STOLEN MEMORY

by Virginia Kantra

  Laura wasn't used to having a man take her so completely at her word. Not her colleagues on the force, not her occasional dates. It made her feel good.

  It kind of pissed her off.

  "I don't see why you don't just have me drop you off here," she said rather sulkily.

  "Because I would rather spend the hour and a half it takes to drive to Eden with you than with Quinn."

  Oh. It was stupid, she decided, to feel flattered by that. "You want a chance to talk about the investigation? Or the party?"

  "We should certainly discuss arrangements for Saturday." Simon's smile flashed in the darkness. "But what I actually want is the chance to change your mind."

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  « ^ »

  The car interior wrapped them in warmth and the comforting, familiar scents of takeout burgers and bad coffee. Outside, a dog barked. A radio played, bluesy and low, on one of the boats berthed at the dock. Moths committed suicide runs on the lights in the harbor, giving their lives in tiny bursts and flashes of light.

  But inside the car, it was quiet and dark. Intimate.

  Simon crumpled a napkin and tucked it into a bag. He was the neatest stakeout partner Laura had ever known. "You don't have to stay," he said. "Quinn will be here any minute."

  Laura cradled her coffee cup in her hands, comfortable in her car. "Uh-uh. I'm not leaving till he gets here. I don't want to have any explaining to do if your body turns up in the lake tomorrow."

  "I'm touched by your concern." His voice was a smile in the dark.

  She rolled her head on the back of her seat to look at him. It was okay for Simon if his family and co-workers thought he was getting it on with one of the locals. They didn't live here. But she did. She'd parked in the shadows as much for concealment as for safety.

  Still, what she could see of his silhouette was nice. Broad shoulders. Strong neck. His ears lay neatly against his head, and his hair was too long. She wanted to touch it.

  Bad idea.

  She cleared her throat. "You want to talk about the guest list for Saturday?"

  "We could," Simon said agreeably. "If I'd brought a copy with me."

  "Do you remember any names?" She caught herself. "Sorry. Bad question."

  "That's all right. According to Carolyn, it's mostly senior management. Investors, lawyers, accountants. A few government contacts."

  "Friends?"

  Simon shrugged. "I told Quinn to include the people who are important to me."

  No friends, Laura thought.

  "You need to get a personal life," she said.

  "I'm working on it."

  She fought to ignore the flutter in her stomach. "Names," she said sternly. "Give me one name of somebody at that party you know personally."

  "Kenny Gelb," Simon answered promptly. "I had lunch with him today."

  "And he is…?"

  "My chief financial officer."

  "Doesn't count," she decided.

  "Brian Walsh. Government grants and contracts," he added before she could ask.

  She rolled her eyes. "Please."

  "Dylan will be there," Simon offered, amusement rich in his voice.

  "Also part of the company."

  "And Mia."

  His stepmother. Well, that was a personal relationship. Dysfunctional, maybe, but personal.

  "That will make the evening special," Laura said dryly.

  "I was counting on you to make the evening special."

  She squinted at him. "Does that line work for you?"

  "I don't remember," he deadpanned. "Is it working for you?"

  Something was working for her, Laura acknowledged. Maybe it was the cocooning warmth of the car or the familiarity of the setting. Maybe it was the quiet dark or the fact that she'd finally been fed.

  Maybe it was Simon. A frisson of alarm ran along her nerves. "We were talking about Saturday," she said.

  "You were talking about Saturday." His shadow shifted against the window. "I was trying to change your mind."

  "Then it's definitely not working," she lied.

  "So I'll have to try something else." He leaned forward.

  Her pulse picked up speed. She didn't have to sit here and take this. This was not part of their deal. This was a pretense. Or harassment.

  He took her coffee cup away and placed it carefully on the dash. Her mind spun. Her nerves jangled. Now was a good time to remind him they were potentially working at cross purposes. Even though she'd promised to help him uncover his attacker, they couldn't just ignore that her father was a suspect. She needed to inform him that she called the shots in her relationships. She should tell him that if and when they got involved, it would be at a time and place of her choosing.

  Threading his fingers through her hair, Simon pulled her closer. Her breath quickened. Or she could Mace him.

  His thumb brushed her lower lip, leaving her mouth moist and open. Aching.

  He lowered his head. Her heart pounded.

  His mouth fit hers as if they had been made for each other. His kiss was warm and firm. He tasted like coffee and, faintly, of ketchup, and he affected her system like a jolt of caffeine. She was dizzy. Breathless. Hungry for him, hungry for more. Hungry for everything.

  Lifting his head, he looked at her, his eyes close and unreadable in the gloom.

  She made a needy sound and reached for him again.

  He came readily, leaning across the space between their seats, his arms strong and solid, his mouth sure and flatteringly urgent. She twisted closer, letting herself take and be taken, running her hands over him, arms, shoulders, chest, the smooth skin at the back of his neck just under his collar.

  He went on kissing her, hotly, deeply, as he eased his hand under her jacket, shaping and stroking. She grabbed his hand and pressed it against her breast. Her nipple hardened under his palm. He rubbed her through her clothing and then she felt the brush of his knuckles, the play of his long, clever fingers as he slipped her buttons, one by one…

  Light speared through the window, blinding her.

  She jerked back as if she'd been shot.

  "Baker? Is that you?"

  Officer Paul Larsen's pale, good-natured face floated in the passenger side window. "I thought I recognized your car. What are you… Oh, hey."

  Oh, hell, Laura thought, and grabbed for the edges of her shirt.

  Simon moved to block the light, shielding her with his body. Too late.

  Her bra was no-nonsense peach cotton, unnoticeable under her white shirt. Unnoticeable? She groaned. It was invisible in the dark. It must look like she wasn't wearing anything under her shirt at all.

  Larsen grinned. "I didn't know you were on a stakeout tonight."

  "You're a riot, Larsen." She sank into her seat, fumbling with her buttons in the dark. Mistake, mistake, oh, God…

  "Who's with you?" The bright beam swung toward Simon.

  "Put out the damn light," Laura snapped.

  The flashlight bobbled and slid away. "Sorry," Larsen said, not sounding sorry at all.

  Well, of course he wasn't. This was all a big joke to him. She'd been so careful to play by the rules, to hold herself aloof, never to do anything that would encourage the guys at the station to see her as a female instead of a fellow officer. And now she'd been caught breaking the ordinance against public displays of affection in a parked car on a public dock. Larsen probably couldn't wait for the end of his watch to get back and spread it around.

  "I thought maybe you needed some help or something," he continued.

  She struggled with the buttons. "No. Thanks, but—"

  "Yeah, I can see you've got the situation in hand." Larsen chuckled.

  Laura gritted her teeth.

  He rested one arm on the roof of the car and leaned down, obviously prepared to stay and chat all night. "So, who's your date?"

  Simon shifted to block Larsen's view of the interior of the car. "Simon Ford. Who are you?"

  "Larsen. Paul Lar
sen. Wow. Are you really Simon Ford?"

  "Yes." He pushed on the door handle. "Perhaps we could—"

  Laura gripped his arm to yank him back. "Offer him money and you're a dead man," she growled in his ear.

  He didn't even glance at her. "I appreciate your concern," he said smoothly to Larsen. "But everything is fine. We were just waiting for my driver."

  "The guy over there?"

  "What?"

  Larsen jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Big car under the lights. Is that your guy?"

  Laura's face, her gut, her whole body burned. How long had Quinn been waiting? What had he seen? What must he think?

  "That's him," Simon confirmed. "Very observant of you."

  The cop grinned. "Guess I wasn't as, uh, distracted as you folks."

  Guess not.

  "It was nice to meet you," Simon said politely, dismissing him.

  Larsen straightened. "Uh, yeah. You, too. Have a nice evening."

  "Thanks," Simon said.

  He waited until the officer strolled back to his patrol car before he turned to look at Laura. She'd managed to fasten all her buttons. He stifled a moment's regret.

  "Are you okay?"

  "I'm fine." Her face was pale. Her voice was tight. "Get out of the car."

  "I can't," he told her ruefully.

  "Yes, you can. Your ride's waiting."

  He lifted an eyebrow. "Yes, he is. And unless you want him to know exactly how kissing you affected me, I'm going to stay in the car another minute."

  "Oh, God." She slumped in her seat. "I'm never going to live this down."

  Okay, she was a little upset. He was going to have to deal with that if he wanted to get his hands on her again.

  Which he did. Very soon.

  "Don't worry about it," he said. "It's not that big a deal."

  "Easy for you to say," she said bitterly. "Nobody thinks you're a slut."

  More than a little upset. He had to proceed with caution. "Do you want me to beat them up for you?"

  She didn't laugh. "No. I can handle it."

  Simon smiled at her. "Precisely my point."

  She snorted.

  Encouraged, he said, "This could actually work to our advantage."

  "You think?"

  "Yes. We wanted people to believe that we're involved. Now they do."

  She stiffened. "Is that why you kissed me?" Danger, danger, Will Robinson.

  "I kissed you because I wanted to," Simon said carefully. He wanted to do a lot more than that, but this didn't seem to be the time to mention it. "I don't see that as a problem."

  Laura tossed her head. "Then you're not looking at it very closely." But she sounded more sulky than mad.

  He touched her, just her hand, his fingers tracing the delicate veins on the back. He figured more than that and she'd get uptight again. Or jab him in the ribs with her elbow.

  "Don't worry," he said. "Everything's going to be all right."

  But it wasn't all right, Laura thought the next morning as she slid into briefing ten minutes before her shift began at seven o'clock.

  Veteran officer Charlie White was already there, sprawled comfortably at his tiny desk as he checked voice mail from his cell phone. Tim Clark, new to the shift and anxious to fit in, had his notebook and clipboard out, his coffee cooling before him. And loudmouth Larry O'Donal, who normally blew in as roll call started, was standing over both of them, laughing and punching the air with a breakfast biscuit.

  At Laura's entrance, Charlie gave a slight, a very slight, jerk of the head. Tim looked down at his notebook, blushing. And O'Donal smiled around his biscuit like he was still hungry and she was breakfast.

  Her stomach clenched. They knew.

  Already.

  Damn it.

  She nodded to Clark and O'Donal, tested eye contact with Charlie. He smiled, his gaze sliding away. The knot in her stomach tightened. Oh, yeah, they knew.

  "Little late this morning, aren't you, Baker?" asked O'Donal.

  She sauntered to the coffeepot and poured herself a cup with hands that were barely shaking. "Not really. I thought you were early. Don't you usually scuttle in just in time to hear Denko read the hot sheets?"

  O'Donal's grin broadened. "Speaking of hot sheets…"

  Clark covered his laugh with his hand.

  The lump in Laura's gut glowed like coal. The coffee was bitter in her mouth. The officers in the briefing room razzed each other all the time. They swapped jokes and war stories, shared training sessions and birthday parties, rehashed TV episodes and gossip. Getting grilled about last night's date made her one of the guys.

  Except she wasn't one of the guys, and they all knew it.

  The chief strode in from dispatch, the binders with the hot sheets under his arm. Laura took a seat, and the room settled.

  Jarek Denko went through the lists for the day, pausing occasionally to instruct or explain: a suspicious person in the Glen Oaks development, a theft at the Bide-a-Wee cottages, garbage cans overturned and a shop window broken in the alley behind Highland Street

  . The officers nodded and jotted things down, what to watch for, where to go.

  "Hey, Chief, what about extra patrols along the waterfront?" drawled O'Donal. "I hear there was some hot-and-heavy action going down on the marina last night."

  Denko gave him a look that would have frozen lake water. "Focus on Highland Street

  today. I had three calls from merchants this morning."

  "That's all the action O'Donal will see, anyway," Charlie White said, winking at Laura. "Barb's still making him sleep on the couch because he forgot their anniversary."

  The rookie, Clark, sniggered. The tightness eased in Laura's gut. Okay, she was embarrassed, but she wasn't disgraced. As long as Charlie and the chief were willing to stick up for her…

  Denko wrapped up and dismissed them. Laura shut her notebook and snuffled her things together.

  "Laura?" The chief spoke quietly behind her. "Can I see you for a moment, please?"

  Acid crawled up her throat. She cleared it. "Sure. Let me just get my equipment."

  He nodded. "In my office. Five minutes." He left the suddenly silent room.

  She carried her still full coffee cup to the trash and dumped it.

  "Lau-ra's in trou-ble," O'Donal sang out.

  "Get stuffed, O'Donal," she snapped, and stalked after the chief.

  His office door was open. Denko sat behind his ugly desk, reading through the latest crime and missing persons reports to come in through dispatch.

  "Laura." He welcomed her with a smile. "Close the door, will you?"

  She took a deep breath and complied. "You wanted to talk to me, sir?"

  "Yes. Before we get started, though…" He leaned back in his chair. "I wondered if there was anything you wanted to tell me."

  There was nothing she wanted less.

  She kept her hands still and her eyes steady. Denko was too good a detective to miss the small, betraying signs of guilt. "No, sir."

  "Because if something was going on that I should know about," the chief continued, "I'd appreciate hearing it from you."

  He was giving her the chance to explain herself. And she didn't have a clue what to say.

  Denko sighed. "I'm not telling you what to do in your off hours. I know temptations can arise in the course of the job, and sometimes relationships develop."

  Laura tried to remember how Denko had met his own wife, a reporter for the Eden Town Gazette. Teresa Denko—DeLucca, then—had covered that rape case a couple of years ago. And wasn't her brother a suspect or something?

  So maybe the chief wasn't planning on throwing the book at Laura after all.

  "Yes, sir," she said cautiously.

  "But there is such a thing as being too personally involved in your work." Denko frowned. "Which is why I removed you from the Ford case."

  Her cheeks stung with humiliation. "Yes, sir."

  "You are removed," he reminded her.

  Laura
lifted her chin. "You made that clear. Do you mind my asking how the investigation is coming along?"

  "Actually, that's what I wanted to talk with you about. The computer printout you requested from E.C.I.P. came yesterday."

  An ominous lump formed in her stomach. She waited.

  "The record shows twenty-four master passcards created for Lumen Corp," Denko continued. "One for Ford, one for his brother, one for his butler, and twenty for the E.C.I.P. personnel assigned to Lumen Corp security."

  "That's twenty-three," Laura said.

  "An additional passcard was created for the guard covering your father's shifts," Denko said.

  "The cards are individually coded," Laura said. "You should be able to look at the computer log to identify whose key was used to access the lab that night."

  "We did."

  The lump grew larger and more indigestible. She swallowed hard. "And?"

  For once, Denko didn't quite meet her eyes. "The log shows two cards were used to gain entry that night. Simon Ford's and Peter Swirsky's."

  The apprehension in her stomach grew so large it pressed her lungs, cut off her air. "Could someone else have used his key?"

  "It's possible," Denko acknowledged gently. "I've directed Dan to continue to pursue all available leads. If the passcard turns up in someone else's possession, that would certainly help clear your father. And of course we're still waiting on the latest fingerprint report from DCI." The Illinois Department of Criminal Investigation, which did the lab work for their small department. "I'm sorry, Laura. But given the evidence of the log and his disappearance, Dan considers Peter Swirsky our lead suspect."

  "I understand," Laura said evenly.

  The chief's gaze sharpened. "Do you? I wanted you to know in case the information has any bearing on other … developments."

  Her palms were sweating. "I haven't broken any regulations, sir."

  Bent the rules, compromised her standards, flaunted his authority, sure. But she hadn't violated the law. Or interfered with the investigation.

  Yet.

  Exactly.

  "I appreciate your dedication," Denko said dryly. "So your involvement with Simon Ford is…?"

  "Personal," she said firmly.