Risking Trust (16 page)

Roxann stood in her kitchen staring down at the two boxes filled with copies of Michael’s notes on his wife’s filthy behavior. The task would be daunting, but she’d do it and most likely wind up thoroughly hating the woman. Did that make her a horrible person? Probably. She just didn’t know what to do about it. After all, this woman landed the love of her life and then, years later, had the nerve to sleep with her boyfriend.

She glanced across the table to where Michael sat logging into his laptop. “I ordered us a pizza. Not a five-star dinner, but it’ll do.”

Without looking at her, he said, “I don’t need five-star. I need to stay out of prison.”

He had a point there. Setting one of the boxes on a chair, she pulled it open. Battered manila folders had been sorted by date and she ran a hand over them before pulling one out. February. She returned the folder and searched the remaining boxes for March. To do this right she needed to go back to the night Alicia died.

Second box. Pay dirt.

She pulled the March folder and set it in front of her on the table. When she was younger she’d sit in this same spot ruminating over her homework while her father sat across from her reading reports from the office. She glanced up and stared at Michael, who now sat in that chair. Her father wouldn’t approve. For many reasons. She couldn’t dwell on it. Not after Michael had managed to crack open a bit of her hardened heart.

“March folder,” she said.

Inside the folder she found several pages of handwritten notes and copies of photos of Alicia at various social functions. Roxann stared down at Alicia Taylor’s stunning face and an unexpected ball of jealousy clogged her throat. The woman was dead. How could she feel jealous? The idea of it sickened her. She should be feeling sorry for her, not envious because she’d shared a bed with Michael for years.

Onward
. The March folder had nothing but a recap of Alicia’s activities before her death. Nothing about her relationship with Carl or whether she attended the PBA fundraiser.

Roxann reached behind her to the drawer to retrieve a note pad and pen. Most people kept linens and utensils in their kitchen drawers. She kept legal pads.

Something in these notes begged to be found. She was sure of it.

The police had nothing.

No problems with the polygraph.

No witnesses.

No prints.

With each day, she became more confident they couldn’t build a case. Michael would be declared innocent. He had to be.

“Something has to be here,” she said. “We just haven’t found it yet.”

The doorbell rang. Pizza. She moved to answer, but Michael waved her off and did it himself. Having someone around definitely had its merits.

Five minutes later, they sat at the table, an open pizza box in front of them.

“I’ve been reading everything from the month of the murder, and I know I’m missing something.” She pumped her palm against her head. “It’s so frustrating.”

“Yeah, well, digging through these tapes will take a month. Too many damned people. All the images are running together.”

Roxann nodded. “There must have been five-hundred people at that event. I met one kid, he worked for Carl as an intern. He was cute. It was his first—” she made imaginary quote marks with her fingers, “—official function. He was so excited.”

She thought back on her visit with Carl the previous day and realized she hadn’t seen the young man. She should have asked if he still worked there. It had been fun to meet someone that young and revved about his job.

The slice of pizza she held slid from her fingers and landed with a splat in front of her.

Michael jerked his head back. “Rox?”

“That intern was Carl’s assistant. He might know something.”

Her mind worked like water rushing over a fall and she shot off her chair, knocking it backward. She ignored it and grabbed the phone off the counter.

“How do we find him?” Michael asked.

“I’m calling Phil.”

A rush of relief and anticipation surged through her when Phil answered. “It’s Roxann.”

“Hey, Rox.”

“Where are you?”

“Working a stabbing on the west side. It’s good and savage.”

Phil got excited over the most gruesome things, but that came with years on the job. “I was hoping you were at the office. Can you talk a minute?”

“Yeah, but I might have to dump you. Shuman’s writing the story as we speak.”

Roxann understood the life of a reporter on deadline.

“That’s fine. What do you know about a kid who works in Carl’s office as an intern?”

“There are lots of interns. Got a name?”

She paced the length of the kitchen, tried to ignore Michael’s eyes tracking her. “I can’t remember his name, something with a B. Brian maybe. I don’t know, but he worked directly for Carl.”

Phil hesitated, probably jotting notes.

“Okay. I’ll check it out first thing in the morning. What’s up with this kid?”

How to explain this one? She had no idea what was up with him, but it would be worth a conversation to see if he knew about Carl’s relationship with Alicia.

“I’m not sure. Maybe he overheard something. I’ve got a hunch.”

“Hunches work. I’ll let you know.”

“Phil’s here for you,” Mrs. Mackey announced via speakerphone. Roxann abandoned the circulation reports she’d been studying since noon. A break.
Thank you.

Phil entered the office and dropped into the chair in front of her desk.

“Did you find the intern?” It had been less than twenty four hours, but she could hope.

He flipped open his notepad and gave his pen a click. “Bryce Cooper, twenty-one-year-old junior at Northwestern. Nice kid, responsible, preppy. Started working for Carl in January for a semester long internship. He quit the internship last week.”

Phil closed the notepad.

“Did you get an address?”

“Yep. Apartment near campus.”

“And?”

“Moved. No forwarding address. I checked with my source at the phone company, but there’s nothing current.”

She cocked her head. “A source at the phone company. Love it.”

“It didn’t get us anything. If he has a cell phone, he may not have a land line in his house or he could have a roommate and the phone is in their name.”

Roxann tapped her lip. “Let’s check one more thing.”

She dialed Michael’s office, only to be told by his secretary that he was in a meeting. Roxann left a message saying they needed to locate Bryce Cooper.

“Let’s see if they can come up with anything,” she said. “Michael and Vic have a lot of contacts. As a last resort, I know some people at Northwestern that might be able to help. Seems odd this guy is gone, doesn’t it? Why did he leave his job before the end of the semester? And then move? I lived in the same apartment the whole time I was in school. Even when I went to the Olympics, I kept my apartment.”

“Something rattled him.”

A murder perhaps? “I agree.” She glanced down at the circulation reports on her desk. “The single copy numbers were up last week starting with the day the Taylor story ran. Nice work, Phil.”

He nodded. “Thanks. Maybe we can pull something together on this intern angle and run a follow-up.”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Mrs. Mackey said from the doorway. “The pressmen representatives are here.”

“Thank you. Please put them in the conference room.”

Mrs. Mackey nodded and turned from the door.

“Sorry, Phil, I have to run. I’ll let you know if Michael comes up with anything.”

She grabbed her notepad and followed him out, hoping this meeting wouldn’t run long because she had her dinner date with Michael tonight and wanted to take her time getting ready.

Not that she’d be cooking, but she still had to order the food and make the table look nice. That had to count for something. And she had to decide what to wear, take a shower, all that stuff girls do when getting ready for a date. Warmth spread through her neck and face and she hated it. Michael had once pummeled her emotionally and her brain wasn’t ready for her heart to give in to him.

She knew she wouldn’t be changing the sheets on her bed. That would be the last line of resistance for her. Taking a man, this man, to bed on non-laundered sheets would never happen.

Ever.

Michael rang the doorbell at seven o’clock on the nose and stood on the porch waiting for Roxann to answer. He rocked forward on his toes and gripped the bottle of wine a little tighter before it slipped out of his sweaty hand.
Any time now, Rox
.

“Hi,” she finally yelled through the door.

What the hell? “Are you going to open the door?”

“I’m not dressed yet. I’ll unlock the door, but give me a minute to get upstairs and then come in. Okay?”

He laughed. “
You’re
late?”

“Don’t start. Just give me a minute to get upstairs.”

The lock on the door clicked, but he did as he was told by counting off a minute before entering the house.

“Have a seat,” she yelled from the second floor when he closed the front door behind him. “I’ll be right down.”

Not wanting to make himself too welcome, he cooled his heels in one of the big wing back chairs in the living room while he waited for Rox. The wine and gift bag he’d brought with him bounced on his lap with each tap of his foot and he set them on the ottoman before they both crashed to the floor. Damn but his nerves were firing. Rightly so. This date had been twelve years in the making. A sudden layer of guilt landed on him. He’d always loved Roxann, had that deep yearning for her and it hadn’t been fair to Alicia. Even if she had turned out to be a horrible wife, she still deserved her husband’s love.

But then he heard Roxann pattering around just above him. Her bedroom?

And didn’t that get him thinking about wandering up those stairs? What would he find up there? A king-sized bed, he hoped. Maybe bold prints in red? Was she into red these days? He had a lot to re-learn and it put a smile on his face.

“What’s funny?” Roxann said when she came down the stairs wearing jeans and what had to be a cashmere sweater. Casual but elegant.

The blue in the sweater enhanced her eyes and it carved right into him. Made him want to see those eyes sparking at him every day. He stood and cleared his throat. “Nothing.”

There would be no way he’d own up to his thoughts.

“I don’t know what gets into me when I’m supposed to meet you,” she said. “I’m always late and that never happens.”

“It’s my fault you’re late?”

“No, I’ll take responsibility.”

He held up the gift bag and swung it from one finger. “These are for you.”

A wide smile curved her lips and she rubbed her hands together. “Can I open it?”

No oh-you-shouldn’t-have, just an excited gush of anticipation over having received a silly gift. She might be the perfect woman.

“Sure.”

She stuck her hand in the bag and burst out laughing. “You brought me M&Ms?”

Michael nodded. “The jumbo bag.”

“Are you trying to tell me something? Am I going to need these M&Ms tonight?”

He shook his head. “I hope not. I’ve already gone a few rounds with Vic today. I don’t think I could take any more.”

She stared at him, which was just fine because he’d stare right back and maybe they could stay that way for the next, oh twenty or thirty years. She finally took a step toward him, went up on tip toes and kissed his cheek. His hands, as a precaution, went into his pockets.

“Thank you. This is a great gift.”

“You’re welcome. Figured I couldn’t go wrong with M&Ms.” He reached for the bottle of wine. “We should put this wine on ice.”

“Right. Come in the kitchen, dinner is in the oven.”

“You
cooked?
”

That drew a searing glare from her. He remembered a lot about Roxann from twelve years ago, and the night she tried to poison him by serving half raw chicken stayed right there in that memory bank. That one would never leave his mind.

“Seriously?” she said. “You’re bringing up the chicken?”

“Not me.”

“Besides, I
could
have cooked. You probably wouldn’t have survived it, but I could have done it.”

“Atta girl.”

He sat at the kitchen table and absorbed the pleasure of being in Roxann’s space. He’d felt it the other night too. Even when they were immersed in work, there had been an ease to it. A familiarity. Not much in his life had been easy or familiar lately.

She slid a tray of antipasto, bursting with salami, peppers and cheese in front of him and the pungent smell of parmesan made his mouth water.

“We can go in the other room if you’d like,” she said.

“The kitchen is good.”

She pulled two wine glasses from the cabinet and went back to the fridge for a cold bottle.

“Oh.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a slip of paper. “I found your intern. Here’s his address.”

Roxann rushed back to the table, handed him the wine and an opener and snatched the paper. “How did you find him?”

“Cell phone bill. We’ve got a specialist on staff.”

She stared hard. “A specialist?”

He shrugged.

“Did you obtain this legally?”

“Please.” He batted his lashes. “I’m not the kiss and tell type.”

“Please.” She batted her lashes. “You are so the kiss and tell type.”

Got me there
.

Roxann held up the note. “This is great. I’ll check it out tomorrow.”

“No you won’t.”

The frosty look she gave him said it all. Not that he cared. She wouldn’t go chasing after this kid alone. Not when he could be involved in a murder.

“Someone has to do it,” she said. “I’ve met him before so it should be me.”

Oh, hello. That’s not flying.
“You can’t go alone. You don’t know why this kid suddenly disappeared. I’ll go with you.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re picture has been all over the news. Bryce dropped off the radar for a reason and seeing you at his doorstep will only make him nervous.”

Had to give her that one. “Fine. We’ll bring Vic and I’ll stay in the car.”

She waved him off. “Great. Whatever. Let’s not talk about this now or I’ll have to bust open the M&Ms.”