The Pediatrician's Personal Protector Page 15

  Reilly wouldn’t buy that argument. He’d gone into law enforcement because he wanted to set things right. She had no doubt of that. He was that kind of person. His honor, his integrity, shone in those intense blue eyes and in the pride with which he wore the uniform.

  For that very reason, she knew she couldn’t tell him what she’d found. He’d insist on turning in the evidence, just like he had the money and drugs, confident that no matter whom it implicated, they would be brought to justice.

  But Christy was terrified that once the evidence was out of her possession, she’d lose any chance she had to solve her sister’s murder. So, until she had incontrovertible proof in her hands, and maybe an attorney by her side, she wasn’t telling anybody about Autumn’s SIM card, the brass button or the note.

  She turned off the lamp and slid down in the bed to sleep some more. After a few minutes of tossing and turning as her thoughts swirled around in her brain like leaves in a whirlwind, she threw the covers back and got up.

  Where were her clothes? She looked around and spotted the white towel in a puddle on the floor. That’s right. She hadn’t been wearing any.

  Her cheeks flamed as she hurried over to her suitcase and grabbed underwear and a loose rayon lounging outfit and darted into the bathroom to shower.

  When she stepped into the living room, Reilly was sitting in the same place as he’d been early yesterday morning. Sitting at the dining room table with several file folders spread in front of him and a steaming mug beside his right hand. He was dressed in the worn jeans he’d had on last night, and that was all. His torso and his feet were bare.

  She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Sitting there, unaware that she was watching him, he was unconsciously, carelessly beautiful. His skin glowed like gold in the early morning light. He had a lean, rugged strength about him that made her feel safe just because he was here. But safe wasn’t the only thing she felt. Desire pooled in her deepest core at the sight of his long, firm muscles, his silk-over-steel skin, his mouth that was made for kissing.

  He was a cut above anyone she’d ever dated. His lovemaking had left her exhausted and tingling. He’d been forceful, yes, but also tender. Perfection.

  Suddenly she realized he’d stopped what he was doing and was looking up at her. She met his gaze, a small smile growing on her face.

  “Morning,” he said, his expression friendly but neutral. It could have been yesterday, or any other day that they hadn’t spent the night making love. “You really shouldn’t be up. You need a few more hours of sleep.”

  “Don’t you?” she countered, her smile fading. She’d expected something—a morning kiss, maybe an embrace. Something to verify that last night had been more than just sex.

  Reilly lifted his arms above his head and arched his spine in a stretch. “Ahh,” he yawned. “I could sleep some more, but I’ve got things I need to do.”

  Things that obviously were more important than what they’d experienced together. Fine. He’d found her in nothing but a towel, and naturally, they’d fallen into bed together.

  Christy winced. She didn’t like that kind of hookup. For her, sex needed to be more than just physical attraction.

  Apparently Reilly was more typical male than she’d thought.

  He picked up his mug and took a swallow, then eyed her. “Are you hungry? We sort of skipped dinner.”

  “I am.” She turned from him and looked into the kitchen. “And I smell coffee.”

  “Get some and in a few minutes I’ll make scrambled eggs.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll make something,” she offered. “Have you got bread?”

  He grinned over the top of his mug. “Like I told you. I’ve got everything.”

  “Good.” Christy found half a loaf of French bread. She squeezed it. Stale—perfect. She sliced it, soaked it in a bowl of beaten eggs and a dollop of the cream Reilly used in his coffee, sprinkled it with cinnamon and fried it in butter.

  While she was waiting for the French toast, or pain perdu as the Cajuns called it, she watched Reilly across the kitchen island.

  He seemed completely absorbed in the folders and papers before him. Did they concern her sister’s death? She decided to wait until after breakfast to ask him.

  When the French toast was ready, she set two pieces on a plate for her and arranged four on Reilly’s plate. There was a jar of maple syrup in the pantry and orange marmalade in the refrigerator.

  By the time she had the plates on the island with the syrup and marmalade beside them, Reilly had picked up his mug, refilled it and sat on one of the barstools.

  “This looks great,” he said. He poured maple syrup over the toast and dug in.

  She watched him. Even shoveling food into his mouth, he was so beautiful, so graceful and at the same time so masculine, that it made her heart ache.

  After a few bites, he looked up at her. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

  She nodded. Her mug sat next to her hand, forgotten. She picked it up and rounded the island to sit next to him on one of the leather-cushioned barstools.

  The French toast, which she ate with orange marmalade, was good, even if she hadn’t been able to find any cardamom, which she thought added a surprising savory bite to it. By the time she’d finished hers, Reilly had sat back and was draining his coffee.

  “Wow,” he said. “That was almost as good as my grandmother’s. You used the stale French bread?”

  She nodded.

  “You used cream? Lots of butter? Yep. That’s the perfect recipe.”

  He leaned toward her and gave her a maple syrupy peck on the lips. “Thank you,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to hers for an instant.

  Then he was up and gone, around the island to wash his hands and rinse the syrup off his mouth, then back to the dining room table.

  Christy cleaned up the kitchen in record time, poured herself a second mug of coffee and joined him, sitting to his left.

  “I meant to ask you if you saw Deputy Watts yesterday. Had he found out anything?”

  Reilly slid his chair slightly away from her. Giving her room, or avoiding being too close?

  “Matter of fact, yeah,” he said, glancing at her sidelong. He pushed his chair back a little more and faced her, his expression a cross between earnest and grim.

  Christy’s heart began to pound. He’d found out something. She pressed a hand to her chest.

  “The bullet we dug out of the wall matched the bullets that killed your sister.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Christy’s hand flew to her heart because she thought it might stop. “Th-the bullets matched?”

  Reilly was watching her closely. After a moment, he continued. “There’s more. The fingerprint on the shell casing CSI picked up outside your window at the inn was a fourteen-point match to a small-time dealer named Buddy Kramer.”

  Christy’s hand moved to cover her mouth. “Kramer?” she whispered.

  Reilly’s eyes narrowed. “You know him?”

  She shook her head. Could she lie with those eyes on her? She wanted so badly to tell him the truth. But the leaves were swirling in her brain again. She had to have time to process what he was telling her. Right now, she couldn’t think.

  “I—no. No, of course not. Did you mention him?”

  He shook his head without taking his eyes off her.

  “B-because—” she stammered, “it sounds familiar.”

  “It sounds familiar,” he repeated, his tone flat. She didn’t have to guess why. He didn’t believe her. “Where have you heard it? From your sister?”

  She swallowed, making a conscious effort to continue breathing. “Maybe. He’s a drug dealer?”

  Reilly’s gaze finally unlocked from hers. He glanced down at one of the folders in front of him. “According to Watts. He’s not a major player. He hangs out somewhere around the old Hotel Winsor in downtown Mandeville and sells drugs to street crud.”

  Glo had mentioned the Hotel Winsor. Christy’s pulse j
ack-hammered. “Why—” She had to take a breath. “Why isn’t he in jail, if the police know what he’s doing? What kind of police work is that?”

  “I know this isn’t going to make much sense to you, but Kramer is a CI.”

  “A CI?”

  Reilly nodded. “Confidential informant. Some of the detectives have them. Most often it’s vice. But homicide detectives use them too.”

  His words confirmed her distrust of the police. “And they let them roam around free? Selling drugs and—” she waved a hand “—pimping and whatever, so they can inform on other crooks?” She knew her voice was dripping with incredulity and disgust. But that was okay, because that was how she felt—shocked and disgusted.

  Reilly didn’t comment.

  “So this Buddy Kramer probably murdered my sister,” she continued, “and now he’s shooting at me with the same gun, and nothing can be done because one of your detective buddies is protecting him. I’m so glad that my trust and confidence in the police is not misplaced.”

  Reilly looked taken aback. It occurred to her that she hadn’t actually explained to him she didn’t trust the police, although he should have figured it out by now.

  “Hey, Doc. I’m not defending the practice. But information from informants has led to some major drug busts. Illegal drug operations are like fire ants. You destroy a hill here and they just move over there and build again. So putting away a small-time dealer is like trying to destroy a fire ant hill by killing one ant.”

  Christy felt like crying. Like hitting something—or someone. “I am so glad to know you don’t defend the practice. Don’t you get it? I don’t care about your drug busts or your informants or—or your metaphors right now. Buddy Kramer may have killed my sister. He’s shooting at me. And the police aren’t going to do anything. That is all I care about.”

  She pushed her chair back and stood. “There has to be somebody who will help me. Maybe I’ll go see the sheriff himself.”

  Reilly stood too. “Listen to me. Nobody is going to let Kramer walk if he murdered your sister or tried to kill you. We have evidence that he handled the casing of the bullet that was shot at you. That’ll get him brought in for questioning.”

  “Questioning.” Christy gave a harsh laugh. “That makes me feel better.”

  Reilly laid a hand on her arm. “Come on. Calm down. Watts is picking up Kramer today. They’ll lean on him hard. But that print on the casing is the only evidence they’ve got against him, and it’s circumstantial.”

  Christy didn’t want Reilly touching her. When he stood so close to her and touched her with his strong, capable hands, she was tempted to believe every word that dropped from his lips.

  She picked up her mug and took it into the kitchen, more to get away from him than any concern for neatness.

  “Circumstantial. Something else I never understood. On the cop shows it just sounds like an excuse to let a guilty person walk.”

  Reilly walked around the island and propped a hip against it. “We feel that way too, a lot of times. The law is designed to avoid convicting an innocent person, so from this side, it looks ridiculously easy for a guilty person to walk. But that’s the way it is, and that’s what we have to deal with. Innocent until proven guilty.” He held up his forefinger. “Guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.” He raised a second finger.

  She glared at him. “So finding the casing with Kramer’s fingerprint on it outside my window right after a bullet barely missed me isn’t enough to prove he did it?”

  He shook his head, looking genuinely chagrined. “Nope. It just proves that he touched the bullet at some point. It would help a lot if we’d found something that proved he was there.”

  Christy threw up her hands. “Why doesn’t his fingerprint on the bullet prove he was there?”

  Reilly sighed. “Guns get passed around. Bullets too. Although it’s hard to believe even a lowlife like Kramer would be stupid enough not to wear gloves while loading a magazine.” He shrugged. “Or that he’d keep a gun with a body on it.”

  Anger bubbled up in Christy’s chest, making her eyes sting with tears. “A body on it? That body was my sister.”

  To his credit, Reilly’s face turned red and he looked chagrined. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it like that.”

  “But you did.” She held up her hands, palm out. “Please don’t tell me that it’s a coincidence that a bullet touched by the man who killed my sister was the one that was shot at me.”

  He ducked his head. “Yeah. When you put it that way, it doesn’t sound very plausible.”

  “No, it doesn’t. So are you going with Deputy Watts to pick up Kramer?”

  “Me? No. It’s not my jurisdiction, but I’m planning to be there when he interviews him.”

  “I want to go too.”

  Reilly’s brows shot up. “Hell, no. You’re not going anywhere. Certainly not anywhere near Buddy Kramer. Am I going to have to get a court order to put you into protective custody?”

  “You wouldn’t dare.” But she knew by the look on his face that he would.

  “Don’t tempt me. If I can’t depend on you to stay put, I’ll do it in a heartbeat. I need your word that you’re not going to go running around getting into trouble. Hasn’t it penetrated that thick skull of yours that someone wants you dead?”

  “Of course it has. I’m reminded of it every day.” She held up her hand with the cast on it.

  A faraway chime sounded. Christy listened. It was Autumn’s phone. She started past him, but he caught her arm.

  “What’s that?” Reilly asked.

  “My phone.” She pulled away.

  He shook his head. “No, it’s not. That’s not your ring.”

  Christy swallowed. “Of course it is. I—changed it.” She pushed past him again, but he held on. Not hard. Just enough that she knew he wanted a straight answer.

  “When are you going to quit lying to me, Christy?”

  AUTUMN’S PHONE CHIMED again. Christy extracted her arm from Reilly’s grip. “When are you going to quit protecting murderers and criminals and actually do something about catching the man who killed my sister?”

  She turned and ran for the phone, which was in her purse in the guest room. It had to be Glo or Laurie calling with more information. She couldn’t afford to miss the call.

  The phone stopped ringing just as she managed to wrap her hand around it.

  “Oh, no,” she muttered. She dug it out and looked at the display. It was Glo’s number.

  “Who was it?”

  Reilly’s voice came from the open doorway of the guest suite. Christy half turned, putting her back to the door, and dropped the phone back into her purse. Then she lifted her head and turned around. “I didn’t get to it in time, but it was an unknown number.” She shrugged.

  He took a step into the room. “Maybe they left a message.”

  “No. No message.”

  Shaking his head, Reilly looked down at the floor then back up at her. “Damn it, Christy. Tell me the truth for once. I thought you’d figured out by now that I’m the good guy. What you said before about the police, I don’t know why you feel you can’t trust us, but whatever it is—”

  “You don’t know?” she broke in. “I’m amazed that it’s not in my file.”

  “Your file? What are you talking about? You mean the report Ryker gave me about his interview with you?”

  “Oh, come on. It had to have come up.”

  “What had to have come up? What are you talking about?”

  Looking at his face, she realized he didn’t know. She crossed her arms across her chest and faced him. “Let me enlighten you.”

  “I wish you would. A rational explanation for how you’ve been acting would be nice. I’m sick of you lying to me. I know you are, just like I know you’re withholding evidence that could probably help us find your sister’s killer.”

  “Fine.” Christy rubbed her temple, squeezing her eyes shut at the slight relief it gave her from the hea
dache that had been hovering there.

  “My mother died when I was sixteen and Autumn was twelve. She was a professor at Loyola. A tenured professor. Very well thought of.”

  Reilly nodded.

  “Do you remember the student protests on campus back in the ’90s?” She stopped and waited for his answer.

  “Yeah. I was in high school. Ryker and I and a couple of friends drove down there that night. We wanted to practice our detective skills. See if we could find any blood or—” He stopped and his expression turned to shock. “Oh, God, Christy—”

  “I thought you’d get it. There were three people shot by the police who responded. Two died. A student who rushed a cop, and a woman who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Damn,” Reilly whispered.

  “My mother, according to the girl who was standing beside her, was giving her directions to the library. A bullet grazed the girl in the head, and my mother took two in the back.”

  “Christy, I’m—”

  She held up a hand. “Save it. You haven’t heard what the police told my dad, my sister and me. It’s the best part. They said, ‘These things happen.’” She took a sharp breath. “Oh, and, ‘Your mother died bravely.’”

  “I’m sure she did—”

  “Please!” Christy burst out. “She didn’t die bravely. She died pitifully, crumpled on the grass and alone.” Her voice caught and she had to clear her throat. “But that wasn’t all. The police commissioner made sure to tell us, ‘You’ll be glad to know that we caught the students who attacked the policemen.’”

  “That’s awful,” Reilly said. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am. Didn’t you get a settlement of some kind—?”

  “A settlement? Of course. The city bestowed a few thousand dollars on my father. Do you think that even began to make up for what my mother’s death did to my family? For my sister getting involved in drugs and dying? My father killing those women? My—” She waved a hand.

  After a moment she continued. “Do you know that not once did anyone offer to tell us who had shot my mother? Or why he’d fired toward innocent people. Nothing ever happened to that policeman. And why? Because the police protect their own. Whoever killed my mother is still carrying a badge and a gun. Still keeping the peace. So hopefully you’ll understand if I’m not the biggest fan of the police. From where I stand, it’s a little hard to tell the good guys from the bad.”