In the Teeth of the Wind (12 page)

asphalt tile on the floor and the white Youngstown cabinets. Even the slightly listing chrome chairs, with

their seats and backs of red vinyl, looked as though they might well have been the missing relatives of the

battered old table.

_"I grew up with furniture like this," he told her. "It's comforting."_

Everything in his home had been comforting to Conor Nolan, she thought with a pang. He'd taken

great pride in the place and although not all that expert at keeping his sink dish-free, he'd been almost

anal about the rest of the house, keeping it dust free and clutter free, polished, mopped, and swept clean.

Everything had a place and everything was always in that place. To have it so was… well, comforting to

Conor.

Getting up wearily from the table, Rhianna decided she liked the red-and-white chrome table very

much. All it needed was a wicker bowl of artificial fruit adorning it to make it look like the table from her

youth.

The bedroom had an odd smell about it and it took her a moment to realize what the odor was; it had

been a long time since she'd experienced that musty smell. When she finally placed it, her brow furrowed

and a slender thread of shock flitted through her. Close on the heels of the shock came disappointment.

The cloying odor of spent semen was very strong and very unacceptable here. She wondered why Joey

and Sonia hadn't noticed it and done something about it.

Her gaze settled on the bed and once more her throat closed with tears.

But this is where he had slept, she chastised the jealousy in her heart. _And this is where he used to lie

when he'd call me late at night_. _This was his analyst's couch, this bed, and I had been his Mother

Confessor_. This was the altar upon which he'd poured out all his troubles. It was his confessional when

he was unable to sleep because of something he'd heard or seen or felt. His sounding board when he was

unable to get some debilitating memory of his childhood out of his head. His psychiatrist when he was

unable to accept the savagery of their job, the uselessness of it at times. Here, his bitterness and anger

and hurt because of something Caitlin had done was expelled. In this room, when worry and confusion

overwhelmed him after coming back from seeing his mother, he could exorcise his demons.

The thought of Maeve Nolan left a bitter taste in Rhianna's mouth and her eyes narrowed with anger.

"She didn't even know me, Rhee," he'd once complained bitterly to her. "Her only son and she doesn't

even know who the hell I am!" His arms had tightened so painfully around Rhianna's waist, she'd

flinched_. _

"It's part of the illness, baby," she'd tried to reassure him. "You know what the doctor's told you."

But Rhianna suspected it had been more than Maeve's illness that had driven her from her son. If the

things Conor had hinted at from his childhood were true, if his perceptions were valid, then his mother

had stopped knowing, or caring, who he was long before the Alzheimer's had claimed her mind.

His mother's slow sinking into a world of her own making, a world that could not and would never

admit him, caused Conor great pain.

Rhianna wondered if Caitlin had tried to tell the old woman her son was listed among the missing.

Letting out a long, grieving breath, she left his bedroom behind, closing the door as gently on the

memories as on her building sorrow.

There were two bedrooms in the bungalow, with a small white and pink ceramic-tiled bathroom

separating them. Conor had turned the large hallway, a space once big enough to house a bulky fuel oil

furnace and which connected the two bedrooms, into a mini-office with a roll top desk, chair and four

drawer steel filing cabinet. After a cursory look at the neatly stacked papers on the desktop, Rhianna

went into the smaller of the two bedrooms and lay down on the bed.

"I don't know what I'm going to put in there," Conor had once told her. "I bought the bed from Joe

when his mother-in-law died, but who's going to sleep in it?"

Rhianna knew she would. It might be a long time before she could sleep in Conor's bed, if she ever

could. The thought of selling any of his belongings, getting rid of even one single thing, was

uncomfortable. She knew she couldn't do it and live with herself.

"If you can't bring yourself to get rid of something, then store it, Rhee," Trip had counseled.

But even storing Conor's things seemed like a betrayal.

She stared up at the ceiling then shifted her attention down the bare walls and across the drape-less

windows. This room had never known Conor's touch. He hadn't bothered to do anything to it but put on

a fresh coat of paint_._

"Why gray?" he'd protested when she'd indicated her choice of colors for the room.

"Pearl gray goes with anything, Conor. If you still insist on mauve carpet for your own bedroom - "

"I like the color mauve!" His lower lip had thrust out in stubbornness. "And it's not a foo-foo color!"

"Then gray will go nicely with the damned mauve!" she'd hissed, ignoring his little boy pout.

Wallpaper, she thought as she craned her neck to look at the expanse of wall at the head of the bed.

Wallpaper with tiny mauve flowers and green leaves. Her gaze shifted once more to the windows.

"And white Dutch lace curtains with mauve accordion blinds," she said aloud, running her hand over

the nubby fabric of the white chenille bedspread.

And a white Casablanca ceiling fan with crystal tulip lights. A brass headboard with swirls and big

finials was a must. An old-fashioned '50s blond oak dresser with a big round mirror, step-down vanity

and satin-covered bench. There had to be a white wicker plant stand with a huge leafy Boston fern in

front of the north-facing window. A scarf-clad round table beside the bed with a Betsy Ross lamp.

"You would approve," Rhianna whispered to the silent room. "I promise."

A weight seemed to lift from Rhianna's chest and she turned over on the bed, drew her knees up and

watched the last light of day dwindling down to a pinpoint flicker in the window at the foot of the bed.

****

Corbettson flicked his cigarette out the half-opened window of his car and opened the door. A glance

at his watch told him it was just a little past two in the morning. It would normally be a five-minute walk

from where he had parked to Nolan's place, but there was a thick ground fog, unusual for this time of

year, and the going would be rough. All he needed to do was break a leg in this pea soup then try like

hell to explain how he came to be slinking around Nolan's neighborhood so late at night.

He couldn't think of the place as Rhianna's. He hunched down into what little warmth his windbreaker

afforded him. To admit that she had moved into Nolan's house would be to admit that there had been

more between the goddamned Irishman and Marek than, he, Corbettson, was prepared to accept.

In his weird, twisted way, C.C. was in love with Rhianna Marek.

"If you go by her apartment one more time, you bastard, I'll kill you!" Nolan had once warned him.

_Well, you aren't here now, are you, you Irish prick?_ Corbettson chuckled. _You can't do nothing

about where I go and what I do, can you?_

He had wanted Marek more than he had ever wanted a woman. Corbettson sidestepped a child's

wagon left on the sidewalk. He had been obsessed and to some extent, he realized he still was. She'd

been jazzy enough, he conceded. She'd looked good on his arm and that was really what had counted

when they were dating. The other guys thought he was slipping it to her; he'd hinted as much. So what if

that wasn't true? Who cared? Let the guys think he had. It didn't hurt his reputation any. And he knew

they'd been jealous, wanting her as much as he did.

Yeah, Marek had been worth chasing. She'd been a moderately okay number even though she'd made

it clear to him she wouldn't go in for any touchy-feely. He'd shrugged that off, though. He knew he could

have her whenever he wanted her; he just hadn't wanted her right then. There had always been time to

make his move, to wear down her defenses. He'd had no doubt whatsoever that she would be his when

the time was right.

So what the hell had happened, anyway?

A dark scowl cemented itself on Corbettson's face.

"Oh, yeah," he said aloud. "I remember now."

He'd just decided he was going to go for it when she started seeing the goddamned Mick.

God, how he had hated Conor Nolan on sight! There'd been bad blood between them from day one.

Each of them had fought for top dog in the precinct and Nolan had won out in that department, because

he had spent time in the DEA in Florida.

Nor had anything really been settled between them when Corbettson was promoted to Detective First

Class before Nolan. The other guys still took the damned Irishman's advice over C.C.'s; seemed to like

the Mick more than they did him.

"Irish is an up front guy, you know?" Fullick had once said. "You can trust him to be where he says

he'll be, when he says he'll be there. To do what he tells you he'll do when he says he'll do it."

This was one time the Irishman wasn't going to do what he'd said he would do. "I'm gonna make her

forget all about you, Nolan." Corbettson chortled as he caught sight of Nolan's house around the corner.

"I'm gonna do for her what you never could even if you'd been man enough!"

Corbettson flinched. Hadn't he said that once to Irish? He thought about it and decided he had. And

regretted ever having opened his big mouth that time. He couldn't forget the night he had pushed the

Irishman too far.

****

It had been a brutal fight even though they had been evenly matched. Nolan hadn't been drinking as

C.C. had and had reacted quicker at the time. The Irishman's blows had landed with solid thuds,

sickening crunches that split both of Corbettson's lips; knocked out three teeth; blackened both eyes and

caused a weeklong worth of pee to run tinged with blood.

"Did you report the mugging?" C.C.'s brother, Jeff, asked him when the detective showed up in

Chicago to recuperate beyond the eyes of his fellow cops.

"I beat the shit outta the fucker!" Corbettson lied around a sore mouth and oozing lips. "Wasn't no

need to report it. It's taken care of, little brother."

The trouble was, Corbettson fumed as he stopped at the house two doors down from Nolan's, the

Irishman had beaten the shit out of him and walked away with only scraped knuckles and a shiner.

"I'd like to go another round with you, you fucking Irish potato farmer!" Corbettson felt a bad mood

coming on and flexed his hands, wishing he had something to hit.

Some_one_ to hit.

What the hell was he doing out here on a night like this, anyway? It was as cold as a witch's teat and

here it was the beginning of July!

"Fuck it." He turned around, deciding it just wasn't the right time to visit Marek after all.

What he needed was a stiff drink, a loose broad, and a good fight.

And not necessarily in that order.

*Chapter Nineteen*

Rhianna looked up as the woman came into the bullpen. There was no mistaking the family

resemblance although Caitlin Nolan-Greiner was fifteen years older than her brother.

Conor's sister was beautiful with lush curves and thick dark hair, which she had twisted into a sleek

chignon at the nape of her neck. Her amber eyes, perhaps a shade darker than Irish's, were cold and

hard, making the long, thick lashes look like spikes of steel. Twin spots of expertly applied rouge dotted

her high cheekbones and complimented the dark rose lipstick, which made her lips look wet. Her nose

was the only dainty thing about her set and angry face. She walked with all the arrogant assurance of

wealth and position, expecting lesser people to move out of her way.

As her haughty stare settled on Marek, her full lips twisted with displeasure. "Are you Rhianna

Marek?" she snapped.

"Yes," Rhianna replied, standing up. "What can I do for you?"

There was no introduction of herself. Obviously Caitlin Greiner thought everyone should know who

she was and appreciate being in her orbit.

"I have spoken to my brother's attorney," she informed Rhianna. "He tells me you and Conor were

friends." She made the word sound ugly and illicit. Her look left no doubt in Rhianna's mind that Caitlin

found her lacking.

"Irish and I work together," Marek conceded.

Caitlin's left eyebrow lifted. "So I am told." She shifted her gaze around the room, took in the men

sitting about watching them, and the sneer on her mouth deepened. She looked back at Rhianna. "Pray,

please, do not use that disgusting nickname for him while in my presence, Miss Marek. I find it highly

offensive."

Rhianna could see why Irish disliked his sister so much. The woman's attitude certainly needed

adjusting. "It's Detective Marek, Mrs. Greiner," Rhianna stressed. "Did you want something?"

The sneer became a pucker of distaste. "I was informed, Miss Marek, that you - "

"Detective
Marek," Rhianna corrected with just a hint of attitude, herself.

Caitlin flung out a dismissive hand. "Whatever. As I said, I was informed you had moved into Conor's

house while he's off dealing with his drug problem."

"What drug problem? What the hell are you talking about?"

For a long moment, Caitlin Nolan-Greiner stared hatefully at the woman standing in front of her. Then