by Dee Davis
“At work.”
“And lunch.” Haskins was beginning to push and it looked like Pollock was pushing back.
“I don’t spend my private time with any of these people, if that’s what you’re getting at. I work with them. Nothing more.” He stood up, walking to the window, turning his back on them. “I can’t believe any of this is happening. First Jonathan and now Derek.”
“So is there a relationship?” D’Angelo leaned back in his chair, waiting.
Pollock spun around. “I don’t see how there could be. I mean, a carjacking in Mexico is a far cry from an execution.”
“Who said it was an execution?”
Pollock shrugged. “A murder, an execution, is there a difference? The man is dead.”
Haskins closed his notebook. “In our business, Mr. Pollock, there’s a hell of a difference.”
Jason held up a hand. “I’m sorry if I said something wrong. I’ve never had to deal with this sort of thing before.” He sucked in a breath, obviously seeking fortification. “It makes you realize just how fragile life really is. It could’ve just as easily been me.” The last was an after-thought, almost mumbled, but D’Angelo heard him loud and clear.
Jason Pollock was hiding something. The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question was—what?
John looked at the weight machine, torn between laughter and anger. How was he supposed to manage all this? In the hospital it had been easy. Go here. Do this. But now, everything bordered on overwhelming. He had to make decisions about everything, and what had once been relatively simple had become excruciatingly painful. Virtually impossible.
“It’s not as hard as it looks.” Just as before, her voice washed over him, soothing in its complexity.
“Easy for you to say.” He was surprised when he smiled. “You’ve got the use of all of your appendages.”
“So do you.” Her answering smile was warm, as she efficiently adjusted the weights. “You’re just a little out of practice using them, that’s all.” She definitely had a way about her. A manner that made him feel comfortable and off guard all at the same time.
Dangerous.
He almost laughed. Most people wouldn’t think of a physical therapist in that light. But then again, maybe they just hadn’t met Kathleen Cavanaugh. “And you’re going to help me.” He looked up, his breath catching as her soft scent caressed him.
“If I can. But a lot of it is about you.” She helped him adjust the padded bar on the weight machine, and then stepped back, waiting. “You’ve got to want to get better.”
Taking a deep breath, he concentrated on lifting the bar, using both legs. Good and bad. Trying to keep a balance. “And you think I don’t?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think, John. It’s what you think that matters.”
“Mind over body?” He pushed upward again, muscles burning with the effort. “What if you’re asking too much? What if I can’t go any farther? Maybe I just don’t have it in me.”
She leaned across him, to adjust the padding, her hair brushing against his chest. “That’s when you’ve got to dig deeper. Find the strength inside you.” She straightened up, her eyes locking with his. “I know it’s hard, but you’re a fighter. You can do this. You’ve come too far to quit now.”
He lifted the bar for another rep, pushing against the weight, forcing the muscles in his right leg to respond.
“You’re doing great.” There was a note of sincerity in her eyes. A camaraderie that he hadn’t experienced in a long while.
“So does it hurt a lot?”
“The weights?” he asked, surprised. Surely she was familiar with the pain of a workout. Especially considering her occupation.
She smiled, reading his thoughts. “No. Your head. Does it still hurt?”
“Not in the way you’re thinking. I can’t even feel the bullet. Sometimes I imagine I can. But there’s no actual feeling. Just a hunk of metal lodged against my skull.”
“Nice conversation piece.” She spoke lightly as she adjusted the weights, but he could hear the underlying sorrow in her voice. Not pity. Just honest sympathy. As if she’d been there herself.
Which of course she hadn’t.
“Oh yeah,” he strove to match her lightness, but missed, coming off sounding sarcastic and bitter instead. “I’m sure to be the hit of the cocktail circuit.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
He finished the set and reached over to cover her hand with his. “I know you didn’t. It’s just that sometimes I wish—I don’t know, that it had been somebody else.”
“Or that you hadn’t survived?” Her somber gaze met his, the hint of a shadow darkening her eyes. Secrets. Kathleen had secrets.
The idea almost came as a relief, putting them on the same footing somehow.
“Sometimes,” he admitted. “On the worst days. But not so much anymore.”
“Which is good.” The shadows passed, her eyes clearing, and she reached across him again to adjust the machine. He liked the proximity, and felt foolishly disappointed when she moved back. “Let’s do ten more. This time try and gradually shift the weight so that the right side is working harder than the left.”
“No rest for the weary?” Despite his aching muscles, he smiled up at her, determined to rise to the challenge.
“None at all.” She shook her head, her smile at odds with her words. “Besides, you haven’t been working long enough to be weary.” She leaned back against a massage table. “So tell me about Guardian.”
“It started in college.” He couldn’t decide if she was really interested, or just talking to keep his mind off the pain. He supposed it didn’t matter, although if he were honest, he’d have to say that, at least at some level, he wanted her to be interested in him. “I was a computer geek. A real nerd. I thought—and still think, to some extent—that the world begins and ends with bits and bytes. But like most people I have another side.”
“The dangerous one.”
It was all he could do not to roll his eyes. “I think rebellious might be a better word. Anyway, I got interested in hacking.”
She frowned. “You’re telling me you broke into other people’s computers.”
“As often as possible. You’ve got to understand, it didn’t have anything to do with what was on their computers. It was all about the challenge of getting inside. Of beating the system, so to speak.” He lowered his legs, letting the weights drop as well.
“And that makes it all right?” Her expression was a mix of curiosity and censure.
“Of course not. But it does make it fun.”
“I’m not sure I see how any of this ties in with your company.”
“That’s the beauty of it. You see, I figured out a way to make hacking a profitable, legal enterprise.” He lifted the weights again. “Guardian specializes in protecting computer systems from people like me.”
“And to do that, you still get to hack.”
“Exactly. Someone has to make certain there isn’t a way in.” He gritted his teeth against the resistance of the weights. “And that seems to be an area where I excel.”
“So you founded the company.”
“Founded seems a bit formal, and I’d be lying if I said I did it all by myself. Guardian was a team effort from the beginning.”
“You’re talking about Danny and Derek.”
“Yeah. And Frank and Valerie. We all started out in the business school together. Derek, Valerie, and I were into computers in a serious way. Derek was a natural programmer. So it was all innate for him, and Valerie has never failed at anything she’s set out to do. I’ll admit she’s a little bit self-involved, but her computer skills more than make up for it.”
“What about Frank?”
“He’s an odd duck, but he’s a hell of a worker bee, and he’s incredibly loyal. They all are, really. I can’t imagine having done any of this without them.”
“Was Danny into computers, too?”
“No, that came la
ter.” He finished the last rep, surprised at how quickly he’d accomplished the task. “I think he hung around in the beginning mainly because he wanted to get into Valerie’s pants.”
She smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners with laughter. “And did it work?”
“Only for a little while. Valerie goes through men almost as fast as Danny goes through women. But they parted friends.” And had remained so. In fact, they’d all remained friends. Which was sort of amazing when one considered the ups and downs of the past ten years. “Anyway, when I came up with the idea for Guardian, it just seemed logical to bring my friends in on it.”
She helped him stand and they moved to a different station, just the touch of her hands sending his senses reeling. He wanted to write it off as the effect of the workout. Endorphins and all that. But if he was being completely honest, he’d have to admit that it was more than that. Sort of a man-woman thing.
Which sounded really stupid. So he kept the thought to himself, concentrating instead on the workout. After adjusting the weights, he began to pull upward, the motion designed to strengthen his weak arm.
“So what kind of clients do you have?”
“All kinds really. We started with mostly financial companies. Banks, brokerage houses, that sort of thing. But we’ve branched out a lot since then. Our newest client, D.E.S. makes jet engines, among other things.”
“Sounds lucrative.”
“It is. And challenging, which is more important to me.”
She glanced around the Guardian gym. “But money doesn’t hurt, surely.”
“It gives me more freedom, I guess.” He concentrated on keeping his arm straight. “So come on, turnabout’s fair play. Tell me about you. You said you were from Boston.”
“Actually,” she smiled, “I said I was Boston Irish.” The mischievous glint was back in her eyes.
He lifted an eyebrow, playing along. “And that’s not the same?”
She shook her head, eyes sparkling. “I’m from Medfield, a little town outside of Boston.”
“A sleepy New England village?”
“Only in the tourism brochures.” She increased the weight slightly. “One more set.”
“Still, you’re a long way from home.” He started the new set, but kept his eyes on her, fascinated with the curve of her eyebrows, the tiny mole at the hollow of her cheek. Mentally shaking his head, he turned his attention back to the weights. “What brought you to Austin? UT?”
“No, I went to a liberal arts school in northwest Mass. About two and a half hours from Boston.”
“Liberal arts, huh? I’ll bet you majored in history.”
She smiled, shaking her head. “Nope. English. Applicable degree, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know,” he said, enjoying the banter, “I, for one, have always preferred a physical therapist with a good command of the English language.”
“Lift thy weights, O noble son?” Her laughter was contagious.
“Well, maybe something a bit less erudite.” He grinned up at her. “So you never said what brought you here.”
“I, ah—” She waited a beat, and he wondered for a moment if he’d hit on the source of the shadows. “I followed a boyfriend.”
“Past tense?” The words came out a question and he waited, fervently wishing it so.
“Very.” Her nod was emphatic, and relief washed through him. “Turned out he was more in love with my ability to support him than anything else, and the moment a bigger meal ticket came along he was out the door.”
He listened for a hint of regret or anger, but there was nothing. Whatever this man had meant to her, he was not the cause of her shadows. “But you’re still here.”
She shrugged. “I have a good job. I like what I do. So here I am.”
“Living with me.” Even though the words were meant innocently, they hung between them, creating distance where there had been at least a sense of intimacy. He wanted to reach out, to stop her from pulling away, but he hadn’t the right.
She made a play of adjusting the machine, her hair hiding her eyes. “Only temporarily.”
“Temporarily?” he repeated, dropping the weight, worried suddenly that she would disappear as quickly as she’d come.
She must have heard the panic in his voice, because she closed the distance in an instant, her gaze locking with his, her breath caressing his hair. “I only meant that you’re going to get better. Then you won’t need me anymore.”
He’d only just met her, and yet he suspected this was a woman a man would have trouble getting over. He reached up, laying his hand against her cheek, searching her eyes for something he wasn’t even clear on himself.
Truth was, just at the moment he’d like nothing more than to find out exactly what she felt like lying underneath him, their bodies joined together in a heated dance. Of course, the thought was not only inappropriate, it was probably impossible. No woman wanted to sleep with half a man.
He dropped his hand, forcing a smile, praying his thoughts weren’t reflected in his eyes. “I can’t argue with that.”
She licked her lips, looking every bit as uncomfortable as he felt, but she didn’t move away, and he admired the way she held her ground. He took a step forward, so close now, he could see the flecks of green in her eyes, count the freckles on her cheeks.
He felt her intake of breath, heard the sweet sound of capitulation deep in her throat. Blindly he reached for her, forgetting all the reasons why he shouldn’t. There was only now, and the fact that she made him feel so desperately alive.
“Are we interrupting something?”
They jerked apart, the fantasy evaporating in an instant. Kathleen retreated to the table, her eyes too wide, her breathing jerky. He shifted to stand between her and the men in the doorway, two of them, in ill-fitting suits. Cops, if he had to call it. He scrambled to shift gears, knowing he needed his wits about him.
The younger man stepped forward. A hardened army type with straight dark hair and piercing gray eyes. John was instantly on alert. “Eric D’Angelo, Austin PD.”
The detective held out his left hand, and despite his initial response John found himself relaxing. “John Brighton.” He nodded at his injured right hand. “But I assume you knew that. This is my physical therapist, Kathleen Cavanaugh.”
D’Angelo raised an eyebrow, the gesture the silent equivalent of a whistle. John suppressed a smile.
“I should leave you guys on your own.” Kathleen had either missed the exchange or was ignoring it. From what he knew of her, he suspected the latter. She was coolly in control now, completely professional, no sign of the passion that had shimmered between them only moments before. He wasn’t certain if he should be relieved or disappointed.
Perversely, he put a hand on hers, a silent request for her to stay. He needed the moral support. “You’re fine. I’m sure these gentlemen won’t be long.”
D’Angelo shook his head. “We’ve only got a few questions.” He motioned the other man into the room. “This is my partner. Tony Haskins.”
John tipped his head in the direction of the older man. “What can I do for you?”
“As I’m sure you’ve guessed,” D’Angelo picked up a hand weight, absently lifting it up and down, “we have some questions about Derek Miller.”
John moved to sit on the edge of the table. “What exactly can I help you with?”
“We’re trying to understand more about Miller. Hopefully find a reason why someone would want him dead.”
“Seems the obvious choice would be his drug problem. You’re thinking there’s something more?” John studied the other man, liking what he saw, but recognizing that at least for the moment the man was an adversary.
“That’s what we’re here to find out.” Haskins spoke this time, pulling a little notebook out of his pocket. “You knew about Miller’s problems. So why would you continue to employ him?”
John fought to keep focus. He was getting tired, and that meant it was ha
rder to maintain control. “A couple of reasons.” He braced his good hand on the table, and was grateful to feel Kathleen move closer, her body slightly behind him, supporting his bad side. “First off, he was a good man, despite his bad habits. And second, he was one of the best programmers I’ve ever worked with. With talent like his, you can overlook a lot of problems.”
“But you didn’t encourage his bad habits.” D’Angelo took over the questioning.
“Quite the contrary, we paid for his rehab. Twice.”
“Second time being the charm.”
John shrugged. “As far as I know.”
“Right.” D’Angelo straddled the workout bench. “Well, here’s what we know. A couple of days before you went to Mexico, Miller was arrested for possession. We also know that you bailed him out. What we don’t know is what happened to Miller after that. You were evidently the last person to see Derek Miller alive. Can you help us with that, Mr. Brighton?”
John turned inward, trying to pull something—anything—out of the tumbled darkness of his mind. He’d liked Derek Miller, even wanted to help him. Truth be told, he still did. But there simply wasn’t anything left to remember. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember bailing him out. I don’t even remember his being in jail. If he told me anything that could help, I’m afraid it’s gone.”
D’Angelo exchanged another look with his partner, then turned to Kathleen. “I’m not up on amnesia. But I gather his memories aren’t coming back?”
Kathleen’s eyes met the detective’s, her gaze unflinching. “It isn’t a matter of it coming back, Detective. When a bullet enters the brain it destroys everything in its path. Leaving a gooey mess in its wake. The brain is a marvelous thing, it can compensate for almost anything. But it can’t re-create memories that don’t exist anymore. It just can’t.”
“So I guess that leaves us at square one.” Haskins closed his notebook.
“I’m sorry,” John said, and he was. He’d give anything to be able to remember. Not just for Miller, but for himself. “The good news is that I doubt I knew anything helpful anyway. I liked Derek, but we weren’t close. I sincerely doubt he’d have confided anything useful to me.”
