The Trouble with Temptation (28 page)

It took only seconds to get to the cell, even less time to get inside.

It took about the same amount of time to realize he’d wasted those seconds, because Senator Henry Roberts was dead. Because he had to do his job, he checked for a pulse while Tank put in a call to EMS.

Teddy and Gideon hefted the man from the bunk and moved him to the floor to attempt CPR and a moment later, Levon was in there, barking out orders.

They were emptying out pockets, searching for an EpiPen, the adrenaline that would save a person suffering from anaphylaxis. Of course, there was no EpiPen. They’d taken the senator’s personal effects.

The metallic scent of blood filled the air and feeling as though he were watching a movie, Gideon watched as Levon, the former military field medic, threw down the knife he’d just drawn across the senator’s throat.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Teddy demanded.

“Wasting my time. Man’s gone,” Levon said. Then he added, “Tracheotomy. Airway’s closed off. But I’m trying.”

The paramedics showed up before he was able to get the hollowed out pen he’d planned to use as an artificial airway. Gideon caught sight of Hannah, the professional mask set firmly in place as he pulled his officer back. They stood there watching.

When the medics went to lift the senator, two things fell to the floor, one from each hand.

A piece of fish fell from his right.

A piece of paper fell from his left.

Gideon stared at the half-eaten chunk of fish, oddly mesmerized.

“What the fuck?” Tank said as they watched Hannah and her partner hustle the still body out of there. Every single one of them knew it was a wasted effort. They knew too much about what dead people looked like, but they also knew the paramedics had a job to do.

Gideon continued to stare at the food. He didn’t want fish now, that was for damn sure. “The senator had an allergy to shrimp. Probably was allergic to fish, too.”

Teddy swore. “Sir, he fucking
told
me to get him the fish. I didn’t know, I swear!”

Gideon lifted a hand, but it took his officer several minutes to calm down. Tugging a pair of gloves out of his pocket, he drew them on and knelt down, poking at the food. It had indeed turned out to be the condemned man’s final meal.

He hadn’t even brought his damn EpiPen.

He picked up the note and it wasn’t any surprise to find that it was written to his wife and kids.

He’d killed himself.

He’d come in here, scared to death, confessed to a crime, and then he’d killed himself.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Hannah had worked a double. She hadn’t planned on it, especially not after the punch in the throat she’d gotten when she realized she was trying to save the life of one Senator Henry Roberts—the man who’d probably been behind Alison’s death.

The operative word, of course, would be
trying
.

His allergy to seafood must have been pretty damn awful. They hadn’t been able to establish an airway and even if they had, he’d been without oxygen for so long by the time they got him to the hospital, the amount of brain damage he probably would have had …

She didn’t want to think about that mess. By the time her night had ended, all she’d wanted was sleep but only one person from the crew to relieve her and J.P. had showed up. Another person from one of the other teams had ended up calling in sick.

So she and J.P. had volunteered to cover. She wouldn’t be able to work doubles much longer. Already she was dead on her feet and she had to wonder at all of the women who did this sort of thing day in and day out
and
went home and took care of kids for years. She just couldn’t fathom it.

As tired as she was, she’d been almost grateful for the work, though. Not that she’d tell anybody. She was trying not to think, trying very, very hard. She’d collapsed into bed without eating and gone straight to sleep, desperate to escape the silence of her head … and the loudness of the memories she could feel churning closer and closer to the surface.

I love you.…

In her sleep, Hannah rolled over and pressed her face into the pillow. It still smelled of Brannon—his soap, his shampoo …
him
. She clung to it and snuggled deeper into a sweet, wonderful dream.

Love you …

Brannon’s voice echoed all around her and in her sleep, she smiled.

She reached for him.

But he faded away before she could touch him.

Turning her head, she searched for him.

“Brannon?” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded uncertain. “Brannon?”

She took a step and the apartment around her reformed. Confused, she looked around and realized she wasn’t in her place. It was Brannon’s. His loft across the street, so much bigger than her place, wide, open, airy, and elegant. It had money stamped all over it, but at the same time, it was welcoming. Or she thought it was.

The door to the bedroom opened and Brannon stood there.

She smiled at him, her hand outstretched.

He stared at it for a long moment.

Her smile faltered. “Brannon?”

He just shook his head.

“I love you,” she said softly. “I’ve been in love with you since high school.”

In the bed, Hannah started to cry.

Brannon frowned at her. Finally, he folded his arms over his chest. “This isn’t going to work. Look, Hannah. I’ve known you too long. In my head, I’ve had you about a hundred ways to Sunday and every time I see you, I want to try at least one of those ways out. But sex is all I really want.”

Staring at him, she fell back against the wall and then, slowly, she slid to the floor. “What are you saying? I thought … you told me you loved me.”

“Please.” Brannon snorted, the derision in his voice thick and mocking. “Honey, you should know better. I’m not looking for any sort of relationship. Sex is all well and good, but I don’t want anything else. That’s not … I just don’t want it. Especially not now. I’ve got too much going on as it is and somehow, I get the feeling casual sex isn’t really your speed.”

“But I love you.” The words sounded hollow, even to her own ears. “I’ve always loved you.”

“So you’ve said .” Now Brannon smiled. It was a sad, bitter smile. “You’ve loved me since high school. But it was a dream, sugar. Just a high school girl’s dream … haven’t you figured that out yet?”

*   *   *

The ringing of the phone jerked her awake.

Hannah jolted up in the bed, her face wet with tears, the dream shattering and falling into sharp, painful shards around her before fading. It still stung, though, still pricked at her.

Swallowing, she dashed the tears away with one hand as she reached for her phone with the other.

She took one look at the number and laid her phone back down flat.

She couldn’t handle talking to him just then.

He’d hear something in her voice and Hannah could just imagine trying to explain why she was a sobbing, shaking mess at … she caught sight of the clock on the wall and swore.

It was two o’clock.

Sorry, Brannon. I know we were supposed to have lunch, but I overslept and now I’m crying and shaky because I dreamt you told me that you didn’t really love me. Hold me!

Jumping out of bed, she rushed into the bathroom.

She figured she might have ten minutes before he showed up knocking on her door wondering why she wasn’t over at the pub. They were supposed to have lunch.

Ten minutes. Maybe.

She rushed her way through the shower, finished up in five minutes, didn’t bother shaving her legs. She could always do that later, because she really doubted she’d have time for any nookie. Brannon was only in town because he had a meeting with a local brewer who wanted him to try out some new ale at the pub.

He’d mentioned he had his hands full out at the winery and she could only imagine. That and the stress of having Alison …

Her throat choked up.

Alison.

Fear tried to edge in but she pushed it back.

She was getting really good at that. Considering that missing week of her life, Hannah suspected if she didn’t keep a chokehold on fear, she’d probably lose her mind.

After wrapping a towel around her dripping hair, she reached for her robe. She thought she was down to maybe four minutes. She needed to go ahead and just text Brannon.

Her robe …

She looked over.

Her robe wasn’t there.

Scowling, she stared at the painted door.

The robe was always there.

Jerking open the closet where she kept her dirty clothes, she checked inside. Nope. Aggravated, she just grabbed another towel and wrapped it around herself. Water dripped down her body and she left the bathroom.

She’d worry about the damn robe later.

She grabbed her phone and texted Brannon.

Overslept. Be there in about fifteen minutes
.

That done, she tossed her phone onto the bed and headed over to her closet. Pulling the towel from her hair, she started to rub at her still wet hair, mentally going through what she needed to do.

She had to dry her hair, get dressed—

Her robe was hanging in the closet.

The towel fell from numb fingers.

A shiver raced down her spine.

Slowly, she reached out and tugged it from the hanger. It was hard to miss, as it had been hung up almost as if on display, facing her—not
on
the rack, but hooked with the curve of the hanger looped over the outer part of the rack. The way a fancy dress might have been hung to keep it from being wrinkled.

Not the typical way anybody would treat a worn cotton robe that was easily five years old.

And not the way Hannah had hung it up after her shower not even five hours ago.

Her fingers shook as she carried it over to the bed and laid it down.

She stepped back and stared at it. Maybe because she was staring at it so hard, it made it easy to notice the odd little lump in the pocket.

Her breathing hitched in her throat as she pushed her fingers inside the pocket.

The rock was smooth and worn. The way the rocks were after they’d spent some time in the river. She had a collection of them, out in the bowl on her coffee table … at the houseboat.

The houseboat.

Those dark and hiding secrets shoved against her conscience and she dropped the rock, backing away.

The small stone lay on the floor, practically mocking her.

*   *   *

Seated at a table near the window, he saw the police cruiser pull up.

He wasn’t surprised when Gideon Marshall climbed out.

He couldn’t even claim to be irritated.

That fucker was always nosing around in things. Even in a small town like this, one might think the chief of police could learn how to delegate, but then again, some men just had the sort of complex where they felt they had to take care of everybody and everything.

Perhaps, though, he could understand.

He was a man who believed in handling his own problems as well.

Absently, he reached into his bag and pulled out a journal. It was filled with scraps and notes and copies. He flipped through them, taking time here and there to pause and read a note or study a sketch. He’d long since committed everything inside these worn pages to memory.

Whitehall had kept thorough records, but sadly, he couldn’t have recorded what he didn’t know, what he hadn’t observed.

Solving a mystery that was well over a century old was proving to be quite … intriguing.

“Oi! Brannon!”

The sound of Ian Campbell’s booming voice had him looking up, watching as the big, red-haired McKay emerged from the back of the pub. Without making it obvious, he watched as Ian and Brannon spoke quietly. He wasn’t surprised when Ian jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the window, or when Brannon practically ran from the pub.

The dumb bastard had been all but tripping over himself over Hannah Parker for years. Men often made fools of themselves over women, though. He’d been seeing it happen for years.

For a few more moments, he watched Brannon. The man tore across the road and disappeared inside the building where Hannah lived.

He’d wondered if she’d think much of his … visit. She’d lain sleeping on the bed, undisturbed when he let himself inside. He’d lingered in the hallway, watching her sleep like the dead and debating. He could kill her so easily. She hadn’t stirred when he’d let himself in, hadn’t made a sound when he plucked her keys from the counter and used the keyfob to disarm the system intended to keep men like him out.

Handy things, security systems.

He’d taken the time to reset it when he left, leaving Hannah sleeping soundly.

The last thing he needed to do was kill her. That was a last resort. Hannah meant nothing to him and if he had to kill her, he would, but he’d prefer to avoid it. The more lives he took, the more trouble he’d find himself embroiled in, and the more complicated things would become. He had every intention of
avoiding
complication, not twisting himself up in it.

Another police car came wailing down the street and he bent back over his coffee, smiling to himself. What could the cops really do? All he’d done was move her robe around.

This time.

*   *   *

“You gotta be kidding me.” Officer Beau Shaw, still baring some faded scars from his bout with chicken pox a few months earlier, rubbed a hand up and down his face before he shot a look at his boss.

Said boss stared at him, his face impassive, but the eyes were hard as granite.

“Is there a problem, Officer?” Chief Gideon Marshall asked politely.

Beau looked at the bagged rock, robe, and hanger. Then, choosing his words carefully, he said, “Chief, you want me to dust for prints because Ms. Parker doesn’t remember hanging the robe in her closet?”

“No. You’re dusting for prints because a woman who is possibly a witness to an unsolved murder knows she didn’t hang that robe in her closet.”