by Kylie Brant
A prowling feline appeared instantly at her entrance and wound enticingly around her ankles, demanding attention. Michele reached down to scoop up her white Persian cat. “Did you miss me, Sammy? Hmm?” she murmured, rubbing the cat’s soft fur against her cheek. She set her pet down and continued through the apartment, dropping her purse and shedding her clothes on the way to the bathroom.
Totally nude by the time she entered the room, Michele adjusted the shower, then stepped in when it reached a cool temperature. She raised her face to the spray, smoothing her hair back as the water cascaded around her. She wished she could wash the day’s distressing events away as easily as the water sluiced off her.
After stepping out of the shower she dried off vigorously, then slipped into a floor-length terry robe hanging on the back of the door. Padding barefoot to the kitchen, she found Sammy there, angrily demanding his dinner. After feeding him, Michele looked disinterestedly at the contents of her refrigerator before forcing herself to fix and eat most of a salad.
Afterward she curled up on the sofa and turned on the TV. Flipping through the channels, she finally stopped at the local daily news and watched with more interest than usual. The anchorwoman’s face turned serious as she said, “And back to the disappearances of four Philadelphia children. Mayor McIntire denied today that he is trying to turn the public’s attention from the investigation.”
The mayor’s face filled the screen, and Michele heard his voice as if from a distance, talking about the progression of the case. She hit the power button on the remote, and the resulting silence in the room seemed to reverberate.
Pulling her knees up to her chin, Michele wrapped both arms around them and laid her forehead against them. The disappearances again. It was impossible to escape the news and seemingly impossible to escape Lieutenant McLain. The last thing in the world she had expected today was to see him in her office, to have to watch horrified as he introduced himself to her co-workers. She recognized the hidden threat in his unexpected appearance. He knew how reluctant she was to have her visit to the police become public. By showing up unannounced, he’d been trying to intimidate her. Michele knew he didn’t believe her, but she couldn’t imagine what he’d intended to gain by speaking to her again, either.
She raised blank eyes to the wall, silently reliving what had passed between them that day. This whole thing had been a nightmare from the beginning, in more than just the usual way. She had been so sure, so desperate for peace, that she had convinced herself that the only way she would be released from her nightly horror was to go to the police with what she knew.
And it had seemed as if she were right, at least for a time. The trip to headquarters had been unpleasant and embarrassing, but it had cured her, at least so far, of dreaming of those children. But she was becoming grimly certain that she’d made a terrible mistake by going to the police, though she didn’t know how she could have lived with herself if she hadn’t.
Michele looked at the telephone longingly. How she wished she dared to call her mother, just to hear her loving, calm voice. But she couldn’t. She doubted her ability to keep the anxiety from her voice right now, and the last thing her mother needed was to detect what was really bothering her daughter. She had finally gotten remarried, to a man Michele heartily approved of. No one deserved happiness more than Sabrina Easton Griffen, and Michele was loath to destroy that.
She clasped her knees tighter and began to rock a little. She would like nothing more than to crawl into bed and pull the covers over her head, escaping all that had happened today. But she feared sleep after her fresh encounter with the detective, afraid that the tension of the day could result in a return of the dreams. So, unwilling to face sleep, unable to talk to anyone about her terrors, Michele rocked slowly, watching the clock as it ticked away the minutes of the night.
Chapter 3
It was late afternoon the following Saturday when Michele left the battered-victims’ shelter. She bounced jauntily down the steps in her faded jeans and T-shirt, ponytail swinging. She felt surprisingly lighthearted. The people she worked with at the shelter often changed from week to week, but their plight never did. There were times, however, such as today, when she actually felt as though she could make a difference, and those times were gratifying. She knew that she received as much as she gave, working with the women and children there.
She drove home, already busily planning the rest of her afternoon. Michele entered her home absently, scooping up Sammy in one hand and her mail in the other. She made her way through the living area, absently petting his soft fur. In the kitchen she set her pet down, and he promptly yowled his protest and wrapped himself around her ankles, batting at a shoelace. Michele sat down at the tiny table and automatically began to sort through the mail. She threw the useless junk into the trash without more than a glance.
She frowned as she picked up the last envelope. It had no name on it, nor did it bear a postmark or stamp. That was odd. She turned it over curiously, then ripped it open and drew out the single sheet of white paper.
Her stomach did a slow roll as she read the brief message. Crookedly cut letters from the newspaper were glued to the paper to form a single line of print. Stay away from cops was crudely but effectively glued to the sheet. Under the message was attached a picture of herself, one that had appeared in the newspaper several months ago, accompanying a story about her committee’s work for the homeless. A red bull’s-eye had been drawn over her face.
Michele dropped the sheet as if she’d been scalded. What kind of warped mind would think of this? Could it have been a joke by one of the neighborhood kids? A product of an elaborate game of cops and robbers? She discounted the notion almost as soon as she thought of it. She was on good terms with all those kids and often talked to them. Some of them were mischievous, certainly, but they lacked the inherent cruelty intended by the letter.
So if not kids, who? Her chair tilted back wildly as she stood up in an abrupt move, wrapping her arms around herself, suddenly cold. No one she knew was aware that she had gone to the police with information. There was no way anyone could have found out, either, unless . . . Michele’s mouth tightened.
McLain! He or one of his men must have given the information to someone. She slid weakly back into her chair at the thought. Surely the information hadn’t been released to the media.
She forced herself to think more rationally. Her involvement in the case hadn’t been made public, she decided after a few moments. There had been no phone calls from the media, nor had she been the recipient of any sidelong looks or whispered conversations of the sort that she remembered from when she was a child. She wasn’t being vain; she knew that if it had gotten out that a psychic—she cringed at the word—had gone to the police, it would have made the headlines. The media had been complaining for weeks that the police department was withholding evidence the public had a right to know. The department’s standard reply was that all information that could be prudently released had been.
But even if the press hadn’t been notified, the department, McLain specifically, had to be responsible for this information being leaked. There was no other way to explain how this crackpot had gotten hold of her name. Michele felt her ire rise rapidly. McLain was in charge of this case, and as the ranking officer, he should be held accountable, regardless of which of his officers was the source of the leak.
This did it. She had endured McLain’s harassment tactics without comment, but it was going to stop. As of now. Michele got up and grabbed her purse, reaching distastefully for the paper and envelope. She shoved both inside her purse and left the house.
Connor McLain had a lot to answer for.
* * *
The district headquarters was no less chaotic when Michele entered it than it had been on her last visit, but she gave the atmosphere little notice. As she had driven over, her fury had mounted until she was ready to grab McLain and shake him. She made her way purposefully to his office, rapped on the door onc
e before trying the knob. Locked.
She sighed with frustration. Once she stopped for a moment she noticed that the office was dark. Wonderful. Obviously the great detective had weekends off. Michele turned away from the door in exasperation. The thought of having to wait until Monday to berate McLain made her want to grind her teeth with frustration. She made her way slowly through the sea of desks, lost in her own thoughts.
“Hey! What brings you here again, Miss Easton?”
Michele’s head jerked up at the friendly greeting. Michael Riley was coming toward her, a wide smile on his cheerful face.
She smiled slightly. It was impossible not to respond to the officer’s infectious grin. “I was just here to speak to Lieutenant McLain, but it appears he’s not here.”
Riley shook his head. “Nope. He’s off all weekend. Did you have some more information for us?”
“No, nothing like that,” she explained hastily. “It’s . . . personal. I haven’t seen him recently, and I needed to talk to him about a different matter.”
Michael looked surprised, then delighted, as he misinterpreted her meaning. “You and the lieutenant have been seeing each other? That’s neat, really neat. Since you checked out all right, he must have felt okay about asking you out, right? I feel kind of responsible for bringing you two together, in that case.”
Michele stood still in shock, as much from his misunderstanding as from what he had just revealed. “Yes, I guess I ‘checked out’ just fine,” she responded slowly.
“I knew you would,” the younger man boasted. “I’m pretty good at sizing people up, and I could tell you were okay. I was kind of surprised that the lieutenant ordered a background check on you, but that’s how he is, you know. Real thorough. Did you know he was the youngest man this department has ever made detective lieutenant?”
Michele was inwardly reeling. A background check! On her! How dare he! she seethed. When she found Connor McLain, he was going to be very sorry indeed. He wasn’t going to have to worry about making whatever rank came after lieutenant. When she got done with him, he would be known as the youngest dead detective lieutenant this department had ever seen. She realized belatedly that Mike was looking at her expectantly, and her mind scurried to come up with the answer he so obviously expected. “Uh, yes, that is, I mean, no, I didn’t know.”
“I guess the lieutenant wouldn’t talk about it. He’s a pretty modest guy,” Mike continued.
It was painfully obvious that Officer Michael Riley suffered from a bad case of hero worship for the soon-to-be-deceased Connor McLain. “I’m sure he is,” Michele answered stiffly.
“I’m sorta surprised, though,” continued Mike chattily. “You’re not really the lieutenant’s type. I mean,” he went on hastily, “what used to be his type. What I mean is, you’re classier than his usual dates.”
I’ll just bet, she thought darkly. She attempted to answer normally. “Well, I have to admit, I’ve never met anyone like him either.” And hope never to again, she added silently. It took effort to extricate herself from the conversation, as Mike was eager to expound on McLain’s sterling character. Pleading a prior appointment, she excused herself and left the building.
She was even more furious with the lieutenant now, after Mike’s disclosure, and less inclined to wait until Monday to confront him. She tapped the steering wheel in frustration as she waited for a light to turn green. Struck with an idea, she pulled over at the earliest opportunity and took out her cell phone. After a few minutes of online search, she found the listing she was looking for.
C. McLain.
With a quick burst of hope she memorized the address and brought up the navigation app on the phone. Typing it in, she was rewarded when route guidance started a moment later. Michele smiled tightly as she checked traffic before pulling away from the curb again. If the address did indeed belong to the detective, he was about to see how he felt about unexpected visitors.
Twenty minutes later Michele was getting out of her car in front of a small white house with green shutters. She looked it over carefully. The front door was standing partially open to let in the cool June breeze. She braced herself. Now, Detective Lieutenant McLain, she thought grimly as she started up the walk, I hope I give you the jolt of your life.
Connor McLain’s forearms bulged as he lifted the barbell for the fiftieth time. Sweat ran profusely from his face and dampened his back and chest. Fifty-one. Fifty-two. Fifty—Rrrring. He cursed out loud as he brought the barbell down with a crash against the stand. The doorbell sounded again. He sat up and grabbed a towel, wiping his face as he made his way up the stairs from the basement.
“Yeah, yeah,” he shouted, as the buzzer sounded persistently again. “What’s your damn hur—” His final words were bitten off as he pulled the door completely open and saw who was standing there.
Well, well, well, he thought bemusedly as he stared back at the woman before him. The porcelain princess has come down from her throne to visit the peasants. Then his flight of fancy hardened.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded brusquely.
“Aren’t you going to ask me in?”
Connor stared at her for a moment before shrugging and pushing open the screen door for her to enter. He turned and led the way through the small living room to an even smaller kitchen. “Did you decide to come and check out the contents of my closet after all?” he threw over his shoulder.
Michele knew she shouldn’t be surprised at his rudeness. She gritted her teeth and followed him to the kitchen where he held a glass under the faucet before raising it to down the contents in one long swallow. He ran another glassful before shutting off the faucet and turning to face her.
“To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” he asked sardonically.
“To several things, actually,” Michele began, feeling her fury rise again as she thought of the events that had led her here. “Let’s start with your incredible stupidity, for one. And your utter gall,” she bit off, glaring at him.
He gazed silently at the obviously angry woman in front of him. With those long legs sheathed in jeans and her hair pulled back with a barrette, she looked like a high schooler. He took another long drink of water. Those gorgeous gray eyes that she usually schooled to a silvery blankness were anything but blank now. They were actually spitting fire. He smiled slightly. He much preferred them shooting darts at him than devoid of any emotion at all. “Let’s narrow this down a little,” he drawled. “Just what have I done that you disagree with?”
Michele wasn’t fooled by his innocent act. “You—” she came forward and stabbed him in the chest with her forefinger “—had me checked out! Me! Would you like to explain just what you hoped to find by running a background check on me?”
Connor’s eyes narrowed. “Where did you get that information?”
“Never mind!” Michele snarled at him, her face close to his. “I’m not answering any more of your questions. It’s time you answered a few of mine. Just what the heck do you hope to find out by snooping around in my life?”
“What is it you’re so eager to hide?” Connor countered, before taking another long swallow from the glass.
Michele ground her teeth in frustration. He was being deliberately obtuse. She drew in a deep breath, in an effort to regain her calm. She stared at him mutely, attempting to give herself some time before she reached out and strangled him. For the first time she looked, really looked, at him.
Slow heat suffused her body. He was very bare. He wore running shoes with no socks, brief shorts and a gray tank top. Perspiration had stained his shirt and tangled his dark blond hair. She had obviously interrupted him in the midst of some sort of exercise.
Suddenly she felt smothered. Needing some space between them, she turned and moved away before facing him again. This time she kept her eyes trained strictly on his face. “Tell me why you ordered a background check on me,” she demanded with forced calmness.
Connor surveyed her silentl
y for long moments. He hadn’t really expected that Michele would learn of the discreet inquiries Cruz had made, but it was possible. What interested him more was the fact that she was so agitated about it. Was that an indication of her duplicity in the case, or the honest indignation of an average citizen?
His mouth twisted. Honest was the last word he would apply to a woman like her. It was obvious she was upset. She was probably unused to being treated with suspicion, her being such a high-society professional and all.
It was that thought more than anything else that made him abruptly throw his normal caution to the wind. If she wanted answers, she would damn well get them. And he was certain the lovely princess wouldn’t like them.
“It’s standard procedure to run a check on someone who has information about a crime. Especially when you suspect that the person might have been involved herself.”
Michele’s mouth opened in shock, but nothing came out. She felt as though she were reeling from an invisible blow. “Me?” she questioned faintly, still unable to believe it. “You suspected I might have been involved in the kidnappings?” Taking Connor’s silence for agreement, she shook her head in disbelief before swinging her gaze back to him. “But why?” she asked, unaware of the almost plaintive note in her voice.
Connor watched her through hooded eyes. Whatever else this woman was, she was one hell of an actress. If she was acting, which she had to be, he corrected himself grimly. He didn’t believe her lame story about dreaming about that jacket. Nobody outside the few men working on the case and Connor‘s superiors knew of it. Nor had Connor been able to find a leak among those officers. As far as he had been able to ascertain, Michele Easton had never had any contact with any of his men until she came to the police with her information.
She had been at several of the same fund-raising functions as the mayor and Brad Jacobs, the current D.A. But neither man was a fool; neither would spread such information. Connor had even checked—discreetly, of course—to see if there was possibly a closer connection between Michele and Jacobs, McIntire or even the police commissioner. It wouldn’t have been the first time that, in the midst of an illicit affair, pillow talk ensued.
