by Maggie Price
He’d broken the first law of being a cop—he’d replaced discipline with emotion, and gotten involved.
Letter to Reader
Title Page
Dedication
About the Author
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Teaser chapter
Copyright
He’d broken the first law of being a cop—he’d replaced discipline with emotion, and gotten involved.
Each day the subtle nuance of her every movement branded itself in his brain. He had a picture frozen in his mind—A.J. with her head bent over her work, dark, thick hair draping her breasts, molding her curves with intimate detail.
He watched her. He wanted her.
“Damn!” Michael scrubbed a hand across his face while the thought of those curves sent heat arrowing straight to his loins.
Why couldn’t he relegate her to some dark part of his subconscious and get on with business? Why the hell did her obvious desire to avoid all but essential interaction with him only fuel his need to demolish the wall she’d built?
The wall intended to keep him out.
Because you’re crazy about her....
Dear Reader,
Any month with a new Nora Roberts book has to be special, and this month is extra special, because this book is the first of a wonderful new trilogy. Hidden Star begins THE STARS OF MITHRA, three stories about strong heroines, wonderful heroes—and three gems destined to bring them together. The adventure begins for Bailey James with the loss of her memory—and the entrance of coolheaded (well, until he sees her) private eye Cade Parris into her life. He wants to believe in her—not to mention love her—but what is she doing with a sackful of cash and a diamond the size of a baby’s fist?
It’s a month for miniseries, with Marilyn Pappano revisiting her popular SOUTHERN KNIGHTS with Convincing Jamey, and Alicia Scott continuing MAXIMILLIAN’S CHILDREN with MacNamara’s Woman. Not to mention the final installment of Beverly Bird’s THE WEDDING RING, Saving Susannah, and the second book of Marilyn Tracy’s ALMOST, TEXAS miniseries, Almost a Family.
Finally, welcome Intimate Moments’ newest author, Maggie Price. She’s part of our WOMEN TO WATCH cross-line promotion, with each line introducing a brand-new author to you. In Prime Suspect, Maggie spins an irresistible tale about a by-the-book detective falling for a suspect, a beautiful criminal profiler who just may be in over her head. As an aside, you might like to know that Maggie herself once worked as a crime analyst for the Oklahoma City police department
So enjoy all these novels—and then be sure to come back next month for more of the best romance reading around, right here in Silhouette Intimate Moments.
Yours,
Senior Editor and Editorial Coordinator
* * *
Please address questions and book requests to:
Silhouette Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
* * *
PRIME SUSPECT
MAGGIE PRICE
To Bill Price, for his unwavering support. You opened your arms and swept me into a life filled with love and laughter...and even a measure of intrigue. Thank you, husband, for all that and so much more.
MAGGIE PRICE
turned to crime at the age of twenty-two. That’s when she went to work at the Oklahoma City Police Department. As a civilian crime analyst, she evaluated suspects’ methods of operation during the commission of robberies and sex crimes, and developed profiles on those suspects. During her tenure at OCPD, Maggie stood in lineups, worked on homicide task forces, established procedures for evidence submittal, even posed as the wife of an undercover officer in the investigation of a fortune-teller.
While at OCPD, Maggie stored up enough tales of intrigue, murder and mayhem to keep her at the keyboard for years. This book, the first of those tales, won the Romance Writers of America’s prestigious Golden Heart Award for Romantic Suspense.
Maggie invites her readers to contact her at 5208 W. Reno, Suite 350, Oklahoma City, OK 73127-6317.
Chapter 1
A.J. Duncan drove through the icy November dusk, the apprehension holding her in its grip deepening with every mile. Ten days ago the grim-faced police chaplain had broken the devastating news of her brother’s line-of-duty death. Since then, the outer world had appeared unfocused and unreal, like something viewed through a pool of water.
The needles of dread that now pricked her skin were all too real.
Tightening her gloved hands around the steering wheel, she took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. She had only a few more minutes to get her emotions under control. A glance at the department memo on the seat beside her heightened the sick feeling in her stomach. A uniformed officer had delivered the summons as she locked the door to the Crime Analysis Unit after her first day back at work. Report to Internal Affairs. Below the computer-generated sentence, Sgt. Michael Ryan had signed his name in precise, angular letters.
Internal Affairs. Cops investigating cops. The feeling of dread settled into a hard knot in her chest. God, there was no avoiding what lay ahead, no getting around the awesome power that Ryan’s unit yielded.
The sprawling brick structure housing the Oklahoma City police department’s training, personnel and internal affairs divisions came into view just as the clock on the dash glowed 5:30. A.J. nosed her red Miata into the ice-glazed parking lot. The reserved spaces were empty, except the one marked Commander—IAD. In it sat a black Bronco, its antennae encrusted in ice. Across the lot a few cars huddled in the gloom near the door that led to the gym where the department’s recruits and officers trained. A.J. bit her lip against an instinctive sureness that told her Ryan had timed their meeting so they’d have the building essentially to themselves.
She shoved open the car door and stepped into the frigid wind, wincing against tiny pellets of sleet.
Clenching her teeth against the constant age-old ache in her right thigh, she paused in the building’s dim foyer, her stomach churning. She had never met Michael Ryan, yet a disgruntled cop whose career had barely survived an IAD investigation once told her Ryan was the worst of the lot—because he was the best.
He would ask her about Ken. What would she say? What the hell could she say about her brother?
IAD’s outer office was dark. Like a moth pulled to a scorching flame, A.J. made her way through a shadowy labyrinth of desks and chairs toward the wedge of light that jutted from a back office. A low voice drifted on the still air; A.J. paused outside the door, her spine stiff as wire.
Inside, Michael Ryan stood beside his desk, telephone receiver trapped between his shoulder and cheek. Even after a full workday, his starched white shirt appeared unwrinkled, its collar a crisp fold over a knotted paisley tie. He had one hand clamped at his waist, holding back the flap of his navy suit coat. Light glinted off the gold badge clipped to his belt.
A.J. pulled off her gloves then slipped out of her coat. The hand she used to smooth the skirt of her gray suit trembled. Inching back into the shadows, she used the time to look Ryan over.
He was in his midthirties, she judged, tall and lean with the build of an athlete, his thick hair as dark as a starless night. His face was high boned, his mouth firmly molded, his eyes ice blue. Under Ryan’s command, Internal Affairs operated with spit and polish, and he had the same look about
him—sharp and controlled.
“We agreed Megan would spend Christmas with me,” Ryan said into the phone. “That was the deal.” A.J. picked up an undertone of steel in his voice.
Folding her coat across her arm, she pulled her gaze from his intense profile. Ryan’s office was cool black metal and white walls. No clutter. Except for the telephone, an overstuffed file folder was the only item on his desk. The credenza spanning the back wall displayed a lone brass frame holding the picture of a preteen girl with an impish, lopsided smile. Her dark good looks and piercing blue eyes gave silent testimony of a blood lineage with the man who stood scowling inches away.
“One weekend in three months.” Ryan’s hand curled into a fist as he spoke. “That’s not too much to ask.” He paused to listen, his shoulders stiffening. “Have Megan call me. Collect,” he added, then settled the receiver onto its base with a thud.
“Dammit!” he muttered. He shoved his fingers through his dark hair. A muscle flinched in his jaw. He stepped to the credenza, swiped up the photograph and stared down at the picture. Regret, raw and dark, settled in his eyes.
Breath hitching, A.J. stood outside the doorway, still as death. She knew what it was like to gaze at a photograph and feel the ache of remorse.
As if suddenly sensing her presence, Ryan’s chin came up and he turned. The small clench of empathy that had tugged at A.J. died when his expression sharpened.
“A.J.” He returned the photograph to the credenza; his unwavering gaze locked with hers while he walked the few steps to the door. “I’m Michael Ryan. I don’t think we’ve ever met,” he added, extending his hand.
“We haven’t,” she confirmed. Heart pounding, she slid her hand into his, hoping direct contact wouldn’t betray her uneasiness.
“I appreciate you meeting me here.”
She forced a thin smile and pulled her hand from his firm, warm grip. “I wasn’t aware I had a choice, Sergeant. When someone needs information from my unit, they usually just call.”
He raised a dark brow. “I’d have done that if I needed the services of a crime analyst.” He stepped aside and motioned toward the chairs at the front of his desk. “Have a seat.”
She left her coat and purse in one chair, then settled into another, feeling his blue stare following her every move.
“This concerns Ken,” Ryan said as he leaned a hip against the front edge of the desk. A.J. waited, feeling time inch its way forward as his gaze slid from her eyes, to her mouth, then down her body. He was sizing her up, assessing her—looking for what, she didn’t know. With tension knotting her throat, she shifted in her chair and waited.
“I apologize if this is painful,” he continued after a moment. “But it’s waited too long as it is.”
“What about my brother?” she asked, forcing an evenness into her voice.
“Are you aware of any problems Ken was having—personal or with the job?”
For a mindless instant, the threatening voice of the anonymous caller who’d startled her from a sound sleep swirled in her brain. “Your brother’s gone bad. Tell him to cooperate with his new partners...or else.” She’d tracked Ken down after anxious hours of searching and told him about the call. He’d cursed, rage darkening his face. “I’ll kill the bastard for involving you in this, A.J. So help me God, I’ll kill him.”
“Involving me in what?” she’d demanded, more frightened than she’d ever been in her life, and not sure why. But her question and the ones that followed drew only Ken’s unnerving, thin-lipped silence. Without saying another word, he had stalked out, his oath to kill some unnamed person her final memory of him.
It was the last time she’d seen her brother alive.
A.J. took a deep breath against the familiar swell of grief that settled around her heart. Ken had always been there to fix her troubles. They’d had a parentless childhood; he’d helped their aunt raise her, been her adviser, protector and a million other things. Now he was dead, and she was left with a black void of questions.
“Was Ken having problems?”
The hard edge that had settled in Ryan’s voice snapped her gaze up. “My brother died while investigating a burglary. Shouldn’t you be looking for the bastard who murdered him?”
“No,” Ryan answered bluntly. “That’s Homicide’s job. But you’ve spent your fair share of time working with that unit, so I’m not telling you anything you don’t know.”
She shifted her attention to a metal bookcase filled with precise rows of binders and departmental manuals. Ryan had done his homework. He knew that beside her duties as civilian supervisor over Crime Analysis, her training as a profiler drew her special assignments to homicide task forces. Dread tightened her jaw. OCPD had hundreds of employees—this man, with whom she’d never before exchanged words, wouldn’t know her work history unless he’d made the effort to find out.
“Was Ken having problems?” Ryan persisted.
“If he was, he didn’t confide in me.” Whatever his secrets, Ken had taken them to the grave. A.J. intended they stay there.
“I know you and your brother were close,” Ryan commented, his gaze unyielding. “I understand loyalty. But Ken’s dead now, and things will go easier for you if you tell me what you know.”
A.J. stared at him, her spine going rigid. She’d heard cops interrogating suspects before, and that was how Ryan sounded now. As if she were a suspect. “I have no idea what you’re getting at, Sergeant.”
“Then I’ll make my point. Ken had a checking account at Savings National.” As he spoke, Ryan reached behind him and lifted the thick file folder off the desk. “During the last week of Ken’s life, separate cash deposits totaling over ten thousand dollars were made into his account.”
“I... There’s some mistake,” A.J. said with disbelief. She was the one with a head for finance, not Ken. Her brother had no talent for managing money; he lived from paycheck to paycheck.
“No mistake,” Ryan answered. “I have copies of the deposit slips. The records show you’re a cosigner on the account.”
A.J. blinked and gave a wary nod. “Ken opened it after his divorce. He wanted my name on the account in case something happened.”
Ryan pushed away from the desk, straightening to his full height. “Something did happen. Ken died. And he left a lot of questions.”
“That I don’t have the answers to.” Ten thousand dollars, she thought weakly. Where the hell had the money come from?
Mouth set in a thin line, Ryan pulled a computer printout from the file folder and handed it to her. “This came out of Ken’s locker.”
Sweat slicked A.J.’s palms as she stared at the printout, its top page smudged with black fingerprint powder. She knew the exact day the printout had disappeared from her office. Moved by an instinct she didn’t understand, her search for it had turned frantic after she’d received the anonymous call.
“The data on those pages is classified, is it not?” Ryan asked.
She met his gaze. “Yes.”
“From it, your unit sends Patrol reports of the districts hit hardest. Those areas are assigned the highest number of black-and-whites. Right?”
A.J. gritted her teeth and nodded. Why was Ryan even bothering to ask? The sureness in his eyes made it clear he already knew the answers to his questions.
“You also recommend the times and locations for plainclothes stakeouts,” he continued. “Say, for instance, someone running a burglary ring knew those assignments in advance, he’d move his operation to the districts with the fewest patrols. Tell his people to avoid the stakeouts. Wouldn’t be hard to find a buyer on the street for that kind of information.”
A.J. rose slowly; the thick ream of paper slipped from her fingers, waterfalling into a heap at her feet as she glared up at Ryan through a haze of anger. “Maybe the printout wound up in Ken’s locker, but you can’t prove he put it there.”
He nodded, his expression unreadable. “True.”
Turning her back on his piercing gaze
, she willed her knees not to tremble as she walked the few steps to the room’s only window and stared out at the frozen parking lot. Think, she commanded herself, her hand rising to her throat. Think.
A car backed out of a space near the gym door, its headlights licking across the lot’s blacktopped surface.
Think.
“You said the deposits to Ken’s account were in cash,” she said, watching the car make a cautious turn into the street.
“That’s right.”
“Anyone could have made them. All they’d need to know was the name of Ken’s bank and the account number.
“Possible.”
She turned back to face Ryan, refusing to allow the doubt she’d heard in his voice to further unsettle her. “Ken got his paycheck by automatic deposit. Most of us do.”
Ryan shrugged. “What’s your point?”
“Ken had to fill out an authorization card for that. It has the bank’s name and his account number, and it’s kept on file in payroll. Any enterprising cop with a lock pick and a talent for computers has access to the files.”
Ryan cupped his hand to his chin and tapped a finger against his firm-set lips. “You have an explanation for everything.”
“I’m guessing, Sergeant, but so are you. In themselves, your allegations mean nothing.”
“They suggest quite a lot.”
“So does your timing.” She shoved a tumble of dark hair behind one shoulder. “If you had proof Ken and I were selling information, you wouldn’t have waited until now to pull me in.”
“You’re right, I don’t have proof,” Ryan agreed quietly. “Not yet.”
“You’ll never get it,” she countered, her voice shaking. “Because I didn’t give that printout to anyone, and I resent your implying I did. I know right from wrong—because of Ken. When I was little, he’d read me the riot act if I lied about brushing my teeth. Ken taught me honesty. That’s how he was. Honest.”