Deadly Force (11 page)

Chapter Eleven

At five the alarm went off. It should have woken Sam up, but because he’d been awake for most of the night, burning up with some strange emotion that seemed an awful lot like jealousy, all it did was irritate the hell out of him.

Claire was already up. He’d heard the shower turn on about ten minutes ago.

He walked to the kitchen to start coffee, shaking
his head at Nightmare who lay sprawled in front of the bathroom door. “You’re pathetic,” he said to the dog. He measured out the coffee, filled the canister with water and flipped the switch. When the hot liquid started to stream out, he opted to hold a cup under it. When it was almost full, he heard the bathroom door open and then Claire’s door close right away. He shoved the coffeepot back into
place.

If he hurried, he’d have time for a quick shower before she got dressed. Walking toward the bathroom, he took a gulp, burning his tongue and throat. When he opened the bathroom door, the room was warm and the mirror covered with steam. The room carried her scent, making him think of oranges and lemons. He took a deep breath and held it. Not once, but twice. Then, shaking his head,
he shucked off his clothes and stepped into the shower.

And then he thought about how Claire had been standing in that same spot just minutes ago, naked. Like some sick fool, he ran his hands across the door where beaded up water clung to the glass. He rubbed his wet fingers together and pressed them up against his lips, imagining the water skimming the slope of her breast, then dripping
off the tip of her nipple. He saw the water run across her flat stomach, into the vee of dark hair at the top of her legs.

Sam sank down on the floor, not caring that the hot water sprayed beyond him. He was way more pathetic than his dog. All Nightmare did was follow Claire around and wait for her. Sam took it to a new low, standing in the stupid shower, fantasizing about her. He should
be shot.

He’d loved her sister.

Not that Claire reminded him much of Tessa. It wasn’t just the physical differences, but more so the way she’d responded to everything. The dead woman in her apartment had shaken her. Sure. But she’d snapped quickly back, demonstrating a steadiness that he respected. Tessa had never had that quality. She’d vacillated from very happy to very sad, sometimes
in the span of minutes.

There were other differences, too. Claire had obviously taken college seriously. Tessa had never been a good student and had been more interested in partying than studying. She’d thought nothing of staying up all night and sleeping past most of her classes the next day. They’d argued about it more than once. At the time, he’d been sure she’d outgrow it.

But she’d
never had the chance. She’d had her life stripped away and the bastard who’d done it had walked away. And when she’d died, a part of Sam had died, too.

He shifted, feeling the heavy need of his body. And now, he was sitting here, hard as a rock, thinking about her sister.

Who he’d pushed into Cruz Montoya’s arms. Maybe his bed. He’d practically begged the man.

Be careful what you
ask for.
His mother’s eleventh commandment. Hell.

Ten minutes later, still chilled from what ended up being a very cold shower, Sam stood in the kitchen. He was halfway through a bowl of cereal when Claire walked in.

“Oh. I didn’t expect to see you this morning,” she said.

My God she was beautiful. Her skin looked fresh, she smelled delicious and he had the craziest urge to touch
the narrow gold hoops that hung from her delicate ears. She wore a conservative blue suit with some kind of scarf that only women knew how to tie. She had a briefcase slung over one shoulder. She looked very businesslike, very professional. And he tried to focus on that and to forget he’d ever seen the black dress.

“Look, Claire, I’m sorry about last night. I was a jerk. It’s just that I...”
He couldn’t tell her he was jealous. “I’m responsible for you.”

The strap of her briefcase slipped off her shoulder and the soft leather hit the floor with a dull thud. “I thought I told you that I don’t want to be your responsibility.”

He hated hearing the hurt in her voice. “It is what it is, Claire. We can’t change the circumstances.”

“Actually, Sam, we can. And sometimes, it’s
the only thing to do. Trust me on this one.”

His chest hurt. Really hurt. “What do you mean?”

“I’m going back to my place. It’s time. It’s past time,” she added.

“No,” he barked. He took a breath. “No,” he said, softly this time. “You could still be in danger. We still don’t know how everything is connected. Please give me a few more days.”

She stared at her cereal bowl. “Okay,”
she said. “But I’m calling Nadine today and asking her to come back. Once she’s in town, I’m going to leave.”

He nodded. It was for the best.

Claire ate her cereal and packed her lunch. She didn’t speak again until she opened the door and threw a casual
bye
over her shoulder.

With Nightmare on his heels, he walked over to the window and lifted the edge of the heavy curtain. He stood
there for two minutes, watching until she was out of sight.

Then, slowly, feeling like an old man, he lowered himself down on the couch. He felt empty. And more lonely than he had in some time.

Later, he didn’t know if it was ten minutes or an hour, he straightened up. He couldn’t sit here all day. Claire might argue the point, but he did have a responsibility. If not
for
her, then
to
her. His job was to track down every possible lead.

It was time for him to meet Claire’s boss. But with pit bull Marcy on duty, he’d probably lose a hand if he tried.

He opened his wallet and pulled out a business card for Victor Santini. There’d been a stack of them yesterday on Marcy’s desk. He picked up his cell phone, dialed and got lucky when Victor answered his own phone.

Sam explained why he was calling. As he anticipated, Victor flatly denied the possibility that anyone on his team might have singled out Claire. “Everyone likes her,” Victor said. “They respect her talent.”

“Is it possible that anyone is jealous of her talent?” Sam asked.

Victor laughed. “The only person jealous of Claire is Marcy and that’s not because of her talent.”

“What do you
mean?” Sam asked.

“I...well...” Victor hesitated, as if just realizing that he’d said too much. “Let me put it this way, Detective. Marcy tells everybody that she’s twenty-six when she’s really thirty-six. She’s not exactly aging gracefully.”

At only twenty-four, Claire was a logical target. But if the note was linked to the call, how could Marcy know anything about Tessa?

“Where
did your sister work before she started at Alexander and Pope?”

“She didn’t. She was married to an attorney.”

“What’s his name?”

“I don’t know why it matters, Detective, but it was Matthew Strong.”

Sam didn’t recognize the name. But in a city the size of Chicago, there were probably twenty-thousand attorneys. Maybe the guy had been in the state attorney’s office when there
was discussion about the case. But that was a long shot.

It was eleven years ago. The case had never made big headlines because it never got litigated.

Hard to go to trial when there was no defendant, nobody to blame.

“I have to get going,” Victor said. “Trust me on this, Detective. Cryptic notes are not Marcy’s style. If she’s got something to say, she says it to your face.”

Sam hung up and opened his laptop. With a few clicks, he’d signed on to his computer and found the website for Alexander and Pope. He shook his head in disgust. On the website, for every kook and crazy to see, they had pictures of their employees. He looked at Claire’s picture. Her eyes were bright, her smile perfect. She was beautiful.

He ignored the pain in his stomach and proceeded
to print off copies of all the other pictures. The only saving grace was that the employee’s names were not listed under their photos. It offered Claire some anonymity.

He left his house and drove directly to Claire’s apartment building. Once inside, he climbed the three flights of stairs and knocked on the apartment door across the hall from Claire’s.

When Mrs. Peters answered, she
had a rolling pin in her hand. She was wearing the same robe and slippers as the first day he’d seen her.

“Mrs. Peters, I’m Detective Sam Vernelli.” He handed her a card. “I’m investigating the shooting that occurred across the hall and I was wondering if you’d look at a few pictures for me.”

“I’m not letting you into my apartment,” she said.

“That’s fine, ma’am. We can do it right
here.” He pulled out the folder. “I would just appreciate it if you’d look at these pictures and tell me if you’ve ever seen any of these people in the building.”

She sorted through the pictures once, then again. She barely gave Marcy’s picture a glance. She did study one carefully. “I’ve seen this guy. The first time was shortly after the girls moved in and then a few times after that.”

“You’re sure?”

She raised her rolling pin. “Just because I’m old doesn’t mean I’m stupid.”

“Of course not,” he said. “Thank you for your time.” Back in his car, he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

Pete Mission.

In Claire’s apartment? Claire had been convincing when she’d said there had been no visitors in the apartment. And on the trip to his parents, when he’d
tried to warn Claire about Mission, she’d seemed truly oblivious to the fact that the guy might be interested.

It didn’t make sense. And when things didn’t add up, he needed to start asking questions. He started his car and twenty minutes later he beached his car in a no-parking zone. He was inside and up to the seventh floor within minutes.

“Can I help you?” Marcy looked up from the
magazine she was reading.

Sam forced a smile. Last thing he needed was her tipping his hand to Mission. “I’d like to see Pete Mission.”

“Oh.” She narrowed her eyes. “Weren’t you just here yesterday to see Claire Fontaine about what happened at her apartment?”

“Yes. And today I’m here to see Pete Mission.”

She smiled for the first time and tilted her chin up. “I hope I’m on
your list of people to question, Detective.”

Her tone was suggestive. It made his head hurt. It was pretty clear that her brother hadn’t tipped his hand, hadn’t told her that he’d let it slip that she might have a reason to dislike Claire. Probably didn’t want to incur the woman’s wrath for an entire day. Sam figured her the type to get in a snit and take it out on everybody.

“If you
have any information that could aid in a police investigation,” he said, “I’d want to know that.”

She leaned forward, giving him a glimpse of what she likely considered her best assets. “I didn’t say I had information. But I am, shall we say, interested.”

He shook his head. “I’ll just wait here while you get Mr. Mission.” He turned and after a few seconds, heard her pick up the phone.

Mission made him wait ten minutes. When he finally did poke his head through the reception-area door, he looked pale. “Detective?” he asked.

“Is there someplace we could talk privately?” Sam asked, aware that the receptionist was all ears.

“It’s a really busy day,” Mission said, holding up some papers in his hand.

“That’s too bad. It’s
really
important,” Sam answered, his patience
wearing thin.

Mission rolled his eyes. “Fine. Follow me.” He led him to a large conference room and shut the door behind them. “What can I do for you, Detective?”

“I’m investigating a robbery and a murder that occurred at Claire Fontaine’s apartment.”

“Yes.” Mission’s voice stayed calm, almost uninterested, but Sam could see the fine line of sweat above the man’s lip.

“I have
reason to believe that you’ve been in Claire’s apartment.”

Mission shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said.

“You don’t remember?”

“I don’t know,” Mission said, his tone defensive. “Do you remember every place you go, Detective?” The man started to pace around the conference-room table. “You know what, Detective? I saw the way you practically threw Claire into your car the other
night,” Mission said, his upper lip raised in a sneer. “I think that you’ve got more than a professional interest here.”

Sam jabbed his arm out and grabbed Mission’s tie, jerking him forward, until the man’s face was just inches from his own. “I don’t care what you think. Start talking. We do this here or we do it down at the police station.”

“I...I know someone in her building,” Mission
said, his face turning red.

“Define someone.”

“Jeff Wadell. We went to high school together. He’s the super.”

Sam released his hold on Mission and took a step back. “Keep talking.”

“So I know that I’ve been in Claire’s building because I’ve stopped by a couple times and had a few beers with Jeff.”

Was it possible that Mrs. Peters was half-right? She’d seen Mission in the
building but not necessarily in Claire’s apartment. The woman seemed pretty sharp, but then again, eye witnesses were notoriously unreliable.

Sam leaned in close, getting in Mission’s face. “Claire got a note at work and it wasn’t nice. You have anything to do with that?”

Mission looked confused. “What are you talking about?”

Now Sam knew the man could have been lying, but he didn’t
think so. He backed away from Mission. “The next time you want to have a reunion with your old high school buddy, do it at your place. Stay out of Claire Fontaine’s building.”

On his way back to the office, he once again detoured to Claire’s building, and this time, he spent fifteen minutes with Jeff Wadell. He left, feeling fairly confident that the super was dumb as a box of rocks but not
guilty of much else. He had confirmed that he and Mission were old friends and that they’d had a beer together sometime within the past couple of months.

When he got back to the office, Cruz had his face buried in a file. Sam hesitated, aware that for the first time in five years, it was awkward between him and his partner. But Cruz had a right to know what was going on, especially now that
he might have a personal interest in the situation.