Ellie gasped as his words echoed her sister’s. I’m not running away, I’m protecting myself, she wanted to scream, but the words stayed in her throat. He sat at the kitchen table, morosely nursing the mug of tea she handed him. Ellie watched him, matching his silence. The old Reilly would have stormed out, refusing further discussion. This new Reilly was more circumspect.
“The others don’t really want me on this, do they?” she said. “They don’t think they can trust me. I guess the rumor mill has been hard at work.”
“It’ll die down, given time.” And if you can prove you’re not going to screw up again, Ellie heard the unspoken footnote to his words.
Swallowing hard, she clenched her hands together in her lap so he would not see them trembling. “You, too. You don’t want me on this case, either,” she accused.
“Damn right I don’t,” he said, shifting some files on the small table to make room for his empty cup.
Ellie stood, placing her fingertips on the table, leaning toward him. “I think we need to have this out right now. Just because we were lovers in the dim and distant past does not give you the right to penalize me now, rob me of an opportunity to clear my name and get on with my life.”
Reilly looked up, his eyes hard. “That’s not the point.”
“Oh, yes it is. We had sex and now you’re doing the chauvinistic pig act,” she said, seeking to wound.
But he refused to take the bait and replied mildly, “The past has nothing to do with it. The problem is very much in the present. I don’t like having a senior officer working on my team who is, as you so nicely put it, having sex with a suspect in a particularly nasty murder case.”
Ellie’s anger burned in her like the spark from a forest fire and before she knew what was happening, her hand came up toward his face.
“Don’t,” Reilly said, his voice mild but replete with warning. “Assaulting a superior officer will get you out, and for good.”
“Just tell me what you’re talking about,” Ellie hissed, her self-control barely holding.
“I think your relationship with B. S. Anderson may jeopardize your ability to be impartial in this case.”
“B.S. Anderson? I don’t know the man.” Memory tickled at the back of Ellie’s brain, then she grabbed the information. “Anderson is the author of the Hector Abbott book, ‘Justice Denied’, but I’ve never even met him.”
“Then how come he was here in your kitchen, where you had breakfast ready for him, on the day of the murder?”
“That wasn’t the author—that was Brad Scott.” Ellie was trying not to shout, but she had a feeling, deep in the pit of her stomach, that something was terribly wrong.
“B. S. Anderson—bet those initials got him teased at school, eh? Bradley Scott Anderson. A.K.A Brad Scott. The author who interviewed Hector Abbott extensively on the murders, and who may have learned details which allowed him to carry out a copy cat killing in the case of Roberta Collins.”
“The scalpel…” Ellie murmured. There it was, the little tickle of unease. A loud swish of air filled her ears as the bottom fell out of her world. Brad Scott was B.S. Anderson? She sat back suddenly in her chair, because she didn’t think her legs would hold her up much longer. “It can’t be true,” she whispered, yet she knew it was. Worse, for a moment she glimpsed pity in Reilly’s eyes.
“The scalpel, Ellie?”
“He…he mentioned an antique scalpel. I wondered how he knew.” The words escaped her shocked lips before she could stop them. She heard Reilly suck in breath.
“I find it hard to believe that, given the nature of your relationship with Anderson, you don’t know how he earns a living.”
“We’ve never talked about things like that.”
“Too busy with other pursuits, no doubt.” The pity was gone, and his face registered contempt and something more—jealousy?
“Just what are you suggesting about ‘the nature’ of my relationship with Brad?”
“Just that it is obviously an intimate one, given that he’s around for breakfast at your home in the early hours of the morning.” Reilly’s voice was hard, unyielding.
“Have you discussed your suspicions with Harris?” she demanded, butterflies whirling madly in her stomach. This could be the death knell for her attempt at setting the record straight.
“No, I wanted to satisfy myself that I was right first, by talking to you.”
“That’s good. Because Brad Scott is a very good friend of mine—someone who was there when I needed him,” Ellie said quietly, feeling a tweak of satisfaction as a flare of something—guilt? –flickered across Reilly’s face. “We are not, and never have been, lovers. Brad is a kind, generous man who has been very supportive and not asked for anything but friendship in return.”
Well, that isn’t exactly true, Ellie thought uncomfortably, remembering the many times Brad had held her in his arms so tightly that his desire for her was obvious. And a marriage proposal doesn’t exactly signify disinterest, the nasty voice in her head piped up. But she pushed the thoughts away, glaring directly into Reilly’s eyes with an unspoken challenge.
Reilly raised an eyebrow. He’d seen the way Anderson looked at Ellie, and wondered how the other man would take being described as “just a friend.” He heaved his tall frame off the kitchen chair.
“I accept what you’re telling me, Ellie—but you’d better be very sure that I don’t find out something different in the future.” Then he was gone and instead of being relieved, she simply felt lonely. She leaned against the door, pressing her hot forehead to the cool glass. She was caught in limbo; stuck between two men who seemed intent on playing games with her. Ellie slammed their teacups into the sink, the cold tea spilling over the rim and splashing her shirt front. Then she grabbed a jacket and strode along the cliff path to confront Brad.
He was home, working on his laptop computer on his sunny terrace overlooking the sea. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” she demanded, not even responding to his friendly greeting.
“Tell you what?” The welcome had fled from his voice.
“That you’re Bradley Scott Anderson—the man who wrote this stupid book lionizing Hector Abbott. And by inference, demolishing all the work I did with the team that arrested him!” Ellie struggled not to shout. “How could you leave me in ignorance? Do you have any idea of the kick Liam Reilly got out of humiliating me with that little tidbit of information?”
“Why should Reilly care?”
“Because I’ve got my job back, temporarily, and he will use anything he can to get me out.” Ellie spoke as calmly as she could.
“Then Reilly and I have at least one goal in common. I don’t understand you, Ellie. You were pushed over the edge, doing a job that still gives you nightmares years later. I put you in touch with a man who’s offering you a potentially brilliant career in security in Chicago, we could go there together when we are married, and now you want to throw that up and go back into something that caused you nothing but misery and grief. I’m sorry, but it sounds like you’ve finally lost your mind,” Brad told her, his face flushed but his voice back to its normal level as he struggled for control.
Ellie’s anger yielded as she saw the look of real anxiety on Brad’s face. “I’ve already told you I’ll be doing office work mostly, reviewing file after file after file. But you haven’t answered my question—why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because when we first met I had just finished the book, and no one, me included, expected it to be the hit it has been. In the meantime, I got to know you better, knew how you felt about the Slasher case. I meant to tell you, but there just never seemed a good time.”
“So you let Reilly beat me over the head with it?”
“Scott was my father’s name, and after he died my mother remarried and I took her new husband’s name, Anderson. But when I was old enough I reverted back to using Brad Scott. I use the Anderson name to keep my working life separate from my personal life. A lot of writers do so
mething like that.
“You’d better know one thing, Ellie—I’ve asked you to be my wife, and even though you’ve been too pre-occupied with this stuff to give me an answer, I’ve been very patient. But I can tell you now that I don’t intend to have a wife working in a job like this. So, either give this up, or we’re through.”
If he’d hoped his ultimatum would shock her into seeing sense, he was way off the mark. Ellie almost visibly withdrew from him and he would have gladly bitten his tongue to take back the words.
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Brad. But you can’t own me,” she said, her eyes large with pain. “I think we’d better talk about this later.”
Brad dragged in a ragged breath. This was the one woman, who could make it right for him. Yet things were becoming so complicated. He was tortured with images of her with her former lover, consumed with panic that she was slipping away. And with her, his hope of redemption…
Reilly had just better watch his step, Brad thought viciously, his anger a bright and shiny pain beneath his ribs. He was relieved when the doorbell chimed, but his relief evaporated when Jane Corby identified herself and Constable Patel, the dark, taciturn man at her side.
“Just wanted to ask a few questions, sir—routine stuff,” Jane said, stepping inside. She raised a carefully-shaped eyebrow as she saw Ellie framed in the sunlit terrace doors, then nodded politely. Ellie, glad of the distraction, said her goodbyes quickly and strode away down the beach, pausing only to rub the ears of the scruffy white dog that trudged loyally at her heels.
****
Back in his office, Reilly gave up on his paperwork. Ellie Fitzpatrick’s face kept imposing itself between the printed page and his mind. He rubbed his temples, trying to ease the headache that had bloomed after the confrontation with her. Swiveling around in his chair, he gazed down at the snarled evening traffic in the street below and sighed. He still loved her. There. He’d admitted it. So why did he not feel better?
The day outside was increasingly stormy. Rain before long, he thought. A memory of rainy early autumn days in Chicago, “The Windy City,” lit his mind. He’d loved working there. How Ellie would love the very American city, and how he would enjoy showing it to her! Sorrow jabbed through him, a pain he knew would always linger in his heart. Would Ellie take up the job she’d been offered Stateside? Or would she stay now she was re-instated? She had family here, after all.
Maybe he should be the one to leave Leeds. Why did he stay? Was he some sort of masochist that he wanted to be near her, when she obviously didn’t want him? It was time to be honest—there was nothing to hold him in England. Yet Ellie’s face kept rising up before his eyes like a ghost from the past, even though he tried to shrug the image away. He’d lost her. Maybe it was time to consider moving to another force, or leaving England altogether for newer pastures. His past career history would open many doors…
The office door opened and Jane Corby walked in, bearing two cups of coffee and a faint smile. She pushed the door shut with one elegant foot and offered him one of the polystyrene cups as she passed his desk.
“Vincente’s? Special dark brew?” he asked hopefully, and smiled when his sergeant nodded. “What have I done to deserve this kindness?”
“Damn all—sir,” Jane replied. “In fact, for sending me out into the depths of the countryside with the very unsociable Constable Patel to interview Scott Anderson, a.k.a. Brad Scott, I probably should have dumped rat poison into that.”
“Well, you know, police work isn’t all glamour,” Reilly teased, and laughed out loud at the murderous look she directed at him. “I would have thought you would enjoy interviewing the very rich, very handsome, famous author—right up your street?”
“Not with Patel looking on censoriously,” Jane snapped back.
“So, Jane, what did your feminine instincts tell you about Mr. Anderson?” Reilly asked, sounding bored.
Jane wasn’t fooled. She’d seen that lazy look before—it hid an intellect as tightly coiled as a panther who’d just spotted his dinner. She knew she had his full attention, and normally would have basked in its light. But she felt she was treading through a minefield, so she took her time hanging up her blazer jacket and smoothing down her immaculate hair before speaking.
“He’s nice, smart, and personable—any woman would probably be happy to be seen out and about with him.” She spoke thoughtfully, remembering Scott Anderson’s courteous behavior and fair good looks. But there was something else, something her sharp mind picked up on.
“It sounds as though you have a ‘but’ at the end of that sentence?” Reilly prompted.
She tossed her hair back, smiling at his acuity, and took a seat behind her tidy desk. “Are you hoping? Actually, in this instance, you’re right. He’s nice, personable, smart—and totally obsessed with Ellie Fitzpatrick.”
He raised an eyebrow and looked at her mockingly. “By which you mean he didn’t swoon to the floor when you turned that sexy charm full tilt on him?”
Jane laughed. “I wasn’t even laying bait as far as that one’s concerned. Not one I would go after, personally. He’s totally focused on Ellie. She was just leaving as we got there—looked like she’d jogged over along the beach with that dog of hers, and they’d been having coffee out on the terrace. If you could have seen the way he looked at her! I swear he’s even jealous of the bloody dog if she pets it!” Jane shivered, remembering her own reaction during the interview.
“And how did Ellie Fitzpatrick react to this?” He had to ask, had to know. Out of purely professional interest, of course…
“She doesn’t seem to see it sir. I mean, she doesn’t seem aware of the intensity of it.”
“Well, being obsessed with a woman doesn’t make a man a killer,” Reilly said, turning to another file on his desk.
No, Jane thought, at least not directly. But it’s killing you, the idea of Ellie Fitzpatrick in Scott Anderson’s bed. “Oh, was one other thing, sir,” she added casually, “Anderson admits he was at FunLand the night of the killing. Seems he’d had words with Fitzpatrick and gone to the resort to cool off.”
Resort to Murder
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ellie entered the CrossRoads Cafe early the next morning where Larry Darnley greeted her warmly. The break-in at her cottage was still on her mind, and she wanted to ask a few discreet questions. But information is a two-way street and, over hot fresh coffee and aromatic buttery croissants, she briefly sketched out her story about working for the North West Special Task force, telling Larry she’d taken a leave of absence after a couple of difficult cases. She told Larry that the last case she’d worked on, involving a protection racket by a local gang, had never been satisfactorily solved. She didn’t go into the details of being suspended and reinstated, but Larry seemed satisfied with her story. The big man expressed sympathy at her experiences, and pleasure that she had gotten her job back.
“I might wind up being transferred to the regular detective squad rather than the special unit, but that’s okay. At least I get a chance to work major crimes and look into the last case, the one that’s been bothering me,” she told him.
“Even if it’s only temporary, it’s a start,” he told her, filling her coffee cup with more of the rich brown brew. “You’ve certainly got a checkered history, girl, but like I always say, there’s more to most people than meets the eye. Anyway, here’s wishing that all goes well and you’ll be back to your career full time. I hope this doesn’t mean we’ll be losing you?”
Regretfully, Ellie told him she was considering a move closer to Leeds. “But you’ll not be rid of me that easily,” she said, adding thick cream before taking a sip of her coffee. “Not while you serve food like this. Remember, the cottage is still in the family.”
“You’re going away, Ellie?” Larry’s brother Jack strolled into the café, pausing behind the counter to snatch a slice of bacon from a plate under the warming light.
“How many times have I told you not to
touch the food?” Larry snapped.
“I can assure you, brother, I haven’t touched anything of yours that’s important,” said Jack insolently, his gaze pointedly following Sue-Ellen’s trim rear as Larry’s wife carried loaded platters to customers sitting by the sunlit window.
Ellie caught the furious look on Larry’s face, and plunged right in, hoping to avert the impending explosion. “Were either of you up around my place in the last few days? I’m wondering if anyone saw a stranger acting suspiciously.” The question was directed at both men, but her gaze focused on Jack.
The look he returned was full of knowledge, and an odd kind of sadness pulled at the corners of his mouth. “I’ve strolled up there a couple of times; it’s a nice way to the beach. Why, Ellie? Has something happened?”
Deep in her gut, she knew this man knew something. She could feel it as surely as she knew her own name. It had happened before, this instinct, and she had learned to trust it. She kept her reply casual, hiding the intensity with which she was studying the man who leaned nonchalantly against the counter beside her. “There was a break-in at my cottage, and I’m looking for anyone who may have seen something.”
“Good God! A break-in! Did the bastards take much?” Larry gasped. He was missing the by-play between Ellie and his brother, who smiled sardonically and replied, “Well, honey, it wasn’t me. To tell the truth, I can’t see the point of breaking in when you weren’t there.”
Ellie’s skin tingled with a shiver of unease. Was that just Jack’s natural charm response, or was it a threat—that next time he’d wait until she was home to break in and continue his search for whatever had not been found the other night? What had the intruder been looking for? Whatever it was, she and Reilly had concluded that the intruder hadn’t found it.
“Well, whoever it was had better be careful,” Larry stated confidently, “Ellie’s got a job on the police force—and the coppers don’t like their own being picked on.”
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