L.A.P.D. Special Investigations Series, Boxed Set: The Deceived, The Taken & The Silent (5 page)

Now, after three months in therapy, a whole lot of determination and a new lead, Adam was dried out and on a course to set things right. Four years was too long to be in limbo.

With the new information connecting Sullivan to Bryce on the night he died, he was going to uncover who was responsible for his former partner’s death and make the scumbag pay.

He couldn’t fix his broken marriage, but he was better off for it. A cop who couldn’t focus on more than one thing had no business being married. He’d learned that lesson the night his partner died. And the guilt still plagued him.

“I’ve got some stuff for you to check out when you get back tomorrow,” Rico said when he returned to the phone.

“Yeah? Like?”

“Nothing huge. You’ll see when you get here.”

Adam had come to respect his new partner’s sharp eye for detail and his powers of deduction. The kid thought things out, while he charged through life like a bull, a just-do-it, act-on-instinct kind of guy who cut to the chase. Despite their rocky start, they made a helluva good team.

“What’re you gonna do about the widow?”

“Nothing. Not yet. I’m hoping she’ll have a change of heart, call tonight and agree. If not, I’ll get the order myself. It’ll take longer, but maybe I can squeeze an old debt to hustle it through.”

He quickly ended the call before he got a lecture from Rico on the way the court system was supposed to work. Calling in old debts didn’t fit with the kid’s altruistic philosophy. Just as he hung up the receiver, the phone rang again.

“Yeah. What’dya forget?”

“Detective Ramsey?”

His adrenaline kicked in.

“This is Jillian Sullivan.”

As if he didn’t know. As if he wouldn’t recognize her voice in an instant. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Sullivan?”

“I’d like to see those photos again.”

“I’ve got a plane to catch early in the morning.”

“How about now?”

Man, oh, man. Someone somewhere was smiling on him. “My place or yours?”

She was quiet for a moment. “How about splitting the distance? A café or something.”

“Sure. It’s your town, you make the call and tell me when to be there.”

They made plans to meet at a diner at six-thirty. She said she had a birthday party to attend afterward.

He knew why she wanted to see the photos again. She wanted to make sure she was right—that the man in the photo wasn’t her husband.

No matter how much you trusted someone, once the seeds of doubt were planted, they were tough to ignore. He knew that only too well. He felt a twinge of regret that he’d sowed those seeds in Jillian Sullivan. She seemed like a nice person. A conscientious mother.

But in his business, the reality was that people sometimes got hurt. So why did this one lodge so solidly in his craw?

Hot, sticky and irritable, he showered and shaved, pulled on a pair of jeans and a white Polo shirt. He decided to go with the ankle holster for his gun…do whatever he could do to make her feel more comfortable and more agreeable to his suggestion. People were always more agreeable when they were comfortable…and getting what they wanted. He’d learned early on that the proverbial ‘flattery will get you everywhere’ was quite true in most cases.

It was six-twenty when he pulled into Joe Bailly’s parking lot. An early-evening breeze dusted over him as he headed toward the door. He hoped for some quiet corner where they could talk privately, but the place was crowded and noisy as an old fashioned jukebox blared oldies-but-goodies as a reminder that rock and roll was here to stay.

“How about the patio?” he said to the hostess, who led him outside to a table with an umbrella. The heat wasn’t as stifling as it had been earlier, and it was quieter outside, although he could still hear music. He picked a spot where he could see anyone who entered the patio.

Five minutes later he saw Jillian Sullivan striding toward him in a figure-skimming scarlet dress that was so hot it could’ve set the place on fire. With each confident step, her long strawberry-blond hair, straight tonight, swished from side to side keeping time with the totally appropriate, primal beat of Billy Idol’s Hot in the City.

As she neared, he could see large silver hoops glinting at her ears, and dark red toenails peeking from barely-there, nose-bleed high black sandals. He’d never been so freaking aware of a woman in his life.

For a moment he regretted he was going home in the morning.

Reaching him, she gave him only the briefest acknowledgment, and when he made an attempt to stand, she said, “Don’t bother.”

She sat opposite him. The waitress took their drink orders, Jillian’s for one of those fancy iced coffees and his for a cold glass of draft beer.

“You mind if I order dinner and eat while we’re talking?”

“And if I did?” She crafted a wry smile.

He shrugged and gave her a smile of his own. “I’d order anyway. Maybe you’d like to join me?”

“I’d like to look at the photos again. Did you bring them?”

“I did. And I apologize if I seemed insensitive earlier.”

Her eyes widened, as if surprised at the admission.

“I’ve been told I’m too results oriented,” he said, “that sometimes I have a tendency to go for the gold and forget common courtesy. I’m trying to change. So I hope you’ll accept my apology, have dinner with me and we’ll start again.”

Her expression softened.

Excellent. He picked up a menu to hand to her.

No, thanks,” she said, moistening her lips. “I appreciate the offer…and the apology, but I’d better save my appetite for the party.”

Heat burned in his chest. He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

CHAPTER FOUR

SOMETHING IN JILLIAN YEARNED to say yes. But her gut instinct told her to stay as far away from this man as Jupiter.

The waitress came back with their drinks and took his order for a steak sandwich, French fries and onion rings. Just as the waitress was leaving, he asked, “You sure you don’t want something to eat?”

She smiled. “I’m sure.” And she hoped to hell her stomach didn’t growl. She’d been so upset over his earlier visit she hadn’t been able to eat a thing. Now he seemed so concerned, so genuine and sincere…but he’d already lied to her once to get something he wanted.

Just then a man and woman with two children were led to a table on the other side of the patio. As they passed, one little boy dropped his ball. Adam caught it on the bounce and tossed it back to the child with a smile. When the kid caught it, Adam gave him a thumbs-up.

He had an ease with children, a trait not all men possessed. He’d been just as at ease with Chloe, she remembered.

“You have children?” she asked.

“No, but I have some awesome nieces and nephews.”

“Nice. How many?”

He let out a whoosh of breath. “I lost count at six or seven.”

“So you’re from a big family, then?” She didn’t know why, but she’d thought of him as someone without much family. A loner.

“Maybe by some people’s standards. But in the Ramsey family, anything less than half a dozen is small. We were six. Four girls, two boys. All my sisters are married and pressuring me to get with the program.”

“And you don’t like the program?”

He eased back in his chair and looked directly at her. Drummed his fingers on the table. “Hey, I think it’s great.” A beat later he added, “For other people.”

So. He wasn’t married. And didn’t want to be. The quickness with which he’d said so sounded like a man who’d had a bad experience. Like her friend Patti who, after her divorce, had vowed to never ever get married again. Until she fell in love six months later.

“How about you…brothers and sisters?”

Shaking her head, she said, “No.” She’d never met the half sister from her father’s second marriage, and had only learned of the girl after she’d died from a drug overdose. Someone from social services found her when searching for a relative to decide what to do with the remains. Dina. Her name was Dina.

“An only child,” he said, as if that was somehow significant.  “I can’t imagine what that might be like. Lots of perks, I guess. No sibling rivalry, no hand me down clothes. No having to share the candy, or babysit the youngest in the family.” He grinned.

“No big brother to stand up for you when kids picked on you, no sister who’ll play house with you, or who’ll help fix your hair and makeup.” She smiled. “Good and bad both ways.”

She reached for her drink and took a sip. And all this small talk was just putting off the inevitable.

The photos. She had to see the photos.

The waitress brought his food. “Help yourself to some fries,” he said and shoved his plate toward her.

“No thanks. I love them, but calories I don’t need.”

He leaned back in his chair, his eyes dancing over her. “You don’t look like a woman who needs to worry much about that.”

He smiled then, a wide, dazzling smile as his gaze raked over her…or seemed to…from her perspective. Her imagination. She shifted in her seat, so out of practice in social situations with men that she didn’t know how to respond. “Looks are deceiving,” she finally said. “More often than not.”

“You a vegan?”

Laughter bubbled up. “Oh, no. I’m not that disciplined.”

He took a bite of his sandwich, and after he finished chewing, he said, “Must be some birthday party.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, you got all dressed up for it.”

“Oh.” Some birthday party was right. All women and she didn’t know why she’d chosen to wear a dress.

Or maybe she did. “I’m not all dressed up.”

He took another bite of his sandwich and studied her as he chewed. Then he said, “Sorry, I forgot. You’re a California girl.”

“Which means?”

“You have the look.”

The look.  And he had a line of bullshit a mile long. What she didn’t know was if it was just usual cop talk or if he was hitting on her. And she had so little experience in the single world, she wouldn’t know if he was or wasn’t.

“Then I guess it’s okay for me to say you have the cop look,” she returned.

He glanced at his clothes. “No uniform, no visible badge or weapon. What?”

“It’s not what you’re wearing, it’s the way you walk and talk and how you check everything out. Your RoboCop attitude.”

“You’re an expert in body language?”

“My father was a cop.” At his look of surprise, she narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t check me out?” She didn’t believe that, not for a second.

Instead of answering her question, he asked one of his own. “You said was? Is he retired?”

“He’s dead.”

“Sorry.”

“We weren’t close. And he died a long time ago.”

“LAPD?”

“No. And if you don’t mind, I’d like to see those photos now.”

His hand went to his back pocket, and in that flicker of a second, she wanted to take back her words. Did she really want to do this? She wanted to prove to herself that the man in the photo couldn’t be Rob, and up till this very moment, she was sure she’d find something to cement that belief. But what if she found something else? Something she didn’t want to know.

Filled with a rush of sudden panic, she shoved her chair back and bolted to her feet. “Excuse me for a minute. I’ll be right back. I-I’ve got something in my eye.” She reached to touch her eye and headed for the restroom.

As she brushed past him, he caught her hand.

“Here, let me see.” Still holding on to her, he stood. “I’m usually pretty good at this kind of thing.”

He lifted her chin, and at the touch, she felt suddenly breathless. As he reached up with his other hand, she shook her head and blinked. “Wait,” she said, stepping back to put some space between them. She blinked a couple more times. “I think it might be okay.”

“You sure?”

She nodded. “Yes. It’s fine now.”

As they sat, he frowned, his expression puzzled. He nudged his plate toward her again.

This time she took a fry and poked it into her mouth. Then she grabbed another and when she finished that, she sampled an onion ring. Before she finished chewing, she reached for her drink and gulped that down, too.

He gave her a lazy grin, as if to say he’d been right, she didn’t worry about calories, after all. But he was too gallant to mention it.

She blotted her mouth with the corner of the napkin and then wiped the grease off her fingers. “The photos, Detective?”

He kept his eyes on her, reached for a folder on the chair next to him and then pulled out a small envelope. He took out both pictures and laid them on the table between them. It was still light enough for her to see the photos clearly.

Her hand shook as she picked up the wedding photo, held it up and searched for something to prove it wasn’t Rob. Couldn’t be Rob.

But what? Most of the things she thought of wouldn’t show in a photo, especially when he was wearing a suit. The hairstyle was a little different, yet the part was on the same side…a cowlick in the same place. Not particularly unusual, was it? She picked up the second photo, and her stomach lurched.

The little boy looked so much like the man in the photo, and the man looked so much like Rob, it was uncanny. And the man was smiling. This man was happy with his family. Very happy. So, it couldn’t be Rob.

Yet nothing…absolutely nothing in the photos said definitively, this is not Rob.

She was about to set the photo down when she noticed a sliver of something on the man’s arm just below the line where his short sleeves ended. Was it? A shiver of knowing crawled up her spine. Heart pounding, she glanced at the man’s other arm. The sleeve edge. Relief flooded her limbs. It was just the sleeve edge. That’s all it was.

Ramsey was saying something to her, but suddenly she couldn’t hear a word over the roaring in her ears. She pulled herself ramrod straight and slapped the photo down on the table in front of her.

“Well, that served no purpose.” She glanced at her watch. “And I’d better leave now or I’m going to be late.”

She shoved to her feet, and the chair scraped noisily against the wood floorboards as she pushed it back, her legs as wobbly as noodles.

“Thank you for meeting me, Detective Ramsey.”

And with that, she turned and fled.

***

Monday morning, back in L.A. at the house, Ramsey nudged open the Special Investigations unit door with one foot, then shouldered it the rest of the way. He crossed to his desk and set down the coffee and the egg-and-cheese-filled tacquito he’d picked up for breakfast on the way to work, then circled the desk to sit.

“Any luck?” Sam Houston, also known as Tex, asked from his corner of the room.

“Me, have luck?” Adam responded around a mouthful of tacquito. “How’re you doin’, Tex?”

“Good as can be expected.” Tex waited a second before he added, “Considerin’.”

Tex wasn’t fond of his current gig—working on a cold case.

“Yo.” Rico Santini charged into the room, his face lit up as if he’d just been promoted. “Wait till you see this.”

He dumped a pile of papers on Adam’s desk, nearly spilling the coffee. “Hey, kid, take it easy. That’s my lifeline.” Adam rescued his coffee and cuffed Rico on the shoulder. “Your enthusiasm so early in the morning isn’t shared by everyone.”

Tex grunted in agreement. “Some of us take a little longer to get started.”

At fifty-five, Houston was the oldest detective in their unit. Adam fell in the middle at thirty-five, as did Jordan St. James and Luke Coltrane. Rico Santini, a mere twenty-seven, was the baby.

“Where’s everyone?” Adam asked, nodding toward Jordan and Luke’s empty desks.

“DB near the bus station.”

Jordan and Luke had been partners for only a short time and were such total opposites, the old timers had taken bets on how long it would take before one asked for a new partner or a transfer. But, so far, the two seemed to get along better than anyone in the unit. Surprised the hell out of Adam.

“And the captain?”

“Some big meeting with Chief MacGuire.”

Adam doused his breakfast with more hot sauce, stuffed the rest of the tortilla into his mouth and washed it down with scalding coffee. He picked up one of the papers Santini had dropped on him.

“What am I looking for?”

The kid’s dark eyes shone as he rolled his chair to Adam’s desk. “You tell me. That’s the whole purpose of this.”

No rush on getting this stuff back? The Sullivan case was nearly five years old, and he doubted anything he read would require quick action on his part. After he got the body exhumed, and if the information turned out as he suspected, then there might be a need for speed.

“Nope. It’s old stuff,” Rico said, then shoved off to roll back to his own desk.

A rogue thought sideswiped Adam. If the guy in the photo turned out to be Sullivan, how would the “widow” react? Stupid thought. He knew from what she’d said, the guy all but walked on water.

He didn’t know what it was like to have a woman feel that way about him. Not even when he’d been married. A twinge of envy surprised him…but only for a moment. He knew better than to wish for the impossible. He wasn’t cut out for marriage. It didn’t work when you couldn’t pay as much attention to your partner as your job. And he loved his job. His ex had been right when she’d said he didn’t love her enough.

What really frosted him was how the Sullivan woman idolized her supposedly dead husband and didn’t see what a scumbag he was. But he’d seen it over and over, women defending men who treated them like shit. Women who were duped into believing the treatment they got was somehow their fault.

He didn’t see Jillian Sullivan as one of them, though. That was the rub. Hell, he didn’t know if the guy was dead or alive, didn’t know if the man’s wife knew something or nothing.

And the only place he was going to see Jillian Sullivan again was in court. So, why was he even thinking about her?

Adam continued shuffling through the papers, but his thoughts kept returning to the lady in red. It was obvious she liked the color, since every time he’d seen her, she’d worn something red. Even her car was red. But what he remembered most was the dress…which was stamped indelibly in his mind. Even now, he could see her walking toward him, her hips swaying seductively…music playing in the background.

“Yo. You joining a band, Ringo, or is that pen workin’ a beat on its own?” Rico said, laughing.

Adam glanced at the pen in his hand, stuck it in the holder on his desk. “Just thinking.”