The Switch

by Sandra Brown

  He rocked forward slightly, so she would feel him getting hard between their bodies. Her eyes turned the smoky gray that within hours had become his favorite color. Lowering his head, he whispered, "Stay," as his lips moved against her raised nipple. His tongue caressed it.

  She made a low, sexy sound deep in her throat. "You're not playing fair, Chief."

  "I'm cheating like hell." Reflexively her body arched up to increase the pressure on his erection, and he growled softly, "But so are you."

  "Because I want you to win."

  Grinning down at her, he slid his palms up the undersides of her arms until they were stretched far above her head. Her thighs relaxed beneath his and separated. Clasping her hands, he entered her.

  "Hmm. I don't guess I'll be going anytime soon."

  He pressed forward. "Will you be coming?"

  She rolled her hips up to receive his slow thrusts. "No question. I'll definitely be coming."

  "Sir?"

  Chief roused himself, unsure how many times the bartender had spoken to him. "I'm sorry?" "Another?"

  "Got any coffee?"

  "Three hours old."

  "Perfect."

  The coffee was delivered, and it was horrible. But he'd had worse. Staring into the oily brew, he could see Gillian's smile, and hear her voice, and taste her, and feel her. He could remember it all. Everything.

  No, not everything, he reminded himself grimly. There was that something that continued to elude him. Something important that niggled and nagged but wouldn't reveal itself. What the hell was it? What was his subconscious clutching that it wouldn't give up?

  It had originated during Lawson's conference with them.

  Something someone said had triggered a bothersome thought that had evaporated almost immediately, but not before casting a shadow on his mind that was still there.

  But what was it, and who'd said it? Lawson? Hennings? Melina?

  Whatever it was, it was the reason he hadn't left Dallas. It had caused him to stay over for the memorial service. It was the reason he couldn't turn his back on this episode of his life. It was the reason that it had grown into an episode instead of remaining simply an unfortunate incident. It was a threat to his characteristic noninvolvement, and it was damned significant, and he couldn't figure out what the fuck it was!

  The bar was more crowded now than when he'd come in. The noise level had increased. Chief was unaware of everything around him. He concentrated on the tableau inside that cramped room at police headquarters. As though watching a play, he tracked everyone's movements and listened to the dialogue. With near-perfect powers of recall, he reviewed it once. Then again.

  It was during the third performance that he caught it—that implication that had enormous impact.

  When it struck him, it almost knocked him off the barstool. Sightlessly, he stared at the myriad shapes, sizes, and colors of the liquor bottles lined up behind the bar. He didn't hear the laughter of the woman seated on the stool next to him. Numbed by the impact of what his memory had up till now kept secret, he was unaffected by the jostling and joking going on around him.

  Burying his face in his hands, he muttered bitterly, "Son of a bitch."

  "Chief? Hey, bud, everything okay?"

  Slowly Chief raised his head and looked at the young man with misapprehension, then gave him a rueful, self-deprecating smile. "I attended a funeral today. A woman's funeral."

  "Hey, man. Sorry."

  Chief thanked him with a nod. "Let's settle up."

  It was a relief to finally have figured out why he'd felt anchored to this tragedy.

  But hell if he knew what he could do about it.

  CHAPTER 17

  The walls of the room were the greenish white color of mashed potatoes that had been stored in the refrigerator for several days too long. There were no windows. The vinyl tile floor had seen better days. The acoustical tiles in the ceiling were stained, some sagged in the middle.

  But the computer was new. Only the keyboard showed excessive wear. Lucy Myrick had refused to part with it when obsolete equipment had been replaced with a newer generation of computer. She had used this particular keyboard so long that she'd worn off the letters and symbols stamped onto the keys. Anyone who didn't know the home keys would have been lost. But the point was moot, because she would sooner loan her toothbrush than her keyboard.

  Lucy Myrick did not fit the stereotypical profile of an FBI agent. Her carrot-colored hair expanded exponentially with the percentage of humidity in the atmosphere and had been the bane of her existence all her life. Calories seemed to despise her, because even though she consumed them in the multiple thousands every day, none chose to move in with her. She was "skinny as a rail," to quote her grandmother. Given her above-average height of five foot ten and her bristling

  halo of fiery hair, she'd been cruelly compared to a struck match.

  However, Lucy hadn't let her uncommon appearance deter her from pursing her dream. She was good-natured when teased and resilient when discouraged. Her spirit of determination and acumen had won her acceptance into the FBI. She had graduated from the academy and was licensed to carry a firearm, but her weapon of choice was the computer.

  She hadn't even considered fieldwork. Because of her appearance, she would never have been taken seriously either by cops or robbers. Undercover work was out of the question—she'd stick out like a sore thumb in any setting. But those wouldn't have been her choices anyway. What interested her was intelligence. Combining her computer skills with her interest in criminology had earned her the position of intelligence analyst.

  Basically she was a researcher. She reviewed police records from all points of the map, made comparisons of crimes, looked for parallels and similar modus operandi, searched for coincidences that weren't and connections that were seemingly disconnected. Her job was to sniff out serial criminals or groups of criminals that otherwise would never have been brought to justice. Lucy preferred to think of it as "seek and destroy."

  It was nearing the end of her workday. She yawned and stretched and glanced at the wall clock. She had a choice of leaving on time and battling Washington's rush-hour traffic or working a little overtime and letting traffic clear. Either way, she'd get home about the same time. But she didn't want to arrive home too late and miss her television programs, which began at eight. Tonight's lineup was her favorite of the whole week. Tonight—

  Suddenly she leaned forward and focused on the information that had just come up on her screen. She read it three times, and each time she did, her heart beat a little faster. This was something Tobias had assigned her to watch for. She wanted to please Tobias because he ... well, he was Tobias, and she had a massive crush on him.

  Ten minutes later Lucy Myrick was sprinting up the stairs in favor of waiting on the elevator. She could have called To-bias's office and told him not to leave for the day until she saw him, but she fancied the idea of bursting in a bit breathless, her cheeks flushed with excitement, her meager chest heaving.

  Which is precisely what she did. He was removing his raincoat from the coat tree. "I'm glad I caught you," she gasped. When he turned toward her, her tummy flip-flopped.

  "What's up, Ms. Myrick?"

  Ms. Myrick. Not just Myrick, as other colleagues addressed her. And never Lucy. She didn't know if the formality was a good sign or bad. Maybe he didn't even know her first name. Or maybe he didn't trust himself to get too familiar. That's what she liked to think.

  Hank Tobias wasn't just the best-looking black man she'd ever seen; he was the best-looking man she'd ever seen, period. He'd played college football. Running back. And, to hear the armchair quarterbacks in the office talk, he'd been good enough to go pro. She could believe it, with that body.

  Instead, he'd chosen a career in law enforcement. He was smart. He dressed like a dream. And, best of all, he was single. His love life was the object of constant speculation, but the general consensus was that Hank Tobias didn't have time for a meaningf
ul relationship because he devoted so much of himself to his work. Lucy could live with that explanation.

  "Should I put my raincoat on or leave it off?" She'd brought printed materials in with her. He was asking how important they were and approximately how much longer he was likely to be here once he saw them.

  "Leave it off."

  "I was afraid you were going to say that." He re-hung the raincoat and sat down behind his desk. "What have you got there?"

  "Infertility clinics." She moved farther into the office. "You told me to watch for any connections between children conceived in them and kidnappings."

  "Got something?"

  "Only kidnappings? What about other felony crimes?" "Such as?"

  "Homicide."

  He reached for the information she'd printed out.

  "Dallas," she told him even as he began to scan the sheets. "Gillian Lloyd. Caucasian female, age thirty-five. Found stabbed to death in her bed three days ago. Dallas PD attributed the killing to one Dale Gordon, who was an employee of—"

  "Let me guess."

  "Right. The Waters Clinic, to be exact, where Gillian Lloyd was a patient."

  Tobias glanced up from his perusal. "What kind of patient?"

  "No information on that, but it's safe to assume—" "Never assume."

  "Yes, sir." She blushed so hotly her freckles seemed to run together. "I'll follow up on the nature of Gillian Lloyd's visits to the clinic."

  "Married?"

  "Single." He left his desk and moved to a file cabinet. Lucy gazed longingly at his ass while she summarized the remainder of the information and he rummaged for another case file.

  Finding the folder he was looking for, he held it up. "The Anderson baby kidnapping. Also in Dallas." He glanced through the material in the file to refresh his memory. "What do you know? The Waters Clinic again. The couple conceived through artificial insemination. Gave birth to a normal baby boy. Two days later, he's kidnapped from the hospital."

  "Just like the couple in Kansas City last year. The Dallas case was more recent, wasn't it?""February this year."

  "But as I recall," Lucy said, "the clinic in Kansas City wasn't one of the Waters chain."

  "No, but it was similar. It provided the gamut of services to infertile couples."

  "Or singles wishing to conceive." She'd given some thought to that herself. So far, no Mr. Right had come along. Or a Mr. Not-Even-Close, for that matter. If she wanted a child, having one without a partner wasn't beyond the realm of possibility.

  Tobias closed the file with a definitive motion. "Notify the Dallas office that I'm coming down tonight. I want to talk to the homicide detective who investigated the Lloyd murder."

  "His name's Lawson."

  "Lawson. I want his full cooperation when I question Dale Gordon."

  "Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Tobias. I hadn't gotten to that part yet." He wasn't pleased to hear that Gordon had committed suicide. "Dammit."

  "He killed himself within hours of the murder. Physical evidence was found in his apartment. Victim's blood on the knife that was subsequently determined to be the murder weapon. His fingerprints at the scene. His semen on her pajama shorts."

  "How convenient," he said quietly before lapsing into deep thought. Lucy welcomed the moment to admire his stern frown of concentration. "Almost too tidy, isn't it? Does it remind you of anything, Ms. Myrick?"

  Thankfully it did. "The case in Oakland, California. Late 1998, I believe. October or November. Kathleen Asher, single, early thirties, was murdered within days of conceiving through Al. Her killer was found only hours later, dead by a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head."

  "Very good. Do you think a pattern is being established here?"

  "I'd like to do more research. Dig deeper. Maybe I've over‑

  looked similar cases. Now that we know the link we're looking for, I'd like to go further back, put out a wider net."

  "Good. Drop everything else and concentrate on this. Keep me apprised. If you find something that could have even the most remote connection to these other cases, inform me."

  "If I turn up anything, you'll know about it immediately. No matter how remote it may seem."

  Unaware of her adoring eyes, he again skimmed the information she'd gleaned about the murder in Dallas. "Memorial service was today. Next of kin, Melina Lloyd, her sister. A talk with her could be very beneficial."

  "Would you like me to get her on the telephone?"

  "Yes, but I can't talk to her now. Request a meeting with her tomorrow morning. Stress the urgency, but keep the reason for it vague."

  "Certainly." Trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice, she said, "So you're going anyway? Couldn't the Dallas office handle the interview with her?"

  "I'm sure they could, but I'd have to brief the agents down there beforehand. It's almost more time-effective for me to do it myself. Besides, I want to speak with her personally, get a feel for what Gillian Lloyd was like."

  "Poor lady," Lucy said, shaking her head. "I hope she's up to it. She's had to deal with one shock already this week."

  "I wonder how she'll handle learning that her sister's murder might have been part of a conspiracy." He was already on the telephone, making arrangements for travel to Dallas.

  "What sort of conspiracy?" Lucy asked.

  While on hold, he replied grimly, "It's up to us to find out."

  "Melina?" Jem tapped on the bathroom door and repeated her name. "Are you all right?"

  She swallowed a sob and forced normalcy and lightness into her voice. "I'm fine."

  "Can I bring you anything? Another glass of wine?"

  "Nothing, thanks." If he realized that she was crying, he might insist on comforting her, when what she desired most was to be left alone.

  "Call me if you need me," he said through the door.

  She continued to painfully contain her sobs until she was reasonably sure he had gone away, then she resumed what she'd been doing for the last fifteen minutes—crying her heart out. Tears streamed from her eyes, trickled down her cheeks, and dripped into the chest-high bathwater. Her body shook with sobs that caused violent ripples beneath the surface.

  The sense of loss was all-encompassing—mind, body, soul.

  She felt it keenly in every aspect of her being. And yet, her sister's death sometimes seemed unreal to her. It was impossible to accept in spite of the memorial service that afternoon.

  But it was real. She'd seen the body.

  When she glimpsed the future, she saw only weeks and months of grieving ahead. She dreaded having to live through them. The prospect of it was daunting, exhausting. Since the loss was real, she wished she could sleep through a year or two and awaken only after the worst of the pain was already behind her.

  Eventually her tears abated and her sobs caused only minor ripples in the bathwater. Depleted, she rested her head on the tub's rim and closed her eyes.

  The ringing telephone woke her from a light doze. She started to let it ring but then decided she'd just as well take the call now as have to call someone back later. She reached for the cordless she'd brought to the bathtub with her.

  "Hello?"

  Simultaneously Jem answered another extension. "Hello?"

  "I'm calling Ms. Melina Lloyd."

  "Here. I've got it, Jem." She waited for him to disconnect, then said into the telephone, "I'm Melina Lloyd."

  "I apologize for disturbing you, Ms. Lloyd. I understand you held a memorial service for your sister Gillian today."

  "Who is this?"

  "My name is Lucy Myrick. I'm with the FBI."

  Everything inside her congealed. Lingering tears dried instantly. She became very still, so still there weren't any residual ripples in the bathwater. She could hear the tiny bubbles popping in the fragrant foam surrounding her. She wanted to draw the mound of bubbles closer, like a cloak. The water suddenly felt cold, while only moments before she'd been steeping in its relaxing heat.

  But it wasn't shock that had pa
ralyzed and chilled her. Oddly, she'd been expecting this call, or something like it. Somehow she had known that the murder wasn't so easily explained. Even as Lawson was closing the case file, she had known gut-deep that there was more to it, that the detective's investigation was incomplete, that he had only discovered the obvious, that mystery still surrounded her twin's murder.

  She swallowed dryly. "What can I do for you, Ms... I'm sorry."

  "Myrick. I'm calling on behalf of Special Agent Hank Tobias. He would like to speak with you tomorrow. As early as possible."

  "About what?"

  "What time would be convenient?"

  "It must have to do with my sister's murder."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Because my taxes are paid up and I haven't incited any riots. Yet," she snapped. "Don't play coy with me, please, Ms. Myrick. My sister's murder is the only crime I've been affiliated with this week. Why else would the FBI be calling me?"

  "I'm sorry for upsetting you. Truly. Yes, Mr. Tobias wants to see you about your sister's murder."

  "Detective Lawson of the Dallas police is the investigator assigned to the case. He would have more information than I do, particularly the technical aspects."

  "Actually what Mr. Tobias wants to talk to you about is more personal."

  "More personal than being stabbed to death with a kitchen knife?"

  Ignoring her sarcasm, Myrick continued smoothly. "Your sister was a patient of the Waters Clinic, correct?"

  "That's the business of the FBI? Since when?"

  "What time tomorrow would be convenient for you, Ms. Lloyd?"

  On the verge of snapping again, she stopped herself. Lucy Myrick was only a mouthpiece. Even if she knew the particulars of the meeting Tobias had requested, she wasn't going to divulge them. "Nine o'clock? Here at my house?" She gave her the address.

  "He'll be there. Accompanying him will be Agent Patterson from the Dallas office."

  "Where is Mr. Tobias coming from?"

  "Washington."

  "D.C.?"

  "That's right. Mr. Tobias will see you tomorrow morning at nine, Ms. Lloyd. Good night."

  Thoughtfully she depressed the button to disconnect, then tapped the phone against her forehead. The FBI? All the way from Washington? Curious about the Waters Clinic? "What the hell..."