“I’m a volunteer there.” She didn’t bother to ask how he’d known where she was tonight. With all the information he had on her, she didn’t need to.
“Really?” Morgan shot her a puzzled glance. “I don’t remember you being interested in politics.”
“Things change.” Wasn’t that an understatement? “I met Suni two years ago. She was knocking on every door in my apartment building, asking how we felt about certain government policies.”
Morgan was right. She’d never had much interest in politics. But Suni had struck her as different. Within minutes of meeting, they were sharing a cup of coffee and talking like old friends.
The bond, she’d realized, was loneliness.
Most people would find it impossible to believe someone with a life like Suni’s could be lonely. She spent her days and most evenings surrounded by people. Her social calendar was full and her workdays long and varied. Yet Trista had soon realized that Suni had sacrificed many things for her political ambition, including a normal family life, with a husband and children.
“Didn’t you say that you met the Walkers at one of Choopra’s fundraising parties?” Morgan asked.
Trista nodded.
“And you started your practice what—two years ago?”
“Yes.” Her business was small, compared to the family-counseling practice in Yorkville, a trendy area of Toronto, where she’d worked when she and Morgan were still together. When they were a family. But at least it was hers, and it seemed to be successful.
“Kind of ironic, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“What you do. Dispensing advice to couples, when your own marriage ended in divorce.”
He sounded calm, but she knew there was hostility behind the words. “I agree. Frankly, I prefer individual counseling, but it’s not always possible to separate the two. Besides, couples seem to benefit from seeing me. Most of the clients I’ve seen are still together.”
“Really?” He leaned forward, his interest intense. “And what do you tell them? What works for them that didn’t work for us?”
Why was he torturing her like this? Asking questions when he knew the answers already? She ought to leave, she knew she should. But maybe, just once, the words needed to be said out loud. “I try to help them talk to each other.”
It was more complicated than that, of course. But wasn’t noncommunication the crux of the problem? It certainly had been with Morgan and her.
Now he was looking bitter. “I tried, Trista. God knows, I tried.”
“I know.” Their divorce had been official for almost two years, but still, looking back on that time was more than she could take. “I have to go, Morgan. Talking about this isn’t doing either of us any good.”
His hand shot out, to grasp her by the arm. “But didn’t you just say that’s what people need to do? Talk?”
She pulled away from him, grabbing her jacket and her purse. “My advice is for couples, Morgan. It’s too late for us, and you know it.”
CHAPTER FIVE
LATER THAT NIGHT, as Trista settled into bed, she went over her conversation with Morgan. She remembered everything, down to the smallest detail. Every word he’d spoken, every small look and insignificant gesture. The apology and the way he’d said they’d have to avoid personal topics if they were going to cooperate on the Walker case.
His intentions had been good, but only minutes later he’d blamed her for the breakup of their marriage.
The fact that he was right wasn’t the point.
They couldn’t work together on this investigation without dredging up the past. The mind couldn’t be controlled so easily. A tidal wave of memories threatened to overwhelm her every time she saw his face, heard his voice. And she guessed it was the same for him.
Despite the passing of years, their healing was not complete. The pain was not fresh, but it was persistent, lying in wait beneath the surface, capable of engulfing her if she let down her defenses.
Trista drew the covers up to her neck as if she could block out her memories as effectively as she could the cool night air. Not just the bad ones, but the good ones too. Because happy memories only reminded her of all she’d lost. It was more than any woman could bear. Or any mother.
Trista clenched her hands and stared, wide-eyed, at the bedroom ceiling, thinking of the day when it had all finally ended. Or so she’d thought.
Divorce had seemed the only avenue of escape from her guilt. Regardless of what her therapist had said, she knew her responsibility for the accident would always stand between Morgan and her. So she’d driven to her lawyer’s office to sign the papers, wearing a black dress that used to be a favorite, but which she’d never worn since. The beauty of the fresh autumn day had irritated her, and her stomach had almost heaved on the elevator ride to the twenty-sixth floor.
Her lawyer hadn’t kept her waiting. She’d been ushered right into his expensively appointed office where the papers had been ready. Morgan had already signed them, and she could still picture the dark upright script of his name against the white background of the legal document. There was a note that Morgan had written, sealed in a separate envelope, but she hadn’t read it.
In her cold, dark bedroom Trista felt tears running down her face, and she let them fall unchecked, thinking of all the times she should have cried but couldn’t. The day she’d walked out of their house with only her purse and a jacket. The times she’d refused to talk to him when he came to her, alternately pleading and demanding that she come home. The unread letters, the phone messages she’d erased. Each one deserved at least a tear.
Trista Anne Forester. The sight of her name at the bottom of their divorce papers.
Trista’s tears turned to sobs and soon her body was shaking with the force of her pent-up grief. For lost innocence. For her lost marriage.
And for the biggest loss of all. Their child.
TELLING HIMSELF he was the world’s biggest fool, Morgan sat in his car across from Trista’s apartment and kept his eyes on the two rectangles of light on the second floor of the building, until finally they blinked and vanished into darkness.
What was he doing here?
He thought of the moment in the restaurant that night when the bill had come and she’d insisted on paying half. She hadn’t looked him in the eye from that point onward. Closing him out. As if she’d ever opened up to him in the first place. Morgan gripped both sides of the steering wheel as if they were the handlebars of a bike, squeezing and twisting with all his might. Sometimes the strength of his impotent fury frightened him. Tonight he was getting a little weary of it. When was it all going to end?
They were divorced. It was time to get on with his own life. She’d walked out on him, not the other way around. Apparently, without their child, she’d found no need to keep their family together.
Andrew. Four years he’d been gone, but he was never far from Morgan’s thoughts. Morgan had only to close his eyes to picture his son asleep in his crib, his favorite flannel blanket tucked up under his round baby cheek. If he held out his finger, he could remember the fierce grip of Andrew’s small hand only one day after he was born. The sound of a child crying could still turn his head.
He’d died just months after learning to say cop. He’d point out every police car on the road and say, “Cop, cop, daddy, cop.” There was nothing he’d enjoyed more than riding with Morgan, although the sound of the siren had scared him. After the accident, Morgan had caught himself glancing over his shoulder, at the middle of the back seat where he’d anchored in a strap for Andrew’s car seat. It was always a shock to see that vacant space. Almost as hard as facing the empty crib each morning.
He’d sold the crib after Trista left. He’d sold everything.
But that didn’t make the emptiness go away. Special days were the worst. Andrew’s birthday, Christmas, the first day of school.
Did Trista, like him, sit alone in the dark, imagining what Andrew would have been like, what he’d
have been doing, if he were alive? And did she ever wish she had someone to share those thoughts with?
He had no idea. She’d blocked him out completely after the accident. And when she’d moved out, and he’d thought he would go crazy with losing first his son, then his wife, she’d refused to even see him, let alone listen to a word he had to say.
So why did he still feel this need to protect her? It hadn’t started with the break-in at her office. Even before then, he’d made a point of knowing where she lived and worked and spent her free time. He’d watched over her. As much as he could. For three years now, ever since she first left him.
But it was time to stop, because it was making him crazy. There was no turning back the clock. The old Trista he’d fallen in love with and married was gone. He was a man, a cop, but he hadn’t been able to protect his son, and he hadn’t been able to help Trista either. For one long year, every time he’d looked in his wife’s eyes, all he’d seen was emptiness.
Now she was no longer his wife, and he wasn’t sure what he saw in those hazel eyes that had once bewitched him.
In fact, it seemed impossible that the willowy auburn beauty had ever been his wife. Had she ever said she loved him, and cradled him in her arms? Lured him into a bathtub foaming with scented oils? Encouraged him to talk when his job got him down, cried with him when a case was particularly heartbreaking? Him, the tough guy who’d never needed anyone. Until Trista came along.
He thought about her staunch defense of her secretary, of her loyalty to her friend Suni. So like Trista. Once, she’d been that way about him, defending him to her friends who saw him as cold and detached. He may have appeared that way to them, but with Trista he could never hold himself back. It was as if she’d found a part of him that had been missing all his life.
God knows, he’d never found that warmth in the sterile environment his parents had created. His mother had had him late in life, and never lost an opportunity to remind him he hadn’t been planned. As soon as he was old enough, he’d moved out. Shortly thereafter, his parents had sold the house and retired down south.
They had come back for his wedding. And briefly, for Andrew’s funeral.
Morgan shifted uncomfortably in his seat and glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard. Eleven o’clock. It was late and he ought to be getting home. But he thought about the empty rooms, the empty bed, and changed his mind, taking a left instead of a right and heading for the office. He hadn’t checked in since this afternoon. Maybe there’d been some new developments. Sleep seemed all too elusive, at any rate.
As he drove the few miles to police headquarters, Morgan forced himself to think about the Walker case, pushing thoughts of Trista out of his mind. So far he felt as though he’d encountered nothing but a number of very short dead ends. Maybe he needed to change his perspective—looking at things from a different angle usually helped.
Maybe he needed to consider the son more closely. It could be Jason wasn’t as disinterested in inheriting the family business as his parents had thought. More likely it was the idea of being under mom and dad’s thumb that had distressed him. And now, with his father gone and his mother putty in his hands, he’d be in a position of control…
Morgan parked his car and approached the Metropolitan Toronto Police headquarters through the large courtyard on College Street. Above him, the twelve-story tower rose in receding steps, cold glass and metal, with the fluttering form of the Canadian flag flying proudly at the top.
He passed the curved duty desk, then took the elevator to Homicide on the third floor. Too bad Kingston was several hours from Toronto. Otherwise it might have been possible for Jason to slip out after his ten-thirty class, and be back in time to make economics in the afternoon… Morgan shook his head. That he was even considering such a ridiculous theory told him how desperate he was becoming.
He’d intended to stop briefly, just checking for any new reports, but Inspector Zarowin stopped him in the corridor. A chronic insomniac, like him, Zarowin grasped his elbow.
“Let me get you a coffee.”
Coffee was not what either of them needed at this hour of the night, but Morgan followed him, settling into a chair as Zarowin poured a foul-smelling brew into two big mugs.
“Pulling a double shift again, Zed?” he asked as Zarowin added sugar and cream to his own mug. “I hope you don’t plan on booking any overtime for this.”
Zarowin snorted at the comment, then sat down in the chair next to Morgan’s. He was about fifteen years older than Morgan’s 33 and about as good as they came, in Morgan’s opinion. He drove people hard, but he was fair, and intelligent, to boot. “At least I show up every now and then so that people still know I work here.”
“Hey, you don’t solve crimes sitting on your butt in headquarters,” Morgan reminded him.
“You learned that lesson all too well, didn’t you? I’m lucky to have caught sight of you at all.”
The way he leaned back and settled into his chair, it was clear Zarowin wanted to talk. Morgan felt his jaw clenching, even as he took a taste of the well-aged brew in his mug. Zarowin wasn’t the sort to interfere in an investigation. Unless there were special circumstances. And Morgan had a pretty good idea what those circumstances were in this case.
“That was good work on the Blair case you wrapped up on Monday,” Zarowin began.
Oh, God. Morgan sank farther into his chair. He’s buttering me up first. It’s going to be bad.
“So how’s the Walker case progressing?”
“Slowly. You must have seen the reports.”
“I’ve seen them,” Zarowin admitted. “That’s what I want to talk about—”
Here it comes!
“I noticed your ex-wife was the Walkers’ marriage counselor.”
Very sharp. I should have known that her using her maiden name wouldn’t have fooled you. “Right.”
“Trista. That’s her first name, isn’t it?”
Morgan felt the sharp eyes of the inspector on him, and knew Zarowin was gauging his reaction to her name. He tried to remain impassive. “It is.”
Zarowin’s eyes bore into him for several seconds before he sighed. “You’re a good cop, Forester. And I know you wouldn’t let personal feelings get in the way of an investigation, but what exactly is Trista’s involvement in this case?”
“I don’t see her as a suspect, if that’s what you’re driving at.”
“Are you sure about that?”
Morgan drew in his breath. “At the moment there’s absolutely no evidence to suggest that she’s involved—”
“Forget evidence,” Zarowin interrupted. “In cases like this, you have to bend over backward to appear impartial. If you see the secretary as a possible suspect, why not the counselor?”
“But that’s ludicrous. What motive would Trista have for killing her own client? Trying to reduce the size of her practice?”
“Cool down, Forester. I hate to suggest this, but what if Trista is the lover we’re trying to identify? Unethical, of course, but it’s been known to happen…”
Morgan didn’t want to listen, but he knew he had to. He had briefly recognized that he was letting his own personal feelings for Trista discount her as a possible suspect. Hearing Zarowin speak, he knew that he was guilty as charged. Still, he knew Trista, and he knew her standards. Never, not in a million years, would she sleep with her own client.
“As I see it,” Zarowin gave his ultimatum, “your safest bet is to step down from this case and let me assign another detective.”
Morgan hesitated. He knew Zarowin had a point. And being on this case was opening a lot of painful memories. Not just for him, but for Trista, too. It would be easier on both of them if he were to back off and let them go on trying to rebuild their separate lives.
It was the smart thing to do. Hell, it was the right thing to do, and Morgan opened his mouth to tell Zed it was what he was going to do. But the words wouldn’t come.
When he started somet
hing, he liked to finish it. And besides, if he was off the case, how could he be certain Trista was safe?
It was not the smart thing to do. It was probably the wrong thing to do, but Morgan knew he had no choice.
“I hear what you’re saying, Zed, but I want this case. I need this case.”
When Zarowin sighed and glanced down at his hands, Morgan knew he’d be given his chance. He couldn’t screw up now.
IN HER DREAM she was watching herself, as if the day’s events had been videotaped and she was now at home, curled up on the sofa, watching a detective show on television. She saw herself pack a gym bag with sunglasses, hat, gloves and trench coat. Oh, and the gun, of course. Mustn’t forget the gun.
She took a taxi downtown. Once there, she went into a major department store. She strolled around for about ten minutes before heading for the bathroom. A few minutes later she emerged, dressed in the trench coat, hat and sunglasses, and left the store, the gym bag safely ensconced in a coin-operated locker. She took another taxi to the motel. You couldn’t be too careful.
So far so good. She stood in front of the motel office for a few minutes, gathering her nerve. She had to be cool. She had to be casual. Then she went in.
“Hello. I’ve locked myself out of my room. My husband and I are registered in room 124. Do you think…”
No problem. The man behind the counter held out the key in front of him. She hadn’t liked the look in his eyes. As she reached for it, he deliberately brushed his fingers over hers. Then he licked his lips. She almost panicked at that point. Not because of his obscene gesture, but because she remembered she’d forgotten to put on the gloves. For a second she was tempted to back out. But it was too late for that.
She ignored his leering stare and walked out the door, turning left, following the sidewalk toward the back of the building, counting as she walked. One hundred one, one hundred two, one hundred three… Her low heels scratched against the concrete beneath them. And then, there it was. The four was a little crooked, but it was definitely room 124. Her heart really began to pound then. Her palms were sweaty as she carefully pulled on her gloves before inserting the key, ever so softly, into the lock.
Same Place, Same Time Page 6
