by Jenna Ryan
Still some distance away, he moved into a pearled beam of porch light. With his hands jammed into the pockets of a winter leather jacket and his dark hair tumbling in disarray to his shoulders, he brought to mind Devon’s image of an informant. Only on closer inspection did she realize that his gaze was too somber for such an unsavory occupation, his eyes too focused, his narrow face too intense.
Without removing his eyes from hers, he drew a hand from his pocket. “I’m Detective Joel Riker, Ms. Tremayne. Philadelphia South Side. You mentioned a certain gift you received at the conclusion of your broadcast yesterday afternoon.”
Devon wasn’t so disconcerted by his appearance that she neglected to inspect his badge. “All right,” she agreed, lifting her gaze. “But you needn’t have come all the way over here, Detective Riker.”
“Just Riker. And there was every need.”
She hoped it was the chill in the air that caused her to shiver. “Maybe we should go inside.” She started to walk, then halted, vaguely suspicious. “Why were you lurking in the bushes? You must know that this is my building.”
The tiniest of smiles flitted across his lips. “I’ve spoken to your sister. And I wasn’t lurking. I saw you pull up and stopped to wait.”
“You blend into the shrubbery very well, Detective.”
“Riker. It’s a cop’s best defense.” With a faint movement of his head, he motioned her forward. “Can we keep going? I’m not big on snow.”
“No? I’d have pegged you as a northern type. The Dakotas, or maybe Wisconsin.”
“Don’t ever say that to my grandmother. She was born and bred in County Cork.” Reaching around her, he held the front door open. “Do you have the pendant in your apartment?”
“Yes.” Though she sincerely wished she’d tossed it out with the morning trash. “Look, Detective...yes, fine, Riker.” She paused at the foot of the carpeted stairs, hands on the polished newel post, eyes on his face. “I really don’t understand this. I’ll agree there may be a copycat crime involved here, but do you honestly believe that the person who sent the pendant would go as far as murder?”
“We don’t know what he might do, Ms. Tremayne.” He shrugged. “I don’t imagine you’d feel any better if I told you my feelings about the case.”
Tendrils of unease curled in her stomach. “My grandmother taught me not to avoid unpleasant truths. What do you think?”
His mouth, which Devon suspected would be extremely sensual under more favorable circumstances, compressed. A glitter akin to fury worked its way through his dark brown eyes. “I never believed that Casey Coombes was the guilty man. His confession was a sham. I think the murderer is still out there, and he’s getting ready to kill again.”
HE WAS A LOW, rotten bastard.
The man, whose real name was Jacob Price but who’d identified himself as Joel Riker, acknowledged that bitter truth with a knife thrust of guilt and discomfort. The guilt he dealt with swiftly; the discomfort he would have to endure.
Devon Tremayne was a vision, beautiful in a manner reminiscent of graceful gazelles, fine china and the Princess of Wales. He hadn’t expected her to look like an American Royal. He’d thought...what, he wondered, easing his head from side to side as they climbed the wide staircase. That she’d be like Laura?
The tension thrumming in his neck muscles refused to abate. The lingering pricks of his conscience did so the moment he pictured Laura’s vaporous face.
She’d been a delicate beauty in life. In death, she was reduced to a ghostly image, a headful of disjointed memories. He’d loved her—and God help him, he’d failed her miserably. Maybe he’d even helped to kill her.
Laura was gone forever. So were several other women. But Devon Tremayne was very much alive.
Enter deception. Reporter turned publishing editor transformed with frightening ease into cop. For one day or two, ten or twenty if need be.
With the real Joel Riker booked out of his precinct until after the New Year, Jacob felt confident that he could pull off an impersonation—with a little help from his irascible Uncle Rudy, that is.
His own work could wait. The Philadelpia Beat was a trendy, upscale newsmagazine these days. He’d built it from a foundation of dated, ex-beatnik groans and criticisms of life as it failed to deliver in the nineties. He hadn’t shed all the groans, but while he might prefer to wear black, the color did not dominate at the Beat. During the ten years since he’d bought the magazine, Jacob had seen to that.
Devon didn’t utter a word as she ascended, but then what was there to say? A man she believed to be a Philadelphia police officer had just informed her that he believed the Christmas Murderer was still at large. Worse, she had almost certainly been targeted as the murderer’s next victim.
Oh, yeah, Jacob thought darkly, he was a bastard all right. At the top of the stairs, she studied, first a strand of holly twined with colored lights, then, more covertly, him. “What makes you think that Casey Coombes’ confession was a sham?”
Jacob considered lying. “Gut instinct,” he admitted at length. “Coombes was nobody until he was picked up as a suspect.”
She babied both lock and deadbolt. “Don’t murderers often fit that mold?”
She had beautiful hands, elegant and long-fingered. Slender. Drawing his eyes away, Jacob moved a shoulder. “Sometimes; not always. I don’t believe Coombes has it in him to kill anyone in reality.”
“Meaning his violent tendencies are confined to fantasy.” She made a disbelieving sound as she shouldered the door open. “I’ve had guest psychologists on my show who might support that theory, Riker, but just as many who’d call it a crock. Anyone can commit murder given a suitably deteriorated state of mind. Was Coombes convicted on his confession alone?”
Peripherally, Jacob took in the explosion of greenery that greeted him. Plants, pottery, cushions and color. Abstract oil paintings on the walls as well. Nothing garish, just eye-catching, possibly thought-provoking under other circumstances. For the moment he was trying very hard not to think about the woman in front of him.
“There was evidence against Coombes,” he said, moving deliberately away from her. “But any fool can wind up in a frame.”
She shed her long crimson wool coat and tossed it over the back of a terra-cotta-colored sofa. “And having been set up, the framee immediately proceeds to confess to a crime he didn’t commit? Give me a break, Riker.”
“If the idea of notoriety appeals to the framee, yes. It’s been done before, more often than you might think.”
Doubt registered clearly in her green eyes. Deep green, like a mossy glade in the fall. Jacob focused his attention on the kitchen, visible across a cream-and-brick-tiled counter. Devon had an eye for texture and a fondness, it seemed, for the color red.
A nightmarish image of blood oozing from the side of a woman’s mouth caused his stomach and fists to tighten in revulsion. He remembered with similar, sickening clarity a cold bony hand trapping his chin. Dark brown eyes set deep in their sockets had bored unsympathetically into his. ‘Did you kill her?’ a gravelly voice had demanded.
The question echoed like an insidious mantra, growing louder and more insistent, until—
“Riker?”
The name penetrated, and he swivelled his head. How many times had she called him? From the expression on her face, he would guess more than once. “Sorry, I was...” He frowned. “Did you say something?”
He saw annoyance flare in her eyes, then subside swiftly as she willed it away. “I wanted to know what you—what the police—intend to do, seeing that you’re apparently convinced I’m being stalked.”
Good front, but the lack of color in her cheeks gave her away. He approached her from across the room, his tread measured, his face a mask of composure and competence. “The force as a whole isn’t convinced. I, along with a few other officers, am. I told you, it’s a gut instinct I have that Coombes isn’t the killer.”
She angled her chin slightly, a show of bravado tha
t he found admirable. “Which means?”
He stopped three feet in front of her, kept his gaze steady on hers. “I’ve been assigned to protect you—unofficially as far as the commissioner’s office is concerned.”
“Undercover?”
Not able to open his locked fists, Jacob kept them jammed in his jacket pockets. “I’m listed as ‘on assignment.’”
“That’s nice and vague.”
Jacob felt his teeth beginning to grind and knew it was time to leave. Past time if he were truthful. Guilt and a beautiful woman whose scent brought to mind woodsy Irish flowers were not mixing well in his system. There was, however, one more thing he needed to do.
“Where is it, Ms. Tremayne?” he questioned softly. “I have to see the Christmas angel pendant.”
RUDY BROWN LET his twelve-year-old beagle Buddy out the back door of his comfortably messy townhouse with a growled order to get his business done fast and proper. Squinting sideways through the blowing snow, he saw that his nephew’s fourth-floor condo half a block away was dark. Eleven o’clock on a Tuesday night and Jacob continued to prowl like a restless cat.
“Restless, hell,” Rudy grumbled, slamming the door behind him. “The boy’s obsessed.”
“Who’s obsessed, Rude?” Mandy Carter, Rudy’s live-in lover for the past two years, yawned hugely as she plodded in fuzzy pink slippers through the kitchen door.
A faded but damned good Mae West look-alike to Rudy’s mind, Mandy was privy to most of his concerns. She didn’t know them all, though, and he was reluctant to tell her the gory details of this one.
He gave an irritable shrug. “Jacob’s not home.”
Mandy’s blue eyes sparkled. “This from a retired cop who was lucky to make it home half the nights he pulled active duty.” She gave his shoulder an affectionate thump, then proceeded to the cupboard. “I’ve heard stories about you, Rudy-boy, from more women than I care to think about. They say secrets and late nights run in your family—and not necessarily because of the cop connection. Take Jacob. He’s no cop, but I know for a fact he’s got a passle of secrets. Then there’s that scary old bone bag you called Aunt Ida.” She rolled her eyes, shuddering deeply. “She was one hell of a secretive lady. Lived in that freaky Chicago mansion of hers for—how long was it? Twenty-five years?”
“Twenty-three,” Rudy warmed his chilled hands on the holly-green coffee mug Mandy handed him. “Ida was okay. A little eccentric is all. She did fine by Jacob and Laura.”
“Bull. My father was a cop. He met her, Rude. She did fine by Laura, not Jacob. People talk, boyo. Laura was a spoiled bitch. And Ida was one weird old relic.”
“With one of the sharpest minds I’ve ever known.”
“I won’t argue that. She was married to a gangster. She ran him, if rumors that old hold water.”
“We all have our skeletons, Mandy.”
Softening, she lowered her generous curves into the chair across from him. She took his gnarled right hand in hers. “I have my kids, you have me and Jacob has—something else. Live your own life, Rudy. Stop being Uncle Cop, and let Jacob handle his skeletons as he chooses.”
Swallowing a mouthful of coffee, Rudy regarded her from under heavy gray brows. “I might have to do some police work for the next few days.” The statement came out gruffly, unadorned. That was his way. “Probably cost me a couple long nights.”
Mandy could give grief with the best of them. She could also accept an unalterable situation better than most. “You and your secrets,” she said on a resigned sigh. “And here you harangue poor Jacob for working late.”
Rudy sat back, more troubled than he felt he ought to be. Jacob was determined to get to the bottom of this thing. A giant crowbar wouldn’t pry him away from it. Which meant that Rudy needed to be there, to watch and wait and see.
“How long will this extra work of yours take?” Breaking open a muffin, Mandy slathered it with raspberry jam. “Don’t forget, my grandkids are coming this weekend. You promised them a sleigh ride in the country. Not to mention—God forbid—a spin on that monstrosity you call a motorcycle.”
“It’s vintage World War II.” Rudy’s gravelly voice roughened to granite. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure I’m free.”
It was a promise he intended to keep—if he had to tie Jacob up and lock him in the cellar to do it.
Chapter Two
“Hannah, you didn’t. You couldn’t.” Devon stared at her sister, exasperated. Her fingers choked the toothbrush she held. “You agreed to let Riker move in here?”
Hannah pressed her palms together. “I had no choice, Devon. He’s a police officer. Besides, it’s to your benefit to have him here.”
Devon relaxed her stranglehold on the toothbrush. “I’m not being stalked,” she insisted.
“Detective Riker thinks you are.”
“Well, Detective Riker’s wrong.” Returning to the bathroom, Devon gave her bangs a final critical flick, straightened the jacket of her berry-red suit and flipped off the light. She found Hannah in the living room inspecting her undecorated tree.
“This is nice. How did you get it in?”
“Riker helped me.” Devon wasn’t ready to let the argument die. “Has it occurred to you, Hannah, that I don’t want police protection?”
“I’d be surprised if you did. Even sexy police protection. Coffee?”
“No—yes.” Devon accepted a steaming mug, but refused to sit. “Sexy isn’t competent.” Though his dark eyes had been extremely diverting. “I don’t like people hovering over me.”
Hannah hid a smile. “I can’t picture Detective Riker hovering. Andrew McGruder, yes, but not Joel Riker.”
Devon made a face as she sipped hot Kona. “Maybe it’s the curse of all dentists that they give the impression of hovering.”
Hannah’s gaze lowered to her lap. “He’s a very—persistent man. I wish Tony hadn’t let him sign a five-year-lease without speaking to me first.” She shook the unkind thought away. “Be philosophical about the situation, Devon. With Riker around, Andrew McGruder won’t be. He’s man-shy, I’ve noticed.”
“Except when it comes to finagling five-year-leases. Yes, okay,” Devon relented at Hannah’s expression, “I’ll back off. Riker’s here, and like it or not, he’s going to protect me from the gift horse who sent me an angel pendant.”
The phone on the kitchen counter rang. Closest to it, Hannah reached over to answer. “Devon? Yes, she’s right here.”
“Is it Alma?” Devon mouthed, with a quick glance at her mahogany grandmother clock.
“It’s a man, I think,” Hannah returned, covering the mouthpiece. “It’s 6:45, Devon. Roscoe said we should be early for the pancake breakfast.”
“Two minutes,” Devon replied, then took the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Devon Tremayne?”
It was a man all right, but he sounded hoarse. “Yes, can I help you?”
She wished she hadn’t asked. Twenty seconds later, she removed the receiver from her ear and stared at it accusingly as a slow-burning anger warred with the fear rising in her mind.
“Devon?” Her coat half on, Hannah approached. “What is it? Who was that?”
Devon continued to stare at the phone. “I have no idea. He said...” Reaction began to settle in. Her knuckles went white on the handset. Her blank eyes met her sister’s concerned ones. “He wanted to know if I liked the Christmas angel pendant he sent me.”
“YOU USED the Star 69 identification service.” Riker frowned. “What did you find out?”
She hadn’t been expecting congratulations for her quick thinking, had she? Devon sighed. “I got the number of the phone where the call was placed from.” She indicated her roll-top desk and continued to run her fingers through her hair as she paced the Persian carpet. “When I dialed the number...”
Riker’s eyes came up, dark and dangerous, but beyond that he didn’t interrupt.
“When I dialed,” she resumed, “I wound up talk
ing to an old woman who wondered if I knew what time the number ten bus arrived on Port Street.”
“A pay phone?”
“Apparently. Inside the Port Street Billiard Hall. And, no, I can’t imagine what someone’s grandmother would be doing looking for a bus at seven in the morning in that part of town.”
Hannah, who’d been sitting in silence since Riker arrived, offered a subdued, “I think you should go there, Detective. Someone might have seen the man who placed the call.”
But Riker was already tugging on his leather jacket and pulling out his gloves. “You two stay here.”
“Like hell.” Devon reached for her coat. “I’m going with you.”
Since she had a temper herself, she recognized that same quality in Riker. It showed mostly in his eyes, in the fierce glitter of negation that burned beneath the surface.
“It’s my life. I’m going with you,” she repeated before he could voice his objections.
“Devon.” Hannah touched her arm.
But Riker surprised her. “No, Devon’s right.” He checked the gun strapped to the back of his waistband. “It’s her life. If she wants to risk it riding with me, I won’t stop her.” He sent Devon a pointed look. “This time.”
Meaning, Devon presumed, that he didn’t expect to find much at the billiard hall.
Since he was already heading out, she only had time for a hurried, “You might as well go to the breakfast. Bring me a doggy bag, okay?” to Hannah.
Riker was at the bottom of the stairs by the time Devon reached the top. Last night she’d looked but hadn’t absorbed much of his physical appearance. The idea of a murder threat directed at her had naturally taken precedence. Today, despite the ominous start, she realized that both she and Hannah had understated the matter by calling him simply sexy. He was six feet tall with a lithe body, dark eyes that gave new meaning to the word seductive and a sensual mouth which so far had frowned at her more than it had smiled.