Bulletproof Hearts

by Brenda Harlen

  We all have our ghosts, he’d told her. And it was true. How could he judge Natalie for not opening up to him when he continued to hide his own secrets?

  Every day he lived with the knowledge of what had happened to Beth. He didn’t talk about it; he tried not to think about it. But every day he suffered with the truth of what he’d never been able to tell anyone: he’d killed her.

  He hadn’t fired the bullets that had taken her life, but he was responsible for her death. He was the reason she’d been in that alley. Died in that alley.

  Yet he found himself thinking more about Natalie than Beth these days. While there was a part of him that couldn’t help feeling guilty about this fact, another part reveled in the realization. He’d been haunted by the events of that one night for four years now, living each day in an attempt to make amends for the past.

  Since Natalie had come into his life, he’d started looking forward. For the first time in a long time, he cared about the future. Maybe he really was ready to move on. If only he could convince her to move on with him.

  So predominant was she in his thoughts that Dylan wasn’t at all surprised when he answered his cell phone Monday night and heard Natalie’s voice. What surprised and worried him was the obvious strain in her voice.

  “Lieutenant Creighton?”

  “What is it, Natalie?”

  “I need you to come to the hotel. Please.”

  He didn’t ask any more questions until he got there.

  She opened the door immediately. Her eyes were shadowed, her cheeks pale, but she offered him a wan smile. “Sorry to bother you after hours,” she said, “but I didn’t really know who else to call.”

  He put his hands on her shoulders gently, felt some of her tension ease. “What’s going on?”

  She crossed the room to the desk, handed him a large unmarked envelope. Despite her obvious agitation, her hand was steady. “This was on the desk when I got in.”

  He opened the flap of the envelope and pulled out the photographs. There were four 8x10s in glossy, gruesome full color, depicting the murder of Roger Merrick. The first was apparently taken after the first shot was fired: the front of his shirt showed a single bullet hole, blood already soaking the fabric. His eyes were wide, unfocused, empty. There was no doubt in Dylan’s mind that he was already dead.

  The second picture showed a wider hole in his chest, the glint of white bone through the destruction of tissue and muscle. Photos three and four were more of the same, showing more damage to the body after each successive bullet had ripped into it, until there was little more than a bloody, pulpy mess left.

  He shoved the pictures back into the envelope. Natalie was standing with her back against the wall, her arms folded over her chest, her eyes focused on the opposite wall. He could only imagine how she must have felt to come into the sanctity of her room and find the envelope. Then to open the envelope and face the images caught in those photos.

  “I want you to check out of the hotel.”

  She finally turned to face him. “Haven’t we been through this already?”

  “Someone was here—in your room. Are you having difficulty grasping that fact?”

  “Of course not,” she denied hotly. “But it’s equally obvious that someone is trying to intimidate me, and I won’t be intimidated.”

  He shook his head, but what he really wanted to do was shake her. Dammit, why couldn’t she see that she was in danger? Why wouldn’t she listen to him? Why hadn’t Beth listened to him?

  He forced aside the haunting memories. “Please, Natalie. You need to take this seriously.”

  “I am taking it seriously. I’m just not running away.”

  He gave up, only because he knew she was too stubborn to listen to reason. And because he planned to call Joel Logan. Joel’s partner at Courtland & Logan Investigations was Michael Courtland, whose family owned the Courtland Hotel chain. Before Dylan left the hotel tonight, he’d make sure there was security outside Natalie’s room.

  He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and called for a couple of uniforms. He wanted the envelope and the photos taken to the crime lab, and he wanted the hotel staff thoroughly interrogated. When the officers arrived, he left Natalie’s room only long enough to give them instructions and to grab a local newspaper.

  By the time he returned to her room, she was seated behind the desk, back at work. He could almost admire the ease with which she put the pictures out of her mind, if he didn’t worry that she was too easily disregarding the potential danger to herself. He tossed the newspaper onto the desk.

  “What’s this?”

  “The classified section of today’s paper.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you need to find somewhere else to stay.”

  She picked up the paper, set it aside on top of the pile of files stacked on the floor beside the desk.

  “Aren’t you even going to look at it?”

  “I’ve already found a place.”

  “Oh.” He lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, facing her desk. “Why didn’t you mention that when I asked you to check out of the hotel?”

  “Because you didn’t ask, you ordered. I won’t be manipulated by whoever put those photos in my room, and I won’t be manipulated by you.”

  “I wasn’t trying to manipulate you,” he denied.

  “Weren’t you?”

  He let her comment drop. “Where are you moving to?” he asked instead.

  “The west end, on Oakridge.”

  It was one of the more upscale parts of town and he hadn’t realized there were any apartments there, but he couldn’t fault her choice. “Nice area.”

  “I’m glad you approve,” she said dryly.

  “Okay. It’s none of my business. Point taken.” He hesitated a second, then, “When do you move in?”

  She smiled, shaking her head. “The twentieth.”

  “Good.” He stood, prepared to leave so that she could get back to work.

  “Lieutenant.”

  The softly spoken word halted him in his tracks. He turned around. “Yes?”

  “Why are you so determined to protect me?”

  There was no point in trying to deny it. Nor was there any point in trying to explain it. No one could understand the devastating loss he’d suffered, the sense of emptiness that still haunted him, the guilt that never lessened. So all he said was, “I like you, Natalie, and I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  “I take care of myself,” she reminded him, then softened the words with a smile. “But thanks.”

  He nodded and forced himself to walk out the door before he did something really crazy—like haul her into his arms and hold on to her forever. Because he knew that nothing was forever.

  Chapter 7

  The arrest of Ellis Todd for the murder of Roger Merrick was the top news story the following morning. With the touch of a button, Natalie turned off the radio and silenced the reports. If only she could shut off her mind so easily.

  The photos of Merrick’s murder had shaken her more than she wanted to admit. Not just the image of his ravaged body, which was indelibly imprinted on her mind already, but the fact that someone had taken pictures during his execution. What kind of a person would do something like that? And why would they send the pictures to her?

  She managed to push these questions from her mind while she reviewed the file for an upcoming shoplifting trial. She was happy dealing with petty thefts and vandalism. She’d be even happier if she never heard of Roger Merrick or Ellis Todd again.

  John Beckett effectively trampled her happiness by dropping a new file on her desk later that morning.

  “The prelim’s scheduled for next Monday.”

  She glanced at the label on the file, and her stomach tightened. She was new at this job; she didn’t have the right to pick and choose her cases. “This is going to be a high-profile case. Why are you giving it to me?”

  “You don’t think you’re up to it?”


  It was a deliberate challenge, and she knew it. She didn’t know why. “I just thought you’d want to handle every step of this proceeding yourself.”

  “Ordinarily I would,” he agreed. “I have a conflict on the date that’s been set for the prelim.”

  The date that he set for the prelim.

  “I know I could have asked for another date,” he continued, anticipating her argument. “But Hawkins was adamant that this matter move forward as quickly as possible.”

  “Hawkins?”

  Beckett frowned. “Didn’t you see the news this morning? Randolph Hawkins is representing Ellis Todd on this charge.”

  Could her day possibly get any worse?

  “What if he wants to call me as a witness? After all, I did find the body.” It was a subtle hint to her boss of the potential conflict of interest, an unspoken request that he reassign the case.

  “He assured me that’s not a possibility. You didn’t see anything in that room that pertains to the murder itself.”

  No, just what was left of the victim.

  Beckett glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to run. I’m meeting the mayor for lunch. If you have any other questions, we can deal with them later.”

  With those last words, he walked out, leaving Natalie alone with a lot of unanswered questions and an unwanted assignment until Dylan walked into her office a short while later.

  “I wanted to let you know that we arrested Ellis Todd for the murder of Roger Merrick.”

  “It was on the radio this morning. Apparently you changed your mind about accountants as criminals.”

  “It’s hard to dispute the evidence,” he told her.

  “What kind of evidence?”

  “The gun was registered in his name, his prints were on the clip, and he doesn’t have any alibi for the time of the murder.”

  “The surveillance tapes didn’t confirm his story?”

  Dylan shook his head. “They showed him leaving the building at 6:40 p.m. the night of the murder and not returning until 8:15 the following morning.”

  She frowned. “Why would he tell you he was there if he knew the tapes would show he wasn’t?”

  “Maybe he didn’t know the entrance was under surveillance. Maybe he forgot about the surveillance. Who knows why people say the things they do?”

  “It seems like a careless mistake.”

  “Like filing down the serial number.”

  “Hmm.” She seemed to consider that for a minute. “What about motive?”

  “As I said, anyone is capable of anything, given the right circumstances.”

  “What do you think drove Conroy’s accountant to kill Roger Merrick?”

  “I haven’t figured that out yet,” he admitted. “Maybe it was as simple as ‘kill or be killed.’”

  “What about the pictures?”

  He lowered himself into an empty chair across from her desk. “Yeah, there are some things that don’t fit together neatly. I can’t see Todd pausing between bullets to take photos of his victim. Maybe he’s a psychopath, maybe there was someone else with him. But right now, he’s the one we’ve got.”

  “And now I’ve got him,” she grumbled.

  “What do you mean?”

  “John Beckett assigned the case to me.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  His disbelief was obvious, and put her back up. “You don’t think I can handle it?”

  “You shouldn’t have to,” he protested. “You found his body.”

  “Gee, I’d almost forgotten that,” she said dryly.

  He didn’t crack a smile. “What the hell was Beckett thinking—putting you in the position of having to prosecute the murderer?”

  “Maybe he was thinking that I’m capable of doing the job.”

  “I don’t doubt that,” he said. “But every step of the proceeding will bring back memories of that night.”

  She nodded. Not that she’d forgotten, but she still wasn’t looking forward to reviewing the crime-scene photos and autopsy report in their graphic, gruesome detail.

  Dylan shook his head. “It just doesn’t make any sense. This case is guaranteed to garner headlines. Why would Beckett give it up?”

  It was the same question she’d wondered about, and she’d come to one conclusion. “Maybe he doesn’t think we can win it,” she said. “And if we lose, it won’t be his loss. On the other hand, if we get a conviction, he can take the credit for assigning the case to me.”

  He finally managed a smile. “That’s just the sort of thing Beckett would do,” he agreed. “Although I didn’t expect you would have figured him out so quickly.”

  She shrugged. “Putting me in the hot seat covers his own butt. It’s a smart move politically—if not one I’m thrilled with personally.”

  “I can give you any help you need,” he offered.

  “I will want to go over the evidence with you in detail, once I’ve had a chance to review the file more carefully,” she told him.

  “No problem.”

  “But I do have one question now.”

  “What’s that?”

  She met his gaze evenly. “Why is your signature on every report and every witness statement in the file?”

  Dylan hadn’t thought she would pick up on that. Not that it mattered, really, he just hadn’t expected she’d notice such a detail on a cursory review of the evidence.

  “It’s my case,” he said simply.

  “You’re a lieutenant. Aren’t you in the habit of delegating?”

  “Not where Conroy is concerned.”

  She twirled her pen in her fingers. “What is the reason for your obsession with Conroy?”

  “He’s scum and I want him off the streets.”

  “You must want him badly to have put in so much overtime on this case.”

  “Are you worried about the department’s budget?”

  “Not at all,” she denied. “I just want to know if you have a personal stake in making this case that may backfire against us at trial.”

  “My personal stakes are just that,” he said coolly.

  She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and sighed. “We’re on the same side here, Lieutenant. If there’s something you’re not telling me, it could jeopardize the effectiveness of the prosecution.”

  “Everything you need to know is in the file.”

  “Is it?”

  While Dylan inwardly cursed her perception, he was impressed by her instincts. She might be young and new to the job, but she was handling it. And she wasn’t cutting him any slack.

  “I’m not going to claim that I’m completely impartial with respect to Conroy, but I did a thorough and careful job on this investigation.”

  She remained seated but tilted her head to meet his gaze. “If you want me to do my job, you have to give me all the facts.”

  “The facts are in the file.”

  “Tell me what’s not in the file.”

  He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to think about it. But Natalie was right. She needed to know.

  “It happened four years ago,” he said.

  She sat quietly, patiently, waiting.

  It would be easier if she didn’t look at him. He didn’t want to see the pity in her eyes.

  “On the south side of town—just a few blocks over from Roger Merrick’s apartment building.” Years later, he could still picture the scene as if it were yesterday. He still suffered whenever the image came to mind.

  “There was a young reporter,” he continued, “recently transferred from the current-events department of the local newspaper to the crime section. She got information, indirectly and illegally, about a major bust that was about to go down.”

  He stared at the framed certificates behind her desk. It wasn’t so hard if he pretended it was someone else’s case, someone else’s life.

  “Determined to headline the next day’s papers, she took her notepad and camera to the location of the scheduled takedow
n.” He didn’t dare blink. If he closed his eyes for even half a second he’d see her body lying there, unmoving, as her life drained away into a crimson puddle on the sidewalk. He’d heard the sirens in the distance—too far away. Too late to save her.

  “She made the headlines all right,” he said bitterly. “Reporter Slain In Botched Drug Bust.”

  It had been front-page news for too long. And not long enough. Within a few weeks, her name had disappeared from the papers. With no evidence and no leads, there was nothing to report. Eventually people forgot. Except Dylan. He’d never forgotten; he never would forget.

  He finally looked at Natalie. Her eyes were filled with compassion and understanding—as if anyone could possibly understand.

  He took a deep breath. “Her name was Beth. She was my wife.”

  She’d asked him to tell her. She’d practically demanded an explanation. But Natalie hadn’t expected this.

  Dylan had told her he wasn’t married. She’d mistakenly assumed he never had been. Now that she knew the circumstances behind his wife’s death, she understood why he hadn’t mentioned it. Four years later, he was still suffering the loss, and she regretted that she’d had to force the issue.

  “I’m sorry.” The words were hopelessly inadequate, but she didn’t know what else to say.

  “Conroy was behind it,” he continued. “Just because I couldn’t prove it doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”

  “And you’ve been after Conroy ever since,” she guessed.

  He didn’t deny it, didn’t apologize for it. “She was twenty-nine years old. Too young to die. Too innocent to die like that.”

  She understood his need to find justice for the woman he’d loved, and she hoped he would. But she knew only too well how that single-minded purpose might ultimately undermine their case. If Hawkins knew about Dylan’s wife—and it seemed that everyone knew everything about everyone else in this town—he’d claim bias against his client, which could taint any of the evidence Dylan had found. In this case—everything.