The Shelter of His Arms (Harlequin Heartwarming) (5 page)

“Don’t give me any crap, Quinn. Reese said it’s obvious you like her. Do you?”

Travis mentally kicked himself once more. His partner realizing he found Celeste attractive was one thing. But it must be written all over him for a stranger to have picked up on it.

“Do you?” Espizito repeated.

“No. She seems like a nice woman, that’s all.”

“Ballantyne was in earlier. And I asked him about the Parker case. According to your own partner, this
nice woman—
who, by the way, he mentioned is a looker—could be our killer.”

“She isn’t.”

“No? You’re sure of that? Even though Ballantyne isn’t?”

“Sir, there was a blond woman in the hall outside Parker’s apartment the night he was killed and Celeste Langley is blond. Along with a few million other women in the city. Hank just doesn’t like to rule anyone out too fast.”

The C.O. shot him a skeptical glance, but all he said was “Regardless of that, this has bad news written all over it. Your being in an attractive female suspect’s apartment. Alone with her. Repeatedly.”

“Twice is hardly repeatedly. And I only—”

“I don’t care if you’re as innocent as a day-old baby. You know the drill. We avoid situations that could appear compromising. And consider the mileage someone intent on causing you trouble might get out of this. Do you want Internal Affairs climbing all over you? Because that’s where it could go.”

“I—”

“Quinn, you have no idea who Evan Reese is.”

“Sure I do. He’s a nut bar.”

“Could be. But does the name Fred Corstair ring a bell?”

“Of course.” Corstair was the first deputy police commissioner. Which made him the most powerful civilian affiliated with the department.

“Good. Then consider this. Evan Reese’s mother is Corstair’s sister. Reese laid that on me when he phoned and I just finished checking it out.”

“What?”

“Yup,” Espizito muttered. “Your nut bar is extremely well connected. His uncle Fred can pull just about any strings he feels like around here. And if I don’t ‘set you straight,’ as Reese put it, he’ll be on the phone to Corstair.”

The C.O. paused. When Travis remained silent, he added, “In case you haven’t heard, I’m already in
Uncle Fred’s
bad books.”

“I’ve heard.”

Barely a week ago, a team of Manhattan North Homicide detectives had wrapped up a particularly gruesome case—by charging the wrong man.

Two days later, the real killer’s lawyer convinced him to confess. And when the charges against the innocent suspect were dropped, he announced that he intended to sue the department.

The media had had a field day with the story, and Fred Corstair appeared to be holding Len Espizito personally responsible. For the false arrest, the resulting bad press
and
the pending lawsuit.

“By setting you straight,” Espizito was saying, “Reese means he wants you off the Parker case. Claims your involvement with the vic’s sister is totally unprofessional and—”

“I’m
not
involved with her!”

“Fine, you’re not. But that’s how he’s painting it. There’s also his claim that you threatened him with bodily harm. And he says he’s sure you’ll continue to harass him if I leave you on the case.”

“He’ll calm down.”

Espizito shook his head. “If I don’t do something to mollify him, he’ll be pushing for your shield.”

“Lieutenant...I’m sorry I’ve put you in this position. But I know you don’t give in to threats.”

“No. Not normally. Only, this time it seems like the smartest option. The last thing I need right now is a loose cannon with connections to Corstair.”

“But—”

“No,” the C.O. said again. “Look, let’s say I tell Reese I’ve given you a verbal reprimand and that’s as far as I’m taking it. What do you think he’ll do?

“He’ll talk to Uncle Fred, just like he threatened,” Espizito continued before Travis could open his mouth. “Then Corstair will be on Internal Affairs. And on me for good measure. So I’m going to avoid a whole lot of grief for both of us.

“I’m assigning Koscina to work with Ballantyne as the other primary on this one. And I want you to take some time off. You’ve got a pile of overtime built up. I’ve already had a memo from personnel about it, so—”

“You can’t do this!”

“No? Watch me.”

“Sir...I really want to stay on the case.”

Espizito opened his office door and said, “Sorry, Quinn. Two weeks’ leave. Starting now. End of discussion.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Tuesday, October 5, 1:09 p.m.

J
UST
AS
T
RAVIS
was driving out of the precinct parking garage, he spotted his partner’s red Jeep heading toward it.

“Had lunch yet?” Hank said, pulling up beside the Mustang.

“Uh-uh.”

“Good. Me, neither. I’ll just park and we can go grab something.”

“Let’s take both cars.”

“Well...sure, if you want. Lucy’s?”

He nodded, then started off again. His stomach felt like solid concrete, so the last thing he needed was food. But he’d talk while Hank ate. Maybe, between the two of them, they could figure out a way of convincing Espizito to put him back on the case.

In Lucy’s, Hank ordered the daily special. When Travis told the waitress he only wanted coffee, Hank gave him a curious look.

“You sick?” he asked as the woman turned away.

“No. But Espizito just yanked me off the Parker case.”

“He what?”

Quickly, Travis filled in the details.

Once he was done, Hank sat looking lost in thought. Finally, he said, “You know, buddy, you’re not going to like me telling you this, but maybe it’s for the best.”

“Why?”

“Because, since the first moment you laid eyes on Celeste Langley... But we’ve already been over that. Besides, there’s something new.

“Remember the other night? When we were talking about the coincidence of her mother and brother dying within such a brief time span? I said I wanted to know whether she had anything to gain from their deaths.”

Travis nodded, aware of the icy numbness at the base of his spine.

“Well, she did. While you were visiting Reese I went over to probate. Had a look at Adele Langley’s will.”

“And?”

“And, first off, she seems to have left a pretty substantial estate. Which she bequeathed entirely to her two children—half to Parker, half to Celeste.”

“Nothing surprising about that.”

“No. But there’s a survivor clause. If either beneficiary fails to survive the mother by ninety days, the entire estate goes to the remaining one. And Parker was murdered just short of the ninety days.”

“That doesn’t mean Celeste killed him,” Travis said, trying to ignore the numbness creeping up his backbone.

“No,” Hank agreed slowly. “But the will would have been read shortly after Adele Langley’s death. So even if Celeste didn’t know the terms until then, there’s been a lot of time for her to think about... Well, you know what I’m saying.”

In the three years he’d worked with Hank, Travis had rarely been angry with him. Right now, though, he was so mad the only smart thing to do was keep his mouth shut.

Leaning forward, Hank clasped his hands on the table between them. “Buddy, I know you don’t want to believe she did it, but so far she’s our only real suspect and—”

“Exactly,” he interrupted as calmly as he could. “
So far.
The investigation’s barely under way. We haven’t looked an inch beyond her. And what would her motive have been? You really figure that when she’s already getting half of a ‘substantial estate’ she’d kill her own brother for the other half? Exactly how much are we talking, anyway?”

“Impossible to tell, just from the will. It’s written in terms of assets, not amounts. But, among other things, it mentions a stock portfolio and investment certificates. So it could be fairly serious money.”

“Even so, do you really think she’d murder her brother to get her hands on his share? Did you honestly read her that way?”

Hank shrugged. “What you see isn’t always what you get. Could be she’s greedy. Or in debt up to her eyeballs. I doubt editors make bags of money, and she had some awfully nice stuff in her apartment.”

“Which could well have been her mother’s. If the woman left a substantial estate, it’s only logical that she had nice stuff. Hank, you’re reaching so far on this...”

“Maybe I am,” he said quietly. “Or maybe she had a motive other than money.”

“Or maybe someone else killed Parker. Someone with a motive that had nothing to do with Adele Langley’s will. Let’s not forget that possibility, huh?”

“I’m not. I’m only... Look, Travis, I’d never say a negative word about you. That’s a given, right? I’d never have gone to Espizito and told him I figured you might be less than objective on this one. But, as I said, maybe his yanking you is for the best. So why don’t you just roll with it.”

Travis exhaled slowly. His partner obviously didn’t want to go to bat for him with the lieutenant. Which meant there was no way in the world he’d get back on the case.

“Why not take off somewhere for a couple of weeks,” Hank suggested. “Go lie on a beach down south and completely forget about the job.”

Even though he stopped there, Travis knew he was dying to add
And completely forget about Celeste Langley.

He stared at the table for a minute, then focused on Hank once more. “You know I’m not the lying-on-the-beach type, so I’ll probably just stick around the city. And do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

“Keep me up-to-date? Stay in touch and let me know what you’re finding?”

Hank hesitated for a second, then nodded.

“And don’t go getting tunnel vision.”

“I don’t intend to.”

“You’ll check out Jill Flores’s alibi?”

“You know I will.”

“And talk to Evan Reese again, huh?”

“Why?”

Travis shrugged. “I can’t stop wondering about him phoning Celeste last night, let alone again this morning. Why bother calling her to say he’s pissed off at me? Why didn’t he just call Espizito straightaway? I keep thinking it’s a classic example of the perp trying to involve himself in the case as much as possible.”

“Travis—”

“Don’t look so skeptical. You know that happens. And the odds on it go way up when the killer’s a loony-tune.”

Hank frowned.

“Being Corstair’s nephew doesn’t mean he can’t be a murderer.”

“Yeah,” Hank finally muttered. “You’re right.”

“And be sure you—”

“Travis, give it a rest, okay? We’ve worked together long enough that you know I’ll follow up on
all
the angles.”

“Yeah, I know. But make sure that’s Koscina’s attitude, too, huh? ’Cuz I’m still convinced Celeste didn’t have a thing to do with Parker’s death.”

* * *

T
RAVIS
PACED
his living room, considering the situation one more time.

Like it or not, and he definitely didn’t like it, he was off the Parker case and on leave from the department. However, he was still a cop. So, as Espizito had reminded him only a couple of hours ago, he was supposed to avoid situations that might appear compromising.

Logic, then, said that since he knew Celeste was a suspect in her brother’s murder he should stay completely away from her. On the other hand, he’d made it clear to both Hank and Espizito that
he
didn’t suspect her.

Adding that factor into the equation, what was the worst-case scenario?

He didn’t stay away and got his knuckles rapped if Espizito found out. Possibly rapped pretty hard.

But how would Espizito find out?

In all likelihood, he wouldn’t, which pretty much eliminated the need for concern.

Of course, there was the
other
worst-case scenario. The one he didn’t want to even think about but was making himself. What if Celeste
had
killed her brother?

He still didn’t really figure there was a chance she had, but his gut instincts about people weren’t one hundred percent accurate. Besides, he couldn’t call himself a detective and simply ignore that survivor clause.

It
did
give Celeste an obvious motive. And if she had no one to substantiate her alibi for Saturday evening... But maybe she did. Maybe someone had phoned her and they’d had a lengthy conversation.

He reminded himself the estimated time of death was between nine and midnight. Which meant it would have had to be a pretty long conversation to let her entirely off the hook. Still, it was worth asking her about. And he could also... No. He couldn’t.

He couldn’t ask her anything that would lead to a discussion of how Hank and Koscina might build a case against her. If he did that and it ever came out, he’d find himself back walking a beat. Or off the force entirely.

That was such a grim thought, it started Hank’s words drifting through his head once more.
Why not take off somewhere for a couple of weeks. Go lie on a beach down south and completely forget about the job.

Maybe that was what he
should
do. But if he did, who’d be looking out for Celeste while he was gone? Who’d follow up if Evan Reese scared the wits out of her again? Or worse?

He shook his head, thinking there was little doubt about the outcome of this mental discussion with himself. So he might as well just give it up and go see her.

There was no way he could simply forget all about the case simply because he was officially off it. Or forget all about her. And no way he’d be satisfied until he knew who’d killed Parker.

What if you end up learning it was Celeste?
asked the voice in his head that sounded exactly like Hank’s.

If I get any evidence of that, I’ll turn it over to you, partner,
he silently replied.
So you can throw her in the slammer.

Telling himself there wasn’t a chance in a million that would be the end result, he grabbed his keys and headed downstairs. He’d left his car parked down the block, near Ninth, and he started rapidly along West Twenty-eighth in that direction.

Out front of the building next to his, a couple of local punks were in the midst of a shoving match that looked as if it might escalate. He thought about stopping and having a little chat with them, but decided not to waste his breath.

Just beyond them, an old guy was picking through a trash can. A few yards farther along, a bag lady was loudly berating a parked Jeep about something.

Home sweet home. And Chelsea was one of the better neighborhoods in Lower Manhattan.

He reached the Mustang and climbed in. Barely fifteen minutes later, he was at the front door of Celeste’s building, buzzing her apartment.

“Yes?” she said, sounding nervous.

“It’s Travis.”

“Oh.”

Sounding pleased, he thought, smiling. If he’d had the slightest lingering doubt about coming here, it had just vanished.

As she released the lock he opened the door, then hurried up the stairs. Walking out of the stairwell was a déjà vu experience.

He saw her waiting in her doorway and suddenly felt warm inside. Her welcoming smile made him warmer still.

“When you said you’d ‘check in,’ I assumed that just meant you’d call,” she said, gesturing him into the apartment.

“Well, something’s come up that I wanted to talk to you about in person.”

“Oh?”

“It’ll take a few minutes.”

“Then we’d better go sit down.” She turned and started toward the living room.

He glanced at the hall closet before he followed along, wondering whether there was a gray trench coat in it. He wasn’t going to ask, though.

And even if there was, it wouldn’t mean much. As he’d told Hank, half the women in New York had gray trench coats.

In the living room, Celeste simply eyed him until he said, “Okay, here’s what’s happened. I’m no longer assigned to your brother’s case. In fact, I’m on leave for the next couple of weeks.”

Her blue eyes filled with uncertainty. “Why?”

“That doesn’t really matter.”

“It was Evan Reese, wasn’t it? He
did
call and complain about you.”

“Uh-huh, that was mostly what did it.”

“Oh, no,” she whispered. “I should never have phoned you about him. I—”

“Yes, you should have. This isn’t your fault. Or mine, really. I was only doing my job by talking to him.” He shrugged. “I guess I just came on too strong.”

“But...that sort of thing can’t look good on your record.”

“It isn’t anything much. Officially, I’m just using up overtime. And my being off the case won’t affect the end result. Whether I’m working it or not, they’ll find the killer.

“You’re sure?”

He nodded. “It’s not as if only Hank and I were assigned to it. We were just the primaries. He has an entire squad of detectives he can call on, and when a case is fresh we always devote a lot of manpower to it. So...well, as I said, they’ll find the killer.”

“I hope so. I can’t imagine never knowing who... Left forever wondering.”

“I know. People sometimes ask why I’d choose to work in Homicide. But that’s one of the positive things. Helping the victims’ families.”

He hesitated then, trying to decide whether he should actually risk taking this any further—reminding himself that if he did and it turned out he was reading Celeste wrong, he could end up in major trouble.

On the other hand, Hank was a master at blindsiding suspects. And the thought of Celeste not even realizing she had a problem until someone was reading her her rights...

He felt as if he were about to step onto a tightrope without a safety net. But as long as he was careful about what he said and didn’t tell her anything she didn’t already know, he wouldn’t
really
be doing anything he shouldn’t.

“Look...Celeste,” he began. “I’m trusting you won’t repeat what I’m about to say.”

“All right,” she agreed slowly.

He hesitated once more, then said, “Remember, when Hank and I were here on Sunday, he mentioned that your brother might have had a female visitor shortly before he was killed?”

“Yes. But I wasn’t thinking straight at the time. I explained that, didn’t I? Told you it was hours before I realized I should have said it was probably Jill Flores?”

“Uh-huh. You told me.”

“And?” she prompted when he didn’t continue right away.

“And...do you remember him asking if you were in your brother’s apartment that night?”

“Yes. I said I wasn’t. That I was right here, working.”

He nodded.

For a moment she merely looked confused, then she murmured, “Oh, no. Travis, are you saying he thinks...”