“Don’t assume anybody is harmless.”

Sam was so close. Claire could feel the heat coming off his body. His lips were just inches away. And when his grip around her chin tightened, she knew he felt the connection as much as she did. Oh, man. Sam Vernelli shouldn’t be worrying about her virtue or safety, he should be worrying about his own.

“I’m sorry,” she said, pulling away. She couldn’t think when he was touching her. “I got carried away at your expense.”

He let his hand drop back into his lap. “You had me going,” he admitted. “The watching thing was a little over the top. That’s what did you in.”

“Watching isn’t your thing?” she asked, suddenly feeling bold.

He stared at her, not blinking, maybe not even breathing. “I prefer to participate…”

About the Author

As a child, BEVERLY LONG used to take a flashlight to bed so that she could hide under the covers and read. Once a teenager, more often than not, the books she chose were romance novels. Now she gets to keep the light on as long as she wants, and there’s always a romance novel on her nightstand. With both a bachelor’s and a master’s degree in business and more than twenty years of experience as a human resources director, she now enjoys the opportunity to write her own stories. She considers her books to be a great success if they compel the reader to stay up way past his or her bedtime.

Beverly loves to hear from readers. Visit www.beverlylong.com or like her at www.facebook.com/BeverlyLong.romance.

Deadly Force
Beverly Long

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Chapter One

Claire Fontaine sneaked a peek at her watch. Time hadn’t stopped but it was moving pretty darn slowly.

“I’ve given this a lot of time and attention, people,” her boss said. He stood at the head of the conference-room table, his arms flailing around as if they didn’t belong to his body. His hair stood on end and there was a little speck of spit in the corner of his mouth.

“The new tagline for Smith Pharmaceuticals is ‘When You Count Your Blessings, Count on Us.’ We’ll feature a modern family—a mom and dad both in business suits, three kids, all with smartphones, and lots of other technology in the background. We add an overlay, rolling across the screen, in old standard typewriter print. You know, High Blood Pressure, Type II Diabetes, High Cholesterol, Asthma. The contrast will be great. It’ll hit home. No matter how things change, taking care of your family is what it’s really about.”

Claire looked around the table. Pete Mission, the most experienced designer, winked at her. Hannah, with whom she shared a cubicle wall, raised her auburn dyed eyebrows. They all knew it was her idea, knew that she’d been working even later than usual the last two weeks getting the idea into production.

But if her boss wanted to take credit, she didn’t really care. She’d been lucky to get the job at Alexander and Pope. Not many advertising agencies were hiring and those that were all seemed to want at least five years of work experience.

Victor Santini beamed like a lighthouse. “Let’s call it a night, people. We’ll hit it hard again Monday.” He pulled a rubber band off a stack of envelopes. “I’ve got your paychecks.”

Nobody wasted any time. Claire reached for her check, folded the envelope and stuck it in her skirt pocket. She couldn’t remember a Friday when Victor had let them escape early. Even if it was only twenty minutes, it was especially fortuitous because tonight she was going to confront Sam Vernelli.

Detective Vernelli. One of the city’s finest. His picture had been in the paper a few weeks back. He and several other police officers had been honored at a luncheon and some reporter had decided that cops standing alongside the mayor was too good a photo op to pass.

It was terribly wrong that a man like him was responsible for enforcing the law. However, she wasn’t naive enough to think she could change anything. The police hadn’t been interested in what she’d had to say eleven years ago, so they certainly weren’t going to be interested now. He was safe.

She just wanted him to know that there was somebody who knew the truth. Somebody who knew that he’d gotten away with murder.

Hurrying, she shut down her computer, packed it away, pulled her running shoes out of her shoulder bag and bent down to put them on. When she left the room, she opted for the seven flights of stairs instead of the elevator. Once outside, she walked fast and then waited impatiently for the do-not-walk signs at the busy intersections to flip over. The mob of people on the sidewalk gradually thinned out as she left behind the commercial district and entered the residential streets, until finally after twenty minutes, she was the only one walking on the tree-lined sidewalk.

It was warm for late September and on any other day, the heat on her face, arms and bare legs would have felt good. But today, it made her hot and cranky and she was sweating and slightly out of breath when she reached Sam Vernelli’s brownstone. She checked his house number against the crumpled-up slip of paper she clutched in her hand.

It had been ridiculously easy to find him. The internet was a wonderful thing.

She looked at the brick three-story that matched all the other brick three-stories that lined the quiet street. The houses were narrow and deep, but not as close together as she’d seen in some parts of the city. These people actually had yards.

There were three steps leading up to the front door. Mail had been delivered and envelopes peeked out of the metal box hanging on the side of the house. A big pot, with a sprawling gold mum that looked as if it needed watering, sat next to the solid-wood door. There was a huge tree in the front yard with leaves that were turning a deep red.

It looked normal. Nice.

Did his neighbors know that they lived next door to a killer?

Did they wander out in the evenings, intent on watering their small lawns, and end up making conversation with him? Did they invite him inside for a cup of hot chocolate after he helped them shovel snow? In a month, would their children trick-or-treat at his house?

Did his past matter to them? To his coworkers? To anyone but her?

It wasn’t much, but at least tonight he would be reminded that somebody remembered. She’d intended to come that very same night after seeing the photo. However, when she’d gotten home from work, she’d quickly realized that her new flat-screen, some jewelry and half her underwear had been ripped off.

Welcome to the big city, country girl. At least neither she nor Nadine had been home. She’d filed a police report, gotten a bigger bolt lock and reminded Nadine of the importance of making sure it was locked when she left.

But now it was time to deal with unfinished business.

Sucking in a deep breath, she knocked on the door. Her heart was hammering in her chest, making it hard to breathe normally. She waited, then knocked again. Then a third time. She watched the curtains in the windows, looking for some telltale sign that he was home but unwilling to answer the door, but there was nothing.

She sank down on a step. She wasn’t leaving. She owed Tessa this much at least.

SAM VERNELLI HAD BEEN working twelve-hour days for the past month and today had been no exception. However, because it was Friday, he’d agreed to go get burgers and beers with Cruz. His partner and best friend was still reeling from the fact that six months ago his wife had accepted a big promotion and moved to Texas, walking away from their six-year marriage.

Fridays had been date night for Meg and Cruz Montoya. And for the first several months after she left, Cruz got so damn drunk every Friday that he was still hungover Monday. Lately, he’d been better, but Sam knew he was a foothold away from slipping back into the mud.

Tonight, he and Cruz had both stopped at two beers. It might be the weekend, but they had an especially heavy caseload and they planned on working until at least noon Saturday.

Now, as he drove down his quiet street, all he wanted was a shower, a bed and at least eight hours of sleep. He slowed the car and eased it into an empty spot less than thirty yards from his house. He was grateful—sometimes by this time of night on-street parking was scarce. He could park in the alley, but that would mean beaching his car in front of his garage, which meant that he’d be blocking in Dolores. The woman had been a great tenant for the past three years since she and her adult son had rented both the third floor and his garage, but she also had the most annoying habit of going to the grocery store before the sun had fully crested the horizon.

He killed his lights. Just about to reach for the door handle, he caught something out of the corner of his eye. Streetlights made it easy enough to see that someone was sitting on his front steps.

It was a woman. Short, dark hair. Slim build. He couldn’t see her face because her head was down, as she huddled over her bent knees. No coat, short sleeves. It was barely fifty degrees out—she had to be cold if she’d been there any length of time. There was a big purse or some kind of bag on the steps next to her.

She was no doubt waiting for Tom Ames. Dolores had mentioned he had a new girlfriend and this woman looked to be about the right age. But because he’d been a cop for a long time, he didn’t see a need to be stupid. He quietly opened the door. He cut through his neighbor’s yard, got to the alley and approached his property from the rear. It wasn’t until he circled the entire house, making sure that nothing looked out of place, or that others weren’t waiting in the shadows, that he approached the woman.

“Hello,” he said and couldn’t help smiling when she jerked up and practically leaped off the steps. She was young, strikingly pretty, and while not exceptionally tall, she wore a skirt short enough that he still had a nice view of sexy legs.

Not a bad image to take to bed with him. And the next time he saw Tom Ames, he was going to yank his chain about leaving his girlfriend cooling her heels, or in this case, her tennis shoes on his front porch.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

She chewed on her bottom lip and Sam sensed the tension in her body. He moved slightly so that he could watch her for sudden movement and watch the street, as well. She stared at him, not blinking. He wasn’t sure she was breathing.

“What’s going on?” he asked, his tone still friendly.

The woman sucked in a deep breath and Sam was human enough that he appreciated the rise and fall of her full breasts under her lightweight shirt. But he was also very tired. “Look,” he said, “let’s cut to the chase. What are you—”

“Waiting. For. You.”

Her voice was low, sexy, and he caught a sense of determined purpose in her carefully spaced cadence.

“Sweetheart, that’s a nice thought, but you’re a little young for me,” he said. He felt bad when she flinched, but quite honestly, he didn’t have the time or energy to play games.

“My name is Claire Fontaine.”

The edges of Sam’s vision went black. Tessa’s little sister. On his porch. What the hell? It had been eleven years since he’d seen her. He did the math and realized that she was twenty-four. Days before this woman had turned thirteen, Tessa had dragged him to the post office, insisting that her little sister’s gift needed to be there on her birthday. Three weeks later, he’d met Claire Fontaine when he’d gone to Tessa’s funeral in Nebraska.

She’d been a skinny, dark-haired, dark-eyed teenager with a mouthful of braces who’d mostly stayed in her room. He hadn’t paid much attention to her. He’d been too busy looking out the living-room window, staring at nothing, wondering how he was supposed to go on without Tessa.

Now that she’d given her name, he could see some resemblance to that young girl in the stunning woman who stood before him. The same dark eyes and dark hair, although it was shorter now, curling around her face. Slim, not skinny and there were definitely curves in all the right places.

“What…Why…” He stopped and took a breath. His interrogation tactics were generally better than this. No doubt about it. The woman had knocked him off-stride. “What are you doing in Chicago?” he asked, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt.

“Working.”

The Fontaines had let another daughter move to Chicago? He could hardly believe that. “Where?”

“In advertising,” she said, answering, yet not answering the question.

For some crazy reason, he felt stupid. As if he somehow should have sensed that Tessa’s sister was close. In so many ways, he still felt connected to Tessa. He’d loved her and had been so sure they’d be together forever. And then she’d been killed and everything had changed.

He’d barely been back from the funeral when the cops investigating Tessa’s murder had started looking in his direction. He’d been stricken with grief and suddenly facing the prospect of life in prison. It had been the most horrible time of his life.

And it was all because of this woman.

Claire Fontaine had told the police that she’d overheard Sam and Tessa arguing on the phone. Sam had threatened her sister, telling her she was going to pay for something she’d done. Just that quick, he’d become suspect number one. And because he’d found Tessa and gathered her cold body in his arms, his DNA had been everywhere.

Even as a dumb kid, he’d known he was in big trouble.

Even so, he hadn’t done much to help himself. He’d been too busy crashing and burning and would have either died, too, or spent twenty to life in the joint if his parents hadn’t stepped in. They’d spent money they didn’t have and hired a big-name defense attorney who found plenty of holes in how the police had handled the investigation. Ultimately, the state’s attorney had either realized that Sam was innocent or had figured he didn’t have enough to take the case the whole way. For whatever reason, the man had declined to press charges.

Sam had started piecing his life back together. It hadn’t been pretty and it hadn’t been easy and even after he’d officially been discounted as a suspect, it had taken years before he’d been confident that he could go on. Now, in the seconds it had taken for her to say her name, the memories threatened to take him under.

What the hell was she doing here? “It seems to me that I’d be the last person you’d look up,” he said.

She considered him. The light wasn’t quite good enough to tell for sure, but he thought he caught the glimmer of unshed tears in her eyes. He refused to feel bad. She was the one who’d come from nowhere.

“How could you have become a cop?” Her voice was rich with unspoken accusation.

It wasn’t the question he’d anticipated. He wouldn’t tell her the truth. “I heard they had good pension benefits,” he said. Sarcasm was always his backup plan.

She shook her head. “This was a mistake,” she muttered.

She wasn’t going to get an argument from him. Nothing good could come from his having anything to do with Claire Fontaine. And while he knew better, he couldn’t stop himself from asking, “Why? Why now?”

Now the tears ran down her cheeks. “Because eleven years ago, I stood at my sister’s grave and made her a promise.”

She stopped, apparently unwilling to tell him what that promise had been. Hell, he’d made plenty of his own promises over the years. Not at Tessa’s grave. His were generally silent oaths uttered to an empty room. And more times than not, a vodka bottle played a prominent role.

Even when he’d been sober, it wasn’t as if he’d ever made good on any of them. Tessa’s murderer had never been caught.

She reached for her shoulder bag. “I’ve hated you for a long time,” she said.

He’d been a cop for eight years. She wasn’t the first to say it. Never before, however, had the words clawed at his gut. “Look, your sister, she…”

He stopped. Tessa had loved her little sister, had always talked about how smart Claire was, how good of a student.

“What?” she challenged.

He shook his head. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, to be gained by going over ancient history.

“My sister was a beautiful woman, in the prime of her life.” Her voice shook with emotion. “Not that I expect you to care,” she added, her tone defiant. In a move that matched, she scrubbed the back of her hand across her face, destroying the evidence of her tears. She turned fast and practically ran down the steps.

Sam sank down onto the top step and rubbed the bridge of his nose. She was right. He didn’t care. About much of anything. It was safer. Easier. And he sure as hell didn’t need some ghost from his past reminding him why.

She was halfway down the block. Let her go. She’d come looking for a jerk, he shouldn’t disappoint her.

“Hey. It’s pretty late to be walking,” he yelled.

She didn’t even break pace.

Shaking his head, he jogged after her. And then she started running and he had to pour it on just to catch her. “Look,” he said, grabbing her arm.

She swung her other one, aiming for his head.

He jumped back, both arms in the air, palms facing her. He was breathing hard. “I’ll drive you home,” he said.

“Get away from me,” she said. There was enough illumination from porch lights and the occasional streetlight that he could see the anger in her dark eyes.

“You’ve got to be cold. At least let me call you a taxi.”

“I don’t want you doing anything for me,” she said.

She started walking again and this time, he let her go.

If the little fool got mugged, it wouldn’t be his fault. He walked back toward his house. He was going to forget that she was in Chicago, forget her period.

When he reached his house, he saw the envelope lying in the flower bed next to his front steps. He picked it up and saw the return address of Alexander and Pope, one of the better-known downtown advertising agencies. It was a window-style, with her name and address clearly visible.

She lived in the 800 block of Maple Street. Her place was at least twelve blocks away. It’d be eleven, well past the time the crazies came out, by the time she got there.

I don’t want you doing anything for me. He tapped the edge of the envelope against his hand.

Screw it.

He pulled his cell phone off the clip on his belt and dialed. “Squad, this is Detective 4433. Can you connect me to a uniform in the vicinity of Maher and Oaktree?” He waited impatiently for the call to be patched through. When it was, he didn’t waste any time.

“This is Detective Vernelli. There’s a woman, dark hair, early twenties, walking east on Oaktree, in the 2300 block. She’s headed to 810 Maple Street. Don’t pick her up and don’t let her know you’re following her, but call me when she gets there.”

When the officer agreed, Sam rattled off his cell number. Then he shut his phone, clipped it back on his belt and very carefully folded the envelope. He’d throw a stamp on it tomorrow and stick it in the mail.

He sure didn’t plan on ever seeing Claire Fontaine again.

WHEN CLAIRE WOKE UP the next morning, her head ached, her eyes were puffy and she was hungry. However, when she reached for the skirt that she’d shed before crawling into bed and realized that she’d somehow lost her paycheck, she felt truly ill.

How could she have been so careless? The last thing she wanted to do was ask for a replacement check. She was still proving herself at the job. What if the payroll department happened to mention the request to her boss? It was a fast slide down the corporate ladder when others thought you were irresponsible. But it wasn’t as if she could go without a paycheck. She had her share of the rent to cover and although she’d already resolutely accepted that she was going to be washing underwear more frequently, she hoped to replace the missing television sooner than later. She was a sucker for a sappy movie on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

She could have lost it anywhere between the office and Sam Vernelli’s house or between his house and her apartment. It had been dumb to stick it in her pocket when she could have easily put it in her purse.

It was likely in Lake Michigan by now; they didn’t call Chicago the Windy City for nothing. But it was possible that someone would find it and try to cash it. She’d have to tell someone so that the company could put a stop payment on it.

It was a perfect ending to a night where nothing had gone exactly the way she’d planned.

She’d sat on Sam Vernelli’s steps for hours, getting colder and hungrier as the night wore on. She remembered closing her eyes and she must have fallen asleep. He’d scared the heck out of her when he’d suddenly appeared. Composure had vanished and suddenly it was as if she was thirteen again and her heart was racing as she sneaked into Tessa’s bedroom at home to stare at the picture of Sam that was pinned to the bulletin board.

Back then she’d thought he was fabulously handsome. Now, eleven years later, his frame was more muscular, his dark hair shorter, and while his face showed some wear and tear, he was still very good-looking. In her world, he had the look that moved product, especially if women were the target audience.

He’d been shocked when she’d said her name. She’d wanted to throw him off balance. She just hadn’t counted on the fact that her own equilibrium would be compromised.

He hadn’t tried to convince her that she was wrong. Over the past weeks, once she’d decided that she was going to confront him, she’d spent time anticipating his response. She never figured he’d admit the truth. The man was a cop—he wouldn’t be stupid enough to say that he’d murdered someone. No, she’d always assumed that he’d dismiss her accusations, maybe try to make her think she was crazy for thinking that she’d heard him threaten Tessa.

She hadn’t expected him to just stand there and take it. When he had, she’d expected to feel some sense of jubilation, but instead, all she’d felt was emptiness.

Going to see him had probably been a mistake. But she couldn’t change it now. Thank goodness there were three million people in the city of Chicago. What were the chances she’d ever run into Sam Vernelli?

Chapter Two

Sam read while Cruz drove. He hoped the gritty details of the latest homicide would keep him from obsessing about Claire Fontaine.

She was different than Tessa and it wasn’t just that her hair was dark and short while Tessa’s had been blond and hung halfway down her back. No, it was something not quite so tangible. Tessa had been the life of the party, everybody loved her, especially men. While they were together, Sam had spent more than one sleepless night worrying about that. He’d always figured he’d been lucky to catch her.

Tessa had been…uncomplicated. He’d spent five minutes with Claire and somehow knew there was nothing simple or easy about her.

The radio crackled, blessedly interrupting his thoughts. “All units. District 23. We’ve got shots fired at 810 Maple.”

Cruz grabbed the wheel with both hands. “We’re four blocks from there. Want to go?”

Detectives, unlike uniforms, weren’t required to respond to the all-unit calls. But neither Cruz nor Sam liked stuff happening in Area 5 that they didn’t know about. “Sure. Let’s roll.”

Cruz whipped the car into traffic. “What was that address again?”

“810 Maple.” As soon as he said it, Sam knew. He’d seen that address just the night before. “Drive faster,” he said, as he pulled the envelope out of the inner pocket of his suit coat.

Apartment 3C. As Cruz weaved in and out of traffic, Sam tried to focus. Just because it was Claire’s address, it didn’t mean she was in trouble. There were probably lots of apartments in the building. But he couldn’t shake the sick feeling that was in his gut.

By the time Cruz pulled up, police cars were stacked three deep. Sam grabbed his vest from the backseat and worked his way to the front. He slid in next to Bobby Horowitz, who crouched behind his vehicle, a phone to one ear, scribbling with a pen on paper that was balanced on his knee.

“What’s going on?” Sam whispered.

Bobby held up a finger and Sam waited, sweat trickling down his back. Finally, Bobby hung up.

“Talk to me, Bobby.”

“We got a report of shots fired. Neighbor across the hall called it in.”

“What apartment?”

“3C.” Bobby pointed toward the building. “It’s that sliding door, third one from the left.”

Sam leaned his head against the warm metal of the police car. He swallowed hard. “Any known injuries?”

Bobby shook his head. “Our guys got as far as the apartment door. They knocked and somebody started shooting. They grabbed the woman from across the hall and beat feet back down to the second floor. Ain’t been a sound out of the apartment since then. Unfortunately, the neighbor hasn’t shut up. She’d been going on and on about how the apartment was burglarized a couple weeks ago.”

“What?”

“I don’t know anything else. She didn’t have many details. Hopefully, HBT will get here soon and we can put this one to bed.”

Sam’s stomach turned. Hostage Barricade Team. The last hostage rescue operation he’d worked, the hostage had ended up with a bullet in his neck. No doubt Bobby remembered it, too. He’d been standing next to Sam, looking like he wanted to rip somebody’s head off.

Sam studied the building. It would be a long shot, but he thought he could do it. “Look, Bobby. From the balcony of the apartment next door, I can get over to that sliding door. The blinds are closed. They aren’t going to be able to see me from inside.”

“So, then what?”

“It’s been warm this week. I’m betting they open that sliding door. Because they’re on the third floor, they probably keep it unlocked.”

“I don’t know. You fall three stories and it’s my job.”

“I get them out of there and it’s the mayor calling you up, inviting you over for drinks.”

Bobby’s green eyes took on a familiar glow. “Yeah, I’d like that. Maybe the guys from HBT could drive me there.” He looked at his watch. “Get going. Super said every apartment is laid out the same. Railcar-style. That sliding door is to a bedroom, which connects to another bedroom, then there’s the living room, kitchen and finally the bath.”

“Make sure our guys on the second floor know I’m coming in,” Sam said, moving fast. He slipped inside the building, his gun drawn. When he got to the third floor, he stopped, listened and then moved toward the door he needed. He unlocked it and went inside. He listened again but didn’t hear anything from Claire’s apartment.

That didn’t necessarily mean good news.

He walked out onto the balcony, staying close to the building. After attaching the radio to his belt, he slipped his gun into his shoulder holster and inspected the bricks. He pushed his fingers in between them, hoping to get some kind of hold. It wasn’t much but it did provide some balance. He stepped up onto the wrought-iron railing, first one foot and then the other.

Then he made the mistake of looking down.

His heart thumped. One good jump, he reminded himself.

Right. If the first one wasn’t good, he wouldn’t need to worry about a second try.

Sam took a breath and closed his eyes. From inside the building, from Claire’s apartment, he heard a scream and then a gunshot.

Sam opened his eyes, bunched up his leg muscles and leaped. He hit the deck with a soft thud, his knees absorbing the shock. He yanked on the door handle and started to breathe again when it slid open. Easing his hand inside, he caught the edge of the heavy curtain and pulled.

He poked his head and gun through the opening. Empty. It was a mess, with clothes and shoes everywhere. He moved quickly, his shoes making no sound on the carpet. Through the door, into the interior bedroom

It smelled like Claire Fontaine. Fresh with a hint of something exotic. Everything in its place. The bed covers were thrown back, as if someone had been sleeping.

He poked his head out the door and scanned the living room. His stomach cramped up tight.

A woman, half her head blown off, lay sprawled on the couch. Blood and tissue splattered the wall behind her. She was blond and many pounds overweight—not that she was going to need to worry about that anymore. A cigarette, still smoldering, rested in a butt-filled glass dish on the end table.

Across from her, a young woman, red hair, very pale skin, wearing standard-issue green scrubs, sat on a love seat. A revolver rested in the palm of her hand. She had her eyes closed but he didn’t think she was hurt. He could see the rise and fall of her chest, in even breaths.

Where was Claire?

Sam focused on the woman in scrubs because the woman on the couch wouldn’t ever be moving again. He slipped behind her. “I’m a police officer,” he said, keeping his voice soft. “Put your gun on the floor.”

She strained her neck to see him. Her eyes were open, her stare blank. She looked first at the gun he pointed at her, and then back at her own gun. Without a word, she bent over and gently placed it on the floor, next to her bare feet. Sam walked around the end of the couch, squatted, picked up the gun with his fingertips and dropped it in the pocket of his suit coat.

“Where’s Claire?” he asked.

“I’m here.”

Sam whirled around. Claire was at the far end of the apartment, leaning against the frame of the bathroom door, so pale that he wondered how she could stand. She had a hand towel up to her mouth.

“Anybody else here?” he asked, trying to stay focused. He could see streaks of tears on her cheeks.

She shook her head and made the mistake of looking at the dead woman. She swayed, her shoulder knocking into the wall.

He moved quickly to her side and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, pulling her in close. Her whole body was trembling. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“You’re sure?”

He got a nod. Okay. Sam pulled back a little. Claire’s eyes were puffy, her nose was red and she kept the towel up to her mouth, like she wasn’t sure she was done losing her lunch.

“Who’s that?” he asked, nodding his head toward the woman in scrubs.

“My roommate, Nadine.”

“Okay. Look, I need to call this in,” he said. “Nadine, come over here. I want the two of you to sit in the kitchen.”

He led Claire over, keeping one arm around her. He kicked a pair of green rubber clogs out of the way and used his free arm to pull two kitchen chairs away from the table. He faced them toward the kitchen counters.

He lowered Claire down and backed away when he was sure she was steady. Nadine took the other seat without a word.

He pulled the radio off his belt. “Squad, this is 4433. I’m inside at 810 Maple. Let all units know the location is secure and roll me an ambulance.”

CLAIRE FOLDED THE WRAPPER over her half-eaten cheeseburger and pushed the almost-full container of fries toward the middle of the table. “I’m done.”

“At least you ate something.” Sam Vernelli gathered up his own garbage, added it to hers and put it on a tray that he shoved to the end of the table.

“I…” She stopped, pressing two fingers hard against her lips. “I’ve just never seen anything so horrible before.”

“There are cops who’ve been on the job for ten years who haven’t seen anything like that. It would shake anybody up.”

He was being nice and kind. The same as he’d been since he’d somehow, like some superhero, jumped onto her balcony. It was one more crazy thing in a day of craziness.

For the last eleven years, Sam Vernelli’s name had been synonymous with everything evil. She didn’t want him to be nice to her. She didn’t want to owe him anything. But when he’d pulled her into the kitchen and squatted in front of her, his hand steady on her knees and his eyes even steadier, it had been hard to remember that.

And suddenly it had seemed as if there were a hundred people in her apartment. Cops who wanted to talk to her, then to Nadine, then to both of them. The paramedics from the ambulance had arrived, looked at the dead woman and left. Then some skinny guy, who everyone called The Weasel, in a black suit that looked too big for him had walked around with a camera and if he’d taken one picture, he’d taken a hundred. Of everything, from every angle.

And when it had been over and she’d been so lightheaded that she thought she might faint, she hadn’t protested when Sam had practically dragged her out of the apartment and across the street to McDonald’s. She’d been a quivering mess.

It was time to suck it up. “I need to go.”

Sam looked at his watch. “It’s not quite four yet. I’ve got a few more questions.”

“Look, Detective Vernelli, you and I both know that it’s not a good idea for you to be assigned to this case.”

“It’s a little too late for that.”

“No. I’m going to call the police department and request that another officer be assigned.”

Sam pulled a card out of his pocket. He wrote down a name and number and shoved it toward her. “This is my boss’s name and cell. Right about now, he’s walking his daughter down the aisle, so I don’t think he’d appreciate the interruption. But on Monday morning, you can call him. Make your request. I don’t really care. But for now, I’ve got a dead woman and a hell of a lot of unanswered questions. I’ll do my best to stay out of your way, but I’m not going to sacrifice this investigation just because you’ve got a problem with me.”

Claire chewed on her lip. “All right, fine. But don’t think I won’t call Monday.”

He shrugged. “I’m counting on it. Now, start at the beginning.”

She’d never wanted to do anything less, but just maybe, if she went through it again, it would start to make some sense to her, too. “I got up pretty early this morning. I was mad at myself because I’d somehow managed to lose my paycheck last night.”

Sam held up a finger and reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “I found this next to my steps.”

She grabbed the envelope. “Thank you. One less thing to have to deal with on Monday.”

“So you got up early…” he prompted.

“Yes. I realized Nadine was still sleeping, so I quietly made some breakfast and then went back to my bedroom. I had left a couple projects undone at work, so I figured I’d use the time to catch up. I worked for a few hours on my laptop. I got a little sleepy and decided to catch a nap. When I woke up around eleven, I heard voices in the living room. I recognized Nadine’s voice, so I walked out to see what was going on. She was telling the stranger to get the hell out of our apartment.”

Sam flipped the pages of his notebook. “Nadine said that she was leaving for work and the woman had been in the hallway when she opened the door. She’d pushed her way into the apartment.”

Claire shook her head. “What kind of crazy person does that?”

Sam shrugged his broad shoulders. “I don’t know. What happened next?”

“The woman pulled a gun out of her pocket and started waving it around, screaming. It was pretty disjointed. Something about everything was ruined and that she wasn’t going to be the last fool left standing. She pointed the gun at us and she was shaking so much that I was afraid it was going to go off. She told us to sit down and when we didn’t move fast enough, she shot the gun. The bullet went over our heads, probably just a foot or two.”

“That’s probably what saved your life. The neighbor across the hall heard it.”

“Mrs. Peters. She hears everything.”

He smiled and she realized it was the first time she’d seen him do that. His teeth were white and straight and he looked like some model on the cover of GQ. She remembered overhearing her mother tell one of her friends that Sam was as handsome as Tessa was beautiful.

She swallowed hard and focused on getting the details right. “Nadine and I sat on the love seat and the woman sat across from us on the couch. She got really quiet. Then the police knocked on the door. She went crazy again and shot twice at the door.”

“Then what?”

“She was smoking one cigarette after another. Every once in a while, she’d wave her gun around. She asked us how much money we had and I told her I had sixty dollars in my purse and Nadine said she had about two hundred.”

“What did she say?”

“She started laughing hysterically, and said that wasn’t nearly enough. That she couldn’t have any kind of life on that kind of money. Then she pointed the gun at us, said she was going to have to kill us after all, and I knew she meant it.”

“But Nadine shot her first?”

“Yes. I just sat there and waited to die. Nadine, thankfully, wasn’t quite so willing to give up. Her backpack was wedged between the two seat cushions. When the woman was ranting, she somehow managed to reach into it, pull out a gun and shoot her.”

“And you said earlier that you had no idea that she had a gun.”

She shook her head. “No. She had mentioned something about a woman getting attacked in the parking lot at her work and that she was thinking about getting a gun. I didn’t realize that she’d followed through on it. I’ve never been all that crazy about guns, but call me a hypocrite because right now, I’m pretty darn glad she had it.”

Sam smiled. He glanced through the pages of his notebook again before looking up. “And neither of you ever met this woman before?”

“No.”

Sam rubbed his jaw. “Not through your jobs? Not some night at a bar?”

“No.” She pushed her empty soda container to the center of the table. “She was a stranger. I don’t even know her name and now she’s dead.”

“Her name is Sandy Bird. Ring a bell?”

“Sandy Bird,” Claire repeated. She let the name roll around in her head but it didn’t bump into anything familiar. “How do you know that’s her name?” she asked. “That’s pretty fast police work.”

He shrugged, letting her know that her grudging admission hadn’t been lost on him. “It wasn’t all that tough. She didn’t have a purse or a wallet on her, but she did have a set of keys in her pocket. When you were talking to the others, I walked outside, pointed the electric door opener at several cars, and sure enough, the lights on the green Toyota Camry started blinking. Her purse was in the trunk and when I matched up the license picture with uh…her face, I knew it was her.”

“She doesn’t have all that much of a face left,” Claire said, swallowing hard.

“A family member will need to make a positive ID down at the morgue. My partner, Cruz Montoya, is helping the coroner chase that down right now.” Sam pulled his straw out of his empty container and started tapping it on the table. “I understand your apartment was burglarized just a few weeks ago. Do you think this has anything to do with that?”

“I have no idea.”

He bent his straw double, then again, until it was a hard ball of plastic. He relaxed his hold and it sprang apart. Then he started folding again. “How long have you known Nadine?”

“Forever. We went to grade school together. We’d been planning this move to Chicago all through college. We both took jobs in Omaha after graduation. I needed some work experience before advertising agencies in Chicago would consider me. When I got the job at Alexander and Pope, she applied for nursing positions. She got one at Melrey.” Claire scooted to the edge of the booth. “Look, if there aren’t any more questions, I’d like to go.”

“Your apartment is a crime scene. You can’t stay there.”

Right now, she didn’t ever want to see her apartment again. “I know. I can’t even have it cleaned up until I get the okay. Fortunately, one of the officers gave me a business card. He said they’d do a good job.”

Sam shook his head. “They aren’t supposed to do that. Just so you know, it’s probably his cousin.”

She shrugged. She couldn’t care less. Their landlord had been one of the hundred people who’d flooded the apartment. He’d told them it was their responsibility to get the apartment cleaned and repainted. She and Nadine had agreed the couch was simply getting thrown out.

“So where are you two planning to stay?” he prompted.

“I’m staying at a hotel.” At the cheapest one she could find. Her credit card balances were mounting. “Nadine’s going home for a week or two. She worked it out with her supervisor.”

“I’m not crazy about her leaving right now,” Sam said. “I might have more questions for her.”

“I have her cell number, her mother’s cell and her parents’ home number.” Claire slid her purse strap onto her shoulder. It wasn’t going to be Sam Vernelli’s worry. She was making that call at eight o’clock Monday morning.

He pointed to his card that was still clenched in her fingers. “My work number is on that card. Let me give you my cell, in the event that you think of something else or if you…need anything.”

“Do you give your personal cell number to all your crime victims?” she asked.

“You’re not just anybody. You’re Tessa’s—”

“Little sister.” She squared her shoulders. “I don’t think either one of us can forget that.” She squatted and reached for the handle of the black duffel bag that she’d stuffed under the table. “Good night, Detective Vernelli.”

“I’ll drive you to your hotel.”

She shook her head.

He looked as if he wanted to spit nails. “Fine. I’ll get you a cab.”

She held up a finger. “Detective Vernelli, I am grateful for your assistance today. To say I wasn’t would be lying. But you and I both know that nothing good can come out of our having anything to do with one another. So, don’t call me a cab. Don’t call me period.”

Chapter Three

Sam dialed Cruz’s cell as he walked to his car. When Cruz answered, Sam asked, “Hey, can you talk?”

“Yeah,” his partner said. “It’s just me and a couple cheeseburgers sitting in my car. I thought you and Claire were grabbing a bite.”

“Yeah, well, she eats fast. So what do we know about Sandy Bird?”

“She’s got two kids, ten-year-old twins. She’s the president of the Arlington Heights Parent-Teacher Organization.”

“None of that makes any sense. What would she be doing breaking into an apartment on Maple? Is she married?”

“Yes. For the last ten years. To Fletcher Bird. He’s a pharmacist, works in the Loop.”

“What’s your read on him?” Sam asked.

“He’s shook, doesn’t know what to tell his kids. Said that he had no idea why his wife would have been in Claire’s apartment. The names Claire Fontaine and Nadine Myer didn’t mean anything to him.”

Sam closed his eyes. Nothing was ever easy. “Okay. You want to start the process for us to check the phone and computer records?”

“Request is already in. He and his wife both had a cell and a home phone. PCs at home and his office. Claire has a laptop and she and Nadine each have a cell and one landline. You know, this used to be easier before everyone needed to be connected 24/7.”

“I know.” Sam wondered if Claire had any idea that her privacy was about to be compromised. “I had The Weasel snap pictures of both Nadine and Claire. I don’t want to push the husband too hard when he’s got his hands full of funeral arrangements, but I think we need to see if he recognizes either of them.”

“Maybe she just picked today to go off the deep end,” Cruz suggested. “Maybe her husband’s name finally drove her over the edge. By the way, I pulled the full robbery report. I was going to call you but I didn’t know if you’d want to be interrupted.” His tone was full of suggestion.

Sam started his car and pulled out into the heavy traffic. “I told you, she’s Tessa’s sister.” Cruz and his boss were the only two in the department who knew the story. “We grabbed a bite to eat and she’s on her way to a hotel.” No need to add that she’d done it without a backward glance in his direction.

“She’s a beautiful woman. Nobody was questioning why you decided to leap tall buildings to save her.”

Sam sighed. “I was doing my job, Cruz.”

“Half the guys trooping through her apartment today plan to ask her out. The other half are either gay or too afraid she’ll shut them down and they’ll never recover from the pain.”

“That’s ridiculous. She’s only twenty-four.”

“Last time I checked that was six years past legal.”

Sam switched lanes quickly and horns blared in response. Yeah, so what that he’d noticed that she looked really good in her black leggings and long sweater that was snug in just the right places? He was human, wasn’t he?

Debatable. At least from Claire’s perspective. She’d made it pretty clear that she wasn’t impressed and no doubt would make her call first thing Monday morning.

The case would be reassigned and he’d be out from under this rock. Good.

ON SUNDAY MORNING, Cruz bumped his leg against Sam’s desk, carrying a stack of manila folders, two large coffees and a white sack. Sam reached for the coffees and Cruz dropped the folders on the desk. “So much for Sunday being the day of rest,” Cruz said. Then he opened the sack and pulled out some kind of egg and sausage thing on a biscuit with cheese dripping over the side.

“You used to eat cereal and bananas in the mornings,” Sam said.

“That’s what Meg liked for breakfast.”

He could let it pass. He probably should. “Here’s a news flash, Cruz. It’s your arteries that are getting clogged. When you eat that stuff, you’re not hurting her.”

Cruz pulled a file from the stack. “Practice your amateur psychology on somebody else,” he said. He flipped the file onto Sam’s desk. “The report on the robbery at Claire’s apartment is on top.”

Sam opened the file and skimmed over the information. When he got to the list of items taken, he slowed down. One flat-screen television. Three necklaces. One ring. Approximately ten pairs of panties. He raised his gaze and looked at Cruz. “Did you read this?”

Cruz nodded. “I don’t remember Claire mentioning the panties yesterday.”

Sam shook his head. “No. I’m pretty sure Sandy Bird and Claire wouldn’t wear the same size.”

“You’re right. I called the morgue this morning and they checked her personal items. White cotton, size eight. Claire’s were a size five. And truthfully, Claire doesn’t look like a white cotton girl to me.”

Neither one of them had any business thinking about Claire’s underwear. “Did they get any prints from Claire’s apartment?”

“There was one set of prints that didn’t belong to Nadine or Claire. They aren’t Sandy’s either. So, A, if Sandy was the thief, she was careful and wore her gloves like a good girl. Or B, the prints belong to the thief, but he’s a new thief with no record. Or C, the prints belong to some jerk they had over for beers one night who had nothing to do with the robbery. Basically, we don’t know squat, except that the thief likes women’s underwear.”

The thought of some sick idiot running his hands over Claire’s stolen panties made Sam think his coffee might make a return appearance. He swallowed hard and focused.

“Eat fast. We need to go talk to Sandy Bird’s neighbors. If we’re lucky, we’ll get to the people who work at the drugstore by early afternoon.”

A half hour later, they were walking down Sandy and Fletcher Bird’s street. It was edged with trees, just blocks away from the train line that ran through downtown Arlington Heights. The houses were two-stories, there was an abundance of swing sets and the neighbors were naturally curious.

They had known Sandy and liked her. At the third house, the one directly across the street, Sam and Cruz heard something interesting from the thirty-something woman who answered the door with a toddler on her hip.

“Sandy and I used to go to the gambling boat. It was a quick twenty-minute drive. And the buffet was delicious.”

Sam almost laughed. Of course. The slot machines had nothing to do with it.

“How often did you go?” Cruz asked.

“Once a month, maybe. We’d get a sitter for the kids. It was fun.”

And probably pretty harmless unless she was losing big. “What’s the most you ever saw her lose?”

The woman shrugged. “Maybe a hundred dollars.”

A hundred bucks a month? Didn’t seem like much of a gambling problem. But Sam recalled what Claire had told him. She wanted to know how much money we had.

“Do you think she ever went by herself or with another neighbor?”

“I don’t think so. She was pretty busy with her kids. Fletcher worked a lot of hours and was gone a lot.”

They thanked her for the information and left. Three houses later, the consensus was that Sandy Bird was a good mom, a willing volunteer and a poor golfer. None of that helped them understand why she’d stormed her way into a stranger’s apartment and started shooting up the place. They did not go to see Fletcher Bird. His car was in the driveway, but they kept their distance out of respect. There’d be time to talk with him later.

They headed back downtown, toward the South Loop. Because it was Sunday, and the office buildings were mostly empty, they had no trouble finding a place to park right in front of the drugstore.

They flashed pictures of Nadine and Claire. All three of the clerks, all women in their forties or fifties, shook their heads. Pretty girl, said one woman, pointing to Claire’s picture.

Flat-out beautiful, really, Sam thought. Voluptuous. Not stick-skinny like so many women aspired to be. A man wouldn’t lose her in the sheets.

He stopped walking so suddenly that Cruz almost ran into the back of him.

“What?” Cruz asked.

“Nothing.” He waved a hand. “Let’s go.”

What the hell was he doing thinking about Claire Fontaine wrapped up in nothing but a silk sheet?

ON MONDAY MORNING, before Claire had a chance to stuff her purse in her desk drawer, Victor’s secretary was knocking on their cubicles, letting the creative staff know that Victor wanted to see them—post haste.

The buzz immediately started. Finalists for the Chicago Advertising Association’s Design of the Year contest were supposed to be announced today. Victor was the contact for all the entries. Was it possible that one of them had been nominated as a finalist?

“What’s this about?” she heard Pete Mission ask.

Juanita, who, just the week before, had roared past sixty without blinking an eye, sighed. “Who knows? For having a degree in communications, he doesn’t share much. All I know is that he’s been pacing around his office like a little kid waiting for Christmas.”

Claire and the others took the elevator from the seventh floor to the ninth floor, where all the executives had corner offices. One by one, they filed into the conference room and took their respective chairs. There were no name plates or assigned seats, but still, everybody had a spot. And if somebody tried to shake things up by taking a different chair, no one was very happy. Several had brought work with them. Others were just content to let their brains relax. They were prepared to wait. Victor hadn’t started a staff meeting on time since the beginning of staff meetings. There had been lots of jokes that he couldn’t actually tell time.

They almost fell over when Victor arrived within minutes. His cheeks were pink and his small eyes were bright. He was smiling. It was the first time Claire had ever seen him happy.

He didn’t waste any time. “We were notified this morning that two of our entries are finalists in this year’s contest.”

Two. Wow. The competition was incredible. If an agency had one finalist, they were generally ecstatic. Even the more nonchalant staff members were sitting up straight in their chairs.

“I’m delighted to share that both Pete Mission and Claire Fontaine will be competing for this year’s grand prize.”

Oh, my God. She’d only been at Alexander and Pope two weeks when the memo went around, encouraging everyone on the creative staff to get their entry completed and submitted. She’d reviewed the guidelines and worked like a crazy person to develop something.

Hannah stood up and pumped her arm in the air. “Two. Amazing. Congratulations, Pete and Claire.”

Everyone clapped and cheered. At least Claire thought it was clapping and cheering. Maybe it was just her heart clanging in her chest. She made eye contact with Pete. Even he looked stunned.

Victor held up his index finger, attempting to bring order to the room. “Their designs will compete against the other four finalists. The committee will announce the winners exactly one week from today at the awards dinner. This is big, people, really big.”

As they filed out of the room, there were more private congratulations. Claire looked for Pete to offer her congratulations to him, but he was gone.

“Where’s Pete?” she asked Hannah.

The woman shrugged. “Probably out arranging for a tux and a limo. He’s entered for ten years straight and this is the first time he’s been a finalist.”

Ten minutes later, Hannah was still hanging over the cubical wall that Claire shared with her. She was speculating on what Claire should wear to the awards dinner. Claire’s telephone rang and she reached for it, grateful for the interruption. Hannah smiled at her, before her face disappeared from view.

“Claire Fontaine.”

“Hi, it’s Sam Vernelli.”

Like she wouldn’t have recognized his voice. She cupped her hand around her phone, attempting to create some privacy. Hannah out of sight didn’t necessarily mean Hannah out of hearing. “Detective?” she said, her voice low.

“How’s it going?” Sam asked.

“I just…” She stopped. She couldn’t tell him about the contest, about how absolutely psyched she was about being a finalist. That was something you told a friend, a confidant. He was neither.

“You just what?” he prompted.

“Nothing. What can I do for you?” she asked, her tone purposefully brisk, businesslike.

“I wanted you to know that we’re releasing the scene. You can get your apartment cleaned up.”

She pictured the splattered wall and swallowed hard, suddenly glad that she’d skipped breakfast. “I’ll call the painter now. Maybe I can have him meet me there tonight.” She really didn’t want to return to her apartment, but unless she planned on living indefinitely in a hotel, she needed to do it. She needed to put the ghosts behind her.

All night, she’d tossed and turned, wondering about the woman, reliving every word she’d said. At about two, she’d given up all pretense of sleeping, booted up her laptop and forced herself to work on upcoming proposals.

The work was bad and would need to be redone, but it beat dreaming about dead women and blood-spattered walls any day. She kept thinking about the woman’s family. “Did you talk with Mr. Bird?”

“Briefly and only on the phone. He’s busy planning a funeral. I gather that he’s pretty worried about how his boys are going to handle this—they’re just ten.”

Three years younger than she’d been when she’d faced death for the first time. She’d lost her sister before she’d ever really known her.

When Tessa had left Nebraska at eighteen to go to college in Chicago, Claire had been in fifth grade. She’d been more interested in computer games and birthday parties than in establishing a relationship with her sister.

She barely remembered the funeral. It had been a crazy couple of days. People in and out, calls to and from the police in Chicago, trips back and forth to the airport to pick up relatives. Death was a noisy affair.

Then, when all the people had left, the house had gotten quiet, very quiet. She’d been too young to understand it then. It was only later that she realized that everyone had been drowning in grief. Tessa’s death had stripped the sunshine out of their lives, leaving behind a cold, unforgiving torrent of rain.

And as hard as she’d tried, as good as she’d been, she’d never been able to make her parents smile in quite the same way again.

“Is there anything else, Detective?” she asked, her throat feeling tight.

“We’ll continue to investigate—probably talk to a few neighbors and check out the drugstore where Fletcher Bird works. I’ll call you if I have any more questions.”

“That’s…fine. Goodbye, Detective.” She hung up before he had the chance to respond.

Hannah’s head peeped over the cubicle wall. She didn’t even look embarrassed. “So? Does the detective have a name?”

She’d told Hannah about the shooting in her apartment. There hadn’t been much choice. Hannah’s cousin lived on the first floor of the building. It was through Hannah that Claire and Nadine had found out about the available third-floor apartment.

“Vernelli. Sam Vernelli.”

“Married?”

Hannah was thirty-eight and spent most of her evenings filling out profile sheets for online dating services. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Straight?”

Sam Vernelli radiated testosterone. “Pretty sure he is.”

“Does he in any way resemble a troll?”

Claire smiled at her friend. “He’s…very handsome.” It was the truth and it begged the question of why he had never married. Was it possible that he was still in love with Tessa, that he’d never gotten over his first true love?

Or gotten over the guilt of harming her?

She was going to drive herself crazy. She deliberately looked at her watch. “Wow. Where is the day going? I better get busy.” She grabbed the top file off the pile on her desk, opened it and pretended to read. When she heard the squeak of Hannah’s chair, she started to breathe again. After another ten minutes, she quietly pulled her cell phone from her purse and left the office area. She took the elevator down to the lobby, exited the building and walked just far enough that she wasn’t bothered by the smoke from the office workers who were huddled around the front door grabbing their morning nicotine fix.

She dialed Nadine’s cell.

“Hey, Claire,” Nadine answered.

“How’s Omaha?”

“You know, nothing much changes in Omaha. What’s going on there?”

“The police said that we can return to the apartment. I’ll call the painter today.”

“Thank goodness. So, do the police have any more thoughts on what might have happened?”

“Apparently not. When I did speak to Detective Vernelli this morning, he said that they were continuing to investigate.”

There was a pause on the line. “What’s to investigate?” Nadine finally asked. “She must have just been crazy.”

“We could attest to that, right? I guess they intend to talk to the husband. I guess that’s all probably routine.”

“Yeah, sure. I thought you were going to ask for another detective to be assigned.”

After the shooting, in between questions from the police, Claire had given Nadine the Cliff Notes version of her visit to Sam Vernelli’s house the night before.

“I’m calling Detective Vernelli’s boss next.”

He’d come to her rescue—she was grateful for that. And he’d been decent about giving back her check. But none of that mattered. She detested Sam Vernelli.

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