Fatal Affair

by Marie Force

  “Yeah,” she said softly. “I found out he did call me after that night. Guess who took the messages and never gave them to me?”

  “Oh, let’s see, could it be our good friend Peter?”

  “One and the same, the prick.”

  Skip’s laugh was strained. “You able to be objective on this one with your Nick from the past part of the mix?”

  Surprised by the question, she glanced up at him and found him studying her with sharp, blue eyes that were just like hers. “Of course. It was six years ago. No biggie.”

  “Uh huh.”

  She should have known he would see right through her. He always did.

  “You need to get some sleep,” he said.

  “Whenever I close my eyes, I’m back in that crack house with Marquis Johnson screaming. And then I break out in a cold sweat.”

  “You did everything right, followed every instinct.” He gasped for air. “I wouldn’t have done it any differently.”

  “Do you ever think about the night you got shot?” She had never thought to ask that until she’d been haunted by her own demons.

  “Not so much. It’s all a blur.”

  Her cell phone rang. Sam reached for it on her belt and checked the caller ID. She didn’t recognize the 703 number. “I need to take this.”

  “Go on.”

  She kissed her father’s forehead and left the room. “Holland.”

  “Sam, it’s Nick. Someone’s been in my house.”

  Her heart fluttered at the sound of his deep voice. This was not good. “Has it been ransacked?” she asked, making an effort to sound cool and professional.

  “No.”

  “Then how do you know someone’s been there?”

  “I know. Stuff’s been moved.”

  “Where do you live?”

  He rattled off an address in Arlington, Virginia.

  Even though it was out of her jurisdiction, she grabbed her coat. “I’m on my way.”

  Chapter 7

  Thirty minutes later, Sam stormed up the stairs to Nick’s brick-front townhouse.

  He waited just inside the door and held it open for her. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Sure.” She stole a quick glance around a combined living room/dining room where it appeared nothing was out of place. In fact, the space seemed better suited to a furniture showroom rather than someone’s home. “How can you—”

  He grabbed her hand. “Come.”

  Startled, she let him lead her into his office, which was as neat as the other rooms but more lived in than what she had seen so far.

  “See that?”

  Following the direction of his pointed finger, she studied a small stack of books on the desk. “What about it?”

  “It’s at an angle.”

  “So?”

  “It’s not supposed to be.”

  “Seriously? You called me over here at eleven o’clock at night because your stack of books isn’t anally aligned?”

  With a furious scowl, he grabbed her hand again and all but dragged her upstairs to his bedroom. Now we’re talking! Relax, Sam, he’s not dragging you off to bed as much as you wish he were. Reminding herself that she was investigating a break-in at the home of a player in a homicide investigation, she pushed aside her salacious thoughts and tuned in to what he was showing her.

  Pointing to the dresser, he said, “I didn’t leave it like that.”

  A tiny scrap of white fabric poked out through the closed drawers. Deciding to humor him, Sam leaned in to inspect the cloth. “It’s not possible your tighty whities got caught in the drawer and you didn’t notice?”

  “No, it’s not possible,” he said through gritted teeth.

  She stood up and studied him like she had never seen him before, as if she hadn’t once seen him naked. “Have you always been so anal?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What does that mean? Hmm? Aren’t you going to call someone?”

  “To do what?”

  “To figure out who’s been in my house!”

  “Nick, come on.”

  “Forget it. Go home. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

  His eyes, she noticed, were rimmed with red. She ached at the thought of him alone and heartbroken over his murdered friend. “Fine. If you really think someone’s been in here—”

  “I do.”

  “I left my phone in the car. May I use yours?”

  He handed her his cell phone.

  “This is Detective Sergeant Sam Holland, MPD. I need a crime scene unit,” she said, giving the address.

  When she hung up, she turned to find him watching her intently.

  “Thank you.”

  She nodded, unsettled by the heat coming from his hazel eyes. Had she caused that or was it the fault of the person who had supposedly invaded his private space?

  An hour later, Sam sat with Nick on the sofa, out of the way of the Arlington cops who were dusting for prints.

  “How do you think they got in?” Desperate to maintain some semblance of distance from him, she spoke in the clipped, professional tone she used to interview witnesses.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Does anyone have a key?”

  “John had the only other one.”

  “Where did he keep it?”

  “I’m not sure. I gave it to him in case I ever locked myself out.”

  “Which probably never happens.”

  “It hasn’t yet.”

  “You don’t use the security system?” she asked.

  “It came with the place. I’ve never had it turned on.”

  “You might want to think about that.”

  “Really? Gee, thanks for that advice, Sergeant.”

  She shot him a warning look.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, dropping his head to run his fingers through thick dark hair.

  Sam licked her lips, wishing she could do that for him.

  “I don’t mean to snap at you. It’s just the idea of someone in my home, going through my stuff… It has me kind of skeeved out.”

  “Any idea what they might be looking for?”

  His shoulders sagged with fatigue. “None.”

  Sam’s heart went out to him. He’d had a horrible, painful day, and she wished she could find an appropriate excuse to hug him. She made an effort to soften her tone. “Is it possible someone is trying to find something here they couldn’t find at the senator’s place?”

  “I can’t imagine what. Neither of us ever took anything sensitive out of the office. There’re all kinds of rules about that.”

  “What kind of sensitive stuff was he involved with?”

  “After the midterm election, he was appointed to the Senate Homeland Security Committee, but most of his work was in the areas of commerce, finance, children, families and the aged. None of that was overly sensitive.”

  Watching his tired face with much more than professional interest, she was dying to address the elephant in the room—the six years’ worth of unfinished business and the tension that zipped through her every time she connected with those hot hazel eyes of his. “Is it possible he was involved in something you didn’t know about?”

  Nick scoffed. “Highly doubtful.”

  “But possible?”

  “Sure it is, but John didn’t operate that way. He relied on us for everything.”

  “You alluded earlier to him being high maintenance for the staff. Other than having to wake him up in the morning, how did you mean?”

  Nick was quiet for a long moment before he glanced at her. “This is all for background, right? I won’t read about it in tomorrow’s paper?”

  “I think we’ve missed the deadline for the morning edition.”

  “I’m serious, Sam. I don’t want to say or do anything to cause his parents any more grief than they’re already dealing with.”

  “It’s for my information now, but I can’t guarantee it’ll stay that way. If something you tell me helps to ma
ke this case, it’s apt to come out in court. As much as we might wish otherwise, murder victims are often put on trial right along with their killers.”

  “That’s so wrong.”

  “Unfortunately, it’s just the way it is.”

  Nick made an A-frame out of his hands and rested his chin on the point. “John was a reluctant senator. He used to joke that he was Prince Harry to Terry’s Prince William. Terry was the anointed one, groomed all his life to follow his father into politics. While Terry always lived in the public eye, John had a relatively normal life. For some reason, the press took an unusual interest in Terry’s comings and goings. His name was mentioned on the political and gossip pages almost as often as his father’s, and this was long before his father announced his retirement.”

  “It must’ve been tough to deal with all that attention.”

  Nick laughed, which chased the tension from his face. “Terry loved it. He ate it up. He was Washington’s most eligible bachelor, and he took full advantage, let me tell you.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a smart political strategy.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t. He and the senator—his father, I mean—had huge, knock-down brawls over his lifestyle. I witnessed a few of them. But somehow Terry managed to stay one step ahead of the scandalmongers—that is until he got arrested for drunk driving three weeks before he was supposed to announce his candidacy for his father’s seat. No amount of spin can get you out of that.”

  “Ouch. I remember this. It’s all coming back to me now.”

  “Graham was devastated. Before today, I’ve never seen him so crushed. That this son he’d placed all these hopes and dreams on had so totally let him down…”

  “How did Terry take it?”

  “Like a wounded puppy, like it was someone else’s fault. He was full of excuses. John was totally disgusted by him. At one point, he said, ‘Why doesn’t he just be a man and admit he made a mistake?’”

  “Did he say this to Terry?”

  “I doubt it. They were never really close. Terry loved all the attention, and John did his best to stay well below the radar.”

  “Until Terry forced him into the spotlight,” Sam said, starting to get a clearer picture of the O’Connor family.

  “Yes, and forced is the right word. John wanted nothing to do with running for the Senate. In fact, I remember him grousing about how ‘lucky’ he was that he’d just turned thirty, which is the minimum age to run for the Senate. He was sitting atop a nice little technology firm that made a chip for one of the DoD’s weapons systems. He and his partner were very successful.”

  “What happened to the company when John ran for Senate?”

  “His partner bought him out and later sold the company.”

  “Would he have any reason to want John dead?”

  “Hardly. He made hundreds of millions when he sold the company. The last I knew, he was living large in the Caribbean.”

  “What about Terry? Is he still harboring resentment that his younger brother got the life he was supposed to have?”

  “Maybe, but Terry wouldn’t have the stones to kill him. At the end of the day, Terry’s a wimp.”

  Regardless of that, Sam made a note to look more closely at Terry O’Connor.

  “Sergeant?” The lieutenant in charge of the crime scene unit approached them. “We’re just about done here. We didn’t find any sign of forced entry at either door or any of the ground-floor windows.”

  “Prints?”

  “Just one set.” He glanced at Nick. “We assume they’re yours, but we’ll have to confirm that.”

  Nick swore softly under his breath.

  “Thanks, Lieutenant.” Sam handed the other officer her card. “I’ll write up what I have if you’ll shoot me your report as a courtesy. There may be a connection to Senator O’Connor’s murder.”

  “Of course.”

  After a perfunctory clean up of the dust left over from the fingerprint powder, the other cops left a short time later.

  “Do you want some help cleaning up?” she asked Nick when they were alone.

  “That’s all right. I can do it.”

  He stood and extended a hand to help her up.

  Sam took his hand, but when she tried to let go, he tightened his grip. Startled, she looked up at him.

  “I’m sorry I dragged you over here for nothing.”

  “It wasn’t nothing—” Her words got stuck in her throat when he ran a finger over her cheek. His touch was so light she would have missed it if she hadn’t been staring at him.

  “You’re tired.”

  She shrugged, her heart slamming around in her chest. “I haven’t been sleeping too well lately.”

  “I read all the coverage of what happened. It wasn’t your fault, Sam.”

  “Tell that to Quentin Johnson. It wasn’t his fault, either.”

  “His father should’ve put his son’s safety ahead of saving his crack stash.”

  “I was counting on the fact that he would. I should’ve known better. How someone could put their child in that kind of danger… I’ll just never understand it.”

  “I’m sorry it happened to you. It broke my heart to read about it.”

  Sam found it hard to look away. “I, um…I should go.”

  “Before you do, there’s just one thing I really need to know.”

  “What?” she whispered.

  He released her hand, cupped her face and tilted it to receive his kiss.

  As his lips moved softly over hers, Sam summoned every ounce of fortitude she possessed and broke the kiss. “I can’t, Nick. Not during the investigation.” But oh how she wanted to keep kissing him!

  “I was dying to know if it would be like I remembered.”

  Her eyes closed against the onslaught of emotions. “And was it?”

  “Even better,” he said, going back for more.

  “Wait. Nick. Wait.” She kept her hand on his chest to stop him from getting any closer. “We can’t do this. Not now. Not when I’m in the middle of a homicide investigation that involves you.”

  “I didn’t do it.” He reached up to release the clip that held her hair and combed his fingers through the length as it tumbled free.

  Unnerved by the intimate gesture, she stepped back from him. “I know you didn’t, but you’re still involved. I’ve got enough problems right now without adding an inappropriate fling with a witness to the list.”

  “Is that what it would be?” His eyes were hot, intense and possibly furious as he stared at her. “An inappropriate fling?”

  “No,” she said softly. “Which is another reason why it’s not a good idea to start something now.”

  He moved closer to her. “It’s already started, Sam. It started six years ago, and we never got to finish it. This time, I intend to finish it. Maybe not right now, but eventually. I was a fool to let you slip through my fingers the first time. I won’t make that mistake again.”

  Startled by his intensity, Sam took another step back. “I appreciate the warning, but it might be one of those things that’s better left unfinished. We both have a lot going on—”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, handing her the hair clip.

  Sam felt his eyes on her back as she went to the door and let herself out. All the way home, her lips burned from the heat of his kiss.

  Chapter 8

  Early the next morning, as she stood over the lifeless, waxy remains of Senator John Thomas O’Connor, age thirty-six, it struck Sam that death was the great equalizer. We arrive with nothing, we leave with nothing, and in death what we’ve accomplished—or not accomplished—doesn’t much matter. Senator or bricklayer, millionaire or welfare mother, they all looked more or less the same laid out on the medical examiner’s table.

  “I’d place time of death at around eleven p.m.,” Dr. Lindsey McNamara, the District’s chief medical examiner, said as she released her long red hair from the high ponytail she’d worn for the autopsy.

  �
�That’s shortly after he got home. The killer might’ve been waiting for him.”

  “Dinner consisted of filet mignon, potatoes, mixed greens and what looked like two beers.”

  “Drugs?”

  “I’m waiting on the tox report.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “Stab wound to the neck. The jugular was severed. He bled out very quickly.”

  “Which came first? The cut to the neck or the privates?”

  “The privates.”

  Sam winced. “Tough way to go.”

  “For a man, probably the toughest.”

  “He was alert and aware that someone he knew had dismembered him,” Sam said, more to herself than to Lindsey.

  “You’re sure it was someone he knew?”

  “Nothing’s definite, but I’m leaning in that direction because there was no struggle and no forced entry.”

  “There was also no skin under his nails or any defensive injuries to his hands.”

  “He didn’t put up a fight.”

  “It happened fast.” Lindsey gestured to O’Connor’s penis floating in some sort of liquid.

  Sam fought back an unusual surge of nausea. This stuff didn’t usually bother her, but she had never seen a severed penis before.

  “A clean, fast cut,” Lindsey said.

  “Which is why the killer was able to get the knife through his neck while he was still sitting up in bed.”

  “Right. He would’ve been reacting to the dismemberment. He might’ve even blacked out from the pain.”

  “So he never saw the death blow coming.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Thanks, Doc. Send me your report when it’s ready?”

  “You got it,” Lindsey said. “Sam?”

  Sam, who had reached for her cell to check for messages, looked over at the other woman.

  “I wanted you to know how terrible I felt about what happened with that kid,” Lindsey said, her green eyes soft with compassion. “What the press did to you…well, anyone who knows you knows the truth.”

  “Thank you,” Sam said in a hushed tone. “I appreciate that.”

  By seven o’clock, Sam was in her office wading through four sets of phone records drawn from the senator’s home, office and two cell phones. Her eyes blurry from the lack of sleep that she blamed on Nick’s kiss and the memories it had resurrected, she searched for patterns and nursed her second diet cola of the day. Most of the calls were to numbers in the District and Virginia, but she noticed several calls per week to Chicago that usually lasted an hour or more. She made a note to check the number.