Charade (40 page)

"Hunsaker here." "Lieutenant, this is Baker." "What time is it?" He switched on the nightstand lamp. Mrs. Hunsaker grumbled and burrowed deeper into her pillow. He hadn't been asleep. The chili he'd eaten for supper was burning a hole in his gut. He kept belching the six-pack he'd drunk with it. He'd been on the verge of getting up to take an antacid when the telephone rang. "Sorry to call so late," his subordinate apologized. "But you told me to let you know soon's I finished that report." Baker was a young rookie, still wet behind the ears and eager to please. He treated every pissant assignment as if it were an investigation into the assassination of JFK. "What report?" Hunsaker asked around a sour belch. "On those friends of Cat Delaney's? You gave me a list of names and told me to check 'em out? Well, I just got finished, and wondered should I leave the file on your desk or not?" "Hell, I'm sorry, Baker. I forgot to tell you. I closed the file on that." "Oh. Really?" He was clearly disappointed. "Yeah, Ms. Delaney called late this evening. She located the guy who'd been hassling her in a loony bin in Fort Worth. He confessed to the whole thing. I pulled off the surveillance, but forgot about that report I'd asked you to do. Sorry. At least you'll get overtime, right?" "Right." Hunsaker belched again. He needed to pee. "Was there something else, Baker?" "No . . . well . . . sorta." "Spit it out, Baker." "It's just sorta . . . ironic, I guess is the right word. 'Bout that writer. Pierce." And when Baker told him what he'd uncovered, Hunsaker too thought it was ironic. In fact, it was earthshaking. "Jesus," he said, dragging his hand down his face. "Stay put, Baker. I'll be there in twenty minutes."

"If it's too painful for you to talk about, Alex, you don't have to." "I don't want you thinking it's worse than it is. It's already pretty bad." He took a moment to collect his thoughts. "We'd been trying to shut down this drug ring for years, but they always seemed to be one step ahead of us. Several times they'd squeezed through our net. We'd show up at the distribution center, and they'd have just pulled out. "We finally got a reliable tip, but it had to be acted on quickly. We scheduled a raid for the Fourth of July. They wouldn't expect it on a holiday. "The operation was so secret that only the officers directly involved were aware it was coming down. We were all nervous, but eager to nail these bastards. "We arrived at the house. They hadn't been forewarned this time. The point guys busted in and took them completely by surprise. "I raced down the hallway toward the bedrooms, kicked in one of the doors, and came face to face with one of our guys. He'd been my partner when we were rookies. It'd be hard to say who was the most surprised. "I said, 'What the fuck are you doing here? You weren't scheduled on this bust.' And he said, 'That's right, I wasn't.' "Suddenly it occurred to me what he was doing there. And at the same instant, he went for his gun. I dropped and rolled and aimed. Not at my old partner, not at a man I thought was my friend. But at a dirty cop, a goddamn crack dealer. I shot him in the head." Against her back, Cat could feel the rise and fall of his chest, the thudding of his heart, and knew how difficult it was for him to talk about it. "You did what you had to do, Alex." "I could have wounded him. Instead, I shot to kill." "He would have killed you." "Maybe. Probably." "Surely you were cleared of any wrongdoing." "Officially. Raids like that have a way of getting fucked up. Something unexpected always happens. When the smoke cleared, a cop

was dead, and I had killed him. If an operation goes sour, someone has to take the fall. "So the word coming out of the department was that this cop was working undercover, and that I mistook him for one of the bad guys and fired my weapon before making positive identification." "That was grossly unfair!" "They covered their asses. They didn't want it known that one of Houston's finest was a drug dealer. Instead, he received a hero's funeral, twenty-one-gun salute, the whole shebang." "Why didn't you speak out?" "Come forward with the truth?" he said scoffingly. "It would have looked like I invented a lie to cover my mistake. It would've been my word against the department's. Besides, the guy had a wife. She was pregnant with their first kid. I couldn't sling shit on him without it landing on them, too. She didn't know anything about his moonlighting." "How do you know?" "I just know. Besides, she never tried to retrieve the money he had stashed away. It stayed in a safe deposit box while she and the baby went to live in Tennessee with her folks." Cat turned to face him. Lovingly, she touched the scar in his eyebrow. "I'm sorry, Alex. I wish I could undo it for you." "So do I," he said with a grim smile. "After that, I was like a big boil on the department's butt that just kept festering. I dreaded work every day. The cops who didn't know any better despised me for the alleged screwup. The cops who did know were wary of me, wondering if I'd spill the beans after all. I was a pariah. For all practical purposes my career was over. Eventually I gave them what they wanted--my badge." "Your first career was over," she amended. "Because that's when you started writing brilliant fiction." Now she understood why his novels painted unflattering pictures of the inner workings of police departments. His heroes were the mavericks who exposed dirty politicians and cops on the take, usually at tremendous personal sacrifice. She nuzzled his chest. He sank his fingers into her tangled hair and pulled her head up. "Life's a bitch, all right, but it does have its compensations."

"Such as?" she asked seductively. "Such as you." Drawing her mouth up to his, he kissed her.

Cat awoke suddenly, as though someone had called her name. For several moments she lay tense and motionless, listening. But all she heard was Alex's rhythmic breathing. Gradually her body relaxed. She basked in his warm, protective nearness. Recalling their recent lovemaking, she blushed at her immodesty. With him, she'd become utterly shameless. She felt free to express her sexuality . . . and, God, it was glorious. She gazed at his sleeping face. The frown between his eyebrows was now relaxed. The stern line of his mouth had softened. In sleep, he was released from the memory that haunted him. If she could forgive the frightened young girl who'd hid in the closet, Alex could forgive himself for shooting his former partner. With each other's help, they'd work through their personal nightmares. Needing to use the bathroom, she eased off the bed, pulled on his shirt, and went downstairs. She didn't want to disturb his sleep by flushing the toilet. With the help of the streetlight filtering through the blinds, she found her way to the powder room beneath the stairs. When she came out, she realized how wide awake she was. She'd been up all night the night before. Yesterday had been a long, taxing day. They'd made love until exhaustion overcame them. Yet now, after only a few hours' sleep, she felt refreshed. It was still hours before dawn, but she was too keyed up to go back to bed. Was she hungry? No. Thirsty? Not really. Suddenly, the door to the closed room seemed to shout at her. She stared at it for several moments, knowing she should resist its magnetic pull. But her innate curiosity wouldn't let her. If she went in now, what would it matter? Alex hadn't welcomed her intrusion before, but that had been in the early stages of their relationship. They'd barely known each other then. The situation was different now. They'd been intimate, physically and emotionally. They'd shared their secrets. Surely his silly no-trespassing rule no longer applied.

She tried the door and discovered it was locked. It was just as well. She knew she shouldn't go in before okaying it with him. Nevertheless, she stood on tiptoes and ran her hand along the top of the jamb, where she found a thin brass key. She took that as a good omen. If he really didn't want her in there, why would he leave the key so accessible? She inserted the key into the lock. It opened with a soft metallic click. She paused to listen, but there were no sounds coming from upstairs. She went in and closed the door behind her before turning on the light. The room was a crushing disappointment. If she were designing a writer's retreat, she would make it cozy and interesting. It would have paneled walls, ancient Turkish rugs, and massive leather furniture. Perhaps with a globe standing in one corner. Shelves would be filled with limited first editions and collectibles that reflected light from quaint Tiffany lamps. Alex's workshop was just that--a workshop. It was utilitarian, disappointingly unattractive, lacking in character, aesthetically void. His computer terminal and printer sat on a folding table with metal legs and a Formica top. Beside it was a fax machine. He had a quantity of books that ranged from encyclopedias to fiction bestsellers, but they weren't leather-bound and arranged in antique oak bookcases. They were stacked haphazardly on gray metal shelves. The telephone sat on a stack of phone directories. In the corner of the room was the desk where he obviously did his paperwork. It was cluttered with correspondence, faxes, a bank statement, a coffee-stained legal pad with illegible scribbles connected by arrows and asterisks, and a stack of file folders. The folders had been hand-labeled and had seen a lot of use; their edges were frayed and curled. Cat's attention moved past the messy paperwork to a framed photograph. She picked it up to take a closer look at the smiling couple. It pictured Alex with a wide, curving mustache. She must remember to tease him about that. With him in the snapshot was a very pretty young woman. Like him, she was dressed in cut-off jeans and hiking boots. She was

perched on a boulder; he was crouched behind her. In the background was a mountain range that looked like the Rockies. Vacation pictures. He'd shared vacations with this woman. Cat berated herself for feeling jealous. Naturally Alex had had other romantic involvements. Probably some of them had been serious. She couldn't let one photograph cause her to react like a jealous adolescent. Forget it, she told herself, returning the frame to its former place. The wall behind the desk was covered with cork board. Very little of the cork showed because almost every square inch of it was covered. There were typed notes, tear-sheets from newspapers and magazines, and handwritten memos on scraps of paper. Thinking that all the materials posted there must pertain to his work in progress, Cat leaned forward and began scanning them at random. It took her only moments to realize that they all related to one subject. And it wasn't crime or police corruption. It was organ transplantation, specifically heart transplantation. One item in particular caught her eye. It was a duplicate of one of the clippings that Paul Reyes had sent her. Except that the one speared by the bright yellow thumbtack on Alex's bulletin board wasn't the photocopy she'd given him weeks ago. This was an original. It was turning yellow at the edges. It was two years old. Her knees gave way and her bottom landed hard on the desk chair. "Get a grip, Cat," she muttered. It was too early to jump to conclusions. There must be a logical explanation for this. It just hadn't revealed itself yet. Alex was researching heart transplantation for one of his books. Yes, that was probably it. He hadn't wanted to tell her because . . . Why? Why hadn't he told her? Why all the secrecy? The answer might be in the files. The one on top of the stack was labeled AMANDA. Cat flipped back the cover. Her heart jumped. Smiling out at her from a close-up portrait was the same woman as in the vacation snapshot. She had arresting, laughing eyes, an intelligent face. What exactly had been the nature of her relationship with Alex? Cat wondered. She craved to know, but dreaded finding out.

She moved the photograph aside in order to read the next document in the file. "Oh, God." It was Amanda's death certificate. Whatever their relationship had been, it had ended with her death. Poor Alex. If he'd been seriously involved with Amanda, losing her must have been tragic for him. That accounted for some of his cynicism. Her untimely death, coupled with the shooting of his former partner, explained why he'd turned to alcohol for comfort. Had he lost Amanda before or after the shooting? Cat checked the date on the death certificate, and clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle her gasp. When she started breathing again, it sounded loud and harsh in the silent room. Her heart was racing. Frantically, she pushed aside Amanda's file and read the label on the one beneath it, although she was almost certain what she would read. DANIEL L. LUCAS, a.k.a. SPARKY. She knew before looking what name she would read on the next file. She was right. JUDITH REYES. Hands shaking, she rapidly opened the other folders in the pile. They were labeled with the names of the transplantees who had died under mysterious circumstances. Each file contained extensive notes, detailed descriptions of the fatal accidents, copies of autopsy reports and police reports, files that only a cop--or an extremely clever ex-cop--could obtain. The last file in the stack was labeled with her name. Shakily she thumbed through it. Her life was well documented, especially the years since her transplant. There were dozens of photographs of her, some years old, some as recent as last week, some posed, others candid, obviously taken with a telephoto lens. She hastily scanned the other files. They were equally as extensive. It would have taken years to compile this much information. He couldn't have started weeks ago when she asked his help in tracking down her stalker. Hours, days, years of dogged investigation were represented here. Each death had been thoroughly researched--or recounted. Her mind refused to accept what that implied. Suddenly the door behind her burst open. Cat sprang from the chair and spun around. Alex, his eyes glinting murderously, bore down on her.

Chapter fifty three

"I told you never to come in here." Cat's mouth was dry. But rather than show her apprehension, she went on the offensive. "What are you doing with all this stuff? How'd you collect it? What does it mean? You were interested in heart transplantation long before we met. Why? Who was Amanda?" "You shouldn't have snooped into my personal files." "I want to know why you've got these files, Alex. Who was Amanda?" she repeated loudly. "A woman I knew." "A woman very close to you." "Yes." "And she died." "Yes." Behind her back, her hands gripped the edge of the desk. "According to her death certificate, she died hours before my transplant. Was she by any chance a heart donor?" After a brief hesitation, he curtly bobbed his head.