Not Without Risk (2 page)

Sergeant Harrison raised a dark brow. His partner stopped scribbling in his notepad
long enough to look up. “It wasn’t safe?”

“He didn’t explain and I never got the chance to ask. By the time I got to his room—”
She swallowed around the lump in her throat. “The door was unlocked, propped partially
open when I arrived. Leroy lay on the bed. His hair…there was so much blood.”

Her vision blurred and the walls tilted. Reaching out blindly, Paige struggled to
keep the room from tilting. A second wave of nausea coursed through her as her vision
grayed.

A hand grabbed her upper arm and pushed her into a chair. Another urged her head toward
her knees.

“Ms. Conroy?” A voice drifted to her through the fog. “Ms. Conroy, are you all right?”

As her vision began to cleared, she lifted her head. The light-haired one, Sergeant
Simmons, stood to her left. Dressed in a gray suit and loafers, he wore his gun on
his belt. A wedding ring, a simple gold band, adorned the hand that held a notebook.
His pen stilled as he focused on a spot to her right. Paige followed his gaze and
turned her head.

Surprise jolted through her and all she could do was stare. The man who’d asked all
the questions, squatted next to her. She blinked, unable to think past the strength
in the hand still holding her arm, and the unexplainable comfort his touch brought
her.

The spicy scent of his cologne curled around her, sending her senses humming faster.
Attraction—something she hadn’t felt in years—quickened her pulse and, for a moment,
she forgot everything but him. The straight, square cut of his shoulders, the broad
expanse of his chest. She let her gaze rise and studied his high-boned face, the cheeks
covered in five o’clock shadow, his dark eyes lined with fatigue.

“Ms. Conroy?”

His voice was deep, rich and thick with concern. Paige drew in a shaky breath and
fought against the irrational urge to lean into him, to draw from him both the gentleness
and strength she sensed in him. To forget the ache that settled just below her heart.

The room snapped back into focus and with it, the reason for her being there. Paige
jerked away from his touch and reeled her strayed thoughts back under control. “I’m
sorry.”

Sergeant Harrison released her and straightened. He moved a step away and watched
her, his handsome face expressionless. “What did you do when you found the body?”

“I checked for a pulse. Then I left the room to call nine-one-one.”

“You touched the body?”

The sergeant’s continual reference to Leroy as
the body
was unsettling. “Yes. Leroy’s wrist. I would have checked his carotid artery but…”

“I understand. You say you left the room to call? You didn’t use the phone by the
bed or touch anything else?”

“No. I know better than to touch anything.”

Sergeant Harrison cocked his head. “Are you sure? You were understandably upset by
what you found in that room. You panicked and reached for the telephone next to the
bed.”

“No I…” Paige drew a deep breath. She willed her mind to focus as she placed herself
back in the room, standing beside the bed and staring down at Leroy. “I touched the
nightstand, but not the telephone.”

“Okay.”

“I was startled, sickened by what I saw. I moved too quickly and bumped into the nightstand.
I put my hand down to catch my balance.”

“Was there anyone with you in the elevator?” Sergeant Simmons asked.

“No.”

“Did you see anyone in the hallway outside the room?”

“No, just two people in the lobby as I entered. They appeared to be checking out.
I saw no one else.”

As Sergeant Harrison spoke again, she returned her attention to him. “Where did you
go to make the call for help?”

“I stepped back into the hallway and used my cell phone.”

He eyed her speculatively, his brows drawn together to form a frown. “You seem to
know a lot about not disturbing a crime scene.”

What did he mean by that? She’d just admitted to disturbing the scene when she put
her hand on the nightstand.

“Do you know if Mr. St. John had any enemies?”

“He was a cop.”

Sergeant Harrison shifted as if suddenly uncomfortable and narrowed his eyes. “Meaning
what?”

Paige willed her knees not to shake as she stood and took a step in his direction.
“I don’t know. I would think the possibilities are endless with a cop.”

Something flashed in his eyes. His hand lifted to settle on his ribs. “Do you have
a problem with people in law enforcement, Ms. Conroy?”

“Of course not.” The pressure of his hand against his ribs increased. Paige stepped
closer. A quick, surprising surge of concern filled her and she reached for him. “Sergeant,
are you all right?”

He twisted away so quickly that she snatched her hand back. His face as expressionless
as granite, he shifted his hand from his ribs to within inches of the grip of his
pistol.

She moved just as quickly, stepping back with her palms raised in front of her chest.
Suddenly craving distance, she continued to walk backwards, stopping only when the
manager’s desk pressed against the back of her thighs.

Paige regretted her show of concern immediately. Before her eyes, Sergeant Harrison
underwent a transformation. Not only did his stance change, his spine go rigid and
unyielding, but gone was the man she’d caught such a brief glimpse of. His eyes went
flat, his mouth thinned, and he became all cop.

She studied the line of his body, from the polished shine of the black Western boots
on his feet, up the long length of denim covered legs. Past trim hips, the open front
of his leather jacket, only to stop on the hand still positioned near the rich, black
handle of his pistol.

Glock
, her mind catalogued the gun instinctively. All of her froze.

What in the world was she doing?

A nervous laugh escaped. “I’m afraid you have the wrong idea about me.” Her hands
shook. Unease clawed at her. Not from the man’s instinctive reaction, but from the
memories that very reaction brought back to her. “I wouldn’t have any idea whether
Leroy had enemies or not. We didn’t…I haven’t seen him in over two years.”

“But you talked with him. On the telephone, or through letters.”

“Yes, no.” Paige shook her head to clear it. She wasn’t communicating well at a time
when she desperately needed to. He stood before her, his hand now in his front pocket.
Doubt colored his features as his piercing gaze sized her up. For what, she didn’t
know, but it left her with the knowledge that she needed them to better understand.
“Leroy and I barely had contact anymore. When we did, we used e-mail.”

“So until the telephone call early this morning, St. John gave no indication that
anything was wrong?”

“That’s correct.”

“You say you rarely had contact with him anymore,” Sergeant Simmons stated. “You’re
implying that you used to talk quite frequently?”

“We were friends years ago.” It seemed like a lifetime ago. Long enough ago that she
had thought that part of her life far behind her.

The urge to escape flared. Near to breaking, she wanted to run from the room. To give
in and allow grief to swallow her whole. She wanted to shout. She wanted to cry. But
she didn’t cry in front of people, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to cry in front
of these men. It took all her control to stand her ground.

She had no idea who murdered Leroy and no amount of digging into her memories was
going to help. She did know she had to keep it together long enough to finish answering
the detective’s questions. Once she completed that task, she would relinquish the
tight hold she held on her emotions. Then, and only then, she would allow herself
to feel what at this moment she fought desperately not to.

“Ms. Conroy.” Sergeant Harrison held what appeared to be a photograph, sealed in plastic,
before him. “Can you identify the man in this picture?”

A gasp broke loose as she caught sight of the man he spoke of. She shifted her right
hand to her throat, concentrating on curling her left hand around the edge of the
photograph and taking it from him.

It was more than she could handle. The endless hours of restless sleep followed by
the shock of finding Lee dead. Yet nothing compared to what he handed her.

Tears stung her eyes. She swallowed once, twice, wishing against hope that she could
hold back the memories longer. She’d built a wall around them, around the pain they
brought. A wall she feared was about to crumble. “Yes. I can identify that man.”

“Is he Leroy St. John?”

“Where did you find this? Did Leroy have it?”

“Is Leroy St. John the man in that photograph?”

They had to know it wasn’t. They would have Leroy’s I.D., his driver’s license or
something. Wouldn’t they?

The photograph trembled along with her hands as she offered it back to Sergeant Harrison.
She waited, silently pleading with him to take it from her. She needed it gone, needed
to pull herself back under control.

But even as he removed the photo from her sight, her shaking continued. Suddenly struck
by a frightening realization, something she knew the detectives would soon discover,
her tremors increased.

“Ms. Conroy, who is the man in the picture?” Sergeant Simmons asked. “Why would this
picture be of importance to Detective St. John?”

Sergeant Harrison jumped in. “That is you, is it not?”

Her throat went dry, leaving her unable to form the words. She wished for a glass
of water to wet her mouth. She wished for this to be over, for none of it to have
happened at all. But even as she wished, she understood just how impossible that would
be. Now, the past she worked so hard to forget came crashing back. And no matter the
pain, the mind-numbing ache it caused her, it was about to be picked apart and dissected.
“Yes, that’s me in the photograph.”

“And who is the man with his arms around you?” Sergeant Harrison asked.

“Rick Preston. He was Leroy’s partner, as well as my fiancé.”

“Was?”

Her voice carefully controlled, Paige answered. “He’s dead, Sergeant. Rick Preston
was murdered.”

Murdered.

Justin’s day slipped from bad to worse. “When?”

“Three years ago. Rick and I had gone out to dinner, a late dinner after his shift.”
She spoke in a near monotone, as if the strain of the day had finally broken her down.
Glassy eyed, she stared off at a place near the far corner of the room.

“We came out of the restaurant. I waited while Rick went for the car. A man, I could
see them from where I stood, he approached Rick and they spoke. Then, he pulled a
gun and shot Rick once, in the face.”

“Ms. Conroy.”

She jerked as if slapped and then continued, running her words together as if she
would choke on them should she not get them all out at once. “I ran to him, I didn’t
know what to do. His eyes, I’ll never forget…” Her eyes slid closed, then opened with
a snap. “The people from the restaurant began filing out. The ambulance arrived, along
with an incredible number of police. One of them, a uniformed officer, finally called
Leroy. He took me to the hospital, stayed with me that first night. He helped me through
the line-up, the funeral, and the eventual acceptance that the man who killed Rick
would never go to trial.”

Two men. Two partners. Now, two murders.

The connection stood before him wearing a tailor-made suit, the skirt short enough
to show off an endless expanse of leg. He didn’t accept what he saw and heard as mere
coincidence. It couldn’t be. She’d been present at both murders. No way could he swallow
that as accidental. But what was her connection?

She could be the killer.

He glanced from the photograph in his hand to the woman standing before him. He’d
made the connection the moment he stepped into the room.
The woman from the picture
. His eyes narrowed as he took in the familiar chiseled cheekbones, her unpainted
lips. The muted-red color of her suit brought out the chestnut highlights in her otherwise
brown hair, the vibrant green of her eyes, hidden before by the poor quality of the
snapshot. It didn’t please him to recall that upon first seeing her in the flesh,
his heart began to gallop and sharp arousal shot through him like gunfire. No more
than it pleased him to think she could be a killer. Yet, with nearly thirteen years
on the force, nothing would surprise him anymore. It would have to be considered,
looked into.

Were she not the killer, as instinct told him, then a game was afoot. A deadly game.
The picture found hidden in the newspaper told him that much. Sure, Leroy St. John
may have brought the photograph in order to help him remember what Paige Conroy looked
like. But who could forget a face like hers? Justin knew he wouldn’t.

It was more likely that the picture was a plant. Which led to why someone would plant
it. What could it possibly mean? Left in a dead man’s room, one of the subjects the
victim of a three-year-old murder, the other the only witness to both deaths. Two
conclusions could be drawn from that, two possible messages someone meant to send.
Either Paige Conroy was responsible for the murders...

Or the next victim.

Unease settled between Justin’s shoulders at the thought. He shook it loose, tucking
the photograph into his inner-jacket pocket. He straightened and listened with keen
interest as Allan began asking questions.

“You said Preston’s killer would never go to trial. What did you mean by that? Is
the case still open?”

“No. They caught the man, but he hung himself in his cell. No one ever discovered
why he shot Rick.”

“Why do you think he shot him?”

Her gaze slid from Allan to him and back again. A ripple of confusion flashed through
her eyes. “I have no idea.”

“No idea?” Disbelief colored Allan’s words. “What did Preston work on before his death?
Anything that had him worried? Did he say anything to you about being concerned that
something was about to happen? Any cryptic messages like the one St. John delivered
over the telephone?”

“No. Rick never shared… He didn’t say anything to me.”

“You had dinner that night. He didn’t seem upset, preoccupied?”

The shaky laugh that slipped from Ms. Conroy surprised them all. Justin noted her
unnaturally pale face as she closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “He
seemed fine.”

She was holding something back. What, he didn’t know, but she no longer looked at
him or Allan. Instead, her attention focused just to the right of where he stood.
As he studied her—so cool and collected, except for the slight trembling of her body—she
pulled her full bottom lip into her mouth and bit down.

Awareness surged, surprising in its intensity. Justin slid his hands into his front
pockets and set his jaw against the unwelcome reaction. “Ms. Conroy—”

“What do you want me to say?” she asked with impatience. “That night Rick Preston
was attentive and caring. I thought things would turn out differently, but they didn’t.”

“Because someone shot and killed him,” he countered.

“Yes.”

“And then hung himself in his cell before he could stand trial.”

“
Yes.
Look, I fail to see what any of this has to do with Lee’s murder. It’s been three
years since Rick was shot.” Her bright green eyes took on a sudden awareness. “You
think that Lee’s death is related to Rick’s.”

“No one is saying that, Ms. Conroy,” Allan said simply.

“Of course you aren’t, but you’re thinking it. Otherwise Rick’s death wouldn’t interest
you so much.”

When neither answered, she looked back at him. Her face was set, tension radiated
from her like a physical force. Clearly, she wanted this interview over, didn’t appreciate
the intrusion into her past. Or the painful memories his questions must have brought
her. The misery in her eyes disturbed him more than it should have. He needed to keep
things professional, remain objective. The fact that he found it difficult to do was
worrisome.

Justin rolled his shoulders in a vain attempt to loosen the muscles that knotted there.
The small clench of empathy nagging at him grew as her eyes welled up with tears.

“Are we done? It’s been a rough morning and I’d really like to go home.”

“Almost,” Allan replied. “You’re not planning any trips are you?”

“I’m…” She cleared her throat, dragged the heel of her palm across her forehead. “No,
I’m not planning any trips. If you need anything more from me, you can find me at
my studio.”

“Your studio?”

“I gave all this information to the uniformed officer who left me in this office.”

“I understand,” Allan assured her. “But we’ll need the information as well.”

Paige Conroy opened the purse sitting next to her on the desk and retrieved a business
card from its depths. She turned, holding the card in Justin’s general direction.

He took the card she offered, his fingers grazing hers. A frown formed between her
eyebrows at the brief contact. She took a quick step back, then another.

“Conroy Photography,” Justin read aloud.

“I have my own studio.”

“And when you’re not in your studio?”

“When I’m not in my studio, I’m still at that address. I live above it. Are we done?
Can I go now?”

“I think that will be all for now. If we need anything further, we’ll be in touch.”

She pulled a set of car keys from the pocket of her suit jacket and was out of the
office like a shot, the echo of her heels trailing behind her.

Justin watched her go, all but running from the room in an attempt to put distance
between them. He pushed her business card into the same inner pocket as the picture.

“Well,” Allan began, “she was a surprise. Very astute.”

Justin’s gaze remained on Paige’s retreating form. “Yes.”

“She’s figured out she’s a suspect. But she’s tough, she held it together.”

“She told us all she knew.”

“It seemed that way. A cop killing. Shit. Not exactly the type of case you want to
come back to, is it, partner?”

“Two cops are dead. Paige Conroy was right about one thing, I believe the two deaths
are connected. It’s more than just their partnership, I can feel it.”

“Yes, but can you prove it?” When he didn’t respond, Allan spoke up again. “Justin?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you prefer I leave you alone with your thoughts?”

He turned at Allan’s smart remark and quirked his eyebrow. “Meaning what?”

“You seem distracted.” Allan gazed pointedly in the direction Paige Conroy had disappeared.
“You’ve changed, Justin.”

“No, I haven’t.” But he
was
distracted. Distracted by the leggy brunette who’d just left, and the thought that
she might be caught up in something beyond her control. Although she’d projected an
aura of calm, he wasn’t fooled by her casual exterior. He’d seen the truth in her
eyes, the fear she tried to disguise.

He turned back toward the door, only to find her gone.

Allan laughed knowingly. “You’re like a brother to me, Justin. I think I know what
I’m talking about.”

“What are you talking about, Allan?”

“She’s a beautiful woman.”

“Yes, she is.” Confused, Justin faced his partner. “What does that have to do with
me?”

“Paige Conroy is a beautiful woman. I would expect you to notice. But you have many
beautiful women in your life, and I’ve never met one who could distract you from the
job. Not until now.”

“Since when do you doubt my ability to do the job?”

“I don’t doubt your ability, Justin. I’m just voicing an observation.”

“That Paige Conroy distracts me.”

“That you should be careful. You said it yourself, two cops are dead. Paige Conroy
could very well be the killer.”

“She didn’t kill St. John. She doesn’t have the upper body strength.”

Allan’s eyebrow arched.

“Damn it.” By defending her, he cemented Allan’s opinion. Justin scrubbed a hand across
his face. His eyes felt gritty. Pins and needles raced up and down his side. “I’ll
do the job, Allan.”

“And if it includes arresting the woman that just walked from the room?”

He lifted his chin. Paige Conroy attracted him in a way no woman had done before.
She drew him, ignited a fire within him the moment he saw her picture. It burned in
his gut still, stronger now that he’d met her.

Silently, Justin acknowledged that his attraction to her was a complication he didn’t
need. He was conducting an investigation. Paige Conroy was a suspect—their only suspect—and
that meant
hands off
. He’d worked hard to get put back on active duty and nothing he felt, no matter its
unusual intensity, would affect his job. He was a cop, first and last.

With renewed fervor, he assured Allan, “Even if it means arresting her.”

* * * * *

Paige stood beneath the shower’s pelting rays, her hands against the wall before her.
Her head pounded, her body ached with fatigue. A single tear slipped from the corner
of her eye.

She swallowed hard, accepting the act as stress and too little sleep. Under normal
circumstances, crying was a weakness she wouldn’t allow herself. But nothing about
her day could be labeled normal. From the late-night telephone call, to becoming the
number-one suspect in a murder investigation.

Swallowing back the sob that clawed at her throat, Paige closed her eyes, pushed her
head beneath the spray of the water and wet her long mass of hair. She felt dirty,
soiled by the brutality of murder. Her hands shook as she worked the shampoo into
lather. Guilt filled her.

Lee deserved better. He deserved remorse, regret for a life cut short. But to allow
herself to grieve for him would be opening herself up to pain and sorrow of memories
best forgotten. Rick and Leroy were too closely tied together, in life and now in
death. She couldn’t recall one without the other. So she kept it all buried inside.
She pushed away thoughts of the quiet, sensitive man so brutally murdered that morning,
and stowed away the grief. No matter the cost to her sanity.

Paige turned the water off with a quick twist of her wrist. She stepped from the shower,
squeezing some of the wet from her hair before wrapping it in a towel. With swift,
brisk movements, she dried herself and pulled a pale blue T-shirt over her head. Her
legs she shoved into her favorite jeans, a well-worn pair that offered comfort, both
physical and emotional.

She didn’t bother to take the dryer to her hair, for it just made more of a mess of
her curls. Instead, she ran a quick comb through it and left it hanging down her back.

She left the bath behind, moving on silent feet through the upper floor of her converted
warehouse. She needed to rest, she thought, as she shifted the pile of clean towels
waiting to be folded to the other end of the couch. She needed to clear her mind.
She flopped down and pulled her legs up and under her. She closed her eyes and tipped
her head back to lie against the couch. Slowly, her tension eased, her mind cleared.
A deep inhale and exhale helped. Tense muscles relaxed.

With brutal swiftness, the image of Lee’s blood-covered body atop the tangled sheets
assaulted her mind. Paige fought back, willed it to recede, but her mind wouldn’t
let go. As if turning the lens of her camera, the image shifted into focus until she
stood in that third-floor hotel room once more. Silence settled around her, the acrid
scent of death filled her.

Her stomach turned abruptly. Her eyes popped open. Grief, a throbbing ache, settled
just beneath her heart, making it difficult to draw a deep breath. She jerked her
legs out from under her and shoved her head between her knees. She willed the room
to stop spinning.

A groan slipped from between closed lips. She tightened her jaw in acknowledgment
that she wasn’t going to relax anytime soon or get the rest her body cried out for.
Her mind wouldn’t shut off.

Praying with everything inside her that the room would continue to hold still, she
placed trembling hands upon the floor and slowly shifted her gaze from her feet to
the wall. When the room stayed in focus and she was fairly confident she could move
without her world turning, she stood, heading for the stairs and the studio in the
lower level of her home.