Dangerous Illusions (Code of Honor Book #1) Page 4

  She looked down. Loosened her grasp. Examined her trembling hands. “I’ll get a cab.”

  A smart suggestion. It was a safe option, and the lady could afford it.

  Nevertheless, it didn’t sit well.

  “I’ll tell you what. I have to pass by the Hilton on my way back to headquarters. If you’re willing to wait another ten minutes, I can drop you there.”

  He could feel Deb Wilson’s speculative gaze, and his neck warmed. Giving a potential suspect a ride might not be standard operating procedure—but it wasn’t against the rules, either.

  Yet Trish didn’t jump at the offer. Not surprising. Considering how law enforcement had invaded her home tonight, she might want to get as far away from all of them as fast as she could.

  And perhaps that was a wiser choice—for him and for her. Because he should not be noticing her sky-blue eyes . . . or the willowy figure that curved in all the appropriate places . . . or those soft-looking lips.

  “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d appreciate it.” Tears once more dewed on her lower lashes. “I don’t think I could handle it if I got a chatty cab driver.”

  So much for wise choices.

  Yet despite his reservations, he wasn’t backing out on his offer.

  “This won’t take long.” He stood. “Officer Wilson will wait here with you. I’ll talk to Parker in the living room and see him to the door after we’re finished.”

  “Thank you. I’m not up to dealing with him tonight.”

  “That’s what I figured. Sit tight and I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Notebook in hand, he left the kitchen. It was doubtful Parker would have anything of substance to add to the story, and based on Trish Bailey’s obvious anguish and sound financial footing, there was no apparent motive for foul play. If she had played a role in her mother’s demise, it was likely a tragic mistake.

  But he wasn’t rushing to conclusions, either. He’d been in this business long enough to know that things weren’t always what they seemed. Evil intent often lurked beneath a veneer of respectability.

  And if the pieces didn’t fit together the way he expected . . . if Trish Bailey wasn’t as innocent and grief-stricken as she seemed . . . he’d make sure justice was served.

  Yet as he entered the living room, he couldn’t help hoping the ME would determine that Eileen Coulter’s death was due to natural causes. That ruling would not only clear Trish’s name and help assuage her guilt, it would free her to go on with her life—minus Parker.

  A pleasant thought on this eventful night . . . for reasons he’d analyze another day.

  4

  She should have taken a cab.

  Trish tucked her hair behind her ear, rested her elbows on the kitchen table, and dropped her face into her hands.

  It had been kind of Detective Flynn to offer her a lift, but it was an imposition—and likely against the rules.

  Yet the thought of climbing into a cab with a garrulous stranger was almost as unpleasant as the notion of being stuck in a car with a man whose romantic inclinations she didn’t share.

  Colin Flynn was the safest alternative.

  But he’s a stranger too, Trish.

  True.

  Yet for some odd reason, he didn’t feel like one. From the moment she’d emerged from her bedroom to find him waiting in the hall, there’d been a . . . connection. It was as if they’d met before—or perhaps had been destined to meet. He’d felt like a friend. An ally.

  And she needed one of those tonight, even if that notion was more fantasy than reality. Because the truth was, Detective Flynn wasn’t in anyone’s corner. The man struck her as a pro, whose only loyalty was to justice.

  But for tonight, rational or not, she’d cling to the sense of kindred-spiritedness that made her feel less alone.

  Without it, she might shatter before this night ended.

  Voices spoke in the foyer, and she lifted her head. The words were too muted to distinguish, but she could identify Matt’s annoyed tone and Flynn’s more measured response.

  In less than a minute, the front door opened and closed. Seconds later, the detective entered the kitchen.

  “Everything okay?” The female officer picked up the overnight bag.

  “Yes.” He stopped at the table. “Your friend wasn’t keen on leaving without speaking to you, but I convinced him you weren’t up to another conversation tonight. I didn’t tell him where you were staying . . . but I did promise to pass on the message that he’d call you tomorrow.”

  “Thanks.” She pushed herself to her feet. “Do you think . . . would it be all right if I saw my mom once more before we leave?”

  After an infinitesimal hesitation, he backed toward the hall. “Let me talk to the CSU tech.”

  She watched him turn and disappear, bracing herself on the tabletop, fingers splayed to add some stability.

  “You might want to sit down while you wait.” The female officer gave her a worried once-over.

  She must look as ready to keel over as she felt.

  “I’m fine.”

  But as the minutes ticked by and her legs began to quiver, she was less and less certain of that.

  Just as she was about to sink back into the chair, the dark-haired detective reappeared.

  “The tech is finishing up in the room. We can go in as long as we don’t touch anything.”

  He let her take the lead and followed her down the hall.

  As the door of her mom’s room drew closer, however, her courage wavered.

  “You can change your mind if you want to.” The soft, empathetic reassurance came from behind her.

  “No. I . . . I want to see her again.”

  He waited in silence while she summoned up the fortitude to say her last good-bye, here in the loving home her parents had created and filled with beautiful memories for her. Not in some morgue, or at the memorial service her mother had specified, where all that remained of her would be ashes in an urn.

  But it was hard.

  So hard.

  Clenching her fingers, she forced her legs to move again. Down the remainder of the narrow corridor. Through the door. Across the room to the bed.

  A gray-haired man was off to the side, near but not intrusive. She felt the detective’s presence close behind her.

  Yet all that mattered was Mom.

  She was lying on her back now, her eyes closed, hands folded on top of the comforter—at the detective’s direction, perhaps? To give her a more natural, peaceful appearance?

  But nothing about her was natural anymore. Already death had left its mark. Her eyes were sunken, her skin waxy, her lips colorless.

  The woman she’d loved was gone.

  Forever.

  Tears leaked down her cheeks, and she choked back a sob as the room shifted beneath her.

  A steadying hand took her arm. Rock solid. Strong. Comforting.

  The world settled back on its axis.

  Exhaling, she took one more look at her mother. Commended her to God. Prayed for strength.

  Then she turned away and walked out the door.

  The female officer met them in the foyer and passed the overnight bag to the detective. He took it in one hand, keeping a grip on her arm with the other. As if he was afraid she was going to crumple into a heap at his feet.

  A very real possibility.

  In silence, they walked through the post-midnight darkness to his car. A few lights were on in the surrounding houses, the neighbors no doubt aroused from their slumber by the flashing lights and sirens. Wondering what was going on in the Coulter household.

  In fact, Stan Hawkins was on his front porch, watching the proceedings from across the street. The instant he spotted her, the older man hurried down the steps toward them, passing under one of the muted streetlights. What was left of his white hair was tousled, and he’d shoved his arms into the ratty button-up cardigan he’d worn for as long as she could remember.

  Once again, Trish faltered.

 
“Wait here.” The detective released her arm and strode toward the man, meeting him on the sidewalk.

  He was running interference for her.

  One small blessing to be thankful for on this awful night.

  A cool wind whipped past, and she shivered. Colin Flynn darted her a glance from a distance—as if he’d sensed her chill.

  Fifteen seconds later, he hastened back to her while Stan crossed the street to his house.

  “He’s a n-nice man. He used to give me h-hydrangeas from his garden when I was a little g-girl.” She couldn’t stop her teeth from chattering.

  “Is there a jacket in here?” Her escort hefted the overnight bag.

  “No—but I left a sweater in the f-foyer.”

  “Hang tight.” With one more glace at her neighbor’s retreating figure, he jogged back to the front door. The officer on duty there slipped inside and retrieved it.

  “Sorry. I should have thought to b-bring this.” She snuggled into it as the detective rejoined her and draped it over her shoulders.

  “You had a few other things on your mind.” He guided her down the walk to a newer-model Taurus, holding the door as she slid inside. After stowing her bag, he circled the car and took his place behind the wheel.

  “Thank you again for the ride . . . and for diverting Stan. I have a feeling neither is one of your duties.”

  “Some parameters of the job are written in stone”—he checked his rearview mirror and pulled away from the curb—“but we have a fair amount of discretion during an investigation.”

  Investigation.

  Her stomach bottomed out at the ugly word, and she stared into the darkness on the other side of the window as he pointed the car toward the Hilton.

  “I don’t think I miscounted my mom’s medicine . . . but what happens if I did?” She might as well ask the hard questions while she had this man’s ear in the quiet, private confines of his car.

  When only the thrum of tires on pavement broke the silence, she peeked over at him. It was too dark to see much, but in the headlights of oncoming cars, she could discern a strong jaw, furrowed brow, and serious demeanor.

  “Why don’t we wait and see what the autopsy and—”

  “No. I’d rather know what to expect than spend sleepless nights wondering about the what-ifs.”

  He shot her a quick, assessing glance. Refocused on the road. “If an inappropriate dose of medication is found to be the cause of death, we’ll want to talk with you at more length.”

  She let her grief-muddled brain digest that for a few moments—and came to the logical . . . and sickening . . . conclusion.

  Since she managed her mother’s medicines, if a wrong dose was the cause of death, the police would need to determine if it was an accident.

  Or murder.

  All at once, she started to shake again. “What would happen next?”

  “Why don’t we cross that bridge if we come to it?”

  “If . . . or when?”

  “For the record, I haven’t drawn any conclusions, Ms. Bailey.” His tone was straightforward. Nonjudgmental. Firm. “I’m waiting for evidence. My ‘if’ stands.”

  “I’d still like to know what happens next if medication is involved.”

  He turned right and accelerated on Clayton Road. In five minutes, they’d be at the hotel.

  “If there was an accidental overdose, we’ll make a report to the prosecuting attorney. You’d be free to resume your normal life while we wait for a decision. But assuming there’s no reason to suspect foul play, it’s doubtful any charges would be filed.”

  The coil of tension in her stomach loosened a tiny bit. Of course there wouldn’t be any charges filed. How could there be, when every scrap of evidence to be found would prove she loved her mother?

  Except . . .

  “I’d still have to live with the guilt, though.” Somehow she managed to choke out the words.

  He didn’t respond.

  She didn’t expect him to.

  What was there to say, other than “I’m sorry.” And she’d had her fill of “I’m sorrys” tonight from Matt.

  They completed the drive in silence, and as he slowed under the portico in front of the hotel entrance, she fumbled for the handle of the door.

  “Sit tight. I’ll get that for you.”

  On top of everything else, he was a gentleman.

  That would be a plus if things happened to get dicey. She wouldn’t have to worry about being treated with a lack of respect—by this man, anyway.

  He retrieved her overnight bag from the backseat before pulling her door open.

  “Thank you again for the ride.” She reached for the bag, her fingers brushing his as she took it. Steady against shaky. Warm against cold.

  The parallel lines were back on his forehead. “Are you certain you wouldn’t rather call a friend? Hotels are very . . . impersonal.”

  “I wouldn’t bother anyone at this hour. In any case, I was gone from St. Louis for years. I lost touch with most of my childhood friends—and I haven’t had much chance to make new ones since I’ve been back. I’ll be fine here.”

  That was a lie . . . but what other choice was there? Spending the night in Matt’s guestroom wasn’t an option.

  Besides, she wouldn’t be fine no matter where she spent the next few hours.

  Another cool breeze whipped past, too chilly for the first day in May. No . . . it was May 2 now. A new day had begun almost two hours ago.

  A limo pulled up behind the detective’s car.

  “I better move.” He fished a card out of his pocket. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow morning, as soon as the scene is released. In the meantime, don’t hesitate to call me if you have any questions.”

  “Thanks.” She fingered the card as the limo driver opened the passenger door. A tuxedo-clad man climbed out and extended a hand back for the glowing bride who emerged behind him.

  Endings.

  Beginnings.

  All chaotically woven together in a tapestry only God could understand.

  She watched the happy couple dash up the steps to the front door, high on champagne and hope and love, looking forward to the life they would spend together.

  The crush of loneliness pressed harder against her chest.

  “Ms. Bailey.”

  She angled back toward the detective, forcing air into her lungs.

  “You’re not alone in this.”

  The man also had excellent intuitive skills—a definite plus in his work.

  But he was wrong.

  She was as alone as a person could be.

  “Thanks.” Her fingers tightened on the overnight bag as she struggled to hold on to her composure. In ten minutes, she’d be in a room. Then she could cry. Not now. Not here. Not with this man, who was trying to be kind but who owed her nothing. She was a stranger to him. Just one more potential suspect in one of his many cases.

  “I mean it, Trish.” His gaze locked onto hers.

  Once more, her lungs faltered. His use of her first name . . . the intensity in his deep brown eyes . . . the empathy radiating from him . . . all of those were a heaven-sent lifeline on this dark, dark night.

  Detective Colin Flynn might not be a friend or ally, but he would do his best to get to the truth. She knew that as surely as she knew the days ahead would test her as she’d never before been tested.

  And as she offered him a final, heartfelt thank-you and climbed the steps to the hotel, she had a feeling that if he was in her corner, she might just make it through the ordeal to come.

  Things had progressed faster than he’d expected.

  Craig sat on the bed, swirling the ice in his glass.

  Who knew the mother would die so soon? His research hadn’t provided a definitive timeframe, nor an absolute guarantee the first attempt would be successful. It could have taken several tries.

  But her quick demise could actually work to Matt’s advantage. A grieving, bereft daughter with no close friends might think tw
ice about pushing back from a man who liked her and wanted to be part of her life. A man who could help her through the difficulties ahead and offer a shoulder to cry on.

  It was an ideal scenario.

  Maybe she wasn’t cooperating with that plan yet, but Matt had a golden opportunity now to worm his way into her good graces. To become an invaluable ally. A trusted friend who could relieve her of all the financial burdens she was about to inherit. As a woman who disliked numbers, she ought to welcome that kind of help—especially if it came from a man who enjoyed her loyalty and affection.

  Matt needed to work on earning both of those.

  He set the glass on the nightstand and leaned back against the headboard, lacing his fingers behind his head.

  Early tomorrow morning, Matt should call her. Find out which hotel the police detective had taken her to and pick her up. Buy her breakfast. Offer to help her sort through whatever details needed to be attended to immediately. Be there for her. Stay close.

  He also needed to keep his other clients happy. Maintain the status quo. It was important not to do anything out of pattern that might call attention to himself—but that wouldn’t be difficult to manage. Compared to the kind of work he’d done in the past, Matt’s current job was child’s play. Anyone with a finance background could whip through the payrolls and tax returns for the small businesses he served, leaving plenty of time to devote to his most important client. To ease the yoke on her shoulders.

  And the more Trish came to rely on Matt, the better for his plan.

  Craig yawned and twisted his wrist. Three in the morning wasn’t late by his former standards, but he needed to be at the top of his game right now—awake and fully functioning during daylight hours. Better get some shut-eye. He had a busy day tomorrow.

  He picked up the glass of Scotch and finished it off in one gulp. With the way things were going, he might not have to wait as long as he’d expected to upgrade his libations.

  A welcome possibility on which to end the day.

  Even if it didn’t bode well for a certain art teacher should she happen to get in his way.