Protector With A Past Page 10

  "Maybe one of those old cronies you said he still has tipped him off that the police wanted to talk to him," Julia said dubiously. "But I don't know, Cord—Tascoe didn't seem like the type to run at the first hint of trouble. He probably thinks he can outbluff and outmaneuver someone like Lopez. Doesn't it seem more likely that he'd welcome the chance to cross swords with her just to prove what a mistake the department made when they let him go?"

  "I don't know." He took an absent sip of his tea and fell silent. Then she saw his eyes narrow thoughtfully. "How beat are you?" he asked her abruptly.

  Julia blinked. "Beat? As in tired?" If he'd asked that question an hour ago she would have said she was exhausted. But the light meal and the hot tea had energized her, she realized in surprise. "We're going to pay a visit to Jackie Redmond, aren't we?" she said with sudden certainty. "I'm game, Cord. If Tascoe really is on the run, he's already got a head start—there's no sense in giving him more of an edge over us than he has."

  "That's the way I see it."

  He flashed a briefly impersonal grin at her, and she felt an inane little feather of happiness uncurl somewhere in the vicinity of her stomach. As he paid their bill and left a tip for the waitress, she tried to get herself under control, but it was no use.

  Just being with him, even under these grim circumstances, was more than she'd ever expected to have again. Over the last two years she'd never forgotten the long, sweet nights tangled up in each other's arms, the look in his eyes when he told her he loved her or the feel of his mouth on hers.

  But she'd somehow forgotten just how good it felt to simply be with him.

  Jackie Redmond's apartment was on the other side of town. As they drove there, a light misty rain began to fall, and when Cord switched on the windshield wipers, the rhythmic swishing noise they made was almost mesmerically calming.

  She needed calming, Julia admitted. Before they'd left the motel she'd seen Cord arm himself, and he'd looked momentarily taken aback when she'd told him she wasn't carrying a gun.

  "You're still licensed to carry one, aren't you?" he'd asked, frowning, and when she'd told him that she was he'd nodded. "We'll have to get you one tomorrow. When you were on the force you didn't go out on a case unarmed."

  Cord was right—she had to start thinking like a cop again. The brief sense of calm the last hour had brought had already dissipated, and she clasped her hands tightly in her lap. She had to start acknowledging that violence could be just beyond a doorway, that danger was all around her, because once again it was her job to take care of that danger before it could reach out and harm a child—harm Lizbet. She'd failed once. What made her think she wouldn't fail again?

  "Vittorio's grandson—what's his name again?" Cord's voice held careless curiosity.

  "Anthony."

  The streets were a rain-washed blur of lights and reflections from passing cars. She couldn't fail this time, Julia told herself tightly, squeezing her eyes shut. She saw again Lizbet's doll-like face and silky red hair, so like her mother's, and bit down on her lower lip. What if they didn't find Paul and Sheila's killer in time? What if even now the child was in danger? No matter what anyone else said, she just couldn't bring herself to believe that Dean Tascoe had been responsible for killing Sheila—Paul, maybe, but never a woman. And even Tascoe would have no reason to inflict that final, unnecessary wound on Paul's already dead body. Cord had theorized that the man had been trying to throw suspicion on the mob by doing so, but she wasn't satisfied with that explanation.

  Shot, then stabbed. In heaven's name, why? Sheila's murder, as terrible as it was, had been a clean kill. Why hadn't Paul's?

  Sheila was shot because she was supposed to be shot. Paul was shot because he came up those basement stairs faster than the killer expected. The thought came into her mind with the force of certainty, and she turned swiftly to Cord.

  Then she stopped herself. A paralyzing fear gripped her. What if she was wrong? She'd been wrong that last time—and that time, too, she'd been so certain she had the situation under control. That time, too, a child's life had hung in the balance. She couldn't trust herself. She couldn't trust her reactions, her perceptions, her instincts—

  "Falcone said Anthony was going to medical school?"

  Again the quiet voice broke into her thoughts.

  "Harvard, Vittorio said." Her reply was terse. Cord had given her an excuse tonight, she thought frantically. He'd wanted her out of this investigation. She could tell him she'd thought it over, changed her mind—

  "One of the first you saved. Whatever he does in the future, you'll know you had a part in it."

  "What?" Distracted, she looked at him. In the darkened interior of the vehicle she could only make out the strong lines of his profile.

  "He wouldn't even exist now, but for you. You gave him the gift of life." He shrugged, his attention on the rain-slick road. "But I guess that's a feeling you got used to, right?"

  "No." She shook her head in the dark. "No, I never even thought of it that way. There were always others. There were always so many others."

  "You never sat back sometimes and took stock of the ones you rescued?" There was a note of incredulity in his voice. "I'll bet every single one of those children remembers you."

  "But, Cord—"

  "Anthony Falcone will have children of his own someday. They'll become adults and raise a new generation. Maybe they'll never know it, but they'll owe their very existence to the woman who didn't give up when everyone else did—the woman who searched for a young boy in danger until she found him and brought him home." His hands tightened on the steering wheel. "You made a difference, Julia. Never forget that."

  For the rest of the drive he was silent, and she was too absorbed in the image he'd planted in her mind to break into his silence. Anthony Falcone's children—and their children, and the ones after them, stretching into some future so dim and faraway that her path and theirs would never cross. Long after she was gone, was it possible that some part of who she'd been would live on in children's laughter, a newborn's cry?

  It was a shattering concept, and one she couldn't take in all at once.

  "We're here. It's really coming down now—we're going to have to make a run for it."

  She blinked and looked up. The man she'd spent the evening with, the man who'd held her in his arms earlier, was suddenly gone. In his place was a watchful, cautious professional. The situation they were about to walk into was probably innocuous, Julia thought, feeling her adrenaline start to flow. But they couldn't assume that. She looked down and saw that her hand had unconsciously gone to her hip, as if to check for the holstered gun that wasn't there.

  It seemed some old habits died hard. She was glad of that. Clearing her mind of everything extraneous, she nodded curtly at him.

  "Let's go."

  The rain that had only minutes ago been a light mist had turned into a solid curtain of water as they dashed across the street and ducked under the inadequate protection of the building's awning. There were two bulbous globe lamps flanking each side of the old, glass-paned door, and in the hazy, rain-shimmered light they cast, Julia saw drops of water sparkling like diamonds against the blackness of Cord's hair.

  "We might as well have taken our time," he said wryly. "Honey, you look like a drowned rat."

  "You look a little damp yourself." Without meaning to, she raised her palm and slicked some of the water from his face, and before she could withdraw it he'd caught her hand in one of his.

  "I'm not expecting any trouble—but that's just when it comes from out of left field. Worst-case scenario is that Tascoe's hiding out here, so don't leave my side and don't take any chances." He was holding her hand close enough to his mouth so that she could feel the faint exhalation of breath he gave. "I'd feel better if you weren't unarmed," he admitted.

  "I trust my partner to watch my back," Julia said softly. "You be careful, too, Cord."

  He held her gaze and then gave her hand a quick, hard squeeze.
"Right. Let's hope we're worrying over nothing."

  The security of the building was nonexistent. Cord simply opened the green-painted main door, and they walked in. The cramped lobby they entered was little more than an area where tenants could pause to peer at the brass-plated mail slots set into the wall, and straight ahead was a short flight of shallow wooden stairs protected by a vinyl runner from any dirt an inconsiderate occupant might track in.

  "No one's been up here since the rain started," Cord said, glancing at the slightly damp tracks he was leaving. "Which means exactly zero," he added with a shrug. "Tascoe, if he's here, could have come at any time."

  They mounted the stairs to the third-floor landing, and ahead of her he paused. The apartment in front of them was labeled 3B. It boasted an ornate pewter knocker in the shape of a braying donkey, and outside on a rubber mat was a pair of shoes that looked like their owner had to be at least sixty and female.

  "Trusting souls. A lot of these places have had the same tenants for years," Cord murmured. "They think a peephole and a five-and-dime chain lock on the inside are the cutting edge of home security. Jackie's apartment must be at the end of the hall."

  The woman they'd seen at the funeral with Dean Tascoe might not have been from the same generation as some of her fellow tenants, but it seemed she was just as trusting. Even as they were still halfway down the hall, the door to her apartment opened and she peered out at them as they approached.

  "Mrs. Redmond? Jackie?" The woman's lack of precaution had taken him by surprise, Julia realized. "It's Cordell Hunter and Julia Stewart—we talked with you at the funeral today. Can we come in and ask you a few questions?"

  "What about?"

  The trust that had led Jackie Redmond to open her door so naively was rapidly evaporating. She'd been expecting someone else, Julia thought.

  "Please, Mrs. Redmond." Cord looked over his shoulder at the apartment they'd passed. "It really would be better if we talked inside."

  "I was just going to bed," the woman said reluctantly, but she stepped back and allowed them to enter. Cord went first, his wariness apparent.

  The Redmond apartment was spacious enough—certainly more spacious than anything being built these days, Julia thought—but instead of the feeling of airiness that it should have given, the overall impression was almost claustrophobic. There were photos and ornaments on every surface in the living room, and the decor was a stuffy mix of colors and heavy textures.

  Her attention was drawn to a picture of the Last Supper on the wall. The frame glowed with a dim light, and Julia realized that it was not only electrified, but that there was something odd about the picture itself. She looked again as Jackie gestured for her and Cord to sit and saw that it had been created to give a three-dimensional effect. One of the disciples seemed to be following her with his eyes, and with an unpleasant start she realized that he must be Judas.

  "I don't understand why you want to talk to me."

  Jackie drifted to a nearby table, distractedly rearranging the placement of a gilt-framed picture, and suddenly Julia saw that all the photos in the room were of the same girl, from childhood to young womanhood. The daughter she'd lost, she thought with a pang of compassion. The woman had surrounded herself with images of the child who was no longer with her.

  "Is this—is this about the murders? I hardly knew Detective Durant and his wife."

  She hovered uncertainly by the sofa where Julia was sitting. The satin quilted dressing gown she wore gave her almost painfully thin figure some much-needed bulk, but her hands, nervously fluttering around patting pillows and touching objects, were so bony they looked as though they could snap.

  "It's about the murders, yes." Cord's voice was even softer than it usually was, Julia noted. She took her cue from him and smiled reassuringly at Jackie.

  "We're hoping you can tell us where to find Mr. Tascoe," she began. "He's not at his house, and—"

  "Captain Tascoe isn't here," Jackie cut in quickly.

  Cord leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "I'm not here in any official capacity, as you know, Mrs. Redmond, but—"

  Again the woman spoke before he could finish. "Oh, I know that, Detective Hunter. Don't forget, I'm the chiefs personal secretary." She perched on the arm of a chair and smoothed the lace edges of her curls. "You were very close to Detective Durant, weren't you?" Her edginess had returned, and she flicked a speck of dust from the shade of the small, fussy lamp beside her. "Captain Tascoe told me after we spoke today that you were his daughter's godparents."

  For the second time today Jackie Redmond had maneuvered the conversation around to Lizbet, Julia thought slowly. Fluttery and strained as she might seem, she couldn't be a fool. Beneath that faded, little-girl helplessness was a woman who'd had the determination to make a life for herself after her husband had died, who'd brought up a child alone and who'd ended up in the plum position at her place of work. She even had Dean Tascoe wrapped around her little finger. Maybe they'd been handling her too gently.

  "I'm Lizbet's godmother and Cord's her godfather." Julia nodded. "What happened to that little girl was something that no child should ever have to experience." She heard the hard edge in her voice and made no attempt to soften it. "You're a mother yourself, Mrs. Redmond. I'm sure I don't have to explain to you."

  "Was she—was she there at the time? Was she hurt?" She had Jackie Redmond's attention now, Julia noted as the woman's hand flew to her throat. Her blue eyes were wide, and what little color there had been in her lips had drained away. "There was nothing about the child in the news reports! I assumed she'd been out of the house at the—at the—"

  "At the time her parents were murdered?" Julia saw Cord's quick glance. "No. Lizbet was there, too. The deaths of Paul and Sheila were terrible enough, but…"

  She let her voice trail off.

  "Oh, dear God!"

  There was the sound of something shattering, and Julia's head jerked up. On the cluttered table beside the woman across from her were the broken shards of a china basket of flowers, but Jackie didn't seem to realize what she'd done. Her face was so white that for a moment it seemed she was about to faint, and Cord must have had the same fear, too, because he leaped from his chair and caught the thin, pink-quilted arm. She shook him off, swaying.

  "The child was killed too? No—he promised that nothing would—"

  "What the hell are you doing here?"

  The angry voice of Dean Tascoe ripped across Jackie's horrified whisper. Standing at the threshold, his keys still in his hand, he took in the scene with a thunderous expression on his face and then strode swiftly across the room to her.

  "Why didn't you tell me?" As Tascoe reached for her, Jackie drew away from him, her arms wrapped tightly around her thin body. "You said that the child was safe, Dean. Why didn't you tell me?"

  "The child is safe—for now, Mrs. Redmond. I didn't tell you she'd been killed," Julia said coldly. "But you're hiding something, aren't you? Who are you protecting—him?" She flicked a glance at Tascoe, his arms around Jackie's shaking shoulders.

  "I—no, I—"

  "Don't say anything, Jackie. Let me handle this." The beefy ex-cop's face was dangerously red, but his hand on the blond woman's hair was gentle. He nestled her head into the crook of his shoulder as if he was shielding her with his body. "I told you I'd take care of this for you, didn't I?"

  "Lopez is looking for you, Tascoe." Cord's voice was flat. "DiMarco's in custody, and he's talking like crazy, trying to cut a deal. He mentioned your name."

  "In connection with what?" The red face flushed even deeper. "I told you I run my own investigation agency now, Chief. So I slip Vince DiMarco my card—what harm is there in that? The man has plenty of legit operations, and every businessman can use a little outside help once in a while."

  "That'll probably fly." Cord's gaze hardened. "For a while, at least But Lopez, no matter what you think of her, is a good cop. She'll dig into that story, so if I were you I'd pray it
holds up. Talking about outside help, maybe you should phone a lawyer before you say anything more. I wouldn't want to taint the court case against you by not informing you of your rights."

  "You don't have the jurisdiction to arrest me, Hunter."

  It was the first time he'd used Cord's name. There was a touch of fear in the man's angry eyes, Julia noted, although not once had he turned his gaze directly to her. She remembered his odd attitude toward her at the cemetery and wondered what it was about her that made it impossible for him to meet her eyes.

  "I don't, but then I'm not going to. I'm phoning Lopez right now to tell her to come and pick you up." Keeping a wary gaze on Tascoe, Cord reached toward the pastel-pink telephone sitting in a nest-like frill of lace on the table beside the sofa. "And don't even try to run, Tascoe. Paul and Sheila were my best friends. Just looking at you makes my trigger finger itch."

  "That's what this is all about? You think I killed them?"

  If the man was acting, he'd missed his calling, Julia thought. The bloodshot blue eyes stared at Cord in shock. The meaty hands gripping Jackie's thin shoulders tightened, and almost absently he put the woman from him. She sank onto the sofa, both hands to her mouth.

  He turned to Cord, his fists balled at his sides, but his attack came in the form of words.

  "I gave you people twenty years of my life. I worked my goddamned tail off building cases against scumbags who made more money in a month than I did in a year, knowing that it was useless—that they'd just hire some high-priced mouthpiece who would have them back on the street before I'd finished the paperwork. Yeah—I cut some corners in the end. Why not? I didn't see the other side respecting any freakin' Geneva Convention, Chief! But to suspect me of being a cop killer!"