The Detective's Dilemma (4 page)

She drifted a little farther from him. “We are so unlikely together, I imagine we might draw stares.” She eyed him. “I must say, I do not understand why, or rather how, a detective can appear to be a prosperous lawyer.”

The suspicion in her voice was clear. The corruption and bribery in the police department was hardly a secret to anyone who lived in the city and she had to know the job to visit her wasn’t standard.

He fought the absurd indignation—she wasn’t so far wrong about his corruption.

Walker wanted her to trust him, so he attempted an explanation. “My family had wealth. And you’re not as observant as you think. This suit is several years old.”

“But it was made for you.”

He nodded. Once upon a time, all his clothes had been custom-made.

They continued their parallel march in silence, and he could sense her sidelong looks examining him. “Yes. I see that your shoes are well made, but the leather is worn.”

He laughed. “And I was wrong when I said you’re not observant.”

“Before my marriage, I had a fascination with fashion and clothing.”

“No longer?” The breeze picked up, and he pushed his hands into his pockets to warm them.

“I can’t even recall what it was like to be that girl. If I met her on the street, I think I’d stare in astonishment.” She gestured. “Here, we’ll turn right at this corner.”

They headed west toward the river and walked another block toward a noisier cross street. Heavy clouds rolled in, and he wondered when the rain would start.

Two ladies passed them, and he gave a pleasant nod and raised his hat. They walked past carriages and several pushcarts.

She’d calmed since his failed attempt to take her gun. He still felt filled with the strange excitement that he recalled last feeling as a child, as if he were on an outing he’d been looking forward to—a trip to the circus, perhaps.

He drew nearer to her and waited for her to sidle away, but she didn’t, though her hand in the satin bag rose a few inches.

“Tell me the details,” he said softly.

“Of what?”

“Of why you’re taking these desperate steps, running from the law. I can be your ally, you know. Persuade me to work on your behalf.” He doubted she’d be able to convince him to abandon his life entirely—which was what he’d have to do if he took up her cause.

“Why should I beg you to do anything? You forget I’m the one holding a gun, Detective Walker.”

“You won’t kill me.” He spoke with confidence he didn’t entirely feel.

She remained silent.

He said, “You’re clearly a sensible person, so think this through. My employers know where I was going. If I were found dead, you or your friend Brennan would be the primary suspects.”

She shifted the bag again, and it took him a moment to understand she wasn’t making a signal. Her hand had to ache from the weight of the gun. She rolled her shoulders. “Why do you call me sensible? You obviously don’t know me. I will do anything to keep my son safe. Don’t underestimate my protective instincts.”

“Like we police have done?” he asked, hoping to wipe that fear from her face, but the remark seemed to make her mouth firmer, her frown deeper, and her step quicker.

“Mr. Winthrop, my father-in-law, never takes chances. That’s part of the reason I’m so worried.”

“Tell me what your husband claimed they did to him.”

“If I do, will you help me?”

“I’m not sure. But I certainly won’t if you don’t.”

She moved closer so they almost touched and waited until they’d walked well past a delivery driver unloading his cart before she spoke. “I promised not to tell that part, but….” Her voice came out a low croak. “They hurt him. His parents hurt my husband.”

“What did they do?”

She looked around, then made a brief gesture at Walker’s front, indicating his private parts.

“They hurt him,” she said again, and he understood her red face wasn’t from embarrassment but from anger and loathing. “He was a gentle soul, my James, but I think he had been broken. His father was angry with him for…reasons. I wonder if hurting him fit his father’s idea of recreation.” She sped up.

They had to walk single file around a man with tools spread across the sidewalk as he repaired a brick wall. She indicated Walker should precede her, and that felt entirely wrong to someone who’d been taught ladies first, always.

Once the whistling workman was out of earshot, Walker looked over his shoulder at her. “Did your husband try to seek help?”

She waited until they were side by side again to answer. “On occasion, but they were his parents, and they’re powerful, well-respected people. The things they did… No child can speak of such things. A doctor noticed what they had done to him—yes, they left marks. James was afraid, but he admitted the truth. The doctor called him a liar and said he must have done those unspeakable things to himself.”

“Good Lord,” he muttered.

“The abuse was bad enough, but James was also neglected. He only remembered seeing the doctor that once. He’d grown very ill. His parents ignored him, and a tutor summoned the doctor over their objections. I’m sure that’s why he was sick so often—his heart had been badly injured during the illness.” She gave a shuddering breath, and her nose and eyes reddened, but she didn’t fish a handkerchief from her pocket. He suspected that should she break down crying, she’d be one of those people who became a mess, all fluids down a creased face.

He pondered how he could discover the truth of her account. She believed the story; he’d bet a week’s pay on that. But had her husband told her outrageous falsehoods? Perhaps the late James Winthrop had trouble in the marriage bed and told shocking lies to overcome them, or the lies helped him grow hard. Walker had heard some strange tales about what men found exciting, and he’d seen more than enough evidence of twisted lust in his time on the force.

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

He waited too long to answer, and she twitched the gun in his direction and sounded annoyed when she said, “Never mind. Let’s go faster.”

“You are a desperate person,” he said. “But you don’t seem stupid. That gun won’t solve any of your problems.”

“So you say.” She scowled at him. “I should march over to the Winthrops’ house with it.”

“No,” he said sharply.

If she was going to be stupid, he’d have to knock her to the ground, harder this time. He could wrestle the gun from her hand as if she were one of the brawny drunkards he’d encountered on the beat. He’d haul her to the nearest precinct and let them take care of this problem. She might not go to jail, he told himself—he wouldn’t mention her threats to the Winthrops, or the fact that she’d taken him prisoner. Certainly not that second fact.

Let someone else browbeat her into revealing the location of the Winthrops’ grandson.

Dropping her at a station would end this side job—his euphemism for Gregory’s work—and he could get back to his real work investigating a string of burglaries.

But then she gave a ghost of a laugh and said, “No, I won’t go to the Winthrops. I want to get as far away from them as I can.”

A fat raindrop landed on his sleeve. Another thumped on his hat.

“We’d better find a place to shelter from the rain,” he said.

“It’s raining?” She glanced up at the sky as if shocked to realize it hung over them. “I think there’s a restaurant in the next block.”

She twitched the hand inside the bag, then hurried ahead. She stopped to face him. “Come
on
,” she said.

The restaurant was a dingy little room down several steps. It smelled of smoke, meat that had gone off, and grease.

No one else was there, including any kind of help to greet them. With her free hand, she indicated a small round table in the back against the bare brick wall. “There.”

He went to the chair against the wall so he could look out over the room. It felt odd to sit without offering her assistance or waiting for her to take a seat. Sometimes parts of his upbringing seemed to pop up from nowhere, especially with Mrs. Winthrop.

“I want to sit there,” she said.

He grinned at her. He pushed out a foot, hooked it on the rickety wooden chair that faced him and the wall, and dragged the chair so it sat next to him. Cozy. “Sit close to me. We’d make a convincing pair of lovers, hmm?”

Her eyes widened.

“You mentioned we are a pair before. I’m playing a part.” He tried to make his grin look ingratiating and not threatening.

“Move. Please.” She sounded so weary and disgusted, he hitched his own chair a foot to the right.

“I suppose that’s a compromise,” she muttered.

She sat perched on the edge of the seat. Her body—and that dratted bag on her lap—canted toward him, but her attention remained on the door. The far too alert woman seemed to vibrate with worry again. He’d have to get her to relax or risk her finger squeezing the trigger and shooting him by accident.

“Are you hungry? We’ll order something substantial. It’s best I order and pay, or it will draw attention to us,” he said in what he hoped was a cheerful voice.

There was a shuffling sound, and a man in a threadbare tuxedo with an apron wrapped around his middle appeared near them. He was skinny and almost bald except for a large gray mustache.

“What do you want?” The waiter waved a hand at a wall, and Walker realized it was covered with many small signs, all advertising meals. Breakfast seemed the safest bet.

“Scrambled eggs and bacon and toast for us both,” Walker said.

Julianna knew that was the way of the world—when a couple dined in a restaurant, the gentleman ordered for the lady—but an irrational surge of resentment filled her. She held the gun; she should hold all the power. This man didn’t cede a thing to her without some kind of sneaky or outright battle, the snake. And she’d had more than enough of people trying to control her.

“I wanted the waiter gone fast, and I didn’t want to draw attention to ourselves. The less we interact with anyone, the better, agreed?” Walker sounded amused. The man had to have read her sour expression. “Are you all right?” he prompted.

What a ridiculous question.

“I don’t want any food.” Her petulant answer was nearly as ridiculous.

“That bread you ate at your place was enough?”

“Yes, and the moment you walked into my house, my appetite vanished.” Oh drat. She spoke the truth, but she still sounded childish.

Julianna pulled in another deep lungful of air. James had taught her the value of controlling one’s breath. Some days he’d had so much pain, he’d tried anything to keep control.

The one good thing about today’s mess was that James couldn’t be drawn into it. And truly, things might have been worse if he had been—and not just for his own peace of mind. He’d been so fearful of his father. It had occurred to her that he might have given in and allowed them to take Peter.

She loved James and missed him every day of her life, but he’d never been strong. It could be that when a boy was broken as a child, he couldn’t entirely assume the role of a man. He’d said as much once when she’d tried to ask him about his extravagant spending and his other insalubrious habits.

“Mrs. Winthrop?”

The detective had been speaking to her, and the words had slipped past. Something about food or drink.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I should have ordered you a cup of coffee.” He looked at her as if they shared a joke. His gaze warmed when he smiled. Walker looked almost human now, the way he had all those years ago in her parents’ front hall dressed in a policeman’s uniform. He seemed so much larger than James, bulky. He sat so close, she could smell him, bay rum with an exotic trace of perspiration, and that was a strange word for sweat.

She inched away from him.

When the food arrived, he ate neatly, without wolfing his food the way she was used to Brennan eating. The detective had definitely been taught manners—and hadn’t had to bolt down food to be ready to answer unexpected summons, the servant’s lot.

She said, “You said your family was wealthy. How do they feel about your profession?”

He patted his mouth with the napkin, which had a hole in it. “They were appalled, naturally. But we were like your own family.”

“The Winthrops cursed you?”

“I meant that we’d become poor. So you blame your parents’ death on them as well?”

“No, no, I was being flippant.” She wasn’t, not entirely. Her parents had lost money because of investments made at the urging of their new in-law, Mr. Winthrop. Those losses had weighed heavily on her father, and Juliana believed he’d been weakened.

“Did your parents know how you felt about the Winthrops?”

“No. Almost no one does.”

“That fear of scandal.” He smiled as if to take the sting out of the comment.

She went on. “My mother and father died before the worst of the Winthrop wrath appeared. The threats didn’t start until after Peter’s birth and then escalated after James’s death.”

“Tell me,” he coaxed.

Julianna didn’t want to talk about that miserable time. Her parents had died close to bankrupt. She’d learned that James’s money had vanished, leaving her nearly a pauper. A few months after his death, she’d given up dignity and approached the Winthrops for help. They’d made their price clear—Peter. That was when she knew the world held fates worse than poverty. She’d broken off communication, or tried to.