by Julie Miller
“Mac, what is it?” This frantic burst of energy worried her more than her suspicions surrounding Niederhaus and Masterson. She captured both of his hands in hers to stop his search. “What’s wrong? What do you need?”
“Where’s the damn phone?”
Chapter Three
Mac waited with exhausted patience while he was transferred from the Fourth Precinct desk to his cousin, police captain Mitch Taylor.
“Mac.” Did he imagine the caution in the phone greeting? Or had he developed a paranoid mistrust of all his senses?
“Am I under investigation?”
“So much for small talk.”
Mac shook his head, bemoaning his crass impulse. He hadn’t asked about Mitch’s pregnant wife, or checked how the precinct was getting along without their forensic chief. He breathed in deeply, trying to slow down the rest of the questions careening through his brain.
Autumn air and sunshine teased his nose. Jules. Sticking by his side to keep him from totalling his body and ruining his recovery.
The suspicions he’d sensed in her had put him on guard in the first place. He remembered her rapid pulse, beating beneath his fingertips. The way she’d backed into him, seeking safety.
He’d reacted on instinct, holding on to her, offering her a bit of reassurance, as if he was like any other man.
As if he could protect her from any real threat.
“Mitch? I know I’m officially on leave. But if you’ve got any answers for me—”
“I know, I know. You’ve got plenty of questions.” Mitch was more than a cop. He was an adopted big brother. They’d grown up together. Mac drew on that connection to get a glimpse of the truth.
“I just had a visit from Internal Affairs. They wanted to know if I thought Jeff Ringlein’s death was suicide, and if he intended to kill me. What’s going on?”
The heavy sigh at the other end of the line wasn’t a good sign. “Jeff was under investigation at the time of his death.”
This was news to him. “Then why are they just getting around to asking me questions now?”
“You were in the hospital for five weeks, bud.”
“Before that. Why the hell didn’t anybody tell me there was trouble in my department?”
“You know I don’t have any influence with Internal Affairs. They’re a separate investigative unit. I can’t tell you anything.”
Intellectually, he knew his cousin’s hands were tied. But the frustration eating through Mac’s reserve of patience threatened his ability to think rationally. And, dammit, he needed that ability right now. He needed to think, to ask the right questions, to put the clues together in a way that made sense.
And then he felt the gentle grip at his elbow. The strong hand to anchor himself to in a flood of fear and panic. Jules.
Just as she had reached for him when he’d been so disoriented earlier, she reached for him now. Even that most impersonal, professional of touches grounded him in the chaos of his own personal darkness. Julia’s strength allowed him to tap into his own strength.
In a much calmer voice, he pressed Mitch for information. “I’m guessing this has something to do with missing or tainted evidence.”
“Mac—”
“There’s no other reason to destroy a crime lab. We’re not street cops. We’re not first on the scene. We’re the detail guys. The nitpickers. We don’t arrest people and send them to prison.”
“Your testimony can.”
“We’re the scientific backup to a good case.” He shook his head, running on pure speculation at this point. “I think Jeff was in trouble. I.A. seems to think so, too. He was destroying evidence the night I found him in the lab.”
He heard the whistle of breath from Mitch. “You sure? That would definitely interest Internal Affairs.”
“What interests me is why Jeff would do it. Was he taking a payoff? Protecting someone? Afraid of someone?”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself, Mac. This isn’t your case. They were probably just checking you out as a character witness.”
Mac remembered Julia’s bossy accusation when she’d caught Eli Masterson snooping through his things. He couldn’t equate that protective tone of voice with any innocent activity. “They wanted something more. I’m just trying to figure out what.”
“You think Jeff altered evidence before that night? I could run a check of cases he worked on. See if any of them have been dismissed because of the lab work.”
“No, I’ve got that information…” Mac’s self-assurance faded on a sobering thought. He couldn’t read through his files or access his computer. “Can you copy them in braille?” His sarcasm was too sharp to be funny.
Mitch’s patient sigh deflated the remnants of Mac’s ego. “You can’t—”
“I know. I can’t read braille.”
The grip at his elbow tightened, summoning his attention to the woman standing quietly by his side. “I could read a report for you,” she whispered.
His fractured pride warred with his mind’s need to find answers. “It’s pretty technical stuff.” He tried to warn her away, get her to retract her offer.
“So? I’d just be reading the words. You’re the brain.”
Meaning she wasn’t? Nobody got through college and earned a registered nursing degree without their fair share of intellect. Julia’s teasing at her own expense nagged at his subconscious mind, but he filed away the casual observation to analyze later.
He turned his mouth back to the receiver. “Send me the files. Maybe I can find a pattern of some kind.”
He doubted there was much he could do toward proving Jeff’s motivation for destroying the lab, but it would give him a break from trying to identify the chemicals which Jeff had been using the night he died. “Jeff had a tray of lab samples swimming in a pool of corrosive acid. I suspect it wasn’t an isolated incident. Either he was taking a bribe, or he was in big trouble. From his words and behavior I’d say he was coerced.”
“You think somebody was blackmailing one of my cops?” A territorial authority that made Mitch Taylor one of the most respected captains of any Kansas City precinct almost elicited a smile from Mac.
“If I.A.’s on it, they may suspect corruption somewhere else, too.”
Mitch’s curse was choice and succinct. “You watch your back, Mac. I know you’re not involved in anything illegal. But you were the last person to see Jeff alive. Whoever was blackmailing him may think you figured out what he was up to.”
He could hear the snap of paper, the click of a pen at the other end. He could envision Mitch taking charge and taking action—in a way Mac could not. “I’ll put out some feelers from my end, see if we can dig up anything else about Ringlein and his connections. I’ll send someone over to keep an eye on Melanie Ringlein’s place.
“And I’ll post a guard at your house, too, just in case anyone comes snooping around. If nothing else, they can give you advance warning if I.A. returns to ask more questions.” Once, Mac would have protested such take-charge, big-brotherly behavior. Now he accepted it as a practical matter of course for a blind man.
“Fine.”
“You there by yourself?”
The question drew Mac’s attention back to the steady hand on his arm. “No. Jules is here.”
As if mentioning her name had the same impact of one of his defiant arguments, she released him. The scent of sunshine faded as the whisper of denim took her away from him.
A new emotion worked its way into Mac’s brain. Regret. He didn’t want her close to him, didn’t want to need her the way he apparently did. But he’d felt strengthened when she was at his side. He felt like something was missing when she walked away.
Before he could fully analyze those new and discomforting thoughts, Mitch laughed. “Jules? You mean Julia Dalton? That tomboy across the street who ran around with Cole? I guess they all grow up, don’t they?”
“Yeah.” Though most of what Mac remembered about Jules were her skills as a s
econd baseman, he’d learned a lot about the grown-up version of the girl next door in the past few hours. Julia Dalton had matured into a sweet-smelling woman. And the way his nerve endings sat up and took notice of her sharp wit and shrewd tongue breathed energy and sunshine into his dark, gloomy world.
Not that he was ready to deal with energy and sunshine yet.
His body heated with the memory of her figure imprinting into his. His imagination hadn’t pictured anything close to a tomboy then.
His face and body had been diced and burned and sewn back together, while she’d matured into a soft-skinned woman, with strong shoulders and rounded hips, and eyes…
What color eyes did she have, anyway?
And why did it matter?
He had no better chance of solving that mystery than he had of making sense of Jeff Ringlein’s death.
“They grow up, all right.” He ended the trip down memory lane. “Thanks, Mitch.”
“I’ll keep in touch.”
Mac pressed several buttons before he disconnected the phone and could lay it on the desk. Some nagging bit of information, buried in the dark recesses of his mind tried to make itself known, but failed to make sense. He’d seen Julia’s eyes before. He’d seen them, but he couldn’t remember them.
He added that to the list of mysteries a blind man could never solve.
OFFICER WADE OSTERMAN ate more than enough to fill his six-foot, six-inch frame. He weighed in at a bulky two hundred eighty, only fifteen pounds under his playing weight, as Julia had learned while sharing dinner with the uniformed policeman. He’d played semi-pro football. Defensive lineman.
On his third helping of mashed potatoes, she found out he could have played in the pros if his knees had held up. “And my wife had stayed with me,” he added. It was more a philosophical remark than an expression of remorse. “She was always my best cheerleader, even when she wasn’t wearing that cute little skirt.”
Julia wondered if his confession needed some kind of response. Did she express sorrow over his dissolved marriage? Ask if he’d had his knees scoped? Since she didn’t know what to make of the big, blustery charmer, she ended up simply asking, “Do you have room in there for dessert?”
She’d finished her pork chop, green beans and potatoes a while back, but had remained at the kitchen table to keep Wade company.
And to wait for Mac to make an appearance.
She’d given her mother a very specific list of groceries to bring to the house, hoping to lure Mac out of his room with the comforting scents of home cooking. But the enticement had failed. He’d gone without anything to eat all day, unless he had something stashed in his bedroom.
Hell. Something could be rotting in that room, and no one would smell it because of the assortment of chemicals he kept on his dresser.
What was that all about, anyway?
“I smelled that pie when I came in this afternoon. I can hardly wait. Usually, on a job like this, I get stuck with takeout.” Wade had been on duty for only four hours, but already he’d made himself at home. “You got ice cream to go with that?”
“Sure.”
Julia cleared the dishes and took the ice cream out of the freezer to soften up. She couldn’t help but look through the archway that led into the rest of the house. She’d stuck to her professional guns today, refusing to take any food to Mac. But his suffering pulled at her personal heartstrings.
He needed medical attention, food and liquids. But first she’d hoped he could work through the chips of guilt and self-pity and anger that burdened his shoulders. A patient had little chance of healing if he didn’t make the effort to heal himself.
“Who do you think is gonna win the World Series this year?” Wade interrupted her thoughts. Normally, she loved discussing sports. But tonight she had to force an interest in the topic.
“Braves, probably.” She repeated a line she’d heard her father say more than once. “Good pitching beats good hitting.”
“You think they can take the Yankees? I got half a paycheck riding on New York. I got a tip that says they’re making a trade for another left-hander in their pitching lineup. That’d make them a sure thing.”
Wade was off on another conversation that required no input from herself. How could the guy be so amiable while discussing divorce and throwing away his money on a bet?
She served his pie and ice cream, biting back the urge to ask if risking half his paycheck had anything to do with his wife leaving him. But Wade was just a casual acquaintance. She had no right to comment on his personal life.
Besides, she had a more important task to accomplish. She dished up another serving in a large bowl, grabbed a spoon, and stiffened her backbone for the upcoming battle. “Excuse me, Wade. I need to check on Mac.”
“S’okay,” he said with a wad of food in his mouth. “It’s seven o’clock. Better check the perimeter again.” He stood, towering over Julia and swallowing up the space in the kitchen. He held up his dish like a starving waif. “S’okay if I take this with me?”
She still wasn’t quite sure what Mitch Taylor wanted to protect Mac from, but she didn’t question the security of having this friendly giant on guard outside the house. “Go ahead.”
She followed Wade to the front door and locked it behind him, then walked to the back of the house. She’d spent the afternoon cleaning, so the path was clear, but she’d need some muscle to move the furniture into an easier layout for Mac to negotiate. Maybe she’d just sent a prime recruit outside with pie and ice cream. That small bit of good fortune carried her all the way to Mac’s locked bedroom door.
The battered oak could be turned into a beautiful piece of wood if it was stripped and refinished. She wondered what it would take to break it down. Maybe Mac’s hard head. But she’d try other means first.
She didn’t bother knocking. No sense giving him the opportunity to be rude. “Mac?” No answer. “Your dinner is cold. I brought dessert. Apple pie and ice cream. Can you smell it?”
“Go away.”
Julia breathed deeply. She knew this wouldn’t be easy. “Your sense of smell should be more acute now.” She passed the bowl along the seam of the door, shamelessly tantalizing him. “It’s still warm. Take a whiff.”
“Acute?!”
A couple of quick footsteps preceded the sound of a skeleton key twisting in the lock. She jumped back when Mac wrenched open the door. His hand shot out. Julia dodged a poke in the jaw, and barely managed to switch the pie from one hand to the other before his searching fingers clamped down on her wrist and dragged her inside.
“Smell these.”
He spun her toward the dresser. Toward the parade of glass beakers. He moved his hand to the back of her neck, pushing her forward, forcing her to inhale the mishmash of toxic vapors. Her sinuses burned. She shook her head, but his grip held fast. “Can you tell which one is flammable? Which one is safe?”
“You’re hurting me.” Her plea fell on deaf ears. His hand tapped across the dresser and picked up a beaker with a surety that made her think he’d done it several times before.
He thrust the glass beneath her nose. “Do you think this is the one that Jeff used to destroy those samples? Is this what blew up in his face? I can’t tell the difference anymore. Can you?”
“Dammit, Mac!” Forgetting any rule about treating the patient with care, Julia defended herself. She shoved the beaker away from her face and twisted within his grasp. The beaker flew into the air and he released her.
Reflex actions made her lunge for the glass to try and save it, but she stumbled over Mac’s foot. Her legs knotted with his when he tried to move away. And then they were falling. The beaker shattered on the floor the same instant Mac hit the bed and she landed on top of him.
Fortunately, he’d taunted her with water. Nothing dangerous. But manhandling her was a crime she would not forgive. Patience be damned. The man was going to eat.
Julia plopped herself on Mac’s stomach, keeping him off balance when he t
ried to rise to his feet. She scraped the spoon through the bowl, splashing melted ice cream onto his shirt. She aimed for his mouth and hit her target, startling him into swallowing the food. Her victory fired her up for a second try.
But blind or not, Mac proved amazingly quick. He rolled. The bowl and spoon hit him in the face, but he knocked them aside and pinned Julia beneath him. “You want to take advantage of a blind man, Jules? Is that what you want?”
In a heartbeat, the breath rushed out of her and she froze. Long and lean, Mac’s body stretched beyond the length of hers. Their legs tangled together, his hips fitting snugly over hers. His hands had found her shoulders, and the tip of one long thumb branded her across the top curve of her breast. His face hovered mere inches above hers, close enough to feel each fevered breath brush across her cheek.
The heavy sensation that rushed to where his thigh sank between hers made her forget all about defending herself. How many times had she kissed her pillow and dreamed it was Mac Taylor?
If she wrapped her arms around his waist or lifted her lips, she could turn their position into an embrace.
If.
An instinctive rush of self-consciousness stole into her mind, killing the thought before it could take wing. Lying on top of her, could he gauge the dimensions of her figure? Could he remember the freckles that made her plain? The shape that made her easy to overlook?
I’m not just your last chance. I’m your only chance. A nightmare from long ago whispered into her subconscious mind.
Sturdy. I like that in a woman. Not exactly Dr. Casanova’s slickest line. But she’d fallen for it, anyway.
Julia squeezed her eyes shut against the ugly voices inside her head and tried to pull herself back to the present.
“Jules?” His terse, ruined voice demanded a response.
To be this close and know he thought of nothing but besting her, nothing but rebelling, nothing but proving a point, kept her from giving in to her hopeless fantasies.
She sought out reason, the way the Mac she’d had a crush on all these years would.
