Triple Dare

by Candace Irvin

  His father.

  Good Lord, what had happened to her head?

  Abby rolled her face into her pillow as gingerly as she could. Unfortunately, turning just made the throbbing worse. If she didn’t know any better, she’d swear some sadistic percussionist had decided to hammer out the final crescendoing notes of Tchaikovsky’s “1812 Overture” on the inside of her skull. Desperate to kill the pain and the noise, she pushed up on her elbows only to freeze as her stomach bottomed out onto her mattress. A split second later, the explanation for it all sloshed in on a single, nauseating word.

  Hangover.

  But how? She clawed her way through the cobwebs in her brain, desperately trying to piece together whatever had led her to do something so stupid as drink. She remembered Dare returning from the kitchen with the bottle of cognac Greta Laurens had left in the pantry. He’d poured out several glasses. And she’d drunk every one of them.

  But…why?

  That thug. That knife.

  Brian.

  Abby jerked upright on the bed as the remainder of the nightmare crashed in all at once. She realized her mistake a moment later as the pounding in her head ratcheted straight into excruciating. She clapped her hands over her mouth as the contents of her stomach threatened yet again. Several slow, deep breaths later, the nausea ebbed. The pounding in her head had eased a bit, too. But the noise had grown louder, not softer and— Were those bells she could hear?

  No, not bells. One bell. A doorbell.

  Hers.

  Was Dare checking up on her?

  She pressed her fingers to her temple as she turned to the window and the grating rays of daylight. Dare’s shoes were resting neatly at the baseboard. He’d left the window unlocked as well. Wouldn’t he just climb in the same way he’d left?

  That left Marlena—with news about Brian!

  Abby lurched across the room with more hope than grace, shoving her snarled braid over her shoulder as she ping-ponged down the blessedly dim hallway and into the jarringly brighter living room.

  In light of last night—that thug—she stopped just shy of unlocking the door’s twin bolts, just in case. The pounding in her head caught up with her as she stretched up to squint through the peephole.

  Disappointment surged in along with a fresh wave of nausea as she realized her visitor wasn’t Marlena.

  It was a man.

  His rugged features and strong jaw reminded her vaguely of Dare, but his skin wasn’t nearly as dusky. No scars either. His eyes were attractive enough, but her own still refused to cooperate enough for her to make out the color. The guy’s hair was easier—dark brown and clipped short. His suit was definitely black. Unfortunately, she’d also caught a brief flash of the gold shield that completed the detective’s ensemble, along with his hoarse “—the door, ma’am. This is—” The rest was muffled by a series of sneezes until he got to “—Hook.”

  Great. Leave it to Pike to send a sick replacement.

  Abby forced down her protesting stomach and opened the door—right into a full-blown coughing fit. She tried to step back, but ended up clinging to the door as the towering detective traded his badge for the handkerchief in his pocket. Good Lord, the man was six-four at least. Her dizziness returned as she craned her neck to keep his face in view. By the time the man had returned the handkerchief to his coat, his nose was red—and she was ready to pass out.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Pembroke. I caught a—”

  “Cold. I can see that.” She clutched her stomach as the roiling continued. “Look, Detective Hook, I’m sorry. I’m not myself this morning either. I had a rotten day yesterday and it’s barely—” She lifted her wrist, but her watch was missing.

  Dare? Or had she left it in her dressing room?

  She could turn around, but she doubted she’d be able to see her wall clock from here. Not in this state. She craned her neck once more. “Exactly what time is it?”

  “Almost eleven, ma’am.”

  Brown. His gaze was dark brown. Cold. Piercing. Just before the man snapped it past her shoulder to openly case her apartment. The moment that murky stare reached her coffee table, she felt the disapproval. She turned reluctantly and followed it all the way to the source.

  The cognac bottle.

  It was still open and less than half full now. One of her generous glasses sat in the middle of the table, damningly empty. Another hugged the base of the bottle with just enough cognac left inside for Hook to assume she’d already started out her day with a fresh hit.

  Especially if he’d already gotten a rundown on her character from Pike.

  Peachy. The latest installment of the Mod Squad hadn’t even made it inside and she’d already been pegged as a flake and a lush.

  She threw the door wide. “Come on in, Detective.”

  Might as well. The offer she’d planned on making—the one to meet him at the precinct later, after she’d had a chance to check on her brother, shower and pull her head together—wouldn’t help now. She closed the door behind him.

  “Have a seat.” She started to nod toward the sofa until the jackhammering in her head turned vicious. She turned toward the kitchen to cover her wince. “You don’t mind if I take a minute to start a pot of coffee, do you?”

  “Not at all.”

  She rounded the breakfast bar and walked all the way to the back of the kitchen, using the concealing side panels of the wooden pantry to give her a few moments of respite from his penetrating look. There, she tucked in her wrinkled T-shirt and used her fingers to comb the worst of the rats from her hair, praying she didn’t look as much like a murdering shrew as she suspected. Unable to do more, Abby rigged the coffeepot in record time. She downed three ibuprofen and headed back to her visitor. By the time she’d returned to the living room, New York’s Finest was seated on her couch beside the cognac bottle, engrossed in the magazine she’d left on the table beside it.

  She stopped behind the overstuffed reading chair she’d curled up in while reading that same magazine the day before, resisting the temptation to reach down over the back and retrieve the suit jacket Dare had left behind—so she could cling to it for support. “Detective Hook?”

  No response.

  She raised her voice. “Looking for a rich husband?”

  He ignored the question as well as her sarcasm, but he glanced up. “That’s him, isn’t it? Your neighbor?”

  She nodded. “Darian Sabura.”

  Odd. Surely Pike had briefed his fellow cop. Or had he?

  “Detective, exactly why are you here?”

  He set the magazine down. “I need to ask you a few follow-up questions regarding last night. It’s standard procedure.”

  She didn’t doubt it. Disappointment set in. “You’re Pike’s partner, then?”

  “No.”

  The disappointment gave way to hope—for her and for Dare.

  She must not have hid either feeling well because that dark brown stare took on a decidedly shrewd glint. Hook frowned. “You don’t like Detective Pike, do you?”

  Now, there was an understatement.

  She turned the question back on him. “Do you?”

  Either Hook had swallowed his own instinctive response or another bout of sneezing threatened. From the stall that followed, she gathered it was the former.

  “Ms. Pembroke, I’m afraid I’m not—”

  “—allowed to trash fellow members of the department?”

  Another pause, but this time a wry smile made it through. “There is that.”

  Her earlier hope blossomed. If this guy did have a decent bead on his fellow detective, he might be willing to give Dare the benefit of doubt. Her, too. Maybe she could trust him.

  For the moment.

  Hook glanced at the chair. “Would you like to sit?”

  She shook her head. “The coffee should be ready soon.”

  But that wasn’t it. For some reason, she still felt more comfortable with the chair between them. She’d also finally caved in to th
e urge to reach down and retrieve the coat Dare had left behind, smoothing the black fabric over the back of the floral armchair as Hook slipped a slim spiral tablet and pen from his own coat pocket.

  “Let’s start with the attack itself. I understand you weren’t able to remember much about the man who brandished that knife yesterday, but perhaps a night’s sleep has helped. Do you remember anything more? About the man—or the knife or the limo?”

  Other than the garish slash of scarlet-stained metal that continued to slice through her thoughts when she least expected it? Abby shook her head. “No.”

  He didn’t believe her.

  Worse, she had the distinct impression that like Pike, this detective was certain she was deliberately withholding something. Maybe it was the way his stare had narrowed, taking on a dark, almost violent edge, giving her the uneasy feeling the man seated on her couch was more than your average cop tracking down a lead—and making her wish there was more than the back of plush armchair and Dare’s coat between them.

  “So…you don’t remember anything about the man? Anything at all?”

  “No. I just told you that, and Officer Ryder and Detective Pike last night. I wish I had gotten a clear look at him, but I didn’t.” She’d been too busy staring at that knife. “I just know he was huge. Dark hair, dark suit. He seemed to radiate—” Evil. Her head throbbed harder as the memory kicked back in. She wrapped Dare’s jacket over her arms to ward off the chill that rippled through her as she tried to focus on it, to see past the gleaming edge of that knife. She got as far as the hilt before it vanished. “Wait…he had massive hands.” She dropped her gaze instinctively. “A lot like yours.”

  A pregnant paused filled the room.

  Oh, way to go, Abby. Accuse the cop.

  That would get her out of the department’s professional sights for sure. She was almost relieved when Hook sneezed.

  At least it broke the silence.

  “Bless you.”

  Hook tucked his handkerchief back into his coat pocket and retrieved his pen. “Thank you.”

  “So…how is Stuart doing?”

  Another pause.

  Again she had the impression he was waiting for something. But what?

  He finally shook his head. Shrugged. “I’m afraid Van Heusen’s still unconscious.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Detective.”

  Dammit, she was. But once again Hook didn’t believe her. Not completely. It was in the man’s hiked brow. The pointed skepticism beneath.

  “Look, I don’t know what Detective Pike told you, but I am sorry about what happened. More than you can know. No, I haven’t seen Stuart in some time. And no, I don’t even particularly like the man anymore, but I used to. There was a time when I even thought I loved him. I was wrong, but that doesn’t change the fact that I could never, ever wish what I saw last night on anyone I’d cared about, no matter how our relationship ended.” Just talking about it brought the memory of that blade slicing in. Nausea crashed in with it, and this surge wasn’t fueled by an overindulgence in cognac. Her voice dropped to a whisper as she shuddered, “I still can’t get the sight of that knife out my head.”

  Silence filled the air yet again. Only this time Abby had the feeling that Hook was withholding something. That the man was weighing whether or not he should tell her what it was.

  “Is something wrong, Detective?”

  He closed his notebook and set it on the table. He stared at her for several moments as he turned back. And then, “Who told you Van Heusen was stabbed?”

  She blinked. Surely he wasn’t implying—

  But he was. He was also waiting for an answer. She swallowed yet another surge of acid that had nothing to do with that cognac. “I don’t know. Someone must have.” Or had she simply assumed Stuart had suffered the same fate as his driver? But if she had made the assumption on her own, no one had corrected her. Certainly not Pike. She finally rounded her reading chair and stood in front of it—three feet from that steady, heavy stare. “Let me get this straight. Are you telling me Stuart wasn’t stabbed?”

  More of that damnable silence. But this one was so dense, she’d have needed the very blade in question to slice through it. Abby tightened her grip on Dare’s jacket as she waited for the detective to say something. Anything.

  What the devil was that man thinking?

  An eternity passed before Hook folded those massive hands of his together and provided another clue. “Ms. Pembroke, have you ever known Van Heusen to partake of illegal drugs?”

  She fell into the chair. Literally.

  Hook lunged forward. “Are you—”

  She jerked her hands up, to ward off dizziness and him. “I’m okay.” But she wasn’t. The entire world was spinning. She clung to Dare’s jacket, desperate to make it stop or at least slow down long enough for her drag in her breath.

  “Ms. Pembroke?”

  Abby kept her gaze fused to the jacket as the spinning eased. By the time it had stopped and she could make out the tiny threads woven into the coat, the implications had settled in as well. Was that what last night had been about? Drugs? She kept her stare on the coat as she shook her head numbly. “No. I never saw Stuart use drugs.” The man was an assistant district attorney, for crying out loud. There was no way Stuart would jeopardize that, much less his precious family name for some drug-induced high. Or would he?

  She finally looked up, met that iron stare. “Why are you asking me this? Did Stuart have drugs in his system? Or did you find the man who stabbed his driver? Does he sell drugs?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to answer.”

  That was it. The man was as bad as Pike. Digging into people’s personal lives, ferreting out secrets and providing squat in return. She dug her fingers deeper into Dare’s coat, hitting something solid in one of the inner pockets. His cell phone. She wrapped her fingers around it without looking. “You have some nerve, Detective. You come into my home and all but accuse someone I know—one of the city’s most respected assistant district attorneys, no less—of abusing drugs and all you can offer in return is a lame ‘no comment’?” Another one of those damned shrugs. She wasn’t even surprised—until the next bomb exploded.

  “What about blackmail?”

  She tossed Dare’s coat to the coffee table and jackknifed to her feet. “What is it with you people? First you accuse Dare of stalking the man, and now you think I was blackmailing him?” But he didn’t. Or rather, he hadn’t.

  Not until that very moment.

  Heck, she could all but see the man’s mind turning this new possibility over. Examining it. But instead of voicing it, he tucked it away for later. Good God, she didn’t need Pike around to cast the harsh light of suspicion on herself. She’d accomplished the ignoble feat all by herself.

  Hook’s slow drawl confirmed it. “Actually, Ms. Pembroke, I was wondering if someone else had reason to blackmail Van Heusen. Drugs, an old case…or something else entirely.” Something he was now going to be digging that much deeper for. Something he now suspected had something to do with her.

  He didn’t say it. He didn’t have to.

  Unfortunately, she had to say something and soon.

  Abby smoothed Dare’s jacket over her arm as she rounded the chair. God willing, she could figure out how to control the damage she’d just wrought. She stepped up to the back of the chair and into her stage mindset, determined to give the best performance she’d ever given without a Tourte horsehair bow in one hand and the neck of an antique Alpine spruce violin in the other. “Detective, I don’t know why someone would blackmail Stuart. But I suppose it’s possible. He was an attorney and he was running for public office. As I told Detective Pike, I assume Stuart’s made enemies. I’ll be honest, he managed to offend me. I learned some ugly truths about Stuart the night I ended our relationship. But most of them had to do with prejudice. Are there more?” She offered a silent shrug in place of an answer.

  Frankly, she’d wondered the sam
e thing.

  The night she’d met Stuart’s mother, she could have sworn she wasn’t the first woman Katherine had paid off. At the time it hadn’t made sense. According to Stuart, he’d never gotten as serious with a woman before as he’d claimed to be with her. Or had that been another lie? In many ways her meeting with Katherine had been a lot like the one she’d had the night before with Pike, right down to the file of personal data that’d been dumped out on the table.

  If anything, Katherine had been more thorough than Pike. It was all there: her previous salary with the Barrington Symphony, her family tree, how much her father—still alive at the time—wasn’t worth financially, right down to the name of the boy who’d talked her out of her virginity the night she’d graduated from Juilliard. By the time Katherine was done spotlighting her modest beginnings, assuring her she was still the same insecure, country bumpkin who’d left Kansas at fourteen, Abby had believed her. For about two seconds.

  That was when Katherine had made the mistake of dragging Brian into her tawdry assessment of Abby’s life. She knew where she’d come from and she wasn’t ashamed of it. And she sure as hell wasn’t ashamed of Brian. Yes, she’d suffered the ups and downs—and, yes, the embarrassment and even jealousies—not uncommon to the siblings of Down’s kids. But she’d gotten over it all. Including her own guilt over abandoning Brian for New York and the stage. She loved her brother. She wanted Brian in her life.

  Somehow she didn’t think that was going to be easy to accomplish from prison.

  “Ms. Pembroke?”

  She flinched. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to ignore you. I’ve just…got a lot on my mind.”

  “That lot include your neighbor?”

  What?

  Oh, no. Don’t tell her they were back to Dare. If they were, she wasn’t upset, she was pissed. It must have shown because the man held up one of those paws.

  “Take it easy, ma’am. I understand you moved in recently. Just wondering how much you know about Mr. Sabura.”

  That was it. She’d had enough. The guy looked nothing like Pike, but sounded exactly the same. Abby blessed the trio of ibuprofen tablets she’d taken earlier. They must have kicked in, because she managed to spin around without falling on her face. She stalked across the living room, turning as she reached her door. “Detective, I think it’s time for you to leave.”