“It’s not a matter of convincing me. It’s a matter of keeping our perspective. Taylor…” He searched for the right words. “The odds of our child still being alive are pretty remote. You have to know that. You have to be realistic about all this.”
“Then why did someone try to kill me last night?”
“I don’t know. That’s what we have to find out. I’m not ruling Deirdre Robinson out as a suspect in all this. Not after what I saw tonight.”
“What do you mean?”
“I went to the Robinsons’ house to try to find out if she was the one driving that car earlier. The woman’s definitely lost it. Dr. Robinson tried to cover for her, but I could tell he had his own doubts about her.”
“That still doesn’t prove she was the one driving that car. And even if she was, what does that have to do with those newspaper articles and the phone call tonight?”
“I don’t know yet,” he admitted.
Exasperated, Taylor got up and walked to the front window to stare out at the street. “Why can’t you just accept the fact that we have a child together, Dillon? Is the idea so totally repulsive to you? Do you still hate me that much?”
“I don’t hate you, Taylor,” he said quietly. “I never hated you.” At times, it would have been so much easier if he had.
Dillon knew she was hurting and he wanted to ease her pain, but in more than eight years as a cop, he’d seen his share of dashed hopes and shattered dreams. He didn’t want Taylor setting herself up for something that might never happen. The odds were against them and she had to know it.
And even if the child were alive, even if they found him—what then? They were playing with fire, and someone, sooner or later, would have to get burned.
He got up from the couch, and a moment later, Taylor sensed his presence behind her. Even though he didn’t touch her, she felt the heat of his body, smelled the faint scent of his masculine cologne and remembered…too much about the way things used to be between them.
Once, he wouldn’t have hesitated to wrap his arms around her, to draw her close and offer his protection and comfort. But that had been a long time ago.
Taylor hugged herself against the chill that suddenly seeped into her heart.
“I want you to face the reality of this situation,” he said, his warm breath feathering her neck. “I don’t want you living in some fantasy world, thinking that we’re going to find our child tomorrow and live happily ever after. And even if we do find him, we can’t—”
“Can’t what?” She whirled to face him. “Can’t take him away from his family? You’re assuming he has a happy home with loving parents who take care of him, but what if he doesn’t? What if he needs us? Have you thought about that?”
Endlessly. Especially in the dead of night when sleep was hard to come by. He’d made himself think about every possibility, and he had to make sure Taylor did, too. For all their sakes.
“You have to be realistic, Taylor.”
“I’m being realistic,” she said stubbornly. “You’re the one who isn’t. We had a child together, Dillon. That’s real. And that child is still alive whether you want to believe it or not.”
“You have no idea what I want,” Dillon said. “I’m not sure you ever did.”
Silence quivered between them. Their eyes locked for a long, heated moment. Then Dillon muttered a curse as he grabbed her forearms and dragged her against him. Before Taylor had time to move away, his mouth descended on hers in an angry, almost savage kiss that stole her breath away.
She resisted, but only for a second. Her hands flattened against his chest. She meant to push him away, but instead she clung to him as his tongue thrust into her mouth. Blood thundered in her ears. Her heart beat wildly against her breast as she opened her lips to receive him.
Standing on her tiptoes, Taylor automatically fit her body to his, as if they had never been apart. Her breasts were crushed against his chest and their thighs touched intimately.
Oh, God, it had been so long, she thought desperately. So very long.
Needs, almost forgotten, surged through her. She closed her eyes tightly, letting the feelings, the desire and the longing, wash over her. With just one kiss, Dillon had always been able to make her feel this passion, this urgency. He had always had power over her.
His hands moved up her back to thread through her hair, tilting her head back until she was completely exposed and vulnerable to him. His body was pressed so tightly against hers, she could feel the heat of him through their clothing, could feel the powerful beat of his heart.
It had never been this way with anyone but Dillon. She had never been able to forget him, to erase the memories of the way he made her feel, even when she was married to another man. It had always been Dillon, her first love. Dillon, the father of her baby.
Dillon, the man who had left her…
Taylor tried to push the thought away, to concentrate only on the sensations storming through her, but a tiny part of herself wouldn’t let her forget. He had hurt her as no one had ever crushed her before or since. She would be a fool to let herself in for that kind of pain again. Crazy to allow him that kind of power over her now.
The moment she resisted, Dillon released her. Taylor took a step back from him. She struggled for breath as her heart continued to pound.
“That was…stupid,” she said, unable to meet his eyes.
“Probably.”
“I don’t know what came over me. I—”
“It was bound to happen.” His voice sounded strained. “Things used to be pretty…hot between us. I guess it’s only natural that some of the attraction would still be there.”
“I…suppose so. But we can’t give in to it again. We can’t let it get in our way. There’s too much at stake…and…” Taylor lifted her gaze to his. “I don’t want to be hurt again.”
Anger flashed in Dillon’s dark eyes. “I’m not exactly looking to get my teeth kicked in again, either. We kissed, Taylor. Let’s not make more of it than it was. I don’t want a relationship with you any more than you want one with me.”
“Good.” She tried to ignore the hurt his words inflicted. “I think you’d better leave now.”
“I think you’re right. I’ll call you tomorrow after I talk to the lieutenant.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Just as she had waited for him ten years ago, Taylor thought, but he hadn’t come back to her then.
And a part of her wondered now if he would really call her tomorrow.
AS SOON AS DILLON got to work the next morning, he went straight to John McCardy’s glassed-in office in Homicide. McCardy was already there, hunched over a mountain of paperwork on his battered desk. He glanced up when Dillon rapped on the glass, then motioned him inside.
“Got a minute?”
“That depends.” McCardy rotated his shoulders, then stretched.
Dillon sprawled in the chair across from his desk. “I want to talk to you about the Robinson suicide.”
McCardy glanced up. “That’s Lamar’s case.”
“I know. But under the circumstances, I thought I’d better run this by you first.”
“Use me as a referee, you mean. Okay,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “What have you got?”
Quickly Dillon ran through the events that had unfolded in the past few days. When he finished, McCardy looked unimpressed.
“Now let me get this straight.” He crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Mrs. Robinson thinks that Dr. Elliot Westcott, a world-renowned obstetrician, is or was involved in some kind of a baby-swapping scheme at his private clinic. That he, in fact, swapped her baby nine years ago. The estranged husband found out about the scheme, threatened to expose the good doctor and so Westcott took Robinson’s own gun and blew the poor SOB’s brains out, making it look like a suicide. Is that about the size of it?”
Dillon rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, I know this sounds crazy—”
“Crazy? That’s putt
ing it mildly. And the only evidence Mrs. Robinson has to offer are these newspaper clippings she received in the mail and an anonymous phone call in the middle of the night.”
“A woman handed her one of the clippings at her husband’s funeral. She thinks it’s the same woman who called her early this morning.”
“Could she identify this woman?”
“She was wearing a veil. Mrs. Robinson didn’t get a good look at her face, but the woman spoke with a Spanish accent. So did the woman on the phone. She said Brad Robinson was murdered for something he knew, and she didn’t want to be next.”
McCardy drummed a pencil on his desk. “You say Mrs. Robinson’s already talked to Lamar about this?”
“Yeah. But that was before she almost got run down last night. And before she got the phone call this morning.”
“You said yourself you think the mother-in-law may have been the driver of the vehicle.”
“I think that’s a real good possibility, given her animosity toward Mrs. Robinson, but I don’t think we can afford to discount the other possibilities just yet. Think about it for a minute. Mrs. Robinson goes out to the Westcott Clinic asking a lot of questions about her husband’s death and the night she gave birth, and then a day or so later, someone tries to run her down with a car. I don’t know if that’s a coincidence or not, but I think it bears checking out, especially in light of the phone call.”
McCardy got up and opened the glass door to yell across the squad room at Lamar Jackson who had just reported for the morning shift. “Lamar! Come in here for a minute.”
Dillon saw Jackson nod briefly, then make his deliberate way through the labyrinth of desks.
Despite Jackson’s baby face, he was somewhere in his early forties, at least a decade older than Dillon. He wore his experience with an air of superiority that was often grating to the younger investigators in the department.
He ambled into the office, calling a greeting to someone over his shoulder, but the moment he saw Dillon, his expression turned hostile. Closing the door behind him, he leaned against it with arms folded across his chest.
Dillon knew he was treading on dangerous turf. Interfering in another officer’s investigation was serious business. Jackson had every right to resent the fact that Dillon had gone over his head to McCardy. But Dillon also knew that if he’d gone to Jackson himself, he would have been cut down before he’d opened his mouth.
Without formality, McCardy filled Jackson in on the details Dillon had just given to him.
“I must admit, all this seems a little on the peculiar side to me,” McCardy said. “But this is your case, Lamar. Do you see any need to reactivate the investigation?”
Jackson glared at Dillon. “Hell, no. Based on anonymously sent newspaper clippings and a phone call?”
“There’s a little more than that,” Dillon said. “Mrs. Robinson was almost killed last night.”
“You have no evidence tying that to the case.” Jackson stalked across the room and sat down in a chair next to Dillon’s. Dillon caught a whiff of the strong after-shave Jackson always wore. “It could have been nothing more than a drunk driver.”
“Whoever was in that car was trying to hit her,” Dillon said. “There’s a witness.”
“But neither you nor this witness could get a plate number or an accurate description of the car,” Lamar countered. “For a cop, you make a lousy witness, Reeves.”
“The license plate had been removed,” Dillon explained again, trying to hang on to his patience. “The car was a foreign make, probably a BMW, dark blue or black. The reason I didn’t get a better description myself was because I was too busy trying to save Mrs. Robinson’s life.”
“I’m sure she was appropriately grateful.”
“You checked out the car?” McCardy asked, ignoring Jackson’s sarcasm.
Dillon nodded. “Deirdre Robinson has a dark blue BMW. Dr. Westcott’s wife has a black one.”
“That doesn’t prove a thing,” Jackson said. “Half the doctors’ wives in this town own BMWs. The other half own Mercedeses. Look, Reeves, I’ve already talked to Mrs. Robinson about those newspaper articles, and I gotta tell you, I think the woman’s a little…out there, if you know what I mean.”
Dillon knew exactly what he meant. He’d thought himself that Taylor might be living in a fantasy world, but he couldn’t deny that someone had tried to kill her last night. She hadn’t made that up, and Dillon sure as hell didn’t like Jackson’s implication.
He took a deep breath. “I’m just saying that in light of everything that’s happened, I think the case bears looking at again.”
“And I’m saying it doesn’t. Neither myself nor the coroner found any evidence that suggested anything other than suicide.”
“Yeah, but the M.E. knew he was looking at a probable suicide when the autopsy was performed,” Dillon argued. “He might not have looked too hard for any inconsistencies.”
“Are you saying I botched the investigation?” Jackson was sitting on the edge of his seat now, glaring at Dillon with undisguised contempt. “It was suicide, Reeves, pure and simple. Robinson had filled himself up with pills at least once before. He’d been suspended from the hospital. His wife had left him. He was a user, an alcoholic, a manic depressive. Hell, from everything I found out, the guy was a walking stiff for the past five years.”
“Which would make it pretty damn easy to cover up his murder, wouldn’t it?” Dillon said.
“Where’s the motive?”
“According to the woman on the phone, he knew something. Mrs. Robinson thinks it has to do with the Westcott Clinic.”
Jackson snorted. “That doesn’t wash and you know it. Elliot Westcott’s reputation is squeaky-clean. And besides, people at the hospital told me he’d given Robinson more breaks than the guy deserved. Westcott covered for him several times when Robinson wasn’t up to speed—if you’ll pardon the pun.”
“Why did he do that?” Dillon countered. “From what I’ve heard, Westcott isn’t exactly a warm, caring, nurturing kind of guy. Why would he risk his reputation covering for a colleague?”
“And why are you asking all these questions?” Jackson’s eyes narrowed as he regarded Dillon with angry suspicion. “What the hell is this case to you?”
“I’m interested in seeing justice done, just like you should be.”
Jackson gave a little bark of laughter. “Yeah, right. I’ve seen Taylor Robinson. She’s hot enough to—”
Both men were suddenly on their feet, eyeing each other nose to nose. “You watch your mouth,” Dillon said through clenched teeth.
“And you watch your step,” Jackson said. “I resent the hell out of your interference in my case. You got something to say about one of my investigations, you come to me next time. You hear?”
McCardy stood, slapping the palm of his hand against his desk. “All right, that’s enough, the both of you. Lamar’s right, Dillon. You should have taken this information straight to him. Let him decide the merits.”
Jackson’s smile was infuriatingly pompous. “Yeah, well, we all know Reeves likes to do things his own way around here.”
McCardy came around the desk and leaned against the edge. “Based on what you’ve told me, Dillon, I have to agree with Lamar here. There’s no reason to reactivate the investigation. Robinson’s death was a suicide. Lamar’s satisfied. And so am I. That’s the end of it. These newspaper clippings and anonymous phone calls probably amount to nothing more than a hoax. Some sicko’s idea of a joke. We’ve got enough on our plates right now without worrying about some high-society doctor doing himself in. As for the car that almost hit Mrs. Robinson last night, Lamar’ll do the follow-up. You got that, Reeves?”
“Yeah, I got it.”
“That’s all, then.”
Both men turned to leave, but as soon as Jackson left the room, McCardy called Dillon back. He nodded toward Dillon’s leg. “What’s the status on the knee?”
“I have an appointment next
Wednesday,” Dillon told him. “I expect to get a clean bill of health from the doc.”
McCardy nodded. “Good. I’ll let you know as soon as all the paperwork comes through.”
Dillon turned toward the door.
“Just one more thing.” McCardy picked up another file from the stack on his desk and thumbed it open. He didn’t look up when he said, “I meant what I said. Leave the Robinson thing alone. It’s not your case. If anything else turns up, Lamar’ll handle it. You just forget about it.”
“I hear you, Lieutenant.”
McCardy looked up, his expression sober. “I hope the hell you do, Reeves.”
OVER THE YEARS, Taylor had discovered that her undergraduate degree in art history was of immeasurable help to her in her career as a guidance counselor at Claymore Academy. It was amazing how a child’s innermost thoughts could be revealed in a simple drawing or painting.
Taylor’s gaze rested on Alisha Westcott. She was a beautiful little girl, with long, silky blond hair and amazing blue eyes, but the sad look in those eyes tore at Taylor’s heart.
She thought about the child’s parents—Dr. Westcott, so cold and forbidding, and Lorraine, so…out of touch—and it struck Taylor again how ironic life could be. The Westcotts had been blessed with such a beautiful little daughter whom, by all indications, they completely ignored while Taylor’s child, the baby she would have showered with love and affection, had been so cruelly taken from her.
She walked across the room and knelt beside Alisha. “May I see?” When she nodded, Taylor picked up the drawing Alisha had been working on and studied it.
The subject was a little girl, presumably Alisha, standing in a bedroom, staring out a window. The whole picture had been done in pencil, without any color, and it conveyed an air of almost unbearable loneliness.
“This is very good, Alisha.” Taylor pointed to the little girl in the scene. “What is she looking at, do you suppose?”
Alisha stared up at her with those incredible blue eyes. “She’s looking for something.”
“Well, what is she looking for?”
Amanda Stevens Bestseller Collection: Stranger In Paradise/A Baby's Cry Page 30
