by Julie Miller
“Let me go.”
Her voice was a honeyed plea that sank into his brain and turned this simple holding of hands into something more. His breathing seemed to stop, and he was aware only of her. The delicate scent of a lotion she used. The subtle rise in temperature along the surface of her skin where he touched her. He skimmed along the curve between her thumb and index finger and felt a vibration in his chest as she trembled against him. Or maybe that was the sudden intake of his own breath coming to life.
There was something magic in this woman’s hands. Something warm and caring that would soon be denied him.
“Mac.”
He shook his head. He didn’t want to talk, he didn’t want to think. He only wanted to explore. His mouth went dry with the need to do more than touch. He wanted to taste her.
He pulled her left hand up to his lips and brushed them against her palm. Her fingers tugged, then curled around his. She warred with the same sensations he did. And, like him, she succumbed to the unexpected temptation.
Mac touched his tongue to the tiny dimple near the base of her palm. He came away with a subtle tang of salt, a subtle morsel of heat. He tasted the spot once more, then traced the crease that ran vertically up toward her fingers and felt her shiver.
“Mac.” Not a protest this time. A plea.
Her right hand came up around his neck, her fingers cupped his jaw and grazed the tender skin behind his ear. His jeans tightened as he felt her shift a step closer. He was making love to a woman’s hand. Tasting and taking and getting aroused by the fine textures of her skin and the sensual response of her wonderful body.
Jules made him feel strong. She made him feel like a whole man again.
He didn’t want to think about handicaps or goodbyes or investigations he couldn’t pursue.
He wanted to kiss her.
On the lips.
He wanted to explore that part of her just as thoroughly, using every sense available to him.
She was close enough, he thought. And judging by the direction of heat, she was right in front of his downturned face. He only had to calculate the distance, be gentle in his approach, draw himself toward that delightful scent of creamy coffee on her breath.
With a sudden jerk, she pulled away. No kiss. No hands. No nothing.
“We have company.”
Mac felt her withdrawal like a winter chill over his heated body.
“Who?”
He heard the sound of a car engine in the driveway just as Jules made the announcement.
“Our mothers.”
They groaned in unison. He was still raw from the sensations of that almost kiss. He’d never been caught in the act of seducing anyone before. Certainly not the daughter of his mom’s best friend. “Makes you feel about fifteen years old, doesn’t it?”
He heard her shaky sigh, mistook it for a nervous laugh. But it wasn’t enough warning to brace himself for her words.
“It’s time for me to leave.”
Chapter Six
For a wounded man trying to seclude himself from the pitying glare of society, Mac was suddenly extremely popular.
As he stood in the open doorway beside his mother, Joe Niederhaus slapped a folded document into his hands. “Search warrant. We’re going to take a look around.”
The smug superiority in Niederhaus’s tone was intended to make Mac feel like a criminal. Since he wasn’t one, the strong-arm tactic only ticked him off. When the Internal Affairs detective tried to push his way into the house, Mac flattened his hand against the man’s chest and shoved him back beyond the threshold.
“Just a second.” He handed the paper to Martha. “Ma, read it. Make sure it’s legit.”
“You’re interfering with a police investigation,” warned Niederhaus.
“I am a police investigator. I know the procedure.”
“Joe, back off.” Eli Masterson’s calm, rational tone buffeted his partner from the opposite side. “He has the right to read the warrant before we go in.”
“I’ve been doing my job for over forty years.” Niederhaus’s winded breathing from an unhealthy lifestyle and the stench of cigar smoke on his clothes made his angry movements easy for Mac to track. “I don’t have to take orders from any lab tech. Especially some college-boy hotshot like you.”
“My son is the director of CSI services for the Fourth Precinct.” Mac resisted the urge to smile at Martha Taylor’s stern defense of her second-born child. Spoken like a true mom.
“Was, ma’am.” Detective Masterson made the correction. Though his tone held more respect than his partner’s, he still made it clear that he had a job to do, and that he intended to do it. “Detective Taylor here is on indefinite leave. We need to know why the explosion occurred in his lab, why evidence has been damaged, destroyed or misplaced, and if Officer Ringlein was working alone or had accomplices within the department.”
“Are you accusing my son of being an accomplice?”
“We’re just gathering facts at this point, ma’am.”
Mac heard a snap of paper and felt Martha’s shoulder brush against his arm as she straightened. He had a feeling the Taylors weren’t going to win this argument. Her long-winded sigh confirmed it. “It’s a legitimate warrant. It’s been signed by Judge Engelman.”
Niederhaus’s laugh stirred up stale air. “Move aside.”
Mac linked his arm through Martha’s and pulled her out of the detectives’ path. Though her words had been brave, the clench of her fingers on his forearm revealed her fear. He didn’t know how yet, but Niederhaus would pay for upsetting his mother.
Barbara Dalton was worried, too. “Mac, is there something we should do?”
Her presence behind him reminded Mac instantly how Julia had abandoned him so quickly. Leaving him to greet their moms outside, she’d run into the house for her bag, returned, keys in hand, wished him a quick Take care of yourself, and then was gone. She’d pulled her small-engined car away from the curb and vanished beyond his hearing.
Gone. Just like that.
As if she couldn’t wait to escape the monster he’d become. As if he’d been left with the face and needs and personality that only a mother could love.
Some friend she’d turned out to be.
Before he’d had time to decide if he was angry or hurt or just plain stupid for caring whether or not she stayed in the first place, Niederhaus and Masterson had arrived.
Mac had nothing to hide. Still, a second visit from Internal Affairs was enough to put any smart man on guard. He gave his mother’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “Get Mitch on the phone.”
Even if the only news came from the rumor mill, he wanted some kind of answers.
“I’ll come with you while you make the call,” Barbara offered, as Martha picked up the cordless phone and the two women walked into the kitchen together.
Good. At least his mom had Barbara here to support her. Mac would monitor the two detectives on his own.
“What are you looking for?” he asked.
“We’ll know it when we find it, won’t we?”
Mac stood behind the sofa and gripped the back in his tight fists. He buried the debilitating feeling of helplessness that spun his world on its axis and concentrated on his sense of hearing. Eli Masterson’s even tread carried him to the rooms down the hallway while Joe Niederhaus pawed through the living room.
Mac wasn’t sentimental about too many of his things, but the fact that Niederhaus was going through them with the unrestrained finesse of a drunken bull warred with his own need for order and understanding.
Internal Affairs had the thankless job of policing the police, of making sure the men and women who protected the citizens of Kansas City weren’t corrupt themselves. He owed the man respect on that count. But he didn’t have to like him.
“How old are you, Niederhaus?” Mac asked.
The I.A. detective laughed at the question. But since it seemed unrelated to the situation at hand, it was safe to answer. Just as
Mac had hoped. Get the old grouch talking. “Sixty-four.”
“Gettin’ set to retire, huh?”
“End of the year, I’m out.”
Mac heard the abrading rasp of wood sliding against wood, and knew Niederhaus was going through the drawers of his desk. “You got a good record?”
The papers in his desk would be completely trashed by the time Niederhaus finished rifling through them. “Like I said, I’ve been doin’ this forty years. I make clean arrests, and I make a lot of them.” The challenge to contradict him was as clear as the pride in his voice.
“Ever had the lab work let you down on a case?”
A drawer slammed shut, and Mac suspected he had Joe’s full attention now. “You think I got a grudge against CSI?”
Since the crime scene investigation unit seemed to be the target of his inquiries—yes.
Mac wished he could tell whether or not he was holding the detective’s gaze. “You’re making a mistake. Jeff Ringlein was in trouble. I think he was being blackmailed. I don’t know why or how, but I can’t think of any other reason why he’d destroy evidence.”
“Blackmailed, huh?” That labored breathing came closer and Mac could tell Niederhaus was checking under the sofa and around the cushions. “You ever been blackmailed, Taylor? Anybody ever pressure you to misplace some evidence?”
“No.”
“Any of your people report to you that they’d been pressured into compromising evidence in the lab?”
“My people get approached from time to time. They’re overworked and underpaid, but I believe they’re honest.”
Niederhaus’s crepe-soled shoes squeaked on the exposed wood floor as he approached Mac. “Did Ringlein tell you he was being blackmailed?”
“Not in so many words.”
“What words did he use?”
Mac closed his eyes and replayed those last few hellish minutes of Jeff’s life. Jeff had been desperate enough to attack him. Desperate enough to choose death over discovery.
“He was worried about his wife.” Mac dragged the words past the image of shooting flames. His breath caught in a shallow gasp and he wrinkled his nose against the memory of toxic air. He forced his eyes open, as if that would allow him to see out beyond the boundaries of his nightmare. Beyond those last images of Jeff setting the air on fire. But he remained trapped with the darkness. “He said ‘I couldn’t know.”’
Crepe-soled shoes and stale smoke circled around Mac. “So you walked in on him as he was destroying case samples. And then he tried to cover it up.”
Mac turned toward the sound and smell, feeling an increasing need to defend himself. “I’m sure you have my statement.”
“I’ve read it.” Old stogie breath came closer and Mac backed off a step. “How did that make you feel? Knowing your protegé had betrayed you?”
“I was busy at the time.”
All his senses screamed that Niederhaus had leaned forward, standing too close, invading Mac’s personal space. “You didn’t get angry? You didn’t react to that betrayal?”
“Jeff mixed those chemicals, not me. I tried to save his life.”
“Did you now? He makes a mighty easy scapegoat since he’s not here to defend—”
“Joe.” Eli Masterson’s curt, low voice silenced his partner with a single word.
While Mac had been holding his own against Niederhaus’s manipulative version of grilling a witness, he’d missed Eli’s return. The distance of the living room separated them, yet Mac felt the need to turn and face off against the younger detective.
Something was wrong.
There was an endless moment of awkward quiet, until Niederhaus answered with a breathy, grunting sound. His version of a dismissive sigh, Mac speculated. “I got nothing in here.”
“Don’t go anywhere, Mr. Taylor.”
Seriously wrong.
Mac went rigid at Eli’s command. There was something more troublesome in his quiet, controlled warning than in Niederhaus’s blustery barrage of questions. “Joe, you better come take a look at this.”
If a grunt could sound triumphant, Niederhaus had just scored a victory. He shuffled out of the living room behind his partner, leaving Mac to wonder what Eli had found.
“Ma?” No sense waiting for the bad news to come to him.
Using the sofa to guide him, Mac stumbled toward the kitchen and the closest pair of friendly seeing eyes. He ran into her halfway there. Catching her by the shoulders, he tipped his face down to hers. But the height felt different. “Ma?”
“No, it’s Barbara.” Mac released Julia’s mother, feeling as awkward as the apology in her voice. “Martha’s talking to Mitch. Do you want me to get her?”
“No. I—” That damned vertigo set in, cancelling out all rational thought. He shoved his thumb and middle finger up under his glasses, knocking them to the floor. “I need to think.”
He rubbed at the skin beside his eyes and tuned in to the rustle of Barbara Dalton’s dress as she bent down to retrieve his dark glasses. The meager attempt to focus calmed him enough to pose a few questions. But he remained lost in a world where he couldn’t find answers.
Niederhaus’s search warrant made no sense. Like Jeff, he’d been a victim of that explosion in the lab. He was the witness to Jeff’s crime of interfering with police procedure. Assigning Wade Osterman to guard him meant the police considered him a valuable resource on the case. Why come here? What could they hope to find?
Unless something else had happened.
But he was so damned far out of the loop, he had no idea on the status of the case.
“Planning on destroying some evidence yourself?” Eli’s quiet voice thrummed through the living room. A waft of stale cigar smoke indicated Niederhaus had returned as well.
Mac adjusted the glasses on his face before answering. “I can explain the beakers. I was trying to identify the chemical Jeff was using that night. It was toxic. Corrosive. And in the right combination, it was explosive.”
“Then how do you explain this?”
What, he was supposed to read minds now? What was Eli taunting him with? “Barbara?”
He shifted toward the two I.A. detectives while Barbara Dalton described what Eli held in his hand. “It looks like a clear plastic sandwich bag with some thread inside. There’s writing on a label—”
“An evidence bag.”
Eli echoed his deduction. “An evidence bag.”
The sound of moist, shallow breathing preceded Niederhaus’s question. “You sign this out from the lab, Taylor?”
Mac swore, a simple, succinct curse under his breath. Yes, he often brought his work home. Papers. Reports. Documentation.
But the actual evidence stayed in the lab.
“It’s labeled Case Number 2514, Exhibit B.” Joe practically smacked his lips. “It’s from that case Dwight Powers is trying next week. You wouldn’t be helping that baby-killer go free, would you?”
“You son of a—”
“Joe.” Eli took control of the room one more time. “Mr. Taylor, you’re within your jurisdiction to transport evidence. You have the clearance to check it out of the lab.” He paused for maximum effect. “Or rather, you did.”
The use of the past tense wasn’t lost on Mac. How the hell did he explain possessing key circumstantial evidence on a murder case? Especially when he didn’t know the answer himself.
All eyes were on him. He could feel it. A confused glance. A questioning glance. A taunting glance.
And something more.
He felt her. In the heartbeats it took for the cooling breeze to register, he smelled something more. Crisp air and autumn sunshine.
Jules was here.
She’d come back.
He tipped his nose toward her sweet, wholesome scent and absorbed her presence like a steadying hand.
When he turned back to the two detectives, he’d centered himself in his world again. Instead of denial or self-defense, he seized his curiosity. “Where did you find i
t?”
“Back of the bathroom closet.” At least Masterson gave him answers. “Did you check this out of the lab?”
Mac avoided implicating himself. “I thought Jeff was the one you were investigating.”
Niederhaus’s breathing quickened into excited gasps. “You were the last person to see him alive. He may have passed you incriminating information that you’re trying to hide so your department looks clean. Or maybe you killed him to hide your crime. Ringlein’s death might not have been an accident, after all.”
“MacKinley.” Martha interrupted with a name sure to get his attention. She hurried into the living room and pressed the phone into his hand. “Mitch says not another word until you talk to a lawyer.”
AT LEAST THEY hadn’t handcuffed him and hauled him in for further questioning. But Mac wasn’t ready to breathe a sigh of relief yet. If anything, the tension within him was strung even more tightly.
What the hell was going on here?
Detective Masterson took the misplaced evidence bag with him, and bade a polite goodbye to the ladies. Joe Niederhaus had thrown a terse, Don’t leave town, his way before stalking out the door.
Mac sensed that Eli Masterson was a tough, but fair, man. But maybe he and Niederhaus were simply playing a good cop/bad cop routine, trying to get Mac to drop his guard and reveal something. Clearly they suspected him of compromising evidence, if not the actual murder of Jeff Ringlein. The fact they hadn’t arrested him meant they didn’t have the grounds to prove it. Yet.
Or maybe the only reason they hadn’t taken him downtown was because his cousin Mitch Taylor, Captain of the Fourth Precinct, was on the other end of the line.
“What can you tell me about Case Number 2514?” Mac demanded, putting the phone back up to his ear while Julia locked the door behind the two detectives. “Dwight Powers is taking it to trial next week.”
Mitch’s bracing sigh put Mac on alert. “That’s the Arnie Sanchez kidnapping case.”
