Sudden Engagement

by Julie Miller

  “The police?” Ginny halted, automatically checking him from head to toe for some kind of injury. “Are you all right?”

  She linked her hand through the crook of his elbow and turned him back toward his apartment. She scanned his open door for signs of forced entry.

  “Ginny.” Brett’s deep voice from behind her left shoulder turned her focus to the real problem.

  Her apartment.

  The same creepy foreboding that had assaulted her senses at the City Market last night returned with a renewed suspicion that pumped ice into her veins.

  She heard the sounds of conversation and laughter before the band of light outlining her door registered. Reaching inside her jacket, she unsnapped her holster. With gun in hand, she pushed the unresisting door open.

  Instantly, Brett was there, his hand on her arm pushing her back. Heroic intentions aside, she was the one with the weapon. She should enter first.

  “Move.” She commanded him to step aside.

  He didn’t budge. But at his ripe, damning curse, she pushed her way past him to see the apartment for herself. She froze.

  “Oh my God.”

  Her sanctuary had been violated. The tiny haven of all she held dear in the world had been slashed, broken and tossed about with a violent disregard for the few belongings she had in the world that held any real meaning for her.

  Feeling violated herself at the sight, she sank back into Brett’s hands at her shoulders, leaning into his strength.

  “Angel, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  She very nearly turned her face into his chest to hide the chaos from her sight, but Merle Banning and another man walked out of her bedroom. Summoning dwindling reserves of energy, she stepped out of Brett’s embrace and holstered her weapon. She drew on the cold, calculating side of herself, and ordered the kick-butt cop inside her to take charge of the situation.

  “Merle, what happened?”

  Her partner gave her arm a reassuring squeeze before answering. “Sorry, Gin. We were going to be out of here before you got back. Your cell phone is still out of order, so I had no way to reach you when the call came in.”

  “From Dennis Fitzgerald?” She picked up a remnant of Japanese silk that had been sliced from the shards of bamboo screen that had once masked her kitchen. She crushed the material in her hand and assessed the damage.

  “Right. About five-thirty this evening. Your neighbor said he was out buying newspapers. When he came back, he saw the lock had been broken.”

  She hadn’t realized Dennis had joined the party until he spoke. “I opened the door to see if you were here, if you were hurt. Then I went back to my apartment and called it in.” His black half-glasses hung from a chain he fiddled with around his neck. “I didn’t touch anything but the doors.”

  Jeff Ringlein, an assistant on Mac Taylor’s forensics team, peeled off his plastic gloves and dropped them into his black leather briefcase. “His story checks out. I’ve dusted for prints, bagged a few samples and taken pictures, so you can clean up whenever you’re ready. Whoever came in was wearing gloves. The only other prints I got match Mr. Fitzgerald’s.”

  Merle finished the report. “Nothing of value appears to have been taken. Your stereo system is intact. TV’s untouched. It doesn’t look like a robbery to me.”

  “You know damn well what this is, Gin.” Brett rose from the center of the living room and pieced together two broken plates of glass that had once been her coffee table. “Another threat. More intimidation.”

  She felt her sense of fear and injustice transforming itself into anger. Brett provided an easy target. “Every other contact has had a message,” she argued. She righted one of the stools at her kitchen counter. “What does this mess prove?”

  “That he can get to you.”

  His tone of deadly certainty rattled her more than she let on. She turned and snapped an order at Merle. “Find Eric Chamberlain. If he’s not at the river casino, track him down and bring him in for questioning. I want him to account for every minute of his day today.”

  She kicked aside the stuffing that had been ripped from her oversize chair and headed down the hall to check for any further damage. The room where she painted had provided a grand playground for slashing canvas and squirting paint on the walls. The easel lay in a muddy mix of oils that had pooled on the floor.

  The knife she used to cut paint protruded from the X she’d drawn on the canvas that morning. She pointed out the short blade with its stainless handle. “Did you check that for prints?”

  Jeff Ringlein answered. “It’s been wiped clean.”

  “Bag it as the probable tool used to cut everything up in here.”

  “Sure thing.” He scuttled out of the room to get his bag.

  It was easier to play the cop than the victim, she discovered. If she busied herself figuring out the cause of the break-in and vandalism, then she wouldn’t have time to feel the anger and violation.

  Merle fell in behind her as she examined the sticky web of toilet paper, lotions and shampoo globbed on the floor in the bathroom, then moved on to the last room, her bedroom.

  Amazingly enough, little had been touched here. Her bed was still as neatly made as it had been that morning. The clothes in her closet hung with wrinkle-free familiarity. The personal items in front of her dresser mirror had been rearranged, but nothing was broken.

  “Was he interrupted before he finished ransacking the place?” she speculated out loud.

  Merle crossed to the table beside her bed and pulled the drawer open with the tip of his pen. “I think he finally found what he was looking for.”

  She knelt beside him and pulled out the open metal box. The lock had been broken off. Ginny shook her head, not yet comprehending the significance of what she held in her hands. “I keep my gun and badge in here. I had those with me today.”

  And then it hit her. She set the box aside and dived into the drawer itself, running her fingers along every empty corner.

  “Where’s the key?” she asked.

  “What key?”

  Her feverish search clearly perplexed him. But she didn’t take time to explain. She was already running to the living room and tossing things aside to make a path. “My trunk.” She pushed the remaining chunk of glass to the floor and unhooked the clasps on either side of the locking hinge. “I keep sentimental things in my trunk.”

  Brett knelt beside her and studied the antique. “It’s locked.”

  Merle took his place when Brett got up. “Why would anyone bother to lock it after they’ve looked inside?”

  “Let’s find out.” Brett returned with a large screwdriver from a kitchen drawer. He slipped it under the edge of the locking hasp and forced it open. Ginny pushed up the lid to see what was inside.

  She lifted the baby quilt and stared at the wrinkled pink ribbon lying beneath it. A quick dig through music boxes and old sweaters revealed what she feared the most. “My letters. He took Amy’s letters.”

  “Gin.” Brett’s hand on her shoulder stilled her. She followed his gaze to the message scrawled inside the lid of the trunk.

  Your sister never learned her lesson. But you will.

  Ginny felt light-headed. Dizzy enough that she swayed when she tried to stand.

  Brett caught her around the waist and steadied her. But when he tried to wrap her in his arms, she resisted. She flattened her palms against his chest and pushed. “No. This is a police matter. We’ll handle it.”

  She curled her fingers around the badge on her belt, finding little comfort in the cold brass and leather. She sucked in deep lungfuls of air and walked away from Brett. If she gave in to his easy strength now, she’d lose it. She’d break down in one of those useless fits of panic. She might never find her own strength.

  With those letters stolen, she felt as if she’d lost Amy all over again.

  “If he wants to play games, I’ll play.” She made her voice sound tougher than she felt. She found a perverse sense of power by tu
rning this personal invasion into an objective police investigation. “Have the lab compare the trunk to the ink in the message I got last night.”

  Brett’s eyes narrowed in a proprietary scowl. “What message?”

  She couldn’t look at him and maintain that all-business voice he’d once taken exception to. So she walked to the kitchen and pulled a box of trash bags from under the sink. “The Ludlow Arms blueprints I wanted you to look at.”

  Ginny stuffed the ruined cloth from her Japanese screen into the bag, then moved on to the foam stuffing from the chair.

  Unfortunately, Merle wasn’t put off by her silence. He even added a tinge of impatience to his voice. “The tube the blueprints came in said ‘You wouldn’t listen.’ She found them in the back of her car.”

  Brett grabbed her by the upper arm and pulled her to her feet, knocking the trash bag to the floor. “You knew that when you came to the hospital this morning? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  His accusation ticked her off. She’d been scared last night, but she’d gotten through it. She’d had no knight in shining armor to save her then. She didn’t need one now.

  Twisting free of his grasp, she marched to the door and opened it wide. “Thanks for bringing me home, but I want you to leave now.”

  He didn’t budge an inch. He propped his hands on his hips, pushing his shoulders out to stubborn proportions. But he spoke with calm reason, not his usual challenge. “I think it’s time we told Mitch what was going on. This has gotten too personal for you and the killer. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “It’s not your decision to make.”

  Brett erased the distance between them in two long strides. She pressed her back into the door and tipped her chin, determined to defy the protection of this gentle giant. He made a mockery of her false bravado by tucking that independent curl behind her ear. She jerked her jaw away from that tender touch.

  “Dammit, Ginny. Think. You’re scared right now. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “I have a job to do. I can’t deal with you right now.” She turned her head, refusing to look at him. “Please leave.”

  Brett stood there for endless seconds, never blinking, waiting for her to relent and ask him to stay. Her eyes burned with the effort to hold back tears. Her gaze landed on the ruined trunk, and she almost gave in. But Brett had had enough.

  With nothing more than a disgusted grunt, he strode down the hallway and disappeared through the stairwell door. Ginny stepped out to see that he was gone. Truly gone.

  When the door slammed shut behind him, she gave in to the tears.

  TWO HOURS LATER, Ginny was on her own again. Merle and Jeff Ringlein had stayed long enough to clean up the black powder used to take fingerprints. They loaded the trunk into Jeff’s van, and came back to pick up the mess in the living room while she cleaned the kitchen.

  She’d even endured a visit from her captain, Mitch Taylor. His initial concern had quickly eroded into one of those paternal frowns that made her feel young and foolish. He praised the legwork she had done on the case thus far, but his approval of her tactics vanished once Merle recited his version of the investigation, including the threats that she’d left out of her own reports.

  He didn’t have to remind her of the rules. She knew she had broken them. But Mitch never asked for her badge. He never mentioned the reprimand that should go into her file.

  Instead, he placed a call to the precinct and ordered a round-the-clock watch on her building. He told Maggie to reassign Ginny’s caseload except for the Bishop and Jones murders. And then he dismissed Merle and sat her down on the couch.

  “Can you prove Alvin Bishop killed your sister?”

  Not the question she was expecting. Ginny shook her head.

  “Can you prove Eric Chamberlain killed Alvin?”

  “I’m getting close.” All the evidence pointed to him. He had a motive. He had the opportunity to go to Alvin’s apartment and lure him downstairs. “I need Charlie Adkins’s testimony to make it stick.”

  “I’ll make locating Charlie the precinct’s top priority.” He loosened his tie and stood, relaxing the hard edge that made him such an intimidating officer. That he could be so commanding, yet treat his officers like human beings, had earned Ginny’s respect from the day she transferred to the Fourth Precinct.

  His big barrel chest puffed out with a meaningful sigh. She stood, preparing herself for what he was about to say. “If you can make this case hold up in a courtroom, I’ll sign my name off as arresting officer on your sister’s killer. We’ll keep the conflict-of-interest charge and Internal Affairs out of your file.”

  Ginny stood. “Why?”

  “I’m tired of finding dead bodies in my precinct.” He crossed to the door, apparently ready to leave.

  She hurried after him, confused by the generous gesture. “But why would you bend the rules for me?”

  He frowned at the broken dead bolt on her door, then tested the lock on the knob to be sure it worked. When he turned to face her, the old man actually smiled. “Because you’re family. Brett was there for Casey when she needed protection. It seems fair that I look out for you, too.”

  Now she sat in the middle of her bathroom floor, using a wet sponge to mop up the shampoo and shower gel that had been dumped there. She squeezed the gummy liquid into the sink, twisting the sponge tighter and tighter between her fists. She imagined that the sponge was her worn-out spirit, and she could squeeze a few more drops of sanity out of it if she just worked hard enough and kept her mind focused on the investigation.

  She still cringed at the lie she had perpetuated by not telling Mitch the truth about her engagement to Brett. Merle didn’t know their match was a fake, so he hadn’t revealed her secret, either.

  Only Brett knew the truth. Brett seemed to know all her truths.

  She rinsed the sponge and attacked the tile floor again. Brett knew she was a fraud. A by-the-book detective valued for her intelligence and perseverance who was afraid of the dark. A cool-thinking woman who lost her ability to carry on a rational conversation whenever he took her in his arms and kissed her. An emotional coward who couldn’t even do a good job pretending to be in love with him.

  And she was so very terrified that she was in love with him.

  She had nothing in common with Brett. He joked, she frowned. He took action, she thought things through. He was comfortable with his emotions, and she was afraid of hers.

  Ginny dropped the sponge in the sink and sought a different job that would keep Brett Taylor out of her thoughts. But there was really only one job that had ever consumed her. And though she’d been ordered to stay put for the night, she remembered one avenue that a curious detective could still pursue.

  A firm knock brought Dennis Fitzgerald to his door. He identified her through the peephole and let her in. When she saw that he had changed into his pajamas and robe, she apologized. “I didn’t check my watch. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

  “No, no, come in.” When he gestured to the chairs in the dining room, she accepted his offer. “I was up, working on my scrapbooks. Would you like some tea? I have a special herbal blend that might help you sleep after what happened.”

  “No, thanks.” She doubted anything could get her to sleep tonight. “I did want to ask you about the break-in, though.”

  He pulled out a chair and she sat. Dennis hurried to the opposite side of the table, his flushed face betraying his excitement. “I thought you might. I know I bug you about cases you’re working on, but this time I might be able to help you.”

  She shared his interest, but not his enthusiasm for the subject at hand. “When exactly were you gone this evening?”

  “I always leave at four-thirty to visit the kiosk on the corner. I buy the Star, the Denver Post, and USA Today. Then I go to the coffee shop across the street and have a café mocha. I head home right at five-fifteen. Depending on how the elevator is working, I’m back in my apartment by five-thirty.”
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  “Were you here at five-thirty this evening?”

  “Right on the dot. I saw your door standing open and went inside. I was here the rest of the day, so I must have just missed the break-in. Otherwise, I would have heard something.”

  One of his stack of scrapbooks lay open at the end of the table. A few clipped articles sat on top of the folded newspapers he had mentioned. A name in one of the articles jumped out at her. Zeke Jones.

  Dennis said nothing when she picked up the articles and thumbed through them. Alvin Bishop. Mark Bishop. She stopped at the picture of a hauntingly familiar brick building. She looked at Dennis expectantly.

  He rubbed his hands together. “I follow all the murder cases, waiting for a moment like this when I can be of some real help to the police.”

  Ginny got up and walked to the end of the table, flipping through the pages of the open scrapbook. Ten, eleven, twelve pages all dedicated to one place. At the beginning of the book, the articles were yellowed with age. She found a physical description of Alvin Bishop, listed as a missing person.

  The secrets of the Ludlow Arms crept under her skin and chilled her. She looked at Dennis and asked, “What’s your interest in the Ludlow Arms?”

  His ruddy face paled beneath her scrutiny.

  “Dennis?” she prompted.

  “I used to live there.”

  Her uprooted world spun in a maddening new direction. “You knew I was working on this case, and you didn’t tell me you used to be a resident?”

  He stood, halfheartedly defending himself. “I showed you ‘The Cask of Amontillado’ story. It helped you figure out how the murder was accomplished, didn’t it?”

  “Did you know Alvin Bishop?”

  He didn’t have to answer. His shoulders sagged and he dropped his gaze to the table. “Yes. Everything you’ve heard about him is true. No one was sorry when he died.”

  “His daughter, maybe.”

  Dennis looked up and shook his head. “I doubt it. My daughter, Lydia, used to go to school with her. Some days she said Sophie wore sunglasses to class. She’d get in trouble, but she’d rather go to the principal’s office than take them off.”