by Maggie Price
“You talk to your aunt,” he said quietly. “Ask the questions about Ken that we need answered. For the time being, I won’t ask her a thing. Except maybe how she’s feeling.”
“She feels crummy.” A.J. swallowed hard before she went on. “Awful. And she doesn’t know anything that has bearing on this.”
“You can’t be sure of that until you ask.”
From somewhere behind them, a driver blasted rudely on his horn. The sound boomed a strident echo through the parking garage’s low-roofed confines.
Michael checked his rearview mirror and watched the red glow of twin taillights disappear around a corner. “We had no idea your ex-sister-in-law knew anything. As it turns out, Mary had quite a lot to tell us.”
He paused, a frown tightening his brow. “At this point, we need to find out if Ken carried the recorder on duty, as well as off. Think back, A.J. Did Greg Lawson ever mention Ken having a recorder? Maybe even just seeing him with a tape?”
“I don’t remember Greg saying anything.” She lifted her hand, pinched the bridge of her nose between her finger and thumb. “Ken wouldn’t have made a tape that implicated him in illegal activity and then offer to give it to you.”
“He didn’t offer a tape. He offered evidence. We don’t know for sure what he had.”
When she remained silent, Michael gave voice to the issue that hung between them like a dark physical presence. “What we know for sure is that Ken had a motive to get his hands on a large amount of cash—”
Her hand shot out to ward off his words. “No matter how sick Aunt Emily was, he wouldn’t have crossed the line to get money for her treatment.”
Michael saw the glint of determination in the dark eyes that stared at him and he conceded the inevitability of the confrontation that was about to take place. Dammit, he didn’t want to argue with her, didn’t want to debate the issue of Ken Duncan’s morals. He wanted to protect her. Shield her. Find out who called her anonymously, then beat the son of a bitch into the pavement. Problem was, the only way to get a line on the bastard was to find out what the hell her brother had been up to.
Keeping his eyes locked with hers, Michael stretched his arm across the top of the seat, his fingers brushing the shoulder of her wool coat. The dim lights of the parking garage shadowed her cheeks, darkened her eyes to the color of rich, dark coffee. He pictured the need that had flared in those eyes when he lowered his mouth to hers, remembered the heat that spiked through him when her body molded, hot and willing, against his.
Now, he wanted to touch her so badly it hurt.
His hand fisted around the steering wheel. The ache that was never far from him since the moment she first walked into his life deepened.
“Look,” he said through his teeth, aware that the churning frustration inside him lent a sharp edge to his voice. “We can sit here all night debating the issue of your brother’s innocence or guilt. But we won’t resolve anything until we get some answers. So let’s start with the doctor. If he knows for sure Ken dropped the idea of getting your aunt into the Houston program, that’s one point in his favor.”
“Mary said he gave up the idea.”
“Yeah, I heard.”
“That’s what he did.”
“Dammit, A.J.!” Michael’s voice lashed out like a whip. “You can’t be sure of that.”
“I knew Ken. Granted, he was always willing to push the rules, but not break them.”
“Wrong. He broke them—that’s why he got demoted.”
Her eyes turned cold. “Because of one mistake, you’ve branded him a criminal. You decided that before you ever ordered me to Internal Affairs for questioning.”
“I don’t have any preconceived agenda where your brother’s concerned,” Michael ground out, his voice clipped with anger. He fought the urge to clamp his hands on those slender shoulders of hers and shake her until she admitted her pigheaded defense of her brother had rendered her incapable of seeing what was plain to him—what would be plain when he reported their conversation with Mary Duncan to the chief. That Officer Duncan had sold information to get money to give their ailing aunt an edge on survival. Granted, such a motive put Ken Duncan in a better light than if he’d dumped on his badge for no reason other than basic greed. But odds were he’d crossed the line, just the same.
That near certainty wasn’t the thing that put the burning knot in Michael’s chest. It was the realization that, to Chief McMillan’s way of thinking, it would be a short mental step to assume A.J. had conspired with her brother to save their aunt.
Had she? The intruding voice in Michael’s head belonged to the cop long trained to investigate. To suspect. To question a person’s motives. He slowly raised his gaze to hers, wondering if he’d been a fool to give her the benefit of the doubt.
As if reading his thoughts, her chin went up.
“And now, Lieutenant, you’re no longer ninety-nine percent sure of my innocence,” she said coolly. “Are you thinking your belief in me should have only registered fifty percent? Maybe a lowly ten?”
In those silent seconds that followed, reason warred with instinct. Against all logic, all evidence, he wanted to believe her. When she didn’t flinch under his scrutiny, he went with his instinct. She couldn’t be guilty. Just couldn’t be.
His hand moved from the top of the upholstered seat onto her shoulder. As his fingers slid into a shadowy nest of thick, silky hair, he battled the urge to inch his hand even further toward the remembered soft flesh of her throat.
Tightening his jaw, he banked down on every emotion. “The only thing I’d accuse you of is holding on beyond all good sense to an unbending, blind loyalty to your brother.”
“Ken didn’t do anything wrong. He couldn’t. Wouldn’t.”
“Couldn’t and wouldn’t don’t prove a thing,” he countered. “A stolen printout is proof. So is ten grand in a bank account. Then there’s the ex-wife who supplies one hell of a solid motive. Admit it, A.J., if it were anyone but Ken, you’d have hollered ‘guilty’ before we left Mary’s office.”
“Maybe so,” she agreed, her voice quiet. “But it isn’t just anyone. It’s my brother.”
“I don’t need a reminder of that.” The warm air spewing out of the Bronco’s vents, combined with the arc in Michael’s blood pressure, had his flesh heating. He switched off the heater, then jerked open his coat.
“You’re letting your heart do your thinking, instead of your head. You won’t consider any other scenario but the one where Ken stumbled onto something illegal and taped evidence to that effect.”
“It could be true—”
“Then explain your anonymous caller. He said Ken had gone bad. He said to tell him to cooperate with his new partners or else. Just because Ken planned to turn evidence over to me, doesn’t make him innocent. Maybe he got into something illegal, then got scared. So he made the tape, hoping to work a deal for himself by implicating someone else. Maybe that person sensed Ken was getting nervous. A sure way to jerk your brother back into line was to involve you.”
“No—”
“Remember Ken’s reaction when you confronted him about the call? He had the opportunity to explain everything. Instead, he threatened to kill the bastard for involving you. You believed he might do it, so much so that you went into his bathroom and lost your breakfast.”
“I...was upset,” she said, her voice trembling. “I hadn’t slept...wasn’t thinking right.”
“You were thinking fine.”
She gave a furious shake of her head. “Ken wouldn’t have committed murder. Wouldn’t have gone against everything he believed in—”
“Not even to save your aunt’s life?”
She clenched her teeth. “Not even that.”
Michael expelled a muffled oath. He didn’t know if he should drag her out of her seat and throttle her, or hold her in his arms while she fought the battle that surely waged inside her.
Thumping his fist against the steering wheel, he sucked in a deep br
eath that pulled the scent of warm Chanel into his lungs and tried to pinpoint the exact moment his objectivity had gone down the sewer. He didn’t know. All he knew was that by turning a blind eye to the prospect of her brother’s guilt, A.J. had rendered herself vulnerable to whoever it was whose secrets Ken Duncan had known.
A surge of frustrated anger had him snagging her wrist and jerking her across the seat.
“Don’t—!”
“I watched you in Mary’s office,” he said, the harshness in his voice quelling her sputtering protests. “I saw your expression when she told us about Ken needing money for your aunt’s treatment. It was there, A.J., all over your face. It was brief. You covered it fast, I’ll give you that. But I watched and I saw.”
She tore her gaze from his. “I... don’t know...what you’re talking about.”
Heat pulsed off her skin, sending another wave of the soft scent of her through his senses. Even as need arrowed through him, Michael checked it ruthlessly.
“Doubt.” He tightened his hand on her wrist and yanked her back to face him. “Doubt about Ken,” he continued. “For an instant, maybe less than a heartbeat, you believed him capable of doing whatever it took to save your aunt.”
“Let go.” She pulled against his touch, but his hand held fast.
“Ken was capable,” he added, then softened his voice. “If it were either of my parents in that hospital, I’m not sure I wouldn’t be capable.”
Her dark eyes bore into his. “You’re wrong about Ken.”
“Am I?”
“Yes! And somehow, someway, I’ll prove that to you.”
Michael set his jaw. He could almost feel the ghost of Ken Duncan haunting the very air around him.
“I don’t care if you admit your doubts about Ken to me,” he ground out. “But the sooner you admit them to yourself, the better off you’ll be.”
Without waiting for her to comment, Michael released her wrist. When she scooted away from him, a fist clenched in his chest.
His intent had been to disconcert her, he thought as he turned and gripped the steering wheel. He’d done it many times—to suspects, witnesses, even victims—to get the information needed to move a case off high center. He was good at it, sometimes even enjoyed it, he acknowledged, and glanced across at A.J.’s shadowed, angry face.
This was the first time his hands had gone unsteady doing it. The first time a sense of guilt had crept in, making his mouth go dry. The first time he’d tossed silent recriminations at himself for doing his damn job.
Chapter 7
“Your brother was insistent,” Dr. Luther Newell advised as he shrugged into his tan camel coat. “Determined to get your aunt on the clinic’s waiting list.”
“How determined?” A.J. asked.
“Extremely.”
With a sinking feeling, she watched the tall gray-haired man glance at the digital clock over the hospital’s information desk. It was his third check of the time since she and Michael had caught him rushing through the lobby, in a hurry to leave for Tulsa to dine with colleagues.
“I voiced my reservations about the drugs used in the program and the fifty-thousand-dollar initial sign-up fee,” the doctor added. “That didn’t dissuade him. Ken had his mind made up. He said he’d already arranged the financing.”
Michael’s brows drew together. “Is there some kind of insurance that would cover the cost? A grant, maybe?”
“None that I’m aware of.”
The doctor went on to explain about the experimental nature of the drugs used at the Houston clinic, but A.J. barely heard. Inside her, despair rose like floodwater.
Seconds later, Michael offered his hand. “Thanks for your time, Doctor. Sorry to hold you up.”
A.J. closed her eyes as the man retreated. Her stomach roiled; she fought desperately to control the trembling that seized her shoulders. Motive. The doctor had supplied motive for Ken to have crossed the line.
“Do you want to sit down?”
“No,” she said, opening her eyes.
Michael’s fingers grazed her hand in a subtle, almost imperceptible motion. “You’re sure?”
She tensed against his touch. “I’m fine.”
He took a step toward her, his eyes locked with hers. “I can see you’re not.”
“I...we need to go upstairs to Aunt Emily’s room. Visiting hours...”
He reached out and caught her shoulders as she turned. “There’s time yet.”
She lifted a hand and rubbed hard at her temple. Time was what she needed. Time to deal with what Mary had told them, time to sort out the damning implications of Dr. Newell’s words. Time to get her churning emotions under control. Time to think. But she couldn’t think, not with Michael’s all-seeing eyes piercing through her, not while his hands rested on her shoulders with such gentleness.
“A.J., I’m sorry.”
If the look in Michael’s eyes had been one of triumph, instead of concern, maybe she could view him as a foe. If only it were victory in his voice, not grim reality, she could erect an emotional wall to keep him out. If his touch had been harsh, not the soft caress now against her shoulders, then she wouldn’t feel such heart-wrenching desire to lay her head against his chest and seek the comfort she desperately needed.
Her fingers curled into the soft folds of her coat, which was draped across her arm. She knew if she succumbed to temptation and stepped into his arms, the last thing she’d be able to do was think. And thinking was what she needed to do. Had to do. She had to find a way to fight the doubt over Ken that had feathered up her spine while in Mary’s office. Doubt that had grown fangs and now raged inside her, tearing her to shreds.
“A.J.?”
“I’m fine.” She swiveled, forcing him to drop his hands as she reached for the elevator’s call button. “Aunt Emily’s on the seventh floor.”
A profusion of white pressed in on A.J. as she stepped into the oncology ward’s central corridor. Medical personnel in lab coats and uniforms scurried about; laundered sheets draped an abandoned gurney; the clean, faint scent of soap and disinfectant rose from the pale, polished floor.
Michael exited the elevator behind her, his footsteps sounding time with hers. She slanted him a glance, taking in the shadowed lines at the corners of his eyes.
Was he thinking about Ken? Was his mind assessing the evidence, which with every passing interview stacked higher against her brother?
She gritted her teeth against the ache that had settled in her right thigh. She understood how helpless Ken must have felt, knowing their aunt was ill. Knowing that other than prayer, he had no means to help her. God, she agonized against those feelings every day.
But she hadn’t committed a crime because of them. Now, she wasn’t sure about Ken.
With pain ripping into her heart, A.J. sidestepped around a scrubs-clad orderly shoving a cart of aromatic dinner trays along the corridor.
Damn you, Ken, for not having faith in me. He had to have known that no matter the reason for his silence when she confronted him about the anonymous call that she would have stood by him. Had to have known, once the caller pulled her in, she’d persist until she found the truth. So why hadn’t he just told her?
Her steps wavered as the half-open door to her aunt’s room came into view. She paused, struggling to get a firm grip on her emotions.
Following her lead, Michael halted at her side.
“A.J., I need to know if you’re all right,” he said in a quiet voice.
From inside the room, the faint sounds of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” drifted on the sterile air.
“I’m fine.” She turned toward the door but Michael’s hand caught her arm, staying her steps. The fluorescent lights from above glinted against the dark sheen of his hair, transformed his eyes into chips of blue marble.
“I’m sorry I got rough with you in the car. I don’t want to hurt you. Or your aunt.” He reached toward her and took her coat, folding it over his own, which he held
in the crook of his arm. “But I have a job to do. I have to see this investigation through, until I find out what Ken was involved in. You understand that, don’t you?”
His words brought a sudden, unexpected wave of instinctive protectiveness surging to the surface. “Ken could have planned to take out a loan,” she blurted, hating the desperate intensity she heard in her voice. “There are companies—legitimate ones—that’ll loan anyone money. They charge interest rates that are in the clouds, but it’s legal.”
Michael took a step closer, his lean, broad-shouldered body blocking out everything else from her senses. For the space of a heartbeat, he was the only person who existed in her world.
“At times,” he began, giving her a long, steady look, “that obstinate loyalty of yours frustrates the hell out of me. But it’s also one thing I admire about you. One of many things.” He nodded toward the door. “How about introducing me to your aunt?”
With her pulse unsteady, A.J. attempted a smile, then pushed the door open a few inches and started in.
“Which tape do you want me to hear next?”
Tape. Her aunt’s words had A.J. halting in midstride.
Michael bumped into her back, forcing an unladylike oof up her throat.
“Sorry,” he said under his breath.
Propped up in bed against an array of overstuffed pillows, Emily Duncan turned her head toward the door, nose wrinkled and eyes narrowed. At age fifty-five she was distinctly nearsighted but detested admitting it; the only time she wore her glasses was when she drove. After a few seconds of squinting, her face lit up. “A.J., we were just talking about you. Weren’t we?”
“Bet her ears are burning.”
Greg Lawson smiled as he pushed his muscular frame from a chair beside the bed. “Hi. Did you ever get my message?”
“Message?” A.J. asked blankly. Her eyes slid to the cassette recorder positioned next to the dinner tray on the roll-away table by the bed. A stack of plastic tape cases sat beside the recorder. She took a deep breath to ease the knot of paranoia that had settled in her chest at her aunt’s mention of tapes. The recorder and tapes on the table weren’t the microsize ones Mary had loaned Ken.
