Together always (14 page)

He wandered across the room to the dresser, flipping open the lid of a small mahogany box that sat there. Memory stirred and he remembered giving Mike the box. He*d been twelve, still young enough to think his father was perfect. The box had been a project in shop class and he'd been so proud of it. And his dad had kept it all these years.

John shut the lid quietly and turned his attention to the photos that stood along the back of the dresser. The first one he picked up was one he remembered vividly. It was taken before the last football game he'd played in high school. He could smile now at the self-consciously fierce look the boy in the photo was giving the camera, but he remembered how important that game had seemed at the time. Life and death.

He set the picture down and lifted the next one. This one must be a graduation photo of Lily. She looked out at the camera with total calm, not in the least intimidated by the lens. He studied the picture, comparing it to the woman who'd come downstairs wearing a man's shirt and nothing else. She looked a little older than the girl in the photo, even more beautiful if that was possible. The self-possession was the same, a measuring look in those expressive eyes, as if she were seeing much more than you wanted her to.

Lily was in the last photo, too, a little younger, maybe sixteen or seventeen. Trace was with her. It was a candid shot. They were both wearing jeans and casual shirts and John recognized the front of the house behind them. It might have been nothing more than just another informal family portrait if it hadn't been for their expressions. Trace had his arms around Lily's waist, her back against his chest. It wasn't hard to guess that Mike had posed them that way but neither of them was looking at the camera. Lily had leaned sideways to gaze up at Trace and he was looking down at her. It wasn't the position that caught the viewer's attention. It was their expressions. Trace was looking at Lily as if she were the most precious thing on earth, and Lily looked at him as if the sun rose and set because of him.

John set the picture down, feeling a funny little ache in his chest. He'd known; all those years ago, he'd known. Two scruffy kids and a battered suitcase. Nothing special, and yet there'd been something about them. They hadn't recog-

nized him. Fifteen years was a long time and they'd been just children back then. No, Trace might have been a child in age but he'd been well on his way to manhood. Odd, he hadn't known what they were running from—he still didn't know—but he hadn't doubted that they had good reason.

He turned away from the photos and looked at the bed. He'd said that he'd take this room because it held less vivid memories for him, but that wasn't strictly the truth. The memories were th^e, just as real as ever. He crossed to the duffel bag that held just about everything he owned in the world and pulled out a sleeping bag, rolling it out on the carpet near the door.

He'd wanted to stay here because of the memories, a chance to say goodbye maybe. But goodbye was turning out to be a httle harder than he'd expected. There were too many things left to say, too many explanations that couldn't be given.

He slid into the sleeping bag and reached out to turn off the light, plunging the room into darkness. John closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep. The wind howled outside, isolating the little house. But it didn't take a wind to make a man feel alone. Sometimes he carried that feeling inside himself.

Chapter Nine

John paused at the top of the stairs, taking a deep appreciative sniff. The smoky rich scent of coffee wafted upward, greeting the day with more enthusiasm than he'd managed to muster so far. Sleep had been elusive, teasing him with the promise of rest but never delivering. It hadn't been because he was sleeping on the floor. God knew he'd slept in worse places in his time. No, it hadn't been the physical conditions. His mind had simply refused to shut down long enough to allow him to fall asleep. Too much to think about, too many decisions that needed to be made.

He shook his head and breathed in another whiff of coffee. Right now the only decision he planned on making was whether to have two or three cups of coffee. It was about all he felt capable of.

"I hope there's enough coffee for two in that pot." Trace was seated at the oak kitchen table, a steaming cup in front of him.

"Help yourself. I don't quite function until I've had my second cup."

**I know what you mean." John sat down, cradling a cup between his palms, letting the warmth seep into his body. "Looks like the winds have died down."

"The weather report says they're gone for now," Trace said.

"Have you been outside? Is there much damage?"

Trace shrugged. *'It's not too bad. A couple of broken branches and a section of the back fence down. Mike was— Mike was going to replace the fence this summer anyway.*' He picked up his cup and sipped at the steaming liquid.

"It's probably the same fence that was there when I was a kid and Dad was threatening to replace it then."

Trace grinned, the first openly friendly expression John had seen from him. "It's the same one. He almost replaced it about five, six years ago, but then he priced new fencing and swore he'd make the thing last till doomsday before he shelled out that kind of money for a few moldy boards."

John laughed. "Doesn't sound like he'd changed much."

"No, he didn't change a whole lot."

"So what do you do for a living?" John took a swallow of coffee, cocking a brow at the other man.

"Fm a cop." Trace glanced up. "Mike kept track of where you were through a friend of his at your company, but he never said much about what you did."

"I work for an import-export business. I handle a lot of the foreign side of things. When I'm in the States, I'm based in New York." The explanation tripped easily off his tongue. It was absolutely plausible, would even check out if someone did any digging, but Trace's eyes took on a shrewd glint that made John wonder how much of it he bought.

"Sounds interesting" was all he said.

"I enjoy it."

"Enjoy what?" The question came from behind him and John turned to see Lily standing in the doorway. She was wearing a pair of faded jeans that clung lovingly to her slim legs and a gray sweatshirt that should have concealed her feminine curves but somehow emphasized them instead. Her hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, her face untouched by makeup, and John didn't think he'd ever seen a more purely beautiful woman in his life.

**Enjoy what?" Lily repeated the question, making him realize that he'd been staring at her. He turned back to the table as she walked farther into the room.

"My work. I was just telling Trace that I enjoy my work. You teach, don't you?"

"Yes. I was thinking that maybe I'd check around and see if there are any positions open here, maybe something part-time." She poured herself a cup of coffee and took a sip, wrinkling her nose at the taste of it.

"I thought you'd be going back to England," Trace commented, his voice carefully neutral.

"No. I told the Fairfields I wouldn't be back." She leaned back against the counter and looked at him, her heart in h^ eyes. "I thought it was time I came home for good."

Trace didn't look up and John had the feeling it was deliberate, as if he were afraid of what he might see. Or maybe he was afraid of what his eyes might reveal. Interesting. Despite the fact that they'd spent the night before in the same room and presumably in the same bed, there were apparently still problems in paradise.

He shifted his eyes from Lily to Trace in time to catch the other man's look, and there was no mistaking the message there. Whatever was going on between the two of them. Trace was warning him off. The look in those blue eyes burned with possessiveness. John acknowledged the warning with a lift of his brow. He had enough problems of his own without coming between the two of them.

The morning was spent cleaning up the damage the winds had left behind. In the wake of the storm the sky was a brilliant blue, so clear it almost hurt to look at it. From higher in the hills it was possible to glimpse the pale blue of the ocean across the Los Angeles basin. It was a day of crystal clear beauty. Impossible to think of smog or summer days when the heat threatened to smother the city.

Trace and John worked together easily, sawing the rough ends off the snapped branches and shoring up the fence well enough to get through one more year. Lily raked and swept the brick patio. It felt good to have something positive to do. In the simple, practically mindless tasks, there was a peace that all three of them treasured.

It was a peace that wasn't destined to last long. In the early afternoon they had a visitor. Trace happened to be in the house when the doorbell rang. He glanced up, frowning and debating on whether to answer it. They weren't expecting anyone and he wasn't sure he wanted to see anyone, expected or otherwise. He shut the refrigerator door, carrying two bottles of beer in one hand and wiping his damp forehead on the tail of his shirt with the other.

The bell rang again before he could get to it and he threw the door open, prepared to get rid of whoever was on the other side as quickly as possible.

"Captain Jacobs." He was immediately conscious of his battered jeans, his unbuttoned shirt and the faint sheen of sweat that coated his face. Not to mention the two beers clutched in one hand. "Sir. I wasn't expecting you."

"No reason you should have been, Dushane. I hope you don't mind that I've just dropped by like this."

"No, of course not. Come in, please."

Trace shut the door behind the older man, hoping he didn't look as uneasy as he felt. Mike and Bill Jacobs had worked together before Mike left the force and the two of them had remained friends. It wasn't the first time he'd seen the captain outside the station house, but he had a funny feeling that this visit was not purely social.

"We were just cleaning up some of the storm damage. It's warm out." He gestured to his scruffy clothes and held up the two beers as illustration.

"Nothing too serious, I hope."

"Not really. We're pretty well done."

"We? You and Lily? I saw her at the funeral. I was glad she made it back from England in time for that."

Trace nodded, preferring not to remember the funeral. It was assuming a hazy image in his monory and he wanted to encourage that as much as possible.

*'Mike's son got here last night.'*

Captain Jacob's bushy eyebrows shot up. "John? Good God, I haven't seen him in twenty years or more."

"I gather he hasn't been here in twenty years or more. He's in the back if you want to see him."

The captain nodded. "I'd like that."

Trace gestured toward the kitchen with the hand that held the bottles. "You know the way. Can I get you something to drink?"

"No, thanks. This is a semiofficial call and I'd better keq) my nose clean."

"Is there some problem?"

The older man shook his head. "Not exactly. If you don't mind, I'm sure Lily and John will want to hear what I have to say, so I'll just wait and save myself having to say it twice."

"Of course." What Trace really wanted to say was that he minded very much. He reined in his impatience while Captain Jacobs greeted Lily and John and the two men swapped a few stories of the last time they'd met just before John left home. Trace took a long pull of his b^r, his eyes narrowing as he watched them. It was clear that they shared a lot of memories and he found himself wondering, not for the first time, just why John had left home.

"Trace? Can I have a drink?" Lily's quiet request drew his attention away from John and the captain.

"Sure." He handed her the bottle, watching as she tilted her head back to take a swallow. Her face crinkled at the taste and he smiled, taking the bottle from her. "If you don't like the stuff, why did you want a drink?"

"I always think that maybe I've exaggerated how awful it tastes."

*'You haven't." He took a swallow and then set the bottle down on the stone wall that ringed the property. Lily linked her hands through his arm. The casual touch burned through his shirt, leaving the imprint of her palm on his skin.

'*They look like old friends." Trace was so aware of her touch that it took him a moment to realize what she was talking about. He forced his eyes to focus on the two men who'd wandered across the yard to study the patched fencing.

"Captain Jacobs has probably known John since he was a kid."

"You're not still worried about last night, are you?" The change of subject threw him off balance. She was looking up at him, her eyes a clear deep green that reflected her emotions.

"Lily—" He broke off, frustrated. John and the captain were moving toward them. This wasn't a conversation he wanted to cram into a few brief moments. He wasn't sure it was a conversation he wanted to have at all.

"Captain Jacobs wants to tell us what they have on Mike's murder." John's words proved an effective distraction. Lily's fingers tightened on Trace's arm and he put his hand over hers, squeezing gently.

By unspoken consent the four of them moved into the house. It didn't seem the kind of discussion to be held in bright sunshine. Once they were all seated in the living room, Captain Jacobs didn't waste any time.

"The three of you know that Mike and I went way back. We were partners and we stayed friends after he left the force. I want the person who killed him as much as any of you do."

"This doesn't sound like good news," John said dryly.

Captain Jacobs shook his head. "It's not. To be blunt, we don't really have anything to go on. No fingerprints, no apparent motive, nothing. And the one witness we have is turning out to be not much better than nothing at all."

Trace leaned forward, his expression intent. 'T didn't know we had a witness at all."

Jacobs ran his hand over what little hair he had left. "A Mrs. Betty Levy. She came to us yesterday. She's kicking seventy in the teeth. She was out walking her dog the morning of the break-in and says she saw a man run from the building."

'*Why didn't she say something right away?" Trace demanded. "Damn, we might have had a chance if she'd said something the day it happened."