Still, she’d lied to him. Not outright, but by omission. Philip couldn’t live with that. Just as he hadn’t been able to live with Whitney and her lies. Her betrayal had bled him dry of tolerance for deception. He wouldn’t set himself up for another slash of the feminine sword.
Philip ground his teeth and acknowledged the fact that he’d lost more than just his objectivity. The moment he’d touched Michelle, he’d lost his logic, his professionalism, his ability to think clearly. How the hell was he going to solve this case when he couldn’t keep a handle on his own lust? What if he was wrong about her?
Aside from his personal contact with her, he’d handled the investigation by the book. But his professionalism stopped there. If push came to shove, he wasn’t sure he could bring himself to arrest this woman who’d slipped under his skin. How long could he put off Montgomery? A day? A week, maybe?
Michelle wasn’t a flight risk, Philip assured himself. The guidelines didn’t dictate an immediate arrest. The absence of powder burns and the corroboration of another witness who’d seen the man in black were the only things saving her from arrest. Still, Philip had to ask himself if he was willing to put his career on the line for a woman who couldn’t tell the truth.
Coffee in hand, he took the elevator down to central evidence and signed a procurement slip for the files he’d taken as evidence from Armon Landsteiner’s home. Back at his desk, he flipped through the phone book, then dialed the number for the Jacoby and Perez law firm.
He identified himself, and the receptionist put him on hold. Impatient, Philip muttered a curse, then absently paged through the stack of canceled checks from one of Landsteiner’s old bank statements. His finger stopped on one made out to Tulane University. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled.
“May I help you?” a professional-sounding female voice asked.
Pulling out the check, Philip turned his attention back to his phone conversation. “I’d like to speak with Dennis Jacoby.”
“Uh…who’s calling?”
He identified himself, using his full title in case she got any ideas about screening her boss’s phone calls. Damn lawyers.
“I’m sorry…Detective, this is Emma Thorpe, Mr. Jacoby’s paralegal. There was a fire last night at the office.” Her voice cracked. “Mr. Jacoby was…. killed. He died about an hour ago at Charity Hospital.”
Philip’s interest flared. Hell of a coincidence that the man Michelle believed had drawn up Armon’s most recent will had been killed. Only Philip didn’t believe in coincidence.
After getting as many details as he could, he dialed the fire marshal, got voice mail, left a message.
He looked down at the check he’d pulled from the bank statement. It was dated several months before Michelle had come to New Orleans from Bayou Lafourche. Another coincidence that didn’t sit well in his gut. Philip wondered why Armon Landsteiner had written a $25,000 check to Tulane University. He flipped through the remaining checks with renewed interest, and found one made out to Honeycutt Investigations. Scrawled on the For line was “Bayou Lafourche.”
“I’ll be damned.” Philip was familiar with the private investigation firm. They’d had a good reputation, but went out of business over a year ago. Honeycutt had hired on with another firm. Why had Armon Landsteiner engaged a private detective to go sniffing around Bayou Lafourche, Louisiana, before he’d ever met Michelle?
Pulling the yellow pages from his desk drawer, Philip paged to the private investigator section, located the firm where Honeycutt worked and dialed the number.
Cory arrived just as Philip finished setting up an appointment.
“Since when are you keeping banker’s hours, Sanderson?” When Cory didn’t answer, Philip looked up, realized immediately something was wrong. “Rough night?” Pulling a bottle of aspirin from the top drawer, he handed it to his partner.
“I’d say two hours with Public Integrity is pretty freaking rough, Betancourt, wouldn’t you?”
An alarm bell went off in Philip’s head. The Public Integrity Division was the city’s equivalent of internal affairs. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Ken Burns got me walking into the building, and I’ve been up in their little interview room playing twenty questions ever since.” Cory shot Philip an accusatory look. “They’ve got a hell of a lot of questions about you, Betancourt.”
“About Michelle?”
“The whole Landsteiner case. Burns said it was just an informal interview, but, man, I knew better. Nothing’s informal when it comes to PID. I danced around as much crap as I could, but they’re after you big-time. You better watch your back.”
Philip should have expected this, especially after the way Montgomery had grilled him this morning. Still, the fact that PID had gotten involved irked the hell out of him. “Something isn’t right with this case, Cory.”
“Yeah, and she’s got big brown eyes and a body to die for—”
“That’s not it.” Philip relayed the information about the checks, and the fire at Dennis Jacoby’s office. “I put a call in to Honeycutt.” He glanced at his watch. “I’m meeting with him in twenty minutes.”
“You want me to check in with the Tulane administrator? See what the check was for?”
“I’d appreciate that.”
Philip swallowed a small rise of panic when his phone rang. He answered with a curt utterance of his name, fully expecting one of the PID investigators.
“Hi, Philip. This is Tina over at the courthouse. Judge Thomas asked me to give you a call to let you know we’re sending over some records on the Landsteiner case via courier.”
Philip looked down at the check on his desk. “The juvenile records on Michelle Pelletier?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“What was the charge?”
Papers rustled on the other end of the line. “Ten years ago in Lafourche Parish Michelle Pelletier was arrested for murder.”
Shock rippled through him, followed by crushing disappointment. “Was she convicted?”
“No. Didn’t even go to trial.”
That was something. Philip thanked the woman and hung up the phone. Murder. He almost didn’t believe it. Almost.
He looked up, found Cory looking at him quizzically. “Your house didn’t burn down or something, did it, Betancourt?”
“Cory, the juvenile charge against Michelle was for murder.”
“No wonder she didn’t want to talk about it. That’s going to bury her.”
“Yeah.” Philip looked at his watch again. He wanted to talk to Montgomery to tell PID to back off, but he needed to meet with Honeycutt, then swing by to see the fire marshal about the blaze at Jacoby’s office. After that he was going to confront Michelle and get the truth from her once and for all.
Michelle couldn’t believe her eyes as she stood on the sidewalk and stared at the charred remains of Dennis Jacoby’s office. The building was unrecognizable. The roof had collapsed, the windows shattered. Soot and ash blackened the bricks. A band of yellow crime scene tape stretched across the front of the building. She wondered if anyone had been hurt in the fire, if any records had been destroyed.
Betancourt would know.
Sighing, she turned and faced the midday traffic humming along Poydras. Despite everything, thoughts of Betancourt invariably invaded her mind. She hadn’t had a moment’s peace since she’d first laid eyes on him the night Armon was murdered. Betancourt, with his suspicious eyes and cynical view of the world, was trouble no matter how you cut it. He was a cop. She was a suspect. It should have been infinitely simple.
Only nothing was simple when it came to Philip.
Every time he looked at her with those stormy gray eyes, her heart stuttered in her chest. His touch sent her body to the clouds, her mind into an emotional tailspin. His kisses sent shivers of pure delight through her. When his hands molded her body, when his fingers stroked her, control and the last vestiges of her dignity fled.
Michelle knew bette
r than to succumb to those male charms. She knew better than to surrender to her own weakness. She’d been around the block enough times to know last night was a mistake. She’d been emotionally distraught, having just attended Armon’s funeral. Betancourt had taken advantage of that, hoping she’d open up and spill her guts.
The hell of it was she wanted him anyway. Her body didn’t give a damn about logic or self-preservation. She didn’t even want to think what might happen if her heart got involved.
The thought made her shiver.
Michelle knew how to protect herself. She couldn’t let her guard down now. Not when she had another cop with an agenda hounding her. She’d survived Bayou Lafourche. She’d survived those first years in New Orleans. She’d survive this, too.
Spotting the Times Picayune box on the corner, Michelle started down the sidewalk at a brisk clip, digging a quarter out of the pocket of her jeans as she went. She needed to start looking for an apartment.
“Why am I not surprised to find you here?”
Her stomach plummeted at the sound of Betancourt’s voice. She spun, found him standing right behind her, the sun casting his face in shadows. She couldn’t read his expression, but she could tell by his voice he was angry.
“I—I just…” Raising her chin, she looked him directly in the eye. “I wanted to speak with Dennis Jacoby about Armon’s will. There’s no law against that, is there, Detective?”
“No, but there is a law against lying to the police.” His fingers clamped around her arm. “You know, Michelle, I’m getting pretty damn tired of being lied to.”
The sudden contact sent a shock wave through her. By the time she got her wits about her, it was too late. He had his car door open and was forcing her into the passenger seat. She tried to wrench free, but his grip was like a vise.
“Stay put, or I’ll cuff you.” He slammed the door on her protests, crossed in front of the car and got in.
Michelle considered getting out and walking away, but she knew that would be fruitless. Betancourt was a cop; he had every right to force her to talk to him.
“You know, you’re not even that good of a liar.” A dry as dust laugh broke through his tight lips. “I should have seen right through it.”
“I haven’t lied—”
“You were arrested for murder.” He turned on her, leaning so close she could feel the fury coming off him. “Did that little detail slip your mind?”
The words hit her like a sledgehammer. Her breath left her lungs, left her gasping and speechless.
“Don’t you just hate it when the truth comes out?” he snarled.
“I—I was only seventeen. The charge was—”
“Save the excuses. I asked you for the truth. All I ever wanted from you was the damn truth.” Turning away, he started the car. The tires screeched as he pulled onto the street.
She’d known he would find out sooner or later. She knew she should have told him. But the shame and the fear ran so deep she hadn’t been able to. Maybe he’d been correct in calling her a coward. Maybe she wasn’t as brave as she’d once thought.
“Where are you taking me?”
“I ought to take you to jail. Maybe a few hours in a cell will teach you the value of honesty.”
A quiver ran the length of her. She pressed her hand to her stomach. “That’s not funny.”
“Who’s kidding?” His jaws worked angrily as he maneuvered the car through traffic. “I’m taking you someplace quiet where we can talk.”
“Like the police station?” she asked tightly. “I’m sure you’re quite fond of that little interview room.”
“That can be arranged.”
Grinding her teeth in anger, Michelle folded her arms and leaned back against the seat. “That won’t be necessary.”
“I didn’t think so.”
Ten minutes later, Philip pulled into his driveway, got out of the car and jerked open her door. “I’m a damn fool for bringing you here. I learned a long time ago you can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped.”
“You don’t want to help me, Betancourt, you want to ruin my life.”
“Like you can read my mind.”
“No, I just know your type.”
“You don’t know the half of it.” He opened the front door. “Get inside.”
Knowing she didn’t have a choice, Michelle obeyed. “I won’t let you bully me.”
Betancourt locked the door behind them, then motioned toward the futon. “Sit down.”
Michelle lowered herself onto it, then folded her hands to keep them from shaking.
He sat on the other end, leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. “I went to bat for you, Michelle. I gave you the benefit of the doubt, and you made a fool of me. My commander thinks I ought to arrest you for the murder of Armon Landsteiner. I brought you here so you could give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.”
She’d never seen him like this. Yes, she’d known Betancourt was volatile, even unpredictable. But she’d never seen this cold, angry side of him. “I didn’t kill him.”
“You’ve already said that, only I’m not sure I believe you anymore. Nothing you’re telling me is adding up. My patience is too thin for half-truths. Lie to me again, and I’ll arrest you.”
Michelle winced, felt her breaths coming quick and shallow. She tried to calm herself, but Betancourt was frightening her. “I don’t want to go to jail.”
“I don’t want to put you there, but I will. So help me, if you don’t start talking, I won’t have a choice.”
Too restless to sit, she sprang to her feet and paced the length of the living room. Dread sat like a lead weight in the pit of her stomach. “I guess this is the moment of truth, Betancourt.” Struggling for composure, she squared her shoulders and turned to him. “Are you sure you can handle it?”
He stared at her through eyes as dark and cold as the nighttime depths of the gulf. “Bring it on, and we’ll find out.”
Chapter 9
Because her knees were shaking, Michelle went back to the futon and sat. She didn’t want to talk about what had happened in Bayou Lafourche. She didn’t want to talk about Nicolas or Deputy Frank Blanchard. Most of all, she didn’t want to rehash her own mistakes—and the fact that she seemed determined to repeat them.
She hadn’t consciously thought of that day or the darkness that followed in years. She’d blocked it from her mind, almost convincing herself none of the ugliness had taken place. That no one had died. That a man to whom she’d given her naive heart hadn’t used her, then destroyed a part of her that could never be revived.
“Talk to me, Michelle.” Impatience edged Betancourt’s voice. “The truth. No holding back.”
She sucked in a deep, shuddering breath. “My mama got sick when I was fifteen. A little over a year later she was diagnosed with lymph node cancer. She died when I was seventeen. She was only forty years old.” Michelle studied her hands, hating it that they were shaking. In a corner of her mind, she wondered if she’d ever be able to think of the past and not feel it like a stake through her heart.
“My older brother, Nicolas, blamed the cancer on the conditions at the chemical plant where she worked. Mama tried so hard to support us, taking all the dirty jobs, working all the overtime. There were so many chemicals, and the management was lax about safety. When she died…Nicolas needed someone to blame. We both did, I suppose.”
The pain wasn’t as sharp as it had once been, but Michelle still felt it, like the tip of a sword sinking slowly into her chest, through flesh and muscle and bone, penetrating the armor around her heart and cutting it to shreds.
“The plant wouldn’t even help pay for her funeral. That was the final straw. Nicolas…went a little crazy after that.” She looked at Betancourt, wondered if any of what she was saying had penetrated that hardened heart of his, if it would make a difference, if he was even capable of understanding why she hadn’t wanted to tell him about her past. “In the days after her funeral, Nic
olas…spent a lot of time alone. Out in the swamp. In his cabin along the bayou. He quit his job at the plant, then dropped out of sight.”
As she resurrected the ghosts and the ugliness, the pain rushed back like rancid water gushing out of a black hole in her soul. “A week later, he came home. He had a box with him, and told me he was going to the plant to clean out his locker. Nicolas has a bad temper. I didn’t want him to start a fight, or do anything crazy. So I told him if he was going to the plant, I was going with him. We fought, but he finally agreed.
“We went to the plant. He cleaned out his locker. An hour after we left, an explosion devastated half the plant—” Her voice broke as the memories pummeled her, bringing with them the shame of what had happened next. “It was Sunday, and that portion of the plant was usually closed. But on this particular Sunday a maintenance worker…a man with a family…”
She couldn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t look at Philip, couldn’t bear to see the disgust or revulsion in his eyes. “The man died. The next day, the police arrested us. Nicolas and I were charged with murder. I spent two days in jail before I was cleared. Two months later, Nicolas was convicted of manslaughter and spent ten years in prison. I tried to visit him in prison, but he refused to see me. I haven’t seen him since the trial.”
She couldn’t bring herself to tell him about Deputy Frank Blanchard, or the betrayal that had nearly destroyed her. Philip didn’t need to know that part of the story.
She stood, vacillating, her heart pounding furiously in her chest. Tears burned behind her eyes. God, she’d thought she’d come to terms with this.
“Oh, man.” Philip pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.
Knowing she was going to lose the battle with her emotions, Michelle turned away and started for the door. “I have to go.”
“Wait a minute.”
She didn’t stop. She didn’t want him to see her like this, scraped raw and out of control. “Leave me alone.” She was halfway to the door when his hand closed gently around her shoulder.