Heart Of The Night

by Gayle Wilson

  She pushed her chair back and walked to Lew’s office. Instead of putting the files back in her drawer where he’d gotten them, maybe he’d simply stuck them in his own file cabinet, in a hurry because he’d found whatever he’d found. But first, she prayed, he’d marked whatever it was, underlined it, made a notation. Something that would let her follow the path—

  She stopped, suddenly remembering where that path had led, the darkened study in the silent house, Lew’s lifeless body slumped over his desk and behind him—She jerked her mind away from the image, and she knew she had to remember what Kahler had told her. Don’t play cop.

  She moved to the tall, five-drawer cabinet and pulled out the first drawer. She had no idea about Lew’s filing system and the drawers were unlabeled, so she began to methodically go through the folders. Lew’s careful lettering on the tabs, the printing small and very precise, was so familiar that she had to blink to clear her vision.

  She worked her way through the files, even the two drawers that held material clearly not related to any ongoing stories. Her folders on the bombings were not here. And, she had realized sometime during her search, neither was the material the stringers were sending in from the cities where the murders had taken place. Lew had been collecting those for her for the segment dealing with the official hunt for the bomber. Everything they had collected about Jack had disappeared.

  She closed the bottom drawer and stood up, aware of how long she’d been searching by the cramping ache in her legs. Either Lew had taken everything with him when he’d left the office last night or someone else had at some point cleaned out the files. If Lew had taken the material, it was probably at his home. Maybe lying on that blood-soaked desk. But of course, whoever had killed Lew would not have left those folders there if he had been aware of them, and he must have been if they had indeed contained whatever information Lew had indicated he’d discovered.

  She knew that she couldn’t put off calling Kahler much longer. There were too many things she needed to tell him, things that might help him find Lew’s killer. Or help him find Jack. One and the same? That seemed obvious unless you considered the roles of the confetti prankster and Mays. None of them fitted together, but that wasn’t, thank goodness, her job. She was going to take Kahler’s advice very seriously. She didn’t intend to play cop. She didn’t intend to end up—

  She forced her mind away again from what had happened to Lew and left his office, pulling the door closed behind her.

  Chapter Eleven

  It was after lunch before Kahler returned her call. She had spent the morning rereading the articles she had done on the bombings. Those were, of course, still available. It was all the material that had provided the sources for these very condensed versions that was missing.

  “August? I had a message to call you,” Kahler said when she picked up the phone. “Something wrong?”

  “I’m just the bearer of bad news now?” she asked, smiling at the concern in his voice.

  “I didn’t mean that. I know how hard last night was. Finding Garrison. I was worried about you.”

  “I know,” she said. She did know how he felt about her. He hadn’t made much of a secret of his feelings lately, and she appreciated his automatic concern. “I’m grateful, but I didn’t call just to listen to your voice, Kahler, as pleasant as it is.”

  Somehow that came out wrong. Personal. She didn’t know why it was so hard to find the bantering tone their conversations had always had. Maybe because too much had happened, because the violence they were dealing with was now very up close and personal. No longer murder at long distance.

  “You found something,” Kahler said. His voice was controlled, the tone tight and almost flat

  She hated to have to disappoint him, so she gave him the little bit of information she did havc “The friend of Barrington’s was Dr. Greg Sandifer. He t dn’t tell Lew anything, refused even to talk about the judge’s injuries. He called Lew a couple of names and hung up. Then he called to warn Barrington that the paper was asking questions.” There was a small silence, and Kate pictured Kahler jotting down the information. “I have his private number if you want it,” she added.

  “You called him,” Kahler said. It was not a question.

  “Barrington told me to.”

  Silence again, and then he asked, “What did you tell Barrington, Kate?”

  “Tell him?” she asked, puzzled by his tone. “He called me. He’d heard about Lew. When I mentioned that I’d told you about Lew’s call to his friend, he gave me Sandifer’s number. I didn’t ‘tell’ him anything, Kahler. What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “He asked you to pass Sandifer’s number on to the police?”

  There was an edge to the question Sarcasm? Anger? She wasn’t sure what she was hearing, but it was clear Kahler didn’t like the idea that she’d talked to Sandifer. Or maybe…the idea that she had talked to Barrington? Personal? she wondered. If so, maybe it was time that she made it clear exactly how personal her relationship with Thorne Barrington had become.

  “I don’t think that’s why he gave me the number,” she said. “I think he knew that…I had some questions of my own about what Sandifer had told Lew. Some personal questions that I needed to have answered. I’m just passing on the information to you because I thought you’d want to talk to Sandifer yourself. In your case, talk to him professionally, of course.”

  None of that had come out as she’d intended. It had sounded abrupt, as if she thought it was none of Kahler’s business why Barrington had given her the number. That hadn’t been what she’d intended to convey, but she could tell by the coldness in the detective’s tone that that was indeed how she had come across.

  “Then thank you for the information. Anything else?”

  “Don’t,” she protested softly.

  He made no response for a long heartbeat, but he didn’t pretend not to understand. “How did you expect me to react?” he asked The coldness was gone, but his voice was not the same, not what it had always been before.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know what to say, Kahler. I’m sorry,” she added.

  “Yeah,” he responded. Flat, dispassionate. “Me, too.”

  “I can’t help what I feel. You should understand that,” she added, and then knew that was the wrong thing to say. She wasn’t sure there was a right thing in this situation.

  “Would it make any difference if I told you that I don’t think being involved with Barrington is a good idea?” he asked

  “I don’t think it would. Not now.”

  “For professional reasons, Kate. Not personal.”

  “Because?” she asked.

  “Gut reaction,” he said.

  “That’s not an explanation.”

  “It’s all I’ve got.”

  “Well, thanks for the advice, but I don’t think that’s enough. Not anymore.”

  “You sleeping with him?” The tone of his question was bitter, and given what she knew about his feelings, she supposed it should not have been unexpected, but it was. Totally out of character. Totally hurtful.

  “What the hell, Kahler? What gives you the right—”

  “Eight people are dead. Is that enough right?”

  It stopped her outrage as he had certainly known it would.

  “What’s that supposed to mean? That Barrington’s involved in those deaths? Is that what you’re trying to suggest?”

  “I’m trying to remind you that eight people are already dead. I don’t want you to be another victim.”

  “Of Barrington?” she mocked, angry now. No matter how he felt, it didn’t give him the right to make unfounded accusations. “You might want to remember that Judge Barrington was one of Jack’s victims. Or are you suggesting that he sent himself a bomb? Tried to blow himself up? Is that your professional opinion, Detective Kahler? Because if so, I have to tell you—”

  “Maybe he had an accident. Did you ever think about that?”

  “Nev
er once,” she said in disbelief. “But then I’m not blind with jealousy. You have some proof that’s what happened? Because if not, I’d like to remind you of who you’re accusing. Now, if you have some legitimate reason for telling me not to see Thorne Barrington, then spit it out. Otherwise I just might think your motives in issuing that warning are not as pure as you’d like me to believe.”

  “You think whatever the hell you want to, August. I’m just offering advice. Stay away from Barrington. You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”

  “But as always, I’m sure you’re dying to tell me.”

  “My best advice,” he repeated and hung up.

  Kate sat stunned for a moment, still holding the phone, angry enough to slam it down, but since Kahler had beat her to the punch, she resisted the urge.

  She hadn’t told Kahler about the missing files or about the calendar pages, she realized suddenly. That had really been the reason she’d called, and instead she’d been given a lecture—not exactly the one she’d anticipated. Stay away from Barrington, he’d said, but he hadn’t be able to come up with any reasons. Personal. Almost certainly personal.

  She lowered her head, resting her forehead against her joined fingers, elbows propped tiredly on her desk. Now there was no one to talk to. Not Lew. And not Kahler. No one to offer comfort and support. Except…there was, of course.

  Sometimes I’ll wake up in the middle of the night wanting you. Thinking about you being there with me. Where the darkness doesn’t matter. Without giving herself time to decide it might be a bad idea, she picked up her purse. Suddenly she knew exactly where she wanted to be.

  WHEN ELLIOT CAME to the gate, he didn’t wait for her to ask to see the judge. He unfastened the inside lock and pulled the heavy wrought iron inward. “Miss August,” he said politely. “Is Mr. Thorne expecting you?”

  “He should be,” she said, smiling at the old man.

  “If you’ll come this way. You don’t have to be frightened,” he added, and Kate spent a second attempting to figure that out.

  “Frightened?” she asked.

  “Of the dog,” he explained. “I always fasten him upstairs when I hear the bell.”

  “Thank you, Elliot, but I’m not afraid of the dog. What’s his name, by the way?”

  They were almost to the front steps, Kate again matching her longer stride to the slow one of the old man.

  “Prince Charles Edward Stuart,” he said. “They’re Scots, you know.”

  For a moment Kate couldn’t think who “they” might be.

  “Retrievers,” Elliot explained. “They originated in Scotland.”

  “I didn’t know that,” she said.

  The old man opened the front door, and its movement sent the crystal tears into their small ballet. “Mr. Thorne persists in calling him Charlie,” Elliot said, disapproval in his voice.

  “And you prefer?” Kate asked.

  “Something with a bit more dignity.”

  “Pnnce,” she guessed.

  “Oh, dear me, no.” He looked horrified at the thought, and Kate found herself smiling again. “Stuart,” he announced solemnly. “I think it’s very fitting for such a fine animal. Royal, you know,” he added as if that settled the entire issue.

  Kate smiled at his obvious love for the dog. He was such a nice old man. She suddenly remembered what Thorne had told her. “By the way, Elliot, I was so sorry to hear about your sister. I hope she’s improving.”

  “Oh, she’s doing very well, thank you. Much better than expected. She may even be released from the hospital today.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Kate said. There was a small silence, the exchange too personal perhaps for Elliot’s idea of his role.

  “Mr. Thorne is in the parlor. Shall I announce you?”

  “I believe—if he won’t mind—I’d rather just go in.”

  “I can assure you he won’t mind,” Elliot said simply.

  Kate smiled at him again and pushed open the sliding door. Thorne was standing, both hands resting on the mantel of the white marble fireplace, looking down into the empty grate. He turned his head at the small noise made by the door. In the ever-present dimness, Kate couldn’t read what was in the dark eyes, but they watched her as she crossed the room. When she was almost to the fireplace, he straightened, removing his hands from the mantel and turning to face her.

  “I didn’t really need to talk to your friend,” she said.

  “I called Kahler and told him what I had told you,” Thorne said. “I gave him Greg’s name and number.”

  “Apparently, Dr. Sandifer didn’t give Lew any information. That should certainly prove…”

  She hesitated, reluctant to put exactly what it should prove into words.

  “That I had nothing to do with Garrison’s death?”

  “I never thought you did,” Kate said.

  The midnight eyes held hers, assessing, and finally he nodded. “And Kahler?” he asked. “What does he believe?”

  “I don’t presume to speak for Kahler.”

  “Don’t you, Kate? Somehow I’ve gotten the impression that you two are…close.”

  “Close?” she repeated carefully, wondering what he’d been told and who had told him.

  “Close enough that some time last night he was in your apartment, listening as you replayed your messages.”

  She had told him that, she realized, not thinking about what interpretation he might put on Kahler’s presence.

  “I tried to call you last night, Kate. Several times. I even left a message. Did you get in too late to return my call?”

  Kate didn’t say anything She couldn’t think of anything to tell him but the truth, and she knew how that would sound.

  “You didn’t spend the night at home,” he said, statement and not question.

  “No,” she agreed.

  He turned his head, looking down again into the shadowed recess of the fireplace.

  “I told you my apartment gives me the creeps. Because of the confetti, the idea that someone had been inside, in my bedroom. Then last night…After finding Lew, I knew I couldn’t go back there.”

  He turned his head toward her again, his gaze tracing over the line of her mouth and then almost reluctantly lifting to meet her eyes. “You could have come here,” he said.

  She knew that was true. She had known it last night, but for some reason, she had chosen not to. “I didn’t think coming here was a good idea. After we…” She paused, trying to decide what to call what had been between them.

  “After I kissed you,” he said into her hesitation. “Told you that I’ve thought about you for days. Did that make you afraid to come back here?”

  “Not afraid. Not because of that. It just seemed it would be…rushing things.”

  His eyes held hers a long moment. “I see,” he said finally.

  “I came today,” she reminded him.

  He touched her then. He put the tips of his fingers on her cheek, and she turned her head to press her lips into his palm, because she had realized that she wanted his touch, wanted it very badly. His right hand came up to smooth around her shoulder, urging her body closer to the solid strength of his. She raised her face, watching, almost mesmerized, as his head lowered, his mouth moving inexorably toward hers, which opened in response. Anticipating.

  The impact of his kiss was as powerful as it had been last night. His tongue moving against hers with familiarity now. With sure expertise. And with emotion. It didn’t last long, and then he raised his head to look down into her eyes, his own still dark, almost fathomless. The beautiful line of his mouth curved. The perfect features were enhanced by his smile, and her own lips moved in answer.

  You don’t know what you’re dealing with echoed suddenly in her head, and to banish Kahler’s voice, she stretched on tiptoe, her body straining to Thorne’s. His arms enclosed her, his size again making her feel fragile, in need of protection. That wasn’t a feeling she would ever have imagined could be as pleasurable as s
he was finding it to be. Fragile and feminine weren’t adjectives that she had sought as descriptors of herself, but that was how Thorne made her feel, and she was a little surprised to find how much she enjoyed that feeling.

  She was also surprised that their embrace was having the same immediate effect on him that their kiss last night had had. His body was already hardened with desire, and he wasn’t embarrassed to let her become aware of that. For some reason, today she wasn’t uncomfortable with the realization of how he felt. She raised her hand to touch the back of his head, her fingers splaying through the thick, black hair. It curled around them, seeming to welcome their caress. It had been so long, he’d told her last night. So long.

  He drew her closer, pressing his body into hers. She could feel his breathing change, the small, telltale increase in his heart rate. His hands cupped under her hips, pulling her into his arousal, holding her to him. His mouth turned, deepening the kiss. Wanting her. Making it obvious that he wanted her.

  Her breathing shortened, tremulous, anxious, feeling the force of desire move through her own body. Surging upward. Hot and powerful and almost new, like nothing she had felt before. Stronger. Deeper.

  Perhaps he became aware of her response, her loss of control imminent. For some reason he eased his big body away from her, the distance between them slight, but suddenly far too wide, the space unwanted and invasive. Involuntarily she moved toward him, seeking again the pleasant heat of his body. His hands found her shoulders, and he held her. His denial was gentle, but there was no doubt that he was holding her away from him.

  She opened her eyes to find him watching her. Whatever emotion had been briefly revealed in his face shifted before she could name it, altered subtly as she watched, realigning itself into something more familiar, safer.

  “It’s all right,” she comforted. Maybe he thought he was rushing her. Because of what she’d said about last night. Maybe he didn’t realize how she felt about him. Maybe he still thought that Kahler—