by Nora Roberts
“I want to tell the police.”
He eased her back on the bed so that they were curled together, wrapped close. “We’ll tell them a lot of things. Tomorrow.” Gently, he tipped her face toward his. “Would you have protected me, Deanna?”
She started to deny it, but caught the gleam in his eye. She knew he’d recognize a lie. “Yes. So?”
“So, thanks.”
She smiled as she lifted her mouth toward his.
Not so far away someone was weeping. The tears were hot and bitter, scalding the throat, the eyes, the skin. Photographs of Deanna looked on, smiling benignly at the sobbing form. Three candles tossed the only light, their flames, straight and true, highlighting the pictures, the single earring, the lock of hair bound in gold thread. All of the treasures on the altar of frustrated desire.
There were stacks of videotapes, but the television screen was silent and dark tonight.
Angela was dead, but still that wasn’t enough. Love, deep, dark and demented, had triggered the gun, but it wasn’t enough. There had to be more.
The candleglow shot the shadow of a form hunched into a ball, racked with despair. Deanna would see, had to see that she was loved, cherished, adored.
There was a way to prove it.
Finn would have preferred to handle the interview alone. Jenner would have preferred to do the same. Since neither of them could manage to shake the other loose, they drove to Beeker’s office together.
“Might as well make the best of it,” Jenner said. “I’m doing you a favor, Mr. Riley, letting you tag along.”
That statement earned Jenner a frigid stare. “I don’t tag along, Lieutenant. And let me remind you that you wouldn’t know about Kate Lowell or Beeker if we hadn’t come to you with the information.”
Jenner grinned and rubbed his chin, which he’d nicked shaving. “And I get the feeling you wouldn’t have come to me if Miss Reynolds hadn’t insisted.”
“She feels easier knowing the police are on top of things.”
“And how does she feel about your being involved in the investigation?” Silence. “Doesn’t know,” Jenner concluded. “As a man married thirty-two years last July, let me mention that you’re skating on thin ice.”
“She’s terrified. And she’s going to continue to be terrified until you have Angela’s killer under wraps.”
“Can’t argue with that. Now, this Kate Lowell business. Being a reporter, you might not agree, but I think she’s entitled to her privacy.”
“It’s tough to argue for privacy when you make your living in the public eye. I believe in the right to know, Lieutenant. But I don’t believe in blackmail, or in poking telescopic lenses into someone’s bedroom window.”
“Got your dander up.” Pleased, Jenner scooted through a yellow light. “Me, I feel sorry for her. She was a kid, probably scared.”
“You’re a soft touch, Lieutenant.”
“Like hell. You can’t be a cop and be a soft touch.” But he was, damn it. And since it embarrassed the hell out of him, he took the aggressive route. “She still could’ve killed Angela Perkins.”
Finn waited as Jenner doubled-parked, then flipped the officer-on-duty sign over on the dash. “Entertain me.”
“She argues with Angela at the hotel. She’s fed up with Angela, enraged at being made to suffer for something that happened when she was still wet behind the ears.”
“There’s that soft touch again. Keep going,” Finn prompted as he climbed out of the car.
“She’s tired of Angela holding it over her head and threatens her. She hears the maid in the bedroom so she leaves. But she follows Angela to CBC, confronts her in the studio, murders her. Then Deanna comes in, and she gets creative. She’s been in films for years. She knows how to set up a camera.”
“Yes.” There was a quick, nippy breeze that smelled of the lake. Finn drew it in, the easy freshness of it as they crossed the street. “Then she decides to disguise her motive by going public with exactly what she killed Angela over. Better the world knows she’s an unwed mother than a murderer.”
“It doesn’t play,” Jenner concluded.
“Not for me. If Beeker has half the dirt Kate thinks, we’ll have a dozen more scenarios by dinnertime.” They walked into the office building, Jenner flashing his badge at the security guard in the lobby.
Upstairs, Jenner scanned the wide corridor. The oil paintings were originals and very good. The carpet was thick. Tall, leafy plants were tucked into niches every few feet.
The doors of Beeker Investigations were glass and whispered open into an airy reception area complete with a tidy miniature spruce for the holiday season.
A trim, thirtyish brunette piloted a circular reception desk fashioned from glass blocks. “May I help you?”
“Beeker.” Jenner offered the receptionist his ID for inspection.
“Mr. Beeker is in conference, Lieutenant. Will one of his associates be able to help you?”
“Beeker,” he said again. “We’ll wait, but I’d buzz him if I were you.”
“Very well.” Her friendly smile chilled a few degrees. “May I ask what this is in reference to?”
“Murder.”
“Nice touch,” Finn murmured when they wandered over to the deep-cushioned chairs in the waiting area. “Real Joe Friday stuff.” He took another look around. “Very elegant surroundings, for a P.I.”
“A couple of clients like Angela Perkins means this guy nets in a month what I do in a year.”
“Lieutenant Jenner?” The receptionist, obviously miffed, stood in the center of the room. “Mr. Beeker will see you now.” She guided them through another set of glass doors, past several offices. She knocked lightly on the door at the end of the hall, and opened it.
Clarence Beeker was like his office, trim, subtly elegant and serviceable. He stood, a man of average height and slim build, behind his Belker desk. The hand he extended was fine-boned.
His hair was graying dashingly at the temples, and he had a finely drawn face that was more handsome with the lines and crevices etched by time. His body was obviously trim beneath his Savile Row suit.
“Might I see some identification?” His voice was smooth, like cool cream over rich coffee.
Jenner was disappointed. He’d expected Beeker to be sleazy.
He examined the shield after slipping on silver-framed reading glasses. “I recognize you, Mr. Riley. I often watch your show on Tuesday nights. Since you’ve brought a reporter along, Detective Jenner, I assume this is an unofficial visit.”
“It’s official enough,” Jenner corrected. “Mr. Riley’s here as a special liaison of the mayor’s.” Not by a flicker did Jenner or Finn react to the glib lie.
“I’m honored. Please sit. Tell me what I can do for you.”
“I’m investigating Angela Perkins’s murder,” Jenner began. “She was a client of yours.”
“She was.” Beeker settled behind his desk. “I was shocked and distressed to read about her death.”
“We have information leading us to believe that the deceased was blackmailing a number of people.”
“Blackmail.” Beeker’s graying brows rose. “It seems a very unattractive term to be connected to a very attractive woman.”
“It’s also an attractive motive for murder,” Finn put in. “You investigated people for Miss Perkins.”
“I handled a number of cases for Miss Perkins over our ten-year association. Given the nature of her profession, it was advantageous for her to be privy to details, backgrounds, the personal habits of those she would interview.”
“Her interest, and her use of those personal habits, might have led to her death.”
“Mr. Riley, I investigated and reported for Miss Perkins. I’m sure you understand both those functions. I had no more control over her use of the information I provided than you do over the public’s use of the information you provide to them.”
“And no responsibility.”
“None,” Beeker
agreed pleasantly. “We provide a service. Beeker Investigations has an excellent reputation because we are skilled, discreet and dependable. We abide by the law, Detective, and a code of ethics. Whether or not our clients do so is their business, not ours.”
“One of your clients got her face shot off,” Jenner said shortly. “We’d like to see copies of the reports you wrote for Miss Perkins.”
“I’m afraid, as much as I prefer to cooperate with the police, that would be impossible. Unless you have a warrant,” he said pleasantly.
“You don’t have a client to protect, Mr. Beeker.” Jenner leaned forward. “What’s left of her is in a coffin.”
“I’m aware of that. However, I do have a client. Mr. Gardner has this company under retainer. As the deceased’s husband and beneficiary, I am morally bound to accede to his wishes.”
“Which are?”
“To investigate his wife’s murder. To be frank, gentlemen, he’s dissatisfied with the police investigation to date. And as he was my client during his wife’s life, and continues to be after her death, I can’t ethically turn over my files without the proper warrant. I’m sure you understand my position.”
“And you’ll understand mine,” Finn said pleasantly. “Liaison or not, I am a reporter. As such, I have an obligation to inform the public. It would be interesting to inform the public of the kind of work you did for Angela. I wonder how many of your other clients would appreciate that connection.”
Beeker had stiffened. “Threats, Mr. Riley, aren’t appreciated.”
“I’m sure they’re not. But that doesn’t make them any less viable.” Finn glanced at his watch. “I think I have enough time to squeeze in a quick feature on the evening news. We’d be able to do an in-depth version tomorrow.”
Jaw clenched, Beeker lifted his phone, buzzed his secretary. “I’ll need copies of Angela Perkins’s files. All of them.” He cradled the phone again, linked his fingers. “It will take a little time.”
“We’ve got plenty,” Jenner assured him. “While we’re waiting, why don’t you tell us where you were on the night Angela Perkins was shot?”
“I’d be happy to. I was at home, with my wife and my mother. As I recall, we played three-handed bridge until about midnight.”
“Then you won’t object to us questioning your wife and your mother?”
“Of course not.” Though he wasn’t pleased at being outmaneuvered, Beeker was a practical man. “Perhaps I can offer you gentlemen coffee while we wait for the files?”
Chapter Twenty-six
Marshall Pike had been waiting in his car in the CBC parking lot for more than an hour when Deanna finally walked out. He felt the quick, unbidden tightening of his muscles in response at the sight of her: part anger, part lust. For the past two years, he had been forced to content himself with images of her on the TV screen. Seeing her now in the gloom of dusk, short-skirted, her legs flashing as she hurried toward a dark sedan, exceeded his memories.
“Deanna,” he called to her, climbing quickly out of his own car.
She stopped, glanced toward him, peering through the rapidly deepening night. The quick, friendly smile of greeting faded. “Marshall, what do you want?”
“You never returned any of my calls.” He cursed himself for sounding petulant. He wanted to appear strong, dynamic.
“I wasn’t interested in speaking with you.”
“You’re going to speak with me.” He clamped his hand over her arm. His gesture made Deanna’s driver spring out of the car.
“Call off your dog, Deanna. Surely you can spare five minutes?”
“It’s all right, Tim.” But she removed Marshall’s hand before turning to her driver. “I won’t keep you waiting long.”
“No problem, Miss Reynolds.” He gave Marshall a measured look, then tipped his cap. “No problem at all.”
“If we could be private.” Marshall gestured across the lot. “Your guard will be able to see you, Deanna. I’m sure he’ll leap to your rescue should I try to manhandle you.”
“I think I can handle you alone.” She crossed the lot with him, hoping the meeting would be brief. The wind was bitterly cold and she didn’t relish speaking with him. “Since I can’t think of anything we’d have to discuss on a personal level, I assume you wanted to talk to me about Angela.”
“It would have been difficult for you. Finding her.”
“Yes, it was.”
“I could help you.”
“Professionally?” Her brow quirked. The wind, and anger, brought color to her cheeks, a snap to her eyes. “No thanks. Tell me what you want.”
For the moment, he stared at her. She was still perfect. Fresh, seductive. All luminous eyes and moist lips. “Have dinner with me,” he said at last. “The French place you always liked so much.”
“Marshall, please.” There was no anger in her voice, only pity. It scraped like rusty blades over his ego.
“Oh yes, I seem to have forgotten to congratulate you on your engagement to our dashing correspondent.”
“Thank you. Is that all?”
“I want the file.” At her blank look he tightened his grip. “Don’t pretend you don’t understand. I know Angela gave you a copy of her investigator’s report on me. She told me. She gloated over it. I didn’t ask for it before because I’d hoped that you’d come to realize what I could offer you. Now, under the circumstances, I need it.”
“I don’t have it.”
Rage darkened his face. “You’re lying. She gave it to you.”
“Yes, she did.” Her arm was throbbing now, but she refused to struggle. “Do you really think I would have kept it all this time? I destroyed it ages ago.”
He gripped both her arms now, nearly lifting her off her feet. “I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t give a damn what you believe. I don’t have it.” More furious than frightened, she struggled against him. “Can’t you understand I didn’t care enough to keep it? You weren’t important enough.”
“Bitch.” Too incensed to think clearly, he dragged her toward his car. “You won’t hold that file over my head.” He grunted, his wing tips skittering on the pavement as he was yanked from behind. He went down painfully, bruising his hip and his dignity.
“No, Tim, don’t.” Though she was shaking, Deanna grabbed her driver’s arm before he could haul Marshall to his feet and knock him down all over again.
Tim adjusted his bulky coat, seeing Marshall was quelled. “You okay, Miss Reynolds?”
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“Hey!” A baseball cap shielding his eyes, a camera on his shoulder, Joe raced across the lot. “Dee? You okay?”
“Yes.” She pressed a hand to her temple as Marshall got to his feet. Perfect, she thought. Pictures at ten. “Yes, I’m okay.”
“I was just pulling into the lot when I saw this guy hassling you.” Joe’s eyes narrowed. “The shrink, right?” He slapped a hand on Marshall’s chest before Marshall could step toward his car. “Hold on, pal. Dee, you want me to call the cops, or should Tim and I just show this creep what happens to men who push women around?”
“Just let him go.”
“Sure?”
She looked into Marshall’s eyes. There was something dead in them now, but she couldn’t find any pity. “Yes. Let him go.”
“The lady’s giving you a break,” Joe muttered. “If I catch you bothering her again, I won’t be so nice.”
Silently, Marshall got into his car. He locked the doors, fastened his seat belt, before driving out of the lot.
“Are you sure he didn’t hurt you, Miss Reynolds?”
“No, he didn’t. Thank you, Tim.”
“No problem.” Tim sauntered proudly back to the car.
“I wish you’d let me punch him.” Joe gave a regretful sigh before looking back at Deanna. “Spooked you, huh?” He glanced at the camera on his shoulder, grimaced. “I got so pissed I didn’t get any tape of it.”
That, at least, was somethin
g. “I guess there’s no point in my asking you not to mention this in the newsroom.”
He grinned as he walked her to her car. “No point at all. News is news.”
She didn’t want to tell Finn, but they’d made a deal. No holding back. She’d hoped Finn would have to work late, but as luck would have it, he opened the door and greeted her with a long, sloppy kiss.
“Hiya.”
“Hi yourself.” She rocked back on her heels and gave Cronkite the caress he was whining for.
“We had a change in schedule, so I got home a little early.” The change in schedule had been canceling all of his appointments and spending his afternoon with Jenner reading through Beeker’s files. “Made dinner.”
Cooperating, Deanna sniffed the air. “Smells great.”
“New recipe.” With one brow cocked, he tipped a finger under her chin. “What?”
“What, what?”
“You’re upset.”
She scowled and pushed his hand away. “Damn it, Finn, that’s irritating. Don’t you know a woman likes to think she has some mystery?” Still hoping to stall, she peeled out of her coat and hung it on the hall rack.
“What happened, Kansas?”
“We’ll talk about it later. I’m starving.”
He merely shifted and blocked her path. “Spill it.”
She could argue, but since an argument was precisely what she was hoping to avoid, what was the point?
“Will you promise to hear me out and not overreact?”
“Sure.” He smiled at her as he swung an arm around her shoulders and led her to the steps. They sat together near the bottom landing, with the dog happily at their feet. “Is it about Angela?”
“Not directly.” She blew out a long breath. “It was Marshall. He sort of ambushed me in the parking lot.”
“Ambushed?”
His icy tone alerted her. But when she looked up at Finn, his eyes seemed calm enough. Curious, a little annoyed, but calm. “Just a figure of speech. He was upset. You know I haven’t returned his calls.” When Finn said nothing, she let the rest tumble out. “He was just angry and upset, that’s all. About that. And about the files Angela had sent to me. I told you about them. Marshall has it in his head that I kept them. Of course, with the investigation going on he’s worried. Naturally.”