Under Suspicion

by Hannah Jayne

  “Come on, come on,” I whispered to the metal box as it lurched its way up—we’re thirty-six floors down—to the outer world. There was a jaunty ding and the doors split open to sunshine streaming through the front vestibule of the San Francisco Police Department. The squawk and buzz of department radios and telephones littered the air. That was when I smashed—chest to cardboard box—into Alex Grace.

  “Hey, Lawson.” Alex grabbed my arms to steady me and I wanted to crawl back against him—sans the box—and sink into those arms.

  “Oh, hey, Alex. Sorry, I guess I’m just a little bit distracted.”

  I blinked, then looked up into those cobalt blue eyes of his. Oh yes, I was definitely distracted.

  Alex Grace was heavenly. His milk-chocolate dark hair curled in run-your-fingers-through-it waves, which licked the tops of his completely kissable ears. Those searing eyes were framed by to-die-for lashes. His cheeks were tinged pink, and his lips were pressed into his trademark half smile, which was all at once genuine and cocky, with just a hint of sex appeal. A man like this was otherworldly.

  And Alex had the two tiny scars just below his shoulder blades to prove it.

  Alex was an earthbound angel. Fallen, if you want to be technical. But he lacked the certain technicality that made other fallen angels so annoying: He didn’t want to kill me. Most of the time.

  I tried to tear my eyes away from his beautiful, full lips—lips that I distinctly remembered kissing—and focused hard on my rogue clients; but even though we had decided to be “just friends,” almost six months ago, there was still a sizzling something between me and Alex. Call it forbidden love or my addiction to Harlequin novels, but Alex Grace was not an easy man to get over.

  After all, he was an angel.

  “Nice box.”

  “Oh, this?” Alex shifted the box and I rolled up on my tiptoes and lifted the lid.

  This time, my thudding heart skidded to a stop. There were books and a few wrinkled copies of Guns & Ammo (What? Did you think fallen angels read the Bible?), what remained of a spider plant, which Alex had brought back to life for me, overstuffed file folders, and, rolling on top, the coffee-stained Don’t Hassle Me; I’m Local mug I got him last summer.

  His eyes softened. “I didn’t want you to find out this way.”

  I put the lid back on the box and blinked up at him. “Are you going somewhere?”

  He nodded, licking his bottom lip. “I was going to tell you, but ...” Alex shrugged and looked away in that annoying, alarming way men had when they’ve just told you something vague and noncommittal that could either be “I’m considering changing from boxers to briefs” or “The fate of the world hangs in the balance.”

  “But what?” I tried to keep my voice steady, reminding myself that a good friend doesn’t let her voice go into high-pitched hypersqueak when another good friend might be leaving.

  “It’s not really a big deal.” He shifted the box. “Can we go somewhere and talk?”

  I sucked in a deep breath. “Can’t we talk now? In your office?”

  “My office is pretty much cleaned out, but sure.”

  Since fallen angel-ing didn’t come with a paycheck or a 401(k), Alex spent a good chunk of his mortal life working as an FBI field detective, generally stationed in a back office at the SFPD. The vagueness of his actual job title or description allowed him to come and go as he pleased, attending to official police—or angel—business whenever necessary. And also, he really liked donuts.

  I followed Alex to his office and gaped at the half-empty room. The desk, where he had worked on cases—and where I once had imagined him pulling me down into a passionate embrace—was shoved against a wall and stacked with cardboard boxes. His office chair was upended on top of them. The free 2008 Honda calendar, which had been tacked to the back wall since 2010, was missing, as was the souvenir picture of us at the Giants baseball game.

  “Why is your office cleaned out?”

  “It’s no big deal. I just wanted to let you know I won’t be around for a while.”

  The file in my hand was suddenly filled with cement, was a hundred-pound weight that pulled my hand down. I leaned in close to Alex, swallowing heavily to try and find the smallest bit of saliva in my Sahara-dry mouth.

  “Are you going back?” I finally managed.

  Alex, though earthbound and fallen, wanted to return to grace—and I wanted that for him, even though grace meant I would never see him again. But now the thought of my life without him hit me like a raw fist at the bottom of my gut.

  Alex was silent for a second that lasted millennia. He put the box down gently and blew out a sigh, which held all the emotion of the last two years of our life together.

  “Yes,” he said slowly. “I’m going to Buffalo.”

  I choked on the love-soaked soliloquy I was composing in my head. The one that talked about how I would, as the Vessel of Souls and Alex’s only link to the Heavenly plane, be willing to give up my life for him to return to grace. I cocked my head and felt my lip curl up into an involuntary—and undoubtedly unattractive—snarl. “What?”

  “Buffalo.” Alex leaned back against the wall and looked stupidly unaware of the fact that I was about to lay down my life for him, right here between the men’s room and the utility closet. “Stakeout. I’ll be gone for a couple of weeks. It’s starting to look like the trail of the guy I was after a few years ago is fresh again, and they’re shampooing the rugs here so I have to get everything out, anyway. Good timing, huh? Hey, Lawson, are you okay?”

  My heart was lodged securely in my throat. Images of bloodshed, of bullets firing, of Alex’s lifeless body roared through my head.

  “I swear to God, I’m going to kill you Alex Grace.”

  Alex cocked his head. “Aw, Lawson, I’m going to miss you, too.”

  I let a beat pass and my annoyance die down. “You’re going on a stakeout? I thought you were—you were ...”

  Alex’s eyebrow arched as a hearty officer sauntered into the men’s room across the hall, newspaper tucked under his arm, dark eyes intent on us.

  “You were saying?”

  “Have a nice trip.” I could feel the scowl weighting down my lips.

  Alex blew out an exasperated sigh, rolling his eyes. “Now what?” he wanted to know.

  “Nothing.”

  Alex crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Out with it. You can’t be that pissed off about Buffalo. What is it that’s making you look like someone kicked your puppy? Come on, you can’t hide it. I am an angel, you know.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t your only angelic powers wolfing down a pizza in one bite—”

  “And the occasional mind reading.” Alex grinned salaciously and I wanted to crawl under the table. He never said it outright, but I had the overwhelming suspicion that Alex had done the occasional mind dip when my mind was ... indisposed. Like imagining Alex Grace greased up with coconut oil and reclining on a beach—that kind of indisposed.

  Why couldn’t I fall in love with an inmate, like a normal woman?

  I worked to avoid the blush that I knew was creeping over my cheeks. And here’s the thing about blushing: on chestnut brunettes a bashful crimson makes a pretty glow; ditto on those sun-kissed blondes. But when you’re redheaded (my Red Hot hair color only served to slightly mask my natural Crayola orange ’do) and have the kind of skin that people politely refer to as “porcelain” (meaning glow-in-the-dark white), a “hint of blush” equates to looking exactly like an overcooked lobster in a white button-down shirt.

  “Can I go to Buffalo with you? I’m good on a stakeout. I come with my own donuts.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re having another shake-up at UDA.”

  Alex rifled through a box and handed me a Styrofoam cup; then he filled it from the office water jug. “Big deal. You’ve been through that before.”

  I took a gulp of water. “Yeah, but this time Vlad is my boss.”

  He did so
mething between a guffaw and a choke, and water dribbled down his chin.

  I narrowed my eyes. “You deserve that,” I said, pointing to his wet shirt.

  “Vlad? Your boss? That’s priceless.”

  “It’s not just that. In the last month alone, Dixon has replaced every higher-up with a vampire. He said a couple of people retired, but I’m not sure I believe that.”

  “Why? Wasn’t there cake?”

  “And then there’s this.” I handed him the file folder and he squinted at it.

  “Mrs. Henderson?”

  “She didn’t show up for her appointment today. She never misses an appointment. And another couple of my clients were no-shows, too. Isn’t that weird?”

  Alex finished the water in one final gulp and handed the file back to me. “Not really. Why don’t you just call her?”

  I bit my bottom lip. “I think I’ll do one better. Thanks, Alex.” I spun on my heel and was halfway into the hall when I felt his hand on my shoulder.

  “What are you doing?” he wanted to know.

  I shrugged. “Just going to make a pit stop.”

  “Don’t get involved, Lawson.”

  “Who’s getting involved?” I snaked the check out of Mrs. Henderson’s folder. “I’m just doing a friend a friendly favor.”

  Mrs. Henderson and her two obnoxious teenagers lived in a gorgeous Old Hollywood–style house in a quiet neighborhood off Nineteenth Avenue. I was pleasantly surprised when I found it on my first try. I had been there numerous times for Mrs. Henderson’s Christmas parties, but generally there was an eight-foot winking Santa to guide me down the tree-lined streets.

  The house, usually resplendent with an impeccably manicured lawn and showy dusting of baby pink impatiens, was hardly recognizable. The lawn was overgrown and the impatiens were leggy and capped with drooping brown blooms. I continued up the stone walk and stooped on the porch to gather up at least a week’s worth of Chronicle newspapers and local circulars advertising great prices on everything from fertilized duck eggs to tripe.

  Clamping my mouth shut against a wave of nausea, I rapped on the door, then waited. The hairs on the back of my neck slowly started to rise, as did the suspicion that I was being watched. I pressed the newspapers to my chest and slowly turned my head over my shoulder. The Hendersons’ overgrown lawn and shaggy plants remained as they were and the street was empty, but I couldn’t shake the creepy feeling. I stepped off the porch and glanced up and down the street. Mainly deserted, except for a few parked cars—ticketed, of course—and an old man walking a basset hound four houses down.

  “I’m just jumpy,” I muttered to myself. “Jumpy.”

  I went back up the walk and I rapped again, harder this time. The door swung open. I jumped in and spun around, catching the taillights of a car as it sped down the street. The prickly feeling was still there; so I slammed the door, then pasted on a smile, ready to greet Mrs. Henderson or one of her annoying teens.

  “Thank you so much,” I started to say. “Sorry, I just ... Hello?”

  There was no one in the foyer and it was dim. All the curtains were drawn and the little wedge of outside light, which came in through a small crack in the fabric, illuminated dancing dust mites.

  “Mrs. Henderson? It’s me, Sophie. From the UDA. You missed your appointment today... .” I stayed pressed up against the door, my shoulder blades wincing against the cold wood. “Is anybody home?”

  My instinct told me that something was terribly wrong, that I should turn around and leave, drive straight back to the UDA.

  But I was never very good at trusting my instincts.

  Instead, I took tentative steps down the hallway, still clutching the newspapers, still calling into the empty house.

  “I’m coming down the hall now,” I announced, giving the man with a hook who was likely waiting to gut me a play-by-play. “Is anyone home?” My voice rang out hollow in the gaping hallway and I tried to think of positive things—like a surprise dragon birthday party or Care Bears.

  There was a crunch underneath my foot and I let out an embarrassing yowl, dropping the newspapers in a heap and leaping backward. I clawed at my chest as my heart hammered and my sweat glands went into hyperdrive. I could feel the kinks that I dutifully blow-dried out this morning popping back. I took giant gulps of air, spinning like a maniac to catch an intruder at all sides. Nothing. I toed the newspapers and pushed last week’s away, revealing a newly crushed hot pink iPod.

  “Uh-oh,” I murmured.

  I casually kicked the iPod aside, covering it again with the newspaper. When I found the Hendersons, I’d explain it. Silently I continued down the hall into the kitchen. I stopped dead, wincing, then pressed my hand to my nose. Either someone had gotten in on the fertilized-duck-egg deal or something was rotting. I didn’t want to go farther, plagued with crime scene images of dismembered bodies—their milky, staring eyes—but I had to see.

  The kitchen would have looked homey under any other circumstance. There was a decorative fruit bowl on the large oak table, and a valance and chair pads all coordinated with a sea of Laura Ashley–inspired roses. I walked carefully around the tiled island. A crock, which had been stuffed with cooking utensils, was cracked and lying on its side; spatulas and slotted spoons littered the gray slate floor. There were two covered pots on the stovetop and I pushed one lid back a half inch. I tried to peer inside, but the overwhelming stench of rotting food made me gag. I rushed to the kitchen sink and heaved, feeling hot salty tears rush down my cheeks.

  A cold rush of air whooshed over me and I looked up, for the first time seeing the jagged hole in the glass. The sink and the counter were littered with tiny glass pieces. I had mashed my palms into some and now the blood—searing hot—was dribbling over my wrists.

  I don’t know how, but suddenly I found myself outside on the Hendersons’ lawn, speed dialing Alex and shifting my weight from foot to foot, silently imploring him to answer.

  “Grace?” he said into the phone.

  “Oh, thank God. Alex, you have to come out here. Something’s wrong. Something bad happened to the Hendersons.”

  “Again with this? Lawson, didn’t we—”

  A coil of anger overtook my fear. “No, Alex. Now.” I read him the address and paced nervously, trying to work the tiny shards of glass from my palm. When I saw Alex’s SUV round the corner, not ten minutes later, I let out a breathy sigh and a torrent of tears. He jerked the car to a stop and I ran toward him.

  “Alex!”

  He got out of the car and sped toward me, his blue eyes stormy and looking me up and down. “What happened to you? Are you okay?”

  I shook my bloodied palms. “Nothing. Just broken glass. We have to go in there. Mrs. Henderson could be hurt. She could be dying!”

  I snatched Alex by the shirtsleeve and dragged him toward Mrs. Henderson’s front door. “Something—something happened in there.”

  “Was there anyone inside?”

  I wagged my head, using the back of my hand to swipe at tears that had suddenly started to fall. “I don’t know.”

  “Stay here.”

  Alex tried to guide me back to the car; but the second he turned, I followed him. He crept up the porch and carefully pushed open the door. I ran up behind him. My breasts were just brushing against his back; my heart was thundering like a jackhammer.

  “Doesn’t this look suspicious?” I whispered in Alex’s ear.

  He held up a silencing hand and pulled his gun from the holster. I clapped a palm to my forehead, then grimaced at the sting from the broken glass. “I should have brought my gun. Or at least my Taser.”

  Alex gave me a cursory look. “I think you’ve done enough.”

  “What is that supposed to mean? If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t be here, possibly putting both our lives in dan ... Oh. I see what you mean.”

  “Stay out here.” Alex gave me a gentle but firm push back.

  “I’m not staying out here!” I said, pushing bac
k against him. “The perp is probably out here just waiting to gut me!”

  “Fine. Just stay quiet and close.”

  I clung to Alex’s back as he walked silently from room to room. On the upper floor there was slightly more damage—pictures knocked from the wall, clothing torn and scattered on the floor, drawers left open.

  “So? What do you think? Homicide? Special circumstances?”

  Last year I had the opportunity to work with Alex to solve a case, so I was pretty well-versed in the police lingo.

  Alex cocked an amused eyebrow, trying to keep the smile from his lips. “I thought we promised—no more CSI for you?”

  I snarled, “Can we just focus on the case?”

  “Okay. It’s obvious that the Hendersons are not here, but it’s not entirely obvious that this is a crime scene.”

  I stomped my foot. “Crooked pictures! Broken glass! A smashed iPod. Add it all up, Alex, it spells duh. What more do you need? A gallon of blood? A note from the kidnapper?”

  Alex shook his head slowly, his angelic, gentlemanly way of ignoring me, and stepped around me, poking his head into a gaudy bathroom with gold fixtures and cheetah print wallpaper. Then he rested his hand on the doorknob of the only closed door in the hall. I watched as his fingers curled around the knob in slow motion. My heart lurched, lodging itself squarely in my throat. I started to shake my head.

  “I don’t think you should open that.”

  Alex’s eyebrows disappeared under his bangs. “Why not? Did you hear something in there?”

  I rubbed my arms, feeling the gooseflesh under my palms. “I have a bad feeling. Maybe we should wait for someone. Backup or something.”

  Alex rolled his eyes and nudged the door open with his shoe, poking his head in.

  “What do you see? Are they—”

  I couldn’t finish my sentence as Alex’s coughing and retching cut me off. He doubled over, stumbling backward.

  “Alex!”

  He snapped the door shut before I could get a look inside and I rushed over to him, helping him settle onto the carpet, clapping his back as he coughed while tears streamed over his red cheeks.