No Hero (7 page)

“I can see that.” His jaw ached from clenching, and his pulse thrummed painfully in his temples. If he could believe what he saw, she was as shocked by the picture on the screen as he was. But could he believe what he saw? “What’s going on?” he growled. “I swear, Connor, if this is some kind of setup—”

She shook her head. “No. I mean, I don’t know.” She looked at her hands, then up at him, confusion and fear tightening her features. “Someone must have changed it?”

Dev looked at her narrowly. “Someone?” He assessed her. If she was acting, she deserved an Oscar. He wasn’t sure it was possible to make one’s face that pale on purpose.

He pressed play again.

“Don’t—” She stopped, her words cut off by the sound of her recorded voice.

He muttered a curse. He knew exactly what he was watching. It was her feature on the kidnapping and rescue of his ex-partner Cody Maxwell’s wife. Captain Hamilton and Cody had been her guests that day, along with Dev. He hadn’t watched the interview, but he remembered every damn word by heart. He watched as the camera moved in on his eyes. He steeled himself, working to counteract the instinctive fight-or-flight reaction he remembered from that day.

“And what about you, Detective Gautier? You seem uncomfortable in front of the cameras.” Connor’s recorded voice held a note of excitement.

Dev watched himself shoot a quick glance, edged with panic, at the camera. Connor wasn’t on-screen, but he’d not forgotten her bright-eyed anticipation as she’d watched him. He had pasted on the lethal smile that worked surprisingly often, praying that whatever she was leading up to, it wouldn’t be what he feared.

Beside him, Connor said something, but Dev didn’t catch it. He couldn’t take his eyes or his attention off the screen. It was like watching a fatal car wreck—sickening and compelling at the same time.

“Isn’t it true, Detective Gautier, that your real name is John Devrow, and you’re not from Louisiana at all? That you left Seattle on the run twenty years ago, after bludgeoning your stepfather to death with a baseball bat?”

He watched his own face drain of color, as he’d felt the same tightness in his chest, the same vise around his head, the same sickening wash of terror that had dogged him throughout his childhood and teen years. That same terror had been his constant companion again during the two months he’d just spent in Seattle. He’d had to go back and deal with the charges against him, and the fact that he’d fled the scene of a murder and had remained a fugitive for two decades. Thankfully he’d been just a kid at the time, and had been exonerated of any wrongdoing.

Enough
.
He shoved away the residual fear from his long-buried memories and replaced it with anger. He jabbed at the stop button. “Son-of-a-bitch,” he ground out. “I ought to—” He stopped abruptly when he saw the abject terror on her face. Controlling his anger, he spoke in an even, controlled tone. “Where’s Fontenot’s disk?”

She looked from him to the TV, then she hurried over to the DVD player and punched eject. He saw her hand trembling as she waited for the machine to spit out the disk. When it appeared, he could see the word
Gautier
and the date printed on it.

Still struggling to maintain his even tone, he said, “Maybe you just forgot which of your favorite disks you were watching, eh, cher?”

That seemed to snap her out of her bewildered fog. Her chin went up in the way he was beginning to recognize. “I didn’t forget what I was watching, Detective. You can believe me when I tell you that I do
not
spend my evenings sitting around watching DVDs of you.”

No, he didn’t suppose she did.

She turned to the shelf and searched the stacks of DVDs desperately, running the tip of her finger across them. Then she went back to the top and did it again.

“It’s not here. I don’t understand,” she said in that same tight voice. “The disk was in the player and the case was lying right here on the shelf when I left this morning.” Her eyes darted from the DVD player to the shelf and back. She shivered visibly. “And I know the remote was on the coffee table. Someone—someone’s been in my house.” Her voice cracked on the last word.

Dev watched her, his anger slowly fading as he began to accept that she was telling the truth. She was certainly acting like a burglary victim. He’d seen plenty. They all had that kind of shocked, bewildered look on their faces as it slowly dawned on them that their homes and their lives had been invaded.

“Okay,” he said gently, holding out a hand in a reassuring gesture. It was a technique he’d successfully used with victims many times. Reassurance and a calm, even tone went a long way toward preventing panic. “Just take it easy, and let’s go over everything.”

Connor stiffened. “I don’t have to go over anything. I know. Someone’s been in here.” She glanced at the windows and door of the living room, then quickly walked into her kitchen.

She was a tough one, all right. She was barefoot and in pajamas with her hair curling damply onto her shoulders, but she carried herself with a brave, graceful dignity as she checked the back door and the window over the sink.

When she returned to the living room, she was visibly shaken. “Everything’s locked,” she said, her voice lifting almost as if she were asking a question.

“All right,” he said quietly. “Why don’t you tell me everything? Start with why you came to the crime scene.”

“I came downstairs after I got the phone call from—” She stopped abruptly. “Um, a source.”

It didn’t matter. She didn’t have to tell him who called her when Darnell’s body had been found. He’d already figured that out. It had to be Annie Hanks, the night-shift dispatcher. They were friends.

He didn’t say anything, and after a few seconds she went on. “I wanted to listen to him one more time before I went to the crime scene. I wanted to be sure I had his exact words fresh in my mind when I saw how the boy had died. The last thing I saw before I left the house was his face—right there on that screen. The last thing I heard was him threatening you.” Her voice sounded brittle. Her eyes darted here and there around the room, as if she thought if she looked hard enough she’d find an answer to who had invaded her privacy.

“Has anyone else been in your house today? Who has a key? Housekeeper?” He watched her carefully, looking for any tell that would indicate that she was lying.

“My housekeeper has a key, but she’s out of town,” she said.

“Boyfriend?” he asked, narrowing his gaze.

“No.” Her answer was distracted, her eyes still flitting from window to window, door to door. She wasn’t lying. He’d be willing to bet she wasn’t even leaving anything out. The way she’d answered that question, he was sure there wasn’t a boyfriend.

Still trying to offer assurance and comfort, he said, “Well, I’m sure there’s some explanation.”

Connor’s gaze burned him like a laser. “Oh, really? You’re
sure
?” She stood, her brows lowered like delicate thunderclouds above her pale face. “You don’t believe me, do you? Why do you think I drove out to the crime scene to see you?”

Dev was tired. He was sad and disgusted, and sick of running into brick walls everywhere he turned. He also needed some distance from this ambitious reporter who’d turned his life upside down once, and for all he knew was planning to do it again. Not to mention his unwanted physical reaction to her. “I have no idea why you showed up or why you’re pulling this DVD crap. Maybe you’re bored, and thought you’d ruin my life again. Hell, maybe you do sit around and watch replays of Reghan Connor’s greatest triumphs.”

Her cheeks flamed. “Well, if I did, one of them would not be you.”

Touché.
He held up a hand. “Okay. The Garden District isn’t my beat, but I’ll call them to come over and take your report.”

She studied his face, then made a dismissive gesture. “Please. Don’t bother. I’m sure I just forgot. You know how we talking heads can be.” Her voice sliced through him as sharp and neat as a well-honed sword.

Rubbing his neck, Dev eyed her narrowly. “You know as well as I do that if someone really did break in and steal a DVD, then this is a crime scene. You don’t get to say, ‘oh, never mind
.’
” He pulled his phone out.

She laid her hand on his. “Wait. I’d rather you didn’t make that call. It will end up all over the news.”

“Your point?” He sent her a look that was totally wasted on her. She was too upset to recognize the irony of her words.

“Besides, I don’t see anything out of place,” she said, going back to studying every inch of her walls and floor. “I don’t see how someone could have gotten in. Do you really think your colleagues will be able to find anything?”

“Probably not, but who knows? There’s always a chance. A team could dust the TV and DVD player for prints, and maybe the front and back doors.”

“But you don’t think it’ll help.” She turned to stare at him.

He had the uncomfortable feeling she was trying to see inside his head. He looked away. He wasn’t at all sure he had the stamina to hide what he was thinking from her. Not right now. “You’re probably going to have a hard time convincing anybody that you didn’t switch the disks yourself.”

“Including you?”

He laughed shortly and shook his head. “I think you’ve convinced me.”

She gave him a wan little smile tinged with gratitude, an expression he’d never seen before on her face. It surprised him.

He dialed a number and within a few minutes had arranged for the Garden District station to send over a couple of officers. The first thing they did was take her prints, so they could be eliminated. They acted less than thrilled about being there, and went about their jobs halfheartedly, not even bothering to disguise their contempt for her.

Dev knew their animosity was on his behalf, but still, she was a victim of a crime—okay, a possible crime. If these guys were under his command… But they weren’t, so he didn’t say anything.

It took them about an hour, which was a ridiculous amount of time to gather a few prints, but again he bit his tongue. After they’d finally left, he folded his arms and leaned against her door. “So, Connor,” he said, “what now?”

She looked up from scrubbing her fingertips with a dishcloth. She looked tired and annoyed as she held up her black-stained hand, palm out. “Do you think they used enough ink?”

He winced inwardly. Maybe he should say something to the team’s lieutenant about the officers’ disrespectful attitudes. Later.

He gestured toward the DVD player. “You got another copy of Fontenot’s disk?”

Her face lightened. “On my desk at work. I had the media lab make me a copy this morning, thinking you—or someone—would come by to get it. Give me two minutes to change clothes.”

Chapter Four

When Reghan came down the stairs, Dev was leaning against the front door, his arms crossed. He looked up in surprise.

“What?” she asked. “I did say two minutes.”

Without comment, he opened the front door and gestured for her to precede him out. After she locked the door, she started toward her car. Dev gave a curt laugh.

She stopped and looked at him. “What’s so funny?” she demanded.

“I’m going to take a wild guess,” he said wryly. “The Beemer?”

She bristled at his tone. “Something wrong with that?”

“I guess I should have parked farther down the street. My heap’s going to get a complex.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” she said dryly, raising one delicate brow at his ancient green Chevy with its cracking, peeling paint and a long, deep scratch that stretched the entire length of the passenger side. “Your car is obviously just like you. Rugged, independent, macho, and a little scruffy. It obviously couldn’t care less about appearances.”

“Hah. I’ll guarantee you that.”

She angled her head at his broad Cajun drawl, sending him the message that she knew he wasn’t really Cajun, no matter how much he enjoyed affecting the accent and the
laissez les bontemps rouler
attitude.

A brief shadow crossed his face. “Come on, cher. No need to take two cars. We’ll go in mine.”

She opened her mouth to object, but she didn’t have the strength to keep butting heads with him. It was exhausting, and she needed to start picking her battles. It didn’t matter which car they took to WACT. She was still shaken by the idea that someone had been in her house, looking at things, touching things. She felt violated and frightened. And according to the officers, there were no signs of forced entry, so whoever had broken in and taken the DVD had picked her locks with skill. Which meant it wouldn’t do any good to change them.

By the time she walked over to his car, Dev was standing there, ready to open the passenger door for her. “Allow me.” He yanked open the door with visible effort and a loud screech of metal-on-metal that hurt her ears. He waited like a perfect chauffeur until she got in, then slammed the door shut with another ear-splitting screech.

She winced, and laughed uneasily. When he got in he sent her a quick glance. “Don’t laugh at my girl,” he said, patting the faded dashboard. “You’ll hurt her feelings.”

“I was just thinking that she has a lot of things in common with you. Including an abrasive personality.”

When he started the engine, she was a little surprised to hear it purr like a sleek race car. But maybe she shouldn’t have been. She’d already begun to think that if she were able to peel away Dev’s tough-as-nails exterior, she might find it hid something surprisingly tender beneath.

As he pulled away from the curb, she reached behind her for the seat belt. She groped for a few seconds, then twisted in her seat to look. “There’s no seat belt. How can you drive without a seat belt? Doesn’t Louisiana have a law?”

He didn’t say anything.

“What am I supposed to do without a seat belt?”

“Guess you better sit tight, cher.” He shot her a grin.

…

Ten minutes later, Dev parked in the WACT studio parking lot and walked around to wrench open the passenger door for Connor. That damn door had been out of kilter ever since he’d smashed the car into a warehouse wall in pursuit of a punk dope dealer. The grinding protest it gave almost drowned out the sound of his cell phone.