The Stroke of Midnight Read online

  “Devon?”

  She whipped around like a cat, eyes flashing, fingers spread.

  A frown furrowed Riker’s forehead. “What is it?”

  She controlled her desire to snap. “Someone,” she drew a deep breath, “attacked me in my office.”

  He closed the gap between them so swiftly her senses scarcely registered the movement. Taking her by the arms, he pulled her close for inspection. “Are you hurt?”

  “No.” The heat of his body beckoned to her, an invisible magnet urging her to seek the comfort she craved in his arms. She rubbed the middle of her forehead. “I’m fine, really. He must have gotten out through the office adjoining mine. It’s small, so we use it as an overflow room for old promotional material.” Roscoe’s turf, she recalled, wincing.

  Riker’s thumbs began a gentle circular rotation on her collarbone. Quite effective actually—until she remembered another pair of hands. A shiver rippled through her, causing her teeth to chatter. “Shouldn’t you go after him?”

  For an answer, his hands left her to remove his gun. At the door, he glanced back. “Stay right here, Devon.”

  He disappeared, leaving Devon to count the seconds and wonder if—no, wish that she could put the attack down to her imagination.

  Of course she couldn’t. She only needed to touch the bruised skin on her throat and stare at the sliver of black scarf fisted in her hand to know that. But why leave? Why not kill her and be done with it?

  “Morbid, Tremayne,” she chided herself. “Be grateful you’re still here to ask the question.”

  The silence stretched on. Devon’s nerves stretched taut. She’d liked it better when Riker had been, in as much as he probably could, endeavoring to console her.

  Arms hugging her waist, she paced the carpeted floor. No radio speakers kept her company here. Only the hum of the corridor lights and a nasty-looking batch of black clouds beyond the window.

  She halted, brow knit. “Black,” she repeated, then swung her head around. “The paper...”

  Riker appeared in the open doorway, his head averted as he holstered his gun. “Whoever he was, he’s long gone. That storeroom—What?” This as she grabbed his hand.

  “In my office,” she said, tugging firmly. “The person who attacked me slid a note under my door before he jumped out at me.”

  Riker’s face darkened. “Did you read it?”

  “I didn’t have a chance.” She pushed the door open, her eyes scanning the floor. “There it is. By the coat rack.”

  He reached the black square an instant before her, unfolded it and skimmed the words penned in gold script. Devon’s voice wavered as she murmured the message over his shoulder.

  “Just a taste for now, dear Devon, to taunt you as you daily taunt me.

  As you daily haunt me.

  Will this torment never cease...?”

  Chapter Four

  “Don’t brush me off, Riker.” Devon matched him stride for stride as they climbed the stoop to the apartment building. “I want to know what you’re going to do about that note.”

  Aggravated but controlled, Jacob opened the front door. “Check it out,” he said flatly. More correctly, get Rudy to check it out. “Fingerprints, ink type, point of purchase.”

  She preceded him into the mulberry-scented warmth. “Do you think you’ll discover anything?”

  “No, but it’s procedure. Devon...” He circled her wrist with his fingers when she would have started up the stairs.

  He could see it in her eyes. She wanted to be angry and indignant but was having trouble holding those emotions. Fear had a way of sneaking through the most formidable barriers, and Jacob sensed that sustained anger was not one of Devon’s best weapons.

  She faced him, calmly determined. “No, I am not going to tell Hannah about the attack,” she told him for the third time. “And yes, I’m still going to the charity party at the Holly Tree Restaurant tomorrow. The station’s sponsoring the event. I won’t wimp out because I’m terrified there’ll be a madman with a scarf lurking in every dark corner.”

  Her skin was temptingly soft, her wrist incredibly delicate in the palm of his hand. An arrow of heat and desire speared downward into Jacob’s loins. He loosened his grip in response to it, but couldn’t quite let her go.

  “If the party’s important to you, Devon, I won’t try and stop you from being there.”

  A wary look crept into her shuttered gaze. “I hear a ‘but,’ Riker. What’s the catch?”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  Her fine brows shot up. “Just like that? Has it occurred to you that I might have a date?”

  “Do you?”

  “No, but you could have the decency to think I might.”

  He ignored the stab of relief, fought a smile and indicated Hannah’s apartment door. “Will your sister be there?”

  She sighed. “Roscoe Beale asked her two months ago. Hannah has a hard time refusing polite invitations.”

  Diverted, Jacob ran the name through his mental file. “Beale’s the head of your PR department.”

  His fingers tightened marginally as he spoke. It surprised him that she made no effort to shake him off. On the contrary, she came down a step so their eyes were level.

  “Yes, he is, and yes, it’s his job to promote the station. But even allowing for the fact that he’s pressing for coverage of this Christmas pendant incident, I don’t think he’s the one who attacked me.”

  “Did I say he was?”

  She summoned a small smile. “You didn’t have to. The idea’s written all over your face. Oh, come on, Riker, don’t be offended.” This as his arm muscles tensed. “Most of the time, I can’t begin to guess what you’re thinking. It’s just that sometimes you let the mask drop, and there it is for anyone to see.”

  “That doesn’t help,” he muttered and kicked himself for the lapse. “What time’s the party?”

  “Dinner’s at eight. We’re due there an hour before. Dress as you choose. Roscoe and Warren will wear suits.”

  Suddenly, he needed very badly to be away from her. Either that, or—he didn’t know what. Careful not to excite any facial expressions, Jacob removed his hand from hers and shoved it, balled, into his jacket pocket.

  “Are you staying home tonight?” he asked through clenched teeth.

  “Uh-huh. I’m going to finish decorating my tree.” Curiosity over his abrupt withdrawal melted into a polite smile as she glanced past his shoulder. “Hello. You must be Riker’s partner. I’m Devon.”

  Jacob turned his head in time to see Rudy’s weathered cheeks mottle.

  “Yes, uh—yes,” he said in his gravelly tone. He stamped the excess snow from his boots, tucked his camouflage motorcycle helmet under one arm and joined them. “How do you do?”

  Disbelief blended with amusement in Jacob’s mind. Devon had flustered Rudy Brown. Many had tried, but he’d never seen anyone succeed before.

  Devon’s gaze flicked questioningly to Jacob then back to the older man. “You’re...welcome to join us at the charity party tomorrow, Detective Brown.”

  “Rudy,” Jacob supplied, enjoying the moment.

  Rudy shot him a lethal glare, too quick and guarded for Devon to catch. “What charity party would that be, miss?”

  “I’ll let Riker explain. And it’s Devon.”

  Eagle-eyed, Rudy spied the red marks on Devon’s neck. “Are those fresh bruises?” he demanded.

  A hand rose to her throat. “Riker can tell you about that, too.” She fixed a smile on her lips. “You’re also both welcome to join Hannah and me for a glass of eggnog later—to celebrate the lighting of my first Philadelphia Christmas tree in ten years,” she added at Jacob’s inquisitive look.

  The mottling on Rudy’s leathery cheeks deepened. Temper sparked his brown eyes. “He came after you, didn’t he?”

  Devon bit her lip, considered, then at Jacob’s shrug, nodded. “In my office, this afternoon.” Her voice wobbled only fractionally. “He could have
strangled me, but he didn’t. He left a note instead.”

  “I have it.” Jacob answered his uncle’s unspoken question.

  Rudy’s breath heaved in and out of his barrel chest. “So either we’ve got us a sick copycat, or it wasn’t Coombes after all.”

  “Looks that way,” Jacob agreed. He regarded the older man evenly. “Whatever we’ve got, it’s up to you and me to figure out who’s behind this threat to Devon’s life—and deal with him before he makes good on it.”

  “MERRY CHRISTMAS, and may we all be free to enjoy many more.”

  Warren Severen made the slurred toast in Devon’s living room at 9:00 p.m. She hadn’t planned the gathering. Alma, Warren, Roscoe and Jimmy had just “happened” to drop by at eight o’clock. Evidently, the incident at the station this afternoon had flowed swiftly along the studio grapevine.

  “Coming through, everybody.” Hannah arrived, flushed and bearing two large trays of food that included plates of Swedish meatballs, mincemeat tarts and neatly trimmed cucumber sandwiches.

  “Don’t let anyone tell her,” Devon hissed to Roscoe as she brushed past him to rescue her overloaded sister. He had the look of a handsome Italian gangster. Never a strand of soft black hair out of place, often a trace of amusement clinging to his lips. A pair of seductive ebony eyes completed the picture.

  “What can I do?” he whispered back. “Once the small talk’s exhausted, somebody’s bound to work up the nerve to mention it.”

  Not if she could help it. Devon saved the sandwich tray from tipping onto the carpet, spied Riker and Rudy entering behind Hannah and zeroed in on them.

  “I don’t want her to know,” was all she said. Riker sent her a look that told her plainly he thought she was wrong, but motioned Rudy over to keep Hannah occupied.

  “Do you want me to threaten your guests with jail or use their outstanding parking violations against them?”

  Balancing the tray, Devon poked his chest. “No sarcasm, Riker. I’m not in the mood. Hannah’s a compulsive worrier. Much as I enjoy unexpected guests, I know why these people are here. No one’s come out and said it yet—they’re polite enough to wait for an announcement—but they’ve heard something, and sooner or later one of them will ask.”

  Sipping from the glass which had appeared in his hand, Riker did a dubious double take at the contents. “Sooner, if you don’t tone down the eggnog.”

  “What are you—” She glanced at the silver bowl. “Oh, God. Warren must have brought his flask with him. Look, I’ll deal with the over-spiked refreshments, if you’ll just please warn everybody to keep quiet. You’ve met Alma. The man with the gold signet ring is Roscoe. Jimmy Flaherty’s on the phone, and Warren’s across the room near the Christmas tree—probably trying to keep out of Alma’s way.”

  She saw Riker fight a smile, and took a moment to observe him. He wore a long-sleeved cotton T-shirt tonight. Black, of course. Two of the top buttons were undone and he’d pushed the sleeves partway up. His long hair shone with bronze highlights, courtesy of the jeweled tree. All in all, he looked devastatingly handsome, which, she reflected, depositing her tray on the coffee table, was precisely the last thing she needed to notice right now.

  Hannah detached herself from Rudy, “Does your microwave work, Devon? The sausage rolls need reheating.”

  With a warning glance at Riker, Devon accompanied her sister to the kitchen.

  Jacob watched her go, surreptitiously, yet even as he made the required rounds, his eyes never quite left her. An uncharacteristic reaction for him, but manageable, he promised himself, as long as he didn’t allow it to get out of hand.

  “Ah, the ever-efficient arm of the law.” Clearly inebriated, Warren Severen toddled over and thumped Jacob across the shoulders. He packed a wallop, but his hand was soft and fleshy. Very likely he hadn’t worked at anything more difficult than a computer keypad for years. Then again, even soft hands could wield a lethal garrote.

  The idea flirted with Jacob’s usually reliable instincts. Coupled with Warren’s effusive smile and one or two of the innuendoes he’d picked up from the Wave’s female staff today, the prospect made a fair-sized impact.

  “I hear you were in the vicinity when our Devon was, er, waylaid today.” Warren patted his jacket pockets.

  Jacob shot him a look that went right over the station owner’s head. “Yes, I was. But I don’t think Devon would appreciate you broadcasting the incident.”

  “Hannah, huh?”

  Whatever his flaws, the man possessed a modicum of perception. “I hear she worries a lot”

  Having apparently plunged feet first into the holiday spirit, Warren located his flask and shook the dregs into his glass. “She’s a strong woman, is our Devon. Tougher-skinned than her sister, but I’ll wager Hannah’s got a fair bit of spunk.”

  Jacob raised a brow. “That’s not exactly the point, Mr. Severen.”

  “No? Well, maybe it isn’t. We learn by experience how best to deal with our siblings.” His eyes darted to Alma before returning to Jacob’s impassive face. He lifted his glass in a toast. “So you’re protecting my little Devon, are you? You gotta love that voice, don’t you?”

  “Her voice?”

  “Mmm.” Warren’s chiselled features became vaguely dream-like. “Warm cognac on velvet. Black velvet. Knew it the minute I heard her, I had to have that voice on my airwaves.”

  Accepting the white wine Rudy stuck in his hand, Jacob inquired, “When did you first hear her, Mr. Severen?”

  “Warren. Oh, let’s see. January or so, I guess. That’s right. Her California station went on cable just before Christimas last year. Alma picked up on her first. Didn’t mention it to me, of course.” He grinned broadly, and said in a stagewhisper, “My sister’s not big on sex.”

  Jacob’s eyes held steady. “I beg your pardon?”

  “That was the series that KBXA, Devon’s L.A. station, was airing at the time. A two-week series dealing with sexual problems.”

  “It was marital problems, Warren,” Alma corrected sternly from behind her brother.

  Warren started visibly. He’d missed her approach. Jacob hadn’t. He took note of her compressed lips, her stiff spine and her stony stare. Something here, he decided, finishing his wine in a single long swallow.

  Before he could think of how best to pump Alma, she conducted her own cross-examination. “Do you know Devon well, Detective?”

  “No, but I’m working on it.” Where the hell had that remark come from? He tossed the ball back into her court. “Do you?”

  Alma Severen had a carefully cultivated reserve that would be tricky to circumvent. She tended to look down her nose at people, especially at men, Jacob realized. On her own ground, she would not be an easy woman to dupe.

  “Devon is very like my daughter, Margaret.” Methodically, she folded her hands. “I was grooming Margaret to take over my various business ventures. Unfortunately, that wasn’t to be.”

  “She lost interest?”

  “She lost her life, Detective Riker.”

  “Took her...ah, yes...” A fierce glare from his sister had Warren clearing his throat. Fleshy fingers crept up to scratch his chin and tug on his shirt collar. “More wine, Detective?”

  “Thanks, I’m on duty.”

  If it hadn’t been for Laura, Jacob would gladly have ditched this whole scene and fled to the home his grandmother had left to him in County Clare. Better pub gossip and dark ale than this maze of secrets and lies.

  “Meatball?” Devon appeared with a green holiday platter and a bright smile that sent a fiery bolt of longing to Jacob’s lower limbs. Forcing a smile, he took her arm and steered her to an unoccupied corner.

  “It’s quite a group of co-workers you have here, Devon.” He regarded the telephone desk. “Your friend Flaherty hasn’t stopped scowling at me since I came in.”

  “Jimmy?” Surprised, Devon glanced at the young man seated in one of her Louis XIV chairs. “He’s harmless.”

  “He’s
jealous.”

  “He’s still harmless.”

  “Yeah? Those poisoned daggers he’s firing seem to have my name on them.”

  Amusement danced in her eyes. “Well, you do look awfully good in black. Tell me, Riker, do you have any other color in your wardrobe?”

  “I like black.”

  “I like red, but I can occasionally be coaxed into something different.”

  Like the indigo silk pants suit she wore tonight. Soft and floaty, the material managed to drape itself over every curve in her body.

  Annoyed with himself for noticing that, Jacob snared a meatball, ate and asked, “What happened to Alma’s daughter?”

  “Ah.” Devon’s gaze flicked to Roscoe who was hovering at Hannah’s elbow, then moved along to Alma. “Hannah said she died eleven years ago.”

  “And?”

  Devon gave her hair an impatient push. “I don’t know the gory details, Riker.”

  He moved closer, a stupid thing to do really, but he’d been hoping to push her into a full and fast explanation. Instead, her scent created an overpowering urge inside him to kiss that challenging mouth of hers.

  “How did she die, Devon? By whose hand?”

  Chin up, she absorbed his penetrating stare. “She killed herself. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  “Drugs?”

  “Rope.”

  Cop or civvy, Jacob recognized hanging as an unusual means of female suicide. “Do you know why?”

  “Not really.”

  Her hand rose to circle her own throat, covered tonight by a solid silver choker. Jacob squashed an impulse to reach up a finger and trace the discoloration he knew lurked beneath it.

  Devon sighed. “Margaret was working as a disk jockey when she died.” Jacob’s head came up, but she stopped him cold. “Forget it. There’s no Christmas Murder connection.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “What are you driving at, Riker?”

  “Bits of gossip mostly.”

  “About Warren?”

  “You’ve heard them.”

  “Everyone’s heard them. Not many believe.”