by Anne Stuart
He was standing in the middle of her apartment, a tall, dark stranger who should have been an interloper, and he was staring around him with an air of wonder, and oddly enough, recognition.
"Have you been in this apartment before?" she found herself asking.
His dark eyes met hers, and he smiled, that easy, surface smile. "No," he said.
She didn't believe him. And then she laughed aloud at her own absurdity. "Of course you haven't," she said. "This building was home to a strange old lady and her cats for the last sixty-some years."
"What happened to her?"
"The old lady?" Helen said, pulling on her down coat. "She died, I'm afraid. She was quite a character—legend had it she was an old gun moll from Al Capone's day. I could believe it."
"You knew her?"
Helen shrugged. "I met her through my job. She was mugged. I was the prosecuting attorney for the snake who knocked her down. I think she decided to adopt me." She smiled at the memory. "She was a great old lady."
"What was her name?"
"Her name? It wouldn't mean anything to you—I don't think she'd left this street in the last three decades before she went to the hospital."
"If she really was a gun moll I might have heard of her. I've always been interested in the gangland days in Chicago."
"You and half the city," Helen said. "Her name was Jane Maxwell."
"Never heard of her."
"I believe she went by the name of Crystal Latour. Hard to imagine anyone that old being called Crystal, but that's what she told me."
"Crystal Latour," Rafferty said in an odd voice. "Yeah, it's hard to believe."
She grabbed her briefcase and headed for the door, ignoring her coffee, the newspapers littering the old sofa, the half-eaten bagel on the scarred dining-room table. "Are you ready?"
He seemed to rouse himself from a kind of trance. "Sure thing. I was just wondering how you ended up here."
He was sharp, she had to admit it. He'd honed in on the most uncomfortable facet of this wonderful old place within minutes. She'd hate to meet a man with those kinds of instincts in court. "She left it to me, Mr. Rafferty. The entire building."
"Did she, now? You must have done a hell of a job prosecuting that mugger."
She paused by the door, eyeing him frostily. "I did the same job I do for everyone, Mr. Rafferty. I prosecute criminals."
"Punish the bad guys," he said in a mocking tone of voice. "Make them pay their debt to society."
"I'm not usually into vengeance, though I must admit I've had my moments. I'm more interested in keeping little old ladies like Crystal safe."
He smiled wryly, but that smile didn't reach his dark, still eyes. "And I'm sure you do a terrific job." He glanced around the spacious, untidy room, and it took her a moment to control her irritation. It wasn't her fault that Crystal had left her the building. And it wasn't as if it were any great legacy—the place was in deplorable shape and at least three contractors had told her she'd be better off tearing it down and starting anew.
She couldn't bring herself to do it. She loved the lines of the building, the gracefulness of the past, even buried under adhesive wall covering and linoleum flooring. She was fixing it up bit by bit, as she could afford to, starting with her own first-floor apartment, planning eventually to renovate the upper floors and turn them into rental units. It seemed eminently practical to her. Her brothers told her she was dreaming.
"I thought you came by to discuss the Moretti case, not my domestic arrangements," she said in a deceptively cool voice.
"I did. You know a good place to eat?"
"Not in this neighborhood. Why don't we eat near my office? That way we can clear things up if we come to an agreement. We'll take my car."
"Yes, ma'am," he said.
She cast another suspicious glance at him, wondering if he were mocking her. He was making her feel strange, prim and proper and schoolmarmish. The longer she was with him, the more she wanted to tug her hem down, to wrap her coat around her. He made her uneasy.
"Then let's go," she said brightly. "I've got a lot of work ahead of me." She waited pointedly by the door for him to precede her, and he did after a minute.
"Nice place you got here," he said in that raspy, disturbing voice. He paused in the doorway to look down at her, and he was too close to her. She looked up into his eyes, and noticed that they weren't as dark as she'd first thought. Deep brown, they were lit with tiny flecks of gold, warming their chilly depths. They were eyes one could fall into, eyes that could hypnotize and enchant. Eyes that could seduce.
And then he moved past her, without touching her, heading down the short flight of stairs to the front door. She watched him go, for a moment tempted to run back into her apartment and slam and lock the door behind her. He made her uneasy in ways she couldn't even begin to comprehend.
But if she started running away from shadows her life would quickly deteriorate into disaster. She glanced into her apartment for a moment, imagining how he viewed it. And then she closed the door, following Rafferty out into the early-morning chill.
Crystal Latour, Rafferty thought as he slid into the restaurant booth across from Helen Emerson. They'd made it to the center of town in one of those tiny little Japanese cars, half the size of the Packard he used to drive, and his long legs had been squashed. Even that discomfort couldn't distract him from the disturbing memory of Crystal Latour.
He'd been to 1322 Elm Street, all right. Only once, on February 13, 1929. He'd spent the night in Crystal Latour's bed, and the next morning he'd been dead.
He glanced over at the woman. She'd been a surprise, all right. He'd gotten marginally used to modern women, to their cool, self-assured beauty, their independence, their invulnerability. The woman who'd driven her tiny little car with a singular lack of nerve was a throwback.
She was far from invulnerable. All you had to do was look into her huge brown eyes and you could see just about everything that went on in her mind. Her hair was long, a rich shade of reddish brown, her mouth was wide and generous. A good mouth for kissing.
Not that he wanted to kiss her. She was a little too skinny for his tastes, and she dressed like a man. She was doubtless some wild-eyed feminist, with her lack of makeup and her wire-rimmed glasses that looked like something his accountant would have worn. She probably only slept with women.
Except he didn't think so. He wasn't imagining that strange little tug of attraction that was damnably mutual. He didn't want to get involved with Ms. Helen Emerson. He didn't have time to get involved with someone like her during his forty-eight-hour stay.
He needed someone cheerful and easy, someone to lie down with him and laugh with him and give him comfort and release. He didn't want commitment or complications or even friendship, and with a woman like Helen Emerson you were bound to provide all three before you even got to touch her breasts. She probably didn't even have any worth touching.
But damn, he wanted to find out.
"Have you been working for Abramowitz long?" she asked, glancing at him over the menu with disapproval as he lit a cigarette.
"Not long," he said, wondering who the hell Abramowitz was.
"You don't look like a lawyer," she said.
"You do," he replied with less charm than he usually used. He didn't want to charm her. Because for some irrational reason he didn't want to lie to her any more than he absolutely had to.
His reply had been a mistake. She smiled at his subtle barb, her eyes crinkling, her wide mouth curving upward. "I do my best," she replied. "So what are we going to do about Billy Moretti? He's looking at hard time—probably eight to ten years in Joliet, and I can get a conviction."
He gave his order to the saintly waitress who poured him his first cup of coffee in a year and then leaned back, watching Helen. "Then why am I here?" he asked, taking a deep drink of the coffee and following it with the cigarette.
"Maybe because I'm curious," she said. "You don't look like the kind of sl
eazes Abramowitz usually hires. And maybe I'm not convinced Billy Moretti deserves to go to prison for that long. Maybe he just made a mistake."
"You want to define his mistake for me?"
"Don't you know?"
"I'd rather hear your opinion," he said coolly.
She was too damned easy to manipulate. She shrugged, agreeably enough. "He was on probation. He has a juvenile record as long as his arm—nothing terribly nasty, but the cumulative effect is impressive. He knew he had to be very very careful, and yet he was caught with firearms, caught in the company of a notorious criminal, caught in the commission of a felony."
"What felony?"
She looked annoyed as she added too much sugar to her coffee. "You know as well as I do. He was the driver during the Carnahan robbery. A lot of jewelry was stolen from that store, Mr. Rafferty, and the insurance company is out for blood."
"And what's his story?"
"That he didn't do it. That he just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Hard to believe when he'd been arrested twice in his youth with the man who masterminded that robbery and half a dozen others."
Rafferty stubbed out his cigarette. "So why don't you want to throw the book at him, counselor? Why are you willing to deal with me?"
If he'd hoped to intimidate her he'd failed. She simply shook her head. "I don't know, Rafferty. It's a sixth sense you sometimes develop. When you know someone's managed to turn his life around. I thought that was the case with Billy. I still think that's the case with Billy, but I have no proof and he won't talk. Unless I have a reason to look the other way, I'm going to have to throw the book at him."
"You want a reason?" Rafferty said, draining his coffee and thinking fast.
"I want a reason."
"Who's the man who masterminded the robbery?" It was a blind shot, but it worked. She leaned back, thunderstruck, and it took all his effort to keep his face blank, unreadable.
"Of course," she said. "Why didn't I think of that? He's one of the most dangerous men I've ever met. If he decided he wanted Billy to help on the Carnahan robbery then it would be a simple enough matter to make him do it. Threaten his wife, for one thing."
"And his wife is very pregnant," Rafferty pointed out.
"Is she? It makes sense, then. I just need Billy to admit it. We need everything we can get if we're going to stand a chance in hell in catching Morris." She leaned forward, and in her intent gaze she forgot to protect herself. Forgot he was dangerous. "Will he testify?"
"If I have to break his neck," Rafferty said grimly. "When can I see him?"
"We'll head on over after breakfast." She looked at him curiously. "Unless you aren't hungry?"
The waitress arrived at that moment, setting a plate of fried eggs, sausage, bacon, hash browns and steak in front of him. The whole thing was swimming in grease, and he heaved a sigh of anticipatory pleasure. "I'm hungry," he growled.
Helen looked down at her own meager order of toast. "Do you eat that much cholesterol every morning?"
"Every morning I get the chance."
"You'll die young," she said primly.
He leaned back, surveying her from beneath hooded eyes. "You're right," he said. And he began to eat.
Chapter Two
« ^ »
Rafferty never could figure out why jails had a certain smell. Maybe it was the cold sweat of fear, the stink of despair, combined with the faint odor of defiance. Ms. Helen Emerson had her offices on the third floor of an anonymous-looking courthouse, but somewhere in that building were jail cells and holding tanks. He knew it as well as he knew his own name.
Her office was just as cluttered and untidy as her apartment, though the small cubicle looked marginally more modern, complete with something he recognized as a computer and a fancy-looking telephone. He dropped into one of the uncomfortable chairs and breathed a sigh of relief. It had given him quite a turn when he'd first stepped inside her apartment. He'd recognized the place when he'd left the taxi, but he'd grown used to familiar things changing. What had startled him was how close the inside of the apartment was to what he'd remembered. The prim, undoubtedly virginal Ms. Emerson had more in common with the late, great Crystal Latour than she would have ever imagined.
He didn't know why he knew Helen Emerson was a virgin. God knows virginity seemed to be a deservedly outdated concept for the past thirty years, but Ms. Emerson was a throwback. As untouched as the Roman Catholic nuns who tried to beat morality into him when he was a kid.
"I'll have them bring Billy up," she said. "I imagine you'll want to talk to him alone." She pushed a hand through her shoulder-length brown hair. It hung straight around her face, and he wondered how she'd look with a marcel wave. They didn't do that anymore, did they? Besides, maybe he preferred it long and flowing.
"Sure," he said, reaching for his cigarettes. "Do you always wear those glasses?"
She put a startled hand up to her face, almost as if she'd forgotten they were there. "Only when I want to see," she replied tartly.
"What about contact lenses?"
"What about mind your own business, Mr. Rafferty?" she shot back. "And this is a smoke-free building."
He paused, the crumpled pack in his hand. "Smoke-free building?" he echoed in horror. "That's the first I've heard of that. What's coming next—smoke-free cities?"
"If I had anything to say about it," Helen muttered.
He shoved the pack back into his jacket. "Got any laws against gum chewing?" he drawled, pulling the pack that was always in his pocket, untouched, when he returned to Chicago.
"Not at present." She stared at him curiously. "What kind of gum is that?"
He glanced down at the package. They hadn't sold Black Clove since the early thirties—he should have remembered that if he didn't want to answer unanswerable questions.
"You wouldn't like it, counselor," he said, tucking the incriminating package back into his jacket. At least men's clothing styles didn't change much over the years. A dark suit was a dark suit, and if some years the lapels were too wide and other years too narrow, few people had dared to question it. Or him.
"I'll get Billy," she said again, leaving him alone in her office.
He sat very still, his gaze fixed on the dismal Chicago skyline outside her grimy window. Each year it changed, each year new buildings broke the horizon. He'd hated the Sears Tower the most. Still hated it, as a matter of fact. But he didn't want to look around Helen Emerson's office and find out too much about her. Because the more he found out, the more drawn he was to her.
And he had to admit it, irrational or not, he was attracted to her. It didn't seem to matter that she was too skinny, too flat chested and too innocent for him. Not to mention too smart and sassy. He'd always made it his business to steer clear of women like Helen, but fate had conspired against him. And it was damned unfair. Forty-eight hours to spend in Chicago, and he had to waste it on a lost cause like Helen Emerson.
He pulled his gaze away from the city that he no longer knew to glance over at Helen's desk. There was a photograph in a place of honor, one he couldn't avoid seeing. There was Ms. Emerson, dressed in men's clothes again, but at least the skirt she was wearing was short enough to show a quite spectacular pair of legs. She was flanked by no less than five cops—one old man and four younger ones who were so alike they could only be related. There was no denying Helen's resemblance, either—she was a hell of a lot prettier than the five men, but he had no doubt whatsoever he was looking at her father and brothers.
Just his luck, he thought wearily. He'd been forced to cozy up to a lawyer, only to find she had half the Chicago police force in her family.
"Rafferty?" Billy's scared young voice broke through his abstraction.
Rafferty turned swiftly, searching Billy's face for signs of abuse, of bruising. He looked nothing more than scared.
He crossed the room and hugged him, hard, before releasing him. "You look okay, kid," he said gruffly. "They didn't hurt you?"
<
br /> Billy shrugged. "The coppers aren't like they used to be, Rafferty. They don't work you over unless they've got a good reason. That, or if you happen to live in L.A."
"You lost me."
Billy shook his head. "It doesn't matter. Rafferty, we've got trouble…"
"You mean you've got trouble," Rafferty corrected. "How the hell did you get picked up? You were always too smart for that."
Billy sighed, slumping down in the chair Rafferty had vacated. He wasn't even twenty-five yet, a raw-boned, sweet-natured boy who'd gotten more trouble than he'd deserved all those years ago. Rafferty thought he'd had everything taken care of when he left last time. Apparently he was mistaken. "It wasn't my fault," Billy began.
"That's what they all say," Rafferty shot back. He'd given this lecture so many times in his and other men's lifetimes that he knew it by heart. "Do you know that your wife's scared to death?"
Billy's face paled, and he jumped from the seat. "What happened? Did anyone touch her? Is she okay, is the baby…?"
"Relax, Billy." Rafferty shoved him back into the chair. "She's fine. How did you think I found out where you were? She came to me."
Billy shook his head. "You're right, she must be really scared, if she was willing to talk to you about it."
"I don't know what you've told her to terrify her so much…" Rafferty said in a weary voice.
"It's nothing I've said. She just looks at you."
"Great," Rafferty growled. "She needs you home, Billy. She needs you not to make dumb mistakes like getting involved with a criminal when you're already on probation. You've been keeping your nose clean for the past two years—what in God's name made you decide to throw your lot in with a creep named Morris? Were you worried about having enough money for the baby?"
For a moment Billy just looked at him. Then he shook his head. "It's not that, Rafferty. God knows, I'd do anything to give my wife and baby a good life, but I figured having a husband and dad around was better than risking it all on a bankroll."
