Next came the story about newly appointed Chief Earley. Felipe was surprised. He’d been almost positive that the fact that he was suspected of committing the Sandlot Murders would’ve been leaked to the media. But there was no mention of it. Nothing at all.
There was a brief interview with Earley, then a background profile. The police chief had served in Vietnam as a demolitions expert. Felipe hadn’t known that. Apparently, Earley had worked clearing booby traps from the labyrinth of underground tunnels that Vietcong guerrillas hid in during the daytime. His was one of the most dangerous and terrifying jobs in the marines. It was not a job for the faint of heart or the claustrophobic, that was for sure.
Felipe heard a sound in the hallway, and pushed the mute button on the TV remote control. The apartment door swung open, and…thank you, Lord.
Caroline was standing there.
She came into the apartment, closing the door behind her.
She seemed embarrassed, almost shy, and Felipe realized that he was wearing only his boxer shorts. He hadn’t had the energy to make it over to Rafe’s closet to find a pair of jeans or a T-shirt to put on.
Still, she crossed over to the sofa, looking down at him. “You look awful,” she said.
He tried to smile. “Gracias,” he said. “I feel awful. But the bullet’s out. My brother sent someone up, someone who I think was a doctor at one time.”
Carrie nodded. “I know,” she said. She knelt on the floor next to the sofa. “It must really hurt. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not,” Felipe said. He took a deep breath in and released it slowly. He found that now he could smile at her. “I don’t mind the pain. In fact, I like it. It reminds me that I’m alive. And I really like being alive—particularly after an evening like this one.”
Carrie smiled tentatively back at him. How beautiful she was. Felipe had to hold on tightly to the remote control to keep himself from reaching out and drawing her into his arms. What he would have given for one small, comforting embrace. Except there was no way on earth an embrace between them would have remained either small or comforting for long.
“I don’t think you realize how close we both came to being killed tonight,” Felipe said quietly, searching the depths of her sea-green eyes.
But she didn’t look away. She didn’t turn her head. She didn’t shut him out. Instead, she nodded. Yes.
“Yes, I do,” she said. “I talked to your brother about Walsh.”
“And…?”
“I believe you,” she said.
“About Walsh?”
“About everything.”
Heat coursed through him at her words. She believed him. Even though he knew that he shouldn’t, Felipe let go of the remote and reached for Carrie. He touched the side of her face and her skin was so smooth, so soft. And she didn’t pull away.
He could see her pulse beating at the delicate base of her neck, he could see her chest rising and falling with each breath she took, he could see her lips, parted slightly and moistened with the tip of her tongue, and still she didn’t pull away.
She looked the very way he felt—hypnotized.
Knowing quite well that he shouldn’t, but unable to stop himself, he leaned forward to kiss her. How he wanted to kiss her! He truly didn’t have a choice.
He brushed his lips against hers in the smallest, gentlest, most delicate of kisses.
Her eyelids fluttered, and she looked up at him. She looked scared to death, terrified, but she still didn’t pull away.
So he kissed her again, knowing that he shouldn’t, knowing absolutely that kissing this woman was a gigantic mistake. He liked her too much—way too much. He couldn’t afford to have any kind of relationship with her. He couldn’t bear the fact that just knowing him would put her in danger. And, maybe for the first time in his entire life, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to keep the physical, sexual side of a relationship with Caroline from becoming entangled with the emotional. And that truly frightened him.
No, Caroline was not the only one who was scared to death. But he couldn’t stop himself. And this time, she met him halfway. She reached up and threaded her arms around his neck and kissed him as if there were no tomorrow.
And maybe, just maybe, she was right.
But the danger they were in, the risk of impending death, wasn’t the real reason Felipe pulled her even closer and deepened the kiss. He did it for one reason only—because he so desperately wanted to. He could no sooner resist Caroline Brooks than he could stop breathing.
Her mouth was so sweet, her lips so inviting. Her hair was like silk as he ran his fingers through it. And her soft, fragile body was neither entirely fragile nor entirely soft. She was slight and slender, yes, but still quite strong. He slid one hand down her back to the curve of her firm derriere and pulled her toward him.
Man, five minutes ago, he’d been lying here on the sofa, feeling like death warmed over, uncertain whether or not he’d even be able to stand. It was funny what desire could do to a man. Because now he knew without a doubt that he could stand. He could stand. He could walk. Man, he could run laps if he needed to.
His fingers found the edge of Caroline’s dress, and the soft, smooth warmth of her thigh. Felipe heard himself groan, and she pulled back, alarmed.
“Did I hurt you?” she whispered, her voice husky. Her hair was tousled and her cheeks were flushed. It didn’t take much imagination to picture her amid the rumpled sheets of a bed….
“Oh, yes,” he said, barely hiding his smile. “You can’t imagine my pain. Although it has nothing to do with my leg.”
She blushed and laughed, then leaned forward to kiss him again.
And then the door burst open.
Felipe reacted. He found his gun almost instinctively, remembering he had thrown the holster over the back of the sofa. As he drew it out, he pulled himself off the sofa so that his body was shielding Carrie’s.
“Jesus, it’s only me,” Rafe said. “Put that thing away, Superman. Lois Lane’s still safe.”
Felipe sagged with relief. It was only his brother. Relief turned sharply to annoyance. “Didn’t our mother teach you to knock?” he asked, dragging himself back onto the sofa.
Rafe smiled humorlessly at his brother. He looked pointedly at Carrie, who was running her fingers through her disheveled hair. “Yeah,” he said. “She also taught us not to play with fire—a rule you’ve obviously forgotten, little brother.”
Felipe reached down to help Carrie onto the sofa next to him. He kept his arm behind her, his fingers lightly touching her shoulder. She glanced at him, and he nearly felt burned. Rafe was right. He was playing with fire. But what a way to go.
He looked up at Rafe. “Was there something you needed?”
Rafe looked at the television, which was still on, but muted. A commercial for a dishwashing liquid was showing.
“Were you watching the news—no, obviously not,” Rafe said, answering his own question.
Felipe sat up a little straighter. “Why?” he asked.
Rafe glanced at him. “I think you know why,” he said. He bent down and picked the remote control off the floor. As the commercial ended, he pressed the mute button.
“To recount a story just in,” the news anchor said, looking seriously out from the television screen, “police sources have revealed that they are searching for a suspect in the controversial Sandlot Murders case.”
A rather grainy picture of Felipe appeared at the top right of the screen, with the words Rogue Cop in jagged letters underneath.
“Police Detective Felipe Salazar,” the anchor reported, her voice still solemn, “being labeled a rogue cop by the supervisors in his department…”
“Good Lord!” Carrie cried, leaning forward to look more closely at the screen. Felipe’s hand fell away from her shoulder.
“…is wanted in connection with last week’s double slaying in a downtown sandlot, next to the East 43rd Street Elementary School. Salazar, described in the official police
statement as being a twenty-five-year-old Latino male, is six feet tall, one hundred seventy pounds, with dark hair and eyes. He is believed to be armed and extremely dangerous.”
Caroline was staring at the television, clearly aghast. She looked up at Felipe, and he knew with a sinking heart that all her doubts about him had come flooding back.
“It’s a frame,” Felipe told her, but the news broadcast had once again caught her attention.
“We’re going to the Fourth Precinct where we have a reporter standing by,” the anchor said, reaching up to adjust a tiny speaker in her ear. “Hello, Walt, are you there?”
The picture switched to that of a man standing in the brightly lit lobby of the police station.
“This is Walter Myers reporting from downtown at the Fourth Precinct, where Felipe Salazar is a member of the police force,” the man said, staring into the camera. “Newly appointed Police Chief Jack Earley will be arriving shortly to hold a press conference. We’ll be breaking into regular programming to bring you that live report.”
The camera followed Walter Myers down the corridor.
A man stepped into camera range. “Gentlemen, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” he said.
“That’s Diego,” Felipe said. His friend and former partner had gotten a haircut since he’d seen him last. But other than that, Jim Keegan looked the same. He was wearing his standard uniform—jeans and rumpled button-down shirt, with a loosened tie around his neck to make it look a little more businesslike.
Carrie glanced at him. “That’s the man you called?”
“Yeah.”
“And you are…?” the reporter asked.
“Detective James Keegan,” Jim replied patiently. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to continue your news report outside, sir.”
“His name’s not Diego, it’s James,” Carrie said, her eyes still glued to the screen.
“Diego’s Spanish for James,” Rafe told her.
“Can you comment on the latest suspect in the Sandlot Murders?” the reporter asked Jim.
“No, I cannot,” he replied firmly, herding them back to the door.
“Do you know Salazar?” the reporter asked.
“Yes, I do,” Jim said.
“Do you believe he committed this crime?”
Jim was about to respond, then he glanced toward the camera. It was almost as if he’d decided to change his answer. “You never know,” he told the reporter. “That’s one thing I’ve learned in all my years on the force. You just never know.”
The reporter looked into the camera. “Back to you, Mary.”
The news anchor reappeared with another story, and Rafe reached over and turned off the television.
Carrie didn’t move. “You don’t seem surprised by this,” she said tightly to Felipe.
“It’s a setup,” he said again. “A frame. And yes, you’re right. I’m not surprised. I knew they were going to try to pin these murders on me.”
She turned and looked at him. He could see anger in her eyes. Anger and hurt. “You knew,” she said. “And you didn’t tell me. This is really why you can’t go to the police, isn’t it? Because you’re wanted for murder.”
“I didn’t do it,” Felipe said. How could she think that he would kill someone in cold blood? “I wouldn’t kill anyone.”
“Not anyone who didn’t deserve it,” Rafe cut in. “But a vigilante-style execution…? Maybe.”
“Stop it,” Felipe said sharply. “You know damn well—”
“I only know you’re a big fan of justice,” Rafe retorted. “You’d send your own brother back to prison, two years hard labor. You’re probably capable of delivering this kind of justice, no?”
Carrie was looking at Felipe as if he’d just been accused of slaying infants. “Even your friend, what’s his name—Keegan—wouldn’t stand up for you,” she said.
Felipe reached for her hand. She didn’t pull away fast enough, so he held it, wishing that she could somehow get inside his head and see for herself that he was telling the truth.
“Caroline, don’t you see?” he said quietly, intensely. “This is why Walsh let us get away. Richter’s man in the police department set up this frame, somehow making me look like a suspect in this murder case. They may not even have any evidence against me, I don’t know. If they do have anything, it’s trumped up or fake. But the case is never going to go to court, because as soon as they find me and bring me in, Walsh will be tipped off. He’ll wait until I’m being transported and then he’ll put a bullet in my head. Everyone will assume my death was some kind of mob counterhit, and the case will be closed.”
Carrie didn’t look convinced. She was staring down at her hand, entrapped by Felipe’s larger hand.
“I need you to leave,” Rafe said. “Your being here is jeopardizing everything I’ve worked hard for—including my own freedom. I won’t serve time for aiding and abetting. Not even for you, little brother.”
Caroline pulled her hand free.
Felipe looked up at Rafe. “Don’t you mean especially not for me?” he asked bitterly, then ran his hand across his face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
“Yes, you did,” Rafe said. He sighed. “Look, I had one of my staff get rid of the car you drove over here. I can’t risk giving you one of my vans, but I’m going to tell you where I keep the keys, do you follow?”
Felipe nodded.
“They’re in the kitchen, top cabinet, left of the microwave. I’ll give you seventy-two hours, then I’m going to report the van stolen,” Rafe continued.
“Do you have a tape recorder I can borrow, too?” Felipe asked.
“There’s a tape deck in the van,” Rafe told him, “though this is hardly the time to be thinking about tunes, little brother.”
Felipe ran a hand back through his hair. “No,” he said, “I need to make a recording, to make a tape telling what I know about Richter and Walsh. You know. In case…”
Rafe nodded curtly. “I’ll find you something,” he said. “The bastard’s gonna blow you away, least you can do is leave behind incriminating evidence, right?”
“Wrong,” Felipe said. “It wouldn’t be evidence. A taped statement wouldn’t hold up in court. No, it would just be information to help the next guys nail Richter.”
“You mean…” Rafe stared at him. “If you’re dead, that’s it? No case against Richter?”
“That’s why he’s so hot to waste me,” Felipe said.
“Jesus,” Rafe said. “You don’t stand a chance.”
Carrie was silent. She stared down sightlessly at the floor.
Rafe crossed to the closet and pulled out a pair of jeans and some worn-out black leather boots. “Here,” he said, handing them to Felipe. He took a T-shirt and a clean pair of socks from his dresser and tossed them onto the sofa. He gestured toward Carrie. “I don’t have anything in her size,” he said. “But she can put a shirt on over that dress. And you, you probably need something to cover up that holster and gun,” he added, crossing back to the closet.
He took out a black leather biker’s jacket.
Felipe shook his head. “I can’t take that,” he said. “That’s your jacket, man.”
Rafe looked down at the jacket in his hands. When he looked up again, the lines in his face seemed deeper, the seat of his mouth even tighter than normal. “I don’t have anything else to give you, Felipe,” he said, for once all the sarcasm gone from his voice. “I am sorry that I can’t let you stay. Do you have somewhere to go?”
Felipe nodded. “Yeah. I’ve got someplace in mind, someplace to lie low for a day or two until I feel like running again.”
“Then what?”
“Then I find out who Richter’s mysterious partner is,” Felipe said. “Richter called him Captain Rat. I thought there was some connection to the wharf, the harbor authority, maybe the Coast Guard, but now I think this ‘Rat’ is a captain in the police department. Who else could have engineered this kind of a frame-up so quic
kly?”
Stiffly, gingerly, Felipe pulled on the jeans. They were a little loose—his brother was taller than he was—but they fitted just fine over his bandaged leg. He pulled the T-shirt over his head and slipped on his shoulder holster.
That little bit of movement exhausted him, and he had to stop and gather his strength. Only God could help them if Walsh came after them now.
He opened his eyes and found Caroline watching him, wariness still on her face. She looked away, unable to hold his gaze.
She didn’t trust him, didn’t believe him again.
They were back to square one.
CHAPTER EIGHT
CARRIE STOOD in the hallway with Rafe, waiting while Felipe limped into the kitchen. He was taking the keys to one of the halfway house’s vans, with Rafe supposedly unaware.
She still couldn’t believe the news report they’d just seen on the television.
The man she was with was indeed Felipe Salazar—that much had been established without a doubt. He was a detective with St. Simone’s Fourth Precinct—that was true, too. And he could kiss exactly as she’d imagined in her dreams—better, in fact.
Good grief, one kiss, and she’d been ready…Well, she wasn’t sure exactly what she’d been ready for, but she certainly hadn’t been ready to find out that this handsome, charismatic man who could kiss like a dream was wanted for murder.
Felipe was wanted for murder.
He said he didn’t do it. He said it was a setup, a frame. Carrie wanted to believe him, but she couldn’t ignore the fact that if the man was a cold-blooded killer, he certainly wouldn’t balk at lying.
Rafe was watching her, his flat, expressionless eyes studying her face.
“Do you believe Felipe?” she asked him.
He shrugged, holding his arms out wide. “I don’t know,” he said. “Used to be my brother couldn’t even fib. He was the straightest kid you ever met, you know? He was the kind of kid who’d break something and then stick around to face the music. No running or hiding.” He glanced toward the kitchen door, but there was no sign of Felipe. “But working under cover, he’s had to learn to lie. I mean, when you think about it, an undercover cop does nothing but lie, huh?”
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