Hot Contact (5 page)

She jangled her keys. “Good night, Detective.”

“You have my number.” He dragged a finger down her cheek, lifted her hair over her ear to run his fingertip around the shell then leaned close to say, “I'm in Olympic form, by the way.”

He stole her breath with his sexy tone of voice. “For what event?” she asked.

“A marathon.” He kissed that tender spot right below her ear.

She closed her eyes. “Twenty-six miles?”

“Twenty-six hours.”

Arianna's imagination went wild with possibilities. “Athletes are supposed to abstain before big events.”

His laugh was low and husky. “I have been abstaining. The marathon would be the big event.”

“Oh.”

He pulled his head back enough to make eye contact. “I'm good for a sprint, but mostly, Arianna, I'm a long-distance runner.”

“Good to know.” She walked away wondering if she'd just made the biggest mistake of her life.

M
ore than a week later Arianna sat behind her desk and studied her partners as they discussed active cases over a late lunch, their first opportunity since Sam had returned from his honeymoon. The two men couldn't be more opposite, she thought, although at their cores, they were similar—intelligent, reliable, trustworthy and loyal. But Nate Caldwell was blond, easygoing and social, the most publicly visible of the partners, and Sam Remington was dark, serious and a very private man—at least until he'd married U.S. Senator Dana Sterling two weeks ago. Arianna fell somewhere in the middle, both a public and private person. She was also the managing partner in ARC Security & Investigations because she hated paperwork the least of the three of them.

Today she was surrounded by paperwork—current case files, billings, expense account statements, and résumés. They needed to hire at least two more investigators, bring
ing their total to fourteen. More support staff would soon follow.

“We need to get serious about San Francisco,” she said, as Nate and Sam ended their discussion. “We've got to get someone local, ASAP.” Arianna looked at Sam, questioning silently, as did Nate.

“I could move there for now,” Sam said. “But once Dana's term is up, we plan to live here. She's probably going to teach at UCLA.”

“Any ideas on who we could get?” Arianna asked.

“One.” Sam leaned back. “I only know him as Doc. Met him when we were working the Douglas Walker case a couple years back. We were hired by different family members but to do the same job—find out who was embezzling from the family business. Our paths crossed. We worked together.”

“Doc? All we need is Happy and Grumpy and we've got ourselves a branch office,” Nate said with a grin. “Hey, it's San Francisco. We can probably even find a receptionist named Snow.”

“Obviously we're not putting you in charge of the hiring,” Arianna said dryly. “What impressed you about him, Sam?”

“He didn't get territorial over his findings, which is rare, as you know. Plus he could make himself invisible.”

“You're good at that.”

“He's better. He keeps to the shadows even more. And he's got computer skills beyond mine.”

“Hard to believe. You gonna finish that?” Nate asked, pointing to Arianna's unfinished turkey sandwich, grabbing it when she shook her head. “Problem is, loners don't like to work for someone else. He'll demand his own terms.”

“The good ones always do,” Arianna said. “But, Sam, if he's that mysterious, how do we get in touch with him?”

“I can track him down.”

Arianna had no doubt about that. She tapped her pen on her desktop. “He sounds like someone who picks and chooses his clients. Would he work for a firm where he'd be assigned cases?”

“I don't know, but you asked for names, and he's the only one I can think of who's good enough to maintain our reputation. That's critical. If you both agree, I'll check him out.”

Nate nodded.

Arianna's intercom beeped. She hit the speaker button. “Yes, Julie?”

“There's a Joe Vicente on line two.”

Arianna's heart thumped. Sam and Nate seemed to come to attention. She tried not to react. “Would you tell him I'll call him back shortly, please.”

“He says it's urgent.”

Urgent. Her stomach lurched. “Okay. Thanks. I'll take it.” Before she pushed the line-two button she looked at Nate and Sam. “If that's all…?”

“Joe Vicente,” Nate said thoughtfully. “Wasn't he the LAPD cop in charge of Alexis Wells's case last year? Sam told me about him, I think. As I recall Sam said you were oozing pheromones all around him, Ar.”

“Go away, Nate.”

“You're blushing,” Nate said, his surprise wiping out the previous teasing tone. “When did this become a thing?”

“It's not a thing. He's helping me with something. Go away.”

Nate stuffed the last of the sandwich in his mouth and left the room with a backward wave.

Sam trapped her with his gaze. “You okay, Ar?”

“Yes.”

He watched her for a few more seconds then he, too, left, shutting the door behind him without being asked.

Over the past week Arianna had done her best to ignore Joe's existence. Wasted energy. If anything, her reaction was stronger. She couldn't remember her mouth going dry over a man before.

She drew a ragged breath then picked up the phone. “Good morning, Detective.”

“That won't work, you know.”

She clenched the receiver. He sounded good—warm and playful. “What won't?”

“Calling me Detective. Trying to keep this all business between us.”

“It is business.”

“No. It isn't. Except at the moment.”

She sat up. “You found the file.”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“I'll tell you when I see you.”

“Will you bring it here to the office?”

A beat passed. “No.”

She bit back her impatience. “Do you want me to come to your parents' house?”

“My house. I'll give you the address.”

She wrote it down, as well as the directions. “I'll be there as soon as I can.”

“Keep it at the speed limit.”

She smiled. “Yes, sir. Joe?”

“What?”

“Are the answers there?”

“You can read the file, Arianna. I'll be waiting for you.” He hung up.

She took a minute to settle herself. Finally she would have the facts. She could find the truth. Then the nightmares would end.

 

Joe leaned against his front porch pillar, waiting for Arianna. He wished he could invite her to sit and talk for a while first, but reading the file would be her priority. He couldn't blame her for that.

It had been hard not calling her all week, but especially over the weekend, when days always seem longer alone. Insomnia still kept him company at night, and his stomach burned like the devil had sold it a franchise, but added to the mix now was Arianna. Smart, sexy Arianna.

He saw her car approach. He wondered where she lived. In some contemporary house with a pool, probably. In his neighborhood of mostly eighty-year-old bungalows, people were buying and renovating houses with an eye for tradition. He liked watching the transformations, especially since he'd invested a lot of time and money redoing his house five years ago when he moved in.

Arianna came up the front walk, her stride leisurely but her body tense. She wore a deep-green jacket and skirt, which landed a few inches above her knees. High heels added to her height. Her blouse was white and simple, a deep V giving a hint of cleavage, where a simple gold pendant nestled. He'd bet she didn't own anything with frills or flowers. The tailored look suited her, made her seem even more feminine.

She pulled off her sunglasses as she stopped beside him on the porch. Her hair shimmered in the sunlight. Her eyes glittered. Tension bracketed her mouth. She said nothing. He understood that she was too emotional to speak.

He rested a hand on her shoulder. “I took down a painting in my parents' bedroom. It had been there for as long as I can remember,” he said, giving her the details. “I
found a safe behind it. I had no idea what the combination was. I searched through everything. Then I remembered the numbers on your father's file label. The only file with that kind of number. I tried it. It worked. Inside was his paperwork.”

“Anything else?”

“My mother's pearls, handed down from mother to daughter for five generations. A Smith & Wesson .38 revolver. It may be a police issue, but it may not. I'll have to check what was issued in the seventies. Dad had a gun safe. I don't know why that particular weapon was in his personal safe. I hesitate to make assumptions. However, the serial number was filed off the weapon.”

Her brows furrowed. “You think—”

“I don't know what to think. I don't want to guess.” He pushed away from the pillar. “Everything's stacked on my desk in my office.”

He led the way, wondering what she thought of his house that he'd painstakingly gutted and restored in true bungalow style. The furnishings weren't overly masculine. He'd tried to create a house he could bring a wife to, a home for children to grow and laugh and come home to visit when they were grown. He'd thought Jane would be that wife. She'd led him to believe it. Then she'd walked away when the going got tough.

It was better to have learned her character before the wedding, but that was small consolation for heartache—and for being so wrong about someone.

“Do you want something to drink?” he asked Arianna, knowing her answer would be no.

“No, thank you.”

“Have a seat.”

She sat behind his desk and stared at the stack in front of her. “It's a big file.”

“He was a murdered cop.”

She spread her hands over the pile. “Can't you just tell me what's here?”

“No.” He knew she needed to see it, to read it for herself. There were newspaper clippings. Crime-scene photos. A videotape of it, too, and of the funeral. Arianna, at age eight, had been stoic even then—until her father's coffin was lowered into the ground. Watching it had wrenched his heart and chilled his soul.

He took a seat across from her, watched as she slowly pored through the paperwork, including his father's notebook. Joe had taken the crime-scene photos and tape out of the packet and put them in a drawer. She didn't need to see those.

“I don't understand,” she said after a long time. “I mean that literally. I can't understand his notes. Can you?”

“Very little of it.”

“It's so cryptic. Like some kind of shorthand. Or code.”

“Yeah.”

She pushed herself up, the force knocking her chair over. She ignored it.

“We're no closer now than we were without the file,” she said, exasperation in her voice. “It's gibberish.”

“It has to mean something.”

She paced. Along the way she straightened pictures on the wall, and the plaques for honors he'd won in high school as varsity quarterback. Trophies filled a bookcase, not only for football, but baseball, too.

She stopped at last and turned to look at him. He knew what she would say before she said it.

“I have to talk to your father.”

A
rianna waited for his answer. She heard a clock ticking and looked for it, spotting it on a table beside a big leather chair. She focused on the clock—on time. Time passing…running out…gone by.

Time flies. Drags. Stands still.

Time waits for no man.

Time heals all wounds.

Long time no see.

“Okay,” Joe said, resignation in his voice. “Okay.”

Her tension let go all at once and light-headedness took over. She reached blindly for something to hold on to. She felt his hand grip hers. His arm slid around her waist.

“Sit down,” he said, moving her to the leather chair, kneeling beside her. “Breathe slowly.”

She prided herself on her ability to control her emotions, but the tidal wave crashing down on her had her flounder
ing for her footing. “I'm all right,” she said, maybe more to herself than to him.

“Just relax. Do you want some water?”

She shook her head. “I just want to see your father.”

He stood, hesitated. “I'll back my car out of the garage. Stay here for a minute.”

“I'm fine,” she insisted. “I'll go with you.”

“Suit yourself.”

Arianna gathered the materials and slid them into a canvas bag lying on the desk. In the early evening duskiness they walked in silence to the garage, then drove without speaking a few miles before pulling up in front of a well-maintained two-story Spanish-style house. Small yucca trees and shiny-leafed bird-of-paradise plants helped soften the lines of the house. The lawn was neat and trimmed.

And bars covered the windows.

She climbed out of the car and walked beside Joe to the front door. He didn't knock but let himself in with a key. Their footsteps echoed in the Spanish-tile entry hall. The house seemed deserted.

“Wait here,” he said, then left her standing alone by the front door.

She pulled a small mirror out of her pocket, combed her hair with her fingers, and swiped her hands across her cheeks to bring color to her face. She tugged on her jacket, wishing she'd worn pants today instead of a skirt.

“Arianna.” His voice surprised her. She hadn't heard him return. “Come this way.”

He led her down a hall and into a room, letting her precede him. The room was well lit. She spotted a man seated in a chair by a window. He smiled when they entered. He looked so much like Joe that Arianna stopped in her tracks. Older, yes, but the same full head of hair, only gray. The
same green eyes and strong jaw. He wore a blue jogging suit. And slippers.

“Hi, Dad. It's Joe,” Joe said, passing by Arianna to go to his father and giving him a kiss on the cheek.

A yellow Lab sat up and wagged its tail, then laid its head in Mr. Vicente's lap and got a pat on the head. An old dog, Arianna decided, but one who loved its master.

“Hi, Chief. Hey, buddy,” Joe said, scratching the dog behind the ears.

Mr. Vicente continued to smile but there was no recognition in his eyes. Alzheimer's, she realized. She would find no answers here.

“This is my friend, Arianna,” Joe said.

“Hello,” Mr. Vicente said.

Reaction tumbled through her. Anger and hurt that Joe hadn't told her what was wrong with his father so that she would've been prepared. Frustration that once again she had hit a brick wall in her investigation of her father's death. Sadness for Joe, too. He'd lost his mother to lung cancer, and now he dealt with this.

She moved closer to Mr. Vicente and bent toward him. “Hello. I'm happy to meet you.” Chief nudged her with his wet nose.

Mr. Vicente looked at Joe, who crouched beside him, taking his father's hand in his. “Mrs. Winters said you went to the park today and saw the squirrels.”

He perked up. “Squirrels. They like nuts.” He slipped a frail hand into his jacket pocket and fished around. “Nope. No nuts. Squirrels. They like nuts.”

“I'll bring some for your next trip to the park.”

“Okay. Okay, Tommy.”

Arianna wondered who Tommy was. Joe shut his eyes for a moment before he answered.

“Okay, Dad.”

“Can you get some nuts?”

“Yes, Dad. I'll bring some next time.”

His father stroked Joe's hair, his smile soft, his eyes tender. A memory slammed into Arianna of Mike Vicente years ago, coming to her house after the murder. She'd forgotten. She'd forgotten the soft-spoken man who'd stood by in silence as her mother screamed at him, and Arianna got caught up in the high tension. Protective of her mother, she'd also been drawn to the comfort he'd seemed to offer. He'd asked if there was anything he could do for her, and she'd wanted to fling herself into his arms and stay there. Instead she'd kicked his shins and yelled at him to leave them alone.

All that came rushing back to Arianna in a flash, a memory embedded all these years.

“I remember you,” Arianna said now, her throat burning. “You came to my house. You were kind. Thank you for your kindness.”

He smiled as if he remembered what she was talking about, but his eyes were vacant. “You're welcome.”

She glanced at Joe, saw the question in his eyes through the blur in her own.

“Can I get you anything, Dad?” he asked.

“No. No. I'm fine.”

“Okay. I'll see you tomorrow.” He kissed his father's forehead as he stood.

Arianna put out her hand. “Goodbye, Mr. Vicente. I'm happy to have seen you again.”

He looked at her hand for a few seconds, then put out his left hand and squeezed hers. His skin felt papery, his bones fragile. His gaze seemed to sharpen, though.

“You look like your mother,” he said as she started to move away.

Startled, Arianna glanced at Joe, who looked intently at his father. “I do?” she asked.

“She was beautiful, your mother.”

He remembered her mother? “Thank you. I think so, too.”

“I loved her, you know.”

Oh. Not her mother, then. Someone else. Someone special.

Joe took her by the arm and pulled her along with him. “Bye, Dad.”

“Goodbye, Tommy.”

She didn't say anything until they were in the car. He put the key in the ignition but didn't start the engine, apparently knowing she needed to talk first.

“You could've told me,” she said.

“You had to see for yourself. You wouldn't have believed me.”

Maybe he was right. She would've believed, but not as much as seeing proof. “How long has he been that way?”

“He was diagnosed three years ago, but the illness progressed slowly. Mom took care of him at home even while she was having chemo. Toward the end she allowed homecare nurses during the day. I stayed at the house at night. Then after Mom died, I took over his care, until I couldn't anymore.” He looked out the windshield. “I just couldn't.”

“So, you're selling the house to pay for his care?”

“It's expensive. Obscenely expensive. But I want him in a good facility, well taken care of. He deserves that. He's seventy-one. He could live for—for a while yet.”

“And when the money from the sale of the house is gone?”

“I'll sell mine.”

Three words that said so much about the man. She swallowed. “Who is Tommy?”

“His brother, who died when he was about my age.”

“Does he ever recognize you?”

“Hardly at all anymore. I come every day to see him, and every day I hope. He calls Chief by the name of the dog we had when I was a teenager, Sarge.” He blew out a breath. “I thought maybe he really did recognize you for a minute, but he was obviously talking about someone else.” He angled toward her more. “You honestly remember him coming to your house?”

She nodded. “He came several times, actually. I'd totally forgotten. My mother was out of her mind with grief. She treated him very badly, worse every time he came. He just stood there and took it. In retrospect I see that she must have been so frustrated and angry that the killer hadn't been found, but then all I knew was that your father seemed to be hurting my mother by whatever he said to her. To look at her now, you would never believe her capable of such behavior. Nothing seems to throw her.”

“Like mother, like daughter.” He started the engine and pulled away.

She wasn't sure if he was insulting or complimenting her. “It's a handy skill as an investigator.”

“I'm sure.”

She couldn't get a handle on his mood. “Thank you for sharing your father with me. I know it was hard, given his condition.”

He sent a quick, searching gaze toward her. “I'm not embarrassed by him.”

“I didn't mean—”

“I just didn't want you to subject him to a bunch of questions I knew he couldn't answer.”

“You're protective. I understand. He's very sweet.”

“Fortunately, he's docile. Some Alzheimer's patients become hostile and uncontrollable. He could still reach that state. Anytime, actually.”

“Does he talk about your mother?”

“Yes. The thing about Alzheimer's is that the person's life is being run backward, like a videotape winding in reverse. He regresses. That's why he's calling me Tommy at the moment—because I'm the same age as Tommy was when he died. If I would show him a picture of Mom right before she died, he wouldn't recognize her. But one taken when she was about fifty, he would know.” His voice softened. “I found him crying one day. He'd realized Mom was gone, and then the moment was over and he went back into his world.”

Arianna wondered about Joe. It sounded like he'd been the caregiver for a long time. His fiancée had apparently been out of the picture for a while. Who made his life easier so that he could bear his own load?

She studied him as he drove. He was a homebody, a family man, even though he didn't have much family at the moment. He had a nice home in a real neighborhood. He loved and cared about his parents. He'd loved a woman enough to ask her to marry him. Something had gone terribly wrong there.

In general, cops often made bad spouses. Out of necessity they buried their feelings because they saw so much horror in the world that they didn't want to share with a partner, but that often meant they buried
all
emotion. Had his fiancée not been able to draw him out? Had she felt left out because he wouldn't share? Had he not trusted her enough to share his burdens?

Arianna's own track record definitely didn't make her an expert in how to make a relationship work. Her career had come first since the day she graduated from high school.
Nothing had happened to change that. Like her father, she was devoted to her job. Success mattered to her. Respect mattered even more.

“Would you like to go out to dinner?” Joe asked as he stopped short of pulling into his garage. “Or we could order takeout.”

“I'm not hungry. But thanks.” She clutched the bag with the file to her chest. She wanted to go home and start trying to make sense of his father's notes.

“Arianna.”

“Hmm?”

He tapped the packet. “The videotape in there is of your father's funeral.”

She loosened her hold and looked down. “Okay.”

“I don't want you to watch it alone, not the first time, anyway.”

“Why not? What's on it?” A bit of panic set in. What could be there that he didn't think she should see?

“Your memories of the funeral are one thing. Actually seeing it is another. I just don't think you should watch it by yourself.”

“Fine. Can we watch it now?”

“Yes.”

Several minutes later they were seated in his living room, a comfortable room that combined simply designed wood pieces with cozy upholstered ones.

“Remember this is a police video,” he said. “They were taping in hopes of seeing someone who didn't belong, who might have been the shooter. So there are a lot of crowd scenes. It starts at the church, then it moves to the cemetery.”

“All right.” She wondered if that was the voice he might use to talk someone down off a ledge. Calm, factual and soothing all at the same time.

He sat about a foot away from her on the sofa then aimed the remote at the television and started the video. Suddenly she wished she was alone, so that she could just let herself react to whatever it was she was about to see, without Joe witnessing it. He'd already seen her more vulnerable than anyone since she, Nate and Sam had thought they might die together and had shared their deepest secrets and dreams. She'd always figured little in life could be worse than that.

She hadn't counted on being vulnerable to a man who appealed to her on so many levels—emotionally, intellectually and physically. She'd been right in her impression of him on Halloween night. He was a kindred spirit—battle weary and driven by demons, only his were more visible than hers. Hers had been buried for twenty-five years and had only recently resurfaced. She didn't know how her plunge into her past was going to turn out. She just knew she had to deal with it, whatever it turned up.

Arianna didn't comment as she watched the tape, which panned the crowds again and again. The film was grainy, the sound masked by static and crowd noise, but she was mesmerized by it all once the funeral service started. She would watch it again with the volume turned up so she could try to understand the tributes to her father. When the ceremony ended, the chief of police, who had delivered one of the eulogies, escorted her mother and her up the aisle.

She leaned forward, her eyes on the image of her mother at age thirty-three, the same age as Arianna now. Dressed in black, Paloma looked haggard from exhaustion and grief. Arianna realized she hadn't seen her mother wear black since that day. Instead she chose vibrant colors, not owning even one basic black dress, unusual in her social circle.

Joe shifted beside her as the film switched to the grave-side service. She couldn't hear the words spoken by the
chaplain but heard a gun salute, which made her jump. Then the coffin was lowered into the ground and she saw herself scream and call for him again and again as her mother tried to hold her back and soothe her while others looked on helplessly. The tape turned even grainier, then she realized it wasn't the tape but that she was crying. She hadn't remembered the scene at the gravesite. She wished she hadn't seen it, been reminded of it. She had called “Daddy” until her voice went hoarse from the salty tears coating her throat.