by Karen Leabo
“So did you recommend a P.I.?” Clewis asked, only mildly interested now. He hunched over in his chair, his gut hanging over his belt, going over some report. Lord, didn’t any of these homicide guys get exercise?
“Turns out she doesn’t have the money to pay a P.I.,” Kyle said. “So I told her how to do the investigation herself.”
“Yeah, I’d like to be a fly on the wall watching her do an investigation. Don’t make me laugh.”
“But that’s just it, Bill. Someone should be watching her. If she goes through with it—if she really makes an honest effort to find Rodin, wouldn’t that indicate she’s sincere about it?”
Clewis looked up sharply, then flipped a shock of greasy brown hair off his forehead. “You trying to tell me how to do my job?”
God save him from homicide detectives’ egos. “Just a friendly suggestion. If you find the guy alive, your case is solved.”
“And I’m a laughingstock,” Clewis added. “I don’t want to find him alive. I want to find him dead, and I want to nail his murderer. That’s what my job is about.”
Kyle winced. That was some attitude for a law-enforcement officer to have—wishing someone dead for the purpose of bolstering his own reputation. He considered commenting on the hypocrisy of it all but bit his tongue. Bill Clewis wasn’t someone who could be swayed. After all the years he’d been in this department, he wouldn’t change the way he thought about his job.
Suddenly Clewis looked up sharply. “Do you want to shadow her?”
“No. That is—”
“Wait a minute, you’ve given me a great idea,” Clewis said, sitting up straighter and pushing aside the report he’d been reading. An expression of pure inspiration pervaded his face. “You’re already in good with the babe, seems to me. Yeah! You could hang out with her after hours, cozy up to her, sympathize with her, maybe get her to confide in you...find out where she hid that damn body.”
“No,” Kyle said more emphatically. “That’s not what I had in mind.”
Jon Easley chose that moment to walk past Clewis’s desk.
“Hey, Jon, c’mere a minute,” Clewis said. “Branson here just offered to assist with the Rodin investigation. Think you can spring him from missing persons for a few days, maybe a couple of weeks?”
Oh, hell, Kyle thought miserably. His fate was sealed now. He was either going to help clear Jess’s name...or jettison her toward a murder conviction.
Chapter 5
“Ah, here’s a fascinating item,” said Lynn. They were sitting on the living-room floor, poring over the boxes of Terry’s stuff they’d packed only a few days earlier. “A birthday card from someone named Brianna. With lip prints.”
“Lemme see that,” Jess said, holding out her hand. Lynn gave her the card, then watched expectantly as Jess examined it. “The postmark is from last year,” Jess said, bristling with outrage. “That was six months before we broke up!”
“Now, you’re not really surprised, are you?”
Jess expelled an angry breath. “Just continually amazed that I could be so stupid.”
“Lighten up, Jessie. You’re being too hard on yourself. Everyone makes mistakes.”
“No, not like this,” Jess said pensively. “I’m in a league of my own.”
She should have held on to Terry’s Rolodex when she’d had a chance, Jess thought, scrutinizing the return address on a yellowed envelope. Instead she’d turned it over to the police, and now, to identify his cohorts, she had to rely on her memory and the odd notations made in Terry’s old calendars.
The doorbell pealed. Jess, her nerves bowstring tight, first jumped, then pointedly ignored the interruption, returning to her box of junk.
“Aren’t you going to get that?” Lynn asked.
“Why? It’s probably just another reporter.”
Lynn hopped up and dusted off her jeans. “But maybe it’s not.”
“Bet you a buck.” Jess really didn’t want to know who was ringing her doorbell a second time. Even if it was just the paperboy, she wasn’t in any shape to be civil. Truth was, she wanted to crawl under a rock and hibernate until this whole thing was over.
What a temptation. She could get into her car and drive, just drive as fast and as far as she could, and hide out until Terry tired of his game and surfaced. Where would she go? Somewhere warm, maybe Florida. She pictured herself on a beach, coated with suntan oil, sipping a pina colada—
“You owe me a buck,” Lynn said, rudely interrupting the pleasant fantasy.
“I...what?” Jess looked up, orienting herself to reality. And what reality. Kyle Branson was standing in her living room, giving her that faintly amused expression that was becoming habitual, at least around her. From her vantage point on the floor he looked at least seven feet tall and pure muscle beneath his raincoat. “Is it raining?” she asked.
Lynn snorted. “Get with the program, Jess. It’s been raining all morning.” She stood slightly behind Kyle, watching with blatant interest. Jess had told her of their impromptu lunch the day before, and since then Lynn had been speculating wildly about Kyle’s interest in the case—and in Jess herself.
Jess stood and dusted off her hands, struggling to come up with a more conventional greeting for her unexpected guest. “Good morning. Do you have any news?” she asked hopefully.
“No, I’m afraid not,” Kyle said. “I brought you a present.” He reached into his raincoat pocket and pulled out a gray box, an electronic device of some sort. When he handed it to her, their fingers brushed. She felt his innocent touch right down to her toes.
“What’s this?”
“A caller-ID box. I’ve already set it up with the phone company. This will automatically trace your incoming calls. Have you heard any more from your mysterious caller?”
“Actually, yes,” Jess said, examining the device. “At least, I think it might have been him. The phone rang several times last night, but I refused to answer.”
Kyle frowned. “I hope he doesn’t give up, now that we have the means to catch him.”
“So I have to answer the phone if he calls back?”
“The caller-ID box will trace most incoming calls, even if you don’t answer. But you need to talk to the guy if you want to verify that he is your crank caller.”
Jess gave an involuntary shiver. She didn’t want to hear that voice again, begging her to tell where she’d hidden the body. It gave her the willies.
“Hey, it’ll be okay,” Kyle said softly. “A voice on the phone can’t hurt you. He can only trip himself up.”
Jess shook off the uneasy feeling. “You’re right, of course. So how does this thing hook up?”
“It’s easy. Just plug the box into the phone jack, then plug the phone into the box. Let the phone ring at least twice before you answer or the box won’t have time to trace the call. Want me to hook it up for you?”
“Sure,” she said, even though she was certain she was capable of doing it herself. If she could hook up her complicated array of computer equipment and tape recorders without assistance, this little box wouldn’t be a challenge. But, she admitted silently, she wanted to give the handsome detective a reason to hang around a little longer. “The phone’s over there, beside the sofa.”
“Don’t you have a phone in your bedroom?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“I’m -assuming that’s where you are when the caller strikes. You don’t want to have to come running down the stairs in the middle of the night to check the box.”
“You’re right.” She nodded and headed for the stairs. She didn’t know why she was so uneasy at the thought of Kyle going into her bedroom. After all, he’d been in there before. But it wasn’t my bedroom then, she thought. It had still been Terry’s.
“Whoa,” Kyle said as he entered the room behind her. “I see you’ve made a few changes.” He looked around the room, taking in each detail, trying to record them with a cop’s trained eye. Unfortunately, he was absorbing the feel of Jess�
��s bedroom with a man’s instincts.
The space looked completely different than it had during his first visit to the duplex. No trace of Terry Rodin remained in the room, now decorated with mauve and green throw rugs and curtains. The pictures on the wall, sensuous pastel watercolors, were different, reminding Kyle purely of Jess. Even the furniture had been rearranged. Jess’s jewelry box and a tray of perfume bottles sat atop the dresser. A wicker rocker with frilly lace pillows occupied a corner where an exercise bike had stood. The huge bed was festooned with more pillows. Even the scent that hung in the air was Jess’s, distinctive and one hundred percent feminine.
“Lynn did this while I was in jail,” Jess said. “She cleaned up the mess made by the evidence people, then moved all my stuff in here. The rest of the house was still a wreck, but she wanted me to have this one nice place to come home to. She’s been incredible through all this...” Jess’s voice caught.
When Kyle looked at her, she turned away and began pointlessly rearranging things on the dresser.
He couldn’t imagine what she’d been going through. He’d never been on this side of the fence before, observing what the legal system did to an individual. He’d never even thought much about it before. If a person was guilty of a crime, he supposed they deserved to be put through the wringer. But if he or she was innocent...
Yeah, he thought derisively, how many innocent people were arrested? A lot of them got off, through plea bargaining or on technicalities, or because the D.A.’s office simply couldn’t prove they were guilty. But ninety-nine percent of those charged with crimes were guilty as sin.
Still, at this moment, he wanted with all his heart to believe he was looking at the one percent that was innocent.
He touched her shoulder, wanting to offer comfort.
She jumped and shied away from his touch. “Don’t.” The single word wasn’t an order but a plea.
He dropped his hand. “I only wanted to offer sympathy. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
She looked up sharply. “You’re the enemy,” she said suddenly. “You’re with the police, and the police want to prove I’m a murderer. Why should I accept your sympathy?”
“I’m off the investigation, remember?” The lie was bitter in his mouth, but regardless of his personal beliefs about Jess, he still had a job to do. He had to stick close to her, “cozy up to her,” as Clewis had termed it. If he hadn’t believed that his continued involvement would eventually lead to the truth, he never would have agreed to do this. He hoped like hell “the truth” equaled Jess’s innocence, and that what he was doing would somehow prove it. That was the only way he could stomach telling lies.
He’d worked undercover before. The narcotics division had recruited him a couple of times to do some small stuff. He could play a part, lie when necessary, be the nice guy or the brute as the situation demanded. But this—pretend—ing to be something he wasn’t for Jess—was harder, for some reason.
“So you’re bringing me presents,” she said, pointing to the gray box, “out of the goodness of your heart?”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact.” That, at least, was the truth. Clewis wouldn’t approve purchasing the caller-ID box, so Kyle had paid for it himself.
“Why?”
“Because I’m not sure you’re getting a fair break. Bill Clewis isn’t one of my favorite people. He’s into winning, earning feathers in his cap. He won’t even consider the possibility that you’re innocent. Essentially I’m doing the job he should be doing, which is to cover all the bases.”
“Oh, I get it.” Jess put her hands on her hips. Her whole body posture challenged Kyle. “If the box doesn’t catch my caller, it means I made the whole thing up.”
“And if it does, we might find Terry and you’re off the hook. Look, dammit, I’m trying to help you. And you’re looking a gift horse in the mouth.”
She slumped, defeated. “You’re right. I don’t have many people in my corner, so when someone happens to wander in, I shouldn’t chase them off.” She paused, took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I’m not thinking very straight.”
“Apology accepted,” he said. This time when he touched her arm, she didn’t object. She even gave him a tremulous smile. The simple gesture nearly brought him to his knees with a wanting so sharp that it cut him to the quick. Her scent, her warmth, the trace of trust in her eyes alt conspired against him. He felt a protective instinct as well as a much more primitive desire to conquer and claim.
Kyle quickly removed his hand. Now, where was the damn phone? The sooner he completed this task and got the hell out of her bedroom, the better.
Jess sat up in bed, heart pounding, adrenaline flowing, her fight-or-flight instinct in full bloom. Then she realized it was the phone. She reached for it, then stopped herself. Kyle had said to let it ring twice. When it rang again, it seemed loud enough to bring the house down. She let it ring a third time before answering with a cautious “Hello?”
“Jess. Oh, Jessica, how I’ve missed your voice. Why didn’t you answer the phone last night? Were you sleeping with someone else?”
Terry. No doubt about it. All traces of sleep fog fled from her mind. “Who’s calling, please?” she demanded as she fumbled for the bedside lamp. Where was the dratted switch? Kyle had instructed her to act scared and angry when her crank called back. He was aiming for a certain reaction, Kyle theorized—terror. If she gave it to him, if she fooled him into thinking he was in control, not she, he would keep calling back. And that’s what they wanted. That was how they would catch him.
Under no circumstances was Jess to hint that she was on to his game.
“You know who it is,” the voice said. “It’s cold here, so cold.”
“Please don’t do this,” Jess pleaded. “Who is this? What have you done to Terry?”
A choked sob, then nothing. He’d hung up.
Jess finally located the lamp switch and twisted it. She peered at the LCD readout on the caller-ID box. Triumph surged through her, followed by disappointment. The phone number blinked at her, tantalizing. The box worked! But beneath the number were the words “Pay Phone.”
Dammit! Terry wasn’t stupid. He was a step ahead of her. Anticipating that she would try to trace the calls, he’d outwitted her. Still, the phone could probably be located via the number, and Terry’s whereabouts narrowed down.
Using a pad and pen she kept by her bed, she quickly jotted down the number, then wavered as to what to do next. Kyle had given her his home number. He’d said that if the caller struck and she got results to call him. He would jump in his car, drive to the source of the call and arrest the responsible party for harassment. Even if it wasn’t Terry, it would put an end to the crank calls.
But there was nothing Kyle could do with this information, at least not until morning. Her crank wouldn’t keep hanging around the pay phone all night.
Impulsively, she picked up the phone and dialed Kyle’s number, anyway. She wanted to hear his reassuring voice. She wanted to express her impotent fears. Which was downright stupid, she realized. A homicidal maniac could break into her bedroom this moment, and Kyle’s voice wouldn’t protect her.
Still, she didn’t hang up.
He answered on the first ring, sounding instantly alert. “Branson.”
Immediately Jess felt foolish for calling. This could have waited. She was on the verge of hanging up when he spoke again.
“Jess?”
“Yes.” Her voice sounded absurdly breathy. She cleared her throat. “How did you know it was me?”
“I don’t give too many people permission to call me in the middle of the night. Did he call?”
“Yes. And the box says it’s from a pay phone.”
“Mmm. What’s the exchange?”
“Three-five-three.”
“Raytown. Know anyone who lives in Raytown?”
The answer was easy. “Kevin. Of course. He’s mixed up in this thing with Terry. Terry probably put him up to filing the
missing-persons report.” She switched off the lamp and burrowed back under the covers. “Is there any way to prove it?”
“Mmm,” was all Kyle said.
“Couldn’t yuu just go knock on Kevin’s door and demand that he produce Terry? Kevin would have no qualms about conspiring with Terry for his stupid practical joke, but he sure wouldn’t protect Terry if it meant getting in trouble with the law.”
“I can’t just go knocking on doors in the middle of the night without a warrant or probable cause.”
“But I can,” Jess said, suddenly filled with anger again. “I’ll go over there and rouse his buns out of bed. He thinks he’s so smart, using a pay phone. He’ll think pay phone when I get done with him.” As she made her plans she was already turning the lamp back on, climbing out of bed, reaching for the dresser drawer for clothes.
One word from Kyle stopped her. “Wait.”
She froze like a guilty child trying to sneak out of church. In that single word he’d packed enough authority to stop an elephant from charging.
“You can’t go barging over there in the middle of the night,” he said. “It’s not safe.”
“But Terry and Kevin wouldn’t—”
“We’ve already discussed this. Terry isn’t rational. You have no way of predicting what he might or might not do. Just because he’s never harmed you physically before doesn’t mean he’s not capable.”
Jess experienced a sudden flashback, and the force of the memory nearly knocked her off her feet. She sank back onto the bed as the cop’s long-ago voice floated through her memory:
“Has your ex-boyfriend ever hurt you before?”
“No.”
“Then why do you believe he’ll do so now?”
But the police investigator had been from Barnstable County, Massachusetts, not Kansas City, and the ex-boyfriend hadn’t been Terry, but Phil Cattrone.
