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.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to be done until the evidence techs had finished with the scene and the ME had examined the body. Detectives Morin and Shepard were already canvassing the neighbors, although in this building, he knew it was unlikely that anyone had seen—or would admit to having seen—anything.
Shaking his head, he turned away from the body.
And saw her.
Fury joined with the frustration pumping through his veins, and he bridged the short distance between the living room and the kitchen in a few quick strides. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Natalie jolted at his question. Her eyes, when they met his, were wide, terrified. Her face was pale, almost white. She blinked, but didn’t say anything.
He turned his attention to the techs in the room. “Does the phrase ‘secure the premises’ mean anything to you people? What the hell is she doing here—other than contaminating a crime scene?”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Natalie rise, not quite steadily, to her feet. “I—I called 9-1-1. I f-found him.” Her gaze darted back to the body, then quickly away.
Dylan scrubbed his hands over his face again. The absolute last thing he needed right now was the complication of this woman who’d walked out of his unwilling fantasies and into his crime scene. “And how did you happen to find him?”
Her fingers clutched the handle of her briefcase so tightly her knuckles were white. “He c-called me. W-wanted to t-talk. Asked m-me to m-meet him. Here.”
He wasn’t sure if it was shock or nerves that were causing her to stutter, but obviously she was shaken. Not that he could blame her. He’d seen more than a few nasty scenes in his years with the Fairweather P.D., and this was one ranked right up there with the worst of them. One bullet would have been enough to end Merrick’s life. Whoever had pumped those shots into his body hadn’t been satisfied with murder, he’d been sending a message.
Dylan filed those thoughts away and forced his attention back to the woman in front of him. She was still dressed in the fancy suit she’d worn at the office earlier—yesterday, he amended. The shadows under her eyes were dark against the paleness of her skin, and she looked as if she was going to topple over in the thin heels she wore.
He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her out of the apartment. The air in the hall, although not exactly fresh, at least didn’t carry the stench of violent death. The light was dim, but it seemed that some of the color was slowly returning to her cheeks. “I can’t figure out if you’re incredibly brave or incredibly stupid. What the hell were you thinking, coming here?”
She straightened her shoulders and met his gaze. Her eyes were focused now, and stormy. “I was doing my job.”
Dylan just shook his head. “How long have you been in town?”
“Three weeks,” she admitted.
“Well, let me tell you something about Fairweather,” he offered. “We don’t have a lot of crime, but what we do have mostly originates in this corner of the city.”
“I didn’t pick the location of the meeting,” she snapped back at him.
“But you agreed to meet with him!” He knew he was yelling; he didn’t care. He was angry. Furious that his chance to nail Conroy was as dead as the man inside apartment 1D. Even more furious that Natalie had willingly put herself in danger by coming here.
It was a personal reaction rather than a professional one, a natural protective instinct born of growing up with three younger sisters. Three very independent younger sisters who had never appreciated his protectiveness or concern—an experience that should have prepared him for this woman’s response to his outburst.
Natalie’s
