Memories of Us (5 page)

McMillian’s jaw tightened visibly as he pulled the office door closed behind them. “Fine. Go get him. Tell him we’re ready to get out of here.”

When she entered the squad room, Cook was seated at his own desk, phone at his ear. She rested a hand on the chair next to it and waited for him to replace the receiver. “McMillian wants to tag along to Moultrie.”

Cook glanced up with a harried expression. “Can you handle that? I’ve got a sexual-assault call at the hospital and Calvert is God knows where. I have to take this one.”

“Sure thing. Call me when you get done and I’ll fill you in.”

“Great.” Cook pushed up from the desk. “God, I hate these calls.”

She walked with him into the hallway. He waved and jogged to the side entry. With a deep breath, she turned to face McMillian, waiting by the front desk.

A session in an autopsy lab with McMillian and a deceased child.

Oh, she couldn’t wait.

“You’re always backed up.” Celia glanced at the baby’s unclothed body as Ford snapped a photo. She was so
tiny
and looked absolutely perfect. Where was her mother? Her father? An ache curled around Celia’s heart. What was McMillian thinking, standing so still and silent behind her? Was he thinking of his baby, the one he’d lost so long ago? Stupid question. He had to be.

“You have no idea.” Sara shook her head, her wide hazel eyes the only part of her face visible between her face mask and surgical cap. “We still have body parts from the courthouse explosion in frozen storage waiting for DNA testing.”

Celia’s gaze drifted back to the round little face. Dark lashes fanned over flawless cheeks. Minuscule fingers curled into small fists. Surely someone had counted those fingers and toes. “So what can you tell me?”

Sara shrugged and snapped another photo. “Female, Caucasian, approximately six pounds, probably a few hours old.”

“Nothing on the cause of death?”

“No contusions, no other signs of abuse. No reticular hemorrhages in the eyeballs, so it wasn’t asphyxiation or shaken baby syndrome. Other than that? Can’t tell you until I open her up.”

Celia suppressed a shudder. “Thanks. I need to know as soon as you have results.”

Sara nodded. “I’ll call you. But it may be awhile. All I’m doing is the photos and finishing the intake paperwork now. You have the murder-suicide from Montley and the suspicious death from Pavo ahead of you.”

“I’d appreciate it. We’ll get out of your way.” Turning, she met McMillian’s stony gaze and tilted her head toward the door. He strode ahead of her to the lobby and shoved the front door open, gesturing for her to precede him.

“Well, that was extremely helpful.” His voice emerged as a frustrated growl, but Celia refused to rise to it.

“You didn’t have to come, you know. This is the way it works sometimes—excruciatingly slow and frustrating.”

He glared as they approached his car. “I’m aware of that.”

“I’ll put it together, McMillian. I just need some time.”

“Put what together?” He tugged the passenger door open for her and stalked around to the driver’s side. “The car was a dead end, your suspect offed himself rather than talk, and God only knows when the GBI will get their act together long enough to process your prints or complete your autopsy. What are you going to do with all that?”

Celia relaxed into the lush leather and snapped her seatbelt. “First I’m going to keep digging. If John Doe wasn’t the baby’s father, she has parents somewhere. I’ve already called the Florida Department of Law Enforcement and the GBI and asked for their complete listing of missing children who might fit the time or age frame for this baby. Then we’ll go nationwide. But you have to chill out, McMillian. Cases don’t get solved overnight. You, of all people, should realize that.”

His hand flexed on the wheel and he glanced over his shoulder before shifting into reverse. “Just keep me informed. I want to be apprised of what’s going on, every step of this case.”

“I always keep you informed.”

He looked at her, his expression softening somewhat. “I know. That’s why I keep you around.”

Her breath faltered in her throat, somewhere between an incredulous laugh and a hurt sigh. Well. It was surely nice to know where she stood with him.

McMillian kept her around because she kept him in the loop.

God, he was a blind son of a bitch.

Which made her a hopeless fool.

“Where have you been all day?”

At Rhett’s question, Tom glanced up from the legal brief. As usual, the assistant DA strolled in without knocking. Tom rubbed at the nape of his neck, a tension knot lingering there. “I went to the GBI lab in Moultrie with Celia.”

“Why?” A deep frown grooving his brow, Rhett dropped into the chair before Tom’s desk. “Let me guess…autopsy on that dead baby from Chandler County.”

“Yeah.” Tom laid the brief aside and leaned back in his own chair, arms folded behind his head. “But they haven’t done it yet.”

Eyes narrowed, Rhett stared him down. Tom refused to look away. Finally, Rhett spoke.

“Why do you torture yourself, man?”

“I’m not. I’m doing my job.”

“That’s Celia’s job. The Child Death Task Force? Laudable as hell.” Rhett leaned forward, his gaze intent on Tom’s. “But it won’t bring Everett back and this sick-ass obsession of yours, feeling like you have to be hands-on with any case involving a kid because you lost yours…it ain’t healthy, Tom.”

“What the hell do you know about losing a child?” The ice in his voice was apparent even to Tom, and he wanted to call the words back as soon as he uttered them.

Shit. He shouldn’t have said that, not to Rhett, not with Amarie sick, not when there wasn’t a donor.

“Nothing.” A muscle flicked in Rhett’s jaw. “I don’t know a damn thing.”

Tom pinched the bridge of his nose. “Rhett—”

“It’s all right, man.” Rhett’s heavy sigh hung between them. “I shouldn’t have said anything. It just pisses me off, you know, watching you do this to yourself.”

“I’m not doing anything to myself. I’m fine.”

“Sure you are.” Rhett lifted his chin in a silent challenge Tom ignored.

He changed the subject. “How’s Amarie?”

Rhett moved his shoulders, both hands waffling in his silent I-don’t-want-to-talk-about-it gesture. A bad day, then. Probably a bad week. Tom dropped his gaze for a moment. At least he’d lost Everett quickly, hadn’t had to sit back and watch him fade slowly, painfully away. Amazing to think there’d been anything close to a blessing in the rapid way SIDS had stolen his son.

“So do Celia and Cook have anything on this case?”

Rhett’s deep voice pulled him back to awareness. Tom exhaled hard. “Not much. The only suspect they had committed suicide while in custody this morning. Nothing on the car, nothing on where that baby came from.”

Mouth tight, Rhett shook his head. “Watch it go cold.”

“Yeah.” Tom grimaced. He hated the idea of that baby slipping into the nothingness of a cold-case file. Fuck, Rhett was right—he let himself grow too personally involved in each and every one of these situations.

“I’ll get out of here and let you get back to—”

“McMillian?” Celia spoke from the doorway, her voice cool. He tensed, every nerve ending going on alert. A matching strain tightened her posture, as it had since they’d left Moultrie. No, before that, since he’d accused her of being involved with Cook. Her blue gaze flickered between him and Rhett. “I’m sorry. The door was open and I didn’t realize you were in a meeting.”

“We were just shooting the bull.” Rhett pushed up from his chair. “Come on in. I’ve got some calls to make.”

Celia shifted to allow him to pass into the hallway. Tom folded his hands on his desk. “Did you need something?”

“I’m leaving for the day. I’ll be over at the sheriff’s department if you need me.” She met his gaze head-on, a cynical smile playing about her mouth. “I don’t have anything new to report.”

Something about the exchange niggled at him, almost as though she was mocking him, distancing herself. Pulling back, just like Kathleen. His spine went ramrod straight. The comparison was fucking ridiculous.

There was no comparison. One woman had been his wife, cutting him out of her life. The other was his employee, maintaining a professional distance. So the visceral reaction he had to Celia’s shutting down was nothing more than annoyance with her reticence.

He pulled the brief forward again and lowered his gaze. “Let me know when you do.”

At his transparent dismissal, silence pulsed in the room for long seconds.

“Of course.” Her words held a distinct chill. Moments later, the door closed behind her with a soft, final snick.

Early evening shadows stretched across small, perfectly coifed lawns. With the stress of the day tugging at his neck, Tom pulled to a stop at the curb and squinted at the wooden sign swinging from chains on a large front porch.
The Bell, Candle and Broomstick.
Maybe he had the wrong place. He glanced at the other homes—colorful, renovated mill houses holding antique shops, a trendy down-home restaurant, a handful of clothing stores, a casual nightclub. He knew the area, a popular neighborhood where the proprietors lived in rooms behind or above their shops.

He just hadn’t realized Celia lived here.

At least he hoped he had the right address. His nerves still jangled from being in that autopsy lab, and if he was honest, from the weird tension that had drifted between him and Celia throughout the day. All he wanted was to pick up the file his administrative assistant was sure Celia had and go home. Maybe do some laps. Have a Scotch. Read the huge brief that idiot trying to defend himself had sent over.

Is that really what you want?

No. Tom closed his eyes. He wanted to see her, away from the office, to look into those crystal blue eyes and get another glimpse of the woman beneath the cool layers of her law-enforcement capability. He wanted to let the sweet lushness of her voice soothe away the unease unfolding within.

Damn, he needed a life.

He didn’t need the little thrills running over him just from the idea of being in Celia’s home, getting another glimpse of the person she was away from the office.

Pushing the door open, he stepped out then walked up the brick walkway. Wind chimes moved in a tinkling rhythm at the edge of the porch, and music, some kind of metallic pinging blended with a flute, flowed from an open window in a soft wave. A bubble machine puffed sparkling spheres from the same window.

He mounted the steps, painted porch boards creaking a little beneath his loafers. Beside the leaded-glass door, a discreet sign announced the shop’s hours. He grasped the doorknob, a solid, bumpy weight in his palm, and turned. A warm, sweet smell washed over him as he stepped inside. A bell jingled with his entrance.

Towering bookshelves, crammed with leather-bound tomes and colorful paperbacks, covered one wall. On tables scattered throughout what must have been a formal parlor lay displays of crystals, jewelry, stoneware, more books. He eased through the room, a frown tugging at him. Somehow, he couldn’t envision Celia here. He had to have the wrong address.

From one table, he lifted a vivid box, his frown deepening. Tarot cards?

“That’s a beautiful deck. The artwork is amazing.” The lyrical voice wafted from the doorway behind a long counter and he did a double take. For a moment, he’d thought the woman was Celia—they looked and sounded that much alike. But something about this woman’s face was softer, more serene, where Celia’s eyes held the edge most law-enforcement officers’ did. That edge had softened somewhat in that autopsy lab this morning and he’d gotten a glimpse of the woman inside. By the time she’d left the office that edge had been solidly back in place.

He’d liked what he’d seen though, of that softer Celia. After she’d disappeared to God-knew-where to work with Cook, the insight had haunted him at the most damnable moments—arguing a motion in chambers, trying to strategize with Rhett. Hell, he’d even found himself looking for her at the end of the day, and not just for an update. He’d wanted to see
her
.

Celia St. John was driving him certifiable.

The Celia look-alike stared back at him. “Oh. It’s you.”

“I’m sorry, I think I have the wrong house. I’m looking for Celia.”

The clear green eyes—another difference—shuttered. “She’s not here yet. Would you like some tea?”

“Please.” He stepped forward, indicating the shop with a nod. “Nice place.”

“Thank you.” She moved to the end of the counter and set two china cups on the polished wood. “I’m Cicely, by the way. Celia’s sister.”

“A pleasure. I’m—”

“I know who you are.” She lifted her head, her sea-green gaze piercing through him. “Cee lives and breathes her job. Or maybe you hadn’t noticed.”

“I—” He smiled at the nickname and shook his head, taking the delicate cup she offered. He didn’t know enough about Celia beyond the office to realize she might share his workaholic tendencies. “Thanks. Honestly, I hadn’t.”

One of her plucked eyebrows winged upward. “I bet there’s a lot you don’t notice.”

Tom took a sip of the dark tea, the taste of cherries and cinnamon exploding on his tongue. Cicely regarded him steadily. She gestured at the box he’d dropped back on the table. “Are you interested in the Tarot? Would you like a reading?”

He stiffened. “What? Oh, no, that’s fine…I don’t—”

She leaned forward, a mocking glint in her eyes. “Don’t what? Believe?”

Somewhere behind her, in the long dim hallway, a door opened and closed. Familiar footsteps sounded on hardwood and the tension gripping him relaxed.

“Cis?” Celia’s voice wrapped around him, sending a rush of warmth through him. His hand tightened on the cup and he glanced toward the hall, anticipation settling heavy in him. This was ridiculous. He was reacting like a teenager catching a glimpse of his crush. The self-recrimination didn’t lighten the tightness in his chest any.

“In the shop,” Cicely called back.

Moments later, Celia appeared in the squared-off entry. She stopped, staring at him, her face unreadable. An uncontrollable smile quirked at his mouth. God, she looked so different at home. He’d gotten a glimpse of her other fashion side at the crime scene and here was another one—a white cotton camisole top, snug jeans, leather thong sandals with beads and stones. Her hair spilled over her shoulders and he wanted to wrap it around his hand, experience the softness of it, pull her in and cover her mouth with his. A surge of arousal joined the anticipation low in his abdomen.

She moved forward and he shook himself free of the sensual haze. Sadness seemed to drag at her features. Where had she gone after leaving the office, to put that expression on her face? Or was it left over from what they’d witnessed in the autopsy lab that morning? He hadn’t been able to shake the images of the baby’s body all day.

He set the cup aside. “Hello.”

“Hey.” She brushed her hair back, tucking it behind her ears, and joined her sister on the other side of the counter. “Why are you here?”

“I…” The thin silver chain she always wore dipped between her breasts, whatever lay on the chain nestled between them. He tugged his gaze upwards, to the smooth curve of her shoulder then to her eyes, as shuttered as her sister’s. “I needed the file on the Finney case. Raquel thought you might have it, but you’d already left the sheriff’s office and weren’t answering your cell.” My God, he was rambling.
Get to the point, man.
“I thought I’d run by and pick it up on the way home.”

She nodded. “I didn’t have my cell with me. I’ve got the file next door. I brought it home to review for my testimony.”

A smile slid over Cicely’s face. “We were just having some tea and a chat while he waited.”

A look passed between the sisters and Celia lifted her eyebrows. “Bet that was interesting.”

“Definitely.” Tom tucked his hands in his pockets. He felt like he was outside some inner secret here, almost as if the sisters had some kind of in-joke at his expense. “The file?”

Celia tilted her head toward the hall. “Come on back.”

He followed, eyeing the sway of her hips encased in dark denim. God, she had beautiful curves, from graceful shoulders to her firm breasts, to gently rounded hips and the sweetest ass he’d ever seen. He was bordering on obsession here and she was oblivious. In the dim light, silver winked at him above the low waist of her jeans. Body jewelry. Did she wear that under her pinstripes and silk at the office? A buzz of arousal rippled through his groin. He swallowed hard. She was his employee and he was ogling her behind her back, conjuring up salacious fantasies.

“So you live with your sister?”

“It’s a duplex.” Halfway down the hall, she swung a door inward and stepped through. “We converted it a couple years ago when she opened the shop. She got the big room up front and the right side, I got the left and the attic loft.”

He entered the room after her and immediate peace settled on him, releasing the sensory overload he’d experienced in the shop. “Why the Bell, Candle and Broomstick? Is that symbolic or something?”

“Cis’s tongue-in-cheek sense of humor.” She crossed the room and pulled open a pine armoire, revealing a television and several baskets. She rummaged through one. “I think she actually has an antique brush broom over there somewhere.”

He glanced around. Plush couch, comfy chair, an ottoman—all in rich, touchable fabrics and earthy colors. A collection of photos shared space on a table beneath the window with a large clear globe. He wandered over, eyeing the pictures. Celia and her sister together at various ages, sometimes with a woman who had to be their mother. The glass ball sat on an ornate stand, and he rubbed a hand across the top, his fingers tickling with the contact. “Why a broomstick?”