was a brief hesitation, and when he spoke again his voice had dropped—as if he was afraid someone might overhear him. “I wanna make a deal. Yer the one I need ta deal with.”
Roger Merrick, she guessed, glancing at the mug shot stapled to the inside of the file folder. “Roger?”
She heard him suck in a breath, but he neither admitted nor denied his identity. “Do ya wanna deal, or what?”
“If you have information that you think the District Attorney’s Office would be interested in, you should discuss it with your lawyer.”
His laugh was short, nervous. “Hawkins won’t help me.”
Natalie frowned, but his response at least confirmed her caller’s identity. “I really can’t discuss your case without your lawyer present.”
“If ya wanna know ’bout Conroy, ya’ll meet me.”
Natalie felt her blood chill, coursing icily through her veins. She shivered. “Conroy?”
“That’s all I gots ta say. If ya want more, come to three-fifty West Fifth Street. Apartment 1D. Come now and come alone.”
Then he hung up and Natalie was left staring at the phone, considering the information she’d been given. She knew it wasn’t information so much as bait, and she was understandably wary. If Merrick had anything on Conroy, it made sense that he’d discuss it with Hawkins.
But he was hardly the first defendant to refuse to deal through his lawyer. She knew from experience that clients often disregarded explicit instructions given by their lawyers, most often to their detriment. Although she wasn’t comfortable with the clandestine meeting, she was even less comfortable with the thought of passing on the opportunity that had been presented to her.
She combed her fingers through her hair, straightened her skirt and reached for her briefcase. And saw the lieutenant’s card on top of it.
If Merrick so much as breathes Conroy’s name, I want to hear about it.
She hesitated. She didn’t want to involve Creighton in this situation. She didn’t believe there was any reason to. But the echo of his words in the back of her mind made her pause.
She was under no obligation to apprise him of Merrick’s phone call, but she knew he’d be furious if she disregarded his explicit instructions. Reluctantly she picked up the phone and dialed.
She felt a quick tingle of something she chose not to define when she heard his voice on the other end of the line, followed quickly by a pang of disappointment when she realized it wasn’t the lieutenant himself but his voice mail message. After a brief hesitation, she left the address given to her.
She doubted that Merrick had any incriminating evidence on Conroy, but she couldn’t risk not meeting with him. She couldn’t pass on the opportunity—unlikely though it seemed—to play a part in bringing the notorious Zane Conroy to justice. This could be her chance to prove herself, to prove to John Beckett that he hadn’t made a mistake in hiring her, to prove to Lieutenant Creighton that she was more than capable of handling this assignment.
She drove across town with her doors locked, circled the apartment building at the corner of West Fifth Street three times before finally pulling into a vacant parking spot on the street. Other than the music blaring from an open window several stories up, the street was quiet, deserted and dark.
Three weeks working in the prosecutor’s office had opened her eyes to the realities of life in Fairweather. As picturesque as the town was, it wasn’t immune to criminal activity, and she had an uneasy sense that she was closer to the hub of it than she wanted to be.
She dialed Lieutenant Creighton’s number again, but didn’t bother to leave another message when his voice mail picked up.
Her heart was hammering heavily against her ribs. The streetlight at the corner flickered, then plunged into darkness. Natalie fumbled in her glove compartment for a flashlight. She slid the button to the on position and breathed a sigh of relief when light dispersed from the narrow dome.
Wielding her briefcase in one hand and flashlight in the other, she made her way along the cracked sidewalk with only the meager beam to guide her way. The security door on the rundown building was propped open by a brick, the entrance vestibule smelled of rotting garbage and urine, but a bare hanging bulb provided some illumination.
She tucked her flashlight in her jacket pocket and shifted her case from one clammy hand to the other. Her steps were silent on the threadbare carpet as she made her way down the narrow hall.
Apartment 1D was at the far end, the door slightly ajar. Obviously Roger Merrick was waiting for her.
The muscles in her stomach cramped, her skin tingled with nervous anticipation.
She hesitated outside the door.
This was a bad idea.
A very bad idea.
She started to turn away, chided herself. Maybe it had been a bad idea to come, but she was here now. It would be both stupid and cowardly to leave without at least talking to the man.
She took a deep breath to shore up her courage, and immediately wished she hadn’t when a strong, coppery scent invaded her nostrils.
She tapped her knuckles against the door. No response.
She tapped harder, and the door swung back a few more inches. She could hear voices from inside, then canned laughter, and realized it was the television.
“Mr. Merrick?”
Still no response.
He probably couldn’t hear her over the sitcom he was watching. Natalie pushed open the door, stepped inside…
And screamed.
Chapter 2
When the shrill beep of his pager sounded, Dylan was watching television—or pretending to, anyway. His feet were propped on the coffee table, a half-empty, forgotten bottle of beer was at his elbow, and his eyes followed the action on the screen while his mind continued to be preoccupied with thoughts of a certain assistant district attorney.
It was a preoccupation that baffled him. Natalie Vaughn wasn’t even his type. Not that he had a type, really. He and Beth had started dating when they were teenagers, their friendship developing naturally and comfortably into a love they’d both believed would last forever. Then Beth had died, and Dylan had been alone.
There had been other women since, but none who had ever meant anything more than a way to satisfy his most basic needs. He wasn’t proud of that fact, but he was always careful to ensure that those women wanted the same thing he did: simple, no-strings sex.
There was nothing simple about Natalie Vaughn. And after a single encounter in her office, she was haunting his thoughts. The sound of his pager was a welcome interruption of those thoughts.
Fifteen minutes later, he pulled up behind the black and white parked in front of Merrick’s apartment building. He nodded to the uniformed officer guarding the door and stepped into the apartment.
Roger Merrick, or what was left of him, was slumped in a chair facing the television. His eyes were open, wide; his chest open even wider. At least three, probably four, shots at fairly close range. A .45 caliber, he guessed, surveying the extent of the damage to the body.
He needn’t have worried about rushing over. There was no doubt about it—Merrick was dead. And so was any hope of getting to Conroy through him. He swore under his breath.
It was possible, of course, that Merrick’s brutal and untimely end was merely a hazard of his occupation. But in his gut, he knew different. Merrick had possessed information that could have taken down Conroy, and that information was the reason for his murder. Dammit.
He scrubbed his hands over his face. Regardless of what the man had done, he hadn’t asked to die like this, and now it was Dylan’s job to find his killer.