All Fall Down (26 page)

C
onnor strode across the central lobby of CMPD Headquarters heading for the elevators. He stepped into the waiting car, punched the button for the second floor, then stood back, aggravated at the time it took the door to close.

As he had predicted they would, the CMPD investigators had finally acknowledged that Boyd Donaldson's and Joli Andersen's murders were not related. Between the differences in the crime scenes and the lack of corroborating evidence, they had been forced to that decision.

However, they had been less willing to embrace his opinion that Donaldson had been a victim of the Dark Angel. Connor understood. The minute they did, they handed the case to him and Melanie. They weren't ready to do that.

Connor hadn't felt the need to force the issue. Until now.

He had called Melanie on his way back from a series of interviews in the Myrtle Beach area, but she had been on her way out the door. Pete, she'd told him, had called and requested that she come down to headquarters. Apparently they wanted to question her in relation to her brother-in-law's death.

She had been unconcerned. Questioning her was a formality, she'd assured him. A fishing expedition on the CMPD's part.

He had wanted her to stall them until he got there anyway.

He wasn't as certain as Melanie that Harrison and Stemmons were simply fishing. Mia's alibi had checked out. Without any other concrete leads, the two detectives were casting their nets in the direction of anyone close to the victim—and anyone who might wish him ill.

The car reached his floor. Connor stepped out, nearly colliding with the two investigators.

“Parks, glad you're here.” Pete smiled, though the curving of his lips lacked warmth. “Roger and I are about to question a suspect in the Donaldson case. Maybe you want to listen in?”

Roger smirked at him. “Or maybe you already heard? After all, you and your little Whistlestop pal seem to have gotten awfully tight.”

Connor decided that pounding that smirk off Stemmons's face would be infinitely pleasurable, but told himself to play it cool. The last thing Melanie needed was to deal with speculation about their relationship. “Yeah, I heard. And it sounds like a bullshit stretch to me. But hey, it's your day to waste.”

“We'll see about that. I think you might be surprised.” They stopped in front of one of the interrogation rooms. Pete indicated the next door down on the right. “See you on the flip side.”

Connor entered the room, crossing to stand directly in front of the video monitor. Melanie was seated at a
table in the next room, her face in profile; she looked irritated at what Pete was saying, something about being sorry for keeping her waiting.

Connor grinned. No wonder she was irritated—she knew as well as he did that the apology was total bullshit. It was standard operating procedure to let a suspect cool his or her heels sometime during questioning, as a way to heighten the suspected perp's unease.

Melanie glanced at her watch. “I've got a full schedule today, so if you guys don't mind, I'd like to get started.”

“Sure thing.” Pete leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his gut. “I thought we might begin by talking a bit about your relationship with Boyd Donaldson.”

Melanie inclined her head in agreement and for the next several moments, the detective asked questions concerning the length of time she had known the doctor, what she thought of his character and so forth. Finally, he got to the point.

“Did you like your brother-in-law?”

Melanie didn't hesitate. “No, I did not.”

“You never liked him, did you?”

“No, never.”

“In fact, you urged your sister not to marry him. Is that correct?”

“It is.”

“And why was that?”

She lifted her shoulders slightly. “I know my sister better than anyone else on this planet. I thought he was wrong for her. I thought he was dishonest. Off
somehow. In retrospect, I see that my feelings were right on.”

As if on cue, the two investigators exchanged speculative glances. Melanie ignored them, not so much as batting an eyelash. Connor gave her a thumbs-up, proud of her demeanor.

Roger jumped in. “Could it have been that you were jealous? After all, she'd snagged a rich, handsome doctor.”

Melanie smiled. “Absolutely not.”

“You say you love your sister. Would it be accurate to say you'd do anything to protect her from harm?”

She didn't even blink at the question. Again Connor applauded her cool. “Within the law, yes.”

“Within the law,” Pete repeated. “Is that how you would categorize pulling a knife on your father and threatening to kill him?”

In her first show of uncertainty, she hesitated and glanced directly at the video camera.

She knew he was watching. Did she think he had told them about that?

“I was a child. I did the only thing I could think of to do.”

“To protect your sister.”

She shifted in her seat. “Yes.”

“And that was within the law?”

She narrowed her eyes, cheeks pink. “My father was molesting my sister. We were thirteen. What would you have had me do?”

“So, you feel your actions were justifiable?”

She lifted her chin ever so slightly. “In that situation, yes.”

“And what would you have done if he had continued to molest your sister? Would you have followed through on your threat?”

“I thank God every day that I never had to make that decision.”

“But if you had had to face it, what would that decision have been?”

“I refuse to speculate on a what-if scenario.” She moved her gaze between the two men. “Period.”

“What about your brother-in-law?”

“What about him?”

Roger crossed to stand before her. “He was knocking your sister around, Melanie. You were furious. Scared for her. You wanted him to stop.”

“So, you threatened his life,” Pete chimed in. “Old habits, it would seem, die hard.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“But you did threaten him.” Pete flipped open the folder on the table in front of him. “According to the security guard at the medical center where Donaldson practiced, you said, and I quote, ‘If you hurt my sister again, I won't be held accountable for my actions.' Does that sound familiar?”

“That was nothing. Just talk.”

“Just talk?” Pete raised his eyebrows, his expression incredulous. “Your brother-in-law was frightened enough to come in and report it. The security guard thought it was serious enough to include in a report. Does that sound like ‘nothing' to you?”

“Well, it was. I was angry, I shot off my mouth.”

“Do you get angry a lot?”

“Occasionally.”

“Would you categorize yourself as a hothead?”

She looked weary suddenly, as if the questions and the strain of answering them were getting to her. “Once upon a time,” she murmured. “But not anymore, no.”

As certain as Connor was of her innocence and as much as he disliked Harrison and Stemmons personally, he couldn't fault them for their reasoning in bringing Melanie in. She hated her brother-in-law—she had threatened him. The man was physically abusing her sister and she had vowed—past and present—that she would do anything necessary to protect her. He found Melanie's loyalty and bravery commendable, but he could see where they would find it damning.

Still, he wished they would back off.

“Where were you the night Boyd Donaldson was murdered?”

“Home.”

“Alone?”

“No. With my four-year-old son.”

“Between the hours of 11:00 a.m. and 1:00 a.m., was he asleep?”

“Yes, Detective, he was asleep. He's four years old.”

“But you could have left the house without him knowing.”

“I would never leave my child home alone. Never. No matter what.”

She delivered the last while leveling first one detective, then the other, with an icy stare. The two investigators were doing their best to unnerve and intimi
date her—except for that one moment when they'd brought up her father, she had seemed totally unaffected. She hadn't fidgeted in her seat and she had kept her answers succinct—her tone measured and firm, her manner confident.

If he didn't know her so well, he would have thought her totally unaffected by their questioning. But she was affected, shaken—he would bet on it. Because what she had assumed would be routine hadn't been. Not at all.

She glanced at her watch. Connor saw that her hand trembled slightly. “Gentlemen, if there's nothing else, I'm sure my chief would like to see my face again before the end of the day.”

“Sure, Melanie. We appreciate you coming down and answering all these questions.”

Pete smiled and stood. She followed him to his feet and together they walked to the door, Roger trailing behind.

“Wait, I almost forgot. I had one last question. About your father.”

She turned to him. “Shoot.”

“How did he die?”

“Heart attack.”

“Anything unusual about that heart attack?”

She paused for a heartbeat, paling slightly. “Yes. It was brought on by elevated levels of digitalis in the blood.”

M
elanie spent what was left of her day pretending to have been unaffected by Harrison and Stemmons's interrogation. After she returned to work, she had informed her chief of both the direction and content of the CMPD interview, then had thrown herself into her duties. At five, she had picked up Casey, immersing herself in their nightly routine and her role of mother. Thirty minutes ago, she had tucked him into bed, kissing him the way she always did, as if she didn't have a worry in the world.

Nothing could be further from the truth. She wasn't unaffected. She felt vulnerable, exposed and bruised. By the interrogation. And by Connor's reaction to it—complete silence.

She had expected to see him when she left CMPD headquarters—she had expected him to find her. She had been wrong on both counts. Finally, just before signing out for the day, she had swallowed her pride and called him. She'd been told he was unavailable and she had left a message requesting that he call her.

He hadn't.

So, here she was, standing at his front door at eight-thirty at night, heart in her throat. Mrs. Saunders—the widow who lived next door—had been only too happy
to come and sit with Casey while he slept. The woman had assumed Melanie had been called into work and Melanie hadn't corrected her.

Taking a deep, fortifying breath, Melanie rang the bell. Connor was home, she knew because his Explorer was parked in the driveway and light shone from nearly every window in the house.

He opened the door. He didn't look surprised to see her. “Hello, Melanie.”

“Can we talk?”

Wordlessly, he swung the door wider. She walked through and then followed him as he led her to the kitchen. A glass of milk and plate containing a half-eaten tuna sandwich sat on the table; the sports section of the
Charlotte Observer
lay open beside his meal.

“I've interrupted your dinner.”

“No big deal. It wasn't much of one.” He motioned for her to take a seat at the table. “Mind if I finish?”

“Not at all.” She sat, feeling awkward and more than a little bit foolish. “Were you there today?”

“Yes.”

She laced her fingers together. “I thought you'd… You didn't call.”

He took a bite of his sandwich and washed it down with a swallow of milk before answering. Melanie suspected he was using the time to formulate his answer. She wished she had ignored her instincts and stayed home. This was agony.

“I needed to think,” he said finally. “To sort through everything and see where I stood.”

“Sort through…everything?” she repeated, feeling
the blood drain from her face. “You can't possibly…you don't think I…killed my brother-in-law?”

Instead of answering, he looked her dead in the eyes. “Why didn't you tell me how your father died?”

She wasn't a woman given to tears, but at this moment, if she let herself, she could bawl like a baby. She laced her fingers together. “You didn't ask.”

“That's crap, Melanie.” He pushed his empty plate away. “Considering the similarities between McMillian's death and your father's, you should have told me. It should have come up a dozen times. More, even. Why didn't you?”

“I don't know.”

When he made a sound of disgust and disbelief, she held out a hand in supplication. “It's true. The coincidence between the two deaths was what originally caught my attention and led me to investigate McMillian's death. Then I realized what was nagging at me wasn't the similarity between my father's and Jim McMillian's deaths but the fact that two known batterers had died from bizarre accidents so close together. I guess I didn't say anything about my father because he didn't have anything to do with the Dark Angel. It was just back story.”

He frowned. “Back story?”

“Yes.” She tilted up her chin. “What are you trying to say, Connor? That you think I'm guilty?”

“Are you?”

“No.” She got to her feet, hurt beyond words. Angry. She crossed to his sink, then turned and looked him straight in the eyes, though hers burned with tears she would never shed. “No,” she repeated.

“I had to ask,” he said softly, following her to her feet. He crossed to stand before her. “I believe you.”

“Lucky me.”

She turned to go, but he caught her elbow, stopping her. He drew her into his arms, against his chest. Beneath her cheek his heart beat strong and steady. Melanie told herself to pull away, to reject his offer of comfort—she leaned into him instead.

He pressed his lips to her hair. “I don't think you killed Boyd Donaldson. I never did. But I had to ask. Because it's my job. And because it's who I am. I turn over every stone, Melanie. I always will. Can you live with that?”

She tipped her face up to his. “I knew you were there. When you didn't call…I thought…I was afraid—” She took a deep breath. “Turn all the stones you want, Connor Parks, but don't leave me wondering like that again.
That
I can't live with.”

“I'm sorry.” He cupped her face in his palms. “I should have called. I'm not used to being responsible to anyone's feelings but my own.” He bent and kissed her, then drew away. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.” She smiled. “Now that I know you believe in me.”

He dragged his thumb across her bottom lip. “You were so cool. I was impressed.”

“I have nothing to hide.”

“I didn't tell them. About your dad and the knife.”

“I wondered.”

“I saw.” He kissed her again. And again. She looped her arms around his neck and melted against
him. “How long?” he asked against her mouth. “How long before you have to be home?”

“An hour,” she answered. “Tops.”

He caught her mouth and sliding his hands down to her fanny, he lifted her. He didn't ask permission—she didn't expect him to. She hooked her legs around his middle as he carried her to his bedroom. To his unmade bed.

They fell onto it, laughing. She shimmied out of her jeans, he out of his—the job made near impossible by their unwillingness to stop touching one another.

Finally, naked, breathless, Melanie climbed onto him. She loved the way he felt inside her, the sound of her name on his lips in that last moment before he orgasmed. She loved the way he made her feel—beautiful and sexy, adored—loved the way he urged her slowly toward her own release, until she thought she would orgasm or die, the pleasure was so intense.

Afterward, they lay in each other's arms, silent but comfortably so. Melanie sighed, aware of time passing. “I have to go.”

He tightened his arms. “Stay.”

“I can't.” She trailed her fingers across his chest, enjoying the feel of his skin beneath her fingertips. “I told Mrs. Saunders I'd be gone no more than two hours.”

He released her and rolled onto his side, facing her. She climbed out of bed. As she did, her foot landed on a book. She bent to retrieve the slim paperback.

The Pharmacist's Guide to Allergens and Toxins.

Melanie reread the title, recalling what Connor had said about his sister's death, that he hated batterers,
that he sometimes wished the Dark Angel wouldn't be caught. She remembered the way he had insisted the Dark Angel was a woman.

Not a man.

“What's so interesting down there?”

She started, surprised. He peered over her shoulder and she held the book up. “A hobby of yours?”

“A little research.” He reached over her shoulder and plucked it from her fingers. “I wanted to see how accessible the Dark Angel's knowledge is. To give you an idea, I bought that at the drugstore around the corner. It describes in detail what happens during a severe allergic reaction, how quickly death can occur, and lists some of the most common allergens. Bee venom being one of them.”

He handed the book back and grinned. “Entertaining reading. Also proves our Angel didn't need to go to school to learn this stuff.”

Cheeks hot, Melanie laughed and set the book on the nightstand. She couldn't believe she'd thought, even for a moment, that Connor might be a killer.

She stepped into her jeans, then snatched up her shirt from the floor. “I'll have to borrow it sometime. Next time I need to poison someone.”

“In light of the day's events, I don't think I'd go around making jokes like that.”

He was serious. She stopped buttoning her shirt and met his eyes. “Connor?”

“I have to ask you a question.” She nodded, and he went on. “Have you considered that your father may have been one of the Dark Angel's victims?”

Her father? One of the Angel's victims?
Melanie
stared at Connor, her mouth dry, a rushing sound in her ears. She slowly shook her head.
She hadn't considered that. Not once.

“And if he was,” Connor murmured, “and Boyd was…”

He let the thought trail off—he didn't have to finish it. She understood what he was getting at. That would be two Dark Angel victims in one family.

Dear God.
In her family.