Detective Daddy. Mallory Kane
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pushed his chair back and stood. He was too angry to stay seated any longer. He walked over to the two-way mirror and watched her reflection.
To his surprise, she was staring at him with a look of confused horror on her face. Was it a distortion of the mirror? He turned. No. She still looked confused.
“Natalie devastated? I’m not sure what you’re talking about—” Rachel stopped, biting her lip. She rubbed her temple with two fingers. “Wh-what did you say to them?”
“Come on, Rach, what do you think I said?”
Rachel blinked, and a tear slid down her cheek. She shook her head. “I don’t think I und—”
“That’s right,” he interrupted. “You didn’t think. You obviously didn’t consider what this would do to me. To my family. Why didn’t you refuse? I’ll bet it was Meeks, wasn’t it? I know you’ve been seeing him. Are you two still tight? Did he talk you into doing it?” She’d dated Tim Meeks, an assistant district attorney, for a few weeks after Ash had delivered his patented Let’s cool things off for a while spiel. And everybody in the squad knew how ambitious Meeks was.
Rachel swiped at the tear, her eyes narrowing. For the first time she didn’t look terrified. He was relieved. Even though he was angry enough at her to spit nails, he hadn’t intended to make her cower.
“Tim? Talked me into—?” She looked down at her hands just a second, then back up at him. Gone were the confusion, the horrified expression, even the guilt. In their place was what looked like relief.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said archly. “I feel like I walked into the middle of a suspense thriller. Why don’t you start at the beginning and tell me just exactly what you think I’ve done, and why you think Tim Meeks talked me into doing it.”
Now Ash was confused. But his stoked fury overrode all other emotions. “You know, I have friends in the D.A.’s office, too. My friend was kind enough to give me a heads-up. I appreciated the advance warning. Of course, I’d have appreciated it more coming from you.”
“Warning?”
Ash slammed down his palm on the table. “Would you stop acting like you just landed on the planet?” He clenched his jaw. “Rick Campbell—I’m assuming you know who he is?” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Small-time burglar, loser, slaughtered my parents in their beds twenty years ago?”
Rachel’s eyes went wide. She didn’t acknowledge his question.
“Is it coming back to you now? His family finally managed to convince District Attorney Jesse Allen to reopen the case and retest the DNA. They’re sure that DNA evidence will prove their son didn’t murder my parents.”
“DNA evidence? Oh, my God.”
Ash studied Rachel. Was that surprise or guilt? Of all the terms he might use to describe her, including dedicated, professional, beautiful, sweet and sexy-as-hell, the words sneaky, underhanded or traitorous would never come to mind.
“What? Suddenly you remember what you did? Dr. Rachel Stevens, Criminalist, DNA Profiling? It was Meeks, wasn’t it? He got you to do it. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t—I didn’t know,” she whispered, her face blanching. The pink spots were gone now. “It was a blind request.”
“Right,” he retorted. “You expect me to believe—” But Ash didn’t get to finish, because Rachel moaned and put her hand over her mouth.
“Oh, no,” she mumbled. She shot up out of her chair. “I’m sorry, I’m not feeling well,” she muttered as she lurched toward the door.
“Hey, come back here. I need to know the results—” But she was through the door and rushing down the hall, her hand over her mouth.
Ash stared, openmouthed, at her back as she ran from the room.
RACHEL SPLASHED MORE cold water on her face, then let it run over the pulse points in her wrists. She shivered.
Her doctor had told her the nausea usually started at around six weeks. She supposed she was lucky that she’d made it all the way to eight. He’d also told her that with her petite five-foot-three-inch frame, she’d probably be showing in no time.
She turned sideways, let her raincoat slide down her shoulders and arms to the floor and held up the hem of her top. She sucked in her belly and squinted at the mirror. It was a little bit round. And most of it wouldn’t suck in. As much as she hated it, the doctor was right.
Another wave of nausea hit her, so she splashed some more water on her face and using her hands as a cup, drank a couple of cold mouthfuls.
Then she patted her face dry, picked up her raincoat and went back to her desk. Under the guise of studying a DNA report that had just hit her desk, she thought about Ash and his accusations.
She’d been sure he was talking about her pregnancy at first, as impossible as that was because she hadn’t told anyone yet. But ever since her doctor had confirmed that indeed she was pregnant, she’d felt like she was walking around with a big neon sign over her head.
The longer Ash had railed at her, the more confusing his words were, until he said Campbell and DNA.
She’d immediately realized what had happened. The knowledge that the DNA she’d run for the police commissioner had belonged to the man who’d murdered Ash’s parents had turned her already queasy stomach upside down.
If she’d stayed in the room one second longer, she’d have puked all over the table.
The request, which had come two weeks before, had hardly surprised her. The police commissioner’s chief of staff had called her about a special assignment. It was rare to get a request from the top, but it happened. Rachel herself had gotten two previous requests from the commissioner’s office.
This request was to run DNA analysis and comparison on a cold case. The commissioner’s chief of staff had asked her to pick up the package from the commissioner’s office herself.
Of course, she’d been curious when she’d seen the sanitized documents and unlabeled samples, but it wasn’t the first time she’d been asked to make an analysis and comparison blind, and she was sure it wouldn’t be the last. She’d performed the tests and written her report and, per the commissioner’s request, personally delivered the whole packet to his office.
Now she knew which case it was. The Christmas Eve Murders. One of the most widely publicized murders in St. Louis’s history. The victims were Joseph and Marie Kendall, beautiful, wealthy and successful. The prominent St. Louis couple had been murdered in their bed on Christmas Eve while their four children, Devin, Ashton, Thaddeus and Natalie, slept peacefully, dreaming of sugarplums, in a nearby wing.
Rachel shuddered as nausea spread through her again. A few deep breaths warded it off. She dug into her purse for a package of crackers and nibbled on one as she processed everything Ash had said.
What surprised her—and hurt her—most was that he actually thought she’d had anything to do with reopening the case. He wasn’t thinking clearly, because he knew how her job worked. In the St. Louis Metropolitan Police Department, a not insignificant part of DNA analysis was cold cases.
As a Senior Criminalist #1, DNA Profiling, she processed requests for analysis ranging from appeals from lawyers claiming their clients were falsely imprisoned, to court cases where previous DNA evidence was called into question. Another large part of her job was rechecking and verifying analyses done by outside labs.
She had no control over which cases she reran. She merely delivered on her assignments. Her position was cut-and-dried. She couldn’t do favors for anyone if she wanted to.
Ash’s accusation that she would have done that kind of favor for Tim Meeks was preposterous. Insulting even.
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