Lethal Attraction: Against the RulesFatal Affair

by Linda Howard

  “Tell me about John.”

  Nick thought for a moment before he answered. “If his father is complicated, thoughtful and demanding, John was simple, forgetful and lackadaisical. But like his father, he loved his family and his country and was proud to serve the people of Virginia. He took those responsibilities seriously but didn’t take himself too seriously.”

  “Did you like working for him?”

  “I liked being around him and helping him to succeed. But from a political staff perspective, he could be a bit of a handful.”

  “How so?”

  Nick paused, considered and decided. “Right now, my chief goal is to protect his legacy and ensure he’s afforded the dignity and stature he deserves as a deceased United States senator.”

  “And my goal is to figure out who killed him. If I’m going to do that, I’ll need you and the rest of your staff to be forthcoming. I can do it faster and more efficiently with your help than without it. I need to know who he was.”

  Nick wished he couldn’t smell her, wished he wasn’t so aware of her. And more than anything, he wished he didn’t so vividly remember the night he’d spent lost in her. “I was furious,” he said in a soft tone.

  “When?” she asked, confused.

  “On my way to his place this morning. If he hadn’t been dead when I got there, I might’ve killed him myself.”

  “Nick…” Her tone was full of warning, reminding him not to forget who he was talking to.

  “If you want to know who John O’Connor was, the fact that his chief of staff was on his way to haul him out of bed—again—should tell you everything you need to know.”

  “It doesn’t tell me everything, but it’s a start.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Sam’s memories of Nick Cappuano should have faded over the years, but they hadn’t. He remained a larger-than-life character from a single night that shouldn’t have meant as much as it had. But she had forgotten the reality of him—his height, easily six-three or -four, broad shoulders, chocolate brown hair that curled at the ends, hazel eyes that missed nothing, olive-toned skin, strong, efficient hands that changed forever what she expected from a lover, crackling intelligence, and the cool aura of reserved control she’d found so fascinating the first time she met him.

  Cracking that control had been one of the best memories from her night with him. When he didn’t call, she’d wondered if their intense connection had scared him off. But now that she knew he had called, that he had wanted to see her again…that changed everything.

  “Can I ask you something that has nothing to do with the case?” she said as they cut across the District on the way to the Watergate where he’d left his car. Along the way, they noticed a few American flags already lowered to half-mast in John’s honor. The word was out, and the official mourning had begun.

  “Sure.”

  Her heart raced as she picked at a scab she’d mistakenly thought healed long ago. “When you called me…after…that night…do you remember who you talked to at my house?”

  He shrugged. “Some guy. One of your roommates maybe.”

  Knowing the answer before she even asked, she said, “You didn’t get his name? I lived with three guys.”

  “Shit, I don’t know. Paul maybe.”

  “Peter?”

  “Yes. Peter. That was it. I talked to him a couple of times.”

  Gripping the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles turned white, Sam wanted to scream.

  “Was he your boyfriend?”

  “Not then,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “Later?”

  “He’s my ex-husband.”

  “Ah! Well, now it all makes sense,” he said but there was a bitter edge to his voice that she understood all too well. She was feeling rather bitter herself at the moment.

  “Too bad you didn’t give me your cell number instead of your home number.”

  “I only had a department cell then, and I never used it for personal business.” They were quiet until she pulled into the Watergate. “I’d like to interview your staff in the morning,” she said as the car idled.

  “I’ll make sure they’re available.” He rattled off the Hart Senate Office Building address where she could find them.

  “In the meantime, here’s my card in case you think of anything that might be relevant. No matter how big or how small, you never know what’ll crack a case wide open.”

  He took the card and reached for the door handle.

  “Nick,” she said, her hand on his arm to stop him from getting out.

  Looking down at her hand and then up to meet her eyes, he raised an eyebrow.

  “I would’ve liked to have gotten those messages,” she said, her heart racing. “I would’ve liked that very much.”

  He sighed. “I can’t process this on top of everything else that’s happened today. It’s just too much.”

  “I know.” She raised her hand to let him go. “I’m sorry I brought it up.”

  He surprised her when he reached for her hand and brought it to his lips. “Don’t be sorry. I really want to talk about it. Later, though, okay?”

  Sam swallowed hard at the intense expression on his handsome face. “Okay.”

  He released her hand and opened the car door. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Yes,” she said softly to herself when he was gone. “See you then.”

  *

  Frederico Cruz was a junk food addict. However, despite his passion for donuts, his ongoing love affair with the golden arches, and his obsession with soda of all kinds except diet, he managed to maintain a wiry, one-hundred-seventy-pound frame that was usually draped by one of the many trench coats he claimed were necessary to staying in character.

  In some sort of cosmic joke, Sam had drawn the dietary disaster area known as Freddie for a partner. In the midst of the HQ detective pit chaos, Sam watched fascinated and envious as he chased a cream-filled donut with a cola. She swore that spending most of every day with him for the last year had put ten unneeded pounds on her. “Where are we?” she asked when he put down the soda can and wiped his mouth.

  “Still at square one. The neighbors didn’t hear anything or see anyone in the elevator or hallways. I sent a couple of uniforms to pick up the security tape—not an easy task, I might add. You’d think we were planning to send G. Gordon Liddy back in there or something. I had to threaten them with warrants.”

  “What was the hang-up?” Sam asked, eyeing his second donut with lust in her heart.

  “Resident privacy, the usual bull. I had to remind them—twice—that a United States senator had been murdered in his apartment and did they really want any more unfavorable publicity than they’re already going to get?”

  “Good job, Freddie. That’s the way to be aggressive.” She was forever after him to get in there and get his hands dirty. In turn, he nagged her about getting a life away from the job.

  “I learned from the best.”

  She made a face at him.

  “We also seized everything from the senator’s home and work offices—computers, files, etc. The lab is going through the computers now. We can hit the files tomorrow.”

  “Good.”

  “What’s your take on the O’Connors?”

  “The parents were devastated. There was nothing fake about it. Same with his sister.”

  “What about the brother?”

  “He seemed shocked, but he says he was with a woman whose name he doesn’t remember.”

  “He’ll have to produce her if he’s going to rely on her for an alibi.”

  “He’s painfully aware of that,” Sam said, smirking at her recollection of Terry O’Connor’s discomfort and Graham’s obvious disapproval.

  “That’s what he gets for sleeping with a stranger. Imagine going up to someone you slept with to ask for her name.”

  Sam’s face heated as memories of her one-night stand with Nick chose that moment to resurface. “Easy, Freddie. Don’t get all
proper on me.”

  “It’s just another sign of the moral decline of our country.”

  Groaning at the familiar argument, she said, “Any word from the M.E.?”

  “Not yet. Apparently, they had a backlog to get through.”

  “Who comes before a murdered U.S. senator?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t kill the messenger.”

  “My favorite sport.”

  “Don’t I know it? The guy who found him checked out? Cappuano?”

  “Yeah.” Sam decided right in that moment not to tell Freddie about her history with Nick. Some things were personal, and she didn’t want or need Freddie’s disapproval. She was still dealing with her own disapproval for bringing up their former personal relationship in the midst of a murder investigation. “He was at work all night with other people from the staff, which I’ll confirm tomorrow.”

  “So what’s next?”

  “In the morning, we’ll interview O’Connor’s staff and pay a visit to the senate minority leader,” she said, filling him in on Graham O’Connor’s long-running feud with Stenhouse.

  Freddie rubbed his chiseled cheek. On top of his many other faults, he was GQ handsome, too. Life wasn’t fair. “Interesting,” he said.

  “Senator O’Connor questioned the timing—on the eve of the biggest vote of his son’s career as a senator.”

  “Someone didn’t want that vote to happen?”

  “It’s the closest thing to a motive I’ve seen yet. When we talk to his staff tomorrow, we need to cover both sides—the political and the personal. Who was he dating? Who might’ve had an axe to grind? You know the drill.”

  “What’s your gut telling you, boss?”

  He knew she hated when he called her that. “I’m not loving the political angle.”

  “The timing works.”

  “Yeah, but would a political rival cut off his dick and stuff it in his mouth?”

  Freddie cringed and covered his own package.

  “We’re going to keep that detail close to the vest and see where it takes us. But my money’s on a woman.”

  “You know what’s bugging me?” Freddie asked.

  “What’s that?”

  “No sign of a struggle. How does someone get a hold of your dick and do the Lorena Bobbitt without you putting up a fight?”

  “Maybe he was asleep? Didn’t see it coming?”

  “Someone grabs my junk, I’m wide awake.”

  “Spare me the visual, will you, please?”

  “I’m just saying…”

  “That it was someone he knew, someone he wasn’t surprised to see.”

  “Exactly.” He picked up the second donut and took a bite. With a dollop of white cream on his lower lip, he added, “He had one of those butcher block knife things in his kitchen. The butcher knife was the one holding him to the headboard.”

  “So the killer didn’t arrive armed.”

  “It doesn’t seem so. No.”

  Standing up, Sam said, “I want to see those tapes. What the hell is taking them so long?”

  *

  Driving from the Watergate to the office, Nick should have been thinking about what he was going to say to his staff. They’d be looking to him for leadership, for answers to questions that had no answers. But rather than prepare himself for what would no doubt be an emotional ordeal, he kept hearing Sam’s voice: “I would’ve liked to have gotten those messages.”

  Pounding his hand on the steering wheel, he let loose with an uncharacteristic string of swears. Like it wasn’t enough that John had been murdered. To also have to face off with the one woman from his past who he’d never worked out of his system was…well, calling it unfair wouldn’t do it justice.

  He knew she wanted to talk about what happened all those years ago and why they never saw each other again. It made him so mad to think about her malicious ex not giving her the messages. But he couldn’t process the implications of this discovery in the midst of the mayhem caused by John’s murder. Dealing with Sam Holland solely on a professional level would take all the fortitude he could muster, never mind getting personal.

  Years ago, when she failed to return his calls, he’d been angry and hurt—so much so that he hadn’t pursued it any further, which he now knew had been stupid. He couldn’t help but wonder what might have been different for him—for both of them—if she had gotten his messages and returned his calls. Would they still be together? Or would it have burned out the way all his relationships inevitably did?

  He realized, with a clarity he couldn’t explain or understand, that they would probably still be together. He’d never had that kind of connection with anyone else, which was why he’d been so acutely aware of her all day today.

  CHAPTER 6

  After spending an excruciating hour with his grieving staff, Nick sent them home with orders to be back to work at nine in the morning to meet with the detectives and to plan the senator’s funeral. He instructed them not to discuss the case or the senator with anyone and to avoid the press in particular.

  He lowered himself into his desk chair, every muscle in his body aching with fatigue as the sleepless night and agonizing day caught up to him.

  “Have you eaten?” Christina asked from the doorway.

  Nick had to think about that. “Not since the bagel I puked up this morning.”

  “There’s pizza left from before. Want me to get you some?”

  Not at all sure he’d be able to get it down, he said, “Sure, thanks.”

  “Coming right up.”

  She returned a few minutes later with two slices that she had warmed in the microwave.

  “Thank you,” he said when she handed him the plate and a can of cola. Her blue eyes were rimmed with red, her face puffy from crying. “How’re you doing?”

  With a shrug, she collapsed into a chair on the other side of his desk. “I feel like all the air has been sucked out of my lungs, and I can’t seem to breathe.”

  “I know you cared for him a great deal,” Nick said haltingly. They’d never discussed Christina’s feelings for John.

  “For all the good it did me.”

  “He loved you, Chris. You know he did.”

  “As a friend and colleague. Big whoop.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I because now I have to live the whole rest of my life wondering what might’ve happened if I’d had the courage to tell him how I felt.”

  “I’m kind of glad you didn’t.”

  “I’m sure you are,” she said with a laugh.

  “Not because of work. I loved him like a brother. You know that. But he wasn’t good enough for you. He would’ve broken your heart.”

  “Probably,” she said. “No, definitely.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, I was confronted with a blast from my romantic past today. We spent a memorable night together six years ago, and I haven’t seen her since—until she walked into John’s apartment this morning as the detective in charge of the case.”

  Christina winced. “Awkward.”

  “To say the least.”

  “Do you trust her to handle the case?”

  “Sam’s a damned good detective.”

  “I thought you hadn’t seen her in six years.”

  “Doesn’t mean I haven’t read about her.”

  “Hmm,” she said, studying him.

  “What?”

  “Oh, nothing.” Her eyes widened all of a sudden. “What’s her last name?”

  “Holland.”

  “Oh my God! She’s the one who ordered the shoot-out at that crack house where the kid was killed!”

  “Yes.”

  “But, Nick, do we really want her investigating John’s murder? Couldn’t we get someone else?”

  “I trust her,” Nick said. “She has one blemish on an otherwise stellar career. And think of it this way, she’s got something to prove right now.”

  “I guess you’re right,” she said, still wary. The phone on Nick�
�s desk rang, and Christina reached for it. “Nick Cappuano’s office.” Once again her eyes widened, and she stammered as she said, “Of course. One moment please.”

  “Who is it?” Nick asked.

  “The president,” she whispered.

  Nick quickly swallowed a mouthful of pizza and reached for a napkin and the phone at the same time. “Good evening, Mr. President.” He had met President Nelson on several occasions—mostly in receiving lines at Democratic Party fundraisers—but a phone call from him was unprecedented.

  “Hello, Nick. Gloria and I just wanted to tell you all how sorry we are.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll pass that along to the staff. And thank you for the statement you issued to the press.”

  “I’ve known John since he was a little boy. I’m heartbroken.”

  “We all are.”

  “I can only imagine. I also wanted to make myself available for anything you might need over the next few days.”

  “I appreciate that. I know Senator and Mrs. O’Connor would be honored if you could speak at the funeral.”

  “I’d be honored.”

  “I’ll work with your staff on the details.”

  “Let me give you my direct number in the residence. Feel free to use it.”

  Nick took down the number with a sense of disbelief. “Thank you.”

  “I spoke earlier with Chief Farnsworth and made the full resources of the federal government available to the Metropolitan Police. I’m sure you’ll be close to the investigation. If there’s anything you feel they could be doing that they’re not, don’t hesitate to contact me.”

  “I won’t, sir.”

  The president released a deep sigh. “I just can’t imagine who would do such a thing to John of all people.”

  “Neither can I.”

  “Do you think Graham and Laine would be up for a phone call?”

  “I’m sure they’d love to hear from you.”

  “Well, I won’t keep you any longer. God bless you and your staff, Nick. Our thoughts and prayers are with you all.”

  “Thank you so much for calling, Mr. President.” Nick put down the phone and looked over at Christina.

  “Unreal,” she said.

  “Surreal,” he added, filling her in on what the president had said.