But murder?
No way.
No way in hell.
"You're sure you heard them correctly."
She nodded. She looked so serious, he thought. So troubled. She honestly didn't know whether to believe what those men had said. On the one hand, they were criminals, murderers—not exactly the most trustworthy sources in the world. On the other, why would they lie? She was a stranger, someone they hadn't expected to see, someone who'd just had the spectacularly bad luck to get caught up in Nate Simmons's trouble.
"Nate Simmons was one of Remy Sinclair's informants," he said quietly. "He was a hell of a lot more valuable to Remy alive than he is dead."
Pushing her chair back from the table, she brought her feet into the seat, then clasped her hands over her ankles. "I don't want to believe that Remy's responsible," she said softly. "But … when my parents divorced and my father took me to live with Remy's family, I expected him to welcome me. I knew him then, Michael, and yet his reaction to my moving in took me absolutely by surprise. I knew him better than I knew anyone, but I had no idea whatsoever how he really, truly felt about me. I don't know him at all now. He's as much a stranger to me as Nate Simmons was, as the men who killed Nate were. I don't know what Remy is or isn't capable of. I don't know the man he became at all."
"And you were afraid to find out. So when the detectives told you that the FBI was taking over the case, that they were going to take you into protective custody, you took off." He sighed. "Why didn't you tell the cops? Why didn't you come clean with them? They would have taken care of you. They would have seen that you were safe. They would have made sure that, guilty or not, Remy couldn't get close to you."
"If I had told them and it was true, his career would be destroyed, he would be in jail, he would end up in prison, and my aunt and uncle's hearts would be broken. If I had told them and it turned out not to be true… There's not really any such thing as 'proven innocent' in this country. No matter how convincing the proof that sets a person free, some people will always believe he's guilty. Remy's reputation would be tarnished, his career damaged anyway. He would rightly blame me, and our family would never have a chance to be made whole again."
"So you went into hiding." Which had led to his visions and, eventually, brought her here. Some clouds, he thought without mirth, did have silver linings. "Why are you telling me now?"
Was she simply tired of her secret? Had she decided to come forward and let the authorities sort everything out? Was she looking to escape her confinement here in his apartment, in his care? Was she eager to get her life back to normal—which seemed to mean without him?
Looking up, she met his gaze and offered a hesitant smile that faded as soon as it formed. "Because I trust you."
Her words caught him off guard and made him smile, even though he was feeling pretty damn grim. "Good answer, Val." Moving around the table, he kissed her hard and quick, then started for the closet.
He was halfway there when she asked, "Where are you going?"
Removing a jacket, he pulled it on. "Honey, you can't tell me something like this and expect me to just blow it off. I'm going to do some checking. I'm going to find out what the hell's going on."
She left her chair and uneasily approached him. "Couldn't you let somebody else do that?"
He slid his arms around her and drew her close. "You're safe here, Valery. Nothing bad can happen to you here."
"But—"
"No one has connected you to me. They'd search the mountains in Mexico for you before they'd ever think of looking here. Sweetheart, you're safe. You've been safe since you got here. Nothing will happen." He touched her hair, kissed her forehead, tilted her chin up coaxingly. "I'll do some snooping, pick up some groceries and be back in time for dinner, I promise. Okay?"
It was an effort for her to agree—he saw it in her eyes, felt it in her sigh—but she tried to hide it. "Okay. How about something sinfully rich for dessert?"
The desire that seemed permanently lodged in his belly immediately began building, tempting and enticing him. "Thanks for the offer," he said, his voice husky. "Believe me, by the time I get back, I'll be more than ready to take you up on it."
She smiled slowly, chidingly, womanly. "When you come back, you'd better have chocolate, or you'll be sleeping on the couch again."
He kissed her again, then pulled away. "Keep the door locked, stay off the balcony and don't answer the phone unless you hear me on the answering machine. I'll be back as soon as I can."
She was still standing there in the middle of the floor when he closed the door and locked it. Damn, but he didn't want to go. As much as he needed to talk to Remy and Smith, he didn't want to leave the apartment.
He didn't want to leave Valery, not even for an afternoon. Not even for business.
And certainly not for business that, once resolved, might take her away.
His first stop was a pay phone in a quiet hallway at Jax Brewery, and all his calls were fruitless. Smith was in court and not expected back in his office today. Remy was also out of the office; there was no answer on his car phone, no response to his pager.
From there he went to the Vieux Carré District police station, where he spent the next few hours wading through records and computer files. He learned more about Simmons, more about the two men who had killed him, and he left feeling even more convinced that those men had lied. Friendship aside, Remy was a damned good FBI agent. His honesty and integrity were irrefutable. He simply wasn't capable of doing what Valery feared, what the men had suggested.
Michael knew it as surely as he knew he himself wouldn't do such a thing.
So why had the men lied?
He was on his way out of the building when a voice called his name. Recognizing it immediately, he considered not stopping, pretending he hadn't heard. But he knew better. It would be easier to shake a bulldog than Jolie Wade—and, besides, she knew where he lived. If he didn't talk to her now, she would come around later.
At the sidewalk, he stopped and waited for her to catch up. Under better circumstances, he didn't mind running into Jolie. He liked and respected her—which, considering that she was a reporter for the Times-Picayune who specialized in his work, was saying a lot.
But circumstances weren't better, and he had enough to worry about without adding Jolie to the picture.
"You're a hard man to find," she remarked, brushing her hair back from her eyes as she fell into step beside him. "It took me half a dozen calls just to find out that you were on vacation."
"If you didn't antagonize everyone, maybe they'd be more forthcoming," he pointed out mildly. "You're pushy, Wade. You do too good a job making law enforcement in this city look bad."
"They make themselves look bad, Bennett. I just give them the front page to do it on." She flashed him a smile. "Why were you at the station if you're on vacation?"
"I had business."
"Don't you know vacation generally means not working? Going out of town? Relaxing?"
"You're a fine one to criticize. I've worked here fifteen years, and you've been around thirteen of them. When's the last time you didn't work, when you went out of town and relaxed?"
She responded with a casual shrug and another smile, then—so quickly that it would have caught a stranger off guard—she turned serious. "Any news on the Simmons murder?"
"That's federal. NOPD isn't involved."
"Yeah, I know. I've been trying to talk to Remy, but he's been harder to catch than you." At the edge of Jackson Square, she drew to a stop and waited for him to turn toward her. "You're his best friend, Michael. Tell me something." She paused, looked away, then refocused on him. "Is Remy in trouble?"
If she had asked the question three weeks ago, three days ago—hell, three hours ago—he would have laughed. Remy in trouble? Not since he was twenty-two and wreaking havoc at home with Valery and his parents. But not on the job. Never on the job.
But coming on the heels of this afternoon's conversation
with Valery, he didn't find anything the slightest bit humorous about Jolie's question. It seemed more than possible that Remy was in trouble—not that he'd done anything wrong, but that someone was trying to make it look as if he had.
"Why do you ask?"
"I've been talking to Nate Simmons's family. They're making some…" Again Jolie looked away. "Some claims. I've tried to get in touch with Remy—I want to talk to him before I go to his superiors—but he's not returning my calls."
Michael felt a shadow settle over him that had nothing to do with the clouds overhead. "What kind of claims?"
Stubbornly she shook her head. "I'm not discussing it."
"Then why tell me anything at all?"
"Because you're his friend. Because we're running this story—" She broke off, considered what she was about to say, then said it anyway. "Because I don't believe what I'm hearing, and I'd like to give him a chance to be prepared. Talk to him, Michael. Convince him to talk to me within the next day or so."
He didn't have to answer, didn't have to make any promises. He could walk away, and Jolie would let him go. She'd made her point. She knew now that he would do whatever which was, obviously, exactly what she wanted: tell Remy. He would advise Remy to meet with her, to find out what she knew.
He did have one thing to say, though, before he left. "Thanks, Jolie."
She shrugged it away. "I'll be home all evening and around the paper most of tomorrow. I'll hold off as long as I can. But if he doesn't call me, Michael … the story runs anyway, and it just might hurt him." With those ominous words, she turned and headed back the way they'd just come.
Grimly he continued with his errands, making stops at the grocery store, the produce market and a little hole-in-the-wall bakery just down the block from his apartment. Valery had requested chocolate, and he got it for her in a cake, rich and just the right size for two. Then, stopping at a pay phone, he made one last set of calls. Remy still wasn't answering his car phone or his pager, which meant he was probably out of range. When he called the office, this time Michael asked to speak to Travis Wilson.
He didn't like dealing with anyone other than Remy—didn't even like leaving messages—but if he wanted to get back home anytime soon, he had no choice. He left a simple message with Wilson—Tell Remy to meet me this evening around seven-thirty—and he named a coffee shop near his apartment. The message was simple, unimportant to any casual observer, but Remy would understand its importance.
Remy would know it was about Valery.
* * *
"I wish you wouldn't go."
Her tone sulky, Valery murmured the words for the third or fourth time, then felt ashamed of herself. She wasn't the type to cling, she reminded herself. She was strong, independent and needed no one.
Except Michael, who was preparing to leave her alone for the second time today.
They had finished dinner, and she'd been anticipating the sinfully rich cake he'd brought for dessert when he had announced that he had to go out again. He hadn't answered when she'd asked where and why. He had only told her that it couldn't wait. He had to go now.
Now she watched as he took a heavy rubber slicker from the closet. It was raining again. Lord, she was tired of winter rain. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if they lived someplace cold enough for it to freeze. Watching rain turn to sleet and then snow seemed a lovely way to spend a January evening, she thought. Watching it puddle and pool in the streets was just depressing, especially when she would be watching it alone.
"Let me go with you," she requested suddenly.
"You can't go out. You know that."
"I'll wear my coat with the hood. No one will be able to even see my face, much less recognize it."
He came to sit near her at the table and reached for her hands. "What's wrong?"
"I don't want you to go."
"Are you afraid here alone?"
She scowled at him. He sounded so reasonable, which made her feel pouty. "No, I'm not afraid," she denied. And she wasn't. But she was uneasy. Edgy. She had a feeling…
Abruptly she turned away from completing the thought. Maybe it was cabin fever. Maybe her nerves had simply worn through from the recent stress. Maybe…
Maybe it really was a feeling. A premonition. A sign.
He drew her out of her chair and into his lap. "I'll keep this short," he promised. "I just have to take care of some business, and then I'll come back."
"Business," she repeated skeptically. "You're on vacation."
"All our cases don't come to a sudden halt just because one of us takes some time off," he said with a chuckle. "I promise, Val, I'll be back soon."
With a kiss and a shiver, she let him go. As soon as the door closed, though, she longed to run after him, to beg him to stay or to let her go, to plead with him not to leave her alone.
She was afraid, she acknowledged, hugging her arms to her chest. This apartment that had been her safe place for days now felt too big, too bright and airy, too insecure. Without Michael here, she didn't feel the least bit safe.
It was silly. Nerves.
Still, she crossed to the door long after he'd left and double-checked the locks. She felt a little safer seeing for herself that they were locked, safer knowing that a solid door and two sturdy locks stood between her and the world.
Just as she'd done this afternoon, she wandered around the apartment. She stared out the windows and huddled for a short time in the cozy, dimly lit bedroom. Tiring of staring at shadows, she returned to the brighter lights of the living room, where she turned on the television for company while she rinsed the dinner dishes and contemplated making a cup of hot chocolate.
She was taking a mug from the cabinet when the phone rang. Startled by the sudden discordant noise, she let the cup slip from her fingers and watched as it shattered on the counter. It was just the phone, she admonished herself, but that didn't stop the trembling in her hands. It didn't slow the erratic beat of her heart.
The answering machine clicked on, the outgoing message played, then the incoming tape slowly turned, recording a few seconds of silence before shutting off.
A wrong number. A caller with a thing against answering machines. A solicitor who knew leaving a message was pointless. She waited for the silly little sense of relief that should come, but it didn't.
Something was wrong.
She tried to ignore the message as she cleaned up the broken glass. Nothing was wrong. Michael was at the police station, discussing some case with his colleagues; where could he possibly be safer? And no one in the entire world knew that she was here in his apartment; no one knew that they even knew each other. Michael had been right this afternoon: They would search for her as far away as Mexico before they would ever think to look here. Where could she possibly be safer?
The phone rang again, and again the machine played only silence. Valery glanced at the clock. It was a few minutes past 7:40. Michael hadn't been gone even twenty minutes.
With a heavy sigh, she went to the sofa, intending to concentrate on the TV. She hadn't settled in when the knock came at the door. Her heart rate, already none too normal, doubled, and fear drew her muscles taut. It was one of Michael's friends or one of his neighbors, she comforted herself, but she didn't believe it for a minute. The sound of metal working against metal confirmed it.
Something was wrong.
Someone was trying to break into the apartment.
Oh, God, where was Michael?
She rose slowly from the couch, looking around the room, knowing already that there was no place to hide, no place to go … but out. As the rattling continued at the front door, she moved swiftly, silently to the French doors. She unfastened the lock, turned the handle and opened the door only enough to slip through. She closed it carefully behind her to minimize the sway of the thin sheer curtains.
It was cold outside, still raining, and the balcony, narrow and long, held absolutely nothing of use—no furniture, no plants, no potted trees. There was nothi
ng.
The rain fell in icy sheets, plastering her hair to her head, her clothing to her body. Already she was soaked, shivering. Jeans, no shoes and a T-shirt were less than ideal clothing for a rainy winter evening jaunt.
Peeking through the sheen from the corner, she saw the front door open, saw two men come in. In that instant, fear grew into sheer terror. It was Vince and his partner, the littler guy, the one who had laughed after killing a man. Every cop—city, parish and federal—in town was looking for these men, and here they'd just broken into a cop's apartment. Every cop was looking for her, but it was these two crooks—these two murderers—who'd found her.
Dear God, they had found her.
Frantic, she searched for some avenue of escape and found only two choices: a perilous climb from Michael's balcony to his next-door neighbor's or an even more perilous drop to the second-floor balcony beneath. Neither was anything that a person in her right mind would even consider … but desperation, she acknowledged with a dry smile, didn't exactly lead to rationality.
Leaning over the railing, she tried to estimate the drop, tried not to imagine the pain if she miscalculated and fell all the way to the ground. At the very least, she would break a few bones, most likely including her skull. Better that she try a lateral move, even if it did mean climbing around an ornate wrought-iron divider. Even if she did have to make the move on the outside of the railing. The wrong side. The one-misstep-and-you're-history side.
"Bathroom's empty," the little guy called inside. "I'll check the bedroom."
Taking a deep breath, Valery swung one leg over the rail. The metal was cold, wet, slippery. An instant later, before she could change her mind, before she could come to her senses and figure that taking her chances with those two men was better than no chance at all, she shifted her weight and lifted the other leg over, too.
So far, so good … but she was trembling head to toe, her hands were numb with cold, her knees were shaking, and her toes were curled so tight against the iron that she wasn't sure she could let go to move.
MICHAEL'S GIFT Page 18
