Read Online The Shelter of His Arms (Harlequin Heartwarming) by Dawn Stewardson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dawn Stewardson
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way he could simply forget all about the case simply because he was officially off it. Or forget all about her. And no way he’d be satisfied until he knew who’d killed Parker.
What if you end up learning it was Celeste? asked the voice in his head that sounded exactly like Hank’s.
If I get any evidence of that, I’ll turn it over to you, partner, he silently replied. So you can throw her in the slammer.
Telling himself there wasn’t a chance in a million that would be the end result, he grabbed his keys and headed downstairs. He’d left his car parked down the block, near Ninth, and he started rapidly along West Twenty-eighth in that direction.
Out front of the building next to his, a couple of local punks were in the midst of a shoving match that looked as if it might escalate. He thought about stopping and having a little chat with them, but decided not to waste his breath.
Just beyond them, an old guy was picking through a trash can. A few yards farther along, a bag lady was loudly berating a parked Jeep about something.
Home sweet home. And Chelsea was one of the better neighborhoods in Lower Manhattan.
He reached the Mustang and climbed in. Barely fifteen minutes later, he was at the front door of Celeste’s building, buzzing her apartment.
“Yes?” she said, sounding nervous.
“It’s Travis.”
“Oh.”
Sounding pleased, he thought, smiling. If he’d had the slightest lingering doubt about coming here, it had just vanished.
As she released the lock he opened the door, then hurried up the stairs. Walking out of the stairwell was a déjà vu experience.
He saw her waiting in her doorway and suddenly felt warm inside. Her welcoming smile made him warmer still.
“When you said you’d ‘check in,’ I assumed that just meant you’d call,” she said, gesturing him into the apartment.
“Well, something’s come up that I wanted to talk to you about in person.”
“Oh?”
“It’ll take a few minutes.”
“Then we’d better go sit down.” She turned and started toward the living room.
He glanced at the hall closet before he followed along, wondering whether there was a gray trench coat in it. He wasn’t going to ask, though.
And even if there was, it wouldn’t mean much. As he’d told Hank, half the women in New York had gray trench coats.
In the living room, Celeste simply eyed him until he said, “Okay, here’s what’s happened. I’m no longer assigned to your brother’s case. In fact, I’m on leave for the next couple of weeks.”
Her blue eyes filled with uncertainty. “Why?”
“That doesn’t really matter.”
“It was Evan Reese, wasn’t it? He did call and complain about you.”
“Uh-huh, that was mostly what did it.”
“Oh, no,” she whispered. “I should never have phoned you about him. I—”
“Yes, you should have. This isn’t your fault. Or mine, really. I was only doing my job by talking to him.” He shrugged. “I guess I just came on too strong.”
“But...that sort of thing can’t look good on your record.”
“It isn’t anything much. Officially, I’m just using up overtime. And my being off the case won’t affect the end result. Whether I’m working it or not, they’ll find the killer.
“You’re sure?”
He nodded. “It’s not as if only Hank and I were assigned to it. We were just the primaries. He has an entire squad of detectives he can call on, and when a case is fresh we always devote a lot of manpower to it. So...well, as I said, they’ll find the killer.”
“I hope so. I can’t imagine never knowing who... Left forever wondering.”
“I know. People sometimes ask why I’d choose to work in Homicide. But that’s one of the positive things. Helping the victims’ families.”
He hesitated then, trying to decide whether he should actually risk taking this any further—reminding himself that if he did and it turned out he was reading Celeste wrong, he could end up in major trouble.
On the other hand, Hank
What if you end up learning it was Celeste? asked the voice in his head that sounded exactly like Hank’s.
If I get any evidence of that, I’ll turn it over to you, partner, he silently replied. So you can throw her in the slammer.
Telling himself there wasn’t a chance in a million that would be the end result, he grabbed his keys and headed downstairs. He’d left his car parked down the block, near Ninth, and he started rapidly along West Twenty-eighth in that direction.
Out front of the building next to his, a couple of local punks were in the midst of a shoving match that looked as if it might escalate. He thought about stopping and having a little chat with them, but decided not to waste his breath.
Just beyond them, an old guy was picking through a trash can. A few yards farther along, a bag lady was loudly berating a parked Jeep about something.
Home sweet home. And Chelsea was one of the better neighborhoods in Lower Manhattan.
He reached the Mustang and climbed in. Barely fifteen minutes later, he was at the front door of Celeste’s building, buzzing her apartment.
“Yes?” she said, sounding nervous.
“It’s Travis.”
“Oh.”
Sounding pleased, he thought, smiling. If he’d had the slightest lingering doubt about coming here, it had just vanished.
As she released the lock he opened the door, then hurried up the stairs. Walking out of the stairwell was a déjà vu experience.
He saw her waiting in her doorway and suddenly felt warm inside. Her welcoming smile made him warmer still.
“When you said you’d ‘check in,’ I assumed that just meant you’d call,” she said, gesturing him into the apartment.
“Well, something’s come up that I wanted to talk to you about in person.”
“Oh?”
“It’ll take a few minutes.”
“Then we’d better go sit down.” She turned and started toward the living room.
He glanced at the hall closet before he followed along, wondering whether there was a gray trench coat in it. He wasn’t going to ask, though.
And even if there was, it wouldn’t mean much. As he’d told Hank, half the women in New York had gray trench coats.
In the living room, Celeste simply eyed him until he said, “Okay, here’s what’s happened. I’m no longer assigned to your brother’s case. In fact, I’m on leave for the next couple of weeks.”
Her blue eyes filled with uncertainty. “Why?”
“That doesn’t really matter.”
“It was Evan Reese, wasn’t it? He did call and complain about you.”
“Uh-huh, that was mostly what did it.”
“Oh, no,” she whispered. “I should never have phoned you about him. I—”
“Yes, you should have. This isn’t your fault. Or mine, really. I was only doing my job by talking to him.” He shrugged. “I guess I just came on too strong.”
“But...that sort of thing can’t look good on your record.”
“It isn’t anything much. Officially, I’m just using up overtime. And my being off the case won’t affect the end result. Whether I’m working it or not, they’ll find the killer.
“You’re sure?”
He nodded. “It’s not as if only Hank and I were assigned to it. We were just the primaries. He has an entire squad of detectives he can call on, and when a case is fresh we always devote a lot of manpower to it. So...well, as I said, they’ll find the killer.”
“I hope so. I can’t imagine never knowing who... Left forever wondering.”
“I know. People sometimes ask why I’d choose to work in Homicide. But that’s one of the positive things. Helping the victims’ families.”
He hesitated then, trying to decide whether he should actually risk taking this any further—reminding himself that if he did and it turned out he was reading Celeste wrong, he could end up in major trouble.
On the other hand, Hank
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