Chapter One

 

The quiet booth in the back suited police detective Jack Donahue’s mood perfectly. He didn’t want to be bothered with being polite or friendly. After days of running on just a couple of hours’ sleep, trying to catch the bastard who’d raped and killed two women in his town, he was ready to crash.

Jack stretched out his legs as he continued to nurse the drink in front of him. He’d stopped at O’Malley’s, the cop bar, to get a beer and unwind before heading home to a house too big and too empty for a man to completely relax. It was almost closing time. Only a few die-hards remained. The others probably had someone to go home to.

And damn, when had he become so maudlin?

He scrubbed a hand over his face and promised himself he’d take a vacation soon. Maybe he’d even go down and visit the folks in Florida like they’d been asking, though what he’d do in a retirement village surrounded by grey-haired seniors was beyond him.

The door of the bar tinkled, indicating a late arrival.

“We’re closing soon, Miss,” the bartender said. “Last call, people!”

“I won’t be long. I’m looking for someone.”

Jack observed her scanning the bar, her gaze leaping from one late-night straggler to another. Judging from the tense way she held herself, he didn’t think she was looking for a lover. She appeared determined, and he would’ve felt sorry for whichever bastard she had in her sights, if he weren’t sure he was the bastard in question.

He slouched lower in his seat and went back to contemplating a vacation among the senior set.

The sound of heels clicking on the tile told him it was a lost cause. The woman headed purposefully in his direction, a slight sway to her step that brought focus to a shapely pair of hips.

Well, hell.

They’d never officially met, but the nosy reporter had been pointed out to him enough times that he recognized her.

He forced his eyes up, only to have his gaze collide with a pair of emerald green orbs. He felt like he’d been sucker-punched. His fingers tightened around his glass.

It’s the alcohol talking, Donahue. Get a grip.

She stopped next to his booth and inclined her head. “Jack Donahue? I’m Gemma Fitzgibbons, mind if I sit?” She was already sliding into the bench seat opposite him.

Up close he saw the slight redness in her eyes, as if she’d been putting in too many hours working, like him. It bothered him. She studied him back and her forehead crinkled. He wanted to reach across and smooth out the lines.

It was such a bizarre reaction to someone he’d purposely avoided that he leaned back in the seat, trying to put a little more distance between them.

“I know who you are, Ms. Fitzgibbons.”

“Really?” She seemed to brighten at that, but then, like a match, the flame went out. “Then why haven’t you returned my calls or answered my emails?”

“Because I know who you are and I don’t want to meet you. I don’t talk to reporters.” Up close, she really wasn’t all that bad. Okay, she was actually kind of cute with those freckles sprinkled across her nose and those short reddish curls. But she was a reporter, which meant that as soon as she opened her mouth she’d probably spoil the impression. “Look, I’m beat and as soon as I finish this last swallow, I’m out of here. Now, if you’re offering up some stress relief, I’ll be happy to take you up on it another time.” He was being crude and he knew it, but the sizzling energy surrounding this woman made all his senses go haywire, which caused alarm bells in his head to go off.

“Sorry to refuse such a gentlemanly offer.” The sarcasm dripped from each syllable, enough that he almost apologized for being an ass.

She dug into the huge satchel she’d plopped down beside her and pulled out an envelope. She tossed it on the table. “Go on. Take a look.”

If she’d acted smug or obnoxious, he’d have shoved the envelope back at her. Instead he left it where it was and chose to study her. Her lips pursed together as if she were holding words inside, a situation he thought went against her nature. Emotions flitted across her face and curiosity shone in her eyes. Yet she wore her intensity the way he wore the badge clipped to his belt, like it was an integral part of her.

He didn’t think he was going to like what was in that envelope and he had a feeling he wasn’t going to be leaving in the next ten seconds like he wanted.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

Surprise lit her eyes, before she slowly nodded her head. “I could use a soda, anything diet.”

“O’Malley, got anything diet on hand?” Jack called out.

“Be right up.”

Jack rotated his glass with one hand while he stretched his other arm over the back of the booth. “So, Gemma Fitzgibbons, what do you want?”

“You know I’m a reporter with the Carville Gazette, right?” Since O’Malley chose that moment to deliver her drink, she waited until he moved away from the table. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the paper, Detective Donahue, given the number of times you’ve been in it.” She took a sip from her cola and eyed him over the top of her glass.

“Like I said, I know who you are and I don’t do interviews.” Even his Captain knew better than to stick him in front of a bunch of press vultures.

“I know. Your feelings for my profession have been made crystal clear on more than one occasion.” She cocked her head to the side, a frown working its way across her forehead. “You know you aren’t what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

“Someone more arrogant, more full of himself. Someone hung up on the power of the badge.”

“What makes you think I’m not?” He didn’t know why he was prolonging the conversation. He should just get up and leave. He had no use for reporters, and though Gemma Fitzgibbons almost tempted him enough to rethink that, his scars were fresh enough that simply sitting across from her made his shoulder blades itch.

“Call it reporter intuition, I don’t know. I don’t like contradictions and you’re a contradiction. Open the envelope, detective.”

Reluctantly, Jack reached for the envelope and pulled it closer. He let it remain there unopened and tapped the table with his fingers as he examined his companion carefully. She seemed to be on her last nerve and the tension she generated suggested she wasn’t as comfortable with this situation as she pretended to be. Now why was that?

There were no markings on the envelope, nothing to indicate where it came from or what was inside. Cursing the bad luck that had led him to O’Malley’s for a drink tonight, he told himself to get over it and lifted the flap that had been tucked in rather than sealed. He tipped the envelope so that the contents spilled out across the table.

Photos landed on the table surface. Jack picked one up and studied the grainy dark image. A man who looked a hell of a lot like him passed a white substance to a greasy-looking leather-clad bum. It had every appearance of a drug buy.

Each photo he fingered showed his look-alike selling drugs to at least three different customers.

As the images coalesced in his mind, fury rose up like a skyrocket. “What the hell kind of stunt are you pulling, Ms. Fitzgibbons?”

“Are you denying the man in the picture is you?”

“Damn right, I’m denying it.” He lifted one of the photos. They had to have been doctored in some way. With technology nowadays, anything was possible. He’d need a professional to analyze them.

“How can you deny it when you’re right there in each frame?”

He leaned forward getting as much in her face as he could with the table between them. “I’m denying it because it’s a setup, that’s why. I never posed for these photos or was in whatever dive that’s pictured here. If you bought these off of someone, you’ve been had.” She’d been a dupe. He’d buy that. But it still burned his gut that someone was trying to implicate him in a crime.

Gemma tapped a nail on one picture. “You’re exchanging drugs for cash in this one with a woman, and again in this one with a man. You’re a homicide detective and my sources say you aren’t involved in narcotics busts. How do you explain these scenes?”

“I don’t have to. I know they’re fakes. Somebody sold you a bill of goods, lady. Get over it. And I suggest you sharpen those reporter instincts of yours.”

He pulled his wallet out of his pocket and yanked out some bills, which he tossed on the table. He made to slide out of the booth when her next words made him pause.

“I took those pictures.” She gripped one photo of him standing with a lowlife scum. The lighting was dim and his face was in profile. The quality was a bit grainy as if from a cell phone rather than a regular digital camera. Even so, the man in the picture looked a lot like him, except it damn well wasn’t. “I was chasing down another story when I saw you.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I was curious. I started snapping shots and you can see what I got.”

Fury burned in his gut. His father had been branded a dirty cop and it had shattered him. It hadn’t mattered that it wasn't true. The media had crucified him. Jack had walked a straight path from day one of putting on his blues. He'd lived up to the honor of the badge, but this woman in front of him, this reporter, could destroy it all so easily. Once the accusation was out there in the world, people would believe what they wanted to believe and he'd never completely regain his credibility.

“I see you got crap. I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but find some other sap to try it on. If I see even one of those photos in the paper, I will sue you for libel six ways to Sunday.”

This time he slid out of the seat and stood towering over her.

“I’d like to say it was a pleasure meeting you, but it wasn’t.” He took two steps before halting and turning back. “You know, trying to blackmail a cop is always a bad idea. It might get you arrested or something worse.”

Two spots of color dotted her cheeks and anger flashed back at him in those pretty green eyes. Too bad she was a reporter. Too bad she’d taken a tiger by its tail.

“Are you threatening me, detective?”

“Simply stating facts.” He pivoted and walked away before anger got the better of him and he said or did something stupid.

Damn shame Ms. Fitzgibbons was a reporter. When you swam with sharks, you either got eaten or you became an even bigger predator.

Ms. Fitzgibbons had obviously reached that same conclusion and had made her choice.

Well, he wasn’t anybody’s prey and if the pretty reporter didn’t watch out, she just might find herself the one being hunted.

***

“Well, that went swimmingly,” Gemma muttered as she jabbed the straw into her soda. She eyed the photos with irritation. What had she expected? A full confession?

Admit it. She’d screwed up. She’d thought…what exactly had she thought? That he’d try and make a deal to get her to suppress the photos?

Yeah, that was exactly what she’d thought. Oh, she’d known that Jack Donahue had a reputation for being squeaky clean. Not surprising when the shadow from his dad’s dismissal from the department hung over him daily. She’d talked to enough different cops on the force to know that. They respected his closure rate, but she sensed they didn’t quite trust him.

Which must suck for him.

She’d been more than curious about the whispers and rumors that continued to swirl around the infamous Jack Donahue.

She’d wanted to know if he could be trusted because, as far as she could tell, somebody had pulled her into a game with Jack Donahue. But would he be an ally or an enemy? The anonymous note she received a few days ago hinted that Donahue would be a victim. That note rested in her locked bottom desk drawer while she determined what to do about it.

Then she’d stumbled on that photo op of Detective Donahue or his doppelganger selling drugs. He didn’t appear the victim anymore and he certainly didn’t come across like someone who needed protection. He might dismiss the photos, but she couldn’t. She had taken them. She had no use for drug dealers. Yet, she’d been a reporter long enough to get a good read on people. Jack Donahue’s voice rang true with the indignation and anger of an innocent man. Either he was a great actor, and she wouldn’t dismiss that possibility, or someone was setting him up and her, too.

But to what purpose? What exactly was going on?

If Jack was an innocent man, he deserved to know about the note, which meant that she had to decide whether to confide in him or not. But not tonight. Not while the verdict was still out on the man.

She finished off the last of her drink and checked her watch. Darn. Darn. Darn. She was way later than she’d expected to be. Of course, she’d had to visit a few bars before tracking Detective Jack Donahue to this one. Even so, she’d promised Dana she’d try to be home earlier.

She shoved the photos back into the envelope and stuffed them back into her bag. Sliding out of the booth, she hoisted the bag onto her left shoulder and dug her keys out. She couldn’t count on bad guys knowing this was a cop bar. A single woman couldn’t be too careful, which was why she carried her keys in her right hand and had a small bottle of pepper spray within reach of her left.

“How much do I owe you?” she asked the bartender.

“Detective Donahue paid for it.”

“Right. Uh, thanks.” She’d pay the detective back when she saw him. He might think this was over, but it was far from it.

Outside the bar, she paused and scanned the street in both directions. Streetlights illuminated the area in small puddles. As far as she could tell, nothing moved. The buildings had locked up for the night.

With her keys fisted in her hand and her other hand within reach of the pepper spray, she headed for her car in the lot. There were a couple of other cars still parked. She supposed one belonged to the bartender and the others to the remaining customers.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she reached her aging sedan. She’d had the four door since college and really wanted to trade it in for something better, but it always came down to money—never enough.

And if she didn’t come up with a hot story to appease her editor, she’d be in the unemployment line. She needed to keep her job and she needed to nail this story. Detective Donahue was a highly decorated cop with a sterling reputation. But she’d seen him with her own eyes dealing drugs. Dirty cop? Undercover operation?

She blew out a frustrated breath.

She hadn’t been lying. She hated contradictions. Or rather, she couldn’t leave them alone because the heart of a contradiction was often the key to a killer story.

And she knew she was on the trail of one now. She simply had to dig and dig until she got her answers.

She unlocked her car door, got in and locked it, laying her bag on the passenger seat. She belted up, then stuck the key in the ignition.

The engine turned over…and nothing.

She tried again. Same result.

“Not tonight. Come on.” She clutched the steering wheel as she turned the key again, willing the old car to cooperate. She needed her wheels. What she didn’t need was another bill.

A knock on her side window caused her to let out a yelp. She grabbed for her bag. Where was that pepper spray?

The knocking sounded again and she thought she heard her name.

Slowly she turned her head, the pepper spray firmly held in her right hand. Her breath sawed in and out, but her eyes cleared enough for her to see a familiar face peering down at her.

“Damn it, Donahue!” She unlatched her belt and thrust the door open.

“Hey, watch it!”

“You scared me to death!” Gemma climbed out and nearly whacked him with the pepper spray, except he twisted it out of her hand, taking it from her.

“Hey, give that back!”

“So, you can dose me with it? Forget it?”

She fisted her hands on her hips. “Why are you here?”

He leaned in until he was only inches from her. His piercing blue eyes drilled her, a glare she made out despite the combined weak lighting of her car’s indoor light and the one lamp at the edge of the parking lot. Irritation wafted off of him stronger than alcohol fumes on a town drunk and he towered over her by a few inches. Even so, she didn’t feel intimidated in the least. Fact was, she was glad he was around.

Which was dangerous and unacceptable. She relied on herself. Period.

“I’m here because I hadn’t left yet. I mistakenly thought I should make sure you made it to your car safely. Clearly, I’m not needed.” He turned and waved a hand. “See you!”

“Wait!” She hustled after him and latched onto his arm. Trying to stop him was like trying to stop a locomotive. “Please!”

Ah, that did it. He came to a halt, but from his expression, she didn’t think he was going to make it easy on her.

“I seem to be having car trouble. Do you think you could help me, Detective?”

He pursed his lips together, seeming to think about it. “You know,” he finally said, “I told myself I was done with you.”

“We can’t always be right.”

“Sarcasm is not going to help you.”

“Right. Got it. You wanted to be rid of me. Problem is I’ve got a job to do. I can’t not pursue a story.”

“Try.”

That was it. One word. Like that was the answer. “Fine. Let’s agree for the moment to table this discussion.” She gently turned him and tugged him towards her car. “I could really use some help getting my car started.”

“Pop the hood and let me see what I can do.” While she did that, her would-be rescuer went back to his car for a flashlight, but not before tossing her the can of pepper spray and warning her to put it away. When he returned, Gemma took the flashlight from him so that he could poke around under the hood. He took the light from her and asked her to turn on the ignition.

After three failed attempts, Detective Donahue slammed the hood down. He swiped his hands together a few times and came towards her. “I’ll give you a lift. Leave your car here and you can have a tow service pick it up tomorrow.”

Gemma squeezed her eyes shut, thinking about the huge bill a tow and a repair would cost her. She opened her eyes and nodded.

“Let me get my things.” He held the door open for her while she reached inside and dragged her bag out. She didn’t keep anything else of value inside.

They closed and locked her car and headed back to his in silence. His longer strides quickly outpaced her shorter ones and she found herself staring at that straight back, questions crowding her mind.

The pictures burning a hole in her purse didn’t match up with the guy in front of her.

Jack seemed like a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of guy. He didn’t try to lay on the charm. Far from it. Yet, when he’d had every reason to walk away and stay away from her, he’d come to her rescue. She didn’t sense any hidden agenda in doing it either, other than an innate sense of honor that required him to respond to a person in need.

Had she been setup to take those photos? But how could that be? She might accept the photos had been altered if she hadn’t been the one behind the camera. The lighting had been bad and she hadn’t been able to get close, but the guy she’d seen in the club sure looked like the guy in front of her opening the door to his SUV.

Questions still whirling in her brain, she climbed in and settled herself in the comfortable interior. Definitely several classes above her ride.

She waited patiently, or as patiently as she could, for him to buckle up.

“Go ahead and spit it out before you self-combust or something.” He started the engine and turned on the vehicle’s headlights. Slowly, he backed out of the parking space and made for the exit.

“Detective Donahue—”

“Jack.”

“What?”

“I’ll probably regret this, but call me Jack.” He pulled out of the lot and onto the silent street.

“Thank you, Jack. Call me Gemma.” She smiled, which was silly since all they’d done was exchange names, but she couldn’t help it. “By any chance, Jack, do you have a twin brother?”

She twisted in her seat to better see his reaction. She thought his lip twitched, but she couldn’t be sure.

“No twin. Just me.”

She sat quietly and considered and discarded other theories. She opened her mouth to speak; only he beat her to it. “And no,” he said, “I was not adopted. I look like my dad and I’m the spitting image of my grandfather. Nice try, though.”

She faced the windshield with a tiny huff, wanting him to note her displeasure. He could work with her on this. It wouldn’t kill him.

The tones of a funeral dirge trilled from within her bag. Gemma reached in for her cell phone.

“You use a funeral melody for your ring tone?”

“It suits my mood right now.” With her job on the line and a major loan payment due, a funeral dirge captured her feelings perfectly. She sure as molasses wasn’t going to explain it to him.

She hit the answer button. “Aunt Sylvie, everything okay?”

“Fine, dear. I’m going to bed. Dana was a little anxious when you didn’t come home like you promised.” There was no reproof in her aunt’s words, but Gemma felt the guilt anyway. While she didn’t regret stepping up and taking on guardianship of her niece, she still hadn’t successfully managed the work-family balance. Without Aunt Sylvie’s help, Gemma would have had a rough time of it.

“I’m sorry,” Gemma said, clutching the phone tighter. “I really meant to be back like I said. I got caught up in a story.”

“I understand, and I tried to explain to Dana, but you know how it is.”

“Yeah, I know.” Her four-year old niece was finally emerging from the fragile shell she’d retreated into after surviving the wreck that had taken her mom, Gemma’s sister, and her grandmother, Gemma’s mom. Gemma didn’t want to do anything that might hurt Dana’s recovery from the trauma. “I’ll try to talk to her tomorrow.”

“You’re doing your best, Gemma. We all are. Don’t beat yourself up for not being perfect.”

A lump formed in her throat and she swallowed it down. She didn’t know if she was trying to be “perfect” as her aunt said. What she did know is that Dana had suffered enough in her short life and Gemma didn’t want to add further disappointments to the list. “Thanks, Aunt Sylvie. I should be home soon.”

“Good night, Gemma.”

“Good night.”

She hit the end button and dropped the phone back in her bag. The silence of the vehicle wrapped around her, making it impossible to drown out the doubts and worries that plagued her when it came to doing the right thing for her family.

Beside her, Jack cleared his throat. “Everything okay?”

“Fine.” She turned her head, not wanting to invite further conversation. Plus, she needed to get herself under control. She could feel the tears pricking her eyelids and that was unacceptable.

Her aunt said she was doing her best. Sometimes she thought so; other times she thought she was failing everybody around her. If she lost her job, if she couldn’t make the next mortgage payment…she could drown in the what if’s if she let them.

She had to focus on Dana, who needed her. She couldn’t let her niece down.

For a while they traveled in silence until Jack broke it. “Where did you take those pictures?”

So, he wanted to talk about the contents of the envelope. Finally. “At the Pink Kitty.”

“The stripper bar?” Disbelief colored his voice. “What were you doing there?”

“Talking to a witness.” She didn’t know why she sounded defensive, and firmed her voice. “I have a job to do, too.” And getting the inside track on the hottest story in the local press would go a long ways to assuring she kept her job.

“Wait a minute.” He slapped his palm against the steering wheel. “The Pink Kitty is adjacent to the Stardust Club where—”

She nodded. “Where a waitress was raped and murdered and her body dumped in the woods behind that new estate development.” The police had been cagey with the details, but she was used to digging up dirt. It was a matter of asking the right questions of the right people.

“I was talking to one of the strippers about a guy she’d seen with the waitress when you walked in and sat at a table in the back. I got what I needed from her and managed to get a few shots of you selling drugs.”

Jack slammed on the brakes, throwing her against the seatbelt.

“Hey! Watch it!”

“For the last time, you didn’t photograph me selling drugs. I have never sold drugs.” He turned in his seat, seeming oblivious to the fact that they were stopped in the middle of the street. “Wait a minute. She actually said she saw the waitress with a man? Did she give a description?” he demanded, excitement coloring his voice.

“Of a sort. Mostly she noticed his car.”

“What’s her name?”

“If I tell you that are you going to let me have this story?”

“Don’t you ever give it a rest?”

“Not when it’s this important.” Not only did she have to keep her job, a woman had died. She deserved justice and she deserved for the public to know her as a human being and not just a faceless statistic.

“The hell with it!” Jack turned the wheel and did a U-turn in the middle of the street.

“Where are you going? My house is that way!”

“To the Pink Kitty to talk to a stripper.”