Dangerous Illusions (Code of Honor Book #1)

by Irene Hannon

  The chances of anyone in that area volunteering information were nil. It was a miracle someone had called the police in response to Trish’s screams.

  “I hear you. Thanks for being proactive on this.”

  “I don’t like loose ends, either. Good night.”

  The line went dead, and Colin checked his email. No photo yet from the city detective.

  Cell in hand, he headed to the kitchen for a soda. Going to bed would be futile. He wanted to see the picture the city detective had found first.

  After that?

  He might lie down. Tomorrow was going to be busy, and with his adrenaline-laced job, he needed to be at the top of his game every day. Sufficient sleep was imperative to that, and most nights he had no difficulty logging seven or eight hours.

  But tonight wasn’t going to be one of them.

  12

  Colin was early.

  As the chiming doorbell echoed through the silent kitchen, Trish steadied her mug of coffee and glanced at the digital clock on the microwave. Nine twenty instead of the nine thirty they’d agreed on during their phone conversation an hour ago.

  Not that his premature arrival mattered. She’d been up for three hours. What was the point of staying in bed, staring at the ceiling, once the sun came up? She hadn’t logged more than three hours of restless sleep during the dark hours of the night, and there was less chance she’d catch any shut-eye with light spilling into the bedroom window.

  Leaving her mug in the kitchen, she smoothed a hand over her hair, crossed to the foyer, and peered through the peephole.

  Frowned.

  Why had Matt Parker shown up unannounced?

  She flipped the deadbolt and pulled the door open. “Good morning. This is a surprise.” Stepping back, she ushered him in.

  “Sorry to intrude without warning, but I was in the area and thought I’d drop off the material you wanted on Providence . . .” As he eased past her into the foyer, he gaped at the edge of the bulky dressing, visible below the three-quarter-length sleeve of her shirt. “What happened?”

  “I was mugged.” She shut the door and gave him a quick recap of her eventful evening.

  “I can’t believe someone attacked you with a knife.” Faint red splotches mottled his complexion, and an undercurrent of anger tightened his voice. “Did they catch the guy?”

  “Not that I’ve heard. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “I could use one, after that news.”

  “Why don’t I bring it out to the front porch? It’s relaxing there in the morning sun.”

  “All right.” He lifted the folder of material in his hand. “Where do you want this?”

  “On the chair is fine.” She transferred the bulky bag resting on the seat to the floor.

  “Would you like me to carry that somewhere for you? It’s not part of your standard foyer décor—and you shouldn’t be straining that arm.”

  “That’s okay. It’s all the stuff the CSU team collected, but I’m not ready to deal with it yet. I’ll meet you in front in a minute.”

  She left him in the foyer, already regretting her offer of coffee. No way did she want him hanging around, with Colin scheduled to arrive in mere minutes.

  But her mother had trained her well, and rudeness was a no-no. If the man had made a special trip to drop off the material she’d requested, the least she could do was offer him a beverage.

  Halfway across the kitchen, though, she paused. Did he take cream and sugar? For the life of her, she couldn’t recall.

  Better ask.

  She retraced her steps, the rubber soles of her flats noiseless on the tile floor.

  As she started to turn the corner of the hall into the foyer, however, she pulled up short. Matt was angled away from her, but she had a clear view of him—and he was rummaging around in the CSU bag.

  What on earth . . . ?

  Melting back into the shadows, she watched him poke through the contents for another few seconds. Then he picked up the Providence House folder from the chair and slid it inside. After securing the top, he slipped quietly out the front door, closing it with a soft click behind him.

  Trish stared into the empty foyer, trying to make sense of what she’d seen.

  Failed.

  There was no reason for him to paw through the CSU bag. Those were personal effects—and none of his business.

  As for taking the folder inside . . . what was that all about? She’d never think to look there for it after watching him put it on the chair. Instead, she’d scour the house, wondering if she’d picked it up and set it somewhere else—all the while fearing she’d had another memory lapse. Like leaving the burner on under the frying pan. Forgetting to put the filter basket in the coffeemaker. Mistaking the time of their movie date. Miscounting her mother’s . . .

  She gasped.

  Groped for the doorframe.

  Tried to breathe as a staggering possibility took shape in her mind.

  Was it conceivable she hadn’t miscounted the medicine?

  What if . . . what if her so-called mistakes hadn’t been lapses but setups? An attempt to make it seem as if she was losing it?

  Her head began to pound in rhythm with the throbbing in her arm, and she rubbed her temple.

  No.

  This was crazy thinking. She was jumping to ridiculous conclusions.

  Matt could have a logical explanation for rifling through the CSU bag—and there might be a reason he’d put the Providence House folder in there.

  Before she got too carried away, why not give him his coffee . . . and a chance to explain?

  Pulse racing, she returned to the kitchen, filled a mug, and joined him on the front porch.

  “You were right. This is a perfect spot in the morning.” He rose from one of the wicker chairs as she came through the door. “Aren’t you joining me?” He took the mug she handed him.

  “I had mine already.” She rubbed the damp palm of her uninjured hand down her jeans, trying for a casual, conversational tone. “Do you need cream or sugar?”

  “Black is fine. Shall we?” He motioned to a cushioned seat.

  She dropped into it and perched on the edge.

  “You seem tense.” He sat beside her.

  “I didn’t sleep well.”

  “I’m not surprised, after everything that happened last night.” The blotchiness in his complexion had evened out, and his voice was calmer now. “I can’t believe you got mugged. It’s shocking. But that isn’t the best part of town—especially at night.”

  “I’ve never had any trouble there in the past.” She needed to redirect the conversation. Give him an opening to talk about his strange behavior in the foyer. “Um . . . thanks again for dropping off the Providence House material.”

  “Happy to do it.”

  “You put the file on the chair in the foyer, right?”

  “Yes. You saw me do it.” His eyes thinned. “Did you forget?”

  Not a word about moving the folder.

  She squeezed the arms of her chair. “No. Just double-checking.”

  He took a sip of his coffee, watching her. “I worry about you. I think all the strain you’ve been under is taking a serious toll.”

  “I’m hoping life will be calmer going forward—but there are still difficult tasks ahead. Like going through the CSU bag.”

  “There’s no hurry on that. Whatever is in there can wait, can’t it?”

  He would know, after poking through it minutes ago. Yet no mention of that, either.

  This was freaking her out.

  “Trish?”

  She blinked at him. What had he asked? Oh . . . about waiting to sort through the CSU bag.

  “Yes. There’s nothing in there I need. I’ll get to it next week.”

  A familiar Taurus pulled up in front of the house, parking on the street instead of the driveway since Matt’s car occupied that spot.

  “Are you expecting company?” Twin creases appeared on Matt’s forehead.
<
br />   “Yes. Detective Flynn offered to bring my tote bag by this morning and drive me over to pick up my car at urgent care.”

  “I would have been happy to do that.” The grooves above his nose deepened.

  “I appreciate that.” She tried to smile, but her stiff lips refused to cooperate. “It’s a moot point, though. My neighbor ran me over earlier.”

  As Colin strode up the driveway, her bag in hand, Matt drained his mug and stood. “I need to be going.”

  “Thanks again for stopping by.” She rose too.

  Colin ascended the steps to the broad front porch, gave Matt a quick scan, and shifted his attention to her. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  “No. Matt was leaving. You remember Matt Parker, my mom’s accountant.”

  “Of course.”

  After the two men exchanged a quick handshake, Matt set his mug on a side table, said good-bye, and retreated down the stone walkway to his car.

  “Everything okay?” Colin lowered his voice, narrowing his eyes as he scrutinized her.

  “I’m not sure. Why don’t you come inside for a minute?”

  He didn’t ask any questions, just followed her in as Matt pulled out of the driveway and drove away.

  Once the door closed behind them, he set her tote bag on the floor and twined his fingers with hers. “What’s wrong?”

  She wanted to lean into him, let him wrap his strong arms around her, ask him to solve this new, disturbing puzzle.

  But she wasn’t the leaning-in type. Nor was she the type to foist her concerns on someone else.

  A helping hand and a fresh perspective, however, would be welcome.

  “Just when I think life is beginning to calm down, I get hit with another curveball.”

  “Like last night?” He touched the edge of the dressing on her arm.

  “No. This morning.”

  One of his eyebrows rose. “What happened?”

  “See that bag?” She pointed to it.

  “Yes. It’s the one I brought you from the CSU.”

  “It’s been there since the night you delivered it. I haven’t opened it—but Matt did, while I went to get his coffee.” She told him the story, including how he tucked the Providence House folder inside. “I offered him a chance to explain before you got here, but he didn’t take it. Instead, he reiterated he’d left the folder on the chair. Why would he do that?”

  Colin pondered that for a moment, brow furrowed, then shook his head. “I have no idea.”

  “Neither have I—but I do have kind of a . . . bizarre . . . theory.”

  “I want to hear it. But first . . .” He stroked a finger down her cheek. “Tell me how you are. Did you get much sleep?”

  “Some.”

  “Have you eaten anything yet this morning?”

  “No. I wasn’t hungry.”

  “Do you have any eggs in the house?”

  “Yes.”

  He took her arm. “I’ll make you an omelet. After that, we’ll talk.”

  “You don’t have to cook for me.”

  “I’ll make one for myself too. I think better on a full stomach.”

  She had a feeling his offer was more about ensuring she ate than enhancing his thinking ability, but she didn’t argue. No one had prepared a homemade meal for her in years.

  After settling her at the table with a fresh cup of coffee and some juice, he went to work . . . and in less than five minutes there were two cheese and mushroom omelets on the table.

  “These smell delicious.” She inhaled the savory aroma.

  “I don’t cook much, but the few dishes in my repertoire aren’t bad. Better yet, they’re fast and easy. Eat up.”

  He picked up his fork, but when she bowed her head to say a brief, silent blessing, he froze. Only after she finished did he dig into his omelet.

  “Did that make you uncomfortable?” Better to get a handle on his faith now, find out if that was going to cause a snag in their relationship.

  His fork stilled for a minute, and then he cut off a piece of the egg dish with the edge of the tines. “I don’t pray much.”

  “Because you don’t believe?”

  “I believe in God. Prayer, not so much. I was raised in a Christian home—in name, at any rate—but I’ve never seen much evidence the Almighty has any interest in his creation. I prayed like crazy after Neal was hit by that reckless driver, and he still died. Nor do I see many examples of his goodness and kindness and mercy in my job.”

  She propped her chin in the palm of her hand. “Yet you’re still in law enforcement. Despite all the shortcomings you see in your fellow man, you haven’t given up. You continue to seek justice and try to protect people.”

  He shot her a wary look. “And your point is . . .”

  “That’s sort of how God operates. This is a flawed world, no question about it—but he saved it anyway . . . and he’s never given up on us.”

  “How can you say that after all the bad stuff you’ve had to deal with in the past two years?”

  “It hasn’t all been bad. And in the midst of the bad stuff, there’s been good too.”

  “Like what?”

  “I met you.”

  He squinted at her, a hint of warmth—and amusement—springing to life in his eyes. “Were you on the debate team in high school or college?”

  “No.”

  “Their loss. Go ahead and eat.” He dived back in.

  The conversation about God was over.

  But he believed. That was a plus. And they could continue this discussion another day, when bizarre theories weren’t whirling through her brain.

  Trish followed his example, her appetite returning as she scarfed down his offering.

  He kept the conversation on impersonal topics until she finished her meal, then refilled her coffee, removed her plate, and sat across from her.

  “Now tell me your theory.”

  “It’s more a suspicion than a theory—and it’s going to sound nuts.”

  “I hear crazy stuff every day in my job. Coming from you, I doubt it’s going to sound nuts.”

  “You better reserve judgment on that.” She wrapped her fingers around her mug. “I’m beginning to wonder if all those mistakes I’ve supposedly been making these past few weeks aren’t mistakes after all.”

  If he was taken aback by that startling announcement, he gave no visible sign of it. Maybe all detectives had the inscrutable demeanor down pat.

  “Tell me more.” He took a sip of his coffee.

  “There isn’t much. I haven’t had a chance to think through this yet. But when I line up all my apparent memory lapses, Matt was always involved.”

  “What about your mom’s medication?”

  He’d homed in on the very question that was nipping at the edges of her composure.

  “On at least two occasions he was in the kitchen alone, and the medicine was very accessible.”

  “Are you suggesting he might have meddled with it?”

  She exhaled and combed her fingers through her hair. “That’s where all the speculation falls apart. Matt is a solid Christian guy with excellent credentials. Why would he want to hurt my mom?”

  “Why did he put the folder in the CSU bag?”

  Another question with no answer.

  Colin tapped a finger on the glass-topped table. “What do you know about his background?”

  “You mean personal stuff?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not much. He never mentions his family or what he does in his free time, other than taking care of his property. He has a small house on twenty or thirty acres outside of St. Louis, so I imagine maintenance takes a lot of hours—especially if he’s as meticulous about that as he is about his accounting work.”

  “What did the two of you talk about on your dates?”

  “Our lunch lasted less than an hour, and all we did was chitchat. The movie wasn’t conducive to conversation. The only new information I learned that night was that he w
as born in Boston.” She rested her sore arm on the table. “I may not know a lot about his history, but he has excellent professional credentials, and everything I’ve observed over the past year suggests he’s conscientious and hardworking. That’s why the notion he might be involved in anything . . . nefarious . . . is off the wall.”

  “I’ve heard—and seen—stranger things, believe me. I’ve also learned that the lack of an apparent motive doesn’t mean there isn’t one.” He pulled out his cell phone. “As a matter of fact, I have one new piece of information that gives your theory more credence. I was going to show you this after we ate breakfast.”

  He tapped a few buttons, then shifted the phone so she could see the screen.

  Her own image stared back at her from an unfamiliar photo.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “The city detective investigating the mugging found it in the schoolyard. It’s a computer printout. We’re assuming your attacker dropped it.”

  “You mean he was carrying a photo of me?” She tried to wrap her mind around that. “Why would some random mugger have a . . . oh!” Her stomach bottomed out as the implication slammed home. “It wasn’t random, was it? He was after me specifically.”

  Colin rested his hand on hers. “That’s our theory.”

  “But why would some junkie want to mug me, and not someone else?” She tried to swallow past the sudden, acrid taste of fear on her tongue. “Why not rob the first person he came across? Their money is as good as mine.”

  “Unless he wasn’t after money.” Colin stroked his fingers back and forth over her knuckles, never breaking eye contact. “Someone may have paid him to mug you. Any cash he got from your purse was a bonus.”

  “But . . . why would anyone pay to have me mugged?”

  “I don’t have an answer to that. Nor do I have an answer to why Matt Parker might have been trying to set you up to seem forgetful. Or why he might have fiddled with your mother’s medication. But if this is all some sort of grand plan, the stakes are deadly. You could have been killed last night . . . and your mother did die.”

  As his quiet words hung in the air between them, she began to shake. It had been hard enough to accept her own culpability in her mother’s death, but now he was talking premeditated murder.