Then why try to kill him? Why did Tony kill himself?
“Back to square one.” Quinn sighed.
“Don’t you know what they say about people who talk to themselves?”
“Pierce!” Quinn whirled around, her heart heavy as lead.
His moaning repetition of her name drove her crazy. She imagined forgetting her doubts and fears. She’d tell him she’d marry him. Whenever he wanted—as long as he held her. Her whole body shook. Unable to get enough of him, she unbuttoned his shirt, dragged her tongue into the hollow of his throat, felt his back stiffen.
Her mind protested, but, she drew back a little. “What else happened?”
Pierce flinched. “How’s George?”
“Critical. Potentially permanent brain damage.” Pierce groaned and Quinn couldn’t seem to shut up. “Did the police find a hammer?”
“I don’t think so.” His voice strangled with pain.
“The doctor thinks George was hit with a hammer.” Thank you, O’ Blabber Mouth.
Pierce’s shoulders slumped like someone fending off an attack. “Can we sit down?”
“Here.” She eased him back against the wall, pushed him down to the floor and sank down next to him. “What’s wrong?”
His tired, drawn face hurt her. Needing to touch him, she patted his cheek.
A beat, then he said hoarsely, “The police need to talk to you before we call the Franklins.”
Her heart rate spiked, then plummeted into the black hole in the pit of her stomach. She swallowed once, twice, finally whispering, “No problem. When?”
Pierce squeezed her fingers until she worried he’d break them all. “Now.”
The vibration behind her eyes intensified, but she nodded. “Okay. It’s not as if I haven’t had lots of practice talking to the police recently.”
“You’re sure?” The tic under his left eye unnerved her.
“Absolutely.” If she didn’t faint or throw up first.
“Why don’t you stay here? I’ll tell them you’re ready.”
“Great idea.” Especially since her legs had forgotten their purpose in life.
Pierce leaned into her, chucked her under the chin and planted a kiss on the tip of her nose. On impulse, she grabbed his head and gave herself mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Heat stirred in her stomach. For the first time since they’d found Tony, she felt safe. Melded with Pierce, she knew the world hadn’t toppled off its axis.
Smoking-hot tension arced between them, but he pushed her away, flashing his famous lopsided smile. “There are two cops. One’s a character.”
“Okay.” Once more, Quinn’s fingers had lost all feeling.
Pierce walked backwards, calling, “I can stay with you during their questions.”
Whatever sense of relief had started to lull her fears vaporized when the door to the ICU waiting room opened. A short, overweight man with a patch of skinny dark hair lumbered through the door first. He registered in Quinn’s mind the way wallpaper registered. She knew it was there, but unless the pattern or color was outrageous, it faded into the background.
It was the second cop who didn’t fade but grabbed her attention like scarlet roses on purple-striped paper. Tall, with an athlete’s lean build, he strutted through the door, a green-eyed stud dressed in black. His long, reddish-gold pigtail swung behind him like a snake.
“Yo, mama.” A blast of cinnamon hit Quinn’s nose.
****
Homicide Detective Ken Smith made the intros. Like him, they were short. “Detective J.R. Ryder, Narcotics.”
Mercifully, neither policeman offered his hand.
Quinn spoke to Ryder. “Where’s your mask?”
“In the car,” he drawled. “Damned thing gives me a migraine after the first twelve hours.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Quinn saw Pierce’s mouth drop. The cop was obviously way too cool to lose his laid-back ’tude.
“Mind if we take first things first?” Detective Smith pushed his bifocals up on his button nose. The gesture softened the edge in his raspy voice.
“Please.” His partner rolled his hand in front of him, bent at the waist, and nearly touched his thin nose to his knees.
Detective Smith flipped through a pocket-sized black notebook. Pierce moved in next to Quinn. His arm slid around her waist. She was surprised no one mentioned how loud her heart was pounding.
“I understand you knew the deceased,” Detective Smith began.
He means Tony. Quinn nodded. Pierce pulled her closer, but she thought he’d stopped breathing.
“From the conversation with Mr. Jordan,” Detective Smith continued, “I know you think the deceased’s wounds were self-inflicted.”
The floor under Quinn tilted. Her stomach pitched and bucked, dragging her mind along for the roller-coaster ride. She turned to Pierce. “Someone-someone killed him?”
A muscle ticked furiously under his left eye. “The police found a knife...in the Jeep.”
“We have to do lab tests,” Detective Smith interrupted. “Unlike TV-cops, we’re pretty sure the knife we found is the weapon.”
Detective Ryder, lounging against the wall, snorted.
Tears jammed Quinn’s throat, strangling speech. An unreadable emotion flickered across Pierce’s face, and Quinn pressed closer to him, hating the dread she’d seen on his now granite face. He massaged tiny circles in the small of her back.
“Is the knife Tony’s?” Pierce’s tone could’ve sliced steel.
Detective Smith locked eyes with Pierce and refused to drop his gaze. “Rex Walker personally reported it stolen on Monday. The duty sergeant remembers the report. Says Mr. Walker was pretty strung out—”
“Getting fired leaves a lot of people strung out.” Quinn glanced at Pierce, regretted her outburst, and dug her nails into his wrist. Did he think Rex killed Tony?
His hold on her waist stayed firm and steady. “I told them the firing was ugly.”
“So noted.” Detective Smith made a check mark in his little black book. “The fact is, Sarge says Mr. Walker was upset for another reason.”
The phone conversation with Michael flashed in Quinn’s mind. Should she drag him into this? Why? Whatever had upset Rex, it couldn’t be Michael.
The detective apparently assumed she was listening to him and continued talking. “He claimed the knife was the only memento he has of his father.”
The words detonated in bright bursts inside Quinn’s aching head. She said, “I don’t know anything about a knife, but I do know Rex left my party at eight-thirty.”
Detective Smith ran his index finger down a page in his notebook and frowned. “The security guard, Mr. George Johnson, called Dispatch at 8:46. Can you give us the names of the guests who left with Mr. Walker?”
“Then,” the other cop drawled, “I have a few questions.”
Chapter 20
Why didn’t Quinn simply forget Brittany’s claims? Confirm Rex hated Tony? Not the other way round. Then, they could phone the Franklins. Mystified, Pierce fumed and tried to make sense of Detective Ryder’s questions.
The guy must watch too many cop shows. His questions jumped around like water dropped on a hot skillet. Pierce growled under his breath.
Quinn glanced his way but threw a question at Ryder. “You’re not going to tell us why Tony was a suspect, are you?”
Ryder stopped fingering his pigtail and sat up a little straighter. “What makes you think he was a suspect?”
The knots Pierce’s neck spread to the base of his neck. The cop’s earlier innuendo that Tony was involved in drugs washed everything in a red haze. How could Quinn stay so damned calm?
“Why waste your time coming to the garage if Tony wasn’t a suspect?” she asked.
“Who said I wasted my time?”
“So who’s your sus—wait a minute.” Quinn’s look of outrage gave Pierce no clue why her jaw cracked, but the hairs on his neck prickled anyway.
“Am I a suspect?” she demande
d, her voice dropping.
“Should you be a suspect?”
“When eating too many Lamar’s becomes illegal.”
Ryder covered his mouth—but not before Pierce caught his chuckle. Quinn let the cop’s stupidity pass—maybe because he kept tossing out questions that made no sense. A look passed between the two cops. Within seconds, they’d folded their tents and faded away. A faint whiff of cinnamon hung in the hall—the only reminder they’d ever been there. Pierce and Quinn stared at each other.
“This must be what it’s like when aliens kidnap you.” He pulled Quinn into an embrace.
“Surreal.” She pressed her ear against his heart, and he wished they could stay there forever. She’d say she’d marry him, and they’d find a desert island...
Before he caved to that fantasy, he said, “How do I break this to the Franklins? Make sense of this nightmare?”
The damp spot on his shirt prepared Pierce for the tears in Quinn’s eyes when she lifted her head and met his gaze.
“You won’t make sense,” she whispered, “but they know you loved him too.”
****
The sheriff in Junction City picked up at 2:17 and informed Pierce in a tired voice that Mrs. Franklin’s sister was waiting for him ten minutes away. “Give us half an hour to get out to their place.”
The intervening thirty minutes gave Pierce time to visit George Johnson. The nurse stated the older man was resting much better. Pierce took this statement on faith because frankly, George looked the way Pierce felt. Like hell.
On the other hand, a little piece of Pierce’s mind envied George. ICU-patients didn’t have to make phone calls that would destroy the world of unsuspecting, loving parents.
Thank God, Quinn would be there when he talked to the Franklins. What the hell could he say to them? Could he even talk?
The crystal ball in his brain fogged over. He stopped trying to imagine who would say what when and concentrated on George’s steady breathing. His own pulse slowed. There was good news in this nightmare. At least he wouldn’t have to tear the Franklin’s heart out by raising the suspicion their son had killed a sixty-three-year-old man.
Pierce stumbled through the ICU doors into Quinn’s waiting arms. Holding her, inhaling her scent of roses grounded him. He knew, somewhere deep in his brain, he held her too tightly for comfort, but letting go of her felt like letting go of a trapeze bar. His heart would drop, and he’d plummet down, down, down. Her hand in his prevented his free-fall.
Blind with fatigue, he opened his mouth to swear he’d learn to like Michael, that he’d rehire Rex, that he’d tell his mother in no uncertain terms Quinn deserved her respect. A thought he couldn’t grasp slipped away, and he stumbled over his feet. Quinn piloted them around sofas and tables in the waiting room without speaking, opened the door into a private waiting nook, and pushed him into a chair.
His mind went as blank as a disconnected TV. Quinn massaged his shoulders. He unclenched his hands, reached for the phone, recoiled.
“Want me to dial?” Her hand was a butterfly on his shoulder, but the lightness stiffened his backbone.
“Maggie, it’s Pierce.” He heard bones crack in Quinn’s hand but found loosening his hold on her fingers impossible.
Miles away, Maggie Franklin said in a low, urgent plea, “What’s happened to Tony, Pierce?”
Her anguish turned a switch on in his head, and he found the balance between too much detail and not enough. A gun to his head couldn’t have dragged from him a syllable of Tony’s confession.
Frame after frame of images fast forwarded in a blur. Then they sharpened as Pierce saw the Jeep and Tony hunched over the wheel. His grip crunched more small bones in Quinn’s hands.
No details on why he and she were in the garage around nine o’clock on Thanksgiving night, but how they saw the Jeep...and Tony. Next to Pierce in real time, tears clouding her gray eyes, Quinn managed a wistful smile.
No mention of who called the police. Or that George lay in ICU. Time for those details later. After the police cut through the chaos.
Pierce choked the phone, but spoke clearly. “The police don’t know much yet...except how he died.”
The pause at the other end sped up his pulse. Disbelief and denial rushed into his head. He blurted, “He...he was— God, Maggie! I... He was stabbed.”
Silence screamed. Pierce heard a sharp intake of air. Panic kicked him in the stomach. Quinn laid their interlaced hands over her heart. The panic receded. There were no hysterics and only one question—for which he had no answer.
“When can we bring him home?”
****
“You’re insane.”
“I don’t need your permission.” Quinn jutted her chin, but her heart wasn’t in it. Not after Pierce’s phone call to the Franklins.
Her chin came down, and she softened her tone. “Until George regains consciousness, why not use the time productively?”
“Because going to your house—alone—at three in the AM—to pick up a damn laptop isn’t productive in my opinion. It’s a good way to get yourself killed.”
“Who’d want to kill me?” She wasn’t into drugs.
“Duuuh. Whoever killed Tony.”
Rex’s name hung between them like a gong waiting to be rung.
“I understand what you’re saying.”
“Good.” End of subject hummed between them, unsaid, but understood.
So far she hadn’t confided her hunch that clean-cut, boy-next-door Tony’s embezzlement had supported his secret life of drugs and blackmail. Ryder’s presence on the case supported her theory. Not so for Pierce. She knew him too well. Without hard proof of Tony’s guilt, Pierce would think she’d lost her mind for sure.
Because he was right on one point. Someone had killed Tony.
He was wrong that anyone had reason to kill her.
“Don’t forget that note in your kitchen. And we know Tony’s not a suspect.” Worry—not triumph—vibrated in his reminder.
Goose bumps shrank the skin on Quinn’s arms and raised images of the snowball-attack. Which had occurred in another lifetime. She said, “I’ll call Hector. He can go inside with me—”
“When they sell timeshares in Hell.” Pierce sighed. “Let’s sit down. We’re asleep on our feet. We’ll know more about George in a couple of hours. Then, we can go to your place. You can do your computer searches until you pass out at the keyboard.”
Quinn put her arm around his waist. If she said she’d marry him—even if she still wasn’t sure—maybe he’d capitulate. Her insides clenched. Tony’s murder—and her note—overshadowed talk about lifetime commitments.
They staggered like drunks past the tables and chairs and collapsed on the sofa. Pierce pulled her closer, shifted his shoulder for her cheek and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. His thick shoulder provided the sense of being safe.
Quinn luxuriated in the break for a moment before saying, “If I can find the password for BOTN, we’ll have all the answers we need. I’m sure of it.”
He groaned, but didn’t open his eyes. “Sleep.”
His order to sleep, together with his closeness, had the double whammy of strong black coffee. Quinn closed her eyes, but her mind sped up. Random thoughts spun like planets breaking free from gravity. Yet she whirled back to the same conviction.
BOTN held the answers, dammit. Pierce didn’t understand cyberspace or he’d agree.
“What if you took a taxi to my house?”
He sat up and scrubbed his ashen face. “How many hoops would you like me to jump through along the way?”
Heat scalded the back of her neck. The intensity in his eyes pulled her into his soul. “Sorry.” She interlaced her fingers with his. “I’m not used to people worrying about me.”
“How about protecting you? Want me to throw you over my shoulder and haul your cute little butt into the nearest cave?”
“That’s a little neanderthalish.”
“Uh-huh. Observe my
knuckles dragging the ground.” He threw her a look of pure disgust. “I already see I’ve lost this round, but I make the rules for the next round.”
Her heart dropped. Banker Pierce Jordan and his rules.
“I’m sure you want to hear the rules?” The brittle edge to his tone flashed a warning. There was a time to do battle and a time to rest.
Quinn rested, softened her shoulders and nodded.
Stating the rules took ten seconds flat. Pierce flicked them off on two fingers. “Stay with George. Or, stay near the ICU door until I get back.”
“Got it, chief.” Quinn saluted.
A vein in his temple bulged, and his eyes narrowed. Regretting her mistake, she grabbed his hand. “I’m sorry. Thank you. No more playing stand-up comedienne.”
He traced the line of her jaw from ear to chin. “Not to be melodramatic, but I will never forgive myself if you get hurt.”
Quinn swallowed, but her throat swelled, cutting off speech. She patted his cheek, then hooked her arm through his and walked him to the elevator, hoping he didn’t refuse at the last second to retrieve her computer. The selfish part of her wanted him to stay. The logical part of her wanted him gone. She simply couldn’t think with him around. And she needed to think if they wanted to find Tony’s killer.
The elevator doors snicked shut, and she bit the inside of her mouth. Do not call him back. He has enough on his plate.
In the claustrophobic waiting room, she turned her back to the wall clock, kicked off her shoes, and rummaged in her purse. When she finished digging, she aligned a clean pad of paper, three pens and a highlighter on the clean desk. Now all that was missing was her real brain—her internal computer.
Pierce returned at four o’clock to wads of paper overflowing the trash can. The deep lines around his mouth and eyes made her forget the hundreds of attempts at guessing Tony’s password. His color was a paler shade of white than the snow.
“The Baby Ruth’s brain food.” He laid the candy bar on top of her laptop, his smile lopsided, his eyes glassy, his shoulders so rigid she winced. Tony’s murder had gouged soul-deep cracks in Pierce’s cockiness.
Unraveled Page 26
