He’d been partnered with Ben, briefly, several years earlier. Although they’d worked well together, they’d never become friends. When Dylan had been promoted to lieutenant, the other detective hadn’t bothered to hide his resentment over his partner being given the job he believed should have been his.
Ben dropped into one of the vacant chairs across from his boss’s desk and propped his feet up on the arm of the other. “What did you think of her?”
Dylan bit back a weary sigh and resigned himself to participating in what was sure to be a meaningless conversation. “She seems competent.”
“Competent.” Ben snorted with laughter. “You’re a real piece of work, Creighton. I can think of a lot of words to describe the lovely Ms. Vaughn, and competent isn’t even one of the top ten.”
He shrugged, but he was helpless to banish the image that lingered in his mind. Natalie was an attractive woman. Not beautiful in any traditional sense of the word, but there was something about her that defied description, something that compelled a man to keep looking.
Her hair was a cross between copper and gold, and soft curls of it framed her delicate face and skimmed her shoulders. It wasn’t sleekly styled, but sexily disheveled. And she had a habit, he’d realized over the past hour he’d spent with her, of pushing it back off her forehead or tucking it behind an ear when she was concentrating on something.
Her eyes were another mystery—not quite blue, not quite green, but an intriguing blend of the two colors and fringed by long, thick lashes. Her skin was as pale as cream and flawless, save a light dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her mouth was wide, but balanced somehow by the fullness of her lips. It was an infinitely kissable mouth, and the fact that his mind had made such an assessment only annoyed him further.
“I’m only interested in how well she does her job,” Dylan told Ben, wishing it was true. “If we put Merrick behind bars, he’ll give us Conroy.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Ben said. “Anyone who crosses—or even thinks about crossing—Conroy has a habit of turning up dead.”
He shrugged, an acknowledgement of the fact. “He’s still our best hope of nailing the big guy.”
“Speaking of nailing,” Ben continued, waggling his eyebrows. “I wouldn’t mind doing some of that with the A.D.A.”
Dylan didn’t bother to hide his irritation. “Do you ever think of anything but sex?”
Ben grinned. “Not if I can help it.”
He shook his head, refusing to admit that he’d had some similar thoughts of his own. At least he had more class than to voice them. Or maybe it was simply unwillingness to admit a resurgence of feelings that had seemed dead for so long.
Besides, he had to work with the A.D.A. on this case, and he had no intention of jeopardizing the prosecution because of his hormones. Of course, if John Beckett was still on the case, he wouldn’t need to worry about such things.
“You might try thinking about it sometime,” Ben said, pushing away from Dylan’s desk. “It might improve your disposition.”
“I think I can live with my disposition.”
“Maybe you can. But our fair city’s newest civil servant might appreciate someone with a little more charm. I think I’ll stop by her office and see if she wants some company for dinner.” He grinned. “And breakfast.”
“Good luck,” Dylan said, as if he didn’t care one way or the other. But for some inexplicable reason, the thought of Natalie Vaughn with Ben Tierney didn’t sit well with him.
Only because he didn’t want her attention diverted from the job at hand, he assured himself. He wanted Roger Merrick and Zane Conroy behind bars for a very long time. He wanted them to pay for what they’d done—for destroying his family.
The ringing of the telephone roused Natalie from her slumber. She’d fallen asleep on top of the covers, the Merrick folder still open on the bed. She blinked, focused bleary eyes on the glowing numbers of the alarm clock beside her.
Twelve-twenty.
She came awake instantly. There was only one reason her phone would be shrilling at this hour: Jack.
Heart in her throat, she scrambled for the receiver. “Hello?”
“Is this the lady from the D.A.’s office?”
It wasn’t about her son, then. Natalie breathed a quick sigh of relief. “Yes. Who’s this?”
“I’ve got some information for ya.” The voice was masculine, although somewhat high-pitched. Young, she guessed, and nervous. He was talking too fast, his words almost tripping over one another.
“Information about what?” she asked cautiously.
There was a long pause. “I can’t talk ’bout it on the phone.”
“Talk about what?”
“If ya wanna know, ya hafta meet me.”
“I’m not going to meet someone I don’t know to discuss something I know nothing about,” Natalie said reasonably.
There was a brief hesitation, and when he spoke again his voice had dropped—as if he was afraid someone might overhear him. “I wanna make a deal. Yer the one I need ta deal with.”
Roger Merrick, she guessed, glancing at the mug shot stapled to the inside of the file folder. “Roger?”
She heard him suck in a breath, but he neither admitted nor denied his identity. “Do ya wanna deal, or what?”
“If you have information that you think the District Attorney’s Office would be interested in, you should discuss it with your lawyer.”
His laugh was short, nervous. “Hawkins won’t help me.”
Natalie frowned, but his response at least confirmed her caller’s identity. “I really can’t discuss your case without your lawyer present.”
“If ya wanna know ’bout Conroy, ya’ll meet me.”
Natalie felt her blood chill, coursing icily through her veins. She shivered. “Conroy?”
“That’s all I gots ta say. If ya want more, come to three-fifty West Fifth Street. Apartment 1D. Come now and come alone.”
Then he hung up and Natalie was left staring at the phone, considering the information she’d been given. She knew it wasn’t information so much as bait, and she was understandably wary. If Merrick had anything on Conroy, it made sense that he’d discuss it with Hawkins.
But he was hardly the first defendant to refuse to deal through his lawyer. She knew from experience that clients often disregarded explicit instructions given by their lawyers, most often to their detriment. Although she wasn’t comfortable with the clandestine meeting, she was even less comfortable with the thought of passing on the opportunity that had been presented to her.
She combed her fingers through her hair, straightened her skirt and reached for her briefcase. And saw the lieutenant’s card on top of it.
If Merrick so much as breathes Conroy’s name, I want to hear about it.
She hesitated. She didn’t want to involve Creighton in this situation. She didn’t believe there was any reason to. But the echo of his words in the back of her mind made her pause.
She was under no obligation to apprise him of Merrick’s phone call, but she knew he’d be furious if she disregarded his explicit instructions. Reluctantly she picked up the phone and dialed.
She felt a quick tingle of something she chose not to define when she heard his voice on the other end of the line, followed quickly by a pang of disappointment when she realized it wasn’t the lieutenant himself but his voice mail message. After a brief hesitation, she left the address given to her.
She doubted that Merrick had any incriminating evidence on Conroy, but she couldn’t risk not meeting with him. She couldn’t pass on the opportunity—unlikely though it seemed—to play a part in bringing the notorious Zane Conroy to justice. This could be her chance to prove herself, to prove to John Beckett that he hadn’t made a mistake in hiring her, to prove to Lieutenant Creighton that she was more than capable of handling this assignment.
She drove across town with her doors locked, circled the apartment building at the corner of W
est Fifth Street three times before finally pulling into a vacant parking spot on the street. Other than the music blaring from an open window several stories up, the street was quiet, deserted and dark.
Three weeks working in the prosecutor’s office had opened her eyes to the realities of life in Fairweather. As picturesque as the town was, it wasn’t immune to criminal activity, and she had an uneasy sense that she was closer to the hub of it than she wanted to be.
She dialed Lieutenant Creighton’s number again, but didn’t bother to leave another message when his voice mail picked up.
Her heart was hammering heavily against her ribs. The streetlight at the corner flickered, then plunged into darkness. Natalie fumbled in her glove compartment for a flashlight. She slid the button to the on position and breathed a sigh of relief when light dispersed from the narrow dome.
Wielding her briefcase in one hand and flashlight in the other, she made her way along the cracked sidewalk with only the meager beam to guide her way. The security door on the rundown building was propped open by a brick, the entrance vestibule smelled of rotting garbage and urine, but a bare hanging bulb provided some illumination.
She tucked her flashlight in her jacket pocket and shifted her case from one clammy hand to the other. Her steps were silent on the threadbare carpet as she made her way down the narrow hall.
Apartment 1D was at the far end, the door slightly ajar. Obviously Roger Merrick was waiting for her.
The muscles in her stomach cramped, her skin tingled with nervous anticipation.
She hesitated outside the door.
This was a bad idea.
A very bad idea.
She started to turn away, chided herself. Maybe it had been a bad idea to come, but she was here now. It would be both stupid and cowardly to leave without at least talking to the man.
She took a deep breath to shore up her courage, and immediately wished she hadn’t when a strong, coppery scent invaded her nostrils.
She tapped her knuckles against the door. No response.
She tapped harder, and the door swung back a few more inches. She could hear voices from inside, then canned laughter, and realized it was the television.
“Mr. Merrick?”
Still no response.
He probably couldn’t hear her over the sitcom he was watching. Natalie pushed open the door, stepped inside…
And screamed.
Chapter 2
When the shrill beep of his pager sounded, Dylan was watching television—or pretending to, anyway. His feet were propped on the coffee table, a half-empty, forgotten bottle of beer was at his elbow, and his eyes followed the action on the screen while his mind continued to be preoccupied with thoughts of a certain assistant district attorney.
It was a preoccupation that baffled him. Natalie Vaughn wasn’t even his type. Not that he had a type, really. He and Beth had started dating when they were teenagers, their friendship developing naturally and comfortably into a love they’d both believed would last forever. Then Beth had died, and Dylan had been alone.
There had been other women since, but none who had ever meant anything more than a way to satisfy his most basic needs. He wasn’t proud of that fact, but he was always careful to ensure that those women wanted the same thing he did: simple, no-strings sex.
There was nothing simple about Natalie Vaughn. And after a single encounter in her office, she was haunting his thoughts. The sound of his pager was a welcome interruption of those thoughts.
Fifteen minutes later, he pulled up behind the black and white parked in front of Merrick’s apartment building. He nodded to the uniformed officer guarding the door and stepped into the apartment.
Roger Merrick, or what was left of him, was slumped in a chair facing the television. His eyes were open, wide; his chest open even wider. At least three, probably four, shots at fairly close range. A .45 caliber, he guessed, surveying the extent of the damage to the body.
He needn’t have worried about rushing over. There was no doubt about it—Merrick was dead. And so was any hope of getting to Conroy through him. He swore under his breath.
It was possible, of course, that Merrick’s brutal and untimely end was merely a hazard of his occupation. But in his gut, he knew different. Merrick had possessed information that could have taken down Conroy, and that information was the reason for his murder. Dammit.
He scrubbed his hands over his face. Regardless of what the man had done, he hadn’t asked to die like this, and now it was Dylan’s job to find his killer.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to be done until the evidence techs had finished with the scene and the ME had examined the body. Detectives Morin and Shepard were already canvassing the neighbors, although in this building, he knew it was unlikely that anyone had seen—or would admit to having seen—anything.
Shaking his head, he turned away from the body.
And saw her.
Fury joined with the frustration pumping through his veins, and he bridged the short distance between the living room and the kitchen in a few quick strides. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Natalie jolted at his question. Her eyes, when they met his, were wide, terrified. Her face was pale, almost white. She blinked, but didn’t say anything.
He turned his attention to the techs in the room. “Does the phrase ‘secure the premises’ mean anything to you people? What the hell is she doing here—other than contaminating a crime scene?”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Natalie rise, not quite steadily, to her feet. “I—I called 9-1-1. I f-found him.” Her gaze darted back to the body, then quickly away.
Dylan scrubbed his hands over his face again. The absolute last thing he needed right now was the complication of this woman who’d walked out of his unwilling fantasies and into his crime scene. “And how did you happen to find him?”
Her fingers clutched the handle of her briefcase so tightly her knuckles were white. “He c-called me. W-wanted to t-talk. Asked m-me to m-meet him. Here.”
He wasn’t sure if it was shock or nerves that were causing her to stutter, but obviously she was shaken. Not that he could blame her. He’d seen more than a few nasty scenes in his years with the Fairweather P.D., and this was one ranked right up there with the worst of them. One bullet would have been enough to end Merrick’s life. Whoever had pumped those shots into his body hadn’t been satisfied with murder, he’d been sending a message.
Dylan filed those thoughts away and forced his attention back to the woman in front of him. She was still dressed in the fancy suit she’d worn at the office earlier—yesterday, he amended. The shadows under her eyes were dark against the paleness of her skin, and she looked as if she was going to topple over in the thin heels she wore.
He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her out of the apartment. The air in the hall, although not exactly fresh, at least didn’t carry the stench of violent death. The light was dim, but it seemed that some of the color was slowly returning to her cheeks. “I can’t figure out if you’re incredibly brave or incredibly stupid. What the hell were you thinking, coming here?”
She straightened her shoulders and met his gaze. Her eyes were focused now, and stormy. “I was doing my job.”
Dylan just shook his head. “How long have you been in town?”
“Three weeks,” she admitted.
“Well, let me tell you something about Fairweather,” he offered. “We don’t have a lot of crime, but what we do have mostly originates in this corner of the city.”
“I didn’t pick the location of the meeting,” she snapped back at him.
“But you agreed to meet with him!” He knew he was yelling; he didn’t care. He was angry. Furious that his chance to nail Conroy was as dead as the man inside apartment 1D. Even more furious that Natalie had willingly put herself in danger by coming here.
It was a personal reaction rather than a professional one, a natural protective instinct born of growing up with three younger
sisters. Three very independent younger sisters who had never appreciated his protectiveness or concern—an experience that should have prepared him for this woman’s response to his outburst.
Natalie’s own temper worked its way through the numbness of shock that had blanketed her emotions.
“What was I supposed to do?” she challenged. “You’re the one who told me that Merrick was the key to getting Conroy. I couldn’t ignore his call.”
“You should have called me.”
“I did,” she snapped back.
But Creighton gave no indication of having heard her. “If I’d known he was meeting with you, I would have known he was in danger.”
She flinched at the coolly delivered statement, at this confirmation of something she hadn’t wanted to consider. She’d had no idea that her brief conversation with Roger Merrick was his death sentence. How could she have known?
But as she’d stood in that room waiting for the police to arrive, staring blindly at his mutilated remains, she’d realized it was something she should have considered. She should have found some way to protect him.
“What did he tell you?” Creighton demanded. “What did he say to get you over here? What information did he have that was worth dying for?”
“He didn’t tell me anything,” she admitted, some of her anger deflating. She was too tired to stay angry, the situation too futile. “He refused to discuss anything over the phone, insisted that I meet him.”
“Someone else was equally insistent that the meeting not take place.”
She couldn’t respond. There was nothing she could say or do to change what had happened tonight. A man had died—murdered in cold blood—and she couldn’t help but feel responsible.
She’d worked murder trials before, from the defense table. She’d detached herself, forced herself to focus on the law rather than the victim, manipulated the facts to her client’s advantage. She’d never let herself think about the loss of life, the brutality of the crime. After seeing what had been done to Roger Merrick, she didn’t think she’d ever be able to think about anything else.
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