Rating: NC-17 - This story contains violence and consensual graphic sex between a man and a woman. If this offends you, is illegal where you live or you are under 18, go somewhere else.
Disclaimer: The characters of John Lawless, Alan Snow, Susan Ellis, Marla Lawless, Willy Kaa, Andy Deakin, Terry Bowers and Dave Bruford belong to South Pacific Pictures. The use of those characters in this story is not intended as copyright infringement. The rest of the characters in this story are from my previous Lawless stories or my imagination and are copyrighted by me.
Author's Note: While this story is not a direct sequel to Lawless, the NZ Tele-film, Counterfeit Characters, Danger Zone or Emotional Fraud, it does contain characters from and references to those stories. While it is not necessary to have read them to follow this, it will add to the reader's enjoyment if they are read first.
John Lawless hummed nervously. Five minutes to go. He glanced around his house one last time. Music wafted from the concealed stereo speakers. It was not his usual raucous choice; instead something soft, classical, and melodious played. The dining area was awash in a sea of gentle light. The pine table was laid with linen and the china and silverware he'd bought that afternoon. A dozen red roses blossomed from a large crystal vase. He added the two champagne flutes that had come with the bottle of Perrier Jouet Champagne and stood back to study the effect.
Several white tapers rose gracefully from star shaped crystal candleholders, the orange-blue flames flickering tranquilly. The flowered bottle of champagne chilled in a shiny ice bucket that refracted the delicate candlelight like a prism creating subtle shadows on the walls. The fragrant blooms were a brilliant splash of crimson in the middle of the table. Even to his masculine eye, the setting looked romantic and elegant. The dinner, which he'd ordered from their favorite restaurant, was in the oven. Everything appeared ready; now all he needed was the girl.
As if on cue, there was a soft knock at his front door. He rushed forward, nearly tripping over the stuffed black panther Caro had given him for his birthday. She had named it Ares, in honor of the character on that Xena TV show, whom she claimed he looked like. Himself, he couldn't see it; hell, he couldn't even stand the show. He took a deep breath and walked to the door.
Caro waited expectantly on the doorstep. She could have used her key, but John had asked her to knock. He had told her to dress as if they were going out for one of their rare nights on the town. He had been excited, nervous and uncharacteristically talkative when they'd spoken earlier on the phone. He'd just gotten back to town after spending a week on South Island working a missing person's case. His voice was never easy to read; certainly not as easy as his eyes were, but she could tell something was on his mind. She hoped, whatever it was, wasn't too important. She needed his advice about something. She had put off broaching it on the phone, sure they would have time for it over dinner. Still, she felt a little uneasy so her smile was tentative as she waited for him to open the door.
When John finally opened the door to her, his jaw dropped. His mouth opened and then closed like a hooked fish. He thought he had never seen a more beautiful or welcome sight. She was framed in the overhead light from the doorway, her beauty set off by the pale yellow gleam. Her Maori blood was less noticeable than her brother Willy's was. While Willy's Maori heritage lent him an air of menace, in Caro it gave her an aura of exoticness. She wore her long black hair loose. It was a mass of spiral curls and perfectly framed her strikingly beautiful face. Her skin was golden brown, her mouth a pink rosebud, her nose pert and upturned. Her eyes were incredible, long and almond shaped with thick black eyelashes and unusual golden irises. Those eyes studied him now, glowing with a mixture of expectation and anticipation.
Caro's dress was peach in color and made of some soft shiny material. It perfectly hugged the hourglass curve of her body. It had thin straps and was low-cut barely skimming the tops of her breasts. Though it was winter, she wore no jacket. John could see that the delicate web of silky fine hair on her arms was erect from the cold. He noticed that despite the chilly air, she wasn’t shivering. She looked stunning. It took him a moment to catch his breath and then he stepped back and gestured for her to enter.
Thrilled at his response, she laughed softly as she stepped over the threshold. Then she gave a soft sigh as she realized what he had done to the house. He shut the door slowly and joined her in the dining area.
"It's beautiful," she breathed. "You did all this for me?"
He nodded, still too entranced to speak.
She turned to study him. Not only had he "dressed" the house, but he had "dressed" himself as well. She knew John hated suits. He only owned one, and he only wore that when it was business. Still, tonight, he had eschewed his usual jeans and T-shirt and was wearing a pair of black dress slacks that fit just right. His shirt was one she'd bought him with much laughter and teasing. She'd told him he needed to update his wardrobe from the T-shirt look of the nineties. The shirt was a deep teal color, made of silk with an open collar. She could see the soft dark hair at the base of his throat and the necklace of copper beads he always wore. The shirt clung to his chest outlining his perfect pectorals and flat abdomen. He had pulled his thick dark hair off his face in a partial ponytail and the balance hung to his shoulders, curling softly, framing his perfect features. With his hair pulled back like that, she got the full effect of his deep chocolate eyes, so warm and expressive. A thick goatee surrounded the most sensual mouth she had ever seen. A gold hoop earring in his left ear somehow added to the masculinity that screamed from every inch of his body, rather than detracted from it. He was the most gorgeous man she had ever known and he hadn't a clue.
She was always amused when they were out together. Women's heads would turn, do double takes and sometimes their jaws would drop. John was completely oblivious to it. He noticed the men who stared at her, who eyed her speculatively and sometimes even approached her. He often growled and groused about it, but he never noticed the women looking at him. It was one of his most endearing traits.
She smiled at her lover and inquired softly, "What's the occasion? Did you finish that missing person's case?"
He shook his head and smiled back. "Does there have to be an occasion?" he challenged quietly. Suddenly he was loath to explain. "Can't I just do something special because I want to?"
She tilted her head and looked at him quizzically. They were much closer now. Confessing their love had strengthened and weakened their relationship. She had never been in love before. Saying the words had changed things for her. He had been married and it had ended badly. Other relationships after the marriage hadn't worked out either. He was battle scarred. His luck with women, as he sometimes said, was all bad. At least until he'd met her.
Her lover was a mass of contradictions. A tender gentle heart and a reservoir of rage he still needed to learn to control. It came out in odd moments. Even now, as he stood there gazing at her with love in his eyes his body was wary. The set of his shoulders was tense almost as if he expected a blow.
When the Franklin case had ended and he'd admitted being attracted to another woman, they'd gone through a rough patch. He began drinking too much especially when he was with her brother. He had mood swings and got into fights for no reason. The more emotionally intimate they became, the more chance there might be for an emotional betrayal, the angrier he got. She knew it was fear that drove him. Fear that manifested itself in rage. It was never far from his surface. His emotions seemed to spin out of control, his precarious balance no more solid than the thin edge of a twenty-cent piece.
Caro had understood and been patient. She was sure that if she rode the crest of John's often erratic emotions like a surfer, the relationship would survive. She gave him her love as a gift of unconditional acceptance. Each time he tried to pull away or force her to, she reassured him. She kept her fears private, speaking of them to no one save her diary.
Eventually he had seemed to accept her love for him. Seemed to realize that no matter what he tried to do, she would not abandon him, not betray him. Eventually he seemed to find a new emotional balance. It was a delicate balance, to be sure, but a balance nonetheless.
It had meant reforming and remaking their relationship. Gone was the ability to keep secrets, the unasked questions, the unshared thoughts, and finally the walls that people build to protect them from the world. It had been an incredibly painful process for both of them, but it had been worth it.
She believed they were in a place where emotional and physical intimacy was not only possible, but also natural. She was sure the distance between them was gone and they truly were a couple. Still, he was acting so unlike himself. "Just because," she mused tentatively.
"Yes," he answered slowly. "Just because." He turned from her, the tenseness still apparent in the set of his back. He picked up the bottle of champagne and asked, "Want some bubbly?"
"Champagne?" she repeated. She looked at the flowered bottle in his hand. "Very expensive champagne too. You hate this stuff. John," she paused after saying his name. She took a deep breath and then asked, "What's going on?"
He shrugged and dropped the bottle back in the bucket. He turned to her, a tinge of anger on his face and in his voice. "Damned if I do and damned if I don't. Caro, can't I just do something nice without having to have a reason?" His body tensed even more. She could see his hands clenching and unclenching at his side.
She went to him, placed her hands against his chest and looked him in the eye. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "It's just, the last time you went all romantic on me, well, you must remember."
Sudden comprehension dawned. She had completely misunderstood his motives. His body relaxed, his face broke into a grin, two dimples popped out on his cheeks and his eyes crinkled. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. "Caro," he whispered into her hair, "I'm sorry. I just wanted to make this a special night. I love you. Period. I thought a little romance would be nice for both of us."
She could hear the truth in his voice and when she studied his face, could see it in the depths of his eyes. Those eyes could NEVER lie to her. She melted against him then, loving the feel of his hard firm body against hers. She buried her head in the crook of his shoulder and murmured, "I love you too." She ran her hands up and down his arms, then lifted her face.
He bent his head and kissed her lightly. Then he pulled back, studied her eyes and bent again. This time he sucked her lower lip. She moaned against him, tangled her fingers in his hair, and pulled his mouth back to hers. She pressed her lips to his and put all her love into the kiss. He pulled her tighter, his hands stroking her back.
She parted her mouth and snaked her tongue out to trace his lips. His tongue slipped out and returned the caress. Their bodies melted together, curvaceous waist meeting flat abdomen, soft breasts meeting firm pectorals, passion meeting passion. As they kissed, their desire, fueled by an abiding love, grew exponentially.
Suddenly Caro pulled away and whispered, "Do you smell that?"
John, his body on fire with desire, his eyes unfocused with lust, murmured, "You smell incredible."
Caro laughed into his neck, her breath warm and sweet against his skin. "Not me. It smells like something's burning."
"Burning," John repeated dumbly. "Oh shit, dinner!" He released her and ran to the kitchen. Smoke was pouring from the oven. He turned off the gas, opened the oven door and more smoke flowed out. He began fanning it with his hands as Caro cracked open the back door.
He heard her soft laughter as she prepared to help him. The smoke began to recede and John decided to remove the ruined dinner from the oven. He grabbed for the heavy tray, neglecting to put on gloves and dropped it on the floor as he burned his fingers. He heard Caro laugh again.
"You're a bloke, you are," she giggled with amusement.
He walked over to the sink, ran cold water and stuck his fingers under it. "Would you rather I wasn't?" he asked in mock seriousness.
She slid behind him, wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed against him. "I wouldn't change a thing about you," she vowed into his ear. "Not a damn thing. I love you just the way you are." Then she lifted his hair and began to kiss the soft skin at the nape of his neck.
John kept his fingers under the water for another moment, reveling in the feel of Caro's body pressed to his. The caress of her soft lips on his skin, the tease of her full breasts pressed against his back ignited a firestorm of lust within him. Her arms pulled him tighter, one of her hands slipped down, gently stroking his organ through his slacks. Her touch never failed to arouse him. He was already hard with wanting her. He turned off the water and turned to face her. "Dinner's ruined. Sorry."
"No need to apologize," she murmured. Her eyes burned with desire as she added, "I'm hungry for something else now."
He grinned and caressed her face lightly. "What for?"
"Take me to bed and I'll show you," she whispered.
John laughed softly. He pulled her tightly against him, feeling her body match like a puzzle piece to his and held her for a long moment. He could feel the love and desire emanating from her and it was like nothing he had ever felt before. Caro's love was a revelation to him. No matter what he said, what he did, she always accepted it. Accepted him. Even when he was at his worst, drunk or angry, she took it in stride and hung in there. No matter how he acted, she responded with love. It had never been like this with his ex-wife, Marla.
He had loved Marla and she him, but their backgrounds were so different that even their passion was always tempered with mismatched realities. With the other women in his past, love hadn't really been a factor.
With Caro, everything worked, everything matched. Even the first time they had been together, the simple act of sex had been an act of love. There was passion to spare, but each kiss, each caress, was an affirmation of their feelings. There was a beginning and an ending to each movement of their sensual dance, each touch a blessing and a benediction. The moment of release was replete with rebirth and redemption. Her love for him was all encompassing like bathing in holy warmth. In the week he was away from her, he had realized he loved her too much to continue as they were. He needed more.
John pulled back, slipped one arm under Caro's knees, the other arm around her waist and then picked her up and carried her into the bedroom. He lay her gently on the bed and gazed at her. His heart felt like it would explode with love and desire.
She stared at him and the depth of emotion on his face overwhelmed her. She sat up, kicked off her high heels, and said, "Come here. Tonight it's your turn."
"My turn?" he repeated.
She nodded. "Your turn."
He grinned, slipped out of his shoes, and joined her on the bed. "What do you have in mind?"
She smiled and licked her lips. "Lie down and you'll find out."
He laughed and complied. Caro leaned over and kissed him. She ran her hands up and down his body tracing his muscles. John closed his eyes and reveled in her touch. She kissed her way over his face, his forehead, his eyelids, his cheeks, and then his lips. Then she began to slowly unbutton his shirt.
Her mouth slid down, along his neck, kissing and licking his Adam's apple, as her fingers opened the unbuttoned shirt. Then she began to work her way across his collarbone over to his shoulders. Her mouth danced and teased each inch of his neck and shoulders, her fingers ran lightly up and down his chest, now and then tangling in the dark hair or brushing his nipples.
John moaned and reached for her. She playfully batted his hands away. "No touching," she murmured. "Let me love you."
He groaned. He was already so hard; this was going to be painful.
As if she read his mind she whispered, "Darling, just be patient."
He groaned again and opened his eyes. "You're so beautiful and I want you so much. Patience is hard."
She giggled at the double entendre. "I know." She kissed him again; her mouth lightly pressed to his as her hands continued their feathery caress of his chest.
He reached out for her anyway, gently pulling her face closer. His fingers tangled in her hair, then one settled on the back of her neck to stroke the soft skin. Her lips tasted so sweet, her mouth so soft against his. He kissed her harder. His body felt like one giant ache, his pants now too tight and uncomfortable. He slipped his tongue out to trace her lips and she opened her mouth and sucked it inside. He moaned and tried to shift to a more comfortable position.
She pulled back from the kiss, breathless, smiling at the desire she saw in his eyes. Their lovemaking was always spectacular. Full of passion and warmth, John was considerate and gentle. He always treated her as if she would break if he were the least bit rough. Sometimes she longed for him to use her roughly, to take her and possess her completely. She had had few lovers before him and none that made her feel the way he did. Although their sensual partnership never failed to bring her to orgasm, she oftentimes wished she could express some of her most secret desires. Still, she was afraid that if she did he would be appalled. He seemed to feel she was a woman who needed to be worshiped. Well, maybe, tonight, she could start to change that.
She began to kiss her way over every inch of his chest. She pushed his shirt open further, then helped him take it off. His chest was magnificent. The sight of it never failed to excite her. He worked out nearly everyday and his gorgeous body was her reward. His arms were corded with the right amount of muscle, his abdomen was tight and flat and his pectorals the most perfect she had ever seen.
She licked her way around those pecs, then paused to rub his nipples. He moaned her name. She took one nipple in her mouth and sucked it lightly. He moaned again and thrust his pelvis up. She snaked her hand down and ran her nails lightly along his erection. He pushed himself against her hand.
She kissed her way over to his other nipple and took it into her mouth, her fingers continuing to lightly caress his shaft. He moaned again and his hands reached for her. He pulled her face up and moved as if to kiss her.
"No, John," she murmured. She bent her head again and continued her leisurely perusal of his chest. Her mouth and tongue kissed, licked, and nipped at every inch of his pecs, finally moving slowly down the dark arrow of hair on his abdomen.
She lifted her face and with sure fingers undid the button on his fly. She ran her tongue back and forth over his belly button and then in lazy lines just above his waistband. John was moaning constantly, little moans of pleasure and pain, not words, occasionally interspersed with her name.
She looked at his pelvis, his slacks were stretched tight, his erection clearly outlined. Slowly she unzipped his pants and carefully slipped a hand inside his briefs.
He groaned when her fingers touched him. She slid her fingers up and down his hard shaft. She could feel it throb at her touch.
"Caro," he moaned her name as a plea now.
She smiled and directed, "Let's get these pesky pants off, shall we?"
He shifted up gratefully and helped her slip his pants and briefs off. He moaned with pleasure as his shaft sprang free.
Caro looked at him with gratification. His organ was long and hard, beautiful and proud. It stood almost straight up from a nest of lovely dark curls. She touched it with awe in her eyes. She not only loved this man for who he was, but she loved his body too. The physical attraction she felt for him was like a magnetic pull of lust. Their act of joining, the closeness that was created when he filled her was as much a part of her love for him as anything else. She moved closer to him, ran her fingers over his waist again, and then slid between his legs.
She gazed up at him. His eyes were closed, his breathing irregular, and his chest was rising and falling too fast. She thought the sight of him lost in the throes of passion was beautiful and sexy. She bent her head and licked the tip of his organ. He moaned her name again. She ran her tongue around the swollen head, licking up a salty drop of his pre-come. His hands moved down to stroke her hair.
She grasped his shaft gently, continuing to lick around the head, while her fingers caressed the length of him. He pushed himself at her, his organ red and throbbing. Finally she took the head into her mouth and sucked it lightly.
He groaned. "Please, you're driving me crazy."
She began taking his shaft deeper in her mouth, licking as she went. His body moved with her, his pelvis thrusting up. She went faster, her tongue playing, and the suction increasing. She loved the feel and taste of him.
He moaned again and then held her face steady. He began to thrust into her mouth, trying to get a steady rhythm going that would allow him release.
She wasn't ready for that. She pulled back and removed her mouth.
"What?" he panted.
"Not yet, darling," she said softly.
He opened his eyes and looked at her. What was she saying? He had never seen her like this. Her eyes were on fire. Her breasts were heaving beneath the clothing she still wore though he could see the outline of her nipples. They looked hard. Was she getting aroused from arousing him?
She answered the unspoken question, "Yes, I'm wet. Exciting you excites me. Oh John, don't you know?"
It had never occurred to him. From the moment he had first laid eyes on her he wanted her with a sexual hunger that still had not abated. A lazy, loving smile spread across his face, as he realized that she too apparently had the same hunger for him.
Now Caro scrambled off the bed and stood in the middle of the room. John's eyes widened as she slowly began to strip. She slipped first one strap down and then the other, and then she reached around and unzipped her dress. It fell to the floor revealing most of her body.
She did a slow turn as she unhooked her bra and when she turned back, her breasts were free.
He watched as she slowly caressed them, kneading the bowls and rubbing the nipples. He moaned, but stayed on the bed, his arousal at a fever pitch. His hands strayed down to his shaft. Unconsciously he began to stroke himself.
She slipped her hands down as she watched him, her eyes glowing with lust. She traced her mound through the silk of her panties. Her fingers rubbing against her bud.
He began to speed his movements and then she slipped her panties off. He watched as she swayed her hips and began to stroke herself. She was moaning his name. She saw his pelvis thrusting hard into his hand and demanded breathlessly, "Wait."
He was almost too far gone to comply, but something told him to listen. She scrambled back on the bed, slithering up to lie on top of him. She pressed her groin to his. "See how wet I am," she murmured. "You do this to me. Just being with you."
He moaned her name and pressed his shaft against her mound. He could feel how damp it was.
She reached between them and began to rub the swollen tip against her bud. Then she rose, stroked him once and slid all the way down his shaft.
They both moaned at the feel of it. Once he was completely sheathed in her warmth, she paused and said, "I love you. I love the way you feel inside me."
He stared at her. He thought she had never looked so beautiful. "Love me," he whispered hoarsely.
She complied and glided slowly up and down his shaft. She lost herself in the feel of that hard steel inside her warmth. She reveled in the male scent of him and in the furnace like heat his body generated. She wanted to ride him forever, feeling him fill her body with pleasure and then in the moment of release, filling her soul with his essence. She kept her movements slow at first wanting to prolong the act.
He raised his head and captured one of her breasts. He took a hard nipple into his hot mouth and began to suck. At first, the suction was gentle and soft, a second warm flame to the inferno inside her. Then the suction increased, suddenly he was like a hungry baby, as if he was her child and he needed to absorb all life giving sustenance from her.
She moaned loudly and felt the beginning of an orgasm overwhelm her. She hastened her movements now grinding into him, the friction of their bodies an exquisite pain. She felt her body rise higher and higher now poised at the edge of a great precipice. She longed to throw herself over that cliff and fall and fall and fall.
He released her nipple then, took a long gulping breath and grasped her hips. He held her steady and thrust up hard. She moved with him, pushing herself back against him, the pressure building inside her like a steam cooker. He thrust up again, harder and she shuddered on him as her climax overpowered her. Her muscles gripped him and spasmed and it set off the beginning of his own release. He pushed up one more time and felt her shudder again as he came, groaning her name. She moaned his name as liquid streamed from her. A hot, wet, live force soaked them both. She fell forward on to his chest unable to remain upright.
He held her gently. He could feel his organ still throbbing inside her. He buried his face in her hair; his hands stroked her back. He could hear her irregular breathing and feel the erratic beat of her heart. It matched his own.
"Oh John," she murmured. Her body was still shuddering on him, little aftershocks of pleasure coursing through them both.
The lovers lay together for a long time, sated and content, peaceful in the warmth of their love. They lay there silently listening to the soft sound of their breathing and their two hearts that beat as one. They needed no words. Their bodies had said everything.
Caro stroked the hair on his chest feeling all the tension, all the worries ebb away in the closeness they shared. Nothing and no one could come between them. The world couldn't hurt them, not while they had each other.
Suddenly John gently released her and got up from the bed. When he came back, he had the ice bucket, the champagne and the glasses. He put the glasses and bucket on the bedside table. Then with a flourish, popped the cork on the bottle.
Caro sat up in bed, fluffing the pillows behind her and accepted the brimming glass he poured. John slid in next to her and smiled.
She smiled back and asked, "What shall we toast to?"
"That's easy," he replied. "The future. I love you, Caro. Will you marry me?"
She nearly dropped her glass in surprise. "What?"
John laughed and his grin widened. "You heard me. But I guess you want me to repeat it, eh? Shall I get down on my knees and ask you proper?"
"John," she breathed, "are you sure?"
He gazed at his lover, emotion alive in his eyes, "Course I'm sure. I've been thinking about this for a while now. I love you. You love me. It's the next step. I mean, if you want to, that is."
She threw her arms around him, forgetting the champagne and spilling it all over them and the bed. "Want to?" she repeated incredulously. "Of course I want to!"
He enveloped her in his arms, spilling his glass of champagne as well. "Caro," he whispered into her hair, "I'll do my best to make you happy. I've learned so much from my mistakes. I won't . . ."
"Darling," she murmured as she put her fingers over his lips. "No worries about the past. I know you aren't the same man you were. I KNOW you, John. We'll have a wonderful marriage."
He hugged her tightly against him. "I know I should of got you a ring, but I thought you might want some say in what it looks like. I made an appointment for tomorrow with this jeweler I know to pick one out."
She raised her head, concern on her face. "Not a friend of Wallace's, too, is he?" she asked.
John laughed and caressed her cheek. "No, he's legit. I met him on one of my cases. Although, now you mention it, what do you think Willy'll say?"
Caro smiled happily. "Wallace will be pleased. He thinks you should have made an honest woman of me long ago."
A tinge of regret surfaced on his face and in his voice. "I'm sorry, Caro. I never meant . . ."
She grinned. "Idiot. I was kidding. Wallace will be thrilled. He loves you almost as much as I do. So," she added slyly, "how do officially engaged couples celebrate?"
John laughed, took the glass from her hand and placed it, along with his own on the bedside table. Then he studied her face. He touched her reverently. The soft skin of her cheek felt like silk under his fingers. He bent his head and kissed her softly and gently, the depth of his feelings tempering the desire.
Caro kissed him back, her hands in his hair. She had never been so happy in her life. Still, as their kiss deepened, the very gentleness of it seemed wrong somehow. She belonged to him now, really belonged and still he treated her as if she was fragile and made of the most delicate of china.
She increased the pressure of the kiss, wanting him to own her, to mark her as his. She pulled his face tighter, her mouth pressed to his hard. Her ardor seemed to finally ignite something in him. His response was immediate; his kiss became more frenzied. His hands moved from her face to travel over her body. Still they were gentle.
She pulled her mouth away from his and whispered into his neck, "John, I won't break. I'm not made of glass."
"What?" he asked. He looked in her eyes; his own were clearly confused.
"You're always so loving, so gentle. You don't have to be. I know you'd never hurt me, but well, a little um, well . . ." she paused, trying to get the words out. Finally, she took a deep breath and said, "You don't always have to control yourself. I mean, that is . . ."
"You want me to lose control?" he asked, still puzzled as to what she was getting at.
She gulped and said, "I want you to take me, John. Possess me completely. Not just make love to me, but to well, take possession of my body. To own it as you own my heart. There's so much passion in you, but I feel as if you're always keeping a tight rein on it. As if you're afraid to let me see it. Let me see it now. Don't hold back. Don't be afraid. I won't break and I want you to let go. So that I can," she added in a breathy, almost embarrassed undertone.
She could see the comprehension on his face. It was almost as if a light bulb had gone off. She smiled at him, then pulled his mouth to hers in a searing kiss. She poured all the pent-up lust that she felt, the shear physical attraction into the kiss and prayed that he would respond in kind.
He did. It was as if he had simply been waiting for permission. He kissed her hard now, his lips and mouth almost brutal. His tongue slipped out and parted her lips. He began to push it in and out, like an attacking weapon.
Her arms went around him, holding him close, loving the heat of his body as he touched her. His hands roamed over her now, their caress not rough exactly, but not gentle either. They slid over her body, stroking each part, each place with a sureness and firmness that lit fires everywhere.
She moaned and pressed against him, pulling him down on top of her. She could feel his arousal now; his shaft was hard against her thigh.
She slid further down on the bed until she was lying flat on her back and pulled him down on her, feeling his full weight arrive like a welcome burden.
His mouth continued to almost pulverize hers as he used his knees to spread her legs. She felt a hand slip down and touch her sex. A finger slid inside. He pulled his mouth back, "You're wet," he said in surprise.
"Now, John," she whispered urgently. "Take me now."
He slid his finger out and reached down between them. As she shifted her legs open wider; he thrust himself inside her. In one long stroke, he was buried in her.
She wrapped her legs around his and reached down to grip his ass. She pushed up against him, grinding her pelvis into his.
He groaned and began to move. He ground her into the bed, her body arching into his, meeting every bit of the happy violence with an answering need.
She gripped his back, her nails scratching the skin, digging trenches, and drawing blood. Her excitement incited him further. He pounded into her, lost in the feel of her body, the pressure of her wetness, lost in an unadulterated lust and desire to own her. He'd always felt it, but he'd been afraid to give in. Afraid she would hate him for wanting her like this.
He let the animal passion explode in him and felt her body match it. Their bodies became slick with sweat. He slammed her into the bed. His powerful body crushing her to the mattress, the movement of his legs and pelvis hard enough to raise bruises on her skin. Her mouth was on his neck, her moans more like animal sounds than anything human. Her fingernails were deeply embedded in his back; the pain and the pleasure all mixed up. Suddenly he felt her climax, her muscles contracted, she pushed up hard against him and bit his neck.
He groaned and felt his balls tighten from the increased pressure and then he too exploded inside her. He could feel the tremors of her body beneath him as his climax sent another wave of pleasure through her.
The moment was like an earthquake. The whole world shook and exploded in bright white light. Then it shrank down to the incredible sensation of the feeling of coming inside her. He groaned her name in a long drawn out howl that sounded like a scream.
He collapsed on top of her, feeling an intense throbbing between them where their bodies were joined. He was trembling uncontrollably, his whole body suddenly felt weak. He glanced at her face. She was glowing. Her eyes were like stars.
She touched his face, traced his lips once and tried to smile through her pants.
He attempted to smile back and moved as if he was going to withdraw. She shook her head and held him tight. She gave a long sigh of pleasure as her body twitched beneath him and then said, " I hurt you."
"What?"
"Your back. I'm afraid I've scratched it up something awful."
He laughed. "No worries. No one sees my back but you."
She smiled happily. "That was wonderful. Thank you."
"Whatcha thanking me for?" he asked curiously.
"John, I love you. But sometimes I feel, felt, like I had to rein myself in. Now I don't feel like I do. I feel like nothing can ever come between us."
Perhaps it was the way she said it or the unintentional double entendre, but whatever it was, it made John laugh. He started and then found he couldn't stop. Perhaps it was the intense happiness he felt that made him do it, but still, he roared with laugher.
She had no idea what he found so funny, but the sound of him laughing with real amusement was still rare. He smiled more often now but true laughter didn't happen that often. She held him close and basked in the sound.
After a time, his laughter stilled and he did withdraw from her. He rolled on his side and sat up. Then he pulled her close. "No one has ever made me feel the way you do," he murmured. "I didn't think I could love you more than I already did, but I was wrong. It's as if you know me better than I know myself. I have wanted for so long . . . " he let the sentence trail off. The need was naked in his eyes.
Caro touched his face gently. "Never be afraid with me, John. There isn't anything you can do or say that would make me stop loving you. Nothing."
He held her tightly and then asked nervously, "You don't want to take it back, then?"
She looked at him in confusion. "Take what back?"
He dropped his eyes, clearly uncomfortable. "About marrying me."
She tilted his face back to hers. She looked at his eyes as she asked, "Why would I want to do that?"
"I dunno. Marla . . . " Though they had discussed his ex a bit, he had never discussed that.
She tilted her head. "Marla, what?"
"She didn't like that side of me. Thought it was too lower class," he added with intense embarrassment. His eyes went far away and his face flushed. "She was very genteel, I guess."
This time it was Caro's turn to laugh with amusement. "John Lawless," she declared sternly, "my brother is a crook. He's spent more time in jail than out of it. I was born and raised in the slums of Auckland. I may have made a better life for myself, but I'm not ashamed of where I come from or where I've been. As for class, well you have more class in your little finger than most people do. Your ex sounds like she didn't trust you. Well I do. If you wanted to tie me up or handcuff me, I'd let you."
His flush deepened at her speech, but then her last words caught his attention. Was she trying to tell him something else?
He studied her eyes. She was watching him with a combination of expectation and fear on her face. She WAS trying to tell him something. "Maybe later," he murmured as he caressed the nape of her neck. "Right now, I think we should have some champagne and talk about our future."
She smiled. He refilled their glasses and they each drank deep. Then she snuggled into his arms. As they discussed potential wedding dates and living arrangements, their bodies recovered and their love stimulated a new cycle of lust. Caro took John's glass away and bent her head to kiss him. The kiss started slow and sweet, but gradually grew. Soon their hands were exploring and she could feel his rising excitement.
She pulled back and looked in his eyes. "John?" she asked his name as a question. She glanced down at her wrists, up at the bedposts and then back at him. Had he understood? Would he be willing?
"You trust me that much?" he challenged softly.
"With my life," she admitted sincerely.
He nodded and rose from the bed. He came back with his handcuffs. "Are you sure about this?" he asked again. He had never used them for anything but business before, but he had to admit the idea turned him on.
Her eyes began to glow with lust, clearly the idea excited her too. "Yes," she confirmed. She stuck her wrists out.
"Caro,
this is . . . "
"Please, John," she pleaded. "I've thought about this a lot. It's the ultimate act of trust. Only . . . You do have the key, don't you?"
He grinned and showed it to her. She smiled and gestured for him to do it. He complied, moving on to the bed. He slipped a cuff on her right hand, then through the post, then to her left hand. Her arms were cuffed above her now and she could only move her legs. She lay there waiting for him.
"So now you're my prisoner, eh?" he teased as he began to kiss his way over her neck. "I can do anything I want and you can't stop me."
His words made her shiver with anticipation. She had no idea what he would do, but she couldn't wait to find out.
What he did was make love to her as he had so many times before. Kissing and caressing her body gently and lovingly until she was writhing beneath him. He loved her body with his mouth and tongue, worshipping each and every beautiful inch of her until she cried out in orgasm again and again.
Finally, he positioned himself to enter her. Her face was a study in lust and love. The eagerness of her moans was the sweetest music. He glided slowly inside her, moaning at the feel of her. Nothing felt like this, it was like coming home after a long stay away.
He stroked her slowly, his body moving in time to the beat of her heart and the rhythm of his own. He let the heat build between them for a long time, until he knew the need for release was almost overpowering for both of them. He heard the tenor of her moans change and the sound of the cuffs being pulled as if she wanted to use her hands for something. Only he was too far gone to stop and release her. A few more strokes and he felt an overpowering orgasm hit him. It was like a sledgehammer in his balls. He groaned her name and came in a long gush inside her. He lay on her for a moment and then when he'd caught his breath, withdrew and released her from the cuffs.
She grabbed for him, clinging to his chest, her breath still coming in pants. She held on to him as if he was a life raft and she was lost at sea.
He stroked her hair, then examined her hands. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "You're going to have marks."
She laughed. "So what? I'm engaged to an ex-cop, ain't I?" She tilted her head, "I don't mind."
He studied her body as he lay her gently back on the bed. She was going to be bruised on her thighs and arms as well. "Willy's gonna think I've been beating on you."
"He will not!" she exclaimed. "He knows you better than that. Anyways, I don't care," she added as she stretched luxuriously in the bed. "I feel wonderful. How about you?"
"Exhausted," he admitted. He stifled a yawn. He hurt like the devil; his body ached in a vaguely pleasant way from the unaccustomed activity. Three times in one night? "You aren't going to expect," he asked suddenly. "I mean, Caro . . . "
She exploded with laughter. "I know better. But how many times do you get engaged?" She pulled his head down to lay on her breasts. She stroked the still damp hair on his forehead. "You're amazing, you are. I promise not to do this to you every night. Just alternate Saturdays."
"Good," he mumbled through a yawn, "cause I'm shagged out."
"Go to sleep, my love," she whispered. She heard a soft sigh and realized he had already done so.
She closed her eyes and curled into him, happy, sated, and looking forward to the future.
The ringing telephone woke John. Caro was still sleeping, her body now curled spoon fashion around him. They must have changed positions in the night. He glanced at the digital clock. Who the bloody hell would call him at seven a.m. on a Sunday? He slid out of Caro's arms, picked up the cordless and took it into the bathroom.
"Better be important," he muttered into the receiver.
"It is," said the disembodied female voice.
"Who is this?" he asked impatiently.
"I'm a friend of Willy's. He's in trouble. He took on a job last night and found it a little more than he could handle. He's hurt and he needs you to come and get him."
"Bloody hell," John muttered. "Why didn't he call me himself?"
"He can't. He's passed out. Are you gonna help or not?"
"Yeah, give me the address."
"1472 Friar Way. You know it?"
"Shit," he mumbled. He knew it all right. It was right around the corner from the tenement bust that had turned him from the hunter into the hunted. From cop to ex-cop. "Yeah, I know it. Tell Willy I'll be there as quick as I can."
"No worries, mate. Cheers," the voice added as it hung up.
He shook his head, disconnected the phone and walked slowly back into the bedroom. The call hadn't disturbed Caro and he had no desire to wake her. She'd freak about Willy anyway, until she knew he was okay. Better to tell her afterwards, after he knew just how bad it was.
John grabbed jeans and a T-shirt and crept out of the bedroom. He left a note on the dining table, "Ran out to get you a surprise. Be back soon. I love you. John." He walked out the front door and locked it behind him.
There was little traffic as he drove to the address. The house seemed oddly deserted. He knocked on the front door but no one answered. He tried the knob and found the door unlocked. The inside of the house was trashed. It looked as if no one had lived there in a long time. He searched the entire house and the backyard. No one. Had he gotten the address wrong? He studied the front door; no it was 1472 Friar Way. Shit! He went to the house next door and knocked. The woman who answered took one look at him and slammed the door in his face. He had better luck with the house on the other side.
The bloke who came to the door recognized John not as a former Detective Constable or as a PI, but as Johnny Wilson, cab driver and small-time dealer. He knew Willy too. "He ain't been around, man. Someone gave you a bum steer. Did you try the pub? Willy was tying on a good one last night."
John
shrugged. "Thanks, mate, I'll try it."
It took John another hour to track Willy down. He went to the pub, where he was directed to Paulie's, who directed him to the home of a girl Willy had met. Willy was NOT pleased when John found him.
Willy
stood in the doorway of the small house, filling it with his bulk and size,
wearing only jeans. His chest was bare, his tattoos his only adornment. His dark
eyes were red from lack of sleep and alcohol. He looked like what he was when
John first met him, a small-time drug dealer. He rubbed his hands over his
shaven head and said, "Someone was having you on, mate. You been pissing
anyone off lately?"
John shrugged and replied, "No more than usual."
Willy grinned. It changed his whole face. He badly needed a shave and his Maori features made him look mean and menacing, but when he grinned, you could see the kindness in him. He lit a cigarette and said, "Well go on, get back home. Did you leave my sister alone? Shame on you!"
John grinned sheepishly. "Hey bro, she'd never have forgiven me if I left you to die. Wouldn't have done it for anyone else."
Willy grinned wider and impulsively grabbed John in a bear hug. "You be good to her or else. I may call you bro, but she's my blood."
"I know, I know." He left Willy standing on the doorstep, still puzzled as to who would have played this joke. By the time he arrived back at his house, he was pissed. Whoever sent him on this wild goose chase was going to pay.
He unlocked his front door, entered, and the sight that welcomed him made him cease his steps. His eyes scanned the room without completely seeing it only chronicling small details. One of the chairs was overturned. The dining table was on its side, all of the china cracked and broken. There was a bunch of stuffing floating in the air. He moved in slow motion at first. "Caro," he shouted. Then with a shudder he came to himself and raced for the bedroom calling her name.
He halted in the doorway, his eyes, at first, refusing to register what he was seeing. "Caro," he moaned. "Caro." She was lying on her side on the bed. She looked as if she was still sleeping. Except, there was something wrong with her head. It was at an odd angle and her hair was the wrong color. Red, her hair was red, instead of black.
"Oh god," he mumbled. He went to the bed and saw the spreading stain on the pillows. He couldn't hear her breathing. Didn't see any rise and fall to her chest. He touched her wrists and throat looking for a pulse. A plaintive wail escaped him. "No. Not again."
He grabbed for the phone, called for an ambulance although he guessed it was useless. Then he dialed Dave Bruford at the station. "Dave," he said brokenly when he got him on the phone, "I need your help. Bring a team to my house. Someone's murdered Caro."
John perched on the edge of a chair in the living room as his home filled with people. After he'd hung up with Dave, he'd stood staring at Caro's lifeless body. He felt paralyzed. He was still helplessly standing at the edge of the bed when the front door bell rang.
With slow leaden steps he left the bedroom and went into the front of the house only to find Dave already standing there. He noticed his friend and former co-worker was dressed in his usual work clothes, slacks, shirt, and tie.
Dave's brown eyes looked concerned. "You left the door open," Dave said as if in answer to an unspoken question. John looked at him blankly; his eyes numb with anguish. "What happened?" Dave asked.
John shook his head and gestured toward the bedroom. He sank into a chair, his whole life lying in pieces around him.
Dave went into the bedroom briefly and then came out to face John. He looked helplessly at his friend, spoke briefly into a radio and then went to wait by the front door.
John remained in the chair as the ambulance arrived, then the rest of the police, the evidence technicians and finally, the Coroner. It seemed as if a hundred people were crawling over his house. It was eerily reminiscent of the scene he'd walked in on when his undercover pad was being searched. Another reminder was the presence of Inspector Susan Ellis.
He'd been surprised that the Inspector had come herself. She had nodded to him and then gone about her business. He was still ex-cop enough to know to stay put. To know not to touch anything, not even Caro. As he'd stood over her body waiting for Dave, he'd desperately wanted to hold her one last time. To kiss her goodbye. To wake her up and make her live again. Still, he had done none of those things. He was afraid he might disturb or contaminate the physical evidence.
The one thing keeping him together was the need to know who killed her and the desire to kill that person with his bare hands. He would ignore his grief until her murder was solved. He had no doubt that it was murder. Cold-blooded, calculated murder and he WOULD get the bastard. Still, if he impeded the police investigation, it wouldn't help.
John watched blindly as swarms of police picked up various items then tagged and bagged them. He heard the loud sound of a zipper being pulled and knew they had finally removed Caro from the bed.
In another moment, the stretcher containing her body moved into his line of sight. His eyes clouded and he put his head in his hands. Susan Ellis came over to him then.
The Inspector wore her standard dark blue uniform. She was an attractive woman, though she always downplayed her feminine side. Her uniforms were as crisp and pressed as any man's and her red hair was cut short and professional. Her blue eyes exhibited concern as she condoled, "John, I'm so sorry for your loss, but I need to ask you some questions."
He lifted his head and nodded. He knew the drill.
"Did she live here?" she asked.
He shook his head. "No. She had her own place."
As he gave her the address Ellis wrote it in her notebook. "What about family? Who do we need to notify?"
John's eyes clouded even more. "Just her brother, Willy. Oh god, Willy. He's gonna kill me."
"Kill you?" Ellis repeated with puzzlement. "Why would he kill you?"
John looked directly at her as he answered. "If I hadn't gone out this morning looking for him this wouldn't have happened. Oh god, this is my fault."
"Your fault, John?" she repeated. "Why your fault? Did you two have a fight? Did you lose your temper?"
John looked at her as if she'd lost her mind. "What do you mean, Susan? I loved her, for Christ's sake. You think I did this?"
Ellis shook her head. The concern in her eyes was replaced by professional interest. "I don't know, John. You tell me. What happened here?"
John felt a surge of anger course though him. His voice was tight with barely controlled rage as he retorted, "How the bloody hell should I know? When I left this morning, she was alive. When I came back, I found her, called the EMT's and Dave. I don't know who got in here and did this, but it sure as bloody hell wasn't me."
Ellis studied her former Detective Constable. She could see he was on the thin edge of control. "Okay, John, okay." Ellis pulled up a chair, flipped her notebook to a new page, and asked, "Can you run it for me one time start to finish?"
John nodded. He told her about the phone call, the rush to get there, the way he tracked Willy down and finally how he came home and found Caro.
"The front door was locked?" she asked curiously.
He nodded. His eyes were tracking the movements around the room. An evidence technician was picking through the broken china. "Yes. I locked it when I left and it was still locked when I came home."
The Inspector watched his face carefully as she disclosed, "I've examined it, John. There's no sign of forced entry."
His head jerked back to face her as he repeated, "No sign of . . ." He shook his head. "What about the back door?"
She shook her head. "Also locked with no sign of forced entry. All the windows are clean as well. John, who else has a key?"
He ran his fingers through his hair with agitation as he answered. "Caro." His voice broke as he said her name again. "Caro had the only other key."
"Fine, John," Ellis stressed patiently. "You're doing very well. I know this is difficult for you. Just a few more questions and then we'll be done."
He nodded mutely. How could she be dead? She was so alive. So loving. They were going to get married.
"John, what did you two do last night?"
"Do?" he repeated dumbly. "What do you mean?"
Ellis' eyes focused again on his face. Her voice was devoid of emotion as she explained. "The Coroner found skin and blood under her nails as if she fought and maybe scratched someone. He noticed bruises on her arms, some marks on her wrists and more bruises on her thighs. There were signs of sexual activity as well, possibly forced."
John felt his face flush with embarrassment. How could he even begin to explain what had passed between them? It was none of their damn business anyway. Finally, he looked at his former boss, and admitted in a gruff tone, "Susan, we got engaged last night. We're not . . . weren’t . . . children."
The Inspector studied his face. Then she glanced down to scrutinize his arms. She couldn't see any marks on him. "John," she stated with real regret. "I'm so sorry. She wasn't wearing any jewelry. Could we trace the ring?"
He shook his head. "Hadn't bought it yet. We were going to do it today. Together." His voice broke over the last statement. They would never do anything together again.
Dave tapped Ellis on the shoulder and she excused herself. The two cops held a whispered conversation and then Ellis went into the bedroom. Dave stared at John, a helpless expression on his face.
John looked at his friend. Dave had a face like a cocker spaniel, round and soft. His brown eyes always looked a little lost. Still, he'd always stood by him no matter what. Dave was shaking his head as if to say I'm sorry.
John again put his face in his hands. This couldn't be happening to him. Not again.
Ellis came back carrying a little black purse. She opened it and pulled out a key ring. "Which one of these is the key to your house?" she inquired.
He reached out his hand for the keys, but she pulled them back and directed, "Just point."
"Third one in." He looked at the Inspector's face. "Susan," he asked slowly. "Be straight with me. What's going on?"
Her eyes grew disturbed as she declared in a firm voice, "John, it greatly saddens me to do this, but I must ask you to come to the station with us."
His jaw dropped and his eyes grew dark as he acknowledged her words with a question, "What?"
Ellis flipped her notebook closed. She shook her head sadly and confirmed, "John, I'm afraid you're under suspicion of murder. It will go a lot easier if you come with us voluntarily to discuss it."
John sat on the hard-backed chair in the cold interrogation room, unable to cope with what was happening. This was crazy, a nightmare. It could not possibly be happening. Caro couldn't be dead. They couldn't think he had done it. Seconds, minutes, hours passed as he waited for someone, anyone to come and wake him up.
Finally, Susan Ellis entered the small room. She was alone and she carried a file. "Talk to me, John," she ordered as she sat down across from him.
John looked at her blankly. He'd had too much time to think, but he hadn't been able to make any sense of it. "Whatcha want to know?"
She flipped open the file and asked, "What happened in your house?"
"I've told you, Susan," he reiterated patiently. "I went out and when I came back, Caro was dead. I called for help. That's it."
She shook her head sadly. "John, I'm afraid that won't wash."
He leaned forward in the chair, focusing his eyes on her. "What do you mean?"
She seemed bothered by his scrutiny. She looked down at the file and recited, "The front door, by your own admission was locked. As you know, we checked the back door and the windows. The house was sealed tight, no sign whatsoever of forced entry. You said she had the only other key. So unless she let someone in, no one else could have been in your house."
He shook his head. "Susan," he stated very slowly and succinctly. "I did not kill her. Why would I? I loved her, for Christ's sake. I asked her to marry me last night."
She raised her eyes, closed the file and demurred, "John, there's no proof of that. Only your word."
"And my word's not good enough, is it?" he retorted sadly. "Not since Snow made me look like a bad cop turned drug addict. Sweet Jesus, Susan. You've known me a long time. You think I did this?"
She shook her head. Her blue eyes appeared sad as she answered. "What I think doesn't matter. It's what the evidence shows."
John tried to concentrate, to shove aside the wave of misery that threatened to overwhelm him. He needed to think like a cop again. Finally, he acknowledged, "All the evidence shows is opportunity. You have no motive. And where are the means?" Ellis shook her head. Clearly, there was more. "Oh Christ, Susan, how was she killed?"
"You don't know?" He shook his head. "Multiple blows to the back of the head. We found hair and blood on the champagne bottle. We think it's the murder weapon, although we won't know for sure until the Coroner can match it. John, your prints are all over it."
"Of course they are," he mumbled. "We had champagne to celebrate."
"John, I have to caution you, everything you say . . . " she let the words trail off. "Perhaps you should call your lawyer."
He looked at the Inspector. Whatever she thought of him personally, whatever she thought of him professionally, right now, she was looking at him with the serious expression he had seen her use on other suspects. "Bloody hell. I cannot believe you would do this to me again."
Ellis rose from the table. "I'm sorry, John. John Lawless, I charge you with the murder of Caroline Kaa."
After John was fingerprinted and booked, he called his lawyer. He was lucky to catch him at home. Gavin McCloud was one of the busiest and best lawyers in Auckland. He had garnered his justly deserved reputation with a combination of skillful criminal negotiations and trial work. He seemed to have an innate instinct for when to make a deal and when to go to trial. His record of acquittals was spectacular. He had been John's lawyer during the Bowers/Snow scandal and though expensive, was worth every penny. Murder was right up his alley.
McCloud came quickly, still dressed for the golf game John had kept him from attending. When McCloud entered the interrogation room, John was surprised. McCloud was a tall handsome man in his late forties who carried himself like an athlete. He was a bachelor and his reputation with the ladies was extensive. McCloud favored custom-made silk suits and Italian leather shoes. He had his thick dark hair styled at the most exclusive salon and his nails manicured. He was a vain man, though not arrogant and it showed in his appearance. John, who was used to seeing him at his office or in court, was surprised to see him almost casual in linen slacks and a polo shirt.
McCloud shook John's hand and asked for a rundown of what he'd said and done with the police. He wasn't thrilled that John had made several statements before seeing him, but given the circumstances could understand it.
However, his appearance in less than lawyerly clothes didn't seem to affect his ability to do his job. He asked John to be patient for a while longer while he went to see what he could find out. He excused himself and when he returned his handsome features were grim.
The case against John looked black indeed. While his client had cooled his heels, the cops had been busy. The evidence was stacking up faster than empty beer bottles in John's local.
First, there was opportunity. Unless Caro had let someone in, which given that she was still naked and killed in bed, was unlikely, there was no proof that anyone else was in the house. And seemingly, no way they could have gotten in without a key.
Second, there was means. Caro was killed with the champagne bottle that had his prints and only his prints on it.
Third, there was the potential DNA evidence. Semen in her body, skin under her nails, all of which was his, although he refused to be tested. All of which he knew had gotten there with her consent.
Fourth, there were the ligature marks on her wrists made by his handcuffs again with her consent. But there was only his word for that.
Fifth, there were bruises on her arms and thighs, as well as what he was sure would be tears in her vaginal walls. The Coroner would have a field day claiming rape. He knew no force had been involved, only he couldn't prove that either.
Sixth, his house was a mess. The overturned furniture and broken dishes suggested a violent fight. The fact that she was beaten with the bottle suggested an unplanned killing while in a rage.
Seventh, when they searched Caro's apartment, they'd found her diary. Her jottings were haphazard and none of them were dated. There were many entries about their relationship and the difficulties in it. There were notations on their fights, her fear of his anger and rage, and about his sudden, and to her, inexplicable mood swings. He knew the entries had to be old, but he couldn't prove it.
Still, even that wasn't the worst of it; it was the last few entries that had McCloud worried. Caro had written about him being jealous when they'd been out and a man had approached her. Then she'd written that she thought she was being followed. Then lastly she had written about relationships in general and about lonely people who couldn't understand when their feelings weren't returned. How unfortunate it was that sometimes relationships had to end because the feelings weren't equal. She had written that she had come to a decision, no matter how painful it was, she had to break things off before it got worse.
All in all, the evidence was damning. As John listened to McCloud recite what the police had already uncovered, he grew even more shell-shocked. "It's a frame," he said. "Bloody brilliant, but a frame nonetheless. I didn't kill her."
McCloud nodded. "I know, John. I'm not saying the cops are right. But look at it from their perspective. You have a history of losing your temper, especially when you've been drinking. According to your own words, no one else could have got in. What do you expect?"
John looked at his lawyer. McCloud had a way with juries and clients alike. John could tell when he was being handled; still he tried to remain calm as he answered. "I bloody well expect them to believe me. I'm not thick, am I? Why the hell would I tell them the door was locked if I were guilty? How stupid is that? Shit, Gavin, if I had done it, you'd think I could have come up with a better story than that."
The lawyer raised his eyebrows. He used his voice like another tool, in this case to try to relax his client. "Now John, calm down. We'll get you out of this. Only thing, if not you, then who? Who killed her?"
John shook his head. "I don't know. She hadn't an enemy in the world. She was beautiful and loving, giving and gentle. No one would have wanted to kill her."
McCloud consulted his notes. "What about the person she mentioned in her diary?"
John shook his head. "I don't know anything about that. It's the first I've heard of it."
McCloud gave him an odd look, but moved on. "Here's the way I think the cops will play it. They're going to take the evidence of her diary and say you wanted to continue the relationship and she wanted to end it. That she went to your house to break off with you. You refused to accept that, insisting she stay and have dinner. When she refused, you cuffed her, forced her to have sex with you and when that didn't change her mind, you killed her. Then you went and found her brother to try to give yourself an alibi and then returned home to 'find' her. You have to admit, while completely circumstantial, it's going to be very difficult to prove otherwise."
"Jesus," he swore. "It's too bloody brilliant."
McCloud nodded. "Agreed. So if you are the target and Caro was just convenient to use, who wants you this bad? Who'd love to drop you in it like this?"
"Long list," he said with a shrug. "When I was a cop, I nailed quite a few low-lifes and since I've gone private . . ."
McCloud nodded again. "Better make a list. And John, you'd better look around for some help. Your license has been suspended and your carry permit rescinded. If someone IS out to get you, they could come at you direct. Be careful."
He nodded thoughtfully. He'd already come to that conclusion. The trouble was that as long as he sat in jail, he couldn't do anything. And once he was out, where could he go? "Will you be able to get me bail?"
"I think so, but not until tomorrow. It's Sunday. I should be able to get you out first thing Monday morning. They'll keep you in solitary overnight."
John nodded. McCloud rose and left the room. John waited to be processed and then hauled off to jail. He had a lot to think about.
After John was bailed out on Monday, he drove aimlessly around Auckland. He had learned to love the city but this day it brought him no joy. His heart felt heavy and empty. His body ached with a pain he knew wasn't only physical. He desperately wanted a hot shower and some clean clothes, but he didn't want to go home. Didn't know if he could ever go back there. Hell, he wasn't even sure he could get in. It was a crime scene now.
He found his circuitous route had taken him to the waterfront. To near the crash pad, he had used as Johnny Wilson. Near the local where he'd met Willy, Paulie and Sonya. Shit, Willy. Had they found him? Told him? He had to assume they had. What was his friend thinking? Could he face him? Would Willy believe him when he said he didn't do it?
He parked the car near the pub. He'd have to find out. Sooner rather than later. He took a deep breath, got out of the car and entered the pub.
He stood just inside the entrance his eyes scanning the room. He noticed some kids playing pinball, a woman and two children eating at a table, a drug deal going down in the corner and two men he recognized as enforcers for a local loan shark playing pool. The place was crowded and noisy. Hard rock music competed with the murmur of voices and the sound of the video games in a cacophonous jumble. A thick haze of cigarette smoke hung like a cloud over the room and there was the sour tang of spilled beer and frying onions in the air. At first, nobody noticed him and then suddenly they did.
It was one of those moments when time slows down to milliseconds and everything happens in slow motion with crystal clear clarity. Heads turned. The room hushed and the crowd parted. People stood aside until he could see Willy, sitting alone at a back table, a half-empty bottle of whiskey in front of him, an overflowing ashtray to his side. Willy had a glass of amber liquid raised to his mouth and a cigarette dangling from his other hand.
Willy turned, saw John, drained the glass and dropped his smoke into the ashtray. He rose slowly from his chair and strode toward him. John remained rooted in place, willing to accept whatever it was Willy wanted to do.
Willy stopped just inches from him. His expression was angry, wary; his eyes red and tired. The stubble on his face was more pronounced. He ran his hand over his shaven head and looked at John's eyes for a long moment. He made a sudden move and grabbed John. "If I find out you did kill her, I'll kill you myself," he hissed into John's ear.
John felt Willy's big hands gripping his arms hard enough to hurt. He welcomed the pain. His voice, when he was finally able to speak, was gruff. "Willy, I swear . . ."
Willy turned the grab into a hug. He held John for a moment and then pushed back as if embarrassed by his public display. "I don't believe the cops. Especially NOT about you. Still, something was bothering her. She didn't tell me what."
John's eyes widened, but he said nothing, once again overcome with sorrow. He allowed Willy to lead him to the table and pour him a glass of whiskey. John shook his head and refused. He needed to think. There wasn't time to get drunk. Most cases were solved within forty-eight hours or not at all. "Talk to me, Willy. Tell me what she said."
Willy shook his head. "Not much, bro. I saw her two days ago. You were away. She came by the local here, said she wanted my advice about something. Afraid I was a bit pissed. Had a good day on the job, you know? I was celebrating. Anyways, she got pissed, cause I was and split without telling me. I wish now . . ."
John heard the pain in his voice. Caro was the only family Willy had. Cassandra, her identical twin, was in jail in the states. There was no one else left. "I'll find out who did this, Willy. I swear I will. And then, I'll kill them myself."
"She wouldn't want that," Willy chided softly. "She wouldn't want you to get into trouble on her account. She'd tell you to let the police handle it. The system. Caro was a big believer in the system, was Caro."
John felt like he'd been kicked in the stomach. He nodded. His voice was hopeless as he confessed, "Willy, what am I going to do? I don't know if I can . . ."
As Willy watched his friend's eyes, his own misted up. Still his body language seemed to move from anguished weakness to strength. He pledged firmly, "We can figure out who did this. Then we can figure out how to grieve." Willy stared into his whiskey glass as if the answer was there. "You made her happy."
"I asked her to marry me," John admitted.
"Did ya now?" Willy muttered softly. "That would have made her very happy indeed. She loved you, though myself, I can't see it," he added with a touch of his normal bravado. "She thought you were special, she did."
John felt the grief well up inside him as he replied, "I know. Can't see it myself either. Never could."
Willy shook his head. "Where do we start? Who could a done this?"
John ran his fingers through his hair in agitation. "I don't know. And the thing is, we don't even know why she was killed."
Willy cocked his head to one side, lit a cigarette and narrowed his eyes thoughtfully as he asked, "Whatcha mean?"
John leaned forward. The need to think like a detective, to focus on a purpose seemed to momentarily ease the pain in his body as he explained. "Well, was she killed because she was Caro or because she was in my house? Or was she killed simply to get at me. It's a real good frame, Willy. Whoever did this dropped me in it but good. Much better than what that prick Snow tried to pull. If I didn't know better, I'd believe I did it myself."
John sat on the brown couch with his feet up and pressed a damp flannel to his temple. His head throbbed from the amount of alcohol he'd consumed the night before. His stomach felt empty and nauseous. He had a hell of a hangover. His eyes didn't see the cozy furnishings of Dave's in-laws beach house. His ears didn't hear the laughter coming from the sandy shore outside the windows. He grimaced as the weak winter sunshine filtered across the room and hit his face.
He shut his eyes against the pain, then opened them again. He got up and pulled the drapes on the windows overlooking the beach. He caught a glimpse of a young couple kissing on the sand before the drapes completely closed.
His head began to spin and a wave of grief, as strong as a tsunami washed over him. He swallowed convulsively and returned to the couch. Last night he'd given in to the pain. Allowed it to overwhelm him. He'd sat on that same couch, all alone, and drunk a bottle of Jack Daniel's trying to drown out the memories of Caro. Movies of her played repeatedly in his head. The music of her laughter when he did something stupid. Her voice when she said his name. How it felt when she touched him. The way she looked lying dead in the bed they had shared. The Jack hadn't helped. If anything, the alcohol had refocused his sorrow, sharpening the loss.
He moaned with frustration and cradled his head in his hands. It had been three days, seventy-two hours since Caro had been killed and nothing. Nothing! He'd made no progress at all. The cops thought he did it and all their efforts were focused on finding evidence to prove it. They had already found plenty.
The only thing he had in his favor was the phone call, which had been traced through his telephone records to a stolen mobile phone. At least it proved there had been a call, though not who it was. The fact that he loved her proved nothing. Not much in his corner. Still, he had Willy on his side. That counted for a lot, if not with the cops, with him. Willy had put the word out; he was looking for the "friend" who had called John. And for any whisper of what might have been the reason his sister was murdered.
Dave was supportive, offering the beach house again and a friendly shoulder. Even Jo, his long-suffering wife, had expressed concern and her belief in him. Friends were great, but evidence in his favor would have been better. Dave wanted to help, but there wasn't much he could do. Susan Ellis had clamped down on the files. John had the impression she wasn't convinced of his guilt, but like always, she would do her job. It was up to him to find the truth.
He had spent the day before tracing Caro's last day. He had talked to her co-workers at the bookstore. Her boss refused to speak to him; sure that he HAD done it. The two other clerks told the same story; she had been in a good mood, happy that he was back from his trip. She'd met a friend for lunch, no one knew who, and then had gone home to change for dinner with him. They had no idea what or who could have been bothering her. They hadn't seen any sign of it. But then, he knew, they wouldn't have. Caro didn't make it a habit to confide in her co-workers.
Willy, as next of kin, had been able to get her address book back from the police. John sat down with a phone and called everyone in it. Most of the people he knew either from meeting them or by reputation. The names he didn't recognize must have been people she lost touch with; their telephones were all disconnected. The ones he did speak to all told the same story. Shock and dismay over her death and no idea what or who might have been bothering her. The mystery person from her diary remained just that, a mystery.
Still, John was convinced that whoever this person was, they had nothing to do with her death. He was more convinced than ever that he was the target and Caro the weapon. The frame was just too good, too tight. Someone wanted him bad, and now it seemed, they had him.
His mind traveled back over the past few years and the cases he had worked, first as a cop and then as a P.I. Which of the people he had busted would want him bad enough to kill an innocent to get at him? Why not just kill him instead?
Still, he thought he knew why. This way he suffered far more. He had lost the woman he loved and now faced taking the blame for her death. It was torture, pure and simple. Only a truly twisted mind could have come up with such a brilliant plan.
Which of them had the balls to do it? He traced his life through the people he busted, writing down the names on a piece of paper, though he'd never forget them.
Topping the list of potential suspects were Alan Snow and Terry Bowers. His last case as an undercover nark had been nasty. It had started out to be just another drug bust, but had ended with armed robbery and a dead guard, whose bad luck it had been to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. John had nearly lost his job over that case. He HAD lost his wife and a woman he had barely known but cared for had died. The personal cost to him was immense but not as big as the cost to Snow and Bowers.
Bowers was serving a life sentence for the murder of the armored van guard. He was unstable, volatile, full of rage at John. Although he was in jail, he had friends, some of them just as crazy as he was. But would he have the smarts to have made this plan and would one of his mates have had the skill to pull it off?
Then there was Alan Snow, the former Detective Senior Sergeant, John's old operator and mentor. Snow had coerced him into crossing the line by supplying guns to Bowers and was, however indirectly, as responsible as Bowers for the death of the guard. Then he had tried to frame John for the crime, betraying him at all levels, with the cops, with his then wife and finally to the streets where he was still undercover. Snow had eventually been busted during the internal investigation when a piece of computer evidence he'd missed removing, inconveniently turned up proving his complicity. He was now serving time for his part in the cover-up. He was an angry bitter man. He blamed John for the loss of his twenty-five year career. He was certainly smart enough to have planned this, but did he have the contacts to hire a killer? John knew he had the balls for it.
There was Joe Smith, presently in jail on counterfeiting charges based on the last case he'd worked while still undercover and masquerading as a PI. Smith seemed a bit of a dark horse; John's testimony was only a tiny part of that case. Interpol had been behind that bust, not him. His part was more accident than design.
CeeCee Corsairs, alias Celia Joban, was also in jail for the same case, but with murder, embezzlement and a host of other charges against her. She was a nasty bit of work, but he doubted whether she would really blame him for her troubles. It was much more likely she'd blame her former partner, Susan Banks.
Then he thought with regret of Caro's twin sister, Cassandra, who was serving twenty years in a Nevada prison for the murder of Fred Minot. He had been responsible for that. He had taken Cass back to America and placed her in the hands of the police. Still, he couldn't see her having her own sister murdered, not even to get at him. But there was her partner, Mitchell Winston. Winston was free. No hint of scandal had ever attached itself to him. John was the only one who knew Winston had received millions of Minot's stolen money courtesy of Cass, but he had no proof that Winston had it.
Which of them had done this? They all had reason. For the first time in his life, he was afraid. The case against him was strong, even if all circumstantial.
He studied the list again, but it didn't get any clearer. He shut his eyes and tried to think of some way to shake something loose. He had one more card to play. He had hoped to avoid it but he was running out of options. He would just have to bite the bullet and play it.
John reluctantly pulled up to the prison gates. It had taken all of his and then all of Gavin's persuasive powers to arrange this. He gave his name to the guard and the name of the prisoner he was there to see. The guard waved him on.
John parked his car and entered the prison. The guard at the interior gate patted him down and confiscated his Swiss army knife. He'd forgotten he even had it. Then, because of the knife, and who he was, and his prior relationship with the prisoner he was to see, he was asked to disrobe and be body searched.
John found this more than distasteful though he complied. It was a reminder of what could happen to him if he was convicted. Finally, after the guards were assured he brought neither contraband nor weapons, he was allowed to put his clothes back on and enter a small room to wait.
The prisoner strolled into the room, still a touch of arrogance in his manner. He was a small balding man with a face like a ferret. The jaunty air, the clipped steps, the almost prissy clothing might be gone, but his personality was still in place. Former Detective Senior Sergeant Alan Snow, was now prisoner number 18374321 and he wore standard prison gray. No longer a name or a rank, but only a number. Still, when Snow saw who his visitor was, a malicious spark lit in his eyes. He sat down across the table from his former operative and said, "And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" His voice still retained a measure of its authoritative and acerbic tone.
John looked across the table and raised his eyebrows. "Gee Alan," John retorted sarcastically. "I was sure you'd know."
Snow's brown eyes glittered. "Got yourself in another spot of trouble, have you?" Snow asked brightly.
"Not at all," John answered calmly enough. "Just curious to see how you're doing in here. Other inmates making nice to you?"
"You know better than that," Snow snapped nastily. "They've kept me in solitary. Too many men I've put away to let me wander free."
John studied his former mentor. Once he'd thought of Alan as a friend as well as a boss. Then Alan had turned on him. The betrayal still rankled, but showing it would do no good. "Oh Alan, but you aren't free, are you? Not for another year or two. While me, I've got the good life. You taught me well. My business is going gang busters and I'm even about to get married again." John watched Snow carefully as he said the last.
Snow swallowed hard. "Come here to gloat, have you?"
John nodded. "That's right, Alan. When you get out what will you do? I heard Aileen's divorcing you. Guess you've lost everything while I have the world by the tail."
"Do you now," Snow declared thoughtfully. "That's not what I heard."
"It's not?" John repeated. He forced himself to keep his face neutral and to smile. "Well, reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated."
Snow's eyes glowed even brighter. A nasty smile crossed his lips, as he demurred. "Not your death. Your girlfriend's. Lost another one, didn't you, John? I heard you killed this one directly yourself. Beat her to death with a champagne bottle. Did you enjoy it?"
John had to force himself to remain calm. He longed to smash that smug expression off Snow's face. Obviously, Snow knew all about Caro and how she'd died. He schooled his features into blankness. "Sorry, Alan. You got your facts wrong. Wouldn't be the first time, of course. My girlfriend is alive and well. Don't know what you're talking about." The small smile of triumph flitted off Snow's face as John added, "By the way, I heard the widow of that armored guard is going to sue you."
"Why did you come here, John?" Snow asked.
John grinned. Snow had a deft hand at covering his tracks. John knew he'd never get anything specific from him, still, he thought he had something. "Doesn't matter," John replied. "I got what I wanted." John got up and knocked on the door for the guard to come get him.
"You shouldn't turn your back on me so easily, John," he heard Snow say as the guard opened the door. "Even in here, I'm still dangerous."
John turned back to stare at his former mentor. "Always have to have the last word, don't'ca, Alan? Well, this time you won't. You see you're in the can and I'm not. And I never will be." Then John turned and without another glance, exited the room.
Former Detective Senior Sergeant Alan Snow sat at the table, drumming his fingers, an evil, satisfied smile on his lips.
John's next stop was the casino owned by Mitchell Winston. He'd last been there during the Minot case, trying to help free Caro from the mess her sister Cass had landed her in. His one and only meeting with Winston had culminated in Winston handing over Cass so John could take her to America.
He hadn't been sure of his reception, so he'd called ahead to make an appointment. To his surprise, Winston readily agreed to see him.
John strolled through the crowded casino marveling at the way people seemed determined to spend their money. The crowd was well dressed and well groomed and seemed happy. Still he could see the forced gaiety of the customers, the hunger in the eyes of the gamblers and the disappointment of the losers.
He worked his way to the back of the casino where Winston's office was located. Two bodyguards dressed in expensive though ill-fitting suits secured the entrance. They were not the same two he'd seen before for which he was grateful. For once, he wasn't in the mood to fight.
He gave his name and was ushered into Winston's sanctum as if he was an honored guest. This time he paused inside the room to look around. The last time he'd been too impassioned in his quest to pay much attention to the surroundings.
He noted the lush furnishings and rich wood walls. Winston sat behind a large mahogany desk in a black leather chair. One wall of the room was taken up with trophies, photographs, and plaques dedicated to the game of polo. Another wall was covered with paintings of horses. Winston reclined in his chair, a handsome man in an Armani suit at ease with his life.
Winston inclined his head and gestured for John to take the red leather chair across from his desk. He said, "I heard about what happened to Cass' sister. I'm sorry, it's a shame."
John nodded and sat down. "Yeah, well, that's why I'm here."
Winston inclined his head again. "I figured. Cops tag you for it?"
John studied the playboy. Winston's hair was expensively styled and a rich shade of black. His hands were manicured. He looked like a man who never did his own dirty work. "Yeah. Someone framed me but good. I thought maybe you might know something about it."
Winston laughed. "Not me, if that's what you're thinking. I have no reason to get rid of you or her for that matter. Cass, on the other hand . . . But then you took care of that for me, didn't you? She's doing twenty in Nevada and keeping her mouth shut."
John stared at the casino owner. He still seemed relaxed, at his ease, as if nothing could ever touch him. John decided to push it. "Well, there is the matter of the missing money. And there's no statue of limitations on murder."
Again Winston laughed. "Murder? Me? Who am I supposed to have killed? As to missing money, you can check my books. Hell, Inland Revenue does it every week. No missing money here."
So Winston had completely covered his tracks. Clearly, he wasn't worried or concerned about being found out. John had suspected this was a wild goose chase, but still . . . "Cass gave you an awful lot of money. Bet if I looked hard enough I could find a trace."
Winston studied the detective. "Why'd you want to do that? Then I WOULD get upset. Besides, there's no reason for it. Look, I've been straight with you, out of courtesy, cause I always liked Caro. Thought she deserved better than what Cass and I did to her. But don't come in here threatening me. It's not nice. I had nothing to do with her death or what's happening to you. For Christ's sake, I'm a gambler. Where's the winning edge in this?"
John believed him. He couldn't see an advantage for Winston and he knew the gambler played the odds. He rose from the chair, thanked him for his time and turned to leave.
"If it helps you any," Winston allowed as John reached for the doorknob, "I put out the word that I was offering a reward for any info. Made it sound like I wanted to thank the killer."
John turned back, astonishment on his features. "Why?"
Winston grinned at him. John could suddenly see the charm that had been irresistible to Cassandra. "Told you, I always liked Caro. Anyways, I haven't had a nibble, but I'll let you know if I do."
John nodded in gratitude and left, realizing that the most surprising people could do the most unexpected things.
Joe Smith's lawyer refused to discuss, let alone agree, to set up a meeting. The case was up for appeal on grounds of entrapment. Smith's lawyer felt any contact with a prosecution witness, even if it had nothing to do with the events in question, was a bad idea. John was allowed to send via McCloud some questions to be forwarded to Smith. The only response he received was a terse sentence recited by McCloud. "Wish I'd thought of it, only I'd have killed Tina."
When they tried to contact CeeCee Corsairs, alias Celia Joban, through her lawyer, they were informed she was dead. She'd allegedly been killed in a fight with another inmate. It sounded convenient to John's skeptical ears, but there wasn't much he could do about it. He suspected she had been given yet another name and relocated, but even so, it didn't seem that likely she would really come after him. Like Joe Smith, she'd be more inclined to go after Tina, alias Susan Banks, her former partner.
McCloud had more success with Terry Bowers' lawyer. Two days later, John was back at the prison where he had seen Snow. This time they didn't do a strip search and his meeting with Bowers took place, not in a small private room, but in the hospital. The night before, Bowers had gone nuts, got in a fight and was cut up pretty bad. The other inmate was in worse shape. He was dead.
Bowers lay in bed, hooked to an IV, his skin pale from blood loss. He had an ugly scratch on one side of his face and a big bandage on his arm. Yet, he still seemed to have that air of insanity and instability that had always surrounded him. Even pumped up with painkillers, he seemed full of vitality, as if any second he would jump out of his skin. "You bloody copper," were the first words out of his mouth when he saw John. "To think I kissed you."
John felt his face redden at the memory. "Sorry, Terry. Just doing my job. Nothing personal."
Bowers shook his head. His eyes flashed dangerously as he retorted, "Nothing personal, my ass. You got me sent up for life."
"No,
mate," John refuted with a shrug. "You did that when you killed that
guard."
Bowers retort was deliberately confrontational. "Stuff it. Only reason I'm talking to you is cause I want my forty gee's. What'd ya do with my money?"
"Don't know what you mean," John answered. He was conscious of the prison staff all around them. "I never had no money."
Bowers threw back his head and howled with laughter. His tone was sarcastic as he responded. "Yeah. Right. You never had any money, the bloody Aussies never heard of that first job and I'm halfback for the All Blacks. Piss off then. I don't want to talk to you."
"Look, Terry," John muttered as he came closer to the bed. He wanted to get out of earshot of the doctors and nurses. "I might be able to help you, if you can help me."
"Help me how?" the crook asked. His eyes narrowed and a sly smile crossed his lips as he scratched his nose. "I want my money."
"Well," John explained slowly, "I might be able, in my capacity as a private investigator, that is, to track that money down. But I need to know something."
Bowers' eyes now darted nervously around the room. He bent his dark head and inquired, "Whatcha want to know?"
John moved even closer to the career criminal. His voice was a hoarse whisper as he asked, "How bad do you want it, Terry? How bad do you want the money?"
Bowers threw back his head again and laughed maniacally. "You bleeding arsehole. You think I don't know what you're up to? Shit, I may be locked up, but I still got friends. I still hear things. You whacked your girlfriend and now you and that dickhead Willy are looking to cover it up. Trying to find someone to take the rap. Can't use me, man. I'm locked up. No way I could a done it."
John knew that. Still he persisted. "Too true, but you could have sent one of your mates around to my house looking for the money. Maybe he didn't mean to kill her. Maybe it was an accident."
Bowers shook his head. "After all this time? You must think I'm thick or daft or something. I know you ain't got that cash. Probably spent it on that house of yours or that girl." He leered and with a particularly nasty smile added, "She was a looker, wasn't she?"
John felt his temper begin to rise. His fists unconsciously begin to clench and unclench at his side and the muscles in his jaw began to twitch. "How do you know what she looks like?" he asked suspiciously.
Bowers grinned at his former ‘friend’s’ obvious discomfort. "Papers, man. She was in all the papers. Bet she was lots better than that druggie Sonya was. I'd have liked a taste of her myself. Too bad I'm locked up in here."
John felt his face flush and knew if he didn’t go then, he would take a swing at Bowers. He took a step back before he could lose control. With one last look at the former drug dealer, he turned away. He motioned to the staff he was ready to go. Bowers' voice and laugh followed him all the way out. "Guess you didn't get what you came for, did you, mate? Cheers!"
John could smell the rain in the air. Winter in Auckland wasn't all that harsh, but it wasn't so pleasant either. The sky above him was a mass of enveloping grayness; there was no hint of blue at all. The clouds hung thick and oppressive heavy with rain. The air was dense with cold and moisture. His skin felt clammy as if there were a thousand wet rags crawling over it. It was an ugly day for an ugly task. It matched his mood.
He shivered slightly into his jacket. His hands were cold, his body felt like ice. He looked at the keys in his hand and took a step forward. The police had finally finished searching his home, bagging and tagging god knew what, fingerprinting every surface capable of taking a print and searching through all his belongings. The crime scene was now another house to them. He had received permission to enter if he so chose. He didn't want to go in, he wasn't even close to ready to, but he knew he had to. Knew he needed to look for what he was sure the cops had missed, evidence that would point to a killer other than him.
Still, as he stood in front of his door, he found himself unable to open it. Unable to look upon the destruction of his dreams, the devastation of his life. He knew he would relive that last night where there had been so much joy, more than he ever thought possible and then the morning where he had experienced more loss and pain than he could stand. As he stood there uncertainly, he felt a light tap on his shoulder and jerked around, his body tensed immediately as if for a fight.
"John?" the voice acknowledged softly.
He couldn't believe his eyes. What was she doing here? Why?
"Dave called me," Marla, his ex-wife explained. "He told me what happened. John, whatever our past, I know you didn't do this. Wouldn't do this. Gavin's an excellent lawyer, I just thought . . ."
John expelled the breath he hadn't even realized he had been holding. He studied his ex. She was wearing a black suit that accentuated her fair coloring and a bright blue blouse. She looked trim and healthy, her hair was a shade blonder than when they'd been together, her features a little softer. Maybe life without him had eased some of the tenseness and acidity out of her. They had loved each other once with passion and tenderness despite how it had ended.
Marla returned her ex’s scrutiny. John was a good-looking man no matter what else anyone might say about him. Even the grief he was now facing couldn’t take that away from him. Though dressed casually in a red Henley and black jeans, he still looked muscled and fit. He still had that long unruly hair she hated, but at least he’d gotten rid of that shaggy mustache. He’d replaced it with a thick goatee, much neater, if not more professional. He still looked as if he was living the undercover life, although she knew it wasn’t true. His handsome face was pale, as if all the life had been bled out of him and his beautiful dark eyes looked haunted. Moved by the obvious pain he was in, she reached out a tentative hand to touch him. "I'm sorry, John. Truly sorry. I want to help."
He shrugged helplessly. Impulsively she put her arms around him and hugged him.
He hugged her back, feeling a series of emotions wash over him, anger, pain, regret and loss. Abruptly he released her. "I need to go in," he confirmed softly. "But I . . ."
Marla watched him shrug again in a gesture that was achingly familiar. It touched her heart. She took the keys from his hand and unlocked the door. She turned the knob and then offered him her hand. He took it and together they entered his house.
To John's eyes, the house appeared exactly as it had that fatal morning. He paused in the doorway examining the room, trying to see what he might have missed the first time. He heard Marla ask, "Did it look like this?"
John nodded. "When I left that morning everything was fine. Straight. Clean. Nothing was out of place."
Marla's eyes took in the scene. A tan couch rested against the back wall. A wood coffee table sat in front of it. A blue chair was overturned, but seemed otherwise unharmed. A pine table was turned on its side. Broken dishes and glassware lay around it. A linen tablecloth lay in shreds. Roses denuded of petals and life lay near the table; some looked as if the blooms had been pulled off the stems. A pile of CD's lay on the floor, some of the jewel cases cracked and broken as if they'd been stepped on. She noticed something black on the floor with stuffing hanging out of it.
It looked like two people had had a violent argument. She studied her ex-husband surreptitiously as he looked around. She knew he was capable of violence, but not against a woman. Of that, she was sure. She looked around for another moment and then asked. "How long were you gone?"
"An hour, maybe two. Too long," he admitted. The agony of his grief threatened to break through his fragile defenses.
Marla nodded. Her eyes again scanned the room. "Tell me what changed from when you left."
John took a step further into the room. He glanced around again and then met Marla's eyes. They were studying him compassionately, not an emotion he had seen on her face in years. "The furniture was rearranged," he remarked with almost a wry tone to his voice. "The dishes, glasses, and vase were broken. Every bit of destruction in this room was new." He moved further into the room. His eyes dropped to the floor, to the black object that Marla had noticed. He picked it up. "This used to be a stuffed animal that Caro gave me. I guess her killer really didn't like it." He dropped the dead toy back to the floor. "All of this must have been done after he killed Caro. Otherwise the noise would have woken her."
Marla nodded agreement. It made sense. Her eyes wandered to the door of the bedroom. She could see, from the corner of her eye, how much the thought of that room disturbed John. Instead, she moved toward the kitchen. She paused in the doorway and asked, "What about here?"
John moved to join her. He looked around the room. The kitchen seemed untouched. The tray of food still sat on the kitchen floor. A rank odor from the spoiled dinner permeated the air. "Sweet Jesus," he muttered. "I forgot."
She stood still as a statue as she prompted, "Forgot what, John?"
He shook his head. "The back door. Dinner sat too long in the oven and began to burn. Caro opened the back door to let the smoke out. We never shut it. That's how he got in."
"But it was locked from the inside," she protested.
Again, he shook his head. "How could I have been so stupid? It's a spring lock. When you shut it, it automatically locks. All the killer had to do was wait until I left and then walk in. When he was done, he just shut the damn door and it locked itself. Of course there was no forced entry. We opened the bloody door ourselves! Damn."
Marla put a hand on his arm. She could feel how tense he was. "So we know how he got in. But no way to prove it. And at this point . . ."
He looked down at her manicured hand lying softly against his skin. He shrugged her arm off and began to pace. "Yeah, I know. No one would believe me. Still, now that I know, I know the killer had to have been waiting and watching. He got a lucky break with the back door, but he must have been planning this. The phone call that got me out of here proves that."
Marla mused optimistically, "It's been a week, not much chance of any evidence outside. Still . . ."
John opened the back door and stepped into the yard. A soft rain had begun to fall. His yard was a mess. He had always meant to do something about it, to trim the hedges, mow the grass, but somehow he had never seemed to get around to it. The yard wasn't that large, just a plot of grass, a few bushes by the back door and one lone tree at the back of the property.
John bent down and examined the bushes closest to the door. He saw a few cigarette butts smoked clear down to the filter. He turned the corner of the house to look at the side walkway by the bedroom. There were more bushes here, but none by the window that was behind his bed. There was a wall that separated his house from the house next door. At the base of the wall, directly across from the window, lay more cigarette butts. Again, they were smoked down to the filter.
He gazed thoughtfully at the cigarette butts and the window. Then he hoisted himself up on the wall. Damn. Someone sitting here could see clear inside. Any activity in the room, especially on the bed, would have been reflected in the large mirror across from the window. Had Caro's killer sat here, smoking cigarettes and watching them make love?
He clenched his fists in fury. He'd have bet the house the killer had done just that. It was a worse invasion of privacy than anything the police could do. To know that the killer had not only taken Caro's life, but now had soiled the memory of their last time together. John felt the rage begin to boil inside him.
He was still sitting there fuming when he heard Marla call his name. He jumped down off the wall and slowly made his way back to her.
John walked to the tree where she stood. The base of the tree was in shadow, but there was a direct line of sight to his kitchen. At the foot of the tree were a soft drink can and a paper wrapper from a fish and chip shop. Marla was pointing to them.
"Do you have a pencil?" John asked.
Marla reached in her purse and pulled out a gold pen. "Will this do?"
John nodded, took the pen and placed it gingerly inside the can. She looked at him quizzically. "Prints," he declared. "If I can get Dave to run them. It's a long shot, but . . ."
Marla nodded. John picked up the fish and chip wrapper by the edge and brought that in the house as well. He put the can and wrapper in separate plastic bags and asked Marla to sign on them. Then he grabbed another plastic bag and went back outside. Marla followed and watched as he began to pick up cigarette butts.
"Why are you doing that?" she asked curiously.
"DNA," he answered shortly. "If they ever catch the bastard, this could hang him."
Marla waited while he gathered the evidence. Then she followed him back into the house.
Wordlessly he handed her this bag too and asked her to sign it as well. His word meant nothing, but Marla was an officer of the court. Since they were divorced, he hoped her word would count. Not that this proved anything, but if he could get a name. . . He felt some of the tension drain out of him with the activity.
Marla looked at him speculatively and asked, "Mind if I make some tea? I'm chilled through."
John nodded. He picked up the phone and called Dave, then sat down to wait.
Marla filled the teakettle and put it to boil while the silence between them lengthened. She didn't find it uncomfortable. She thought it had a taste of their old camaraderie. "Do you still sail?" she asked finally.
He shook his head. "No time. Caro hated the water. She nearly drowned once."
Marla sat down across from him. She placed a hand over his and commented softly, "I'm sorry, John. Sorry for everything. I was such a bitch back then. But I was so scared. I felt you drifting away, moving into that other life like it was natural to you. And the worry about you getting hurt maybe killed. I couldn't handle it. Not any of it. I should have been a better wife."
He shook his head. "I should have been a better husband. Anyways, it's the past now, Marla. Over and done."
"I miss you," she confessed softly. "No one ever made me feel the way you could."
He patted her hand. He scrutinized her face; now she looked exactly like the young woman he had fallen in love with not the harridan who had divorced him. How had it ever gone so wrong? "I'm sorry, too. Sorry for everything. I didn't handle things very well, did I?"
She shrugged her shoulders eloquently. "We both made mistakes. We married young, maybe too young. We weren't equipped to deal with reality."
He nodded and ran his fingers through his hair. "All water under the bridge. You look good, Marla. Life without me agrees with you."
She gazed at him seriously. Her eyes widened and her fingers drummed the table as she mused nervously, "It would probably agree with me more if you were a part of it again."
John was stunned. This was the last thing he had expected. She wanted him in her life? The woman who couldn't handle his undercover work? Who had kicked him out with a barely by your leave? Yet, as he looked at her, there was something so familiar about her. Despite the physical trappings of her success, she felt like the old Marla. The woman she had been before she was caught up in the legal profession, the house, and the good life they had lived on South Island before he'd gone undercover. "What are you saying?" he asked.
"I know the timing stinks," she murmured. "But I've thought about this a lot. For quite a while actually. I know your business is doing well and that you've changed your life. Well, I've changed too. Maybe, after you get clear of this, we could give it another go."
Now John's jaw dropped. This was beyond unexpected. He couldn't have been more shook if Marla had suddenly stripped naked. He supposed in a way she had. He knew it had taken a great deal of courage for her to come to him. For her to even admit that she missed him, let alone that she wanted another chance. Still, the Marla who had been vindictive, bitter, and nasty during their divorce, may not have been sitting across from him, but he was sure she still existed.
He didn't know what to think, let alone say. Words failed him. Even if he weren't still in love with and in mourning for Caro, he would have been speechless. "Marla," he emphasized gently, "the timing does stink. For a lot of reasons."
She nodded as if she'd expected that answer. She knew he had been involved with the dead woman. That it hadn't been just a casual affair. Still, she needed to tell him sometime. And maybe, even if he wasn't ready now, he might be in the future. "I know," she answered. "Just think about it, all right?"
John was saved from further reply by two things, the sound of his front door bell and the whistle of the teakettle. Gratefully he rose from his chair and made his way to the front of the house, leaving Marla in the kitchen.
He was so distracted he just pulled the door open. "Hi, Dave," he said when he saw his friend standing there. Glad to no longer be alone with his ex-wife, he brought Dave to the kitchen. Dave nodded at Marla, apparently not surprised to see her making tea.
"Hello, Dave," she acknowledged. She stopped what she was doing and added, "John, I'm staying with the Gray's. I'll be there for a few more days. Call me." Then she turned and left.
After John heard the front door close he asked, "Why did you call her?"
"I didn't," Dave demurred with a shrug. "She called me. She read about it and wanted to know. So I told her. John, you can use all the help you can get. Things look bad. I got a peek at the files. You're in deep."
John shook his head. "She said you called her," he insisted.
Dave shrugged. "No, mate. She was probably just embarrassed to admit she called. Judging from the way she looked at you, she wants you back."
John grinned sheepishly. Then dropping the topic of his ex, he divulged, "Maybe this can help dig me out." John explained about the door and gave Dave the bagged evidence.
"It doesn't prove anything," Dave reiterated. "Even if we get latents off the can and they match someone in the files, it doesn't help."
"It helps ME," John stated firmly. "It gives me a place to go. I'm at an impasse. I think I know who set me up, but I can't prove it. And I know they didn't actually kill her, they hired someone."
Dave shook his head. His brown eyes were troubled as he asked, "Great bloody hell, John. A conspiracy? Who?"
"Snow," John confirmed quietly. He was sure of it now. After seeing and speaking to his "enemies" list, he was absolutely convinced that Snow was behind this horror. That Snow was the only one who could have planned it and found someone to carry it out.
Dave whistled. "You'll never prove it."
"I can," John refuted, "if I can catch the killer."
"I'll do what I can." Dave turned to go. "You going to move back here?"
John shook his head. "Not yet. If it's okay, I'll stay at the beach house a bit longer."
Dave grinned. "No worries. Jo said her parents would be gone for another few weeks. I'll let you know what I find out."
John nodded and showed Dave out. At the door, Dave asked, "You're not leaving?"
John shook his head. "One more thing I need to do."
Dave left looking perturbed and concerned. When John was finally alone he took a deep breath and walked into the bedroom.
He stood for a moment in the doorway, scanning the room, trying to see it, not as the place where he and Caro had loved, but as the crime scene it had now become.
His eyes began to register all the tiny details he had missed that Sunday morning. The ice bucket was on its side on the bedside table. A dark stain on the wood told the story of the ice melting. It was covered with a light film of dust and fingerprint powder. There was one champagne glass partially rolled under the table, the other appeared to be gone.
John's eyes were drawn to the bed. The king size mattress was barren, the sheets and pillowcases taken as evidence. Still he could see a dark brown stain, a reminder of the reality of Caro's death.
He shifted his eyes; the bed was too painful to look at for long. One of the lamps was overturned, lightly covered with dust. In fact, there was a thin layer of dust and fingerprint powder covering nearly everything. The drawers of his bureau stood open, the contents had clearly been searched. He should have been angry at the invasion of his privacy, but he wasn't. He had nothing to hide this time. There were no drugs here, no need for them. He thought for a moment how disappointed Snow must have been to learn through whoever he had hired to do this, that no drugs were found in the house. John wondered briefly why the killer hadn't planted some. That would have strengthened the frame.
His eyes searched the floor and came to rest on Caro's peach dress. The sight of it sent a stab of pain through his body. She had been so alive that night, so happy. She had loved him with every fiber of her being. And now she was gone. He would never hear her laugh, never see those beautiful eyes look at him again, never touch her again. That last sight of her, bleeding on the bed, already turning cold in death, was almost too much for him to bear.
He bent down and picked up her dress. He buried his face in the soft material as if he could somehow find her warmth there. Her personal scent, exotic and spicy still lingered. He gave a low moan of pain and sunk to his knees on the floor his face pressed to the delicate fabric.
Hours later John called McCloud to fill him in on what he'd found out, what he guessed and what he'd done. McCloud cautioned him to be careful. Finally, John left his house and went to his office.
He hadn't been there for a week. Couldn't face it. When he opened the door, there was a pile of mail waiting for him. He picked it up and threw it carelessly on the desk. There was a thin layer of dust over everything. His answering machine blinked at him. He sat down in his chair, grabbed a notepad and pen and began to listen. There were several messages from corporate clients wanting status reports, some calls on his missing person's case, and seven calls from a woman who said her name was Laurel and that she had some information for him. She sounded progressively more urgent with each message. She also sounded Aussie.
He called her first. "Is this Laurel?" he asked as the phone was picked up on the first ring and a soft voice said hello.
"Yes, who's this?"
"John Lawless. You left some messages at my office. I've been away for a few days. You said you had some information for me. Is this about Sarah Wheeling?"
"Sarah who? No. No. I was a friend of Caro's."
"What?"
"Can I meet you somewhere? I don't feel . . . I would rather tell you in person."
"Do you know the Kokura Café?" he asked.
"I can find it."
"Let's meet there. How will I know you?"
"I'll know you," she replied enigmatically. "I'll be there in 40 minutes." Then she hung up.
He tried to place Laurel. He didn't recall Caro ever mentioning her and there was no Laurel in her address book. He picked up the phone again and dialed. "Willy," he said when he got him on the phone, "did Caro ever mention a friend named Laurel? An Aussie?"
"No bro, don't think so. Still, she didn't tell me everything. I can check around if you like."
"I got a better idea," John explained. Willy agreed.
John arrived at the café early. He took a table near the front, ordered a coffee, and settled in to wait. The Kokura was normally busy, but it was late afternoon and the place was mostly empty. The staff had cleaned up after the lunch crowd and the black and white tile floor gleamed. The bistro tables and chairs sparkled white.
There were six booths in the back and just two of them were occupied. One held a couple in a very serious discussion. The other held Willy. He could see John and his table, but unless he wanted to be seen he would not be.
Finally, a tall, elegantly dressed woman entered the café. She looked around for a moment, her brown eyes taking in the details and then she approached John. She stood in front of him, looking at his face, her expression intensely serious. After a long moment in which she seemed to assess his entire life with her glance, she announced, "I'm Laurel."
John returned her scrutiny. She was tall, nearly as tall as he was. Her brown hair fell straight to her shoulders. She wore little makeup but her brown eyes looked intelligent. Her features were a little too plain and pronounced for beauty, and yet, there was something about her. Her clothes were well cut and obviously expensive. She wore them with style. The mauve wool dress accentuated her excellent figure. She wore pale hose on well-muscled legs and mauve pumps that matched the dress exactly. He could see where her personal style might have matched Caro's.
He stood and gestured for her to sit. She did and then he retook his seat. "Would you like something?" he asked.
She shook her head. Her hair spilled forward partially masking her pale face. "I'm terribly sorry about Caro," she sympathized.
John inclined his head. "Thank you. You said you had information? That you were a friend of hers?"
She nodded. "I met Caro about two months ago at a poetry reading. We took to each other instantly. I haven't lived here very long. I don't know that many people. Caro took me under her wing. We became very close. She told me all about you."
"The information?" he prompted.
"I'm getting there," she replied almost churlishly. "I miss her too."
"Sorry," he apologized softly. The waitress chose that moment to appear and refill John's coffee cup.
She placed a glass of water in front of the woman and asked, "Can I get you anything?"
Laurel shook her head. "Just an ashtray," she ordered. The waitress pulled one out of her apron and then left them alone.
Laurel took a silver cigarette case with matching lighter out of a slim purse. Slowly she tapped out a smoke and lit it. She exhaled, "Caro and I had lunch the day she died. She was worried about something. She planned to tell you that night. Did she?"
So Laurel was the friend she had lunch with. "She never did," he admitted slowly. "What was it?"
The woman exhaled more smoke and explained, "She wasn't too clear with me. She said she had a feeling that someone was following her, stalking her almost. There had been some phone calls at odd hours, hang ups as if someone was checking to see if she was home. Also she thought her apartment had been entered and searched. And some things were missing. A scarf, a book and she thought her diary had been read."
"Hmm," John muttered thoughtfully. If Laurel was telling the truth, this could have been what Caro had wanted to discuss with Willy. But why hadn't she told him? Then he remembered. There had been a moment that night when she seemed poised to tell him something. But desire had overtaken them. Could he be wrong? Could she have been killed for another reason all together and the frame just a lucky break for her killer?
"Anything else?" he asked.
The woman shook her head. "Not really. She had no idea who was doing this." Laurel added, "She was such a special person. I can't believe she's gone."
John eyed her speculatively. Her accent was slight, but definitely Australian. "I take it you don't believe I did it?"
She shook her head. "Caro loved you. I can see the grief in you. No, I don't believe you killed her."
"Thank you for that," he declared seriously. "So what else did you two discuss at that lunch?"
Laurel's eyes misted up at the memory. "Just girl talk. Jobs, books, men. She was really looking forward to your date. Said it wasn't often you got romantic with candles and champagne. She thought you might have something special in mind."
John studied her face as he admitted, "I did. I asked her to marry me. She said yes."
The woman's eyes widened, then seemed to narrow in calculation. An odd expression crossed her face as she commented, "Oh John, I'm so sorry. That makes it worse, doesn't it? You must be completely devastated."
He shrugged. He was finding the woman difficult to read. "I need to find out who killed her. Can you tell me anything else?"
Reluctantly she shook her head. "I'm afraid not. If you want to talk about her though, when you're ready, that is, you have my number."
John nodded. Laurel stubbed out her cigarette, got up and left. As soon as she was out the door, Willy came to the table. John looked at him.
Willy's dark eyes were very sure as he stated, "Never seen her before in my life."
John gestured toward the empty chair as he mused, "She said she met Caro two months ago. Could she and Caro have been friends without you knowing?"
Willy sat down. "It's possible, bro. Obviously, she didn't introduce you. Did she tell you anything else?"
John filled Willy in on what the woman had said. When he was done Willy asked, "Whatcha think?"
John shook his head. "I dunno, mate. Something seemed off about the whole thing. Too pat. You let her see you, right?"
Willy nodded. "I made sure she got a good look at me. I even winked at her. She's a good-looking one," he added with a leer.
John ignored Willy's comment. "So you were in plain sight. If she knew Caro as well as she claimed she'd have known who you were."
Willy grinned sheepishly. "Maybe, maybe not. Caro may not have been ashamed of her roots, but given my past, she didn't always introduce me around."
John ran his fingers through his hair in agitation. "Still, there's pictures of you in her flat. If they were the kind of friends Laurel says they were, she'd have been there. Something about this just doesn't feel right. Not right at all," he muttered softly.
When John got back to the office there was a message from Dave on his machine. "We did get some prints off the can, none off the paper. Can't test the cigarette butts until we have someone to match them too. There were only a couple of prints anyways, like maybe someone in a store picked it up, but when they drank from it, they were wearing gloves. We tried to get a match, but there was no one in the computer database. Funny thing, the fingerprint expert says the hand that made the prints is small. He can't swear to it of course, but he thinks maybe it was a woman."
Two days later John invited Laurel to meet him at Caro's flat. He'd had Willy check with the cops to make sure they were done. Willy had assured him they were and he had permission to enter.
John was just removing the yellow crime scene tape from the doorframe when Laurel arrived.
The brunette was again elegantly dressed. Today she wore a slim black skirt with a matching jacket. It reminded him of one of Caro's suits. Her brown eyes were a bit red-rimmed as if she had been crying. He considered her intently for a moment and then acknowledged, "Thank you for meeting me."
"If I can help in any way, I'd like to," she declared softly. Her eyes were almost unreadable as she scanned the detective. "Although I'm really not sure what it is you expect me to do."
John unlocked the door with his key and gestured for her to enter. "You said she told you there were some things missing. I'm wondering about her jewelry. I thought maybe you could tell me what's missing, if anything. I guess I'm just grasping for straws."
Laurel touched his arm. "I understand."
John led the woman into the apartment. It looked exactly the same as it always had, except Caro would never be there again. She had filled the small flat with things that were important to her. One wall of the living room was lined with books. Biographies, serious fiction, great literature, art books and school books. She hadn't given up her dream of finishing her education, just put it on hold after the trouble with Cass.
There was a small compact stereo on a table with a tall rack of classical and jazz CD's to one side. The couch was a black futon with a brightly colored handmade afghan thrown over the back. The afghan was pilled and ratty with age, but it was one of Caro's most treasured possessions. It was one of the few family things she had. Her maternal grandmother had crocheted it for her mother. She loved that afghan and constantly used it rather than packing it away where it would only gather dust.
There were photographs scattered through the room of her friends and family and of the happy times in her life. She also had a framed poster of her favorite painting, Van Gogh's Starry Night which hung above a small TV.
Everywhere John looked; he could see reminders of her and the time they had spent there. Even her scent seemed to linger in the air. For a moment, he felt his heart almost stop with a sense of loss so profound that it was physical. He took a deep breath and forced himself to focus.
He cast a surreptitious glance at Laurel. She stood still as a statue at his side. Her hands gripped her small purse tightly; the knuckles were white with strain. There was an air about this woman of absolute quiet, of concentration, as if she too was lost in memories of her own. He focused his eyes on her face, as if waiting for a sign.
She turned and looked at him. Her brown eyes looked a little haunted. "This is harder than I thought it would be," she said in a voice almost strangled with pain.
"I keep expecting her to walk through the door," John admitted.
"I still can't believe she's gone," Laurel confessed. "She was so alive, so vibrant. Her death seems such a waste."
John thought that last was an odd thing to say but knew grief could make you lose perspective. And he had no doubt the woman at his side was grieving.
He swallowed convulsively and prompted, "Are you ready?" She nodded. He went through the living room and into the bedroom. He paused in the doorway to look around.
Caro's bedroom had the flavor of the Arabians nights. She had a queen size four poster bed, which she'd draped with exotic throws. The bedspread was made of thin muslin and there were several bright pillows in richly patterned fabrics lying on it. His mouth went dry at the memory of how they had been together in that room on that bed.
There was a small bedside table on which stood a ginger jar lamp. The last time he had been there Caro draped a red scarf over it to change the color of the light. It was still there. An eerie reminder of the sight of her blood on his bed.
Her dresser was across the room. It was large, old-fashioned, and handmade. The oak was varnished to a bright sheen and the drawers had beautiful hand painted porcelain knobs. On the top of it sat a small makeup mirror, a silver backed brush and comb set, which he'd given her for her last birthday, and her jewelry box. The jewel box wasn't large and the wood was worn, as if it had been handled too many times. The finish had been worn away by finger oil. He knew Willy had bought it for her on her sixteenth birthday and that she had treasured it.
John strode to the dresser and opened the box. A sweet tune softly filled in the silence while a ballerina danced inside the box. He looked at the contents. There wasn't much, a few rings, some earrings and a necklace. He attempted to hand the open box to Laurel, but she shook her head. She looked at the contents and confirmed, "It seems to be all there."
John gently put the box back on the dresser leaving the lid open. The tune seemed to follow him as he went to the closet. "What about her clothes? You mentioned a scarf, is there anything else missing?"
"I'm sorry," the woman apologized. "I'm not that familiar with her wardrobe. I don't think I'd really know."
"Well, thanks for trying anyways," John remarked. He turned and went back into the living room. "Laurel," he implored softly, "Caro didn't give you any clue as to who was bothering her?"
Laurel shook her head. "I'm sorry, John. I wish I had more to tell you. I want to help."
He eyed her speculatively. Though she seemed more relaxed in the living room, there was something different about her now. The stillness was gone, replaced with an almost unconscious edgy energy. "Would you look at some pictures? Maybe, even if she didn't mention the person, you might have seen them around."
"Sure," she reiterated. "Anything I can do."
John pulled a set of pictures out of his pocket. He tried to hand them to her. She wouldn't take them; instead she moved and stood next to him to look at them. He showed her pictures of Dave, Paulie, and Willy. "None of them ring a bell? Not even this last one?" he asked pointing at the picture of Willy.
"Him?" Her eyes involuntarily darted around the room and then came back to him. "He looks a bit rough. I don't think I ever saw him around her, though I suppose he could have been around without my seeing him. Who is he?"
"You don't know?" he asked curiously. He tried to keep his features neutral.
Regretfully she shook her head. "Sorry. Who is he?"
John attempted to keep his eyes sincere as he lied to her, "An ex-boyfriend of her's. And you're right; he is a bit rough. Been in trouble with the law from time to time."
"Do you think maybe he could have done it?" she asked her voice alight with curiosity, her eyes seeming to accept the lie as truth.
John shook his head and mumbled, "I don't know. Maybe." He made a silent apology to Willy as he added another lie, "I'll have to see what I can find out. Laurel, thank you for coming. If I think of anything else, can I call you again?"
She looked at him. Her eyes were wide with some strong emotion as she confirmed, "Of course. Anytime. I want to help."
John nodded gratefully and led her to the door. "Aren't you leaving?" she asked.
He shook his head. "No, I'm going to stay for a while. I feel close to her here."
Laurel nodded as if she understood and left. After the door shut, John's body relaxed. He hadn't even realized how tense he was. He let out a long breath and collapsed on the futon. He had his answer now or at least part of it. Laurel was definitely not what she seemed. The question was who was she? And what part had she played in Caro's death? A wave of sorrow swept over him. He shivered and looked at the afghan that Caro had treasured. He tenderly picked it up and wrapped it around himself as if somehow he could find comfort within the ancient wool.
After John finally left Caro's flat, he went back to his office. He called Dave immediately. He asked Dave to trace Laurel's telephone number and see what if anything he could find out about her. Then he set out on his own search.
Two days later he didn't have much. Dave had traced her number to a flat rented in the name of Laurel Vale. She had lived there for two months. It was in one of those efficiency buildings, where the flat came furnished and utilities were included. John went by and found her super. He confirmed she paid her rent on time but knew nothing else. John wanted a look at the rental papers, but the super said no. The offer of a fifty-dollar note changed his mind. Unfortunately, the file was empty. The sheet of paper that should have had her work address, last known residence, family and other personal information was blank. John asked why and the super shrugged. He told him to talk to the rental agent. John tracked him down and after much bullying discovered, that Laurel had paid him a bonus to avoid filing the paperwork.
Willy had taken a photo of Laurel without her knowledge when she'd met John at the Kokura. John spent most of the next day showing it around. He went to the bookstore where Caro worked, but no one there had ever seen the mysterious woman. He took the picture to the college where Caro still took the occasional class, no one there recognized her either. Then he took the picture around to all of Caro's other friends. He drew a complete blank. If this woman HAD really known Caro, their friendship had been a secret from everyone. Still, he got the feeling, even with all the mystery, that the woman was truly grieving for Caro.
John sat in his office going over everything he knew. He was sure Laurel was involved somehow. Maybe she was the one who made the call to him. There had to be a way to break her down. Get her to tell him who had hired her to make that call to get him out of the house. Get her to tell him who killed Caro.
He thought over their previous conversations and something odd she said teased at his mind, but he couldn't quite grasp it. It would come back to him, he was sure. He picked up the phone. He called Willy, Dave and Andy Deakin, a surveillance expert as well as old friend and arranged a meeting.
Over beers in the pub, John studied his friends and outlined his plan. Willy looked mean and menacing in a black tee and black jeans. He again needed a shave and his eyes were still red from lack of sleep and alcohol. Dave had come straight from the station house, dressed in his usual work clothes, polyester slacks, cotton-striped shirt and solid tie. Dave's eyes were troubled and John was sure, that given the appropriate moment he would object. Then there was Andy. Andy was something else; he had a nervous energy that expressed itself in clipped sentences and darting eyes. His mouth was in constant motion as were his hands. He was the best surveillance expert John had ever worked with. As long as Andy took his medication, he was fine.
As soon as John finished outlining what he had in mind, Dave objected. "John, what if something goes wrong?"
John shook his head. He pushed his hair off his face and replied, "What could go wrong? We're not dealing with guns here. She knows something. Can you think of another way?"
Andy's eyes darted from one man to the other, finally landing in a space between Willy and John. He poured himself another glass of beer from the pitcher on the table and stated, "As long as we stick to the plan it will be okay. John's plans always work."
"Too right," Willy swore softly. "Sometimes too well. You sure about the no guns?"
John raised his eyebrows and gave Willy a wry grin. "You won't need a bulletproof vest this time," he retorted. "You aren't going in. Just me. Andy, do you have the right gear?"
Andy nodded. "Yeah. When do you want to do this?"
"Tomorrow." John gave a sidelong glance at Willy. "They finally released Caro's body and we scheduled the funeral for the day after. I'd like to be off the hook by then. We're agreed?"
Dave shook his head. His cocker spaniel eyes were wide as he reiterated. "I don't like it."
"I know," John repeated. He gave his friend a weak smile and added, "but this time Ellis can't nail you for overstepping. And if you help me bring in the real killer, you might even get a promotion."
Dave snorted and took a long draught of beer. "Fat lot of good that'll do me," he confessed. "Now Jo's pissed that I'm still in the force. She thinks I should have thrown in with you. She forgot all about her mortgage and college worries. Thinks I could have been making a bundle."
John had his first real laugh since Caro had died. He grinned broadly at his friend and allowed, "Maybe we can discuss a partnership AFTER I'm clear of this."
John paced the living room of his house. He thought he was as ready as he ever would be. He and Andy had arrived early that morning and set up two disguised video cameras and four microphones. Willy was with Andy in the surveillance van across the street and Dave was in the kitchen. If Dave's presence needed to be explained the jig was up anyway. He just hoped this would work.
He heard a soft knock at the door. He opened it to find Laurel standing on the step. "Did you have any trouble finding the place?" he asked. He had deliberately given her wrong directions, yet there she stood.
She cocked her head a bit uncertainly and replied, "Not really. I got lost for a bit, but figured I just misunderstood. I still don't see why you wanted me to come here."
"Come in," he invited as he stepped back to let her enter. "You said if I ever wanted to talk about Caro, you were willing to listen. Well, I do. We spent our last night together here. It seems like the right place."
"She also died here," the woman remarked as she stepped tentatively over the threshold. "I'm not sure I can do this."
"If I can, you can," he pled softly. "Please, Laurel. You said you wanted to help."
She nodded and followed him into the living room. He hadn't cleaned up; he'd left the house exactly as it had been when Caro died. He heard her sharp intake of breath as she took in the situation. She turned around quickly and looked as if she wanted to run.
He touched her arm. "Please," his deep brown eyes bored into her. "Please, sit down and talk to me."
She nodded uncertainly, but let him lead her to the sofa. She sat primly on the edge and turned to stare at him. She waited for him to begin.
John examined the woman. Once again, she was dressed in an elegant outfit. Today it was a black silk blouse and wool slacks. There was a bright red scarf at her throat and she carried a small black purse. He could feel the tenseness coming off her body in waves. "Would you like something? I think I have some tea or beer or I can make coffee."
"Nothing, thank you," she replied formally.
"Fair enough," he conceded. "I'm not really sure where to start. I guess I just wanted to remember her. Can you tell me again about the two of you."
The woman peered at him. Her brown eyes seemed to again assess him with their gaze, as she had that first time. Her mouth pursed as she asked, "Why?"
"Well," he remarked, his face beginning to flush from her scrutiny, "she never told me about you. I thought she and I were close. No two people could have been closer. And yet . . . " he let the words trail off hoping to prompt her.
Laurel sighed softly and explained, "Well, as I said we met at a poetry reading. We took to each other right away. That night we went and had coffee and talked for hours. After that, we would meet two or three times a week. We'd have lunch and talk sometimes go for drinks. Once we went to the museum. She was so special. She never even knew how special she was." A lone teardrop began to travel down her cheek.
"You really cared for her," John acknowledged with shock. A tendril of doubt nagged him. Could Laurel really be real?
She looked at him, her eyes wide with surprise. "Of course I did. I never knew anyone like her. She could touch your heart without even trying."
"I know," he mumbled softly. He watched as another tear rolled down her cheek. "You said she talked about me. What did she say?"
Laurel gulped. "When I first met her, the two of you were having difficulties. She told me about your drinking, your fighting, but even so, she seemed determined, no matter how bad it got, to hang on to you."
"Hang on to me?" he repeated. "There was never any question of that. I loved her. She knew that."
Laurel shook her head. "She told me how difficult you could be. How you'd get so angry sometimes that she was afraid of what you might do."
John's eyes opened wide in astonishment. "She knew me better than that. I'd never hurt her. Never."
Laurel looked at him with something resembling pity in her eyes. "Maybe not, but it can't have been easy for her. She was so refined, so classy, and so genteel. To stay with you, when you acted like a lout. Well . . . " she let the words trail off.
John thought her tone carried an enormous amount of bitterness. He decided to ignore it in favor of exploring another avenue. "We'd gotten past that, you know? I told you, I asked her to marry me. She said yes."
"Did she?" Laurel queried the words so softly, he almost wasn't sure he'd really heard them.
"Yes, she did," he answered anyway. "That last night."
"Hmm," Laurel muttered.
"You think I didn't?" he asked. "You think I'm lying?"
"No . . ." she uttered the word as if it had twelve syllables. "It's just I knew she was bothered by your jealousy."
John felt the muscle in his jaw begin to twitch. This was the oddest conversation. "My jealousy? What do you mean?"
Laurel took a deep breath and her gaze darted nervously around the room as she clarified. "She told me about how angry you got before you left for South Island. How angry you were when that man came up to her in the bar after you'd stepped away for a moment. It scared her."
"Are you saying she was scared of me?" he asked curiously
Her voice sounded very sure as she replied, "Well, you could be violent. She knew that. And maybe she wasn't so much afraid of what you would do to her, but perhaps to the other party."
"You're thinking that she was afraid I'd go after someone else," he admitted thoughtfully. "Get myself in trouble." Laurel nodded. "You know," he speculated, "I've been wracking my brain trying to figure out why she didn't tell me someone was bothering her. We told each other everything. We didn't keep secrets."
"Well," Laurel temporized, "like you said, maybe she was afraid of what you'd do to him."
"I find that difficult to believe," he insisted. "If someone was stalking her she needed help. I can't accept that she wouldn't ask for mine."
The woman seemed to stiffen at his words. "All the same, maybe she felt more comfortable confiding in me. Maybe because she knew I wouldn't blame her."
"Blame her?" he asked in puzzlement. "Blame her for what?"
"Blame her for being beautiful. For attracting someone else. For being the kind, loving, and gentle woman she was. God, I miss her." Several more tears fell from the woman's eyes. Self-consciously she wiped them away with the back of her hand.
John studied her. Was he mistaken? Her grief seemed so genuine and yet . . . "It's clear you really cared about Caro. How did she feel about you?'
"What?" Laurel's eyes opened wide, bright with more unshed tears. She opened her purse and pulled out a tissue. She dabbed at her eyes and then blew her nose.
"Well," John stated slowly, his eyes never leaving her face, "she was obviously very important to you. But she never mentioned you to me. So I'm just wondering how she felt about you."
"She loved me," the woman insisted.
"Did she?" John's eyes never wavered from hers as he declared, "I don't see how that could be true. She would have told me."
Laurel stared back at John, her gaze was level, but a small, almost malicious smile played about her lips as she responded to him. "Maybe she was afraid you'd be jealous of our relationship."
John's jaw dropped as he asked tentatively, "Why would I be jealous?"
Now the smile on her lips definitely was malicious. "We had something special Caro and I did. Something that you could never have had with her. Something that you couldn't share. Our friendship was unique. Maybe that's why she didn't tell you about me."
He shook his head. "I don't think so, Laurel. I don't think so at all. In fact, I doubt very much whether you and Caro were even really friends."
"Why are you saying this? She was my best friend," she insisted.
"No," he persisted. "I don't think so. Caro would have told me about you. She would have told her brother, Willy. You haven't told me anything that proves you really knew Caro. Not a thing." He paused and added, "How close could you have been to her? You didn't even recognize her brother."
The smiled faded from Laurel's lips. Her eyes grew a bit confused as she repeated, "Her brother? I may not have met her brother Willy, but I knew all about him. What's he got to do with this anyway?"
Now a small smile flitted across John's lips. "Well, for one thing, she NEVER called him Willy, always Wallace. For another, you didn't recognize his picture when I showed it to you. Caro had pictures of him all over her flat. If you'd been there before, with her, she'd have told you who he was. So clearly, you were never there before the day you were there with me. At least not with her anyways. But you had been there, hadn't you?" He paused and studied her face again. "You were the one who read her diary. That's how you knew about me, about what happened between us, about my supposed jealousy. Cause it was in her diary."
Desperation flashed across Laurel's face. Her voice was hoarse as she asked, "Why are you doing this to me? I thought you wanted to talk about her. Remember her. She and I were close. We loved each other. This is cruel, John."
"Cruel?" he repeated the word with a bitter laugh. "No, this isn't cruel. How much did Snow pay you to get close to her? To make that call that got me out of the house that morning. To set her up to be killed to get at me."
"What are you talking about? Who's Snow?" Her eyes were wide now, with fear and another more complicated emotion he couldn't quite peg. She rose from the couch and began to walk to the door.
John jumped up and loomed over her. He gripped her arms to stop her from leaving. "You aren't going anywhere. Not until I have the truth from you. How much did Snow pay you? What did he promise you?"
"I don't know any Snow," she insisted. "And you're hurting me. No wonder she was afraid of you. You're a monster."
He shook his head and kept his grip steady. "She was not afraid of me. Look Laurel, I do believe you truly cared for her. Maybe you didn't know what Snow planned. Maybe you thought it was all some kind of complicated practical joke. Just tell me the bloody truth for Christ's sakes."
"For the last time," she said slowly and succinctly, "I don't know any Snow. I met Caro at a poetry reading. We were good friends. I loved her and she loved me."
He laughed bitterly. "That's a load of crap. She didn't love you, I doubt if she even knew you. Caro never went to a poetry reading in her life. Couldn't stand the stuff. Didn't even own one poetry book. She used to say it was a lot of fancy words made pretty that had no meaning."
"That's not true," the woman insisted. "You're making that up. Now let me go."
John shook his head. "Tell me the truth and you can leave."
"Truth?" she repeated. Her mouth twisted into a grimace. "You wouldn't know the truth if it hit you in the face."
"Tell me about Snow."
She shook her head. "I don't know ANYONE named Snow. Who the hell is he anyway?"
"You don't know . . . " John had been watching her carefully. He was actually beginning to believe her about Snow. "Well, if Snow didn't pay you, who did?"
"No one paid me to do anything," she confessed softly. "I did everything for love."
"For love?" he repeated. He looked at her face and had a sudden flashing blinding insight. "You killed her," he whispered softly.
Her eyes were suddenly wild and filled with desperation. "What? Me? Why would I kill her?"
"You've been here before," he muttered thoughtfully. All the pieces suddenly fell into place. How could he have been so blind? He had been so sure that he was the target. He had let his anger blind him and betray him into looking at everything wrong.
"Why would you say that?" she asked.
He couldn't believe he hadn't seen it before. Hadn't realized it when she'd first said it. "When we met the first time, you told me she had mentioned candles and champagne for our date. That it was supposed to be a special night. She didn't know about any of that. Not until she got here. She couldn't have told you. The only way you could have known is if you were here."
"You must have told her," the woman insisted. "And she told me."
Again, John shook his head. His eyes bored into hers as he elucidated. "It won't wash. I know what I told her. And I know how surprised she was when she arrived. You were here. You watched us in the kitchen, then outside the bedroom window. You watched us make love, didn't you? Then you got me out of the house with that phone call and let yourself in the back door, which we rather conveniently left open for you. What happened, Laurel? Why did you kill her?"
"I did not kill her!" she shouted. "It was an accident. She wouldn't listen to me. She wouldn't listen."
"Tell me what happened," he prompted gently. "Tell me, Laurel."
The woman seemed to sag all at once. John released his grip on her and she slowly moved back and collapsed on the couch. She began to sob. "I never meant . . . She was so beautiful. All I wanted to do was love her. You weren't right for her. You were always going to hurt her. She was frightened of you, you know. Much too frightened to stop seeing you. We did have lunch that day. She told me you were back from South Island. That she was going to see you that night. The week you were gone we had so much fun. Without you around she had time for me. We went to the movies. At lunch though, she was different. She said she liked me well enough, but that it seemed like I wanted something she couldn't give. Said she wouldn't be able to see me anymore. It's all your fault!"
John felt a wave of sorrow wash over him. Laurel had been in love with Caro. Caro being Caro would have tried to let her down gently. But Laurel hadn't accepted it. Obviously, Laurel was the person in her diary. "What was all my fault?" he asked gently.
Laurel looked at him as she began her justification. "You had her so confused. She thought she loved you. Thought that you were the beginning and the end. She couldn't see how much more I could give her. She told me that she was very flattered by my feelings, but couldn't reciprocate them. Not ever. But I knew it was because of you. If you weren't in the picture than she would love me."
"Oh god," John moaned. "What happened, Laurel? Why did you kill her?'
"I never meant to," she refuted. "I was outside that night. Watching. I saw the two of you. I know you thought she liked it when you acted like an animal and later when you cuffed her up. But I knew she didn't. I knew you had hurt her. But she was so afraid of you; she'd never tell you. I knew then I had to do something. So I waited and then called. You went willingly enough, didn't you? Running off to help Willy without a second's thought about leaving her alone. I wouldn't have done that, not for anyone."
"How did you know to use Willy and why'd you pick that address?" he asked.
She looked at him as if he were a bug. Her voice was thick with contempt as she answered, "You're life isn't much of a secret, you know. It only took a bit of asking around at that pub to find out who your mates were. I didn't know he was her brother though. She never said he was a friend of yours. Guess she didn't think well enough of him to tell me."
"Why did you have to kill her? Why didn't you just come after me?"
She looked at him blankly. "I never meant to kill her. That was your fault too."
"My fault," he moaned. He put his face in his hands. "What happened after I left?"
Suddenly she gave another sob and then, as if the floodgates had opened, her words came rushing out in a torrent. "As soon as you were gone I came in the back door. I couldn't believe you'd left the house without checking it. She was still sleeping. I sat next to her on the bed and stroked her hair. She opened her eyes but when she saw it was me, she seemed scared. She grabbed for a sheet to cover her nakedness as if she had to hide that from me. She asked where you were and what I wanted. I told her you'd gone out to run an errand, even showed her the note you left. That seemed to reassure her. Then she asked me again what I wanted."
The woman's gaze slid to the bedroom door. She looked at it, lost in her memory. "I told her I just wanted to love her. That you were wrong for her, that you would keep hurting her like you had the night before. That I could take care of her, make her happy. And you know what she did?"
John shook his head. He was too overwhelmed with a thousand different emotions to speak.
"She laughed at me. Told me I must be crazy. That she loved you and that you hadn't hurt her. That she wanted you to do all that."
John moaned again.
Laurel didn't seem to hear him, so lost was she in retelling her warped version of events. "I told her I knew she must be saying that because she was afraid. I begged her to get her clothes on and come with me. That we had plenty of time before you came back to get away. But she didn't want to go. She didn't want to listen. She told me to leave, said she was sorry, but she belonged to you. That she was even more sorry that I had misunderstood her feelings, but that she never thought of me as more than a casual acquaintance. I couldn't believe it. We had so much more than that."
The woman gulped and gave a low howl. Her hands twisted in her lap as she confessed, "She tried to get away from me then. I grabbed her arms, so she wouldn't go. I must have hurt her, because she began to scream. I put my hand over her mouth and she bit me. I was looking for something to tie her up with, just until she calmed down and would listen and I grabbed the champagne bottle. Before I knew it, I had hit her with it. She looked so surprised. Those beautiful golden eyes of hers looked at me with so much fear and then hatred. I didn't mean to hurt her. I just wanted her to listen. She tried to get away again and I guess I hit her again. And then, I couldn't seem to stop. I just wanted her to look at me with love. Before I knew it, she was dead. I never meant to kill her, I just wanted her to listen to me."
John shook his head. "Did you frame me on purpose or was that a lucky accident?"
Laurel gave a bitter laugh. "A bit of both. It was cold and I had gloves on when I came in."
He looked at the woman who had killed Caro. He wanted to hate her, but some small part of him only felt pity for her. "Why did you make it look like a fight?" he asked.
She looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. "I wasn't trying to make it look like that. I was just so angry after she was dead; I wanted to destroy everything. I was furious with you, furious that you'd forced me to kill her. I wanted to punish you. Destroy your life the way you destroyed mine. The way you destroyed her love for me. If it weren't for you, she would have loved me."
John only had one last question for her. "Laurel, I don't understand. You could have gotten away with it. WOULD have gotten away with it if you hadn't called me, so why did you?"
She raised her tear stained face to look disdainfully at him. "I had to know what she'd said about me, didn't I? I had to know how much she told you. You were out on bail, I knew you'd never stop looking for her killer. And," she added the bitterness in her tone so strong it twisted her grief into another emotion all together, "I wanted to see you suffer face to face. Cause I knew you couldn't be suffering near as much as me. You could never have loved her like I did." Then she turned away from him and began to sob harder.
John felt sick to his stomach as he moved away from her. He knew the truth now, but it gave him no peace. Dave entered the living room from where he waited in the kitchen. "I've got enough. I'm sorry, John."
John nodded as Dave led the woman out. Andy came in and began to take out the gear. "Tapes look good. This will get you off the hook."
John acted as if he'd barely heard him. "Thanks, mate," he muttered absently. "I owe you one."
"More than one," Andy retorted with a laugh.
"Yeah, thanks," John repeated.
"Willy said to tell you he was going to follow Dave down to the station, give him the tape and such. He told me not to leave you alone," Andy added.
John looked at Andy and shook his head. "Bugger off, will you? Just get your gear and get out. I don't need a fucking keeper."
Andy's eyes widened in surprise. John had never talked to him like that before. "Look, John, if it's a choice between you beating on me or Willy beating on me, I'd just as soon not have either of you do it, okay?"
John looked at his old friend. "Andy," he said slowly and succinctly, "I will be fine. I do not want company. Not yours or Dave's or Willy's right now. If I listen carefully enough, I can still hear her here. I need to spend one last time with her, alone, understand? Before I bury her."
Surprisingly enough, Andy knew exactly what he meant. Quickly he gathered up his cameras and microphones and left as soon as he could.
Once John was alone, he went into the kitchen, took a bottle of Jack Daniel's from a cabinet and a clean glass. He set the bottle and glass down carefully on the coffee table. He went to the stereo and turned it on. The CD he'd been playing the night Caro died was still inside the machine. He set the volume to low and let it play. He made sure the ringers were turned off on the telephones, that all his doors were locked tight, and that all the shades were drawn closed. Lastly he went to his closet and got out his gun. He checked the clip. It was loaded. He set the gun down on the coffee table next to the bottle. He poured a large glass of Jack and drank it down quickly as the classical melody wafted over him. He contemplated the gun and his mortality. He poured a second glass of Jack, closed his eyes and began to sip.
The morning of the funeral Susan Ellis called and asked John to come down to the station. He called Gavin McCloud and asked him to meet him there and together they went to see the Inspector.
Ellis seemed pleased to see John when he entered her office, although McCloud was with him. She was glad they wouldn't have to face off in court, McCloud was the scourge of the police force. He'd twisted more than one tongue into making a mistake on the stand. "John," she declared, "I'm sorry we had to put you through all this again. And I'm truly sorry for your loss. Just doing my job."
John studied his former boss. She seemed sincere as she spoke to him. He knew she believed that she was only doing her job, but it was one too many times for his comfort. One too many times that he'd been caught inside the legal system. He shrugged noncommittally.
Almost as if she knew what he was thinking she said, "That case against you will be dropped. Not only will the evidence Dave brought in clear you, but we have more information about Laurel Vale."
"What else?" McCloud asked. He was glad John had managed to clear himself. Circumstantial cases like the one against John were difficult to fight. The evidence was just too easy to misinterpret, just as all of them from John to the police had.
"Well, first off," Ellis stated as she looked at the file, "her name is NOT Laurel Vale. When we took her prints we discovered that her real name was Laurel Bowers."
"Bowers?" John repeated in surprise. "Not . . ."
Ellis nodded. "Yes, Terry Bowers' sister."
"Bowers' sister," John said softly. "Do her prints happen to match those on the can I gave Dave?" he asked almost reflexively.
Again, Ellis nodded. "Yes. Bruford didn't find them at first because he only checked our database. She's not in it. But she is in the Australian database. This isn't the first time she's been in trouble. She has a juvenile record, which we can't access, and two arrests for prostitution. By the way John, you shouldn't have asked him to do that."
John's expression was a touch sheepish and a touch defiant all at once. "He wanted to help. I didn't think it would hurt anything. You didn't . . . If I got him in trouble again, Jo will have my head on a plate."
Ellis smiled warmly. "Not this time. It's a minor infraction. Still, it might be best if you and Bruford stopped playing Lone Ranger."
"All this is quite fascinating," McCloud said dryly, "but you want to get on with it?"
Ellis nodded. "Very well. Ms. Bowers has repeated everything she told you on the tape and signed a confession. But John, you should know, there's a bit more."
"I knew it," he swore softly.
"Apparently Terry Bowers asked his sister to get close to you. She was supposed to meet you, set you up and get you busted with a large quantity of drugs. She was also supposed to do the same to your friend Willy. Instead, she somehow met Ms. Kaa and formed an attachment. For whatever reason, she chose not to carry out his plan and instead, well, you know the rest."
"Right conspiracy, wrong conspirator," John muttered in an undertone.
"Be that as it may, Ms Bowers has been singing her head off. You're in the clear now. I doubt there will even be a trial since she confessed. Again John, I'm terribly sorry for what we put you through and for your loss."
John looked at the Inspector. "Thanks, Susan. I appreciate it. Don't be too hard on Dave, okay? His only real crime was trying to help a friend."
She nodded as she watched her former Detective Constable and his lawyer depart. She was still sorry he had left the force, but she knew everyone had to find their own way in the world.
John stood at the graveside wearing his one good suit. He was uncomfortable. His tie felt like it was choking him and his dress shoes felt as if they were going to squeeze the life out of his feet. He hated funerals. He glanced around the cemetery. There was a large turnout anyways. Caro would have liked that. To know she was so loved. Willy stood next to him, in a shiny new suit that had to have been purchased for the occasion. How Caro would have laughed to see the two of them looking the way they did. He could almost hear her making fun of the two of them, all dressed up, looking like adults instead of the teenagers she often accused them of being. Oh god, he missed her.
For a long moment, the day before, as he drank down the Jack Daniels and contemplated the barrel of his gun, he had considered joining her. But he was just religious enough to wonder if he would end up in some other place than in the heaven he was sure she had gone to. And he maintained just enough sobriety to remember that she wouldn't have wanted him to do it. That she wouldn't have wanted him to quit living because she had. But it was so hard to think of life without her. He didn't know how he was going to go on.
The service was short, the priest intoned the appropriate words and then the clods of earth began to drop loudly on the coffin. John stood there watching silent and unmoving in his grief. His posture was that of a statue to pain. Slowly the other mourners left. Some like Dave and Andy whispered a condolence. Some, like Paulie cuffed him lightly on the arm. And some, mostly Caro's co-workers and other friends simply shared a glance of understanding. Finally, only John and Willy were left.
The two men, brothers by choice not blood, watched the dirt bury their dreams. They said nothing to each other, just stood there, each nursing their pain. Now that the need to focus on the hunt was gone, the sense of loss was overwhelming. With no distractions, no other focus, the two men were alone together with their grief.
When the gravedigger at last was done and Caro's body was buried six feet under, Willy looked at John. John looked back. Their eyes met. Each of them was filled with a heart wrenching sadness that neither could express.
The two men turned from the freshly mounded grave without exchanging a word. John drove Willy to the pub, but declined his invitation to come in and drink. Alcohol was not what he wanted today. He'd had enough yesterday and he knew it wouldn't help. With a shrug, Willy turned and went inside the bar. Everyone had to mourn in their own way; Willy's shrug had seemed to say.
John drove around Auckland, visiting all the places he and Caro had gone together. A restaurant, a clothing store, a music store, the park. He never stopped the car to go inside anywhere; he simply drove by and remembered.
Finally, he could bear it no more. He drove to his office. His license had been reinstated and he might as well go back to work. At least it was something to do.
His footsteps echoed eerily down the hall as he walked to his office. When he arrived, the door was open. He knew he had locked it when he left. What was going on now? He spared a thought that it might be another one of Bowers' mates, this time looking to help Terry with a more permanent solution to his Lawless problem. He didn't have his gun; hadn't thought he needed it. Still, he would almost welcome an excuse for violence now. His soul felt empty and drained. His body slow and leaden as if all the life had been bled out of him. For a moment, again, even the thought of death was welcome. Then maybe the pain would disappear.
He strode into his office in a rush, hoping for an opportunity to feel something other than anguish.
She was standing at the window her back to the room. Her hair still looked glossy in the light from the street, though she'd changed the color. It was no longer chestnut, but now a rich auburn almost burgundy. Her small form was encased in a pair of tight black slacks and a long teal tunic.
She turned when she heard him come in. Her gray eyes were wide almost luminous with strong emotion. She stood there framed in the light looking nervous.
John was stunned. What was she doing here? Why had Randa Franklin come to him, that day of all days? "How did you get in here?" he asked.
She smiled uncertainly. Her voice sounded nervous. "The super let me in. I told him I was your sister. I don't think he believed me, but he believed the fifty dollar note I gave him."
John nodded. "Randa, what are you doing here? Today is NOT one of my better days."
"I know," she said softly. She took a few steps toward him. "I was going through my bank records and realized you never cashed the check I gave you. I kept meaning to call you about it, but I put it off. Then last week, I heard about your girlfriend. I didn't want to interfere, but then I found out the funeral was today. And I got to thinking."
She took two more steps closer to him. "John, I know what it's like to lose someone you love. To be so lost in the pain you almost forget how to breathe. I thought, maybe, I could help."
He looked at her. Her gray eyes were full of compassion and concern. He knew she would understand. Almost a year ago her husband had been falsely accused of a crime and then murdered. He had helped her find the killer and achieve closure. She had in many ways literally been where he was. Still, he couldn't move or speak. The emptiness inside him was all encompassing, a vast void poised to suck all the feeling out of him.
She took another step closer. "I know the sense of loss, the pain, the ache that's physical. Everywhere you go, everywhere you look, you're reminded. I know the anger you feel at the person who took her away. You don't have to grieve alone."
Her eyes were kind, her voice soft. Something in the very way she stood there, offering up a part of herself to him, touched the part of him that could still feel.
"I don't know how to . . . " he let the words trail off.
She moved even closer and touched his arm. "I know," she whispered. "I know. It's overwhelming. You become numb, drugged almost with the pain. Let me help."
John sank down in the leather chair across from his desk. He loosened his tie and looked at her.
She knelt on the floor in front of him. His brown eyes were so full of anguish. She took his hands in hers and looked up at him, her gray eyes bright with tears. "Tell me about her," she murmured. "Just tell me something you loved about her."
He swallowed hard and opened then closed his mouth. He shook his head as if it hurt too much.
She gripped his hands tighter. "I know you must miss her. You can't believe she's gone, can you? Now you want to die too, because it hurts so badly. You don't know how you're going to get through the day. But she wouldn't want you to stop living. She'd want you to grieve and then go on."
"I never even got to say goodbye," he muttered hoarsely.
She knew exactly what he meant. "You had no way to know it was going to be the last time you saw her alive. No way to know."
"She was sleeping, you know?" he murmured. "She looked so peaceful. I didn't want to wake her. And I didn't want to worry her. I didn't even kiss her goodbye. I just left her there to be murdered."
"It's not your fault," Randa declared softly. "You couldn't have known."
"But I should have known," he screamed. "I should have KNOWN."
"Of course you should have," she acknowledged her voice deliberately cold. "Because you're the most all powerful person in the world, right? You're god, so you should have known that the moment you left your house, as I'm sure you've done a thousand times before, someone was going to walk into it and kill the woman you love." She paused and her voice was gentle as she added, "John, you couldn't have known. Not then, not ever."
For a moment, he looked as if he'd been slapped in the face. Her words were harsh, but he knew they carried a kernel of truth in them. "I should have checked the back door," he whispered so softly she almost didn't hear him.
There it was. The guilt. "Yes, you probably should have. But what if you had? You'd have shut and locked it. Do you really think that would have stopped her killer? From what I read, she knew Caro; she would have just rung the bell. And most likely Caro would have let her in. Or possibly, she could have broken in. So really, even if you had checked and locked the door, it probably wouldn't have made a difference."
"I'll never know that now, will I?" he reiterated. "I might as well have killed her myself. It's because of my carelessness she's dead."
"No, it is not," Randa said slowly and succinctly. "Caro is dead because she loved you and that didn't sit right with her killer. Caro is NOT dead because you were careless. She is not dead because of anything you did or didn't do. She is dead because a sick woman killed her. This is NOT your fault."
"That sick woman would never have been in her life if I hadn't busted her brother when I was a cop," he grumbled.
Randa squeezed his hands. They were like ice. Her heart went out to him, to his pain "John, we can all trace everything back to an earlier action in our lives. I can truthfully say that Ben would be alive if he hadn't married me. Would I give up the five years I had with him to change that? I don't know. Would he have wanted me to? I doubt it. Would Caro have wanted you to be different? Didn't you also meet her brother on that same case? Didn't that keep her from spending her life in a Nevada prison? For everything we do, everything we say, there is a consequence of some sort. You cannot blame yourself for this. It's not your fault."
He shook his head in disagreement. "It's not fair. She was so young. We were going to get married. Build a life. Have kids. Now . . ."
She swallowed convulsively. "I know you loved her. What was it about her that charmed you so?"
John took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and began to talk. At first, his words were tentative, slow, haphazard. At first, he didn't make much sense at all. Things came out as a jumble of odd disconnected thoughts. Then after a time, he began to tell Randa stories about Caro. Once the dam opened, the words tumbled out of him. He sat in the chair, while the woman knelt at his feet and poured out his heart. He spoke of how special Caro was, of all the small ways she brought him joy. Of how she had taught him to smile again and to trust. He talked for hours while Randa listened, neither of them moving. After a while he even forgot she was there and he let the pain explode out of him.
He began to shake in the chair, his breath coming fast, his emotions in a torrent. The words were now moans, then howls of pain. He screamed out his rage at the unfairness of life, wishing it had been him and not her. He pulled his hands from Randa's and pounded on the side of the chair, while the tears streamed down his face. He closed his eyes and shrieked out his pain in long drawn out screams that sounded more animal than human. After a while, his anguish lessened and his body quieted.
When he opened his eyes to thank her she was gone. He hadn't heard her leave. On his desk was a note, "I doubt I can ever repay you for what you did for me. The closure you gave me. But perhaps, in some small measure this is a start. If you ever need me again, just call."
The End