by Julie Miller
“It shows on your face. You think too much. A person who looks like they’re telling the truth doesn’t stop to analyze everything she says or does.”
“I was worried you were going to tell him the truth. You two are like brothers, aren’t you?” She reached up to tuck a curl behind her ear, keeping her hand there, sheltering more of her body from the glare in his narrowed eyes. “I don’t want to make any mistakes. This is too important.”
“I know what I have to do, Gin. We’re in this together.” He pointed in an angry gesture toward the door. “How would you have answered Mitch if I hadn’t shown up when I did? He may be the toughest sell of all, if we plan to pull this off. And I intend to do just that.”
Defensive hackles shot up along her spine, standing her up even straighter. “I would have come up with something.”
His unexpected temper subsided as quickly as it had flared. He swiped a hand across his jaw. “How much trouble will you get into if Mitch finds out you’re looking into Amy’s murder?”
“A lot.” Ginny’s defiance deflated along with Brett’s. “It’s not exactly department policy to investigate a family member’s death.”
In her peripheral vision she saw Brett step closer. But when she looked up, he stopped. “Why can’t you have a little faith in me? I know your job’s important to you.”
“This job is all I have. It’s who I am.”
“A job doesn’t define who you are, Gin.”
“Until I find out the truth about Amy, this one does.” She’d never put that driving philosophy into words before. And now, hearing them out loud, she sounded as obsessive and empty as she felt inside. A man with Brett’s attachments, his easy command of people and a wide range of emotions, couldn’t understand a single-minded determination like hers. “As far as Mitch knows, I’m looking into Alvin Bishop’s death. He doesn’t know about the connection to my sister.”
“Does anyone?”
His challenge hung in the air like an accusation.
Any number of people knew about her sister’s death. They saw the tragedy as the inspiration for Ginny becoming a police officer in the first place. She embodied more than devotion to duty. She was the soul of justice. Cool-headed and detail-oriented, she’d fought her way through challenging physical training, endured sexual harassment from crooks and co-workers alike, and combatted every crime in the book from prostitution to homicide.
She’d earned the right to find out the truth about her sister’s death.
Even if the entire legal system and her commanding officer wouldn’t see it that way.
“No one can know,” she finally said. “If I lose my badge, then I’ll become a vigilante—because I won’t give up. But I want to do this right. I want to take her killer into a court of law and find out why. I want to know why someone thought she had to die.” She slipped her hand into her pocket and touched the mysterious note she’d received earlier. “Make no mistake. I will find out who killed my sister. No matter what it takes.
“And if you’re worried about the consequences,” she went on, “we’d better drop this now, while we can still explain away your involvement to your family as some sort of misunderstanding.”
Brett eyed her steadily for several moments, no doubt rethinking his decision to help her after that soapbox tirade. She tipped her chin and matched his gaze, bracing herself for his resignation from their illicit partnership. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d been abandoned and forced to forge ahead on her own.
“Here.” He shook his head on a weary puff of air and slipped a small velvet ring box into her hand. “Maybe this will help you get into character so we can get the job done faster.”
We.
He collapsed into the chair she’d used earlier. Though surprise kept her from moving, relief made her curl her fingers around the square box, grateful for the tangible symbol of his cooperation. He hadn’t given up on the investigation yet. He was willing to take the risk right along with her.
Have a little faith in him?
She did. For now.
Unaccustomed to such a show of support, she silently debated how best to thank him. She wondered if she even should. Perhaps he didn’t expect any thanks. Some men wanted a big fuss made over their gestures; others were uncomfortable with too much praise.
While her brain picked apart her next move, Brett’s body rippled with a natural grace as he stretched the tension from his shoulders. The strain against the seams of his corduroy jacket distracted her from her thoughts. Not because of the healthy flex of muscle there, but because of the tired sag that followed it.
The subtle changes in his appearance suddenly registered. The loosened knot of his tie hanging below the unbuttoned collar. The dark stubble of beard growth shadowing his jaw. The red-rimmed weariness about his eyes.
Unbidden, a surge of compassion stirred inside her. She dropped into the chair beside him. “Are you all right?”
The question left her mouth before she could snatch it back. Judging by the rounding of Brett’s eyes, her words startled him as much as her.
“I wondered what you were thinking back there. I could almost smell the smoke coming out your ears.” He reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze, entwining his fingers with hers and pulling it across the gap between their chairs. Ginny held her breath, frightened, fascinated, as he pressed a kiss to her knuckles. The scruff of his beard abraded her skin, zinging a jolt of sensation up her arm.
“Open it.” He nodded his chin toward the jewelry box in her lap.
His lack of an answer to her question seemed an answer in itself. If she could decipher it. Had his kiss meant she did have cause to worry? Or had he dismissed her concern?
Conscious of his unblinking gaze as he released her, she opened the box. The breath she held floated away on a soft breeze when she looked inside.
“I know it’s not a traditional diamond,” he said, “but I figure there’s nothing traditional about us. I’d have to take out another loan to get a diamond of any size. I thought maybe the blue—with your eyes… But if you prefer a diamond, I’ll go back…”
“No.” She silenced his apology, slipping the ring onto her finger and losing herself in the simple perfection of the square-cut sapphire framed on either side by rectangular diamond baguettes. The white-gold setting added to the elegance of form and style.
She looked up and met eyes of the same sapphire blue. She’d never imagined a marriage proposal unfolding like this. Of course, she’d never imagined any proposal at all.
The expectant look in his eyes reminded her of a little boy seeking approval. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
But there was nothing childlike in the blunt planes and angles of his face moving toward her.
“Brett.” Guessing his intention, she lifted her hand, blocking it against the solid wall of his chest and holding him at bay. “You don’t have to. No one can see us now.”
“I know.”
“Then why…?” He pushed past her hand and silenced her lips with his own, communicating an elemental message that went far beyond a simple thanks or sharing of comfort. Unsure, unprepared, yet unexpectedly willing, she kissed him back.
She inhaled the clean, woodsy scent of him as she moved her lips beneath his, learning the different textures of mouth and man.
Gentle. Firm. Pliant. Persuasive.
His mouth was an evocative contrast to the evening shadow of beard that studded his skin. The roughness of it tormented her chin and cheeks, the tenderness of his lips soothed the path left behind.
Ginny tunneled her fingers into the long, silky hair at his temple and held on. Tasting and learning. Thanking and giving.
His tongue pressed between the seam of her lips and she opened for him. Her breath stuttered and caught as he stroked the softer skin inside. She angled her head in the opposite direction, investigating the rough, masculine taste and texture of his mouth, marveling at the sensual contrast to the lustrous mane of hair caught in the p
alm of her hand.
When they bumped noses, Ginny froze.
She should have laughed.
But she couldn’t.
She remembered Jean-Pierre and a dozen laughing faces. Laughing at her and her rosy-eyed naiveté. She remembered Amy and her parents and all the reasons why she shouldn’t drop her guard and surrender her heart to this man. To any man.
With her fingers still tangled in his hair, she pulled away. “What are you doing?” she accused on an uneven breath.
A lazy smile stretched across his face. “The same thing you’re doing.”
“You and I are business partners.”
His smile flattened. He encircled her wrist in one big hand and extricated his hair from her grasping fingers. “You weren’t conducting business just now, Detective.”
“No. I was…you…” She couldn’t blame Brett for forgetting their purpose for being together. Not entirely. She got up and turned away, licking her own lips in a useless effort to elude the stamp of Brett’s possession there, idly noting that Jean-Pierre’s kisses had never lingered this way. “I was thanking you for the ring. Comforting… You seemed so tired. That kiss didn’t mean anything.”
She heard the creak of a chair the instant before a rough hand at her elbow spun her back around. His fingers cut into the flesh beneath the short sleeve of her blouse. “Lie to me if you want, angel. Lie to everybody else—I’ll even help you with that.” He dipped his head, standing nose to nose with her. His hot breath washed in an angry gust across her face. “But don’t lie to yourself.”
In half a stride he was at the door, slinging it open. “If business is all you’re interested in, then let’s go.”
“Go where?” she demanded, filing away her tumbled emotions to deal with later. She dodged through the doorway ahead of him as he charged through.
He paused only long enough to hit the lights and lock the door. He barely gave her time to snatch her purse and blazer, and say good-night to Merle. Then his hand was on her elbow, guiding her toward the elevators. “After I met with Sophie, I had an interesting talk with Frank Rascone while I was buying the ring. I think you should hear what he has to say for yourself.”
IN THE APARTMENT over Frank Rascone’s jewelry shop, Ginny put her hand over her cup, giving a polite refusal when he offered to pour more tea.
Judging by the rebellious rumble in her stomach, she needed more food and less caffeine. But she willingly endured the pangs of hunger so as not to break the hour-long spell of Mr. Rascone’s stories about the “old days” on Market Street.
Brett’s big hands dwarfed the cup he held as Mr. Rascone filled it with tea and milk again. “Tell Gin what you said about the year Mark Bishop worked for you.”
Just like with Pearl and Ruby Jenkins, he deftly steered the conversation to the information she needed.
Frank doctored his own tea with milk and two cubes of sugar. Ginny waited patiently while he stirred and stirred. She understood his fascination with the spoon was merely a stall to gather his thoughts. Tonight he seemed older and more fragile than he had been at his shop that morning. His strong Italian nose and dark deep-set eyes gave the only hint of the robust young man he had once been.
“Mark was a good kid,” he began finally. He set the spoon in his saucer and turned to Ginny, showing none of the avoidance he had earlier. Brett’s presence at the far end of the table seemed to calm him. “He sported a black eye more than once. Had a broken nose one time. I hired him to clean the place, move boxes in the back room, that sort of thing.
“Alvin showed up one evening about closing time, spouting off about the electric bill not being paid, said the TV wouldn’t work.” Frank pressed his hand over his heart, trying to absolve himself of a pain that lingered in his eyes. “I told Alvin myself I didn’t pay my employees until the end of the week. He started arguing with me, right in front of a customer. Mark took him out back to quiet him down. After the customer left, I went out to the alley to offer to pay him in advance, if that would help. Mark’s nose was already bleeding.”
Brett’s hands tightened around his teacup. But he remained silent as Frank continued.
“I saw him pick Mark up by the shirt and throw him against the brick wall. Alvin was a big man. Tall, like Brett here. Not fit, though, the man drank too much. But Mark wasn’t full-grown yet. I said something and Alvin left. He shoved me aside on his way out of the alley.” Frank’s volume rose and abated as he related the incident.
“Mark never said a word against his father. But there was something powerful angry brewing inside that boy.”
Hurting for the jeweler’s sorrowful memories, Ginny hesitated a moment before asking, “Did you ever see or hear Mark threaten his father?”
Frank glanced over at Brett, as if seeking his approval to answer the question. His good-ol’-boy demeanor long gone, Brett simply nodded. “I’d like to hear how you’d answer that, too.”
Frank turned back to Ginny. He shrugged his bony shoulders before answering. “I’d never seen it myself. But I’ve heard that Alvin went after Sophie a few times. Mark would stand up to him then, get in the way, take the brunt of it.”
Brett’s cup clattered in his saucer. He pushed himself to his feet and paced the tiny kitchen. Ginny watched him, an edgy combination of fatigue and pent-up energy. She hadn’t considered how deeply his feelings for Mark ran, how difficult something like this would be to hear.
She gentled her inquiries for his sake as much as Mr. Rascone’s. “Did you ever know Mark to ‘take the brunt’ of his father’s rage to protect anyone else besides his sister?”
“How do you mean?”
“Would he interfere to protect a girlfriend?”
Frank thought for a moment. “I never knew him to date anyone except that Jenkins girl. I don’t imagine Mark would ever let her get close enough for Alvin to hurt her. Of course, I didn’t keep real good track of Mark after he quit my shop.”
“When was that?”
“Summer. Before school started.” The jeweler withdrew into himself, looking suddenly ancient beyond his years. “He died that fall…”
His voice trailed away as he shook his head and stared down into his teacup. His silence lasted so long that Ginny reached for his hand. She clasped the chilled, gnarled fingers, offering a human connection to the present, far away from those sad events of so long ago.
Brett stopped his pacing and watched them both, leaving Ginny with the impression that she was being tested somehow. But for what? She ignored the silent evaluation and pressed on. “Did you ever see Mark with a blond-haired girl? Almost towheaded, like my color?”
Frank’s gaze followed her hand up as she touched her hair.
He shook his head. “I’d remember someone with a color like yours.”
She wanted to ask Frank more about Alvin Bishop’s behavior, but he seemed so weak, so frail, that she didn’t have the heart to push. She gave his hand a gentle squeeze and started to pull away. “I know this was difficult for you, Mr. Rascone.”
He gripped her fingers, refusing to let her go. “Last time I saw Mark was the day before he died. He came into my shop and bought a plain silver bracelet, asked me not to say a word to anyone about it. I expect he meant his father. Old Alvin wouldn’t want him throwing away money on something like that.” He looked over his shoulder at Brett. “Do you suppose that’s what set Alvin off? Maybe I could have helped the boy by telling someone sooner.”
Brett came over and squeezed the old man’s shoulder. “Don’t second-guess yourself, Mr. R. If Alvin had it in his mind to do someone harm, there’d be no stopping him.”
Appearing grateful for the reassurance, Frank nodded his head.
“We’d better be going,” said Brett, coming to the back of Ginny’s chair and pulling it out. The polite gesture forced her to stand. “Mr. Rascone opens his shop early in the morning.”
Taking into account Brett’s mood and Frank’s fatigue, Ginny reluctantly set aside her growing list of ques
tions and allowed Brett to steer her to the door.
The abrupt departure didn’t seem to faze Frank. He followed them onto the landing, asking about the fit of Ginny’s new ring, congratulating them both, asking if any plans had been set.
“We’ll put the word out as soon as we decide the details,” promised Brett.
At the top of the stairwell leading down to the street, Mr. Rascone snagged Ginny’s wrist, stopping her short. She started at the unexpected contact, but made no move to pull away when the glare from the naked lightbulb hanging above them revealed an almost desperate look on his face.
“Whoever killed Alvin Bishop did us all a favor.” He held her a moment longer, anger and despair glowing in the watery depths of his eyes. “I know you’re upholding the law, and Brett says you mean well, but…” He patted her hand before releasing her. “You won’t make many friends around here trying to single out his killer.”
Ginny stared after him until he closed himself inside his apartment and slipped the dead bolt into place.
“Ginny?” Brett’s deep whisper reverberated off the peeling plaster walls and settled into her consciousness, bringing her back to the moment. He stood two steps below her, yet he was tall enough to face her at eye level. “He didn’t mean that as a threat.”
She slipped her hand into her pocket, felt the folded slip of paper that had hinted at her death. The anonymous phone message burned her fingertips. “Just a friendly warning, right?”
She dared a look deep into those handsome, weary, slightly distrusting blue eyes. The uncomfortable notion that he could see even deeper inside her, see her suspicion, see her fear, made Ginny blink and step to the side to circle around him. She headed down the steps to the street below.
Brett caught up to her and walked at her side, that ever-present hand of his lightly guiding her, guarding her, at the elbow. When they reached his white pickup, he unlocked the passenger door and she climbed inside. She put out a hand to hold the door open when he would have closed it.
