Deadly Past

by Kris Rafferty

  “Enjoy!” Vivian said, her hand pressed to the silk bow at her throat.

  When they reached the elevator and stepped onto it, Cynthia leaned heavily against the inside wall. “Honestly,” she said, “I didn’t think they’d let you leave, but then again, after almost two years of struggles to put Dante Coppola behind bars, Benton’s not excited about allowing your conviction to ruin all that work. I suspect he’ll be a good ally. It’s in his best interest.” She hoped she was right, because Benton would also follow the evidence and the letter of the law.

  Charlie pressed the button for the ground floor. “We were right to get married.”

  She swallowed hard past the lump that suddenly appeared in her throat. It was hard to be reminded that their marriage served a purpose other than the best sex she’d ever had in her life, but Charlie’s reminder was necessary. If it had come sooner, she might not have gushed with such enthusiasm in the interrogation room. Now she looked like a fool.

  “Masterful strategizing.” Desperate to salvage her pride, she masked her embarrassment best she could, hiding her sweaty palms in her suit jacket pockets. “That whole ‘I love her’ moment in the interrogation room? Even I bought it.”

  Charlie focused sharply on her face. Anger radiated from him, from his stance to his glare, and she didn’t blame him. Her words were indelicate, especially after declaring her love in that nakedly emotional manner. He must be embarrassed. She wished she was a better steward of his feelings.

  “Of course, they ‘bought’ it,” Charlie snapped. His phone buzzed in his pocket, distracting him. “A text from my mother,” he said. “Our engagement made the local news. She’s going to be upset when she discovers we didn’t invite her to our wedding.”

  Her heart stuttered. His remark seemed so…normal. It forced her to swallow the lump in her throat before speaking. “The engagement made the news, but not in relation to the murders, right?” He nodded, and then the elevator doors opened and they stepped into the precinct lobby. They were in his car before Charlie spoke again.

  “We’re kind of screwed from here and back again,” he said.

  She tucked her bag into the back. “Yup.” Didn’t need to ask what prompted that assessment. The list was long, but knowing Charlie, it probably had something to do with his parents not being invited to the wedding.

  He still hadn’t started the car. Sitting there, staring out at passersby on the sidewalk, the traffic paused at the streetlight ahead, Charlie gripped the wheel as if it had offended him, but made no move to put the car into gear and drive.

  “Our access to the investigation is over,” he said. “We’re at the mercy of Benton, the team—”

  “And the killer.”

  He looked at her, studied her eyes, and then nodded once. “Yeah.” He started the car and merged into traffic.

  “I trust Benton and the team. You do, too. We haven’t lied. We haven’t killed anyone. I say we’re in a good place.”

  He widened his eyes, looking as if he wanted to argue, but didn’t. “I have to feed Socks. My parents are meeting us at my place for lunch.” She sank in the seat, groaning. “I know you said you didn’t want my grandmother’s emerald, but mom said she was bringing it, and the matching wedding ring. Will you wear it?” He glanced at her, and then turned his focus back onto the road. His expression remained devoid of emotion.

  “Of course.” She used her thumb to press the oversized MIT ring against her finger. “The rings are…they’re beautiful. I’d be honored to wear them…for however long….” She felt emotion welling in her throat and couldn’t finish her sentence. Damn. She just needed to shut up. Every time she opened her mouth something more and more stupid popped out.

  Charlie nodded, frowning, and they spent the rest of the drive silent. When he pulled up to the curb outside his house, she caught him glancing at her, probably gauging her reaction to his parents’ car parked out front. They were here already.

  He shifted into park, took the key out of the ignition, but didn’t move to leave the car. She figured he wanted to talk, get their stories straight. They were about to stand in front of his parents, after all, and tell a bald-faced lie, which they had to sell.

  “Listen,” Cynthia said. She squeezed his thigh. “I know our world is blowing up. I know we don’t know what tomorrow will bring, but please—” She tilted her head, seeking his gaze. His parents had to believe they were madly in love or she’d be mortified. “Don’t…” She didn’t know how to say ‘don’t make your parents feel sorry for me.’

  He frowned. “Don’t worry, Cynthia. It’s just my parents.” Then he got out of the car.

  Pasting a fake smile on her face, she slung her bag over her elbow and hurried to catch up with him. She didn’t want to be so far behind Charlie that it caused further questions from his parents. They were supposed to be in love, dammit! He should be all over her.

  This marriage had been Charlie’s idea. If he left her hanging—

  His front door was flung open, and Mrs. Delia Foulkes greeted them with open arms. A tiny woman, wearing jeans and a striped jersey shirt, she hugged her son the moment he stepped into the foyer. The difference in their sizes was notable. Charlie seemed the adult, and Delia the child. Her husband, Paul, so like his son, was burly and grizzled. His red and gray hair was neatly clipped, combed, and he was clean shaven, every inch the Norman Rockwell father of old. He was smiling, his eyes revealing familiar delight as Cynthia approached. He spread his arms wide and waited impatiently for her to enter his embrace. She did so with enthusiasm.

  “You’re engaged! I can’t believe it,” Paul Foulkes said.

  “Married, Dad.” Charlie smiled. And he seemed authentically happy, announcing to his parents that he’d withheld the experience of attending their only child’s wedding…a once in a lifetime experience. His parents reacted predictably. At first, their smiles collapsed, and Cynthia saw their hurt, but then they rallied quickly and were all smiles again. Cynthia launched herself at Charlie’s mom, hugging her, her cheeks cramped from forcing her smile.

  “It happened quickly. Don’t be mad,” she whispered.

  Delia held on tightly. “Sweetheart, don’t be silly. We couldn’t be happier. Tell her, Paul.”

  Paul hitched his jeans up and rolled his shoulders, making his floral print shirt sit more comfortably around his large frame. It was such a Charlie mannerism that Cynthia couldn’t help but smile. “What she said,” Paul said, laughing.

  The Foulkes weren’t stupid. They knew how complicated her and Charlie’s relationship was, and had to know this revelation was unexpected on many levels. Mostly because never once did either she or Charlie indicate they were anything more than friends.

  “I have to feed Socks,” Charlie said. “Come into the kitchen, will you?”

  They all moved down the hall, through the living room, and into the eat-in kitchen. Charlie’s father opened one of the windows and sat next to it at the table, batting the yellow checkered drapes away as the breeze pressed the material against his arm.

  “I’d love a cup of tea. What about you, Paul?” Delia glanced at her husband before putting on the kettle. Charlie grabbed a can of cat food from a shelf, and as soon as the automatic can opener buzzed, Socks wandered into the kitchen. “A cat and a wife.” Delia chuckled. “Charlie, those are two things I never thought you’d ever take the time to find.” She pulled down her favorite blue mug from his cupboard as Charlie spooned cat food into Sock’s dish. “Which came first?” She winked at Cynthia before choosing a teabag from a glass jar on the counter.

  Cynthia sat across the table from Paul Foulkes, fighting a case of the nerves. This moment seemed surreal, an alternative universe, because in her world, she and Charlie were in trouble with the law, their marriage under scrutiny by Benton, and here they were, having tea with his parents, feeding the cat, when what they really should have been doing w
as studying countries with no extradition treaties with the U.S.

  “Socks came first,” Charlie said. “Because it took an inordinate amount of time to convince Cynthia I was husband material.” Charlie rinsed out the can before tossing it into the recycle bin. “Do you have the rings?”

  His father nodded and reached into his pants pocket. “You betcha I do. This is very exciting.”

  Charlie dried his hands on a dishtowel as he approached her. She saw Paul place the old ring box on the table, and suddenly it was hard to breathe and her vision grew blurry. The ring box was worn green velvet, looked old as dirt and well loved. The antique emerald ring and matching wedding ring with tiny diamond clusters inside that box had been in the Foulkes family for ages. It was the most valuable thing the family owned, and now, Charlie was giving it to Cynthia. For a “kind of” marriage. She feared fainting was a possibility, until she thought, This was Charlie’s idea. As soon as the thought hit her brain synapses, it spilled from her lips.

  “This was Charlie’s idea.” She forced a smile to soften the stridency of her tone.

  Charlie picked up the ring box, gave it a little toss, and caught it. Then he narrowed his eyes as he hovered over Cynthia, watching her. “I take full credit,” he said, then dropped to one knee.

  Face to face, Cynthia studied his features, and to her horror didn’t have a clue about what was going on in his head. Charlie was usually so…predictable. He had simple tastes, simple needs: no drama, good food, and challenging work. Charlie, on his knee, three people staring at him, had never been more unpredictable. Intensity radiated off his body; his gaze danced between anger and recklessness. As he stared at her, he kept squeezing that damn ring box, like he wanted to throw it.

  And his parents were noticing.

  Cynthia brightened her smile and did her best to give Charlie cover. “He gave me his MIT ring as an engagement ring, and as much as I’ll miss it, I confess I’m a bit relieved to replace it. It kept slipping off.”

  Delia nodded. “That ring is too big for you. The emerald is more appropriate. I had it sized this morning, so it should fit. Charlie, honey, what are you waiting for? The floor can’t be all that comfortable. Do you want us to leave the room?”

  “We missed your wedding,” Paul said. “The least you can do is allow us to see you put the ring on her finger.”

  Charlie opened the ring box with a snap and showed the rings to Cynthia. His eyes were still intense, but watchful now. Delia clasped her hands and stepped to her husband’s side, resting her hand on the back of his chair. Paul’s arm slid around his wife’s waist as he watched his son present the rings to his bride. Tears welled in her eyes, despite her attempts to be stone cold. When she blinked past them, she saw Charlie was smiling as he took the rings from the box.

  “’Til death do us part, Cynthia Deming Foulkes,” he whispered, sliding the rings on her finger.

  Cynthia took his MIT ring and slid it onto his left ring finger. “’Til death do us part, Charlie Foulkes.” For her part, she thought Charlie deserved an Academy Award. He sold it.

  Delia clapped, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Then she grabbed her husband’s cheeks and pressed a quick kiss to his lips. Then Paul stood, his arm around his wife, and nodded a few times, watching Charlie and Cynthia.

  The kettle screamed.

  Charlie stood, pulled Cynthia to her feet, and embraced her. His kiss was quick, and then he was pressing his lips to her ear. “Hold it together,” he whispered. “Confessing all will only implicate my parents in this mess.”

  She nodded quickly, sniffing, forcing her smile to relax and be more natural. Charlie was right. She and he were radioactive, and all they could do now was quarantine themselves and hope for the best. This show for his parents was necessary, and if it scourged her soul a bit, it was worth the price.

  The Foulkes left after lunch, and without a word Charlie hurried into his study. Curious, Cynthia followed, hoping he wasn’t avoiding her. The room’s walls were lined with bookcases filled with textbooks, reference material, and Stephen King novels. They surrounded his large wooden desk, big enough to accommodate Charlie’s size. The desk sat in front of the lone window in the room, whose blinds were closed. He sat, moving the wireless mouse until his laptop lit up. It had been in sleep mode.

  “Subpoenas take time, and I don’t want to be taken by surprise,” Charlie said.

  “You want to see if that million-dollar deposit is really in your account,” she said.

  “If it is, Benton will arrest me.”

  “He’ll have no choice,” she said, peering over his shoulder. Charlie clicked on his bank’s app, and his obscured password immediately showed under the log-in information. Charlie clicked “log in” and gained immediate access to his accounts. “Well, shit, Charlie. That’s stupid. Never put your bank password on autofill.” The screen showed his accounts, and even without clicking on his checking account, Cynthia saw the balance. There was over a million dollars in that account. “I’m going to assume you don’t usually keep well over a million dollars in your checking account.”

  “And your assumption would be correct.” He clicked on the account, and the list of transactions filled the screen.

  “Whoever broke in and stole your gun had instant access to your bank account through your laptop. You leave it on sleep, and you have your log-in information autofilled. You need a keeper.”

  “I already have a wife.” He winked, then turned back to the screen. “How was I supposed to anticipate that someone would break into my house and transfer a million dollars into my account?” He dropped his hand, leaning back into his office chair.

  “Up. Get up. I want to look at something,” Cynthia said.

  He stood and stepped away from the desk, giving her access to the monitor and keyboard. “And I certainly couldn’t predict someone would frame me for murder.”

  Cynthia sat, grabbing the wireless mouse and clicking on the deposit information. “Shit. Will you look at that? Just like Benton said. It was deposited the day before the murders.” The screen froze, and a banner flashed. Cynthia pushed away from the computer, throwing her hands up. “I didn’t do anything! Don’t blame me!”

  Charlie leaned over the desk. “This isn’t you. They’ve frozen my accounts. One guess who’s behind that.”

  She leaned back in the chair, covering her mouth. “What the hell can we do?” Her words were muffled, but she could tell he heard her.

  He shook his head, leaning against his desk. “I don’t know. It’s as if whoever is behind this knew exactly how to tie our hands. We have no access to the evidence, the databases, the files.” He leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling, then closed his eyes. “Now, my money. I’m beginning to second-guess our marriage. I should have predicted this.”

  Cynthia held her left hand out, admiring the engagement and wedding ring. “I should have stepped up and told Benton what I remembered, how I was there.” She licked her lower lip. “I should do it now.”

  He pinned her with his stare. “He’ll arrest us both immediately. We’ve bought time, and right now only I’m at risk.” Then he folded his arms over his chest. “I’m sorry, Cynthia. I never should have married you. You’d still be working the case if we hadn’t married. I was trying to keep you safe, and I’m so sorry it’s backfiring this way.”

  A million things popped into Cynthia’s head, and she didn’t have the courage to say any of them. She settled on something that wouldn’t make any waves. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily. I’ve got the rings, I’ve got the paper, and the marriage is already consummated.”

  He chuckled, then tugged her onto her feet, into his arms. “Yeah? You remember that? It seems like forever ago.” She stood on tiptoes and wrapped her arms around his neck, melting against him. He pressed his face into her hair, close to her laceration, and the pain made her flinch.


  Just like that…she remembered.

  “Cynthia?” Charlie had noticed her reaction, and tilted her chin up to study her face. “What?”

  “Oh, Charlie.” Her chin quivered. “It’s worse than we thought.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Worse?” he said. It was near impossible for the truth to be worse than what he’d feared. “Talk to me.” Cynthia was hyperventilating.

  “I was leaving the gym.” Breathless, she swallowed hard. “I’d stayed longer than expected.”

  “You sparred with Sergeant O’Neil. Did he hit you on the head?”

  “No.” She shook her head dismissively, shaking off his hands. “No. I parked a few blocks down, next to the safe house, because there was no parking near the gym.”

  “Which explains why your car was there.” She didn’t seem to hear him as she clutched his waist.

  “I remember putting my gear bag in the car, and I called you for some reason. I can’t remember why.” She bit her lip, and then pushed away from him, pacing the small office. “Yeah. I did. I did call you, but then—” She stopped, covering her eyes. “I heard screams. Male screams from down the street.” She shook her head, dropping her hands. “It was horrible.” Sniffing, she grimaced. “I… I dropped the phone in my bag, grabbed my gun, and—” She wiped a stray tear, talking fast. “I slammed the car door and ran toward the screams.”

  “To the crime scene.”

  “Yes.” Her frown deepened. “They were kneeling in front of the brick wall, right where we found them. The streets were empty. The area was in shadow, just outside of the streetlight’s reach. I was running, down the street. It was too quiet, except—” She covered her mouth, so all he saw were her eyes, revealing fear.

  “What the hell were you doing running toward an active crime scene without backup?”

  “My phone died. I thought I’d catch someone’s attention along the way. Have them call it in. What was I supposed to do? Ignore it? But there was no one on the streets. No one.”