No One Left To Tell no-2

by Jordan Dane

  Who the hell was he? And why was he connected to so much death?

  Christian slumped to the cement floor, stunned. Raven knew he shouldn't be touching the evidence, but she couldn't deny the man his shocking disbelief. He looked dazed. Her heart ached for him.

  "Scott. We're gonna need a team here." Tony's voice droned in the background. Her partner served as a stark reminder of her duty. Despite her feelings to the contrary, she'd come to do a job. And Christian was not officially part of it. Kneeling by his side, she clasped his hand and squeezed it. She found defeat in his eyes.

  "Christian, come with me."

  She felt sure he hadn't heard her at first. Then he stood and let her lead him through the maze, toward the doorway. Although he stared straight ahead, he looked completely lost. Only a small part of him remained. With the sun low in the sky, a chill captured the intruding night air, hurling a gust at their feet. Standing by the entrance, she broke the silence.

  "I'll make sure you get copies of the articles," she offered. In reply, he merely lowered his head. "What do you think they mean? Obviously, the killer staged it all."

  By the pained expression on his face, she knew the question already had occurred to him. He just shook his head. For a long while, she wasn't sure he'd speak.

  "Seek the truth, Christian. I wish I knew . . ." His thought trailed off, vanquished by his overwhelming ordeal. He didn't hide the emotion, nor had he wiped the drying path of a tear. Her attraction deepened. But she had a job to do.

  "What do you know about the murder of Charles Dunhill?" The accusation was absent from her voice. He'd been only a boy when Dunhill had been murdered. "I want to help you find the truth, Christian. Please let me do that."

  "I'm afraid of what I'm gonna find, Raven." The honesty caught in his throat. "I thought I knew who I was, but now—"

  "You told me that Mickey might have supplemented his income with a sniper rifle. And Charles Dunhill was killed by a sniper."

  Her words hung in the air like a malevolent cloud, judging by his reaction. She knew it wasn't directed at her. Yet his fierce green eyes absorbed her insinuation without a word, eventually softening to his shattered acceptance of her rationale.

  "Do you think that's the connection to Mickey? Could he have killed Dunhill? Maybe that's the truth the killer wants you to find."

  "I don't know. It was so long ago. But I think the killer assumes there's a link. Maybe the bigger question is why Dunhill was killed. That's the truth I need to find. That reason could shed some light on my past." He closed his eyes and lowered his chin. His shoulders slumped with the weight of his only reasonable course of action. "Look, I know I have no right to ask this, but can you locate the old police files for the Dunhill murder investigation? Maybe we can find a lead there."

  "We?" she questioned. "Now we're a team?"

  "I deserved that."

  By the look of him, Christian knew how tenuous his status was in their investigation. But it didn't stop him from trying. She understood completely. If their roles had been reversed, it wouldn't have stopped her, either.

  "I'm asking you. Please. You said you wanted to help. I need you, Raven. I can't do this on my own."

  She searched his eyes. God, how she wanted to trust him. And as much as he needed help from the police, she and Tony could certainly benefit from his complete cooperation. Obviously, the case dealt with his past. Still, she had an active investigation to conduct—in the here and now. As if she were walking a tight wire, she balanced between personal desire and duty. No safety net.

  "Let me talk it over with Tony. But if we share the old case file, I have to know you're completely with us. No more hidden agendas."

  "I understand. And for me, there's more at stake here than just my past. Not sure I can make any promises until I talk to someone. Can you accept that?"

  Raven had been willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. She expected a show of relief on his face. But instead, his usual somber expression returned, tinged with a seductive vulnerability. All he had to do was play ball, but he warned her that he couldn't make promises. Someone was in harm's way. And he'd forgo his own motives to protect whoever it was. Things just got complicated.

  "You're stretching my patience, Delacorte." She furrowed her brow, unsure how to proceed. Another tack occurred to her. "Can you think of anyplace else that Mickey might have kept some kind of locker? I found a key in his desk that seemed out of place."

  He thought for a moment. "Nothing comes to mind. But give me time to think on that."

  "I need a show of good faith, Christian. You're not giving me anything to work with here."

  "I know," he muttered. "But I will. It's just that there's something I have to do first."

  An undercurrent of anxiety contradicted his usually stoic nature. Completely understandable. But it also looked like he struggled to confide in her—throwing her off-balance. How could she rely on him?

  With a new resolve, he affirmed her notion. "I want you to trust me, but I haven't given you much reason to do that."

  Somewhere in his words, she searched for honesty— needed to find it. Christian gazed upon her as if seeing her for the first time. He brushed back a strand of her hair. The act of tenderness implied an affection he hadn't communicated before now. It seduced the very breath from her lips. And by the restrained desire in his eyes, the move even caught him by surprise.

  "Have dinner with me. Tonight." He pulled from her and threw out his invitation as he stepped through the door, safely distancing himself. "We need to talk."

  "My house. Eight sharp. I'll cook." Her mouth promised what she couldn't deliver. For her, cooking was anything stuck in the microwave, ready in five minutes—or a heaping bowl of cereal. After giving him her address, she added, "You bring the wine." Despite a lack of competence in the kitchen, she promised a home-cooked meal, like they'd done this a thousand times.

  A faint smile touched his lips, like he read her mind. It had been so subtle, she might have missed it altogether.

  "Thanks," he replied. Picking up his pace, he headed for his car just as her team of CSI pulled onto the street.

  What the hell had just happened?

  Tony stepped beside her. "So you got a hot date tonight—and dinner, no less." He crossed his arms over his chest. "Is this a subtle interrogation technique, plying him with an overload of carbs and Pinot Noir?"

  "He wants to talk."

  "My wife, Yolie, will be the first one to tell you—I am a guy. And even if she didn't want to personally vouch for me, I got my man card to prove it. So I've got a pretty good idea what's on his mind. Not sure about you. Like the book says, women are from Pluto."

  "And men are fresh from Uranus. What's your point, Tony?"

  He turned toward her with a hesitant smile and placed his hand on her elbow, giving it a tug. "The guy's got more baggage than the airlines, Mac. And I should know; one of them still has my best Samsonite, a family heirloom lovingly bundled in duct tape. It might be you're setting up for a very big fall."

  Despite his attempt at humor, concern shaped his expression when he spoke again. "And we haven't absolved him from any wrongdoing here. Keep that in mind. You're playing a very dangerous game with a guy who might've invented the word 'dangerous.' When you look up the word in the dictionary—"

  "Yeah, I know. I'm gonna find his picture." She sighed, paraphrasing his long-standing joke. "And he'll be smiling."

  "Still, if he does want to talk, you might be able to learn something useful about his past." Hooking a knuckle under her chin, he badgered her culinary skills. "Why don't you stick around here for a while, then take off when you need to. Knowing you, your cupboards are bare of anything remotely edible by a man's standards. You'll need time to grocery shop and memorize a cookbook or two. I can take care of things here."

  "Oh, God, you're right. Why did I promise to cook?" A jumble of expletives rolled from her mouth, easing a chuckle from Tony.

  "You're gonna do fin
e," he lied, not very adept at the art. "Just take care of your heart, partner." His expression grew more solemn. "That part could use some Kevlar."

  She smiled at Tony, giving his shoulder a soft punch. "Thanks for the tip, tough guy. Your Yolanda is one lucky woman."

  "That's what I keep trying to tell her." He laughed.

  Backing away, she let the CSI crew through the doorway, nodding a greeting. "Come on, Tony. We got a crime scene to process. The quicker we start, the sooner you'll be home with your beautiful wife and adorable kids."

  "If I get home at a reasonable hour, Yolie will think I'm a burglar. She'd shoot me if she allowed a weapon in the house besides my service revolver."

  "Maybe you're the one needing the Kevlar, my friend."

  She loved getting the rare opportunity to make Tony laugh. Usually it was the other way around. Given their work, it tipped the scales to have a partner she had grown to love like a brother.

  Within an hour, Raven rushed home via the neighborhood grocery store—a list of ingredients filling her brain. Before leaving, she heard Tony arrange to hitch a ride back to the station house with one of the crime-scene techs.

  Beyond the normal anxiety surrounding her unsteadiness in the kitchen, her pulse raced at the thought of Christian in her home. She'd been trained to defend herself against larger opponents, scored well at the firing range, was proficient in multiple weapons. Yet the idea of this man crossing her threshold, being invited to share her personal space, unnerved her beyond reason. After all, she was no Martha Stewart.

  What the hell had she been thinking?

  "I made you a promise, Logan. I know where the pretty detective lives." Vinnie beamed as he spoke into his cell phone, pleased he'd finally satisfied McBride on the subject of Raven Mackenzie. "And you were right. It looks like she lives alone."

  With the heater in his truck faltering, he recited the address, giving the man a general sense of the location. The small bungalow was situated northwest of Wrigley Field in a quiet neighborhood of neatly trimmed lawns, flower boxes, pruned hedges, and unattached garages set behind cyclone fences. He imagined the quiet suburb would be thrown off its axis when Logan McBride arrived.

  "You think she'd be receptive to a male caller?" McBride asked. "On such short notice?"

  Logan's soft laughter sent shivers down Vinnie's spine. He'd been on the receiving end of the man's idea of humor. A small part of him felt sorry for the woman. Fortunately, this weakness was short-lived, as he suspected the detective might soon be.

  "She's just been grocery shopping. I'm sure she's up for some entertaining," he replied. If Logan hadn't been in the picture, Vinnie would have considered paying a social call himself. His blood churned south, giving rise to his show of bravado.

  "Good job, Vin. Now get out of there before you draw flies." Logan ended the call with his usual lack of protocol.

  Shifted into gear, his old truck rumbled a protest when it lurched forward. Vinnie grinned, content he'd done what he could to please McBride. He served up the good detective on a platter, ripe for the taking. After tonight, Detective Raven Mackenzie would understand what it felt like to have the Devil cross her path.

  As for himself, he wasn't sure if he considered his involvement with Logan a curse or a questionable stroke of good fortune. But he was willing to share the experience.

  Dusk resisted the impending darkness with the last-ditch effort of the sun, spewing tendrils of pale orange across a surging night sky. The sheer draperies of his bedroom window flushed in pastel. Yet in the dying light, his sense of urgency mounted. Christian rationalized that the tension stemmed from his habitual reaction to the coming darkness, understanding and accepting the daily occurrence. But his stress was exacerbated by his concern for Fiona. He stopped his pacing and pulled back the fabric, hoping the view of the lingering sunlight would calm him.

  But two of his security personnel, dressed in black uniforms and carrying weapons, patrolled along a pathway outside his bedroom window. The reality of his predicament made painfully clear. Despite the beauty surrounding him, the threat of violence existed. It was his life. With a heavy sigh, he let the drape fall. Turning, he stared at the phone on his nightstand.

  Christian dreaded what he had to do.

  It went against years of trust, built by a bond forged from a fragile and broken childhood. But he couldn't put it off any longer. He had to find Fiona, retrace her movements. Slowly, he moved toward his bed and sat on the edge of his mattress, imagining the sound of her voice. Still, he had no idea what she'd say.

  How was she connected to Mickey? To him, she'd admitted a link to the man. If the police discovered that Mickey had killed Charles Dunhill, would the next logical leap be that Fiona had been involved in her husband's death? And what did all this have to do with his family's massacre?

  Dread filled him, jarring bile in his stomach. Dialing the number to Dunhill Security, he waited for someone to answer.

  "Security. Edwards speaking."

  "Hey, Bill. This is Christian. Any luck on that special assignment I gave you?"

  Christian had known Bill Edwards for a number of years. Trusting the man to be discreet, he had asked him to do a preliminary search on Fiona's whereabouts. The connection between Mickey and the Dunhill armory had instigated his initial concern. And after seeing the place, he felt glad he'd assigned the job to this man.

  "Not yet, Christian. But something of interest just came up. I was getting ready to call you."

  "Oh? What's up?" He wasn't sure he could handle another complication.

  "Someone representing themselves as Dunhill Security has been asking about Mrs. Dunhill. Apparently, they're attempting to do the very thing you've asked from me—trying to find her." The grave tone of his voice only mirrored Christian's apprehension. "Whoever it is has contacted the hangar and some of her favorite haunts in Europe. I've determined they came up empty so far, but maybe their luck will turn. What do you want me to do?"

  He shut his eyes and took a deep breath. Someone else searched for Fiona. It took him a moment to compose himself enough to speak.

  "Keep looking for her. When she wants to hide, she's a damned ghost. I just wish she wasn't so good at it."

  "I'll keep in touch, Christian. You'll know something the second I do."

  "Thanks. And Bill, keep this assignment between you and me."

  "I know, boss. Hang in there."

  Without fanfare, the call ended. But he was more worried now than before. Why had Fiona run? And who trailed her now? The part that hurt the worst was her lack of faith in him to help her. He owed her his life. And she hadn't trusted him with her own.

  Rising from the bed, he yanked the shirttail from his slacks and unbuttoned his shirt, heading for the bathroom and a long shower. He wanted to talk to Fiona before committing to help the police. But now, his surrogate mother would have to trust his judgment on the matter. The old police files on the assassination of Charles Dunhill might hold the key to this whole mystery—or be the last nail in Fiona's coffin. He had no choice. With someone after Fiona, his instincts told him to push ahead.

  And after the way he'd treated the beautiful Raven Mackenzie, he'd have to coerce her into helping him. The thought of pressing her for help didn't entirely displease him.

  Steam from the shower billowed in the small bathroom and blurred the mirror in a matter of minutes. Out of habit, Raven cracked the door an inch to let the moisture escape before she stepped in. Her old home had its bothersome idiosyncrasies, offset by the treasured memories crammed into every nook and cranny. Normally more frugal with her hot water, Raven made this concession to relax after a long day. Slipping her fluffy white terry-cloth robe from her shoulders, she hung it on a hook and slid open the opaque shower door. After stepping into the bathtub, she closed the door and breathed in thick steam.

  A low gasp escaped her lips when the water doused her skin, reddening the surface. As she stuck her head directly under the hot blast, the water tingled he
r scalp and massaged her body with its scorching pressure. She closed her eyes and let the steady stream pummel her. Hot water poured down her face and shoulders. God, it felt good. It almost made her forget she had a guest coming.

  Almost.

  Spaghetti sauce was set to a low simmer on her stove. Bubbling pockets of tomato sauce infused fresh herbs all through the ingredients. A simple salad cooled in her refrigerator. All that remained was to cook the pasta and to pop garlic bread under the broiler.

  Her father had taught her the sauce recipe, handed down from a mother who died when she was too young to cherish any real remembrances. It had been her father's way of sharing the woman he loved. So with every ingredient, her mother's devotion now filled her family home with a heady aroma.

  Cooking for one had always been a challenge. It'd been a long time since she'd invited someone for a home-cooked meal. Too long. Her small dining table was set for two. And thus far, she had successfully resisted the urge to place candles as a centerpiece. This wasn't a date, she reminded herself. The last time she checked her manual on police procedures, candles were not a necessary formality for an interrogation. Under normal circumstances.

  A smile touched her lips—a man like Christian was anything but routine.

  Night had robbed the sky of light. Logan loved the anonymity of the dark. The modest neighborhood was now steeped in shadows. Only the occasional security light at a side door or the glow from a living room window would give him away if he were silhouetted by it. He parked on the next block over. Now on foot, he slowly crept closer to her bungalow, careful not to be noticed.

  He had the tools he needed to break in. Now all he needed was a dark corner to work. He sneered when he found it. A tall evergreen shrub would give him cover, protection from any unwanted attention from a nosy neighbor. Carefully, he unscrewed an overhead light bulb by the carport, his hand insulated by a black leather glove. Cops were just as vulnerable to home invasion. Their egos probably made them feel invincible.