by Jean Thomas
This was the first hot shower he’d had since leaving Chicago, and Sam should have been silently expressing his gratitude for it. Which he would have been doing, had there been room for anything other than the emotions chewing him up inside.
Much as he hated to acknowledge it, he’d gone and fallen in love with Eve Warren. What a damn fool thing for him to do.
He had to resist it, of course. Whatever happened after this morning, he had to resist it. Fight to cure himself of that love. He couldn’t deal with it. Not after Lily.
And he refused to let Eve know about this struggle. Bad enough that he had told her all about Lily, leaving himself not just vulnerable, but exposed and raw. Not the kind of man he wanted to be for any woman, least of all Eve.
He turned under the hot spray, rinsing the shampoo off his hair while telling himself that, after committing the error last night of making love to Eve, it should be a cold shower.
What in the name of God had possessed him to become intimate with her like that again? There had been an excuse for the passion they had shared during his memory loss. But not last night. Not when he should have known how disastrous the consequences could be if he let his desire rule him.
And his desire had ruled him. Eve had just been far too tempting to resist.
But never again, he promised himself, soaping his body vigorously. No more failures on that score. Because Eve didn’t deserve a head case like him. She was worth far more than that.
So, McDonough, he ordered himself, you don’t trust yourself to do anything from now on but protect her, as you should have protected Lily.
As far as sex was concerned, Sam knew he had a healthy appetite. Knew he wasn’t capable of any prolonged celibacy. When he wanted sex again, and sooner or later he would, he’d hunt for it where he’d found it in those bleak months after Lily’s death. With women who wanted nothing more complicated than one-night encounters.
No more emotional involvements that could hurt, as he must be hurting Eve. As he, himself, was hurting.
When this assignment was over and done with, when Eve was safe from all harm, he would let her go. Tough though it would be, he would somehow manage to walk away from her. But until then…
Alternating between trains and buses as they did, the journey to Chicago was a long, slow one. And for Eve a difficult one.
Though physically Sam remained close at her side almost every minute, constantly vigilant, emotionally he was detached. He never thawed since that night in the motel. The barrier had not only gone up between them again, it was more solid than ever, leaving Eve distraught and not knowing what she could do about it.
Would this trip never end?
“I don’t see why we have to keep covering our tracks like this,” she complained. “If Victor DeMarco’s people are out there hunting for us, there’s been no sign of them. And with you refusing to contact your division, there’s no way this mole you’re convinced exists can feed them any information. They haven’t a clue where we are.”
“It pays to be careful,” was his stubborn response.
So careful, she knew, that he continued to carry the pistol he’d taken from the thug back at the cabin, loaded and ready for any emergency. Sam was taking no risk.
Spring was not only fully under way when they arrived by train at Union Station in Chicago, it was so warm it felt like summer.
“We certainly don’t need these winter coats,” Eve said as they walked side by side along the platform after descending from the train.
“No,” Sam agreed. “In fact, we could be drawing attention to ourselves even carrying them.”
“We could stow them in a locker here in the station,” she suggested.
“Yeah, except where do I conceal the gun?” He eyed her shoulder bag. “You got room in there for it?”
“I can squeeze it in.”
“All right, but stick close so I can grab it if I need it.”
They waited until they were alone in one of the locker aisles to make the switch. After securing the coats in a locker, they headed for the nearest exit.
Sam’s sharp eyes missed nothing on their way to the street. It was highly unlikely that any of DeMarco’s people would be here watching the station. But Sam, she knew, was not going to let his guard down for a single moment.
Eve, herself, was conscious only of him. Had he been planning on delivering her immediately to his squad supervisor, this might have been her last opportunity to gaze at him. Not that she needed to make any effort to imprint on her memory the image of the tall, rangy figure striding beside her. That chiseled face, with its bold, sensual mouth and brooding eyes would be with her forever.
Still, if this should turn out to be her final few hours with him, she would count them as precious. Something to treasure when she was back in St. Louis. Or maybe to wish she could forget when it became vital for her to try to get over him. As sooner or later she would be wise to do.
The sun was blinding when they emerged on the sidewalk. A line of taxis waited at the curb for fares from incoming trains. Eve expected Sam to usher her immediately into one of those cabs and was surprised when he drew her back into the shade cast by the building, where they talked in low tones, although no one was paying any attention to them.
“Why this delay?” she wondered. “I thought you’d be anxious to get me somewhere safe as soon as possible.”
“Have you forgotten I’m not taking you anywhere near the bureau until that mole has been taken down?”
“I haven’t forgotten. Then where are we going?” He was being mysterious again, having failed to share his intention with her in advance. It wouldn’t do her any good to be irritated with him about it. That’s just the way Sam was.
“To Fowler’s lawyer for starters,” he said.
“I know that was your plan for me when there was the possibility you wouldn’t make it across the border, that I’d have to go on alone. But now with—”
“Look, Eve, I need a bargaining chip, something to convince Frank Kowsloski” —who was Sam’s squad supervisor, she knew— “that there is a mole, and he’s got to set the machinery in motion to root him out.”
“I don’t know your squad supervisor, but I can’t imagine he’s going to like your blackmailing him like that.”
“He won’t, but that’s just too bad, because I won’t hand you over to him until he agrees to play ball.”
She knew it would be pointless to argue with him about it. “And you think the lawyer might be able to provide us with this bargaining chip. Like what?”
“Ideally, a copy of DeMarco’s fraudulent tax records.”
“That you’ll withhold until the mole is out of the way. What makes you think Charlie gave that copy to Alan Peterman?”
“It has to be somewhere, and since he didn’t leave it with you, why not the lawyer he not only trusted but who was his close friend? Come on, we’re wasting time. Let’s grab one of these cabs.”
They didn’t talk as the taxi carried them through the Loop, then turned north on Michigan Avenue. Feeling it was safer now not to look at Sam, she concentrated her attention on the view through the window on her side.
She found the big-city traffic and crowded sidewalks, both in downtown Chicago and here on the Magnificent Mile, just a bit overwhelming after the time they’d spent in the Canadian wilderness. What she did enjoy, however, was the sight of the huge tubs located at intervals along the sidewalks, each of them blazing with tulips in every hue.
The lawyer’s residence was located on a quiet, tree-lined street just off the Gold Coast. As Eve had explained to Sam after giving their driver the address, “Charlie told me Alan Peterman is semiretired and practices out of his house now. He only sees his regular clients.”
The address they were delivered to was a handsome, two-story brick row house from an earlier era. Eve paid the fare from the dwindling funds in her bag. She didn’t mention her concern about that to Sam. She could only suppose, now that he was back in Chicago, he would have re
ady access to his own money.
Climbing the steps to the front door, with Sam directly behind her, she rang the bell. The door was answered a moment later by an elderly, stoop-shouldered man with scant, gray hair and a benign face. He wore a soiled apron tied around his waist and carried a long-handled wooden spoon as though it were a baton.
Servant or lawyer? Eve wasn’t sure. “We’re looking for Mr. Peterman.”
“You’re speaking to him.”
“Mr. Peterman, I’m—”
“I know who you are. Charlie had a photo of you in his condo. I’ve been expecting you. Come in.”
The lawyer gazed at Sam with a direct curiosity after he had closed the door behind them. Eve quickly introduced him. “This is Sam McDonough.”
She wasn’t certain whether Sam would want her to add an explanation to his name, but he took care of that when he shook Alan Peterman’s free hand.
“I’m the FBI special agent who escorted Eve back here from the Yukon.”
The lawyer didn’t seem surprised by Sam’s identity. How much did he know? Eve wondered.
“Let’s go back to my office,” he said, leading the way down a broad corridor.
Eve’s brief impression of the house was of an understated elegance, where comfort took precedence over formality. She was more interested in the delectable odor in the air, something that included onions. They had clearly interrupted the lawyer as he was preparing something in the kitchen.
He verified that when they arrived at the door of his office. “Go on in and make yourselves at home. I’ll just be a minute. I’ve got spaghetti sauce on the stove that needs stirring.”
Eve found herself seconds later seated in a leather-covered chair with Sam next to her in a matching one. Both chairs faced a massive mahogany desk behind which were floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books. Legal volumes, she supposed.
“I think he must already know Charlie Fowler is dead,” Sam said.
Before they could speculate about what else Alan Peterman might know, he returned. He had rid himself of both the apron and the spoon.
“I turned the heat low under the sauce and left it simmering,” he said, settling himself in an office chair behind the desk. “It’s always better when it cooks a long time. But you’d know all about that.”
Her father must have told his friend about her culinary ambitions. Maybe a great deal more than that.
The lawyer switched his attention from Eve to Sam. “The FBI has already been here to interview me. They told me Charlie is dead. No details, of course, and I didn’t ask for them. I’m assuming it wasn’t the cancer.” His gaze went back to Eve. “We both have a reason to grieve.”
Sam hunched forward in his chair. “The FBI. Did you hand anything over to them?”
His expression sober now, the lawyer glanced at Sam. He has to be thinking, Eve thought, that, as an FBI agent, Sam should already know the answer to this. But the lawyer didn’t pursue it.
“Yes,” he said. “A copy of this.” Opening a drawer, he produced a document that he placed in front of them on the blotter. “It’s Charlie’s will. This is another copy you can take with you. The original is in my safe. I think you know its contents, Eve, since he was planning to tell you.”
“Yes, he did.”
“Then you understand that his entire estate goes to you. The will will have to go through probate before you can collect anything. I’ll handle that for you.”
Eve saw no reason to tell him she had no intention of touching the money, that she planned to donate all of it to cancer research.
“There’s also this,” he said, extracting a key from the same drawer and sliding it toward her across the desk. The key had a tag attached to it. Eve could see an address printed on the tag. “It’s a spare key to Charlie’s condo. The condo and all its contents are part of the estate, so they belong to you now. As long as you don’t take away any of those contents until the will is settled, there’s no reason you can’t visit the place. I understand the FBI is finished with it.”
Yes, Eve realized, they would have searched the condo. And DeMarco’s people, too, had probably found a way to get in there, all of them hunting for those tax records.
She and Sam also wanted the elusive copy of the records. Maybe it didn’t exist, although Charlie had promised the FBI he would hand it over when he returned from the Yukon. But so far their meeting with Alan Peterman had not gained them any knowledge of the records. She glanced at Sam, wondering if he was disappointed in the outcome of their visit. If so, there was no evidence of this on his face.
“I’ll be in touch when the will has been cleared,” the lawyer said, indicating an end to the meeting. “Do you have a phone number where I can reach you?”
“Uh, not yet.”
“Why don’t you call me when you do?” Removing a business card from another drawer, he got to his feet and came around the desk to hand it to her.
Eve accepted the card, tucking it into her bag along with the key and the will. She and Sam stood, prepared to be conducted out of the office.
“I assume there’s nothing else then?” Eve said, making a last effort before they thanked the lawyer and left.
“That’s it for now, but as I said—” He stopped, holding up a hand. “Ah, I almost forgot. There is something else.” He chuckled softly. “At my age, the memory isn’t always as sharp as you’d like it to be. But still good enough, I hope, to recall where I…”
Eve watched the lawyer cross the room to a file cabinet, afraid to believe this was anything important.
“Yep, I was right. Here it is,” Peterman said, scooping a plastic bag with whatever it contained out of one of the drawers. “Charlie made me promise to give this to you if you came to see me.”
He returned with the bag and placed it in Eve’s hand. From the shape and weight of it, she realized it was a book. When she looked inside the bag, she saw that it was a children’s book. The jacket was so fresh it had to have been newly purchased. What on earth—?
Her eyebrows must be registering puzzlement, Eve thought, because the lawyer shrugged. “Charlie’s gifts, bless his heart, didn’t always make sense. I know I got some odd ones from him every Christmas. Well, if we’re finished…”
Chapter 12
They stood on the sidewalk outside Alan Peterman’s house, Eve clutching the plastic bag.
“You don’t think…”
“We won’t know until we examine it,” Sam said.
She started to open the bag.
“Not here,” he said, his hand covering her own.
She wished he wouldn’t touch her like that. Innocuous though he meant it, any physical contact from him stirred longings in her that couldn’t be satisfied. Maybe he understood this and that’s why he immediately withdrew his hand.
“Look,” he said, gazing up the street in the direction of Lake Michigan, “Lincoln Park is just a block over. Let’s go there and find someplace private.”
He was still being careful, she realized. That’s why he kept a sharp lookout as they headed toward the park.
They found a bench screened by tall lilacs that would soon come into flower. At present, though, the lilacs meant nothing more than a safe spot where they could not be easily observed.
“All right,” Sam said when they were seated on the bench. “Let’s see what that book has to offer.”
Eve had already identified the volume as an anthology of favorite fairy tales when she peeked inside the bag back in the lawyer’s office. Now Sam could see that for himself when she removed the book from the bag.
“This have any meaning for you?” he asked her.
“I haven’t a clue.”
“Is there anything else inside the bag?”
“Nothing. Not even a store receipt.”
“Then whatever he wanted you to know must be inside the book.”
Eve upended the book by its spine and shook it vigorously. Had there been something like a letter or a note tucked between
the pages, it would have dropped into her lap. There was no evidence of either.
“Maybe he wrote something directly on one of the pages.”
The book flat on her lap now, she began to turn the pages over one by one with Sam looking on closely. They discovered no message scrawled on any of those pages. Nor had any passages that might have conveyed a meaning been underlined.
“Sam, this is useless,” she said when they reached the last page. “There’s nothing here.”
“Try the back of the jacket. Maybe he wrote something there.”
She peeled the jacket from the book and turned it over. It was blank.
“Face it, Sam. The book is as clean as when it left the store, not even an inscription on a flyleaf. Charlie couldn’t have been using it to tell me where I could find a copy of those tax records. The book is just another one of those whimsical gifts he was forever sending me. You heard what Alan Peterman said—how Charlie was always giving him presents that didn’t make sense.”
Sam shook his head stubbornly. “No, I’m not convinced of that. I think Fowler wanted you to know something, and he used this book to do it.”
“Is this just that FBI insight of yours again?”
He didn’t answer her. He was silent for a long moment, presumably lost in thought.
“Check the titles of the stories,” he urged her. “You never know. Maybe one of them will trigger something.”
Hardly likely, she thought, but she humored him, turning to the Table of Contents. “You see, just the usual, classic fairy tales a little girl might enjoy, which he should have realized I stopped being long ago. ‘Rumplestiltskin,’ ‘Cinderella,’ ‘Sleeping Beauty,’ ‘Hansel and—’”
She broke off there, seized by a sudden memory. Was it possible?
“What?” Sam demanded.
“I don’t know. Maybe…”
“You’ve got something. Tell me what it is. ‘Hansel and Gretel,’” he prompted her.
“I used to collect salt and pepper shakers. I still do.”
“And?”
“I must have been about nine years old. Even then I was interested in cooking, and Charlie knew that. I wrote him about it and my collection.”