Falling For Him
“Claudia, we’re both tired. Why don’t we call it a day? Get some sleep. We can box this stuff up, take it in, and look at it when we’re more awake. Less on edge.”
She nodded silently, her gaze fixed out the window.
Gavin tossed the two date books into the box, along with several other files he’d set aside, and folded the top closed. Claudia was still staring out the window when he came to her side and handed her her jacket.
“Thanks.” Even her voice sounded weary as she slipped her jacket on and tugged the bottom over her holster. “And I’m sorry for snapping. I need sleep.”
“No apology necessary.” He liked the smile that struggled to her lips, giving her mouth a wry but sensual curve. It was only a smile, Gavin reasoned; yet he felt himself respond—a low, warm tug deep in his gut—when he imagined what those lips might feel like against his.
But imagining was all he’d be doing when it came to Claudia, Gavin resolved as he turned from her to the box on Silver’s desk. Suspicions or no suspicions, she was definitely off-limits. He was hardly going to jeopardize his case, his entire career, for the sake of a woman. He’d never done it in the past, and he certainly wasn’t about to start now, no matter how alluring Detective Claudia Parrish was.
AFTER SHE AND GAVIN HAD closed up Silver’s office, Claudia drove them back to headquarters. Gavin’s car had been parked in a lot along the way, and she’d dropped him off before hauling the box of Silver’s files to Evidence Control. She hadn’t bothered to go back to the office after that, but went directly to the garage to get her own vehicle. It was noon by the time she steered her weather-beaten Volvo onto Shakespeare Street.
She parked halfway up the block, outside a yellow-brick three-story Victorian row house. Shouldering her briefcase, she took the marble steps to the massive oak doors and shoved one open.
From the first-floor apartment, she could hear Mrs. Cuchetta playing the baby grand piano she used for lessons, but as Claudia staggered up the stairs, exhausted, the thick walls of the old, converted row home swallowed the classical melody. And when Claudia finally closed her door behind her and threw the dead bolt, there was nothing but silence. Gratifying silence.
She dropped her keys onto the front hall table and stepped into the small but cozy apartment she’d called home for the past three years.
Shedding her jacket and holster and kicking off her shoes, she put some water on for tea.
On the corner of the kitchen bar, next to a mounting stack of bills, the answering machine blinked. She tossed a tea towel over it, covering the demanding red light. It hardly mattered; even before she’d finished pouring her tea, the phone rang.
“Faith, I just got in,” Claudia told her sister after being verbally censured for not returning her calls.
“Well, I wanted to be sure you were all right. October sixteenth and all.”
Claudia stirred sugar into her tea. Leave it to her little sister to remember anniversaries that weren’t even her own. Faith remembered everything to do with family; not at all like Claudia. The only things she managed to remember these days were the details of her cases. It hadn’t always been that way, of course. Before Frank’s death, before she’d immersed herself so completely in her work that it seemed there was nothing else, things had been different.
Now, faced with Faith’s concern, Claudia wondered if maybe she should never have told her sister. It might have been easier to let the secret die along with Frank, so that no one could remind her of the love she’d shared so briefly with him.
“Look,” Faith was saying. “Greg mentioned just this morning that it’s been a while since you’ve been out here. And you know it’s only a forty-minute drive. You’d think it was a forty-minute flight given the number of times we’ve seen you in the past year. So what do you say to dinner tonight? I know it’s short notice, but it wouldn’t be if you actually listened to your messages.”
Claudia didn’t respond. She yanked the tea towel off the answering machine, the red light blinking as insistently as ever. James Silver. What if he had tried to call her? With preparations for the Brown arraignment, she hadn’t checked her messages in days.
“Faith, I’ll have to get back to you on that. Maybe tomorrow? I’ve been up since yesterday morning. I’m exhausted. But I’ll call.”
There was a pause before Faith finally complied. Making Claudia promise to call, and assuring herself that her big sister was really okay, Faith at last hung up.
Claudia’s hand hovered over the answering machine for a moment before she at last pressed Play.
As predicted, three of the messages were from her sister. But there were five others—all hang-ups. Using her Caller ID, Claudia wrote down the number, and within a minute she’d confirmed her hunch. The Yellow Pages lay in her lap, open to the listings for private investigators.
James Silver had called her five times in the past three days. It didn’t surprise her that he hadn’t tried her at the office, not if her suspicions were correct. If Silver had been looking into Frank’s death again, then the Homicide office was the last place Silver would have risked calling. But why hadn’t he bothered to leave even one message? Maybe because he thought this too would be a risk?
Claudia stared at Silver’s ad for a long time, her mind staggering over the countless alternate scenarios that might have played out had he actually been able to reach her. Would he be dead now? Would they have uncovered something new about Frank’s death? Could she have intervened?
Switching off both the machine and the phone, Claudia moved to the living room couch and turned on the TV. But the aimless flicking through channels did nothing to divert her thoughts from Frank and Silver. If she knew one thing for certain, it was that Silver had been taking a second look at Frank’s death. It was the only explanation behind his attempt to reach her.
But why? What had prompted him to relaunch his investigation into Frank’s death?
Claudia set down the remote control and reached under the couch. She groped for the orange pressboard binder that had been hidden there, unopened, for at least six months. Sliding it out, she brushed the thin layer of dust from its cover.
CC# 2L5915.
It was one thing to remove a case file, or any portion of it, from headquarters. The breach of security was done on occasion by detectives and overlooked by their supervisors. But to duplicate an entire file, from cover to cover—all the reports from officers and supervisors alike, from the Chief Medical Examiner’s office and the various crime labs, interview transcripts, detective’s personal notes, even crime-scene and evidence photos—was completely against department policy. Not to mention punishable by suspension, Claudia thought, as she eased the thick binder into her lap.
For Claudia, copying the file had been worth the risk. Ten months ago she had believed that Frank couldn’t have killed himself, and that everything in the reports must have been a cover-up.
She probably should have destroyed the file once she’d submitted to the consensus that Frank had taken his own life.
Yet, now Claudia was grateful she had kept it. After all, maybe questions remained to be asked and answers to be found. Obviously Silver had believed so. But had there actually been new information? Or had he simply been grasping at the same old straws he’d had the last time they’d spoken?
Claudia opened the file, trying to avoid the pages of photos. She was unsuccessful. The four-by-six color images brought back that unforgettable night as though it had been only yesterday. She relived the disbelief and the horror. And then the utter emptiness she’d felt when she held Frank’s hand for the last time.
She remembered crying, and then Lori trying to console her. It wasn’t until Claudia had caught sight of the picture on Frank’s mantel—a photo of the two of them receiving their bronze stars—that Claudia had finally pulled herself together that night. For Frank, she’d kept up appearances. For him, she’d never once let on that he’d been anything but a partner to her.
Claudia stared at the open binder in her lap. The crime-scene photos blurred with her tears. Frank couldn’t have killed himself, she thought for the millionth time. The Frank she had known, the man she’d loved…he hadn’t been a coward or a quitter. And yet, what else could she believe now that all the reports were in?
God, but she missed him.
She missed his voice and his laughter. She missed the excitement of working a case with him, having him by her side and knowing she was with the best detective on the force. And she missed the little things about Frank—the familiar gestures and wisecracks that could bring laughter to any gray day, his knowing smile when he’d look up from his desk to where she sat across from him, the light that would touch his eyes when she’d open her apartment door and find him standing on the landing, and the way his hand had felt in hers—rough, warm and secure. She missed the feel of his body against hers, and she missed the way he’d whisper his love for her and tell her they would always be together.
But in spite of her longing for him, Claudia wasn’t certain she could ever forgive Frank for giving up. With the file open in her lap, she closed her eyes and settled her head against the top of the couch. Maybe that was the real reason she hadn’t gotten rid of the case file—maybe she felt that by hanging on to it she still held a piece of Frank. And maybe she would never be able to let him go. He lived in her heart, along with her anger and her resentment. No one could ever come close to touching her the way Frank had.
Inexplicably, Gavin Monaghan entered Claudia’s thoughts. She’d be lying if she said there wasn’t a glimmer of attraction there. It was certainly the first time she’d felt anything like it since Frank. And she hadn’t been the only one who’d toyed with such thoughts—she’d seen the way Gavin had looked at her when they were in Silver’s office.
She remembered the effect his smile had had on her when she’d dropped him off at his car and apologized again for her behavior in Silver’s office. He’d had every right to question her. If the roles had been reversed, she would have demanded the same from him. He’d accepted her apology and given her a smile. Her entire body had responded to that smile with a quick shiver of excitement.
Claudia closed her eyes. She had to push Gavin Monaghan from her thoughts. It was ridiculous to think she was attracted to a man she barely knew. She was, Claudia rationalized, only because he’d done a couple of little things that had reminded her of Frank. That was all.
Besides, how could she possibly have feelings for anyone when her heart still belonged to Frank?
CHAPTER FOUR
GAVIN BROUGHT HIS FIST against the upper panel of the door at the top of the stairs. It had taken him a good fifteen minutes to find the three-story row house in Fells Point that corresponded with the home address he had for Claudia. And he would have thought that those fifteen minutes should have cooled his temper. He’d been wrong.
He raised his hand a second time, the resounding thud echoing down the narrow stairwell. It was enough to wake the dead. Certainly enough to cause the tenant on the first floor to stop playing the piano and listen.
Where the hell was she?
Gavin took a deep breath, hoping to quell his impatience, and was about to knock a third time when he heard movement from inside. There was the slide of a dead bolt and the scrape of a chain before Claudia opened the door.
She wore the same suit he’d seen on her earlier, only now the pants and turtleneck were creased. Her hair was a tousle of blond curls and she lifted a hand in an attempt to arrange them.
“Did I wake you?”
She rolled her eyes, puffy with sleep. “What do you think? I hardly slept in two nights.” She rubbed a hand over her face. “What are you doing here anyway?”
“Can I come in?”
She held his stare, as though debating the wisdom of allowing work into her home. Finally she stepped aside.
The apartment had the same charm as the building’s facade, Gavin noted as he brushed past her into the tiled foyer. With the day’s light dying behind the half-drawn blinds, the living room beyond the arched portal lay in shadow. Even so, there was an immediate homey feel to it, a lived-in sense that evaded his own row house across the city. And there was an underlying scent that permeated the apartment, very similar to the one he’d smelled on Claudia earlier, one that was rapidly becoming enticing.
But he wasn’t here to be enticed.
Claudia began switching on lights in the adjoining kitchen and the living room. He watched her scan the apartment as if checking that everything was in order.
“Sorry for the mess,” she stated, even though there wasn’t one—only her jacket and holster slung over the back of a chair, and a few newspapers strewn about the room. Even the kitchen was spotless in comparison to his own. A toppling stack of mail was the only sign of disarray.
“Why are you here, Gavin?”
“I tried to call.” He curbed the impatience in his voice.
“I had the phone turned off.”
“And your pager?”
“It’s in my briefcase. I mustn’t have heard it.”
Again she lifted a hand to her mussed hair. “Can I get you something to drink?”
He’d definitely woken her from a sound sleep; her voice held that sleepy quality, deep and a little raspy.
And undeniably seductive, Gavin thought.
“No, I’m fine.” He watched her move behind the breakfast bar to the fridge and take out a bottle of water.
“So what is this about?” she asked, twisting open the bottle and taking a long drink.
“I’m looking for the journals.”
“The journals?” she repeated.
“You know, Silver’s date books.”
“Looking for them? Why? They’re in Evidence Control. I told you I was going to submit the box after I dropped you off this morning.”
“I thought maybe you’d brought them home instead,” he offered, still struggling to contain impatience and anger, trying to give her the benefit of the doubt.
“Why would you think that?”
Confusion tightened her face then, and Gavin could only wonder if it was genuine. She set the bottle on the counter, the force sending a few droplets of water spraying onto the thin fabric of her shirt.
“Because they’re not in Evidence Control, Claudia.”
Her expression tightened another notch. “What do you mean they’re not in Evidence Control?”
“Exactly that. I went down there, figuring I’d take a closer look at the journals myself, and when I searched the box there was no sign of them.”
In his years with IAD, he’d done his share of staring corrupt cops in the eye. He’d watched them attempt to lie their way out of a variety of situations. But none of them could come close to Claudia’s convincing performance. She stepped around the counter, the look of disbelief deepening, creasing fine lines at the corners of her eyes and furrowing a small series of ridges along her forehead.
When he’d rummaged through the box and discovered the journals missing, the flare of suspicion had been immediate. There had been no doubt then that Claudia had disposed of them in order to eliminate evidence of her connection with Silver, not to mention her possible motive for wanting him dead.
But now, seeing her standing before him, her eyes and voice heavy with sleep, and that soft femininity and allure accentuated by the warmth of her own surroundings…Gavin wished the surprise on her face was real.
“Where are they, Claudia?” he asked, unable to drop the accusation in his tone.
She maintained a calmness he’d not expected.
“Look, Gavin, there’s obviously been a mix-up. I don’t know what you think I did with those journals, but I can assure you the last time I saw them they were in that box. And I submitted it.”
“So you don’t think they might have…accidentally fallen out?”
“Fallen out? No. That’s ridiculous. I didn’t even open the box, so if they’re not there, then maybe they got mixed up with some other evidence submitted at the same time. Or maybe Sarge took an interest in the case and went down to see for himself what we brought in. I don’t know. Maybe you didn’t even look in the right box.”
“It was the right one. I checked the inventory list.”
“And?”
“And there wasn’t a single notation indicating anything resembling a journal.”
Her awareness of his suspicion was clear. She studied him, as though sizing him up. Then she shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re implying, but I am not going to let you stand in the middle of my apartment and accuse me of something I didn’t do. This is insane.”
He caught the brief flash of anger in her gray eyes, before she turned on her heel. Pulling the hem of her top from the waist of her pants, she stalked from the living room and headed down the short corridor, switching on lights as she went.
“Where are you going?” he called after her.
“To shower and change.” The light came on in the room at the end of the hall and through the half-open door Gavin saw a four-poster pine bed with a matching trunk at its foot. And before he could look away, he saw Claudia’s naked back as she stripped off her top and pulled it over her head. Even at this distance, there was no mistaking the toned lines of her shoulders and slender back caught in the warm yellow glow of the bedroom lamp.
Gavin tried to look away but couldn’t. Either Claudia wasn’t in the least bit shy, or, more likely, she was too upset by his accusations to realize she was in plain sight.
“I’ll find the journals myself,” she called out as the shirt joined the tangle of sheets and duvet piled high on the bed. She moved away from the door, but Gavin could still see her in the reflection of the full-length mirror. Only when she reached behind her for the clasp of her bra, did Gavin at last look away, ashamed at his voyeurism.
“Give me a few minutes and I’ll ride over with you,” she shouted. “Help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge if you want.” If she said anything after that it was drowned out by the sound of running water, followed by the hiss of the shower.
Gavin moved to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, his gaze falling to the near-empty shelves. Claudia needed to do some serious grocery shopping. It was as bad as his own fridge, he thought, reaching for the last can of Coke. Mayo, pickles, several shriveled apples, an unopened bottle of wine along with a couple beers, and some questionable containers of juice and milk. No wonder her place was so tidy; Claudia was probably never home to mess it up.
Snapping open the can, he wandered into the living room. Traces of Claudia’s personal life—what little there must be, given the hours he knew she worked—were scattered aesthetically on several side tables and shelving units. Family photos, trinkets and keepsakes—some were precious, while others had obviously been found on the beach. He scanned her shelves of books, wondering where she found the time to read, or if she even did now that she worked Homicide.
The light from the two stained-glass lamps gleamed against the few patches of polished hardwood floor that weren’t covered with elaborate woven throw rugs. Pacing the narrow room, Gavin marveled at the sense of home around him—everything from the half-empty cup of tea on the coffee table to the throw blanket flung over the back of the couch. He’d bought his handyman’s row house two years ago, and with all the renovations, coupled with his hours, the moving-in process was still very much under way. He’d almost forgotten that a home wasn’t normally cluttered with half-unpacked boxes.
He rounded the coffee table and lowered himself into the ample sofa. Exhaustion quivered through his body. He’d been up hours, as well, and were it not for the twinges of suspicion he’d had all day regarding Silver’s possible connection to Frank Owens’s death, and now to Claudia, he might have succumbed to sleep himself. Certainly given the soft invitation of Claudia’s sofa and the immediate comfort of her apartment, it wouldn’t be difficult.
Glancing over his shoulder and down the corridor, Gavin saw that the bedroom door remained ajar. A cloud of steam billowed past the opening from the en suite. He turned his attention to the newspapers on the coffee table, hoping to banish the image of Claudia in the shower before it could take root in his mind.
However, it wasn’t the Baltimore Sun that managed to divert his imagination. It was the unmistakable orange cover of a case file. Only a corner of it peeked out from under the sofa, but it was enough for Gavin to know immediately what it was. With the steady thrum of the shower in the background, he slid the thick file out and understood why Claudia had attempted to hide it.
It was the Owens case. Gavin recognized the incident number instantly.
Had she taken the file out of the office this morning, after going to Evidence Control? Had she felt the need to study it again, believing there to be a connection to Silver’s murder? If so, why would she take the risk?
Gavin thought of the case files at his house. IAD files. The most recent one being on Claudia. But then, he had to take files home, especially when working a case undercover, so that his comings and goings from the IAD offices were kept to a minimum.
The Homicide unit, however, like others in the Criminal Investigations Bureau, worked under a completely different set of regulations. There were strict rules and penalties for removing a case file.
Gavin opened the binder and his shock doubled. This wasn’t even the official file. Claudia had copied the entire contents: case notes, reports, investigative entries, even a complete set of the crime-scene and autopsy photos.
Understandably, Claudia would have a vested interest in the investigation into her partner’s death, but surely not to the extent of compromising her career by pulling such a stunt. Unless, of course, she had something at stake in Owens’s death. Unless she needed to protect herself with information in the event she was questioned.
“Claudia Parrish was the secondary detective on all three of Owens’s bad cases,” Lieutenant Randolph had told him five weeks ago. “It could have just as easily been her taking payoffs…it could have been her implicating him.”
Again, the niggling suspicion mounted. Gavin leafed through the file. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen many times before—the reports, the photos of Frank Owens dead in his bedroom.
Ten months ago, Gavin had been shocked to learn of the detective’s death. Randolph had called him the second the news had hit the police radios that night, and Gavin had demanded to go to the scene. He’d wanted to head the investigation himself. But Randolph wouldn’t allow it. He’d been adamant Gavin not reveal himself as the man behind the probe. At that point, though, Gavin hadn’t cared if the entire unit found out. He’d wanted to be there. He’d felt responsible.
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