Guilty (25 page)

"Good morning," she managed, a little feebly. His back was almost as impressive as his chest. The same wide shoulders. Strong shoulder blades. A straight spine. Smooth skin over sleek, powerful muscles.

"Sleep well?" He dropped the towel on the coffee table and picked up his shirt, glancing at her over his shoulder. He was casual, like having her see him without his shirt on was no big deal.

It probably wasn't—for him.

"Pretty well." If he could do casual, so could she. She tightened the belt on her wraparound robe, which covered her from neck to knees, and adjusted the neckline. Beneath it she wore a pink mid-thigh-length T-shirt that said
Kiss Me
above a picture of a frog. Luckily, there was no way he could know that. "How about you?"

"Good." He shrugged his shirt on and proceeded to button it. Kate tried not to watch. "That's a comfortable couch."

"Thanks." The conversation felt ridiculous and stilted. The awkwardness inherent in having the cop who suspected you of God knew what sleeping over at your house was something that only became truly apparent the morning after, she was discovering. See said cop half-naked and have him be dishy as hell, and the awkwardness could not be overstated.

She wondered if he felt the awkwardness, too. If he did, it didn't show.

"I'm just going to grab a cup of coffee," she said, as it occurred to her that standing there watching him get dressed was probably a really stupid thing to do. "I already put a pot on." "I smelled it coming downstairs."

Padding into the kitchen, she filled his cup, remembering that he took it black. Then she poured herself one as well, added generous amounts of sugar, stirred, and sipped the hot brew, savoring the smell, the taste, and the promise of a caffeine kick. Her gaze was drawn inexorably to the window in the door. This morning there was nothing to see except the soft gray dawn as it crept over the backyard. She shuddered, remembering. It seemed clear that the intruder had known she was in the kitchen, had perhaps tracked her movements from the time she went into her office. The crack in the curtains—had he been watching her through them? The thought made her sick.
Who's going to protect Ben and me tonight?

When Braga walked in, she was leaning against the counter in front of the sink, cradling the thick mug in both hands. A quick glance told her that he was now fully dressed, down to the shoes. His tie was slung around his neck. He looked only marginally less tired than he had the night before. His eyes were bloodshot. His hair was unruly. He badly needed a shave.

He looked scruffy, disreputable, and way more like a bad guy than a cop.

Considering everything, it was actually surprising how safe he made her feel.

"Did I miss anything during the night?" she asked, thrusting the cup she'd filled at him as he came toward her.

"Nope." He accepted it and took a healthy swallow. His eyes met hers. "Except maybe me snoring."

She smiled involuntarily. "Urn, too much information?"

A glimmer of an answering smile appeared in his eyes. Then it vanished as he took another quick chug of coffee, set his mug down on the counter, and started walking away.

"I'm out of here," he said over his shoulder. "Come lock the door behind me."

Setting her own mug down, she followed him through the kitchen and across the shadowy living room. He paused with a hand on the knob to look warily out the small window in the door. Apparently, he saw nothing to give him pause, because he opened it. A rush of crisp air, fragrant with the scent of fall, hit her, blowing the hair back from her face, swirling around her bare legs and feet and raising goose bumps in its wake. Moving to the door to close it behind him as he stepped out onto the small front porch, she looked past him to see that his car was still in the dark driveway and pink fingers of dawn were just beginning to climb the sky above the houses across the street. Nothing stirred. No one was in view.

He looked around at her. "Try to stay out of trouble, will you?"

Kate blinked.
Like I asked for any of this?

Before indignation could well and truly take hold, she thought of how soundly she had slept, and how differently the night might have turned out if he had left her and Ben on their own.

"Hey," she said to him. Stepping off the porch, he glanced back at her inquiringly. "Thanks for staying."

"You're welcome." His eyes slid down her body and he grinned suddenly. "Nice frog."

Taken aback, Kate frowned in incomprehension before suddenly stopping to look down at herself. Sure enough, the lapels of her robe had parted. A good-size section of her pink nightshirt, including a big green head topped by googly eyes and the words
Kiss Me,
was clearly visible.

She felt her face growing warm with embarrassment. The sound of a car door closing caused her to look up. Braga was already in his car, she saw. Seconds later, the headlights came on and his car started backing out.

She stepped inside, quickly shutting and locking the door. As the shadowy stillness of her now quiet house enveloped her, she was conscious of fear closing like a fist around her stomach.

Braga suspected there had been a second man in the security corridor. And Mario was sending goons to threaten her.

As the new realities of her life came crashing down, her heart started to pound. Her pulse began to race. Her throat went dry.

And the sad thing was the day was only beginning.

TOM KNEW he had trouble even before he got the call back from Wade Bowling in forensics.

Located in the lab in the Roundhouse's basement, forensics was conducting tests on the various guns used in the shootings, trying to ascertain which victim had been shot by which weapon and which perp had been responsible for firing said weapon. Tom had called Bowling for an update as soon as he'd gotten to work that morning. He hadn't considered it all that important, because he was pretty sure he knew the answers anyway, although forensics' confirmation would provide needed verification. After that, he'd been so busy with other facets of the investigation that the unreturned call to forensics had almost slipped his mind.

Which, when it wasn't wrestling with trying to determine how the original guns—he was almost certain there were only two that hadn't been taken from deputies—had gotten into the inmates' hands, was continually being infiltrated by stealth thoughts of Kate White. By staying the night at her house, he had overstepped the boundaries of professional distance, and he knew it. Still, playing overnight protector to a scared woman and her kid was not actually against any rules, nor did it violate any departmental ethics codes. She was not— officially—suspected of anything. And he had slept on the couch. The problem was, he was attracted to her.
Okay, get real. You've got the hots for her big-time.
Last night, after someone had terrorized her for the second time in about four hours—which, in his experience, was something of a record—she had stumbled into his arms. What he had felt as he'd held her could not be characterized by any stretch of the imagination as professional disinterest. He had wanted her. Bad.

Which wasn't exactly surprising. His smokin' little ADA, as Fish had called her, was a desirable woman. Any man worth his testosterone would want her. He could deal with wanting her. He might not appreciate the ramifications, but he could deal.

What was complicating the situation was that he also liked her much more than he should.

When she wasn't scared to death—her typical state since he'd made her acquaintance—it turned out that she was funny, smart, and assertive, and from everything he'd been able to observe, a hell of a good mom.

And her boy seemed like a nice little kid.

Under different circumstances, he would turn tail and run like hell from the pair of them.

Which had been his firm intention when he'd left her house that morning.

Unfortunately, that didn't look like it was going to be possible. Like any careful investigator would, he had spent a portion of the morning doing a quick background check on a person of interest in the case whose story wasn't quite adding up. That person was Kate.

First things first: She had no criminal record in the state of Pennsylvania, which, while not a surprise, was definitely a relief. Then, starting from the present, he'd worked his way back through her life. What he had found had both increased his admiration of her tenfold and raised a number of red flags. Hired at the DA's office at age twenty-eight with stellar recommendations, she had spent the three previous years funded by student loans and scholarships at Temple Law School, where she had excelled despite what one source referred to as "the pressures of being a single mother." Before that, she had taken five years and change to earn a degree in psychology from Drexel University. Both were urban schools, with a large percentage of dropouts because of the nature of the student body. Getting through college had taken her five years because, in addition to receiving financial aid, she had supported herself and her son by working nights as a waitress.

Before that, the picture started to get a little murky, but he traced her back to Atlantic City, New Jersey, with minimal trouble. There, public records indicated, her son had been born—she'd been nineteen at the time; one Chaz White was listed on the birth certificate as the father—and she—Katrina Dawn Kominski—had married Charles Edward White, age twenty-four, seven months before. On the marriage license application, she had listed her occupation as waitress; White had put CEO, White Security Company. Tom assumed that Charles Edward White was the Chaz White on the birth certificate and, thus, Ben's father, and that either he had a quirky sense of humor or was given to elevating his own importance, because other records—notably, his obituary—listed his occupation as a bouncer at Harrah's Casino. He was twenty-five at the time of his death, which was called "sudden," though no cause was given.

Tom remembered Ben saying that his father had perished in a car accident not long after his birth.

The marriage license also named Kate's parents—Lois Smolski Johansen and Walter Sykes Kominski—and place of birth: Baltimore, Maryland. Both parents had criminal records, the mother for drugs and a variety of other nonviolent crimes, the father for drugs and a list of offenses, some violent, some not, as long as Tom's arm. Both were now deceased.

It was in Maryland that the trail got really interesting. Kate had a juvenile record, which he couldn't access; from the age of nine she'd bounced around the foster-care system, with her longest placement being one year, and at age fifteen she had apparently disappeared without a trace, not to resurface until she'd filed for a marriage license three years later in Atlantic City.

He was still pondering what that meant for the investigation when Bowling in forensics finally called him back.

"So, what'd he say?" Fish asked, referring to Bowling, after Tom hung up.

Tom was seated behind his cluttered desk, a cup of coffee at his elbow—his sixth or seventh of the day; the truth was, he hadn't slept worth a damn on Kate's couch—his notebook in front of him, a pen in his hand. They were in the Duty Room at the Roundhouse, it was past lunchtime, and Fish was kicked back in the chair across from Tom's desk, waiting for them to head out on their usual midday run to Margee 's for cheesesteaks. Fish was resplendent as always in one of his snazzy suits—today's was solid navy blue, with a striped shirt and a patterned tie. Tom was showered and shaved and dressed in an old favorite gray corduroy jacket—hey, it had all its buttons—black slacks, white shirt, and red tie. (Red ties, he had discovered by trial and error over the years, pretty much went with anything.) The day had been going well, or at least as well as a day could in which the murders of four fellow law-enforcement officers and a judge were his top priority, while from points all across the city more murders just kept rolling in, and he was tired as hell and slightly distracted by an inconvenient attraction to a woman lawyer with a juvie record and a murky past who might or might not be a player in the crime he was investigating.

Then Bowling called and, in the course of an ordinary cross-check of facts Tom already knew, threw a wrench in the works that threatened to send a perfectly good day straight down the toilet.

That was when Tom knew he had it bad. Because right after he hung up the phone and Fish asked what Bowling had said, his first impulse had been to lie to his partner, his longtime friend, his fellow detective, and say, "Nothing new."

Instead, he hesitated, tapping the notebook in which he kept track of things with the end of his pen, frowning at Fish across the desk.

"What?" Fish knew him well enough to sit up a little straighter in anticipation.

Tom was conscious of a sense of extreme reluctance to part with the information he had just received. He forced himself past it.

"The usual. What we knew. Except, whoever shot Rodriguez was probably left-handed."

There, he'd said it.

It took Fish a second, and then his eyes widened. "Is the pretty prosecutor left-handed?"

"I don't know." His memories on that point were admittedly a little hazy, but he didn't think so. "But I mean to find out."

"So ..." Fish began, but was cut off by Ike's looming presence behind him.

"Glad you two are still here." Ike looked about as cheerful as Tom felt. "A call just came in. Two bodies found in a burnt-out U-Haul in Montgomery County. Looks like they might be our guys."

"The ones who were supposed to drive the getaway vehicle?" Fish's voice quickened with interest. He surged to his feet. "Yippie-i-ay, we're really cooking now."

Ignoring the bad joke that had Fish (and Fish alone) grinning at his own wit, Tom rose, too. He might feel grim as hell, but as a cop he played no favorites. "We'll check it out."

"You do that." With a nod, and a quelling stare for Fish, Ike went on his way.

Feeling tension tightening his nerves until they were stretched as taut as piano wire, Tom headed out with Fish, and tried not to think about how this whole thing was going to play out if Kate White, as he suspected, was right-handed.