The Drake House (24 page)

She sat on his thighs facing him, wrapping her legs around his waist, and leaned in to kiss him. Except before she touched his mouth, his hands flew to her sides and tickled. God, she’d always been horribly ticklish. Losing it, she let go of him and landed backward, laughing like a hyena on the floor.

His hands stilled, but stayed where they were. Rising over her, he positioned himself between her legs, bearing his weight on his elbows.

Lifting a hand, he brushed back a strand of hair from her cheek. “There’s nothing wrong with your laugh. I love your laugh.”

Chapter Seventeen

I love your laugh
.
God, how much of an idiot am I?
He’d even been stupid enough to tell her he missed her.

Nick looked down his nose at her hair spread over his bare chest, her light peach fragrance floating around him. Dawn was poking through the blinds of his bedroom, slanting rays of light across her back. He hadn’t slept a wink, but Trisha hid. His right leg had gone numb approximately two hours ago, but he didn’t dare wake her. She needed decent sleep so damn bad. There wasn’t so much as a peep from her once she slipped into slumber.

They didn’t have sex last night, at least, not like before. What they did was make love. He’d never made love before, but he understood the difference now. From the floor in the living room, he’d taken her hand, led her up the stairs, and undressed her slowly, allowing her to do the same to him. There was no urgency, just a slow seduction, which built to the mother of all orgasms while kissing deeply. He’d never had an orgasm during sex while kissing either. It made the union so much more exceptional.

With her tucked against his side, he’d spent most of the night running his fingers through her hair and trying to convince himself he wasn’t falling in love with Trisha Eaton.

She did things to him, things he never thought he could experience again. He didn’t feel like a robot anymore. He wondered just when that change had officially occurred. What he was feeling was dangerously close to happy. He was starting to smell things. It started with her peaches, moved on to burning leaves, and in the kitchen tonight, he could smell the tomatoes as he sliced them. The acidity rose from the cutting board and right to his senses. His vision wasn’t a hazy sepia tone, either. The tomatoes were bright red, as bright as her cheeks when she blushed or her lips when he kissed them. It was like walking from a Monet painting into a Van Gogh.

Why now?
he wondered.
Why her?
He looked down at her again, swallowing. Could Trisha possibly be the cure he dared not to hope for?

They needed to get moving. He had a meeting in Madison and wanted a good breakfast in her before he dropped her off at the orchard. Shifting to his side, she adjusted to his intrusion by curling against his chest and resting her head on his arm.

Smiling, he looked down at her. The dark circles under her eyes from previous weeks were waning. Thick, dark lashes fanned her cheeks which, instead of being pale, were rosy. It took the very breath from him at just how good it felt to wake next to her, how complete he was beginning to feel.

But, like a slap to the face, he remembered he didn’t deserve this, her. Didn’t deserve to be happy. He was the monster who killed his brother-in-law, who forced his sister to plow into a tree.

Swallowing, he allowed one last indulgence and kissed her mouth, awakening her. Her hand cupped his cheek, warm and soft against his rough skin, as her breath shuddered.

“Morning,” she whispered, before her eyes widened. “Morning? I slept?”

“All night, but we need to get up.”

Pouting, she groaned.

“Sleep here again tonight. The nightmares and sleepwalking don’t appear to affect you here, so stay for at least a few nights to recoup.”

“Will you make me your lemon chicken thing?”

Pressing a kiss to her forehead, he grinned against her skin. “Yes.”

“Then I will oblige.” Rolling over, she urged him on his back and sprawled over him. With her hair draping his face, she lowered her mouth and almost kissed all sense from him.

“We really do have to get up,” he mumbled half-heartedly.

Adjusting her hips, she slid over him, taking him inside her in one determined motion. A strangled sound escaped his throat at the magnificence; his hands instinctively cupped her cheeks. She rocked, and whatever oxygen remained in his lungs rasped out.

Dear God, it doesn’t get any better than her, than being with her.

Sitting, he brought her with up him, fully inside her heat. They exchanged a look, part understanding, part fear, before she rocked again and dropped her mouth to the pulse in his throat. His arms came around her back, holding her to him, while she rode them to completion.

His breathing beyond labored, he knew he was shaking, but he couldn’t seem to stop. Tightening his arms around her, he pressed his face into her hair and closed his eyes to the blinding realization the panic brought on.

A thousand excuses rambled in his brain. It was because she was the first woman he had sex with since the accident. Stress from the case. Being isolated in a small town because he was used to the city.

But they were lies. All of them—lies.

It was because her laugh caused his heart to pound for the first time in over a year. Because the golden flecks in her eyes made him want to stare at them for hours. She could confront a man for hurting her as easily as she could weep for a lost friend. She was strong, soft, and as insecure as the confidence she masked it with.

The reasons why he loved her were the same as why he couldn’t. But for a few moments more, he held her anyway.

****

“Look who decided to grace us,” Lafferty announced from his chair in a conference room when Nick walked in. The smell of burnt coffee lingered in the air, reminding him of Milwaukee and his former life in the department. All of his senses were heightened now. He didn’t know what to make of that.

Nick took a seat at the oversized table littered with coffee cups and powdered sugar from a box of donuts, but said nothing.

Lafferty pointed to a thin, dark-haired woman on his right, someone he recognized from the forensics team, and said, “This is Annie; she leads the lab. Dr. Bill Gantry, coroner. My partner, Kit.” Kit looked like he just stepped off a school bus.

Nick nodded to each of them before Lafferty instructed the coroner to talk.

“Well,” the middle-aged man began, “Harrison’s hyoid bone is broken, just as in the McArthur case. Ergo, strangulation is cause of death.” Smoothing a hand down the back of his bald head, he flipped a page. “Nothing in toxicology, including alcohol. Stomach contents reveal Cheetos as his last meal. Time of death is between three and four a.m., though he was still warm when found, making 3:30 more likely. I can release him today, if you’ll sign.”

Nick nodded and signed the paper. One last thing the family had to do.

“Annie?” Lafferty directed.

“Right. No fibers were found. Prints matched the deceased and two guys who were printed before, Brad Johnson and Eduardo Hernandez. Brad’s middle index finger on the passenger side door handle and Eduardo’s left thumb on the outside trunk.”

“Either could be coincidental from living together,” Kit offered.

“Brad Johnson can be ruled out,” Nick said. “He was with me and Trisha for both murders. Eduardo resides at the main house. His print can be explained away easily, but I wouldn’t rule him out.”

Annie nodded, her pixie hairstyle plastered in place, not a strand moving with the movement. “Saliva was found behind the driver’s seat headrest. We’re running comparisons to the samples taken. I should know more by this afternoon. The suspect may have left it while the murder took place, since it’s likely he was sitting in the backseat during the act.” She sighed, flipping through the notes. “The blood on the windshield matched the DNA from the McArthur murder, so same source. We got one foreign hair, a white cat hair, most likely a domestic tabby.”

Lafferty raised his brows. “Finally.” He looked at Nick. “Know anyone with a white cat?”

Nick shook his head. “Trisha doesn’t own one, and there’s not a cat on her orchard. I think we should keep this under wraps. If we start asking questions about a cat, it reveals our hand and outs us. It’s our first solid lead on a suspect.”

“What about Wayne Radcliff? He own a cat?” Kit asked.

“I couldn’t tell you,” Nick said, “but I can check his house when he’s out. It could also be from the uncle’s cabin or Chuck’s parents’ house.”

“Or the Hernandez house in Chicago. Damn pet hair clings to everything. It could have transferred from anywhere,” Lafferty supplied, pulling a cell phone out of his breast pocket. “I need to verify their alibi anyway,” he said, dialing the number in his file.

“Give me the phone,” Nick said. “Nancy’s sister-in-law speaks broken English.” It was ringing when Lafferty passed it over.

Nick rose and walked over to a dry erase board in the corner of the rectangular room. When the other line picked up, he wrote down the translation to everything said.

“Hola, Señora Hernández. Este es el Detective Nick Mackey de pequeños rápidos. Voy a llamar para verificar Nancy y coartada de Eduardo de hace dos noches, viernes.”

Hello, Mrs. Hernandez. This is Detective Nick Mackey from Small Rapids. I’m calling to verify Nancy and Eduardo’s alibi for two nights ago, Friday
.

“Sí, sí. Estuvieron aquí toda la noche hasta Bradley llamado,” she said

Yes. They were here all night until Bradley called.

“
Gracias, Señora Hernández. ¿Es un gato que yo oigo?” he asked.

Is that a cat I hear?

“Oh, no, no,” she assured. “Soy alérgico.”

No, I’m allergic.

Nick turned to the group and sat down, thanking Nancy’s sister and hanging up.

“Well,” Lafferty said. “Rule out the Hernandez’s if the sister-in-law is allergic to cats and they were there all night.”

“I’ll go talk to the Harrison’s today and let them know about releasing the body for funeral arrangements.” Nick added, “And check for a cat. I’ll call after searching Wayne’s house.”

“Anything new about the Drake woman?” Kit asked.

Annie and Dr. Gantry excused themselves from the room, as their service was no longer needed. Once the door closed behind them, Nick slid Wayne’s files over the table.

“I just got them last night. I haven’t had a chance to read them.”

Lafferty came over to his side of the table, and between the three of them, they read the files in a huddle.

“I still think it’s too much of a coincidence Drake hung herself, and the murders are strangulations,” Lafferty added.

“Agreed,” Nick said. But something else had been niggling at his nerves since they learned of her suicide. “What if she didn’t kill herself? Suicides by hanging aren’t common in women. Usually they slit their wrists or swallow pills.”

Or drive themselves into a tree.

“So, are you thinking someone killed her and made it look like a suicide?” Kit asked, leaning back in his chair and crossing his fingers behind his sandy-blonde head.

“According to what we learned from Trisha’s family, nothing about the incident is worth killing over,” Nick said. “If anything, it seemed like they were protecting her, although using a very wrong approach.”

Lafferty rubbed his chin. “But if one of them killed the Drake woman because she kidnapped Trisha and tried to kill her, that’s worth covering up and murdering over. I’ve seen cases with less motive.”

Nick crossed his arms. “That bothers me, too. In Trisha’s dreams, it leans more toward Trisha walking on the Drake property, not on her being kidnapped.”

Lafferty frowned. “She was only three years old at the time. What she remembers can’t be accurate.”

Nick let the comment go, as Lafferty wasn’t there to see Trisha in that state.

“Who do you think killed her?” Kit asked.

Nick sighed. “Assuming she didn’t commit suicide, whoever it is has to be old enough and strong enough to strangle Alexandra and hang her by the banister, plus have the strength now to bring down two fully grown men.” Nick chewed it over. “It rules out Mabel Eaton and Nancy Hernandez personally, but it could still be a hired hit.” He looked at Lafferty. “Did you get financial records?”

“Not yet,” Lafferty said, rising. “It’s on the agenda for tomorrow. We need to look into Trisha’s birth parents. Or try to.”

“That won’t be as easy as it sounds,” Nick supplied. “Most adoptions are closed. Even a court order is hard to come by.”

“I know, but we can try,” Lafferty suggested.

“Look at this,” Kit said, pointing to one of the crime scene photos and sliding it in front of Nick, before looking up at his partner, Lafferty.

The photo was older and grainy, but it depicted Alexandra Drake hanging by her neck from a rope secured to the second floor banister. Nick remembered Drake’s house from his brief visit. Once through the foyer, the grand staircase centered the entryway. To the right was a formal sitting room with a massive fireplace, and to the left, a dining room. Wearing a long-sleeved black shirt and jeans, her feet were bare and stringy, long black hair obscured her face. Behind her, built-in bookshelves held thousands of titles.

“What is it, Kit?” Lafferty asked.

“Look at her hands.”

Nick’s eyes narrowed as he studied the photo. Her palms were red, almost looking like burns, though it was hard to tell. “Defensive wounds,” he whispered. “What does the autopsy say?”

“There isn’t one,” Kit said, shuffling through the stack of papers. “Here. Doctor Frank Wilson called it a suicide, embalmed her, and buried her. They don’t mention any bruising or marks.”

Doc Wilson, as Small Rapids referred to him, was not skilled enough to determine a coroner’s ruling. Something smelled all wrong. “Hand me that other picture,” Nick said.

This photo was a different angle of Alexandra Drake’s body, showing less of the room. Her hair still covered her face, but Nick was just able to make out a shadow on the left cheek.