Everywhere She Turns (27 page)

“We have to go back to my rental car first. I didn’t lock the door and my bag is in there.”

He didn’t argue or complain, just executed a U-turn and headed back to the medical plaza parking lot.

She studied his profile as he drove. She wished she could read his mind. Could see all his secrets.

There was a mystery she doubted could be solved in several lifetimes.

Braddock lived in a condo near Whitesburg Drive’s shopping and restaurant district. Like all good Huntsville views, his balcony looked out over the treed mountains that flanked the city. What she’d seen of the condo confirmed what she knew so far about the man. The decorating was nice, probably here when he moved in, but there were no personal touches. Nothing that explained the man beneath the unreadable, however attractive, exterior.

“I don’t have any clean glasses.” He offered her a cold bottle of beer.

“This is fine.” Since he’d already removed the top, she took a long swallow. It felt good. The heat had dampened her skin and the humidity made a deep breath an effort.

He’d said they needed to talk. A crystal ball wasn’t required to know the subject matter. He was a cop; it was his job to protect and serve. He wanted her to cease and desist with this little private investigation.

He braced his arms on the balcony railing, his own bottle of beer dangling from one hand. “I’ve been working on pulling together a case against Nash for almost three years. Every time I take one step forward, I get pushed back two.”

That was as good a starting place as any.

“You’ve been investigating Tyrone that long?” He’d mentioned something to that effect before, but the other distractions had sort of blurred it.

Braddock took a long swallow of his beer, then set those dark eyes on hers. “Unofficially for most of that time.”

Confusion drew her brows together. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m about to tell you something no one else knows. Except my partner and my chief.”

Stunned
didn’t begin to describe the impact of that statement.
“Why would you do that?” Even the few times they had dated, he’d kept his professional life a closed book. Truth was, she hadn’t really learned very much about him at all. Except that, like her, he’d been lonely. Had just wanted someone to talk to about nothing in particular.

“Because I’m scared to death you’re going to get yourself killed if I don’t tell you.” He shrugged. “Maybe when you understand what I’m doing and why I’m doing it, you’ll back off and let me get the job done without having to worry about your safety.”

“Okay.” She took a sip of beer. “I’m all ears.”

“I know you’re trying to help, but what you’re doing is too risky. You didn’t see what I saw in Banks’s house this morning. Trust me, it’s not worth the risk.”

That was his guilt talking. “Because you feel guilty about Shelley. You think working with you may have gotten her killed, and so you have to protect me. Don’t you get it that I feel that way, too? You did what you did. Now I have to do what I have to do. We’re both after the same goal.”

“I was desperate.” He downed another gulp of beer. “Otherwise I might have done things differently when Shelley came to me.” He gave her one of those looks. “I’m a cop. Doing this is my job. It wasn’t hers and it’s not yours.”

If he thought that changed how CJ felt, he was wrong. “My sister is dead because of Tyrone Nash.” The reality hit like a tidal wave, washing over and over her. Maybe Ricky hadn’t killed Shelley. Maybe he was a victim of Tyrone, too. “What makes you more desperate than me?”

He turned his face to hers, held her gaze for a long moment. “Her name was Kimberly. She was nineteen years old. Nash murdered her. Cut her throat. Left me a message written in her blood.” He looked away. “She was my niece. She had nothing to do with any of this. Her only mistake was having me for an uncle.”

CJ’s heart went out to him. “I’m sorry.” Jesus Christ. She’d had no idea.

“When Shelley made the offer . . . how could I say no?”

She ached for his loss. “Shelley trusted you.” And maybe CJ
should cut him some slack. “She thought you were going to save the village.”

“I’m doing a bang-up job so far,” he muttered.

“At least you’re not giving up.” She had to let go of some of this emotion, starting with all her pent-up frustration with Braddock. She just couldn’t contain all of it any longer. Not and deal with this insanity. “That’s more than I can say for most who try to make a difference.”

The silence lagged on.

Finally she couldn’t take it anymore. “Where does this leave us? I mean, we have no evidence against Tyrone. Banks is dead. I can’t begin to figure out who the father of Shelley’s baby was.” She heaved a disgusted breath. “It’s like a dead end with absolutely nowhere to go.”

“I suspected she was seeing someone.” Braddock stared out at the city’s twinkling lights as he spoke. “When I asked, she played it off. At first I thought it was Banks, but the last couple weeks I was pretty sure it wasn’t him.”

She hadn’t even told CJ. That hurt a lot. There were times when Shelley didn’t tell her anything. But on those rare occasions when she wanted to talk, she spilled her guts. Maybe one of those rare occasions would have come along soon if she’d lived. The voice mail she’d left the final night of her life replayed in CJ’s mind. She shouldn’t have ignored that call.

“Banks swore they hadn’t been intimate in more than three months.” She turned to Braddock. “He really thought it was you.”

“I respected Shelley too much to even go there.” Braddock shook his head. “That one crazy moment was the only time . . .” He shrugged. “Our relationship wasn’t like that. It was all about getting Nash.”

Had he not said the words with such sincerity, CJ might have thought he was telling her what she wanted to hear. But the genuineness in his voice was real. “Thank you.”

He looked confused. “For what?”

“Respecting her. She didn’t get that often.” Maybe CJ was the one who’d overreacted. Maybe it was that whole sibling rivalry thing and Braddock had just gotten caught in the middle.
She didn’t know how to explain to him or anyone else that sex, or any part thereof, wasn’t just sex to her. She needed to believe it meant something more than what she’d been exposed to growing up. That was why even one kiss with another woman, her sister no less, was a betrayal.

But she wasn’t sure she could explain that to him. Not and have it make sense. She vaguely recalled having screamed something along those lines at him.

“She wanted you to be proud of her,” Braddock told her.

Emotion swelled in CJ’s chest. Had she ever once told her sister she was proud of her? God, she didn’t think so. CJ closed her eyes. How could she have let her frustration and impatience come between them?

“She was enormously proud of you.”

CJ opened her eyes and looked at the man, some part of her needing to hear exactly that. “I don’t know why.” She cleared her throat. “I let her down.”

“You were always there for her.” Braddock smiled sadly. “That’s what she said. Whenever she needed you, you were there.”

CJ had to be stronger than this. She needed to be there for her sister now. “What’re we going to do about this?”

Braddock held her gaze, his wary. “Do you really understand what you’re suggesting?”

She nodded. “Without question.”

He stared back out at the city lights. “We have to tie Nash to the murders.”

CJ knew that wasn’t going to be easy. “Tyrone never touches the business. He stays clear, lets his goons do the dirty work. You won’t catch him in the act of dealing or pimping. He’s too smart for that.” Shelley had told her that ages ago, back when her sister had foolishly admired the bastard.

“Even the best make a mistake now and then,” he offered but it was no consolation. “We have to find a mistake.”

“How do we do that?”

Braddock apparently didn’t have a ready answer for that question.

“Look,” he finally said, “there’s a chance that Nash isn’t the
one who killed Shelley or Banks. Like I told you before, the MO is a little sophisticated.”

He was confusing her. “Then if he didn’t do it, why are you focusing completely on him?”

“Because,” he explained patiently, “the murders happened in his territory. If Nash didn’t order them, he’s going to want to know who did. He’s not going to stand for someone coming into his territory and whacking his people.”

She could see his point. “So if you watch Nash, he could lead you to the killer. Assuming he’s not the killer.”

“Exactly.”

“But,” she countered, “you’re always going to be one step behind him because none of his people are going to risk giving you the information you need, when you need it.”

“There is that.”

“Unless . . .” The idea gained momentum so fast CJ could hardly find the proper words to say. “Unless I give him something he’s wanted for a very long time.”

“What the hell is that?”

“Me.”

11:00
PM

Edward peered at the dark street beyond the parlor window. CJ had promised to stay at his home for the remainder of her visit. He sincerely hoped she would not be persuaded to do otherwise.

Each day he grew more and more concerned about her ability to make proper decisions. He had thought that she would surely come to terms with her sister’s death after the prime suspect’s murder. Instead she and that inept detective had found reason to think Banks wasn’t Shelley’s killer.

This simply wouldn’t do.

Pain pierced Edward as he turned away from the window. How could he make her see what a tremendous series of mistakes she stood on the verge of making?

Her residency at Johns Hopkins was at stake.

Her entire future.

Her work at the clinic was nothing but a distraction. Juanita Lusk and that pig Carter Cost would love nothing better than to distract CJ and ruin the future she had worked so hard to attain. That Edward had worked so hard to see that she achieved.

Lusk was insignificant in Edward’s opinion, but Cost would need to be watched.

As for the other, if the police had determined that Banks
was not Shelley’s murderer, then perhaps their attention had shifted to Nash. Even if Nash’s guilt for ending Shelley’s life could not be proven, he had been slowly killing her for years. That made him guilty. As did numerous other atrocities. He did not deserve to breathe the same air as CJ.

Though Nash’s annoying phone calls were becoming tedious, of the two, Cost concerned Edward the most. He knew all the right buttons to push. He would play upon CJ’s sympathies, urge her to continue helping at the clinic. As if he cared. Edward’s lips curled in disgust. The man did nothing for anyone but himself.

Edward would need to intercede.

Soon.

For now, he needed to relax. To release the rage and frustration that tormented him. CJ would be here soon and he did not wish to convey his tension to her.

He crossed the grand parlor, the one his mother had so meticulously decorated for entertaining, and lowered himself onto the gleaming bench nestled before the Steinway. A true concert grand, a full nine feet of polished wood, intricate brasswork, and glorious magical strings. Edward closed his eyes and allowed his fingers to caress the pristine keys.

“Für Elise.” A simple piece by his favorite composer. The music flowed around him, cloaked him in its beauty. One day he would play for CJ . . . when he’d found the perfect arrangement. One just for her.

Edward Abbott!

His fingers stilled on the sleek keys. Tension rippled through his body. Suddenly he was twelve years old again with his mother standing over him as he rehearsed.

Again! This time play the piece properly. Your timing was off ever so slightly. That won’t do. It simply won’t do
.

He played the piece again.

And again.

Each time his mother’s voice rang in his ears.

A Beethoven you will never be! Now, sit up straight. Play it again
.

His hands dropped to his lap. Practice truly was the essential
element in perfecting any piece. He turned from the piano and stood. He would try again another time. He wasn’t himself tonight. Perhaps that was the reason his timing was a bit off.

His mother was always right.

He checked the street once more. Sighed. Where was CJ at such a late hour?

It was best, he supposed, that she had not arrived as of yet. He really did need to see to the mess he’d made in the fireplace. He stirred the ashes, ensuring they had cooled sufficiently.

Making quick work of the task, he scooped the ashes into a container, then meticulously swept the firebox. His housekeeper would happily take care of the cleanup in the morning, but Edward had learned well from his mother. One did not leave such a mess overnight. Pride would not permit such a lackadaisical attitude.

Appearances were, after all, everything.