by Linda Turner
During his speech, the temperature in the room seemed to have dropped ten degrees. She decided it was due to the chill in his voice. “And what if I find out there was more to their deaths than was ever reported? What then?”
His smile was as brilliant and lethal as a keen-edged blade. “Then…justice.”
She stared at him while a shiver snaked over her skin. Something about the way he said the word leeched it of its nobility and instilled it with a sense of deadly purpose. “I won’t do anything illegal.” For the first time, it seemed prudent to point that out. “I’ll use every avenue at my disposal and take advantage of every possible lead, sometimes utilizing unconventional methods. But I’ll do it all within the boundaries of the law of Louisiana.”
“Of course. I’d expect nothing less.” His tone was normal, making her believe she might have misinterpreted it a moment ago. Except the gooseflesh on her arms was still raised, and her nape was still prickling. “With any luck you can have this thing wrapped up shortly, and we can both go about our lives. I’ll contact you tomorrow.” He approached her, pausing by her chair.
Slowly she rose, sliding the briefcase to the floor. “Tomorrow?”
“When I messenger over the contract and file that you requested.”
“Ah. Yes.” Her tongue suddenly thick, she resisted the urge to wipe her palms on her khakis. He was standing a little too close, as near as he’d been when she’d turned around on that ladder and found herself almost in his arms. Close enough to have her marveling at the deep blue of his eyes, but retaining enough of her scattered senses to wonder at the secrets behind them.
“To our partnership, Ms. Corbett, as brief as it may be.”
Her hand raised of its own volition. “To our partnership.” His hand engulfed hers. It suited her to blame the skip in her pulse on static electricity. But try as she might, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d just made a pact with a very sophisticated, very charming devil.
The plaintive cornet of Bix Beiderbecke wailed from the portable CD Tori had carried into the attic. The blues music provided a perfect backdrop for the task at hand. With resignation layering the ache in her heart, she scanned the contents of the space and wondered where in the world to start.
Rob Landry had been an undisputed pack rat, and she didn’t doubt that he’d saved more than he’d ever thrown out. Furniture was heaped and shoved into one corner, and overflowing boxes teetered in precarious towers, threatening imminent collapse. There were stacks of newspapers, neatly bundled and piled haphazardly almost to the ceiling beams. Why they’d been important enough to keep was beyond her, but then her dad had been the type to let junk mail accumulate, too, until she came in and tossed it. The man had been able to figure every angle of a case and work a source like a master, but hadn’t been able to part with a single scrap of paper.
The memory made her lips curve and her eyes mist. The pain twisted just a bit, leaving a wound that she knew from experience would throb for some time. Cancer had stolen both of her parents now. First her mother, and now her beloved dad, who had seemed so indestructible. Right up until that day three months earlier when the pain he’d passed off as indigestion had been diagnosed as something a great deal deadlier.
Releasing the breath that had backed up in her lungs, she headed toward the furniture. She’d already been through the downstairs, putting aside the pieces she wanted to save and those that would be donated to the needy. She’d expected this to be easier somehow. The things that he had stored up here wouldn’t hold the keen reminders of him, nor still smell of his aftershave. There wouldn’t be memories of him here, as there were in every room below. He’d been a big man, but had filled a room more with his presence than his stature. It would be impossible to exorcise those memories from the house, and impossible to live with them. She’d placed it on the market earlier that week.
Tori worked her way through the chairs and tables that he’d deemed too good to throw out. It took an hour to decide there was nothing in the collection that she wanted to save, and she restacked the pieces. She’d use the corner to separate those things to be gotten rid of from the things she wanted to keep. Most of what she had decided to hang on to was downstairs, but there wouldn’t be room for all of it in her small house. It would have to go into storage until she had a bigger place.
The newspapers could be tossed without going through them, she determined, passing by them in an effort to get at the boxes. But she must have brushed the stack as she went by, and the entire pile began a slow-motion sway. With a sense of futility, she leaped aside, just in time to avoid being nailed by the bundles as they tumbled to the floor.
The impact of their landing sent up a cloud of dust that sent her into a spasm of sneezing. When her eyes and lungs had cleared, she glared at the mess accusingly. Her dad had tended to keep any newspapers with articles that caught his imagination, talking vaguely about writing a book sometime when he retired. She’d never been able to imagine him in so sedentary a pastime, but had thought it a harmless enough intention until now.
Muttering a few choice words, she set to hauling the papers into yet another pile, this one designated for the trash heap. The headline leaped out at her from the top one of the bundle, and a quick flip through them showed a collection detailing the trial of the notorious New Orleans Ripper, who’d been caught and tried a decade earlier after killing a dozen women.
With a grimace, she pushed them aside and started some smaller, steadier piles. He’d had varied interests. Some of the papers were articles on fishing, a passion of his, others on the history of the city. But it was the bottom bundle that caught her eye, with a headline very like the one she’d clipped and placed in the file she’d given to Tremaine.
Tremaine Heiress Returned Safely.
With a sense of déjà vu she had a sudden recollection of James Tremaine’s face when he’d seen the similar headline in the file she’d given him. A grim mask had descended over his features, but not before she’d glimpsed the bitter resentment in his eyes. He’d made his feelings toward the press and public prying quite clear, but that didn’t stop her from reaching out, tugging at the string that bound the papers together. Flipping through them, she found stories detailing the kidnapping and the car accident a few months later. She scanned the stories, but they elicited no information she hadn’t found in her research earlier that week. Something clicked in the rereading, however, something she’d forgotten to ask Tremaine about. There had been a third passenger in the car. A third death.
To refresh her memory, she pulled the papers loose, looking for the articles detailing the accident and the follow-up investigation. The passenger’s name was given, but she was identified only as a family friend. Tori made a mental note to look up more about the woman.
She set aside the bundle of papers on the Tremaines and finished stacking the rest to be destroyed. But during the task, her gaze strayed more than once to the papers she’d saved. Her earlier excitement at having landed her first job on her own had been tempered by her troubling reaction to Tremaine. She’d thought her interest in the opposite sex had been laid to rest permanently upon the ignoble end of her marriage. Or, to be truthful, months before the official ending. As her husband’s criticism and dissatisfaction with her had grown, her hormones had gone dormant at approximately the same pace. Finding him in his parents’ pool house on top of Miss Texas Rose 1998 had nearly shredded what was left of her confidence. She’d had enough sense, however, to leave him and their marriage behind. And enough self-respect to first send his canary-yellow Ferrari convertible crashing through the fence to sink to the bottom of the pool. It was the only memory of her marriage that still had the power to bring a smile to her face.
Given that, it was more than a little disturbing to experience that inexplicable…awareness when she was near Tremaine. A woman would have to be in the grave not to react to his looks, and so her response to him was only too natural, a cause for celebration, even. But as comfortable a
s it would be to believe that’s all there was, Tori couldn’t prevent feeling a sliver of unease. There was something about the man that heightened all her sensitivities, which really wouldn’t do. Getting involved with a client was an ethically sticky situation.
A wry grin twisted her lips. Luckily, that was not likely to be a problem. She and Tremaine couldn’t have less in common if they’d been born on different planets. Her brief foray into the monied class during her marriage had taught her only too painfully that the rich were, indeed, different.
Moving to the boxes, she hauled down the top one and opened it. A familiar sight inside it surprised a laugh from her. There, folded neatly, was a sweater her dad had worn for more years than she cared to count. She’d replaced it nearly three years ago with one enough like it to satisfy the man, but he must have rescued this one from the trash and hidden it away. Anything that was a favorite of his was always deemed too good to be thrown out, despite its missing buttons and worn-through elbows. What he’d intended to do with it was anybody’s guess.
Nevertheless, she found herself folding it with care and setting it aside. Perhaps there was more of her father in her than she’d guessed, because she knew that she’d never be able to part with it now, either.
Beneath the sweater was a file folder stuffed with papers, which she shook out onto her lap. Her throat went abruptly dry as she recognized medical statements dating from the time her mother had grown sick. With hands that shook just slightly, she stuffed them back into the envelope. She could remember vividly when as a nine-year-old she’d packed away most of her mother’s things to prepare for their move back to New Orleans. Her death had been the first and only time she’d ever seen her big, capable father helpless.
The envelope beneath was one she recognized. It was a packet of love letters exchanged between her parents when her mother was in the Mayo Clinic. For years they’d been in the bedside table of her father’s room. When had he finally put them away? she wondered. Sometime after that instance when he’d come home unexpectedly and found her reading them. He’d been coldly furious, and she’d been ashamed of her snooping, unable to explain that the few letters she’d read had helped bring her mother within reach again, the words painting an almost real form for her that had previously only been viewed through a child’s eyes.
A foreign sound had her catapulting back into the present. Looking around carefully, she eyed the piles of junk suspiciously. Any one of them could be a hiding place for some disgusting four-legged creature. Although Tori was an animal lover, most were best enjoyed outside her home.
Rising to her feet she listened again, and her blood abruptly chilled. The noise that resounded didn’t come from the attic. It came from the floor below.
Someone was in the house.
The open door and the music that still poured from the CD player left little doubt as to her whereabouts. Scanning the area, she moved silently to the corner with the furniture. She grabbed a small, particularly ugly lamp, removed the shade and light bulb, and wrapped the cord securely around it. Hefting it with one hand, she was satisfied that it would make a useful club.
She heard footsteps below, but no one called out, as she would expect if a curious neighbor or the Realtor had come looking for her. She’d left the front door unlocked, as it had been afternoon when she’d started her task. But a glance out the tiny window showed that it was early evening now. Dusk and shadows would have fallen over the street. Most of the elderly neighbors would have already finished up their dinner dishes and be seated in front of the TVs with their front doors carefully locked.
The footsteps paused, and the attic door squeaked a bit, as if the intruder had taken it in one hand and stuck a head inside the opening to listen. Tori could feel the blood pulsing through her veins. Her heart was beating a rapid tattoo in her chest, but her mind was cool as she flipped the lamp in her hand so the heavier base would be at the top. She’d feel more comfortable under a cloak of darkness, but the switch was at the base of the steps and out of reach.
The first step squeaked under the weight of the tread on it. Whoever was climbing the stairs now blocked her only exit out of the attic. There was another telltale sound. Another step upward. Options limited, Tori melted back into the shadows afforded by the stacked furniture and waited, weapon in hand.
Chapter 3
“You know some people content themselves with a simple hello.” James eyed the lamp clutched in Tori’s fist, deciding she looked more than capable of wielding it.
“And most consider it rude to walk into people’s homes without announcing themselves,” she countered, setting the lamp on a nearby table. “How did you know I was here?”
“I went by your place. A rather unkempt individual by the name of Joe, informed me that you might be at your father’s.” When she didn’t respond, he continued helpfully, “Ribbed undershirt? Uncertain hygiene? Pants riding low enough to show far more than most would care to see of his choice in undergarments?”
She made a face that was half recognition, have irritation. “My neighbor’s son. He takes an annoying interest in my comings and goings. Must have heard me talking to his mother earlier today.” She dusted her hands on her shorts as she approached, cocking a brow at him. “I have to say, when I heard someone moving around downstairs, I considered it might be the real estate agent or a neighbor. But I never thought of you.”
Since she was heading toward the stairs, he turned and preceded her down. “Which one were you going to smack with that lamp, the agent or the neighbor?”
“There was an equally good chance it was a street punk looking for an easy score.” The words, as much as the matter-of-fact way she uttered them, caused him to pause for just a moment. “It never hurts to be prepared.”
“No, it doesn’t.” He turned, once he’d reached the open door, and studied her. She snapped off the light switch before following him into the upstairs hallway. He wondered how many women in his acquaintance would have dealt with the possibility of a stranger in her house with such cool calculation. There was no evidence of alarm in her demeanor, just a certain competency that was at odds with the unmistakable femininity of those long legs and lean curves. The observation was undeniably chauvinistic, so he wisely refrained from sharing it.
“I did telephone,” he offered, surprising himself by making the explanation. “There was no answer at your house, and apparently you’ve had the phone here disconnected. I decided it wouldn’t hurt to swing by and see if I could catch you. You didn’t answer the doorbell, but I heard music from somewhere in the house and followed it.”
She brushed by him, sending him a sidelong glance before she led him toward the steps to downstairs. “I didn’t expect to hear from you until tomorrow.”
“I had business in the city, so I decided to drop off the contract I had my lawyer draw up.” He held up the hinged file he carried. “As well as a complete copy of the old investigative report.”
If truth be told, his business in the city could have waited or could at least been delegated. But he’d found it strangely difficult to focus once she’d left his office that afternoon. They’d decided upon a course of action, and now he was anxious to see it through. Anxious to see what answers, if any, her investigation would supply.
“I thought if you had some time tonight, you could go over the contents of the file and decide where you want to start.” He followed her into a small downstairs living room and, waiting until she’d seated herself on the sofa, sat in a nearby chair. He looked with interest around the room he’d merely glanced at his first time through. There was a battered recliner in one corner, facing a TV and stereo setup. It didn’t take much imagination to figure that the chair had been well used by the man who had lived here. Above it hung a sampler, on which someone had painstakingly embroidered the words Integrity Above All Else.
He gestured to it. “Your work?”
“My one-and-only attempt. It was my dad’s favorite saying. He had what some might con
sider an outdated code of honor.”
James thought of the family crest that hung above the doorway in his family home. Honor. Duty. Devotion. It was the creed that his father had lived by. He and his brothers had grown up attempting to do the same. “Not everyone,” he murmured.
When her gaze turned quizzical, he opened the file he carried, took out the contract inside. Withdrawing a gold pen from his suit jacket, he handed both to her. “I had my lawyer draw up this contract. The terms are outlined clearly in it, and they’re not negotiable. We already discussed this, but you’ll want to read the confidentiality clause near the bottom. If you or anyone in your employ violates it in the slightest, I’ll direct my attorney to prosecute to the fullest extent of the law. Am I understood?”
“As you say, we discussed that earlier.” Her voice was cool. She scanned the rest of the document, and he used the time to watch her. It was no hardship. She’d tamed that unruly tangle of hair by hauling it up in a knot and securing it somehow. The simple cotton shirt she wore was marred with dust, no doubt encountered upstairs, as were her shorts, which showed an intriguing length of slender thigh.
Not for the first time he noted that she didn’t fit his notion of a private investigator. If he was lucky, she wouldn’t fit anyone else’s, either. Once she’d left his office, he’d been plagued by doubts about the wisdom of his choice. The feeling was too foreign to be borne comfortably. He could put an army of more experienced investigators on the matter, but she might be able to provide the one thing that no one else could—a direct line to her father’s old contacts. It was possible that one of them knew something about the case he’d worked that hadn’t been contained in the man’s report. That, coupled with his reluctance to spread the word of these threats, had cemented his decision. He could spare a week. And if she failed to come up with anything new— He gave a mental shrug. Then there would be time enough to select another individual.
