A Reason to Believe (7 page)

eyes back to Fitzpatrick’s face. It was the first time

he’d looked at a man in assessment in…well, in as

long as he could remember. It was an

uncomfortable realization.

Matt was just over six feet tall, with a slender,

muscular build. He’d never considered himself a

large man, but when the medium stopped directly

in front of him and offered his hand, Matt felt large

by comparison. It was interesting, however, that

Fitzpatrick’s shorter stature didn’t diminish him.

His gaze was direct, his handshake firm. Matt

found himself reluctantly fascinated by a few

subtly silver strands in his hair and captivated by

the intense blue of his eyes.

“Thanks for staying,” Fitzpatrick said, still

holding Matt’s hand. “I’m guessing it was a

surprise.” His eyes were shining, as if he were

holding in laughter.

Matt pulled his hand back and slipped it into his

back pocket. “A bit, yeah. How did you know I’m

a cop?”

Fitzpatrick’s grin widened. “In a way you think

is complete and utter crap.”

The young woman, who seemed to be some sort

of assistant, stepped up to Fitzpatrick’s side. She

tapped the face of her wristwatch meaningfully.

Fitzpatrick rolled his eyes and turned back to

Matt. “Listen, I have this thing I have to do, and

then I have a private reading back here at nine.

Could you maybe come back to the hotel about ten-

thirty? I know it sounds weird, but I got something

during the session I think might be valuable to you.

I’m in Room 1411.”

His eyes were so intense that Matt found himself

staring for a moment before he cleared his throat.

“You ‘got something’…about what?”

Fitzpatrick’s gaze remained fixed on his eyes.

“You’re involved with a murder investigation, am

I right? Involving a little girl?”

A frisson of what felt like electricity slipped the

length of Matt’s spine.

“I don’t have time to go into it now, but if you’ll

come back later…” Fitzpatrick looked hopeful,

and Matt surprised himself by nodding. “Good.”

The smile that lit the handsome face was bright and

Matt could only stare, startled again by a wave of

purely physical awareness.

Fitzpatrick turned to leave, then stopped and

looked back, a twinkle in his eyes. “Oh, she did

tell me she’s sorry if she kept you awake.” He

shrugged, his grin infectious. “She likes you.”

He walked away, leaving Matt to stare after him

in bemusement. His eyes dropped involuntarily to

a muscular ass encased in snug denim. He

straightened when he felt Sheila nudge his arm.

“Still think he’s a fake?” she asked, her mouth

curved in a smug line. “And why, yes, he does

have a very nice ass.”

Chapter Four

“What do you mean, you aren’t going back?”

Sheila said when they stopped at Starbucks for

coffee.

“Just what I said.” Matt paid the barista behind

the counter and dropped his change in the tip jar.

The tall Americano felt warm in his hand and he

was craving the caffeine. His long night was

catching up with him. He was exhausted.

“I can’t believe you.” Sheila flopped into one of

the armchairs in the corner of the dimly lit coffee

shop. “You’re going to sit there and tell me you are

not even remotely curious about what he wants to

tell you.”

He took a chair across from her and sipped his

coffee, sighing in appreciation as the rich, faintly

bitter flavor spread over his tongue. “What could

he possibly know that he didn’t get from the

news?”

“Well, let’s see. I’m guessing he didn’t get the

fact you didn’t sleep worth a damn last night

because a ghost followed you home from channel

five.”

“Will you keep your voice down? I’d just as

soon not let everyone know I’m having a nervous

breakdown. If we can keep it in the family…”

Sheila looked at him through long lashes, but she

did lower her voice. “An opportunity to be a

sarcastic ass notwithstanding, you cannot tell me

you still believe he’s a fake. I know you too well.”

She kicked him under the table. “Don’t decide you

aren’t going back just because you find him

attractive.”

Matt scowled. “That isn’t it.”

“The hell,” she shot back, her expression

knowing. “You’re allowed to find the man good-

looking. Especially when he looks like that.” Her

eyes softened. “Besides, I saw your face when he

told you she likes you.”

Matt lowered his eyes to his cup. The comment

had hit close to home. Cases with kids were

always the worst, because the truth was he liked

children. He hadn’t realized when he’d first made

detective how many of the victims would be

children, and those cases always haunted him.

Their eyes stayed with him after. But Abby

Reynolds—he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to

shake her. Of course, he’d never thought the ghost

of one of those kids would turn up in his bedroom,

either.

In the final analysis, it wasn’t Sheila’s nagging

that changed his mind. It wasn’t even the thought of

the spirit of a six-year-old hanging around his

house. It was the six o’clock news broadcast.

He’d been home for a couple of hours, waving

off a disgruntled Sheila by telling her he’d think

about it. Making himself comfortable on his sofa

with a beer, he turned on a football game when his

television inexplicably switched to the channel

five news. He reached for the remote even as the

bleached-blonde anchor’s words caught his

attention.

“Police say they are zeroing in on a person of

interest in the case of the Christmas Eve murder of

six-year-old Abigail Reynolds in her family home

in North Park. Captain Peter Branson issued the

following statement to reporters late this

afternoon.”

The image on the screen changed, filling with

Branson’s haggard features. He looked almost as

tired as Matt felt.

“We are narrowing our investigation,” Branson

said, his voice hoarse, “and should be able to

make an arrest sometime in the next few days.”

“Captain,” a reporter shouted. “Sources inside

the police department tell us Marcus Reynolds is

your primary suspect. Is this true?”

Matt leaned forward, his spine stiff. Marcus

Reynolds? The girl’s father? Matt didn’t buy it.

He’d seen the utterly destroyed expression on the

man’s face when he’d been confronted with his

dead child in the refrigerator. Every instinct Matt

possessed told him the lawyer hadn’t murdered his

daughter.

“Well, I don’t know who your source is,”

Branson replied with an angry glare. “Anyone

proven to be leaking information about an ongoing

investigation from within this department will be

fired immediately.” He paused, his expression

remaining grim. “However, in most cases of

murdered

children,

the

parents’

possible

involvement has to be taken into consideration.

That’s all I have for now.”

Branson turned away, but Matt knew him. He’d

seen the look in the steely gray eyes. Branson was

looking at the father, and Matt knew he was wrong.

His television switching itself to the news

broadcast wasn’t lost on Matt. Until that moment, it

had never done anything similar. He looked around

the deserted room. “Okay, Abby,” he whispered.

“I get it.”

When ten-fifteen rolled around, he picked up his

keys and headed for his Bronco.

Suite 1411 was at the end of the fourteenth floor,

taking up the entire end of the hall. Being a TV

medium must pay pretty damned well. Matt

pressed the suite’s round doorbell before taking a

step back, his hands jammed into his jacket

pockets. It took several moments, but finally the

door swung open.

The dark-haired woman from earlier peeked

around the edge of the door, her lips quirking when

she saw Matt standing in the hall.

“Good evening, Detective.” She stepped back,

holding the door open. “Won’t you come in?”

Matt entered and she closed the door softly at

his back. “He’s right through there,” she said with

a gesture, and waited expectantly. Matt hesitated,

then moved down a short hall that opened into a

large main room.

Kiernan Fitzpatrick was sitting on one of two

sofas in front of a large fireplace, his sock-clad

feet on a square ottoman. His elbow was on the

arm of the sofa and his forehead was resting in his

palm, his eyes closed. Matt’s first thought was he

looked exhausted. Seeing him so still, when he’d

been so full of suppressed energy earlier, was

startling.

“Mr. Fitzpatrick?”

He spoke softly, but Fitzpatrick jerked as if he’d

shouted. Lifting his head, he opened his eyes. They

looked tired, but the color was no less brilliant.

“My name is Kiernan,” he said, full lips curving

upwards. “Please don’t call me Mr. Fitzpatrick. I

immediately think my father is in the room, which

isn’t necessarily a pleasant prospect.”

Matt didn’t like being called Mr. Bennett either,

and it sounded as if they had similar reasons. With

those words, the man shifted seamlessly from

Fitzpatrick to Kiernan in his mind.

“I’m sorry,” he said, feeling awkward. “If this is

a bad time…”

The dark head shook slightly. “No, it’s fine.

Please, have a seat.”

Matt settled onto the edge of the facing couch,

studying Kiernan carefully.

The young woman came into the room behind

him. “Food’s on the way up,” she said.

Kiernan’s dark brows arched upwards. “Did

they have…?”

She gave him an indulgent smile. “Yes, but you

have to eat your dinner first.” Kiernan wrinkled his

nose, and she ruffled the hair on the back of his

head as she walked by. “Beer?” she called over

her shoulder.

“She’s talking to you,” Kiernan said. “I don’t get

booze until I have food. Warden’s orders.” He

grinned.

Matt shrugged. “Um, sure.”

She bent to what he assumed was a small

refrigerator beneath the bar.

Kiernan yawned lavishly, and then seemed

embarrassed when he found Matt watching him.

“It’s been a long day. The public sessions take a

lot of concentration. Then there was a panel at the

college, and I just finished a private reading, so…

I’m beat.”

“Which means he should eat and go to bed,” the

woman said as she came back to them. She handed

a beer to Matt and set a soda next to Kiernan. He

gave her a grateful look as she sat on the couch

beside him. “Not try to do yet another reading.”

“Lighten up, Mum.”

The corner of her mouth quirked. “Like I’d

admit giving birth to you.”

Kiernan’s eyes danced. Matt found himself

watching him with growing interest. He hated to

admit it, but Sheila was right. He was damned

attractive.

“So, seeing as you’ve been privy to one of our

domestic disputes,” Kiernan said, a laugh in his

voice, “I suppose formal introductions are in

order. We’ve already established who I am. This

charming creature—” he poked her thigh, “—is my

sister, Aidan. And I’m sure you are occasionally

called something other than
detective.
”

“Oh, sorry. I’m Matt. Matthew Bennett.” He

shifted his beer to his left hand and leaned

forward, offering his right. Kiernan was smiling as

he shook his hand.

“So, how long have you been a detective,

Matthew Bennett?” Kiernan leaned back and

popped open the can of soda.

“Um, about five years.” He rolled the beer

bottle between his palms.

“Homicide?”

Matt grimaced. “We don’t have a homicide

division, specifically. It’s called Major Crimes.

We handle felony-level offenses.”

The man’s eyes were searching. “Get many

murders of children?”

Matt swallowed. “Too many. Unfortunately.”

Kiernan sighed. “They suck.”

“You’ve dealt with them before?” Matt asked.

Kiernan nodded, his face as close to subdued as

Matt had seen it. “Those sessions are always the