Part 23 (2/2)
He nodded. ”Go through him. Don't talk to Fuller on your own.”
”Why? Do you think he's the one--?”
”He's not the one who tried to run you down or tossed your home,” he said. ”I checked again on his movements that night. He was on duty. In fact he was booking a suspect at the time of your attack.” He hesitated, then added, ”But he might have taken advantage of the attack on you and made the anonymous calls. And if he's taken that first step, it could lead do something else. He could take his rage out on either you or Nan. He has a lot of it inside.”
”Should he be on the force?”
”No,” he said.
”Then why is he?”
”Years ago, I partnered with a man. I often went to his home. I liked his wife tremendously. I never saw the signs. Not until I visited her in the hospital and realized he'd badly beaten her. I told my superior and advised his wife to press charges. He was suspended. The next day he killed her.” His fingers fumbled with his gla.s.s, and when she met his gaze, she saw a hint of dampness in his eyes. Gage Gaynor. 'The tough cop'. So that was why he had been at the hearing.
”You're that worried about Nan?”
”Yes,” he said shortly.
She took a sip of wine. ”There has to be something....”
”I'll watch him. Perhaps we can get something on him that has nothing to do with Nan.”
That was obviously the best he could do. Much more than she had expected. She changed the subject. She had to, before she became lost in those green eyes that were no longer cool, or icy, but intense with emotion.
”How is the Prescott case coming? Have you contacted my father yet?” Then she realized how telling that question was. She should know. Her father should have told her if the police had contacted him.
If he caught the implication, he ignored it. ”I've been taken off the case,” he said. ”I'm now on active homicides.”
”You weren't on it very long, were you?”
”Nope.”
”Can you tell me why?”
”No. Not because I won't, but because I can't. I really wasn't given a reason other than I'm needed elsewhere.”
”Why didn't someone realize that earlier?”
”That's an excellent question, Counselor.”
At first, she'd been annoyed by his use of ”Counselor,” almost as if it were an insult. Now it sounded more like respect. ”I don't understand.”
”I was given the case by one superior and it was taken away by another,” he said. ”Not only that, I was taken off cold cases altogether and moved to active homicides. That's not only unusual, it's unheard of. It has to be the shortest tour of duty in departmental history.”
He was telling her something other than the main recital of facts. ”Someone called you off.”
”Looks that way.”
”Who?”
His gaze bore into hers.
”No,” she said. ”My father wouldn't do that.” But even she heard the doubt in her voice.
”But is it possible?”
She searched his face for a long time. ”He was never implicated in the slightest way.”
”He was the last person known to see Prescott. The case was closed too quickly and was never investigated thoroughly. And now this closure. Could your father have that kind of influence?”
She shook her head, sharp edges of disappointment cutting into what had been a growing pleasure at being with him. ”My father would not be involved with anything as messy as a cover-up,” she said. ”Much less a murder. I suggest you look elsewhere.”
He took a roll from the basket just delivered to their table. ”Well, I'm off it anyway. Tell me more about Meredith Rawson.”
She was cautious this time. ”Not much to tell.”
”What do you like to do in your spare time?”
”What spare time?”
The left side of his lips turned up slightly. ”A workaholic?”
”A private practice with one attorney requires it.”
”Okay, what about the rare occasions when you do have time?”
”A good book. Good music. Theater.”
”No significant other?”
”That's a personal question.”
”Maybe I have a personal interest.”
His voice had lowered, his drawl deepened. The air of expectancy thickened between them. She had to keep telling herself he had just practically accused her father of conspiracy. He wanted something from her, just as her father had always wanted something from her.
”No,” she said.
”That's hard to believe. You're a very attractive woman.”
Not beautiful. Not lovely. Both terms that applied to her mother. Yet his gaze told her he did think her attractive. And desirable. She felt as if she could get lost in those eyes. How had she ever thought them cold? They were green fire now.
She was saved from having to reply by the server who delivered two steaming plates of barbecue shrimp, a Louisiana delicacy that required extremely indelicate eating. The sh.e.l.led shrimp rested in a b.u.t.ter barbeque sauce. Several packages of wet towels accompanied the meal.
Directing her gaze toward the food and away from the very disturbing man across from her, she picked up a shrimp with her fingers, sauce dripping from it, and tasted it slowly, savoring every flavor.
Then she made the mistake of looking up. He was watching her with amus.e.m.e.nt in his face though his eyes still glittered with something close to l.u.s.t.
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