by Julie Miller
Alarmed at the boldness of her thoughts, Brooke scooted after a folder of motivational quotes from her assertiveness class and straightened the scattered pages. She stole a glance at Atticus’s sharp jaw and gunmetal eyes, double-checking to see that she hadn’t revealed anything more embarrassing than her lack of coordination. Being attracted to the man was one thing—being attracted to the man and having him know she had these crazy impulses when she was around him was something else entirely.
No-nonsense hands that were strong and agile quickly scooped up the last of the items and lifted the box onto her desk. She stared at one of those hands as it reached out to help her up. Brooke lightly touched her fingers to his, but he wrapped his palm around hers for a firmer grip and pulled her to her feet. “Up you go.”
As practical and impersonal as the helping hand had been, Brooke was still feeling flushed with heat as she stood and spotted the clear vase filled with a half-dozen red roses sitting on the far corner of her desk.
“You brought me flowers” came out before “Thank you.” She reached out to stroke the velvety soft petals. When had any man given her such a gorgeous, dramatic arrangement?
Her incredulity was short-lived. Atticus tucked his hands casually into the pockets of his slacks and shrugged. “Sorry, they’re not from me.”
She curled her fingers into her palm and tried not to feel disappointed. “Oh.”
Brooke searched for a tag while he explained. “I’m just the deliveryman. I’ve been meaning to drop by all morning but I had to make an appearance in court, and then I had some calls to follow up on with a case and, well, the sarge caught me walking past her desk and handed them off. Gave me a good excuse to stop what I was doing and come see you.”
He’d waited until someone asked him to stop by? The nick at her ego was eased by the knowledge that he didn’t seem at all aware of the awkward affection she felt for him.
Before embarrassing herself any further, Brooke turned her attention back to the anonymous bouquet. Sergeant Maggie Wheeler had been the first officer to greet Brooke that morning and introduce herself. Though tall and imposing, she’d been friendly enough. Was this another welcome-to-the-precinct gift? “Did Sergeant Wheeler say who they were from?”
“No. She just apologized for being too busy to get them to you sooner.” He must have recognized the increasing consternation of her search for a nonexistent card. “Sarge told me the delivery guy said you’d know who they were from.”
Brooke frowned. “Really?”
“Got a secret admirer I don’t know about?”
Did she? Brooke’s single chuckle lacked humor. Sparing him a quick glance that didn’t quite meet his gaze, she turned the vase from side to side and worked her bottom lip between her tongue and teeth. Thoughts of the tan pickup that had followed her all the way downtown, never leaving her rearview mirror until she’d turned into the Fourth Precinct parking lot and he drove on past, came to mind. Were the roses another unexplained coincidence? She liked a good mystery, but she preferred to read them rather than be caught up in the middle of one herself.
“Brooke?” She jerked at the warm touch on her elbow. Atticus pulled back, holding up both hands in apology. “You okay?”
“Sure. I’m fine. Just a little perplexed.” She turned the vase back to its original position, then picked it up and moved it to the bookshelves behind her, as the bloodred blooms bothered her more than they pleased her. “It’s not like I get flowers every day, so I’m just trying to sort things out in my head. I can’t think of who would send them. Probably the deputy commissioner’s office wishing me luck on the new job. That must be it. I’ll have to call the florist and ask.”
“Are you sure you’re all right? You’re talking ninety miles a minute.”
“Am I? Well, that’s a switch from the girl who won’t open her mouth to say anything.”
His eyes narrowed and she felt his scrutiny as clearly as she’d felt the brush of his hand. “I know you’re a little shy. But if you’re trying to say something to me, say it. I’ll listen.”
He would? Brooke inhaled a deep breath. She could try.
Don’t wimp out. This could be conversation number two. No, this could be something much more important. Atticus was a trained investigator. His job was to piece together clues. Forget the roses. Forget the truck. Forget her timidity. “May I show you something?”
She nearly sent the box flying again when she pulled out the journal and turned to face him. He caught the box and pushed it to a safer location at the middle of her desk, grinning as he answered. “You can try.”
“I think I just found a message from your father.”
Chapter Four
“A message from Dad?” Atticus’s mouth tightened into a grim line, controlling any outward expression of the pain that stabbed through him at the mention of his late father. “What do you mean?”
She laid a brown leather book in his hands and pointed to the sticky note on the cover, penned in John Kincaid’s distinctive handwriting. For Brooke. “Take a look inside.”
“This was Dad’s?”
“Mine, actually. I thought I’d lost it. But I guess John found it. He made several entries—some are comments for me, but others don’t make sense. I just unpacked it this morning.” She hugged her arms across her stomach and raised an expectant gaze over the rims of her glasses. “Maybe I’m being hopeful and reading more into it than what’s there. But it’s as if your dad was trying to tell me something, but in secret, so I wouldn’t find it right away. Almost…” A despairing sigh eased from her chest. “Almost as though he knew something was going to happen to him, and he was leaving bits of advice and making a record of—” her verdant gaze fell to the book and she hugged herself a little more tightly “—of I don’t know what.”
Atticus pulled his reading glasses out of his pocket and began to skim. Pain receded into curiosity, and curiosity tapped into something harder at the core of him. He’d always been driven to find the truth. The truth about his father’s murder, in particular, wouldn’t let him rest until he had answers. “Forgive him for what? Reading your diary?”
“I think it’s more than that.” The tip of that pink tongue snuck out to worry her bottom lip again.
Stop noticing things like that.
Rechanneling his powers of observation, Atticus propped his hip on the corner of her desk and kept reading. Unlike Brooke, he refused to hope that this was any kind of break in a case that had stalled to the point of growing cold. But if there was anything that might even remotely point them in the direction of his father’s killer, or the reason why some bastard thought his father had to die, he intended to find it.
He could tell something had upset Brooke. At first he’d thought it was just embarrassment that he’d caught her wiggling her sweet little backside at him while she crawled across the floor—and for a split second he worried that she’d caught a glimpse of his unwitting admiration before he covered his surprise with an amused grin.
He was relieved when she turned to face him and he could see she was the same old Brooke. Well, not exactly the same. She wore new specs that enhanced the blushing undertones of her pale complexion. And though her hair was in its practical bun, there was something softer about the face, something richer in the caramel color.
But the fact there was a mess, and Brooke was in the middle of it, reassured him that this was the same girl who’d become a part of his family when she’d started to work for his father five years ago.
“I hope there isn’t anything too personal in this one,” Brooke added. This one? There were more journals? More information he could sort through?
Shortly after the funeral, they’d spent two weeks going through anything of his dad’s that Kevin Grove and his homicide team hadn’t bundled up for evidence. They’d found nothing. Frustrated beyond imagining and feeling as if he’d failed his father, Atticus had dived into his work at the precinct. But he’d never stopped poking around where he could
, analyzing anything, no matter how insignificant, that might lead him to the truth. Was Brooke’s journal a fresh lead? Or just a sentimental journey that would cause him fresh pain?
As he read through each comment his father had written, Atticus became aware of Brooke bouncing her toe on the gray carpet. Brooke showing impatience? Somehow he’d imagined gentle, sweet and quiet was the extent of her personality. He ignored the toe-tapping and read on.
But then, with a little huff of air, Brooke reached out and flipped the book to a page near the back. “What do you make of that? John sketched it after my last entry.”
Atticus assessed the rough dimensions of the lines and arrows. “Why would Dad draw a blueprint of your house?”
Brooke’s face lit up. “That’s what I thought it was, too. At first I thought he was a wannabe architect, or that he wanted to give me some tips for the safest, roomiest house I could get—he seemed to think I needed to be taken care of. But if that’s the case, then why write his notes in code?” She pointed to the numbers and symbols. “I don’t know what any of this other stuff means. Do you?”
“Not off the top of my head.” Atticus put away his black-framed glasses and looked into her upturned face. “These abbreviations remind me of text messaging. Is that something you two shared at work?”
“Your dad and technology?” Was that a scoff? “I don’t think so. I learned to decipher some pretty sketchy shorthand over the years. But nothing standard. And these are so out of context I don’t know what to make of them. Yet. I want to think about it a bit. It’s been long enough since I’ve worked on his papers that I’m out of practice.”
“Long enough? Hell.” The stab of emotion caught him off guard. His dad had only been gone three months. Though his brain understood what Brooke meant, his heart felt the distance between him and his father growing more each minute.
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t.” Her pale, apologetic face swam before his eyes, and Atticus had to move away to recover his emotional balance. He straightened and paced to Major Taylor’s door, dredging up a memory from nearly a year ago, though it seemed like only yesterday that he’d sat down with his dad in an office not unlike this one.
Even as a grown man, Atticus had turned to his father for advice. That evening he’d been worried that his career as a cop was going to end up in the toilet after his name and face—and a key witness—had been splashed all over the news before KCPD had planned to release the information. He’d been seeing Hayley Resnick at the time, and believed the ground rules regarding their professional lives had been clear. Sure, he’d fed her some tips when he could; she’d done the same for him. But what he’d regarded as an off-the-record conversation had turned into front-page news, jeopardizing an investigation, endangering the witness and destroying his trust.
Hayley got a promotion for breaking the story and, having tapped out his usefulness to her, moved out of his life. Meanwhile, Atticus got stuck with a ring, a reprimand and egg on his face. John Kincaid had put it all into perspective for his son. You’re a good cop. About the sharpest one I know. Your pride is what took the biggest hit here. The jokes and gossip will stop once you remind everyone what you can do. A mistake like this won’t kill your career. But it can kill your ability to love another woman. Don’t let that happen to you. Don’t let her win.
Yeah, that’s what he needed to be thinking about right now—how his dad seemed always to know the right thing to say. He’d known when to be tough, when to listen. He’d inspired Atticus to focus on his work and earn one of the highest case-solved records in KCPD this past year. That conversation still seemed fresh. And the pain of losing his dad to a murderer’s bullets—when he allowed himself to think about it—felt fresher yet.
“Atticus?” He hadn’t even been aware of squeezing his eyes shut, trying to hold on to the memory inside him. But he was more than aware of the nerves beneath his skin jumping at Brooke’s gentle touch against his back. She pulled away as soon as he looked down over the jut of his shoulder at her. “It’s okay to miss your father. I can’t even remember mine and I still miss him sometimes. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I’m not.”
“But the book—”
“I don’t get upset. I do something about it.” He sandwiched the journal between his hands and faced her. “May I borrow this?”
The concern on her face transformed into surprise, and then something else entirely as her gaze dropped to the middle of his tie and her cheeks pinked with color. “I was hoping to see if I could make sense of it first. Plus, I’d like to make sure there isn’t anything too personal or… embarrassing… in it.”
“I’ll just look at the entries in Dad’s handwriting.”
“Please, Atticus.” That bottom lip disappeared, then plumped back out in a wry half smile. “I write down a lot of stuff. Private stuff.”
He supposed she had that right. It was her journal, after all. And after his experience with Hayley, he knew that there were secrets a woman liked to keep close to the vest. He had to believe that Brooke’s secrets wouldn’t come back to bite him in the ass the way Hayley’s had.
“Of course.” He reluctantly released the possible evidence when she pulled it from his grasp.
“I’ll look through it tonight, and either cross things off or tear out the pages so you can see it tomorrow.” She hugged the book to her chest. “You don’t think I should turn it over to Detective Grove in Homicide, do you?”
“No.” If he didn’t get to analyze it right away, Grove didn’t, either. “Let’s not waste his time until we’re sure it has something to do with Dad’s murder.”
Hell. He was snapping orders at her instead of sweet-talking her into letting him have that book. He hadn’t brought her flowers, hadn’t even remembered this was her first day in the precinct, hadn’t given her any reason beyond her loyalty to his father to help him find answers—if there were any in that journal.
Ignoring the impulse to snatch the book from her hands, Atticus opted for a calmer, more cooperative approach. “Let’s look through it together—bounce ideas off each other. You figured out his scribblings for five years, and I know my dad.” Yes. This was shaping into a plan that could salve his guilty conscience as well as help his unofficial investigation. “Have you had lunch yet? It’s my treat.”
“You’re asking me out?” She adjusted her glasses on her nose, squinting as though she hadn’t heard him quite right. “Today? But I—”
A knock on the door interrupted his rebuttal.
“Is this Mr. Taylor’s office?”
Atticus turned to the man wearing a white shirt, new carpenter’s jeans and a visitor’s pass. “Major Taylor isn’t here right now. If you need assistance, the sergeant’s desk is straight on down the hall.”
“Miss Hansford?” Their visitor didn’t budge.
“He’s here for me.” Brooke skirted around Atticus, taking the journal beyond his reach. “I can’t go with you today. I’m afraid I already have plans.”
Of all the stupid times to have a date. There was work to be done.
Wait a second. Brooke? Date?
The announcement bounced around the familiar world inside his head like a pinball machine. Not that she couldn’t have a social life; he’d just never known her to. Of course, what did he really know about her personal life? Or her taste in men? This slicked-down six-footer wasn’t exactly the professor or accountant he’d picture her with. Maybe there was something to that old adage about the quiet ones being unpredictable.
Wearing one of those rare smiles that brightened her features if a man noticed such things, Brooke extended her hand. “Mr. Fierro?”
“Call me Tony.”
“I’m Brooke.” She turned to include Atticus. “This is Detective Kincaid. Tony Fierro.”
Introductions. Not a date. But his sigh of relief chilled in his lungs as he shook hands. This guy had a callused grip that was all wiry muscle despite pushing fort
y. The greenish-blue hints of tattoos peeking out from the cuffs of both sleeves gave a strong indication of why Fierro had so much time to work out. Atticus wasn’t normally a betting man, but he’d wager that Fierro had a record. Was he here to do some kind of community service?
But Brooke eliminated that possibility, too. “I’m interviewing him for a job at the house—to do some handyman and yard work.”
Despite the hushed, slightly hoarse timbre to his voice, Fierro wore a chip on his shoulder that was evident in the swagger of his posture. “Sorry I’m a little late, ma’am. I got turned around with some construction detours.”
“Thanks for agreeing to stop by the office. There’s been too much going on today for me to be able to get away.”
He nodded. “I’ve had days like that.”
“There’s a deli down in the next block. I thought we could order lunch in and conduct the interview here.” She waved her hand toward one of the visitor chairs at her desk. “If that’s okay with you. Having all these cops around doesn’t make you uncomfortable, does it?”
Cops made this guy nervous? Atticus’s suspicions ratcheted up another notch.
“I’m cool if you want to stay here.”
“Great. Well. Give me a sec and I’ll call in the order.”
Atticus blocked Fierro at the door while Brooke hurried back to her desk. She disappeared for a moment before standing up with her shoes in one hand and her purse in the other.
After slipping into her sensible heels, she propped her purse open on top of the desk and started to dig. “I know I have a card for the deli in here somewhere.”
While Brooke searched, Atticus sized up the Tony Fierro beneath the polished facade he’d put on for a potential employer. This guy was hiding something that Brooke might be too trusting to detect, but that Atticus was determined to uncover. Long-sleeved white shirt, still creased from the package it had come in. Buttoned up to the collar and down to the cuffs. On a muggy July day? That brown dye-job on his hair was fresh, too. Hadn’t done as neat a job masking his light-colored eyebrows. And were those contact lenses he wore?
