Also by Karen Rose
You Belong To Me
No One Left to Tell
Did You Miss Me?
Broken Silence
Dirty Secrets
Karen Rose
INTERMIX BOOKS, NEW YORK
INTERMIX BOOKS
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
DIRTY SECRETS
An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
“DIRTY SECRETS” PREVIOUSLY APPEARED IN THE ANTHOLOGY Hot Pursuit.
InterMix eBook edition /January 2014
Copyright © 2005 by Karen Hafer.
Excerpt from Watch Your Back copyright © 2014 by Karen Hafer.
Excerpt from Did You Miss Me? copyright © 2013 by Karen Hafer.
Excerpt from Broken Silence copyright © 2013 by Karen Hafer.
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ISBN: 978-0-698-14087-5
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Version_1
Contents
Also by Karen Rose
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
Dear Reader
Special Excerpt from Watch Your Back
Special Excerpt from Did You Miss Me?
Special Excerpt from Broken Silence
About the Author
To my own dear guy-friend from high school who had the courage to write me a love letter I never saw. I hope your life has been as wonderful as mine.
To my husband, Martin, whom I might never have met had I read that high school love letter all those years ago. Looking back, I’d change nothing. You are my everything.
Prologue
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.”
Chapter 1
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 w
orrying 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,” the man 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 Christopher could hear the conversation inside the other room. 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.”
“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 telltale 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 Edgewater 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?
“Chris? Chris, what’s going on here? Chris!”
“You can’t come in here, sir. This is a crime scene. Sir.”
Christopher looked up to find Jerry Grayson struggling with the University cop. Jerry was a physics professor and his closest friend. They’d been undergraduates together, fellow geeks who’d just loved academia too much to leave, so they’d come here to teach. Jerry had been with him through most of the critical times in his life, high and low. Best man at
his wedding, godfather to his daughter. Jerry had been Christopher’s main support during his divorce. And now this. Now this.
“Chris?” Jerry’s pale face made his beard seem blacker. “I saw the ambulance out front. They were putting a body bag in it. I thought . . .” He swallowed hard, struggling for control. His voice cracked. “I thought it was you, that something had happened to you. What happened?”
Christopher picked up Darrell’s notebook, conscious of Detective Harris watching them both. Not really caring anymore. “Darrell’s dead,” he said dully.
“Chris.” Jerry had stopped struggling and the cop loosened his hold. “God, I’m sorry. How did it happen? What can I do?”
Christopher met Jerry’s eyes, saw his friend’s unswerving support. “I have to tell his mother.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“Thanks.”
* * *
Cincinnati, Ohio, Friday, February 19, 10:06 p.m.
Emma Townsend stood on the airport escalator, her palm vibrating as she gripped the heavy black rubber handrail. After a week of lecturing and a six-hour flight from Seattle she should be asleep on her feet, but the throbbing in her head and the dread clawing at her stomach assured her that she was very much awake indeed.
There were about ten million places on earth that she’d rather be at this moment, but here she was in the Cincinnati airport, steadily rising toward the arrival area where loved ones waited. A sea of faces anxiously peered over the railing from the balcony above, some waving, nearly all smiling. And as if magnetized, her eyes were drawn to the place where Will had always waited with a beaming smile of welcome and a single red rose. A middle-aged man stood in Will’s place, holding a bouquet of pink carnations. Waving at someone else. A shard of pain pierced her chest.
This is why I hate this airport, she thought. This is why I’ve avoided coming back for so long. It hurt too much. Resolutely she averted her eyes and concentrated on keeping her footing at the end of the escalator, on looking for the driver that should be holding a sign bearing her name. She spotted the black-clad woman quickly, her sign neatly lettered. DR. EMMA TOWNSEND.