The Detective's Dilemma (7 page)

She’d promised.

Talking about it already felt as if she dishonored him. Telling more could cut deeper into her bond to James, even sever it.

But now she had something more valuable even than the promise, or even than the memory of James: their living son.

You understand, don’t you?

Nothing answered as she spoke to James in her mind. Some silent moments, when she was entirely alone, James seemed to wait in the next room, or just beyond her. A scent, a noise, an inhalation, the distant, breathy laugh, as if he could still exist somewhere past her reach.

Just now, when she’d looked down on some pages and seen his familiar handwriting…he’d been more distant than ever.

James was gone and never coming back. In a way, that was good; he wouldn’t hear her betray his secrets.

“I told you my husband’s story. I thought you believed me. I’m willing to tell you more details.”

For a while, Walker had thought they’d finally figure out an extremely pleasant way to pass the afternoon. He’d seen her cheeks grow pink and her breasts rise and fall as if she’d been running. Her examination of him seemed fascinated rather than fearful.

Anticipation had rushed through him like a jolt of good whiskey. He was more than ready for a chance to touch her, hold her, and explore further possibilities. This, despite the fact that the damn gun had been loaded all this time. He’d forgotten that she’d been his target and that he was under the control of the devil and a job to do.

He saw her sweet figure and the way her teeth had bitten into that apple. It hadn’t been much of a leap in his overheated brain to see those teeth lightly nipping his mouth, his skin. Oh good God, he’d been beyond ready. He’d gone lightheaded imagining her spread out on this horrid couch, or better, in that bed, naked on the quilt. For once in his life, his imagination conjured pleasant pictures—of her naked. Those images were as vivid as the worst he usually conjured—scenes he’d actually witnessed. Most of the bodies in his imagination were dead, eviscerated, or worse. This had been a very pleasant change.

He wished he had kissed her a minute ago and distracted them both, but now they were back to this, dreary reality.

She waited for an answer. Right, the question she’d asked. What was it?

She repeated. “Do you believe me?”

“I listened to your story of your husband’s childhood and I…” He tried to think of a way to say this without annoying her. Still, no point in pussyfooting around. “I believe you weren’t lying. And maybe even he didn’t lie to you. But even if it was all true, such a thing is impossible to prove now that he’s gone. The Winthrop family is well respected. And there is only his word about what—”

“I saw marks on his body,” she interrupted. “Marks made by a burning cigar. I demanded he tell me what had caused the scars. He didn’t want to talk about it. I had to drag the truth out of him, and it took years before he trusted me enough to tell me.”

“Shit.”

She flinched. Funny that a woman who had seen evidence of abuse could still be taken aback by a bad word.

Lord, but he wanted a drink. He wanted to fight the inevitable, because he knew if he found out the truth, he’d have to do something, and it wouldn’t be comfortable. His ex-friend Bruce Sawyer, a man he’d once had to arrest, would be delighted. Bruce’s words came back.
“I’m glad you’re uncomfortable doing your job, you bastard. You should be in agony.”

He said, “What did the marks look like?”

“Raised, round marks.” She bit her lower lip hard enough so that the skin beneath her teeth went white. “And they were in a pattern that would not occur in nature. On his back and on the inside of his legs.”

His turn to wince, but he pulled out the book he always carried and wrote down the description.

She watched.

“I do not understand how any doctor could have overlooked those marks, but I suspect they were paid a great deal of money. Can you imagine?” She scowled. “Oh, I forgot to whom I was speaking. You can. I don’t believe taking Peter from me is the usual assignment for a detective, removing a child from his home for no good reason. What kind of extra pay are you getting?”

He wasn’t about to protest his innocence. There wasn’t money, but the work was corrupt. He stared back at her and didn’t speak.

Mrs. Winthrop brushed a hand over her mouth. “I-I beg your pardon. It’s difficult to think about this and to talk about it with a stranger who never knew my husband. I was far too rude and—”

“Stop.”

She nodded, but the gutted wide-eyed look annoyed him. Her fear or distrust bothered him too.

He held up a hand as if halting traffic. “I meant stop apologizing. This wasn’t the usual sort of assignment, you’re right.”

His self-disgust was too much to bear sitting still. He shoved away his notebook, rose to his feet, and began to pace. “I like it better when you’re honest, so don’t go all polite or seductive with me again.”

“I? Seductive? You were the one who flirted with me.” She sighed. “What an absurd thing to argue about. I assure you, I haven’t been dishonest with you, Detective Walker.”

“I wish to God you lied. Life would be far easier if you were a liar.” And now self-pity as well as self-disgust filled him? He laughed and shook his head.

“Am I amusing?”

“No, not you.”

“Tell me what’s funny?”

He wasn’t about to tell her. “It’s a long story.”

“We have nothing better to do, apparently. Talk to me. Why did you laugh? If you won’t tell me that, tell me why did you become a policeman?”

Her gaze, direct and daring him to speak, made him want to explain himself. “I went into law enforcement for the usual reason idealistic young fools pursue the career, to help innocent people. That sort of…” He was going to say rot, but finished with, “thing.”

She tilted her head to the side and studied him. “I doubt you’re still an idealistic man.”

Walker shrugged. He walked over to the bag she’d stuffed with food—he’d watched her stuff the sack and wondered if she would leave him locked in the apartment. Smart move on her part.

“Do you miss the person you were then?” She rose to her feet and quickly moved to his side.

The back of his neck prickled: she didn’t want him going into that bag. He reached in and grabbed an apple. The woman went pale.

He moved away from the bag. Yes, she definitely looked relieved. He’d figure that one out soon but suspected that that was where she’d put the book Brennan had handed to her. He suddenly grew more interested in the book.

“I mean, do you miss your idealism?” she asked.

He considered the question, because what the hell else was there to do? “I was something of a fool. I defied my family because I believed in what I was doing. Life was easier when the world was black and white, good and evil. Gray was unappealing. That’s life though, all gray.”

“Bah. There are some things that are purely evil.”

“Let me guess; you’re talking about the Winthrops again.”

“Yes, they’re a fine example.”

“Did they think they had a reason?”

“To torture a small boy? What kind of a question is that?” But her eyes shifted from his. Could she be hiding something more than that book?

“I’m not asking if they had a
good
reason—I think you’re right. There is no such thing. But did they think they had a reason?”

She jerked and blinked as if hit. “Nonsense. What they did to James, to the sweet man I loved, was awful. He did nothing to deserve that. They are monsters. There is no gray with this situation.”

He paused and examined the apple in his hand to give himself a moment to think things over. Her strong response could mean she had some kind of secret about the whole Poor James story. He goaded a little. “The Winthrops contribute a great deal of money to worthy causes.”

“Such as your department and you, no doubt.” She muttered it, and perhaps he wasn’t supposed to hear.

He ignored the jibe and took a bite of the apple. “They gave life to the man you loved.” All this talking helped put off the next step and that seemed to lead to only two choices for him.

He’d have to drag her into Gregory’s office or he’d be forced to finally fight back against his captor. God, he wasn’t ready to fight.

Talking was good. “They raised your husband and you loved him,” he said.

“Giving the world James was their one fine action that they then attempted to destroy. Come now, Detective, we are wandering from the point.”

He chewed, swallowed and asked, “Which is?”

“They can’t be trusted with Peter. You have to believe me. And if you do, you must help. I refuse to believe that the man who defied his family to aid the innocent is totally gone.”

That needled him. “He might as well be. At any rate, what do you expect me to do?”

“Help us escape, leave the city.”

“And then what? Will you marry Brennan?”

“What? No!” She sounded appalled. Then added, “I won’t marry anyone. I have no interest in getting another husband.”

Once again he considered the idea of shaking her hand and walking away. Tempting to be done with the mess—hers and his. He ate another bite of apple.

He had a third choice. He could run away and never be heard of again. Chances were no one would give a damn. But her plan to take off like that wouldn’t work, and she probably knew that. He pointed it out anyway. “If you ran, they’d go after you. And even if I dropped dead tomorrow, you won’t be safe. The Winthrops have enough money and resources to find you.”

“I’ll have to find some way of fighting back.” She leaned against the uncomfortable back of the sofa and closed her eyes. Her head tilted up, and her brow furrowed as if she concentrated on forming an answer to the impossible problem.

At least she hadn’t dropped back into the pose of cringing surrender. That had irritated and worried him. Mrs. Winthrop the fighter, he enjoyed. Mrs. Winthrop the confused was fun too. But Mrs. Winthrop broken? No. That struck him as obscene.

Lines bracketed her mouth—had laughter or discontentment put those there? He examined her from the top of her fly-away hair to her dirty dancing slippers. If she’d followed the course set out for her at her birth, she’d be a stylish and sophisticated matron. Ladies like her changed their outfits several times a day, and she’d be about ready to change into something modish for afternoon calls before returning to put on a tea gown. No, her maid would do that for her.

He asked, “Do you miss your old elegant life?”

Her eyes opened, and she gave him a hostile look. “My old life? It seems to me that you’ve fallen a far greater distance than I have. Do you miss your good character?”

He couldn’t help smiling. She wasn’t going to let him get away with anything.

“On occasion.”

Her gaze seemed curious and as hostile as ever. “How did you end up working for people like the Winthrops, Detective Walker?”

If she’d been sympathetic or sweet, he would have made a joking remark. But something about her scorn let him answer with the truth. “I put a murder weapon in the murderer’s home. Someone else had removed it earlier. That’s tampering with evidence. Both of us were guilty of that crime, one of removing the weapon, and the other of putting it back, but the first guy was working for the bosses.”

She raised her brows. “What do you mean?”

“The people protecting the murderer—they knew exactly what I’d done, because they’d helped keep the murderer out of prison. I tampered with evidence with one of their ‘clients.’”

She still didn’t speak.

“That’s it.” He rubbed his face with both hands. “They have what it takes to send me to jail. A cop in prison ends up dead, especially one who has had rumors spread about him by paid informants.”

She gave a small huff of laughter. “You have almost more reason to run than I do. Perhaps you should join us.”

“I’ve thought about taking off, but I’m waiting,” he said. “They won’t stay in power forever, and I want to be there when they topple. Hell, I want to help push them down.”

“Have you talked to others who are bound as you are?”

“The ones I’ve talked to are in it for the money. Being a crooked cop can be a profitable enterprise.”

She looked him up and down the way he’d examined her a couple of minutes earlier. “You must spend your share on something other than your wardrobe. It’s a good suit but at least six years old.”

Here they sat talking about the darkest moments of his career, and he wanted to laugh. She amused the hell out of him. “Oh, I don’t get the sugar. They have enough of a hold on me so they figure there’s no need to bribe me as well.” He did laugh then. “I’ve dreamed of throwing the money back in their faces if they tried to pay me—like a small boy’s fantasy, I expect. Standing up to bullies.”

“You’re not a small boy.”

“Meaning you expect me to take the high road because I’m all grown up?” He jeered. “Easy to do if you can know what the darned road looks like.”

“All right, you got caught, but now you know those men are watching. They wouldn’t catch you again doing whatever it was you did.” Her pretty forehead wrinkled. “I wonder why you were careless when you planted the evidence.”