Deadly Fall (13 page)

He stepped further into the room, filling it with his presence. “Pack up, Augusta. You can’t stay here tonight.”

Augusta slowly lifted her gaze to his, hers vague and lost. She blinked and shook her head as if to clear it.

“No.”

Nick’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t be stupid—“

“Take it easy, Detective,” the uniformed officer interrupted, standing up. He hovered protectively over Augusta, who was studying a small area on her rug not covered with broken glass. “I’m Officer Greene. Dr. Langan’s had a rough night. She’s still in shock.”

Nick’s jaw tensed, but he decided he would have time later to bundle Augusta into his car and take her back to his place.

“What happened? And was she here when it happened?”

“Uh…” The officer cleared his throat, clearly stalling as he tried to decide whether or not to answer the question. He slid a glance to the woman sitting quietly on the sofa, as if waiting for a sign from her.

“Greene.” The command and subtle threat in that one softly spoken syllable were impossible to ignore.

“Dr. Langan was mugged on her way home—about a couple of blocks from here—but she got away, and when she came home, she found her house burglarized and called nine-one-one.”

A red haze colored Nick’s vision. “Did you say mugged?” His words were deceptively even.

Greene nodded, eyeing him warily. “Yes.”

“Is CSU on its way to gather evidence?”

Greene looked decidedly uncomfortable. “We figured this was a simple B and E.”

“In other words, no.” Nick’s lips thinned. “Get one over here ASAP. I want this house dusted and vacuumed from top to bottom.”

Greene was already putting the request through.

“Has she gotten any medical attention?”

“No, Dr. Langan refuses to see a paramedic. She says her injuries are minor and will heal on their own.”

“Of course she did,” Nick muttered. He caught Greene’s eye and jerked his head toward the door. “Get your partner. I want the both of you to start knocking on every single door on this block.”

The patrolman quickly headed upstairs to track down his partner, and Nick shifted his focus to Augusta.

Augusta loosened her clasp and stared dumbly as her bloodless fingers began to shake again. She heard Nick mutter something blasphemous, and then she was on her feet and crushed in strong arms, her face buried in a wide chest covered by a dark knit shirt. One large hand was splayed between her shoulder blades. The other gripped the back of her head, fingers entangled in her hair. It hurt, she was held so tight, but she wasn’t about to complain. Warmth began seeping through her clothes, her skin, down to the marrow of her bones. She had never felt so good, so relieved, so safe. This was what she needed. What she had needed since the moment the adrenaline that let her dash for her house in high heels began to wear off.

His voice rumbled in his chest, and the vibrations she felt against her cheek were almost enough to send to her sleep. Then she heard the words.

“I meant what I said, Augusta,” he was saying. “You’re not staying here tonight. It’s too much of a coincidence.”

She didn’t ask him to clarify. She didn’t have to.

“And I’m not letting myself be forced from my home two nights in a row.”

He froze for a second. Then he gripped her shoulders and held her away from him enough so that he could stare down at her, his expression incredulous.

“Have you gone completely insane? A bunch of reporters surround your home and you go running. You get jumped and your house gets broken into, ransacked and vandalized at about the same time in one night, and you stay put. You’re smarter than that.”

Her fingers curled and uncurled, making her wish she had worn her glasses so she could have something to straighten. Put like that, it did sound insanely stupid. However, her mind had been made up before Nick arrived.

“I’m staying,” she said quietly, her eyes steady. “I’ll call someone to install a security system first thing tomorrow.”

“No—”

“I’m staying,” she repeated, cutting him off.

His glare was fierce. Finally, he said, “Then I’m staying here with you.”

Her lashes lowered. Relief she didn’t want to acknowledge or analyze eased the tightness in her solar plexus. “All right, but I’m not sleeping with you, Detective.”

She didn’t see the anger she expected to flare in his eyes. Instead, his expression almost pitying, as if he understood her sudden move to push him away, he said, “I’m not interested in sleeping with you at the moment. I’m only interested in keeping you alive and healthy.”

She broke away from him and he let her go.

“Do you think so lowly of all men, Augusta, or is it just me?”

Her shoulders went rigid.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she said, looking away. Her eyes settled no higher than the hollow at the bottom of his tanned throat. “What you’re doing is well above and beyond the call of duty. I should be thanking you.”

He widened his stance a bit, shifted his weight, as if readying himself for battle. He bent his head further, his eyes probing hers. “But you’re not.”

“You’re wrong. I am. Thankful.” She wrapped her arms about herself, her fingers curling and her nails digging into the fleshy parts of her palms. Anything to keep the shivers that began inside her within. “But I never asked you to do anything. Other than concentrate on finding Drew’s killer.”

“Is that all you want from me? Can you honestly say that?”

“Yes.” What she
needed
from him was another matter.

She could feel the change in his gaze, the heightened intensity that warmed her skin and teased her nerve endings.

Heaving a long sigh, she said, “I need a drink,” and escaped downstairs and into the kitchen.

On a subconscious level, she noted that the kitchen and nook looked like the Tasmanian Devil had dropped by for a whirlwind visit. Cupboard doors and drawers were in varying states of openness. Pots, pans and utensils gleamed amongst the broken pottery and china that covered the counter tops and floor. Breathing evenly, Augusta told herself she’d wanted an excuse to buy new china. That delicate pattern of pastel-colored flowers she couldn’t name just hadn’t been her.

A small pile of damp soil and broken pottery were the remains of a six-inch azalea that used to sit on her counter. That was okay. The plant would’ve died in her care within the month, anyway. And, frankly, Augusta knew she should be grateful they hadn’t dumped the meager contents of her fridge on the floor as well. That would’ve been hell to clean up.

Through the door at the other end of the kitchen, however, revealed glittering shards all over the dining room table and floor. Broken glass. They had broken into her home through the French doors that led from her dining room into the walled backyard.

She pulled a bottle of cognac from the pantry, splashed about an inch into a surviving tumbler and tossed it back like it was no stronger than water. Noticing Nick in the doorway, she silently offered him some with a gesture of her glass. He shook his head, let his eyes travel down the length of her and frowned when he came to the dark stains on her pants.

“Are you feeling steadier now?”

She nodded, refilling her glass. “Yes. Or I will be after I finish this bottle.”

“Steady enough to go over what happened tonight in detail?”

She regarded him over the rim of the glass that was almost to her lips. Gone was the man who had burst into her home not too long ago, all concerned and angry. In his place was the cold, calculating professional she had the dubious pleasure of meeting that first morning he and his partner had paid her a visit. She lowered her eyes and took a quick sip, welcoming the rich warmth that trailed from her throat to her stomach. She shouldn’t be feeling that slow twist of disappointment in her chest that his cop shield—that flat look that revealed nothing from within and deflected everything without—was back up. This was what she’d told him she wanted.

“Can we sit down for this?” she asked, pushing her hair back behind her ears.

“Start at the beginning,” he said once they were seated at the table in the breakfast nook.

As per his instructions, she started at the beginning, telling him of her uneventful morning after she left his loft, her equally uneventful afternoon, her dinner with Adam and her walk home and the subsequent attack. Nick leaned closer at this point. She could see he wanted to say something, but, in a rare display of professionalism—at least around her—he exercised his formidable control. However, she didn’t need to be psychic to know he wanted to ream her out for taking the unnecessary and stupid risk of walking home alone after dark.

“So your walk wasn’t a planned thing? Routine?”

She slanted him a bemused look, wondering what he was trying to get at. “No. I just decided I needed some air to clear my thought processes.”

Nick’s expression darkened as he noted this down. She sucked in a breath. “You think he followed me.”

He gave a curt nod. “Yes. Maybe he was a lookout of sorts for his partner who broke in here. Go on.”

“He was waiting in the alley next to the bakery for me and jumped out when I walked past.”

“Did he say anything?”

“I…” She recalled the howl of pain and fury when she had kicked and kneed her assailant. However, she didn’t think that was quite what Nick was looking for. “No. He didn’t say anything or demand anything. He just grabbed me—one arm around my waist and one hand clamped over the lower half of my face, as if he was trying to suffocate me—and he tried to drag me into the alley.”

She could now see the muscle ticking in his clenched jaw, but he only asked, “How did you get away?”

“I fought him.” She took in a shuddering breath and tightened her hold on the glass between her hands. “I took some self-defense courses way back when. Drew insisted upon them.” Her lips curled slightly with ironic amusement even as her eyes stung with fresh tears. She blinked twice rapidly as she brought the tumbler up to her mouth and took a large swallow. “He said that I needed to learn how to take care of myself should he not be around to do it himself.

“I brought him to his knees, then I ran like hell for home without looking back. But when I got here…” She swept a hand to encompass her violated home. “I found this and called nine-one-one.”

“Did you get a look at the guy who attacked you?”

“No. He was tall. Maybe six feet or so. Fit, I think. If a little on the heavy side. But I think that was mainly muscle.” She paused, closed her eyes and went back to the alley. “Drakkar. He was wearing Drakkar Noir. He smelled of the leather gloves he had on and the cologne.” Her eyes popped wide open. Augusta exhaled sharply, as if the scent was still violating her nostrils. She swallowed to wet her mouth and tried not to shudder at her next words. “I could sort of feel him behind me. That’s the best I can do. He grabbed me from behind so I never got to see his face. After I had him down, I didn’t stick around. And even if I had, it was too dark to see anything. I won’t be able to pick him out of a lineup or his photo out of a mug book.”

“That’s okay. You did the right thing by not hanging around.”

Her smile was faint, but genuine. Then she looked at his eyes and her smile faded. “Whatever it is that you’re thinking, it’s not good, is it?”

The cop shield slipped a bit. “Can you even ask me that after what you went through tonight?”

“You’re thinking this has something to do with Drew’s death,” she went on calmly.

“It’s not a coincidence, and you know that as well as I do.” His shield slipped away completely, and his expression was suddenly hard, almost hostile. He closed his fingers around her wrist. His voice was lethal. “When are you going to tell me everything it is that you know? You say you want me to catch the perps as quickly as possible, and yet you keep secrets from me that might impact this case. No, they
do
impact this case.” Augusta grimaced when his hold tightened, but Nick wasn’t deterred. “Why don’t we start with you telling me who Langan cheated on you with?”

* * * * *

In Brooklyn, Charlie Medina sat on his worn hand-me-down couch and stubbed out the cigarette with which he had been in danger of burning himself. His fucking hands wouldn’t stop shaking, not even when he tucked them beneath his butt and sat on them.

His head was pounding mercilessly. He reached for the prescription bottle of Tylenol 3 beside him on the end table, popped the cap and tried to shake out two tablets. He got about a dozen instead and cursed again as he spilled all but two tablets back into the bottle. He carefully picked up the glass of water on the coffee table. Normally, he could dry swallow pills, but in his current state, he decided he didn’t want to take the risk. Even so, some of the water landed on his bare chest. The water felt cool against his skin and Charlie latched onto that feeling and milked it. He let his head fall back on the couch and closed his eyes. He could almost not smell the stale smoke and beer and sweat that saturated the cramped closet his landlord called an apartment.