DARE TO REMEMBER

by Debra Cowan

  She nodded, her heart catching at the shortened version of her name that he'd always used.

  His gaze locked on her, and for an instant she saw sadness and compassion and naked pain. Then he became Mace the cop. "Is there any other description about the men you can give?"

  She thought for a minute. "I think that's all."

  "Did you hear them say anything? Did they call each other by name?"

  "No." She closed her eyes, replaying the muffled pop of the gunshot, the squeak of shoe leather on the tile floor. "No, I didn't hear anything."

  "How about the sound of their car, when they left?"

  "No." She realized that this was the first time they'd ever discussed police business or anything related to it. Resentment flared that the conversation concerned her father's death.

  Her father had always kept the details of his job separate and secret from her. Just as Mace always had. She preferred it that way. Determined not to acknowledge the fear that had driven her mother to divorce her dad, Devon had instead chosen to ignore Mace's job completely. And he'd never forced the issue.

  Mace rose, his knees creaking as he walked over to pick up the notebook he'd left on the table. "I think I got it. Brenda will type it up for you to read before you leave."

  She nodded and took another deep breath, this one cleansing. At first she'd seen the doubt and wariness in his eyes, but as she talked, that had changed to belief and trust—things she'd never thought to see in his eyes again.

  She wanted to thank him for that, but what was the point? He was probably just doing his job. As she'd been doing what she had to do in order to put the past behind her.

  Giving her statement in addition to seeing Mace overwhelmed her, and though she suddenly felt weak with fatigue, for the first time in over a year she felt as if she were taking control of her life. There had been no Dr. Beasley. No Mom. Just Devon herself.

  But that didn't mean she could handle being in such close quarters with Mace. Now that she was more composed, she was able to sort out feelings that before had been lost in a jumbled mass of agony and horror.

  Some of her anxiety could be attributed to relating the events of her father's murder, but not this ache in her body, not this emptiness in her heart nor this urge to throw herself into Mace's arms.

  Thankfully, after she finished here today, she wouldn't have to be in such proximity with Mace again. Her heart clamored for him while her nerves screamed for distance. Just after this short period, she felt hemmed in, trapped. And was starting to wonder what had possessed her to ever walk away from this man.

  "Think you're up to looking at some pictures?"

  "Yes, I want to put the whole thing behind me. Forget everything that happened last year."

  "Yeah," he said tightly. "That would be good." She saw the brief flare of pain in his eyes and realized she'd chosen her words badly. But she didn't correct herself. There was no sense in opening more old wounds. She didn't know about Mace, but she was close to the breaking point.

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  « ^ »

  Pain welled up like blood from a fresh cut, spilling over into Mace's reason, his logic. He seated Devon in the squad room and ignored the surprised look of Brenda Martin, the division secretary, and the dark inscrutable eyes of Captain Price.

  Shock rocked through Mace as well. Overwhelmed him, actually. He hadn't known what to think when he'd first heard Devon's story. He'd doubted her; he couldn't deny it. After all this time? After all the digging he and the other guys had done? He didn't understand how she could witness a murder and forget it. But he believed her.

  He'd gone into that interview room trying to steel himself as best he could, which had been a total waste of time. Hearing Devon relate Bill's anxiety of that night had intensified Mace's guilt. Bill had been waiting for him, and he should've been there. Mace's chest hurt as if the air were slowly being squeezed out of his lungs.

  In addition, seeing Devon had unleashed a surge of desire and protectiveness and anger. Did she know, like he did, that it had been thirteen months, a week and three days since their breakup? Since she'd returned his ring? Since she'd closed the door on their future? Nipped it in the bud, he thought bitterly.

  Nothing could have prepared him for the sight of her vivacious features pinched with anxiety, the bleakness of her silver-green eyes. Her black wavy hair was shorter, a shiny cap of bouncy curls that barely reached her shoulders. He'd never thought he liked short hair.

  Why was she alone? Where was Marilee? Or that precious boyfriend? On the heels of irritated concern came a raw spike of anger Mace couldn't squelch. She never should've pushed him away. She shouldn't be dealing with this by herself.

  Oh, he knew about Josh Van Horn, but the guy was a nonentity in his book. A bean counter, for crying out loud! What kind of experience did an accountant have to deal with this kind of trauma?

  Of course, Mace had experience with it and that hadn't counted for a damn last year. He hadn't been able to help Devon, either.

  He tried to focus on the business at hand, but her voice brought back memories—of her laughter, of his name spilling from her lips in a ragged pant of passion. He wanted to kiss her until she begged him to come back; he wanted to shake her until her teeth rattled.

  They sat at a small rectangular table; spread in front of her were manila file folders holding pictures of suspects. His insides felt like shredded hamburger. If anything, she was more beautiful than the last time he'd seen her. At the time of their breakup, she had been reed thin and gaunt; now her slender curves had filled out again.

  Full breasts rose and fell under a plain white T-shirt that she wore with a brightly patterned vest and denim skirt. Her magnolia-smooth skin carried a tint of golden brown; her eyes glowed except for the anxiety that clouded them.

  Dark brows arched over wide, expressive eyes fringed with sooty lashes, and her bow-perfect lips were moist and raspberry red. He didn't wish for her to look bad, but did she have to look so damn good?

  He sat beside her, putting a respectable distance between them. But it wasn't far enough to mask the soft scent of honeysuckle shampoo and soap that wafted from her.

  Not far enough to staunch the memories. To subdue the heat stirring through his body. Or the protectiveness that made him want to pull her close and hold on while she went through the process of identifying the men who she claimed had killed her father.

  He couldn't believe she was here. Couldn't believe he was sitting next to her. Couldn't believe she was giving a statement for a murder that had happened over seventeen months ago.

  Devon, why couldn't you have come to me with this? Did things end so badly between us that you couldn't turn to me?

  Torn with disbelief and anger and pain, he wondered if he could do his job, even minimally. Screw objectivity. That was already shot to hell. But would he be able to ask the questions he needed to ask, knowing what torture it would be for her?

  He had to. He owed Bill Landry nothing less, owed Marilee and Devon nothing less, but how could he concentrate on what he needed to know when Devon was so close beside him, where he'd thought never to have her again? Never mind that it was strictly for a murder investigation. He couldn't seem to get past the fact that she wasn't here for him, for them.

  He wanted to hit something, yell at her for pushing him away and having to go through this alone. Which would solve exactly zero.

  He tried to rein in his burgeoning anger; even so, his voice was harsh and abrupt. "I'll need to ask you some questions. Can we do that while you look?"

  "Yes. Of course." She glanced at him, but didn't meet his gaze. Sweat misted her face and he noted that her hands trembled.

  He clenched his own fists against reaching for her. Do your job. Keep a distance. "You said you went into the laundry room?"

  "Yes." She scanned the top folder and her face seemed to pale even more.

  His stomach knotted. "Now, this room is just off the kitchen. In your earli
er statement, you said you were upstairs asleep."

  "That's what I remembered. Or actually, it was all I could figure out." Her gaze touched his briefly. "I couldn't remember where I was exactly, and now I know it's because I blocked out the whole incident."

  "So now you're saying you were downstairs, in the laundry room, where you had a clear view?"

  "I was there," she said quietly, meeting his eyes fully for the first time.

  He felt himself flush, but didn't look away. He knew it sounded as if he didn't believe her, but hell, it was almost too incredible. He himself had been at the scene only minutes after the murder and had questioned her and Marilee. Over and over and over.

  Repeatedly they had given the same answers. Never wavering. Never hesitating. According to Marilee, a slamming door—the intruders leaving—had awakened her. Devon had reached Bill first, and Marilee said that shock had sent her daughter fleeing into the small downstairs bathroom. Marilee had found Devon huddled in the corner, shaking uncontrollably.

  And now Mace was supposed to accept that he had an eyewitness. Not just anybody but Devon. Bill's daughter. Mace's fiancé. Ex-fiancé, he thought, catching himself. Hell, yes, he was having a hard time with it.

  He'd heard of repression, but had chalked it up to a bunch of psychobabble. If it had been anybody besides Devon, he probably would've dismissed the claim.

  But try as he might, Mace couldn't ignore the effect this whole experience was having on her, which made him want to protect her. Well, she didn't want or need his protection. She'd made that perfectly clear last year.

  With an effort, he gentled his voice. "You heard the men in the kitchen, then what?"

  "Then the shots. Two."

  "And then?"

  She swallowed hard and closed her eyes for a second. "I heard Daddy hit the floor. Then I heard footsteps, leaving. Then nothing."

  "What did you do?" His chest felt tight and constricted. He could've turned this over to O'Kelly or anybody else in the squad room, but despite the history between him and Devon, he felt compelled to handle it himself. He must like pain, he decided wryly.

  She shook her head, confused. "What do you mean?"

  "What did you do after they left?" he repeated impatiently. "Go upstairs? Stay in the laundry room? What?"

  Her hand gripped the page she was studying. Sweat slicked her face, turned her complexion the color of paste and made her lips and eyes vivid spots of color. He saw her shrink into herself, but then she stiffened her spine.

  "I … I came out and looked at him. I couldn't believe he was dead. I walked over to him—I couldn't touch him." She took a deep breath and her voice thickened. "I couldn't. There was so much blood. Everywhere. It was all over Mom's white tile, all over the cabinet—the floor."

  She steeled her jaw, her features stoic. "I think … I don't know … I ran. I remember … blood. It was spilling out, all over the floor and moving toward me. Almost on my feet." A breath shuddered out of her; a tear fell and she wiped it away. "I couldn't look at it anymore. The next thing I remember, Mom was holding me in the bathroom."

  "The bathroom that's off the kitchen?" Mace knew perfectly well where it was, but she needed time and so did he.

  Hearing her relay this part of the story twisted something deep inside him and raked across nerves he'd thought long dead to this kind of pain. She'd had to deal with this knowledge all alone. It was no wonder she'd had those nightmares about him dying in the same way. Did she still have them?

  She nodded in answer to his question, sitting stiffly erect in the chair as if afraid that if she moved she'd fall apart. He knew the feeling.

  Again he wished things had been different between them, that she could've at least come to him first instead of the department for help. He hated being only a cop on this case, hated that he had no right to expect her to treat him any differently. No right to hope she would.

  "And then Mom and I called you."

  He remembered. Remembered the sheer hysteria of Devon's voice, the shocked horror in Marilee's. He'd already been on his way there from the bachelor party and had called for backup from his car. He'd nearly lost it when he'd seen Bill's body.

  Guilt had wormed into him and hadn't eased up yet. If only he'd been on time, he might've prevented Bill's death. And despite his twelve years as a detective, he'd never felt so helpless as when he'd watched Marilee rocking Devon, both of them holding on to the other, neither of them comprehending a blessed thing that was happening.

  Devon had insisted on keeping Mace in view at all times, and he hadn't wanted to get any farther than that from her. Once he had finished with his prelim statement to Captain Price, he'd gone to Devon, holding her while she clung to him and sobbed.

  Cops had combed the house, the grounds, looking for bullet holes, shell casings, footprints, anything. They'd found two shell casings and nothing else. Both Marilee and Devon had sworn they'd heard nothing, seen no one. Mace had believed them, as had everyone else. He realized now that Devon had believed it because it had been too much for her mind to handle. Could she handle it now?

  His heart had wrenched for her then. And as he sat here with her, the pain returned, jabbing, slicing even deeper. Dev, I want to help you.

  Even as he thought it, she wiped away her tears, took a calming breath. She didn't need him. She had composed herself and now sat in that damn chair as if they'd never shared more than a hello and an interview room. As if they'd never held each other in passion, come together with such powerful need that they both lost themselves.

  Anger swept over him. "I'll need you to make a written statement and sign it."

  "All right." Her voice was thin with fatigue as she brushed her hair away from her face. She glanced down at the pictures she held, several of men with moles on their left cheek. "I don't see either of them in here."

  Mace showed her another manila folder with cutouts that served as frames for the Polaroid shots he'd gathered of possible suspects. He wished for a split second that she wouldn't find the men she searched for so this could end for both of them. But he knew it wouldn't end. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

  "Here." Her voice shook. "This is one of them."

  Mace looked at the photograph of a lean-faced man with a preppy haircut and an acne-scarred face. "Terry Carroll," he murmured, his pulse leaping.

  The guy was a known hit man for the mob, in particular for Joseph "Jewel" Martressa, though no charges had ever been made to stick. Mace pulled the book closer, trying to ignore the brush of heat along his nerves when his hand skimmed hers. "You're sure?"

  "Yes."

  Her voice was too bleak, too resigned for him to doubt her. And she hadn't hesitated, which would please the district attorney.

  Mace slid out the picture and pushed it to the side. "Keep going, if you're up to it."

  She nodded, her shoulders sagging in resigned determination.

  Sympathy tugged at him, and Mace found himself silently urging her on, encouraging without words. He leaned closer, offering himself as support even though she hadn't asked or even indicated she wanted that from him.

  After scanning two folders, she stopped again. "There." He followed the direction of her trembling finger and his eyes widened. "Gordon Dale Jens, aka Diamond Dale. Well, well. We've been after this guy for a long time. Your statement might be the key to taking him out, along with Martressa. Your dad—"

  Pain streaked through her eyes and Mace stopped, cursing. His gut knotted with pain. "Devon, you okay?"

  "Yes."

  "I didn't mean to—"

  "It's all right. I know you have to talk about it."

  Her eyes were again bright with tears and he ached. Couldn't he hold her just for a minute instead of sitting here like an impartial observer, a generic representative of law and order? They could draw strength from each other. What was wrong with him? He reined in the reckless, unexpected impulse.

  "Do you think this information will help you?
" She settled back in her chair, massaging her slender neck.

  "Yes."

  "And it will go to trial?"

  If I have anything to say about it. "Yes."

  She nodded, swallowing hard before meeting his gaze. "I'll testify."

  He hadn't planned to broach the subject yet. Now that she had, he wasn't sure she could handle the pressure. Could she emotionally endure a trial, especially as a witness? He believed her statement, but he'd been shaken by how upset she was. "Are you sure?"

  "Yes, I think so. Dr. Beasley thinks I should. And it's what Dad would've wanted."

  To hell with that, Mace wanted to say. What about you? Can you do it? If she did testify, it wouldn't be merely difficult or even unpleasant. It would be sheer hell.

  Because if Mace could nail Martressa with Devon's testimony, the trial would be long and brutal. Martressa would call out his big-gun lawyers, and in terms of inflicting pain and torture, those guys made pro football players look like sissies.

  She watched him for a moment, then smiled tightly. "You don't think I can."

  He was uncertain, but how could he tell her that? He sensed that testifying was crucial to her, although he hoped she was damn sure about following through. "I think you can do whatever you say you're going to."

  Pleasure flared in her eyes before she glanced away, folding her hands together. "Is that all you need from me?"

  "For now, yes."

  Tension strained the air between them, knotted with distance and aloofness, and Mace gritted his teeth even though he knew this was best.

  "I feel better." She kept her gaze trained on the utilitarian gray wall across the room. "For telling you, I mean."

  "You sound surprised." Fresh pain jabbed at him with her newly erected defenses, but he kept his voice carefully neutral.

  "I suppose I am." She shrugged and gave a small sigh. "I guess it's because I'm finally doing something to put away the past."

  A past that included him. "I'll be in touch about what we find out," he said curtly.

  "All right."

  They rose and walked through the squad room. She moved gracefully in front of him, her shoulders stiff, her gaze trained carefully ahead. He wanted to rail at her for leaving him, but why dredge it up now? They were both moving on.