Deadly Force (4 page)

And as hard as she’d tried, as good as she’d been, she’d never been able to make
her parents smile in quite the same way again.

“Is there anything else, Detective?” she asked, her throat feeling tight.

“We’ll continue to investigate—probably talk to a few neighbors and check out the drugstore where Fletcher Bird works. I’ll call you if I have any more questions.”

“That’s...fine. Goodbye, Detective.” She hung up before he had the chance to respond.

Hannah’s
head peeped over the cubicle wall. She didn’t even look embarrassed. “So? Does the detective have a name?”

She’d told Hannah about the shooting in her apartment. There hadn’t been much choice. Hannah’s cousin lived on the first floor of the building. It was through Hannah that Claire and Nadine had found out about the available third-floor apartment.

“Vernelli. Sam Vernelli.”

“Married?”

Hannah was thirty-eight and spent most of her evenings filling out profile sheets for online dating services. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Straight?”

Sam Vernelli radiated testosterone. “Pretty sure he is.”

“Does he in any way resemble a troll?”

Claire smiled at her friend. “He’s...very handsome.” It was the truth and it begged the question of why he had never married. Was
it possible that he was still in love with Tessa, that he’d never gotten over his first true love?

Or gotten over the guilt of harming her?

She was going to drive herself crazy. She deliberately looked at her watch. “Wow. Where is the day going? I better get busy.” She grabbed the top file off the pile on her desk, opened it and pretended to read. When she heard the squeak of Hannah’s
chair, she started to breathe again. After another ten minutes, she quietly pulled her cell phone from her purse and left the office area. She took the elevator down to the lobby, exited the building and walked just far enough that she wasn’t bothered by the smoke from the office workers who were huddled around the front door grabbing their morning nicotine fix.

She dialed Nadine’s cell.

“Hey, Claire,” Nadine answered.

“How’s Omaha?”

“You know, nothing much changes in Omaha. What’s going on there?”

“The police said that we can return to the apartment. I’ll call the painter today.”

“Thank goodness. So, do the police have any more thoughts on what might have happened?”

“Apparently not. When I did speak to Detective Vernelli this morning, he said that
they were continuing to investigate.”

There was a pause on the line. “What’s to investigate?” Nadine finally asked. “She must have just been crazy.”

“We could attest to that, right? I guess they intend to talk to the husband. I guess that’s all probably routine.”

“Yeah, sure. I thought you were going to ask for another detective to be assigned.”

After the shooting, in between
questions from the police, Claire had given Nadine the Cliff Notes version of her visit to Sam Vernelli’s house the night before.

“I’m calling Detective Vernelli’s boss next.”

He’d come to her rescue—she was grateful for that. And he’d been decent about giving back her check. But none of that mattered. She detested Sam Vernelli.

Chapter Four

Sam sat in his car and watched Claire open the door to her apartment building. In deference to the unusually hot September, she wore white shorts, a red tank and flip-flops. She walked with purpose, her stride confident, the slight sway of her hips sexy. Her bare legs were tanned and firm with feminine muscle.

Suddenly feeling as if the necktie he still wore was
choking him, he pulled it off and tossed it in the backseat. She’d really pushed his buttons this morning. She’d been just polite enough, just curt enough, just distant enough that he’d had no trouble visualizing himself as dirt on the bottom of the cute little white tennis shoes she’d worn that first day.

He wished he didn’t care. Wished he didn’t feel a sense of responsibility toward Tessa’s
sister. The Fontaines had hurt him badly when he’d most needed support. They’d put a target on his back and had done their best to ruin his life.

And Claire Fontaine had made it pretty clear—her loyalties lay with her parents.

But he had a case to solve. Yeah, it was still his case. Claire had made her call that morning. His boss had told him that. Had also told him that Claire had been
pretty unhappy when he’d told her no. He said he might have considered it, but he was three detectives down and one more was hinting that he needed hernia surgery. His parting words to Sam had been, “Don’t screw this up.”

It was hard to screw up nothing. Which was about all he had. A woman with no apparent motive to harm Claire or Nadine had tried to kill them and now she was dead. None of
it made any sense. That’s what nagged at him. Not that he didn’t believe in random acts of violence. He’d read through Tessa’s murder investigation file often enough in those first years on the force that he couldn’t dispute that sometimes horrible things just happened.

But more often than not, Sam believed that things happened for a reason. He just needed to figure out what those reasons
were.

A white van pulled up and parked in front of Claire’s building. Daybreak Professional Painters was scrawled across the side in red letters. When the driver opened the door, Sam judged him to be about forty. He had a belly and walked with a slight limp.

Harmless. See, nothing to worry about.

The driver slammed his car door and Sam saw big, beefy fingers, thick palms. Sam knew
the damage that hands like that could do.

He reached for the door handle.

He stopped. What the hell was wrong with him? The guy was a referral from one of his own. He wasn’t a homicidal maniac. Claire didn’t need and certainly wouldn’t appreciate his interference.

Sam watched the man walk into the apartment and managed to count to forty-five before thick, choking apprehension made
his stomach turn and his legs move. He dodged across the street, cutting in front of an oncoming car. He ran up the three flights of stairs and knocked sharply.

The door swung open and Claire stared at him. He looked over her head. Mr. Beefy-Hands was looking at the wall and scribbling notes on a yellow legal pad.

“I was in the neighborhood,” he lied. “Thought I might stop by. My...uh...apartment
could use some paint,” he added. He was blabbering and he felt dangerously out of breath.

It could have been from taking the stairs two at a time but he thought it more likely was a result of being up close and personal with Claire’s full breasts as they pushed against her thin knit shirt. The narrow straps on her shoulders were practically straining with the weight. Sam stepped into the
apartment.

Claire didn’t try to push him back out. She ignored him, acted as if he wasn’t there and proceeded to negotiate Beefy-Hands down from what was a pretty good quote to begin with. Finally, with a nod in Sam’s direction, the man left.

Claire walked over to the counter, picked up the man’s card and handed it to Sam. “Here. Call him for your own quote.”

He didn’t bother to
reach for the card. “I know I’m sticking my nose where it has no business being,” he said. “But I’m concerned about you. Chicago is a big city and while 99.9 percent of the people are great, there’s also scum out there.”

“I don’t want any favors from you, Detective Vernelli.”

“Sam.”

She shook her head. “We don’t need to be on a first-name basis. I understand that this is going to
be your case. I’m not happy about it, but quite frankly, I’m not going to spend a lot of time thinking about it. I expect you to do your job.”

“You don’t need to worry about that,” he said, fighting back the urge to tell her just how good he was at his job. He had a drawer full of commendations. But he had nothing to prove to her.

“If that’s all, Detective, I need to get to my hotel
before it gets dark.”

“I’ll drop you off.”

She shook her head. The telephone rang, but she made no move to answer it. “Probably telemarketers,” she said. “They’re the only people who don’t use our cell phones.”

The answering machine kicked on. “Please leave a message.”

“Pretty panties. Pretty Claire. Pretty Tessa.” It was a man, his voice muffled. “Not that Tessa was so pretty
when she was dead. Nasty two-by-four. Such a shame if the same thing happened to Claire.”

Sam moved quickly but he still didn’t reach the machine before they both heard the very final sounding click of the receiver.

“Son of a bitch,” Sam said. He slammed his fist on the counter and his mouth was tight with fury. “Who the hell was that?”

Speechless, she shook her head.

“Think,
Claire,” Sam demanded. “Think.”

She could hardly breathe, how could she think? My God, was it possible? It had been eleven years since Tessa had been killed. Who would say such a thing? What kind of cruel trick was this?

Sam pressed the rewind button on the answering machine and they listened to the horrible thing again. Then again. Until finally Claire put her hands over her ears. “Stop
it, Sam. Stop it.”

He chewed on his bottom lip. Then, very deliberately, he opened up the answering machine and lifted out the small tape. He dropped it in his pocket. His movements were jerky, almost mechanical in nature. His skin was pale and the dark pupils in the center of his brown eyes seemed bigger.

“I have to get this tape down to the station,” he said. He looked her direction
but sort of past her, as if there was something fascinating over her right shoulder.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” she demanded.

“What do you know about Tessa’s murder?” he asked, his voice low.

Only that it changed everything.
“Not much,” she admitted. “The details were always kept from me.”

“That was probably best,” he said, his voice even more subdued. “It wasn’t pretty.”

She must be in
The Twilight Zone.
No one in their right mind would have predicted that she’d be having this conversation with Sam Vernelli. Or that she’d have an insane urge to comfort him, to try to erase the grief that shadowed his eyes, narrowed his lips.

“What do you think happened, Sam?”

His head jerked up. “I thought you had a pretty good idea. Both you and your parents.”

She wanted to defend herself, them, but she couldn’t. Not when she was facing his absolute despair. “Tell me about it, Sam,” she said gently.

He started pacing, making slow circles around her couch that someone from the police department had kindly covered with a sheet. “There were no witnesses and very little evidence at the scene,” he said, his voice almost monotone. “Except what I
left when I discovered her that morning. I touched her... I just couldn’t believe that she could be dead.

“When the police came, I was a wreck. It’s no wonder they didn’t have trouble believing that I’d done it once your parents started pressuring them to look my direction.”

“I heard you and Tessa arguing the day before.”

He nodded. “I was worried that she wasn’t going to pass all
her classes. She didn’t take school seriously. Your sister was always the life of the party, everybody loved her. But she was drinking too much, too often. I told her she needed to stop. And if she didn’t, she was going to be sorry. She wasn’t listening and I got upset.”

Claire wrapped her arms around her waist. “I’ve never heard anything about her drinking.” However, Claire’s parents had
preached incessantly about the evils of teen drinking. Was it possible that he was telling the truth? Had her parents somehow been aware that Tessa had a problem and they’d been doubly focused on keeping Claire on the straight and narrow? There was no way of knowing. The only thing she knew for sure was that there was nothing to be gained now by arguing about it. “What did the police think happened?”

“They didn’t have a clue. After I joined the force and read the investigation file, I realized how little evidence there was.”

He said it without emotion, as if he’d come to terms with it.

“And what do you think now?”

“The same thing I thought when I saw your sister lying in a pool of blood on her kitchen floor with her head bashed in.”

“What was that?”

“That, someday,
I was going to get this guy, make him pay.”

Claire swallowed hard. Her throat felt very dry. “You can’t do that. You’re a cop,” she said.

He shrugged. “I loved her,” he said simply.

Claire felt a pain deep inside, almost as if it radiated from her center. “I loved her, too. But it was eleven years ago,” she said. “You need to let go.”

“Let go? Let go?” he repeated, his voice
louder.

“How do you even know it’s a real threat? Maybe some crackpot heard about the recent shooting and somehow got my name. Then they searched online and information about Tessa’s death came up.”

He shook his head. “The newspapers said that she’d been beaten. They never said anything about the two-by-four. I knew it because I found her. The only other place I’ve ever seen the details
was in the police report.”

“But—”

“I’ve got to get this to the lab, blow up the background noise, hopefully get a lead,” he said. He opened the front door just inches, then shut it. He turned to look at her. “You should go back to Nebraska.”

It was the very last thing she intended to do. Her parents would demand an explanation. She’d be lucky if they didn’t arrange a twenty-four-hour
guard. “No,” she said, wanting to keep it simple.

He studied her. “Your parents don’t know about any of this, do they? About Sandy Bird, the robbery?”

He had good intuition. It was probably what made him a good detective. “What I tell my parents isn’t really any of your business.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t even know you until—”

He waved a hand impatiently. “I know why you
want me keeping my nose out of it. What I don’t understand is why you won’t tell your parents.”

She sighed. “Since I was thirteen, my parents have pretty much lived in a constant state of worry, just terrified that something was going to happen to me. I hurt them when I insisted upon coming to Chicago like Tessa. I won’t hurt them more by sharing the grim details of what has happened in the
last week. I’m not sure they could survive it.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. He leaned his head against the door and closed his eyes. Finally he opened them. “I guess I never really thought about what it must have been like for you.”

She didn’t want his sympathy. But it suddenly didn’t seem right to fling it back in his face. “I think we can agree that I didn’t walk a mile in your moccasins
either.”

He rubbed a hand across his jaw. “Look, it’s not safe for you to stay here.”

“I’ll go back to the hotel. I was planning on staying there until this place got repainted anyway.”

Sam shook his head. “Maybe this guy is watching you. Maybe he knows where you’re staying.”

It made her skin crawl. “Fine. I’ll stay somewhere else.” Where, she had no idea. Hannah would certainly
offer up a couch, but there was no way she wanted to involve anybody else in this mess.

He stared at her. “You could stay at my house.”

It was so unexpected that she leaned against the kitchen counter for support. “What?”

“Just for a few days. Just until I can get my head around this, figure out the next steps.”

She couldn’t figure out anything. It was all a confusing mess.
Tessa had loved this man, had planned to marry him. Yet, her parents believed he’d had something to do with her death. “I...I can’t.”

He ran his hand through his short hair. “You’re afraid of me, aren’t you? Afraid to be in my house because maybe I am some whack job who took a two-by-four to your sister?” His voice was laced with pain.

“It’s too complicated,” she said. Before she could
add any other explanation, he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket.

“I’m going to simplify it.” He motioned her close and tilted the phone away from his ear, allowing her to hear the person on the other end. She listened as he succinctly told his boss about the threat and that he intended to stash her at his house.

He ended the call and slammed his cell phone shut. “Do I need to take
an ad out in the paper, too? Perhaps a photo of me with a caption that says lock this man up if something happens to Claire Fontaine?”

He was obnoxious and insulting and she wanted to fire back, but she didn’t. She’d hurt him. Badly. “Don’t push it, Sam,” she said, wanting him to know that she understood, but that she still wasn’t going to be bullied. “I’ll need a few minutes to get some
clothes packed.”

* * *

T
HEY
DIDN
’
T
TALK
on the fifteen-minute drive to his house, and Sam was okay with that. He didn’t want to argue about her staying, didn’t want to talk about Tessa and he sure as hell didn’t want to talk about the tape that was burning a hole in his pocket. Instead, he watched the traffic around him, took a few unnecessary turns and was confident that nobody had
followed him.

He parked on the street and they walked up the steps. As he unlocked the front door, he turned. “I hope you’re not allergic to dogs,” he said.

“I don’t think so. I never had one.”

“Yeah, well, just watch your shoes. He likes to chew.”