Murder in the River City (6 page)

Too beautiful. Too sexy. And too damn curious.

“What’s her schedule?” Sam had been relieved when he’d heard Shauna hadn’t been at the bar Sunday night. She’d always had sporadic hours to fit in with her college schedule, then working part-time for her father at Murphy & Sons Builders.

“Shauna doesn’t work here anymore, ‘cept now and then,” Dooley said with even more sorrow.

“Why not?” he asked before considering it was none of his business.

Dooley shook his head. “Frank had a heart attack, after you went to L.A.—”

“Mike told me, but he said Frank was fine.”

“His doc made him cut back his hours. Shauna’s running the company, and it’s not easy with the economy and construction drying up. She got them working on some remodels, but mostly it’s industrial projects, retrofits and stuff like that. Seem to be doing well, but since they had to lay-off most of their employees…” He shrugged. 

“I never thought Shauna would give up working here,” Sam said. “She loves this place.”

Dooley nodded. “She still pops in now and again, but not as much as I’d like.”

As Sam opened his mouth to ask more questions about Shauna and what she’d been doing for the past two years, he sensed an increase of energy in the room, even before he saw her. Like a fingernail trailing down his spine, warm shivers flushed his body and he drained half his Harp to cool himself. He turned on his stool and there she was.

He’d had a glimpse of her in the police station; now he couldn’t hide.

Shauna was still the most beautiful woman in town. Her snow white, lightly freckled skin glowed in the heat, her curly red hair hung in a careless bun, loosened even more from the heat. Though she was American through and through, she had a slight Irish lilt from spending so much time with her grandfather. Her energy was boundless—she never could be still.

The moment Shauna spotted him, her large green eyes darkened, her mouth dropped open and she looked perplexed. He grinned and tipped an imaginary hat in her direction.

Then her mouth snapped closed, her eyes narrowed and she went from confused to furious in three seconds flat. She strode over to the end of the bar, clearing the path in front of her with attitude, her long black skirt swirling around her gorgeous legs.

He swallowed and smiled. Damn, he’d missed her.

“Hello, Shauna,” he called out, knowing it would irritate her. She ignored him.

It had taken him two years to realize Shauna was the only one who made him feel alive. Happy. He’d never acknowledged it—to her or himself—but two years in L.A. and he’d thought more about what might have been had he not been so damn noble.

Dooley said she wasn’t dating anyone. He had a shot. If she could forgive him, not only for what happened with Jason Butler, but what happened the week before he went to L.A.

He needed to kiss her again and see if what he felt then was as strong as what he remembered. Hell, he didn’t
need
to kiss her; one look and he knew.

Shauna Murphy was
the one.

Shauna fumed the minute she spotted the man. She couldn’t believe it. Sam Garcia was sitting in
her
bar. Okay, it wasn’t actually her bar, it was her grandfather’s, but she wasn’t about to let him just waltz back into town like he’d only left yesterday. Who did he think he was?

His black hair and olive complexion bespoke his Cuban father. His midnight blue eyes came directly from his Scottish mother. And his body—that came from working out regularly at the gym. She swallowed a hot flash, remembering how his muscles felt under her hands the one time she’d touched him out of desire—a desire he had refused. But not before he kissed her back, holding her tight, letting her know her feelings were mirrored in him.

Somehow, that made it worse, knowing he could so easily walk away from her even when they had chemistry.

He was too damn sexy for his own good.

Shaking the thought from her mind, she closed her mouth and stormed over to Sam Garcia. Dooley stood only feet away. Then everything clicked.

She didn’t address Sam. “It was
you
,” she said to her grandfather.

“I don’t know what—”

“You called Sam. You don’t trust me.”

“I trust ya, girl. I didn’t call Sam.”

She didn’t believe him. “I can take care of myself.” She walked behind the bar, as much to put distance between her and Sam as to get herself a much-needed Guinness.

I love you.

She closed her eyes, remembering what she’d said to him two years ago. She’d been such a fool.

She didn’t bother with building a proper Guinness. She poured and drank.

“I’ll leave you two to talk.” Dooley scurried over to the opposite end of the bar. Shauna glared at his back. She loved her grandfather but would happily mix cayenne pepper into his denture cream right now.

“Hello,” Sam said.

She turned to face Sam Garcia. If only he’d turned gray, lost his hair, gained fifty pounds, or sprouted warts all over his sexy, square jaw. Or maybe, he was gay.

“You’re not gay, are you?” she asked before she realized the thought left her mouth.

He spit out his beer. “Hell no.”

“Too bad.”

He shook his head in confusion. “Shauna—I’m back.”

“Really?” she said flatly. “I thought I was chatting with a ghost.”

“I’m back with Sac PD.”

“Gangs? Vice?”

“Homicide.”

Homicide?
He was in
homicide?
That meant he knew John Black. He knew everything. Before she could say anything, he continued.

“I heard you were at the station today.”

What a disaster. The more she thought about the conversation with Detective Black, the more she realized he didn’t think her argument had merit. He’d placated her, tried to make her feel guilty for questioning his approach to the case. All she wanted was answers. Was that so hard?

“That’s none of your business,” she snapped, still humiliated and angry at the information Black
didn’t
give her. Except Sam was a cop. He was back in Sacramento. On homicide.

It was as if Sam could read her mind. “Slow down, Shauna. I’m not here to deputize you. I’m here to tell you to back off.”

“Like hell I will. That Detective Black—is he a friend of yours? Because he’s an ass and doesn’t believe me. I
know
there’s something wonky about the killers leaving the Babe Ruth baseball. They
knew
it was a fake, otherwise they would have taken it.”

Her instincts, her gut, told her she was right, that the theft wasn’t what it appeared to be. She bit her lip and looked at Sam. It was bad enough he was back in Sacramento—to remind her of what a fool she’d been—but she thought for sure she’d have until the next family gathering before having to see him. She’d have forewarning, Mike would have clued her in. She’d have gone prepared. Ready.

Instead,
wham!

She hadn’t been ready. She doubted she ever would be. But it was nice to
think
she
might
have been prepared if she’d had just a
little
more notice.

“Shauna?”

“Promise to just listen.”

He nodded and leaned forward. “All ears.”

She hesitated. She wanted to trust him—Sam was not only a cop, but he was a family friend and he knew Mack. He cared about Dooley. But if Detective Black’s response was any indication of how the police were treating this matter, would Sam be any different? He was one of them. Sam probably
liked
the big, bad cop.

“Well,” she whispered, looking around to make sure no one could overhear, “I think whoever killed Mack is a regular.”

“Of
Dooley’s
?” Sam asked, his voice full of skepticism.

She put her hands on her hips. “What’s so strange about that? And didn’t you not one minute ago promise to listen and not jump to conclusions?”

He put his hands up. “You’re right. I’ll hear you out.”

“They left the Babe Ruth baseball!” she exclaimed, exasperated, then glanced around. No one appeared to be paying attention. Charlie sat a couple seats over with his pal Skip drinking drafts. At the table behind Sam, three guys from the nearby Campbell Soup factory had come in after the early shift and were filling up on long necks and pretzels.

She leaned closer. The scent of Sam’s soap with a hint of Bay Rum hit her nose. She lost her train of thought for a moment.

“Babe?” Sam asked, his voice low.

“Ruth,” she said. The baseball. Right. She took a deep breath. “It’s a fake,” she reminded him.

“And?”

“And they left it but took the others. Anyone who knows anything about baseball autographs knows that Mickey Mantle is the most forged signature, but Dooley had an authentic Mantle. Babe Ruth? It’s worth even more if real, but they left it.”

“Probably knew it was a fake,” Sam said.

She threw her hands up. “That’s what the stupid detective said! Do you guys all go to the same detective school?”

She stomped over to the Guinness tap, this time taking care in building her beer.
Calm down
.
He’s only trying to help
, she reminded herself. It wasn’t
his
fault she’d been half in love with him from the time she hit puberty. That she kissed him when he graduated from college, without even thinking he’d be freaked out about her being seventeen. And
then
she threw herself into his arms when she learned he was getting a divorce from that bitch Emma. Okay, okay, maybe Emma wasn’t
really
a bitch. Shauna didn’t know because she steered clear of her. But she’d married Sam. The
witch
.

And then she cheated on him.

Okay, she
was
a bitch. Shauna, who only went to church because her grandfather guilted her into it, was conservative enough to believe wedding vows meant something. Commitment. Loyalty. Love.

She’d been ready to marry Jason Butler because Sam was married, which meant he was completely off-limits, and she wasn’t going to pine away for the rest of her life over a man she could never have. When Sam arrested him for fraud, she’d been devastated—she hadn’t seen it. Jason was a nice guy, all the way around. She didn’t believe it … except he was convicted. Yet, she’d forgiven Sam, hadn’t she? She’d given him a second chance.

He rejected her. Again.

Ultimately, it was her belief in true love that stopped her from dating any guy she’d met more than three times. Austin Davis and a host of others. Not when she was in love—or lust—with another man. She’d always be thinking about Sam Garcia in the back of her mind, what he was doing, who he was with.

It was enough to drive her slowly insane.

She drank slowly, savoring the rich beer, reminding herself she was a grown woman, nearly twenty-eight. She could sit down and have a reasonable conversation with a man, no matter how sexy he was, no matter how desperately she wanted to kiss him, no matter how long she’d known and liked him. Not even
liked.
She didn’t like him. It was lust. And it wasn’t like she was an eighteen-year-old virgin anymore.

Which made it worse. Because now she knew what good sex was, and if she was in love with the guy, it would be so much better. She knew how Sam made her feel when they had nearly gone to bed two years ago. She’d never forget it. She wanted that feeling back.

Damn, he’d ruined her for all other men and he hadn’t even made love to her! That just wasn’t
fair!

She turned and caught him staring at her, his blue eyes melting her resolve. The temperature behind the bar suddenly skyrocketed, and she took a couple steps to the right to stand directly under the circulating fan. A little better.

What was he thinking? Certainly not what
she
was thinking. Two years ago he’d made it perfectly clear he loved her
as a friend
. She was his best friend’s
little
sister. She was practically
his
sister. They’d grown up together. He didn’t think of her
that way
. He was getting divorced, moving to L.A., etc., etc.

Even though he’d kissed her back. Even though he’d touched her and she melted. He’d held her tight, pushing her body against his.

Until he’d dropped her, literally, and stared at her like he didn’t know her. Reminded her that her taste in men was flawed.

That hurt. The rejection and the accusation.

And now he was back.

From the day she turned thirteen, she had
never
thought of Sam Garcia as her brother. She certainly couldn’t start now.

Taking a deep breath, she walked back to Sam, this time sitting on the stool next to him, careful to keep her hands to herself. “Okay, listen. The Babe Ruth forgery is perfect. Granddad was fooled. Virtually everyone was fooled, until that baseball expert came by to give Dooley an appraisal for his insurance. Only the old-timers, the ones who were around back then, know. And sometimes, Dooley plays the guess the forgery game, but no one picks the Babe Ruth, and he doesn’t give the secret away, you know? It’s an old story.”

“And what do you think the police should do about this?”

“I think they should start talking to people here. Ask them questions. I don’t know! I’m not the cop.”

Sam raised an eyebrow at her.

“Don’t start on me, I’m just telling you what I think.”

“You want to accuse Dooley’s long-time patrons of theft and murder?”

“I—no,” she admitted. “No, but—”

“Listen to me, Shauna. John Black is one of the best cops I’ve ever worked with, here or in L.A. He’s the senior detective on my team. I’m working another case, but I already talked to him when I found out Mack was the victim. I’m in the loop, and I promise no one is putting this case on the back burner.”

He spoke with such sincerity, she believed him. “And you’ll consider what I said?”

“Yes. All I ask is that you give us some breathing room to investigate Mack’s murder. Don’t talk to baseball experts or pawnshop owners or anyone in here about anything related to this crime. Okay?”