by Ken Casper
“Very wise,” she said, grinning.
“Sandy couldn’t understand that police work is more than a job. She took offense at our politically incorrect conversations, our disrespectful slang and wisecracks. She couldn’t see why humor, even the sick variety, is sometimes our only release from the ugly underside of humanity we see every day.”
“We’re not saints,” Catherine admitted.
“How did Jordan cope with your job?”
She grew pensive. After a few seconds, she said, “We had our tense moments, especially in the beginning, but his family helped us get past them.”
“They were okay with you being a cop?”
She laughed. “Just the opposite. They hated it.” She smiled at the puzzled expression on his face.
“First of all, they didn’t approve of me as a person.” With her cheek resting again on his chest, he could feel her words as well as hear them. “A blond-haired, blue-eyed lower-middle-class girl didn’t fit their image of a suitable daughter-in-law. They also had what they considered a healthy disrespect for the police. Given the times they grew up in, I can’t say I blamed them. I still don’t. Money allowed them to eat well and sleep in comfortable beds, but it didn’t insulate them from prejudice and discrimination. They tolerated the police because they had to, not because they had any reason to consider them friends or allies.”
“Two strikes against you.”
She tightened her hold on him, her voice softening but not losing the edge that had crept into it.
“The third came when Kelsey was born a year after we were married. I took the usual maternity leave, then went back to work. They were furious, especially when the nanny we hired was a white woman. We hired her because she was the best qualified, not because of the color of her skin, but that didn’t seem to make any difference.”
“Why did it matter?” Jeff asked.
She didn’t answer immediately. “It’s complicated, but essentially they felt I was trying to deny Kelsey her heritage, and that I was setting her up for disappointment and failure.”
He raised his head. “I don’t get it.”
“A white nanny would teach Kelsey white values and attitudes, alienating her from her true identity in society, which is black. In effect Kelsey wouldn’t fit into either community. They had a valid concern.”
“But Jordan didn’t agree with them?”
“There was a time when their point of view had merit, but Jordan was able to see times were changing and that the only way to perpetuate that change was to embrace it. I understand where his parents were coming from. I respect their strength and courage in enduring what they did, but—”
“How does Kelsey feel about all this?”
Catherine smiled. “As far as racial issues are concerned, she’s mature and well-adjusted.”
“Thanks to you.”
“Thanks to her father. He was the one who taught her to accept and be proud of who she is.”
“Did you ever feel like an outsider?”
She shook her head. “With them? Never. With his family. Always. Except for Melissa, Ty’s wife, and their kids.”
Jeff noted she didn’t include Tyrone in her comfort zone.
“You said Jordan’s parents helped you,” he reminded her. “How?”
“Their rudeness and hostility toward me forced him to choose between us. They miscalculated. He chose me, told them they either treated me with the respect and courtesy his wife deserved, or he would cut them out of our lives altogether.”
“Would he have followed through?”
“He did for almost two years. It was Melly who finally reconciled them.”
“So you got along after that?”
Catherine shook her head without completely raising it “They tolerated me . . . for Jordan’s sake . . . especially after his father had his heart attack, and Jordan had to take over the paper.”
“And since his death?”
“We don’t see each other except in public, like the other night at the concert. They’re too proud to be impolite in front of strangers.”
“How do they feel about Kelsey?”
Jeff couldn’t see Catherine’s face, but he sensed regret and maybe anger.
“They’re ambivalent. She’s their flesh and blood, but she’s also mine, and even after all these years that doesn’t sit well.”
“I’m sorry.” He tightened his hold on her, wishing he could hug away the pain. “She’s innocent. They’re being grossly unfair. They’re also robbing themselves of a lot of happiness.”
A moment passed. “I can forgive them for excluding me, but I can’t forgive them for rejecting her. I wonder if they have any idea how much she’s wanted their love.”
Jeff considered changing subjects, but then decided it might be best to get these issues out of the way, so they could move on. He didn’t ask himself where to. He wasn’t sure yet, but the bond growing between them suggested something more than friendship.
“How do they feel about her becoming a nun?” he asked.
Catherine huffed, her breath warm against his bare skin. “They blame me, say she would have given up this crazy idea if Jordan had lived.” She sighed. “On that I’m sure they’re right. He had a way . . . ” She trailed off, unwilling to finish the sentence.
He tilted her head toward him so he could see her eyes. He didn’t like the heartbreak he saw there, the sense of failure and defeat.
“You’re a good mother.” He dragged his thumb down her cheek. “Seeing the two of you together I know that.”
She rested her head on his chest and pressed her hand to his rib cage. “I wonder,” she said forlornly.
“There’s tension between you, but that’s natural under the circumstances. You’ve both been through a lot. She loves you, Cate, that’s also obvious.”
Her smiling at his pet name for her made him feel good. “Give her time.”
“Speaking of time,” she said. “I ought to be getting home.”
He wanted to tell her she was home, with him, where they both needed her to be. But he’d be rushing things. He didn’t know where this was going; he only knew where he wanted her to be. Right here—in his arms.
He shifted, readjusting the way their bodies touched.
“I promised you breakfast.”
“It’s still dark outside,” she said.
“I guess we’ll have to find some way to kill time until the sun comes up.”
“Time is a terrible thing to waste.”
“It waits for no man,” he murmured as he nuzzled her ear and the delicate skin beneath it.
She ran her hand down the length of his torso, past his navel, pausing only when she reached an obstacle. “It certainly doesn’t seem to have waited for you.”
“I’d say let’s make hay while the sun shines,” he replied. “Except as you so wisely observed, it’s dark outside.”
She let out a giggle. “I don’t think hay is what we’re about to make.”
They were both laughing when he flipped her onto her back. “How about making haste?”
“HOW BAD IS IT?” Catherine asked Saturday morning.
Paul Radke, the head of Internal Affairs, rested his elbows on the wooden arms of the chair across from her and laced his fingers in front of him. “Bad.”
He’d just informed her the D. A. was initiating an investigation of the Houston medical examiner’s office.
“Lost autopsy reports, some incomplete. A few appear to have been totally fabricated. Tissue samples stored for later DNA comparisons are also missing, and there’s suspicion that those on hand may not have been properly labeled.”
“This is a nightmare,” Catherine said. “Any idea how many cases are affected?”
“As far as we know, the problem started about a year and a half ago when Cliburne Vale took over. He went into the job with a clean record and a good reputation as a pathologist. Unfortunately his management abilities don’t seem to have matched his laboratory skills.
”
“An entire M.E. office doesn’t become incompetent overnight,” Catherine said. “There’s more to this than sloppy bookkeeping. Who’s heading the investigation?”
“Haven’t got a name yet. The D.A. had to turn it over to the feds. He didn’t have any choice in the matter.”
“I’m sure that thrilled him.”
Hollywood and the media exaggerated the animosity between law enforcement agencies, but there was no question it existed. They got along fine focused on an outside enemy. It was when one of them was placed in the role of investigating the other that pride entered the equation, tempers flared, and the organization under scrutiny went into a full defense mode.
“I want a list of all the cases affected on my desk Monday morning.”
“I’m not sure we’ll have all the data by then.”
“With computers it can’t be that difficult, Paul. Monday,” she said flatly.
Blowing out a breath, he climbed to his feet. “You’ll have it.”
The minute the door was closed behind him, Catherine took out her cell phone and poked in a number. She wasn’t surprised when she got voice mail. Without identifying herself, she said simply, “Call me on my cell at twelve-thirty,” and disconnected.
She was in her Lexus on her way to an appointment with the city council when the phone chirped. It was half past noon precisely.
“Thanks for getting back to me,” she said. “I need a list of every case the medical examiner’s office has dealt with since Cliburne Vale took over. Can you e-mail it to me by Monday morning?”
The pause was brief. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Thanks. I appreciate this.”
“Glad to help.”
It would be interesting to see how Derek’s case list compared with the one Radke produced.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
* * *
CATHERINE MANAGED to leave the office around three o’clock the following day. She didn’t always come in on Sundays but with so much happening she needed the quiet time there to sort through the mountains of paper that had been accumulating on her desk all week.
She returned home just before three-thirty and went directly to her computer. Derek had called around one to say he’d sent her the telephone logs of Tyrone and Ri-alto’s calls that Jeff had requested. She knew Jeff would analyze them in detail, but she wanted to examine them personally to see if she could discern any pattern.
While the files were downloading, she went to the kitchen, fixed herself sliced turkey on rye and carriedit to her workstation.
The records, as Derek had predicted, were voluminous, stretching back two years before Jordan’s death. Was Tyrone already involved with Rialto then, or did the connection come after he’d taken over the newspaper? She scrolled back through the data. The association seemed to be long-standing. Had Jordan known about it? He hadn’t said anything to her, and she felt sure he would have.
She zeroed in on the date of Jordan’s death. That was curious. Rialto had phoned Tyrone right after the meeting in the mayor’s office.
Why? To say his attempt to get Jordan to hold off on the yellowcake story had failed? Why would Tyrone care? Or had Rialto wanted Tyrone to convince his brother not to run the editorial?
Catherine noticed Rialto’s next call . . . to someone identified as Calvin Griggs. She’d seen or heard the name before, but in what connection, she couldn’t recall.
She’d just taken a bite out of the second half of her sandwich when the phone rang. She jumped, then picked up the receiver.
“Hello, Cate.”
A warm feeling crept its way through her. She nearly sighed with pleasure at the sound of his voice, picturing his deep brownish-green eyes and the way he had looked at her when they’d made love the night before. “Hi,” she all but purred, “I was just thinking about you.”
“Isn’t that a coincidence? I’ve been thinking about you all day. I was wondering if I could see you. I may have found something.”
“Now?”
A split second’s pause. “Unless you have other plans?” He sounded disappointed, maybe even hurt.
“No.” She laughed. “No other plans.” The prospect of having him near her, by her side, lifted her spirits immeasurably. “Come on over. I’ll fix coffee.”
“You’re good at that.”
“My special talent.”
“And not the only one. But I accept the offer. I’ll see you in about twenty minutes.”
She hung up, stared once again at the screen and shook her head. Had Jeff made the same discovery? Was he thinking what she was thinking? Picking up the uneaten portion of her sandwich, she padded out to the kitchen.
She turned on the coffeemaker and tried to concentrate on the implications of the information on her computer screen, but her mind kept flashing to images of Jeff , to the comfortable feeling she had when she was around him.
Cheered by the prospect of being with him, she sauntered back to her bedroom, removed the clothes she’d worn to the office and slipped into a sky-blue cotton shirt and white twill slacks. She touched up her lips and ran a brush through her hair, then spied her cologne and put a dab behind each ear.
She was debating whether to open the second button on her shirt when the doorbell rang.
AN ALLURING FEMALE SCENT wafted to Jeff on the cool air coming through the open doorway. Catherine’s blouse was form-fitting at the midriff, enhancing the generous swell of her breasts. Her white pants hugged the curve of her hips, her honey-blond hair pulled back in a manner that was both sophisticated and girlish. Not exactly the image of a hard-bitten police chief.
“Come in,” she said.
He waited until the door was shut behind him before he sidled up, held her wrists at her sides and kissed her on the lips. Hot.
“I’m glad you’re here.”
“So am I.” He followed her through the dining room, watching the gentle sway of her hips, remembering the feel of her legs curled around him. Definitely hot.
She went to the refrigerator and removed the carafe of coffee she’d put there to cool. “I thought with today’s heat . . . ” She trailed off and he knew the kind of heat she was talking about had nothing to do with the beverage.
“Can I help?”
At her direction he filled two oversized glasses with ice. The cubes crackled when she poured the still warm coffee over them.
“I made it extra strong so it won’t dilute too much.” She was babbling. He liked having that effect on her.
They wandered into her office. He stood behind her as she clicked the mouse, banishing the Screensaver and revealing the data files Derek had sent.
“I was looking these over,” she explained, “and noticed Rialto called Jordan’s brother right after their meeting.”
“I saw the same thing.”
“Rialto made another call a minute later. I recognize the name but can’t place it.”
“Cal Griggs,” he supplied.
She gazed up at him. “You know who he is?”
“The guy Tyrone played racquetball with that day.”
She leaned back, her eyes fixed on the screen, her nerves tuned to the man who had just placed his hands on her shoulders. “Why would Rialto call him?”
“I did a quick search of his name.” Jeff kneaded muscles that begged to be caressed. “Griggs works for Rialto as a consultant. He also has a criminal record. Arrested a couple of times a few years back on assault charges. Released on both occasions when the victims withdrew their complaints, saying it was all a misunderstanding.”
“So he’s an enforcer.”
Jeff stroked the base of her neck. “Which means Tyrone’s association with Rialto may not be altogether voluntary.”
“I wish we had a transcript of their conversation.”
“It would be interesting.”
“I got a call from Risa Taylor today.”
He released his hold on her, pulled over a rolling chair and sat down beside her. “Go on.”
>
Her eyes feasted on him. The way his thick brown hair was mussed from his nervous habit of combing his fingers through it when he was deep in thought—or frustrated. The hint of five-o’clock shadow that she found sexy as hell. The way he laced his long fingers in front of his flat belly.
“I had her and several other people I trust keeping an eye out for Harvey Stuckey.”
He folded her hand in his. “Why do I have the feeling this isn’t good news?”
“Stuckey fell down a flight of steps yesterday and broke his neck.”
“An accident?”
“They did a drug-alcohol screen on him. No narcotics, but he was definitely staggering drunk. It could have been an accident. Nobody saw him fall, but he had bruises on him that suggested he’d been roughed up before he died.”
Catherine shifted in her seat and huffed out a disheartened breath. “So we no longer have a witness—”
“I’m sorry, Cate. I let you down. I promised to find him for you.”
She rose and paced the oriental carpet. “You did the best you could. He wouldn’t have been a very credible witness anyway.”
“But his statement might have been enough for you to request an exhumation,” Jeff pointed out.
She sucked in her breath. “It doesn’t matter,” she said.
“Of course it matters. He was our link to—”
“Tell me if you see anything wrong with this picture,” she said. “Rialto had either tapped into the Sentinel’s computer system, or he had a spy at the newspaper who somehow got wind of Jordan’s editorial exposing the missing uranium. He contacts the mayor and asks him to set up a meeting with Jordan.”
“Okay,” Jeff concurred, “but why didn’t Rialto go to Jordan directly? It’s not as if they don’t know each other. Why involve a third party?”
“I can only speculate that the mayor was already involved in some way, or Rialto thought he might have a more compelling argument with Walbrun backing him, maybe even making threats of his own.”
“What kind of threats?”
She pursed her lips. “The mayor is in a position to persuade certain businessmen to pull their advertising from the newspaper, even withdraw their support for me as police chief.”
