to admit that he’d had some similar thoughts of his own. At least he had more class than to voice them. Or maybe it was simply unwillingness to admit a resurgence of feelings that had seemed dead for so long.
Besides, he had to work with the A.D.A. on this case, and he had no intention of jeopardizing the prosecution because of his hormones. Of course, if John Beckett was still on the case, he wouldn’t need to worry about such things.
“You might try thinking about it sometime,” Ben said, pushing away from Dylan’s desk. “It might improve your disposition.”
“I think I can live with my disposition.”
“Maybe you can. But our fair city’s newest civil servant might appreciate someone with a little more charm. I think I’ll stop by her office and see if she wants some company for dinner.” He grinned. “And breakfast.”
“Good luck,” Dylan said, as if he didn’t care one way or the other. But for some inexplicable reason, the thought of Natalie Vaughn with Ben Tierney didn’t sit well with him.
Only because he didn’t want her attention diverted from the job at hand, he assured himself. He wanted Roger Merrick and Zane Conroy behind bars for a very long time. He wanted them to pay for what they’d done—for destroying his family.
The ringing of the telephone roused Natalie from her slumber. She’d fallen asleep on top of the covers, the Merrick folder still open on the bed. She blinked, focused bleary eyes on the glowing numbers of the alarm clock beside her.
Twelve-twenty.
She came awake instantly. There was only one reason her phone would be shrilling at this hour: Jack.
Heart in her throat, she scrambled for the receiver. “Hello?”
“Is this the lady from the D.A.’s office?”
It wasn’t about her son, then. Natalie breathed a quick sigh of relief. “Yes. Who’s this?”
“I’ve got some information for ya.” The voice was masculine, although somewhat high-pitched. Young, she guessed, and nervous. He was talking too fast, his words almost tripping over one another.
“Information about what?” she asked cautiously.
There was a long pause. “I can’t talk ’bout it on the phone.”
“Talk about what?”
“If ya wanna know, ya hafta meet me.”
“I’m not going to meet someone I don’t know to discuss something I know nothing about,” Natalie said reasonably.
There 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
