Justifiable

by Dianna Love

  But this was not a date.

  He shouldn’t start off by antagonizing her, but he still smarted from this morning. “You’re early. That mean you’re anxious to see me?”

  She jerked in surprise then calmly swung around to face him. Her entire body shifted into immediate composure. “I’m always on time for a business meeting.”

  He glanced past her shoulder, nodded a silent message at the one bartender who winked a reply acknowledging she got his order before he settled on the barstool.

  Massey might sound all hard edge and business, but she twirled the straw in her club soda, fidgeting.

  He generally made it his priority to put a woman at ease in any social setting, but Massey had set the ground rules when she’d deemed this business. Plus, he’d been skewered by her prickly nature a couple of times and needed to capitalize on any advantage tonight.

  She either didn’t notice or chose to ignore his glare when she said, “Let’s get one thing clear. Everything we discuss tonight is off the record.”

  Dalia, the bartender Riley had exchanged a silent message with, carried his drink to him on long legs that seemed to reach from the floor to her shoulders. Her flashy red shirt was slit from her cleavage practically to her crotch.

  A fact that Kirsten Massey hadn’t missed. She fiddled with her straw, not turning her head to outright look, but her eyes held a silent opinion.

  “Here’s your mojito, Riley.” The mid-twenties bartender leaned forward a little extra when she served the drink. Sunny blonde hair flowed over Dalia’s shoulder until the long strands almost, but not quite, covered the free show. As if that hadn’t showcased all her attributes, she finished off the picture with ruby lips framing a bright smile.

  “Thanks, Dalia. How’s your mother? Get her out of the hospital yet?”

  “Yesterday. Thanks for the number of that group who donates time to the elderly. I don’t know how I’d be able to work and care for her without them.”

  “Glad it worked out.”

  Dalia served his mojito and glided away, giving everyone behind her a great retreating view in tight black pants.

  Riley flipped his attention to Investigator Massey. “I give you my word.”

  Kirsten blinked away some private thought. “On what?”

  “That everything we discuss tonight is off the record.” He hid a smile over her momentary lapse. Dalia was as sweet as they came, but he had no interest past being casual friends with her. Kirsten Massey, on the other hand, didn’t fit his picture of sweet, but something about this little hedgehog spurred his interest like no woman had in a long time.

  “Good, now Mr. Walker – ”

  “If you agree to use first names,” he added.

  “What? No. We’ll keep this on a professional level.” She’d said that in her courtroom voice, the one that allowed no leeway.

  One time when he’d been stuck at the courthouse with time to kill, he’d sat in on one of her cases and seen her in action. Impressive under cross-examination, she had an iron backbone and unwavering control. Sort of like a pro disarming a bomb as if there were days left on the timer instead of only seconds before the explosion.

  A tough adversary.

  Which meant he could push as hard as he wanted tonight and not worry about this one shriveling into tears. “You don’t use first names at work with anyone?”

  “That’s different.”

  “Come on, Kirsten, lighten up if you want me to talk off the record. I’m not up for another power play.”

  She said nothing, but her eyes strayed away with guilt riding her gaze.

  Riley pressed it to get the air cleared. “Or was there another reason for what happened in the cemetery?”

  She blew out a breath of resignation that ruffled her hair. “You’re right. I wanted you to know you couldn’t play news games with an investigation”

  “I didn’t – ”

  She held up her hand. “I get it that you’re sincere about helping. First names are fine, but for tonight only. I have a favor to ask, too.”

  “What?”

  “I’d like to get a number for your cameraman and apologize to him for this morning. I wasn’t doing that to punish you or him and I really hate that he got screwed….” Her voice trailed off.

  “What? Didn’t get the last of that.”

  “I really thought you had not been straight with us.” She swallowed, her slender neck muscles moving with the effort. “Bottom line…I was wrong.”

  Da-yum. Choking down that apology had to hurt her throat. He’d faced unforgiving people for months on end and knew how hard it was to live with not being able to rectify a mistake. “I accept the apology and I’ll give you Biddy’s number before we leave.”

  Her eyes had strayed from his face again, but lifted in surprise. She’d expected to catch more grief.

  He smiled to disarm her further. “What do you have to trade?”

  Kirsten glanced at each side of where they sat. “Let’s not talk here. I put my name in at the door, but they said the wait might be forty-five minutes.”

  As if on cue, Dalia walked up. “Your table’s ready, Riley.”

  Kirsten’s frown warned she didn’t care to be one-upped. Too bad.

  “Thanks.” Riley finished his drink and sat the empty glass on the bar. “Shall we?”

  Kirsten hooked the strap of her purse over her shoulder and reached for her wallet.

  “I got this.” He fished out his money clip and pinched a chunk of cash, peeling off enough to cover the tab plus a healthy tip.

  “Thank you, but anything else is Dutch.” Kirsten issued that order and stepped away as the maître d’ showed up.

  Riley waved his hand. “After you.”

  Kirsten followed when the maître d’ moved ahead, guiding them to the third floor seating Riley had called ahead to reserve.

  Maybe he should have stayed on the main floor. Kirsten’s hips swayed in rhythm to the erotic music in a way that reminded him of other things he was tired of doing alone besides eating.

  Like Dalia, all the female staff here were hot as firecrackers, but Kirsten was in a different league. The kind of woman who wouldn’t date someone outside the elite circle she traveled in.

  Not a man with his past.

  Regardless, he’d never be part of Kirsten’s sanctimonious club that catered to the perfect male. Those who never broke a rule or made a mistake.

  So why was he going off on that unproductive tangent?

  Because he did enjoy a challenge and Kirsten wasn’t trying to play him, to use him for her own purposes, the way his ex-wife had.

  She paused ahead of him when she reached the second floor, head swiveling on that slender neck as she took in Latin décor like no other restaurant he’d visited since moving to Philly.

  Alma de Cuba was built on three levels with black slats covering subdued ceiling lights. Photographic images of sugar cane and tobacco being harvested by Cubans were projected on the walls. Sweat dripped off the faces of working men and women in the pictures. Nut-brown, sun-glistened muscles rippled on the arms of men swinging machetes that bit into stalks of sugar cane.

  When they reached a table overlooking the lower floors, the maître d’ pulled back a chair on one side. This was Riley’s table, because he sometimes accessed this floor from the back stairs that lead straight up to the third level. From here, he could perch on the balcony like a voyeur watching the entire second floor below.

  Their waiter appeared out of nowhere decked out in a white coat. After reciting several house mixtures with interesting names he asked for their drink orders.

  Kirsten paused, her smooth forehead marred by frown lines of deep thought. Or confusion. She had that spent look he knew all too well after a long day when even a drink order was one more decision to make. A look that tugged on his instinctive urge to comfort a woman, even this one.

  He offered, “I usually get an El Jefe. It’s made with ten cane rum, sugar, lime juice and bitters
, or for a little less bite you could try the Suave made with Bacardi Limon.”

  She smiled. Any other time he’d take that as a positive sign, but this was the smile he’d seen in the courtroom right before she torpedoed the defense attorney’s entire case with one statement.

  “I’ll have Caiperinha – ” She cut her confident gaze at Riley. “It’s known as the little peasant girl.” Then she ordered an appetizer, all in perfect Spanish, and said, “Gracias, Humberto.”

  Riley had to smile in admiration. She would be a worthy opponent tonight.

  Chapter 39

  That might take a notch off his cocky attitude.

  Kirsten had no intention of letting Riley Walker toy with her tonight. He thought picking Alma de Cuba would put her in his territory?

  “Impressive.” Riley grinned, at least his mouth did. His blue-gray eyes smoked with some wicked thought.

  That smile could be infectious if she weren’t carrying plenty of built-in antibodies that repelled smooth talking newsies.

  Humberto delivered their drinks.

  Riley dialed up his grin. “That appetizer sounded pretty sexy to be food.”

  She would normally chuckle if someone other than Riley Walker had made that comment, but he was a rogue from top to bottom who would jump on the least bit of encouragement. “It’s royal palm dates stuffed with almonds, wrapped in bacon, covered with a blue cheese fondue and served on a bed of red onions. Nothing sexy about that.”

  “Depends on how it’s eaten, Kirsten.”

  Argh. She could nail him between the eyes in a courtroom, but he was in his element here and her powers waned when she was exhausted.

  The minute the waiter withdrew to place their orders Kirsten slipped right back into attorney mode. She needed Riley to work with her and the police. “Back to why we’re here. I’ll admit that you’ve helped the investigation and you’re important to the killer since you’ve been the only person he’s contacted on these last two deaths.”

  “Last two? Like there were more? Am I hearing that the death two weeks back is tied to this...like I tried to tell you?”

  “Yes, it could be, but don’t try to convince me you knew for sure.”

  Riley lifted the glass to his lips, no doubt using the sip of his drink to weigh how much he should admit. “It was a hunch.”

  “And that’s why we didn’t jump on it.”

  “Not even to move a child’s safety ahead of the mayor’s business plans?”

  “That’s not fair. We’re doing everything we can to find Enrique.”

  “As long as it doesn’t put a dent in tourism or the city’s image?”

  “Look, I don’t always agree with every decision that is made, but I understand what the mayor is trying to do.” Was she really going to give credence to DA Van Gogh and the mayor’s position when Kirsten had battled for every penny she pulled into law enforcement? She had to if she wanted to back Riley off City Hall. “Unemployment is at a record level, jobs are disappearing every day and tax money is drying up. He’s doing what the people elected him to do – keep food on their tables. Putting criminals in jail is just one of the many balls he juggles.”

  “I realize the mayor has a lot more than crime to worry about, Kirsten, but we both know you have a killer on the loose. One who may kill again. That has to take precedence at some point. These murders are tied together somehow. The DA just doesn’t want to admit it. If she did, she’d have let you interview Judge Berringer.”

  “What makes you think he wasn’t interviewed?”

  “Did you?”

  She could lie and end this, but she’d never shied from the truth. “DA Van Gogh confirmed the judge has no past connection with Sally Stanton. We believe the location was a slap at law enforcement. And the DA doesn’t want the media getting into the middle of the case, but I’ve explained your special situation to her.” Kirsten couldn’t believe she was arguing in Cecelia Van Gogh’s defense. Especially after listening to Cecelia go off for a half hour about Riley’s involvement.

  “You know a good investigative newsman can ferret out a lot of things that may not show up in a police investigation, and before you give me a ration of grief to go with that insulted look, I’m not criticizing you or the police.”

  She noticed he hadn’t mentioned the DA in his exclusion of criticism, grouping Kirsten on the side with the police. Riley Walker had just gained more ground in that one moment than all his flirting could get him.

  But he used charm to get what he wanted with women, like downstairs with that sexy bartender, which only confirmed what Kirsten had always known about men like Riley.

  They were smoother than fine whiskey and just as intoxicating if you had too much. When it came to his kind, a smart woman abstained.

  “We didn’t come to discuss politics, Kirsten.”

  She didn’t hesitate to take the opening he gave her to move away from discussing the mayor and Van Gogh. “The vic this morning has been identified.”

  “I heard. Bruno Parrick. And no kid involved?”

  “Right.”

  “What about the other killing two weeks ago. The other Philomena House resident?”

  Kirsten nodded and shared information that any news group could get their hands on. “Clayton Howell. He lived with his girlfriend and her baby. She claimed a drug dealer was harassing Clayton to work for him. She said Clayton had been clean for six months, didn’t do drugs and didn’t mule them. She said the drug dealer had been pressuring Clayton to sell drugs at the factory where he worked.”

  “Was a child in danger?”

  “Not really. Clayton’s girlfriend got a threatening phone call one night that if Clayton didn’t do his job the drug dealers were coming for her and the baby. Clayton was found a mile from Philomena House. A squad car passing through the neighborhood found the body so J. T. thinks the killer had to be watching, which would account for why he didn’t call anyone then.”

  Riley scratched his jaw. “Doesn’t sound like there is a direct connection, but I still think the kids are key. What if this killer thinks he’s protecting the women and children?”

  “By killing a man who was not a father and a mentally-challenged mother who had never intentionally hurt her child before?” Kirsten leaned back, crossed her arms and arched an eyebrow loaded with doubt. All negative body language she hoped he read to go with her disgust at even suggesting some bastard had noble intentions.

  Riley calmly lowered his menu to the table. “I’m not defending this maniac. Just trying to figure out what drives him. He’s still got Enrique so it might be centered around the kids.” He continued calmly, his quiet tone making her feel rude instead of intimidating. “Come on, Kirsten, meet me half way on this. Think of it as brainstorming.”

  She hadn’t heard her first name used this much since coming here and shouldn’t notice the gentle way it rolled off Riley’s lips.

  Getting sidetracked on that avenue would lead her down a path she enjoyed even less than dealing with slick defense attorneys in court. “But I point out again that Bruno Parrick didn’t have a child, so that blows a hole in your theory.”

  “That’s why it’s called a theory until it’s proven.” Riley waited as the white-jacketed waiter showed up to place more drinks on the table, take their order and leave. His gaze moved away from her, not focusing on any particular thing. “Anything new come back on the piece of Enrique’s...blanket?”

  Kirsten heard suffering in his voice that had likely been there all along. Have I been too bullheaded to hear it? He’d asked about the bartender’s mother and in spite of the woman downstairs oozing sexuality, Riley hadn’t flirted with her. Just asked her like a friend.

  Did he actually have any friends? His cameraman worked with him, but was Biddy a friend? Would anyone befriend a man with Riley’s history?

  The additional details J. T. had shared earlier today on what happened to Riley in Detroit had forced her to see him in a new light.

  What had this
man gone through the night he watched a kidnapper blow the top half of his head off only an arm’s length from his face? How had he survived knowing the only person who could find that child had died in front of him? Riley Walker was no saint, but now she had to admit that he bled inside like most people would when a child was harmed.

  He might still be hemorrhaging from Detroit.

  Well, duh, he was human so of course he was. If she hadn’t been laying the sins of her father at his feet she might have noticed sooner.

  When the silence stretched too long she realized he was still waiting to hear what she knew about Enrique’s blanket.

  She shook her head. “Nothing new on his blanket and we sent a team to dust Sally’s apartment, but that didn’t produce anything either.”

  “Okay.” Riley studied his glass, finger wiping condensation down the side.

  “We matched the bullets in all three bodies. Definitely a .38.”

  “Not surprised by that.” He lifted his glass and took a drink.

  Kirsten had one last bone to offer him, but it was her best negotiating piece so she had to make the most of it. “We do have one more piece of evidence that ties the killings together.”

  That pumped up his interest to high again. Riley put his fork down. “What?”

  “This can’t be leaked to anyone.”

  “I think I’ve proven I’m safe with evidence.”

  “I mean it, Riley. I will put people in jail for leaking anything to do with this case to the public, even if I have to dig up obscure laws to do it.”

  He didn’t offer any more assurances, which she honestly didn’t need from him, so what was she doing, other than covering her ass? She sat back in her chair. “We found a clear oil on all three victims.”

  Riley’s forehead puckered. “What kind?”

  “All we know right now is that it’s a high grade olive oil.”

  “Where was it on the bodies?”

  She was a DA investigator stepping over the line and had to figure how far she could go. But if she didn’t give him an answer he’d go digging around to get it. She could give him a half answer that would protect pertinent information. “Inside the wrist.”