Killer Charms

by Marianne Stillings

  Bostwick turned the photo toward himself and gave it a casual perusal, then smirked. “Doesn’t look that way to me. And I doubt Internal Affairs—if you’ll pardon the pun—would view it any differently…if they were to see this.”

  Andie’s stomach had turned sour five minutes ago. Now it curdled. “Why are you showing me this?”

  He smiled. “Ah. Now we’re getting somewhere. I need your…assistance.”

  “What kind of assistance?”

  He set the photo into the file and closed it. “I want Sinclair’s balls on a platter, and you’re going to give them to me.”

  “I don’t understand. I’m already working the—”

  “Whether you find any evidence to support an arrest…or not.”

  Her brows lowered. “Or not?”

  He snorted. “You disappoint me, Inspector. Here I thought you were supposed to be so smart, but you’re just another bimbo looking to get ahead using her tits and ass instead of brains. Well, I’m not really surprised.” He pinned her with a direct stare. “What I’m saying is, if you can’t find any evidence on Sinclair, manufacture it. Now, have I made myself clear?”

  “You’re blackmailing me into framing a suspect?”

  “I didn’t say that. I never said that. You said that.”

  “But what you’re implying—”

  “I need a quiet, subtle helper in this, Inspector Darling.” He shrugged, sat back in his chair. “And, tag, you’re it. Now, what do you say?”

  Gathering herself, her wits, what little there was left of her composure, she said, “I’ll go myself to Internal Affairs and file a complaint against you.”

  “No. You won’t.”

  There was something in the way he said it, the confidence, the certainty, that kept her from leaping out of her chair and making a break for the door. She watched as he pulled a second file from underneath the first. Resting his folded hands on it, he said, “Your brother, former SFPD detective Ethan Darling. He raised you, didn’t he?”

  Ethan? What did her brother have to do with any of this? Unsure where Bostwick was headed, she said, “Obviously you already know the answer to that question.”

  “Indeed I do. And you pretty much worship the ground he walks on. Maybe would even do anything it took to save his reputation?”

  “His reputation doesn’t need saving. He was an exemplary police officer, both in uniform and as a detective. And his security firm, Paladin Private Investigations, is well respected. His clients—”

  “Would be astonished to learn he’s a murderer.”

  The air between them grew heavy and thick. Inside Andie’s head, her brain stalled. Inside her body, her lungs refused to take in air. She stared at Bostwick across his desk, at the glimmer in his eyes, the look of triumph on his face.

  “That’s why he left the department so abruptly,” he said lightly. “That’s why his files have been sealed. All very hush-hush. But I found out anyway. Knowledge is power, and I do so love getting my way.”

  Andie jumped to her feet, her hands clenched tightly at her sides. “What in the hell are you talking about! Ethan never…he would never—”

  “Sit. Down. Inspector,” he bit out. “Or the whole deal is off.”

  Her knees trembling, Andie glared down at Bostwick, then silently eased back into her chair.

  “Obviously, he’s never shared this tidbit with his baby sister. And why would he? Should this become public knowledge, your beloved brother’s stellar reputation both in the department and in the private sector would be shot to shit. He’d lose face, his business would go belly-up, he’d go broke. The shame and disgrace would damage him forever, not to mention the departmental superiors who aided him in his little cover-up. But you have the power to keep that from happening.”

  Raising her head, she glared at him. “I don’t believe it. Where’s your evidence?”

  He patted the file. “Didn’t you ever wonder why your brother left the department at the height of his career? Didn’t you ever wonder why the death of a police officer during a hostage negotiation he was in charge of made barely a wrinkle in the press? In the last six years, has he ever given you a plausible explanation for leaving the SFPD so abruptly?” Another lift of the shoulder. “He murdered a fellow cop. Shot her…yes, her…in cold blood to keep their affair quiet. I have the ballistics report right here if you’d like to see it.”

  Reaching into the file, he pulled out a piece of paper and flapped it in front of Andie’s face. Through blurred eyes, she read as much of the report as she could.

  It was true; everything Bostwick said was true.

  He laid the report back inside the file and closed it. “Just be thankful I don’t want sex from you, Andie. That would be way overstepping my bounds, and there are just too many ways you could entrap me. Making you my factotum is quite good enough for me. For now. You are very beautiful…”

  Her fingers gripped the armrests on the chair as she sat motionless, stunned at this turn of events. She needed time to think, to process what was happening, and to figure a way out of it. She needed to talk to Dylan, warn him. She needed to see Ethan, to find out what had really happened…

  “I can see those wheels turning, Inspector,” Bostwick chided. “So let me add that, what we’re having today is a onetime conversation. We will never speak of it again, so don’t bother wearing a wire in the future. I do have eyes and ears everywhere, so trying to find an ally will prove fruitless and possibly fatal to your career—not to mention Jericho’s, as well. And I understand your brother Ethan recently married a rather high-profile woman. Can you imagine what that kind of scandal would do to her reputation, not to mention your brother’s future happiness?”

  She wanted to vomit.

  She wanted to crawl to the door and go off into a corner like a wounded animal and hide, heal, process all this shocking information.

  She wanted to pull out her .38 and blow Bostwick’s dick off.

  Apparently sensing victory, the commander tented his fingers and tapped his chin.

  “Tell anyone about this, and I’ll take you down with me. But hey, try to look at the bright side. With my help, you can rise very quickly indeed, get promoted into Homicide in record time. Cross me, and you’ll not only ruin your own life but the lives of everyone you care about. Trust me. I can do it.”

  Past her fury and helplessness, Andie found her voice. “What if I leave this office and go straight to Internal Affairs—”

  “I’ll deny everything.” He tapped her file with a thick index finger. “A picture is worth a thousand words. That shot of you and your partner, innocent though you claim it to be, will put doubt in some minds. There will be a chink in your armor, and I’ll make sure there are others. Your highly anticipated career as an SFPD detective will never manifest.” He took in a deep breath. “Now. Get me what I want on Sinclair.”

  She pushed herself to her feet and walked to the door. Over her shoulder, she said, “What if he’s innocent? What if there is no evidence—”

  “I. Don’t. Care.” Bostwick’s tone was measured, soft, and unmistakably lethal. “Do as I ask, or suffer the consequences.”

  Her numb fingers curled around the knob. She opened the door, stepped into the threshold. As she tried to remember which way it was to the women’s room, behind her, Bostwick said cheerily, “Oh, and you be sure and have a nice day, Inspector. Please close the door on your way out.”

  Chapter 7

  Keep your fears to yourself but share your courage with others.

  Robert Louis Stevenson

  Andie went through the rest of the morning in stunned silence. If Bostwick had taken out a revolver and put a bullet between her eyes, she could not have felt more brain-dead. She spoke only when spoken to, and then only in grunts and nods. She shuffled the papers on her cluttered desk, stacked them, restacked them. The words and numbers on the forms in front of her made no sense, refused to come into focus. Finally, in total frustration, she lifted her head to gaz
e around the precinct floor, cluttered with desks and people, computers, phones, filing cabinets, and chatter. The scent of stale coffee and burnt microwave popcorn assaulted her nose.

  Even though her fellow officers seemed to be engrossed in working at their desks or standing in groups bullshitting, one of them could be watching her, victimized, as she had been, into doing Bostwick’s bidding.

  How many police officers had he coerced? How many cops did he have in his pocket?

  She licked her lips. What would be the price for defying him—and who would pay it?

  Though she tried to remain calm, she was certain everyone in the room would view everything she did as suspicious. She felt like a sane person who’d been locked in a mental institution—no matter what she did, it would be perceived as the actions of a lunatic.

  When Inspector Wright moseyed by her desk and asked to borrow a pen, her body jerked in response, and she nearly shot out of her chair. Though he arched a bushy brow and smiled, Wright made no comment but must have wondered at her nervous behavior.

  She swallowed, trying to moisten her dead, dry throat.

  Damn, this was no good. She had to get out of there, find a place where there would be no hidden cameras or wires. The safe haven of her precinct had become a terrorists’ landscape where everyone and everything suddenly had the power to strike a fatal blow. The casual camaraderie of her fellow officers became suspect. Bostwick had warned her there were others. Had it been a ploy to keep her under his thumb? Or was it the awful truth?

  As she considered her next move, a slow, cold fury started to edge up her spine. She felt her heart rate elevate, her stomach tighten. Her jaw clamped down so hard, her teeth hurt.

  How dare Bostwick do this to her? How dare the son of a bitch reach into her life and twist it so painfully, make her doubt her fellow officers, jeopardize her partner’s career, threaten to ruin her brother?

  He had no right…none. She had to find a way to out the bastard…

  But what if nailing him meant he’d use that stupid photo against her? Though she knew it was innocent, it was definitely open to interpretation. And if he went public with the findings of Ethan’s ballistics report? There was no way Ethan had murdered someone in cold blood, but she needed to talk to him, find out what happened, and make sure he was safe before she made a move against Bostwick.

  And if she did find a way to expose the SOB, how many other officers besides her would he try to take with him on the way down? Would she be destroying innocent lives if she exposed his treachery?

  She stared at her computer screen but might just as well have been staring into outer space.

  So, okay, she takes Bostwick down. Where was her guarantee he’d be held accountable? He’d been a cop a hell of a lot longer than she had. He was well-known, powerful. By all accounts, he had a spotless record. What if nobody believed her, and she trashed her career, and Dylan’s and Ethan’s and God only knew who else’s…for nothing?

  A string of curses rolled through her head, but instead of giving them voice, she rose from her chair, shrugged into her suede jacket, and headed for the door. If anyone followed her, fine. Let ’em. She needed to walk, think, get organized, make a plan.

  As she pushed through the double doors leading to the parking lot, she glanced at her watch. Damn. She had to meet Sinclair at the “haunted” house in less than two hours.

  And wasn’t that a whole other kettle of fish. Why was Bostwick so bent on collaring Sinclair, even to the point she was supposed to manufacture evidence in order to make the charges stick? She’d already figured that the Scotsman was guilty of something, or they wouldn’t be investigating him, but the idea of fabricating lies didn’t set well at all. If he was guilty, she’d find the supporting evidence and make her case to the DA and that would be that.

  A couple of uniforms nodded and said something to her as she passed them, but she only mumbled a greeting and kept walking. She needed to talk this over with someone she could trust, with no prying eyes around.

  She looked at her watch again. Not enough time to do anything right now. She had to go home and get all gussied up to meet Sinclair, then get over to the mansion by four. He had her cell phone number, but didn’t know where she was staying or what she did with herself during the day. He probably figured she spent her leisure hours shopping, which was fine. Tonight, she’d get as close to him as she could without getting burned. Maybe he’d share a secret or two. Maybe he’d ask her for money, or make an outrageous claim he had no way of backing up. She’d be wearing a wire…

  Pulling her cell phone from her pocket, she punched in Dylan’s number.

  “Jericho.”

  One date. She’d had one lousy date with him, and look where it had led.

  “Yeah,” she said, trying to hide her anxieties. “I’m supposed to be at the house at four. You gonna be ready?”

  Pause. Then, “What’s the matter?”

  Damn the man. Not only did he have cop’s eyes, he apparently had cop’s ears as well. “Nothing. We can talk about it later. You going to be ready to go, or do I have to do all the work myself?”

  He snorted a laugh. “Don’t get your knickers in a knot. I’ll be there.” Silence for a moment. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Absolutely.” As she was about to disconnect, she stopped herself. “Hey, Jericho?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Remember that so-called date thing we had a few years back?”

  “Like I could forget it.” He sighed. “It was the highlight of my misspent youth, babe.”

  “Right, hotshot,” she drawled, trying to sound normal, as though her emotions weren’t as brittle as shards of glass. “Listen, I have a question. I was reading over some regs, you know, for fun, and I got to wondering…do you think we should have reported it? The date thing? I mean, it was only one dinner, and nothing happened…”

  “You were reading regs for fun?” he interrupted. “Shit, your life’s even more boring than mine.”

  “Yeah. Right. Anyway, do you think it matters now, eight years later? I mean, the fact we ended up partners? You don’t think anyone would misinterpret that, do you?”

  An uncomfortable quiet ensued for a moment, and Andie sensed a shift in Dylan’s attitude. “Misinterpreted? Uh, as what exactly?”

  “As…well, as fraternizing.”

  He cleared his throat. Casually, he said, “Well, I don’t see how. Everybody knows what a ruthless, ambitious, coldhearted, sexless, calculating bitch you are. You’d never do anything to ruin your shot at Homicide.”

  “Ah, you’re just saying that to make me feel better.” She lowered her head and smiled.

  “Hey, you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m good,” she lied. “See you at four.”

  When Logan arrived at the mansion, he parked next to Andie’s car. He felt the bonnet; still warm. She had arrived only a few moments ago.

  Where was she staying? he wondered. At dinner the other night, she’d been evasive, not speaking of her family, her origins, or what she did during the day to keep herself busy. She was obviously well-heeled, but even wealthy women often held jobs. Perhaps she spent her days devoted to various charities. No, that didn’t fit. She’d want to do something, make her mark.

  The lights were on in the foyer, and the front door stood slightly ajar. A cold mist swirled around the house, lending it a bleak, atmospheric mood. Perfect for the night’s events. She wanted a séance; he’d give her one. Since he didn’t know a thing about her, and hadn’t had time to do a background, he’d be vague. He’d cast out some prattle, and she’d put a personal spin on it. They all did, that’s what made his job so easy.

  Years ago, when he’d established that Logan Sinclair was a clairvoyant-for-hire, he’d learned quickly how he could use it to get what he wanted, how eager his clients were to believe, how willing they were to fill in the blanks.

  “A man who once broke your heart wishes you to know he’s sorry,” he’d say, and his cl
ient would respond, “Oh, it must be Ricardo! Yes, he broke my heart, the cad!” Or, “A female relative stays close by, watching over you,” and his client would affirm, “It’s got to be my great-aunt Tildy. I was always her favorite. Oh Mr. Sinclair, you are so good at this. You’ve eased my troubled mind. Come, I will tell you where I keep all my valuables, then we can have sex!”

  Though the offer of a tumble was always enticing, he never indulged himself; it was learning the whereabouts of those valuables that put the spring in his step and offered the biggest reward.

  As he reached the porch, he shoved hands into the pockets of his brown-leather bomber jacket. Peeking inside the house, he saw the foyer was empty except for her handbag sitting on the little table in the center. With a quick motion, he rapped his knuckles on the door. “Anybody here call for an extra large haggis pizza?”

  A choking sound came from down the hall, followed by footfalls on the marble floor.

  She appeared from around the right side of the staircase, and his heart both eased and constricted at the sight of her. As she walked toward him, he took in her long legs encased in faded blue denims. Her silk blouse was blue, too, but more the color of a clear spring sky. Around her hips, she wore a narrow black belt that matched her high-heeled boots.

  But it was her face that captured his attention and would not let go. Was it possible she’d gotten more beautiful since the last time he’d seen her, or were his eyes simply starved for another look at her?

  The smile she gave him didn’t reach her eyes. “If it’s a haggis pizza yer bringing me, laddie, you can turn back around and head fer the Hielans.”

  He closed the door behind him, his gaze never leaving her face. Something was wrong. While her lips curved, the lines around her mouth were thin and tight. Her normally rosy complexion was pale, and her lovely eyes held a stark look to them, reminding him of a hunted animal.

  “That’s a mighty fine brogue you’ve got there, lass,” he said slowly, “if ah do say so m’self.”