by Maggie Price
“I called the task force room about two o’clock,” Greg continued, his expression turning thoughtful when her gaze met his. “Helene St. John said you and Ryan were out. Said she’d give you a message to call my pager when you got back.”
A.J. nodded. “We...went to the Westfall scene.”
He raised his chin. “I know.” The raw, jagged cut he’d received the night Ken died looked thin and pink beneath the blond hair lapping across one side of his forehead. “I called again around four and you weren’t back yet. Where else did you go?”
At that instant, Michael stepped around the door into view. “We had a few leads to check.”
A.J. caught an almost imperceptible tightening at the corners of Greg’s mouth. “Lieutenant,” he said quietly.
“Lawson.”
“A.J., you brought a friend,” Emily said pleasantly, reaching out a hand that sported slashes of tape securing an IV needle and tubing.
Her aunt’s hand looked small and sickly pale, almost as pale as her cheeks, A.J. thought as she walked to the bed and wrapped her fingers around flesh that was cold to the touch.
“This is Lieutenant Ryan,” she said, glancing across her shoulder at Michael, who’d opted to remain just inside the door. “You remember I told you I’m working for him on the Westfall task force?”
“Lord, child, why wouldn’t I remember?” Emily asked with a scowl. “It’s my body that’s gone haywire, not my brain.”
“So it is.” Smiling, A.J. dropped a kiss against the colorful scarf that was wrapped turban-style around her aunt’s head. The few remaining salt-and-pepper curls that peeked out at the nape of her neck had a dry, brittle look. A.J. supposed the chemotherapy treatments would render her completely bald by Christmas.
Emily turned the full power of her squinted gaze on Michael. “Lieutenant, is it?”
“Around the station,” he said, dropping their coats onto an empty chair. “Michael everywhere else.”
“Well, Michael, I don’t feel like digging for my glasses, so you’ll have to come close if I’m to get a look at you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
A.J. caught a glint of amusement in his eyes as he stepped to her side.
“Michael Ryan,” Emily mused, arching an almost invisible eyebrow while giving him a not-so-subtle once-over. “That’s a fine Irish name for a police officer.”
“Third-generation cop,” Michael affirmed. “Both my grandfather and father wore an OCPD badge.”
“I see.”
A.J. sent a bland look toward the bed. A professor of anthropology, her aunt habitually dug to the roots of a new acquaintance’s family tree the minute introductions were made.
“That must be a matter of pride. Do you have a son who will carry on the family tradition?”
“A daughter. Megan’s fifteen and says she can’t wait for the day she can apply to the academy.” He leaned to study the gold pin holding the graceful sweep of the turban in place. “That’s an interesting piece of jewelry.”
“Queen Nefertiti,” Emily said, a pleased look settling into her eyes. “Are you interested in Egyptology?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Sorry. I wouldn’t know a scarab from a salamander.”
To A.J.’s amazement, a girlish, carefree laugh rose up her aunt’s throat. “You enroll in one of my classes, Michael Ryan, and I’ll straighten you out.”
A grin tugged at the comers of his mouth. “I bet you would.”
Emily gave a satisfied nod, then turned her attention to Greg. “Which tape is next?”
The furrows in Greg’s forehead relaxed. “Give me a minute.” He popped a tape out of the player, then plucked a plastic case off the top of the stack.
“A.J., wasn’t it thoughtful of Greg to bring me Christmas music?”
“Yes,” she agreed. “Thanks.”
He glanced up from the recorder and gave her a wink. “My pleasure.”
Guilt tightened A.J.’s chest. Although she’d visited the hospital every evening, she realized now how totally her concern over Ken had dominated her thoughts. Christmas was just a little over a week away. She should have brought her aunt music. She should have already brought a wreath, candles, any number of things to help ease the endless hours Aunt Emily spent in bed while mixtures of chemicals dripped into her veins.
“Aunt Emily, I can buy a small tree. I’ll get some ornaments, tinsel...” A.J.’s voice drifted off at the narrow look her suggestion received, and she tightened her grip on her aunt’s hand. “Are you in pain? Shall I get the nurse?”
“Don’t you dare call that harpoon-school dropout. She marched in here not ten minutes ago and stabbed me with my nightly dose. And no, I’m not in pain—I’ve got enough drugs in me to make an addict happy for a year. I want to know if you offered to decorate this room because Dr. Newell told you he’s keeping me prisoner here over Christmas?”
“No. I keep asking, but he won’t say.”
“The man’s maddening,” Emily explained to Michael. “Has an annoying aversion to giving straight answers.”
Michael crossed his arms over his chest. “Something tells me you aren’t about to let him get away with that.”
“Correct.” Emily paused, pursing her pale lips. “You know, I didn’t think I was up to celebrating the holidays until Greg brought his tapes. Christmas music has a way of lifting the spirit.”
Greg wiggled his eyebrows. “I know what’s best for the women in my life,” he said, then punched the recorder’s Play button. “I keep telling A.J. that, but I’m not sure I’ve got her convinced. Yet.”
“My niece likes to make her mind up for herself,” Emily said with a chuckle. “I imagine she’s let you know that.”
Greg shrugged as the strains of “Little Drummer Boy” flowed over the air. “She has.”
Although she didn’t look directly at him, A.J. sensed Michael’s intent observation of Greg’s interaction with her aunt...and herself.
Emily pressed her head back against the pillows, her shadowed eyes meeting A.J.’s. “If Dr. Newell insists on keeping me here over Christmas, then I’d like a tree. But don’t buy new ornaments. I’ll want the family ones.”
A.J. blinked. “You’re sure?”
In her mind’s eye she pictured the dog-eared storage box that had held an assortment of her mother’s handmade needlepoint ornaments for as long as she could remember. Ornaments that Emily Duncan, a single woman dedicated to her career and knowing little about raising children, had made certain her niece and nephew hung on the family tree the first Christmas after their parents’ death, then each successive Christmas Eve. Even after A.J. and Ken were grown, they’d all observed the tradition.
“I’m sure. Bring our ornaments,” Emily said. “Kenneth would expect us to...” Her voice caught. “Goodness,” she said, blinking back tears. “Here I go getting weepy again.”
Michael looked at Greg. “I could use some coffee. How about you?”
Greg waited a beat before agreeing. “Sure.”
A.J. caught the softening in Michael’s expression as he turned toward her. His hand rose, his fingers grazed her elbow for a fleeting second. “What can I bring you?”
“Coffee sounds good.”
Greg leaned over the bed. “How about I smuggle you something from the dessert line tonight?”
“Wait until Tuesday,” Emily said, giving him a watery smile. “That’s when they serve that yummy carrot cake.”
“You’ve got it.” He walked around the bed, pausing at A.J.’s side to kiss her cheek. His hand curved onto the slope of her waist. “We need to talk,” he murmured. “Later.”
She nodded. His touch swept her back twenty-four hours to the moment she’d stood on the front porch, enfolded in his arms. At that moment she’d known with unwavering certainty that she could never give Greg more than just friendship. Now, she felt so removed from him. So detached.
He strode past Michael, pulled open the door, then looked across his shoulder. “I’ll be b
ack.”
Michael flicked an idle glance toward the door where Greg waited, then captured A.J.’s gaze in a web of intense blue. “So will I.”
The softness of his voice seemed to pulse across her flesh. With her heart doing a slow roll in her chest, she watched him disappear out the door.
“Men,” Emily said, eyeing A.J. with interest. “The minute they think there’s danger a woman might break into tears, they disappear.”
“I suppose,” A.J. muttered as she slid a hip onto the edge of the bed. “What’s this about carrot cake?” she asked, her voice mixing with a symphonic rendition of “Silent Night” coming from the cassette player.
“Greg stops by nearly every day to talk. Mostly about Kenneth. He’s never actually said so, but I think he feels guilty his partner died and he didn’t.”
“I’ve sensed that, too. He shouldn’t, but he does.” A.J. took a deep breath. “Aunt Emily, did you know that Ken and Mary had started dating again?”
“Lord, no.” Emily cocked her head. “For how long?”
“A couple of months before he died.”
“Kenneth never said a word about it. Did he tell you?”
“No.”
“How’d you find out?”
“I...ran into Mary. She told me.”
“Those two, I never heard such arguing. I suppose it was a battle royal all over again.”
“Mary says it wasn’t. Apparently they learned not to sweat the small stuff.” A.J. used her fingertips to massage the icy palm cradled in her hand. “Did Ken ever mention a tape recorder to you? Maybe some tapes he made?”
She followed her aunt’s gaze to the recorder on the table over the bed. “A microcassette recorder,” A.J. amended. “One that would fit in your pocket.”
“No. Why do you ask?”
A.J. shrugged. “Ken borrowed the recorder from Mary. I checked the boxes Greg packed from his apartment, but it wasn’t there.”
“This is the night for recorders. First, Greg showing up with his, then you asking about Kenneth’s.” Frown lines peeked from beneath Emily’s turban. “Since you’ve checked through his things, I wouldn’t know where else to look.”
A.J. waited a beat, then went on. “Mary said Ken was considering signing you up for a treatment program.”
“What kind of program?”
“At a Houston clinic. They treat leukemia patients with experimental drugs.”
“Experimental?” Emily scoffed. “I’ve got enough holes in me now to rent myself out as a lawn sprinkler. Why would I go to Houston just to be somebody’s guinea pig?”
“Ken wanted you to have the option of going, is all.”
“Well, if he’d mentioned it, I’d have told him it was a bad idea.” She flicked a blue-veined hand at the fluid-filled bag and plastic tubing that dangled from the IV pole at the head of the bed. “I’ve got my own special brew right here. Kenneth may have forgotten that I’m tough as nails, but I haven’t. I plan to beat this damn disease and get on with my life.”
A.J. wanted to throw her arms around her aunt and hold her tight. But she looked so fragile, so bony beneath the flannel robe she wore to ward off chills that A.J. settled for squeezing the older woman’s hand. “I doubt Ken ever forgot how tough you are. After all, he was on the receiving end of a few of your paddlings.”
“That’s because he was ornery,” Emily stated and tilted her head against the pillow. “Now, let’s talk about you.”
“What about me?”
“I want to know if you’re all right.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, why?”
“Greg doesn’t just talk about Kenneth. He talks about you, too. He said he’s sensed a change in you. That you’re closing yourself off from him. He thinks it may be because a part of you blames him for Kenneth’s death.”
A.J. frowned. “He said that?”
“Yes. I told him it was ridiculous to think that, but he’s dealing with so much guilt.”
“I had no idea...” She shook her head, remembering the regret that had filled her the previous night when she stood in Greg’s arms while thoughts of Michael stirred her blood. “Greg’s been so good to us since...” A.J. closed her eyes. “I’ll talk to him. I’ll make sure he knows I don’t blame him.”
“He told me he’s crazy about you.”
“Did he?”
Aware of the weariness that had crept into her aunt’s voice, A.J. slid off the side of the bed. With deft hands she smoothed the sheet, then refilled the plastic glass on the nightstand while Emily yawned.
“Something tells me you don’t share Greg’s feelings.”
“He’s a good friend.”
“A good friend,” Emily repeated. “Is that what you call Michael Ryan?”
A.J.’s hand faltered as she reached for the control to lower the head of the bed. “No. I call him my boss as long as the Westfall task force is up and rolling.”
“What about when it’s over?”
“Then he’ll be my former boss,” A.J. said firmly. “I love you, Aunt Emily. Go to sleep.”
“Is he married?”
“Is who married?”
“Don’t be coy, dear.”
“Divorced.” A.J. used the control panel to flick off the overhead light. The single bulb that glowed above the door threw weak shadows in every direction.
“Wonderful.”
“No matchmaking,” A.J. cautioned with forced sternness as she adjusted the pillows, careful not to disturb her aunt’s turban.
“Won’t be necessary. I saw the way you look at Michael. Your feelings are as clear as print.”
“Is that the same print you can’t see without your glasses?”
“Didn’t need glasses to see the look in his eyes when Greg gave you that peck on the cheek,” Emily persisted. “Your boss didn’t like it one little bit.”
“Good night, Aunt Em,” A.J. said, dropping a kiss on her forehead.
“Night, dear.”
Michael stepped into the hallway, one side of his suit coat shoved back by the hand he’d slipped into the pocket of his slacks. He’d been looking for an excuse to have a chat with Greg Lawson at a time and place that wouldn’t alert him to the fact that unanswered questions existed concerning his former partner. Michael figured this was as good a chance as he was going to get.
Arms crossed over his chest, Lawson leaned against the wall beside a wheeled cart holding an instrument laden with an array of cords, dials and switches. As Michael approached, Lawson flashed him a quick, annoyed look.
“In case you’re wondering, Lieutenant, A.J. and I are more than friends.”
“I wasn’t wondering,” Michael answered. He had, after all, seen her wrapped in the man’s arms the previous evening.
Lawson shrugged. “Just wanted to make it clear she’s taken.”
“You have. Now, how about that coffee?”
“Sure.”
They walked to the elevators, where a man and woman dressed in green scrubs waited. Michael punched the call button. “I like Emily Duncan.”
“She’s easy to like. She’s almost a second mother to me.”
A pager’s sharp chirp sounded. The scrubs-clad man and woman checked their beepers, then shared a relieved smile.
“Mine,” Greg said.
As he checked the pager’s display, Michael saw the instant squaring of his shoulders. “I need to make a call.”
“Go ahead. I’ll wait.”
Michael walked to the nurses’ station, propping an elbow against the counter. Twice, he shook his head when someone asked if he needed help. “Waiting for someone,” he explained, while keeping the banks of pay phones in sight. The longer Lawson talked, the stiffer his spine got.
A few minutes later, the patrolman turned abruptly and walked toward him. Michael noted the tense set of his shoulders, the small vein that pulsed in his neck.
“I have to leave,” Lawson said. Jaw muscles flexing,
he glanced across his shoulder in the direction of Emily Duncan’s room. “Do me a favor. Tell A.J. I’ll call her.”
Michael couldn’t pinpoint an exact reason, but at that instant he felt the distinctive clutch in his gut that put his senses on full alert. Greg Lawson bore watching...to a certain extent. Michael had no desire to again witness the man standing on Emily Duncan’s front porch while he kissed her niece.
“Sure,” Michael said. “I’ll tell her.”
Indulging in a low sigh, A.J. depressed the Stop button on the recorder. She stood by the bed in silence, listening for the delicate change in her aunt’s breathing as she drifted into sleep.
With her heart in her throat, she stared down into the wan face of the woman who had been her substitute mother. The woman who could deliver severe tongue-lashings or gentle lectures, depending on the circumstances. The woman who had always had the ability to see through her, zero in on her true feelings.
As she’d done tonight, A.J. acknowledged. Aunt Emily had seen the attraction for Michael that she’d battled since the moment she’d walked into his office in Internal Affairs. Now, anytime he was near, her knees weakened and her nerves fizzed.
She should be thinking about Ken, not her out-of-kilter hormones. Searching for evidence that would clear him...and herself. Making sure no hint of wrongdoing on either of their parts would ever reach her aunt’s ears.
Her hands curled against her thighs. Ken had made a tape, she knew it. She could feel it. Made it, then hid it. Just because he hadn’t mentioned anything to her or their aunt didn’t mean he hadn’t hidden the tape somewhere in their house. She’d start searching tonight, go through every box, bookshelf and cabinet.
If it wasn’t there, she’d figure out somewhere else to look.
Starting now, she’d take a long step back mentally from Michael Ryan. If there were ever to be anything between them, it wouldn‘t—couldn’t—happen with this cloud of doubt over Ken. Not just Ken, she thought, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. In the Bronco, she had seen the question of her own innocence flash in Michael’s eyes. Without proof to clear herself he would never be sure, never completely know.