Midnight Rain

by Dee Davis

  “It must be hard on him.”

  “Probably.” Danny considered the statement. “But in the end, he’ll be glad he trusted me.”

  D’Angelo closed his notebook, nodding. “One more question, Mr. Brighton.” Danny looked up expectantly— confident, no doubt, that he’d handled the detective. D’Angelo almost smiled. “Were you aware of the fact that your brother paid Derek Miller thirty-five thousand dollars the day before he left for Mexico?”

  Chapter 7

  “Why didn’t you tell me you gave money to Derek Miller?” Danny’s face was flushed with anger as he strode into the gym.

  With Katie’s help, John released the weights he was holding, and sat up to face his brother. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I just got out of a meeting with Detective D’Angelo, and according to Miller’s bank records, you gave him thirty-five thousand dollars the day before you left for Mexico. So do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

  “Once again I seem to be in the middle of private affairs. Why don’t I leave you guys alone to talk.” Katie’s gaze met John’s, her eyes questioning.

  “I think that would be best.” It was tempting to ask her to stay. He felt more grounded when she was in the room, as if somehow she anchored him in reality. But it was probably better to face his brother on his own. “We’re finished here anyway.”

  “All right.” She frowned at him, as if she wasn’t certain she was doing the right thing, and then, with a little sigh, turned and walked away.

  Danny watched until the gym door closed behind her, then turned to face John, his jaw working in anger. “So are you going to tell me what the hell is going on, Jonathan?”

  “John.” The correction came automatically as he scrambled to make sense of his brother’s tirade.

  “John, Jonathan—whatever.” Danny waved a hand through the air. “Just tell me about the goddamned money.”

  “There’s nothing to tell.” Frustration coated with anger laced through him. “If I gave money to Derek, I have no memory of it. You’re sure D’Angelo wasn’t just yanking your chain?”

  “Oh, he was yanking, all right, but not about this. He had proof. You gave the money to Derek. The big question here is, why.” Danny sat down on a bench, his anger dissipating somewhat.

  John walked over to the watercooler, taking his time to fill a cup, trying to sort through his cascading emotions. Everything was askew. Nothing as it seemed. First Katie, now this.

  With a slow exhale of breath, he turned to face his brother. “Maybe the money was for Miller’s bail?”

  “Not likely.” Danny’s voice was calmer now. “You’d have posted bail directly to the bondsman. What about rehab?”

  John shook his head. “That doesn’t fly either. I might have agreed to help him, but I’d never have given him the money directly. That’d be like handing him the drugs.”

  “D’Angelo seems to think it might have been a payoff.”

  “For what?” John wadded the paper cup up in his good hand, ignoring the water still inside.

  “I don’t know, Jonathan, but I think you’d better figure it out. This D’Angelo fellow is determined to find out what happened to Miller, and unless I’m off my game, you’re on his short list of suspects.”

  “For what? Killing Derek? In case you’ve forgotten, I was in Mexico at the time, facing the wrong end of a gun.”

  “Maybe.” Danny’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Then again, maybe not.”

  “What the hell do you mean by that?” John threw the cup at the wastepaper basket in disgust.

  Danny held up a hand. “Not what you think. I only meant that according to D’Angelo, Derek could have been killed the day before you left.”

  “So what? I paid him thirty-five thousand dollars and then killed him? That makes absolutely no sense at all. If I did pay Miller money—and I’m not saying I did— I’ll bet my life on the fact that it was for a legitimate reason. And no matter why I did it, I sure as hell didn’t kill the man. I fucking liked him.”

  “Hey, take it easy. I’m just telling you what the guy said.”

  Danny was right, spinning out of control wasn’t going to help anything. He pulled in a slow breath. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go off like that.”

  “It’s all right. You’re entitled to a little anger.” Danny shrugged. “Besides, I’m fairly certain D’Angelo was just fishing. If they had anything concrete, they’d be taking action.”

  “Hopefully you’re right.” He rubbed his eyes, his head suddenly full of cotton wool. “But just in case, I want you to see if you can find records from our end. Something to explain why I would have given the money to Derek. Or maybe something to show that I didn’t.” The last was said in a pathetic attempt to make his memories match with reality.

  They weren’t going to do that, of course. But he couldn’t seem to stop himself from trying. Derek Miller was dead, and if Detective D’Angelo was to be believed, he just might have had something to do with it.

  Or at least it was a possibility.

  Which was something an hour ago he would have sworn was impossible.

  Katz’s Deli was the last thing Katie had expected to find in Austin. A strange combination of New York and Texas, it definitely leaned toward the Big Apple side of things. And she had to admit the corned beef wasn’t half bad.

  Jerome hadn’t arrived yet. Which was just as well. She needed the time to pull herself together. Her meeting with John hadn’t gone exactly as planned. She’d said her peace. Made it perfectly clear that they couldn’t have any kind of relationship.

  But somehow, despite all that, he’d managed to deflect it all with the turn of a phrase, and to be honest, she wasn’t sure where they stood. It should all be so simple. But it wasn’t. What had seemed clear and logical in the cold light of her room became clouded with emotion the minute she was within three feet of him.

  It was as if her pheromones had revolted, taking control of what was usually her very rational brain. Sighing, she took a sip of tea, the cold liquid soothing her frazzled nerves. One thing was for certain, she couldn’t go on like this much longer. The more contact she had with John, the more likely she was to give in to her feelings.

  Which of course was the dilemma. In order to do her job, she had to get close to him. But if she got close to him, she wasn’t going to be able to do her job.

  Damned if she did, damned if she didn’t.

  A comforting thought.

  “Cavanaugh.”

  The voice came from the booth directly behind her. And she recognized it in an instant, distaste filling her gut. Roswell. Where the hell was Jerome?

  “I’m here.” She leaned back, keeping her voice pitched low. The setup was perfect. The booths were on a platform against a wall and Roswell’s was the last one, which put him in a corner, his back to the rest of the crowd. She could hear him, and respond, and no one could see them conversing.

  Not bad. Maybe she was underestimating Roswell.

  “So, sugar, you find anything helpful?”

  Or maybe not.

  She fought against a wave of resentment. “It’s only been two days, Roswell. I’m not a miracle worker.”

  “That’s not what I heard. Word from Boston is that you’re fucking amazing. Take on anything that stands in your way.” There was a lurid tone to his voice that made Katie want to take a swing at him. Chauvinistic son of a bitch.

  “Where’s Jerome? I thought I was meeting him.”

  “He’s close to a bust on another case. So for the moment you got me.”

  Wonderful. “Whatever. I honestly don’t have a lot to report. No one suspects me. And I’ve pretty much got access to the whole of Guardian. Which helps.” She took a sip of her tea, smiling at a passing waitress. “Anyway, John definitely doesn’t remember anything. I’ve seen his medical charts and they’re irrefutable.”

  “I know that, Cavanaugh. We’re not paying you the big bucks to find out things
we already know.”

  She ground her teeth together, biting back a retort. “I’m working as fast as I can. Undercover work takes time.”

  “So speed things along. Surely you can get to him the old-fashioned way. Men love to talk postcoital.”

  Sheer red-hot rage roiled through her. “You’re a real piece of work, Roswell.”

  “At least I’ve got the cojones to get the job done.”

  She sucked in a breath, striving for calm. “My record stands on its own.”

  “Until recently.”

  She sputtered into her drink. Leave it to Roswell to point out her weaknesses. “I did what I thought was right.”

  “I’m sure you did. But the fact remains that you risked not only your life but the other operatives involved as well. And all for the sake of some two-bit floozy.”

  “She was a human being, Roswell.”

  “She was a whore.” He spit the words out. “And if you hadn’t gone on some wild vendetta to avenge her, you’d have saved yourself and the bureau a hell of a lot of trouble.” She could hear the disdain in his voice. Southern style. But it wasn’t all that different from what she’d heard in Boston.

  So be it.

  Narrowing her eyes, she centered her thoughts on business. She’d be damned if she’d rise to the bait. What was done was done. Besides, she could deal with Roswell. She’d dealt with his kind before. And just because he was playing on her side of the street didn’t make him any different from the others. “I did find out something that might interest you. Seems Brighton gave Miller a large sum of money the day before Miller bought it.”

  She could hear Roswell scooting closer. “Say again?”

  “John evidently paid Miller thirty-five thousand just after he bailed the man out.”

  “He told you this?” Roswell asked, his voice a whisper.

  “Yeah, right. He miraculously regained his memory and confessed it all to me. Give me a break. Eric D’Angelo found the bank record among Miller’s things. From there he managed to put two and two together.”

  “D’Angelo is still nosing around?”

  “It’s his job.” She laid her head back against the seat, wondering if the left hand did in fact know what the right hand was doing.

  “Not if it interferes with our investigation.” Roswell’s tone brooked no argument.

  But Katie had always led with her mouth. “Looks like this time it helps us. Kinda nice to have the locals doing our work for us.”

  “I’ll deal with D’Angelo. You just keep your focus on Brighton.”

  Now, there was an unneeded directive. She couldn’t seem to think about anyone else.

  “You napping, Cavanaugh?”

  “No. Just thinking about the case.”

  “Well, think on your own time, sugar. When you’re with me, you listen. Am I making myself clear?”

  God, she wanted to plant one right between his eyes. Or maybe another part of his anatomy. “You’re clear. Anything new I need to know from your end?”

  “Nothing substantial. We’re trying to trace things from Miller’s end.”

  “So basically you have nada.”

  She could almost hear him shrug. “We’re doing the best we can. And yeah, if you want to quantify it, we got nothing. A bunch of circumstantial evidence that adds up to bubkis. But I’ve got a feeling about this one, Cavanaugh. And you’re our best hope.” He said the last as if it were a tragic thing.

  Bastard. She’d just have to show him what she could do.

  Of course, to do it, she’d have to find something that tied John to Derek Miller’s death. Something that proved he was guilty. No matter how she felt about him.

  But then, that was the name of the game.

  John slammed the study door with his good hand, and walked over to his desk. Everything was spinning out of control, and he couldn’t seem to do a damn thing to stop it. When the hell was life going to get back to normal? He sat down, realizing the irony of his words. When had it ever been normal?

  He’d worked for everything he had. It would have been easy to have rested on his father’s laurels. Let the old man’s money take him for a ride on easy street. But John hadn’t wanted it that way. And neither had his father.

  Buck Brighton hadn’t given his sons a thing. Except a college education. The rest had been up to them, the bulk of their father’s fortune passing on to his favorite charities. He’d loved them, of course. But in a tough-love, make-you-into-a-man kind of way.

  John had been challenged.

  Danny had just been pissed. He’d rebelled against their father from the start, certain that the old man had a mean streak a mile wide. And maybe he had. But it had worked to make John the success that he was.

  And truth be told, neither he nor Danny had needed a dime of their father’s money. Not a dime. Still, John had spent the better part of his adult life making sure that other people did get the chance they needed. Money, jobs, whatever. Part of Buck’s legacy had been to make John more cognizant of others and their needs.

  It was all done in a hands-off kind of way. Checks were a hell of a lot easier to write than relationships were to maintain. So he helped mankind in his own way, following in his father’s footsteps.

  All of which meant that it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility for him to have given money to Derek. There had to be a logical reason he’d done so. Something that would clearly show that he wasn’t involved in Miller’s death.

  The alternative was unthinkable. And irrational. He was letting his fears get the better of him. Just because he’d forgotten part of his life didn’t mean that part was worth forgetting. Did it?

  He tried to remember what the doctors had told him. Something about the mind covering up incidents that caused overwhelming stress. Like the shooting. Now, there was a logical reason for a mind to go blank. Who’d want to remember something like that?

  But what if there was something else? Something he’d done that had so horrified his mind, it had erased the memory?

  He banged his good hand down on the desk. He was being paranoid. Minds didn’t just go around erasing themselves. His memory loss had been caused by physical trauma. The trauma of almost getting his head blown off.

  There was nothing more to it.

  Nothing at all.

  There was a knock at the door and John rose, careful to keep his balance slightly to the left. “Come in.”

  Florence Tedesky poked her head around the door, her face lined with worry. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

  “I’m not going to break, Flo.”

  She frowned, but refrained from comment. “Danny wanted me to tell you that he didn’t find anything.”

  John couldn’t decide if he was disappointed or elated. Something in between, no doubt. Still, he doubted Detective D’Angelo would lie. “Then we’re not looking in the right place.”

  “I had a feeling you’d say that.” Flo sat down in a chair in front of the desk. “But we looked through all the ledgers and there was nothing.”

  “You looked at both hard and soft copies?”

  “Of course.”

  John sat down again, leaning back in his chair, a vein in his forehead throbbing. “Then you must have missed something.”

  “Or you didn’t write the check.” Flo met his gaze square on.

  He blew out a long breath, trying to ease his welling frustration. “I don’t know if I did or I didn’t. But as far as the police are concerned, I did. So there must be something here to explain it.” He swiveled his chair so that he could better see the computer screen. “I’ve been doing a little hunting myself.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Flo stood up, moving so that she could look over his shoulder. “Did you find anything?”

  “Nothing definitive. But there are some irregularities in the way these accounts have been filed.”

  Flo frowned at the screen. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, look at this.” He pointed to one of the list
ed accounts. “This account is supposed to be inactive. This one, too. And yet when I sort for accounts with activity around the time of Miller’s death, they both come up.”

  “Well, it was six months ago. Maybe they were active then.”

  “No. They weren’t. See?”

  She leaned closer, peering at the screen. “You’re right. We haven’t used any of these in years. They should have been purged from the system.” She leaned back, obviously perplexed. “What happens when you try to open them?”

  “Nothing.” He hit a button and the computer beeped indignantly. “I assume you didn’t see them at all?”

  Flo scrunched her forehead, still looking at the monitor. “They weren’t on my computer. How come you found them?”

  John smiled at her. “I still know a few things about these systems you don’t. Truth is, I was getting frustrated with the accounting program, so I tweaked it a bit here and there.”

  “Hence your list.” She waved a hand toward the computer screen. “But I’d say it backfired this time, since these accounts don’t exist.” Her expression fell somewhere between smug and confused. “At least not on the computer.”

  “What about the ledgers?”

  “We went through them with a fine-tooth comb. And I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. But if you’ll wait a minute, I’ve got the journals outside.”

  “Just in case.” He grinned.

  She smiled in return. “I thought you’d probably want to look at them.”

  “Am I that predictable?” There was something actually comforting in the fact.

  She shrugged, heading for the door. “I’ve known you since you were a little boy.”

  John held back a laugh, turning to study the computer. If the files appeared on the list, then there had been activity. And that meant they were on the computer—somewhere.

  He entered a few keystrokes, waiting as the computer buzzed with activity, a new screen appearing.

  Flo walked back into the office carrying two ledger books. “According to these, neither account has been active in years. The first one for almost five and the second one for more like eight.”