The Woman Who Wasn't There

by Marie Ferrarella

  But right now, Russell wasn’t thinking in his capacity as the well-paid lawyer for the son of one of the oldest crime families in the country, Anthony Palladino. He was being Russell Jackson, the guy whose wife ran out on him. Nobody said a word around him, but he knew what they were thinking. Knew they were laughing at him behind his back because he hadn’t been able to keep his woman where she belonged. Not a day went by these past five years when that didn’t gall him. When it didn’t eat away at his insides, bit by bit.

  He’d spent a considerable amount of time and money trying to find Diane, but it was as if all trace of her had disappeared that day she vanished from the hospital. A hospital room she wouldn’t have needed if she hadn’t tried to defy him. If she had remained that sweet, meek young woman who had looked up at him with those adoring eyes on their wedding day.

  He wanted to get out there, to Aurora. Wanted to take the next flight to the Northern California city. But Anthony had made it known he needed him by his side for the next few days. Things could get hot.

  Impatience pawed at his belly like a barely reined-in prize stallion.

  “You find out anything else?” he demanded of the caller.

  “Not yet, but I wanted to call you and—”

  “Find out, damn it. Find out where she’s staying. What name she’s going by. Everything. Do you hear me? I want every stinking detail. Especially who she’s been sleeping with.”

  Jack Santangelo began to sweat. His bags were packed. His plane ticket back was in his pocket. “But I finished my assignment.”

  “Then take a vacation,” Russell snapped.

  “But Anthony—”

  He cut Jack off as cleanly as if he’d just used a razor. “I’ll take care of Anthony. You find out what you can. I’ll be out as soon as this business is finished. Don’t leave,” he ordered again.

  Jack could feel his windpipe tightening as he squeezed the single word out. “Okay.”

  Dropping the receiver back into its cradle, Russell Jackson smiled for the first time in five years. It was the kind of smile that would have frozen the blood of any man who saw it.

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  At the last minute, Delene decided to go home and change before she made the rounds at the Traveler’s Motel. She knew that some people found uniforms intimidating, especially ones bearing the insignia of any sort of law enforcement. It was an instant way to create a “them vs. us” barrier that she was looking to avoid.

  The only problem was that in civilian garb, she came across as far less authoritative. Only a few steps removed from an old-fashioned, fragile china doll and certainly not to be taken seriously. That was one of the main reasons that she’d made it a point, the moment she was healed, to take classes in the martial arts. She’d become proficient in more than one discipline. That way she would be prepared.

  For anything.

  For Russell, if he ever came back into her life.

  Gravel crunched beneath the soles of her high heels as she made her way to the next door.

  Damn, why was she wasting brain matter, thinking about him? He was out of her life for good. The document that she kept in a leather binder said as much. It was a Mexican divorce, obtained in one of those small countries south of the border where anything can be arranged and fixed for a price. The bottom line was that her union to Russell was dissolved. She’d had Russell’s copy mailed to him from there, to throw him off as to her whereabouts. It was the last contact she’d had with him.

  And then she’d gone on with her life, made something of the bits and pieces that she’d managed to salvage, starting with her self-respect. And now she had a respectable career in a good city. More importantly, she thought as she approached another door, she was making a difference in people’s lives.

  Except not so much in Clyde’s life.

  The thought silently mocked her as she knocked. Maybe she hadn’t succeeded with Clyde, but that was just going to make her try that much harder with the others. It was a promise she made to herself.

  You moved forward or you died. That was something her father had said to her. Just before he left.

  The door she’d knocked on opened a crack. The street lamp behind her shone on the chain that was firmly in place. A woman with mousy-brown hair falling into her face looked at her nervously, small brown eyes darting back and forth to see if there was someone else standing behind her. Someone to break down the door.

  Sensing her discomfort, Delene immediately offered the woman a reassuring smile.

  “Hi, I’m Delene D’Angelo. I’m with the County Probation Department.” She held up her identification. The woman squinted at it, as if she needed glasses to make out all the words. “I was wondering if you happen to see a woman entering or leaving Unit 15?” She pointed across the way, where Clyde’s room was located.

  The brown eyes stared at her, never looking toward where she pointed. “No.”

  The answer was too automatic. She’d already canvassed the other units and either gotten a negative response, or no one was home. This was her last hope.

  “Are you sure?” Delene pressed, trying her best not to come across as desperate as she felt. “It’s really important.”

  The woman’s thin face never changed expression. She might have been forty, maybe younger, but life had long been siphoned from her. Delene remembered what that had felt like.

  “I mind my own business.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Delene quickly reassured her, “but sometimes you can’t help but see things, and if you did see a woman coming out of there, or going in, it could be really helpful.”

  Evidently the woman on the other side of the door had long since given up the notion of caring about her neighbor.

  “Helpful to who?” There was a touch of defiance in the question, even as she began to close the door.

  Delene talked fast. “To a little girl. The dead man had a daughter. I’m trying to locate her. You might have seen her mother.”

  The woman stopped closing the door and pushed it back to its limit. The chain became taut. “For real?”

  “For real,” Delene echoed.

  The woman pushed her hair from her face as she paused to think. “Saw someone come by with a kid about a month ago. She was a knockout.” As she spoke, she became slightly more animated. “The mother, not the kid. Real short skirt, high boots. Cheap but pretty.” Something almost begrudging came into her voice as she added, “You know the type.”

  This had to be the woman she was trying to locate, Delene thought. His girlfriend. Clyde wouldn’t have risked trafficking from his room. He knew about the raids, had gone through a couple. He wasn’t stupid enough to be found with any kind of drugs in his possession.

  “Yes, I do.” Delene tried to keep the excitement out of her voice. She didn’t want to scare the woman off. “If I brought someone by to sketch her, could you describe the woman you saw?”

  The other woman began to retreat again. She didn’t want to attract any attention. “Didn’t get that good a look.”

  “Too bad. I’d be willing to pay if you could.”

  The mention of money brought a dot of color to the pasty complexion. “Well, maybe…” The woman looked at her sharply. “How much?”

  Money had always been in short supply except for the years she’d spent with Russell. Then there’d been an unlimited source. She could have bought anything she wanted with it, except for the one thing she desired. Her freedom. Delene thought of what she had in her wallet. It was supposed to last the rest of the week. But this was more important.

  “Fifty dollars.”

  “Make that a hundred.” The deep male voice came from behind her.

  Startled, Delene swung around. She’d been so intent on getting the woman to trust her, she hadn’t heard Troy coming until he was less than two steps behind her.

  You’re slipping, Dee. You’ve got to watch yourself.

  It took her a second to get her heart rate to slow down t
o an acceptable beat, but she managed to cover it well. She inclined her head toward Troy. “Detective Cavanaugh.”

  He smiled broadly at her as he returned the greeting, the tone and the nod. “Agent D’Angelo.”

  She looked different, he thought. Had it not been for her hair and height, and the fact that he knew she intended to return here to question the residents, he might not have recognized her. There seemed to be an ethereal quality about the woman that she managed to hold somewhat in abeyance when she was in uniform. More than ever, she didn’t look like a law-enforcement agent. It was difficult not to stare at her, especially since the light blue turtleneck sweater she wore accentuated the swell of very firm breasts.

  He forced himself to focus instead on the woman inside the room. It helped. Some.

  “You the police?” the woman behind the door asked. She stared at him with something akin to growing interest.

  “One of Aurora’s finest.”

  He slanted a glance toward Delene to see her reaction as he took out his gold shield for the other woman’s benefit. From where he stood, Delene seemed annoyed. Probably thought he was cutting in on her territory. He allowed an easy smile to curve his lips. This was one of the neighbors who had been absent when he and Kara had done their initial canvas of the area.

  “And we’d be very interested in anything you might have observed about anyone coming or going from that unit over there, ma’am. Unit 15.”

  Though he’d phrased it innocently enough, even addressing her with respect, the woman obviously took it to mean that he thought she was spying. Thin fingers nervously fluttered around her unwashed hair. She began twisting an end.

  “I didn’t observe nothin’,” she insisted. “I was just coming in with my groceries one day and happened to see those two walking in.” She looked back at Delene. “The mother and the kid.”

  “That’s exactly what we’re after,” Troy assured her smoothly. “If you come down to the station, I can have a sketch artist work with you.”

  The woman eyed Delene uncertainly. “He with you?”

  “We’re together,” Troy assured the woman quickly.

  Too quickly for Delene’s satisfaction. She turned her face away from the door so that only Troy could hear her. “In your dreams.” She wasn’t prepared for his lightning grin to go straight to her gut, but it did.

  “You know what they say about dreams, Agent D’Angelo.” He winked at her, compounding the felony committed by his grin. “They’re only dreams if you can’t make them come true.”

  Her stomach tightened.

  This worried her. She couldn’t remember the last time she had reacted to a man. That part of her was dead. Or so she’d surmised. Maybe it was just some kind of unavoidable response, like when the doctor taps a certain spot on your knee with a tiny rubber hammer.

  She tried to remember that the man annoyed her. Delene blew out a breath. “I don’t like you invading my territory.”

  The twinkle in his eye went to the same spot his wink had. It took all she had not to press her hand to her stomach. God, she hoped she was coming down with the flu.

  His voice was low, sultry, as it wrapped itself around her in a whisper meant only for her ears.

  “You’ll know when I invade, Agent D’Angelo, I promise you that.” And then he smiled again, his voice growing louder as he nodded in the potential witness’s direction. “Think of this as a hands-across-the-sea joint effort.”

  Delene had no choice but to go along. The police had every right to be here, while she did not. At least not anymore.

  “Right.” Delene all but chewed the word up as she spat it out.

  The door suddenly closed and she thought they’d lost the woman during their personal locking of horns. But then the door opened again, this time without a chain to tether it in place.

  “Okay,” the woman announced, throwing a jacket around her painfully thin shoulders. Her hands trembled as she did so. Maybe Clyde had dealt where he lived and this was one of his customers, Delene thought. “I’ll come.” Standing on the threshold, she moved no farther, eyeing them both. “Where’s my hundred?”

  Troy placed the full sum into her hand before Delene had a chance to take out her wallet and get her share. Pushing the wallet back into her pocket, she raised a quizzical brow in his direction. He merely smiled in response.

  Turning toward the woman, he asked, “Ready?”

  For the first time, the thin lips moved back in something that was a close approximation to a smile. “Ready.”

  ***

  “Just exactly what were you doing at the motel?” Delene asked once they had placed the woman, whose name they discovered after some coaxing was Shirley West, together with the department’s sketch artist.

  Troy watched as Shirley shook her head. The so-called sketch artist, Ron, sat at a computer. He was patiently undoing what he’d just done on the screen and trying again.

  “I told you I thought it was a good idea when you mentioned it back at your office. I would have been there sooner, but I had a couple of things to take care of.” Troy’s eyes shifted to her. “Questioning the residents about Clyde’s girlfriend was a lead worth pursuing.” He studied Delene for a moment. She looked as if she was about to fidget, but that could have just been his imagination. “You ever think about joining the police department?”

  She could keep a relatively low profile where she was. Police work was something else. “I’ve already got a job.”

  She was being defensive again, he thought. The lady apparently had a lot of buttons and he seemed to be pressing all of them. “You should never close the door to possibilities.”

  He was standing much too close again, but that was the fault of the room’s layout. Moving away would give away that he made her nervous. She didn’t want him thinking that, even if it was true. So she went on the offensive again.

  “You’re just full of fortune cookie sayings, aren’t you?”

  Troy crossed his arms before him. “You’re trying too hard.”

  “Too hard?”

  “To get me to back off,” he elaborated. His eyes met hers. They were more compelling each time he looked at them, he thought. As was she. “Which only makes me wonder why.”

  She wasn’t going to get sucked into any kind of word exchange with this man. She had a feeling he had a great deal of practice. “Maybe I don’t like you,” she said flatly.

  His eyes fairly shone with humor. “Not possible. Everyone tells me I’m very likable.”

  Anyone else saying that would have come off like a conceited oaf. So why didn’t he? Why did she feel an urge to smile? “Maybe they’re just lying to you so they don’t hurt your feelings.”

  He leaned over so that his words were only for her. “If they didn’t like me, they wouldn’t care about my feelings.”

  This time she did take a step back. His breath along her neck was just too unnerving and distracting. “You do like to argue, don’t you?”

  His grin broadened, drawing her in. “I like doing other things better.”

  And it didn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out what, she thought.

  Something warm and seductive undulated through her, short-circuiting her ability to think clearly. Taking every single inch prisoner. It took more than a little effort for her to break free, even more for her to get her footing back.

  She did her best to look at him coldly. “I’m sure you do, but I’m not interested, Cavanaugh.”

  He inclined his head again, his breath undoing her before the words had a chance. “How do you know unless you try?”

  Delene curled her fingers into her hands. This was just a game for him. The kind of game Russell had once played, she reminded herself. It was called conquest. She had to remember that, even if the stakes this time would probably only involve a tumble in the hay.

  “Some things you just know,” she assured him. “I don’t have to jump off a building to know that I wouldn’t like what happened once I reached ground
level.”

  “But with a parachute, it might be fun,” he pointed out smoothly. She gave him what amounted to a withering look. He didn’t retreat. It wasn’t in his nature. “All I’m saying Agent D’Angelo is that experiencing the same thing with different people can be—” he winked “—different.”

  Her stomach did a half gainer. She pressed her lips together, doing her best to show disinterest. “I’ll take your word for it,” she murmured. Her attention turned to the sketch artist who leaned back at the desk. She read his body language. “I think he might be finished.”

  “He might be, but I’m not.”

  He’d said it under his breath as she began to walk away. She’d heard him. And for reasons that Delene couldn’t begin to explain or fathom, a small thrill shot through her.

  Dammit, she was standing at the edge of a slippery slope. And slippery slopes made you plummet to the bottom. Usually with injuries. And even if there weren’t any, she definitely didn’t want to start anything with anyone because she didn’t want complications in her life. Just maintaining an even keel day to day was difficult enough. She had to focus on surviving. And on being alert. That more than took up her time.

  So she turned on her heel to eye him. “Are you threatening me, Detective Cavanaugh?”

  He laughed, joining her. The sound made a beeline straight to her gut. Again. She could feel its integrity weakening with each blow.

  “I’m probably the most nonthreatening person you’ll ever encounter, Agent D’Angelo.” Troy made the assurance just before they reached the desk where the sketch artist sat. Shirley was standing over him, looking at the computer monitor. The woman was frowning, twirling the ends of her hair as she cocked her head and stared at the digital rendition.