by Julie Miller
“I promise.”
Ginny headed down the hill toward the road. Her charcoal-gray chinos, damp from a day’s worth of rain, stuck to her legs like a second skin and chilled her. The warmth of John’s truck sounded pretty inviting right about now. She really ought to make an effort to cultivate his friendship. He’d always been so kind. But she’d never been very good at that sort of thing. Making friends had always been Amy’s forte. Some day soon—tonight, maybe—she’d overlook her insecurities and take him out to dinner.
Well, maybe not tonight. A telltale chirping vibrated at her hip. Stopping beside the road, she pulled out her cell phone and flipped it open.
“Detective Rafferty.”
“Yeah, Gin. It’s Merle.” She turned her face away from the phone to mask her weary sigh. She and her partner had been on the clock since eight that morning. How could he still sound energetic nearly eleven hours later?
“What’s up?” she asked.
“I got a name on that murder at the Ludlow you asked about. Back in 1989. An eighteen-year-old kid named Mark Bishop.”
That’s not the first dead body I’ve seen at the Ludlow Arms.
Ginny’s own energy kicked up a notch. “Was that case solved?”
Merle spoke as if he was reading the information straight off his computer screen. “History of family violence. Died from a blow to the head. The death was attributed to his father, Alvin Bishop. Neighborhood bully. He had a record of abuse and neglect with Social Services, and a string of minor convictions. Everything from drunk and disorderly to assault on the garbage collector.”
“But no charges were filed?” She sensed more unfinished business.
“A warrant was issued for the father’s arrest. But he disappeared before his arraignment. Listed as a missing person ever since.”
“So justice was never served.” Either pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fall into place, or she’d opened a box with more pieces than she could count. That body at the morgue could be Alvin Bishop. “Get Mac Taylor at forensics on the line. Tell him to run Bishop’s name through as a possible ID on our John Doe.”
“Will do.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah.” A twinge of frustration colored his voice. “The statements I took from those two homeless guys, Zeke Jones and Charlie Adkins, are useless.”
His frustration just became hers, too. “They didn’t see anything?”
“Who knows? Charlie said nothing, just sat there staring at me. Zeke kept spouting off his name, rank and serial number. I thought I was in the twilight zone.”
Sometimes, witnesses saw a male detective as a threatening presence, and were more apt to open up to a female. She hoped that, and not one of the mental disorders that affected some homeless people, was the case with these guys. “I’ll give it a shot tomorrow.”
“Thanks. I’ll get you the address for the shelter where I sent them.” She was just about to hang up when she heard Merle call her name. “Hey, Gin?”
She put the phone back to her ear. “Yeah?”
“You have dinner plans?” Ginny rolled her eyes heavenward at the sincere catch in his voice.
She pictured his sweet, unlined face and the gradual aging she saw day by day in his dark green eyes. This wasn’t the first time he’d asked her out. It wouldn’t be the first time she said no, either. “You know how I feel about going out with the men I work with.”
His voice rushed over the line. “Hey, no. I’m your partner, I’m just worried about you. We missed lunch, remember?”
“I remember.” She forced a smile, as if he could see her relief. “I’ll get something to eat, don’t worry. You get out of that office, too, okay?”
“I will.”
“Good night, Merle.”
“’Night, Gin.”
She hung up and dug inside another pocket for a specific slip of paper. A business card. Taylor Construction, Brett Taylor, Owner.
She looked at the card and pictured the man. Big. Rugged. Smart-mouthed. “Do you always show up when there’s a dead body in the neighborhood?” she asked the image.
Memorizing the number, she hurried to John’s truck and dialed before climbing in.
John spared her an indulgent smile before putting the truck in gear. “Duty calls, I take it.”
She nodded through the unanswered rings. “I’ve got an opportunity to ask a few questions I shouldn’t put off.”
He wound through the hairpin turns toward the cemetery’s front gates. “One of these days I want you to tell me you’re in a hurry to meet a young man.”
She smiled. “John, you sound just like my dad.”
An answering machine picked up. Brett himself had left the recording. Even across transmitted miles of a recorded message, Brett’s basso profundo voice reverberated through her like a mellow jazz tune, at once enervating and intriguing her.
She asked him to call her cell number and then hung up.
“Just like that.” John’s amused voice captured her attention.
“What?”
He shook a gentle finger at her. “The look on your face when you talked to that man. That’s the look that tells me you’ve got a social life.”
Ginny frowned. “I talked to his machine.”
He pulled up behind her car and put the truck in Park. “But you’re wishing it was the real thing.”
“Please.” Brett Taylor? Social life? Neither phrase was part of her regular vocabulary. “He’s a possible material witness to a murder case, nothing more.”
“If you say so.”
“I say so.” Her protest sounded vehement, even to her own ears. She tried to come up with a plausible explanation. For John. “Look, I don’t really date much. I’m too caught up in my work.”
“It’s important work you do,” he said in a voice of sage experience. “But it isn’t everything.”
For her, it had to be. Relationships were too awkward for her. Many men were threatened by the nature of her job, her devotion to duty. More men lacked the patience to work through her eccentricities, and she’d never developed those most feminine skills that could encourage a man to make the journey with her.
And if she should ever meet a man with the patience and fortitude and self-assurance to withstand a relationship with her, she’d run away as fast as she could. She would never put herself in the position of losing someone she cared about again.
Maybe John understood that, after all. His weary silence revealed a man who had lived more life than most people his age. He surprised her by reaching across the seat and squeezing her hand. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope I don’t see you again very soon.”
She squeezed back, understanding. “Me neither.”
BRETT PACED the small confines of his office, turning the mouthpiece away from his impatient sigh while one of his investors grilled him for information about the story he’d seen on the local evening news.
“The Ludlow’s still going to be renovated, right, Brett?”
Brett righted the phone. “No, Mr. Dennehy. That’s the one we’re tearing down, remember? The other buildings are structurally sound. But not the Ludlow Arms.”
“It was home to a lot of people, you know.”
The older man’s wistful tone added another rock onto the load of responsibility Brett carried on his shoulders. “I know, sir. Hopefully the refurbished buildings will draw quality tenants like yourself.”
Bill Dennehy perked up as a new thought hit him. “Do you think that body was in the basement when Alice and I were living there?”
“I don’t think so.” Bill had been lucky enough to live in the Ludlow Arms during the building’s heyday. He knew these streets the way Brett’s grandparents had known it. Thriving. Friendly. Safe. “Trust me. A little bad press isn’t going to stop me from renovating the neighborhood.”
“Alice won’t come to that fund-raiser of yours if there’s any more news like this.”
“Of course not, but…”
He felt a tap at his shoulder and stopped midprotest. Five perfectly shaped, copper-tinted nails reached for the phone. His gaze dropped to the half-amused smile on the mouth of the tall brunette beside him.
“I’ll handle this. You pace.” She nudged Brett to one side and turned her attention to the caller. “Mr. Dennehy. Sophie Bishop. Yes, I remember you from the old neighborhood…”
Brett’s frustration turned to admiration as he watched his old friend work Bill Dennehy through a trip down memory lane and onto the road toward a charitable donation. He sat back in the chair behind his desk and watched her do her thing.
He’d hired Sophie for her expertise in fund-raising and public relations. He could only afford to pay her peanuts, but she’d been quick to volunteer her time. She, too, came from the Market Street area of Kansas City, and seemed as eager to see a rebirth of the community as he was.
Things were a little awkward between them, but he hoped she’d moved past their broken relationship. No longer the adoring young college student he’d once dated as a favor to her brother, she’d matured into a powerful, successful woman of the world. And she put her money where her work was. Sophie had been the first to sign up for one of the luxury condos he planned to put in the Peabody Building. Surely that kind of support was proof that they could still work together as old friends.
“Mr. Dennehy, that’s sweet.” It wasn’t as if Sophie had to be any man’s charity date. With long, shapely legs that stopped somewhere just short of her neck, and the sleek, sculpted features of a fashion model, she’d draw any man’s attention. But Brett looked at her and saw…Mark’s sister.
His feelings for her weren’t all that different from what he felt for his own sister, Jessie. Just as strong, just as protective, just as pure.
He rolled his chair up to the desk and leaned his elbows on top, watching with pride and gratitude as she smoothed over the investor’s concern. “I’ll be sure we have a corsage for her at the fund-raising ball. I look forward to seeing you and Mrs. Dennehy there. Bye now.”
She pressed the off button and handed over the phone with a flourish that made Brett throw his hands up in surrender. “Okay, so you saved my butt. Go ahead and gloat.”
“I’m just doing my job, big boy,” she laughed. She perched on the corner of his desk and tugged the hem of her taupe silk suit down to within inches of her knees. Brett sat back and waited for the rebuke. “Next time there’s a publicity glitch like this, call me. Don’t wait for me to see it on the evening news.”
“He was my third call tonight.”
Sophie shook her head, making light of his doubt. “We can use this in our favor. Murder’s the kind of thing that used to happen in this neighborhood. But no more. Not with Brett Taylor on the job, transforming the dark alleys and dangerous streets into a place where families can work and kids can play.”
Brett frowned and pushed to his feet, uncomfortable with the heroic status, even if it was said in a teasing vein. He walked around the desk and picked up her cashmere stole. “You’d better hit the road. I’m keeping you from your date.”
Sophie grabbed her purse and joined him. She turned her back to him and let him wrap her shoulders in the oversize scarf. He closed his arms briefly in a friendly hug. “Thanks, kiddo. I owe you one.”
“I know. I’m keeping tabs.” A knock on the office door gave Brett the excuse to pull away. Sophie used the opportunity to pull on a pair of leather driving gloves. “Expecting any reporters?”
“No.” Maybe he was looking forward to this next visitor just a little too much. Heedless that Sophie followed him, he hurried through the outer office and opened the trailer door.
Ginny Rafferty stood outside. The harsh glare of the porch light softened in the silver shimmer of her hair. He released his anxiety on a single breath and let his features relax into a genuine smile. Her crossed arms bespoke all business, but he appreciated her sunny beauty like a breath of fresh air. And the challenging glint in those cobalt eyes stirred his thoughts away from spooked investors and a budget that wouldn’t balance.
“You said to meet you here,” she said in greeting.
Those blue eyes shuttered and darted to the side before he heard the voice beside him. “Brett?”
He stepped back, feeling ridiculously jarred by Sophie’s intrusion. The contrast between the two women rendered him silent for a moment. Tall and petite. Dark and fair. Smiling expectantly and expressionless.
Fortunately, Sophie had the sense to see him past the awkward moment. She extended her hand in polite greeting. “I’m Sophie Bishop, an old friend of Brett’s.”
Ginny shook hands. “I’m Ginny Rafferty. I’m a—”
“New friend,” he interrupted before she could rattle off her official job and title. Sophie had done enough for one night. He didn’t need her to run interference for a police investigation. He didn’t want anyone to interfere with a chance to talk to Ginny. “Soph does public relations for me.”
“I see,” said Ginny.
“Well…” Sophie smiled and excused herself. “I’d best not keep Eric waiting. I’ll call you in the morning to touch base.” With a tilt of her chin, she leaned in and kissed Brett’s cheek, then wiped the spot with her thumb as if she had left a mark of lipstick. “Good night.”
“Good night.” Brett squeezed her arm affectionately, and watched her until she climbed into her car and pulled away from the curb.
Only then did he realize that Ginny was still standing on the porch, waiting to be invited in. Brett wiped at his cheek, as if Sophie’s kiss was still visible, and concentrated on the woman before him. He stepped aside and held the door open for her. “Ms. Rafferty.”
He rolled her name around his tongue like a piece of candy. He ought to be on a first-name basis with this woman, call her Gin—or Angel, a compliment to her looks she wouldn’t want to hear.
At least, not from him.
As she stepped over the threshold, he noted the trappings of her trade, a blue plaid blazer that masked the bulk of a gun and badge at her waist. When she walked past him, tantalizing as a breeze of fresh air, he noticed her stiff posture and the cool expression on her face.
He set aside the inexplicable desire to hear her loosen up and laugh just once, and followed her into his office. He hadn’t worried about the mess before with Sophie. But when Ginny picked up an untouched sack of fast food off the chair, he wished he’d taken time to clean up the place.
She dangled the bag between her thumb and middle finger, eyeing the grease spot that had soaked through the brown paper. “Did I interrupt dinner?”
“That was lunch.” He took the bag from her to throw away—once he located the trash can. He spotted it, supporting one corner of the scale model of the revamped city block where the Ludlow, Walton and Peabody Buildings sat. “Yesterday’s.”
She perched on the very edge of the chair once it had been cleared. He lifted a corner of plywood and ditched the day-old food.
“Do you spend a lot of time in your office?” she asked. He could almost read the phrase bachelor pad on her lips, and wished he could show her the clean, uncluttered space of his condo that he’d designed and remodeled himself in a nearby warehouse.
He pulled out his own chair and sat across the desk from her. So it was to be strictly business between them. Again. Thinking of the waste of those beautiful, expressive eyes of hers, when they could be sparkling with laughter or drowsy with passion instead of so cold with single-minded determination, he tried to accommodate. “I do the paperwork here. But mostly I’m out on the work sites. Lately, I’ve been conned into attending some fund-raising events. I’m working toward three million to rebuild the Ludlow block the way I want to.”
“Three million, hmm?” Her ever-watchful eyes continued to scan the office. “I think you’d be a natural at schmoozing people for money.”
Ouch. Though the comment was superficially complimentary, her tone of voice gave her words a condemning twist.
“I’m doing a good deed here, angel. At best, I’ll break even. Any profit I might end up with will be reinvested in future projects to improve the neighborhood.”
Undaunted by his face-saving attack, she tipped her chin and looked straight up into his eyes. “You seem to have several projects in mind, Mr. Taylor. You’re quite the philanthropist. How much money have you raised so far?”
Damn, she was a cool customer. Instead of taking offense, the blood surged through Brett’s veins at her show of strength. Why the hell did he have to get twisted up inside over this pint-size bundle of woman who was all backbone and beautiful eyes? He was a healthy male, more than decently attractive, according to the women he’d dated. He knew his manners and how to make a woman laugh.
And yet this one, Ginny Rafferty, with the Nordic looks and Arctic demeanor, got under his skin. The one woman whose only interest in him applied to whatever information he could give her in a murder investigation, fascinated the hell out of him.
He liked the challenge of sparring with her. He’d like it even better if he knew this battle of wills was leading someplace interesting. “We’re halfway there. We’ve pledged about one million in donations. And I put up half a million of my own money.”
“Really.”
One elegant eyebrow, a darker shade of blond than her silvery hair, arched above her skeptical gaze. He felt her scrutiny from the shoulders of his worn flannel shirt to the toes of his scuffed work boots. He seemed to fall short, in her opinion, judging by the doubt etched on her face, an observation that rankled his male ego. He’d butted heads with beautiful women before, and had never failed to charm his way into their good graces.
