Take the Key and Lock Her Up (4 page)

Usually the scanner was a way to keep tabs on the police so he could
avoid
them—a necessity in his line of work. But when he’d heard that feminine voice shaking
with adrenaline and fear, he’d known she was in trouble. He’d foolishly turned his
truck around and headed to the location she’d given. Since she was a cop, he’d left
his unregistered gun hidden in the door panel of his truck before going into the basement.
He’d gone back to his truck to grab the tire iron only once he’d realized she must
have been locked behind one of those doors.

Turns out, the little vixen hadn’t needed his help since her backup had arrived right
after him. And now he was caught up in this mess, wasting what precious little family
time he had before his next assignment.

After Detective Jones had escorted Devlin out of the basement, he’d led Devlin to
a patrol car to take him to the police station for an interview. Devlin had told Jones
exactly what he thought of the offer and promptly turned around and headed to his
truck. It was at that moment that Jones’s boss, Lieutenant Drier, had arrived. He’d
quickly assessed the situation and asked Devlin to wait to answer a few questions
after Drier spoke to Jones and the officers at the house to get an update.

Sticking around had been the last thing Devlin wanted to do. But he’d reluctantly
agreed. With his father and four brothers living here in Savannah, he didn’t want
to give the local cops an excuse to involve his family, or to start digging into his
carefully constructed and mostly fake past. Instead, what he needed to do was placate
the cops,
without
giving them any useful information. Then he could go on his way and spend some time
with his family before he had to leave again. He didn’t plan on saying much. The less
the police knew about him, the safer it was—for
all
of them.

So now, here he waited, while Detective Jones leaned against a patrol car on the other
side of the driveway, pretending to watch the activity at the house even though he
was obviously keeping an eye on Devlin.

A group of three men and a short woman with shoulder-length brown hair separated from
a larger group at the back corner of the house and headed Devlin’s way. He straightened.
The woman, O’Malley, was too far away for him to see her face clearly. But the tantalizing
details were burned into his memory.

A full lower lip that fairly begged to be kissed. Dark, expressive eyes that were
far too serious for someone who couldn’t be more than twenty-five or -six. Her pert,
slightly upturned nose, a smattering of freckles across the bridge, and slightly fuller
curves might have been flaws in some men’s eyes. But Devlin thought her perky nose
and freckles made her more interesting. And even though he’d enjoyed plenty of women
who fit the traditional definition of beauty, he’d always been a sucker for a woman
with curves. A real woman, who didn’t starve herself to live up to some false society
standard of the perfect body.

He didn’t have to work hard to fill in the rest of the details. The feel of her full,
soft breasts pressed against his chest was a memory he wasn’t likely to forget anytime
soon. But even though she was one hell of an attractive package, it wasn’t her looks
that had struck him so intensely back in that basement. It was the way she looked
at
him, as if she wanted to see past the façade he presented to society and was staring
right into his soul. For the space of a few breaths, he’d felt laid bare, as if she
had peeled back the layers and seen him for who he really was. Since every single
thing he did was with the intention of hiding those layers, he should have felt uncomfortable
beneath her scrutiny. Instead, he’d felt a connection unlike anything he’d felt in
a long, long time. Thirteen years to be exact.

Too bad she was a police officer.

Walking beside her was the detective who’d handcuffed Devlin back in the cell—Eddie
Tucker, “Tuck” to his co-workers. Devlin had gleaned that particular detail as he’d
eavesdropped on Jones briefing Lieutenant Drier when he’d arrived. On Tuck’s immediate
right was the lieutenant, and beside him was the coroner—Kennerly. Devlin had seen
the name on the man’s white lab coat when he drove up earlier in the coroner’s van.

That wasn’t all Devlin had noticed. He knew exactly how many police were on the scene,
how many were in the basement right now, and how many vehicles were either in the
yard or parked on the shoulder of the highway. In addition, he had three different
escape routes mapped out in his mind for how he could drive his truck out of here
in a hurry without getting stuck behind a patrol car or ending up in a ditch. He didn’t
expect to need any of that information, but logging it and marking the exits was as
natural to him as breathing.
Especially
when there were cops around.

“Mr. Buchanan, thanks for waiting.” Drier offered him a falsely bright smile.

Devlin reluctantly shook his hand.

“I apologize on behalf of Savannah-Chatham Metro PD for the
unfortunate incident
,” Drier said. “We appreciate that you were trying to assist an officer in need and
we hope you understand that sometimes less-than-ideal decisions are made during the
rush of excitement.”

From the way Jones and Tuck were staring at Devlin, their jaws locked tight, he imagined
the “we” didn’t include them. O’Malley didn’t look any more pleased than her fellow
detectives. Her face was flushed and she wouldn’t meet his gaze. Amusement flashed
inside Devlin. The “unfortunate incident” Drier referred to must have been the fact
that O’Malley had shot at him even though he didn’t have a weapon. That explained
the simpering smile. The lieutenant was worried about a lawsuit.

Devlin was mildly surprised Drier hadn’t insisted that O’Malley do the apologizing.
Maybe she had more gumption than he’d given her credit for and she’d refused her boss’s
order. Good for her. She didn’t owe him an apology. He’d have done the same thing
in her position. To hell with a fair fight. If someone came at him, he wasn’t going
to wait and see if they had a weapon. He’d neutralize the threat, whatever it took.
Because he admired O’Malley’s spirit, he decided to take Drier down a peg.

“I assume you’re referring to Detective O’Malley drawing her gun on me. My understanding
of the situation is that she felt her life was in danger and did exactly what any
officer would have and should have done. That
is
what you’re trying to say, isn’t it, Lieutenant? That I shouldn’t be . . . concerned
. . . because you’d have done the same thing if you’d been in that basement. Correct?”

The look on the lieutenant’s face was comical. He obviously didn’t want to say that
O’Malley had been right. But if he didn’t, he was probably worried Devlin might sue
the police department. He finally cleared his throat and adjusted his tie, as if it
had grown too tight.

“Of course, of course. Detective O’Malley acted appropriately.”

O’Malley’s eyes widened and the ghost of a smile curved her lips.

Mission accomplished.

“Good. I don’t have much time,” Devlin said. “And I’ve already been waiting out here
too long. I’ll allow you five minutes for questions.”

Drier blinked and his face turned red. He looked like he was about to choke, probably
on whatever biting retort he wanted to throw at Devlin. His mouth thinned and it seemed
to take some effort before he could make it curve into the practiced, false smile
of a politician again.

“I know you prefer not to go to the police station,” Drier said. “But it would be
much easier for everyone, including you, if you did. I can have an officer follow
behind us in your truck and you can leave right after the interview. Won’t take long
at all.”

“No thanks.”

Drier’s smile dimmed. He obviously wasn’t used to being told no.

“Will you at least sit in a patrol car where we’ll be more comfortable in the air
conditioning while we talk? This blasted heat is horrendous.” He wiped a bead of sweat
off his forehead as if to emphasize his point.

Devlin wasn’t unaffected by the heat himself. His black T-shirt was damp between his
shoulder blades. But no way was he going to agree to sit in a patrol car, especially
if Drier wanted to put him in the backseat, where he’d be locked inside. He’d rather
endure the muggy July heat.

“I’m fine right where I am.”

The lieutenant frowned, giving up all pretense of smiling. “My apologies for being
blunt then, but you leave me no choice. We have some bad news for you. We’ll run some
tests of course, to be sure, but our fact-checking over the phone makes us confident
that you know one of the victims we found inside the basement.”

Since Devlin had spoken to his father on the phone a couple of hours ago, he knew
his family was up at his dad’s house for their traditional Friday night gathering
and cookout. Which was where Devlin would be right now if he hadn’t allowed himself
to get sidetracked by the wobble of fear in O’Malley’s voice. Devlin was already anticipating
the mouth-watering steaks he’d throw on the grill on his father’s back deck.

If Drier believed Devlin knew one of the victims, then Devlin wasn’t going to shed
a tear for them. Most of the people he knew, besides his family, were just as likely
to put a bullet in him as to speak to him.

One of the many hazards of his occupation.

And if the victim was one of the few people Devlin called a friend, the only way Drier
would know that was if he’d discovered Devlin’s true occupation. In which case, he’d
be having this conversation from inside a jail cell.

“Who’s this person you think I know?”

Drier waved the coroner forward. “Dr. Kennerly removed some items from the victim.”

The coroner didn’t say anything. He just handed Devlin a large, clear plastic evidence
bag.

Devlin held it up, saw the rings and bracelet inside, and froze.

“We strongly believe,” Drier continued, “that the victim is Carolyn Buchanan, your
mother. A clerk at the courthouse pulled some records and confirmed Carolyn was the
name of your father’s wife before they divorced years ago. That name is on the bracelet.
The clerk was also familiar with the Buchanan family due to your father’s occupation
as a lawyer and confirmed the names of Carolyn’s sons, which match the names on the
charms. The Division of Motor Vehicles provided the hair color and height from your
mother’s driver’s license. The victim’s, ah,
estimated
height and hair color match the . . .”

Devlin tuned everything out around him. He didn’t have any clear memories of the jewelry.
Not something he would have paid attention to as a kid. But he’d seen that bracelet
in so many family photos there could be no doubt. It had been a gift from his father.
It was definitely Carolyn’s. Which meant she was dead. And even though she’d divorced
his father over two decades ago, when Devlin was thirteen, he knew with absolute certainty
that Alex was going to be devastated when he found out she’d been murdered.

Alex had loved Carolyn to distraction, had never remarried, and to this day could
be found—when he didn’t think anyone was watching—staring wistfully at one of her
many photographs still hanging on the walls of the house where they’d spent their
eight-year marriage.

The silence around Devlin intruded on his thoughts. He looked up, directly into O’Malley’s
expressive brown eyes. There was a deep sadness there, for him—sympathy that was entirely
misplaced. Devlin’s
father
was the one who deserved sympathy. Carolyn was barely a blip on the radar of Devlin’s
life. She wasn’t his biological parent and had never pretended to want him as her
son. She’d worn that bracelet only to please her husband, not because of any motherly
affection. And after the divorce, she’d never made any attempts to contact his dad,
his brothers, or Devlin. She’d abandoned all of them.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Unlike her boss, she sounded like she genuinely meant it.

Devlin nodded his thanks and returned the bag to the coroner. “How did she die?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Kennerly said. “There are no obvious signs of trauma. But the
body—that is, Mrs. Buchanan—has been in that basement for some time. It’s difficult
to pinpoint the cause of death. I won’t know more until after the autopsy and some
tests.”

Dozens of questions swirled through Devlin’s mind, but the answers would have to wait.
Right now, the most important thing he could do was to try to soften the blow for
his father. He didn’t want the falsely solicitous Drier or the abrupt coroner to break
the news. As much as he hated the necessity, this was his responsibility. He was the
one who needed to tell Alex that the woman he loved had been murdered.

He yanked his truck door open.

“Wait.” Drier sounded panicked. “Mr. Buchanan, what are you doing? We still need to
ask you some questions.”

O’Malley stood on her tiptoes and whispered something to her boss.

Devlin didn’t wait to see what they were discussing. He climbed into the truck and
started it up. When he rolled the window down, he didn’t see O’Malley anywhere. He
directed his comment to the lieutenant. “Your questions can wait. I have to tell my
father the love of his life is dead.”

He put the truck in gear just as the passenger door popped open. He slammed on his
brakes and O’Malley hopped inside. She calmly shut the door and put the seat belt
on as if she and Devlin were old friends about to head up to the corner store together.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“Going with you.”

“No. You’re not. Get out.”

Her fingers curled against the tan leather seat. “Mr. Buchanan, I royally screwed
up my career today by defying orders, going into that house without backup, allowing
myself to be trapped like a rookie while the suspect got away with the victim, and
then shooting at an unarmed civilian.” She gave him a hesitant smile. “Thank you for
that, by the way. For pretending you thought it was justified, even though we both
know I shouldn’t have fired my weapon.” She waved her hand in the air. “Regardless,
I just lied to my boss and told him I’d established a rapport with you earlier and
that I was certain I could get you to answer his questions. So that is exactly what
I’m going to do—ask you questions.”