STOLEN MEMORY

by Virginia Kantra

  "No, I wanted…" She scowled. "Forget it."

  "You wanted everything to be open and aboveboard and for him to let us into the apartment as a gesture of trust and good citizenship," Simon guessed.

  "Are you making fun of me?"

  "Actually I admire you for holding yourself to a code of conduct. Unfortunately the rest of the world doesn't play by your rules."

  "That's what keeps the police in business. What rules do you play by?"

  "I don't know." Fear gnawed at him, fear of all he'd forgotten and of what he might find out. He forced himself to speak lightly. "I don't even remember the name of the game."

  Laura turned her head and stared at him, those clear brown eyes seeking. "You're doing fine."

  "Right." His mouth twisted. "Any time you need to bribe someone, you let me know."

  She cocked her head. "'Don't make such a big deal out of a simple business transaction.'"

  She took two steps toward him, balancing on the balls of her feet, graceful as a dancer or a fighter. He eyed her warily.

  "Thanks for the help," she said, and stood on tiptoe, and brushed her lips against his cheek.

  He went hard as a rock and dumb as a stone. Idiot. Moron. You'd think a woman had never touched him before with simple affection.

  Maybe none had.

  He struggled to find breath, voice, perspective. "I only bought you half an hour," he said, relieved he didn't croak.

  She nodded. Stepped back. "Then I'd better make the most of it."

  He stayed rooted to the rug, frozen with lust and disappointment, as she circled the room, her hands in her pockets. He tried to see it through her eyes, the squat, brown furniture, the bare, white walls. A large TV occupied one corner of the room, but there were no plants, no pets, no personal objects beyond the stack of magazines in one corner and the pile of circulars on the desk.

  It was depressingly like his house. Without the view.

  He shook the thought away. "What are you looking for?"

  "Swirsky's missing, right? Or on vacation." Simon noticed she didn't say "my father." "Except the old man never took a vacation in his life that didn't involve sitting in front of a game with a beer in his hand. I'm looking for signs that will tell me how long he's been gone, if he planned to be gone, if he expected to come back."

  She stopped by the desk, perusing the monthly planner that lay open at the top, rifling through the correspondence. Not paying attention to Simon at all.

  "Don't you have to worry about fingerprints?" Simon asked.

  "This isn't a crime scene. Anyway, Dan's already been here. The bonus is since I'm unofficial, I'm not bound by plain view doctrine. I don't have to testify to what I see or how I found it. Though if I find anything suspicious, you can bet the chief will get an 'anonymous' tip."

  Her hands continued their quick, neat shuffle. "Nothing here. No out of town receipts, no mysterious appointments. His address book is missing, but Dan probably took that. Let's check the bedroom."

  Simon trailed her down the hall and stood in the doorway while she opened drawers and closets. She'd slipped into her detective role as comfortably as her old leather jacket. Both looked good on her. Simon, watching, chafed in his suit and tie.

  "What will you do if you find the rubies?"

  "I won't." She got down on her hands and knees to look under the bed.

  It didn't take a scientist to observe she had an excellent butt, lean lines and smooth curves packed in tight denim. He tugged at his collar.

  "Ah … how can you be so sure?"

  Her butt wiggled backward. Really excellent.

  "Number one, because the old man didn't take them. Number two, if they were here, Dan would have found them and notified you your property had been recovered." She sat back on her heels.

  With an effort, Simon refocused on her face. What were they talking about? Had she caught him staring?

  "Plenty of dirty laundry and two empty suitcases," she reported. "I don't think Pete would leave town without clean underwear, so he didn't pack for a trip."

  Simon wasn't particularly interested in her father's underwear. He was still trying to decide if the unbroken sweep of denim at her hip indicated she was wearing a thong.

  She opened the drawer of the nightstand. "He used to keep a gun by the bed."

  "Did you find it?" Simon asked, hoping his voice betrayed only a mild academic interest. She wasn't going to shoot him for staring, for God's sake.

  "No. Just some ammo in the closet. He must have the gun on him."

  Simon pulled his thoughts together. "Unless your Detective Dan confiscated that, too."

  "Not likely."

  "But isn't it evidence?"

  Laura stood, wiping her hands on her jeans. "Of what? Gun ownership? You weren't shot. You were hit on the head."

  "Lucky for me," Simon murmured.

  But she had already disappeared into the bathroom.

  Simon understood her absorption in her work. Recognized it. Respected it. Didn't he feel the same thing when he was in the lab?

  And yet a part of him—ego, maybe, or libido—was ticked off she could dismiss him so completely from her mind.

  He wanted her back. He wanted her with him. Not just physically—his mind veered briefly to thong panties—but mentally and emotionally as well. He wanted her leaning into him, looking up at him with softness in her eyes. Thanks for the help.

  He should help her more. If only he could remember…

  Leaving his post by the door, he wandered across the room to the tall, square dresser. A smear of ink and a spill of coins decorated the oak veneer top. Beside the plain black phone was a cheap metal frame with a single photo: two children on a beach. Simon picked it up.

  A girl and a boy stared at the camera, surprised in their play. The girl was thin-faced, sober, with clear brown eyes and hair the color of tarnished brass. Laura. From the shovel in her hand, Simon guessed she'd been digging some kind of fort in the sand, erecting a wall against the rippling water. The boy, perhaps four or five years younger, crouched inside the hole.

  Laura's voice came back to him. Listen, I've got a kid brother, too. And God help us both if I tried to take responsibility for him.

  He should have returned Dylan's call earlier today, Simon thought, and set the frame down.

  The light on the answering machine was on. Not blinking. No new messages, then. But something was stored on the machine.

  Simon glanced toward the open bathroom door. Laura hadn't told him not to touch anything. He pressed the play button.

  "It's Paul." A young man's voice, aggressively uncertain. "Are you there?" The tape hissed for a moment. "Okay, call me."

  Laura appeared, backlit by the bathroom light. "Who was that?"

  "Who's Paul?" Simon asked.

  "My brother. How…" Her gaze fell to the answering machine. "Did he call?"

  "Friday morning at ten o'clock," Simon said promptly, giving the time on the tape. "He left a message."

  Frowning, Laura re-played the tape.

  "All right, clue me in," Simon said. "Why is it a problem if your brother calls your father?"

  "It's not."

  "Fine." Something was wrong. She was keeping something from him. The knowledge made his gut churn. He trusted her. He wanted to trust her. "Would he know where your father is?" he asked evenly.

  "He might."

  "Were they close?"

  "Yes. No. Dad got Paul his job."

  "That sounds close to me."

  "Not really. It was Dad's way of keeping Paul out of trouble. Of keeping tabs on him. Of keeping control." Her tone was bitter.

  Simon proceeded cautiously. "Did your brother need to be kept under control?"

  "Dad certainly thought so. Well, to be fair, Paul rebelled some after our mother died."

  "What about you? Did you rebel, too?"

  "No." She shook her head. "No, I was the good girl who followed all the rules."

  Simon could relate to that. N
ot that he remembered anyone who had cared enough about him to lay down rules beyond "Put down the toilet seat" and "Don't bother me now." But he used to make up his own rules, imagining that if only he followed them, if he was good enough, if he was perfect, someone would notice.

  They never did.

  Laura shrugged. "Of course, then I broke the really big rule and got pregnant, and poor Paul was really stuck."

  "That must have been hard on you," Simon said inadequately.

  "Harder on him." Her face took on the earnest expression of the girl on the beach, throwing up a bulwark between her brother and the water. "There was no one left at home to run interference. No one to talk to. I couldn't even call if Dad was in the house. He didn't want me to talk to Paul. And then as Paul got older, he didn't want to talk to me."

  Had he worried she was keeping things from him? Everything she felt was on her face, the responsibility, the loyalty, the guilt. She was being so honest it hurt.

  "Teenage boys can't talk to anyone," Simon said.

  Even with the bump on his head, he remembered that much.

  "I still should have been there for him."

  "And your father should have been there for both of you. Give yourself a break."

  She stiffened. "You don't know anything about it."

  Simon was no expert on emotions. He didn't have a degree in psychology. But he could look at the facts and draw conclusions as well as anyone.

  "You're right. I don't. I sure as hell never did much for my brother. And at seventeen, I couldn't have cared less."

  "You gave him a job."

  "I was in a position to give Dylan a job. The same way your father got your brother a job. You weren't in a position to do anything. You didn't have the money. You didn't have the authority. And you didn't have the time."

  Her eyes widened. "The time."

  "Yes. Between work and school, you must have—"

  "No, I mean … the time." She pushed past him. "I only have thirty minutes, and I haven't searched the kitchen yet."

  Simon was left alone in the empty bedroom. He looked at the girl in the picture frame.

  "Why do I get the impression you would rather investigate my past than discuss yours?" he asked her.

  But she had no answers for him.

  Pete Swirsky's kitchen was clean, his dishwasher empty and his refrigerator nearly bare.

  Simon glanced over Laura's shoulder at a half loaf of bread and some mustard, a jar of pickles and three cans of beer. "Looks like he planned on being gone for a while."

  "Are you kidding? You should see the inside of my fridge." She swung the door shut, peered into the empty garbage can, scanned the counter by the phone. "Okay, I've seen enough. We can go."

  Simon kept his eyes on her face. "You think he's coming back."

  Her jaw firmed. "I'm keeping an open mind."

  "Will you call your brother?"

  "It's the next obvious step."

  He was concerned. Not for the investigation, but for her. "But will you?"

  She was saved from answering by a noise from the entrance. Keys rattled. The door scraped open.

  Laura strode toward the hall. "I don't need you to tell me how to do my job." She nodded curtly at the super. "We're done."

  The fat man leered. "That was fast."

  Laura leveled a look at him, direct and deadly as the muzzle of a gun.

  The super shuffled back a step. "That is, uh…"

  She reached inside her jacket, and he paled. Even Simon, who knew better, was mildly alarmed.

  Her hand came out holding a plain white business card. She flicked it toward the super. "If anybody else comes by looking for my father, I want you to let me know."

  "I'll see that you're compensated for your trouble," Simon added smoothly.

  Laura's brows drew together in annoyance, but the man took the card.

  Outside on the dirty street, she said, "You paid him enough already."

  "Probably."

  "You pay an informant too much, they make stuff up to collect the payment."

  "And if I didn't pay, he might not call at all."

  "Yeah." She sighed and unlocked the car doors. "I guess I should thank you again."

  "You don't need to thank me." Simon waited until they were both inside the car before he added, "But you can kiss me again if you want."

  Startled, Laura turned her head.

  He returned her look blandly. His face was strong and impassive, only a hint of a smile in his eyes.

  Against her will, she felt a fizz of amusement, a buzz of something else. Her heart thumped.

  "I haven't had much luck necking in parked cars." Her voice was oddly breathless.

  "Maybe your luck has changed," he suggested.

  Possibility quivered through her. Simon stretched out in the seat beside her, tempting as a candy bar in the take-out line of the grocery store. He was smart, rich, reliable. Interested in her, if the glint in his eyes was more than a reflection of the light from the dash.

  The buzz in her blood increased to a hum.

  Could her luck really have changed?

  She thought about it as she released the emergency brake, as she compared the temptation beside her with the recent direction of the rest of her life.

  Consider the evidence. Review the facts. Her boss had just removed her from a high-profile case. Her old man, after staying conveniently out of her life for the past ten years, was back as the lead suspect in a half-million dollar theft. She needed to call her brother, who still hadn't forgiven her for abandoning him, and question him about their father's probable whereabouts. And after doing her damnedest for the past five years to prove herself as the equal of every man on the force, she was currently masquerading as the girlfriend of Eden's most famous citizen.

  Nope, she decided regretfully. Fizzes and tingles aside, her luck hadn't changed at all. Unless it had gotten worse.

  "I don't think so." She fastened her seat belt. "The last time I steamed the windows in a car, I wound up pregnant."

  Simon didn't say anything.

  She sneaked a glance at him at the next traffic light. He didn't look mad. Or shocked. Or disappointed, damn it. He looked … abstracted. Like he was thinking about something.

  Genius boy, she thought scornfully, but it didn't have the sting she hoped for. It was hard to despise the wizard responsible for building Wonderland into the side of a hill. A guy who, like it or not, had stood up for her and stood by her. A man who had confessed the loneliness of his childhood and comforted her for the loss of hers.

  Her chest squeezed. Oh, hell. She had to get rid of him before she did something she'd regret.

  "Where can I drop you off?"

  Simon's shadow stirred against the door. His knee brushed the console. "Are you driving back to Eden tonight?"

  She came to a full stop at the red light before turning right. Some cops took advantage of the general reluctance to write a fellow officer a ticket, but not Laura. Laura played by the rules.

  "Do I have a choice?" she asked.

  "You do. I have a condo by Grant Park overlooking the lake. Three bedrooms," he added before she could say anything. "You're welcome to spend the night."

  She was tempted, and by more than the man beside her. A free night in luxury digs wasn't something that came her way very often. She'd been up since five that morning, and she was tired. Which made it even more imperative she keep her guard up.

  "No, thanks."

  "Do you mind my asking why?"

  I'm terrified of making another mistake. "I have work in the morning," she said. "Besides, I didn't pack a toothbrush."

  "Another time, then," he said equably.

  She aimed a look at him.

  "We are supposed to be involved," he pointed out. "It only makes sense that we would spend time together."

  "Where other people can see us, yeah."

  "You want to spend the night where people can see us? I'll check us into a hotel. I'm sure the des
k could even provide a toothbrush."

  Her pulse spurted. "Very funny. What's your address?"

  "You don't need it. I'm coming to Eden with you."

  To tell the truth, she would be glad of his company. Any company, she corrected herself. It was a long commute at the end of a very long day. But…

  "What about Quinn?"

  Simon shrugged. "He has the car. He can spend the night here."

  Faint alarm bells sounded in her brain. "Oh, no. We still haven't caught whoever conked you on the head. You can't spend the night on the island by yourself."

  "There's a solution for that."

  "You want me to put you in protective custody at the jail for the night?" she asked.

  He laughed softly. The sound shivered across her skin. "I was going to invite you to spend the night with me."

  Hoo boy. But it was just a line. This was all a game to him. A pretense.

  "Sleep across your threshold with my sword drawn?" With an effort, she kept her voice light. "No, thanks."

  "How about in my bed with your gun under your pillow?"

  Okay, that was still a line, but he wasn't pretending anymore. At least, she didn't think he was. Her heart thumped.

  She shook her head. "Too dangerous."

  Simon reached across the seats and skimmed his knuckles down her cheek. "I'm willing to take the risk."

  Her insides melted. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel. "Well, I'm not. I am risk-averse. Contrary to what you might think about cops, we do not go around deliberately putting ourselves in danger. Well, maybe the adrenaline junkies do, the SWAT team guys and the bomb squad, but most of us keep our heads down and our feet dry."

  "Is this a lecture on safe sex, Detective? Because I'm more than willing—"

  "This is not about sex," Laura snapped. "That is, it is, but…" She stared out the windshield at the lights streaking by on Lake Shore Drive

  . "A good cop doesn't enter a scene without identifying the problem zones and deciding on an appropriate course of action."

  "You made the problem zones very clear the last time I kissed you."

  She blew out her breath. "Yeah. The thing is, I haven't decided what to do about you yet."

  "Fine." His shadow shifted against the passenger side window.

  "What are you doing?"

  Simon held up his cell phone. "Calling Quinn to tell him to meet us at the marina in Eden. Will that satisfy your concerns for my safety?"