Downtime

by Tamara Allen

  Then I realized he was doing something. Laughing. It was soft, a little frazzled around the edges, but he was laughing. “Is life always such an adventure with you?” He put an arm around my shoulders and drew me near enough to plant a kiss on my neck. “Dear old Morgan. When you pushed Mr. Leeke up against the gate, I thought his wife would do you an injury with that umbrella of hers.” He gave in again to heartfelt laughter. “I think the constables rescued us at a most opportune moment.”

  “You son of a—”

  He turned my face toward his and kissed me before I could finish. What I’d been about to say slipped my mind at the inviting pressure and the agreeable feel of his arm snaking under my coat to wrap around me and pull me closer. When the kiss finally broke, we were breathing harder and the chill I’d felt in the air was gone.

  “They catch us, they’ll never let us out,” I whispered. It was a warning even I wasn’t taking to heart, and Ezra knew it.

  “We shall hear them come in before they hear us,” he whispered back.

  “We’re not the only criminals in the cell block,” I reminded him, making an exploratory foray to a tender spot just under his jaw. “How quiet can you be?”

  I heard him catch his breath. “Far more quiet than you,” he countered and covered my mouth with another kiss, pushing me flat on my back with his momentum. I couldn’t resist a challenge, and even more daunting than the need for quiet were the layers of clothing separating us. Shifting so I could bring pressure to bear in a sensitive area, I was rewarded with my name gasped close to my ear.

  “You’ll have the entire station down on us.” I increased the pressure and he buried his face in my shoulder and clung to me, shuddering. Pleased as hell that he could so unabashedly seduce me anywhere, I wasn’t about to discourage him as fingers fumbled with the buttons on my trousers. The friction of his hand on my skin had me groaning and I pressed my lips together to keep quiet. I was dangerously close to losing any ability to focus beyond his touch. The world narrowed further when he replaced the firm caress with something even better. I hoped devoutly he was listening for a key in the lock. The only thing I knew was the silk of his hair under my hands and the weight of our clothes making me swelter. But it didn’t come close to the liquid heat of his mouth on me. Near-agonizing pleasure swamped me, and I closed my eyes and gave myself up to it.

  “You cannot keep quiet to save your life,” he whispered as he rose over me and, brushing back perspiration-dampened hair from my forehead, kissed me. “I’d have made a small fortune if we’d wagered on it.”

  “Not a chance,” I whispered breathlessly. “No one could’ve heard me except the drunks a few cells down.”

  I pulled him on top of me and he shook his head. “The constable will be in, after that.”

  “No, he won’t.” I kissed him and kept kissing him until every bit of resistance had melted away and he was all but pleading as I pushed him under me and captured him in my mouth. In seconds, he was gasping for breath—due in part, I was sure, to the imminent danger of being caught. I eased up, teasing him with my tongue while he struggled in vain to hold his. He mumbled something incoherent, but clear enough in context, and as enjoyable as it was to feel him writhe in not exactly silent desperation under me, I notched up my tender ministrations, aiming for quick but intense.

  To my surprise—and I sensed his too—he let loose a hoarse cry that had to be audible all down the corridor. Ezra wasn’t exactly inhibited, but he had a natural reserve I hadn’t come across in anyone I’d dated in my own time. Whether it was the Brit or Victorian in him, I couldn’t say for sure. But to get past that reserve and take a peek at the wanton soul underneath tickled me inordinately. His repressive era hadn’t buried him alive, not yet—and wouldn’t, if I had anything to say about it.

  As I buttoned his pants, the corners of his mouth curled with tired good humor. “You needn’t look so cheekily pleased with yourself. You have the most diabolic effect on me and it seems to amuse you beyond all that is decent.”

  I found it touching he’d even confess I had him all hot and bothered. How could a guy not be cheekily pleased with that sort of admission? I gave him a buss on the cheek before turning a curious eye to the cell door. No one had shown up to see who was being murdered. Apparently they didn’t particularly care what we were up to, as long as we couldn’t go anywhere.

  “You know, I was thinking we’d better get our stories in synch before we’re questioned. I’ll tell them I’m a detective rather than a newspaper reporter. It won’t make them love me, but it’ll more or less explain why I was carrying handcuffs. You, on the other hand, are my innocent, trusting host who thought he could take me sightseeing without getting into trouble.” I grinned. “Always stick as close to the truth as possible.”

  I covered the basics of our story, to make sure we had our details straight. Ezra nodded, but his attention was elsewhere. He pushed his fingers through hair that couldn’t get much more tousled, an anxious gesture I was familiar with now, and I saw the lines of tension in his face. “We have company?” I kept my voice low, then wondered why I bothered.

  “Yes. It seems one of the constables was rather rough on the poor fellow. ‘Nicked’ him, so he says, for stealing bread, then struck him in the head when he tried to escape. He was nearly starved to begin with, and he died here.” Ezra’s voice dropped to a whisper. “He wasn’t here a few minutes ago.” A hand slipped into mine, fingers intertwining, and offered a reassuring squeeze.

  “You’re not just telling me that to make me feel better?”

  He made a wry face. “I would hardly have initiated what I did, otherwise.”

  “I don’t know. I’m pretty damned irresistible. You said so yourself.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “I hope I’m not solely responsible for such vanity.” Despite his words, his hand stayed in mine, tightening as we heard the outer door swing open. “Morgan—”

  “Don’t worry. Just stick to our story, keep your answers simple and on the subject, and we’ll get out of here.”

  A florid, black-moustached face, topping over six feet of uniformed bulk, appeared in the doorway and grinned at us like a cat in the mood for a little batting practice with his cornered mice. Constable Finch, one of the cops who’d brought us in. I tapped my elbow against Ezra’s and whispered, “This is the one that beat up your friend.”

  “The very one,” Ezra murmured.

  Shit, just what we needed—a cop on a power trip. I didn’t run into very many of that type during the course of my job, but I never failed to get into it with them when I did. “Okay, Ez, you’re first,” I whispered as the constable came into our cell. The likelihood that I’d piss the guy off was considerable and I didn’t want Ezra to face the fallout.

  The blue gaze that stayed on me until he was through the door was sheened with worry, none of it for himself. I leaned back against the wall and listened, in the slim hope they were interrogating Ezra within earshot, but all I could hear was the rattle of traffic from the street.

  The cell was darker and chillier since Ezra had left. In this surreal world, Ezra’s stable presence helped me keep my bearings. I took comfort from the connection we’d developed, but I knew I was getting attached in a way that would make our eventual good-bye a painful one. At the thought, I wondered what exactly was going on back at home. Were they searching for me? Did they assume Nosik’s boys had taken me out, and my body would eventually turn up on some isolated shore? I wondered if Reese or any of my friends knew yet that I was gone and that I might never be coming back. And my mom—Jesus, she was going to be devastated when Faulkner told her I was missing.

  “Sully, what the hell am I doing here?” God, I was ready to get out, not just out of the cell, but this whole dark, miserable world. I shouldn’t have pushed Ezra into going ahead of me. I probably could have handed the police a story convincing enough to get us released. While Ezra was smart enough to not say anything that might provoke further suspicion, he had never b
een through this sort of shit before and they might just bully him into saying more than he meant to.

  “Sully?” I looked around at the cold, white brick and the iron bars. “Can you hear me? Look, go tell Ez to keep his mouth shut. Help him get through the interrogation without making it any worse for us, will you?”

  Silence from all and sundry ghosts came in response. But suddenly the outer door creaked and I heard the heavy tread of the constable, followed by a second, lighter step. I rose as the cell door swung open and Ezra stepped in. Before I could ask him how it went, he ducked his head with a quick warning shake. I caught his wrist, giving him a pull in my direction. Then I saw the bruise forming over his cheekbone, and my promise that I’d be more careful went right out the window. I turned on Finch with the intention of teaching him a few modern self-defense moves the hard way. The grip Ezra got on my arm stopped me. Low and fierce, he whispered, “Don’t. It’s my fault.”

  “Bullshit. I don’t care what you said to him, he’s got no justification—”

  “I mentioned Alfred. Our ghost,” he clarified before I could ask. “I should have known that would set him off.”

  I looked around at Finch and saw a sly smile on the butt-ugly face. “Not information you want getting around, huh? Bet you anything that Alfred wasn’t the first to die on this asshole’s watch.”

  Finch stepped back from the doorway. “Come on out, then,” he said as if he were inviting us to join him for tea. “If you gents ain’t happy with me, I know where we can settle it.”

  Ezra’s grip tightened. “Morgan, you will be shut up in Newgate for months. Or worse.”

  “Don’t spoil my fun,” Finch protested. “I ain’t done down a Yank right and proper in ever so long. You let him out and I’ll discharge him for fair, after.” He showed off a row of dingy gray teeth. “That is, if I ain’t broke his neck first.”

  Ezra planted himself in front of me. “I will have a word with Inspector Pimblett straightaway, if you please.”

  I knew there had to be something besides my fist that could wipe that grin off Finch’s smug face. It figured Ezra would be the one to come up with it. Finch looked like he regretted doing no more than bruising Ezra’s cheek and, further, that he planned to make up for it. He started toward us, only to be brought to a halt by an impatient voice at the outer door.

  “Finch, what’s holding you up? I’ve already missed my supper. Let’s have the other one.”

  “Right away, sir,” Finch called out with a deference that was startling in contrast to the attitude he’d taken with us. He grabbed my coat, yanking me past Ezra. Jesus, the bastard was even stronger than he looked. “I ain’t done with you,” he muttered, and pushed me ahead of him. I looked around at Ezra, who tried to smile encouragingly.

  “Simple and on the subject,” he reminded me, with hardly a hint of the deserved sarcasm. The concern in his eyes said everything else.

  Grumbling what were probably obscenities for his time, Finch gave me a shove down the corridor and I gritted my teeth against the urge to take a swing at him. It wasn’t just my own ass I’d be stringing up on the nearest gallows. I got my temper under control by the time we reached what looked like some sort of storage room. Wooden file drawers circled the only other furniture, a table and two chairs.

  One was already occupied by a man in a black suit, bent over a notebook. He was a less impressive figure than his constable; wiry and rumpled, with unkempt, graying black hair and ink-stained fingers that moved the pen with itchy speed across the paper, he didn’t look tough enough to have worked his way from the streets of Whitechapel to a desk job. At our entrance, he took us both in with hardly a flicker of interest, then nodded at the chair before returning to his work.

  Finch gave me a none-too-gentle push toward the chair, then parked himself at the door. I sat down, feeling a transient amusement over the situation. I’d faced inquiries once or twice in my early years at the Bureau, until Sully’d gotten through to me that playing by my own rules was acceptable only in the most dire circumstances. Now here I was, in a world where the rules seemed to be less clearly defined, and I was still pissing people off. I had to be glad Sully was in no condition to thump me on the head. Of course I had reason to think Ezra would shortly be doing it on his behalf.

  Finally the scratch of the pen ceased and a weary sigh replaced it. Eyes a penetrating brown lifted to peruse my face with an unapologetic directness. “Morgan Nash, is it?”

  “That’s right. You’re Pimblett?”

  “Inspector Charles Pimblett,” he said with a certain sardonic quality as he sat up straighter, those eyes still picking me apart.

  I didn’t know if he paid any attention to body language, but kept mine nonthreatening. “Mind if I ask what we’re charged with?”

  Pimblett tapped his pen on the notebook. “Abusive language. Causing a disturbance. Assault and detention of Mr. John Leeke. Oh, and possible involvement in the deaths of Annie Chapman and Mary Ann Nichols.”

  “I guess just about everyone you arrest these days is charged with that last one.”

  He sat back and eyed me for the longest minute before replying. “Some are, yes. Especially those who are noticeably out of place.”

  If only he knew just how out of place. “So you think I don’t fit in?”

  He laid the pen on the scarred table and folded his hands over his stomach. “I take it you are here on holiday?”

  I wondered how much Ezra had told him. “My original intent was a holiday, but I’ll admit this case has piqued my interest.”

  “Amateur detective, are we?”

  “Professional.”

  “I see. With the New York police?”

  There was a note of disdain in his voice and I figured he’d worked with them before, and not amicably. “No, I’m on my own.”

  “Indeed. You’ve come quite the distance to spend your holiday trying to crack our case. Mr. Glacenbie has vouched for your character, though the embarrassment of arrest may spur him to send you back home at his first opportunity.”

  Pimblett was probably right about that. “I didn’t intend to get in the way of your investigation. Mr. Leeke’s behavior in the pub drew my attention—”

  “Behavior?”

  “He was sitting alone. He had a black bag in his possession and he was occupied in close study of the female patrons. He accosted three of them in the fifteen minutes I observed him before following him from the pub.” I felt a weird homesickness that I wasn’t sitting across from Faulkner’s grumpy visage, relating my report as he sucked down coffee and sighed every few minutes. In the habit of following a report with my own opinions, I couldn’t stop myself from continuing. “The suspect matches the witness descriptions you have on file. I think his behavior warrants further surveillance. It’s unlikely but not impossible that your killer has an accomplice, even a female one. I’d follow up all possible leads, no matter how far-fetched, if I were you.”

  “Hold a minute.” The inspector’s gaze narrowed. “You imagine a woman could do this to another woman?”

  If he was going to prevent me from investigating the murders, I could at least get it into his head to pursue leads he’d probably never considered. “I’ve seen women capable of doing some pretty nasty things to their fellow human beings, Inspector. Granted, in this case, the probability that a woman is involved is low, but if you’re looking for an obviously crazed lunatic, you’re limiting your chances of catching the killer. Have you ever handled this type of case before?”

  “I’ve taken on my share of murder cases.”

  “I’m not talking about the sort of killer who kills once, over money or a failed marriage or one of a million reasons people come up with for taking a life. I’m talking about a different kind of person. One who isn’t noticeably insane, but has a perception of the world so skewed, it drives him to kill over and over again. And there’s a pattern to the evidence he leaves behind, evidence you lose when you don’t protect your crime scene. Do yo
u know how to dust for prints? I realize it’s a new technique—”

  “Mr. Nash.”

  I knew I’d gone too far. Pimblett had no reason to consider the ideas of a man he’d just arrested on suspicion of murder or even the ideas of a fellow investigator when that investigator was a nosy stranger from across the pond. “I’m not competing with you, Inspector. I want to catch this guy just as much as you do.”

  If there was resentment and annoyance in the man’s steady gaze, there was also curiosity and a reluctant interest to hear more. But it had no doubt been a long couple of months for him, and he’d probably been offered more unofficial advice than any professional could stand to hear.

  “Mr. Nash, I am going to discharge you and your friend on one condition. That you leave Whitechapel and do not come back. If I see you on these streets again, I’ll lock you up. For your sake as well as ours.”