Deadly Force. Beverly Long

was always his backup plan.

      She shook her head. “This was a mistake,” she muttered.

      She wasn’t going to get an argument from him. Nothing good could come from his having anything to do with Claire Fontaine. And while he knew better, he couldn’t stop himself from asking, “Why? Why now?”

      Now the tears ran down her cheeks. “Because eleven years ago, I stood at my sister’s grave and made her a promise.”

      She stopped, apparently unwilling to tell him what that promise had been. Hell, he’d made plenty of his own promises over the years. Not at Tessa’s grave. His were generally silent oaths uttered to an empty room. And more times than not, a vodka bottle played a prominent role.

      Even when he’d been sober, it wasn’t as if he’d ever made good on any of them. Tessa’s murderer had never been caught.

      She reached for her shoulder bag. “I’ve hated you for a long time,” she said.

      He’d been a cop for eight years. She wasn’t the first to say it. Never before, however, had the words clawed at his gut. “Look, your sister, she…”

      He stopped. Tessa had loved her little sister, had always talked about how smart Claire was, how good of a student.

      “What?” she challenged.

      He shook his head. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, to be gained by going over ancient history.

      “My sister was a beautiful woman, in the prime of her life.” Her voice shook with emotion. “Not that I expect you to care,” she added, her tone defiant. In a move that matched, she scrubbed the back of her hand across her face, destroying the evidence of her tears. She turned fast and practically ran down the steps.

      Sam sank down onto the top step and rubbed the bridge of his nose. She was right. He didn’t care. About much of anything. It was safer. Easier. And he sure as hell didn’t need some ghost from his past reminding him why.

      She was halfway down the block. Let her go. She’d come looking for a jerk, he shouldn’t disappoint her.

      “Hey. It’s pretty late to be walking,” he yelled.

      She didn’t even break pace.

      Shaking his head, he jogged after her. And then she started running and he had to pour it on just to catch her. “Look,” he said, grabbing her arm.

      She swung her other one, aiming for his head.

      He jumped back, both arms in the air, palms facing her. He was breathing hard. “I’ll drive you home,” he said.

      “Get away from me,” she said. There was enough illumination from porch lights and the occasional streetlight that he could see the anger in her dark eyes.

      “You’ve got to be cold. At least let me call you a taxi.”

      “I don’t want you doing anything for me,” she said.

      She started walking again and this time, he let her go.

      If the little fool got mugged, it wouldn’t be his fault. He walked back toward his house. He was going to forget that she was in Chicago, forget her period.

      When he reached his house, he saw the envelope lying in the flower bed next to his front steps. He picked it up and saw the return address of Alexander and Pope, one of the better-known downtown advertising agencies. It was a window-style, with her name and address clearly visible.

      She lived in the 800 block of Maple Street. Her place was at least twelve blocks away. It’d be eleven, well past the time the crazies came out, by the time she got there.

      I don’t want you doing anything for me. He tapped the edge of the envelope against his hand.

      Screw it.

      He pulled his cell phone off the clip on his belt and dialed. “Squad, this is Detective 4433. Can you connect me to a uniform in the vicinity of Maher and Oaktree?” He waited impatiently for the call to be patched through. When it was, he didn’t waste any time.

      “This is Detective Vernelli. There’s a woman, dark hair, early twenties, walking east on Oaktree, in the 2300 block. She’s headed to 810 Maple Street. Don’t pick her up and don’t let her know you’re following her, but call me when she gets there.”

      When the officer agreed, Sam rattled off his cell number. Then he shut his phone, clipped it back on his belt and very carefully folded the envelope. He’d throw a stamp on it tomorrow and stick it in the mail.

      He sure didn’t plan on ever seeing Claire Fontaine again.

      WHEN CLAIRE WOKE UP the next morning, her head ached, her eyes were puffy and she was hungry. However, when she reached for the skirt that she’d shed before crawling into bed and realized that she’d somehow lost her paycheck, she felt truly ill.

      How could she have been so careless? The last thing she wanted to do was ask for a replacement check. She was still proving herself at the job. What if the payroll department happened to mention the request to her boss? It was a fast slide down the corporate ladder when others thought you were irresponsible. But it wasn’t as if she could go without a paycheck. She had her share of the rent to cover and although she’d already resolutely accepted that she was going to be washing underwear more frequently, she hoped to replace the missing television sooner than later. She was a sucker for a sappy movie on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

      She could have lost it anywhere between the office and Sam Vernelli’s house or between his house and her apartment. It had been dumb to stick it in her pocket when she could have easily put it in her purse.

      It was likely in Lake Michigan by now; they didn’t call Chicago the Windy City for nothing. But it was possible that someone would find it and try to cash it. She’d have to tell someone so that the company could put a stop payment on it.

      It was a perfect ending to a night where nothing had gone exactly the way she’d planned.

      She’d sat on Sam Vernelli’s steps for hours, getting colder and hungrier as the night wore on. She remembered closing her eyes and she must have fallen asleep. He’d scared the heck out of her when he’d suddenly appeared. Composure had vanished and suddenly it was as if she was thirteen again and her heart was racing as she sneaked into Tessa’s bedroom at home to stare at the picture of Sam that was pinned to the bulletin board.

      Back then she’d thought he was fabulously handsome. Now, eleven years later, his frame was more muscular, his dark hair shorter, and while his face showed some wear and tear, he was still very good-looking. In her world, he had the look that moved product, especially if women were the target audience.

      He’d been shocked when she’d said her name. She’d wanted to throw him off balance. She just hadn’t counted on the fact that her own equilibrium would be compromised.

      He hadn’t tried to convince her that she was wrong. Over the past weeks, once she’d decided that she was going to confront him, she’d spent time anticipating his response. She never figured he’d admit the truth. The man was a cop—he wouldn’t be stupid enough to say that he’d murdered someone. No, she’d always assumed that he’d dismiss her accusations, maybe try to make her think she was crazy for thinking that she’d heard him threaten Tessa.

      She hadn’t expected him to just stand there and take it. When he had, she’d expected to feel some sense of jubilation, but instead, all she’d felt was emptiness.

      Going to see him had probably been a mistake. But she couldn’t change it now. Thank goodness there were three million people in the city of Chicago. What were the chances she’d ever run into Sam Vernelli?

       Chapter Two

      Sam read while Cruz drove. He hoped the gritty details of the latest homicide would keep him from obsessing about Claire Fontaine.

      She was different than Tessa