The Morning After

by Lisa Jackson

Reed probably even believed it.

  But he was wrong.

  Dead wrong.

  CHAPTER 26

  He shouldn’t stay.

  No way. No how.

  But Reed couldn’t leave Nikki Gillette’s apartment. Not when he had the feeling that she was a target. He’d lost the woman he was watching on the stakeout in San Francisco, had seen her being killed and could do nothing about it, and then, the Grave Robber had murdered Bobbi Jean and the baby.

  He wouldn’t let the same fate happen to Nikki, no matter how hard she protested. So he stood in her small living room feeling uncomfortable and out of place as she placed the dog on the floor. Her cat had hopped onto the counter and, back arched, eyed the interloper as Nikki shed her coat and dropped her purse and computer onto the floor near her desk where she eyed the answering machine.

  “No messages.” Her voice caught and she suddenly felt so weary she could barely stand. “Simone didn’t call back.” She slammed a fist onto the top of the desk. “Damn it all, Reed. He’s got her,” she whispered, her tiny fist curled so tightly the cords in the back of her hand were visible. “The bastard has her right now.”

  “Don’t think about it.”

  The look she cast him cut him to the quick. “How can I think of anything else?”

  “I don’t know, but try.”

  “I have. But it’s impossible.” She stretched her fingers and sighed loudly. “What do you think he did to her? How did he lure her? Even if he pretended to be me, didn’t she know? Where did he get her? In the parking lot? As she came out of the restaurant?”

  “Don’t do this,” he warned.

  “I can’t stop.” She jabbed her fingers through the wild riot of curls that had fallen over her eyes. “I see her. In that coffin. Waking up. Trying to get out.”

  That did it. He crossed the space between them and wrapped his arms around her. “Shh,” he whispered against her ear. “Don’t torture yourself. It’s not helping.”

  “But I feel so guilty.”

  “Fight it. You need to pull yourself together. It’s the only way to help her. Why don’t you…take a bath…go to bed…try to find some way to relax,” he suggested, feeling the tension in her muscles. “You need to sleep. You’ll think more clearly in the morning…. We both will.”

  “You’re staying?”

  “Unless you throw me out into the street.”

  She snorted. It was almost a laugh. As if she found the image ludicrous.

  “And then I’ll camp out in the car.”

  “It’s cold out there.”

  He lifted a shoulder. “Not that cold. I lived in San Francisco. Remember?”

  “Yeah.” She pulled her head back so that she could look him in the eye even though his arms were still holding them close. Too close. His hips touched hers through their clothing, her legs were nestled inside of his. “I don’t think it’ll be necessary for you to bunk in the Caddy.”

  “Thanks.”

  Studying him as if she were seeing him with new eyes, she added, “And I’ll try to take your advice…to…try to think positively, about saving Simone. I’ll try not to freak out or be a damned basket case.”

  “All I can ask.”

  She arched a skeptical eyebrow. “Oh, I think you could ask for a lot more.” She was so close he noticed the slight dusting of freckles bridging her nose, watched the play of emotions on her small face as she struggled to pull herself together.

  “And that would be a mistake.”

  “Undeniably.” But she didn’t pull away. Her lower lip trembled a bit and he felt the unlikely urge to kiss her. Hard. To force her thoughts away from the pain of this night.

  To where? Don’t do it, Reed, don’t open a door you can’t close. “Let’s just…”

  “Yes, let’s.

  “…keep things in perspective,” he said, though his pulse was quickening with the nearness of her, his blood running hotter, the urge to kiss her, to hold her, to touch her, strong.

  “And focus on what we need to be doing,” she added, though he thought he detected a note of reluctance in her voice.

  “Yes, focus.” He stared into her eyes and saw the hint of desire in her gaze. Or was it desperation? It would be easy to make love to her, so easy. And he knew that tonight, because of everything she’d been through, because of her need to be comforted, she’d give in to him. Easily. Even eagerly. But in the morning with the light of dawn everything would change. “Focus,” he repeated, damning himself for his lust. Women had always been his downfall. Probably always would be. But he didn’t want to make another mistake. Not with this woman. “Focusing is good.” He kissed her crown and released her.

  “I don’t know if it’s good or not.” If she was disappointed, she hid it and forced one side of her mouth into a half smile. “Okay.” With a shrug, she turned and walked the few steps to her kitchen. “So…would you like something to drink? I’ve got beer, I think…” She opened the refrigerator and, leaning over the door, frowned at what he assumed to be meager contents. “Make that I’ve got one lite beer and a bottle of semi-cheap wine.”

  He was about to protest when she said, “Don’t give me any of that garbage about you being on duty, because we both know you’re not, nor are you officially on this case, nor should you be in my apartment, anyway, as it’s kind of like consorting with the enemy, right? So a glass of California’s not-so-finest shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “I’m not much of a wine drinker.”

  “Indulge me,” she suggested as she kicked off her shoes and left them in the middle of the kitchen floor. “Since you’re staying anyway, why don’t you take your coat off?” Even though she attempted another smile, there was no amusement in her voice and her dimple failed to appear. Her eyes, when she looked over her shoulder at him, were dark. Haunted. Worry and fear evident in their green depths.

  He tossed his jacket over the back of one of the kitchen chairs and did the same with his shoulder holster and pistol. “You wear that all the time?” she asked, but knew the answer. She’d noticed the bulge of his weapon on more than one occasion.

  “I like to be prepared.”

  “A regular Boy Scout, are you?”

  He snorted. “Been a long time since anyone even suggested it.”

  “Then, forget I said it.” Some of the tension had eased out of her face as she eyed the contents of her refrigerator. “So…back to business. Now, let’s see…here we go.” She retrieved a chilled bottle, let the door swing closed, then rummaged around in a drawer, making a lot of racket before coming up with a corkscrew. “I’m really lousy at this,” she admitted. “Maybe you should do the honors.”

  Grateful for something to do, he rolled up his sleeves, opened the bottle and poured two mismatched goblets of chardonnay. “Here’s to…better days.” He touched the rim of his glass to hers.

  “Much better days. And better nights, too.”

  “Amen.” He took a swallow. The wine wasn’t half bad and Reed felt himself unwind. The tension in his shoulders eased a bit; his jaw wasn’t as tight. Nikki, too, seemed to relax, if just a little. The haunted look didn’t leave her eyes but the lines of strain around the corners of her mouth faded and she managed to change into a nightgown and robe somewhere between the first and second glasses of wine.

  Even the cat had mellowed out, taking up his vigil on the desk as the dog, after a small meal of dry cat food, had finally settled onto a bed of blankets Nikki had arranged near the door.

  “So, where do you think Chevalier is?” Nikki asked as she finished her second glass of wine. She hitched her chin toward the window. “Outside.”

  “Somewhere.” But he was bothered.

  “You’re still not convinced he’s the Grave Robber?” she asked around a yawn.

  “Would he be so stupid? Get out of prison and start knocking off the jury who sent him up the river?”

  “Some killers can’t control themselves. The killing’s the thrill. It has nothing to do with l
ogic. God, Reed, I’m dead,” she said, then cringed. “Sorry. Bad choice of words.”

  “Go on,” he said.

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll crash here.” He slapped the pillows of the small couch.

  “You don’t fit.”

  “I’ve had worse. It beats the El Dorado.”

  She almost laughed as she crossed the room and placed a kiss upon his cheek. “For a crusty old cop,” she said, “you’re really a very sweet man.”

  “Don’t let it get out. My reputation at the station would be ruined.”

  She did laugh then, and he tried not to notice the way her robe gapped to show a gauzy nightgown, nor the hollow between her breasts, nor a bit of nipple that peeked out as she leaned over him. “Don’t worry. I’m fairly certain any reputation you’ve already earned is black as tar.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “There’s no probably about it.”

  He kissed her then. Grabbed her, pulled her close, and as she tumbled onto him, pressed his lips against hers with an urgency he hadn’t anticipated. She didn’t fight, but opened her mouth to him and returned his fervor. Closing his eyes, he felt the blood rush through his veins, the heat on his skin, the hardness in his groin.

  Don’t do this, Reed.

  Haven’t you learned your lesson?

  Think of Bobbi Jean.

  Remember what happened to her. To the baby.

  His hands tangled in her hair and he forced her head to loll to one side so that he could brush his mouth across that seductive spot where her neck joined her shoulders, and felt her shudder.

  Her arms surrounded him and she sighed loudly. “Reed, I…don’t know…”

  “Shh, darlin’,” he whispered into her hair. “I just wanted to say good night.”

  “Like hell.” She pulled her face away from his “We both wanted something a lot more than a good night kiss.”

  He smiled. “Well, yeah…I suppose.”

  “There’s no supposin’ about it, Detective.”

  “I can wait.”

  “Can you?” Her eyes glittered a sexy shade of green. Her skin was flushed, and for the first time since she’d realized Simone Everly was missing, she showed just the hint of a dimple as she dropped another kiss on his forehead. “Are you sure?” Her voice had taken on a deeper, naughty tone.

  “Yeah, but you’re not making it any easier.”

  “Which was all part of my diabolical scheme,” she teased, sighing and pushing his hair from his eyes. “You and me? Who woulda thunk?”

  “Not me,” he said.

  “Me, neither. I wasn’t sure I even liked you.”

  “I knew I didn’t like you. Now, I think we should get some sleep. Before we both do something we’ll regret.” As he straightened, he gave her a playful swat on the rump.

  “Tease,” she said, opening an antique armoire where she pulled out a quilt and pillow, then tossed them both to him. “Knock yourself out,” she said as she walked into the bedroom. He was left with a lasting impression of her hips moving beneath the white bathrobe and a tangle of strawberry-blond curls hanging past her shoulders. And a hard-on that wouldn’t quit.

  She shut the door and Reed heard the latch click. Jesus, what was he thinking? Nearly making love to Nikki Gillette. Not a good idea. Not a good idea at all. He was a fool to consider her as anything but a reporter for that rag, the Sentinel. As she’d so aptly stated earlier, she was, in fact, the enemy. But the image of her leaning over him, flashing him a tantalizing view of her breasts, lingered.

  Sleep was bound to be impossible.

  He’d never be able to put it out of his mind that she was only a few feet away, lying on a bed with her hair fanned out around that incredible, intelligent face, her tight body naked and willing beneath a thin, gauzy nightgown.

  Yep, it was gonna be a long night.

  Stacking his hands behind his head, he forced his testosterone-pumped thoughts away from Nikki Gillette to LeRoy Chevalier and his trial twelve years ago.

  Chevalier’s lawyer had changed his defendant’s wardrobe. Gone were LeRoy Chevalier’s jeans and work shirts, replaced by a smart navy blue suit, white shirt and conservative tie. Chevalier’s unkempt long hair and straggly beard were suddenly history. He was now clean shaven with a neat, nearly military haircut that framed a newly visible face that included a square jaw, prominent nose and big, expressive eyes beneath a ridge of dark eyebrows. Chevalier had shed a few pounds, losing his gut and slovenly appearance. In the courtroom he looked more like an executive or a member of a country club than an independent trucker with a marred history of barroom fights and domestic violence.

  LeRoy Chevalier had once broken a pool cue over a man’s head, another time been arrested for breaking his live-in girlfriend’s nose and collarbone, compliments of his steel-toed boots, and in yet another instance had been hauled in for the attempted rape of a fourteen-year-old girl, another girlfriend’s niece. In each and every case, he’d gotten a slap on the wrist, serving little time.

  Chevalier was mean, angry and a brute who, in the murder of Carol Legittel and her children, deserved no less than the death sentence. Between the judge and jury, he’d ended up with three consecutive life sentences for the deaths of Carol, Becky and Marlin Legittel.

  At the trial Chevalier’s defense attorney had attempted to blur the facts, insisting the children’s biological father, Stephen, a known cocaine addict with a history of violence all his own, was to blame. Though Stephen hadn’t had much of an alibi—just an old friend who’d insisted they’d been on a hunting trip together—the evidence pointed too strongly toward LeRoy Chevalier.

  And Carol’s youngest child, Joey, who had survived with serious wounds that had hospitalized him for several weeks, had haltingly testified against his mother’s boyfriend. On the witness stand, Joey had been embarrassed, afraid to look at Chevalier during the trial, sometimes whispering his testimony so quietly that Judge Ronald Gillette had asked the boy to repeat his answers.

  Joey Legittel and Ken Stern’s testimony had hushed the courtroom. Along with Chevalier’s past history, some of which had been documented and allowed “in” the courtroom, and the physical evidence at the crime scene, including a bloody boot print from Chevalier’s work boots, had sealed the bastard’s fate.

  Until DNA had proved otherwise.

  Well, not really proved, but at least created a reasonable doubt. And that’s all it had taken to set the monster free.

  Reasonable doubt, my ass.

  So, why now, after getting off for the murders, would Chevalier start this rampage, daring the police to catch him? It didn’t make sense.

  Reed listened to the wind slap the branches of a tree against the window and wondered if Nikki was getting any sleep on the other side of the door. He considered checking on her, but decided against it. No need to tempt fate any more than he already had.

  Where am I?

  Simone’s eyes flew open. She’d been asleep or…or drugged and had the feeling of oppression, a huge weight was laying heavy on her chest. She was so uncomfortable and she was gasping for breath. The nightmare had been so real…and then she knew, she hadn’t been asleep at all. She’d passed out. Inside the coffin with the body.

  Oh, God…Her mind slipped in and out of consciousness as she tried to fight, tried to think of a way out, but the corpse beneath her, the small space and lack of oxygen played upon her, tricked her mind.

  Screaming frantically, she recoiled as the sound rebounded back at her, ricocheting like a million lunatics railing upon her. She thought something moved against the back of her neck and she squealed again, her scream echoing and reechoing through her brain.

  There was no hope. No way out. Something squished beneath her. Bones scraped her naked skin and her mind fragmented into a thousand painful shards. Memories of Andrew skittered through her brain.

  Far in the distance, somewhere in the darkness where her soul had run to, she knew she was going
to die. What remained of rational thought shriveled at the thought of the dead person beneath her, the sharp ribs and fleshless fingers that were scratching up at her. Trembling, she felt the slimy soft tissue clinging to her skin, rubbing into her hair.

  Tears streamed from her eyes. She coughed and tried vainly to drag in enough air for her tortured lungs. Feebly she kicked at the sides of the coffin as the oxygen ebbed.

  In a last fit of sanity she realized she was doomed.

  To die like this.

  Horribly.

  She thought of Andrew one last time and gave up a final, harrowing scream.

  The smell of coffee and a dog yapping in the distance roused Nikki from a heavy sleep laden with nightmares. A dull ache throbbed behind her eyes and a heavy weight, like an anvil, pushed down on her chest. It was just the effects of the bad dreams, that was it.

  Her eyes flew open. Oh, God, Simone was missing. And Pierce Reed was in the living room…it wasn’t part of a nightmare. The dog was Mikado. She flung back the covers, walked to the bathroom, used the toilet and flung water from the sink over her face. She looked like hell. Black smudges of mascara rimmed her eyes and her hair was even more unruly than ever. Not that she could do anything about it now.

  She snapped her hair into a ponytail, scrubbed her face and slid into a pair of khaki pants and a knit top before opening the door and having Mikado launch himself at her. “Hey, how are you?” she asked, rubbing the dog behind his ears.

  “Not glad to see you,” Reed observed sarcastically. The little dog streaked around the coffee table, running in fast, furious circles as from the top of the bookcase Jennings eyed the rambunctious white tornado with feline contempt.

  She finally caught the dog and was rewarded with an enthusiastic face wash. “Slow down, you,” she said, giggling despite her worries.

  “Coffee?” Reed poured a big mug from a pot he’d obviously brewed this morning. A dark beard shadow covered his jaw, his hair was mussed, the tail of his shirt hung outside his pants and his feet were bare, but he still looked sexy as hell as he glanced at her over his shoulder. “Black?”