The Stroke of Midnight Page 14

  “Maybe he told Warren,” Devon suggested, while Hannah, suspended mid-munch, looked from her to Alma and back again. “Warren was home all evening, I assume.”

  Alma bristled. She did that, Devon noticed, whenever she defended her brother. Defended as in lied for?

  “He came straight home,” Alma said shortly. “I don’t remember the time, but he left here right after I phoned him at ten o‘clock. I soak in the tub from ten until eleven o’clock. I’m quite nit-picky about that.”

  “Did you see him come in?” Hannah’s tentative question brought a smile to Devon’s lips. She bit it back at her employer’s aggravated expression.

  Alma slapped the summary sheet onto Devon’s lap. “I didn’t ask you here to discuss my brother. He admires your sister’s radio voice, nothing more sinister than that.”

  “I wasn’t implying...”

  “Oh, yes you were, Hannah dear, and with reason.” She breathed to steady her voice. “But Warren is no more a killer than I am.”

  “Or Rudy,” Devon added. “I gather he was with Detective Dugan when Hannah spoke to Jacob.” Assuming, of course that that meant anything in a world of approximate times, fast transportation, and shortcuts.

  Alma pursed her lips. “People occasionally hire other people to do their dirty work.” She waved a dismissing hand before Devon could protest. “Ignore me. I’m feeling crotchety today. I care about you, dear, that’s all. As men go, Rudy’s a diamond in the rough, Roscoe’s a question mark and Riker’s a sexpot. Don’t splutter, Devon. He is. But back to business.” She tapped the summary. “As you see, the victims worked for four different stations in the Philadelphia area. Before it was the Wave, this station was WPAX, a—”she shuddered “—country station. The second victim did the weekend news and weather for them. Thankfully, Warren and I came down from New York a year later.” She emphasized the time frame. “We made an offer to the cowboys, were accepted and ventured into light rock.”

  “Mmm.” Devon caught her meaning, despite only half-listening. She ran her finger over the first victim’s name. “It says here that Laura West was an heiress.”

  “A twice-married heiress,” Alma supplemented. “Rich, spoiled, the niece of some disreputable old dowager with gangland ties. Probably finagled her way into the broadcasting business. Many do, you know.” She looked up as the door opened. “Yes, Brian?”

  “Message for Devon, ma’am.”

  His words jarred, but Devon covered with a smile. “From?”

  “Jimmy. He’s in your office. Says he has to see you, pronto. His words, not mine.”

  “Well, really!” Alma exclaimed. “That young man’s becoming entirely too high-handed.”

  Devon grinned. “I have to get back to work anyway.”

  “Me, too.” Hannah wiped her mouth and stood. “Thank you for the lunch, Alma.”

  “My pleasure. Devon, mind you study those faxes. I didn’t have them transmitted for nothing.”

  No, much as Devon liked her, she knew Alma seldom did anything without a very good reason. To give herself a chance to point out that Warren had been in New York at the time of the first two murders, perhaps? Well, wouldn’t she do the same for her sisters? Devon reflected. Defend them to the bitter end? One thing she knew, Alma wouldn’t want to see her die.

  Jimmy was pacing her office like a caged tiger when she arrived, a tubed piece of paper slapping against his palm. His youthful face brightened the second he spied her.

  “Devon, here, look at this.” He exploded without preamble, grabbing her arm and hauling her to the window.

  “Look at the snow?” she inquired dubiously when he stopped to gape at her.

  “What? Oh, no. I mean—” Reaching out, he touched the sleeve of her clingy moss-green dress. “You look really pretty today. Really—”

  “Green?” Devon smiled. “Hannah says I wear too much red.” Riker had mentioned it, too, as she recalled. “I thought a change might be in order.”

  Jimmy smiled back. “Maybe you should wear green more often.” Shyness took over. “It’s my birthday on the twenty-eighth, you know.”

  Actually she hadn’t known. “We’ll have to have a party, then, won’t we? A real post-Christmas, pre-New Year’s bash.”

  “I’ll be thirty-five.”

  She stopped the surprise before it showed. Or thought she did.

  “I don’t look it, do I?” he asked rather forlornly. “I had a girlfriend once a long time ago. She used to tease me about my adolescent appearance.”

  Devon quirked a brow. “She’ll be envious soon enough, Jimmy.”

  “No, she won’t. She’s not—” His fingers tightened on the rolled paper. “She’s dead, Devon. We talked about getting married, but well... Anyway, that’s pretty much why I don’t date. No, don’t feel sorry for me. I didn’t tell you to make you sorry. I’m not sure why I told you really, but it wasn’t for that.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “What was I saying before?”

  Devon tried a light, “You wanted me to see the snow?”

  “No. No!” His initial excitement returned in a rush. Unrolling the tubed sheet, he thrust it under her nose. “Do you know this—” A sound at the door interrupted him, and he finished with a squawked, “—man?”

  At Jimmy’s round-eyed stare, Riker glanced over his shoulder. “What?”

  “Afternoon, Detective.” Preoccupied, Devon studied the solemn photo of a man. “He’s nice looking, whoever he is. Norwegian or Irish ancestry, I’d guess. Does he do something, Jimmy?”

  “Do—? Uh, no. That is—I thought I’d see if you recognized him.”

  “Sorry. He looks a bit like Fabio. Grittier, though. Tougher. Jimmy, what are you staring at?”

  The young man paled as Riker advanced. “I have to go. I’ll take that.” He snatched the photo away.

  Confused, Devon appealed to Riker, but he shrugged, as perplexed as her.

  “Jimmy?”

  He waved her off, skirting her coffee table en route to the door. “I have work to do. Good show today, by the way. I didn’t know St. Nicholas was a real person. Ouch!” This as he almost blinded himself on one of the coat rack’s pegs.

  Riker caught his arm, frowning when Jimmy backpedaled into the sofa.

  There was little Devon could do except remind herself that it wasn’t amusing to watch a full-grown male deteriorate into a complete klutz. “Mr. Bean,” she murmured, then rushed forward just in time to catch the photo Jimmy dropped.

  “Must be a bad coordination day,” she teased. She’d hoped to lighten his mood. Instead, he grabbed the picture, cast Riker a look of fearful resentment and bolted into the corridor.

  “Well.” Palms pressed together, Devon let several seconds expire before she raised her brows in greeting. “Very weird display. Did you come all this way to check on me?”

  Riker removed his gaze from the closed door. “Actually, I did. But you seemed to be surviving just fine on your own.” Removing a hand from his pocket, he hesitated, then stroked her cheek.

  The contact still had the power to jolt, though he’d done this same thing a dozen times or more by now.

  “I am.” She held his unfathomable gaze, then, curling her fingers around his wrist, moved his hand to her mouth and pressed a kiss to his palm.

  She’d expected him to tense. What she didn’t know was whether he would pull away or pull her close in response.

  For a moment he did neither, simply stared at her while delicate flute music filled the air with subtly erotic strains. “Devon...” He seemed to want to say something specific, but settled for a weary, “This just isn’t the right thing for us. I need to... I want...” His eyes rolled. “Oh, to hell with it.”

  He drew her forward effortlessly, sliding his strong fingers around the nape of her neck and tipping her head back. His eyes detailed every porcelain-fine feature on her face, the slender line of her throat, the silky hollow where her pulse fluttered and danced in time to her heart. A frantic drumbeat. Hot, wild.
Seductive.

  He should run, he knew that. But the invitation of her lips, hands and body made flight impossible. Moth to a flame, he thought with a distant stab of irony. He wasn’t being fair to her. But, God help him, he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anyone.

  Problems and protests filtered in. A knife, a photo, a lie told that must be untold. A killer. A woman he refused to believe he loved...

  Head lowered, he explored her mouth with care and fascination. He dipped and tasted as if savoring the finest French wine. He wanted this woman, badly. His heart wanted her. His head wanted her and so did the fiery hot region of his lower body.

  No telephone sounded to distract him, but something shrilled deep in his brain. The clang of his conscience again? His guilt? His fear? Maybe it was all of those things. Or maybe none.

  A low groan emerged from his throat as she placed her hands on either side of his face to deepen the kiss. Desire hammered at him, powerful fists beating down his resistance.

  She melted into him, molded her long, silky-limbed body to his. He felt hard as iron, knew he couldn’t take much more of this torture. Couldn’t take even a second more.

  He broke off with a curse, trapped between soft regret and self-censure. The best thing in the end for her; a nightmare of deprivation for him.

  Devon appeared as shaken as he felt. Just as well. Forcing his arms to drop, he stepped deliberately away.

  She stared, bemused. “That was...incredible.” She touched her mouth. “It’s always so different.”

  An implosion would have been Jacob’s description. “We have chemistry,” he agreed, wincing at the inanity of the remark.

  She pressed her fingers to her flushed cheeks. “You could call it that, I suppose. Maybe that’s what sent Jimmy out of here in such a rush.”

  Jimmy! Reality rushed in, black and ominous. The photograph. That was the source of the mental clang. He’d glimpsed it, had heard the description of the subject, but he’d been preoccupied with fantasies of Devon and more distantly, of Ewen’s missing knife.

  In a single, swift motion, he caught Devon by the upper arms, brought her up to meet him and planted a brief, fervent kiss on her beautifully damp lips. “I’ll be back,” he promised. “Quick errand to run.”

  She recovered admirably. “Cop business, Riker?”

  “My business.” He halted, considered. “I’ll cook us dinner tonight, okay? My apartment for a change.”

  Assuming all hell didn’t break loose between now and then. An ugly image took shape as he made the required left turn that would carry him to the production offices: a picture of Joel Riker’s somber face—in Jimmy Flaherty’s jealous hands.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Phil, our head of newscasting said he was acting very strangely.” Cross-legged on Riker’s apartment floor, Devon arranged the wire limbs of a crooked five-foot pine tree. Boxes of leftover decorations were strewn across the table and carpet. A piece of red and gold garland hung around her neck. More hung on his punching bag. Her hair was mussed, her faded jeans and white T-shirt were covered with glitter, and she’d just polished off her second glass of California red.

  She stopped fiddling to muse, “Maybe he wasn’t feeling well. Why else would he have run out of the station so quickly? Are you listening to me, Riker?”

  His voice drifted ghostlike from the kitchen. “No one knows why Jimmy left the station in the middle of the afternoon. How much is a pinch?”

  Devon laughed and set the star on the top branch. “Ask Hannah. She’s a better cook then me. Riker?” She paused in the process of securing the lights. “Why did you go to production to see him, today?”

  “To find out where he was last night.” Riker appeared in the kitchen doorway, a towel tossed over one shoulder and flour on his cheeks and the longest tips of his hair. “Stroganoff’s not as easy as I thought.”

  “Tell me about it.” Scooting back, Devon regarded her handiwork. “What do you think? Eclectic?”

  He grinned and came to join her, squatting down so that his knee brushed her arm. “I’d call it more of a hodgepodge, myself. What’s that brown thing?”

  “Where? Oh.” Devon removed the stuffed cloth ornament. “My aunt took a craft course with my mother several years ago. She never got the hang of it. I think this is Dancer. I put the other seven reindeer on the sides and back.” She struggled to conceal the fear that had been slinking around inside her for days now. “He’s not going to give up, is he? I’ve done some reading. They never do. Serial killers, I mean.”

  “Devon...” He’d have reassured her if he could; she saw it in his eyes. Going to one knee, he took her hand, and, turning it over, studied the delicate skin of her palm. “It’s a complicated problem.”

  “To be a serial killer?”

  He almost smiled. “Probably that, too. I meant all of it, this whole Christmas Murderer thing. All those women before you who died. And now you.” A ridge formed between his brows. “I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to you. You have to believe that, Devon. The last thing I want is for you to get hurt.”

  Did he mean hurt by the killer—or by someone else? Devon wished that the doubts would vanish once and for all.

  Because they refused to, and because her pulses were beating like birds’ wings, she brought his hand to her face and pressed her cheek against it. “I believe you’re doing your best to protect me.”

  A light leapt into his eyes, but vanished before she could decipher it.

  “We need to talk.” His mouth was dangerously close to hers when he spoke. “Not everything is the way it seems.”

  The words fuzzed in Devon’s brain as she inhaled the soapy scent of his skin. Christmas lights sparkled around them. Lute, harp and violin played softly on the stereo. The rooms smelled deliciously of beef stroganoff, red wine and strawberries. Cinnamon as well, from the apple pie Hannah had dropped off. “White Christmas,” muted, flickered on the television screen, Bing crooning persuasively to Rosemary at a Vermont ski lodge. Devon loved the movie. She thought she might, just might, love Riker more.

  “Nothing’s ever the way it seems,” she told him. “I try not to be disappointed.”

  Riker’s stare was solemn, intent. “Does it work?”

  “Not always. But things usually work out in the end.”

  He kissed each of her fingers. “So you believe in fate, do you?”

  “If it’s fate not to worry about the uncontrollable future, then I guess I do. I won’t take stupid chances with the Christmas Murderer, Riker, but I won’t crawl into a hole over it, either. We all do what we have to do in our lives.”

  “I didn’t need to hear that,” he murmured. Eyes unwavering, he resumed his crouch. “I should check on dinner.”

  And she should leave, Devon thought as he rose. Go straight to her apartment, lock the door and sift through her feelings for Riker layer by complex layer until she understood them all.

  Loved him? Very likely. Trusted him? Yes, with her safety at any rate. With her heart, though? She brought a frustrated fist onto the top of her leg. What demons secreted themselves behind that emotional barrier of his?

  Feeling shredded inside, Devon dropped her forehead onto her upraised knees. She listened with half an ear as Riker clattered and banged in the kitchen. Questions continued to badger her. Why had Jimmy charged out of her office this afternoon just as Riker had entered? Who was the man in the photo? Why was Riker so determined to keep his distance from her?

  Because she’d been brought up not to dwell on the unanswerable, she raised her head, stood and crossed to the kitchen door. Riker’s movements between oven and counter were economically fluid. He’d have made a good chef, certainly a watchable one.

  “Riker?” Devon dug her fingernails into the painted wood door frame. “Why were you really looking for Jimmy after you left my office this afternoon?”

  He bent to squint at the flame under the rice pot. “I told you. It was just routine.”

 
“You think Jimmy could be the murderer?”

  He gestured her closer, dipped a wooden spoon in the sauce, blew on it, and held it to her lips. “Taste this. He’s a suspect, Devon. Everyone is.”

  “I understand suspecting Warren and Roscoe.” She savored the subtly spiced sauce. “It’s good. But Jimmy’s like—well, like a brother to me.”

  “That’s not what he thinks.”

  “Yes, it is. It just isn’t what he wants.”

  He slanted her a wry glance. “I’ve done some background on him. You don’t think sexual frustration’s a viable motive?”

  “Not for Jimmy.”

  “Staunch defense, Devon, but unsound. You want him to be innocent; that doesn’t mean he is.”

  “All right, I have another question then.” She bit into the pasta shell he forked up for her. “Needs another minute. Why were you and Detective Dugan glowering at each other last night?”

  Riker poured more wine and handed her a fresh glass. “I didn’t know we were.”

  “That’s not an answer.” It also wasn’t easy to stay on topic with him leaning negligently against the sink, sipping wine and looking like a lazy cheetah.

  He moved a shoulder. “Dugan and I don’t agree on this case, Devon. We never have. I’m told the Irish are a stubborn breed.”

  Easing a hip onto the table, she raised the wineglass to her lips. “Stubborn, full of blarney and as evasive as leprechauns most of the time. What is it you’re not telling me? Share something, Riker.”

  He looked sideways, of two minds it seemed to her. Running a hand through his hair, he let his head drop forward. “All right. Fair’s fair.” He brought his gaze up. “The knife he threatened you with was mine. More specifically, belongs in my family. My great great Uncle Ewen was notorious for—well, let’s say he ‘acquired’ things. I doubt if the knife can be traced, but I think it’s safe to assume that the Christmas Murderer is trying to frame me.”

  Devon nearly choked on the wine in her mouth. “Your knife,” she gasped. “He—” She set her glass on the counter, forcing calm. “How did a murderer get hold of your knife?”