Gavin opened the file and fingered through the reports as Randolph continued.
“And just recently, Detective Parrish had a case of her own go bad. No doubt, it’s going to be thrown out of court just like Owens’s were.”
“So she’s your target?”
“Definitely.” Lieutenant Randolph nodded, and Gavin experienced déjà vu. This was the Frank Owens investigation all over again.
“I’m not going on another witch hunt, Lieutenant,” he said, closing the file, prepared to hand it back if his superior disagreed. “We do this my way, or I’m out. If Claudia Parrish is guilty, if she is the source, I’ll flush her out for you. But I’m not starting any fires until I know for certain.”
Fortunately, Randolph had accepted his terms. And by the end of the afternoon, they’d compiled a cover story for Gavin, right down to the believable detail of his having been the commissioner’s chauffeur. With a false background in place, coupled with the fact that IAD so rarely went undercover, Gavin felt confident he would raise few, if any, suspicions from the detectives he’d be working with. Most importantly, from Claudia Parrish.
Now, in Silver’s office, knowing Claudia for barely five hours, Gavin wasn’t sure what to make of her reaction to his bringing up the question of Owens’s death. She’d defended the integrity of her dead partner, as Gavin would expect any respectable detective to do, and her voice had remained relatively calm throughout. But her expression had wavered, and in it Gavin sensed the emotion just beneath her calm exterior.
After five years with IAD, Gavin prided himself on his keen ability to read people. Claudia Parrish, however, seemed beyond his comprehension. Either her defensiveness was an honest response, or there was more behind the sharp tone she’d adopted seconds before she snatched up her coat and stalked out of Jimmy’s.
Gavin hoped her edginess was only exhaustion. He definitely had to be careful. He couldn’t afford to alienate Claudia.
She seemed calmer now, as she opened one of Silver’s desk drawers and lifted out another stack of papers. She, as well, had surrendered to the stifling heat of the office; her suit jacket lay draped over the back of one chair. When she stood at last and stretched, Gavin let his eyes take an appreciative sweep over her small, trim figure. Her short-sleeved turtleneck puckered where the leather straps of her shoulder holster pulled at the delicate fabric. But from there, the formfitting top left little to the imagination, hugging every sensuous curve leading to her slim waist.
Keeping an eye on Detective Parrish was certainly not going to be an unpleasant aspect of his assignment.
He watched her pace, admiring the lithe movement of her body. Fine lines creased her forehead, and Gavin wondered if she was thinking of Owens or Silver, or quite possibly both; he wondered if she, too, toyed with the theory that there may be some relation between the two deaths.
She stood at the window for a long moment, staring at the traffic crawling down Boston Street. When she turned suddenly, her gaze caught his, and Gavin knew she’d been aware of his perusal. But she remained silent. She returned to the desk and set to work once again.
A full twenty minutes passed before she spoke again.
“I think we might have something here,” she said so quietly Gavin had to look up to be sure she’d actually said something.
He crossed the office to stand next to her chair, as she flipped through one of two hard-bound journals.
“Silver’s date books?”
She nodded. “Obviously he didn’t want them found. They were jammed at the back of the drawer. Look at this.” She turned to the end of last year’s journal, traced one slender finger across the page and stopped at a scrawled entry.
“This was last December. Silver met with Frank. On the fifth. On the sixth. And here again on the eighth.” She pointed to one entry after the next, working her way to the date of Owens’s death.
“Of course he met with Owens,” Gavin offered. “You said yourself they were friends.”
Her hand trembled slightly as she continued through the pages, and he doubted it was from the four cups of coffee she’d had.
“But he documented the meetings. Made appointments. I doubt he’d do that if they were just social visits. And it appears they were discussing the allegations against Frank.” Her finger stopped at the bottom of the page. There, in bold, block letters was written: IAD. With a blue ballpoint, Silver had gone over each letter several times so that they practically glared off the page.
“And take a look at this.” Claudia opened the next journal. “After Frank’s suicide there’s nothing really. The entries are haphazard—scattered references to other cases he was working, people he met with, names, numbers, addresses. Nothing remarkable until last week.”
Claudia drew Gavin’s attention to the margin. Again in Silver’s block letters: CC# 2L5915.
“What’s that?” Gavin asked, even though he recognized the number immediately.
“It’s the incident number from the investigation into Frank’s suicide.”
“So you’re suggesting Silver was looking into Frank’s death?”
She shrugged.
“Why now, after all these months?”
“I don’t know. But maybe that’s what got Silver killed.”
They were definitely thinking along the same lines, Gavin decided. He leaned closer, one hand on the back of her chair and the other planted firmly on the desk beside this year’s journal. He was close enough to smell that subtly provocative perfume of hers again. And definitely close enough to feel the heat of her body as his hand brushed past her wrist to turn the page. He let out a silent breath, trying to ignore the way his body responded to that brief touch. He focused on the journal entries. Scanning each page, he noted names and numbers, none of which rang any bells. Until he reached the bottom of one page.
The date: October 13. Only three days ago. There was no missing it. The name was written out in bold red ink along with her home phone number and address: CLAUDIA PARRISH.
Gavin straightened abruptly. “I thought you said you hadn’t seen Silver since January.”
“I don’t know what my name’s doing in there.” Gavin pointed at the journal. “Well, my guess would be he intended to call you.”
“That might be, but I didn’t speak with him.” Did her voice carry a twinge of defensiveness? Gavin wondered.
“I didn’t,” she repeated, “I swear, I haven’t talked to Silver recently.”
He reached out and turned another page. October 14. Again, Claudia’s name, but with this entry there was a location scrawled on the line below: JIMMY’S.
Gavin didn’t have to say anything.
“I don’t know why he wrote these entries in his date book,” she said. “Obviously he intended to call me, but he didn’t.”
“You didn’t have breakfast with him two days ago?”
“No. I told you, until this morning I haven’t seen Silver since just after Frank died.” She must have noted the skepticism in his expression, because she added, “You don’t believe me?”
He shrugged. “I just have to wonder. After all, you did hesitate when we first arrived on the scene this morning.” As though she knew what was waiting for them in the office, Gavin thought but didn’t dare say.
“And I admitted to you then that I knew Silver. Of course I hesitated when I found out he