by Sandra Brown
No, there was something else compelling him to stay and see this thing through. Something elusive. Something he hadn't yet figured out.
Finishing his drink, he returned the can to the coffee table, then lay back against the cushions. Consciously setting emotions aside, which tended to clutter any issue, he decided to approach the problem pragmatically, just as he would tackle a problem on the shuttle. He would deal with each element of this conundrum separately. The process of elimination would eventually lead to the source of the trouble, ergo the solution.
Taking it from the top, his anger was, to an extent, justified. He wasn't happy about being involved in a murder investigation for obvious reasons, but also for one reason that wasn't so obvious—it fulfilled a predetermination he had hoped to avoid.
All his life he'd been waiting for something awful like this to happen. He was a member of a minority, and, as all minority youths learn early on, he'd had to work longer, strive harder, be tougher. He had more to prove. He was watched more closely, the implication being that at some point he would probably screw up. So, he'd grown up anticipating and fearing his Fall From Grace—in capital letters. At least now that the Fall had happened, he didn't have to dread it any longer.
Furthermore, Birchman's private remarks to him were right on target. NASA wouldn't look kindly on one of its high-profile boys, who'd had an impeccable record up till now, suddenly being questioned by police about the ruthless murder of a young woman with whom he had spent the last few hours leading up to the murder. No matter the nature of that police questioning, involvement of any kind was bad PR. Very bad.
But dammit, this wasn't his fault. What had he done wrong? He wasn't responsible for how some twisted head case reacted to seeing him with Gillian Lloyd.
"Did you sleep together?"
Yes. They had. They'd fucked, okay?
How had Melina known that he was lying? Had he looked guilty when he answered Lawson's blunt question with an equally blunt denial? Had she picked up his lie through twin telepathy? Or had Gillian told her?
Or maybe... maybe Melina was only guessing and happened to hit it right. Perhaps Gillian had switched places with Melina specifically for the purpose of gaining bragging rights. For all he knew, she had collected men like some women collected coupons. She'd wanted to check "astronaut" off her To Do list.
No. No. His own thoughts sickened him. There were women who racked up sex points, just like some men did. He'd been a trophy to women like that. But Gillian wasn't one of them. He knew better than to even think such thoughts about her.
The truth of it was that the desire between them had been mutual, and it hadn't started when they finished their tacos and had a bourbon buzz going. It had begun the instant they laid eyes on each other. From that first handshake, that first smile, the entire evening had been protracted foreplay that had culminated in them—
Dammit, he was not going to think about it. He would not. He refused.
To distract himself, he reached for his cell phone. He called his voice mail at work and at his home phone, then spent the next fifteen minutes returning only the calls that were absolutely necessary.
When asked when he was coming back, he made up some lame excuse for his delayed return to Houston. They'd learn soon enough the real reason. It was only a matter of time before his name appeared in print in connection with a woman's murder in Dallas. Wouldn't the media have a heyday with that? Receiving an award from the SMU alumni association one day, being questioned by police about a homicide the next. And in between...
Hell. If all his thoughts were eventually going to come back to last night, he'd just as well go ahead and think about it. He'd been avoiding it all day, from the moment he woke up and realized that she'd left, until now. He hadn't allowed himself to think about it.
Screw her, he'd thought as he grouchily rolled out of bed. He had things to do, places to go, people to see. They'd had some laughs, some good sex. He was sore that she hadn't stayed through the night, but he would survive.
But after all that male posturing, he'd wound up calling her twice before his breakfast meeting and was irked when he got her voice mail. Then at the conclusion of breakfast Lawson had shown up, precluding thought about anything except the crisis at hand.
Now that he had the time to review it, why not? Maybe that would get it out of his system. Perhaps it would even produce another clue, some significant detail, previously forgotten, that would advance Lawson's investigation.
So your motives for thinking about it are noble? he asked himself sardonically. Bullshit. He wanted to think about it because he wanted to think about it. Period.
Leaning back against the cushions, he closed his eyes, and it was as though she were again standing in front of him where he sat on the floor beside the coffee table.
"What seems right?" he had asked, hoping that she shared his idea of the right thing for them to do at that given moment.
Somehow managing to look both seductive and ladylike, she had reached behind her neck and unfastened the hook at the top of her zipper, then gradually pulled it down. She lowered one shoulder of her dress, then the other, before letting it drop to her waist, sliding it down over her hips, and stepping out of it.
In his fantasy, he heard himself whispering hoarsely, "Damn."
"Should I take that as a yea vote?"
His answer was to place his hands at her waist and pull her toward him. He kissed her just above her bikini line, gentle sucking her skin against his teeth and tongue. As she gradually lowered herself to her knees, his mouth worked its way up her body. When her black strapless bra impeded his progress, he reached behind her and unhooked it, and then her nipple was inside his mouth, and her hands were in his hair.
His memory was cloudy as to how they got from there to the sofa. He just remembered wallowing entwined among the cushions, his hands trying to touch as much of her as possible in the shortest amount of time, and catching her breasts between his lips each time they got near his mouth, and her whispering against his throat, "One of us has on too many clothes," while her hands reached for the studs on his tuxedo shirt.
She pushed him back onto the cushions and knelt on the floor between his knees. Painstakingly she removed the studs. She chastised him and laughingly pushed his hands aside whenever impatience drove him to try and assist. But when his restless hands occupied themselves by cupping her breasts and stroking her nipples with his thumbs, her eyes grew dark and languid.
Finally all the studs were removed. She spread open his shirt and leaned forward to kiss his chest. The touch of her lips was as light as her breath on his skin. Occasionally he felt the damp brush of her tongue and the delicate scrape of her teeth as she worked her way down to his navel.
He held his breath now, as he had last night when she removed his cummerbund and unzipped his trousers. She slipped her hand inside his shorts. A mischievous smile had played behind her voice when she murmured, "No wonder they call you Chief."
Then he had exhaled on a low moan and had entangled his fingers in her silky hair, while her even silkier mouth had taken him, and he had virtually dissolved.
The telephone rang, jarring him out of the erotic daydream.
He covered his face briefly with his hands, then, cursing, reached for his cell phone. But even after engaging it, the ringing continued. It wasn't until then that he realized it was the room phone that was ringing. He stretched across the sofa to pick up the extension on the end table.
"What?"
"Colonel Hart?"
"Who's this?"
"Dexter Longtree."
"What do you want?"
He was being rude, but he was past caring. He'd said everything he had to say to the old chief this morning. He'd squelched any hope of their ever having a working relationship. At least he thought he had made that clear. Since then, much had happened. None of it good, all of it tragic. If he was in a bad humor, that was just too damn bad.
"Is everything all right?"
<
br /> "Why wouldn't it be?"
"The last time I saw you, you were having trouble with the police."
"Not trouble, just—"
"If you will recall, I had predicted you might soon find yourself in need of my help."
Chief made a scoffing sound. "What, Longtree, you had a vision or something? Are you a medicine man?"
After a slight pause, the old chief asked, "Are you so scornful of spirituality, Colonel Hart?"
"What I'm scornful of is people who can't take no for an answer and who don't mind their own damn business."
"But you are my business," he stated without a qualm. "You and everything you do and everything that happens to you are of tremendous interest and importance to me."
Chief was growing increasingly irritated. "Then that's your problem. I told you yesterday and again this morning that I want no part of your group, that my interests and those of the NAA are incompatible."
"That we need you more than you need us."
"So you were listening."
"I was listening, Colonel Hart. And you made yourself very clear." He paused for so long that Chief was about to excuse himself and hang up when Longtree added, "I was hoping that perhaps you had changed your mind since this morning. That perhaps unhappy circumstances had urged you to change it."
A sudden chill rippled up Chief's spine. It occurred to him that his life had started its downward spiral into the toilet after his meeting yesterday with Longtree and Abbott. "Listen to me, you son of a bitch, if you—"
"Obviously you're still of the same mind. I'll give you a while longer to think matters over. Do so carefully. Goodbye, Colonel Hart."
"Wait a minute," Chief shouted into the receiver, but Longtree had hung up.
Chief slammed down the telephone and began prowling the room, trying to reason it through. Could there possibly be a link between Longtree and his sidekick Abbott, and what had happened to Gillian? Could they have sacrificed an innocent woman in order to create a scandal from which they would "rescue" him? That would certainly place him in their debt, wouldn't it?
He swore with a capacity that had taken years to develop.
If that was the way it had gone down, if there was even the possibility of a connection between Longtree and the murder, he should notify Lawson immediately. But what would he tell him, that he had a hunch he'd been set up?
Before he could decide on his next course of action, the telephone rang again. The old boy in the braids didn't waste any time, did he? Chief snatched up the receiver. "More threats, Longtree?"
"Who's Longtree and what's he threatening?"
It was Lawson.
"Never mind," Chief mumbled.
"Who—"
"The old man I was having breakfast with. It's ... business," he said impatiently. "Complicated. Nothing to do with anything else. What do you want?"
"We found him."
"Who?"
"The weirdo you described."
Switching the gears in his mind took a second or two. He lowered himself onto the edge of the sofa and digested this new information.
Lawson continued, "His name is Dale Gordon. He works at the Waters Clinic. I gave the staff there your description, and they identified him."
"Did you question him? What's his story?"
"He wasn't there. Left a message on the office voice mail early this morning that he was sick and wasn't coming to work. I'm on my way to his place now."
"I hope it pans out. Good luck."
"I'd like you to be there."
"Me? Why?"
"Before I question some perfectly innocent sucker, I want to make sure he's the guy who spoke to you and Gillian." "Isn't that what a lineup is for?"
"That would entail an arrest. This weird duck you described wasn't seen leaving the scene of the murder. At this point, he's not a suspect. Officially."
"In other words, you want me there—officially—to cover your ass in case you've got the wrong guy."
"I knew you'd understand. We're pulling into The Mansion's driveway now. You ready?"
"Good afternoon. The Waters Clinic," said the pleasant voice.
"Hello, my name is Melina Lloyd. I need to speak to a Detective Lawson with the Dallas Police Department. He's supposed to be there. May I speak with him, please?" After a significant silence, she added, "I tried calling his cell phone, but apparently it's malfunctioning. It's very important that I speak with him."
With obvious reluctance, the receptionist said, "He was here with another policeman."
"Was?"
"They left about fifteen minutes ago."
"Did he take Mr. Gordon into custody?"
"What did you say your name was?"
"Melina Lloyd."
"I really don't know anything about this, Ms. Lloyd."
"My sister was the victim of the crime the detective is investigating. Did they take Mr. Gordon into custody or not?"
She had learned one thing today: Grief took different forms in different people. Jem was disconsolate, most of the time moving around as though he were in a mental and emotional fog, but also exhibiting periodic bouts of instability, like his violent attack on Christopher Hart. He seemed to welcome the solace of friends, while she had found it claustrophobic to be constantly surrounded by people wanting to wait on her. To escape, she again had retreated to the bedroom with the excuse of taking a nap.
She had lain down on the bed, but to no avail. Her eyes were gritty from so much crying and even closing them caused discomfort. Sleep was out of the question. Furthermore, her own vow for vengeance compelled her to act, not languish.
But what could she do? Disinclined to rejoin the others in the living room and kitchen, where there was an ever-growing amount of casseroles and congealed salads, she had paced the bedroom until she couldn't stand not knowing what progress, if any, Lawson was making. She knew the detective probably wouldn't welcome her interference, but she hadn't counted on catching flak from a receptionist at the Waters Clinic.
"Well?"
"They didn't take Dale—Mr. Gordon—into custody. He wasn't here. He called in sick this morning. I think that detective was going to his house from here." Lowering her voice, she asked, "What'd he do?"
Ignoring the question, she asked for Dale Gordon's home address. "It must be in his employee file."
"I'm sorry. I can't give out that information."
"Please." But she was talking to a dead line. "Damn."
She sat down on the edge of the bed and hung her head so low that her chin almost touched her chest. God, she was tired. Exhausted. Between her shoulder blades the muscles burned with tension and fatigue.
Maybe she should heed the advice of friends and take a sleeping pill. Two. Three. However many it took to knock her out. Total forgetfulness would be bliss.
But that was the coward's way out. Like lying, she thought sourly. At least she had derived some comfort from Christopher Hart's abashed expression when he knew he'd been trapped in his lie.
But that was an avenue of thought that she didn't wish to explore right now, so she returned to the debate over the sleeping pill. What would drugging herself solve? Nothing. It wouldn't relieve her of having to deal with her sister's death; it would only postpone it. Besides, she hadn't earned a state of oblivion yet. She had much to do before she merited escape. But what could she do?
Then she had an idea. Kneeling in front of the nightstand, she opened the second drawer, found what she was looking for, and dragged the large book onto her lap.
"Gordon?" Lawson tapped again on the man's front door. When he received no answer to the second summons, he asked the officer accompanying him to call Gordon's phone number.
Keating had been newly assigned to Homicide. He was anxious to do well, especially in front of a veteran like Lawson. "I have. Twice. No answer."
"Car's here," Lawson noted. "What'd she say?"
He motioned toward the elderly lady who lived in the larger house to which the garage apartment belong
ed. She was standing on her back porch, leaning on a walker, watching
with curiosity and suspicion while a Pomeranian yapped noisily at her ankles.
"She's his landlady," Keating reported. "Hasn't seen him
today. Says he's usually at work during the day and doesn't come home until six or better. He stays home only on weekends. Highly irregular for him to be at home on a weekday."
"He live alone?"
"Yeah, and no friends. She's never seen him with anybody.
Says he's quiet, pays his rent on time, only complains when
the dog messes too close to his apartment."
"I was him, I’d've shot that goddamn mutt a long time ago."
Chief, who'd been following the conversation from a few feet away, agreed with Lawson. He was an animal lover and certainly didn't advocate inhumane treatment, but the miniature dog's shrill barks were like nails being driven into his eardrums.
Evidently making up his mind, Lawson said, "I'm going in. Get her inside." Keating jogged back to the old lady and, ignoring her protests, ushered her back into her house. Picking up the dog, he practically tossed it inside after her. "Hart, take cover. He might be waiting on us."
Chief moved behind the unmarked police car they'd come in. It was like watching a movie as the two detectives, with weapons drawn, took up positions on either side of the door. Lawson called out Gordon's name again, but when there was no response, he gave the flimsy door one swift kick, and it
swung open.
The two detectives rushed in. Chief braced himself to hear a hail of gunshots but heard only the two cops shouting the all-clear to each other. Then for several minutes there was nothing but silence from the garage apartment and the muted barking of the dog from within the main house. Eventually Lawson appeared in the open doorway. "Hart?"
He motioned Chief forward. Chief noted that Lawson's nine-millimeter had been replaced in its holster.
