"You're going to make that money drop Sunday morning, and I'll be watching. If you're telling the truth about all of this, once I get my man, I'll let the feds have you. After that, for all I care, you can disappear again. But until then," he said, walking to the door, "you're mine."
Chapter 28
After that, for all I care, you can disappear again.
As Zane helped her into the front seat of his cruiser, his words reverberated in her head. His implication was clear—after his case was made, he didn't care what happened to her. His hands were gentle and capable on her arm and waist, but he was detached, as if an unscaleable wall had sprung up between them. She struggled with the seat belt and he intervened, but he wouldn't make eye contact with her as he leaned across to fasten the buckle.
She inhaled the masculine scent of him, miserable over the position she'd put him in... and strangely guilty for depriving him of the Lorey Lawson he'd been searching for all these years. He must have had his own fantasies about a reunion, she realized, which probably had involved a blonde, bubbly Lorey, with her arms wide open and a perfectly plausible—and honorable—explanation for dropping out of sight, such as one of her parents being called abroad on a secret military mission. Instead, she looked nothing like herself, was hiding from the mob, and had impeded a murder investigation that put his job on the line.
They were silent on the ride to her house. It was mid-afternoon, a cold, sunny December day, with a gusty wind. The town seemed quiet, the square almost empty, the sidewalk traffic light. When they drove past the Charmed Village Shopping Center, Elton Jamison was working on her office front, the sun bouncing off the new plate-glass window. The Looky-Loo Bookstore looked calm, far from the scene of a horrific accident. When they drove past Goddard's Funeral Chapel, the marquee had been changed to: Phillips, Tues 1:00.
She bit into her lip. Greg Goddard's business was picking up. She wondered how many people had attended Steve Chasen's memorial service for his send-off, if the yellow lilies had been a good choice, and if she should have gone with the "life souvenirs" option after all.
"How does somebody get their hands on cyanide?" she asked Zane's profile.
He dragged his mind back from wherever it had been. "By stealing it, or buying it from corrupt chemical distributors or over the Internet. And I'm told it can be made from a certain vegetable root, and from fruit pits."
"Fruit pits?"
"Yeah, like apples, apricots, peaches, cherries. It takes a huge amount, but it can be done. And we seem to have our fair share of witch doctors around here who like to dabble in homeopathic cures."
"Are you referring to Dr. Whiting?"
Instead of responding, Zane put on his signal and turned into her driveway. "I put your suitcase and briefcase in my trunk. I'll have an officer go by to pick up your car."
"Thank you," she murmured. "Would you ask your officer to be on the lookout for my cat?"
"Yep." He parked in the driveway, then walked around to help her from the passenger side.
"I'm fine," she said, but her first step toward the front door was wobbly. She felt as if she'd been at sea for days and was just setting foot on dry land. He steadied her and walked with her, his body language wooden as he used her keys to unlock the front door, where he had stood in the rain only a couple of days ago holding a pizza and beer.
When she walked in, the rooms seemed eerily lonely, and she realized with a start she was waiting for the black cat to appear. A sad pang struck her, but she held out hope the cat had made its way back to her abandoned car.
Zane appeared behind her, carrying her suitcase and briefcase. He set them inside the door.
"Thank you for bringing me home," she said, transferring the key to the inside lock so she could secure it when he left.
He gave a little laugh. "I'm not going anywhere. We have a lot to talk about." He leaned down to pick up her briefcase and handed it to her. "I want to see those files."
After a glance into his cold, accusing eyes, she carried her briefcase to the coffee table and sat down on the couch to open it. Her cheeks warmed when she recalled what had transpired there between them, but their lovemaking now seemed like a distant memory.
I'm not sure who I slept with last night.
His words in her office had stung, but they had given voice to all the questions in his head... all well-founded, as it had turned out.
She opened the briefcase, found the files he'd asked for, and handed them to him. Then she retrieved her cell phone from her purse. "I need to call my handler."
He nodded, already engrossed in the files.
She made the call to George and was surprised when he answered. "George, it's Gloria."
"Where the devil are you? I was about to send someone to look for you."
"I fell ill," she said. "I have Meniere's disease, and it has a habit of recurring when I'm stressed."
"I remember that," he said. "Bad dizzy spells."
"Right. I can't drive."
"I'll send someone to pick you up."
"No," she said, her gaze darting to Zane, who was watching her. "George, the chief of police, Zane Riley..."
"Your old boyfriend? What about him?"
"He knows everything."
"You told him?"
"No, he figured it out."
George heaved a sigh. "Okay, so have him drive you to the marshals' office in New Orleans. They'll debrief him."
"Not yet. I need some time to help him get to the bottom of some things that are going on around here."
Zane strode over. "Let me talk to him." He took the phone, not waiting for her to respond. "Marshal, this is Chief Riley in Mojo, Louisiana. As Ms. Dalton has told you, I have two murders on my hands. At best, Ms. Dalton is a material witness." His eyes narrowed at her. "At worst, she's a suspect."
Gloria's skin tingled under his disapproving gaze.
"The man who's blackmailing her wants her to make a drop Sunday morning and I want her to make that drop. I'll be with her."
He was quiet, listening to the man on the other end, then he frowned and adopted an assertive stance. "You don't understand, Marshal, there are two choices here. Either Ms. Dalton stays here and makes the money drop, or I'll arrest her for murder and she can cool her heels in my jail for a while."
Gloria pressed her fist to her mouth, not doubting Zane's sincerity.
"Yes, of course I'll be with her at all times," Zane bit out. "I know how to do my job, Marshal. Ms. Dalton will call you when she's ready to leave." Zane disconnected the call and handed the phone back to her, his eyes stormy.
"I guess I'm staying," she ventured.
He grunted. "So," he said, holding up the folders, "is this it, or are you withholding any more information from me?"
Other than the fact that I'm in love with you?
She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate. "I know Steve Chasen had a thing for Marie Gaston, kept a picture of her in his desk. And I saw Marie and Guy arguing one day outside the dry cleaner's."
"Interesting, but not necessarily damning."
"And when I withdrew the five hundred dollars from the bank, the clerk there mentioned Guy Bishop had also withdrawn a large amount of cash in small bills."
Zane's expression turned thoughtful. "Guy Bishop was also on the scene of the fire."
"Yes, I saw him. Marie was there, too, and I observed some strange eye contact between them."
"So you think Guy Bishop poisoned Chasen, and Marie Gaston knew about it?"
"Or read his mind, maybe."
He frowned. "Hm?"
"Marie is rumored to have ESP abilities."
He grimaced and held up a hand. "Let's just stick to the facts, okay?"
"What do you make of the pictures of Ziggy Hines?"
"Maybe an underage girlfriend? I don't know, but I'm going to find out. As far as the photos of Bishop, I can't believe a guy would kill someone over pictures that prove what seems clear to everyone already." He looked up. "The guy is
a flamer, right?"
She quirked a little smile and nodded.
Then Zane made a thoughtful noise. "Unless it's the man he's with that Bishop is trying to protect. Do you recognize him?"
"No, but I have to admit, I didn't study them—it made me feel like a voyeur." She took the photo Zane handed her and squinted at the face of Guy's partner. "You wouldn't happen to have a magnifying glass, would you?"
His eyebrows went up. "You're kidding, right?"
"Wait," she said, reaching for her purse. "I think I have one of those all-in-one tool things that has a magnifier on it." She took items out of her purse, including her .38, and set them aside.
"Whoa, I'll take that," he said, reaching for her gun, then he shook his head. "I never pictured you—er, Lorey—as someone who would carry a concealed weapon."
She didn't glance up, but she felt his censure. "Like you said, Zane—I've changed. Here it is." She placed the magnifier over the photo. "It's still hard to make out, but..." Her memory banks chugged through the fog of medication and the vestiges of a headache, then something clicked and her mouth rounded. "Oh, my God. It's Deke Black!"
He frowned. "The attorney who was murdered? Penny's husband?"
"Yes."
"Did she... know?"
"I can't be sure, but I'm inclined to say no, or it would have probably come up during the divorce."
"So Guy was having an affair with his lady boss's husband?"
Noting the date on the photos predated the divorce settlement, she nodded and winced. "Maybe that's why Guy was willing to go to such great lengths to keep it secret—because he didn't want to hurt Penny."
Zane worked his mouth from side to side. "I'll let him tell me that himself. What about Mona Black's folder—any idea what was inside?"
"No. All I know is Mona didn't seem too distraught about Steve's passing. When I asked her if she knew anything about Steve's family, she said she barely knew him."
Zane shook his head. "The people in this town sure have a lot of secrets." He gave her a pointed look. "Present company included."
Her cheeks flamed. "What happened yesterday with Jimmy Scaggs?"
"You mean the phantom body in the woods? He took me to the place where he said he saw it, but, surprise, surprise, it was magically gone. I humored him and looked around, but after all the rain, the ground was pretty much a swamp."
"You didn't find anything?"
"Just a man's watch in about three inches of mud that could have been there for years. The guy means well, but I think he's been smoking some of his magic mushrooms."
She managed a little smile, then suddenly, her body downshifted. She was drained, physically and emotionally. The sleepless nights, the Meniere's attack, and the medication were all catching up to her. She touched a hand to her head and leaned back on the couch. "I'm sorry... I'm just... so... sleepy."
As soon as her eyes closed, her body pulled her toward rest. She melted into the downy couch. Sheer physical exhaustion, coupled with her soul-deep purge of finally telling Zane what had happened all those years ago, sent her spiraling toward the sleep abyss at record speed.
He said something that was garbled by the time it reached her ears, but as she was drawn over the edge of unconsciousness into a languid state, she imagined it to be I'm so glad I found you.
Chapter 29
Gloria woke leisurely, flush with the feeling of having her well refilled. At the faint daylight dancing on the air, she guessed it was about 6:30. She must have slept all evening and all night. She stretched her arms high over her head and brushed the headboard of her bed.
Then she froze, and her eyes popped wide open. How had she gotten from the couch to the bed? Then she lifted the sheet and looked down at her underwear-clad body. How had she gotten undressed?
From the kitchen, she heard the sound of movement and a low, male voice.
Zane, of course.
Wasn't he the answer to every question in her head?
She took a quick shower, still marveling over the grapeness of her hair. After a quick blow-dry, she pulled jeans and a gray sweater from the suitcase she'd packed yesterday, which had been set at the foot of her bed.
Yesterday—what a blur. And what a mixed bag of emotions. Zane had seemed relieved to have a puzzle solved, but he'd openly admitted she wasn't what he'd expected her to be... and hadn't hesitated to let her know he was still skeptical of her stories and her motives. She hadn't trusted him enough to confide in him, and now he was treating her with equal reserve.
She left the bedroom and made her way to the kitchen. Zane was shirtless, standing with his back to her, talking into his phone.
"Stack up the interviews—I want to see everyone today, in this order: Guy Bishop, Marie Gaston, Ziggy Hines, Mona Black... yes, I said Mona Black. And I'm expecting a couple of faxes, would you put those on my desk when they arrive? Thanks. Oh, and spread the word—the next officer who broadcasts where my cruiser is parked on the goddamn scanner will be doing parking meter duty until they file for their pension, got it?" He disconnected the call and set the phone down on the counter with a bang.
"Good morning," she said.
He turned around, and she was struck by his male physical beauty—the expansive shoulders, the well-developed chest, the narrow waist. Without a belt, his uniform pants hung low on his hips, revealing the waistband of his white boxers. His dark hair glistened with moisture and stuck up slightly from his running his hands through it—no doubt in frustration.
"Morning," he said, as he reached for a folded white T-shirt on a chair and pulled it over his head.
"I assume you spent the night."
He grunted in affirmation. "I slept on the couch."
"Thank you for moving me to the bedroom."
"No problem."
"Do you need for me to wash or iron anything?"
"No thanks—I always keep a change of clothes in the trunk of my cruiser."
She nodded, a forced smile on her lips.
Silence stretched between them, thick and awkward. Yet even with injured and distrustful feelings between them, she could feel his body calling to hers. Her breasts tightened, and her stomach clenched with desire. He looked away and rubbed the back of his neck. The circles under his eyes and the pinch between his dark eyebrows said he hadn't slept as well as she had.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
"Like a new woman," she said, then at his frown, she caught herself. Not exactly the best choice of words in light of the circumstances. "I mean, fine. Good, even."
"I made coffee," he said, nodding toward the pot.
"Smells... strong," she said, moving in that direction.
So this was the morning after they hadn't gotten the chance to experience before.
"Is my car here?" she asked, pouring a cup of the blackest coffee she'd ever seen.
"Yes. One of my officers brought it by last night, and I pulled it into the garage."
"Thank you. Did he or she find my cat?"
"No. Sorry."
She nodded, wondering how the cat had fared in last night's low temperatures. "I think I'll go into my office and pack up a few things that I would've had to leave otherwise."
"I don't think so," he said, his voice low.
She looked up. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that you're sticking with me today, just in case one of Riaz's guys has tracked you down. We're going to the station. I need to conduct interviews."
"I heard you when I walked in," she said, sipping her coffee. She winced at its strength, thinking she wouldn't mind a cup of Marie's flavored coffee right about now. "What will I do all day?"
"Not get into trouble," he said curtly, then drained his cup. "Can you be ready in fifteen minutes?"
"I'm ready now," she returned, matching his clipped demeanor. "I need to stop by the bank to get more cash for tomorrow."
"Don't worry about it—your five hundred is still at the station in the safe. It's enough for appearances. I
plan to have the guy in cuffs before he's finished counting it." He gave her a pointed look. "Like I would have before, if you'd bothered to tell me."
She bit down on the inside of her cheek. "We've gone over this."
His jaw hardened. He reached for his uniform shirt, shrugged into it and buttoned it with agile fingers that sent her mind wandering off in carnal tangents. To derail her one-track mind, she drank deeply of the chunky coffee, then picked up her purse. "What did you do with my pistol?"
He tucked in his shirt while he moved toward the door, inserting his own weapon into a small holster. "It's in your bedroom, in the lingerie—uh, in the bureau."
In her lingerie bureau, now empty. She turned toward the bedroom, but he clasped her arm. "Leave it, Counselor. You'd only have to check it when you got to the station." He opened the door and stepped outside, scanning the area before waving her outside.
She emerged, her breath a white cloud in the cool morning air, and locked the door, easily shielded by his big body.
"Stay close," he said.
It was an order, not an endearment. They moved to the cruiser casually, but swiftly, and were soon underway without incident. "It wouldn't make sense for Riaz's men to try to kill me," she reasoned aloud, if only to calm her own fears. "If they think I know where my mother is, why would they want to hurt me?"
A muscle worked in Zane's jaw. "Maybe to smoke her out of hiding."
She blanched. "You mean... to attend a funeral?"
"Or to visit a hospital. But the marshal doesn't have any direct proof that they're looking for you, right?"
"Right."
"Does the government have moles in the organization?"
"I assume that's who my handler refers to as his 'sources.'"
"I did some research last night on my laptop. Bernard Riaz's organization actually grew while he was in prison."
She shuddered at the implication that the man couldn't be taken down. She inched closer to Zane, wildly comforted by his presence. It felt good to know he would protect her as long as she was in town, although the thought of him being in danger because of her was just as scary.
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