Midnight Rain

by Dee Davis

  Well, he’d lost part of himself before—and survived. He’d just have to do it again. Starting now. He blew out a breath, turning his back on the city, the window, Katie—everything.

  Things were crescendoing to a climax, and unless he was mistaken, things were going to play out soon. And the only way he could possibly win was if he could figure out the rules of the game. For some people that might present an insurmountable problem, but John had been finding his way around seemingly unsolvable puzzles his entire life.

  It was simply a matter of breaking things into their smallest components and then reassembling them in a more reasonable order. And to do that he needed to start at the beginning. Lay out the facts as he knew them.

  He walked back through the living room, into his study, the steady blinking light of the answering machine catching his attention. Flo. She’d said she needed to talk. Maybe she’d found something.

  And even if she hadn’t, two heads were always better than one.

  Katie stood by the railing of the bridge, watching the reflection of neon dance in the waters of Town Lake. Pinks, oranges, and blues blending together to form a rainbow in the water. The heat was almost a living thing. It surrounded her, its touch languid, cloying. She felt like she was suffocating. Though if she admitted the truth, she knew it had nothing whatsoever to do with the heat.

  Lightning flashed on the horizon, promising everything and nothing—symbolic of her life. She’d always ridden the edge, thrilling in the moment, playing the odds with abandon. And more than once it had gotten her in trouble. First with her family and later with the bureau, Priestly being the last, and worst, of a long line of act-first-think-later situations.

  She supposed a lot of it came from being the only girl in a family of boys. When her mother died, she’d been promoted to princess. And more as a reaction than anything else, she’d thrown away the crown and jumped into the testosterone fray.

  She’d joined the FBI because she’d wanted to live up to her family’s reputation, but she’d stayed because she truly believed that she was making the world a better place. A noble thought. And par for the course for a Cavanaugh. For four generations, her family had been protecting the people. In one way or another.

  The family code was, honor and duty above all else. And being female wasn’t about to stand in the way of her fighting the good fight right alongside her brothers. Only she was doing it on her own terms.

  And quite frankly, failing miserably. If her last case had branded her a maverick, then this operation, coupled with her involvement with John, was going to be one for the books. And the big question was, what the hell was she going to do to untangle the horrible mess she’d made of things?

  The fact of the matter was that she needed to choose. John or her job. And while her brain was telling her to cut her losses, her heart was screaming that she go back and beg, on bended knee if necessary, that he take her back.

  She bent to pick up a rock and, with a sigh, tossed it over the railing, watching as it tumbled downward, end over end, until it disappeared into the murky water, the traffic behind her muting the splash.

  It ought to be simple. But it wasn’t. She’d worked for years to make herself something her father could be proud of. Someone she could be proud of. And then in one abandoned leap she’d gone and ruined everything, falling in love with a suspect—falling in love with a suspect.

  The word reverberated through her mind, startling and comforting all at the same time.

  She loved John.

  Really loved him.

  The thought should have been a foreign one, but suddenly she knew with surety that some small part of her had known almost from the beginning, and an even bigger part had recognized the fact the night they’d made love. Dear God, she was in love with John Brighton, and he’d just thrown her out of his life. How was that for irony?

  She gripped the railing, her mind churning along with the water below her. She had to help him. It was the only choice really. Job be damned. But how the hell was she supposed to do that when he wouldn’t let her near him?

  She’d just have to convince him. Make him understand the way she felt. Not an easy task, but then, she’d never shied away from things that were difficult. The greater the risk, the more she enjoyed the challenge. Only this time there was so much at stake.

  Almost reflexively, she reached for her cell phone, her fingers closing around the cool plastic casing. She needed to call headquarters. Let them know where things stood. She owed them that much. Flipping open her phone, she resolutely dialed Jerome’s number. If she had to confess failure, the least she could do was go through an intermediary. The receiver clicked as an automated voice began its spiel.

  He wasn’t there. She didn’t know if she should be relieved or perturbed. So she settled for accepting. She’d tried. There was something in that. Before she could chicken out, she left her name and number and clicked the phone off, already regretting the call. At least this way she had a little time to think about what she wanted to say. If Roswell had his way about it, no doubt she’d be heading back to Boston on the first available flight.

  But she couldn’t let that happen. Not now.

  No matter what lay between them, Katie wasn’t going to desert John. He might not want her help, but he needed it, and she wasn’t about to let him face Roswell and his perfect conviction record on his own.

  He didn’t understand how the game was played. It wasn’t always about finding the right man, especially when the pressure was on, and she didn’t want John victimized by default. She owed him better than that.

  She owed herself better than that.

  Which left her with only one alternative. She had to go back. She had to convince him that she could be trusted. That she was on his side. More importantly, she had to keep Roswell believing that she hadn’t been compromised.

  She allowed herself a last look at the reflected beauty of the lake, and then resolutely started the walk back to Guardian—to John. Why did everything have to be so complicated? Just once in her life, she’d like to do something the easy way. Which was a lie, and she knew it. It was the challenge that kept her going. The adrenaline rush.

  But this time there was something more. Something she’d never dealt with before.

  This time she was in love.

  John stood in the living room, confused. It was late, Flo should be in the apartment somewhere, but she wasn’t. In fact, she wasn’t anywhere at all that he could find. He’d checked her rooms, his rooms, the kitchen, even her office.

  In fact, in a fit of enthusiasm he’d even checked everyone else’s office. Nada. There was no one downstairs but the janitor. So that left the gym and the roof. Neither a likely place to find Flo, her dislike of heights was equal only to her disdain for forced exercise.

  He glanced at his watch, surprised to find that it wasn’t later. Maybe she was out. She’d mentioned a date. The thought of her with someone besides George was a little more than he wanted to contemplate, but if the guy made her happy, who was he to question the relationship. Hell, who was he to question anything about love.

  Which brought him full circle back to where he didn’t want to go. What he needed was distraction. As if telegraphing an answer, a muscle in his leg tightened painfully. He’d missed his afternoon workout. Considering his activities of late, a little time in the gym might just be the ticket. The perfect place to release some of his frustration.

  He walked out into the hallway and pressed the down button on the elevator.

  While he was there, he’d go over what he knew. Try to find some answers. At the moment all he had was a jumble of puzzle pieces, but with patience it was possible he could find a way to put them all together. If only the crucial ones weren’t lost forever amidst damage done on a Mexican highway.

  The doors slid open with a quiet whoosh, and he pressed the button for the gym, shuddering at the turn of his thoughts. Someone had wanted him dead. Might still want him out of the picture.
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br />   He’d never thought about having enemies before. It wasn’t as if he’d led an exemplary life. The business world was a tough one, and he certainly hadn’t pulled any punches, but that didn’t mean he’d done something that would warrant being taken out of the equation permanently.

  Of course, there was the little matter of his memory loss. That meant there was a period of time when anything was possible. But Katie had been right about one thing. A man didn’t change fundamentally overnight.

  Which meant there had to be another explanation.

  The elevator bell clanged, announcing the floor, and the doors slid open. He stepped into the hallway, jumping at the sound of something rattling off to his left. He turned, heart hammering, to see the janitor pushing his cart out of the other elevator.

  The man looked up, and smiled, his eyes creasing with the gesture. “Hello, Mr. Brighton. Second time tonight.” He maneuvered the cart so that he was walking alongside John.

  “Yeah. Guess I’m feeling restless.” John struggled to remember the man’s name. Something Kim. Robert or Richard. He cursed his memory. Even now, he was still forgetting things. “I thought I’d work off some of my excess energy.”

  The man nodded, his expression thoughtful. “I always find that movement encourages clearer thinking.” He stopped the cart.

  “You’re wiser than you know, Mr. Kim.” John stopped, too, his curious gaze meeting the other man’s.

  Kim’s mouth turned up at the corner slightly, but John couldn’t tell if he was smiling or not. “I think if you are going to workout, then perhaps I will clean in there later?” His voice lifted at the end, marking his words as a question.

  John nodded his acceptance, and watched as the janitor pushed the cart back into the open elevator. He waited until the doors slid shut, then turned to walk down the hall to the gym, his thoughts moving back to his problems.

  Everything started with Derek Miller. Or perhaps more accurately, it had all ended with him. Something Miller had seen or done was worthy of getting him killed. And although the man was a junkie, it seemed that his crimes had extended beyond that.

  There was, of course, the question of why John had paid him money. Big money. But that could possibly be dismissed as something to do with rehabilitation. Or a payoff. But if it was a payoff—then, why?

  His head ached, a vein throbbing in his temple. He drew in a deep breath, and pushed open the door to the gym, still trying to sort out his thoughts. Even if he dismissed the payoff, there was still the matter of the money he’d been moving around and where it had ultimately gone. And of course the large amount of cash he’d taken with him on a vacation that apparently, according to Andy, he hadn’t been taking.

  He walked into the gym, the room dark except for a swath of light from the window, illuminating the weight machine. The truth was that none of it made any sense at all. Each thing in and of itself could actually have an innocent explanation, but taken altogether it made him look guilty of something.

  And all of it left him without answers. Whatever the hell they were. He reached for the light switch, then thought better of it, as bad as his head was hurting, the last thing he needed was bright light.

  The weights were in a corner on a rack. He headed that way, trying to remember the last setting they’d used. They. One word and he was back to Katie. Her smiling face filled his mind, and his body stiffened as he imagined her hands against his skin. He needed her. She completed him in some way that he couldn’t even define.

  But she wasn’t real.

  The Katie he’d fallen in love with didn’t exist. He tried to force her image out of his mind, forcing himself to concentrate on the weights. He grabbed two, and then walked over toward the machine, careful to keep the weights distributed to his good side.

  A cloud crossed the moon, momentarily casting the room into darkness, he tripped, the weights tumbling to the floor as he fell forward, hands out to protect himself.

  He hit hard, his wrists absorbing the impact, sharp pain shooting up his injured arm.

  Son of a bitch. Just what he needed.

  He pushed himself to a sitting position, rubbing his elbow absently, his eyes searching the shadows for the cause of the fall.

  A dark mound off to the left seemed the likeliest prospect. He tried to stand, but the pain in his leg prevented him, so he scooted over instead, reaching out with his good hand to investigate.

  His fingers met something soft and warm. His blood ran cold, his breath catching in his throat. Steeling himself, he pushed onward, his hand finding the contour of a shoulder, a neck. His stomach clenched in silent revolt, just as the moon reappeared, its pale beam illuminating a face.

  A face he knew.

  Florence Tedesky’s lifeless eyes stared out at the moonlight, seeing nothing.

  He fought down a wave of bile, his fingers groping for her wrist, searching frantically for a pulse.

  Nothing.

  Kneeling beside her now, he moved his hand to her neck. Not even a flutter. Even as his mind accepted the inevitable, his heart wanted to prove it wrong.

  He shook her, calling her name, knowing it was useless, but needing the action. His hands came away sticky. Blood. Her blood. Panicked, he searched the floor, trying to find something anything that would help her—bring her back.

  His hand closed around steel, and he held the gun up to the moonlight, his throat dry, anguish mixing with rage.

  Light speared through the room, startling him with its intensity, and he turned, moving slowly, struggling to breathe, to focus.

  Frank stood in the doorway, eyes wide, horror etched across his features. “Oh my God, Jonathan, what the hell have you done?”

  He tried to answer, but the words wouldn’t come. With a sigh, he sank to the floor, the gun falling from his hand, clattering against the tile, the sound chilling against the silence of the night.

  Chapter 19

  Eric D’Angelo stood inside the doorway to the gym, trying to visualize what had happened. The forensics team was already at work, photographing, measuring, trying to put together the pieces of a very nasty puzzle.

  John Brighton was over in a corner, staring into a cup of coffee as if it could predict the future, a paramedic fussing over him, trying to take his vitals. He knocked the paramedic away, moving to stand by the window, the line of his shoulders a testament to his grieving. Whatever had happened here, it was clear that Brighton cared deeply about the deceased.

  Frank Jacoby was standing white-faced by a rowing machine, his eyes locked on the body. The little man was doing everything but wringing his hands, the horror of the moment still etched clearly across his face. Every once in a while, he’d shoot a sidelong glance at Brighton, a mixture of fear and sympathy combined with the pallor of a man who was trying very hard not to throw up.

  Not that D’Angelo blamed him. The killer hadn’t been a professional. There were blood spatters everywhere. Florence Tedesky had made quite an exit. It was almost as if someone had wanted a show.

  “Got the weapon here.” A tech held up a plastic bag holding a gun.

  Eric eyed it dispassionately. It was a thirty-eight, the same caliber used on Derek Miller. But there was a world of difference between this shooting and Miller’s. He’d be surprised to find that it was the same gun.

  Still, there was no sense ignoring the possibility. “Let’s get it over to ballistics. And have them test it against the slugs we got out of Miller.”

  The man raised an eyebrow, but refrained from comment, instead heading for the door.

  “Hanson,” he called after the tech. The man turned, the bag with the gun still hanging from his fingers. “Tell them to hurry.”

  There was no logical explanation, but Eric could sense things about a case the way a reporter smelled out a story, instinct combining with years of police work to make his premonitions hard to ignore, and he had the distinct feeling something big was about to happen here.

  With a nod at Tony, who was deep in conver
sation with one of the forensics guys, he headed over to talk to John. A cursory interview hadn’t yielded any useful information, but maybe with a little distance, the man had remembered something that might be of help.

  “I came as soon as I heard.” Danny Brighton burst into the room, his normally suntanned face red with exertion. “Oh my God.” He skidded to a stop, his gaze locked on the body.

  So much for containment. “How the hell did you get up here?” D’Angelo’s words came out harsher than he’d intended, but there was such a thing as the integrity of a crime scene, and at the very least, his men downstairs should have stopped the man.

  Danny wrenched his eyes away from Florence to meet Eric’s gaze. “Frank called me.” He tipped his head toward the other man, and Frank grimaced, caught in the act, cell phone clutched tightly in one hand.

  D’Angelo shot a look at Tony, who shrugged fatalistically. Somebody’s head was going to roll.

  “Jonathan did this?” Danny’s voice was hushed, almost a whisper. He glanced over at his brother, then back at the detective.

  “He found the body, Mr. Brighton. As far as who did it, right now your guess is as good as mine.” D’Angelo strove for a reasonable tone of voice. The man wasn’t exactly a picture of subtlety.

  “Can I talk to my brother?” Danny asked.

  D’Angelo waved a hand in John’s direction. “Be my guest. But don’t get in the way.” Probably a pointless statement since the man was already more than in the way. He watched as Brighton made his way over to his brother, then turned to face Frank Jacoby. “Exactly how many people did you call?”

  Frank shuffled from one foot to the other, looking decidedly worried. “Just the people that needed to know. Jason, Valerie, and Danny.”

  “So I should expect two more people to come barging in here.”