CAPTURING CLEO

by Linda Winstead Jones

  “I don’t know.” He gave her a sad, crooked smile. “Maybe I should just let it be.”

  “That would be safest I suppose.”

  Safest. Luther Malone was nothing if not cautious.

  He turned away from her. “Don’t run off again,” he barked over his shoulder. “You almost gave Boone a heart attack.”

  When the door slammed she sank to her knees, put her arms around Rambo’s neck, and cried until she didn’t have any tears left.

  Luther fiddled with the candy in his hand, stared down at it, and then tossed it across the room. As an oral fixation, peppermint was a poor substitute for Cleo.

  His apartment had never seemed so small. Ray had invited him over to see the baby, Luther’s goddaughter Angel, even though Grace and the baby had only been home for a couple of days. That fact was enough of an excuse for Luther to politely decline. But it wasn’t the reason.

  He wasn’t ready to look them in the eye and tell them he’d blown it with Cleo. He’d blown it big-time.

  Boone was keeping an eye on Cleo, and Russell was parked at the end of the street, keeping an eye on traffic that came and went into Luther’s apartment complex. They’d wanted to put a couple of marked cars on him, an idea Luther had vetoed. If they surrounded him with cops, the killer would never make his move. No one was on alert just yet. The past two murders had taken place on Sunday night, late.

  Regulations demanded backup, even though Luther was confident he could handle the killer himself. Still, if he had to have someone watching his back, Mikey would do. And like Cleo said, he’d have to be very careful crossing the street.

  He tried to think of something else he might’ve said to her last night, something that would make everything right. Nothing seemed to work, not even in the recesses of his muddled, sleep-deprived brain. Cleo was right: she deserved better than what he had to give her.

  His phone rang, and he glanced down at the caller ID, hoping, more than a little, that Cleo’s number would come up. It didn’t, but this might be almost as good. It was his florist calling.

  “Malone.”

  “This is Ginny, from the flower shop?” she said breathlessly, her voice low. “You wanted to know when someone placed an order to be delivered to Cleo’s?”

  “Yeah.” He stood up and grabbed his car keys and jacket, while she finished.

  “He’s here right now. Red roses, no card. Kimmi is trying to stall him, but I don’t think she can keep him here much longer.”

  He ended the connection and ran to the door, bounded down the stairs two at a time, and headed for his car. Russell would see him and follow, he knew. He tossed the red light onto his dash and took off, flying out of the parking lot. He was a good ten minutes from the mall. Could Kimmi stall the man long enough?

  His heart pounded, and with adrenaline pumping he drove past cars that moved aside for him. This needed to be over, for Cleo’s sake. He needed to catch this guy. Now. He glanced in his rearview mirror once, to make sure Russell was right behind him. He was.

  He pulled up to the curb at the mall entrance closest to the flower shop, and left his car at a run. Russell wasn’t far behind him. Two girls, one he recognized and one he did not, waited in the flower shop entrance.

  “There he is!” the girl he remembered said, jumping up and down.

  Luther followed the girl’s pointing finger, just as a face he recognized as one of Cleo’s regulars looked over a broad shoulder and panicked.

  Luther took off running, and so did the man. Cleo’s secret admirer knocked aside a woman who was too busy to be aware of what was happening around her; Luther didn’t stop. He skirted the fallen woman and kept on running. He glanced back once to see that Russell was checking to make sure the woman who’d been knocked down was all right.

  The man who’d ordered the roses turned onto a narrow corridor that led to a back entrance. He was a big man— more than strong enough to drag Tempest to the roof and toss him over—but he wasn’t very fast. Luther caught him as he reached the glass-doored exit. He tackled the big man and they both fell. Hard.

  “I didn’t do nothin’ wrong,” the man on the floor said in a surprisingly whiny voice.

  “Then why did you run?” Luther asked breathlessly.

  Before the man he had pinned to the floor could answer, Russell was there. Luther stood and dragged the man to his feet. Henry, he realized as he got a better look at the man’s face. He’d heard Lizzy call this one by name.

  “Why did you run, Henry?”

  The big man blushed. “I want my lawyer.”

  “Fine.”

  He cuffed Henry and read him his rights. Henry had clammed up, but his chin quivered as if he were about to cry. Jeez.

  The man had asked for his lawyer already, so they couldn’t do a damn thing.

  “Let’s go,” Luther said, dragging Henry along with him as he headed down the corridor. He was almost to the car when his cell phone rang. He handed Henry over to Russell and snagged his phone from the inside pocket of his jacket.

  He glanced at the number on the caller ID before answering. “What’s up?” he asked without preamble.

  “Something’s going down,” Boone said tersely. “A kid just delivered four dozen red roses to Cleo’s door. And one white rose. He says a man paid him to deliver the flowers. Fifty bucks.”

  Luther glanced at Henry. “I’ll be right there.”

  “Cleo doesn’t want you here,” Boone snapped, before Luther could hang up the phone. “Sorry man, she specifically said—”

  “All right,” Luther said. “I’ll send Mikey—Russell,” he amended. “I’ll send Russell over there to check it out.”

  “That’ll work,” Boone said, calmer now. “You know, I think she might have been right about those white roses before. This one white rose in all the red ones, it creeps me out.”

  “I know what you mean,” Luther said before ending the call. He gave Henry a shove. “You’ve been busy this morning, haven’t you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course you don’t,” Luther said.

  Deep inside, Cleo shook. Her bones quivered, her knees knocked. She made very sure no one would know it, to look at her. She made the rounds and said hello to all the regulars, ignoring Luther, who sat in the back of the room wearing his usual sour expression and a black suit with a white shirt and a cheap tie.

  She herself had gone all out tonight. Her dress was white and snug and low-cut, her matching heels were high. The white rose in her hair, the single white rose that had been in the massive bouquet delivered to her home early this afternoon, was tucked behind her right ear. Wearing it was her way of giving her secret admirer the middle finger. Think you can rattle me? Think again.

  Tonight, unlike last night, she’d been able to get through her set. Luther Malone might be able to take a lot of things from her, but her voice was not one of them. She wouldn’t allow it.

  They had her secret admirer in custody, which was a relief. When Luther had told her, she’d thought for a moment that this was over. Her bodyguards, all of them, could take a hike. She’d never have to see them again.

  But Luther, never satisfied, couldn’t be sure that the man they had in custody was the killer. While he’d suspected that her secret admirer might be the man who had killed Jack and the heckler, he couldn’t be sure. Apparently Henry had confessed to sending roses, but not to anything else.

  But he was the one, she knew it. Soon this would be over. When tomorrow came and went and no attempt was made on Luther’s life, they’d know for sure that Henry was their man.

  Palmer was here again tonight and so was Corey, without Randi with an i. Luther, Boone, Michael—their familiar eyes seemed riveted on her. Cleo looked around the room and her head swam.

  She wished Luther wasn’t here. She could handle anything else, everyone else, but to look at him and pretend it didn’t hurt was the hardest thing she’d ever done. She did her best not to look at
him at all.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” Corey called, smiling at her as if they were old friends and lifting his hand to wave her over to his table.

  Her first instinct was to turn and walk away without acknowledging him at all, but like it or not everyone was a suspect, and the sooner this was over with, the sooner Luther Malone would be out of her life.

  She made her way to Corey’s table with a smile she didn’t feel, and sat across the small round table from him. The light from the glass-encased candle in the middle of the table lit his almost-handsome face too well.

  “You’re alone tonight,” she said. “What happened to Randi?”

  He shrugged. “She didn’t want to come.” He gave her what might pass with other women as a charming grin. “But I love to hear you sing, even if it’s this old stuff.”

  “Why, thank you,” she muttered.

  “I’ll never understand why you quit writing and singing country for this. Where’s your audience, Cleo? The way you look and the way you sing, you could be a star.”

  She’d never wanted that. Jack had. Everyone she’d met in Nashville had shared the same dream. Not her. “I like what I do,” she said.

  Corey had something to say. He wasn’t good with words, and he was apparently fighting with a few of them now. “I’m putting together a new album,” he finally said.

  “Congratulations.”

  “I want it to do well. It really has to do well, or else I’ll be shopping for a new label.”

  “That’s the way it goes.”

  He leaned over the table, bringing his face close to the yellow light of the candle. “What I need is a showstopper. I had this really great idea. How about if you write us a song, a really sexy duet? You can sing it with me on the album, and we’ll make a kick-ass video, and—”

  “No thanks,” she said, before he could say more. “I appreciate the offer, but I really can’t.”

  Corey bit his lip and flexed his fingers. “But once ‘Come Morning’ is rereleased, you’ll be a star again.”

  “I’m not recording it for the movie,” she said. “They got a big name to do that.”

  “Yeah, but you can sing circles around her. When the song comes out and makes it big, radio stations will be playing your version, too. People will start talking about you again, wondering where you are, and it would be the perfect opportunity for you to break back into the business.”

  “I don’t want to break back into the business,” she said testily, annoyed at the prospect that he might be right. She didn’t want to hear herself on the radio as she drove to work, she didn’t want customers to start requesting ‘Come Morning’ every damn night. The occasional requests were tough enough.

  She stood. “I have work to do in the office. Thanks for the offer, but—”

  “Think about it,” he said, glancing up at her with hopeful eyes. “It would really be great.”

  Cleo turned and walked away from the table without another word. She’d said no. Sooner or later that would sink through Corey’s thick skull.

  She headed for the office, wanting nothing more than to sit at her desk, lay her head down, and breathe deeply. She hadn’t been able to breathe deeply all day.

  She had her hand on the door to the office when she caught a glimpse of Luther entering the hallway. Her heart hitched.

  “What did he want?” Luther asked as he came up behind her.

  “He wants me to write a hit song and record it with him.”

  “Did you accept?”

  “No,” she said. She didn’t turn around to look up into Luther’s face. She couldn’t. She didn’t open the door, either, because if she did he would follow her inside and close it. She didn’t think she could bear to be behind closed doors with Luther ever again.

  Not because she didn’t love him, but because she still did. No matter what. That just wasn’t right. She couldn’t live this way, waiting for the next accusation, the next hurt.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Fine,” she said shakily.

  Luther placed a hand on her shoulder and gently forced her to turn around. She didn’t fight him. To fight would reveal too much. So she slowly turned, and lifted her head to look at him.

  He placed his hand on her cheek. “When this is over,” he whispered huskily, “I’ll be back.”

  “Don’t bother,” she said, trying to sound tough.

  He shook his head. “No, I’ll be back. I know I made a mistake, but I know just as well that I need you.”

  “That’s a sad, overused line, Malone. You don’t need anyone. You never have.”

  “I need you to teach me how not to always see the worst in everything. To show me that better, brighter side of life you talked about.” He moved slightly closer, bringing his body almost against hers.

  “That would be like the blind leading the blind, wouldn’t it?”

  “No.” His hand raked up her side, his thumb brushed against her ribs and his palm finally came to a stop and rested beneath her breast. “You have the brightest, most beautiful heart I have ever known. There’s more hope here than I knew existed in the world.”

  She shook her head. “That’s not true.”

  “It is.” He lowered his head and barely brushed his mouth across hers. “So when this is over, I’ll be back. I’m going to fight for us, Cleo.”

  Her eyes closed and her mouth instinctively searched for his. “Don’t bother.”

  “I’ve never fought for anything before,” he said against her lips. “Not once in my entire life. But you… Cleo, you’re definitely worth fighting for.”

  She wanted to believe him, she wanted so much to believe that what they’d almost found was worth fighting for. “It’s too late.”

  “I’ll be back,” he said again, and then he turned and walked away.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Luther laid everything before him, covering the top of his desk with manila folders and scribbled notes. It wasn’t all that unusual for him to work on a Sunday afternoon, not when a case was fresh. What was he supposed to do? Sit around his apartment and wait for Henry Copeland to change his story? Cleo’s secret admirer confessed to sending roses to the club, but not to her home. He admitted to lusting after his favorite singer, but hotly denied killing anyone.

  The kicker was, Luther believed him. So, who had sent roses to Cleo’s home? Who’d killed Jack Tempest and Willie Lee Webb?

  Cleo wanted to believe that Copeland was guilty, and she wasn’t happy that Boone was still on duty. Tough. Luther wasn’t about to let his guard down until he was absolutely positive the coast was clear. Either Henry would change his story, or someone would call Luther out onto the street and try to run him down.

  Information from the lab in Birmingham was spread before him, the findings from both murder victims. They’d just gotten the reports on Webb. Everything in Birmingham moved too slowly to suit Luther. The fluids that had been taken from the bodies had been carefully analyzed, along with the clothing the victims had been wearing and the little evidence that had been collected at the scene. They’d also discovered that Webb had gotten a phone call from the same pay phone as Tempest, the Sunday of his death.

  As much as he wanted to, as easy as it would make things, Luther didn’t buy Copeland as the killer. Whoever had killed Jack Tempest knew him. Tempest had been dragged to the roof while already unconscious, but it appeared that he’d ingested the furniture polish willingly, along with a goodly amount of beer. Cleo’s ex was much too suspicious a man to take beer from a stranger.

  Same for the heckler. No tainted beer had been spilled onto his shirt or his chin, so it hadn’t been poured down his unwilling throat. Someone had poisoned the beers with commercial furniture polish, a once popular but now hard-to-find brand that contained GHP, a chemical that turned into GHB—gamma-hydroxy butyrate, better known as liquid Ecstasy—inside the body. A large enough dose would kill. Even a small dose was enough to knock a man out for a while.

  Did t
hat mean the heckler also knew the killer? Or was he simply a more trusting man than Tempest?

  A partial print had been found on the underside of a piece of tape, but it had taken them nowhere. The print had been smudged and too small to be of use. Something Luther didn’t like niggled at the back of his brain.

  “Russell,” he said, spinning his desk chair slowly around. His partner wasn’t happy about being in the office today, but since he had Luther’s back, he was here. He pored over his own notes, trying to spot a clue he might’ve missed the first time around.

  “Find something?” Russell raised his eyebrows, young and hopeful.

  “Let’s say you’re Tempest. You have your fair share of enemies. You are not a particularly trusting man. It’s Sunday afternoon. Alcohol sales are limited. Unless you’re in a restaurant that serves beer you’re not buying anything, and Randi swears they ate in. Where did he get the beer?”

  “Out of his own refrigerator?” Russell offered. “If Randi is involved, she easily could’ve gotten into his stash and doped it up, then had her new boyfriend do the physical work of dragging Tempest up the stairs and tossing him over.”

  Luther shook his head. “The only beer in his refrigerator was half a six-pack of cans. A can would be tough to doctor, and it wasn’t the same brand as what was in his stomach.”

  “Oh.” Russell leaned back and propped his feet on his desk.

  The office was eerily quiet today, the phones silent.

  “Besides,” Luther added, “we have Webb to explain away. Why would Randi kill him? This comes back to Cleo. Someone did this for her. Someone who thought they were doing her a favor.” He disliked Palmer, but doubted the man had the guts for murder. Flinger wanted her to sing for his next CD, but he couldn’t see how killing Tempest and Webb would accomplish that. Eric had always been high on his list of suspects, even though he kind of liked the piano player. The kid adored Cleo. Enough to kill for her and think he was doing her a favor? Then there was Edgar, who was like an overprotective bulldog.

  “If a bartender offered you a drink, say, inside a closed nightclub, would you take it?”