HIS PARTNER'S WIFE

by Janice Kay Johnson

  Up until the moment his mouth closed over Natalie's, John could still hear the voice of his common sense.

  Don't do this. Think about everything you have to lose.

  One taste of her evoked stunning hunger that drowned that common sense. She was sweet, soft, responsive. The memory of how her body felt pressed to his had been imprinted since Friday night, as if the fear of losing her had sharpened sensation. Now she fit against him as if she belonged.

  If he'd thought at all, he would have kept the kiss light, something they could both dismiss afterward if it wasn't a success. Friends pecked each other on the lips, didn't they?

  Friends didn't kiss each other like this, with desperation and mindless passion.

  One of his hands cupped the back of her head; the other gripped her buttock as he lifted and pressed her against him. He came up for air only when he had to. She let out small whimpers and tugged at his hair until he bent his head again. John backed her against the table and lifted her so that he could cradle himself between her thighs. He was so damned hard, aching for her, ready to have her here, now. With a free hand he lifted her T-shirt and cupped her breast, glorying in the weight and fullness and the hard peak of her nipple against his palm.

  She wanted him. She had to want him. This wasn't one-sided.

  The knowledge had been there all along, feeding his secret fantasies about her. Now it roared through him like a Gulf hurricane, the quiet eye of certainty surrounded by whipping turmoil.

  She sighed, nipped his neck, her mouth damp. He knotted his fingers in her hair and lifted her face to claim her lips again. The drive of his tongue mimicked the primitive urge that had his hips shoving against her.

  "Daddy!" came a distant, indignant cry.

  John jerked and dragged his mouth from Natalie's. He was disoriented, taking a couple of seconds to realize his kids were just upstairs. Squabbling, of course. Wanting his intervention.

  He sucked in ragged breaths as he fought for control. He'd forgotten his own children. How could he?

  Natalie had stiffened under his hands. Her breasts were rising and falling as she, too, gasped for air. Her lips glistened and looked swollen. He wanted to nip her lower lip, demand entrance. He wanted to carry her into his bedroom and lock the door, to hell with his children.

  "Daddy!" came Evan's whine. "Maddie's being mean!"

  The telephone rang. John groaned.

  "It's … it's just as well." Natalie was inching back and trying to straighten her clothes.

  "No, damn it, it's not!" he snapped, his fingers biting into her arms.

  She lifted startled eyes to his. Her pupils were dilated, her cheeks pink.

  He made himself flex his fingers and release her. "I've been wanting to do that for a long time."

  He hoped for a glorious, shy smile and a whispered admission that she felt the same. Instead, her gaze slipped from his and she said, "Shouldn't you answer the phone?"

  Tautly John said, "That's what the answering machine is for."

  "Da-ad." His daughter's voice neared. "Evan's being a brat."

  His own voice could be heard as the answering machine kicked in. "You've reached the McLean residence. We can't take your call right now. Leave a message."

  The kids tore into the kitchen at the exact same moment that Hugh started speaking. "Call me, John. You asked me to check out those rumors. You're not going to like this, but it seems they're dead-on." Click.

  Natalie had slid from the table and he'd backed up a couple of feet. Anyone older than eight would have caught some vibes. His children didn't.

  His son launched the first salvo in a whine. "She says we have to watch…"

  "No TV." John's voice had a snap they seldom heard. "You can't agree, you lose. Straight to bed."

  Their mouths dropped open.

  "But, Dad…!" Maddie began.

  "Now."

  They went without another word, expressions chastened. Hell, maybe he should crack down more often.

  Why should he play ump? Let them work out the rules.

  He turned to see that Natalie was edging toward the door to follow them. "Natalie…"

  She shoved a hand into her tangled hair. "Let's not talk tonight, okay? Tomorrow?"

  He wouldn't have known what to say anyway. Don't read too much into one kiss. Or, Read as much into it as you want.

  Talking had never been hard for them, although they'd had their best conversations on the telephone. Maybe he should call her tomorrow at work. Say things that were difficult in person.

  But he knew he wouldn't. Seeing the nuances of expression on her face had become too important. Words weren't enough anymore.

  "Yeah. Okay," he said. His voice roughened. "Just don't…"

  She paused in the doorway. "Don't what?"

  "Don't be sorry."

  From the way her gaze flitted from his, she already was, he saw with dread.

  She only nodded and left. Fled, because he hadn't listened to the sane voice of his common sense.

  Don't blow a friendship you need so badly, it had tried to tell him.

  She was a guest in his house. What a time to come on to her. John faced how he'd feel if tomorrow she made an excuse to go stay with a woman friend. He'd been damned lucky she trusted him so implicitly.

  But he was still hard, his body still thrumming with raw sexual need. He couldn't remember wanting a woman like this. How did you divert a hurricane from its path?

  John swore aloud, his voice harsh in the empty room.

  He was almost grateful to remember Hugh's message.

  Until he pushed Play and listened to it again.

  The rumors he'd asked him to check out had to do with a missing shipment of heroin and the dubious stories of cops who'd made it disappear. They were dead-on?

  John went into his study to call his brother, who answered on the third ring.

  "Thought that message would get you," he said, when John had identified himself.

  John had no patience tonight. "What do you mean, dead-on?"

  "I found somebody who says he'd testify in court that he tipped off Stuart Reed about a good half million dollars worth of white stuff coming into the country. Next morning, the boat was found adrift and the two men who were supposed to be on it weren't. I vaguely remember the incident. Coast Guard handled it, but they contacted Port Dare P.D. because they suspected drugs had something to do with it."

  "We get tips all the time," John said impatiently. "You know most of them are worth crap."

  "According to my source, there were actually three people on that boat. One of them got away. He might talk if we're persuasive enough, my informant says. And what he'll tell us is, cops had something to do with it."

  John wanted to be shocked. Or disbelieving. Not coldly angry and convinced despite himself.

  "You get a name?"

  "I got a name," Hugh said in a hard voice. "I think I can be persuasive."

  "I figured."

  John rubbed the back of his neck. "Your source thinks the cop was Stuart Reed."

  "Yeah." Hugh was silent for a moment. "I'm sorry, John. I know he was your friend."

  "Not that good a one, apparently."

  Head pounding anew, John wondered how he would tell Natalie. She'd loved her husband. How would she deal with the knowledge he was crooked?

  Or had she known?

  "No." Not Natalie. She was too honest. Had been too shocked at finding the body in Stuart's den. Stuart couldn't have told her.

  If anyone else was investigating this case, that wouldn't be enough.

  "No what?" his brother asked.

  "I was thinking aloud." John swore. "This opens a can of worms."

  "Oh, yeah." Something rustled in the background, and John easily pictured Hugh unwrapping one of those peppermints he sucked incessantly since he'd quit smoking two years ago. "We should bring Internal Affairs into it."

  "Not yet," John said, too quickly. He let his head fall back and lightly bump the wall. "
Let's be sure first. For Natalie's sake, if not Stuart's."

  His brother had the goodness—or the sense—not to question Natalie's honesty.

  "You going to take Baxter to talk to this guy?"

  John went with instinct. "I want you."

  Silence. "You don't want Baxter to know?"

  John closed his eyes. "Not yet. Let's keep it to ourselves until we hear this guy's story."

  Funny, brothers could and did argue about anything. But they also knew when to say agreeably, "I'm all yours tomorrow."

  Hugh's source had even known where to find Jens Lindmark. He lived in a decent condo—owned, not rented, John had checked—with a waterfront view from the second-story balcony. He carried no mortgage and wouldn't have been given one, considering his lack of employment history.

  At eight-thirty sharp, Hugh rang the doorbell. John contemplated the nice planter box with pansies peeping from beneath a purplish grass.

  No answer. Hugh glanced at his watch and gave Lindmark one minute, than rang again. And again. Third time was the charm.

  Muffled swearing and finally footsteps preceded the unbolting of a dead bolt. A thin, narrow-faced man in his thirties wearing nothing but low-slung pajama bottoms yanked open the door.

  "What the hell do you want?" His eyes narrowed as he took in Hugh's uniform and then John, a step behind. He growled an obscenity. "Cops. You couldn't wait until nine o'clock? Ten o'clock?"

  "The early bird…"

  This obscenity was blistering.

  Both men presented shields. "We want to talk to you," Hugh said.

  "So does my ex-wife. I don't talk to her, either."

  Hugh planted a hand on the door and effortlessly prevented it from shutting. "We hear you might know something about half a million bucks worth of heroin that went missing."

  Jens Lindmark gave an incredulous laugh. "If I did, you think I'd tell you?"

  John said musingly, "Word on the street is that nobody knows where that shipment went. If it were to somehow get around that Jens Lindmark does know…" He paused, shook his head. "Why, we're probably just the first of many visitors."

  "So you're dirty cops." Mouth curling, he appraised them. "Why didn't you just say so?"

  "Because we're not." Hugh's voice was hard. "We're the honest kind."

  "Then why the hell do you care what happened?" He rubbed his chest idly, scratching in the thin blond hair. "Junkies in Seattle have shot up the damn stuff long ago."

  "Maybe. Maybe not."

  His brows rose. John sensed genuine startlement. "Can we come in?"

  "Oh, hell." He backed up, giving another bark of laughter. "Why not?"

  The condo was decently furnished, department-store style. He was a flunky, not a head honcho, or he'd be living in more luxury, but clearly he wasn't an addict himself and must be steadily employed in his chosen profession.

  He waved them to seats on a nubby brown sofa and flung himself into a leather chair, planting bare feet on the glass-topped coffee table. "Tell me why you want to know."

  Hugh and John exchanged a glance. John said, "We have reason to think someone is looking for that heroin."

  "Someone?" Lindmark smiled unpleasantly. "A cop."

  "We don't know that."

  He put his feet on the floor and sat up. "Okay, then let me tip you off. You want a cop."

  "What makes you so sure a cop was involved?"

  "I was there." His shoulders twitched and he shot to his feet. "I know cops when I see them."

  The brothers' eyes met again. Not a cop—cops.

  "Did you recognize any of them?"

  "Oh, yeah." He walked jerkily to the sliding doors, looked out, then turned, his eyes filled with sudden fear. "Damn! That's why you're here, isn't it? You didn't know anybody survived!"

  John stood. "That's not…"

  Lindmark flattened himself against the glass. "I've never talked." His Adam's apple bobbed. "I swear! I never will. You don't have to worry about me! I'm not asking for money, I'm not asking for anything. You've got to believe me."

  Feeling a cold fury at his fellow officers sworn to uphold the law, John said, "We weren't there. But if cops were involved, we want to know who."

  Lindmark was panting, his eyes flicking from one brother to another. After a moment he swore. "I'm stupid! Stupid to let you in my door."

  "No. You're stupid if you don't take this chance to tell us what you know. We arrest the dirty cops, you can quit looking over your shoulder."

  "I'm not looking. They didn't know I was there."

  "Somebody did, or else why did we come knocking at your door?"

  He paced and sweated and cursed but finally saw the sense in what John said.

  "You're his partner, aren't you?" Lindmark was still twitchy. "I remember you."

  Ice formed in John's chest. "His?"

  "Reed's. He was there, I knew him."

  John had seen Lindmark's rap sheet. Stuart Reed had once arrested him.

  "You're sure."

  "Oh, yeah!" The hand that pushed back his hair shook. "It was night, we had just slipped into the berth with the engine off. I noticed a rat swimming in the water. I looked up when Sanchez jumped onto the pier with the line and these guys in black swarmed from… God. I don't know where they came from. Just pop, pop, pop. Sanchez toppled back into the boat." He swallowed, and a nerve ticked in one cheek. "Willis, too. I heard they found the boat drifting later."

  "Where were you?"

  "In the dark on the other side of the cabin. I saw Sanchez go down, I rolled over the gunwale and let myself down into the water. Just as I let go, Willis's blood splattered the windshield. Some of it got in my eye and stung." Now he did look like an addict, muscles jerking all over. "It was a nightmare, man. A nightmare."

  "How many men?" Hugh asked.

  "I don't know." He sat down, then shot up immediately, beginning a restless circle of the living room. "Three, I think. I don't know. It happened so fast."

  John injected doubt into his voice. "And yet you're sure you can identify Detective Stuart Reed."

  "I know him. It was him that shot Sanchez. The others, I didn't get as good a look at, but they were cops. They were wearing SWAT team uniforms."

  Cops in uniform. John's roiling anger hardened into black ice.

  "It wasn't a bust that went bad?" Hugh asked.

  "Hell, no! They didn't say a word. They just started shooting." He rubbed his thighs, the tic in his cheek going like a metronome. "If I'd been up in the bow, I'd be dead, too."

  "You didn't report any of this to your bosses."

  "I didn't have any bosses. This was Sanchez's baby. He hired me. I don't know who he was working for. Shit, man, what am I going to say? Yeah, I'm here alive and well, but your heroin is gone? You think they'd buy that?"

  John watched Lindmark closely. "You know Stuart Reed is dead?"

  "Know?" His laugh held an edge of hysteria. "I held a party! I served champagne! Know? Oh, yeah. You can say that."

  He insisted he couldn't identify the other men in dark SWAT team uniforms. He couldn't swear there were three. Two, he knew for sure.

  "You said 'swarmed,'" Hugh reminded him. "That sounds like more than two."

  He began twitching again. "I don't know. Man, I saw those guns and silencers and I wasn't carrying. They just came out of the night like they were part of it. Okay. I take back 'swarmed.' They 'materialized.'" He enunciated the word sarcastically. "Is that better?"

  John let it go. "You swam away."

  "Underwater as far as I could hold my breath. I came up on the other side of a sailboat. Man, I never saw anything else."

  "Bullshit!" John said sharply. "You can't tell me you didn't look back, see what they were doing."

  Lindmark yanked on his hair in a seemingly unconscious, convulsive way as he exploded, "Hell, yeah, I looked! All I saw was the boat drifting away. The engine started after a few minutes, so I guess they were on board. I didn't swim after them, if that's what you mean." />
  They ran him through the story repeatedly. He wasn't sure how many men had attacked the mooring boat. Two for sure, maybe three or even four. Definitely SWAT team uniforms. He couldn't be shaken from his identification of Stuart Reed, but only shook his head at the idea of recognizing the second man from photographs.

  "I saw Reed, and I'm going, 'Shit, these are cops!' I hear this pop, pop, and Sanchez goes down. The docks aren't that well lit. I was scared. I don't mind admitting that. But I wasn't going to hang around asking, What color are that dude's eyes?"

  Any mention of Lindmark testifying in court evoked naked fear. He held up both hands and shook his head so violently he was in danger of giving himself whiplash. "I'll lie, man. Somebody'd do me if I opened my mouth like that. Maybe you arrest two guys and there were three. No. Forget it."

  His eyes wild, he was deeply regretting having let them in by the time they left, swearing he'd lie if they sent anyone else to ask questions.

  "I wasn't there. I don't know anything."

  John was behind the wheel as they pulled away from the curb.

  "Scum," Hugh remarked. John grunted.

  His brother let him brood for a minute before asking, "Now what?"

  "Now I don't know," John admitted. He muttered an obscenity. "Cops. Can you believe it?"

  "Happens everywhere."

  "Not here." He made a disbelieving sound. "We know everyone on the force."

  "Could be Reed was the only one. He could have borrowed the uniforms."

  John wanted to believe it and didn't. The operation sounded too smooth, almost military. Cops who'd worked together could operate that way. No wrinkles, just materializing.

  "Whoever the partner was, he didn't get his cut."

  "You think there was only one?" Hugh asked.

  "Yeah. I think Lindmark wanted to believe there were more. Two would have been enough, if they were cops. With surprise on their side, why cut anyone else in?" He grimaced. "Why take a chance trying to find another dirty cop?"

  It was his brother's turn to grunt. Hugh was staring straight ahead, his lean face grim. "If this partner is searching Natalie's place, he's not looking for money. He thinks the heroin was never sold." He glanced at John. "How long between the heist and Reed's heart attack?"

  "Uh…" John had to think. "About three months."