No One Left to Tell (28 page)

She caught a flicker in his eye. Something she said must have hit the mark.

"You wanted a sign of good faith?" With a pained expression, he jutted his chin down the pier, back toward the clubhouse. "That key you found in Mick's office. It probably belongs to a locker in there. Ask the old man at the marina office."

His words left her stunned. Then he stood, leaving her with her mouth open and squinting toward his silhouette, shielding her eyes with a hand.

"Wait. Where are you going?"

He didn't answer. But his next comment shook her.

"Just let me know what ballistics has to say."

As Christian turned his back, her mind grappled with her heart. The cop in her wondered how he knew what would be in the locker, suspecting he'd tampered with evidence. But the woman in her wanted to blindly trust him. He must have sensed her inner turmoil. He stopped, and with barely a glance over his shoulder, he spoke in a hushed tone.

"The old man was with me. He can tell you that I did nothing more than look in the bag."

For once, she was thankful not to be under the scrutiny of his eyes. It gave her the courage to ask the question she'd had on her mind.

"She's gone, isn't she?" Standing, her arms clutched across her chest, Raven held firm to her link with him. "I've tried her cell number countless times. Fiona's left you to deal with this, hasn't she?"

No words were necessary. The betrayal in his eyes told her everything she needed to know. Lowering his head, he put on his dark glasses and walked away. She found herself hoping he'd stop and turn around.

But that never happened.

Christian had given her more than just a sign of good faith. He'd made himself vulnerable to her investigation.

"Well, I'll be damned," she whispered.

By the time Raven got home, it was after dark. She flipped the light switch and elbowed her way through the kitchen door, carrying a large cardboard box. With a toe, she kicked the door closed behind her, then traipsed into the living room. After setting her burden on a coffee table, she shrugged out of her holster, placing her Glock beside the box. The weight of it lingered on her shoulder. Dim light from her kitchen bled into the small living room as she collapsed onto her sofa, feeling her exhaustion.

A long night lay ahead. She planned to keep working, focusing on the archived box about the Dunhill assassination and a selection of her father's old case files. With so much at stake, her curiosity far outweighed fatigue. The shadows and the comfort of the sofa enticed her to close her eyes, taking a short mental holiday. It had been quite a day.

Just as she nodded off, in that space between reality and dreams, a soft knock at her kitchen door woke her. Sluggishly, she rose off the couch and went to the door, taking a peek through the small window. With a grin, she tugged on the doorknob and gazed upon her partner for a day, still sporting his signature grin.

"Hey, Sam. Come on in." Stepping aside, she let her family friend through the door. "On duty again? You gotta be one tired hombre."

"No, baby girl, not tonight. This old man is wrung out. Just came by to make sure you're settled in for the night." He stood near her kitchen table. His body language told her he wasn't going to stay long. By his changed expression, he was all business. "Any word on that rifle you found?"

"I don't expect to hear anything from ballistics until tomorrow. With any luck, the striations from that H & K will match the bullet retrieved from the body of Charles Dunhill."

"What? You don't have enough to do, you gotta reopen the old Dunhill case? That was a very splashy headliner some twenty-plus years ago," he teased. "If you can pin this on Blair as the shooter, then you got a fresh lead. You might be able to trace who gave the order on the hit."

Normally, the cop in her would have been thrilled by the discovery. Solving such a high-profile case wouldn't hurt her career, but she knew the implications. As with any murder, the investigation would start with the person having the most to gain from his death. That person was obvious. Fiona Dunhill had gained a great deal. Even if she had nothing to do with her husband's killing, the woman's public reputation would be sullied by the new inquiry, dredging up the ugly innuendos. A nightmare revisited.

On the other hand, if she were guilty . . . The thought wrenched Raven's heart. Her duty would obligate her to build a case and arrest the woman. The courts would do the rest. If she and Christian had any hopes of a relationship, surely they'd be dashed now. How would they weather such a devastating storm—no matter what the outcome? She felt certain that Christian had been protecting Fiona, making his show of good faith in turning over the contents of the locker all the more astonishing. Why the sudden change of heart? So many questions bubbled to the surface.

"What's the matter, honey? I thought you'd be more excited."

"Oh, nothing, Sam. Guess I'm just tired, that's all." She rubbed her forehead, feeling a stress headache coming on.

"Well, that's my cue to leave. You got a big day tomorrow. Get some rest, honey girl." He yanked the door open, standing near the threshold. "The troops are positioned outside, like last night. As soon as I get some rest, I'll be back at it tomorrow. Maybe we can finish our talk about your daddy's old case files."

"Yeah, sounds good, LT." Standing on her toes, she gave him a quick peck on the cheek. His face reddened to the color of his hair. "Thanks."

"Good night, darlin'. Don't spend the whole night readin'. Getting your rest is important, too." He gently tapped a knuckle to her chin, then walked toward the street. From the shadows, she heard him say, "I'll tell your watchdogs that you'll be up late."

Locking the door behind him, she leaned against it, folding her arms across her chest. Her eyes found the cardboard boxes in her living room. Feelings of exhilaration and dread skirmished in her brain. No matter what she discovered, the foundation of Christian's life would be undermined. In that moment, she understood the courage it took for him to open his past to her. But the responsibility weighed heavy.

"I just hope you're not gonna hate me when this is all over," she prayed, her voice a whisper.

The beam of the flashlight strafed his position. He held his breath, willing himself not to react. At one point, the cop stared right at him. With nerves of steel, he remained calm, confident he wouldn't get caught. He melded into the shadows like a ghost. In such a quiet, unsuspecting neighborhood, the dark side of his nature took control, a predator among sheep.

The cop finished his patrol, securing the perimeter of the small bungalow. He understood their routine, counted on it. They had no idea what to expect. He'd parked several blocks away and stuck to the shadows that deepened after two in the morning. He had a clear plan in his head with only one objective—to find Raven Mackenzie.

Taking a risk, he left the cover of an evergreen shrub and prowled around the corner of the house, brazenly following the cop on patrol at a safe distance. Carefully tracking the beam of light, he waited until the uniform swept the far corner, then counted to five. Patience would be key. Now crouching by a brick wall at the back of the house, he held his breath. His eyes peered through the gloom. He forced his body to remain still, fused to the darkness. The wind bounced sounds through the night, playing tricks on his ears.

But adrenaline galvanized him, tensing his body. He listened for any sound out of the ordinary, relying on his training. Even dressed in black, he knew part of him would be exposed to a stippling of pale light from a streetlamp filtered through tree limbs. He had to make it quick. He lowered his body to the ground, flat on his belly, crawling toward the narrow basement window. Along the frame, no wiring connected to an alarm. One less thing to contend with. Propped on a shoulder, he clutched the handle of the suction clamp he'd brought with him. A gloved hand secured it to the glass.

A faint hiss. Now the glass cutter scratched along the smooth surface, a high-pitched, grating sound.

Seconds.
He had only seconds to make the cut and slip inside if he wanted to remain undetected. Getting this close to the house spurred him on. The police protection had been no match for his skill.

With a tug, the glass broke free, still connected to the metal clamp. He tossed the tools behind a bush. Sliding his hand inside, he released the window latch. In one fluid motion, he rolled through the opening and lowered his boots quietly to the floor. The basement smelled musty and dank, the chill of the night leaching through the cinder-block walls.

His eyes adjusted to the dark, then located the stairs.

He was close now. Soon, he would have her in his sights. The thought churned his blood, fueling his excitement. With each step deliberate, he moved through the clutter of boxes and unused furniture, the obstacles only dimly lit from the narrow windows at his back. Arms outstretched, he felt his way up the wooden staircase, careful not to give his position away.

If he was discovered now, he might lose his life to a bullet. But failure was not an option.

At the top step, he turned the doorknob, then gingerly pushed it open. Slipping through the door, he placed his back to the wall, reconnoitering and assessing his plan. Down the hallway, a lamp burned. He listened intently, then crept forward. Using a mirror on the wall across from him, he peered into the small living room, careful to keep his face in the shadows. In the reflection, he found her.

Raven Mackenzie lay on the sofa, a file folder spread across her chest. A Glock lay in its holster on a nearby table. Her head was turned away from him. Strands of hair had fallen away, exposing the pale skin of her neck. He waited to make sure she was sleeping. With mesmerizing steadiness, her breasts heaved, gently moving the papers in the manila folder. The intimacy of the act electrified him.

Even though the front drapes were drawn, he didn't want to take the risk of moving in clear view with the lights on. From the front of the house, his large silhouette backlit by a living room lamp would be like sending up a flare. Before he went any further, he slid his gloved hand along the wall and doused the lights. From the street, it would look as if she'd gone to bed. The cops outside would have no reason to suspect anything out of the ordinary.

The room plunged into darkness. It took his eyes a moment to adjust. Her silhouette was tinged in a faint glow from the window. Measured breaths told him she still slept. One careless mistake now would draw the posse in blue. But an even greater concern was the gun on the living room table. She could shoot him without a court in the world condemning her for the action. Careful not to wake her, he crept closer.

All of his effort would come down to the next few seconds. And he wasn't about to back down now. Not in his nature.

Slowly, his hand reached for the gun, but his instincts stopped him. His eyes darted through the room, unsure what had triggered his reaction. Then he realized—her breathing had changed.

Too late. He'd lost his edge. A shrill alarm jarred his brain.

Grab the gun!