Sundays Are for Murder. Marie Ferrarella

much as Dad does. “You couldn’t see the difference between us,” she told him. “You had to be there for it.”

      Nick’s dark eyes narrowed slightly in confusion. “Meaning?”

      “Meaning Cris was the one who was always full of life. Full of energy.” And she had been content to hang back in Cris’s shadow.

      “I’ve only been around you for a day, but you don’t exactly strike me as a slacker.”

      No, she wasn’t. Now she went full steam ahead—until she dropped. “That came after Cris was murdered. I felt I owed it to her. Kind of like living for two,” she murmured, taking another sip from her container, her eyes on the photograph.

      “Is that why you joined the Bureau?”

      “Part of it.” The biggest part, she thought. If Cris hadn’t died, she probably would have gone on to join the local police force. To keep things on a small scale instead of joining a national organization. “I was always interested in criminology, in getting the bad guys.” She wasn’t aware of the sigh until it escaped. “Just never thought it was going to feel so personal.”

      Charley stopped abruptly and looked at the man at her side. She had no idea why she hadn’t realized it before, but the new guy had a definite sexy aura about him. Was that going to be a problem? Did he have a need to charm every woman he came across? If he thought that applied to her, he’d picked the wrong woman.

      “Are you pumping me, Special Agent Brannigan?”

      His expression was unreadable. She didn’t know if he was being sarcastic or genuine. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Just making conversation with my new partner.”

      She studied him for a moment over the rim of her swiftly cooling container of coffee. “You’d rather be working with a man, wouldn’t you?”

      The question had come out of the blue. As far as he knew, he’d done nothing to give her that impression. Maybe she was speaking from experience. “All things being equal, I just want to work with a good agent. Male, female or pollywog, doesn’t matter to me.”

      His response amused her. “The recruitment for pollywogs is drastically down this year,” she deadpanned. “Something about a height requirement.”

      Nick matched her, tone for tone. To anyone listening, they could have been engaged in a serious conversation. “Oh really? I would have thought it might have something to do with the fact that they have trouble hitting the mark on the target range.”

      She nodded, this time using the container to hide the smile that was curving her mouth. “No opposable thumbs.”

      “No hands to put them on,” he countered.

      “That, too.” She lowered the container. The smile remained. “Maybe we’ll get along after all, Special Agent Brannigan.”

      It would go a long way to making things easier. “Then maybe you’ll call me Nick.”

      “Maybe,” Charley allowed as she returned to her desk. She added, “We’ll see,” and then got to work.

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      THE MOMENT Robert Pullman saw them enter his restaurant and head straight toward him, he looked uncomfortable. Rounding the reservations desk, he waved to one of the hostesses, indicating that she should take his place.

      It was obvious that the handsome owner didn’t want them to be overheard.

      “We have a few questions we’d like to ask you, Mr. Pullman,” Charley told the man.

      The restaurant owner stood about six-two, and right now every inch of him seemed to sweat.

      “Of course. Anything I can do to help,” he murmured. “If we could just go into my office.”

      “Your office is fine,” Charley agreed obligingly.

      As she followed Pullman to the rear of the restaurant, she was aware of the fact that her new partner wasn’t trying to take over the interview. She appreciated that. At the same time she couldn’t help wondering why. In her experience, men Brannigan’s age usually engaged in some sort of jockeying for position. So far, he hadn’t. She didn’t know whether to relax or remain on her guard. He could be counting on her relaxing that guard.

      Only time would tell, she supposed.

      The moment the door was closed, she appraised Pullman. Mr. Forty-two Tall, she thought. She was willing to bet a month’s salary that the clothes in Stacy Pembroke’s bedroom belonged to him.

      “What size are you, Mr. Pullman?” she asked mildly.

      Pullman seemed in danger of swallowing his own tongue. “Excuse me?”

      “What size are you?” Charley repeated. “Specifically in jackets.” Charley glanced over toward her left where Nick was standing. “I’d guess a forty-two tall.” She turned her head toward Nick. “How about you, Special Agent Brannigan?”

      Nick backed her up. “That would be my guess.”

      Pullman’s intake of breath was audible. It told them everything they needed to know.

      “We found clothes in Stacy Pembroke’s bedroom, Mr. Pullman,” Charley told the man. “Men’s clothes.”

      “Piled up on the floor,” Nick interjected in a low-key voice. “Like she was dumping someone.”

      Charley straightened slightly. The look in Pullman’s eyes was that of a cornered animal. “That wouldn’t have been you, would it, Mr. Pullman?”

      “Was Stacy dumping you?” Nick pressed.

      Pullman looked nervously from one FBI agent to another. She was willing to wager that ordinarily Pullman was probably a smooth operator. But the layers were being peeled away, leaving a frightened man beneath. A frightened, married man who didn’t want his wife to know about his affair. Graying at the temples and more than twenty years Stacy’s senior, Pullman had probably seen the young waitress as a fantasy come true.

      “No!” he cried with emphasis, then realized what he had just admitted to. “I mean—” Desperate, he appealed to Nick in an apparent man-to-man play for sympathy. “Look, if my wife finds out that I was having an affair, she’s going to leave me.”

      “I think, right at this moment, having your wife walk out on you might be the least of your problems,” Nick said.

      Pullman’s brown eyes grew huge as the words registered. “You think I did this?” His head almost swiveled as he glanced from one agent to the other. His voice fairly squeaked. “You think that I killed Stacy?”

      Charley exchanged looks with Nick before answering. “The thought did cross our minds.”

      “No. Hell no.” Pullman’s voice rose with each word of denial. “I can’t even kill a roach. Ask anyone.” He pointed wildly toward the outer room. “I get one of the busboys to stomp on it.”

      “So who did you get to stomp on Stacy?” Charley asked, moving in a little closer to the man.

      Pullman squirmed. “It’s not like that.”

      Quietly Nick had moved to his other side. “Tell me what it is like, Mr. Pullman,” he urged evenly.

      “Stacy was fun. She made me feel young again. The way I hadn’t felt in years.”

      Same old story, Charley thought. Older man needing affirmation, younger woman needing trinkets. But she wanted Pullman to spell it out for them. “And what did you make her feel like, Mr. Pullman?”

      Pullman gave a helpless shrug of his shoulders. “I don’t know. I—I gave her things.”

      The owner looked from one to the other again uncertainly. Was he trying to guess if he’d given the right answer? Charley wondered. Was this the guilt of a cheating