Needing a moment to regain control, she motioned him into the wing chair they’d bought at an auction a month after their marriage, then turned and started for the kitchen. “Have a seat. I made a fresh pot of coffee a while ago. I’ll pour you a cup.”
“Thanks, but I won’t be here long enough to drink it.” He didn’t speak again until she turned back. “Something happened yesterday afternoon—something that I need to look into. I can’t do that without your help.”
A heavy feeling of dread settled over her as she wandered a few steps back to him, all the while trying not to notice how well his black polo shirt fit his broad shoulders. Trying not to admit that no man had ever looked better in jeans and boots than Ike did, or that the faint shadow on his jaw and longer length of his dark brown hair only added to his blatant masculinity. Trying to forget how deeply and pathetically she’d loved him during the six months they’d been together.
She failed. If anything, their nearly two years apart had added maturity to his rugged, sexy good looks and made him even more attractive.
Nervously she moistened her lips. “Is this about us?”
“Hardly,” he replied curtly. “The last time I looked, there was no us.”
Lindsay’s hackles went up. “Dammit, Ike, don’t make me sorry I opened my door.”
“You asked a question. I answered it.”
She glared at him. Sighing wearily, she mentally counted to ten and met his dark eyes again. They were falling back into their old bickering ways, and she couldn’t handle that anymore. The harsh things they’d said to each other the last time they were together still made her cringe—because it was incomprehensible that they would ever come to that. “Maybe you should just tell me what’s on your mind so we can both get on with our evenings.” And lives.
“Fine. A young bail jumper was killed in a drive-by shooting near the Portland Police Station yesterday afternoon. It happened as Tank Exton was hauling him back to jail. Ring any bells?”
It did. Déjà vu struck hard, freezing the air in Lindsay’s lungs. Slowly, she moved a pink accent pillow aside, then lowered herself to the corner of her sofa. She looked up at Ike. “Go on.”
“Just before the Decker kid was killed, a witness heard him say that he wanted to be transferred to another facility. The skip said if he stayed there, he’d never live to testify against his dealer. He said it had happened before—two years ago.”
Chills shot through her, and images of her younger brother flashed through Lindsay’s mind: Ricky giggling and finger painting at three…Ricky pumping his short legs around the Little League bases while she, her mom and dad cheered him on…Ricky older, and defiantly telling her to butt out of his life. Suddenly she was shaking inside and her voice had lost its strength.
“Maybe the witness was mistaken. Maybe he only thought he heard—”
“The witness was an off-duty cop I know, and he wasn’t mistaken. I saw Tank at his gym this morning. He confirmed it.”
Lindsay had to stand, had to walk, had to focus on what Ike was implying and try to make sense of it. “That doesn’t mean yesterday’s shooting is related to Ricky’s death,” she said defensively. Losing him had been horrible and heartbreaking, but—but fights break out in jails. Isn’t that what they’d told her and her mother? “Isn’t the man who hit him still serving time?”
“He wasn’t hit, Lindsay, he was beaten to death, and the con who did it was already looking at a couple of life sentences. One more murder wasn’t going to increase his time behind bars. And I’d bet a year’s pay that he or his family benefited from it in some way.”
The trembling inside worked its way to her extremities as she began to realize what this could mean. “Dear God,” she breathed. To her, to her mother…and to Ike.
“The drive-by’s being investigated, but no one on the force wants to believe that the two deaths are related. The truth is they don’t want to reopen a closed case. The current crop of badasses is keeping them so busy they just plain and simple don’t have the time or the inclination to look into it. So unless some pretty substantial evidence shows up linking the crimes, Ricky’s death remains a random killing. And the person who ordered it gets off scot-free.”
Ike met her eyes, his gaze strong and determined. “If evidence exists that proves Ricky’s death was a hit, we need to find it. I need to find it. Lindsay, I’ve been living with this for two years.”
Did he think he was the only one who was still hurting? “We’ve all been living with it for two years.”
“But I’m the only one with blood on his hands.”
Lindsay’s chin jerked up. As moments ticked by, and he stood there waiting for a response, she knew she couldn’t disagree. He had been responsible. Not in the literal way he’d stated, but against her wishes, he’d put Ricky in a place that had ended his life.
He spoke quietly. “Well, since you’re not rushing to reassure me that I was just doing my job, apparently your mother isn’t the only one who still blames me.”
“Ike—”
“No, it’s okay. I’ve gotten used to it.”
But he shouldn’t have had to get used to it. And all he would’ve have to do was to listen to her.
Against her will the past rushed back, full-blown, and Lindsay tried to block it out. She didn’t want to think about that day—didn’t want to remember the flood of tears or the minister and police officer who’d come to her mother’s door. But she couldn’t stop the images, and once again she was back in her mother’s kitchen, hearing her mother’s agonizing screams for Ike to get out—that he’d delivered her only son to his executioner.
The look of helplessness in Ike’s eyes had torn her heart and her loyalties in two…until her mother had collapsed with chest pains. Lindsay had been terrified that she’d lose her mother and brother on the same day.
That day had been the beginning of the end for them. It was the first time their six-month marriage had been tested, and it was more than they could survive.
And now, Ike was telling her that Ricky’s death wasn’t just a random, unfortunate event. That someone had wanted him out of the way and had probably paid handsomely to make sure his wishes were carried out.
Horrified, she searched Ike’s expression. “Who ordered this, Ike? Who wanted Ricky dead?”
“I don’t know. Yesterday, I spoke to the narc who arrested him. He thinks Rick was hooked up with a new supplier—someone small, who’s now getting bigger, but still so far underground they don’t have a clue to his identity.”
“You should have let Tank bring him in,” she said shakily, not for the first time. “Tank had the fugitive contract on Ricky, not you.”
A glimmer of the compassionate man she’d once loved broke through his strong exterior. “I’ve explained my reasons a thousand times. Do I have to do it again?”
Shaking her head, she moved to her bay window to look out at the deepening dusk. Tank was a friend, but he tended to strong-arm skips who balked, a trait Ike was aware of since they both did legwork for the same bail bond company. And they all knew Ricky would resist—even her mother knew it—because that’s the kind of person her baby brother had become. That’s why Ike had insisted that he be the one to track Ricky down when Ricky missed his court date—no matter how hard Lindsay had pleaded for him to stay out of it. Even Tank had argued that Ricky was family and picking him up would cause more bad blood than Ike could handle. But all of their warnings had fallen on deaf ears. When Ike got something in his head—when he was