Kill and Tell

Chapter 11

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Dragging her suitcase, Karen let herself into her apartment. Grimly, without letting herself look at the

answering machine because she knew the little red light would be blinking like a caution light, she went into the bedroom and completely unpacked. She took her time about it, hanging what she hadn't worn back in the closet and separating everything else into two piles, one for the laundry and one for the dry cleaner.

She watered her plants, put the laundry in the washing machine, then called her floor supervisor. "Judy, hi, it's Karen. I'm home, and I can go back to work tonight if you need me."

"If I need you?" Judy Camliffe echoed in heartfelt relief. "Marietta's been out with strep throat for two days, and Ashley called in sick today, too."

"What's wrong with Ashley?"

"The brown flu. So hell, yes, I need you. The question is, do you need to come back so soon? I'll manage tonight, somehow, if you need another day."

"Thanks," Karen said, meaning it. Judy was under a lot of pressure to keep her floor running smoothly with fewer nurses than ever, since the hospital wasn't immune to cutbacks. Five years ago, there were twelve registered nurses on the surgical floor, four per shift. Now there were eight whom Judy had to juggle among three shifts and two off days per nurse each week. Some nights there was only one RN on duty. The rumor was they would be going on twelve-hour shifts before the end of the year. "But I'm okay; the funeral was yesterday, and I flew home this morning."

"Really? I looked for the obituary, but I didn't see it."

"He's buried in Louisiana. I didn't have a plot for him here, and one of the detectives suggested I bury him there for the time being. Mom would have wanted them to be buried together, and there's no room beside her, so I'll have to find another place and have them both moved…" Her voice trailed off. She was vaguely surprised at herself. She liked Judy, considered her a friend, but she wasn't in the habit of rambling on about her private problems even to Piper, who was her closest friend. But mentioning Marc even indirectly rattled her so much she could barely think coherently; her heartbeat jumped into overdrive, her stomach clenched, her breasts tightened, her mouth watered. The symptoms of panic and sexual desire jumbled together, just as they had that morning when she had awakened in bed with him.

"Gee, that's tough," Judy said. "Uh, I hate to ask, but did you get a copy of the death certificate or maybe an obituary in the New Orleans paper? You have to have one of them to get paid for the days you were off."

"I have a copy of his death certificate." Marc had gotten it for her. She didn't know how long it would normally have taken, but he had sweet-talked someone in the medical examiner's office into processing the paperwork. Her heartbeat did another sprint. He wouldn't have had to do any sweet-talking; all he had to do was ask, in that midnight voice, and if the clerk was a woman, he would have his paperwork.

"Good. That'll minimize any hassle with payroll. Are you sure you feel like working?"

"I'm sure."

"Then I can definitely use you tonight. Come in at your regular time." That settled, Karen looked around for something else to do. When she went into the living room, the message light flashed insistently at her. She ignored it, went into the kitchen, and made a sandwich, then

did something she rarely had time for: she sat down in front of the television and put up her feet. There was an interior decorating show on Discovery. Since her apartment was badly in need of decorating—unpacking would help—she watched the show while she ate her sandwich. She had run. Literally. Like the biggest coward on earth, she had sneaked out of the house while Marc was in the shower. Her feet still ached from running in high heels the nine or so blocks to the hotel. She had thrown her clothes in the suitcase, called the desk, and checked out, then prayed he wouldn't be waiting in the lobby for her. She couldn't face him; she had never been more embarrassed. Of course, there was a strong possibility he might not bother to come after her, that he would be relieved to get her off his hands, but she didn't want to take that chance.

She got off the elevator on the mezzanine, then carried her bag down the final flight of stairs so she wouldn't run into him at the bank of elevators. She went out the side door of the hotel, into the big parking bay, and got into a taxi.

She was lucky; he didn't know what airline she was flying. He also had to work. Still, when the loudspeaker at the airport requested that Karen Whitlaw please pick up one of the courtesy phones, she didn't, just in case he was actually in the airport instead of at work. She didn't breathe a sigh of relief until the plane backed away from the gate. Not that Marc would use his badge to get on board the plane for a face-to-face; after all, she wasn't a criminal, just a woman he had slept with the night before.

It wasn't the sleeping part that embarrassed her. It was what they had done when they weren't asleep. She wasn't a prude, or frigid, or innocent—two of those were an impossibility in her profession, as far as she was concerned—but nothing like last night had ever before happened to her. She thought of herself as careful and responsible, two qualities that precluded sleeping around. Piper said she was picky and paranoid, which wasn't as flattering but had the same result. She had never, never , been as reckless, as thoughtless, as she had been last night. Whatever Marc had wanted to do to her, she had let him, and he had wanted to do a lot. Let him? She had actively participated, and climaxed more times than she could remember. She had been like a bitch in heat.

She stared sightlessly at a demonstration of a painting technique that involved dabbing a ball of plastic wrap in paint, then blotting it on the wall. God, how stupid could she be? Maybe if she'd had more hands-on experience, so to speak, she would have seen him coming.

She winced at the pun, her cheeks burning. The truth was, she had been humiliatingly easy for him. She had been seduced, and by a master. He hadn't made a single wrong move. The cheerful woman on television was single-handedly turning a blank wall into a masterpiece of designer painting. Karen scowled at her and clicked the television off. She was fairly certain she was never going to paint her walls with a wad of plastic wrap. How could she concentrate on decorating, anyway, when she had some serious brooding to do?

There was no single point she could use to salvage any pride. She had been very willing, and she couldn't salve her conscience by pretending otherwise. On the other hand, there was no denying his skill. The degree of her willingness was testimony to that.

She leaned her head back on the sofa, staring at the plain white ceiling. Marc's ceilings were high, with fancy crown molding, and yummy ceiling fans everywhere.

She punched the cushion. Damn it, she did not want to think about him!

How could she stop, though, when her insides still throbbed? If any of her friends at the hospital had bragged about having sex that many times in one night—with one man—Karen wouldn't have believed her. Well, now she knew there really were men who could get it up that often. She felt raw and swollen between her legs, proof of the excesses of the night in case she doubted her own memory. Looking back, she saw how he had led her, inevitably and without a pause, straight to his bed. Hindsight wasn't worth a damn, though. She hadn't felt even a tingle of warning at the time. Using means both swift and subtle, he had fostered a sense of intimacy between them and then capitalized on it. The man knew his stuff.

The day before had been one long seduction. Her entire acquaintance with him had been a seduction. She had studied human sexuality, knew the signals, and still she had missed them; only in retrospect were they crystal clear.

First had come the concern, the solicitousness for her well-being, the touches disguised as courtesy. She remembered his hand on her arm, sliding down her back, resting on her waist. He had won her trust, lulled her into accepting his constant touch without suspecting the sexuality behind it, and then aroused her to the point where she hadn't even thought about calling a halt to their lovemaking. And yesterday… oh, yesterday. She remembered the way he had put his hand on the back of her neck while she wept, a gesture so sexually possessive she didn't know how it had slipped under her radar, but at the time she had been aware only of being comforted. By then, she was so used to having his hands on her that it had felt… right.

He had even managed, with perfect logic, to talk her into taking off part of her own clothing, and she had felt relaxed enough with him to do it. He couldn't have arranged for her to snag her panty hose, but he had been quick to take advantage of it. Just her panty hose, just her shoes… it had all felt so casual, so relaxed, and had set the stage for her to lose all her clothes.

He had further softened her with wine, though she couldn't use even that to excuse herself. She hadn't been tipsy. He had seen to that, carefully feeding her, not giving her any grounds on which she could later excuse herself, or accuse him. She had been sober but wanned by the wine and his care, his touch. She remembered the brush of his bare feet against hers while they danced, and her toes curled, her nipples tightened.

What could be more romantic than a hot sax and a slow dance on a balcony in New Orleans on a rainy summer night? She had been completely in his arms then, under his spell, so subtly aroused she had been almost at fever pitch and hadn't even realized it. She remembered the fleeting contact with his erection while they danced, and knew now it hadn't been accidental. He had teased her with it, letting her surreptitiously seek out another brief touch, making her feel everything was still casual while subtly intensifying her arousal.

He had orchestrated every touch, gentling her, bringing her to the point where she not only would accept him sexually but was eager for the act. He hadn't put one step wrong; he hadn't grabbed her breasts or shoved his hand between her legs, moves that would have startled her into pulling away. She didn't know why having his hands on her bottom hadn't warned her, but all her alarms had been silent. Maybe she had already been past the point of no return. He had bypassed all the usual foreplay, except for those wonderful kisses; when he was ready, he had simply tossed her skirt up and taken her, except that the

entire day had been foreplay and she had been more than ready for him, climaxing with embarrassing speed.

The memory of it had her face hot, her breath rushing in and out of her lungs. Damn it! One night with him had turned her into a sex kitten, evidently. She wanted him. Still. Now. The man knew more about sex, and women, than should be legal. He had been so sure of himself, and of her, that he had put on a condom even before asking her to dance. She should be grateful for that, at least, because she had been so far gone that the thought of protection had never crossed her mind, and she was a nurse, for God's sake. She hadn't thought of pregnancy or disease, only of completing the act for which her body was clamoring.

He had certainly destroyed another of her assumptions, because she had always thought people who claimed to be swept away by passion were exaggerating to cover their own stupidity and carelessness. Now she was the newest member of the Stupid and Careless Club.

So much for her vaunted caution and self-control; Marc Chastain just hadn't gotten his hands on her, yet. Well, now he had, and now she knew that she had no caution or self-control where he was concerned. There were so many levels of foolishness to her behavior that she could scarcely believe what she had done. She had gone straight from her father's grave to a stranger's bed. She didn't think she could have made it through the ordeal of the past few days without Marc's aid, but he was still, essentially, a stranger. She didn't know anything about him except that he was a cop, he could seduce a statue, and he had screwed her brains out.

The deliberate crudity of the thought didn't make her feel better, it made her feel like crying. If she thought he had been wildly attracted to her from the beginning, she would still be embarrassed by having slept with him, still be mortified by her carelessness, but she wouldn't have run like a scared rabbit. But he hadn't been attracted to her, in fact, he had taken an instant dislike to her. Lying in the cool of the early morning, pinned to the mattress by his muscular arm, all she could remember was when she had first met him, and she knew she hadn't been mistaken. So, if he disliked her so much, why had he immediately launched his seduction tactics? The awful possibility that occurred to her was what sent her running. Maybe he was guilty of nothing more than horniness. Maybe he had made love to her casually but not maliciously, taking the opportunity when it presented itself. Maybe. She didn't believe it. For one thing, he hadn't left anything to chance, not even the condoms. He had set out to take her and accomplished his aim with ridiculous ease. His actions bespoke a deliberation that frightened her, and hurt her beyond measure.

Given his immediate dislike, what if his entire seduction campaign had been aimed at taking her down a peg? Screw her, use her, walk away from her.

One of the residents at the hospital had even said something like that to her, after she had turned down his invitation for the third time. "One of these days, some slick stud is going to get your panties off," he had said, sneering, "and when he gets through with you and walks off, you'll find out you're not any better than the rest of us."

She didn't imagine studs came any slicker than Marc Chastain.

She winced, wishing she would stop thinking in those awful puns.

Now she thought of an even worse possibility. What if his actions had been motivated by pity ?

She groaned, covering her eyes. Great. Just great. She was that most pitiable of creatures, a mercy fuck. Karen rolled her head and looked at the blinking light on the answering machine. She didn't have to listen to the messages; she could walk over there and erase them. She wouldn't have to hear that dark velvet drawl again or, worse, not hear it. Maybe he had just said to hell with it and walked away, and there was no message from him to erase.

"Damn it." She said the words aloud. "Damn it, damn it, damn it." The repetition didn't help. She had to face the truth she had been trying hard to avoid, but her own inability to stop thinking about him made avoidance impossible. She had done something far more stupid than sleeping with him; sometime during the past three days, she had fallen in love with him.

She had told herself it was only because he was being so helpful at a time when she really needed it, but her heart had given a big thump every time she saw him. She had told herself it was just his voice, that marvelous, deliciously male voice, that attracted her. She had told herself a lot of things, but the truth was her insides had jolted in primitive recognition the first time she had seen him. Call it chemistry, call it biology—hell, call it voodoo—for whatever reason, she had gravitated to him like a nail to a magnet, and everything he had done after that had only intensified her feelings. How could she not love him? He had fed her, sheltered her with his own body, warmed her; such simple, even primitive actions, things a caveman might have done for his cavewoman of choice when he wanted to get under her bearskin with her. Funny that they were as effective now as they had been thousands of years ago.

She couldn't put her finger on any one moment when her initial feelings had crystallized into something more serious, but neither could she discount what she was feeling. It was real, it was fierce, it was terrifying—and it was painful.

If all he had wanted was casual sex to while away a rainy night, then he shouldn't have been so damn courteous and gallant, she thought furiously, tears stinging her eyes. And if he disliked her so much that he had deliberately tried to make her care, so her hurt would be worse—

She didn't know what to do. She didn't have the experience to deal with this kind of situation. She had never loved a man before, never let herself even get close to loving one. It was ironic that she had just decided to begin giving men more of a chance in the romance field, and then Marc had come in under her radar and laid her flat, quite literally.

She should have stayed and faced him. It would have been the smart, dignified thing to do. Just lay it all out, like an adult—no game playing, just honest talk.

Well, it was too late to act like an adult. The least she could do now was apologize for her behavior and let him worry about his own.

The blinking light on the answering machine was driving her crazy. Swearing, tears burning her eyes again, she stalked over to the machine and punched the play button.

There was a hang-up, then a recorded message trying to sell her cleaning products, three more hangups, a message from Piper saying, "God, Karen, I'm so sorry about your father. Why didn't you call?" The

next message was an aluminum siding salesman, then another hang-up, and all at once a deep, furious voice: "God damn it, Karen—" He stopped, and when he spoke again, it sounded as if his teeth were clenched. "What the hell did you mean, running away like that? You call me the fucking minute you get home, or by God I'll—"

She didn't get to hear the rest of the threat, because he slammed down the phone. Her knees went weak, and she grabbed the edge of the desk for support. No velvet in his voice now; all she could hear was steely rage. The force of it took her aback. She hadn't expected rage. Disgruntlement, maybe, but she had expected the phone call to be something along the lines of "Are you all right? Running away wasn't necessary." She had expected him to check on her, nothing more, and the very mildness of his response would make her feel even more cowardly for running.

She hadn't heard him curse before—those perfect manners again. She hadn't been naive enough to think he didn't swear at all; she had heard him, though he had been speaking French. He was a cop, after all, and under the courtesy was a toughness that in normal circumstances would have made her keep as far away from him as possible. Her father had been a tough man, too. But she had needed Marc, and she had never in her life felt safer than she had with him. It wasn't just the pistol in his belt holster, it was the man himself, big and confident, with his hard, glittering eyes. He was tough, all right, and she didn't doubt he could be mean when the situation warranted.

With her, however, he had been gentle. Courteous. He had used sex words in bed with her, of course; she closed her eyes as she remembered some of the things he had said, and done. Arousal curled low and warm inside her, making her squeeze her legs together. She shivered and groaned aloud. Just as she had the first time he called, she rewound the tape and played his message again. She winced as the force of his fury hit her ears. She had run from him as if he were a rapist, insulting him after he had gone to a great deal of trouble on her behalf, regardless of what his private opinion of her was. Being a cop, he would also have tried to catch her, to make certain nothing was wrong. She hadn't even had the courtesy to answer his page. No wonder he was furious; she was furious with herself. Yes, she'd had a rough few days, a rough year , but she couldn't excuse herself on those grounds. She couldn't excuse herself at all.

She picked up the phone and dialed before she could do something else childish, such as chicken out.

"This is Chastain. Leave a message."

Voice mail. Damn voice mail. Karen clenched her teeth. He deserved a personal apology, deserved the chance to swear at her some more, but it might take her days to catch him in the office. "This is Karen. I'm at home. I'm sorry for running out on you this morning. It was childish of me, and I—I don't have any excuse. I thought—never mind. I acted like an idiot, and I'm sorry." There didn't seem to be anything else to say. She bit her lip and hung up. The pit of her stomach felt cold. Maybe he would call so he could tell her she was a jerk and an idiot, but likely she would never hear from him again.

On impulse, she took the microcassette out of the answering machine and put it in a drawer. Even if he was swearing at her on the tape, at least it was his voice. She could listen to it occasionally to remind herself she was a fool.

She put a new tape in the machine, then stood uncertainly. She could sit waiting for the phone to ring, or she could finish the laundry, do some chores, and try to get some sleep. She had to work that night, and

she hadn't had much sleep the night before. Marc had been on top of her, and inside her, most of the night.

She closed her eyes, breathing deeply as memory curled around her. No matter what, it had been a night to remember. She regretted a lot of things about what had happened, but for a few hours she had been lost in sheer physical ecstasy. Marc had given her more pleasure than she had known it was possible to feel. It was impossible to regret that.

And she loved. She, who thought she had blocked out all love except that for her mother, found that she hadn't blocked anything. Despite everything, she loved her father. There was peace in finally admitting it, in no longer fighting to keep herself closed off. She loved him, ached for the life he had wasted, the love he had rejected. She was more like him than she had ever thought, in her reactions, her efforts to seal herself off, and like her mother in that despite all her efforts, she loved anyway. She suspected this meant she would love Marc for the rest of her life. Marc was still in a savage mood late that afternoon when he entered his office. He was hot, sweaty, tired, and so pissed off he wanted to tear something apart with his bare hands. Karen had run from him.

He had expected her to be nervous this morning, maybe a little shy, a little embarrassed. Knowing he was short of time and opportunity, he had taken their intimacy to deeper levels, faster, than he had ever done with a woman before. There wasn't an inch of her body he hadn't touched or kissed in his effort to stake a claim on her that she wouldn't be able to easily dismiss. He had left her asleep in the bed and taken a shower, intending to waken her with kisses, hold her on his lap and pet her, tease her, bring a smile to those too-serious dark eyes—and then make love to her again. But she hadn't been asleep after all; instead, when he came out of the bathroom, she was gone.

She must have run all the way to the hotel; that was the only way she could have avoided him. By the time he got there, she had already checked out by phone, and he hadn't been able to cover all the exits. She had slipped past him again, and a valet in the transportation bay remembered getting her a cab to the airport.

He paged her at the airport, but she hadn't answered. By then, he was so angry she was lucky he hadn't been able to catch her. Instead, he called her home phone and left a blistering message; probably not a smart thing to do when he was trying to gentle her out of her skittishness, but her running had rattled him. The relative coolness of his office washed over his damp skin, wringing a sigh of relief from him. He shed his jacket and rolled his shoulders, unsticking his shirt from his back and raising chill bumps at the sensation. He ran an impatient hand over his hair and the back of his neck. God, he hated child murders. He would rather work a hundred other cases than investigate the death of a child. The helplessness and fragility of the little bodies got to him, hit him hard.

He had a five-year-old little boy in the morgue, dead from a fall down the stairs. An accident, his mother said. But the kid's legs had been covered with small, half-healed burns that she had tried to pass off as mosquito bites, and yellowish bruises had blotched his skin. Yellow bruises were old bruises, healing bruises. He had had an accident on his bicycle, his mother said.

The woman had been terrified. She had sat motionless at the kitchen table, as if she were afraid to move.

Once she did turn her head, when her husband said something, and Marc thought he had seen a dark mark on her neck, just under the edge of her collar.

He knew the signs: the blouse buttoned up to the throat, the long sleeves even in sweltering weather, slacks instead of shorts.

Marc no longer wasted time wondering why a woman would stay with an abusive man, or how a mother could be cowed into silence even when her child was killed. He'd been a cop long enough that nothing surprised him. He did know he had to be careful on this case, because the husband was a lawyer and would know if there was a t left uncrossed or an i undotted. He was also a criminal defense lawyer, which made Marc all the more determined to nail his ass.

The ME would likely discover other evidence of abuse, such as previous fractures. He would determine the marks on the child's legs were from cigarette burns, not mosquito bites, and his report would provide reasonable grounds for arrest. Marc only hoped he would be able to get a warrant before the son of a bitch panicked, knowing his wife would be able to testify against him, and killed her, too. Marc sat down to listen to his voice mail and leafed through the pile of papers that had accumulated on his desk during his absence. Most of it was routine stuff, notices, memos, reports he had requested. He had a lot of contacts in the city, a lot of snitches who would gladly roll over on their buddies rather than get on his bad side. Most of the stuff he heard was penny-ante, but sometimes all it took was a detail that fit into an overall picture he already had, and his case was made. He didn't expect Karen to call, because of the message he had left rather than despite it. It was probably for the best, at this point. When he was completely calm again, he would call her and try to get this courtship back on track.

Her message took him by surprise. He stopped and leaned back in his chair, listening grimly. She sounded subdued. "… I thought—never mind. I acted like an idiot, and I'm sorry." She thought… what? She thought too damn much, that was the problem. He could almost hear the worry going on behind the words. The woman didn't know how to relax and have fun, she had to shoulder the responsibility for everything—

"Shit," he growled, puffing out his cheeks. He should have guessed she would wake up kicking herself for what she would consider wildly irresponsible behavior. He'd been so careful not to spook her before he could get her into bed, she had no idea he was planning anything more than a one-night stand. Leaving her alone in bed while he showered had been a major tactical error, one he would remember. The sexual chemistry between them was so hot it took his breath, and it was even more bewitching because he had known immediately she wasn't very experienced. Not ignorant, not virgin, but not…

accustomed to making love. He suspected she controlled her sexuality as fiercely as she controlled her emotions. But last night, she had relaxed her control and turned into the sweetest, hottest woman he'd ever had in his bed. He hadn't known he could get a hard-on that often, but hell, he hadn't had any choice. She had been in dire need of loving, and he had risen to the occasion. He was experienced, and their lovemaking had been more intense than anything he'd known before. The night must have seemed like nothing less than debauchery to her.

He reached for the phone to call her, then stopped. His temper had cooled, but he was still angry, and

his own control was a little shaky after dealing with that little boy's murder. He needed to talk to her as soon as possible, so she wouldn't have time to buttress her resistance to him, but that need was balanced by caution. He wanted to yell at her, and yelling wasn't a good idea right now. She would withdraw even further and maybe refuse to talk to him again.

He forced himself to continue reading the notices from other police forces, flipping through the computer printouts. He paused when he saw the Mississippi state police had reported a body found just across the state line from Louisiana. The victim, a white male age fifty-seven, name of Rick Medina, had been shot twice with a .22; his money and credit cards had been stolen.

People were shot with .22s all the time; it was the most common of handguns. It was instinct alone that made him pull the report out of the stack. Maybe it was nothing, but this victim was approximately the same age as Karen's father, and Mississippi wasn't that far away.

He had his hands full with the little boy's case right now; he didn't have time to chase down such a tenuous, and probably nonexistent, connection. Still, he couldn't ignore it. He found Shannon standing by the cold drink machine, flirting with one of the clerks. "Hey, Antonio." Shannon straightened, his dark eyes alert. "See you later," he said to the woman, touching her arm as he left her. "What's up?" he asked, ranging himself beside Marc and tilting his head to read the sheet. Marc handed it to him. "I've got to stay with the Gable case—"

"Oh, yeah, the little boy. His sonofabitch father killed the kid, didn't he?"

"Yeah, but I've got to do everything by the book, or he'll walk. Do you have time to do some checking for me?"

"Sure." Shannon read the report. "You got something on this Rick Medina?"

"No, it's just a hunch. See if you can find any connection between Dexter Whitlaw and Rick Medina. They're about the same age; maybe they were in the military together. If they knew each other, it's coincidental as hell that they would both be killed with a .22 at about the same time."

"It's a long shot," Shannon said.

"Sure is," Marc agreed. "Just check to see if Medina was in the military, maybe served somewhere the same time Whitlaw did. Who knows what will turn up?"