Perfect Crime (22 page)

A ghost of a smile appeared as his lips brushed the corner of her mouth, and then softly kissed her nose. “I have a rule, you know.” Scott was talking too much, he knew it, but he wanted the anticipation to last a moment or two longer. He kissed her cheek. “So, looks like I’ll have to resign in the morning.”

His warm touch was gentle and yet exciting as his fingers lightly brushed her skin. The not completely inexperienced redhead felt a rush of excitement. He lifted his face to meet hers, the scene reminiscent of every great kiss that ever graced the silver screen.

She braced her elbows on the bed. His lips softly brushed over hers, creating a slight friction, but he made no move to deepen the kiss. Tessa heard herself gasp, as tingling energy danced across her flesh, and she yearned for more. Long lashes fluttered closed and her lips parted slightly; she had dared to dabble with daydreams of the like, and now, she didn’t want it to stop.

Her hand rested upon his chest, feeling the rise and fall of each deep breath. Everything faded from existence, including the initial reason why they were in that bedroom together.

The kiss in the limousine held an element of danger. This one was slow and lazy. Having crossed the line, Scott had every intention of enjoying the moment. His eyes fluttered closed, allowing his other senses to concentrate.

Arms around her waist, Scott shifted slightly, rolling to his side. He didn’t notice that his elbow had touched one button of the cell phone’s speed dial.

A mechanical voice announced that a call had connected. “Welcome to The Smith Stained Glass Museum and Heritage Fund.”

Tessa broke the kiss, first to find the source of the untimely interruption and then to stare at the open cell that lay on the bed uncomfortably close to their heads.

Scott didn’t really care until Tessa pulled away from him. He twisted, looking for the same source, only to find Tessa enthralled with the competition—a flip phone. “What did that say?”

As though the phone heard the request, the list of voice-mail options repeated. “Press 1 for our hours of operation, press 2 for directions, press 3 for information on how to make a donation, press 4 to be connected to an operator, press 5 for Special Services.”

Scott shifted up on his elbow, snatched the small phone and looked at the number. One-handed, he pressed ‘5’.

“If you would like to leave a message for our director regarding the operation of this facility, please press 9. For all other options, press 17.”

The smile on Scott’s face was brilliant as he pressed one, and then seven.

“If you would like to make a donation, press 1. If not, press 2.”

Like a comedy in the making, ensuring not to miss a thing, Tessa half crawled up Scott’s torso after the phone, possibly shoving an elbow or knee in some tender spot along the way. Cheek to cheek, with the automated voice between them, the curious redhead strained to hear. “Press 2,” Tessa squealed.

“Enter your pass code,” the phone voice prompted.

The mechanical suggestion wiped the smile from Scott’s face, “I figured this was going too easy. Now what?”

Remembering the programmed non-number in the cell phone memory, Tessa said, “Try one, four, star.”

Without hesitation, he complied, listened to the next directive, “Please hold,” and then without ceremony, shoved the phone at Tessa.

Not expecting the quick hand off, she half fumbled the snap, almost dropping the cell, but at the last second made a nice recovery. At first only silence met the female journalist, but soon enough… one ring…two rings. “Si?”

The excited redhead wriggled as she heard the familiar voice; one word was all that was needed to identify the unusual bass-baritone. Jaw dropped, eyes wide, Tessa shifted her gaze to Scott, who appeared to have a strange look on his face. Lifting one hand to cover the front of the phone, hoping to keep their identity a secret, she raised one finger, motioning that she would fill him in shortly.

Taking the most inopportune time to reveal that he had an impatient side, Scott pulled the phone from her hand. “Hello?” the man on the other end uttered; then the phone went dead.

“Oh my God,” she said, a look of surprise flooding her face that was impossible to hide. Tessa scrambled off Scott, tripped and tumbled off the bed.

The investigative reporter watched as Tessa’s excitement of the moment shifted from flush-faced passion to panic. Scott’s eyes narrowed a bit; he disliked coming in second to anything.

His snort of satisfaction was involuntary as Tessa fell on the floor in her haste.

Serves you right.

Without missing a beat, the feisty female was back up, red faced and rubbing at the sore spot on her hip. “Okay, that’s going to leave a mark.”

At a much slower pace, Scott stood and stretched. “I’ll give you a half minute to change and we’re off,” he said. “You’ve been bad…stealing,” Scott half-teased while holding up Marlayna’s phone. “We need to go to church…they say confession is good for the soul.”

First taking a hobbling step, then racing from the room, she grabbed at her suitcase. Returning, she flipped it onto the corner of the bed and only then looked to Scott. “Church?” she questioned. “You just said it’s three in the morning.”

“And that was Father Luke on the other end of Marlayna’s phone. The stained glass, the church—it’s connected.”

“I don’t think…”

He was on a roll. “The Bible verses. What better tool for a priest than his native tongue—per se?”

“Too easy.”

“You got a better idea?”

“Maybe. But what exactly are you accusing Father Luke of?”

How can’t she see it? Frustrated, Scott tried to fill in the blank, “Your father hinted that the church might be putting some capital into the glass business.”

“That doesn’t add up to murder and kidnapping,” she countered.

A bit of the wind went out of his sails. Scott sat back down on the bed. Tessa sat, too, wrapping a slender arm around him, saying, “You can’t run over to St. Joseph’s and ask the good padre for an explanation.”

“Why not?”

“It’s all about balance.”

“An eye for an eye?”

“I wouldn’t say that exactly. But now’s not the time,” she said, “we should wait for morning.”

Scott played with her hair. “Hmm, maybe you’re right.”

“Okay that was too easy…what are you thinking?”

“I’d rather show you.”

He had a romantic fantasy—what it would be like to make love to her. A dreamy-eyed ideal of unmatched passion, bodies becoming one, endless sighs and no touch without a fiery trail on her skin. His hands moved over her with an increasing need. Her blouse seemed to dissolve between them. One kiss led to another, each less gentle than the last.

Tessa stopped to breathe. One hand reached away, colliding with her suitcase, somehow sending it crashing off the bed.

The resounding crash caused Scott to open his eyes. Tessa forced a smile through swollen lips and shoved at his chest. “Couch for you, mister.”

The playful tone might have masked her reservations, but Scott paused, staring at her for several seconds before his voice was in control enough to match hers. He warned, “The next time I kiss you, we’ll be somewhere where guns, telephones and other inanimate objects won’t interrupt us.”

“Be careful….I could hold you to that.”

“Bank on it.” Mentally making plans for a hotel stay at some exotic resort, he snatched a pillow from the bed. Walking towards the living room, he called, “Don’t unpack that suitcase.”

Tessa apparently took him at his word. Scott slept on the couch, but the next morning, when he awoke and called her name, she didn’t answer. She was gone.

Chapter 18

Debate

Click

The back door of the house shut behind her as she muttered to herself, “What were you thinking?”

Tessa had changed, choosing what she considered appropriate attire for a late-night visit to jail—ignoring the mess that constituted as someone’s idea of repacking her suitcase back in New York. In a dark sweater and matching denims, she walked towards the taxi. It pulled up at the house right on cue.

Sliding across the seat, Tessa tossed the driver an address for the police station that was closest to her own apartment.

“Yes, ma’am,” the driver responded. After giving her barely enough time to shut the door, he pulled away from the curb, went down a couple of streets and then took the freeway on-ramp.

She remembered a piece of advice from her brother Rhen. “Never gamble with something you’re not willing to lose,” he’d warned only two days before he was killed. Giving her head a shake, Tessa leaned back against the seat and considered her actions. Nope, there was nothing she regretted. She was a girl with a plan and it was best to leave Scott asleep on the couch.

Given the hour, there was a surprising amount of traffic at the precinct. All windows were lit and one car sped off with its lights flashing as her cab pulled up outside the three-story building.

The driver asked, “Need me to wait?”

“No, thanks,” she said, opening her purse and finding the correct change for the fare.

“Hope you work out the trouble.”

“Hmm?” Tessa mumbled, then realized that her arrival at this hour could be construed as many things.

“If you need to bail someone out, Harrison’s Bail Bonds is around the corner.”

Although the idea wasn’t far from her mind, she didn’t feel the need to go into any detail with the stranger. “Thanks for the tip.” With a smile, she slid out and walked towards the building.

Her boots made small clicking sounds against the pavement and the desk sergeant looked up as she entered. Tessa introduced herself and asked if Detective Blaine was still on duty.

No sooner was her query uttered when the man himself spotted her and came forward. “Contessa Morgano, it is a pleasure once again,” he said smugly.

“Morgan. I go by Morgan now.”

“Yes. Forgive me,” he responded, though the confident swagger remained. “I assume you’re here about your apartment?”

“Yes, I…came right here.”

“Where have you been?”

It seemed like the bustle in the station paused, everyone awaiting her answer. Even the phones stopped ringing. “New York.”

“I see. Maybe we should go to my desk and we’ll talk more.”

Detective Blaine waved an arm in the direction he wanted, and then allowed her to proceed him down the hallway. As they walked, he added, “There was a call from your security company. We responded, but a person can do a great deal of damage in five minutes.”

“Define damage.”

“Completely destroyed. There isn’t a pillow, a mattress or a piece of furniture in there, that’s much bigger than a square inch.”

“Suspects?”

“We’ve arrested Gino Perelli Jr. for breaking and entering.”

Although she’d seen him cuffed at the scene, shock rather than anger stung her. “Can I see him?”

Detective Blaine motioned for her to take a seat in the wooden chair across from his desk. A series of personal photographs of his family sailing and at Navy Pier filled one corner near the window.

“I wouldn’t advise it,” the detective said as he took his own chair. “Your neighbor identified him as one of two men who she met in the hall about 24 hours before we picked him up. He seemed intent on access – could mean to do you harm as well. Any idea what he might have been looking for then—or last night?”

Even with this new evidence, it didn’t completely erase years of family tradition. “G.J. is a friend of mine.” Her voice trailed off in confusion. “Did he offer any explanation?”

Blaine shook his head. He tapped a pencil on the desk. “He’s been quiet. Hasn’t even made his phone call.”

Scott may have had a point, about G.J. being safest off the streets, and G.J. apparently wasn’t broadcasting his location.

As though the officer read her thoughts, he brought up Scott. “Where is Mr. Crawford?”

“Sleeping, I suppose.” Tessa ran a finger over one stack of files on the detective’s desk. “Anything new on Darla Perelli’s death? I want to call G.J.‘s family and fill them in, I should probably know the latest.”

“Well honestly, at first, it looked like your typical kidnapping that went south, as they normally do, ultimately becoming a murder but…” the detective raised his voice, as if to make sure he had her attention, “we didn’t find any evidence of captivity. No ligature marks on Ms. Perelli’s wrists…nothing.”

“Nothing? So what are you saying, then?”

“I’m saying there is no proof that she was held against her will. And the needle marks on her arm are looking a lot like maybe it was an overdose,” the detective answered, almost sounding sympathetic to have to break the news.

“Darla didn’t do drugs.”

“Oh?” Blaine looked at Tessa with renewed interest. “Just how close are you to the Perelli family?”

“Close enough to know she wasn’t into that scene. Is this where it ends? Nothing more to do?”

Blaine didn’t answer right away. Tessa tried another angle to get the man to be a little freer with what he knew. “Darla wasn’t the only woman to disappear. What about Kate Russo?”

“Apples and oranges. She drowned after being stuffed in a car, and dumped into Lake Michigan.”

“Yeah, but you knew enough to mention her to Scott. You saw the pattern with her family background and occupation.”

“Mr. Crawford never printed it that way. There is little other than that to consider them related.”

“Still have the file?”

“Yup.” Brows rose then narrowed. Staring at her, his lips pursed together; he looked uncomfortable with his own thoughts.

Studying the man from across the desk, she finally asked, “Dislike the press?”

The detective didn’t smile. “I was the one who investigated the Sun Times scandal. Apparently free press isn’t quite free. Distrust, rather than dislike, would be the word I would choose.”

“Not all of us are painted with the same brush.”

“Spoken like a true patriot.”

“The file?”

He looked at her for a long moment, and then pawed through the papers on his desk to retrieve a manila folder. Inside was information on Kate Russo and how her car, a black Mustang, had turned up in Lake Michigan. Reported missing two days prior, her body was in the trunk rather than behind the wheel.