by Julie Miller
A halfhearted bustle of indigents looking for a handout scattered before a trio of suit-and-tie executives hurrying down the sidewalk.
At first glance, Ginny thought the neighborhood was dying. But a closer inspection revealed a few healthy businesses with newly painted storefronts and bright-striped awnings. Pearl’s Diner, for one, nestled at the base of a four-story brick building, survived with a retro type of charm. Farther down the block, a giant metal archway spanned the entrance to the Historic City Market, a revamped circle of tents and brick stalls that sold everything from spices to T-shirts to sides of beef.
But the Ludlow Arms, Peabody and Walton Buildings towered over them all like menacing tombs rife with secrets. Ginny tilted her chin and studied their decaying silhouettes. If she had a canvas, she’d paint them in hues of gray and black. Shadows and death.
Despite the sunny warmth soaking into her shoulders, she felt a chill. Alvin Bishop wasn’t the only corpse to turn up in those buildings. Mark Bishop had died there, too.
And just five blocks away, beneath a dock on the Missouri River, her sister’s battered body had floated to shore.
Had Amy suffered at Alvin Bishop’s hands? If Amy and Mark had been killed by the same man, why weren’t their bodies found together? Had Amy gone for help after finding Mark’s body and met with a horrible coincidence of fate? Or had she died first, and Mark, in some twisted mix of heartbreak and vengeance, confronted his father with fatal results?
Twelve years in the past, on the night of October seventeenth, two people died. Now a third body had turned up.
And no one wanted to talk about it.
“Gin!” She turned to the summons, filing away her speculation to be analyzed later. Merle Banning dashed across the street. A wave of his blond-brown hair caught in the noontime breeze and fell across his forehead, drawing her attention to the frustration in his eyes. “You getting anywhere with this crowd?” he asked, his tone revealing he’d had little success himself.
She shook her head and fell into step beside him as they walked to his car. “Are you kidding? If I tattooed leper on my forehead, I couldn’t feel any less welcome.”
“So what do we report to the old man?” he asked, using the ironic nickname the detectives had dubbed their forty-year-old precinct captain.
“I don’t know yet. Supposedly, nobody liked Alvin Bishop. You’d think they’d be relieved to hear he was dead, and eager to talk about why he deserved it.”
“Could they be protecting the killer?”
She’d thought of that already. “If the murderer did them a favor, they might be rewarding him by not turning him in.”
“We could go back to Zeke and Charlie.” Merle laughed at Ginny’s grimace. Her interview with the two homeless men had been an exasperating comedy of errors. “They think you’re an enemy spy. Maybe if you threaten to torture them, they’ll spill the beans.”
“I doubt testimony like that would stand up in court.”
“Probably not, but it’d make a great story to tell your grandkids.” She matched his smile for a moment. But her mouth straightened when he added, “We need to find another way to attack this case. Except for the forensics report, we’re at a dead end.”
No, a dead end was the lives of two innocent young people snuffed out before their time.
At Merle’s Buick, he unlocked his door and climbed in to open the passenger side for Ginny. As she waited for him, a battered white pickup truck with the Taylor Construction logo drove past. The driver, with short hair and a full beard, clearly wasn’t Brett. But by the time he turned the corner into the fenced-in construction site, Ginny had made a decision.
“Can you cover for me this afternoon?” she asked, pulling her focus away from the disappearing truck.
“You got an idea?”
“A half-baked one, maybe.” Finding Alvin Bishop’s body had provided the first possible lead in years to discovering her sister’s killer. She wasn’t about to let a neighborhood full of closemouthed homebodies keep her from finding the truth. No matter what the personal or professional risk might be. “I think I know how we can get some answers.”
“Need some help?”
“No.” She closed the car door and offered a reassurance she didn’t quite feel herself. “I’ll check in this afternoon and let you know if it works.”
“You be careful, partner,” he warned in that half brotherly, half boyfriend way of his.
“I will.”
After he’d gone, Ginny took a deep breath and hurried to the construction site. With the Ludlow Arms temporarily off-limits, Brett had moved his entire crew over to the Peabody. Inside the gate, she scanned the people and machinery scurrying about with the diligent purpose of worker ants.
Seconds later she spotted a shock of shoulder-length hair as dark as the Vandyke brown oils she painted with. Ignoring the dust she kicked up onto her khaki slacks, she skirted a gravel pile and crossed to the two men standing beside a stack of lumber.
Working undercover had never been her strong suit. She was all about details and observation and insight.
But for Amy and the truth, she could do this.
The other man spotted her first and stopped talking. Brett turned before she could call to him. She’d forgotten how big he was up close. How unforgiving the line of his jaw could be.
She’d forgotten how he liked to stand with his hands splayed on his hips. The direction his fingers pointed when he stood that way. Emphasizing that most masculine part of him without meaning to.
I can’t do this. Determination deserted her for an instant. She prayed the rush of heat she felt in her cheeks didn’t show.
“Ginny?” He said her name in that dark fog of a voice, scattering her thoughts. The contours of his face narrowed into a frown. He touched her elbow and turned her, guiding her back the way she had come. “This is a hard-hat area. Until we shore up the infrastructure of the top floors, nobody walks around here unprotected. Not even a stubborn detective like you.”
Taking advantage of the time to reaffirm her strategy, Ginny allowed him to lead her outside the gate. But once they cleared the danger of falling debris, she planted her feet and refused to go any farther. She had to do this fast. Before she changed her mind. “We need to talk.”
Brett removed his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “So I gathered.” When he faced her, that proprietary frown had been replaced with a curious smile. “What’s up?”
Ginny didn’t believe in soft words or seductive smiles or playing hard to get. She simply asked.
“Will you marry me?”
Chapter Four
Brett pushed Ginny inside the trailer and locked the door behind him before she could bolt away. Hauling her up the steps to his office in front of his crew wasn’t the most gallant thing he’d ever done, but she hadn’t left him much choice. She had a tendency to run away when things got personal or a little interesting.
And Ginny’s blunt proposal sounded really interesting.
Even now, like a cornered animal, she paced to the far side of the room and hovered there, putting the desk, two chairs and a tight-lipped expression between them. Damn, but she reacted to things quickly. Almost as quickly as she squelched those very same reactions.
Why didn’t the good detective allow herself to express her emotions? Like that anger shimmering in her bright blue eyes. Or maybe what he glimpsed was fear. Down in the Ludlow basement, she’d had a similar surge of panic before retreating and regrouping the way she was doing right now. Claustrophobia, she’d said then. And now he’d locked her in his office.
Sid and Martha Taylor hadn’t raised their firstborn to be a bully. He tossed his hard hat onto a chair and leaned back against the doorjamb, allowing Ginny the width of the room to feel safe.
Sid and Martha hadn’t raised their sons and daughter to back away from a challenge, either.
“You just proposed marriage to me, right?”
Ginny’s heart-shaped face flushed wit
h color, but her expression never changed. “Put your testosterone back in your pants, Taylor. What I suggested was merely a business proposition.”
He laughed at her wry choice of words, relieved to see she wasn’t truly frightened of him or the enclosed space. “None of the clients I put up buildings for ever included a wedding ring in the deal.”
“None of your clients are trying to solve a triple murder.”
His amusement ended at the sobering reminder. Brett folded his arms across his chest and straightened, suddenly as serious as Ginny ever could be. “Maybe you’d better explain.”
“I don’t really want to marry you. I just want to pretend.” He ignored the insult and watched her smooth a lock of hair behind her ear. The gentle curl of it hugged her jawline, drawing his attention to the faint quiver there. She might be talking business, but something about this unusual proposition made Ginny uncomfortable.
A desire to understand and protect her from that inner torment simmered in his veins. But he didn’t know what he could say or do to put her at ease, so he remained silent. He tucked his thumbs into the front pockets of his jeans, assuming a more relaxed pose, and waited for her to continue.
“I want to use an engagement to you as a cover to help me with the investigation.” She ventured out of the corner to his desk, where she idly began to straighten the chaos. Her small, supple hands worked with unconscious efficiency. “I haven’t found anyone who’s mourning Alvin Bishop’s death. Yet nobody wants to talk to me about it.” She paused. “But they’ll talk to you.”
Brett remained silent.
She folded the sports section back into the newspaper and matched the creases before answering. “Ruby Jenkins fell all over herself trying to talk to you last night. Her mother was no different.”
Brett began to wonder if Ginny’s manic housecleaning had less to do with perfection and more to do with nervous energy. Did she really think she was asking such a huge favor of him? Or did it gall her independent attitude that she had to ask for any help at all?
He called her on it. “Last night, you thought dating me was a drastic step. This morning you want to get married.”
“Just pretend…”
He nodded, showing what he considered an amazing degree of patience at her adamant insistence that she had no real interest in him. “You want to pretend we’re getting married. What changed between now and then?”
A stack of bills slipped into a neat pile beneath her hands before she stopped. Her shoulders rose and fell with a sigh. When she finally tilted her chin, he caught a glimpse of the same raw vulnerability he’d seen the night before. Those clear cobalt eyes, brimming with emotions she hadn’t wanted him to see, sucker punched him in the gut. His instinct to wrap her up in his arms propelled him forward. But he halted at her next words.
“You’re a real hero around here,” Ginny said. “From what I’ve seen and heard, you’d think you’re transforming this neighborhood single-handedly by tearing down the dead parts and bringing in new business. Saving old buildings like Pearl’s Diner. Turning broken sidewalks into historic walkways. You practically walk on water around here, Taylor.”
He flinched at the undeserved compliments. He turned his face to the side and breathed out a silent curse. “Gin…”
“You know people of every generation, every walk of life in the Market Street area. I want to know what happened inside that basement twelve years ago, and the chance to find the truth is slipping right through my fingers.” He looked to see her fingers cup the air and curl into graceful fists. “I don’t have time to wait until everyone decides I’m not the enemy here. I need an ally they trust already. I need…” Her fingers uncurled and beseeched him. “…you.”
Her hands returned to the desktop, where the loose pencils and paper clips fell prey to her relentless fingers. The resignation that made her last word sound like a last chance should have rankled his ego. Instead, it blew a spark into the long-buried embers of guilt that had plagued him without redemption for twelve long years. He snagged her by the wrist across the top of the desk, scattering the supplies that had been clenched in her hand.
“You’re doing this for your sister, aren’t you?” he challenged.
Their eyes locked.
Brett became aware of the fragile bone structure and sinewed strength of her delicate arm closed inside his large, work-roughened hand. So small, and yet so strong. Stronger in will and spirit than any woman he’d ever met.
Ginny swallowed, drawing his gaze to the pale skin of her throat. His mouth went dry at the distracting thought of putting his mouth there. Of tasting the creamy perfection with the tip of his tongue.
The wide curve of her mouth articulating her words to exacting specification proved an equally fascinating distraction.
“My sister and your friend Mark were running away together to get married. Someone stopped them both. You assume it was Alvin Bishop. But we don’t know that for a fact. Unless we can prove he murdered them both, justice will never be served.”
Her gaze settled to where he still held her. Her eyes widened as if she, too, had just made note of the blatant differences, male and female, between them.
“Screw justice.” Her gaze snapped back to his. “This is personal for you. Otherwise, you wouldn’t stoop so low to make a deal like this with me.”
“Stoop so low?”
Arctic ice worked its way past the confusion in her features. Brett willingly released her. He turned his back and sat on the front edge of the desk. He had to clear his mind, fight his way through an unexpected mix of anger and guilt, admiration, and even a lingering frisson of lust. But turning away from those cool eyes couldn’t dampen the clarity of her voice that hit his conscience like a bull’s-eye.
“I want the truth, Brett. I’m putting my job on the line for this. For Amy. For Mark. Will you help me or not?”
Why me? Brett squeezed his eyes shut, torturing himself with the question.
Circumstances might make him the right man for the job at hand. But fate made him the wrong one.
People he cared about had counted on him once before. They’d paid for his failure with their lives. Would granting Ginny’s request be the penance he owed the past? Or would he reward her faith in him with another unforgivable screw-up on the larger-than-life Brett Taylor scale?
She offered him a chance to reveal the truth and find peace for his battered soul. Or to dredge up enough old ghosts to ruin a hundred other lives.
She offered him a chance to get to know the real Ginny Rafferty. And to prove there could never be anything but fiery words and cool mistrust between them.
“Brett?” The gentlest of touches singed his thigh through worn denim. “I know I’m not the type of woman you usually date.”
Was this why she hesitated to ask for his help? Something cold and calculating slowed the blood in his veins until he could count each pulse beat. It was an old self-defense trait that had grown rusty but had never been forgotten.
He opened his eyes and turned to her. She jerked her hand away, drawing herself up like a bantam hen. Small, but poised and ready to fight. He took her up on it. “Just what kind of woman do you think I usually date?”
He braced for the crack about working class. Something about hookers with hearts of gold. Trailer trash. Project primas. He had a hundred jokes to tell her how wrong she was. Poor didn’t mean stupid or unloved. Low rent didn’t mean low-class. A man’s background didn’t define his character. Or his taste in women.
Ginny thought he was a full-time flirt. A man who couldn’t possibly be involved with a professional, high-class, delicate piece of work like herself. He had one hell of a comeback for her snobby—
“I see you with someone more spontaneous, more passionate.”
Spontaneous? Passionate?
Where was the insult?
He had no comeback for this one. Maybe he’d misunderstood. Did she think she was the unsuitable partner in this proposed charade?
&nb
sp; Her steely mask eroded at his silence. “That sort of thing doesn’t come naturally for me. But I’ve done a bit of undercover work. The only murder in my career I haven’t solved is the one that counts the most. I have to know what happened to my sister. For her sake, I can be whatever you need me to be to pull this off.”
The desperation in her words shamed him. This had never been about him or where he came from. No passion? Couldn’t she hear the pain and determination in her own voice?
Her energy spent, her guard down, she offered up one last word. “Please.”
The hesitation in that whispered plea wound into his big heart, nudging open a corner and making room for one more try. The war between his conscience and his doubts was ultimately short-lived.
He caught her hand and squeezed it tight. In reassurance or apology, he wasn’t sure.
“Okay. Here’s my proposition to you.” Brett straightened, standing head and shoulders taller than Ginny, giving at least a physical impression of the hero he was supposed to be. Hell. The last thing he’d call himself was a hero. But if she needed him to become one…
He crossed to the scale model of the Ludlow Arms, visualizing the building as it had existed twelve years ago, formulating his own plan of action.
“I’ll pose as your fiancé. I’ll do everything I can to make it look real, everything I can to help you fit in around here.” He turned and held up two fingers. “But you have to do two things for me.”
“This is a police investigation, Brett. I don’t make deals.”
“Two things,” he repeated. She crossed her arms, standing closed and defiant. But willing to listen. He hoped. “I get to be your full partner in this investigation. Anything you find out about Amy, Mark or Alvin will be shared with me.”
“I can’t guarantee that.” She shook her head at the very idea. “There are rules I have to obey. An investigation is not public record…”
He planted his hands on his hips and leaned toward her. Just far enough to make her tilt her chin and pierce him with the defensive daggers glaring from her eyes. “Maybe you need to break the rules. Maybe that’s why you’ve never solved this case.”
