by Kylie Brant
But he had been unsuccessful following that line, as well. Most likely someone had made a slip about the jacket to a third party, who had in turn mentioned it to Michele. Unless, of course, his original suspicion was correct and Michele Easton was in on this up to her pretty white neck. If that were true, it made her voluntary involvement in the case even harder to fathom.
“Why not you? You come to us with some cock-and-bull story about dreaming up this information. You beg us not to tell anyone else. You get defensive when I show up at your office.”
Michele had partially recovered from her shock. She could feel her anger rising again. “I don’t believe this!” she exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air. She paced several steps before twirling back to him. “Is this how you treat every citizen who comes to you with information? You insult them—no, don’t deny it,” she said sarcastically as he appeared ready to interrupt. “You’ve treated me from the beginning like a lunatic. That’s fine. I’d half expected that. I believed that doing what was right would make up for the very real possibility that the police would laugh at me, or worse. But you have absolutely no reason, none, to suspect me. If this is the way you run your investigations, Lieutenant McLain—” her voice was scathing “—it’s certainly no wonder you’ve made little headway on this case.”
Connor listened to her tirade emotionlessly, until she appeared to have finished. He carefully set his glass next to the sink, then turned back to her and said with deceptive mildness, “Why shouldn’t we consider you a suspect in this case? After all, you did come to us with information that hadn’t been released to the media, knowledge that you couldn’t have obtained unless it was leaked to you by someone in the department. Unless,” he added with a hard edge to his voice, “you were there yourself.”
Michele gazed at him in amazement. She felt as though she were Alice in Wonderland, conversing with one of the illogical, nonsensical creatures encountered behind the looking glass. “What,” she asked, her voice rising despite every attempt to stay calm, “are you talking about?”
Connor’s own patience snapped. He smacked the counter beside him, and the sharp crack reverberated through the small area. “I’m talking, Miss Easton, about your knowledge of the jacket. The media was never told about our finding it, or the state it was in. Even the parents weren’t informed. So would you mind telling me how the hell you knew? Either someone told you, or you’re involved in some way.” His voice was even, but as cold and deadly as a blade. “Which is it?”
Michele stood watching him without comment, their gazes enmeshed. She had been too kind in her first assessment of him, she decided. She had assumed he was hard, somewhat unfeeling, but she had never suspected that he was so bullheaded and blind. There was no arguing with this man; he quite simply refused to believe her. She might as well save her breath.
“I’ve already told you how I came by that knowledge,” she replied simply. “It’s not my problem if you refuse to believe me, it’s yours.” She started for his front door, unable to stand one more minute, one more second, in his exasperating presence. Her hand was on the knob before she suddenly remembered what had sent her looking for him in the first place. She turned around suddenly and almost collided with his hard body, he was following her so closely. As it was, she shrank back self-protectively against the door.
He certainly was . . . big, she thought inanely, feeling suffocated by his closeness. Not that he was especially tall, he was only a few inches taller than she was with both of them in sneakers. It was more than that. His shoulders were so broad, they blocked her view of the room. His arms bulged with muscles, as did his chest, which the damp tank top clung to revealingly. The power was echoed in the long ropes of muscles in his legs and calves. She fidgeted in spite of herself. Something about this man made her uneasy. He exuded power, both physical and from the force of his presence.
Connor watched with interest the rapid rise and fall of the T- shirt before him. If he hadn’t known better he would have misinterpreted that visual raking of his body for interest. He noted her imperceptible movement away from him, closer to the door, and something inside him tightened. No doubt the princess was repulsed by a male body that wasn’t freshly showered and cologned.
That knowledge, that he repelled her physically, made him want to do something shocking. Something like close the small distance between them and press her pretty body against the door. Press so close that the feel of them, their smells, their tastes, would intermingle. Close enough to stamp her with his touch, so that when she left she would be unable to forget the feel of his body against hers.
Hell! Connor pulled away abruptly in disgust. What was he thinking? This woman spelled nothing but trouble for any man, himself especially. He’d had enough of pampered society sweethearts to last him six lifetimes. This one was even worse than most of the shallow empty-headed debutantes; she might even be involved in a crime. He widened the distance between them by several more steps, overcome with self-recrimination. What was it about this female that made him lose his cool?
Michele let out a long shaky breath she hadn’t been aware of holding. Surreptitiously she wiped her palms on her jeans, to rid them of the inexplicable moisture his nearness had caused.
“What else do you want, Princess?” Connor’s voice was taut with self-restraint, the name she brought to mind slipping out before he could stop it. “You want me to apologize for doing my job? Do you expect me to say I’m sorry for not believing your farfetched stargazing talents?”
Michele felt her unease evaporate in the face of his attack. “What I expect is for you to act like the professional you’re supposed to be and do your job to the best of your ability. . . .” She trailed off as he walked away from her. “Where are you going?” she asked in frustration.
“To take a shower, which I’m sure I badly need, so as not to offend your delicate sensibilities,” was his sarcastic reply. “You can come along if you wish. I’ll bet a mind picker can tell even more about a man’s psyche from the items in his bathroom than those in his closet.” He disappeared into a hallway, and Michele heard a door close firmly.
She felt like following him to the door and giving it a hard kick. Instead, when she heard water running, she threw herself furiously into an easy chair. That man was the most insufferable human being she had ever had the misfortune to meet, she fumed silently. But she damn well was going to wait until he finished with his shower. She hadn’t told him about the letter yet, an omission she could hardly believe. But with the stupefying news that he considered her a suspect, she had forgotten everything but her own fury.
Michele sat motionless for a few minutes, silently rehearsing just what she was going to tell the almighty detective. Her eyes roamed the room vacantly, then returned to peruse it with more interest. Somehow she wouldn’t have expected this man to live in a house. A sterile, impersonal apartment seemed more his style. She allowed her gaze to sweep the small living room in which she sat. She was forced to admit it was anything but impersonal.
A cream, brown and navy color scheme had been used to match the carpeting, furniture and blinds. The colors were tied together by the wallpaper covering one wall of the room. Michele rose to examine it more closely. Though the room was somewhat stark, with little hanging on the walls, a man’s stamp was apparent. Michelle stopped in front of one shelf, which bore a group of pictures. The people in the photos were strangers to her, but one man in a picture with McLain looked familiar. She looked more closely. The two men were in uniform and looked younger. Both were laughing, and she was arrested by the fact that Connor McLain did indeed have deep masculine dimples. She looked fixedly at the other man in the picture before remembering abruptly that he had been in Connor’s office the first time she had gone there.
“Find anything interesting?” a low voice drawled behind her.
Michele forced herself to turn slowly, though in truth he had startled her. He’d changed into a different pair of running shorts and another tank t
op. His feet were bare, and his hair was brushed back wetly from his forehead. She raked his figure with her gaze before returning it to his face and retorting pointedly, “Absolutely nothing.”
The brief flare of his nostrils was her only indication that she had scored a hit. His voice, when he spoke again, held its usual sardonic tone. “There must have been something compelling to keep you here. Why don’t you get it out so you can be on your way? You’re messing up my day off.”
That ignited Michele’s usually even temper like a spark to prairie grass. “Well, that’s just too bad, Detective. Because my day was already ruined.” She dug in her purse to find the note she had received and held it up to his face.
Connor read the message quickly, his gut clenching as he took in the words and the defaced picture. “When did you get this?” he demanded. He tried to force down the immediate leap of excitement he felt. But if this linked Michele to the case, it might be the break they’d been looking for.
“It was with the rest of my mail this afternoon.” She fumbled in her purse and pulled out the envelope it had arrived in. She held out both the letter and envelope, but when McLain made no move to take them, her arm dropped. “Somebody obviously slipped it through the mail slot, no doubt thanks to you.” Her voice was caustic.
Connor’s eyes sharpened. “Me? What do I have to do with this?”
Michele was incensed. “You’re obviously guilty of the same thing you’ve been accusing me of. Despite your promise to keep our conversations private, you’ve blabbed it to someone. Someone,” she said thickly, “with a sick mind.”
Connor’s gaze sharpened at her accusation. “You’re blaming me for this?”
“Damn right I am.” Michele spoke emphatically. “Nobody knew I’d gone to see you. I certainly didn’t tell anybody. Either you or one of your men let it out. I suppose it’s only a matter of time before this is splashed all over the press. So much for your word.”
He scowled at her. This note tied her to the case in a way he couldn’t deny. It also gave him the sinking feeling that she might be in danger. The immediate protective instincts that arose at the thought made him first uncomfortable then pissed. “I can assure you, Miss Easton, that neither my men nor I would have told anyone about you. We have nothing to gain by it. You must have inadvertently let it slip to someone you know. For all I know, you . . .” He trailed off, raking his hand through his wet hair exasperatedly. This woman could set him off faster than a firecracker. He didn’t like her, he thought frustratedly. And it was becoming damn hard to hide that.
But Michele seized on his unfinished sentence and drew her own conclusion. “For all you know, I what? What were you going to accuse me of now, oh mighty detective? Writing the sick thing myself?” When he didn’t answer, her fury mounted. “You are the limit,” she snapped. She shoved the note back in her purse. It gave her something to do with her hand, which itched to slap his hard cheek. “I give up. You’re right. You were right from the start. I masterminded the kidnappings. I came to you because I couldn’t stand being ignored. I manufactured this note for the same reason. There you go, Lieutenant, case solved. Now you can go back to playing kindergarten cop.”
Her eyes, those usually calm gray eyes, were blazing up at Connor. His mouth twitched with a tiny smile. Her face wasn’t as beautifully serene as it usually was, but he preferred it as he saw it now. More emotion was displayed on it at that moment than he would bet normally crossed it in a month. “You have quite a sarcastic streak in you. Very uncharacteristic in a professional lady such as yourself.”
Michele closed her eyes and strove for calm. “I will not even begin to catalogue your unattractive personality traits, Lieutenant McLain. Except to tell you that you are the most incredibly obtuse man I’ve ever met. From what I’ve seen so far, you are to police work what Mr. Ed is to Thoroughbred racing.”
Far from annoying him as she had intended, her remark seemed to entertain Connor. He threw his head back and laughed out loud. Michele stood transfixed for a moment as she witnessed firsthand the fatally masculine dimples at the sides of that well-formed mouth. They were just as devastating as she had feared.
When he finally stopped chuckling, he eyed Michele with amusement. “You really should cut loose more often. Keeping it pent-up inside for too long makes you really vicious. Let me see the note again.”
“Why?” she snapped. “So you can use it to somehow show my involvement in the case? Forget it.”
“It would appear that you are involved in the case, Michele. Too involved for your own good. I’ll need to take the note down to headquarters and have it checked out.” His eyebrows came together as he watched her pull the paper out of her purse. “Not much reason to dust it for prints, if that’s how you’ve been handling it.”
Michele flushed guiltily. She hadn’t even considered the possibility that she might be destroying evidence by her careless handling of the letter. She watched as Connor went to the kitchen and returned with a plastic bag. He returned and opened it, and she dropped the note inside.
“I don’t suppose you saw anybody around your house who shouldn’t have been there?”
“I was out all day.”
“I’ll have the lab take a look at this. We’ll talk to your neighbors, the mailman, see if anyone saw someone near your house. But don’t expect too much.”
“Where you’re concerned,” Michele responded loftily, “I’m learning to expect very little.”
“Good,” Connor responded imperturbably, his light green eyes watching her soberly. “Then you won’t be disappointed.”
Michele returned his gaze in silence, wondering why she had the feeling that his warning was personal, rather than professional.
Chapter 4
At the knock on his office door, Connor sat back in his chair and turned over the papers he had been perusing. “Come on in,” he invited, fully expecting to see Cruz or one of the other men come through the door. Instead his eyebrows rose comically when Dave Lanthrop walked in.
“I’ve got the lab results you were asking for, Connor,” the other man said, handing over the written reports. “I was on my way home and had to pass this way, so I thought I’d drop them off myself.”
“That was sure fast,” Connor observed. “You guys in the lab must not be as busy as usual.”
That remark got a rise, as he’d intended. The lab worker good-naturedly invited Connor to take a scenic route to the devil’s headquarters. “You said it was a rush job,” Dave replied. “You also reminded me that I owed you one. How you figure that, I don’t know, but we’re even now, after this.”
Connor grinned as he listened to the older balding man grouse. “We’ll never be even, Dave,” he said wickedly. “I saved your ass that night, and you know it.” Connor was referring to a poker game the two of them had attended years ago. Dave had lost much more money than he could afford to and had been white with fear at the prospect of facing his wife. Connor had staked him for the rest of the night until he’d won most of it back.
The lab technician rolled his eyes comically. “I do know it, believe me. Especially after you read those results. They won’t be much help, I’m afraid.”
Connor grimaced as he quickly read through the short report. “You’re telling me. Not that I really expected anything different.”
“There’s one set of clear prints all over the paper and envelope. I assume they belong to whoever received the letter?” When Connor nodded Dave continued. “There are a few other smears on the paper, but no other clear prints. The envelope and paper are both mass-produced, low-grade types, sold in any department store. The picture had been drawn on with a red marker—nothing special there, I’m afraid, unless you come up with one belonging to a suspect for a match.”
Connor’s expression told Dave the chances of that were minute.
The other man went on. “There was some human hair caught in the adhesive used to hold the letters on the paper. I’ll need more time if you want a bre
akdown on that.”
Nodding decisively, Conner said, “Go ahead and run the tests.” Somehow he had to establish the link between the kidnapper and Michele Easton. The letter showed that the offender knew who she was, maybe even knew her personally.
And recalling the threat evident in the message, he was willing to grasp at every chance, no matter how slim, of finding something that would lead the police to the author of that note.
“I’ll get on it tomorrow.”
Connor was well aware how backed up the workers in the lab were, but this investigation had been granted priority treatment by the police commissioner. “Thanks, Dave.”
Lanthrop rose. “Since that’s all I have for now, I’ll leave you to more important things.”
“Yeah.” Connor heaved a sigh as he walked the lab worker to his office door. “Which is a meeting with the top brass, starting in—” he checked the gold watch on his wrist “—exactly seven minutes. I wouldn’t want to be late, especially since the mayor himself will be there to chew my ass for what he perceives as a plodding investigation.”
Dave grinned in commiseration. “Sorry, my man. But better you than me.”
* * *
Thirty minutes later, Connor was not inclined to agree with Dave’s estimate. The mayor and his entourage had been late, as usual, keeping the police commissioner, the chief of detectives and Connor waiting for over fifteen minutes. Once there, McIntire had proceeded to chew each of them up and spit them out for the way the investigation was proceeding. Connor waited impassively, arms crossed, for his turn to come, as it surely would. As the supervisor overseeing the case, he would be held directly responsible for its outcome.
