Partners

by Nora Roberts

  “If you want to get anywhere with it,” he said evenly, “you’ll leave certain areas to me. When’s the last time you fought your way through the red tape in there?” Matt jerked his head toward the station house beside them.

  “I’ve untangled red tape before.”

  “Not in there,” he countered before he took her arm.

  “Just a minute, Bates.” Laurel pushed his hand away and faced him. “The one thing you’re going to understand, is that I may have no choice but to work with you on this story, but the operative word is with, not for. For the moment, however much it galls me, we’re partners.”

  This seemed to amuse him as the temper turned into an odd little smile. “A nice ring to that. Partners,” he agreed, taking her hand. “It might become a habit.”

  “The danger of that’s slim to none. Would you stop touching me?”

  “No,” he said amiably as they climbed the steps.

  Voices boomed off the walls of the station house. Disgruntled voices, insolent voices, irate voices. It smelled dankly, stalely of humanity. Sweat, coffee, cigarettes, alcohol. Five members of opposing street gangs leaned against a wall and eyed each other. A woman with a badly bruised face huddled in a chair and spoke in undertones to a harassed-looking officer who nodded and typed out her statement with two fingers. A young girl in snug shorts snapped her gum and looked bored.

  He’d seen it all before—and more. After a cursory glance around, Matt moved through the people and desks. The officers, the victims, the accused, paid no more attention to him than he to them.

  A slim brunette in a wilting uniform cupped a phone on her shoulder and lifted a hand in salute. Matt perched on the corner of her desk. Laurel stood beside him, watching as two elderly men nearly came to blows before they were pulled apart.

  “Well, Matt, what brings you to paradise?” The brunette set down the phone and smiled at him.

  “How you doing, Sarge?”

  The brunette tipped back in her chair to give him a long, thorough look. “I haven’t changed my phone number here—or at home.”

  “The city keeps us both pretty tied up, doesn’t it? Been to the Nugget lately?”

  She picked up a pen and tapped it lightly against her mouth. “Not since last month. Want to buy me a drink?”

  “You read my mind, but I have a little business.”

  Letting out a quick laugh, the sergeant dropped her pen onto a blotter crisscrossed with scrawled names and numbers. “Sure. What do you want, Matt?”

  “A quick glimpse at the file on a case—a closed case,” he added. “Need to do a little backtracking on a story I did, maybe a follow-up.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What case?”

  “Anne Trulane.”

  “Sensitive ground, Matt.” Her eyes drifted past his to Laurel’s.

  “Laurel Armand, Sergeant Carolyn Baker. Laurel and I are on assignment together,” Matt said smoothly. “She’s an old family friend of the Trulanes. Thought maybe we’d do something a little more in depth. Case is closed, Sarge, and hell, I covered the thing from start to finish.”

  “You’ve already seen the report.”

  “Then it can’t hurt for me to see it again.” He gave her a charming smile. “You know I play it straight, Carolyn, no printing privileged information, no hints in a story that messes up an investigation.”

  “Yeah, you play it straight, Matt.” She shot him a look that Laurel thought had more to do with personal feelings than professional ones, then shrugged. “It was all public knowledge at the inquest.” Rising, she walked away to disappear into a side room. Beside them, the two old men hurled insults at each other.

  “You always work that way, Matthew?”

  Matt turned to give Laurel a bland smile. “What way?” When she remained silent and staring, he grinned. “Jealous, love? You’ve got my heart in your hand.”

  “I’d rather have it under my foot.”

  “Vicious,” he murmured, then pushed off the desk when Carolyn came back in.

  “You can look at the file, take it in the first holding room. It’s empty.” She gave a quick glance around at the cramped room. “For now,” she added dryly. Opening a book, she turned it to face him. “Sign for it.”

  “I owe you one, Sarge.”

  She waited until he’d scrawled his signature. “I’ll collect.”

  Chuckling, Matt turned to work his way through to the holding room. An interesting woman, Sergeant Baker. Strange that it was never she who crept into his mind at odd moments. Not her, nor any of the other . . . interesting women he knew. Just one woman.

  “Have a seat,” Matt invited, closing the door and shutting out most of the din. The chair he chose scraped over the floor as he pulled it away from a long, battered table.

  “Cheerful place,” Laurel muttered, glancing around at the dull white walls and dingy linoleum.

  “Stick with City Hall if you want tidy offices and white collars.” Opening the file, he began to scan it briskly.

  He fits here, Laurel realized with a grudging kind of respect. For all his easygoing manner, there was a hard, tough edge underneath she’d only glimpsed briefly. The man on the elevator. Yes, she mused, he’d shown her that ruthless, searing temper there. And more. Laurel didn’t want to think of that just yet.

  But there was no getting around the fact that there were more facets to him than she’d wanted to believe. It was safer to consider him a shallow, inconsequential man who just happened to be a hell of a reporter. Seeing him now, completely at ease in the grim little room, made her wonder just how much he’d seen, how much he’d experienced. He dealt with the troubles, the griefs, the viciousness of people day after day, yet he didn’t seem hard or cold, or overwhelmed by it. What made Matthew Bates tick? she wondered. And what made her suddenly so sure she had to find out?

  “Nothing much here,” he muttered, skimming the papers. “Autopsy report . . . no sexual abuse, contusions, lacerations attributed to her wandering through the swamp. Copperhead got her on the left calf. Cause of death snakebite, complicated by exposure. Time of death between 12:00 and 4:00 a.m.” He handed the sheet to Laurel before going on to the investigator’s report.

  “Trulane was working late in his study. According to him, he thought his wife was upstairs in bed. He went up around two, found the bed empty. He searched the house, then woke his sister and the staff, searched the house again and the grounds.”

  Absently, he reached for a cigarette, found the pack empty and swore without heat. “None of her clothes were missing, all the cars were there. His call to the station came through at 2:57 a.m.” He glanced over at Laurel. “Nearly an hour.”

  Her fingers were a bit damp on the autopsy report. “It’s a big house. A sensible person doesn’t call the police until he’s sure he needs them.”

  After a slow nod, Matt looked back down at the report. “The police arrived at 3:15. The house was searched again, the staff questioned . . .” He mumbled for a moment, skimming the words. “Anne Trulane’s body was found at approximately 6:00 a.m., in the southeast section of the swamp.”

  He’d been there. Matt remembered the gray light, the hot, humid smells, the nasty feel of the swamp even before they’d come across death.

  “No one could account for her being out there. According to Marion Trulane, the sister-in-law, Anne had a phobia about the place. That fits with Susan’s claim,” he murmured. “Trulane stuck with his story about working late, and wouldn’t elaborate.”

  “Have you ever found your wife dead?” Laurel demanded as she took the report from Matt. “It’s just possible that he was upset.”

  He let the scathing words slip off him. “The conclusion is she felt compelled to go in—maybe to face her fears, got lost, bitten, and wandered around until she lost consciousness.” He glanced over at Laurel. Her brows were drawn together as she read the report for herself. “You still buddies enough to get us into the house, ask some questions?”

  “Hmm? Oh, yes, I s
uppose so. They’ll talk to me. You, too,” she added, “if you spread some of your charm around.”

  His mouth twisted into a grin. “I didn’t think you’d noticed.”

  “I noticed that you can pull it out rather successfully when you put your mind to it. It’s a bit deliberate for my tastes, but effective enough.”

  “Please, Laurellie, compliments are so embarrassing.”

  Ignoring him, Laurel set the investigator’s report aside. “Louis hasn’t had an easy time. He’s closed himself in since his first marriage failed, but I think he’ll talk to me.”

  Idly, Matt twisted the empty pack of cigarettes into a mass of foil and cellophane. “His wife ran off with his brother?”

  “It was horrible for Louis.” She slipped the next paper from the file as Matt gazed up at the ceiling, lost in thought.

  Her skin went to ice, her stomach knotted, but she couldn’t look away. The police photo was black and white and grim. She’d seen death before, but not like this. Never like this. Appalled, transfixed, she stared down at Anne Fisher Trulane. Of what she had come to.

  Oh, God, Laurel thought as her head went light and her stomach rolled. It’s not real. It’s a gruesome joke. Just someone’s twisted idea of a joke.

  “How long ago did—” Matt broke off as he shifted his gaze to Laurel. Her skin was dead white, her eyes full of horror. Even as he swore, he whipped the photo away from her, then pushed her head down between her knees. “Breathe deep,” he ordered sharply, but his hand was abruptly gentle on the back of her head. Hearing her breath shudder in and out, he cursed himself more savagely. What the hell had he been thinking of? “Easy, love,” he murmured, kneading the tension at the base of her neck.

  “I’m all right.” But she wasn’t so sure. Laurel took an extra moment before she tried to straighten in the chair. When Matt’s arms came around her, she let her head rest on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, that was stupid.”

  “No.” He tilted her head back. “I’m sorry.” Very slowly, very carefully, he brushed the hair away from her face.

  She swallowed, hard. “I guess you’re used to it.”

  “God, I hope not.” He drew her close again so that her face was pressed against his neck.

  She felt safe there. The chill was passing. Laurel relaxed, letting him stroke her hair, allowing the warm, real scent of him to block out the institutional smell of the waiting room. She could feel the steady beat of his heart against her. Life. When his lips brushed her ear, she didn’t move. It was comfort he offered and comfort she felt. She told herself that was all, as she held on to him as if she’d just discovered him.

  “Matthew . . .”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Don’t be too nice to me.”

  With her eyes closed, her face buried at his throat, she felt the smile. “Why not?”

  “Just don’t.” A bit more steady, she drew away because it was much too easy to stay.

  He cupped her face in his hand. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured. “Have I told you that before?”

  Cautiously she moved out of reach. Treat it light, she warned herself. And think about it later. “No.” She smiled and rose. “I always jot things like that down.”

  “Beautiful,” he repeated. “Even if your chin is just a bit pointed.”

  “It is not.” Automatically, she tilted it.

  “Especially from that angle.”

  “I have very delicate features,” Laurel told him decisively as she picked up her purse. No, damn it, her fingers were not steady yet. God, she had to get out of this place, get out and breathe again.

  With his back to her, Matt slipped the photo back in the file folder, closing the cover before he turned around. “Except for the chin,” he agreed, putting an arm around her shoulders as he started for the door.

  With her hand on the knob, Laurel stopped and looked up at him. Her eyes were dark and more aware than they’d been before they’d come into that room. “Matthew.” She leaned against him for a moment, just for a moment. “No one deserves to die that way.”

  He tightened his grip on her for a moment, just for a moment. “No.”

  Chapter 4

  The bar was dim and cool. It was too early for the evening rush, too late for the afternoon regulars. With his mind still on Anne Trulane’s file, Matt steered Laurel inside. No, no one deserved to die that way, but then life, and death, didn’t always play according to the rules. He’d learned to accept that a long time ago.

  Matt had been as quiet as Laurel since they’d walked out of the station house. He was thinking, analyzing. Remembering.

  The phone had rung in the early hours of the morning—his source at the station house tipping him on Anne Trulane’s disappearance. He’d arrived at Heritage Oak moments after the police. There’d been a mist, he recalled, thinner and nastier than a rain, and an air of silence. He’d sensed Louis Trulane hadn’t wanted to call the outside for help. His answers had been clipped, his expression remote. No, he hadn’t looked like a harried, concerned husband, but like a man who’d had his evening interrupted.

  His sister, and the entourage of servants, had gathered around him a few paces back, in a move that had seemed like a defense before the search had spread into the marsh. It was a winding, humid place with shadows and small, secret sounds. Matt had felt a distaste for it without knowing why. He’d only known he’d rather have been searching the streets and alleyways than that steamy, dripping maze of shadow and bog.

  They’d found her, too late, curled on the ground near a sluggish stream when dawn was just breaking. Mist, gray light, wet pungent smells. He’d heard a bird, a lark perhaps, calling in the distance. And he’d heard the crows. Matt remembered Louis Trulane’s reaction. He’d been pale, cold and silent. If there’d been anger, grief or despair, he’d closed it inside. His sister had fainted, the servants had wept, but he’d simply stood. . . .

  “I’m going to call Louis.”

  “What?” Matt glanced over to find Laurel watching him.

  “I’m going to call Louis, ask if he’ll see us.”

  Slowly, he tore the wrapper from a fresh pack of cigarettes. “All right.” He looked after her as she weaved her way through tables to the pay phone in the corner. It wasn’t easy for her, Matt thought, and struck a match with more force than necessary. She was too close, too open. Whatever childhood feelings she’d had for Louis Trulane were still too important to her to allow her to see him objectively.

  What about you, Bates? he asked himself as he blew out a stream of smoke. You detest him because of the way Laurel says his name. It was time, he told himself, that they both remembered their priorities. The story came first. It had to. If Laurel’s relationship with the Trulanes got them in, so much the better. He’d been in the game too long to be under any illusions. People like the Trulanes could toss obstacles in a reporter’s way until getting through them was like walking through a minefield.

  Not that it would stop him from getting the story—it would only add to the time and the legwork. Either way, Matt mused, either way he was going to poke some holes into that sanctified wall the Trulanes had around themselves and their name.

  He saw Laurel coming back, the sadness lingering in her eyes, the color only a hint in her cheeks. She’d get over it, he told himself as something seemed to tear inside him. Because she had to. He waited until she slid into the booth across from him.

  “Well?”

  “He’ll see us at ten tomorrow.”

  Matt crushed out his cigarette, warning himself not to touch her. “You don’t sound too thrilled about it.”

  “I used the pressure of an old friendship.” She looked up then, meeting his eyes with a kind of weary defiance. “I hated it.”

  “You’ve got a job to do,” he muttered, and found he’d reached for her hand before he could stop himself.

  “I know. I haven’t forgotten.” Instinctively she tightened her fingers on his. “I don’t have to like it to do it well.” She knew
she’d never be able to back off now, not after seeing that picture—not after imagining what Susan Fisher would have felt if she had seen it.

  When the waitress stopped beside her, Laurel glanced up. She had to dull the image. Maybe it was weak, but she had to. “Martini,” she said on impulse. “A dry martini with an illusion of vermouth.”

  “Two,” Matt ordered, sending Laurel an off-center smile. “It only helps temporarily, Laurellie.”

  “That’s good enough for now.” Resting her elbows on the table, she leaned forward. “Matthew, I’m going to consume great quantities of alcohol. This is totally preplanned and I offer no excuses. I will promise, however, not to get sloppy. Naturally, I’ll regret this tomorrow, but I think it’ll be a lesson well learned.”

  He nodded, grinning because he saw she needed it. “Since I’m joining you, I’ll try to maintain your high standards. In any case . . .” He leaned a bit closer. “I’ve often wondered what it would be like to get you drunk and have my way with you.”

  She laughed for the first time in hours. “There isn’t enough