A Younger Woman Page 6

  “I said, get out!”

  “We’re both tired and worked up, saying things we don’t mean,” Ry insisted.

  “I mean everything I say.” She shoved his hand away. “I loathe the smell of you and the sound of your voice. I hate the way—”

  “I taught you to kiss?”

  His ego bruised, his frustration high, Ry leaned forward and took her mouth hard and fast. He knew it was wrong, knew the consequences of such a weakness. Only, she’d shattered his control and now it was too late to retreat.

  He let her fight him until she was too weak to continue. Once she’d slumped against the headboard in defeat, he boldly took more, forcing his tongue between her lips to taste her for the first time in two long years.

  It wasn’t fair. Of all the cops in New Orleans, what were the odds that Ry would get assigned to the DuBay Pier murder?

  Margo glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was nearly noon, the day hot and slipping by miserably slowly. Absently she reached up and touched her bruised lips. She had never expected Ry to kiss her. But he was not a man to trifle with, and he’d proven that by punishing her swiftly for goading him.

  And now what? The thought of spending more time with him after that kiss frightened her almost as much as not knowing where Blu was. She heard the radio station being switched on in the kitchen downstairs, and it reminded her that Ry had left his partner behind this morning to ensure she kept her promise to remain in his home. Jackson Ward had spent most of the day lounging in the hammock on the veranda. The tall, dark-haired man looked like a linebacker for the New Orleans Saints.

  Her jailer may be big, Margo reasoned, but Brodie was his equal in size, and when he came for her, no one would stop her from leaving with him—not Ry or Jackson Ward.

  Tired of watching the clock, Margo sank into the tufted chair to pout. She touched her lips again, remembered the moment she knew Ry was going to kiss her. Remembered the rush of heat, the violent shiver. Not wanting to analyze what had happened after that, she forced it all from her mind and concentrated on Blu. She had to believe he was alive. She also had to believe that whatever she’d witnessed last night wasn’t in any way her brother’s fault; Blu had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, as she had been.

  It was true Blu lived on the edge, but he didn’t deal with men who used guns as easily as they used the bathroom. Well, he didn’t normally hang out with cops, either, but then she was sure Blu would be able to explain why he’d been meeting one on a lonely pier at night.

  Instead of her headache going away, the damn thing intensified. So much so, Margo was forced to go in search of some relief. What she found once she opened the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, however, had her dropping her jaw in shock—Ry owned a pharmaceutical so complete it could supply the entire neighborhood.

  “He died instantly,” the medical examiner told Ry. “AK-47, just like you figured.”

  Ry rubbed his jaw. “Time of death?”

  “Eight o’clock, maybe a little earlier. He didn’t feel a thing, honest, Ry. Pop, and he was sleeping.”

  “If you say so, Andy.” Ry was exhausted, but he was determined to make some headway on the case before day’s end. He picked up the report and scanned it, his instincts working overtime. He just couldn’t get past the feeling that Margo had been on DuBay Pier last night. He wanted to be wrong, prayed for a witness to suddenly materialize and point him in a different direction, but he didn’t think it was going to happen.

  “You all right?” Andy asked. “Burelly wasn’t a close friend of yours, was he?”

  Ry glanced up at Andy Grecco. The medical examiner was in his early forties, wore his hair as cleanly cut as any military man, then threw the look all away by wearing a diamond in his ear and red tennis shoes. “No, Andy, we weren’t close. What about the blood?”

  “I’m still working on that. I’ll give you a call.”

  Ry left the precinct digging for a cigarette. Lighting up, he barely acknowledged the heat by shoving his shirtsleeves up his muscled forearms and unbuttoning the top two buttons of his lightweight shirt. He climbed into the Blazer and swung into the busy traffic flow like a seasoned taxi driver, ignoring the car that honked in protest—he was late to meet Goddard at the Toucan.

  Again, for the second time in less than an hour, Ry found himself thinking about Margo’s warm lips. He’d had no business losing control like that. He should have kept his distance, knew about the hell he would unleash if he didn’t. But regret it? How could he regret it when his reward had been feeling her shudder, then having her tilt her head back to allow him to taste her more completely. And now that moment was forever locked in his mind, eating at his libido like a desert parasite on holiday.

  Ry parked his Blazer on the street, slipped through the courtyard and entered the back door of the Toucan. The lunch crowd was in full swing, the heady aroma of Thursday’s special moving through the air as Tony’s gumbo was leaving the kitchen by the gallons.

  Since Ry was a regular, no one gave him a second look as he sauntered down the back hall to the restrooms. He found Goddard lounging against the wall next to the phone booth. He nodded, walked past and into the public facility. A few moments later Goddard joined him. They waited until the two men taking simultaneous leaks had pulled it together and left before Ry asked, “What do you got?”

  “Word is somebody lost some mighty expensive merchandise.”

  “What kind of merchandise?”

  “Don’t know. The way I heard it, the goods were stolen a few days ago. Last night they were supposed to be recovered, only somethin’ went wrong.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “You can’t recover stolen goods off a dead man unless he’s got it on him. Whoever was on that pier last night was no doubt meetin’ a buyer when the original owner got wind of it.”

  “You saying Mickey was making a dirty deal on DuBay Pier last night?” That was hard for Ry to believe, but stranger things had happened.

  “Ain’t sayin’ he was or wasn’t. Could be he was set up or doin’ someone a favor. You know it ain’t always black-and-white, Superman. Could be a number of reasons why the suit went to sleep—anxious fingers, stupidity. Some guys just get off on killin’ cops. Or maybe they didn’t like the color of his suit.” God chuckled at his own joke.

  “Got a name for me?”

  “Not yet.” God scratched his chest. “But I ain’t done askin’ around.”

  “I want you to find Blu duFray.” Ry handed Goddard a hundred-dollar bill. “That should keep you fed for a couple of days and buy transportation to speed things up.”

  “You mean take a cab?” Ry watched God’s eyes go wide. “I got my reputation to consider, Superman. Takin’ a cab is against principles.”

  “Take one, anyway. I’m in a hurry.”

  Goddard stashed the hundred in his threadbare pants pocket. “What you want duFray for? You don’t think he shot the suit, do you? We both know Blu’s too smart for that. If’n he wanted someone dead he’d just haul him out to the Gulf and sink him.”

  “Just find him,” Ry said. “It’s worth an extra fifty if you do.”

  Goddard walked to the urinal and unzipped his pants. Over his shoulder he said, “I don’t think Blu’s your cop killer.”

  Ry had his hand on the door ready to leave. He turned back. “I never said he was. I just want to talk to him. Do I need to mention you should watch your back? Sloppy work don’t pay dividends.”

  “I hear what you’re sayin’.” Goddard readjusted his pants, then headed for the sink to scrub his hands. “Don’t get kilt. Don’t plan on it, at least not before I have a bowl of that gumbo I smell.”

  “I’m sure Mickey didn’t plan on it, either, when he stepped into his pants yesterday morning.” That said, Ry strolled out the door and located the phone in the hall.

  Three rings later Jackson drawled, “She’s fine. Well, maybe not fine, but she’s still here.”

  “Lucky for you.�
�� Ry filled his partner in on what he’d learned from God, then asked, “Has she used the phone?”

  “Yeah. I left the portable on the table like you suggested. She took the bait.”

  “And?”

  “She made two calls.”

  “Did you run back the tape?”

  “Right away. There wasn’t much on it. A few choice words of frustration is all. Guess whoever she tried to call wasn’t home. I’ll trace the numbers.”

  “I already got a pretty good idea who she called, but go ahead. If it isn’t her brother’s number, it’ll be Brodie Hewitt’s.” Ry tried to hide the irritation in his voice. “I’ve got a lead to check out, then an errand to run. Should be back by six. Keep your eyes open. If she gets through to Hewitt and he shows up, book him for trespassing and handcuff him to something solid. He can be an ornery son of a bitch.”

  Back in his Blazer, Ry headed west to Canal Street. From there he turned north to hook up with Loyola Avenue. He figured the key he’d found in Margo’s jeans belonged to a storage locker of some kind. He would check the bus terminal first, then Amtrack. Parking, he entered the bus station only to find the numbers on the key were too high. Back in his car, fifteen minutes later, he hit the jackpot at the train depot. He slipped on a pair of rubber gloves he carried in his pocket, then promptly opened the locker.

  Ry was used to dead ends but the empty locker soured his already-bad mood in a heartbeat. He had hoped for a solid piece of evidence. Something concrete that would point a finger far enough away from Margo to ease his mind and assure him it would be safe to send her back to her apartment. Only there was no black-and-white evidence; nothing but a crumpled-up piece of garbage on the bottom of the locker floor.

  Ry returned to his office and spent the next hour combing Mickey’s caseload in hopes of finding a name or a place where he could start his investigation. He went back six full months, only there was nothing unusual to attract his attention. Another hour passed while he made and returned several phone calls. On his way out, he’d been asked to stop by Chief Blais’s office.

  He rapped on Clide’s door, stuck his head inside. “You wanted to see me, Chief?”

  “Come in for a minute, Ry.” The chief stubbed out his fat cigar and leaned back in his chair.

  Ry slipped through the door and closed it behind him. Taking a seat, he said, “If you want to know what I’ve got on the Burelly case, it’s too early.”

  “There’s nothing?” Clide stroked his silver mustache. “The boys upstairs want this wrapped up quickly. How about one of your hunches? Got a theory? You usually do, and it’s usually dead right when the leg work’s done.”

  Ry had already decided he wouldn’t let go of anything he couldn’t prove. And so far he had no proof Margo had been on the pier last night. Yes, he did have a hunch, but he didn’t intend to offer it now. Once he had some concrete evidence, he would be forced to make a decision, but until then he would keep what he knew between himself and Jackson. “I’ve got some leads to check out, maybe after that.”

  Clide relaxed back in his chair and rested his hand on his thick belly. “I know you’re working shorthanded. I could assign someone to help out.”

  “I’m getting used to solo.”

  “You could put in for a new partner. I’d understand.” He pointed to the bottle of antacid on his desk. “Jackson Ward’s the main reason I got an ulcer, he’ll likely give you one, too, if you don’t walk away.”

  “He’s a good cop, Clide.”

  “He’s a pain in the ass,” Clide insisted. “Now I know why the Chicago PD got rid of him.”

  Ry grinned. “I thought you said he came here voluntarily.”

  “It had to be a damn lie.”

  “Come on, Clide, Jackson’s a smart cop and we need him.”

  “A smart aleck, you mean.”

  “From what I hear, he’s just like you were when you were in the field.”

  “The hell you say! I never told the commissioner his dog could run this office better than he could. Believe me, I wanted to, at least twice a week, but that’s not how it’s done around here. You know that better than anyone, Ry. In this job you’re expected to swallow a lot of bull and do it with a smile.”

  Ry couldn’t argue with that. There were a dozen sides to law enforcement and half of them had nothing to do with the job specifically and everything to do with politics within the precinct. But the truth was, rather than work with someone he didn’t know or trust, Ry would be content with Jackson even on a part-time basis. Ironically, on this particular case, Jackson’s suspension was proving to be an asset.

  It was after four by the time Ry left the precinct and parked in front of Margo’s apartment building. As he assessed the drab exterior, he noted numerous repairs that were long overdue. But repairs were expensive and that expense had to be recovered somehow—usually with higher rent. In this neighborhood that would put most of the tenants out on the street.

  When he’d first heard Margo had moved to the Cypress Apartments after their breakup, Ry swore he wouldn’t allow her to live in such a dump. Then he’d thought better of his interference. After all, he had given up his right to meddle in her life, and as much as he’d hated keeping his mouth shut, he had. At least he had until last night.

  Inside the building, Ry scaled the scarred wood staircase to the second story. He was about to pull a handy little device from his pocket to let himself into Margo’s apartment when he noticed the door ajar. He went for his gun instead and eased the door open. What he found sickened him. Everything Margo owned had been destroyed.

  Furious, Ry stepped inside and closed the door behind him. His gun remained in his hand, though he was sure the vandals were long gone. He stared at the mess; a busted rocker, the shredded couch, plants overturned and walked on. Step by step, room by room, he assessed the senseless destruction, barely able to contain his outrage. And through it all his hunch kept getting stronger.

  He jammed his gun back into his holster and located Margo’s phone in the kitchen. Surprised to find it in one piece, he hit rewind, then played back the messages. She’d had three calls: one from her mother asking her to call back, and the other two callers hadn’t identified themselves. They had simply let the time run out in deliberate silence.

  Chapter 5

  By five in the afternoon, Margo had searched every inch of Ry’s house. Concluding that he must have taken Blu’s key with him, she gave up and went in search of her clothes. She was beginning to think Ry had taken them, too, when she found her jeans in the trash beneath the kitchen sink, along with her ruined shirt. Furious that he would deliberately toss her jeans, she swore him to hell, then moved to stand at the window overlooking the backyard.

  Absently Margo stroked the yellow curtain at the kitchen window. As much as she hated to admit it, Ry’s home was lovely. The kitchen was bright and warm, a bit too yellow, she thought, but it kept things cheery. Best of all was the backyard and the double swing that hung between a pair of giant oak trees. The shady trees were enormous, the branches sturdy for climbing. She’d always wanted to climb trees as a kid, but there hadn’t been any in her neighborhood, just row after row of shops and storefronts squeezed into a compact line.

  Mesmerized by the backyard, Margo pulled out a chair and sat at the kitchen table. The well-placed windows offered a grand view of a beautiful flower garden, and before she knew it, she’d frittered an hour away daydreaming about owning her own little piece of heaven just like this, with room enough to raise a half dozen kids.

  When her stomach growled, Margo forced herself up and crossed the pale-yellow tile floor to retrieve a carton of eggs from a shelf in the refrigerator. Hungry, glad for the distraction, she was about to scramble some eggs when the back door opened and in strolled Ry with a grocery bag under his arm. He was wearing a lightweight blue shirt, glove-soft worn jeans and boots.

  He glanced at the eggs. “You’re supposed to be in bed resting. What the hell do you think you’re doing?�
��

  “Whatever I feel like doing,” Margo snapped back. She saw his interest travel to her scant attire, and it reminded her of where she’d found her jeans. “How dare you toss my jeans in the garbage with the coffee grounds. That’s all I had to wear.”

  With no remorse in his tone or expression, he said, “I wasn’t so sure Jackson would be able to handle you, so I took a precautionary measure.” He gave her slender legs another hard look. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “I said I’d stay put. You didn’t need to ruin my jeans.”

  “You’ve skipped on me before, remember? I had two cops on your tail, plus you’d promised to stay put that time, too.”

  The incident he was referring to had taken place a few days before he’d left her. He’d become overly protective all of a sudden, demanding that she tell him where she was going every minute of the day. Then came a ridiculous curfew he’d expected her to abide by. The last straw had been the two plain-clothes cops he’d assigned to tail her as if she was a criminal.

  She’d protested of course, and threatened, but he hadn’t listened to one word. She’d had no choice but to ditch the tail and set Ry straight—she was not the kind of woman who would allow any man total control of her. She’d found him that night in the middle of a homicide on Bourbon Street. When she’d tapped him on the shoulder and he’d turned around, the black look he’d worn had been almost scary. Two days later he’d broken off with her.

  “You should be lying down and taking it easy, don’t you think?” He moved further into the room and placed the bag on the table.

  “I was.” Margo told the lie with conviction. “I just got up a little while ago.”

  She had no intention of confessing she’d swiped the phone Jackson had left on the table and called for help, not that it had done her any good. She wouldn’t tell him she’d searched every inch of his home looking for Blu’s key, either—all eight closets, every drawer in every room, the kitchen pantry and the attic.