Finding Claire Fletcher (A Claire Fletcher and Detective Parks Mystery Book 1)

by Lisa Regan

  Connor smiled and shook it. “Connor Parks.”

  “Are you going to invite me in?” she asked. “I’m getting cold.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, okay. Come on.”

  They entered the house, which was just as silent as it had been for the last two years since Denise left him. Connor was automatically attuned to the small sounds that filled his ears like a cacophony. Sounds no one else noticed. The ticking wall clock in the living room, the steady hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. The drip-drip-drip of the leaky faucet and the nearly inaudible whir-clink-clink-whir of the fluorescent light above the kitchen sink that he always left on.

  “It’s quiet,” Claire said as he closed the door behind them.

  “Yeah.”

  He went to turn on the lamp beside the couch, but she stopped him, her hand at his elbow. “No,” she said. “I like it this way.”

  “Okay.”

  Connor wondered if he should kiss her, if that was his cue. He pictured her full lips curving when she spoke. Claire slid her hand down over his and led him toward the dimly lit kitchen. She sat at the table and looked at him. Now it was she who looked vulnerable, and he really did want to kiss her.

  “A drink,” she said.

  “Scotch?”

  “Of course.”

  He got two glasses and an unopened bottle of Glenlivet from the cabinet above the sink. Claire watched him. “Take off your jacket,” she said.

  Connor obeyed, and she reached over and pulled out the chair diagonally across from hers. “Sit,” she commanded.

  Again he obeyed and let her pour the scotch. He picked up his glass and for the second time that night asked what they should toast to.

  Claire’s grin was catlike. “Let’s toast to fuckups,” she said.

  Connor laughed. “To fuckups,” he said, and drank.

  “Tell me about the arrest.”

  Connor sighed. “You don’t want to hear this.”

  “Don’t be shy, Detective.”

  He lifted his palms and let them fall back to the table. “This guy,” he began. “We were on him for rape, five counts, and armed robbery, two counts. We’d been on this case for two months. We thought we had him cold twice before, but when we went to arrest him, he wasn’t there. Either our information was bad or he was tipped off.

  “Anyway, we had him today. We went to this house where we knew he was hiding out, and we went in. We get up to one of the bedrooms, you know, and the whole house was clear; so we start looking under beds and in closets and shit. So one of the other guys opens the closet door in this bedroom, and there’s this fucking guy. He’s crouched there and he’s got something in his hand. I thought it was a gun.”

  “So you shot him,” Claire said matter-of-factly.

  “Yeah,” Connor replied, meeting her eyes.

  “It wasn’t a gun.”

  “Nope. It was a lead pipe.”

  “You killed him.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Feel bad?”

  “No. I don’t know.”

  “Were you glad?” she asked.

  “Yeah, in a way,” Connor admitted far more easily than he would have liked.

  “But now you’re in trouble.”

  “Oh yeah.” Connor smiled at her and ran a hand through his hair. Fatigue and scotch were beginning to slow him down. “Are you from IA?” he asked.

  She cocked her head slightly to the side. “IA?”

  “Internal Affairs,” he said. “Are you from Internal Affairs?”

  Claire smiled. “Ha. No, I’m not.”

  She poured them more scotch. “Your turn to toast,” she said.

  He picked up his glass. “Okay. To mysterious women. No, no. To beautiful, mysterious women.”

  Claire smiled and touched her glass to his.

  “Why’d you pick me?” Connor asked. “Tonight. In the bar.”

  Claire looked into her glass and swished the amber liquid around thoughtfully. “Well, if I’m right about you, you’ll figure it out eventually.”

  “Is this a trick?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, looking suddenly tired. Her eyes moved from the glass to his face. “Connor, do you have a room in this house that was, you know, mostly your wife’s room? One you haven’t really gone into since she left?”

  Connor blinked. His heart was a tiny pinging ball in his chest. “Yeah,” he croaked.

  “May I see it?”

  “Um, sure. Okay.”

  He guided her into the formal dining room, which was opposite the living room. Connor flicked the light on and they both squinted. He stood in the doorway, which was as far as he ever got, and watched Claire.

  She moved slowly, as if walking through a museum. She studied the smooth flow of the mauve wallpaper to the mauve drapes with mint-green sashes hanging above them. The small cherry writing desk with its two drawers and seven cubbyholes. Impractical. Connor had always thought so.

  Claire ran a hand over the hard-backed chair tucked under the desk before moving on to the large cherry china cabinet with glass doors. It stood empty like a faceless sentry looming over the room.

  “She took the dishes,” he explained.

  Claire nodded. She turned to the dining table, which still held the tabletop calculator, their joint checkbook, a pen, and a pile of two-year-old bills that Connor had finally paid when the late notices came in. Denise had always paid their bills at that table. Connor had not touched it since she left.

  Claire ran a finger over the table, making a shiny, thin streak through the accumulated dust. She turned to look at him, her gray-smudged index finger in the air as though she were checking the direction of the wind.

  “She met someone else,” Claire said.

  Connor smiled grimly. “Yeah.”

  “Come here,” Claire said.

  He locked eyes with her and let a moment pass before walking toward her. She stepped so close to him, her breasts brushed against him. He was almost a foot taller than her. He breathed on her forehead, trying not to tremble. He wanted her, but again felt that terrible second of panic she’d inspired in him at the bar. She tilted her head so he could look at her.

  “Who are you?” Connor asked.

  “I told you.”

  “Claire Fletcher.” He shook his head. “That doesn’t—”

  She didn’t let him finish. She stood on the balls of her feet and closed her mouth over his. Connor melted into her as his body sagged to wrap around hers. She put both hands in his hair, pulling him into her so furiously their teeth clanged together.

  He pulled away. “I’m sorry,” he breathed.

  “Don’t stop,” she said.

  Their mouths met again. Connor squeezed her tightly around the waist and scooped her up, holding her against him. Her feet dangled above his. He felt like he was holding a live wire. Her whole body buzzed with electrical current.

  Claire gripped a handful of his hair and yanked his mouth from hers. “The bedroom,” she said.

  Connor carried her through the doorway, holding her lengthwise against him, past the living room and down the hall to his bedroom, kissing her, knocking their fused bodies against door frames and walls.

  When they reached the bedroom, he freed one of his hands to flick the light on. He set her standing at the foot of the bed and dropped to his knees. He slid her jeans down gently. She put her hands on the top of his head like a saint granting benediction and stepped out of her pants.

  Claire’s legs were smooth and well muscled. Connor kissed her thighs and the front of her plain black cotton panties where they lay over her hips. He lifted her shirt to kiss her stomach. Claire’s hands slid down his back and tugged insistently at his shirt. As he hurriedly pulled it over his head, she sat on the bed and pushed herself back.

  Claire’s eyes were ablaze, but in the little green flecks, Connor saw a deep sorrow. “Claire,” he said.

  She pulled his shoulders, guiding him over her, opening her legs. “Here,” she said. �
��I want to feel you.”

  Connor crouched over her, and she ran her hands down his chest. She lifted her head to kiss him. Her tongue teased his neck. She reached for his fly, but he brushed her hands away. “Claire,” he repeated.

  “Here,” she said again. She pulled her shirt over her head. He looked down at her, naked except for her underwear. She was exceptional. Mostly angles and taut muscles, which only served to accent the curves of her breasts and hips. He bent to kiss her breasts, and she bucked impatiently beneath him, lightly scratching his shoulders and arms in her effort to draw him closer.

  Connor slipped his arms under hers, his hands curving over her shoulders, his fingers resting on her collarbones. As he lowered himself onto her, her legs scissored his waist. He stopped, face-to-face with her, and watched her. She tried to kiss him, but each time he buried his face in her neck to avoid her mouth. Finally, she lay still.

  He looked into her eyes again, wanting to look away but training his gaze. “No,” he said softly. “I don’t want to do this.”

  She bucked her pelvis against his. “I think you do,” she said.

  He laughed. “Well, you are very compelling.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “But I don’t think I want to do this tonight.”

  For once, she was at a loss for words. Connor kissed her face—forehead, eyes, chin, and finally her mouth. “I know nothing about you,” he said.

  “Tell me about the man you shot—about his victims,” Claire said.

  “You have to give me something, Claire,” Connor replied.

  “Tell me about them,” she insisted.

  Connor sighed and rolled off her. He lay on his side. Claire wiggled up against him, curling her back into his chest. He pulled her in and wrapped her in his arms, settling his chin on the top of her head.

  “Okay,” he said. “There were five—five that we know of. The first was a fifteen-year-old girl. She was walking home from a party with a friend. A guy no less. The perp—that’s the rapist, the perpetrator—he came out of nowhere and grabbed her. They were walking past a convenience store. He held a knife to her throat and told this kid that if he didn’t do what he said, he’d kill her. So he takes them behind the store, puts the kid in a dumpster, and throws a bunch of crates on top of it. Then he rapes the girl right there behind the store. Leaves her there. Eventually the kid gets out of the dumpster and goes for help.”

  Claire shivered in his embrace, goose bumps rising along her arms. “You sure you want to hear this?” Connor asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “The second two were college girls. They were sitting in a car outside this guy’s house—one of their boyfriends. I guess they thought the boyfriend was cheating and wanted to see if any other chicks were coming or going. They had the windows rolled down. The perp comes right up to the passenger-side window, same thing, knife to the throat. Makes them drive out to this abandoned factory. Makes them take off their clothes. Binds them with the clothes and rapes them one by one.

  “The fourth was a thirty-six-year-old housewife walking home from a PTA meeting. Perp grabbed her on the sidewalk, bashed her head on a tree, stuffed a sock in her mouth, and raped her right on someone’s front lawn. The last one was a twenty-two-year-old bank teller. She left work at six, was walking to the bus station, and the perp came out of a doorway to an apartment building. Grabbed her, put the knife to her throat, and raped her in the stairwell.”

  “You killed him,” Claire said.

  “Yeah.”

  “How did it feel?”

  Connor shifted and nuzzled her ear. “It felt … strange. I mean in a way it felt really good knowing what he’d done, but still—I shot an unarmed man. And after all that these women went through to get this guy and then—bam—he’s dead. No reckoning. No day in court.”

  “You think you denied those women justice,” Claire said.

  “In a way.”

  Her voice was edgy. “He’s gone. He can’t hurt them again. He can’t come back or go after them or the people they loved. That’s justice.”

  “Maybe,” Connor said.

  They were silent for a long time. Claire nestled deeper into his arms and sighed. Connor moved one hand up to cup her breast and felt himself stir for the second time that night. Claire moaned and moved her rear against the front of his pants.

  “Now would be a good time,” she said.

  “Yeah?”

  She squirmed in his arms. She reached behind her for his pants, but again he stopped her. He held her against him. “No,” he whispered.

  Connor moved his fingers downward from her breast, sweeping his hand along her thigh and back up, gently stroking her skin. He trailed his fingers along her neck and collarbone, down her arm, across her stomach, and over her hip. He caressed her skin until his arm ached, and he felt Claire’s frame relax. Finally, he loosened his grip on her body.

  She turned into him, her curls tickling his bicep. She smiled languidly with a smile of pleasure, her eyelids at half-mast. “That feels so good,” she whispered.

  Connor pushed her wild brown hair away from her face and traced her jawline with his fingers. “Now tell me something about you,” he said.

  Claire closed her eyes, her smile lingering as Connor continued to run his fingers lightly along the contours of her body. In a voice growing heavy with sleep she recited, “Claire Fletcher likes peanut butter and hot dogs made on a grill. She has a great sense of humor. She likes to read all kinds of books. She loves animals. She’s great at math, and one day she wants to be a veterinarian. She’s kind. Her favorite color is purple. She loves summer the most. She’s a really good swimmer …”

  Claire drifted off to sleep in Connor’s arms. He watched her face go slack. He wanted to ask her why she referred to herself in the third person, like she was reading about herself in a high school yearbook, but he didn’t want to wake her. Once more, he ran his hand down the smooth whiteness of her skin from shoulder to hip. She sighed softly and nestled deeper into his arms.

  He watched as she slept deeply and peacefully. When he could no longer feel his left arm, he disentangled himself, trying not to rouse her. He brought a blanket from the closet and draped it over her. Then he brought a chair from the kitchen and turned it backward so he could lean his arms on the back of it. He set it next to the bed and watched her sleep.

  Connor had never watched a woman sleep before, not even Denise. He’d never felt compelled to do so. For some reason, he didn’t want to go to sleep and let this beautiful, enigmatic woman out of his sight. He chuckled softly. The day hadn’t been so bad after all. It ended with a naked woman lying in his bed.

  Connor rested his chin atop his folded arms and began to doze.

  In the early morning hours, Claire called to him. He opened his eyes and saw her holding out a hand to him. “Come here,” she said.

  Wordlessly, he climbed into the bed alongside her. She snuggled her long body into his, and he held her against him, pulling the covers over both of them. Connor tried to stay awake, but soon her scent and the delicate warmth of her body lulled him into a deep, peaceful sleep.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It took me exactly fourteen minutes to walk from Connor’s house back to the bar where I had left the truck. The sun was coming up. I rolled the window down and sped toward the highway. The cool morning air was a salve. I felt like all of my skin was laid open, sliced neatly from my scalp to my little toe and then pulled gently from my body. I gulped the air in as it rushed through the window, trying to calm my nerves. My heart beat wildly, like a washing machine off balance, threatening to careen through my breastbone with an annoying bang.

  When I got to the highway, I pushed the truck as hard as I could. It was at least twenty years old. It had been painted so many times, there was no telling what the original color might have been. Now it was a dull camouflage green, laced with rust. I pushed it to sixty-five but dared not go any faster. At that speed, the old beast shimmied and swayed, the springs blaring an o
peratic melody as if the truck might break apart at any second.

  Although it was futile, I pounded the steering wheel with the palm of my right hand. “Shit,” I said through gritted teeth.

  I was dangerously close to not making it back on time and astonished to find that I didn’t know what felt more frightening—not getting back on time or leaving Connor behind forever. I knew that leaving again was a risk. My first attempt at escape and my previous three outings had cost peoples’ lives. But I’d never stayed out this long. I’d never fallen asleep before, certainly not with one of them.

  I felt something that I’d never felt before, although I often watched the girl I used to be experience the phenomenon in her parallel life. I felt something for Connor.

  I had a crush.

  I was both relieved and disappointed. I thought for certain that men were ruined for me, but last night I wanted to sleep in Connor’s arms. I wanted to stay there, nestled in that space against his warm torso. I never imagined feeling that way about a man. A tiny sapling of hope shot up in my heart only to be immediately crushed by the reality of my life.

  My hand met the wheel angrily in time with my muttered words. “Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!”

  I had to return before he realized I was out of town. He would find out. He always found out. Then sooner or later, he would find out about Connor. A flashbulb memory lit up my brain: stubble on Connor’s chin, his lips weaving a sleepy smile as I tickled his neck, a kiss.

  He would track Connor down and kill him.

  The word no strangled itself round the lump in my throat.

  Again, the bulb flickered: Connor’s face. His short brown hair standing in all directions after he ran a hand through it. Blue eyes betraying his constant assessment of everyone and everything. His mouth turned up more on the right side when he smiles. A hard jaw. Long, lean body. Toned muscles beneath lightly tanned skin.

  I chose Connor because I’d sensed something in him that would be smart enough to avoid any danger or repercussions that followed my visit. He was a police detective. He shot a man. Surely, Connor could survive him.

  Like the others? asked a spiteful voice in my head.