The Profiler (23 page)

He frowned and shook his head. “Of course not. I just… I Googled you, that’s all.” He shut his eyes briefly. “I’m sorry. I screwed up. I should have minded my own business. It’s just that…earlier today… I tried, Ellie… I tried to get you to talk to me. You were hurting over that young boy. I could tell it was more than just the tragic waste of a young life. It was personal. The pain in your eyes… Ellie, I…”

His cheeks flushed crimson and he looked away. As if coming to a decision, he squared his shoulders and turned back to face her, his eyes intent on her face.

“I like you, Ellie. I
really
like you. I haven’t felt this way since my wife died and it scares the hell out of me.”

Her heart pounded and her chest felt tight. Time suspended. Emotion darkened the blue of his eyes to deep cobalt. He leaned closer and the spicy scent of his cologne filled her nostrils.

A long moment passed. She was the first to look away.

“That’s a low blow, Munro. I don’t care how much you like me; it doesn’t justify snooping into my business without my knowledge or consent. If I wanted you to know anything about me, I’d have told you.” The anger inside her settled into a slow, cold burn. “Didn’t that ever occur to you?”

He flushed again and avoided her eyes. “Of course it did. But you didn’t seem too forthcoming in that department.” He shrugged apologetically. “I thought I’d do a little research.”

Her anger stormed back to life. “
Research
?”

His lips twisted in a grimace. “I’m not explaining this very well. I’m sorry. I had no idea you’d react with so much hostility. It’s a matter of public record, after all. All I did was skim over a few newspaper reports. I’m sure you must know it was in all the major papers.”

Her groan didn’t begin to do justice to the anguish that tightened her chest until she could barely breathe. She closed her eyes and buried her face in her hands. Images of Jamie and the headlines from one newspaper after another raced through her mind in a kaleidoscope of black-and-white words and pictures. She’d committed every article to memory.

Of course, she knew it would come out eventually. She was grateful the latest anniversary of his death had passed without notice. Last year, she hadn’t been so lucky.

Memories of being holed up in her apartment with the blinds drawn, fielding calls from the media on her answering machine flashed through her mind.

It still didn’t excuse what he’d done. No matter that a few moments ago she’d been considering unloading on him. That was different. That was her choice. By Googling her in the name of research, he’d invaded her privacy and taken the decision from her. He now knew everything about her, right down to the one detail she’d managed to keep hidden from everyone at the station.

She knew the newspapers hadn’t spared her. The press had relished the fact she was a single mother and a police officer who’d been on duty the afternoon her son had been killed. And when she’d attended the scene of the accident, oblivious to the fact her son was involved…

It was a moment she’d never forget. Couldn’t forget.

The overwhelming panic that had assailed her as she’d recognized Jamie’s daycare attendant sitting on the sidewalk, wailing. The navy-blue Peg-Perego pram, almost unrecognisable as a bent and twisted pile of metal, the heart-wrenchingly familiar blue-and-white puppy dog blanket still hanging out of the side of it.

And Jamie. Her young, innocent son… A mass of broken bones and ruptured organs. By the time she got there, the paramedics had already covered his tiny body with a sheet.

She’d put in for a transfer straight after the funeral. She couldn’t bear the looks of pity leveled at her way by her well-meaning colleagues.

Three transfers later and she ended up at the Penrith LAC. Despite the long commute from Darling Harbor, it had provided her with a haven where she’d been able to lick her wounds in private and heal without well-meaning interference from others. Enough time had passed that it was no longer breaking news and if anyone at the station did know, they’d kept it to themselves.

Everyone else had respected her privacy. Why the hell hadn’t
he
?

She glared at his guilt-ridden features. Whatever she may have felt for him was now consumed by cold, hard fury. “Keep your apologies, Munro. I don’t want them. We’re work colleagues, nothing more. As soon as we nail this nutcase, you’ll skip off to wherever you came from and your life will continue as normal.”

Pain and disappointment threatened to overwhelm her. Hot tears burned behind her eyelids. She blinked hard and took a great, gulping breath, refusing to allow them to fall. She would
not
let him see her fall apart.

He looked stricken. “Ellie, I didn’t—”

“Shut up, Munro. Just shut
up
.” Blindly, she fumbled again for her handbag and stood, narrowly avoiding the waiter as he approached with their drinks.

“And you can find someone else to chauffeur your smug Fed ass around. I’ve had enough.” She turned and stumbled up the stairs toward the exit without a backward glance.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Shit, shit,
shit.

Clayton stared after her retreating back with a sinking feeling of dread. Talk about a monumental stuff-up. How the hell was he supposed to know she was going to react like that?

It’s not like he’d done anything illegal. Hell, in his family, everyone stuck their nose in where it wasn’t wanted. It was a sign they cared. Even on those occasions when he was pissed off because it was his business they were poking into, he always knew they had his best interests at heart.

He picked up the glass of scotch from where the waiter had cautiously left it on the table and took a healthy swallow. Frustration prickled his scalp. He should have just kept his mouth shut. Especially after she’d told him she was an only child. She wouldn’t be used to the interference a sway of siblings had on your life. It was even worse when they were concerned for you. As he was for Ellie now.

After discovering the story about her son, his concern for her and her recent experience with Zach Clements had only deepened. He’d wanted to take her into his arms and tell her it would be all right. That he’d look after her and make sure nothing bad ever happened to her again. He’d wanted to whisper words of comfort against the softness of her hair and hold her until the desolation in her eyes faded away.

But he’d been unable to do any of those things. They’d been at work, for one. More importantly, they were work colleagues. He wasn’t her husband; he wasn’t even her boyfriend. He had no right to hold her, to comfort her, no matter how much he wanted to.

He dragged his fingers through his hair and did his best to ignore his underlying fear. He refused to acknowledge the possibility that she’d never forgive him. Tugging his cell phone out of his pocket, he dialed his twin’s number. He needed help. Riley knew him better than anyone.

He took another fortifying gulp from his glass and listened to it ring out, praying Riley would answer.

* * *

Hours later, Ellie still fumed as she paced the length of her small but cozy two-bedroom apartment.

She’d been so wired when she’d turned the key in her lock that she hadn’t even taken time out to eat. A half-empty bottle of merlot sat on the kitchen bench. She stared at it as her hands clenched and unclenched at her sides.

The more she thought about it, the angrier she got. Not even her
family
pried into her private life like that. In fact, she wouldn’t have believed any sane, normal person would do such a thing. She’d never dream of invading someone’s privacy that way.

But he had.
Googling
her, for God’s sake! It was just so…so…
crude
.

With a groan of irritation, she picked up her empty wine glass and refilled it before striding into the living room. She hadn’t yet drawn the curtains and the city lights, with their fluorescent blues and reds and yellows, reflected a colorful display off the water.

It was a view she normally savored. Her third-floor unit had an unobstructed view of Darling Harbor. On a fine day, the water shone blue and crystal clear, reflecting a million diamonds as it bathed in the sun’s rays.

At this time of night, the noise from the street below was a muted hum and mid-week pedestrian traffic was minimal.

She drew in a deep breath and let it out on a heartfelt sigh and collapsed onto the white leather three-seater. Leaving the lights off, she tucked her feet up underneath her and took refuge in the burnt-orange scatter cushions. She pushed one under her head and grasped another one tightly to her chest.

When she’d bought it, her mother had taken one look at the couch and had shaken her head in disapproval.

“White is so impractical, Ellie. How are you going to keep it clean? No one in their right mind buys a white couch with a toddler in the house.”

But Ellie wouldn’t be dissuaded. She didn’t care how many hours she’d spend wiping sticky handprints off it. She loved it.

Three months after she’d bought it, Jamie was killed. There were no more sticky handprints to worry about after that.

Long-held-back tears burned her eyes. He’d been gone three years and on days like this it felt like yesterday. The agonizing shock. The paralyzing horror. The utter disbelief as what happened sank in.

Pent-up grief gripped her in a vicelike hold and she shuddered. Wine spilled over her fingers, cold and wet and sticky. With a shaking hand, she placed the glass on the low table beside the couch and finally gave herself permission to grieve.

She curled up in a fetal position and let the sobs come. With her knees digging into the cushion pressed against her chest, she gripped her legs tightly and gave vent to the pain.

It took her awhile to realize the high keening cries reverberating in her ears were coming from her. The tears continued to fall. She swiped at the snot that ran down her face—her nose was so blocked, she could barely breathe. She snatched gulps of air through her mouth.

The tightness in her chest and the thumping in her head eventually forced her to take deeper breaths, to cram more oxygen into her constricted lungs. After a few moments, she sat up and reached for the box of tissues she kept on the carved wooden coffee table in front of her.

She blew her nose noisily—once, twice, three times—and wiped the moisture from her cheeks. She shuddered again, but this time in relief of a sort. It had been a long time since she’d let herself cry over her son. Too long.

She knew a good deal of her anger at Clayton arose from the memories his prying had thrust upon her. Memories she’d tried hard to ignore and control as yet another anniversary of her son’s death came and went.

And she hadn’t even called Eva. It was downright unfair, but the last time she’d spoken to his daycare attendant the woman had sobbed uncontrollably for the entire conversation. It was tough enough holding herself together. She wasn’t up to being anyone else’s emotional support.

With another heavy sigh, Ellie picked up her almost-empty wine glass and drained it. Her belly gurgled loudly and she remembered she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

Swinging her legs over the side of the couch, she dropped the crumpled cushion and eased herself upright. She filled her lungs with a long, steadying breath. Another shudder ran through her as she released it, but it was a shudder of relief and finality.

In stockinged feet, she padded into the kitchen and flicked on the electric jug where it stood on the counter near the sink and gathered the makings of a cup of coffee.

Opening the fridge, she took out a container of left-over Chinese take-away and put it in the microwave. It was far from ideal, particularly given the grueling hours she’d been putting her body through, but it would do for tonight.

She actually enjoyed cooking most of the time. She loved poring over recipe books, shopping for ingredients, putting it all together and sampling the final product. It was relaxing—therapeutic even.

She grimaced. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d prepared a proper meal. Probably around the time Josie Ward disappeared.

Frustration surged through her. What were they missing? Would the fingerprints tell them anything? She’d begun to dread the sound of the phone ringing.

As if she’d conjured it up, her cell phone hummed. It was still in her handbag on the table in the hallway where she’d tossed it when she’d stormed inside. For a moment, she was tempted to ignore it.

But it was almost ten o’clock. Too late for a social call. Which meant it could only be work.

With a sigh of resignation, she took the few steps out of the kitchen and into the hallway, pulling the phone out of her bag. She checked the caller ID.

Clayton.

Her pulse skipped a beat, even as her anger renewed itself. He was calling to apologize. She was sure of it. He was that kind of guy. Polite and courteous, to a fault. At least, most of the time.

She wasn’t ready to talk to him. She knew that much. Tired and drained and achy from her crying jag, she couldn’t deal with the day anymore. Not even for one minute.

Silencing the call, she turned the phone off and padded back to the kitchen. After pouring the boiling water over the coffee already in her cup, she added sugar and took a sip, sighing as the caffeine filtered through her system.