by Beverly Long
She stopped, apparently unwilling to tell him what that promise had been. Hell, he’d made plenty of his own promises over the years. Not at Tessa’s grave. His were generally silent oaths uttered to an empty room. And more times than not, a vodka bottle played a prominent role.
Even when he’d been sober, it wasn’t as if he’d ever made good on any of them. Tessa’s murderer had never been caught.
She reached for her shoulder bag. “I’ve hated you for a long time,” she said.
He’d been a cop for eight years. She wasn’t the first to say it. Never before, however, had the words clawed at his gut. “Look, your sister, she...”
He stopped. Tessa had loved her little sister, had always talked about how smart Claire was, how good of a student.
“What?” she challenged.
He shook his head. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, to be gained by going over ancient history.
“My sister was a beautiful woman, in the prime of her life.” Her voice shook with emotion. “Not that I expect you to care,” she added, her tone defiant. In a move that matched, she scrubbed the back of her hand across her face, destroying the evidence of her tears. She turned fast and practically ran down the steps.
Sam sank down onto the top step and rubbed the bridge of his nose. She was right. He didn’t care. About much of anything. It was safer. Easier. And he sure as hell didn’t need some ghost from his past reminding him why.
She was halfway down the block. Let her go. She’d come looking for a jerk, he shouldn’t disappoint her.
“Hey. It’s pretty late to be walking,” he yelled.
She didn’t even break pace.
Shaking his head, he jogged after her. And then she started running and he had to pour it on just to catch her. “Look,” he said, grabbing her arm.
She swung her other one, aiming for his head.
He jumped back, both arms in the air, palms facing her. He was breathing hard. “I’ll drive you home,” he said.
“Get away from me,” she said. There was enough illumination from porch lights and the occasional streetlight that he could see the anger in her dark eyes.
“You’ve got to be cold. At least let me call you a taxi.”
“I don’t want you doing anything for me,” she said.
She started walking again and this time, he let her go. If the little fool got mugged, it wouldn’t be his fault. He walked back toward his house. He was going to forget that she was in Chicago, forget her period.
When he reached his house, he saw the envelope lying in the flower bed next to his front steps. He picked it up and saw the return address of Alexander and Pope, one of the better-known downtown advertising agencies. It was a window-style, with her name and address clearly visible.
She lived in the 800 block of Maple Street. Her place was at least twelve blocks away. It’d be eleven, well past the time the crazies came out, by the time she got there.
I don’t want you doing anything for me. He tapped the edge of the envelope against his hand.
Screw it.
He pulled his cell phone off the clip on his belt and dialed. “Squad, this is Detective 4433. Can you connect me to a uniform in the vicinity of Maher and Oaktree?” He waited impatiently for the call to be patched through. When it was, he didn’t waste any time.
“This is Detective Vernelli. There’s a woman, dark hair, early twenties, walking east on Oaktree, in the 2300 block. She’s headed to 810 Maple Street. Don’t pick her up and don’t let her know you’re following her, but call me when she gets there.”
When the officer agreed, Sam rattled off his cell number. Then he shut his phone, clipped it back on his belt and very carefully folded the envelope. He’d throw a stamp on it tomorrow and stick it in the mail.
He sure didn’t plan on ever seeing Claire Fontaine again.
* * *
WHEN CLAIRE WOKE UP the next morning, her head ached, her eyes were puffy and she was hungry. However, when she reached for the skirt that she’d shed before crawling into bed and realized that she’d somehow lost her paycheck, she felt truly ill.
How could she have been so careless? The last thing she wanted to do was ask for a replacement check. She was still proving herself at the job. What if the payroll department happened to mention the request to her boss? It was a fast slide down the corporate ladder when others thought you were irresponsible. But it wasn’t as if she could go without a paycheck. She had her share of the rent to cover and although she’d already resolutely accepted that she was going to be washing underwear more frequently, she hoped to replace the missing television sooner than later. She was a sucker for a sappy movie on a lazy Sunday afternoon.
She could have lost it anywhere between the office and Sam Vernelli’s house or between his house and her apartment. It had been dumb to stick it in her pocket when she could have easily put it in her purse.
It was likely in Lake Michigan by now; they didn’t call Chicago the Windy City for nothing. But it was possible that someone would find it and try to cash it. She’d have to tell someone so that the company could put a stop payment on it.
It was a perfect ending to a night where nothing had gone exactly the way she’d planned.
She’d sat on Sam Vernelli’s steps for hours, getting colder and hungrier as the night wore on. She remembered closing her eyes and she must have fallen asleep. He’d scared the heck out of her when he’d suddenly appeared. Composure had vanished and suddenly it was as if she was thirteen again and her heart was racing as she sneaked into Tessa’s bedroom at home to stare at the picture of Sam that was pinned to the bulletin board.
Back then she’d thought he was fabulously handsome. Now, eleven years later, his frame was more muscular, his dark hair shorter, and while his face showed some wear and tear, he was still very good-looking. In her world, he had the look that moved product, especially if women were the target audience.
He’d been shocked when she’d said her name. She’d wanted to throw him off balance. She just hadn’t counted on the fact that her own equilibrium would be compromised.
He hadn’t tried to convince her that she was wrong. Over the past weeks, once she’d decided that she was going to confront him, she’d spent time anticipating his response. She never figured he’d admit the truth. The man was a cop—he wouldn’t be stupid enough to say that he’d murdered someone. No, she’d always assumed that he’d dismiss her accusations, maybe try to make her think she was crazy for thinking that she’d heard him threaten Tessa.
She hadn’t expected him to just stand there and take it. When he had, she’d expected to feel some sense of jubilation, but instead, all she’d felt was emptiness.
Going to see him had probably been a mistake. But she couldn’t change it now. Thank goodness there were three million people in the city of Chicago. What were the chances she’d ever run into Sam Vernelli?
Chapter Two
Sam read while Cruz drove. He hoped the gritty details of the latest homicide would keep him from obsessing about Claire Fontaine.
She was different than Tessa and it wasn’t just that her hair was dark and short while Tessa’s had been blond and hung halfway down her back. No, it was something not quite so tangible. Tessa had been the life of the party, everybody loved her, especially men. While they were together, Sam had spent more than one sleepless night worrying about that. He’d always figured he’d been lucky to catch her.
Tessa had been...uncomplicated. He’d spent five minutes with Claire and somehow knew there was nothing simple or easy about her.
The radio crackled, blessedly interrupting his thoughts. “All units. District 23. We’ve got shots fired at 810 Maple.”
Cruz grabbed the wheel with both hands. “We’re four blocks from there. Want to go?”
Detectives, unlike uniforms, weren’t required to respond to the all-unit calls. But neither Cruz nor Sam liked stuff happening in Area 5 that they didn’t know about. “Sure. Let’s roll.”
&nbs
p; Cruz whipped the car into traffic. “What was that address again?”
“810 Maple.” As soon as he said it, Sam knew. He’d seen that address just the night before. “Drive faster,” he said, as he pulled the envelope out of the inner pocket of his suit coat.
Apartment 3C. As Cruz weaved in and out of traffic, Sam tried to focus. Just because it was Claire’s address, it didn’t mean she was in trouble. There were probably lots of apartments in the building. But he couldn’t shake the sick feeling that was in his gut.
By the time Cruz pulled up, police cars were stacked three deep. Sam grabbed his vest from the backseat and worked his way to the front. He slid in next to Bobby Horowitz, who crouched behind his vehicle, a phone to one ear, scribbling with a pen on paper that was balanced on his knee.
“What’s going on?” Sam whispered.
Bobby held up a finger and Sam waited, sweat trickling down his back. Finally, Bobby hung up.
“Talk to me, Bobby.”
“We got a report of shots fired. Neighbor across the hall called it in.”
“What apartment?”
“3C.” Bobby pointed toward the building. “It’s that sliding door, third one from the left.”
Sam leaned his head against the warm metal of the police car. He swallowed hard. “Any known injuries?”
Bobby shook his head. “Our guys got as far as the apartment door. They knocked and somebody started shooting. They grabbed the woman from across the hall and beat feet back down to the second floor. Ain’t been a sound out of the apartment since then. Unfortunately, the neighbor hasn’t shut up. She’d been going on and on about how the apartment was burglarized a couple weeks ago.”
“What?”
“I don’t know anything else. She didn’t have many details. Hopefully, HBT will get here soon and we can put this one to bed.”
Sam’s stomach turned. Hostage Barricade Team. The last hostage rescue operation he’d worked, the hostage had ended up with a bullet in his neck. No doubt Bobby remembered it, too. He’d been standing next to Sam, looking like he wanted to rip somebody’s head off.
Sam studied the building. It would be a long shot, but he thought he could do it. “Look, Bobby. From the balcony of the apartment next door, I can get over to that sliding door. The blinds are closed. They aren’t going to be able to see me from inside.”
“So, then what?”
“It’s been warm this week. I’m betting they open that sliding door. Because they’re on the third floor, they probably keep it unlocked.”
“I don’t know. You fall three stories and it’s my job.”
“I get them out of there and it’s the mayor calling you up, inviting you over for drinks.”
Bobby’s green eyes took on a familiar glow. “Yeah, I’d like that. Maybe the guys from HBT could drive me there.” He looked at his watch. “Get going. Super said every apartment is laid out the same. Railcar-style. That sliding door is to a bedroom, which connects to another bedroom, then there’s the living room, kitchen and finally the bath.”
“Make sure our guys on the second floor know I’m coming in,” Sam said, moving fast. He slipped inside the building, his gun drawn. When he got to the third floor, he stopped, listened and then moved toward the door he needed. He unlocked it and went inside. He listened again but didn’t hear anything from Claire’s apartment.
That didn’t necessarily mean good news.
He walked out onto the balcony, staying close to the building. After attaching the radio to his belt, he slipped his gun into his shoulder holster and inspected the bricks. He pushed his fingers in between them, hoping to get some kind of hold. It wasn’t much but it did provide some balance. He stepped up onto the wrought-iron railing, first one foot and then the other.
Then he made the mistake of looking down.
His heart thumped. One good jump, he reminded himself.
Right. If the first one wasn’t good, he wouldn’t need to worry about a second try.
Sam took a breath and closed his eyes. From inside the building, from Claire’s apartment, he heard a scream and then a gunshot.
Sam opened his eyes, bunched up his leg muscles and leaped. He hit the deck with a soft thud, his knees absorbing the shock. He yanked on the door handle and started to breathe again when it slid open. Easing his hand inside, he caught the edge of the heavy curtain and pulled.
He poked his head and gun through the opening. Empty. It was a mess, with clothes and shoes everywhere. He moved quickly, his shoes making no sound on the carpet. Through the door, into the interior bedroom
It smelled like Claire Fontaine. Fresh with a hint of something exotic. Everything in its place. The bed covers were thrown back, as if someone had been sleeping.
He poked his head out the door and scanned the living room. His stomach cramped up tight.
A woman, half her head blown off, lay sprawled on the couch. Blood and tissue splattered the wall behind her. She was blond and many pounds overweight—not that she was going to need to worry about that anymore. A cigarette, still smoldering, rested in a butt-filled glass dish on the end table.
Across from her, a young woman, red hair, very pale skin, wearing standard-issue green scrubs, sat on a love seat. A revolver rested in the palm of her hand. She had her eyes closed but he didn’t think she was hurt. He could see the rise and fall of her chest, in even breaths.
Where was Claire?
Sam focused on the woman in scrubs because the woman on the couch wouldn’t ever be moving again. He slipped behind her. “I’m a police officer,” he said, keeping his voice soft. “Put your gun on the floor.”
She strained her neck to see him. Her eyes were open, her stare blank. She looked first at the gun he pointed at her, and then back at her own gun. Without a word, she bent over and gently placed it on the floor, next to her bare feet. Sam walked around the end of the couch, squatted, picked up the gun with his fingertips and dropped it in the pocket of his suit coat.
“Where’s Claire?” he asked.
“I’m here.”
Sam whirled around. Claire was at the far end of the apartment, leaning against the frame of the bathroom door, so pale that he wondered how she could stand. She had a hand towel up to her mouth.
“Anybody else here?” he asked, trying to stay focused. He could see streaks of tears on her cheeks.
She shook her head and made the mistake of looking at the dead woman. She swayed, her shoulder knocking into the wall.
He moved quickly to her side and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, pulling her in close. Her whole body was trembling. “Are you hurt?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“You’re sure?”
He got a nod. Okay. Sam pulled back a little. Claire’s eyes were puffy, her nose was red and she kept the towel up to her mouth, like she wasn’t sure she was done losing her lunch.
“Who’s that?” he asked, nodding his head toward the woman in scrubs.
“My roommate, Nadine.”
“Okay. Look, I need to call this in,” he said. “Nadine, come over here. I want the two of you to sit in the kitchen.”
He led Claire over, keeping one arm around her. He kicked a pair of green rubber clogs out of the way and used his free arm to pull two kitchen chairs away from the table. He faced them toward the kitchen counters.
He lowered Claire down and backed away when he was sure she was steady. Nadine took the other seat without a word.
He pulled the radio off his belt. “Squad, this is 4433. I’m inside at 810 Maple. Let all units know the location is secure and roll me an ambulance.”
* * *
CLAIRE FOLDED THE WRAPPER over her half-eaten cheeseburger and pushed the almost-full container of fries toward the middle of the table. “I’m done.”
“At least you ate something.” Sam Vernelli gathered up his own garbage, added it to hers and put it on a tray that he shoved to the end of the table.
“I...” She stopped, pressing two finger
s hard against her lips. “I’ve just never seen anything so horrible before.”
“There are cops who’ve been on the job for ten years who haven’t seen anything like that. It would shake anybody up.”
He was being nice and kind. The same as he’d been since he’d somehow, like some superhero, jumped onto her balcony. It was one more crazy thing in a day of craziness.
For the last eleven years, Sam Vernelli’s name had been synonymous with everything evil. She didn’t want him to be nice to her. She didn’t want to owe him anything. But when he’d pulled her into the kitchen and squatted in front of her, his hand steady on her knees and his eyes even steadier, it had been hard to remember that.
And suddenly it had seemed as if there were a hundred people in her apartment. Cops who wanted to talk to her, then to Nadine, then to both of them. The paramedics from the ambulance had arrived, looked at the dead woman and left. Then some skinny guy, who everyone called The Weasel, in a black suit that looked too big for him had walked around with a camera and if he’d taken one picture, he’d taken a hundred. Of everything, from every angle.
And when it had been over and she’d been so light-headed that she thought she might faint, she hadn’t protested when Sam had practically dragged her out of the apartment and across the street to McDonald’s. She’d been a quivering mess.
It was time to suck it up. “I need to go.”
Sam looked at his watch. “It’s not quite four yet. I’ve got a few more questions.”
“Look, Detective Vernelli, you and I both know that it’s not a good idea for you to be assigned to this case.”
“It’s a little too late for that.”
“No. I’m going to call the police department and request that another officer be assigned.”
Sam pulled a card out of his pocket. He wrote down a name and number and shoved it toward her. “This is my boss’s name and cell. Right about now, he’s walking his daughter down the aisle, so I don’t think he’d appreciate the interruption. But on Monday morning, you can call him. Make your request. I don’t really care. But for now, I’ve got a dead woman and a hell of a lot of unanswered questions. I’ll do my best to stay out of your way, but I’m not going to sacrifice this investigation just because you’ve got a problem with me.”
