Night Sins (22 page)

“We're working this investigation together, Chief,” Megan said. “I'm not here for window dressing; I'm here to do a job and I don't appreciate being left out of the loop.”

That was the source of much of her anger: She had been excluded. Everyone had known about Olie and his van before her. The old-boy network had pulled another end-around and left her feeling like a fool, like an outcast. It wasn't the first time and it wouldn't be the last, but that didn't mean she had to like it or take it lying down.

He backed away from her slowly and turned away. The desk lamp hummed softly. The ringing of the telephones in the squad room barely penetrated the walls, the distant sound only adding to the sense of isolation.

“All right,” he conceded. “I should have told you and I didn't. Now you know.”

It was as close to an apology as he was likely to give. Megan knew enough to take small victories when she could get them. She let some of her own tension go and looked around the office as if seeing it for the first time since she had come in.

“Why were you sitting here in the dark?”

“I was just . . . railing against fate,” he murmured. “I prefer to do that in private, if you don't mind.”

“It doesn't do much good, does it?”

A statement of fact. A confession of sorts. Mitch heard the empathy. They were a lot alike, he supposed. As odd as that sounded. As cops, they had been through the same grind, seen too much, cared too deeply. She had his sense of justice, it just wasn't as tarnished as his. That truth made him feel old and battered.

He stared out the window behind his desk, through the open slats of the vertical blinds. The night looked as black as ink, cold, unwelcoming.

“You can't blame yourself, Mitch,” Megan said, easing closer to him without realizing they had shifted out of one quadrant of their relationship and into another. She hadn't called him Chief.

“Sure I can. For a lot of things.”

She took the final step, closing the distance between them, and looked up at him. They stood at the edge of the lamplight, near enough that it revealed lines of strain and old memories that etched deep into his face. He looked away, frowning, the scar on his chin shining silver in the pale light.

“For what?” she asked softly. “Your wife?”

“I don't want to talk about it.” He turned toward her, his expression hard. “I don't want to talk at all.”

He pulled her against him roughly, dropping his head down to touch his face against her cool, dark hair. It smelled faintly of jasmine. “This is what I want from you.” He tipped her chin up and found her lips with his.

The heat of the kiss was searing. The kiss was rough and wild, pure raw sex that sparked a hot, elemental response. Megan kissed him back, trembling at the need it unleashed. The need to let go of her control and be swept away on this tide of fundamental need. She focused on the taste of him, the warm male scent of him, the contrast in their size and strength, the feel of the muscles in the small of his back, the erotic sensation of his tongue thrusting against hers.

A small sound of longing escaped her, and he responded to it instantly, hungrily. The arm he banded around her back tightened and lifted her against him. His other hand closed boldly over her breast and Megan gasped at the feel of his fingers kneading the sensitive globe, his thumb brushing across her nipple, teasing it through the fabric of her sweater.

“I want you,” he growled, dragging his mouth from hers to plant kisses against her cheekbone, her brow. “I want to be inside you. Now.”

Megan shivered at the images his words evoked, at the sensations that rippled along her nerve endings. She could feel him against her belly, hard, ready to make good on his statement. And she wanted him. God, she ached with wanting him. She wanted to feel the full power of this desire unleashed, to know what it was like to let go completely of the control that ordered her life.

But they were in his office. He was the chief of police and she was an agent of the BCA. They would see each other in this office, conduct business in this office. And what happened when this fire between them died and they still came to this office every day?

“I—we can't,” she murmured, breathless, her body humming with the need to say yes.

“The hell we can't.” Mitch caught her chin in his hand and forced her to look at him. His gaze was hot, glittering with passion and the determination to lose himself in it. That was what he wanted—to sink into her and into some kind of white-hot oblivion where there was no guilt and no burden.

“It's sex.” He tightened his hand against her back, letting her feel him against her. “We won't be wearing badges. Or maybe that's what you're afraid of?”

Pushing against his chest, Megan tried without success to back away from him. “I told you, I'm not afraid of you.”

“But are you afraid to be a woman with me?”

She didn't answer him. She couldn't, Mitch thought. If she said yes, she admitted a vulnerability. If she said no, she committed herself to sleeping with him. She was too wary to box herself in that way. And not without good reason. He doubted he was the first cop to come on to her in her ten years on the job. He remembered the way it had been in Miami, the locker room bets on who would be the first to score with the new skirt on the squad. And he knew what it meant when it happened. The woman lost any respect she might have had from her fellow officers. Respect was everything to Megan. The job was everything to Megan. It would take more than simple lust to get her to cross that line, and Mitch reminded himself that he didn't want to give more.

Slowly, reluctantly, he let her go. “It's probably just as well,” he muttered as he turned away to grab his parka off the coat tree.

Megan stood back, incredulous, as she watched him shrug into the heavy coat. He could kiss her like that, then calmly turn away and dismiss it as if it had been nothing. The idea made her want to kick him, but she didn't. And she swallowed back the scathing words that burned on the tip of her tongue. He had made an overture, she had declined. Simple.

“Where are you going?”

“I promised Jessie I'd take her out to McDonald's and to the torchlight parade.”

“Oh.”

Mitch glanced at her as he clipped his pager to his belt. Her dark hair had escaped its barrette altogether and fell like a wild horse's mane around her shoulders. Her eyes were wide and showing more than she would have allowed. She looked like the girl who never got asked to dance at the high school sock hop.

“You game for a Big Mac and some frozen Shriner clowns?” he asked, surprising himself.

Megan narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “Why are you being nice to me?”

“Jeez, O'Malley. It's McDonald's, not Lutèce. Come or don't.”

“You're so gracious, I can hardly resist,” she said dryly, “but I wouldn't want to intrude.”

He smiled a little at her rancor. “Aw, tell the truth,” he said. “You were on your way to Grace Lutheran Church for the annual Snowdaze lutefisk supper.”

Megan wrinkled her nose. “Not in this lifetime. I make it a point never to eat anything that can take the finish off a table. Besides, I think lutefisk is one of those foods people used to have to eat because there wasn't anything else and it somehow became a tradition by mistake.”

“Yeah, no wonder Scandinavians are so morose. If I had to eat boiled cod soaked in lye solution, I'd look like Max von Sydow too.”

They shared a laugh that eased them back into the friends division of their relationship again.

“Big Mac?” Mitch asked, raising his brows.

She wanted to. But she really should go back to the office . . . call DePalma. A grim evening.

“Come on,” he said. “I'll spring for the fries. What do you say, O'Malley?”

“Okay, let's go, Diamond Jim.” She twisted her scarf around her neck. “You get the fries, I'll get the Tums.”

CHAPTER 16

D
AY
3
6:16
P.M.
         23°

J
essie was dubious about having an extra dinner partner. She gave Megan a long, hard look as they sat in their booth, waiting for Mitch to return with their supper. Megan said nothing, taking that time to size up Mitch's daughter. Jessie Holt was a darling little girl with big brown eyes and a button nose. Her long brown hair had been carefully combed back and plaited into a single thick braid that fell halfway down her back. Two Princess Jasmine barrettes had been added in odd places at odd angles that suggested they were Jessie's own touch.

“Are you my daddy's girlfriend?” she asked baldly, looking none too pleased with the prospect.

“Your dad and I work together,” Megan replied, neatly sidestepping the issue.

“Are you a cop, too?”

“Yep. I sure am.”

Jessie mulled this over, sitting back in the seat and crossing her arms. She wore a white turtleneck dotted with tiny colored hearts. Over that was a sweater knit in bright blocks of primary colors. On the front of the sweater was an appliqué of the face of a girl with freckles and braided yarn hair. She took hold of one of the braids and tickled the end of her nose with it.

“I never saw a girl cop.”

“There aren't very many of us,” Megan confessed, leaning her elbows on the table. “My dad was a cop, too. Do you think you might be a cop when you grow up?”

Jessie shook her head. “I'm gonna be a beterinarian. And a princess.”

Megan contained the laugh that threatened. “That sounds like a plan. What does a beterinarian do?”

“She helps aminals when they get sick and makes them better.”

“That's a good job. I like animals, too. I have two cats.”

Jessie's eyes widened. “Really? I have a toy cat named Whiskers. My grandma says I can't get a real cat 'cause Grampa's 'lergic.”

“That's too bad.”

“I have a dog, though,” she added, scooting ahead on her seat. She laid her arms on the table in an imitation of Megan's pose. “His name is Scotch—like butterscotch. He's older than me, but he's my dog. Daddy says so.”

“What Daddy says goes,” Mitch said, setting the heavily laden tray down on the table.

Jessie grinned. “Goes where?” She scrambled into his lap as he sat down. She tipped her head back and looked at him upside down.

“Goes to Timbuktu!”

He made a goofy face, wrapped his arms around her, and pretended to tickle her. Jessie giggled and squirmed. They had obviously been through the routine many times before.

Megan felt she didn't belong. Mitch wanted to spend time with his daughter, had asked Megan along only as a courtesy. She kicked herself for accepting, and she kicked herself again for letting old memories sneak up on her. She was a grown woman and she had better things to do with her time than feel sorry for herself because she had a family that defined the word
dysfunctional.

“Hey, O'Malley? You okay?”

“What?” She glanced back at Mitch, embarrassed to see concern in his eyes. “Yeah, sure,” she mumbled, giving her attention over to the paper-wrapped burger in front of her. The smell of fried onions wafted up to tempt her. “I was just . . . thinking about the case. Um . . . I should have gone over the background checks the guys ran on the hospital staff today. You know, maybe I'll pass on the parade.”

“Cut yourself some slack,” Mitch said. “I realize the clock's ticking, but you can't work twenty-four hours a day. You go at it that hard, you burn up physically and mentally, then you're no good to anyone.”

Megan shrugged. “I've put in only ten hours today. I can do a few more and still have a couple to spare.” She gave him her best poker face. “I think better at night. There aren't so many distractions.”

Mitch frowned but said nothing.

Jessie took a gulp of her milk. “Daddy, do you think—um—in the parade that there'll be those guys dressed up like pieces of cheese like last time? They were funny.”

“Probably, sweetheart,” he murmured, his eyes still on Megan.

Jessie launched into a detailed account of last year's torchlight parade. And Megan, glad for the distraction from Mitch's probing, concentrated on the little girl, knowing that by the time the story ended, the meal would be over and she would be able to escape. Mitch deserved some time alone with his daughter, and Megan wanted to retreat from this unfamiliar ground to the one thing she knew she could do well—her work.

8:19
P.M.
         20°

M
egan drove the deserted streets of Deer Lake, cursing the car's heater. It seemed a ridiculous time of year for a parade, and yet that seemed to be where everyone was. Megan wondered how many of the brass players in the high school bands would get their lips frozen to the mouthpieces of their horns.

Jessie's tale of last year's parade brought a smile to her lips. She could picture the floats she'd seen in the garage at the old fire hall. She could envision the clowns and the skiing wedges of cheddar from the BuckLand cheese factory slipping and falling in the street, tangling up with one another, the crowds on the sidewalks doubled over laughing.

How much laughing would there be tonight? Tonight, when a missing child was on everyone's mind, when every marcher wore a yellow ribbon and every float bore a banner that said
BRING JOSH HOME.

Megan wished with all her heart they could bring Josh home. They had so little to go on. The hotline tips hadn't produced anything but dead ends and false hopes. Megan's mind kept going in the direction of Olie Swain. He was the closest thing they had to a suspect. Mitch had to think so, too, or he wouldn't have risked taking a look inside Olie's van.

She wished again he would have confided in her about the van. And about himself. She could have picked up the phone and uncovered his past with a couple of calls. If she had wanted, she could have called
TV 7
and gotten a copy of Paige Price's hatchet job on him. She could have reached out to someone on the force in Miami or tracked down the story through the archives of the
Miami Herald
. But she would do none of those things. It had to come from Mitch himself, and the reason for that scared the hell out of her. Deep inside, where logic meant nothing, she wanted him to trust her.

You're too stupid for words, O'Malley.

He wanted to take her to bed, not give her his heart.

She wanted to go with him. Her third day on the job and she wanted to have sex with the chief of police.

You're too stupid to live, O'Malley.

Lust. Chemistry. Animal attraction. The heightened emotions of a volatile situation. Physical needs too long ignored. The excuses bounced through her head, all of them true, none of them the truth. She wouldn't look for the heart of truth. She was too afraid of what she would find. A need that had never been fulfilled. A longing that had been with her forever. Foolish dreams.

There was no place in her life for a relationship, especially one with Mitch Holt with all the complications that would bring. She couldn't believe she was even toying with the idea. Fantasies of love and family and dark-haired little children had always been relegated to the deepest, darkest, most lonely hours of the night, where they could be dismissed as dreams when daylight and reality dawned. It confounded her that they would surface now, when she had neither the time nor the energy to deal with them. Her focus had to be on the case.

With the single-minded determination that had gotten her through her career, she turned her mind in that direction and pointed the car toward the hockey rink. She sat in the parking lot for a long while, staring at Olie's battered van, what-iffing, something anxious stirring inside her. A hunch, just forming, just out of reach, teased her like an itch she couldn't quite scratch. And in the back of her mind she could almost hear Josh's voice reading the line from his notebook:
Kids tease Olie but that's mean. He can't help how he looks.

Inside the arena music sang out over the speaker system—Mariah Carey's “Hero.” The seats were empty and dark. Lights shone down on the ice, where a single skater was going through a routine, moving and jumping in harmony with the flowing, lovely song. Megan made her way to the team bench, where she took a ringside seat at the red line.

The skater was a young woman, blond, petite but athletic in black leggings, a purple skating skirt, and a loose-fitting ivory sweater. She concentrated on the music, her footwork and arm movements. Every move was held out perfectly until it flowed into the next. Her jumps were graceful, powerful, with landings so smooth they seemed to defy physics. The music swelled and soared, then softened. The skater went into a final layback spin, looking like a ballerina on a music box.

Megan applauded, drawing the young woman's attention her way for the first time. The skater smiled and waved to acknowledge her tribute, then skated over with her hands on her hips.

“That was great!” Megan said.

She managed a shrug as she worked to even out her breathing. “It still needs work, but thanks. Could you hand me that bottle of water?”

Megan picked a plastic bottle of mineral water up from the player's bench and handed it over. “I'm Megan O'Malley with the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension.”

“Ciji Swensen.” She pulled a towel off the gate and blotted her lips and forehead, her dark blue eyes on Megan. “I read about you in the paper. Are you here about the kidnapping? I feel so bad for Dr. Garrison.”

“Do you know Josh?”

“Sure. I know just about everybody in town who can lace on a pair of skates. I'm an instructor with the Figure Skating Club.”

“Working overtime tonight?”

“Practice. The club does a little show every year for Snowdaze. This is one of my pieces. I knew everyone would be at the parade tonight, so I thought I'd take advantage of having the ice all to myself. It's a special number—for Josh, you know? The club voted to give the profits from the show to the volunteer center.”

“That's very generous.”

“Yeah, well, we had to do something. It makes me sick to think some pervert picked Josh up right outside this rink. For all I know, I could have been standing right here when it happened.”

“You were here that night?”

Ciji nodded as she took another swig of water. “I had a class at seven.”

A male voice called out from the darkness at the far end of the rink. “You want that music again, Ciji?”

“No, thanks, Olie,” she called back. “I'm taking a break.”

Megan stared hard, just making out the shape of Olie Swain's head and shoulders as he moved in the shadows. “Did you see Olie that night?”

“Yeah, sure.” She shrugged. “Olie's always around here somewhere.”

“He resurfaced the ice before your class?”

She nodded. “He did the ice right after the Squirts finished practice.”

“What time was that?”

“Five-fifteen, five-thirty.” Ciji's delicate brows pulled together in a look of concern. “Look, I know there are people in town who are ready to blame Olie, but he's not a bad person. He's just odd. I mean, he's really kind of sweet, you know? I've never seen him behave inappropriately around the kids.”

“Did you see him later that night?”

“Sure. He did the ice again before seniors hockey at eight.”

Which left hours in which he could have done anything, including abduct Josh Kirkwood.

Ciji set her water on the ledge along the boards and wound the towel around her hands. “You don't really think he did it, do you?”

“We're just trying to establish a chronology of the events Wednesday night,” Megan said smoothly, neither confirming nor denying. “It's important that we know who was where when. You were here until what time?”

“Eight-fifteen. I always stay until the senior guys warm up.” She smiled a little. “They like to flirt. They're a bunch of sweeties.”

“And you didn't see anything or anyone unusual?”

The smile disappeared. “No. Like I told the officer who questioned me yesterday—I wish I could say otherwise. I wish I could be a hero for Josh, but I just didn't see anything.”

“Thanks anyway,” Megan said. “I'll let you get back to work. It was nice meeting you.”

“Sure.” Ciji tossed her towel over the gate and gracefully skated backward toward center ice. “I hope you can make it to the show Sunday!”

“I'll try,” Megan called, already moving out of the box and toward the end of the arena.

O
lie saw her coming. That lady cop who looked right at him. He didn't want to talk to her. He didn't want to talk to anybody. He knew what people were saying—that his van was like the one the cops were looking for. Well, Mitch Holt had already looked inside his van and hadn't found anything. So they could all just go hang themselves, those people who stared at him sideways and said things about him behind his back. He didn't care what they thought, anyway. All he wanted was to be left alone.

He grabbed his plastic liter bottle of Coke and his book on chaos theories and started toward the door to the locker rooms.

“Mr. Swain? Can I have a word with you?”

“Talked to the chief,” he grumbled. “Nothing else to say.”

Watch your manners, Leslie! Don't be rude, Leslie. Never turn your back to me while I'm talking, Leslie.

He winced at the strident voice in his head.

“This will take only a minute.”

If he went to his office, she would follow him. He didn't want that. He didn't like anyone going in there. He couldn't breathe when other people came into his space.

“I just have a couple of questions for you,” Megan said, catching up with him.

She could smell him five feet away. The rank onion smell of poor hygiene and overactive sweat glands wafted from him like cologne gone bad. He was wearing the same sweater and jacket he'd had on the first night. He stood facing her, a textbook clutched against his chest, his glass eye staring, his good eye darting all around her.