by Jenna Ryan
His hair was nice, too, long, thick and wavy—the same shade of deep chocolate brown as his eyes.
All in all, he was an intriguing package. However, while Devon loved a good mystery, something about this man set off loud warning bells in her head. Best to keep her distance, she decided, taking the last few stairs at a restrained pace.
He pulled on his gloves with his teeth and motioned along the snowy curb. “It’s the Blazer.”
“Black, of course.”
He paused by the passenger door. “You don’t like black?”
“I prefer red.”
“Blood’s red, Devon.”
“So are Valentines.” She stepped up and in. “I don’t upset easily, Riker. How far to Port Street?”
Did he almost smile? “A few miles,” was all he said. Scanning the area, he shut her in and walked around to the driver’s side.
Because she was watching him, Devon missed seeing the man who crossed the street in front of the Blazer until a tap sounded on the passenger window.
“Damn,” she said under her breath. Smiling, she rolled down the glass. “’Morning Andrew. Early patient?”
“Emergency bridgework.” He craned his neck as Riker’s door slammed.
Devon held onto her smile. “Andrew McGruder, this is Joel Riker. He’s a new tenant.”
“I see.” Podgy and staid, Andrew saw little of anything. He might have been attempting to preen when he casually shook his head to shift wisps of brown hair off his forehead.
Attractive, Andrew was not. From the day she’d met him, Devon had pictured an overfed chipmunk—soft and jowly, constantly sniffing the air as if on the scent of a new food source.
“I’m an oral surgeon,” Andrew shouted to Riker above the revving engine. “I do fantastic bridgework.”
Riker slid his gaze sideways. Devon sensed the cynical reply forming in his mind and inserted a hasty, “Riker has a fine bite already, Andrew. But thanks for the offer.”
Andrew had no choice but to step back as Riker swung his vehicle into the oncoming stream of traffic.
“You might recall that it’s slippery.” Devon braced herself for a lane change.
“I was born and raised in New York, Devon,” he said dryly. “I know all about slippery.”
“I thought you were an Irish boy.”
“My grandmother was Irish. I froze my butt off in Buffalo until I was thirteen.”
“Not surprising then that you don’t care for snow.” Belatedly, she fastened her seatbelt. “Why don’t you move to Los Angeles if you don’t like the climate in Philadelphia?”
“There’s plenty of snow in L.A., Devon.”
“Cute, Riker, but you know what I mean. Besides you’re homicide, not vice.”
She saw his eyes narrow. “I don’t remember mentioning that.”
Honesty meant a great deal to Devon. She met his skeptical gaze. “You didn’t. I asked a friend of mine at the station to check you out on his computer. Jimmy’s wired into everything. Your precinct page, such as it is, says that you have a solid cop record and twelve years of street duty to back you up.”
“Anything else?”
Sensing curiosity as opposed to rancor, she shrugged. “Not really. Only that you’re thirty-six, widowed, come from a family of twelve, and were involved in the investigation of the first two Christmas murders.”
He fixed his gaze on the red light ahead. “Laura West and Abigail Fountain, in that order. They were in your line of work, those two and the five who died later.”
“All radio personalities, I know. That must mean that this is an inside-industry thing.”
“Which would seem to exclude Casey Coombes,” Riker pointed out. “He was a salesperson for hair care products.”
Devon searched for a connection. “Well...radio stations advertise hair care products.”
“And?” Again that hint of a smile played on the corners of his mouth. “Where’s the rest of your tie-in? All women use hair care products, not just women in radio.”
A skiff of snow blew across the windshield. At 7:20 a.m. in mid-December, dawn had yet to break. It was dark, blustery and cold outside. Only Mellancamp’s “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” on the Wave and Riker’s efficient car-heating system stopped the tremor in Devon’s midsection from spreading. That and something about the man sitting next to her.
“Over there.” Riker used his head to indicate the Port Street Billiard Hall.
The D in Billiard was burned out on the neon sign. But the street, except for a couple of huddled shapes near the alley and a man walking past with his head bent, seemed regular enough. The plows had been through within the last hour, Devon judged. A garbage truck rattled along the curb, and she could see movement in the bakery next door.
“Do you want to wait here?” Riker asked, scanning the building.
“I’d rather have a cup of tea.”
“You won’t find tea in this place.” Reaching over her, he tightened her window, paused, then raised inscrutable eyes to hers. “You sure about this?”
She wanted him. The knowledge hit like a fist plunged into her solar plexus. A hard lump lodged in her throat. Desire so unexpected and fierce had never overwhelmed her like this before. She lowered her lashes and sincerely hoped the feeling would subside as swiftly as it had surfaced.
“I’m—yes, I’m sure,” she answered his question even as her gloved fingers groped for the door handle.
It didn’t jam the way the latch on her grandmother’s Jaguar tended to. As a result she almost tumbled onto the sidewalk in her rush to get out
If Riker noticed, he didn’t mention it. But there was a hint of amusement in his gaze when he joined her on the snowy sidewalk.
Collecting herself, Devon made a point of lagging behind. She kept her eyes trained on the door rather than on Riker’s lean, leather-covered spine.
It would pass, she promised herself. It had to because it had no basis in reality. Not that she wouldn’t have liked to explore the feeling, but murder and romance didn’t mix terribly well in her mind.
Neither did billiard halls and garland, but there it was, a long skinny string of Christmas tinsel suspended across the rear wall.
Dark shapes in mud-colored clothes circled equally muddy tables. Their manner was predatory. With one eye they watched the balls, with the other they checked out the new arrivals. Smoke hung thick and stale in the air. Behind it, she heard a swell of coarse mutters.
“Want a table?”
She continued to hang back as one of the shapes spoke. Riker managed to fit right in. Until he opened his badge, that is. “No table, just a few questions.”
Eyes bored into Devon from all directions. The place wasn’t busy by any means, but there were more people here than she’d expected. A county rock station played a Garth Brooks song. She watched a black-haired woman line up a shot.
“Care for a game?”
Devon twisted her head around as wiry fingers plucked at her arm. But the wizened old man in shabby denim hadn’t asked her the question. His voice came out raw and raspy—similar to that of the man who’d called her apartment, she realized uneasily.
“Got a dollar?” he asked. “For coffee.”
Bloodshot eyes, defeated expression. Devon couldn’t help it, she started to reach into her purse. Her wrist was grabbed and held fast before she could locate her wallet.
“Don’t,” Riker ordered in a barely audible undertone.
“Don’t what?” a more belligerent voice demanded. “Play a game of pool? You with this guy, lady?”
The man was extremely large, a roughneck, Devon’s late grandmother would have called him. He glowered at Riker, then shoved the scruffy little man aside. “Bug off, Pop. I got a bone to pick here.”
“I don’t think...” Devon began, only to be eased aside by Riker.
“She’s with me,” he told the roughneck levelly.
The little man tapped her free arm while Riker and the bully squared off. “
I know your voice.” He gave her a gap-toothed smile. “You’re the talk lady on the radio.”
“I am? I mean, yes, I am. I’m Devon. Do you—know my show?”
“Hear it sometimes,” the little man told her. “Guy comes in at lunch, likes to listen.”
“A guy?” She poked Riker in the ribs. “This man says a guy comes here and listens to my show.”
Riker’s attention shifted to Pop. “What’s the guy’s name? Do you know?”
“Calls himself Brando.” Pop’s red-rimmed eyes grew sly. “Maybe it’s worth something if I tell you about him, huh?”
Riker regarded him through hooded eyes. “Ten bucks.”
“Twenty,” Devon put in, and felt an immediate tightening of the fingers on her wrist.
“I like the lady,” Pop murmured. “Last name’s Severs. Lives over on Alice Street.”
“What does he sound like?” Devon asked. The question earned her a sideways glance from Riker, but no comment.
“Mumbly.” Pop shrugged.
“Was he in here today?” Riker pressed.
“No,” said the roughneck.
“Yes,” said Pop. He took shelter behind Devon’s arm. “Beat Lou here two games straight. Took two twenties off him. Got a phone call, then he split.”
“Got a call or made one?” Riker asked.
“Got one. Could have made another. I don’t watch that close. People here don’t like to be watched close.”
But they liked to watch strangers. A stray shiver feathered along Devon’s spine as their eyes crawled over her. Ants at a picnic wouldn’t have felt so intrusive.
Smoke rose in a thin trickle from the corner. She perceived a shape in the booth but little else.
The name Brando slid silkily through her head. Had it been so simple to find the Christmas Murderer?—assuming, of course, that Casey Coombes’s confession really had been a sham.
Riker slipped Pop his twenty, then turned Devon around and pushed her toward the door.
She would have resented his method of moving her if she hadn’t been so glad to escape the place. Her hair smelled like smoke, and she could still sense those invisible eyes boring into her.
“Why do I feel like I’ve been violated?” she wondered out loud. “I’ve been in pool halls before.”
Riker’s smile was entirely skeptical. “The hell you have. You’ve been in lounges with a pool table or two.”
“I’m not naive, Riker. And I’m certainly not stupid. That place was awful. No one should have to spend time there. You should have given Pop a fifty.”
“Devon...”
“Yes, I know. I can’t save the world.” She grabbed his jacket before he could open her door. “Are we going to Alice Street now?”
“We?”
“It’s my life,” she repeated stubbornly.
“And my mistake,” he added in a vague murmur. “Okay, you can come, but no handouts.”
She blew out a resigned breath. “I like to give, Riker. It isn’t supposed to offend anyone. Besides, it’s my money—what’s that?” she cut herself off to ask.
He removed a slim, red suede wallet from his jacket pocket and held it out to her.
Her spirits sank. “Mine?”
“One of the women lifted it while we were pumping Pop for information.
Wordlessly, Devon slid it back into her purse. “I don’t think I like cop work very much.”
Riker’s eyes hardened. “Losing a wallet’s nothing compared to losing your life, Devon. Remember that.”
A chill swept through her, cold and nasty. How could she not remember that when, Casey Coombes notwithstanding, the next life lost might very well be hers?
“RIKER, HUH? Detective, South Side.”
Brando was probably only in his late twenties, but Jacob had seen that look in a man’s eyes before. Angry, strung-out, haunted. This guy had seen a lot, and none of it good.
He resembled a skinny James Dean more than Marlon, but at least his room wasn’t the pigsty Jacob had envisioned. And fortunately, he was too busy sizing up Riker to pay much attention to Devon.
His loss, Jacob reflected, though he made a point of blocking the man’s view as much as possible.
“Riker.” Brando said his name again, then sucked on his upper lip and nibbled. When she moved, he strained for a look at Devon. “You a cop, too, lady?”
“Special assignment,” she said with just the right touch of dispassion. Jacob saw her taking in Brando’s Spartan living conditions, the platter of misshapen snowman cookies and the cheap plastic Santa on the table. She was probably debating whether to label the man a killer or a junkie.
“Did you place a call to a woman from the Port Street Billiard Hall this morning?” Jacob asked.
“Place...?” The man’s eyes came up sharply, then fell halfway as his defenses took over. “No.”
“You sure?”
“I know what I did.”
“Do you listen to the Wave?”
“Sometimes.”
“Do you know Devon Tremayne?”
“Heard her once or twice. She’s got a talk show.”
“You like her, but you didn’t call her this morning.”
“Not.”
He was a poker player, Jacob decided. One tiny glitch in his story hadn’t really meant much. He said nothing further.
“Can you make your voice sound hoarse?” Devon asked unprompted.
Brando pursed his lips. He was starting to look edgy, couldn’t quite manage to stand still. “Hoarse,” he repeated, then stopped fidgeting and zeroed in on her. “Wait a minute, you’re her, aren’t you? From the radio.” His face broke out in a big grin. “Man, this is great. You’re Devon. Wait’ll my old lady hears this. She listens to you every day.”
Devon smiled. “Thank you. But did you call me this morning?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again, tightly. “No. I only got a call—from my old lady.”
It was a pointless exercise, Jacob reflected. His impatience mounted. Brando wasn’t going to admit a damned thing—what he knew, didn’t know, had done, hadn’t. Better to back off and pay him another visit later, when Devon wasn’t with him.
“Come on,” he said, curling his fingers around her arm. “This isn’t getting us anywhere.”
Brando watched them leave. “Hey, you couldn’t spare a—”
“No,” Jacob said forcefully, and more to Devon than to the man behind them.
“Pretty high and mighty there, Riker,” Brando scoffed once Devon was out in the hall.
Jacob stopped on the threshold. “Something you wanted to say?”
“Yeah.” Brando managed to sound both surly and scared. “You don’t know what it’s like, man, to really need.”
BRANDO HATED cops. He hated rats more, both kinds. They’d spotted one of the breed in here last month, a big brown sucker with a six-inch tail. His old lady had threatened to leave him over it. But exterminators cost bucks. And he had other needs to satisfy....
Money, that’s what it boiled down to. He needed cash. Now. Enough at least to get him through the New Year.
Heavy-footed, he dragged on his scarred leather jacket and snakeskin boots. He’d pawned the TV last week. He had nothing else left.
The pay phone downstairs was available, the dingy hallway cold and empty. It took time and several badly needed quarters to find the right number, but Brando had learned that perseverance paid off.
He licked his dry lips, rolling the worn cord between his fingers as the phone rang. Finally, he heard the voice he wanted.
“Yeah, hi. It’s Brando. I, uh, got something might interest you. Guy came to see me just now. A cop named Riker.... Yeah. His badge said South Side.” Brando grimaced, but plowed on. “He, uh, had a real pretty lady with him. Real pretty....”
His spit turned to glue. A person learned by watching others, and he’d done a lot of watching at the billiard hall. Too much maybe. Dollar signs popped like balloons in his brain. He swallowed
the bad taste and took a deep breath.
“It was the radio lady, Devon Tremayne.”
Chapter Three
Five hours of painting baseboards and wainscoting, and he still felt guilty as hell. Bone-tired, Jacob dropped his brush and stood to work out the kinks. Straddling a rickety kitchen stool, he plunked his elbows on the table and raked his fingers through his hair.
The apartment door creaked, announcing Rudy’s arrival.
“You missed a spot, boy—like two-thirds of the room.” A pair of grocery bags thumped on the table, crinkling as they settled. “Got us food and beer for a few days, but I don’t want to stay unless I have to. Mandy’s asking questions. Could be I’ll have to tell her the truth.”
Head slack, Jacob massaged his aching temples. “You don’t have to stay at all, Rudy.”
“And you don’t have to paint and wallpaper the damned apartment, but you are.” Another thrift-store stool scraped across the badly scratched hardwood. He’d need to rent a sander for that, Jacob mused as Rudy plunked himself down, rummaged and cracked open a beer.
“Why are you doing it, Jacob?”
It was a fair question. “Don’t know. Penance maybe?”
“Is that what you told your new landlord?”
“Yeah. Who wouldn’t buy a cop with a guilty conscience?” Jacob gave a cynical laugh. “Her name’s Hannah Wallace. She’s Devon’s sister as well as a sister of mercy.”
“She’s a looker, too. I met her on the way up. Devon take after her?”
Jacob formed two mental pictures. The one of Hannah with her serene, cameo-sweet face and calm bearing was instantly overshadowed by a pair of shrewd green eyes, layers of golden hair and a smile more tempting than any vixen’s. He warned himself not to recall her seductive scent, her long, gorgeous legs or the flash of temper he’d spied briefly in her manner.
“Devon’s got more fire,” he told his uncle carefully. “I haven’t decided if that’s good or bad.”
Rudy snorted. “Trust me, it’s bad. The fiery ones are too bright. Hard to keep secrets around ’em.”
A perfect jab, but Jacob was too accustomed to them to react. Flexing his stiff shoulder muscles, he rose and picked up the paint brush again. He’d gotten as much coconut-cream latex on his jeans and black T-shirt as he had on the baseboards, but truthfully the manual labor felt good. Each brush stroke soothed a tiny portion of his slashed conscience.
