Secret Star (7 page)

She lifted a shoulder as she turned and unlocked
her door. “As for feelings, why should I be entitled to them?”

She slipped into her car, flipped him one last look. Her mouth might have curved with seductive ease, but the sultry smile didn't reach her eyes, or mask the misery in them. “Well, maybe some other time, handsome.”

He watched her drive off into the rain. There would be another time, he admitted, if for no other reason than that he hadn't shown her the picture. Hadn't, he thought, had the heart to add to her unhappiness that night.

Feelings, he mused as he headed to his own car. She had them, had plenty of them. He only wished he understood them. He got into his car, wrenched his door shut. He wished to God he understood his own.

For the first time in his life, a woman had reached in and clamped a hand on his heart. And she was squeezing.

 

Seth told himself he wasn't postponing meeting with Grace again. The morning after the memorial service had been hellish with work. And when he did carve out time to leave his office, he'd headed toward M.J.'s. It was true he could have assigned this follow-up to one of his men. Despite the fact that the chief of police had ordered him to head
the investigation, and give every detail his personal attention, Mick Marshall—the detective who had taken the initial call on the case—could have done this next pass with M. J. O'Leary.

Seth was forced to admit that he wanted to talk to her personally and hoped to slide a few details out of her on Grace Fontaine.

M.J.'s was a cozy, inviting neighborhood pub that ran to dark woods, gleaming brass and thickly padded stools and booths. Business was slow but steady in midafternoon. A couple of men who looked to be college age were sharing a booth, a duet of foamy mugs and an intense game of chess. An older man sat at the bar working a crossword from the morning paper, and a trio of women with department store shopping bags crowding the floor around them huddled over drinks and laughter.

The bartender glanced at Seth's badge and told him he'd find the boss upstairs in her office. He heard her before he saw her.

“Look, pal, if I'd wanted candy mints, I'd have ordered candy mints. I ordered beer nuts. I want them here by six. Yeah, yeah. I know my customers. Get me the damn nuts, pronto.”

She sat behind a crowded desk with a battered top. Her short cap of red hair stood up in spikes. Seth watched her rake her fingers through it again as she hung up the phone and pushed a pile of
invoices aside. If that was her idea of filing, he thought, it suited the rest of the room.

It was barely big enough to turn around in, crowded with boxes, files, papers, and one ratty chair, on which sat an enormous and overflowing purse.

“Ms. O'Leary?”

She looked up, her brow still creased in annoyance. It didn't clear when she recognized her visitor. “Just what I needed to make my day perfect. A cop. Listen, Buchanan, I'm behind here. As you know, I lost a few days recently.”

“Then I'll try to be quick.” He stepped inside, pulled the picture out of his pocket and tossed it onto the desk under her nose. “Look familiar?”

She pursed her lips, gave the slickly handsome face a slow, careful study. “Is this the guy Jack told me about? The one who killed Melissa?”

“The Melissa Fontaine case is still open. This man is a possible suspect. Do you recognize him?”

She rolled her eyes, pushed the photo back in Seth's direction. “No. Looks like a creep. Did Grace recognize him?”

He angled his head slightly, his only outward sign of interest. “Does she know many men who look like creeps?”

“Too many,” M.J. muttered. “Jack said you
came by the memorial service last night to show Grace this picture.”

“She was…occupied.”

“Yeah, it was a rough night for her.” M.J. rubbed her eyes.

“Apparently, though she seemed to have been handling it well enough initially.” He glanced down at the photo again, thought of the man he'd seen her kiss. “This looks like her type.”

M.J.'s hand dropped, her eyes narrowed. “Meaning?”

“Just that.” Seth tucked the photo away. “If one's going by type, this one doesn't appear, on the surface, too far a step from the one she was cozy with at the service.”

“Cozy with?” The narrowed eyes went hot, angry green flares. “Grace wasn't cozy with anyone.”

“About six-one, a hundred and seventy, blond hair, blue eyes, five-thousand-dollar Italian suit, lots of teeth.”

It only took her a moment. At any other time, she would have laughed. But the cool disdain on Seth's face had her snarling. “You stupid son of a bitch, that was her cousin Julian, and he was hitting her up for money, just like he always does.”

Seth frowned, backtracked, played the scene
through his mind again. “Her cousin…and that would be the victim's…?”

“Stepbrother. Melissa's stepbrother—her father's son from a previous.”

“And the deceased's stepbrother was asking Grace for money at his stepsister's memorial?”

This time she appreciated the coating of disgust over his words. “Yeah. He's slime—why should the ambience stop him from shaking her down? Most of them squeeze her for a few bucks now and then.” She rose, geared up. “And you've got a hell of a nerve coming in here with your attitude and your superior morals, ace. She wrote that pansy-faced jerk a check for a few thousand to get him off her back, just like she used to pass bucks to Melissa, and some of the others.”

“I was under the impression the Fontaines were wealthy.”

“Wealth's relative—especially if you live the high life and your allowance from your trust fund is overdrawn, or if you've played too deep in Monte Carlo. And Grace has more of the green stuff than most of them, because her parents didn't blow the bucks. That just burns the relatives,” she muttered. “Who do you think paid for that wake last night? It wasn't the dearly departed's mama or papa. Grace's witch of an aunt put the arm on her, then put the blame on her. And she took it, because
she thinks it's easier to take it and go her own way. You don't know anything about her.”

He thought he did, but the details he was collecting bit by bit weren't adding up very neatly. “I know that she's not to blame for what happened to her cousin.”

“Yeah, try telling her that. I know that when we realized she'd left and we got back to Cade's, she was in her room crying, and there was nothing any of us could do to help her. And all because those bastards she has the misfortune to be related to go out of their way to make her feel rotten.”

Not just her relatives, he thought with a quick twinge of guilt. He'd had a part in that.

“It seems she's more fortunate in her friends than in her family.”

“That's because we're not interested in her money, or her name. Because we don't judge her. We just love her. Now, if that's all, I've got work to do.”

“I need to speak with Ms. Fontaine.” Seth's voice was as stiff as M.J.'s had been passionate. “Would you know where I might find her?”

Her lips curled. She hesitated a moment, knowing Grace wouldn't appreciate the information being passed along. But the urge to see the cop's preconceptions slapped down was just too tempting. “Sure. Try Saint Agnes's Hospital. Pediatrics
or maternity.” Her phone rang, so she snatched it up. “You'll find her,” she said. “Yeah, O'Leary,” she barked into the phone, and turned her back on Seth.

 

He assumed she was visiting the child of a friend, but when he asked at the nurses' station for Grace Fontaine, faces lit up.

“I think she's in the intensive care nursery.” The nurse on duty checked her watch. “It's her usual time there. Do you know the way?”

Baffled, Seth shook his head. “No.” He listened to the directions, while his mind turned over a dozen reasons why Grace Fontaine should have a usual time in a nursery. Since none of them slipped comfortably into a slot, he headed down corridors.

He could hear the high sound of babies crying behind a barrier of glass. And perhaps he stopped for just a moment outside the window of the regular nursery, and his eyes might have softened, just a little, as he scanned the infants in their clear-sided beds. Tiny faces, some slack in sleep, others screwed up into wrinkled balls of fury.

A couple stood beside him, the man with his arm over the woman's robed shoulders. “Ours is third from the left. Joshua Michael Delvecchio. Eight pounds, five ounces. He's one day old.”

“He's a beaut,” Seth said.

“Which one is yours?” the woman asked.

Seth shook his head, shot one more glance through the glass. “I'm just passing through. Congratulations on your son.”

He continued on, resisting the urge to look back at the new parents lost in their own private miracle.

Two turns down the corridor away from the celebration was a smaller nursery. Here machines hummed, and nurses walked quietly. And behind the glass were six empty cribs.

Grace sat beside one, cuddling a tiny, crying baby. She brushed away tears from the pale little cheek, rested her own against the smooth head as she rocked.

It struck him to the core, the picture she made. Her hair was braided back from her face and she wore a shapeless green smock over her suit. Her face was soft as she soothed the restless infant. Her attention was totally focused on the eyes that stared tearfully into hers.

“Excuse me, sir.” A nurse hurried up. “This is a restricted area.”

Absently, his eyes still on Grace, Seth reached for his badge. “I'm here to speak with Ms. Fontaine.”

“I see. I'll tell her you're here, Lieutenant.”

“No, don't disturb her.” He didn't want any
thing to spoil that picture. “I can wait. What's wrong with the baby she's holding?”

“Peter's an AIDS baby. Ms. Fontaine arranged for him to have care here.”

“Ms. Fontaine?” He felt a fist lodge in his gut. “It's her child?”

“Biologically? No.” The nurse's face softened slightly. “I think she considers them all hers. I honestly don't know what we'd do without her help. Not just the foundation, but her.”

“The foundation?”

“The Falling Star Foundation. Ms. Fontaine set it up a few years ago to assist critically ill and terminal children and their families. But it's the hands-on that really matters.” She gestured back toward the glass with a nod of her head. “No amount of financial generosity can buy a loving touch or sing a lullaby.”

He watched the baby calm, drift slowly to sleep in Grace's arms. “She comes here often?”

“As often as she can. She's our angel. You'll have to excuse me, Lieutenant.”

“Thank you.” As she walked away, he stepped closer to the isolation glass. Grace started toward the crib. It was then that her eyes met his.

He saw the shock come into them first. Even she wasn't skilled enough to disguise the range of emotions that raced over her face. Surprise, em
barrassment, annoyance. Then she smoothed the expressions out. Gently, she laid the baby back into the crib, brushed a hand over his cheek. She walked through a side door and disappeared.

It was several minutes before she came out into the corridor. The smock was gone. Now she was a confident woman in a flame-red suit, her mouth carefully tinted to match. “Well, Lieutenant, we meet in the oddest places.”

Before she could complete the casual greeting she'd practiced while she tidied her makeup, he took her chin firmly in his hand. His eyes locked intently on hers, probed.

“You're a fake.” He said it quietly, stepping closer. “You're a fraud. Who the hell are you?”

“Whatever I like.” He unnerved her, that long, intense and all-too-personal study with those golden-brown eyes. “And I don't believe this is the place for an interrogation. I'd like you to let me go now,” she said steadily. “I don't want any scenes here.”

“I'm not going to cause a scene.”

She lifted her brows. “I might.” Deliberately she pushed his hand away and started down the corridor. “If you want to discuss the case with me, or have any questions regarding it, we'll do it outside. I won't have it brought in here.”

“It was breaking your heart,” he murmured. “Holding that baby was breaking your heart.”

“It's my heart.” Almost viciously, she punched a finger at the button for the elevator. “And it's a tough one, Seth. Ask anyone.”

“Your lashes are still wet.”

“This is none of your business.” Her voice was low and vibrating with fury. “Absolutely none of your business.”

She stepped into the crowded elevator, faced front. She wouldn't speak to him about this part of her life, she promised herself. Just the night before, she'd opened herself to him, only to be pushed away, refused. She wouldn't share her feelings again, and certainly not her feelings about something as vital to her as the children.

He was a cop, just a cop. Hadn't she spent several miserable hours the night before convincing herself that was all he was or could be to her? Whatever he stirred in her would have to be stopped—or, if not stopped, at least suppressed.

She would not share with him, she would not trust him, she would not give to him.

By the time she reached the lobby doors, she was steadier. Hoping to shake him quickly, she started toward the lot. Seth merely took her arm, steered her away.

“Over here,” he said, and headed toward a grassy area with a pair of benches.

“I don't have time.”

“Make time. You're too upset to drive, in any case.”

“Don't tell me what I am.”

“Apparently that's just what I've been doing. And apparently I've missed several steps. That's not usual for me, and I don't care for it. Sit down.”

“I don't want—”

“Sit down, Grace,” he repeated. “I apologize.”