Finger Prints

by Barbara Delinsky

  Carly fingered her spoon. “I’ve gotten around some.”

  “Where?” He wasn’t about to let up. She wasn’t doing much more than existing. It was a waste.

  She met his gaze with hesitance. “I’ve driven down to Plymouth to see the rock, and out to Lexington and Concord. The area’s chock full of history. And I’ve been to the Faneuil Marketplace. You’d never have the patience to let me idle through the shops.”

  “And you did it? Without getting nervous?”

  “Of course.” It was a wee stretch of the truth, followed by a regurgitation of the arguments he had given her repeatedly himself. “I’m not that bad. I mean, if nothing else, I do look different from Robyn Hart. She had blue eyes and superlong straight hair. There was something—” she searched for the word, recalling an erstwhile wardrobe of peasant shirts, flowing skirts, floppy blazers and faded-to-nearly-nothing jeans “—Bohemian about her. Carly Quinn, on the other hand, is more conventional. She wears her hair at shoulder-length and lets it curl the way God intended. She has gray eyes. She dresses out of the career shop at Saks. It’s not a bad disguise.”

  “That’s the problem, Carly. You’ve got to stop thinking of it as a disguise. You are Carly Quinn now. If you’re called back to testify, the other will be the disguise.”

  Those gray eyes widened in alarm. “They haven’t contacted you, have they?” Her heart pounded against her ribs. “Will there be another trial?”

  He reached across to squeeze her hand. “No. No word of a trial. Not yet, at least. You do know that it’s a possibility though?” Without dwelling on it, he wanted her to be prepared.

  “Yes.” Barber and Culbert had both launched appeals after they’d been convicted. Though the judge had refused them immediate stays of sentence, their appeals went on. She closed her eyes over images of pain. “God, I don’t want that. The courtroom. The crowds. The press. Culbert and Barber staring daggers at me. Their lawyers shooting question after question, putting me on trial, trying to get me to say that I simply wanted to do someone, anyone in because my husband had died in a fire.” Her lids flickered up and she focused pleading eyes on Sam. “Matthew died in a hotel half a continent away. We’ll never know if it was arson.” Her tone grew more agitated. “But we do know that Culbert raked in hundreds of thousands in insurance money when he had those buildings burned in Chicago. And people died!” For an instant, she was in that other time. Her expression bore the agony of remembrance. “The smell. God, it was awful. Acrid. Suffocating. Terrifying….”

  Sam held her hand tighter. “Take it easy, hon. You’re right. We all know what those two did. So does the judge, the jury, the public. But legal processes take strange turns. Even if there is a new trial, it doesn’t mean the outcome will be any different.” He paused. “You know you’d be safe, constantly guarded.”

  Shuddering with apprehension, she nodded. “Yes.”

  “Good.” He sat straighter. “So. Where were we?”

  She saw no point in discussing the possibility of a trial, which was sure to depress her, or in discussing her social life, which was sure to depress Sam. Much as she had to force it, her only out seemed to be in humoring him. “You were telling me that this pregnancy’s been tougher for Ellen and that you really ought to head home.”

  “I never told you that. How come you know so much?”

  “I have three sisters-in-law and ten nieces and nephews. It was a safe guess.”

  “And a definite hint.”

  She apologized with a tremulous smile. “I really shouldn’t keep you any longer. Besides, even if Ellen’s not tired, I am.” Emotionally, she was beat.

  With a sigh of lighthearted defeat, Sam pushed back his chair and stood, taking her arm when she joined him. “Then I’ll leave you to your sweet but lonely virgin dreams,” he drawled in her ear.

  “You’re terrible,” she chided. “No wonder Ellen’s pregnant again, and Sara not yet two.”

  “Did I tell you that?” he asked, his eyes twinkling. But before she could answer, the doorbell rang. Both heads flew its way. Both smiles faded. “Were you expecting someone?” It was nearly nine o’clock.

  “If I was, I’d never have let you razz me as you did,” she murmured under her breath. “I have no idea who it could be.”

  The bell rang again. Sam spoke softly. “It’s not the intercom. Perhaps one of your neighbors?” He put an eye to the tiny viewer he’d had installed in her door and stared for several long seconds. Then, reaching a tentative decision, he held up a finger for her to wait while he nonchalantly took a seat in the living room. Then he motioned for her to answer the door. When she hesitated, he repeated the gesture more forcefully. Turning, she put her own eye to the viewer, and froze. But when she looked back Sam was vehement. “Trust me,” his eyes said. The palms with which he patted the air told her to be calm, to act as she normally would.

  Cautiously she released the upper bolts, leaving only the chain in place as she opened the door those scant few inches. In an involuntary flash, she relived the terror she’d felt in the courtyard earlier that evening. Her knuckles grew white, her knees weak. She was helpless to stem the race of her pulse. For before her, seeming to dominate that narrow slice of hall, stood the tall, dark stranger into whom she’d so unceremoniously barreled in her farcical escape from an imaginary hunter.

  Three

  “yES?” SHE ASKED SOFTLY, UNSURELY.

  His voice was deep and as strangely lulling as it had been in the courtyard. “Uh, I’m sorry to bother you, but I wonder if I might use your phone. I’ve just arrived with another load of things and—” he grimaced in chagrin “—it seems that I’ve locked my keys in the car.”

  Unhinged, Carly stood stock-still. She had assumed him to be a delivery man, though why, she wasn’t sure. Her mind drew up the fleeting image of a carton propped against the door. But it was Friday night. Another load of things? In his car?

  Reading her confusion, seeing lingering traces of the fear that had so gripped her earlier, the man smiled. She was lovely. “I’m Ryan Cornell. We’ll be neighbors. I’m moving into the apartment just under yours.”

  “The Amidons’s?” She was perplexed. She hadn’t known they’d been seeking a buyer, much less sold their place.

  “That’s right. Actually, I’m renting until they decide whether to live in Sarasota year-round.” When she still seemed wary, he elaborated. “They’d been toying with the idea of moving. A place came through unexpectedly, and they felt they had to grab it. It was furnished, so they left most of their things here. If they decide to buy down there, they’ll send for the rest.”

  Carly nodded, wondering how he could possibly have fabricated such a tale. She wanted desperately to believe him, yet she was, by habit, guarded. Standing there, silently staring up at him through the slim opening of the door, she was struck again by his aura of gentleness. A large man. Exquisitely soft brown eyes.

  In the background, Sam coughed. Having momentarily forgotten his presence, she looked quickly back. Ryan’s gaze flew beyond, only to be thwarted by the meager span of the opening. Not so his perceptivity.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. You’re not alone.” A faint crimson blush edged above his beard. With a contrite grin, he started to turn. “I’ll try elsewhere.” But the sound of the chain sliding across, then falling, halted his retreat.

  The door slowly opened and Carly offered a smile. Sam was there to keep her safe. Besides, Ryan Cornell, awkward in such an appealing way, seemed no more of a threat now than he had to her downstairs in the heat of her panic. She stood back. “Come on in. The phone’s in the kitchen.” When he hesitated still, she urged him on with a cock of her head.

  He took a step forward, looking down at her in gratitude, then stepped into the foyer and, sending an apologetic glance Sam’s way, followed her pointing finger to the kitchen. Feeling himself a perfect ass, he lifted the phone and punched out the number of the place he’d called home for the past year. Then he waited, his head down, one
hand on his hip, for the phone at the other end to ring.

  From an unobtrusive post by the kitchen door, Carly studied him. Lit generously now, his hair proved to be more brown than black. Though full, it was well shaped and neatly trimmed, as was the close-cropped beard that covered his jaw. Both were rich and well groomed. Indeed, despite her initial, irrational fear when he’d caught her arms downstairs, there was nothing of the scraggly cur about him. Though his sweat shirt was dark and faded, she could now detect its legend. Stretched across the muscled wall of his chest and slightly battered from washing and drying, it read Harvard. Though his jeans were worn, they were clean and hugged the leanest of hips. His sneakers were on the newer side. Just as she paused to admire his height, he glanced over at her, softly, silently, and she sensed that same gentleness she had earlier. When he offered a self-conscious smile, she half returned it.

  Then, with the abrupt shift of his expression, and after what must have been eight or nine rings, his call was answered. He tore his eyes away and focused on the floor.

  “Yeah.” The voice at the other end was hoarse and begrudging.

  “It’s me, pal. Sorry.”

  “Ryan? What the—”

  “I need a favor.” His jaw flexed. He spoke fast and low. “In the kitchen, the cabinet by the fridge. There’s a slew of my keys still on the hooks. Find the spares for my car and bring them over?”

  “But you’ve got the damned car, haven’t you?”

  “Not the keys.” He didn’t have to elaborate. His brother knew him too well.

  “Geez! What did you do, lock ’em in again?”

  Ryan tucked his head lower. “Spare me the speech, Tom. Can you run them over or not?”

  “Damn it, Ryan.” The phone was muffled, dropped, then grabbed up again. “I thought I was free of you for the night.”

  “You are. I just need the keys.”

  “It can’t wait till morning?”

  “The car’s running.” Ryan forced the words out under his breath in the hope that Carly wouldn’t hear.

  With a pithy oath, Thomas Cornell sat up to cast a rueful eye at the woman by his side. “And you can’t break in? You know, jimmy the lock with a hanger or something?”

  “I’ve tried. It’s not working.” Ryan’s patience waned. “Come on, Tom. I’m imposing on one of my neighbors—”

  “You’re imposing on me! Do you have any idea what you’re interrupting?”

  Ryan hadn’t been blind to the fair-haired attraction of his kid brother’s date. Nor was he blind to the fact that Tom was a skilled playboy who’d easily be able to pick up an hour later where he left off now.

  “I think so. Don’t forget, I’ve got a few years on you.” He took a deep breath. “I’m parked right out in front. I’ll be waiting downstairs in twenty minutes.”

  Tom tried to argue, but the phone was dead. Muttering something mercifully unintelligible, he rammed the receiver home. Then he looked down at the warm body in his bed. “He’s done it again, babe.” He sighed, feeling the last of his own passion fade as he lay back to stare at the mirrored image overhead.

  The young woman snuggled closer. “Who was that?”

  “My brother. You know, the guy who moved out tonight?”

  “What’s his problem?”

  “He needs me.”

  “So do I.” She slid one leg over his thigh.

  Yeah, Tom thought, arching a brow, but you’ll forget me tomorrow. Tossing back the sheet, he rose.

  “Hey, you’re not leaving me like this, are you?” came the sulky voice from behind.

  “I’ll be back.”

  “But, Tom—”

  “I’ll be back.” Heading for his clothes, he crossed the black shag carpet to an oversize leather chair. It too was black, as was fully half of the room’s decor. The other half was white. He’d thought it sleek and masculine when he’d done it up three years before. Ryan had thought it tacky from the start. But then, what did Ryan know, he thought angrily as he thrust first one leg then the other into his jeans.

  What did Ryan know? A hell of a lot. Though absent-minded enough to lock his keys in his car on a regular basis, Ryan had always been the responsible one, the one with a solid career, the one with a wife and home…well, once. Tugging his sweater on over his head, Tom took his brother’s side on that one. Alyssa had been a bitch, anyway. Spoiled and demanding. Not that she wasn’t half right in her accusation that Ryan was wedded to his work. He was. He was dedicated. And a whiz when it came to the law. He’d certainly come through for him on that score.

  “Tom…?” This time it was a whining complaint.

  He stuffed his feet into his boots, then knelt to rescue the denim from their clutches. “Yeah, babe?”

  “Come on, Tom. He’ll wait a few more minutes.”

  “You don’t know my brother.” And I do owe him. Running his fingers through his thick blond hair, he headed at a clip toward the door.

  “And if I’m not here when you get back…?” was the taunt.

  Tom paused once on the threshold to cast an arrogant glance back. “Then it’ll be your loss, babe.”

  Ryan turned back to Carly, who’d all the while stood silently by the kitchen door. “Sorry about that.” He thrust his hands in the pockets of his jeans and looked decidedly sheepish. “I guess you’re not the only one I’ve inconvenienced.”

  “Can your friend help?” she asked softly, her wariness now held in abeyance. The half of the conversation she’d heard had been utterly believable. Either he was a superb actor, or he had told the truth about his dilemma. Not to mention the fact that Sam remained where he was, sprawled casually on the sofa, apparently unconcerned.

  “He’ll help. Well—” he took a step toward the door, then cast another glance at Sam “—I’m sorry to have bothered you. With any luck my phone will be in on Monday.” He reached the door when Sam finally came to life.

  “Can I give you a hand with something?” he asked, rising from the living room to stand behind Carly.

  Ryan raised an open palm. “Thanks, but no. I’ve disturbed you enough.” His gaze dropped once more to Carly’s face. “Have a good night.”

  As suddenly as he’d come, he was gone. Sam closed the door, then turned to lean back against it and stare pointedly at Carly. “You didn’t know they were moving?” he asked in subtle accusation.

  “The Amidons? How would I know a thing like that?”

  “Don’t you ever talk to your neighbors? You can’t be that much of a hermit. For Pete’s sake, we’ve checked them all out and they’re safe.”

  She deftly reversed the argument. “Why weren’t you on top of this? You’re supposed to be the one keeping an eye on me. It’s your job. Isn’t that what you said earlier?”

  Realizing he’d come on too strongly, Sam softened. “Of course it’s my job, Carly. But I need your help. I can’t possibly have people snooping around all the time. It’s up to you to alert me to changes like this. Then I can take over and have things checked out.”

  Feeling duly chastised, she turned away and wandered to the living room to sink into the sofa. Eyes closed, she laid her head back. “You seemed to trust him.”

  “I know who he is.”

  Her head came forward, eyes open and wide once more. “You know him? It didn’t look like he recognized you.”

  “I said that I know who he is.” He came around to stand before her. “His name really is Ryan Cornell. He’s a lawyer.”

  A moan slipped from Carly’s lips. “Another one of those? I’m beginning to wonder if there isn’t an epidemic. A new kind of plague. You know—” she illustrated the point with two walking fingers of one hand “—an onslaught of little men in their natty three-piece suits, all bent on finding the lowest common denominator of humanity.”

  Sam chuckled. “That’s got to be the editorialist in you seeking release. Either that, or you’ve truly had your fill of the legal profession in the last year.”

  “A little of both, I’m a
fraid.”

  “Well—” he sighed, scratching the back of his head “—it seems that Ryan Cornell doesn’t fit the mold. He’s not a little man by any measure, and I find it hard to picture him in a natty three-piece suit after—” he tossed his head toward the door “—that.”

  If Carly didn’t know better, she might suspect Sam Loomis to be jealous of the other’s rugged good looks. But she did know better. Sam would simply be doing his job, sizing Ryan up in advance of the phone call he’d be certain to make shortly. Sure enough, before she could begin to ask him what else he knew about her new neighbor, he headed for the kitchen to put through the call.

  Fishing a dog-eared piece of paper from his wallet, he ran his eye down the list to one of the newest of the numbers. Then he punched it out. The phone was picked up after a single ring.

  “Reilly.”

  “Greg. Bad time?” Much as he was unsure about his assistant, Sam respected his privacy. It was, after all, Friday night, and it had been a busy week.

  Greg Reilly let his feet fall to the floor of the sofa and sat up. “Don’t I wish it,” he murmured, casting a melancholy eye around his slightly messy, thoroughly lonely living room. “Just catching up on some reading.” He set the magazine aside. “What’s up?” He knew that Sam wouldn’t be calling to shoot the breeze, though at times he wished he would. Sam was a brilliant detective, able to find solutions to problems he wouldn’t know where to begin on. But then, having served as a detective with the state police before coming to the marshal’s service, Sam had ten years on him. As chief deputy, Sam had responsibilities that reflected his talent. It’d be nice to be in his inner circle.

  As for himself, he seemed to be forever blowing it. Like today. He’d really hit a raw nerve when it came to Carly Quinn.

  “Listen, can you do me a favor?” Sam asked.

  “Sure.”

  “I need information on Ryan Cornell.”

  “The lawyer?”

  “Yeah. You know something?”

  Greg took a deep breath and let it out in a hiss between his teeth. “He’s one bright man. And a damned good counselor.”