Lovelace, Merline

by Dark Side of Dawn

  She broke off, shock and revulsion contorting her face as a small notebook slid into her hand. Its cover and most of its pages were warped and stained a rust red from the blood that had soaked them.

  Deke was beside her in two strides. "What the hell is that?"

  "I think..." Jo held the gory object up by a thumb and one finger. "I think it's Dr. Russ's notebook. He tore a page out of one like this at Bella Vista to write me a note."

  A dangerous flame leaped into Deke's eyes. "Did that sick bastard Taylor send it to you?"

  "I don't know. There's no... Oh, here it is."

  Dropping the little notebook onto the coffee table, Jo unfolded the handwritten note. The writing was so tiny and crabbed that it took her several moments to figure out Mrs. Russ's niece had authored it.

  "The funeral home returned Dr. Russ's personal effects to his widow," Jo reported to Deke and the others now crowding around her. "This notebook was evidently in his pocket when he was shot."

  "So why in blue blazes would Mrs. Russ send it to you?" Deke demanded.

  "She gets confused. And..." Jo squinted at the almost indecipherable handwriting. "And she told her niece I might want to look at it, since I'm an officer of the law."

  "What?"

  "I wore my service dress uniform," she explained. "Mrs. Russ mistook me for a police officer. Her niece says she would have forwarded it to the police, but she had to leave to get back to Ohio right after the funeral this afternoon and couldn't find the name of the detective investigating her uncle's death."

  "You'd better call Ambruzzo and tell him you have it," Deke advised.

  "I will." Gingerly, Jo reclaimed the notebook. "For now, I think I'll put it in a plastic bag and slip it into my purse. I don't want it to get lost in the boxes."

  Or mysteriously disappear, as Dr. Russ's note and the photo had.

  She carried the gruesome little book into the kitchen and laid it on the counter. Curiosity made her lean a hip against the cupboard and lift the stained cover with the tip of one nail.

  Blood had seeped through most of the paper, obliterating the inked notes. Her stomach clenching, Jo forced herself to open to a second page, then a third.

  She deciphered a faint swirl here, the tail of curlicue there. Only the last few pages remained relatively legible.

  And only one word leaped out to snag her by the throat.

  Katherine

  There, on the last page, in oversized script, double underlined. And right below, two desperate questions.

  Did he kill her?

  Is Captain West in danger, too?

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jo delivered the bloodstained notebook to Detective Tony Ambruzzo the next afternoon. A cold wind whipped at her cheeks and tore the last of the leaves from the trees lining Alexandria's streets. Brown leather jacket zipped and head ducked against the wind to keep it from dislodging her blue flight cap, Jo climbed the steps to the city offices.

  A receptionist directed her to the police department. Homicide occupied a corner suite on the second floor. Alerted by a phone call from Jo earlier, Ambruzzo was waiting for her. His head shook as he slid the book out of the plastic bag onto his desk.

  "I can't believe the Medical Examiner released this to the funeral director along with Russ's clothing and other personal effects."

  "Mistakes happen," Jo murmured, more interested in his reaction to the historian's notes than the bureaucratic foul-ups that occurred in every profession. "Check out the last page."

  With the tip of a pen, Ambruzzo flipped the pages. As Jo's had, his gaze fixed on the name inscribed in Dr. Russ's ornate handwriting.

  "Katherine," he read softly.

  The name evoked the image of the raven-haired beauty in the portrait at Chestnut Hill... and of the torment in Alex's eyes when he'd confessed to Jo that he'd come to hate his wife almost as much as he'd loved her.

  "She was Alex Taylor's wife," she said, uneasy with the suspicions that had taken root in a dark corner of her mind, yet unable to eradicate them.

  "Yes, I know."

  "She died three years ago."

  He nodded. "Of acute cardiomyopathy."

  Smiling wryly at Jo's look of surprise, he slid open a drawer and extracted a manila folder.

  "Mr. Taylor's lawyers informed me yesterday that I'll have to obtain a court order before they'll let me examine the papers and tapes removed from Dr. Russ's residence. That pissed me off—excuse me—annoyed me so much that I expanded my investigation a bit."

  Digging through the folder, he pulled out a faxed report.

  "I still haven't established a connection between Russ and this photographer Stroder... except that they both focused their attention almost exclusively on the Taylors. Russ was writing the family history. Stroder, it seems, was fascinated by Katherine."

  He wasn't the only one, Jo thought.

  "Reportedly, Stroder sold some twenty different photos of Katherine Taylor to various magazines before her death. He made a bundle after she died with his 'retrospectives' until Alexander Taylor slapped him with a lawsuit that tangled him up in the courts for over a year."

  "What were the grounds for the lawsuit?"

  "Evidently, one of the profiles hinted that all was not sunshine and happiness in the Taylor household, and that Katherine may not have died of natural causes."

  Jo's chest tightened. Could it possibly be true? Could Alex have somehow engineered his wife's death?

  "Taylor's lawyers suppressed the story before it got into print," Ambruzzo continued. "In the process, they convinced the judge to slap a gag order on Stroder that made him a pariah with most reputable publishers. He hadn't sold anything in years until he got lucky with those shots of you dragging Alex Taylor out of the burning Ferrari."

  "But..."

  Palms clammy, Jo struggled to subdue her own churning emotions and hang onto logic.

  "If there was any reason to suspect Katherine didn't die of natural causes, wouldn't it have come out during this lawsuit?"

  "The presiding judge found no grounds to exhume the body or open an investigation into her death."

  She had just begun to chide herself for her creeping suspicions when Ambruzzo spurred them to a full gallop.

  "Some folks wondered, of course, if the fact that the judge and John Tyree Taylor were old friends influenced the decision, but the DA chose not to pursue the matter further."

  A sick feeling swirled in Jo's stomach.

  "The doctors..." she said. "When Katherine died, they would've had to certify the cause of death."

  The attending physician was the Taylor family doctor, had been for years."

  He let that sink in for a few wrenching seconds.

  "I did a little research into this cardiomyopathy, by the way. It's a disease that weakens the heart muscle—the myocardium—so it can't function. The condition can be inherited or the result of long-standing hypertension. Or, as in Katherine Taylor's case, the damage can occur suddenly and traumatically from what was diagnosed at the time as a viral infection."

  "At the time?"

  "The ME informs me the same condition could result from ingestion of various drugs or toxins... some of which might not be discernible to a physician who had no reason to look for them."

  "Oh, God!"

  He leaned forward, his brown eyes lancing into her. "Did Taylor ever talk about his wife to you? Ever describe their relationship?"

  With a feeling that she was stepping off dry land into a foul-smelling morass that could swallow her whole, Jo dipped her head in a slow nod.

  "He said... He said Katherine told him she was bored by all the political dinners and wanted excitement. That she was going to leave him. No one knew, not even his grandfather."

  "Then her heart gave out," the detective said softly.

  "Then she died," Deke murmured later that evening, unknowingly paraphrasing Ambruzzo.

  The remains of the pizza he'd brought home with him an hour ago littered the coffee tabl
e. Planted squarely between two man-sized sofas upholstered in hunter green corduroy, the oversized table was all that separated Deke and his temporary houseguest.

  Jo hadn't yet grown comfortable with the idea of sharing Deke's spacious, fourth-floor apartment in a new high-rise a few miles north of the base. Last night had felt odd enough, with him asleep just across the hall. But her unexpected eviction, Alex's disturbing call, and the arrival of Dr. Russ's bloodstained notebook had drained her so much she'd simply helped the guys stack her boxes in Deke's basement storage area, dumped her suitcases in his spare bedroom, and crashed.

  Now she was all too conscious of the way his eyes appeared more green than brown in the glow from the lamps. Conscious, as well, of the smooth glide of his throat muscles when he tilted his head back to drain the last of his beer. In jeans and a blue denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up, he looked comfortable and safe and too damned sexy for Jo's peace of mind.

  Yet she felt more relaxed here with him than she had in days. Weeks. She hadn't realized how much tension she'd been carrying around on her back. Or how much Alex had gotten to her. Was still getting to her.

  Somehow, telling Deke about her conversation with Ambruzzo had helped resolve some of the dark doubts that had plagued her all day. Here in the comfortable living room made homey by a mix of Air Force memorabilia and touches of Deke's native Wyoming, Dr. Russ's suspicions didn't seem quite as bizarre or absurd or frightening.

  Drawing up her knees, Jo wrapped her arms around her legs. "Ambruzzo planned to question Alex this afternoon about the papers he removed from Russ's home and the missing note and photograph. He's determined to get some answers."

  "My bet is that he doesn't make it past Taylor's battery of lawyers." Deke plunked a heel on the coffee table. "And if he does, our boy will probably present a legal brief designating those papers as proprietarial to his family, a flat disclaimer of any contact with Stroder, and an airtight alibi for the time Dr. Russ was shot."

  "Not to mention a sheaf of expert medical opinions on the cause of his wife's heart failure."

  A shiver danced down Jo's spine. Even now, after experiencing firsthand Alex's obsessive fixation, she found it hard to believe him capable of murder.

  "This is all so bizarre. Six weeks ago, Alexander Taylor was only a name to me."

  Across the empty pizza carton, Deke's mouth tightened. "Six weeks from now, that's all he'll be again."

  She wished that were true. If she hadn't caught the feverish glitter in Alex's eyes when he'd backed her against the MG outside the Russes' house, she might have deluded herself into believing the confident prediction.

  But she'd glimpsed that dark intensity, and heard him whisper that she was his, only his. Her skin crawled with the echo of that silky warning.

  "Want another beer?"

  With a wrench, she dragged her thoughts from Alex. She had to get him out of her head, just as she intended to force him out of her life!

  "No, thanks. I'm flying tomorrow."

  "I'm not. Want to keep me company for one more?"

  "Sure."

  Scooping up the pizza carton, Deke balanced it in one hand and snagged the two empty beer bottles with the other.

  "Did you find everything you needed last night?" he asked. "Extra blankets? Pillows? Toothpaste?"

  "Mmmm," Jo replied ambiguously.

  In fact, Deke was the perfect host. The linen closet in his second bathroom had been stocked with extra blankets, pillows, toothpaste, and a good supply of condoms. Left behind by one of his buddies passing through town, she surmised.

  Or not.

  A slow heat had started in her belly when she'd spied that economy-sized box of Trojans. The same slow heat that stirred now as she contemplated Deke's neat buns and long, easy stride. Beer bottles clinking, he headed for the kitchen. The phone rang when he was halfway across the room, both hands full.

  "Want me to get it?" Jo asked.

  "Yeah, thanks."

  What a blessed relief to pick up the phone and not worry who was on the other end, she thought, stretching to reach over the arm of the sofa. Other than her parents, her boss, Detective Ambruzzo, and Ops Control, she hadn't notified anyone of her temporary change of residence.

  "Bitch!"

  Shock sliced through her as a voice she now recognized all too well leaped through the phone. Low and venomous, it vibrated with an anger Alex made no effort to disguise.

  "I thought you said there was nothing between you and Elliot. Were you screwing him all the time you played sweet and coy with me?"

  "How...? How did you...?"

  She bit off the question, angered by her stuttering incoherence.

  "How did I track you down?" he snarled. "I know every move you make almost before you make it. If I hadn't been distracted by the annoyance of Detective Ambruzzo's visit this afternoon, I would've taken steps earlier to end whatever it is that's keeping us apart and get you out of there."

  Furious, she pushed off the sofa. "Dammit, you are what's keeping us apart, Alex. I don't love you. I don't even like you at this point. Keep up these calls, and I'll put your ass in jail, pal."

  Her threat didn't faze him.

  "Don't think you can escape me, Joanna. Don't think you can ever escape me. Elliot won't—"

  A strong, tanned hand snatched the phone from hers.

  "You listen to me, you sick bastard." Cold fury struck flint from Deke's eyes. "This is my phone, my place, and my woman you're harassing. If you call her once more, just once, I'll come down on you so hard and so fast you'll be sucking your dinner through a straw for the rest of your unnatural life."

  He slammed the phone onto its cradle with a force that bounced it several times.

  In the thunderous silence that followed, Jo's mouth opened, closed, and opened again. Of all the riotous thoughts tumbling through her head at that moment, only one emerged.

  "Your woman?"

  "Sorry. I figured that would grab his attention."

  It had certainly grabbed hers.

  "I appreciate your gallantry," she began on a testy note, rattled by the violence simmering in Deke's eyes, even more rattled as the implications of the call she'd just received sank in. "Alex may be dangerous, more dangerous than I could have imagined a few weeks ago. I can't let you put yourself in the middle of this mess."

  "I've got news for you, West. We passed that point some time back."

  "Hey, don't get heavy on me, Elliot. I'm just trying to spare you some of the grief I've—"

  "Shut up, okay?"

  "What?"

  "Shut up and put your arms around me."

  Her jaw dropped.

  "I won't beg," he reminded her. "I won't plead. I'm telling you, just this once, to let me hold you. After that, it's anyone's guess who makes the next move."

  Jo debated for all of five seconds. Then she slid her arms around his neck and kissed him.

  She had to go up on tiptoe to do it. Had to fit her body to his. Even through his clothes, his shoulders felt like warm marble under her fingers. His thighs like corded steel against hers.

  But his mouth...

  His mouth was everything that she'd imagined. Hard. Hot. Delicious. Demanding. His tongue was wicked as it drew hers into a duel neither of them could win standing up.

  He let her take her fill of him for several minutes, maybe hours, before his hands clamped around her waist like a vise, banding her, lifting her. Jo felt his strength through her sweatshirt, felt the swift, greedy punch of desire his touch sparked.

  The need he aroused was so raw, so different from any she'd experienced with any man, she thought on a heady rush.

  Thank God!

  If her fiancé... or Alex!... had loved her like this, she might have missed Deke. Might never have dug her fingers through his short, thick hair. Never have let her head fall back so he could ravage her throat. Never have caught her breath on a groan as his hands slid over her hips, cupped her rear, lifted her into him.

  He was
rock hard, straining against her belly. Jo felt his erection through her sweatshirt, through his jeans. Delight shot into her. Delight, and a need so intense she thought she'd melt with it.

  Her breath came in short, searing pants when he pulled his head up. Nostrils flaring, cheeks flushed, he dug his hands in her hair and tipped her head back. Whatever he saw in her face curved his lips into a lopsided grin that did serious damage to Jo's entire nervous system.

  "What do you say, West? Want to get naked and work up a sweat?"

  As romantic proposals went, that didn't exactly top her list of all-time heart throbbers. But Deke's irreverence was so different from Alex's intensity, so light-hearted and just exactly what she needed at that moment, she couldn't help laughing.

  "Sounds like a hell of a plan to me, Elliot."

  Any impression that he might have been teasing was blown away when he scooped her into his arms and started for the bedroom. Jo didn't exactly consider herself a lightweight. Nor was she used to the sensation of being carted down a hall by a male with one thing on his mind. She was adjusting to this particular mode of transportation when he dumped her on the bed.

  It was a big bed, she noted, in keeping with Deke's long frame. The spread felt like cottony suede under her palms, the mattress as firm and as big as the man who stood before her, unbuttoning his shirt.

  Jo had peeked into his bedroom when she'd moved in last night. She'd approved of the clean, no-frills arrangement, with a computer desk in one corner, a work-out bench in the other, and the king-sized bed taking up center stage. The painting over the bed had intrigued her. Wyoming, obviously. Deke's home, maybe. Wide open skies above grassy brown plains. Mountains smudged with purple in the distance. And she'd grinned at the pair of crossed branding irons mounted above the desk. Almost like crossed swords, she'd thought. Symbolic of another culture, a lifestyle different from any she'd experienced.

  It wasn't the crossed irons that riveted her attention now, though. It was Deke. Only Deke.

  He didn't waste time or unnecessary effort on finesse. Shrugging out of his shirt, he tossed it aside and unzipped his jeans with the casual grace of a man who paid little attention to the clothes he pulled on or off.