Hot Pursuit
Carla Cassidy, Karen Rose, Annie Solomon

Excerpt

from Dirty Secrets
by Karen Rose

St. Petersburg, Florida, Friday, February 19, 1 a.m.

    He stood in the darkness, waiting. Nauseous. Trembling, for God's sake.

    It had been far, far worse than he'd ever imagined. But then, he never imagined he'd ever take another man's life in cold blood. Never imagined he'd sit there and watch as another man gasped and clawed and begged for mercy.

    But he had.

    He had.

    He lifted his head when he heard the crunch of gravel ... coming closer, louder. A shadow appeared beneath the trees where he waited. Large, looming. Menacing by the light of day. But by night. He fought the shudder and squared his shoulders for what needed to be done. Andrews was coming.

    "Is it done?" Andrews asked.

    As if he'd dare show his face were it not. He nodded once. "It's done."

    "You're sure he's dead?"

    "I checked his pulse," he returned bitterly. "He's dead."

    "And it looked like an accident?"

    He swallowed hard, remembering how the young man had gasped and clawed, his face going a bluish-purple before the gurgling finally stopped. "Yeah. I made it look like he'd accidentally ingested one of the chemicals he'd been researching. It was the middle of the night and he was drinking coffee in the lab. They'll find the chemical in his coffee cup. They'll rule it accidental contamination. No one will suspect."

     "Excellent. And the book?"

    He reached in his briefcase and pulled out a hardbound notebook encased in a plastic ziplock bag. "This is what he was working on. Leave it in the bag unless you're wearing gloves."

    Andrews's eyes narrowed doubtfully and a spurt of fury bubbled up to mix with his nausea. He shoved the book into Andrews's meaty hands. "Take it, dammit," he snarled. "This is what you damn well wanted." This is what I killed for. Another wave of nausea rolled and he swallowed it back.

    "You replaced it with another book?"

    "I did." He was still huffing, his heart still racing. "No one will suspect."

    Andrews slipped the book into his own briefcase. "Until someone else gets too close."

    His throat closed at the unspoken command. "No. No way in hell will I do this again. No."

    Andrews just smiled, his teeth flashing white in the darkness. "Of course you will. I'd only borrowed you before. I own you now."

St. Petersburg, Florida, Friday, February 19, 7:45 a.m.

    In numb silence Christopher Walker watched the police photographer flashing pictures of Darrell Roberts's body sprawled on the pristine white tile of the research lab. Darrell's face was bloated, discolored. His open eyes unseeing. His mouth twisted and open as if his last moments had been a struggle for breath.

    Christopher knew he'd never get the sight out of his mind.

    "This can't be happening," he murmured, wishing it was a dream. That he could wake up and find it never happened. That Darrell Roberts was still alive and healthy.

    But it was no dream. Darrell was dead.

    He felt a hand on his arm and turned to find the University police officer who'd been the first to respond to his frantic call for help. "Professor, there's a detective from St. Pete PD here to talk to you."

    Christopher's eyes flicked to the detective who was giving him a measuring stare, then back at the University cop. But he could still feel the detective watching him. It made him feel uneasy, his shoulders tight, constricted, and he frowned at the University cop, confused. "I thought you guys had jurisdiction here."

    The University cop traded a guarded glance with the St. Pete detective. "We contract St. Pete PD to investigate all unexplained deaths related to campus activity, Professor. We're a small force with limited experience in such things." He lifted a brow and a shoulder. "Lawsuits."

    Christopher stared down at Darrell's body. Lawsuits. His student, his friend was dead and the University was worrying about lawsuits. He gritted his teeth and met the detective's steady gaze. The man was in his forties, his dark hair graying at the temples. He wore a jacket and tightly knotted tie. His eyes were narrowed and piercing. Suspicious. Christopher fought the urge to wipe his sweaty palms on his slacks. Ridiculous. I haven't done anything. He's trying to unnerve me.

    "I'm Detective Harris," he said and firmly guided Christopher through the door of the lab into the adjoining lounge. "Sit down, Professor."

    Christopher sat, his eyes drawn to the lab door. To Darrell. Lying dead on the floor. His skin cold. His limbs stiff. Someone had propped the door open with a stack of textbooks and he could hear the conversation inside. Someone was asking if the photographer was finished and could they take him now.

    Take him. To the morgue. They'd zip his body in a bag and take him to the morgue. Because he was dead. Darrell was dead.

    "I have to call his mother," Christopher murmured. How could he tell Darrell's mother? That her son was never coming home, that he'd died so unnecessarily. He couldn't even imagine her pain, couldn't imagine how he'd feel if someone told him his own precious child, his Megan was never coming home again. He started to stand up and the detective pushed him back down.

    "Professor, I know this is a bad time, but I need to ask you some questions."

    "All right." He turned from the door, giving the detective his full attention. "I'm sorry. I'm having trouble connecting my thoughts."

    "That's normal. Can you tell me about the victim?"

    Victim. Christopher's stomach did a nasty roll and he swallowed hard. "His name is ... was Darrell Roberts. He's a grad student in my department." Was. Damn it all.

    "You're a chemistry professor?"

    "Yes. Darrell was about six months from earning his doctorate."

    "Who found him?"

    Christopher swallowed again, the image of Darrell's face filling his mind. "I did."

    Harris pulled a little notebook from his pocket. "What time was that?"

    "A little before seven. The card reader could give you the exact time."

    Harris looked up sharply. "The card reader?"

    Christopher touched the photo ID hanging around his neck. "Nobody gets in or out of the lab without one of these. It's a restricted area."

    "Why?"

    "We're doing federally funded research and many of our chemicals are toxic."

    "Like cyanide?"

    Christopher flinched. He'd smelled the tell-tale odor of bitter almonds when he'd bent over Darrell's body. "Yes. We have cyanide here. I smelled it, Detective. I told the officers and the medical examiners as soon as they arrived on the scene so they could protect themselves. Even small exposures to cyanide can be harmful."

    "And we appreciate the heads-up, Professor Walker," Harris said mildly. "Was Darrell normally alone in the lab in the middle of the night?"

    "No. I like my grad students to work in pairs if they're going to be here after hours. Tanya Meyer was supposed to be here with him last night. I called her after I called 911. She told me she was feeling sick last night and Darrell sent her home. She said she left at nine. He was very alive then."

    Harris noted Tanya's name. "Okay. Did Darrell seem depressed recently?"

    Christopher's brain suddenly woke up. He lurched to his feet, furious. "Whoa. Wait just a minute here. This was an accident. A horrible accident. Darrell wouldn't commit suicide, Detective. I've known this boy since he was eighteen years old. He would never commit suicide."

    Harris nodded. "I'm sure you're right, but I get paid to ask the questions, Professor. So Darrell didn't seem depressed?"

    "No. He was a little tired maybe. He's been working hard on our project and working part-time waiting tables. He had other classes, too. I know he's pulled a few all-nighters recently, but that's pretty par for the course. It's a university. That's what students do." Chris could hear the desperation in his own voice and forced himself to calm down. To sit down. "He was getting married this June. He was ... happy." He whispered the last word, his throat suddenly thick.

    "I'll need the name of his fiancée."

    "Laurie Gaynor. You'll find her at Lakeview Elementary School. She's an education major doing her student teaching. She's going to be ... devastated."

    The detective's voice softened a little bit. "So you were close to Darrell?"

    Fatigue hit Christopher like a brick and he slumped in the chair. "I've known him for seven years, ever since he was a freshman. His dad died when he was a sophomore. I've been ... kind of a substitute. Combination big brother, uncle. Mentor. There is no way Darrell Roberts would take his own life. His mom and his younger brothers depended on him." Chris thought of the poverty in which Darrell's family lived, wondered what the Roberts family would do now. "He kept his little brothers in school, out of drugs. As soon as he finished his degree he planned to buy them a house in a nice neighborhood, with good schools."

    "So what do you think happened, Professor?" Harris asked, gently now.

    Christopher closed his eyes. "There's a coffee cup on the counter next to where I found him. We have a strict rule — no food or drinks in the lab. The risk of accidental ingestion is just too high. I don't even allow water bottles. Darrell knew this and I've never known him to disobey the rule. But he must have been tired. Got a cup of coffee to keep himself awake. Dammit." Anger surged, both for the loss and for its needlessness. "He knew better," he whispered harshly, and fought back the tears that stung his eyes.

    "You smelled the cyanide. Why didn't Darrell?"

    Christopher shrugged. "Not everyone can smell it. About a tenth of the population can't. It's genetic, like being able to curl your tongue. Darrell was one of those people."

    "One last question, Professor. What are you working on in there?"

    Behind him Christopher heard the squeaking of wheels. They were pushing the gurney into the lab. They'd zip Darrell into a body bag and take him away. Bracing himself, he kept his eyes on Harris's face, away from the door. "We're working with the USDA on improved methods for soil testing."

    Harris frowned. "Soil testing?"

    "For contaminants. Dioxins." Christopher rubbed his forehead. "Cyanides, too."

    "So Darrell would have been handling the cyanide as part of his work?"

    "Yeah. There's a bottle of potassium cyanide next to his cup. He was making controls, samples with known contamination levels to use for testing."

    "Do you have any records of his work, Professor? Anything that I can use in my report to support this being an accident?"

    "Each grad student keeps a notebook. I'll get Darrell's for you." Wearily he rose, just as the gurney came rolling out of the lab, the body bag strapped down. And dammit, he couldn't tear his eyes away. Couldn't stop the tears that slid down his face.

    "Professor?" Harris gently prodded. "The book?"

    Christopher jerked his eyes away. "I'll get it for you." He made himself walk into the lab, past the now empty tile. He glanced at Darrell's notebook, open on the table, the familiar handwriting like a knife in his heart. Dammit, why weren't you more careful?

from Endless Night
by Carla Cassidy

    She was going to kill her.

    Amanda Kincaid narrowed her eyes and smiled at her older sister across the restaurant table. Amanda would pull Cara's bleached blond hairs out one at a time by their darkened roots. It seemed a fitting punishment for Cara setting Amanda up on the blind date from hell.

    She cast a surreptitious glance at the man seated next to her. According to Cara and her husband, Harry, Clay Murdock was perfect for her. Harry had met the tall, handsome man at the gym and the two men had struck up a friendship.

    "He's just moved to town, Amanda and he's single and gorgeous and straight," Cara had said.

    Certainly the man was easy on the eyes with his dark hair and midnight blue eyes. She'd been aware of other women admiring him as they'd eaten.

    Clad in a black dress shirt that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and charcoal tailored slacks that molded to lean hips, he had that sexy utterly masculine aura that drew women.

    And he had the personality of a slug.

    He'd barely spoken ten words throughout the course of the meal nor had he looked at her when he had spoken. She'd spent the last two hours with him and had learned that he worked in the construction business and had only been in town three months. He'd offered nothing more personal about himself and hadn't seemed the least bit interested in anything personal about her.

    As far as she was concerned, the man was rude, antisocial and she couldn't wait for this date to be over.

    She breathed a sigh of relief as Harry asked for their check. Now, all she had to do was endure taking him home and after that she'd never see Clay Murdock again. She hadn't decided if she'd ever speak to her sister and brother-in-law again.

    It was bad enough that the date had been so awful, it was insult to injury that she had to drive the man home because he'd had car problems earlier in the day and his car was now in the shop.

    The bill was paid, goodbyes were said and she found herself alone with him in her car. Fifteen more minutes, she told herself. Fifteen more minutes and he'd be nothing more than a bad memory.

    "I hope you don't have to go too far out of your way to drop me at home," he said, breaking the stifling silence that had the norm for the evening. It was the longest sentence he'd uttered all night.

    "It's not a problem," she replied. In truth, it wasn't. His apartment was only a ten-minute drive from her small house. She'd toss him out at the curb, then be on her way.

    At this time of the evening the Kansas City traffic was relatively light for a Friday night. Even though Clay fell silent once again, it was impossible to ignore his presence.

    The scent of him filled the interior of the car, a wonderful blend of spicy cologne and pure male. Despite his silence there was an intensity, a simmering energy about him that sparked in the air and made her stomach twist in an uncomfortable knot.

    She couldn't imagine why Cara and Harry thought the man would be perfect for her. There were chocoholics and talkaholics and she was definitely the latter. There was nothing she found more stimulating, more sexy that a spirited conversation.

    Clay Murdock appeared capable only of two or three word sentences. The only thing spirited about him was the two drinks he'd had before dinner.

    Isn't that the way it always is, she thought ruefully. In her thirty-one years of life she had discovered that good-looking well- adjusted men were as unique as two-headed calves.

    With a grateful sigh she pulled up in front of his apartment complex and came to a stop.

    "Thanks, Amanda. I had a nice time," he said. It was a lie and she knew it.

    "Yeah, so did I," she lied right back. These were the kind of little white lies that were socially acceptable, especially at the end of a very bad date.

    He opened the passenger door and stepped out, but leaned down and offered her a smile that didn't quite reach the depths of his thick- lashed eyes. "Again, I apologize for you having to bring me home." He frowned, as if contemplating saying something else. As far as she was concerned there was nothing he could say to put a good spin on a miserable night.

    A sharp crack split the silence of the sultry summer night. Almost simultaneously the back passenger window shattered. Amanda screamed, at the same time she saw a man standing across the street, a gun in his hand aimed directly at her car.

    Time moved in slow motion. The only thing moving quickly was her heart, which pounded a frantic rhythm. Her gaze locked with the gunman's.

    Despite the distance between them she felt the unemotional coldness radiating from his eyes, saw the sheen of his bald head beneath the glow of a nearby street lamp. What was happening? Her mind worked to make sense of the situation.

    He fired again. She saw the spark from the muzzle and instinctively ducked her head and squeezed her eyes tightly shut. The passenger door flung open and she looked to see Clay jump inside.

    "Drive!" he commanded.

    She stared at him blankly.

    He cursed, reached over and threw the gear shift into D, then pressed his hand on her knee, forcing her foot to the gas pedal. The tires squealed in a spin, then gripped and the car shot forward.

from Necessary Betrayals
by Annie Solomon

    At 2 a.m. Sal's was still going strong. Behind the bar, Francesca Bern rubbed one foot against the other, pulled the handle to dispense the Bud, and wondered why the hell everyone didn't go home. Yes it was Saturday night, yes it was Sal's in Baypointe, that happening little corner on Long Island Sound, but the band had left an hour ago, and even though Sal had cranked up the music, it was only Jimmy Buffett whining about wasting his life again.

    "She set the beer in front of the customer, caught a wave from the crowd at the other end of the bar: some guy holding up his glass. What had he been drinking? Oh, yeah, shades of Buffetville. Tequila shots. She slid down to him, poured two more, and made sure the lime and salt were in easy reach. He winked at her with two bleary eyes. She smiled—better tips that way—but rolled her eyes when she turned her back.

    "Hey, Frannie!" Sal was waving the phone over his head. His sixty-year-old's paunch hung over the waistband of his pants, but his hair was still greased back in the ducktail of his youth. "Keep it short," he added when she grabbed it, his pencil mustache twitching, and she mouthed the words in her head because he always said the same thing.

    Thinking it was her nightly call from Brucie Kiel, a bar regular who'd made it his mission to walk her home Saturday nights—a little piece of chivalry he always wanted to turn into something more—she said, "Look, Brucie, I'm beat—"

    "Frannie? Oh, God, Frannie, can you hear me?" Her little sister's voice gulped and stuttered, full of panicked tears.

    Frannie's pulse leaped into the stratosphere. "Gina? What's the matter?"

    "Frannie, I—" Static intervened.

    "Where are you? You're breaking up."

    More static. Then Gina's voice, still full of fear. "Oh my God, Frannie. Someone just..." the voice broke up again, then one word got through. "—Calvino."

    "Gina? What about the Calvinos? Where are you?" She waited, heard nothing. "Gina? Gina!"

    Faster than she thought possible, Francesca punched in her phone number. It was two in the morning. Gina was fifteen. She was supposed to be home. In bed. If that little brat had snuck out again...

    She listened to the endless buzz indicating the phone was ringing on Gina's nightstand. Francesca disconnected, a cruel chill crawling up her back.

    Gina had sounded terrified. She'd been on a cell phone. She didn't own a cell phone. She either wasn't home or couldn't answer the phone, and worse, she'd said the one word calculated to scare the shit out of Francesca.

    "Hey, Frannie," Sal said. "You got your love life straightened out, there's drinks to pour." Sal tried to take the phone away, but Francesca had it in a death grip.

    "Go away, Sal." Leaving Sal openmouthed, she scurried into the back room where the swinging door deadened the scream of the music enough so she could hear herself think.

    Calvino.

    "That name hadn't passed her lips in five years. Not since the day her father had gone to prison.

    She looked down at the phone. Her hand was shaking. With slow, deliberate thought, she dredged up the phone number. Her stomach knotted as she waited for someone to pick up on the other end. But like the call home, this one also went unanswered.

    Everything tightened around her. The room grew smaller, the air colder.

    Someone was always at the Calvino compound. The phone never rang unanswered.

    The door swung open. Francesca jumped out of her skin.

    "Frannie! We got customers."

    "I—I gotta go, Sal." She shoved the phone at him, grabbed her purse from a hook by the employee entrance, and ran out.

    "Hey!"

    She was leaving him short, hell, she'd probably just fired herself, but what could she do? It was Gina.

    She raced to her car and fumbled with the keys, dropping them once before getting the right one inserted. Tires squealed as she backed out, and the car bucked as she sped through the parking lot entrance.

    It took twenty minutes to get to the aging neighborhood where she and Gina had lived for the last five years. Built up after the second World War, it was filled with tiny clapboard homes on postage stamp lots. A far cry from where they used to live, but it was all she could afford. As it was, she'd used almost every cent her father had left to buy it.

    She zipped into a parking space in front of the house, leaped out, and raced across the grass to the front door. When she got hold of that kid... Hands shaking, she inserted the key in the lock and opened the door.

    "Gina!" She turned on the hall light and looked up the steps to the darkened second floor. "Gina, are you home?"

    She took the stairs two at a time, flung open the door to Gina's bedroom and yanked up the light switch. Swirls of black and color screamed back at her from walls covered with Gina's artwork. She stared at them for a moment, as always, disturbed by their angry intensity. Tearing her gaze away, she rifled through the week's worth of clothes strewn over the floor, searched the unmade bed. No clue as to where Gina had gone.

    She ran to the dresser, scavenging through the junk on top: stickers and earrings, a black bra, a dried up paint brush, a photo strip of Gina in various incantations, all of them with heavy eye makeup and orange hair that stuck out over her head in short, witchy spikes.

    Gina's last words echoed in her mind. "You're not my mother! You can't tell me what to do!"

    And her own, as she snatched Gina's purse out of her hands. "I can and I will, and you're not going out unless you tell me where!"

    But Gina had only crossed her arms and glared at her.

    A familiar fury shook Francesca. Why couldn't Gina be neater? Less angry? Why did she have to make everything so hard? Even when she was fifteen, Francesca had never dyed her hair or walked around looking like a vampire. And her room had never looked like World War III had been fought there.

    Then again, neither had Gina's; the cleaning lady had picked up after them both.

    Growling in frustration, Francesca wheeled around and bolted out the door. "Gina! Don't do this to me!" She ran down the stairs, checked the kitchen, the TV room, the basement. All empty.

    By the time she finished, a thin film of dread coated her stomach. Inside her head she heard that name again.

    Calvino.

    Returning to her car, she sped from Baypointe, where people like her hung out—people who worked for a living—to Old Baypointe—where people like Arturo Calvino lived off what other people did for them.

    She saw the blue lights almost before she saw the gates to the Calvino estate, which were wide open and unnaturally welcoming. If she wasn't scared before, she was now. Blue lights and Calvinos weren't a normal combination. The last time she'd seen them together had been the day of her father's arrest. Now, as then, something was terribly wrong.

    A cop car and requisite uniform blocked the entrance.

    "Move along." He gestured up the road with an orange light.

    She lowered her window and called out. "What's happened?"

    "Read about it tomorrow. Keep moving."

    "Look, I need to go in there. I got a call from my sister. Something about the Calvinos."

    The cop came closer. "Who's your sister?"

    Before she could answer, a second cop ran up. "Trouble?" he asked the first guy, who shrugged.

    "Says her sister called about the Calvinos."

    The second cop peered into the window. A look of recognition crossed his face. "You're Francesca Bern."

    She stilled. There was a time when it seemed that everyone on the planet knew who she was. But that was a long time ago. "That's right."

    "Too bad about your Dad."

    She gave him a cold look. "Shit happens. Can I talk to someone? I think my sister, Gina, might be in trouble here."

    The two cops exchanged a look. "Pull the car over," the second cop said, "and come with me." He waited until she'd turned off the engine and got out, then he escorted her through the gates and into the chaos beyond.

    More cars with flashing blue lights, men and a few women scurrying back and forth, some in blue, others in suits, more guys huddled in small groups, talking low. A scrawny woman in a maid's uniform sat hunched by herself on the low stone wall that bordered the place. She looked like she was crying—shoulders shaking, tissues crumpled in one hand.

    A van with CSU scrawled over it was parked on the lawn, an ambulance next to it. Francesca refused to draw conclusions, refused to even think that Gina might be inside it. But her mouth was dry, her palms sweaty.

    Her escort led her to a tree just inside the gate. "Wait here," he said. "I'll tell the lead and when he's ready, he'll come talk to you. Don't touch anything."

    He stalked off toward a huddle and spoke to one of the men. As if he'd been told a ghost had appeared, the man whipped around, and she saw his face.

    Whatever blood her elevated pulse had been pumping fled in an instant. It was a warm August night, but she went cold, then hot, then cold again.

    The man came forward, and every instinct inside Francesca cried ‘run,' but her feet wouldn't budge.

    His cool, assessing gaze flicked over her. She was wearing her bar clothes—tight white blouse and clinging black pants, because a bit of cleavage and a curve of ass was another help in the tip department—and looked nothing like the private school girl he once knew.

    Thinking about that other life started a slow fury building, but she tamped it into hard embers and examined him right back. She'd forgotten how tall he was. His big shoulders seemed to envelop the space around him. His thick blond hair used to have waves in it, and he'd push it off his forehead with a lazy grin. Now it was skinned to military correctness, which only made his face more sculpted, his mouth more sensual. She remembered that mouth and a sudden pang of pain and longing cut through her anger.

    "Hello, Francesca." His voice, deep and gruff, seemed to match the gray suit he wore.

    "Quinn."

    The exchange was short and stiff—enemies meeting to discuss a temporary truce.

    "Brody says you want to talk to me."

    Not you. Never you. "It's about Gina."

    "What happened to Gina?"

    You put her father in prison and he died there, she wanted to say, that's what happened to Gina. "She called about half an hour ago. From a cell phone. She kept breaking up, but she was crying, and she said something about the Calvinos." She drew a breath, forced the quiver out of her voice. "Is she here? Has...has something happened to her?"

    "No." The answer was quick and decisive, and for half a second, her knees wobbled. She stumbled, and Quinn caught her, propping her up against his shoulder. "It's okay. She's not here, Francesca."