Finger Prints

by Barbara Delinsky

  They sat on the sofa, facing each other as Carly had done last night with Ryan. Then the air had been charged with excitement; now it was filled with apprehension.

  “Actually, my counterpart in Chicago called first. You remember Bill, don’t you?”

  “Of course I remember Bill,” she countered with uncharacteristic gruffness. “He called the shots while I was in protective custody.”

  “Bill’s got an ear to the ground, not to mention well-placed sources. He called me as soon as he heard. That was Monday morning. Meade called soon after that.”

  “Monday? But why didn’t you call me? You knew where I was staying!”

  “And ruin your vacation?” He tossed her a quelling glance. “Come on, Carly. What good would that have done? There’s nothing for you to do just because they’ve filed for a new trial.”

  Her fear-filled eyes held his. “Then why are you here now?”

  “To tell you what’s happening before someone else does.”

  “Who else?” she shot back guardedly, at which point he leaned forward and patted her knee.

  “Take it easy. Your father will have seen it in the paper. Your brothers—”

  “It was all over the press? Damn it, I thought these things usually happened without a mess of fanfare.”

  “Remember, Culbert used to be a state legislator. And he still maintains his innocence. You can bet that his lawyer will try to soak the public sympathy for everything it’s worth—which isn’t much. But that means press conferences whenever possible, media leaks—”

  Carly held her breath. “Will it work? I mean, I know the Tribune would never print anything even vaguely sympathetic about him after everything, but the Tribune isn’t the only paper in Chicago.” Her eyes widened. “Public opinion can be so fickle. Do you think there’s a chance that the mood will sway in his favor?”

  “Not a chance.” Sam’s firmness didn’t waver. “If anything it’ll go the other way. He was a legislator, Carly, a man whose salary came out of the taxpayers’ pockets. As a legislator, he was given the public trust, and he violated it. Not only was he getting insurance kick-backs on the buildings he burned, but he was responsible for four deaths. Four deaths.” He shook his head. “People don’t forget that kind of stuff quickly.

  “Besides, in the end it doesn’t matter what the public thinks. Culbert was convicted on the evidence before a judge and jury. Even if there is a new trial, and I can’t imagine that happening, the evidence won’t have changed. He’d be convicted a second time.”

  “Was that Meade’s opinion too?”

  “For starters, Meade can’t envision a new trial being granted. He’s been over the transcript from start to finish, and he doesn’t see any possible error on which to base a new trial.”

  It suddenly occurred to Carly that a piece of information was missing. And in that instant she realized the true reason for Sam’s visit. Pressing damp palms to the wool of her skirt, she fought to calm her stomach’s slow churn. “What have they based their motion on? Mancusi would have had to cite something. What was it, Sam?”

  Sam spoke more softly then, his eyes filled with a kind of apologetic haze. “They claim they have new evidence.”

  “What new evidence?”

  “About you. They claim—” he emphasized the word “—that you were emotionally involved with Peter Bradley, and that that involvement warped your thinking.”

  “Of course I was emotionally involved with Peter Bradley! We were good friends. We worked together. He was the one person who was willing to work on the investigation with me.”

  “Romantically. That’s the kind of involvement they imply.”

  “It’s not true,” Carly stated slowly. “There was never anything like that between us.” There couldn’t have been, though only she knew that. Her fingers clutched her skirt now for warmth. “What…evidence…have they got?”

  Sam gave his head a quick shake. “I don’t know yet. Neither does Meade. That’s what we’ve got to find out. I just wondered—” he seemed to hesitate “—if you knew of any evidence they might have.”

  Those cold fingers suddenly clenched into fists. “If someone’s given evidence of a romantic relationship between Peter Bradley and myself, that person is either mistaken or lying. Peter and I spent a lot of time together. We had to. If there were late nights at one or the other of our apartments, it was in his darkroom or in front of my typewriter. Never once did I wake up in his place; never once did he wake up in mine. I swear it, Sam.”

  Sam reached forward and, taking her hand, spoke gently. “I believe you, Carly. No need to get defensive. You’re a free woman. You can do whatever you want with whoever you want to do it. No one’s trying to pass judgment.”

  “Mancusi will!”

  “Maybe, but that’s beside the point. Meade just wants to be sure he’s got the whole story so he can plan his offense if, and I do mean if, the motion for a new trial is granted. Besides, if he knows the facts, he’ll better be able to ward off that possibility.”

  “Well, he knows the facts! There was nothing romantic between Peter and me! We were very dear friends. We thought the same way. I would be less than human if I didn’t mourn his death, if I didn’t feel guilty at having involved him in the arson investigation.”

  “Don’t blame yourself. He knew the risks.”

  She sank against the cushions, her energy spent. “Oh, yes, he knew the risks. So did I, for that matter. But we were committed to getting that story. I wish—”

  “Don’t say it, Carly. What’s done is done. There is no way you can bring Peter back. But you can help ensure that the men responsible remain in prison.”

  “What does that mean?” she asked.

  Sam sighed, wondering if he was handling this all wrong. He’d come to see Carly in hopes of keeping her calm. His presence seemed to be having the opposite effect. “All it means is that you should be aware of what’s happening. The more you can tell us about your relationship with Bradley, the better it’ll be.”

  “But I’ve told you everything! There just isn’t any more.” Her face contorted in sarcasm. “I mean, I wish I had it in writing. But Peter and I just didn’t think to document the fact that we weren’t lovers. It had nothing to do with our investigation. It was—it is—totally irrelevant!” Just then there was a knock at the door. Sitting forward stiffly, Carly lowered her voice. Her hands fidgeted in her lap. “That’ll be Ryan. We’re going shopping for furniture. The Amidons bought a place in Florida and want all theirs shipped down.”

  Sam stood and brought Carly up with him. “Good. Go with him, and enjoy yourself. Maybe he can take your mind off all this.”

  She raised timid eyes. “You’ll let me know if you hear anything, anything at all?”

  “Sure I will. You know that, Carly.” He squeezed her hand and nudged her toward the door. “Go on. He’s waiting.”

  Ryan was indeed waiting. He was about to ring the doorbell in the suspicion that Carly might not have heard his knock when she opened the door. The thought that she might still be finishing dressing was instantly dispelled by the sight of Sam at her side.

  “I’m…early.” His eyes held Carly’s for a minute before sliding to Sam, who held up a hand on cue.

  “I’m just leaving.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he extended that hand. “Sam Loomis.”

  “Ryan Cornell.” They shook hands. It was a formality. Each knew the other’s name, though the benignancy in Sam’s gaze contrasted with Ryan’s more intense scrutiny.

  Then Sam tossed Carly a gentle smile. “Have a good time. I’ll talk to you later.” Nodding toward Ryan, who took a step into the foyer, he left, at which point Ryan turned that intense scrutiny on Carly. Though she was outwardly calm, he knew her too well to miss the tension in her eyes.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked cautiously.

  “Just fine.” Her response was a little too quick, too pat.

  “Sam worked out his problem?”

&n
bsp; She nodded. “For now.”

  “Are you all set to go?”

  “Yes.” Feeling terribly awkward and well aware of keen brown eyes following her every step, she got her coat and bag. They walked downstairs in silence and were at the front door when Ryan spoke. His head was down, one hand jammed in the pocket of his fleece-lined jacket.

  “Listen, maybe we ought to forget this.”

  “Why?”

  He looked up then. “It’s obvious you’re not in the mood.”

  “But I am—” she began, only to be interrupted by a deep growl.

  “You’re not! You’re as coiled as a whip! What is it that happened, anyway? Is Loomis in some kind of trouble?”

  She winced at the sound of his voice, in part because she felt responsible for his anger. Of course he would wonder. Seeing Sam this morning would only add to his curiosity. And since she had to be so tight-lipped about it all….

  “He’s not in trouble,” she began, drawing into herself. “I told you. It was a personal matter.”

  “Then there is something between you two? Hell, I’ve asked you that before and you said there wasn’t. I thought we had something good going, Carly.” The sudden softening of his voice cut through her.

  “We do,” she whispered. “There’s nothing between Sam and me. We’re just good friends. Don’t you ever share your problems with friends?”

  “Not usually. Not until I met you. I thought we were friends. What happened to that sharing?”

  Sagging back against the wall in defeat, she put her hands in her pockets and pressed her arms to her sides. Head down, she studied the tile underfoot. “I’m sorry, Ryan. I’m not…free…to talk.”

  “You’re not free. Not free. It all comes down to that, doesn’t it?” When she didn’t answer, but simply stared at the floor, he took a step closer and went on. “I’m still trying to figure it out. What is it, Carly? Why aren’t you free? All right—” he raised a hand “—I know about your husband. His death must have been a trauma, and I fully sympathize. But that doesn’t mean that you have to shut yourself off from the rest of the world.”

  “I’m not.”

  “From me, then.” He took a breath. He hadn’t meant to broach it quite this way, but he was helpless to stop himself. Sam’s presence this morning, Carly’s tension—it was as though a hole had been poked in the dam of his self-restraint and now the words spilled with gathering force. “Monday night I tried to call you in the Bahamas, but I couldn’t get through. The hotel had no record of a Carly Quinn registered. Or of anyone by the name of Johnson. I assumed that was your brother’s name, since it’s your maiden name.”

  Her chest constricted. Things seemed to be closing in on her. Even as she tried to improvise, she fought a wave of growing panic. Damn it, Sam was so good at this type of thing. Where was he now and what would he have said?

  She ran the tip of her tongue over suddenly dry lips. “I had no idea you’d called.”

  “Obviously.”

  Goaded by his sarcasm, she met his gaze. “And I have no idea why you couldn’t get through. My room was registered in my own name.” So far, no lie. Robyn Hart was her own, if no longer her legal, name. She didn’t want to lie. Perhaps stretch the truth a little, but not lie. True, she’d had to show proof of citizenship at customs, but the hotel clerk had not thought to question—if he’d known of it at all—any discrepancy in names. “If the Emerald Beach—”

  “Emerald Beach?” Ryan eyed her quizzically. “Weren’t you staying at the Balmoral?” When she grimaced, he squeezed his eyes shut. “Damn,” he murmured, “I can’t believe I did that.” There was distinct sheepishness in his eyes when he reopened them. “I was calling the wrong place. That was really dumb.”

  Carly felt doubly guilty. “No. It was an innocent mistake and may have been my fault at that. I may have mentioned different hotels. I was looking through so many brochures….”

  One more step brought his body flush to hers. He put his hands on the wall on either side of her shoulders even as crimson stained his cheeks. “I must be going crazy,” he murmured hoarsely. “I’m such a fool. When I couldn’t get through I thought I’d go out of my mind. And I’ve been stewing about it since then. If I didn’t want you so much….”

  Needing to touch him, Carly put her hands on his waist, then slid them inside his jacket to his back. The tension in his muscles seemed to ease on contact. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “No. I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I’ve never been the suspicious type, or jealous, for that matter. Until I met you. What with not being able to reach you, then having Sam dominate your mind since you’ve been back—”

  “Sam’s not dominating my mind. And it was you I thought of the whole time I was away. You were the one I looked forward to seeing.”

  He settled more snugly against her, holding just enough of his weight to keep from hurting her, not enough to keep from exciting her. “You mean that?”

  She nodded, unable to tear her eyes from the compelling heat of his gaze. Only when his head lowered did her lids flicker shut, and then it was to more fully concentrate on the healing warmth of his lips.

  He kissed her slowly at first, taking long, moist sips of her mouth. His senses, too, were centered there, his full concentration devoted to renewing the bond that, earlier, had seemed endangered. He found her mouth soft and sweet, trembling as he moved the tip of his tongue over its curves. When her own tongue emerged to touch his, his body quaked.

  Bidden in small part by guilt at the pain she’d caused him, in large part by the wealth of erotic feeling he inspired, Carly met his kiss with a fervor to express all she couldn’t say in words. She gave her hands play over the firm muscles of his back, drawing him closer as her lips parted widely in welcome. Her reward was the intense pleasure that spiraled through her limbs.

  It was only the click of the front door as it opened that drew them apart. Ryan stayed where he was, gasping softly against her forehead, unable to step back for fear of embarrassing them both.

  Eyes shut tight, Carly took short, shallow breaths. She heard the sound of a key in the lock then the pull of the inner door, and wondered which of her neighbors was witness to their impromptu surge of passion. But the door slid shut well before Ryan released her, so she was never to know. Not that it mattered. She’d paid for her place in this building, as had Ryan. If they wanted to neck in the lobby….

  Her muffled laugh was echoed by Ryan’s.

  “Hmm,” he murmured, “got kind of carried away there. Wanna go back upstairs?”

  “Now? But we’re going shopping.”

  His hoarseness was telling. “The shopping can wait. Let’s go to my place. You can get ideas in my bedroom.”

  “No way.” She staved him off good-naturedly, a fast cover for her lingering hesitance. “You’ve taken the day off, so we’ll go shopping. Who was the one who railed about not having any furniture?”

  Slowly he pushed from the wall and levered himself straight. He took a deep, if unsteady, breath. “Why do I get the strange feeling you’re putting me off?” When she put a hand against his chest and opened her mouth to argue, he raced on. He wanted nothing that hinted of tension to mar a day that had already had its share. “No harm. There’ll be a better time.” He held the door open. “Ma’am?”

  Carly passed through with a demure smile, then took great gulps of the fresh, cold air. Though snow lay in random mounds on the grass, the walkway was dry. Yet she was walking on thin ice. She knew it and wondered fearfully when it would crack.

  Sam propped his boot on the open lower drawer of his desk. “John? Sam Loomis calling. I spoke with Carly Quinn this morning.”

  John Meade cocked his head toward the door of his office, sending his assistant on his way. Then he swiveled in his chair until he faced the window. “How’d she take it?”

  “She’s upset. It’ll be tough on her if that new trial is ordered. She doesn’t relish the thought of facing it all again.”
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br />   “If it’s a question of facing it or letting the bastard go free, she doesn’t have much of a choice.”

  The matter-of-fact way it was put rankled Sam. Carly had spoken well of Meade, expressing faith in his ability, an ability that would, of course, place prime concern on the legal issues involved. But Carly was a person, and it was Sam’s job to understand her.

  “She knows that. She won’t fight you.”

  “What about her relationship with Bradley? She never said a word about it when she was here.”

  Sam scraped his thumbnail against the worn leather arm of his chair. “There was nothing to say. They were close friends and co-workers. That’s it.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m a pretty good judge of people. She wasn’t lying.”

  Meade sighed. “Well, we may have to get her back here to go over her story anyway.”

  Sam wasn’t thrilled with that idea. He could just begin to imagine what Carly’s reaction would be. “Is that necessary?”

  “I’m not sure yet. It depends what we can find out about this ‘new evidence’ Mancusi claims he’s got. If it’s anything, and I decide to run through the story with Robyn, we can fly her in for a couple of days.”

  “She works.”

  “So do I. Listen, I don’t want to have to do it either. Hell, I didn’t ask for new evidence; I thought we’d covered it all last time. Do you have any idea what it’ll mean in terms of sheer man-hours if we have to go through the whole damn trial again? This isn’t a joy ride for me, and I know it’ll be tough on her, but it’s all part of the deal.”

  Sam just grunted. It wasn’t worth arguing. He was caught in the middle, feeling for Carly even as he knew that what John Meade said was true. All he could do was to hope that it would never come to a trip to Chicago, much less a new trial.

  It was after he’d finished with Meade that a niggling thought bade him pick up the phone and punch out another number. Though he didn’t know Bill Hoffmeister well, the little they’d dealt with each other had set the groundwork for a mutual respect. Sam wanted input on this one.