by Terry Odell
“Whoa.” Scott grabbed her arm—gently—and turned her to face him. “Slow down. Deep breath. Start at the beginning.”
“Better if I show you. This way.”
Ashley led Scott to a door marked Employees Only between the two restrooms and opened the door. “In here.”
A storage closet. He froze. His feet grew roots. The palpitations began.
Breathe, damn it. You did fine before.
But that had been a clothes closet, and he’d been there with another cop. Keeping his mind on task had been easier.
Scott closed his eyes and pictured himself in the shrink’s office. “Focus on your breathing,” the doc had said. Over and over. “In. Slowly. Out. More slowly.”
About the only useful thing Scott had taken from his sessions. And it only worked about twenty-five percent of the time. Let now be one of those times. Please. Ignoring the sweat, Scott concentrated on following the shrink’s lessons.
Ashley flipped on the light. Scott exhaled one last slow breath, grateful she hadn’t seemed to notice. At least pretend you were once a cop, not a basket case. He stepped closer.
Aside from the fact that the bucket and mops looked new, it looked like any other repository for janitorial supplies. A shelving unit held bottles, jugs, and cans of familiar household cleansers and disinfectants, along with cartons of toilet paper and paper towels.
But Ashley had said one of the workers thought something was amiss. Certainly nothing in here would have sent up red flags. He kicked his brain into cop gear. Something in here worth killing for? Drugs? Thankful his attack seemed to have passed, he took a purposeful stride toward the supplies.
***
Smiling inwardly, Ashley repeated Scott’s previous gesture, tugging at his sleeve to stop him. He jerked to a halt at her touch. She let her smile reach her mouth. “Whoa. Slow down.”
Scott seemed confused. He paused, breathing audibly for a moment before speaking. “There could be evidence in here.”
“Evidence? These are cleaning supplies. That’s not what Willie was talking about.”
“You’re sure?”
“They were delivered this afternoon. And they match my order. What did you think?”
Instead of looking embarrassed, Scott frowned. “Drugs, but I was keeping an open mind.”
“Well, these things weren’t here when Felicity was killed, so I don’t think they count.” She picked up a broom and hoisted it above her head, tapping on the ceiling with the handle. It gave off a dull thunk. “What do you think?”
“Sounds hollow. Trap door?” Scott squinted at the ceiling. “What’s up there?”
“Nothing, as far as I know. This building used to be a residence. Way back when, they divided the ground floor in half. But the upstairs hasn’t been used in decades. When I leased the space for the bakery, I asked about it, thinking it might be something I could grow into. Maybe do special private functions. But that would be somewhere down the road. All I know is the downstairs is mine, and the owner wasn’t interested in dealing with what it would take to get the upstairs brought up to code. He’s simply letting it sit.”
“Was this retail space before you leased it?”
Ashley nodded. “It was a dress shop. And before that, a Laundromat. And at least two others. One was a café, I think. Would have been better if that had been the most recent tenant. Less remodeling. But when I got here, the space had been sitting empty for a couple of months. I gutted it and basically started from scratch.”
“So, what’s the significance of a trap door? Why did the worker point it out to you? Seems like it wouldn’t be unusual in an old house.”
“I guess. But the death shook him up, and he remembered seeing light on their recent late-night session.”
“Light?” Scott squinted upward again. “From up there?”
“Yes. Willie was installing shelves, and apparently jostled something so the trap door didn’t have as tight a seal as it had. All I know is he said he saw light, and thought he should mention it.”
“He didn’t look for himself?”
“No. Like I said, not the sharpest tool in the box, and if it didn’t interfere with his task, it didn’t matter to him.”
Scott pursed his lips. “Ladder?”
Ashley tried not to think about those lips, and what they’d feel like pressed against hers. What had he asked her? She was definitely losing focus. Ladder. Right. “It’s a little two-step job. Will that do?”
He looked toward the ceiling again, and she could see him doing mental calculations. “It’s a start,” he said.
“It’s in the kitchen. I’ll be right back.” She dashed away, chastising herself for thinking of Scott as something luscious she could devour like one of her brownies. But she remembered the way he’d sort of kissed her forehead back in her apartment. And in the park, when he’d put his arms around her. Warm. Broad chest. No flab.
Don’t be silly. He was being comforting. Those were moral support gestures. Nothing sexual.
But could it go that way?
She shoved those thoughts aside and retrieved the little folding stepstool and brought it to the storeroom. She paused outside the open door. Scott leaned against the wall, eyes closed. Tired, she thought. And probably hurting.
“I have this for getting things down from high shelves,” she said, more as a way of announcing her presence than because Scott needed to know why she had a stepstool. “I’m not sure it’s suited for trap doors in ceilings.”
His eyes popped open, and he reached for the stool. After releasing the catch to unfold it, he set it under the target. Without a word, as if he was ashamed she’d caught him in a moment of weakness, he climbed onto the upper step and reached for the ceiling.
With his fingers inches from the door above, he froze. “Damn,” he muttered under his breath. He shoved his hands in his pockets as if searching for something. “Gloves. You have any?”
Ashley smiled. “As a matter of fact, yes. Standard kitchen hygiene equipment.” She dashed to the kitchen again, found the box, and brought the whole thing back. She tore the box open and removed a pair. “I hope they’ll fit.”
“I’ll make do.” He tugged one onto his left hand, then ran his fingertips along the edge of the door. She imagined them—minus the latex, of course—stroking her neck. Another thought to banish to the back burner. The way, way, back burner. Turned all the way off.
“Can you open it?” she asked.
He stepped down. “You said you only leased the downstairs?”
She nodded. “That’s right. Why?”
“Because we don’t have the right to go up there without permission from the owner. You have his name?”
She gave it to him. “But I don’t have his number.”
“That’s okay. I’ll let Kovak know. Let him take care of getting permission to search, call in the techs.”
“You think that’s how Felicity got into the shop?”
“It’s a definite possibility, but no way to know until someone looks. And I’d rather make sure we don’t disturb any potential evidence.”
“Like in crime scene?” Visions of more yellow tape filled her brain. Her heart sank. “Am I going to get kicked out of my bakery? Again?”
“I’m sure it’ll be very short term.” Scott stroked her arm.
Okay, maybe that back burner had been turned to simmer. Although his touch had her rapidly approaching the melting point.
Scott pulled out his cell phone. She couldn’t fail to notice that he manipulated the device one-handed, leaving the other on her arm. He related what they’d found. “And bring a ladder.” He slid the phone back into its clip.
“What now?” she asked.
“We wait.”
“You mean I can’t go up there and look? It’s attached to my bakery. I mean the trap door is in the ceiling, and that’s on my side, so if I say it’s okay to look, why can’t you?”
He shook his head. “Legally, you don’t have the ri
ght to go up there, or give anyone else permission to do so. Only the property owner can do that.”
She stared at the ceiling, curiosity coursing through her. She wished she’d peeked before she called him. It might not have been legal, but at least she’d know what was there.
Scott’s phone chirped. His grip on her arm tightened for a second. With the other hand, he unclipped the phone and brought it to his ear without checking the display. “This is Scott.” A pause. “Right. We’ll be here.” He put the phone away again. “Kovak and Mike Connor should be here in about fifteen minutes. He’d like you to hang around.”
“No problem.” Since he still hadn’t removed his hand, she inched closer. Not even an inch, really. Not even enough so he’d notice, she thought. But he did.
His hand snaked around her waist and pulled her close. His other hand fingered a strand of her hair, tucking it behind her ear. She gazed into his eyes, seeing her desire reflected in his. His lips parted. His head tilted, already aligned as he moved in. Slowly. Too slowly. She reached up, grabbed the back of his head and yanked his lips against hers.
His lips parted on a gasp. Surprise? Second thoughts? She didn’t care. Taking the initiative, she probed with her tongue. Momentary panic threatened. What if he didn’t respond? What if she was making a complete fool of herself? He lived next door, for God’s sake. She’d never be able to face him. She’d have to move. But before she could retreat, Scott’s tongue slid across hers. His stubble-roughened jaw contrasted with the softness of his lips. His grip tightened, drawing her closer.
And then, it was no longer a case of who initiated what. It was the two of them. Together. Equals.
Scott’s hand moved upward, stroking her back. Massaging her neck. All the while, his tongue explored her mouth. Like molten chocolate, she melted against him.
Her fingers brushed across his hair. Soft, fuzzy. A fleeting memory of Flopsy, the stuffed bunny she’d adored as a child wound through her thoughts. Along with a thought that right now, other parts of him were definitely not something she’d call Flopsy.
Chapter 14
Scott’s leg ached, his shoulder throbbed, but he’d collapse in a heap before he’d break the connection with Ashley. This was more than a returning libido proving it hadn’t disappeared for good. This was—Ashley. He caressed her back, letting the motion ease the tension in his shoulder. He shifted his weight slightly, trying to relieve some of the pressure on his sore thigh. All that did was create more pressure on his hard-on, swapping one ache for another. But a more bearable kind of ache.
He explored her, tasted her, inhaled her scent. And she kissed him back. Did she ever. A few brain cells told him Kovak and Connor would be arriving soon, and he really ought to get things under control before they did. But Ashley’s fingers in his hair sent tingles—did men get tingles?—down his spine.
Nothing wrong with tingles, he decided. He was man enough to handle a tingle or two. Or eleven thousand, if they came from Ashley.
A knock at the front door registered. Reluctantly, he broke the connection. “That’s probably Kovak.”
Ashley stepped back and pushed her hair into place. Scott almost asked her to open the door while he waited for things to settle. But a quick assessment of Ashley squelched that idea. Her lips were swollen, her eyes bright. She looked like she’d been doing exactly what she’d been doing. What they’d been doing.
Another knock, louder. “Whelan?”
“That’s Kovak, all right,” he murmured, gently running his index finger down her cheek. He took a breath, hoping to ensure his voice wouldn’t sound like he’d been doing what he’d been doing. “Hang on. Be right there.”
He strolled to the door, forcing a neutral expression before opening it for Kovak, Conner, and a stepladder. “Sorry. Was in the john.”
Kovak’s gaze raked Scott from head to toe. Scott turned and strode toward the closet. “It’s this way.”
Kovak hoisted the ladder. Mike Connor matched Scott’s stride. A Nikon hung around the tech’s neck, and he carried a kit identical to the ones the CSIs at County used. Scott had toured Connor’s lab on his first day, and had been impressed with what Pine Hills had available. Connor had explained that a citizen thought their town ought to have something like what he’d seen on television.
“We might be small, but that doesn’t mean we’re backward,” the old guy had said. And because he had bucks and clout, the people had backed a small, but well-equipped lab.
Scott shook his head. That would never happen at County.
When they reached the closet, Kovak stopped. “Miss Eagan, can you tell me why you called Scott?”
Scott listened as Ashley repeated what she’d told him, pleased that her voice was steady. She definitely made a credible witness.
“All right,” Kovak said, slipping his notebook into his pocket and pulling out his gloves. He stepped into the closet, looked at the ceiling, then folded the stepstool and set it outside. “Too bad the big guy isn’t here. This would have been tall enough for him.”
Scott helped him set up the stepladder in the confined space. He held the metal rails steady as Kovak ascended. Kovak shoved the door. It opened without a sound. Kovak flipped on his flashlight. His head disappeared into the void.
“Connor.” Kovak’s voice boomed down. “With me.” He crawled into the space.
Scott stepped aside enough to allow Connor access to the ladder. Scott’s leg ached watching the nimble tech practically fly up the steps, holding the camera steady against his chest as he climbed.
Intermittent flashes from Connor’s camera along with the distinctive shutter clicks became the universe of the storage closet. Scott’s heart pounded, and his hands clenched and unclenched on the ladder rails.
Ashley moved closer, resting her hand over one of his. “Are you going up, too?”
Scott gritted his teeth. Shook his head. “Not my job.”
She left her hand where it was, her thumb rubbing tiny circles. “But you wish it was, don’t you?”
He jerked his hands away, shoved them in his pockets. “No. I’m over that.”
Her silence said she’d heard the lie, even if it wasn’t the one she thought she’d heard. Sweat trickled in his armpits, and he tried to control the hammering of his heart. A vise gripped his chest, and he struggled to breathe.
He sidled away from Ashley and leaned against the wall. The flashes and clicks were farther apart now. Footfalls resounded from the ceiling, getting softer as they moved away.
Apparently oblivious to his condition, Ashley tilted her head back, gazing into the darkness. “What are they doing up there?”
He sucked in a breath, found his center. “Documenting the scene. They’ll take pictures of everything. Then, if there’s anything that looks like evidence, they’ll collect it. Connor will analyze what he can. Anything requiring tests he can’t do locally will go to the county. Maybe the state. Depends on what they have.”
“Will it delay my opening?”
“I can’t promise, but I wouldn’t expect them to hold the scene more than a day, two at the most.” Unless there was another body up there, but he hadn’t caught a whiff of decomp when Kovak had opened the door.
Which reminded him. “Have you heard from your contractor? He seems to have gone off the grid.”
“Carl?” Her brow wrinkled.
“Nobody’s been able to reach him since they found the body.”
“You think Carl killed Felicity?”
“I don’t think anything. He’d be a person of interest, although the disappearing act moves him closer to suspect territory.”
“I can’t imagine Carl killing anyone.” She frowned. “But—”
“But what?”
“Well, he hasn’t called me today. But since there’s nothing going on, I didn’t think anything of it. And then there’s Belinda.”
“Nesbitt?” he asked. “What about her?”
“You know her?”
“No, but K
ovak said she suggested the victim—Felicity—might have had a string of lovers. Maybe Carl was one of them and things went south.”
“Carl’s married. He has three kids. I can’t imagine—”
Scott shook his head. “Being married with kids won’t keep him off a cop’s radar.”
Ashley lowered her gaze. “Yeah. I get it.”
Something in her tone said this one had hit close to home. He let it drop. Now wasn’t the time for soul-baring moments.
The theme from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly whistled from the other room. Ashley bolted. “That’s Carl.”
Scott hobbled after her. Damn, he needed to get off his feet. And a hit of his meds wouldn’t hurt. He fished in his pocket for his pill vial and dry swallowed the other half dose.
Ashley had the phone to her ear. Scott resisted the urge to grab it from her hand and question the contractor himself.
“Carl,” she said. “What’s up?”
Her face registered shock. “I’m so sorry. Is he all right?”
After a brief pause, her expression brightened. “That’s fantastic. Of course, I’ll be here.”
Before Scott could say anything, Ashley disconnected and set her phone beside her purse. She dashed into her kitchen and grabbed a large manila envelope, dumping its contents on the counter.
“What did he say?” Scott asked, two steps behind her. “Where is he?”
***
As Ashley dug through the paperwork looking for the receipt from the storage company, the intensity of Scott’s questions ripped through her excitement. Of course. He was intent on solving a case and had no vested interest in her business. Still seeking the receipt she needed, she replied, “His father-in-law had a massive heart attack. He went with his wife and kids to be there. Between being on airplanes and in the hospital, he’s been out of communication.”
“I see,” Scott said. “That’s too bad.”
His tone belied the words. She set the mess of papers onto the counter. “It sounds more like you don’t believe me.”
