambers is a murderer. A cold-blooded killer. We know that, but we have no credibility. If we don’t get a confession, we won’t even have to worry about court, because nobody will believe us. And Chambers will walk.”

  She gulped. “Right.”

  “Besides.” His voice roughened. “He’s already killed three people. I need to bring the gun to protect you—if you still want to come.”

  “Of course I do!”

  “You trust me to protect you? After everything that’s already happened?”

  She looked straight into his eyes. “With my life.” Her heart banged against her ribs. “I trust you with my life.”

  “You shouldn’t,” he said hoarsely.

  “But I do.”

  Her words seemed to hang in the air. Patrick’s face shifted, changed, and something flared deep in his eyes. For a moment she almost thought he was going to reach out to her, and her heart leaped with a wild hope, but then he turned away.

  Pain speared through her chest. Ruthlessly, she suppressed it. What had she expected, anyway? Except for the case, it was over between them. All over. And the sooner she got used to it, the better.

  “Okay,” he said. “We’re going in. Stay behind me, and when I tell you to get down, you get down. Got it?”

  She forced herself to nod.

  Patrick slid out of the car. He closed the door behind him so gently that it made no noise other than a soft click. Helen climbed out of the passenger seat and followed him as he slipped up the driveway like a shadow.

  Ahead in the darkness, the house loomed. It was a huge bulk of cedar and glass, its asymmetrical roofline soaring toward the sky. A security light shone from the wraparound deck toward the driveway. Skirting the pool of light, Patrick headed for the front door.

  Biting her lip, Helen stayed right behind him. He paused in front of the door and motioned for her to stay back. Drawing his pistol with one hand, he put his other on the door handle. Helen caught her breath, stifling an instinctive gasp of fear.

  Slowly, he turned the ornately carved door handle. To her amazement, the door wasn’t locked. It opened silently, and Patrick slid inside. After a moment he reappeared and beckoned her into the foyer. She tiptoed inside, her footsteps sounding all too loud against the fieldstone floor. Patrick eased the door shut behind her.

  Putting his arm around her shoulders, he leaned down to speak directly into her ear. “Where’s the master bedroom?”

  His warm breath brushed against her neck, sending shivers of heat down her spine. She turned to speak back into his ear, and the rough silk of his hair brushed her cheek. If she turned her head just a little farther, their lips would meet.

  She dragged her mind away from that thought. “The master bedroom is upstairs,” she whispered. “I think.”

  As he straightened, she thought she felt the faintest whisper of his lips across her hair. She was imagining it—she had to be—but she closed her eyes and savored the sensation.

  The warmth of his body vanished as he stepped back, and she reluctantly opened her eyes. Patrick tipped his head toward the living room. It loo
ked as though he wanted to check the downstairs rooms first.

  Together, they circled the ground floor. Living room, dining room, study, kitchen. All were empty and silent.

  Finally, they reached the foyer once again. Helen glanced at Patrick. He held his finger to his lips and motioned toward the curving staircase with the gun.

  They were going up.

  Patrick slipped up the staircase, his feet making no noise on the hardwood steps. Helen felt as though each of her own footsteps echoed throughout the silent house. Surely Franklin would hear her breathing, hear the wild thump of her heart. Surely he must know they were coming....

  They reached the upstairs hall, a gallery that ran the length of the living room. A railing of smoothed driftwood lined the gallery. Helen glanced down at the darkened living room below. The furniture cast weird shadows on the wall, shadows that all looked like Franklin, crouched and waiting to spring.

  She jerked her gaze away before her imagination spun out of control, and looked to the other side of the gallery. A series of doors opened to the left. Her neck muscles tightened. These must be the bedrooms.

  She held her breath as Patrick pushed open the first door. As she’d expected, it was a bedroom. It was furnished with a single bed, covered with a ruffled eyelet bedspread, and a matching set of white-lacquered furniture with gilt trim.

  Patrick shot her a questioning look.

  “Daughter,” she mouthed silently.

  Together, they retreated into the hall. The next door was open, and led to a bathroom. Beside the bathroom was a bedroom that clearly belonged to Franklin’s son.

  There was only one door left.

  Helen bit down on her lip as Patrick stopped in front of the door. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth, mingling with the bitterness of fear. What was behind that door? Was Franklin waiting for them? Maybe even armed? Oh, God, she didn’t think she could stand it if Patrick got hurt.

  Her heart hammered as he reached out and turned the handle. The door gave a faint squeal as he slowly eased it open.

  The room was empty.

  “Dammit,” Patrick muttered.

  He walked into the room and flipped on the light. Helen pushed in behind him. It was the master bedroom, but Franklin was nowhere to be seen. The king-size bed was made, the covers smooth and unrumpled; nobody had slept in it tonight.