Remember the Night (Men in Blue)

by Linda Castillo

  A tendril of brown hair escaped her ponytail when she shook her head. “He wore some type of mask, so I didn’t see his face.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “No. But I got the feeling he wanted to hurt me.”

  “How so?”

  “I don’t know. But it was more than just the gun. I felt…threatened. Like it was…personal, maybe.”

  Philip pretended not to notice when she shivered, and he damn well ignored the sudden urge to reach out and take her hands in his to keep them from trembling.

  “Do you think this dream is a memory? Something you actually saw and for whatever reason blocked?” He was suspicious by nature and the entire scenario seemed unlikely. Unfortunately, he didn’t have anything more solid to go on at the moment.

  “Maybe. I don’t know, but I thought I should tell you. I thought it might be important.” She looked down at her coffee. “I was scared out of my wits when I woke up. And I don’t scare easily, Detective.”

  After the way she’d held her ground at the office, he didn’t doubt it. Still, he wasn’t sure how much weight to put in a dream. He wondered what the department shrink would have to say. “We’re still checking suspicious persons reports in the area. Maybe we’ll come up with something.” Her neighborhood was chock-full of suspicious characters, a fact neither of them mentioned.

  Wrapping her hands around the mug, she sipped some of the coffee. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For believing me.”

  “To be perfectly honest with you, Miss Pelletier, I haven’t decided yet whether or not I believe you.”

  “You believe me enough to check out my story.”

  “That’s my job. That’s how homicides are solved. We check out leads one at a time until we get a break.” Finishing his coffee, he set it on the edge of the table to be refilled. He chose his next words carefully. “I spoke with Danielle Landsteiner this morning. She’s under the impression you were sleeping with her father.”

  Indignation heated Michelle’s gaze. “Danielle’s wrong.”

  “I understand why you might not want something like that to become public knowledge, why you might want to protect Landsteiner’s reputation—or your own, for that matter—but this is a murder investigation. It could be important—”

  “You can say it all you want, Detective. And you can think it until hell freezes over. But my relationship with Armon was based on platonic love and respect and nothing more. I refuse to defend the relationship to you or anyone else.” Slinging her purse over her shoulder, she rose. “I have to go.”

  Surprise flitted through him, followed by a jab of irritation. “We’re not finished.”

  “I am.” She turned away.

  Philip stood abruptly. Before he could stop himself, he reached out and grasped her forearm. “We can do this the easy way, or we can do it downtown, Miss Pelletier. It’s your call.”

  She glared at him over her shoulder, then looked down to where his fingers dug into her arm. “Don’t threaten me.”

  “That’s not a threat. It’s police procedure. I’m merely giving you a choice as to where you want to answer my questions.” He let his hand fall away.

  An emotion he couldn’t identify flickered behind her eyes. “Why didn’t you threaten to take Danielle or Baldwin or Derek downtown?” She’d lowered her voice, but he didn’t miss the smoldering anger behind it.

  “What makes you think I didn’t?”

  “Maybe your reluctance to inconvenience them has more to do with status. Are you afraid to ruffle wealthy feathers, Detective? No telling who they know in the superintendent’s office.”

  His temper stirred. “Your apartment was the scene of a murder last night, Miss Pelletier. You were there. Your gun was on the floor next to the corpse of a man you knew personally. Ten to one it’s the murder weapon—”

  “I didn’t kill him!”

  “You’re not giving me the answers I need!”

  The café fell silent. Annoyed, Philip looked around and realized they’d made a scene. Damn, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d lost his temper in public, certainly not in the course of an investigation. Not only was such conduct unprofessional, it was counterproductive. What was it about this tough little waif that had him acting like a fresh-faced rookie?

  “Sit down,” he growled.

  She gave him a killing look. Then, tightening her lips, she lowered herself into the bistro chair. “You can bully me all you like—”

  “If you want to clear yourself, you’re going to have to cooperate.”

  “I am cooperating. You just can’t seem to accept the idea that I’m telling the truth.”

  “If you can’t remember the shooting, how can you be so sure you didn’t pull the trigger?”

  Her quick intake of breath told him the question had hit home. “I know what I’m capable of,” she snapped. “Armon was like a father to me. I could never hurt him. Never.”

  “What about self-defense?”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  He had to hand it to her; she was consistent. Most liars weren’t, and got caught because their stories varied or their motivations didn’t add up. Philip didn’t want to make a decision this early in the game as to whether or not Michelle was lying. He wasn’t finished putting things together. The amnesia didn’t sit well with his sensibilities. But when he tried to envision this woman pulling the trigger and letting the old man die in her foyer, he just couldn’t do it.

  As if on cue, the owner came over to refill Philip’s cup. “Stop harassing my customers, Betancourt, or I’ll have to call a cop.” Her voice grated like sandpaper.

  Philip smiled despite the fact that his temper was still pumping. “Has anyone told you that you make the best coffee in town, Ruby?”

  The woman wasn’t buying it. “Pretty words will get you nowhere with me. T’es trop brute.” Her gaze landed on Michelle. “Gette-le.”

  Philip didn’t understand Cajun French, but he could tell by Michelle’s amused expression that she did. “I’m not even going to ask you what she said,” he grumbled after the owner left.

  “You must be a regular. She seems to know you pretty well.”

  He arched a brow. “Really?”

  “She says you’re a brute and that I should keep an eye on you.”

  “Probably not bad advice.” Guilt over losing his temper nagged at him. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper.”

  “Is that your idea of an apology?”

  He held her gaze. “That’s as good as it gets.”

  A smile played at the corner of her mouth. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Ask away.”

  “Am I your only suspect?”

  “At this point everyone who knew or had dealings with Landsteiner is a suspect.”

  “Do you have any leads?”

  “You mean other than all the circumstantial stuff we found at your apartment?”

  She blew out a sigh.

  “You know I can’t discuss the details with you.” Rubbing his hand over his chin, he felt the beginnings of stubble, and realized he was working on thirty-six hours without sleep. Maybe that was why his brain was operating at the speed of slow-rising dough. “Did Landsteiner have any enemies?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t imagine that he did. Everyone liked Armon. He was a very kind, generous man.”

  “Someone didn’t think so. Lawyers make enemies sometimes.”

  “If he did, I didn’t know about it.”

  “Did any of the Landsteiners have a reason to want him dead?”

  “You mean his family?”

  “Any arguments between them? Differences of opinion? About the firm, maybe?”

  “None that I’m aware of.”

  “Why do they have so much animosity toward you?”

  She winced. It was a minute reaction, but for a split second, the veneer of toughness slipped to reveal the hurt and mistrust buried in the depths of her eyes.
He wondered about its roots, thought it might be interesting to find out what made her tick.

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters, Detective?”

  Where was she going with this? “A sister. She lives in Florida with a half-dozen kids. Why?”

  “You’re familiar with the term sibling rivalry?”

  “You aren’t a sibling.”

  “Not by blood, but the rivalry was there. This may sound odd, but I think Armon’s children were jealous of my relationship with their father. They didn’t understand it, therefore they condemned it. Not openly, of course. They tolerated me because Armon…cared for me.” Her hands twisted on the table in front of her. She looked down, stilled them. “I didn’t realize the extent of that jealousy until this morning.”

  “Why did Landsteiner fixate on you?”

  “He didn’t fixate on me.”

  “Okay. Why did he help you?”

  Her eyes met his, darkened. “I can’t answer for him.”

  More secrets, Philip thought, and his curiosity stirred.

  “Armon loved his family very much, but he didn’t share the same closeness with his children as he did with me. I’d sensed resentment in the past, especially from Danielle, but I always shrugged it off. I didn’t think I’d ever have to deal with it.”

  “What about Derek and Baldwin? Any jealousy there? Did either of them ever approach you in a sexual way? Or do anything that led you to believe they wanted a relationship?”

  She shook her head. “Never.”

  Philip nodded, but he wasn’t satisfied. Not by a long shot. When he looked at Michelle Pelletier, he saw secrets. Some buried, others so close to the surface he could feel them. He’d sensed all along she was hiding something. For the life of him he couldn’t figure out what—or why.

  “I did some research on amnesia last night,” she said. “Over the Internet.”

  He’d intended to do the same, but hadn’t had the time. Trying to ignore the exhaustion pressing into him, he sighed. “I’m sure as hell not an expert. What did you find?”

  “Data is sketchy because amnesia is rare. But I was able to find out that some forms of memory loss can be caused by a traumatic emotional event. Psychogenic amnesia is the term the shrinks use. I also found out that there are tests and drugs available to physicians to recapture lost memories.”

  She looked…hopeful. It surprised the hell out of him that she was actually looking forward to being tested. Like that added up. Why should it? Nothing else did when it came to Michelle Pelletier.

  “Your psychological evaluation is scheduled for seven o’clock this evening. I’ll brief Dr. Witt. He’s a good man.” Philip had considered paying him a visit after that Algiers shopkeeper had been killed, but he’d always managed to talk himself out of it.

  “I’ll be there,” she said.

  “You should probably bring your lawyer.”

  A hard laugh broke from her throat. “I think you know I don’t have a lawyer.”

  “Your choice.”

  “I’m counting on this evaluation to clear me, Detective.”

  He wanted to be skeptical, would have if she hadn’t been looking at him as if her life depended on that evaluation. He supposed, in a way, it did. “With or without your memory, I’ll find who did it.”

  Her eyes were clear and bottomless and so mesmerizing that for a moment Philip felt as if he might tumble headlong into their depths. He tried to blame his distraction on fatigue—he was getting too damn old to work around the clock—but he knew it had more to do with the woman sitting across from him than his lack of sleep. The realization wasn’t a comforting one.

  Pulling out a business card, he eased himself to his feet and laid a ten dollar bill on the table. “If you remember anything before the evaluation this evening, give me a call.” He handed her the card. “My pager number’s on the back.”

  “Thank you.”

  He noticed the box sitting on the chair next to her. “Can I drop you back at your car?”

  “Well…no. I’m fine.” She scooted back from the table and rose.

  “Let me get that box for you.”

  “I can get it—”

  He leaned forward to lift the box. She did the same and their heads came together with a quiet thud.

  Not hard enough to cause pain, but he definitely felt it. Philip straightened, feeling awkward. Their gazes met. A chuckle escaped him when she rubbed the top of her head. Laughter bubbled out of her. Throaty. Soft. As lyrical as the final notes of a saxophone. And so damn sexy he reconsidered the wisdom of offering to take her to her car.

  His gaze dropped to her mouth, and he quickly regretted it. It was the first time he’d seen her smile, and the sight affected him, reached into him, touched something warm and needy he didn’t want to acknowledge. Not now. Not with this woman. He felt as if he’d ventured too close to a dangerous cliff. One more step and he’d fall over the edge.

  It was a stupid moment, one that couldn’t go on, one he shouldn’t have let happen. He was a cop, for God’s sake. She was a suspect. He didn’t want to think of her laughter when he looked at her. Or that her eyes held secrets as dark and mysterious as the bayou. He didn’t want to think of the way that suit swept over her body. Dammit, he didn’t want to think of her at all.

  “Actually, uh, I don’t have a car. I mean, I usually take the streetcar…or the bus.”

  The fact that she was flustered pleased him. “In that case, I’ll just drop you at your apartment on my way to the pre cinct.” Huskiness roughened his voice. Ignoring it, and its source, he picked up the box.

  “I’m not staying at my apartment. I haven’t…gone back there yet. I’m staying at the Pontchartrain.” She must have noticed the question in his gaze, because she attempted to explain. “Baldwin paid for a couple of nights.”

  “I’ll drop you at the hotel, then.” Philip didn’t look at her as he made his way to the door. He wasn’t even sure she’d followed until he heard her footfalls on the tile. He felt off-kilter. His heart beat just a little too fast. The room felt stuffy, and he resisted the urge to loosen his tie. Worst of all, he was thinking about his number one suspect in terms of the way she smelled as opposed to motive, means and opportunity.

  He should go home and grab a couple hours of sleep to clear his head—fatigue was messing with his brain—but he knew he couldn’t sleep. Not when lab reports and witness statements waited for him at the precinct. He couldn’t afford to get distracted. Not by fatigue. Certainly not by this woman. Another mistake would cost him not only his peace of mind, but his career.

  Philip acknowledged that he had broken one of his cardinal rules. He’d let himself feel something for a suspect. Worse, he’d allowed himself to connect with her. Not as a cop, but as a man. Even as he swore it wouldn’t happen again, he knew he was vulnerable, and he damn well didn’t like it. He couldn’t think of a worse fate for a man who prided himself on objectivity and gut instinct. He’d have to be careful in the coming days. He’d keep his distance from her and concentrate on the case. And if the evidence warranted it, he’d bust Michelle Pelletier without hesitation and no matter what the cost.

  Michelle couldn’t think of a way to avoid Betancourt’s offer to drive her to the hotel. She wasn’t exactly sure what had happened at the café, but she didn’t like it. In the span of a millisecond, an uncomfortable awareness had bloomed between them. An awareness that had nothing to do with his status as a cop or hers as a suspect. For an instant as she’d stared into those cool, gray eyes, he’d reacted to her as a man. And as much as she didn’t want to admit it, she’d responded as a woman.

  Tense silence filled the car as they passed the narrow storefronts and ivy-shrouded balconies along Chartres Street and headed toward the hotel. Betancourt scowled at the traffic. When a red light stopped them at Esplanade a few blocks from her apartment, he cast a stony look in her direction.

  “This isn’t the greatest neighborhood for you to be walking in,” he said.


  The words surprised her. Not because it wasn’t true—the neighborhood had seen better days—but because he sounded concerned. “When I first moved to New Orleans, it was all I could afford. My landlord hasn’t raised the rent, so I stayed. Besides, I’m careful about my personal safety. I take precautions.”

  The truth of the matter was she couldn’t afford to live anywhere else and still have transportation to Tulane and her job at Landsteiner & Associates…. The thought of the job she’d lost sent a stab of pain through her middle. She’d loved her work, the routine, the predictability, just as she’d loved the people with whom she’d worked. Armon had gone out of his way to give her new responsibilities so she could learn as much as possible about the legal profession. She didn’t want to think about the opportunity that had been ripped from her grasp.

  Michelle sighed, realizing she would miss class tonight because of the psychological evaluation. She wondered if that was how dreams slipped away, one setback, one stone, one hurdle at a time. She wondered if that was how it had been with her mother. Had Blanche Pelletier had dreams? Had she watched them slip away over the years until she convinced herself none of them were possible?

  Shifting uncomfortably in her seat, Michelle looked out the window. She’d promised herself a long time ago she would never be like her mother. She’d never lose hope, or give up on her dreams no matter how many roadblocks were thrown in her path. She’d already overcome so much. Glancing at Betancourt, she pondered the question of how long it would take him to find out about her past. How deep would he dig?

  Fear quivered through her when she realized the truth would eventually come out. Would he use it against her? Would he destroy her dreams? The part of her that had become cynical over the years said yes. Not because it was personal, of course, but because a man like Philip Betancourt did his job no matter who got hurt.

  “Nice place.”

  Michelle started at the sound of his voice. She hadn’t realized he’d parked the unmarked cruiser in front of the hotel.

  Betancourt eyed her. “You looked like you were a million miles away.”

  No, she thought dully, she’d been fifty miles to the southwest in the muddy little town of Bayou Lafourche. But she wouldn’t tell him that. If he wanted to know about her past, he was going to have to find out on his own. She wasn’t going to dig her own grave.