The Redemption of Rafe Diaz

by Maggie Price

  “Like you said, I shop at Trudeau’s, too. Could be she called me about a different matter.”

  “According to Trudeau’s, you haven’t left any jewelry there for repair—or made a purchase—in more than six months. So you wouldn’t have assumed the clerk was calling about a transaction you’d made there. You’re a clever guy, Will. You would have figured out almost immediately she’d meant to call your father.”

  “Prove it.”

  “I can’t. But I can prove you had enough information to figure out your father was having an affair and you had the address of the condo he’d moved his mistress into.” Rafe leaned in. “You found all that out only days before McKenzie was murdered at that same address. Maybe you did some checking. Verified your father put his mistress up in one of his condos, bought her a new car and was paying her bills. That wouldn’t have gone over big with you.”

  Bishop’s jaw tightened. “You have no idea what I would have thought.”

  “I can guess.” Rafe took a sip of tonic. “It would have been apparent the relationship was more than a fling. You had no way of knowing if your dad planned to divorce your mother, then marry his mistress. If that happened, she would have a claim to a chunk of his business and maybe all of your inheritance.” Rafe raised a shoulder. “The prospect of getting rid of your future stepmother would have been appealing to someone in your shoes.”

  “Someone in my shoes would have known that murdering the woman would have put my dad’s affair in the open. My mother would find out. That was the last thing I wanted.”

  Tighten that jaw another notch, Junior, something’s going to snap, Rafe thought. “Your mother knew about the affair weeks before the murder.”

  Bishop sat silent for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t believe that. If she’d known, she wouldn’t have just stayed quiet and taken it.”

  Maybe she didn’t, Rafe thought.

  Bishop leaned in. “I’d already left the auction when Mother confronted Allie Fielding. But I heard all about it, so I know you witnessed it. My aunt spent all night trying to get my mom settled down.”

  “Your aunt and your uncle,” Rafe corrected, thinking of Guy Jones’s comment the previous day when he’d seen him and Hank Bishop at the vacant building.

  “Uncle Guy didn’t hang around to help out.” Bishop drained his glass. “He dropped them off at Mother’s house after the event, then went home.”

  Interesting, that Guy Jones had said just the opposite, Rafe thought. “Are you sure about that?”

  “I swung by my mother’s house. Uncle Guy had already taken off.”

  Rafe glanced toward the dance floor where couples swayed to a tune that was earthy and mellow. “Guess I got my facts wrong,” he said.

  “Not just about my uncle,” Bishop said, stabbing an index finger in Rafe’s direction. “Bottom line, Diaz, you can accuse me all you want. Make up scenarios about my mother. But neither one of us killed the McKenzie slut. My dad did. Just because you can’t get your client off the hook doesn’t mean I’ll let you put my mother or myself on it.”

  “Because you’re innocent, you shouldn’t have a problem telling me where you were when McKenzie was murdered.”

  Bishop shrugged. “I was with a gorgeous woman.”

  “Her name?”

  “It’s none of your business. I don’t want you harassing any of my women.” Bishop glanced up. “Speaking of which, here comes Triana,” he said as his date sashayed toward the table.

  Rafe stood. In the morning, he would check back copies of the newspaper’s archives. He figured Bishop—and some of his women—would have made the society page. It was possible one of the dates he’d been photographed with could verify if Junior had been with her the entire night of the murder.

  Rafe decided to cast a line one last time in the fishing pond. “I’ve got one more question.”

  “Make it quick,” Bishop said, his gaze tracking the blonde.

  “When’s the last time you talked to Joseph Slater?”

  Bishop’s brow furrowed. “The guy who used to be a builder?”

  “One and the same.”

  “I ran into him about a week ago.”

  “Where?”

  “I checked out a piece of property to see if the company wanted to buy it. Slater was looking at it, too.”

  “To buy himself?”

  “He didn’t say. If you want to know what Slater’s up to, why don’t you call him?”

  “Maybe I will,” Rafe said, then turned from the table. Either Junior was an award-winning actor or he didn’t know Slater was dead.

  Rafe was in the club’s parking lot, winding his way toward his car when his phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket while he walked, checked the display. And felt his chest tighten when he saw Allie’s name.

  He leaned against the hood, answered the call.

  “I hope I’m not bothering you,” she said.

  He narrowed his eyes. Was it worry he heard in her voice? “I just finished an interview. What’s up?”

  “Rafe, I need to talk to you.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Yes. At least I think so. But this isn’t about me. There’s some business I’d like to discuss with you.”

  “Did something happen at the shop? Or your warehouse?”

  “No, it’s the foundation’s business. Rafe, I need to talk to you about it tonight. In person. I wish I could come meet you, but I’m working the foundation’s hotline until ten and can’t leave. Could you come here?”

  “Sure. Where’s here?”

  “My house. The calls are routed here on the nights I work the line.”

  Rafe checked his watch. “I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “Good.”

  After the call ended, Rafe eased out a breath. He was quickly learning there was more to Allie Fielding than just contrasts and layers. There were complications, too.

  The sound of soft music drifted out of the club, settling around him in the murky darkness. He was mildly surprised to realize that the idea of complications didn’t make him want to turn around and walk away from the woman.

  Instead he wanted to move closer.

  Chapter 10

  “I can’t stop thinking about him dragging me into that van. It’s like I can feel his hands on me all over again.”

  Listening to the caller’s distressed voice through the phone’s headset, Allie sat in her home office, inputting the woman’s pain-filled words into her computer. This was the victim’s first call to the Friends Foundation’s hotline. If she phoned again, the volunteer who answered could access the foundation’s computer system and see the background information Allie was currently compiling.

  “Olivia, what you’re going through is understandable.” The training Allie had received to work with victims of violent crime was so ingrained she no longer had to consciously remind herself to keep her voice calm. Unemotional. “It’s going to take time for you to figure out how to deal with what happened to you.”

  “How much time?” The words came in a trembling rush. “It’s been three months since he grabbed me in that dark parking lot. My boyfriend says I should stop thinking about it. Should make myself forget what that guy did to me. I’ve tried, but I can’t. I don’t know what to do.”

  The woman’s desperate tears sent a rush of sympathy through Allie. Her friend Nina had dealt with much the same emotions.

  “Some victims manage to put what they endured in the back of their minds. Even if you can’t, there are ways to cope.”

  “How?”

  “The foundation has therapists available. I can make an appointment for you to talk to one this week.”

  “I don’t have much money. Or insurance.”

  “We take care of all costs.” Allie’s fingers skimmed across the keyboard. “All you have to do is to show up for your appointment. We also have group sessions that your boyfriend can attend with you.”

  “Okay.” Olivia inhaled a trembli
ng breath. “I’ll show up. I don’t know about my boyfriend.”

  “That’s something we can deal with later.” Allie skipped to the screen for the appointment log. By the end of the call, a measure of relief sounded in Olivia’s voice.

  Allie eased her chair back from her heavy, antique desk. She’d converted the entire third floor of her boathouse into a large office. On the wall opposite her desk sat the drawing table where she sketched lingerie designs. Fabric samples filled the built-in drawers that lined one wall. Moonlight poured in the high, wide windows that she’d opened to catch the breeze off the river.

  She checked her watch, saw it was just after ten. With her shift now over, she tugged off the headset and shut down her computer. She had manned the hotline long enough to know which callers would follow through getting the help they’d asked for. Olivia was in that column.

  The call that had come in earlier from a woman named Dena was altogether different. Totally disturbing. So much so that Allie had made the decision to overlook one of the foundation’s hard-and-fast rules. Still, she knew without a doubt that contacting Rafe had been the right thing to do.

  The same thing went for the decision she’d made about Rafe.

  A decision that had put a constant hollow throb of regret in the pit of her stomach. Although the attraction between them bordered on scorching, the past had taught her that emotions burned white-hot for only a time before dying down to ashes.

  Best to walk away before either she or Rafe got singed.

  Nothing major had happened between them, after all, she reasoned. Okay, kissing him had set her off like a summer brush fire. But the jolt of panic that shot through her had scared the hell out of her. She’d vowed never to let herself feel that kind of connection. She absolutely wasn’t going to open herself up that way.

  Thank goodness it wasn’t too late to back away.

  Which was exactly what she intended to do.

  Rafe jogged up the front steps of Allie’s boathouse and rang the bell. Seconds later, the door swung open.

  She wore a red halter top and snug black shorts. Her feet were bare. In the glow of the porch light, he skimmed his gaze along her naked legs, long and tan and soft. Her tousled blond hair framed her face in a ring of gold.

  Did she shock every man’s system, he wondered, just the look of her? Or was he simply vulnerable when it came to her? While the subtle scent of her perfume filled his lungs, he decided either answer wouldn’t be to his liking.

  The worried look in her eyes reminded him why he was there. He’d heard that same worry in her voice when she called.

  “You said you have some foundation business to discuss?”

  Because her heart had jammed like a fist in her throat, all Allie could do was nod. He looked ridiculously handsome in jeans and a white dress shirt unbuttoned at the throat and folded back from his forearms. The shirt’s stark whiteness made his dark eyes seem almost black and gave his olive skin an even more burnished look. Then there were those shoulders that looked mile-wide beneath the starched fabric.

  It was as if someone had plunked down a six-foot-three, one-ninety pound package of pure male temptation on her doorstep.

  “Thanks for coming,” she finally managed, and opened the door wider to let him in. “I know it’s getting late.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  While she willed her nerves to settle, she watched his gaze sweep over the living room with its comfortable furniture and bright area rugs. Light from the table lamps illuminated the eclectic mix of prints, posters and mirrors that hung on the walls. In front of the brick fireplace, a pair of creamy sofas faced each other. Here, in this sanctuary she’d created for herself, she’d wanted no reminder of the cold, loveless mansion she grew up in.

  The thought was a stark reminder of her decision to close the door on any sort of relationship with Rafe. Even so, it would be easier to stick to her guns if she wasn’t breathing in the subtle, woodsy scent of his aftershave.

  “How about we talk out on the back deck?” she asked while leading the way down the hallway. “There’s a breeze off the river tonight.”

  “Sure.”

  “Would you like something to drink?” She paused just inside the door to the kitchen where copper pots hung in descending order of size from a ceiling rack. “Tonic with fresh lime?”

  “Sounds fine.”

  Hoping to shore up her nerves, Allie poured herself a glass of merlot.

  On the small wooden deck, they settled in thickly cushioned chairs, separated by a glass-topped end table. Thanks to outdoor lighting and the moonlight, she could make out the river’s dark flow and shapes of trees on the opposite shore.

  Ice rattled in Rafe’s glass as he took a sip of tonic. “So what’s on your mind?”

  “I know you’re busy trying to clear Hank Bishop of the murder charge. But something came up tonight and I have a bad feeling about it.”

  “I’ve got some leads to follow, but they can wait until morning. Your instincts are telling you something’s wrong. It’s never smart to ignore that type of feeling.” He inclined his head. “Tell me.”

  “Okay.” Allie tasted her wine, then plunged in. “The foundation maintains a hotline for victims of violent crime. I volunteer one night a week to answer calls, which are routed here. That’s what I was doing tonight.”

  “Am I here because of one of those calls?”

  “Yes. There are strict guidelines about the hotline. One being that callers remain anonymous, if that’s their preference. A woman named Dena called tonight. Her first name is the only identifying information she would give.”

  “Go on.”

  “Her common-law husband drinks and beats her.”

  “Why doesn’t she leave him?”

  “She did once. He found her and nearly killed her. He swore if she tried to leave him again, he’d finish the job.”

  Just thinking about the call chilled Allie’s flesh. There’d been no fear in the woman’s words, just dull acceptance.

  “They have a two-year-old son,” she continued. “Dena swore her husband hasn’t laid a hand on the boy, but she said he gets furious when the child cries or spills something. She’s afraid it’s a matter of time before her husband hurts him.”

  Allie set her glass aside. “I assured her the foundation can protect her and her son. That we’ll get them into a shelter where they’ll be safe.”

  “I take it you don’t think she’s going to leave the guy?”

  “No. I got the impression she believes there’s no place to hide where he won’t find her.”

  “Not much you can do if she won’t get herself and the kid out of there.”

  “Not officially, which is why I called you instead of Liz.” Shifting on the chair’s thick cushion, Allie pulled a slip of paper out of her shorts pocket. “Dena called on the landline at her house. The number showed up on caller ID.”

  Rafe took the paper, glanced at it. “You want me to trace this number, right? Find out who and where she is.”

  “I want to hire you to do that. I’m acting solely as a private citizen, who needs the services of a PI. Dena said her husband has been arrested before and he’s on parole.”

  “If the woman and her son are in imminent danger, Liz is who you should contact. No matter how you got that phone number.”

  “The ‘imminent danger’ is on hold for now. Dena got up the courage to call the hotline because her husband is on a fishing trip with some pals.”

  “I’ll run the number.” Rafe slid the paper into the pocket of his shirt. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try to figure out if there’s a way to buy her some time to get away from here.”

  “Thank you, Rafe.” Just knowing there might be a way to help Dena had relief seeping through Allie. “I couldn’t just sit back and do nothing.”

  “Understandable.” Over the rim of his glass, Rafe studied her. Although he couldn’t have said how he knew it, her worry about two people she’d never met c
ame straight from the heart. He knew now there was nothing left of the wild party girl his path had crossed in college.

  “You said you spend one night a week answering hotline calls?”

  “Saturday nights, usually. Since the silent auction conflicted with that, I traded for tonight.”

  “Lots of single women keep Saturday nights open for dates.”

  He saw the instant tensing of her bare shoulders. “I date once in a while, but nothing serious. When I told you I don’t do relationships, I meant it.” The hand she used to shove back her hair trembled. “While you’re here, that’s something we should talk about.”

  Rafe felt the muscles in his own shoulders tense. From the kisses they’d shared, he knew the chemistry was there, on both sides. This woman had twisted his emotions open, shaken the foundation he’d thought unshakable. And if body language was any precursor of the future, she was gearing up to tell him she wasn’t interested in seeing him.

  He set his glass on the table. “Sounds like I don’t need to make a dinner reservation for tomorrow night.”

  “You don’t.” Emotion flickered in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Rafe, I just don’t think our seeing each other would work.”

  “You may be right,” he said quietly. “But I’m not convinced. I’d like to know why you seem to be.”

  She broke eye contact with difficulty, while a low whisper in the back of her mind sounded just enough volume to question her decision to end things before either of them were in too deep. What the hell was going on? Emotional attachments didn’t last; she knew that on the most basic level. She’d never been foolish enough to let a man get that close. Yet now she found the prospect of turning her back on Rafe sent a shiver of deep uncertainty through her. Her heart beat fast and her vision blurred as she looked blindly out at the river’s opposite shore.

  “It’s a long story,” she said, keeping her gaze diverted from his. “Stuff I’ve dragged along from childhood.”