“Except that he previously told the police he bought the gun for his wife—for her protection.”
Hawkins just shrugged. “I’m just giving you another possibility to consider.”
And possibility, they both knew, could very well equate to reasonable doubt.
“I’ll discuss Murder Two with my boss.” Natalie started sorting through the new files on top of her desk.
“Man One,” Hawkins countered.
She dropped the stack of folders and stared at him. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
Hawkins just smiled again. “Talk to Beckett.”
Friday night, Dylan was alone in his office, working late again. He had the baseball game playing on low volume on the radio in the background. The reception was poor, and the Phillies were losing badly. His mood was as dismal as their chances of overcoming a seven-run deficit with only two innings left to play.
Through his office window, he had a view of the parking lot between the police station and the courthouse. Natalie’s car wasn’t there. He’d seen her drive away about an hour ago, that long-distance glimpse was the closest contact he’d had with her in four days. He hadn’t seen or spoken to her since their brief conversation after the preliminary inquiry on Monday.
She’d been reserved but not rude, both her language and her attitude clearly indicating that they were nothing more than colleagues once again. The entire conversation had been polite and professional, and through the exchange of small talk he could think of nothing but the feel of her naked body beneath his. And that was a dangerous preoccupation.
He needed to work with evidence, not emotion. Facts, not feelings. But whenever he was around Natalie, one seemed to get inextricably tangled up with the other. The attraction between them was clouding his judgment. He’d wanted to believe that having sex with Natalie would help cure his preoccupation. He’d convinced himself that his distraction was merely fascination with the unknown.
Then he’d made love with her.
The memory of her kiss haunted his mind. The scent of her skin tormented his body.
Dammit, he was doing it again.
He turned up the volume on the radio, hoping the play-by-play would drown out his errant thoughts.
There was no point in thinking about Natalie when he’d blown any chance of a future with her. But maybe that was for the best. He needed to focus on his job. He couldn’t afford any distractions.
Maybe, when the Ellis Todd trial was finished, he might reconsider the situation. Maybe, by then, she’d no longer hate him.
The knock on his door was a welcome interruption.
Detective Morin poked his head into the room. “I finished the report on that high-school assault, so I’m going to take off.”
“Hot date?”
Morin grinned. “My wife finally sold that house on Oakridge, and she’s taking me to dinner at DiMarco’s to celebrate.”
“DiMarco’s? She’s obviously making more money than you these days,” Dylan joked.
“Real estate is booming.”
“Maybe I should reconsider my choice of career. Public service is gratifying but not very lucrative.”
“Obviously not all public servants are as poorly paid as we are,” Morin told him. “It was the new A.D.A. who bought the house.”
“Tell me again about the house, Mom.”
Natalie smiled as Jack snuggled against her side, his question immediately followed by a huge yawn. “It has four bedrooms and three bathrooms and a huge backyard with a fence all around it.”
“It really has a yard?” Having lived in apartments his entire life, surrounded by cracked concrete and worn asphalt, he was obviously enthralled by the concept.
“You can see it from your bedroom window,” she told him.
“And there’s grass and everything?”
“Grass and everything. Even a swing set and a sandbox.”
“What color’s my room gonna be?”
“What color do you want it to be?”
His response was immediate, as she knew it would be. “Blue.”
“Then it will be blue,” she promised him.
“Can I have bunk beds?”
Natalie laughed. In that moment, she would have given him the world—bunk beds didn’t seem like too much to ask.
“We’ll see,” she said. “Speaking of beds, however, it’s time to get you into yours.”
The light in Jack’s eyes dimmed a little. “I don’t want to go to sleep.”
“Why not?”
“Because when I wake up it will be tomorrow, and you’re going away again tomorrow.”
She swallowed around the lump in her throat, understanding only too well how her son felt, how precious every minute of the limited time they had together was right now. She tugged him onto her lap, and he didn’t resist.
“Only one more week, Jack.” She wrapped her arms around him, held him close. “Less than that—six days now. You’ll finish school on Friday and Auntie Shannon will bring you to Fairweather on Saturday.”
“And then we’ll be together again? For always?”
“For always.”
One side of his mouth curved up in a reluctant half smile. “Okay.”
She hugged him tight. “I love you, Jack.”
“I love you, too, Mom.”
She scooped him off the couch and flew him through the air down the hall to his room. He was giggling when she tucked him into bed; she was smiling when she kissed him good-night.
Her light mood quickly dissipated when she returned to the living room and met her sister’s probing stare.
Natalie hadn’t expected that Shannon would share her level of enthusiasm, but she hadn’t expected her obvious disapproval. She sighed and braced herself for the lecture.
“Don’t you think buying a house is a little premature?” Shannon asked.
“No,” she denied. “I think it’s exactly what we both need.”
“You haven’t been in Fairweather that long. How do you know you’re going to want to stay?”
“I agonized over this decision, Shannon. You know that. Moving out of Chicago is the best thing for me and Jack.”
“What if the job doesn’t work out?”
“Then I’ll find another one.”
“And if you can’t?”
“Why do you always have to look at the negative side of things? Why can’t you be happy for me?”
“I want to be happy for you,” her sister said. “But I can’t pretend I don’t have reservations about what you’re doing.”
“I’ve thought this to death. I know the move to Fairweather is going to be a big adjustment for Jack, and I want him to have a home. Somewhere he can feel settled, secure.”
“A house is a big commitment, and this just seems like another example of your tendency to act first and think later.”
Natalie accepted the rebuke because she knew there was some truth in what her sister was saying. “Maybe buying the house was impulsive,” she admitted. “But it’s perfect. A two-story Cape Cod with cheery blue siding and white shutters and a basketball hoop.”
“A basketball hoop?” Shannon echoed, in a tone that suggested she thought her little sister had lost her mind.
Natalie didn’t know how to make her understand, but it had been that hoop, more than anything else, that sold her on the house. It wasn’t just a circle of metal with ragged netting, it was evidence of the family that had lived there—a husband and wife and their two sons—proof to Natalie that the house was a home. She desperately wanted a real home for her son.
All she said was, “I hope when you see it, you’ll understand.”
Shannon sighed. “What are you going to do with four bedrooms?”
“I know it’s more space than Jack and I need.” More than she’d ever thought she’d be able to afford. “But the neighborhood is perfect. The houses are well maintained, the streets are clean, and the school Jack will attend is right at the end of the street.”
She smiled. “It’s nothing like the tiny apartment we used to have.”
“Are you really going to get him bunk beds?”
“He really wants bunk beds.”
“You’re going to spoil him,” her sister warned.
She didn’t care. She’d never before been in a position to spoil him, and she refused to feel guilty for doing so.
Shannon sighed. “I don’t object to you wanting something better for Jack. I just don’t understand why you had to do it now.”
“I can afford it now. I’d planned to set all the money aside for Jack’s schooling, but I believe giving him a home is as important to his growth as college. And there’s still more than enough for his education.”
Shannon’s disapproval was evident in the line between her eyebrows, the thinning of her lips. “You made a deal with the devil.”
Natalie tilted her chin defiantly. “I did what I had to do.”
Chapter 10
It was after nine o’clock when Natalie arrived home Sunday night. Her flight had been delayed almost two hours because of a severe storm over Lake Michigan, and she’d sat on the plane for what seemed like an eternity waiting for it to be cleared for takeoff, already missing her son. At least she wouldn’t have to make the trip again. Next weekend, Shannon would finally bring Jack home to Fairweather.
Home. She thought again as she slipped her key into the lock. She had a lot to do to get the house ready for Jack’s arrival, but she was looking forward to the physical labor of cleaning and painting. She was looking forward to anything that would help her stop thinking about Dylan Creighton.
She changed into her pajamas and dumped a load of laundry into the washing machine. Despite her fatigue, she smiled, thrilled with the convenience of having a washer and dryer inside her own home. There would be no more trips down six flights of stairs to a dark, musty laundry room. Nothing about her new home was dark or musty. It was spacious and bright—a veritable castle compared to her tiny walk-up in Chicago. The perfect place for dreams to come true.
All she needed was a prince—a handsome warrior who would slay all her dragons and carry her and Jack away for their happily ever after. She smiled again. Even as a child, she hadn’t believed in fairy tales. It was ridiculous to start now.
Besides, she didn’t need anyone to ride to her rescue; she didn’t need anything from anybody. And the only prince she wanted in her life was seven years old.
She passed the den on her way to the stairs, paused outside the door. She was looking forward to curling up in her new bed, but she should check her e-mail before turning in. And there was a pretrial memo to polish, and some case law to review.
She sank down behind her desk and sighed as the prospect of her nice warm bed grew more distant.
She’d just turned on her computer when the doorbell rang. She sighed. She wasn’t in the mood to deal with some smiling-faced housewife stopping by to welcome her to the neighborhood. But she pushed away from the desk and peered through the sidelight.
Dylan.
She hadn’t seen him since the day of Ellis Todd’s prelim, and she’d almost convinced herself she hadn’t missed him. Her racing pulse suggested otherwise.
The doorbell rang again. She turned the dead bolt and pulled open the door. “Are you lost, Lieutenant?”
He didn’t smile, and his eyes were cold when they met hers. “I wouldn’t be much of a cop if I was.”
“Then there must be some other reason you’re here.” And since his opening statement hadn’t been, “I’m sorry for acting like an idiot,” she guessed she wasn’t going to like whatever it was. She found herself suddenly wishing for a welcoming neighbor.
“I came to see you,” he told her.
“I’m not dressed for company.”
His gaze dropped, raked over her. Natalie found herself clutching the lapels of her pajama top in her fist. It wasn’t as if she was half-naked. Her pajamas covered her from neck to toes. It was the fact she was naked under her pajamas and he knew it that made Natalie uncomfortable.
That, and the memories that suddenly assailed her. Memories of lying naked with him, her body joined together with his. But that was a lifetime ago. Okay, nine days—but it felt like a lifetime. And the distance between them felt insurmountable.
He didn’t take the hint. “Are you going to invite me inside, or would you rather have our discussion on the porch?”
She gritted her teeth. “Why don’t you come in?”
“Thank you.”
She moved into the kitchen, knowing he would follow. She pulled a couple of bottles of beer from the refrigerator and passed one to him. “I take it you’re off duty?”
“Unless someone gets kidnapped or murdered.” He tipped the bottle to his lips and drank deeply. “Nice place.”
She stiffened, sensing that there was something more than idle curiosity behind his comment, but forced her tone to remain casual. “I like it.”
“Pricey neighborhood.”
“Are you looking to invest in real estate?”
“Not likely. I couldn’t afford any of the homes out here.”
“And you’re wondering how I can,” she guessed.
“Yes,” he admitted.
She set aside her untouched drink, folded her arms over her chest. “That’s none of your business.”
“Well, that’s where we disagree.”
“Apparently. But since this is my home, I don’t have to subject myself to an interrogation in it.”
He finished off his beer, set the empty bottle beside hers. “If you have nothing to hide, why are you being so defensive?”
“Because how or where I get my money is none of your concern.”
“It is if it involves criminal activity.”
She felt as if she’d been slapped. “What are you talking about?”
“A few months ago you were living in a low-rent apartment in a rather undesirable part of Chicago, buried under student loans and making less money in the public-defender’s office than most grocery-store clerks. Then five hundred thousand dollars was deposited into your bank account and you suddenly decided to move to Fairweather.”
Her cheeks burned with shame. She didn’t know how he’d found out about the money, it only mattered that he knew. But she’d been assured that a payment in the form of a bank draft couldn’t be traced.
“Why are you doing this?” The words were little more than a whisper. She hated sounding weak, hated even more the feeling of vulnerability inside her.
“I couldn’t ignore the obvious.”
“What is it that you think is so obvious?”
“The fact that someone came through for you, and big. And then you took your windfall and a position as Assistant District Attorney in Fairweather, Pennsylvania.”
“Maybe I like this town.”
“And maybe you had an incentive to come here.”
“I did,” she agreed.
Dylan’s eyes narrowed. “And what was that?”
“It wasn’t Chicago.”
“Why were you so anxious to get out of Chicago?”
“I had my reasons.” And, dammit, they weren’t any of his business. They weren’t anyone’s business but her own.
“You think I don’t know what they were?” he challenged.
“Apparently you think you know what they were.” And so what if he did? She was not going to apologize for what she’d done, not to him.
“Chuck Ferlini.”
His response wasn’t at all what she’d expected. “What?”
“Not ‘what’ but ‘who,’” Dylan told her. “Although I suspect you’re well aware of that.”
“I have no idea what—or who—you’re talking about,” she said wearily. She was tired of his accusations, tired of explaining herself. Mostly, she was tired of caring what he thought.
She’d fought so long for acceptance—tried so hard to win respect and approval. She’
d thought coming to Fairweather might wipe the slate clean, obviously not clean enough. No matter how far or how fast she ran, she couldn’t outrun her mistakes.
“You represented him on possession and trafficking charges,” he explained.
“I represented about a dozen clients every week on similar charges.”
“You got the charges dropped,” he told her. “Unlawful search and seizure.”
“So?”
“Ferlini has links to Zane Conroy.”
“In your world, everyone has links to Conroy.”
“Do you expect me to believe your association with Ferlini was nothing more than a coincidence?”
She had an almost irresistible urge to laugh, except nothing about this conversation was even remotely funny. How could he suggest these things—how could he even think such a thing—after the intimacies they’d shared?
“Are you actually accusing me of working with Zane Conroy? Do you really think I applied for this job and moved to this city just to interfere with the prosecution of some former accountant who has delusions of being a hired assassin?”
“Did you?”
She took a deep breath, mentally counting to ten inside her head. It was something her sister had taught her to do whenever she was getting close to the boiling point. Of course, Shannon was the logical one, the reasonable one. Natalie’s emotions had always run much closer to the surface, and she didn’t think counting to a hundred would help her get past the sense of betrayal his words evoked. She’d honestly started to believe she could trust Dylan. She’d thought he was her friend. Obviously she’d been wrong.
She felt tears burning the back of her eyes. “I am so sick and tired of people judging me. I’ve made mistakes in my life, I can’t deny that. But I came to Fairweather for the opportunity to start over—my motives were no more sinister than that.
“I don’t know why you don’t believe me, and I don’t care anymore. You don’t know me, you don’t know anything about me, and you sure as hell have no right to pass judgment on me. The only thing that should matter to you is how well I do my job. And I will do my job, I promise you that.”
Bulletproof Hearts Page 13
