“I don’t know what—”
“You called Sam. You don’t trust me.”
“I trust ya, girl. I didn’t call Sam.”
She didn’t believe him. “I can take care of myself.” She walked behind the bar, as much to put distance between her and Sam as to get herself a much-needed Guinness.
I love you.
She closed her eyes, remembering what she’d said to him two years ago. She’d been such a fool.
She didn’t bother with building a proper Guinness. She poured and drank.
“I’ll leave you two to talk.” Dooley scurried over to the opposite end of the bar. Shauna glared at his back. She loved her grandfather but would happily mix cayenne pepper into his denture cream right now.
“Hello,” Sam said.
She turned to face Sam Garcia. If only he’d turned gray, lost his hair, gained fifty pounds, or sprouted warts all over his sexy, square jaw. Or maybe, he was gay.
“You’re not gay, are you?” she asked before she realized the thought left her mouth.
He spit out his beer. “Hell no.”
“Too bad.”
He shook his head in confusion. “Shauna—I’m back.”
“Really?” she said flatly. “I thought I was chatting with a ghost.”
“I’m back with Sac PD.”
“Gangs? Vice?”
“Homicide.”
Homicide? He was in homicide? That meant he knew John Black. He knew everything. Before she could say anything, he continued.
“I heard you were at the station today.”
What a disaster. The more she thought about the conversation with Detective Black, the more she realized he didn’t think her argument had merit. He’d placated her, tried to make her feel guilty for questioning his approach to the case. All she wanted was answers. Was that so hard?
“That’s none of your business,” she snapped, still humiliated and angry at the information Black didn’t give her. Except Sam was a cop. He was back in Sacramento. On homicide.
It was as if Sam could read her mind. “Slow down, Shauna. I’m not here to deputize you. I’m here to tell you to back off.”
“Like hell I will. That Detective Black—is he a friend of yours? Because he’s an ass and doesn’t believe me. I know there’s something wonky about the killers leaving the Babe Ruth baseball. They knew it was a fake, otherwise they would have taken it.”
Her instincts, her gut, told her she was right, that the theft wasn’t what it appeared to be. She bit her lip and looked at Sam. It was bad enough he was back in Sacramento—to remind her of what a fool she’d been—but she thought for sure she’d have until the next family gathering before having to see him. She’d have forewarning, Mike would have clued her in. She’d have gone prepared. Ready.
Instead, wham!
She hadn’t been ready. She doubted she ever would be. But it was nice to think she might have been prepared if she’d had just a little more notice.
“Shauna?”
“Promise to just listen.”
He nodded and leaned forward. “All ears.”
She hesitated. She wanted to trust him—Sam was not only a cop, but he was a family friend and he knew Mack. He cared about Dooley. But if Detective Black’s response was any indication of how the police were treating this matter, would Sam be any different? He was one of them. Sam probably liked the big, bad cop.
“Well,” she whispered, looking around to make sure no one could overhear, “I think whoever killed Mack is a regular.”
“Of Dooley’s?” Sam asked, his voice full of skepticism.
She put her hands on her hips. “What’s so strange about that? And didn’t you not one minute ago promise to listen and not jump to conclusions?”
He put his hands up. “You’re right. I’ll hear you out.”
“They left the Babe Ruth baseball!” she exclaimed, exasperated, then glanced around. No one appeared to be paying attention. Charlie sat a couple seats over with his pal Skip drinking drafts. At the table behind Sam, three guys from the nearby Campbell Soup factory had come in after the early shift and were filling up on long necks and pretzels.
She leaned closer. The scent of Sam’s soap with a hint of Bay Rum hit her nose. She lost her train of thought for a moment.
“Babe?” Sam asked, his voice low.
“Ruth,” she said. The baseball. Right. She took a deep breath. “It’s a fake,” she reminded him.
“And?”
“And they left it but took the others. Anyone who knows anything about baseball autographs knows that Mickey Mantle is the most forged signature, but Dooley had an authentic Mantle. Babe Ruth? It’s worth even more if real, but they left it.”
“Probably knew it was a fake,” Sam said.
She threw her hands up. “That’s what the stupid detective said! Do you guys all go to the same detective school?”
She stomped over to the Guinness tap, this time taking care in building her beer. Calm down. He’s only trying to help, she reminded herself. It wasn’t his fault she’d been half in love with him from the time she hit puberty. That she kissed him when he graduated from college, without even thinking he’d be freaked out about her being seventeen. And then she threw herself into his arms when she learned he was getting a divorce from that bitch Emma. Okay, okay, maybe Emma wasn’t really a bitch. Shauna didn’t know because she steered clear of her. But she’d married Sam. The witch.
And then she cheated on him.
Okay, she was a bitch. Shauna, who only went to church because her grandfather guilted her into it, was conservative enough to believe wedding vows meant something. Commitment. Loyalty. Love.
She’d been ready to marry Jason Butler because Sam was married, which meant he was completely off-limits, and she wasn’t going to pine away for the rest of her life over a man she could never have. When Sam arrested him for fraud, she’d been devastated—she hadn’t seen it. Jason was a nice guy, all the way around. She didn’t believe it … except he was convicted. Yet, she’d forgiven Sam, hadn’t she? She’d given him a second chance.
He rejected her. Again.
Ultimately, it was her belief in true love that stopped her from dating any guy she’d met more than three times. Austin Davis and a host of others. Not when she was in love—or lust—with another man. She’d always be thinking about Sam Garcia in the back of her mind, what he was doing, who he was with.
It was enough to drive her slowly insane.
She drank slowly, savoring the rich beer, reminding herself she was a grown woman, nearly twenty-eight. She could sit down and have a reasonable conversation with a man, no matter how sexy he was, no matter how desperately she wanted to kiss him, no matter how long she’d known and liked him. Not even liked. She didn’t like him. It was lust. And it wasn’t like she was an eighteen-year-old virgin anymore.
Which made it worse. Because now she knew what good sex was, and if she was in love with the guy, it would be so much better. She knew how Sam made her feel when they had nearly gone to bed two years ago. She’d never forget it. She wanted that feeling back.
Damn, he’d ruined her for all other men and he hadn’t even made love to her! That just wasn’t fair!
She turned and caught him staring at her, his blue eyes melting her resolve. The temperature behind the bar suddenly skyrocketed, and she took a couple steps to the right to stand directly under the circulating fan. A little better.
What was he thinking? Certainly not what she was thinking. Two years ago he’d made it perfectly clear he loved her as a friend. She was his best friend’s little sister. She was practically his sister. They’d grown up together. He didn’t think of her that way. He was getting divorced, moving to L.A., etc., etc.
Even though he’d kissed her back. Even though he’d touched her and she melted. He’d held her tight, pushing her body against his.
Until he’d dropped her, literally, and stared at her like he didn’t know her. Reminded her that her taste
in men was flawed.
That hurt. The rejection and the accusation.
And now he was back.
From the day she turned thirteen, she had never thought of Sam Garcia as her brother. She certainly couldn’t start now.
Taking a deep breath, she walked back to Sam, this time sitting on the stool next to him, careful to keep her hands to herself. “Okay, listen. The Babe Ruth forgery is perfect. Granddad was fooled. Virtually everyone was fooled, until that baseball expert came by to give Dooley an appraisal for his insurance. Only the old-timers, the ones who were around back then, know. And sometimes, Dooley plays the guess the forgery game, but no one picks the Babe Ruth, and he doesn’t give the secret away, you know? It’s an old story.”
“And what do you think the police should do about this?”
“I think they should start talking to people here. Ask them questions. I don’t know! I’m not the cop.”
Sam raised an eyebrow at her.
“Don’t start on me, I’m just telling you what I think.”
“You want to accuse Dooley’s long-time patrons of theft and murder?”
“I—no,” she admitted. “No, but—”
“Listen to me, Shauna. John Black is one of the best cops I’ve ever worked with, here or in L.A. He’s the senior detective on my team. I’m working another case, but I already talked to him when I found out Mack was the victim. I’m in the loop, and I promise no one is putting this case on the back burner.”
He spoke with such sincerity, she believed him. “And you’ll consider what I said?”
“Yes. All I ask is that you give us some breathing room to investigate Mack’s murder. Don’t talk to baseball experts or pawnshop owners or anyone in here about anything related to this crime. Okay?”
“Detective Black already told you I talked to him?”
“Yes. We work together.”
Something was wrong with this conversation. She went back to the beginning, where he’d told her he was at Dooley’s to tell her to back off.
“And,” he interrupted, “I’ll keep you in the loop. I wouldn’t want you parking yourself under the oak tree for answers.”
“What?”
“This is a matter best left to the police,” he said.
It was his tone that set her off. So patronizing, so mightier-than-thou. He treated her like a little kid, not a self-made businesswoman with a solid head on her shoulders. He should know better—he knew what she’d gone through during college to prove to her father that she was smart and talented enough to work in the family business. How hard it was to be given the opportunity her father handed freely to her brothers and they didn’t even want it. And Sam damn well knew she’d been more successful in her endeavors than anyone—except herself—expected. She’d won awards for the family construction company for her blend of contemporary efficiency and nostalgic details in their buildings. Even in this difficult economy, their business was almost in the black.
“I want to talk to Detective Black,” she said, irritated that Sam was not taking her seriously. And she thought he’d listened, but he was just playing her. She crossed her arms, defiant.
“Shauna.” He rolled his eyes.
That infuriated her even more. “You tell John Black I want a report on his investigation or I will go back to the station!”
“Like that got you anywhere this morning,” he said with a snort as he finished his beer.
Her mouth dropped open. Then closed. Then open again. “Ooh!” She clenched her fists, stood up and stomped behind the bar again.
“Hey, babe, can I get another pint?” he asked her with a wink.
A wink!
“Get it yourself!” She slapped open the double doors leading to the kitchen and left.
Sam smiled at Shauna’s retreating back. Temper on a hair-trigger. It had been so much fun teasing her when she was a kid. It was just as fun now. Whoever landed her would have his hands full, but it would be a fun ride.
He frowned. What was he doing playing these games? She might not have a boyfriend, but she had plenty of dates. Mike had filled him in on Shauna, not knowing how he felt about her. She probably had a half dozen guys waiting in the wings.
Dooley came over and exchanged his empty pint with a fresh one. “Laddie, you really pissed her off.”
“How’d you guess?” Sam asked with a shrug.
“How can you keep tabs on her, if she’s mad at you?”
Sam sighed. “I promise, Dooley, I’ll watch her back as much as I can while working two homicides.”
He should be grateful she was even speaking to him. He’d told her she was like a sister to him. Nothing could be further from the truth. But it was too late to do anything about it.
Chapter Seven
After leaving Dooley’s, it took twenty minutes of driving in her air-conditioned Jeep to cool down, both her body heat and her temper. That man infuriated Shauna. And her granddad had conspired to bring him into her business.
Shauna wasn’t an idiot. She knew she had a temper. She knew she was curious. And sometimes her tenacity got her in trouble. Nothing serious—but she couldn’t let bullies run roughshod over others.
In high school, she’d once confronted a football jock who thought he could use his bulk to intimidate smaller boys into humiliating themselves. She had been a jock herself—she played volleyball and soccer—and no way was she going to let athletes get a bad name because one of them was all attitude. She owed her brothers a debt of thanks for teaching her basic fighting skills, because she got jock-boy on his knees with a bloody nose. It was worth the weeklong suspension.
And then in college, one of her professors had propositioned her roommate—go away for the weekend, and she’d get an A. Monica had been embarrassed and upset, but was willing to do it because she needed to keep her grades up to maintain her scholarship. Shauna convinced her to say no, the horny prof gave Monica a D, and Shauna set him up to confess what he’d done. Monica ended up with a B+ in the class and Shauna destroyed the tape. Well, she destroyed the tape she’d played for him. She kept a copy in case he needed reminding that sex for grades was a big no-no.
While Shauna didn’t put John Black or Sam in the same categories as bullies, they both treated her like she was some annoying fly who didn’t know any better. They might be cops, but that was clouding their judgment. Sam said he was taking her seriously, but how could she be sure? He hadn’t taken her seriously when she told him she loved him. He’d been skeptical when she explained the baseballs. Maybe he was going to follow through, but he’d been back for what? A couple days? Could he convince that big detective Black she was right? Was Black only looking at this as a robbery, not something more?
Shauna wanted the truth.
Ten minutes later, she parked in front of Mack’s apartment. Dooley had given her the key earlier and asked her to throw out any food that could spoil, take out the garbage, gather up his mail and any insurance or banking papers. Dooley had Mack’s will, if the scribbled paper would hold up in court. She remembered when Mack had written it out, on the back of a ticket pad.
In the event of my death or incapacitation, I give power of attorney to Patrick Dooligan.
Shauna had been the witness, though she’d told both of them that they should write up something a bit more formal.
Mack had said, “I don’t have much, and I trust Dooley to give away my trinkets.”
Nine years Mack had worked for Dooley. He’d attended her high school graduation. Then her college graduation. He’d become part of the family. His death was senseless.
She took a deep breath. Now was not the time to get weepy.
She walked up the stairs to the second floor and unlocked Mack’s door with Dooley’s key. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust from the bright August sun to the dim light. As they did, her skin tingled. The place was a mess. She’d only been inside the apartment a few times before, and while Mack had never been tidy, this was beyond bachelor slob.
Shauna closed the door and carefully walked around. Had he been robbed? Someone who heard that he’d been killed maybe looted his place because they didn’t think anyone would notice? That seemed weird. And his large, flat-screened television and his computer were still in the living room.
Each of her three brothers had told her she was suspicious by nature. Nothing valuable seemed to be missing, so Shauna pulled out a garbage bag from a cabinet and emptied out the refrigerator. There wasn’t much—milk, orange juice, fruit, a few take-out boxes from Dooley’s, some that should have been tossed days ago. She left the partial six-pack of beer and everything else that hadn’t been opened. She’d get Mike or Skip to help her pack up the apartment this weekend. She suspected Dooley would want to do it, but he couldn’t do it all.
The garbage under his sink was half-full. She emptied it into the bag, then wound a twist-tie around the top and put it by the door. Dooley would need to access his bank account or insurance records, so she went over to Mack’s desk and sat down.
The drawers were a mess. It looked like someone had been looking for something, dumped out the papers, then put them all back. That didn’t seem right. She went into the bedroom. The bed was unmade, and the two of the dresser drawers were partly open.
“Someone was here,” she said out loud. She pulled out her cell phone and dialed Detective Black. He didn’t answer—of course—and she left a message.
“This is Shauna Murphy. I’m at Mack Duncan’s apartment in South Natomas, and I think he’s been robbed. Call me back. Please,” she added, hoping being polite would expedite a return call.
She then went to look up Sam’s number, but it wasn’t in her cell phone. Damn, she’d deleted it when he moved to L.A. To put him out of her mind, because every time she went to call her brother Skip, she had to scroll past Sam’s name.
Maybe that was for the best. Work with the lead detective, not Sam. Plus, she didn’t want to see him again so soon. She needed to harden her heart a bit more.
Maybe next year she could look at him without feeling an ounce of lust.
Right.
She looked around the apartment again and considered cleaning it up, but if she was right and someone had broken in, she shouldn’t touch anything else. She winced, thinking about the desk and the kitchen she’d gone through. Fortunately, she hadn’t touched the computer or anything in the bedroom, so if the police came in they could still dust for prints or do whatever they needed to do.
Murder in the River City Page 5