Remember the Night (Men in Blue)

by Linda Castillo

  “Who’s making a scene? I’m merely saying what needs to be said, ending something that should never have started.”

  Vaguely, Michelle was aware that several people had gathered, their eyes alight with excitement at the prospect of a fight.

  “You’re not going to get a penny of his money, Michelle. So you can put the little grief-stricken act to rest.”

  Michelle’s temper exploded. Her vision tunneled on Danielle. Dropping her umbrella, she snatched up the crystal vase of roses on the table next to her and dumped the contents over Danielle’s head.

  Danielle’s mouth opened. Water streamed down her face. A birdlike sound escaped her. “You wench!”

  Michelle dropped the vase and staggered back, appalled by what she’d done. As if in slow motion, Derek moved to Danielle, pulled a long-stemmed rose from her sodden hair. Betancourt turned to Michelle, snapped something in a low voice, but she couldn’t make out the words over the rush of blood through her veins.

  She knew running was the cowardly way out. But there were too many people standing too close, pressing in on her. Too much grief and anger for her to deal with. She’d fallen victim to her own temper and made a scene. She’d allowed Danielle to get the best of her. Dignity forgotten, she turned on her heel and fled into the pouring rain.

  Philip would have missed her if it hadn’t been for the streetlamp. Huddled against the rain, Michelle moved down Esplanade with long purposeful strides, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she was soaked to the skin. She’d removed her high heels at some point, and they dangled from her right hand. Her black dress and jacket clung to her body like wet silk.

  Slowing the vehicle, he pulled alongside her and rolled down the passenger side window. “Hell of an afternoon for a walk.”

  She shot him a glare over her shoulder. “No, Betancourt, it’s just a hell of an afternoon.”

  “Get in. I’ll drive you home.”

  Her stride quickened.

  He nudged the car forward, pacing her. “You’re soaked to the skin, Michelle. The hotel’s two miles away. Get in the car.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  Her teeth were chattering. That bothered him. He could tell by the way her voice shook that she was hurting. Her jerky movements told him she was angry. No, he amended, not just angry. Furious. Not necessarily at him, but at the world in general, though he knew he would probably absorb the brunt of it if he stuck around. She’d been hurt and humiliated by people she’d once trusted. He supposed he could identify.

  “Michelle, this is crazy.” His car continued alongside her, the tires hissing on the wet pavement.

  When she picked up speed and attempted to change direction, he gunned the engine, pulled ahead of her and parked curbside. Ignoring the rain, he got out of the car and approached her.

  “Oh, that was a really terrific cop move, Betancourt,” she snapped. “I’ll just bet you’re a whiz in a car chase. Maybe you should pull your weapon and shout ‘halt!’”

  “I’m not here as a cop, Michelle.”

  She pushed past him. “Save the good cop routine. I don’t buy it, and I’m sure as hell not in the mood.”

  “I’m here to take you back to the hotel. That’s all.”

  “I don’t want to go to the hotel. Dammit, I want to go home.”

  “You’re not ready to go back there.”

  “Oh, I forgot, you’re the veritable expert on my innermost feelings—”

  He grasped her arm, spun her around to face him. “Look, I’m sorry you got hurt back there. I know that was difficult—”

  “Difficult?” She wrenched free of his grip. “That’s not the right word, Betancourt. Not by a long shot. It’s like a stake through my heart when people talk about my relationship with Armon that way.” A hard, humorless laugh broke from her throat. “And I took the bait right out of her hand, didn’t I?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Detective. It does matter. All of those people back there knew Armon. They want to think the worst. Now they have reason to.”

  “She knew exactly where to aim to get to you, Michelle. She’s out to hurt you, not ruin her father’s reputation.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” She blinked against the rain. Her face was deathly pale in the light of the streetlamp. Her hands trembled as she shoved the hair from her eyes.

  Philip hated seeing her like this. “It doesn’t matter,” he said gently.

  “Oh, I saw how much it mattered the first night I met you. You took one look at me and thought what’s that rich old guy doing with this hot little number?”

  His heart wrenched as she choked out the words. Not because they weren’t true, but because they were. “That’s not fair. I’m a cop. It’s my job to be suspicious.”

  “You were judging me. Just like Danielle. Just like all those people back there.”

  “I wasn’t judging you.”

  “I saw it in your eyes. I knew what you were thinking! Because of the way I look! The way I live! Because of who I am.” She rapped her fist against her chest with the last word.

  He knew no matter what he said she wasn’t going to calm down anytime soon. Sighing, he resigned himself to getting wet. This was going to take some time. She needed to get it off her chest. “Go ahead, Michelle, get it out in the open. Maybe it’ll help you knock that giant chip off your shoulder.”

  “Go to hell.” Her voice rose above the pitch of the rain.

  “You’ve been holding this inside for a long time, haven’t you?”

  “Leave me alone, Betancourt. This is none of your concern.”

  “Let it out, Michelle. You’ll feel better if you do.” Lord knew he was an expert on leaving emotions inside to fester.

  “You’re just like everyone else.”

  “Now who’s judging whom?”

  She fought the tears, bravely, valiantly, but feature by feature, her face crumpled. The tears came in a rush. Violent, angry tears. “Do you think those people are going to remember Armon for the good he did in his life, Betancourt? For the wing he donated to Charity Hospital? For the foundation he started for homeless children? Or do you think they’re going to remember him as the man who was murdered by his young lover?”

  Philip hadn’t realized the depth of her pain, or the extent of her bitterness. He sensed there was more buried inside, but he didn’t want to press her. Not now. More than anything, he wanted to go to her, hold her, stop the tremors racking her body. But he knew that wasn’t what she needed. She needed to stand on her own two feet and face the demons that haunted her.

  “I come from the gutter, Betancourt. Do you understand what that means? Do you have any idea how many years it took me to put that behind me? To get where I am? Do you know how hard it is to overcome the stigma attached to being poor and uneducated?”

  “You’re not uneducated,” he growled.

  “My mother only went to school through the sixth grade, for heaven’s sake! I don’t even know who my father was.” A hard laugh squeezed out of Michelle’s throat. “Do you have any idea what it meant to me when Armon picked me up and gave me a chance to make something of myself?”

  “You’d already picked yourself up when he met you.”

  “I was a waitress.”

  “You’d made it to one of the best law schools in the country.”

  “I wouldn’t have survived.” She stared at him, vacillating, her arms wrapped around herself.

  “Aw, hell.” Philip reached her in two resolute strides. She stiffened when his arms went around her, but he didn’t withdraw. “Shut up, Michelle. Just shut up. I’ve heard enough.”

  Her flesh was cold to the touch. She shivered violently, her sobs sending powerful tremors through her body. Philip tightened his grip on her. “Get in the car.”

  “Please, just take me home. I want to go home.”

  Philip didn’t think she was ready to go back there. Not in her emotional state. “Michelle, your place
is probably a mess.”

  “I don’t care. I’ll handle it. Please, just take me home.”

  Holding her against him, he couldn’t deny her this one thing. He knew he shouldn’t be the one to do it. But he was here. He’d witnessed her hurt. Felt her tremors. Looked into the brown depths of her eyes and seen firsthand the pain and bitterness residing there. Who the hell was he to keep her from doing what she wanted?

  “All right,” he said, knowing he’d probably live to regret it. “I’ll take you home. Get in the car.”

  Michelle knew the instant she walked through the door coming back was a mistake. It was too soon, and her emo tions were strung tight as a piano wire. Even before turning on the light, she knew Armon’s death had irrevocably and forever changed the place she’d called home for the last four years. The change was subtle, not anything she could put her finger on. An unpleasant aura that hung low and invisible, like a cloud of noxious gas.

  Taking a deep, calming breath, she flipped the light switch and let the sensations wash over her. Pain was the first emotion she could identify, its power diminishing the last remnants of anger from her encounter with Danielle. Betancourt stood silently behind her. He’d insisted on coming inside even though she’d wanted to face this alone. She hadn’t known what to expect, or how she would react. She certainly didn’t want an audience if it reduced her to a quivering mass of emotions.

  She stepped tentatively into the foyer, her gaze sweeping the room. Sofa cushions littered the floor. The flowers in the vase on the coffee table had wilted. Her books, usually displayed on the built-in bookcase, had been haphazardly tossed to the floor. Fingerprint powder marred almost every surface.

  She wanted to say something to let Betancourt know she was handling this just fine, that she was every bit as tough and capable as he, but her throat had a vise grip on her voice box. Something on the floor caught her gaze. She looked down, found herself staring at the chalk silhouette of Armon’s body.

  Her stomach rolled into a slow, sickening somersault. The steady hum in her ears burgeoned into a roar, deafening her, as her blood pumped harder and harder.

  The flashback hit with stunning force, locking out the present. A gunshot, so loud it left her ears ringing. Armon, sprawled on the floor. The man in black raising the gun, shifting the muzzle toward her. She felt terror. The presence of death.

  The blood left her head at dizzying speed. The room darkened, pitched. Michelle ordered her legs to take her to the sofa, but they refused to obey. She would have fallen if not for the strong arms that wrapped around her waist. Vaguely, she heard Betancourt’s voice, felt a rise of embarrassment even as the room dipped.

  “Dammit, I knew this was going to happen,” he said.

  Sweat broke out on her brow. Nausea rolled through her stomach. “Just let me…sit for a moment,” she croaked.

  Cursing, Philip swooped her into his arms and carried her to the sofa, where he eased her to a sitting position, then pressed her head between her knees. “Put your head down.”

  Too weak to argue, Michelle obeyed, gulping air, praying she wouldn’t be sick.

  “Breathe deeply.” He sat beside her, rubbing her back with an incredibly gentle hand.

  She sucked in a breath, let it out with a shudder. “I saw the man in black. He was here. I know it for sure now.”

  “Just breathe.”

  “He was wearing a black leather jacket.”

  “We’ll talk in a minute. I don’t want you passing out on me. Okay?”

  “Sorry, Betancourt. I thought I could handle this.”

  “Don’t sweat it. I’ve been where you are right now. Most cops have at one time or another.”

  “It’s different living it, you know?” She thought about the chalk silhouette and shivered. “This place won’t ever be the same.” The apartment had been her home for four turbulent years. Her refuge from an increasingly complex world that had seen her through life-altering changes, both good and bad. As she fought back nausea, Michelle knew she could never live here again.

  “You did all right, Michelle.”

  She liked the way her name sounded on his lips. She concentrated on that, on the way his hand felt skimming along the curve of her back, and slowly, her stomach settled. She raised her head. The room stopped swaying. “I want another hypnosis session.”

  Betancourt scowled at her, but his expression was buffered by concern and, unmistakably, empathy. “I think that’s a good idea. I’ll set it up.”

  He was sitting so close she could smell the woodsy scent of his aftershave mingling with the heady scent that was distinctly his. It surrounded her, heightening her senses so that for a moment she was only aware of his closeness. Warmth radiated from his thigh into hers. His hand stilled on her shoulder. She found herself staring into a face as hard and inscrutable as stone. Even his mouth looked hard, but she knew it wasn’t. Disturbed by the tug of awareness, she rose. The room shifted, then leveled off.

  “Take it slow, Michelle, else you’ll end up on the floor.”

  Bracing a hand against the sofa back, she glanced around the room, hoping she looked more in control than she felt. “You cops could have been a little more careful with my things.”

  Betancourt rose abruptly, his narrowed eyes sweeping the room. With an oath he strode to the hall, then disappeared into the kitchen.

  Michelle heard another curse.

  He stalked back into the living room, his face set and angry. “I should have noticed this right off the bat.”

  “Noticed what?”

  “Don’t touch anything,” he said cryptically, then knelt beside the books on the floor. “The cops didn’t do this.”

  Anxiety quivered through her. “What are you talking about?”

  Philip crossed to the foyer, knelt to inspect the front door. “They came in through the back door.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.” He shot her a hard look. “The kitchen’s been trashed. Someone ransacked the place.”

  “My God.” Michelle rose, intending to see the kitchen for herself, but Philip stopped her.

  “Not tonight.”

  “This is my home.” She stood her ground, an argument poised on her lips. “I’ve got a right—”

  “You’re not up to it.”

  She knew he was correct; she’d nearly fainted. “Why would someone break in? What could they possibly hope to gain?” A slow, seething anger dribbled into her blood as she considered what had been done. She felt violated, outraged that someone had rifled her belongings, thoughtlessly destroying the sense of security that had taken her so many years to build.

  “Do you need to pack some things? You may not be back for a while.”

  “I don’t want to go to the hotel.”

  Philip plucked a handkerchief out of his pocket and picked up the phone. “I’ll get a couple of lab techs out here to see if they can lift some prints.”

  Michelle watched, a sense of helplessness rolling over her. She wanted her old life back. She wanted this insanity to stop. “It doesn’t make sense, Betancourt. I don’t have any valuables.”

  “Maybe they weren’t looking for valuables.” He punched in the numbers, then leveled a stony gaze at her. “Any idea what they were looking for?”

  Chapter 7

  Philip knew better than to take her to his house. But he was just as uncomfortable walking into the Pontchartrain Hotel with her. A cop going into a hotel room with a suspect might start a few tongues wagging. He knew how it would look if anyone at the department found out he was spending his off-duty time with a murder suspect.

  But after the scene at the funeral, after witnessing her near collapse at her apartment, he couldn’t bring himself to walk away—even if it was the smart thing to do. They were both soaked to the skin and needed to change clothes. Not to mention that he had a few questions bouncing around inside his head. She wasn’t going to like them. But the cop in him figured it would be more effective to hit her when her defen
ses were down.

  In all his years as a cop, he’d never stepped this far over the line. Oh, he’d broken the rules now and again, but he’d always had a solid, tangible reason, like getting some scumbag off the street. This time, however, things were different. Bringing her here, getting closer to her, wouldn’t help him solve the case. It would only cloud his judgment, muddy his objectivity. He knew the difference between right and wrong. The hell of it was, he was going to do the wrong thing anyway.

  He’d called Cory from the car to report the break-in. His partner had been quick to point out the precarious position Philip had placed himself in. If their commander heard rumblings of indiscretions between Philip and the prime suspect in a high-profile murder case, Philip’s job would be on the line.

  What the hell was going on between him and Michelle, anyway? Since the moment he’d first laid eyes on her she’d dominated his every thought, invaded his dreams and wreaked havoc on his common sense. Worse, Philip didn’t have a clue what he was going to do about it. He wanted her. A hell of a lot more than he wanted to admit. As a man, he didn’t care how much evidence piled up against her. As a cop, he now believed she was innocent—at least of murdering Armon Landsteiner. But was he ready to give up a career he loved for the likes of a woman who didn’t trust him enough to tell him the truth?

  All he could do was work the case. Keep a cool head. Look at the facts with his usual objectivity. Strive for emotional distance. He’d damn well better keep his physical distance.

  And the moon was made of cheese.

  Annoyed with himself, Philip stalked into the kitchen and pulled a beer out of the refrigerator. He popped the cap, heard the shower turn off, and felt a shudder of heat low in his belly. Yeah, he was in deep, a little voice acknowledged. Before he could stop himself, the image of her stepping out of his shower flashed through his mind. Wet flesh and secret curves. The baby-powder scent that had haunted him every night since he’d first seen her. He wondered if her hair would be wet, or if she’d tucked it into a towel. He imagined what it would be like to skim his fingertips over her milky shoulders. Loosen the towel and let it drop to the floor. Drink in the sight of womanly flesh and the kind of beauty that took a man’s breath away.