by Sandra Brown
chapter 36
“Who actually brought him down?”
“Call it a group effort. Rondeau gave us no choice. Several of us hit him.”
Paris leaned back against the hospital bed pillow, relieved by Curtis’s answer to her question. She wouldn’t have wanted Dean to carry the burden of taking John Rondeau’s life. She learned later that he’d been the first one into the hallway, as she had known he would be. But Curtis and several SWAT officers were there, too. Any of the bullets fired at Rondeau could have been the fatal one.
This morning Curtis was looking even spiffier than usual, as though he had dressed up to pay her this visit. He was wearing a gray western-cut suit. His boots had an extra sheen. She could smell cologne. He had brought her a box of Godiva chocolates.
Yet his demeanor was all business. “Rondeau was computer savvy enough to learn how to reroute calls,” he told her. “Our guys finally traced that last call to a cell phone. But he had planned on that, too. The phone was unregistered. A throwaway. That part of it was easy for him.”
“He could change his voice at will, too. It was eerie.”
Sometimes minutes would pass without her thinking of Rondeau and that agonizing period of time with him in the storeroom. Then, without warning, a recollection would thrust itself into her consciousness and she would be forced to relive the terrifying moments.
When she described this phenomenon to Dean, he assured her that each day the recollections would become less frequent and her memory would dim a bit more. Although she would never entirely forget the experience, it would sink into her subconscious. His counsel had a footnote: He would see to it that she lived in the present, and for the future, not linger in the past.
“Rondeau wanted to move to CIB,” Curtis was saying. “He had already approached me about it. Said he wanted to work in the child abuse unit.”
“Where he would have unlimited access to child pornography.”
Curtis nodded, his disgust plain. “He went to the radio station that night to fulfill his personal agenda, and at the same time distinguish himself as a police officer by delivering Valentino.
“With you and Crenshaw dead, he might have pulled it off. Janey’s body rendered none of the perp’s DNA. Apparently he’d learned about an agent that served that purpose in a homicide case in Dallas.” He shook his head with chagrin. “His police work taught him well.”
“About Stan, have you received any updates on his condition?” she asked.
“Elevated to fair.”
Miraculously Stan had survived the gunshot to his chest and the delicate surgery that had removed the bullet. He’d had a collapsed lung and extensive tissue damage, but he would survive. When he was stable enough to be moved, Wilkins Crenshaw had flown him by private jet to Atlanta.
“I asked his uncle to call me as soon as Stan is able to talk on the phone,” she said. “I want to apologize.”
“I’m sure he won’t hold a grudge against you. He’ll be too grateful to be alive.”
“Rondeau told me he had shot Stan straight through the heart.”
“If that’s where he was aiming, he should’ve spent more time at the practice range,” Curtis said with a grim smile. “Lucky for you he didn’t.”
She’d been told that her blood loss was significant because the bullet had entered her back just below her shoulder socket and had gone straight through. She would bear an ugly scar and her scorching tennis serve was a thing of the past, but she was alive.
If the bullet had cut a path a few inches lower, her life would have been over. Dean had advised her not to dwell on that either, although it was the common reaction of a survivor.
“Don’t examine the reasons for your life being spared, Paris. To do so is futile. You could never arrive at an answer. Just be grateful you’re here. I am,” he’d said, his voice made husky by emotion.
Curtis brought her back to their conversation by saying that the incestuous relationships of Rondeau’s boyhood had left him angry. “I don’t think even he knew how angry he was,” he said. “He’d learned to hide it well, but he harbored a deep-seated rage against women because of what an abusive mother had done to him.”
“Dean explained it to me.”
“I’m paraphrasing him,” Curtis admitted. After a beat, he asked if she’d seen that morning’s newspaper. “Judge Kemp is using Janey’s murder as part of his campaign platform.”
“That goes beyond tasteless.”
“Some people,” the detective snuffled with contempt.
“What’s going to happen to Brad Armstrong?” she asked. “Will he go to prison?”
“He has to face the aggravated-sexual-assault charge, which carries a stiff sentence if he’s convicted. But Melissa Hatcher admitted that she went with him willingly and engaged in numerous acts before she called a halt. He might plead to a lesser charge in exchange for a lighter sentence, but I predict that he’ll serve time. Hopefully he’ll use that time to get himself straightened out.”
“I wonder if his wife will stay with him.” Her eyes strayed to the floral arrangement Toni Armstrong had sent.
“Remains to be seen,” Curtis said. “But if I was a gambling man, I’d say yes.” They were quiet for a moment, then he slapped his thighs and, with a sigh, stood. “I should shove off and let you rest.”
She laughed. “I’ve rested until I’m blue in the face. I can’t wait to be released.”
“Anxious to get back to work?”
“By next week I hope.”
“Your fans will be happy. So will the hospital staff. They said every flower within a hundred-mile radius is in the main lobby downstairs.”
“Dean wheeled me down there yesterday to see them. People have been exceptionally kind.”
“Speaking for myself, I’ve missed listening to you.” His entire scalp flushed a bright pink as he added, “You’re a class act, Paris.”
“Thank you. So are you, Sergeant Curtis.”
A bit awkwardly, he reached for her right hand and gave it only one swift shake before releasing it. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around. I mean, now that you and Malloy . . .” He let the sentence trail off.
She smiled. “Yes, I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around.”
• • •
Dean arrived just as she was adding the finishing touches to her makeup.
“Paris?”
“In here,” she called from the small bathroom. He moved in behind her and their eyes met in the mirror above the basin. “How do I look?”
“Luscious.”
She frowned dubiously at her reflection. “Hair styling isn’t easy to accomplish one-handed. At least it’s my left one that’s out of commission.”
He reached for her right hand, the back of which was bruised from the IV port that had been removed only the day before. He kissed the discolored spot. “To me you look fantastic.”
“Your opinion definitely counts.” She turned to face him, but when he only pecked her lips, she looked up at him with disappointment.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he explained, indicating her bandaged arm and sling.
“I won’t break.”
With her right hand, she pulled his head down and gave him a real kiss, which he responded to in kind. They kissed with sexual passion, as well as with the desperation of knowing that they’d almost lost each other for the second time.
When they pulled apart, she said, “I received a get-well card from Liz Douglas. Very gracious of her under the circumstances.”
“She’s a lady. There was only one thing wrong with her. She wasn’t you.”
They kissed again, then, leaving his lips against hers, he whispered, “When we get home . . .”
“Um-huh?”
“Can we go straight to bed?”
“Will you do—”
“Everything. We’re gonna do everything.” He gave her a hard, quick kiss, then said, “Let’s get out of here.”
They gathered the last of
her personal things and placed them in a tote bag. She put on her sunglasses. He ordered her into the hospital-mandated wheelchair and pushed her to the elevator.
As they were riding down to the ground floor, she said, “I expected Gavin to be with you.”
“He sends his regards, but he left for Houston this morning to spend the weekend with Pat. He hopes to patch things up with her. Maybe even offer an olive branch to her husband.”
“Good for him.”
“He didn’t fool me.”
“You don’t believe he’s sincere?”
“Oh, he’s sincere about setting things right with them. But he chose to go this particular weekend so we’d have time alone.” As the elevator doors slid open, he leaned down and whispered directly into her ear, “I owe him.”
Returning his grin, she said, “So do I.”
“You are going to marry me, aren’t you?”
Feigning affront, she said, “I wouldn’t consent to a honeymoon otherwise.”
“Gavin will be glad. He wants to make friends at his new school, and he told me what an advantage it would be to have a stepmom who was famous and also a total fox.”
“He thinks I’m a fox?”
“Cool, too. You’ve got his unqualified approval.”
“It’s nice to be wanted.”
Humor aside, Dean stepped around to the front of her chair and leaned down until his face was level with hers. “I want you.”
They had an audience comprised of hospital staff and visitors in the lobby. Unmindful of them, he reached for her hand again and this time pressed her palm to his lips. They exchanged a look rife with meaning and implication, then he let go of her hand and said, “Ready?”
“Ready.”
“Be forewarned, Paris. You’ll be running a gauntlet. There are cameras galore outside that door. Every news outlet from Dallas to Houston to El Paso has a reporter and a photographer here to cover your hospital release. You’re big news.”
“I know.”
“And that’s okay?”
“It’s okay. In fact”—she removed her sunglasses and smiled up at him—“it’s time I came out into the light.”
Grinning, he pushed the wheelchair toward the automatic doors. They slid open and camera strobes began to flash.
Paris didn’t flinch.
acknowledgments
I really hate having to ask people for help and information. An autographed copy of the book and an acknowledgment in the back of it seem insufficient thanks for all the trouble these professionals went to on my behalf.
Public Information Specialist C, Laura Albrecht of the Austin Police Department never lost patience with me, even when I continued calling her with just “one more question.” She opened doors that would ordinarily have been closed. Thanks also to the detectives of the Centralized Investigative Bureau, who all too frequently go unrewarded and unrecognized for the difficult job they perform. They were cordial and informative even after I explained to them that there was a rotten cop in my story.
In my next life, I want to be a drive-time deejay like Bill Kinder of KSCS-FM. Unlike me, he gets to talk to his fans every weekday. They call in by the hundreds. What a kick! He made it look easy to do a dozen tasks at once. He never broke stride, not even to answer my questions. If I got the radio technology all wrong, it’s no fault of his.
A few unfortunates work with me on a daily basis. My agent, Maria Carvainis, deserves more gratitude than I’ll ever be able to express. Amie Gray’s middle name should be Britannica for her diligent fact checking and her gleaning of information on the most outlandish topics. I also wish to thank Sharon Hubler for the years that she streamlined my life. Without her I would often have been at the wrong place at the wrong time, doing the wrong thing. I wish her much happiness in her new life.
And to the dear man who lives with me: Michael, my thanks and my love, always.
Sandra Brown
1 April 2003
By the same author
Rainwater
Smash Cut
Smoke Screen
Play Dirty
Chill Factor
Ricochet
White Hot
Hello, Darkness
The Crush
Envy
The Switch
Standoff
The Alibi
Unspeakable
Fat Tuesday
Exclusive
The Witness
Charade
Where There’s Smoke
French Silk
Breath of Scandal
Mirror Image
Best Kept Secrets
Slow Heat in Heaven
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2003 by Sandra Brown Management Ltd.
Originally published in hardcover in 2003
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ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-3777-9
ISBN-10: 1-4165-3777-5
ISBN-13: 978-0-7432-6101-2 (eBook)
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