No One Left to Tell (27 page)

Christian turned his SUV into the Monroe Street parking garage, then walked across Lakeshore Drive toward the two-story Monroe Harbor Clubhouse and the sign indicating the marina office.

Seeing the harbor in the photo of Fiona's honeymoon had jogged his memory. At one time, he had heard that Mickey owned a boat and kept it in a slip at the yacht club. Perhaps the man still had a connection to the posh facility. As Christian neared the water's edge, a breeze humbled him, coming through his khaki cargo pants. The bright sun held little warmth. Winter heralded its arrival with the wind off the lake. He zipped the front of his leather bomber jacket, covering his ivory cardigan. His hiking boots echoed his approach along the wooden pier.

Just as he remembered, a set of glass doors revealed the location of lockers, near the guest shower facility. Although the area was open now, instructions printed on the door laid out the hours for the secured card key access. Then his eyes found one security camera, and another, his training made him a creature of habit. The upscale facility would have suited Mickey's taste.

Raven's mystery key might have a home after all. Still, he hadn't decided if he would share whatever news he might find with her. The thought sent a pang of guilt jabbing at his conscience.

He followed the walkway past the office, his eyes drawn beyond the shoreline. Without the narrow building to break the sporadic gusts, the chilly breeze stole his breath as he rounded the corner, tousling his hair. And the untainted smell of the lake carried on the wind, beckoning like a haunting siren's call.

The irresistible view drew him to the railing, his hands stuffed into his jacket. Even under dark glasses, his eyes watered with the cold. The expanse of water churned, mesmerizing him with its swells. Thoughts of Raven crept into his mind. Surely, such beauty was meant for two.

"She's like a mistress you can never forget." A man's voice interrupted his thought.

"Excuse me?" Christian turned to see an older man standing farther down the wooden pier. It took him a moment to realize the stranger had been talking about the appeal of Lake Michigan.

The man was dressed in layers. His gray hair peeked out from under a navy wool hat pulled over his ears, his bulbous nose red with the cold. The sparkle of the lake had been captured in his engaging eyes, despite the man's age.

"The lake. She's kept me coming here like an addiction." The old man's voice fit him, raspy and gnarled like his weathered skin. "You visiting? I haven't seen you here before."

Christian didn't offer a reply. A faint smile curved a corner of his mouth. He treasured his anonymity far too much to reveal anything to this stranger.

"Have a good one, mister. Enjoy your day." Turning, he walked back toward the office and left the old gent. Time to move on.

Down from the lockers, another set of glass doors under an awning led to the small marina office. Once inside, he slipped off his sunglasses, his eyes adjusting to the darker interior. An unrecognizable melody wafted from overhead speakers. The walls were covered with dark wood veneer and cork message boards. Sitting between a sofa and armchairs, an evergreen shrub had seen better days. Beyond the vacant counter, a small office with metal filing cabinets was abandoned. No one manned the desk.

Just then, the door behind him opened. And the old man from the wharf entered, sporting a grin on his face.

"What can I do for ya, young man? Folks consider me Father Confessor 'round here. Talk to me. You'll find I'm a good listener."

Christian returned his smile, sharing his subtle brand of humor. "Yes, sir. And I just bet they'd be right. Was wondering if you could tell me if Mickey Blair still leases a boat slip here? Or maybe has a locker?" He hoped no other information would be asked of him.

The man stepped behind the counter. The humor faded from his lined face. "That information is generally considered private, mister. Did you know him?"

"Not well," he cautiously replied. Christian narrowed his eyes and cocked his head to one side. "Couldn't help but notice you used the past tense. You hear what happened to Mick?" Christian followed his instincts. As long as he kept him talking, the man might eventually cooperate. The trick was to get more information than he had to shell out.

"Man's gotta keep up with things, right?" Aged eyes held Christian's stare. "Guy's dead anyways. Couldn't hurt, just talking. He used to keep a boat here.
The Freelancer.
But he gave that up earlier this year. Said he was going someplace warmer."

"No doubt." If there was a hell, Christian suspected Mick felt plenty of heat now. Mickey would have been as secretive about himself as Christian was, but somehow, this man had kept an eye on him—and had gotten him to talk. Interesting.

And the guy continued to amaze him.

"And as for a locker, he still has it until the end of the year. Membership has its privilege. But I guess you could say Mr. Blair expired before his locker did." The man's abrupt chuckle filled the room. "Anyway, I saw him down at the docks from time to time, carryin' a duffel bag like he still had business here."

"Have you told the police about his locker?"

"Nope. Figured I'd get around to it sooner or later. What're they gonna find in a locker anyway, some old sneakers and a snorkel? Besides, I'm not the kind of guy that'd stick his nose in other people's business."

Christian fought to keep a smile from his face.

"I don't know. You look like a man that keeps up with the goings-on around here. Don't suppose you could tell me which of these lockers is his." Christian reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out his wallet. Thumbing through his bills, he waited for—

"Yeah, I've always been real good with numbers." The man smiled and gave a wink, hand outstretched. "And mister, a man could always use a new friend. What did you say your name was?"

"Ulysses S. Grant." Christian smiled, handing over a fifty-dollar bill.

"You don't say. What's the S stand for?"

"You get me into that locker—and
S
will stand for satisfied."

The old man's laughter sealed their arrangement. But the image of Raven's dark eyes kept Christian from enjoying his small victory.

With a bite missing, a chili cheese dog loaded with onions sat atop Raven's desk, alongside a mound of untouched fries. The smell hovered in the air like a living, breathing thing. Sam's choice of lunch had no appeal. In contrast, the man was finishing the last bite of his foot-long like he'd never get another.

"You gonna eat the rest?" He raised both eyebrows, waiting for her answer. Once again, Raven looked up from her father's case notes, smiling when Sam's face reminded her of a big yellow Lab she had as a kid.

"With your schedule, you better keep up your strength. Go ahead, LT."

"Thanks, baby girl." After taking a mouthful, he kept talking. "I got a handful of cases here we can talk about—everything from a scumbag that killed his pregnant wife with a hunting knife to a DUI that got nasty. Where do you wanna start?"

His voice buzzed her ear, not fully sinking in. A note in one of her father's cases unexpectedly caught her eye. "What, Sam? Sorry, I was just reading—"

"You got something?"

"I don't really know." Her voice trailed off into a whisper, her eyes engrossed in her father's handwriting. "Just a car theft. Some teenager. But Dad sure seemed agitated by the guy. He even makes a personal note here."

"What did he write?"

"Just three words, printed and underlined in the margin—
Gray dead eyes.
Most of his work deals in the facts of each case. But this is different. Do you remember this one, Sam?" Raven handed over the black notebook, opened to an entry dated two years before the death of her father.

With one glance at the name of the car thief, he focused his attention to the stack of manila folders to his left.

"Hadn't gotten to that pile yet." With a grin, he found what he was looking for. "Yep, here it is. Logan McBride."

Quietly, he read through the material, narrowing his eyes with concern. "I remember this loser. A young punk with heaps of attitude." He looked up, tossing her the file.

Raven knew what her father had seen in the man. His black-and-white booking photo was chilling. Defiantly, gray dead eyes stared back at her, without an ounce of contrition—or fear.

"Logan McBride," she whispered to herself, trying to imagine the confrontation between her father and this man. She committed the face to memory.

Sam spoke, bringing her back to the present. "Looks like we got plenty of possibles. Let me give you the rundown so far, then we can make our top-ten hit parade. Sound like a plan?"

Before she could answer, her phone rang. Raising an index finger to Sam, she picked up her line. "Mackenzie."

"Raven? It's Christian. We've gotta talk."

"You sure this is gonna be okay? Maybe we can find someplace else." Given the look of concern on Christian's face, Raven had only one option for a reply. She lied.

"Yeah, this is fine. I love hot dogs."

Having a serious case of deja vu, she didn't have the heart to refuse his choice of pseudocuisine. It was the only food readily available this late in the afternoon. By the time she'd finished with Sam's case run-down, the lunch hour was long gone.

Just her luck. Hunger had come back with a vengeance. After Christian heard her stomach growl at the station house, she lied about not having eaten, hoping he'd pick a quiet bistro. His only suggestion, a deliberate one, was a walk toward the yacht club.

Now, she held a mystery-meat Popsicle in her hand, minus the stick and wrapped in foil. No amount of yellow mustard and relish could hide it. The only thing that made it palatable was the view and the man walking by her side.

Lake Michigan looked breathtaking, glistening in the afternoon sun. As they meandered back toward the waterfront, she filled her lungs with fresh air and nibbled at her slice of Americana in a bun. But she did a double-take when she glanced over to Christian. He was suspiciously eyeing his hot dog, avoiding his first bite. No doubt he'd chosen the red-and-white-striped hot dog stand more for expediency than for the culinary wizardry of the vendor.

"Why'd you bring me here, Delacorte?" She raised an eyebrow. "You on a first-name basis with the maitre d'?"

She found humor in her own remark, but he appeared distracted, avoiding her stare. Instead, he dodged her question by taking a bite of his dog. By the look on his face, it'd been a bad choice.

Forcing it down with a swig of bottled water, he finally replied, "Was just wondering if you had a chance to dig up the old Dunhill files? I've come up against a brick wall on my end, got nothing so far."

This close to the dock, Raven got the distinct impression he was fishing. She wasn't about to take the bait so easily.

"Those old files are archived, Christian. But I'm getting them delivered this afternoon, as soon as they've been located." She eyed him surreptitiously, observing every nuance of the man. He was even more difficult to read under dark glasses. "Not sure I've decided to share them yet. I haven't seen much in the way of good faith from you."

She let the implication hang in the air. An ordinary person would have filled the void in conversation, unable to leave silence be. Christian was anything but ordinary. He reversed her ploy, being content with utter stillness. A chess match with the man would be quite the challenge.

Fighting a smile, she found a quiet spot with a wooden bench and a beautiful view of the waterfront. He joined her, without a word. After tossing his half-eaten meal in a nearby trash receptacle, he sipped at his water and waited. The standoff might've been comical, except Christian was so preoccupied.

"Something's wrong. What is it?" she asked, setting aside her lunch.

He deliberated a moment, then pulled off his sunglasses, tucking them into a jacket pocket. Without the buffer, his eyes commanded her attention, softening his doleful expression.

"I can't help worrying about you. Whoever killed Mickey has no regard for the authority of the police. And gunning your partner down in front of his whole neighborhood just emphasizes that point." Turning, he fixed his eyes on her and brushed back a strand of hair that had blown across her cheek. "The Dunhill Estate is a fortress. I want you to stay with me."

Those eyes had the power to make her say yes to just about anything, but so much more was at stake than her personal feelings.

"I've got a job to do. You know that."

"Nothing's worth your life, Raven." Staring out across the water, he shared his tainted view of her career choice. "What you do. It's all about dealing with destruction and loss."

"No, Christian, you don't understand. For me, this job is about putting things right. It's about justice." She leaned toward him, touching a finger to his jawline. Eventually, she drew him back.

Yet by the look in his eyes, he still searched for an understanding. "After all the savagery that you see day after day, doesn't it chip away from who you are? The effects must be permanent. How do you deal with that?"

She felt certain his thoughts no longer reflected his view of her job. The emotion in his words ran much deeper, centered on his own grief. She could identify with his sentiments. The death of her father had robbed her of the innocence of her teenage years. In many respects, they had so much in common. Her connection to him was undeniable.

"But the effects don't have to be terminal. At some point, you gotta let go. Move on. The loss of my father pales in comparison to your tragedy, but I do understand some of what you've gone through."

"Then understand this." He reached for her hand, enfolding it in his. "You putting your life on the line, it's painful for me to watch. Please. I'm asking you to reconsider."

She ached hearing his heartfelt plea. With anyone else, she might've dismissed the concern. But gazing into Christian's eyes, it was nearly impossible. Nearly.

"You and I both have to remain strong. Don't you want to know who's doing this?" She squeezed his hand. Focusing on the facts of the case, maybe she could distract him from his apprehension for her personal safety. "Somehow this is all connected to your past. We just gotta find the key, that's all."