Operation Notorious

by Justine Davis

  That he was looking into a local murder case was a huge deal.

  Quinn and Hayley hadn’t understated what would happen, that his presence here would somehow leak and that when it did the speculation would run wild. But Katie hadn’t expected it to happen this fast. He’d only arrived Saturday evening, and now, by Monday night, news sites and blogs were abuzz with possibilities. Not to mention the photos that had turned up on social media, of him sitting in a coffee place, across from Detective Davidson, a man she remembered all too well from the ugly chaos of that night and the days after.

  Her heart had jumped in her chest when she’d come across the first report, suggesting this meant a turn in the case, that if de Marco was here on the side of Steven Moore perhaps the police were on the wrong track. Exactly what she had dared to hope for.

  We go after the truth, and there’s always a chance you won’t like it.

  Quinn’s words, which she knew had been a warning, ran through her mind. It didn’t matter, she thought, because she already knew the truth. There was no conceivable way that her father could have had anything to do with Laurel’s murder. Her heart was still buoyed because Gavin’s presence had already accomplished her main goal—to get the police to question their assumptions and look in more than her father’s direction.

  The traffic signal up ahead—one of only three in town—turned red and she began to slow the car. She realized with a little jolt where she was; she’d been so lost in thought that she’d apparently been driving on autopilot.

  But some part of her had already decided something, because without even thinking about it she found herself sliding into the left turn lane. The turn that would take her right by the Foxworth building.

  He’d told her he was staying there, and though she didn’t understand why he would forego the chance to stay with the Foxworths, given they were obviously friends, she took him at his word that it would be easier on everyone.

  Does that brain of yours ever shut down, or even slow down?

  Not really.

  How do you sleep?

  Not well.

  He might be up now. It couldn’t hurt to just drive by, could it? He’d texted her, rather tersely, about his meeting with the detective, saying only, He’s not locked in. It was good news, but her worried mind needed more than just that.

  She couldn’t see the building from the road so she turned onto the gravel drive. The crunch of her tires seemed way too loud and she cringed a bit; if he was asleep, this would likely wake him up. She thought about turning back, but there was no room on the narrow, tree-hemmed drive. Then she saw the building. And a light glowing through the glass in the front door.

  The front door swung open before she’d even come to a halt in the parking area adjacent to the building. At first glance she thought no one had come out, but then movement caught her gaze and she saw Cutter racing toward her. He could, she remembered now, open the door himself. She hoped he recognized her and wasn’t coming at her in full guard dog mode. She was feeling a bit easier about stopping by at this late hour if the Foxworths were here. Hayley, she was sure, would understand her need to know the details of what had happened in Gavin’s meeting with the police.

  Cutter had reached her, and she judged it safe by his body language, a dancing sort of step with his front paws, accompanied by an almost musical whine that sounded like he was happy to see her. She opened the door, glad the rain had at least paused, although the respite was likely only temporary. She bent to greet the animal, marveling at the way her anxiety seemed to ease as she stroked the soft fur.

  “You’re so good at this,” she crooned to the dog, who lifted his head and gave her a doggy kiss on the cheek. She laughed, and when she heard footsteps approaching she was able to straighten and smile at Gavin as he came to a halt next to her open car door. He was looking her up and down almost apprehensively.

  “Why are you here? Are you hurt?”

  That was very specific. He wasn’t just asking if she was all right. And there had been an edge in his voice. Her brow furrowed. “No. Why would I be?” He didn’t answer. After a moment she felt compelled to explain her presence. “I was late leaving the library, then I was going by and took a chance you’d be awake. I would have kept going and not bothered you if there hadn’t been a light on.”

  “I told you, I don’t sleep much.”

  “I know. That’s why—” She stopped, not liking this need to overexplain such a simple thing. Cutter nudged her hand, and she automatically moved to pet him again. “So the Foxworths are up late, too?” She gestured at the dog. “They’re here, right?”

  “Sorry. No.”

  She looked down at Cutter, then back at him. “Wait, when you said he’d attached himself to you, you meant he’s staying with you? All the time?”

  “So it appears.” His mouth quirked, as if he were bemused. “Hayley seems to think he’s here to remind me to do things like eat and sleep.”

  “So he’s your...keeper?”

  “Implying I need one?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow at her.

  “I’m sure the Foxworths know better than me,” she said, rather primly.

  He almost smiled, so she knew he’d noticed the tone. But then, she didn’t think there was much he didn’t notice.

  “You’d better go or come in,” he said, and only then did she realize it had begun to rain again, softly. Which told her where she was on the noticing things scale, she thought wryly. What was it about this man that distracted her so? Besides that he was dynamic, charismatic and sometimes downright dramatic.

  “I did want to ask about your meeting this afternoon,” she said.

  “Come in, then,” he said.

  It was raining harder by the time they got to the door, which Cutter had raced ahead to open again.

  “He really is remarkably clever, isn’t he?” she said as she stepped inside, into the warmth. She could see the fire was going, and the room was quite pleasant. She began to shrug off her jacket.

  “I think the word you want might be frighteningly,” he said, his tone dry.

  “Or extraordinarily.”

  He helped her with a recalcitrant sleeve. “Or uncannily?”

  “Amazingly.”

  “Eerily?”

  She grinned as he took her jacket and hung it on a rack just inside the door. “Thank you. I’ll grant you astonishingly.”

  “And I’ll see you an unsettling...ly.” She laughed, and he chuckled himself as he shook his head. “Never get in a word fight with a librarian.”

  “Especially an adverb fight.”

  “Agreed.”

  He led the way into the living area, where Cutter was already drying before the fire. On the rug were spread out papers of various sizes, both printed and handwritten, and a pad that held the same kind of yellow lined paper the handwriting was on. A legal pad, of course, she thought. He’d clearly been sitting on the floor, because even the large coffee table didn’t have enough space for all of it.

  He said nothing about her looking at the papers, so clearly he didn’t mind. She focused on the bold, sharp writing on those handwritten pages. She noticed the pen lying on the pad, a substantial, heavy-looking fountain pen. She’d always loved them herself, but had never quite mastered the knack of not ending up with ink-stained fingers. She bet no ink would dare misbehave with him.

  He gestured for her to sit down. Cutter whined faintly, so she sat on the floor next to the dog, who gave her another swipe of his tongue in apparent approval. She dug her fingers into the thick fur of his ruff and scratched. The animal leaned into her hand, clearly enjoying it.

  For a moment Gavin didn’t move, and when she looked up at him he was staring at her rather oddly. But after a moment he sat next to the writing pad, where she assumed he’d been before.

  “What did
you want to know?” he asked without preamble.

  Everything.

  The word slammed through her brain, and she bit her lip to keep it from escaping, afraid of how it would sound. She seized on something else, the only other thing that came to mind.

  “Why did you ask if I was hurt?”

  He drew back slightly. “I’m not sure you want the answer to that.”

  “I told you, I want the truth.”

  His jaw tightened slightly, as if he weren’t sure this was the right thing to do. But in the end, he answered her.

  “The killer is still out there. Until we know why Laurel was murdered, we don’t know that you’re not in danger, too.”

  He was right. She didn’t like it.

  Chapter 21

  “Why would I be in danger? I know it was my place, but the police said Laurel’s murder was personal—”

  “I know what they said,” Gavin answered. “I’m not saying you are, just that we don’t know for sure you’re not.”

  “But...after all this time?”

  “You moved, almost immediately after.”

  “I had to. I couldn’t live in that place anymore.” She suppressed a shudder, fought the images that wanted to roll through her mind like some horror film trailer.

  “Of course not.”

  She studied him for a moment, trying to gauge the level of—and the reason for—his concern. Some part of her wanted to think there was a very personal reason, but her common sense screamed otherwise. “You think he just hasn’t found me yet?”

  He gentled his tone; he clearly hadn’t meant to upset her. “Katie, the police are probably right, but until they break the case, you can’t be positive. I’m just saying be a little aware of that.”

  In other words, don’t assume you’re safe. Now that was unsettling. And it was an effort for her to steady herself.

  “Was Detective Davidson chatty?” When he lifted an eyebrow at her she added, “Gavin de Marco having a cup of coffee with a local cop is worth several posts, with photos.” He grimaced. She persevered. “Did you learn anything new?”

  “Nothing he would say officially, no.”

  “And unofficially?”

  He seemed to hesitate. “They have something. But Davidson’s not completely convinced. Are you sure nobody else knew that Laurel had moved in with you?”

  “No,” she said, earning a look. “I mean, Ross knew, because she told him. And my dad knew, because I needed his key for her. And my landlords knew, because they needed to. They could have mentioned it to someone. All I know for sure is that I didn’t go around telling anyone else.”

  “What about Laurel?”

  “I can’t be positive, of course, but I doubt it. She wasn’t happy about the breakup, didn’t want to talk about it, so I don’t think she would have advertised that she’d moved out.”

  “But as you just pointed out, she wouldn’t have had to advertise. One mention to an oversharer and it’s all over the internet.”

  She couldn’t argue that, not when his photograph—in which he had looked darkly handsome and very, very intense—had shown up while he was still sitting in the place with Detective Davidson.

  She shifted her gaze back to the papers spread around the floor. The pages of bold handwriting drew her eye first, and she noticed the flair of the question marks after several entries, and the intensity of the underlining in other places. She wondered what a graphologist would make of it, and guessed it would be what hundreds of articles had already said: Gavin de Marco was exactly like his writing—bold, confident and intense.

  She scanned the other papers, copies of reports, lists, some other kind of official file that looked like a short list of offenses, a map printout, a stack of photos with Ross Carr’s image on top, a copy of the picture that Laurel had always had in a frame on her nightstand. She had taken it, Katie knew, and Ross had been smiling widely at her.

  Instinctively she reached for it, wondering how a man could smile at a woman like that and then cheat on her.

  Gavin grabbed her wrist, stopping her. She was startled by the act, but more startled at how her pulse leaped under his touch, so fiercely that if his fingers had been another inch closer to her wrist she didn’t think he could have helped but feel it. Her gaze shot to his face.

  “Don’t,” he said. “There are photos in that stack you don’t need to see.”

  She frowned. Then, belatedly, she realized what he meant.

  “Crime scene photos,” she whispered. He nodded, and a different kind of shudder went through her.

  “You saw the reality,” he said, his voice so gentle it made her throat tight. “It’s hard enough to get that out of your mind without reliving it in pictures.”

  “It’s impossible,” she whispered.

  “I know.”

  Something about the softness of his tone, the sense that he really did know, blasted away her last barrier. If he’d been brisk, businesslike as he had been before, she could have withstood it, but this gentle understanding was too much. She shuddered again, tried to pull back. But then he was pulling her toward him, and she could not find the strength—or desire—to resist.

  She was leaning against him, his arms coming around her to hold her against his chest, when the storm broke. She couldn’t hold it back, not even with thoughts of how much she didn’t want to do this in front of him, let alone in his arms. It had been a while since she’d had a meltdown, and she’d dared to hope she was over the worst of it. But this was as powerful, as overwhelming, as soul-killing as that first day of realization, and she wondered at that even as it reduced her to a sobbing mass of pain.

  “I miss her so much,” she gulped out.

  “I know.” He hugged her tighter.

  For a long time he just held her, and his warmth, his steadiness, his strength helped her recover more easily than she’d expected. Her eyes burning, her cheeks wet with tears, she drew in a deep breath, enough to say, “I thought I was past this.”

  “Grief isn’t linear, Katie. It’s more like a cloverleaf you can get stuck on, going in circles and then back the way you came, and then around all over again.”

  She turned the analogy over in her mind, and it made perfect sense to her. That was exactly how she felt. She didn’t question how he knew, but asked, “Does it ever end?”

  He went still. She looked up at him, not even caring what her tearstained face must look like; this was too important. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and met her gaze.

  “No,” he said simply.

  She’d known that, deep down. She acknowledged his honesty, even when it would have been easier to lie, to give her some banal reassurance that of course she’d get over it, that this horrid pain would someday end.

  “There will always be more of those cloverleafs,” he said, still holding her close, “and they’ll be just as intense, but they’ll be smaller, easier to get out of and come less often.”

  It rang true to her, just as the rest had. “You’re very wise, Mr. de Marco.”

  He let out a breath, his mouth quirking upward at one corner. “I’ve just been taught well.”

  For the first time she thought, really thought about what he must have seen and heard in that stellar career. “You’ve seen the ugliest things, haven’t you?”

  “I’ve seen people at their worst, and best. Not enough of the latter to erase the former, unfortunately.”

  “Is that why you quit?”

  “Partly.”

  “And the rest?”

  “Is for another day,” he said. “Are you all right?”

  She realized abruptly that she was clinging to him, and draped over him in a rather suggestive manner. And that he probably wanted her off of him, but was too well mannered to say so to a clearl
y distraught woman. Still, it was a struggle to sit up, to pull away from the comforting heat and strength. She spent a moment wiping her cheeks and trying not to think what her mascara must look like, and not really caring anyway. Not now.

  “I suppose you’ve been confronted with more than one weeping woman in your work,” she finally said, pleased her voice sounded almost normal.

  “A few.”

  “Practice makes perfect, even in offering comfort, I guess,” she said, lowering her eyes and wincing inwardly at the inanity of it.

  “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never offered it before. I left that to my assistants.”

  Her gaze shot back to his face. He looked slightly bemused. It was that expression that made her ask, “Why now?”

  Bemusement vanished. His gaze locked on her. “I think,” he said slowly, “the question is, why you?”

  She couldn’t look away. She wanted to, the full intensity of his gaze, of those smoky eyes, was too much. Moments ago she’d been gulping in air as she sobbed; now she could barely take a breath.

  It was he who broke the contact that was almost physical. And it was a good thing, because she doubted she could have looked away. It wasn’t that she’d felt trapped or pinned, just that her brain had locked on to the crazy idea that if she looked away from him even those shallow breaths would stop.

  Cutter made a low, soft sound. Glad of the distraction, she reached to pet him. The action allowed her to regain a little control, and as always, stroking the dog calmed her. Odd knack he had.

  And apparently Gavin had it, too, even if he hadn’t used it before.

  So why now, or as he’d asked, why her?

  Maybe it was the setting. It was personal, here on the floor before a fire, in a place that was more like a home than an office. Or maybe it was simply Foxworth, and their philosophy, that had changed him. Maybe they had a “comfort where needed” clause or something. That would fit. It was Foxworth, and he was doing what he was supposed to do.