Lawman Lover

by Saranne Dawson

  She sat up with a cry as the sound of the explosion died away. Although the room wasn’t cold, she wrapped her arms around herself and shivered with the memory of the cold wind.

  It’s only a dream, she reminded herself. A dream and not a memory. She’d had it many times before—especially in the months following the accident And when she’d told the psychologist who’d hypnotized her about it, he’d explained that it was just her subconscious, trying to fill in the missing details. Under hypnosis, she’d recalled no such thing.

  Then she jumped and cried out as another explosion shook the cottage. Thunder! Of course. She could remember having that dream before during nighttime thunderstorms.

  Lightning flashed at the window and in its brief glare, she could see the wet curtains fluttering and she belatedly became aware of the rain. She got up to close the window and was reaching for the sash when she suddenly remembered that Michael was out there in the tree house.

  No, surely he’d come into the house by now. Or had he? Had she locked the door? She couldn’t remember. She might have; locking the doors at night was an automatic thing.

  The thunder crashed again and the wind-driven rain pelted the window. Not bothering with a robe, she ran from her bedroom, down the long hallway and down the stairs, wondering what he must have thought if he’d come to seek shelter only to find the door locked.

  And it was locked. She saw that as she reached for the knob. She’d even put on the security chain. Had it been some subconscious attempt to lock him out of her life? Given the direction of her thoughts when she’d left him in the tree house, that was quite likely.

  She opened the door just as a brilliant flash of lightning illuminated the big porch. He was wrapped in his sleeping bag on the old porch swing that was rocking gently in the wind.

  She started across the porch to wake him and apologize, then stopped when she was only halfway there. He appeared to be sleeping soundly, and the rain wasn’t reaching him. That old adage about letting sleeping dogs lie came to mind.

  So instead, she stood there, shivering in the coolness as she watched him: watched and remembered. Strong hands caressing her every curve, trailing fire across her body, driving an already powerful need beyond endurance.

  And her own hands twitched with the memory of the feel of him, all hard and bristly beneath her fingertips, his own body writhing with a fire that was consuming him, too.

  She took another step—and stopped again, now remembering that he might be her sister’s lover. She was aware of the dichotomy: she didn’t believe it, but she needed to believe it.

  Finally, she turned and walked back into the house, this time leaving the door unlocked, even though she knew he wasn’t likely to check it again.

  Chapter Three

  “Lieutenant Quinn is waiting in your office.”

  Amanda nodded, then signed the court documents handed to her by her secretary. Her hand trembled slightly, but very fortunately, her secretary’s attention had shifted to the ringing telephone.

  Then she straightened up and actually took a few steps toward her old office before she caught her mistake. Not wanting her secretary, who was an incurable office gossip, to see how frazzled she was, she continued on to the rest room in the far corner of the office suite.

  She stared at herself in the mirror over the sink, lifting her chin defiantly and meeting the hazel eyes of her reflection. She’d recently begun to wear glasses again instead of contacts and decided that it had been a good move. The metal frames gave her an air of cool professionalism.

  The woman who stared back at her was exactly what Amanda wanted her to be—on the outside, at least. But inside? She clenched a fist. Would it be easier if she saw him every day? In fact, she hadn’t seen him since that morning, nearly two weeks ago, at the cottage, when she’d apologized too profusely for having locked him out during the storm. He’d shrugged it off, but she’d seen the knowledge in his eyes: an understanding of the unintended symbolism.

  She unclenched her fist and raised her hand to stare at it. No more tremors. She tucked a stray lock of her golden hair behind her ear and left the rest room.

  This time, she walked purposefully to the door in the opposite corner of the suite, where a brass plate said District Attorney. The door was slightly ajar, and she pushed it open soundlessly. Michael Quinn stood with his back to her, his hands braced against the windowsill as he stared down into the plaza. She saw that there were actually a few streaks of silver in his black hair, and wondered how it was that she hadn’t noticed that before.

  Why is it still there? she asked herself as that treacherous heat stole through her. I’m not even sure that I like him, let alone... But like had had nothing to do with it—not then, and apparently not now.

  She didn’t think he’d heard her enter, but now he turned his head slightly. “Come over here a minute.”

  She walked over to join him at the window, but only after a tiny hesitation as her memory replayed another order, issued nearly nine years ago. I don’t live far from you—at Windcrest. Follow me there.

  The row of windows wrapped around the corner of the building. She stayed as far away from him as possible, but still she felt his maleness reaching out to her, demanding a response. That sense of aggressive masculinity was one of the things she didn’t like about him, though when she was being honest, she admitted that the problem was hers, not his. It was her reaction—not his action.

  She looked out the window. The plaza was nearly empty on a day when the chill winds of March had suddenly returned after a prolonged spell of spring tease.

  “See those two by the fountain?” Michael asked without turning to her.

  “Yes.” They were the only two stationary figures in the plaza. Everyone else was scurrying, their bodies angled against the wind.

  “The one in the blue windbreaker is your old friend Joseph Wilson. The other one must be a prospective customer.”

  At first, she didn’t recognize the name, since she was trying to run it through her mental file of recent cases. And then, when she suddenly did remember, she made a small sound, surprised at her own stupidity. Given her thoughts of a few moments ago, how could she have forgotten that name?

  Michael turned to her. “You remember him, don’t you? By the time I finally nailed the little bastard, you had already switched sides and a half dozen or so old ladies had lost their cat-food money.”

  Despite his words, there was no rancor in his voice, but in that half second before she turned back to the window, she saw the dark gleam in his eyes. He was daring her not to remember.

  She studied the distant figure. Was it Joseph Wilson? She couldn’t be sure. His face had long since faded from her memory, even if what had followed her gaining his acquittal certainly hadn’t.

  “So what are you doing up here?” she asked, issuing a challenge of her own. “If it’s a drug deal, why don’t you go down and arrest him?”

  “Because not even Wilson would be dumb enough to be carrying the stuff with him now. He got out a couple of weeks ago—his second hitch—and he’s just trolling for customers at the moment.” Then he shrugged and spread his arms.

  “But hey, at least he isn’t mugging little old ladies anymore. He’s become an entrepreneur. For all I know, he’s even paying taxes.”

  She turned away and walked to her desk. His gesture had reminded her of that moment when he’d held out his arms to her. The difference was that he no longer looked vulnerable. She sat down, and he took one of the chairs facing her desk. A wide expanse of teak loomed between them, making her invulnerable, too—or so she wanted to think.

  “I assume you’re here about the Hanlon case,” she said, glancing at the report she’d read earlier.

  “Yes, ma’am. Have you read the investigative report?”

  She nodded. “You don’t have enough to get an indictment.”

  “He’s guilty. He got tired of Mom’s whining and the late-night phone calls and he blew her away, then set it
up to look like a burglary.”

  “Maybe it was a burglary. Have you considered that?”

  “Been there. Done that. It’s him.”

  “Michael, the man’s a respected businessman—with no criminal record.”

  “So? If he was some poor slob from down in the Bottom, you’d be telling me to haul his butt in here yesterday.”

  “No, I wouldn’t!” she said, smacking her desktop with the flat of her hand—a gesture that surprised her, but failed to shock him. It was yet another thing that she disliked about him: his insistence that she was an elitist.

  “You don’t have the evidence!” She gestured angrily to the reports. “Look what you’ve got—two people who say that he was at his wit’s end over what to do about her, and an eighty-four-year-old neighbor who thinks she saw him at her apartment that evening. According to his statement, he was there just about every evening—except the night she was murdered.

  “Even his lack of an alibi for the time works on his behalf. If he’d really planned to kill her, he would surely have come up with something.”

  “He didn’t plan it. He just got there and decided he couldn’t take it anymore.”

  She was leaning forward. He did the same. They stared at each other across the desk, eyes dueling. Then something different flickered in his dark eyes, and she drew back. After a moment, he did, too, and a half smile tugged briefly at the corners of his wide mouth.

  He shrugged, drawing her attention to his broad shoulders and his expensively tailored suit. She recalled that she’d heard just the other day that he was building a big house somewhere in the North Hills, the address of choice for the newly effluent

  “Okay,” he said amiably. “I thought it was worth a shot, anyway.”

  “Was this a test, Michael?”

  “Not really. I’d have tried it with Brogan, too—and probably with the same result.” Then, in one of those moments that never failed to deflect her anger and touch her, he added, “It’s pretty damn frustrating sometimes, you know? I know he’s guilty. It’s written all over him.”

  She found herself smiling. “So you force me to play the bad guy.”

  “Yeah,” he replied, chuckling. “You do a good job of it, too. Hadden is already trying to put out the word that you’re not tough enough for the job, by the way.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.”

  Michael tilted his head to one side and studied her. “It seems as though he’s trying to turn this into a personal thing. I guess he didn’t much like being dumped.”

  “That was over a year ago.”

  “That’s not so long. Some of us have memories even longer than that.”

  “Is there anything else we need to discuss, Michael?”

  “Yeah, there is.” He waited just long enough for her to think he was about to bring up again the memory he’d obviously referred to, then went on.

  “I just got back the forensics report on the body from the island. They’re figuring twenty years—give or take a year or so. And they’ve definitely pegged it as being early spring—March or April. Female, probably seventeen or eighteen, Caucasian. And most likely poor. The tests indicated some degree of malnourishment during childhood and a definite lack of good dental care.”

  “But how do they know it was early spring if they can’t even be sure what year it was?”

  “Believe it or not, some violets were found with the body, and some seeds were embedded in the scraps of fabric we found. They’re very sure about that.”

  Twenty years ago in the early spring. She stiffened, knowing what was coming even before he spoke.

  “I reread that report on your accident. It happened at that time of year. And the one thing that keeps bothering me is that anonymous phone call to the police.”

  She shrugged. “Just someone who didn’t want to get involved. That’s not uncommon.” In truth, she’d never given it much thought.

  “It might not be uncommon now, but this was twenty years ago. And why didn’t he try to save you?”

  “You’re assuming he or she had a boat.”

  “Why else would he have been out there at night at that time of the year?”

  She had no answer for that, though she wished fervently that she did. She had begun to suspect just where this was all leading.

  “You told me that your cousin wasn’t reckless, and the caretaker swore that the lights were working on the ski jump. What if the accident happened because the two of you were running away from someone—like a killer?”

  Amanda felt her stomach knot up. She discovered to her dismay that a small part of her actually wanted to believe it because it would exonerate Trish. But the rest of her wanted to lash out at him for raising the question.

  “You’re grasping at straws, Michael.”

  “No, I’m just taking a hard look at the pitiful evidence I have. One dead girl—or rather, two dead girls if you count your cousin—one accident that no one thinks should have happened and one anonymous caller who might have saved you both, but didn’t.”

  “You’re right—it is pitiful evidence.” But she knew that she wouldn’t be able to get it out of her mind, thanks to him.

  “What about the missing-persons reports?” she asked, recalling that he’d mentioned before that there’d been several.

  “We’ve tracked down two of them, and they’re alive and kicking. So far, we haven’t located the third, but we have reason to think she’s still alive, too.”

  “Then wouldn’t that suggest that the dead woman probably wasn’t from around here?”

  “It might—or she might have been the type whose disappearance didn’t matter.”

  THE PHONE RANG just as Amanda was about to leave for the party at Jesse’s. She hesitated, thinking that she should let the machine take the call, then hurried into her home office and snatched up the receiver, her thoughts on the party and whether or not Michael would be there.

  Silence followed her “Hello,” but she could hear sounds and knew someone was there. So she repeated her greeting impatiently.

  “Is this Amanda?” a woman’s voice asked. “Amanda Sturdevant?”

  “Yes. Can I help you?” The voice sounded vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place it. She was hoping that this wasn’t the wife or mother of someone in trouble. She’d had a few such calls before and had considered switching to an unlisted number.

  There was another silence, and Amanda could hear some kids in the background. She became increasingly certain that it was one of those calls. She was about to repeat her question when the woman spoke again in a small voice with a pronounced lisp.

  “It’s about the body—the one on the island? I think I know who she is...was.”

  “In that case, you should be calling the police,” Amanda said, taking care to keep her tone pleasant as she tried to think where she’d heard that voice before. “Lieutenant Quinn is the man you should speak to.”

  “I know, but it’s just that...” The woman hesitated again.

  “I’m sure Lieutenant Quinn would be happy to hear from you,” Amanda told her when it appeared that the woman wasn’t going to finish her sentence. In the background, the kids grew even noisier, obviously squabbling over something.

  Then the line abruptly went dead. Amanda dropped the receiver into its cradle, frowning. Why had the woman called her in the first place? Was it really someone she knew?

  AT LEAST A DOZEN CARS were parked at Jesse’s house by the time Amanda arrived, but Michael’s Porsche wasn’t among them. She had half convinced herself that if he didn’t come, that would be further proof that he was her sister’s new lover. She knew Jesse and she knew that if Michael were her lover, her sister wouldn’t be able to hide it. In fact, she probably wouldn’t even try.

  Jesse came up to greet her as Amanda entered the house. She looked sexier than ever in a very short red silk dress that set off her dark hair and her creamy skin. Thankfully, she also looked sober, though Amanda always found it difficult to be
sure about that.

  “Have you met Paul Varney yet?” Jesse asked.

  “No, I don’t think so. Who is he?”

  “A hunk. He’s new in town—a management consultant with his own company. Come along and let me introduce you.”

  Amanda reluctantly let herself be led into the crowd. “Is Michael Quinn coming?”

  Jesse nodded. “He said he’d be late.” Then she stopped abruptly and stared at Amanda. “Don’t tell me you’re interested in him?”

  “No,” Amanda said quickly, not sure what to make of Jesse’s obvious surprise. “It’s just that I need to tell him something and I didn’t try to contact him earlier because I thought he’d be here.”

  MICHAEL. DIDN’T ARRIVE for nearly an hour, though it seemed much longer than that to her as she tried to politely brush off Jesse’s latest find for her.

  She knew she couldn’t really blame Jesse for thinking that Paul Varney might appeal to her, but he didn’t. He was attractive and intelligent and pleasant enough—except there was nothing there. And just what it was that was missing from him became abundantly clear to her when she caught sight of Michael as he greeted Jesse’s husband, Steve.

  She felt...incandescent. There was no other way to describe what happened to her when his gaze met hers. Paul Varney’s voice became nothing more than a low drone in the background as every one of her gazillion nerve endings began to quiver with anticipation. It was embarrassing. It was scary. And it was exciting.

  Then Jesse materialized out of the crowd and slipped her arm through Steve’s as she, too, greeted Michael. Amanda watched them, seeking confirmation of her suspicions while hoping for a denial. She got neither.

  “Excuse me,” she told her companion, totally oblivious as to whether or not she was cutting him off in midsentence since she hadn’t heard a word he’d said after Michael’s arrival. “There’s someone I need to see.”

  Michael had already started in her direction, and they met halfway across the large, crowded living room. His mouth curved in a wry grin.

  “Short, blond and handsome over there doesn’t look too happy,” he said as he nodded toward Paul Varney.