MADIGAN'S WIFE

by Linda Winstead Jones

  Grace did not hurry to the exit, even though Ray looked like he was about to explode as he took her arm and hurried her along. His grip on her arm was too tight, and he hovered over her protectively.

  He didn’t say another word until they were outside the restaurant. “Didn’t I tell you to stay in the office? Dammit, you’re just asking for trouble. You’re actually going out looking for it.”

  “It’s been a week,” Grace said calmly, “and there’s been no sign of the killer. He’s probably left town.”

  He opened the car door for her, and slammed it shut after she sat down. When he dropped into the driver’s seat, he reached into the back seat and grabbed three sheets of paper he tossed at her.

  “Do any of these guys look familiar?”

  She looked at the first picture and quickly dismissed the possibility. The man’s face was too round and he was too old. The man in the second picture was too small, too dark. His eyes looked black in the poorly reproduced photo.

  But the man in the third picture … his hair was different, paler and longer, and he was wearing wire-rimmed glasses. But … but…

  “This is him,” she said, handing the sheet to Ray.

  Ray studied the sheet intently. “Freddie Potts.” He muttered something filthy and shook his head. “This guy is a pro. The FBI’s been after him for years.” He scanned the small print beneath the grainy photo. “There have been witnesses in the past.”

  “So someone else besides me can ID him?” Grace asked hopefully. She did not want to come face-to-face with the man again, didn’t even want to be in the same building, the same city with him. If someone else could identify him…

  Ray shook his head, then lifted his eyes to glare at her. “No. He killed them all. Some at the scene. Some days, even weeks or months later. Always well before trial.”

  Potts wasn’t a man to give up easily, then. Months? “You think he’s here somewhere, don’t you?”

  Ray nodded his head. “I do.” For the past few days he’d made it a point not to touch her. It was too dangerous, too hard. But right now he reached across to grab the back of her head and pull her close. “But Potts is not going to get you,” he said softly. “I won’t let him.”

  “I know,” she whispered, glad for the closeness just this once.

  “We’ll take this information to Luther, and he’ll have every cop in the city combing motels, hotels, boardinghouses … the guy has to be sleeping somewhere. They’ll put this on the news, too. Television and newspaper. Somebody’s seen him. He may be good but he’s not a ghost.” His thumb rocked absently on her neck. “The FBI will be here, too. They’d love to get their hands on him.”

  Grace nodded, and Ray placed his forehead against hers. “And the next time I tell you to stay put,” he said gently. “Do it.”

  The hand at the nape of her neck was comforting and strong. And she wished with all her heart that everything was different, that she could tip her head and kiss Ray and tell him that she was scared, but not nearly so scared as she would be if he wasn’t here.

  “Would you really have carried me out of the restaurant if I hadn’t gone willingly?” she asked.

  “You bet your pretty little ass I would have.”

  He let her go, dropping his hand and moving slowly away from her.

  “Here are the rules,” he said as he started the car. “Call the office and tell them you won’t be in tomorrow. Next week is iffy.”

  “Ray, I can’t…”

  “You can work on your computer or my laptop, and once we catch this guy you can work eighty hours a week to catch up, if it suits you. Until he’s off the street you’re not going to be where Potts might expect you to be.”

  “He doesn’t know where I work or where I live,” she argued. “Does he?”

  “He might. We’re not taking any chances.” He glanced at her as he stopped at a red light. “We’re moving into my apartment for now, until a more secure place can be arranged.”

  “Ray…”

  “Don’t worry. You can have the bed, I’ll take the couch. I’ll try to have something more comfortable set up by tomorrow night.”

  She slunk down in her seat. “It sounds a little extreme,” she said softly.

  “Extreme?” he snapped. He took one hand from the steering wheel to grab the sheet with Potts’s picture on it. “Take a look at that face and read the notes beneath it and tell me I’m trying too hard to keep you from getting killed.”

  She glanced at the photo, but didn’t bother to read the details beneath. “You’re right,” she said. “I’ll do whatever you say.”

  “Promise?”

  She nodded. “Where are we going?”

  “To see Luther.”

  *

  They were lying in bed watching the ten o’ clock news and eating popcorn when Freddie saw his face on the screen. It was an old picture, taken when he’d been younger and leaner and stupider. His hair was long and a shade darker than it was at the moment. But it was him, he knew it and so would anyone else who looked closely.

  He thought about trying to distract Gillian, kissing her, maybe, making love to her again so she wouldn’t pay attention to the television. But if it was on TV now it would be in the papers tomorrow and on every station in the area by tomorrow’s noon newscast. He couldn’t watch her every minute of the day.

  Besides, it was too late. She turned to look at him, scrutinizing his face. “That guy looks kinda like you, Jimmy,” she said, her voice hesitant.

  “You think so?” he asked, flicking another kernel of popcorn into his mouth. “I don’t see it.”

  The photo was gone from the television screen now, they’d moved on to another story. Without that picture to compare him to, Gillian’s doubts faded away.

  “You’re much more handsome than that guy.” She laid her head on his shoulder. “And a lot sweeter, from what they said. A hit man. I always think of hit men being in big cities, not quiet towns like Huntsville.”

  “I know what you mean,” Freddie said, kissing Gillian swiftly before rolling from the bed.

  “Where are you going?” she asked, sitting up.

  In the doorway he turned and smiled at her. What a shame. What a waste. “I thought maybe you’d like a glass of wine.”

  Gillian returned his smile and settled herself against the pillows. “That would be great.”

  *

  She had slept too well in Ray’s bed, on the sheets that smelled faintly like him, on the mattress where he laid, most nights. Sipping at coffee and munching on toast, Ray appeared to have actually slept just as well on his lumpy couch, a piece of furniture that looked as if it belonged in a landfill somewhere.

  Ray’s apartment was small, basically two rooms and a bathroom. The kitchen was no more than one corner of the main room, and most everything in the place looked as if it could be trashed without significant loss – well, everything but the sound system. The stereo, complete with CD and cassette player as well as a working turntable, was the only thing of real value in the place.

  That and the extensive Lyle Lovett collection.

  Luther had not been happy to find out that the man she’d seen was a professional hit man who was certainly still in the area. The homicide detective was even less thrilled when Ray insisted that he had no choice but to call the FBI and tell them Potts had been identified. He didn’t want the federal jerks in his jurisdiction, he’d said adamantly.

  Ray insisted on taking care of her, watching out for her, even when she tried to insist that it wasn’t necessary. She could probably get federal protection, and since Potts had been identified, Luther could no longer insist that she’d been living in a fantasy world. It wasn’t Ray’s job to look out for her. Not anymore.

  But whenever she tried to convince Ray of that fact he stopped her with a stare.

  She sat on the couch beside him, her own coffee cup in hand. “So, what’s the plan for today?” she asked casually.

  “We find a place to stay and
we go shopping,” he said without looking directly at her.

  “Shopping?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “For tonight.”

  “We’re still going?”

  He rotated his head to glance at her. “Of course. What are we supposed to do? Sit in a hotel room somewhere and play gin rummy all night?”

  “Luther’s on it,” she said. “And the FBI…”

  “We’re going,” Ray insisted.

  Grace propped her feet on his scarred coffee table and stared at her running shoes. With everyone working on the case, surely Potts would be in custody soon. And then … and then Ray would have no more reason to stay in Huntsville. Would he?

  “Have you called Stan?” she asked casually.

  “Not yet,” Ray said tersely. “I keep meaning to, but one thing and then another…”

  She took her frightened gaze from her shoes and stared openly at Ray’s profile. At the cut of his jaw and the stubble there, at the strength in his neck and his arms and the softness of his lips. Heavens, she loved the way his hair curled over his neck, the set of his shoulders and the strength and tenderness in his hands.

  What an idiot she was. Ray was wrong for her, they had nothing … but she did love him. She would always love him, no matter where he went, no matter what he did. No matter how many times he broke her heart.

  Leaving him had been a mistake, one she couldn’t take back. She couldn’t convince him that they still had a chance, a future, but she could heal some of the hurt, couldn’t she? Didn’t she have to try?

  What would it take to bring him back to her completely, just for a while?

  “Shopping,” she said softly, and with a slow smile.

  *

  Chapter 12

  «^»

  “Wow,” Ray said appreciatively as Grace stepped into the main room of the two-bedroom suite they’d moved into this afternoon. Neither the hotel nor the room was fancy, but it was comfortable and clean and spacious, and no one but Luther knew they were staying here.

  Grace’s red, floor-length gown hugged her body, showing off her fabulous shape. It was cut low enough to show the globes of her breasts, but not so low that she was in danger of revealing too much. Too bad. When she walked, the slit on one side of the blood-red skirt danced so a long bare leg was partially revealed. A black strappy high-heeled shoe showed off that leg to its best advantage.

  She often wore her hair up, and tonight was no different. But the style was softer, and a few curls fell to her shoulder in an artlessly elegant fashion.

  “You look great.”

  She smiled, almost bashfully. “So do you. I’ve never seen you in a tux before. I should’ve known you’d go for something different.”

  He grabbed the lapels of the white jacket. “Has kind of a forties look to it. At least, that’s what the girl who rented it to me said.” His outfit for the evening consisted of a perfectly fitted white dinner jacket, black creased trousers held up with white suspenders, white shirt and black bow tie. “I feel like I should light up a filterless cigarette and start calling you doll.”

  Grace smiled, a real, wide smile that made his heart thud hard in his chest. For the past several days she’d been shy, skittish. Asking nervously if they could be friends. She didn’t look at all skittish right now. She looked … enticing, seductive, willing and able. And contented.

  “The shoulder holster really finishes off the look, big guy,” she said in a husky voice.

  His gut tightened.

  Potts’s name and face had been all over the news, on television and in the newspapers. So far they’d been able to keep Grace’s name out of it. Luther was making sure no one knew of her involvement, unless that knowledge was absolutely necessary. Only a handful of cops and the district attorney had been told that she was the witness.

  Nothing on Potts had turned up in the hotel search, but there were a lot of hotels in the area, not enough manpower, and too many hotel clerks who apparently never looked directly at their clientele. The search continued.

  For all they knew Potts might’ve identified the witness as Grace. He could be watching her house or his apartment, but he surely wouldn’t be at the Charity Ball tonight.

  Unless he was there to meet the man or woman who had hired him. Unless he showed up to take care of the only other person in Huntsville besides Grace – his client – who could ID him. Things had gone very wrong for Potts. He might decide to wipe the slate clean and get out of town.

  “Maybe we should stay in and order pizza,” Ray suggested as the doubts nagged at him. Grace would be safe in this hotel room. “Or you can stay here and I’ll go on alone and scope out the shindig.”

  “No way,” she said confidently. “I bought a new dress, you rented that tux, and you know whoever hired Potts will be there tonight. This is our chance to mingle, to get close and gossip and see what we can find out.” She smiled as she neared him. “Besides, Louise Lanford won’t give you the time of day, no matter how charming you might be. But she’ll talk to me because she knows me. You need me, Ray.”

  Poor choice of words, but he didn’t dare mention that fact.

  “What makes you think I can’t get the widow Lanford to talk to me?”

  “You’re not her type,” Grace said, brushing his cheek with one finger as she passed him. “Louise Lanford goes for money and power, not boyish charm.”

  “Ouch,” he muttered, watching her walk away.

  The front of Grace’s dress might not be indecent, but the back certainly was. It plunged to her waist and beyond. He saw and appreciated the shape of her spine, the way the soft muscles in her back moved when she walked.

  She glanced over her shoulder and her smile widened.

  What was she thinking?

  “Assistant D.A.s don’t make that much money,” he said, unwilling to tell Grace that the offered view of her back was making him break into a sweat. “Louise and Elliott Reed were apparently together for almost two years,” he argued.

  “Family money and lots of it,” she said as she gathered her small black purse from the table by the long blue couch. “That’s why he’ll be there tonight, too. His mother is a bigwig in the Children’s Hospital Charity.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “I did a little more searching on the computer. I borrowed your laptop last night, after you went to sleep.”

  “You can’t find…”

  “If you know where to look,” she said softly, her smile all knowing, “you can find anything.”

  “Not personal information, not without…” The smug expression on her face stopped him cold. “You’re a hacker.”

  “Purely an amateur, I assure you.”

  “My own wife…”

  “Ex-wife,” she said softly. “I checked into McCann and Reed a little, so I’ll know what to say and what not to say if I get close to either of them tonight.”

  “I don’t want you getting close to anyone but the widow, you got me?”

  “We’ll see,” she said, unperturbed by his order.

  There would be no stopping her, would there? And to be honest, she might be able to get information he couldn’t. She had good instincts, sharp eyes and ears.

  “If you get close to Reed or McCann, you play it safe, you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He looked Grace up and down audaciously. Hell, a woman who wore a dress like that one was begging to be ogled. His eyes lingered on the swell of her breasts, then fell to follow the curve of her waist and her hip … and back up again.

  “Gracie Madigan,” he said softly. “You’re not wearing any underwear.”

  She did, at least, have the good manners to blush. “I see your radar is still in good working order.”

  “Radar my ass,” he grumbled.

  “The dress is cut too snug through here,” she explained unnecessarily, barely touching her hip. “I can’t go to a fancy ball with panty lines, now can I?”

  Ray looked her up and down aga
in. Slowly. Grace was wearing that red dress and a pair of shoes. Nothing else. His mouth went dry. He swallowed with some difficulty.

  She was torturing him, wasn’t she? Haunting what he couldn’t have in front of him as if to say Skin deep? Think again.

  He made himself grin at her. “What would Doris say? She thinks you have such class.”

  She didn’t take the bait, just wrinkled her nose at him and turned away, giving him a too-fine view of her backside and bared back.

  Ray closed his eyes and groaned low in his throat. Torturing him? Hell, the woman was trying to kill him.

  *

  Inside the main Civic Center ballroom the lights were dim and the big band on the stage played “String of Pearls” while well-dressed people danced. Some danced well, others did not. But they all did their best.

  Grace wrapped her arm through Ray’s, growing nervous for the first time. From a distance it had seemed like an adventure, coming here to search for whoever had hired Freddie Potts. In the moment, though, it was … frightening. Ray was the investigator. Not her. He was the danger junkie, she was timid. Maybe she’d been timid for too long.

  Flaunting herself at Ray was as nerve-racking as facing a room full of potential murderers, but she tried to remain cool. As far as she was concerned bringing Ray around was just as important as finding Potts and the person who’d hired him. More.

  “The widow Lanford is hobnobbing with the mayor at a table to the left,” Ray said softly. “McCann is talking to Heather Farmer in the far corner, and Elliott Reed is dancing with his mother.”

  “I see him,” Grace whispered.

  Ray led her to the dance floor and took her in his arms. His hand lay against her bare back and he looked her squarely in the eye as they began to dance. She didn’t look away, she didn’t draw back when he pulled her close. Yes, she’d been timid for too long.

  He tilted his head down to whisper in her ear. “Dammit, Gracie, what are you doing to me?”

  “Nothing,” she whispered.

  “Nothing.” He pulled her head against his shoulder and held her there. “How am I supposed to dance with these blue-haired ladies all night in this condition?” He held her so close his condition was more than apparent.