The Taylor Clan

Instead of falling, twin vises caught her thighs. Big hands. Brett’s hands. Long, strong fingers and supple palms that nearly spanned the circumference of each leg. Supporting her weight with effortless ease, he guided her feet back to the second rung.

“Easy.” He crooned the warning in that cavernous voice. The sound of it skittered along her spine, sending soothing tendrils of comfort along her sparking nerve relays. She cursed her body’s foolish reaction to the sound.

Once on solid footing, he released her. Ginny clung to the ladder and quieted her pulse. The imprint of warmth from his hands stayed with her, mocking her attempts to ignore him and don her detective facade once more.

“Claustrophobic?” he asked.

“No.” She spun around and looked straight into eyes of sapphire blue.

He stood a bit too close. Close enough to see the stubble of dark brown beard shadowing his jaw. Close enough to smell the honest scent of wood and work on him. Brett was clearly a man who built things with his hands. It was evident in the outdoorsy tan of his skin, the rough rasp of his fingertips, the minuscule bits of sawdust that clung to the coffee-brown twists of hair that brushed his collar.

Years of practice made it possible for Ginny to note her observations without attributing any emotional or physical response to them. She cataloged her reaction to Brett the same way she cataloged her observations of a crime scene. “It’s the—”

Ginny snapped her mouth shut. She couldn’t let this man know her weakness. Her fears were her own to handle. She would not be made vulnerable. One of the ugliest aspects of her job—of her life—was seeing how cruel the world could be to anyone who was vulnerable.

Let him think the close quarters had gotten to her. A white lie would be better than the truth.

“Maybe a little.”

He backed off a step. “Sorry to crowd you.”

The considerate move surprised her. Maybe there was a touch of real hero beneath his thick, flirtatious veneer, after all.

“You work in construction, right?” she asked.

“Contractor. Run my own business.” If he thought anything strange or rude in her abrupt change in topic, he didn’t comment.

She let her gaze move past his shoulder to that shadowy void that reminded her of more than she cared to remember. “Can you tell me anything about that new wall? The one built to seal him in?”

She averted her gaze from the dark chasm. Some memories refused to die.

“Yes.” He lifted his left hand in a timeless gesture of “ladies first.” “But let’s talk outside. I could use some fresh air.”

Ginny recognized the gallant gesture for the excuse it was, but appreciated it anyway. She gave him a curt nod and climbed the ladder. The basement brightened into artificial twilight. And when she emerged on the front steps of the concrete stoop, she breathed in the mist-filled air like sunshine.

With her phobia behind her, Ginny could think clearly again. She’d been shaken by the darkness, that was all. Any traitorous response her body had had to Brett Taylor had simply been the result of humiliating fear. She was too smart to be attracted to a charmer like him. Way too smart.

This time, she heard the weight of his tread on the threshold and knew he stood behind her. She pulled out her pen and notebook, and turned to meet him. “So, Mr. Taylor, do you think you can tell approximately when that alcove was built? And can you verify that it was built by a nonexpert? The mortar seemed to be inferior grade, falling apart. Maybe it wasn’t mixed together properly.”

He answered her questions with a laugh. “You are one tough cookie, aren’t you.”

Ginny lifted her gaze with a stern look that only seemed to fuel his good humor. “The term ‘cookie’ went out with girdles and seamed stockings. You can call me Ms. Rafferty or Detective.”

He sputtered as he struggled to contain his laughter. “You can call me Brett.”

“I don’t have to call you at all.”

He jabbed a finger in the air at her. “That’s it. That’s the voice.”

“What are you talking about?”

His hands settled on his hips. “That tone of voice you get that says you are too tough to care. The one that could lay out a platoon of soldiers at fifty yards.”

“If you’re referring to the tone of authority…”

“I’m referring to the show you think you have to put on for people to take you seriously.”

Ginny’s confusion puffed out on an abrupt sigh. “Excuse me?”

“All you have to do is talk to me.” He leaned toward her, his height putting him head and shoulders above her. She tilted her face to maintain eye contact. He never stepped closer, never touched her. Yet she felt the breadth and power of him surrounding her, as if he hovered above her, circled around her. A show of force? Or a shield of protection? “You don’t have to talk down to me.”

For a rare instant in time, she stood speechless. No clever zinger sprang to mind, no command seemed appropriate. No one had ever complained about her professional demeanor before. She never meant to be insulting. Damn him, anyway, for taking a criminal investigation and turning it into something personal.

With a surprising degree of decorum, Brett was the first to resume business as usual. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out his wallet. He slid out a business card and pressed it into her hand.

“Here’s my card. Call me if you need anything, or you find out something. I have a great deal of money and time and history invested in the Ludlow.”

His odd statement triggered her curiosity, overrode her self-conscious habit of feigning emotional control. “History? What do you mean?”

The look that darkened his face revealed Brett Taylor wasn’t all fun and games. But the grim expression was fleeting. He smiled once more, a handsome crease that formed dimples on either side of his mouth. Ginny wondered if, in her own hypercritical state, she had imagined his quick revelation of sorrow. But he gave no explanation.

“In answer to your questions about the wall, I’d say it was put up ten, twelve years ago. And yes, the mortar work was amateurish. Maybe done in haste, maybe done by someone who didn’t know any better.”

She jotted down the information, too dutiful a cop to do otherwise, but her attention remained focused on his previous cryptic words. “You didn’t answer my question. What history are you talking about with the Ludlow? Is it related to the murder?”

“No. It’s just that…” He stuffed his wallet into his back pocket. Ginny recognized the procrastination of buying time before an unpleasant task. But to his credit, he looked her straight in the eye before answering.

“That’s not the first dead body I’ve seen at the Ludlow Arms.”

Chapter Two

“Got a new case?”

Ginny Rafferty turned to the cemetery’s caretaker and nodded. The chocolate-brown eyes set deep in the wrinkles of the African-American man’s face looked as old as she felt. “It’s that obvious, John?”

With his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coveralls, he twisted his face into a sympathetic frown. “You make this pilgrimage out here every time you take on an unsolved murder.”

She turned back to the pink granite headstone, with the name Rafferty engraved upon it. “Maybe once I can solve all the rest of them, I’ll get a chance to finally solve hers.”

More than a casual acquaintance, John McBride shared a sad, unique bond with Ginny. He might be one of the few people who understood her need to come to this remote haven nestled between busy Truman Road and Twenty-four Highway time and time again. He shrugged his shoulders and offered a fatherly smile. “It’s gettin’ dark. I’ll have to close the gates soon.”

“Give me a couple of minutes. Then I’ll ride down with you.”

“Sure.”

She watched him walk down the hill to his truck, his dignity unbowed by age or sorrow. Everyone coped with loss in his or her own way. Maybe one day she’d move beyond hers and find the acceptance that John seemed to have found.

Until then, she’d maintain her solitary vigil. She’d hang on to the love and loyalty she’d once forsaken in the pursuit of her own misguided dreams. The chilly spring rain drizzled along her cheeks, side by side with the single tear that scorched her skin.

The trees that surrounded the hills of Mount Washington Cemetery muffled the sounds of Kansas City at twilight. The haunting silence wrapped her up in its lonely hug, a small comfort for all she had lost.

She understood that the rest of the world moved on, despite her grief. Despite her guilt. But part of her would never understand why.

Twelve years had passed. And she still didn’t understand.

John had become the closest thing she had to a friend over the years. They’d first met the day of her sister’s funeral. He’d been kind enough to let her stay, long after the funeral had ended, long after the guests had departed to a reception at her parents’ Mission Hills home.

She’d been gone a year and a half before that, painting in Europe, losing her heart, learning some harsh truths about life, while Amy learned a harsh truth of her own on a deserted pier in downtown Kansas City.

Like this evening, John had waited with her until after dark the night of Amy’s funeral. Then he called for a taxi and paid her fare, even though she had money of her own.

Six months later, she’d lost her mother to a bottleful of the sedatives that were meant to help her cope with the loss of a child. John had been a good friend that day, too. She had needed one. With her father steeped in grief, Ginny had withdrawn to the fringes of the ceremony. An easy enough task for a shy creature like herself. She took a vow that day, made a promise to her sister and her mother. Planned her own quiet rebellion.

John had found her then, much as she was today, standing in the rain, swearing all kinds of vengeance on the world. He’d told her of his son, an officer in the State Highway Patrol, who’d been slain in the line of duty. He shared his feelings of pride and mourning for his brave son. He truly understood her anger and her loss.

And he inspired her.

She’d met John again last year, finally losing her father to an overworked heart, though emotionally, she’d lost him years earlier. Her parents had never been the same after Amy’s senseless murder. Ginny was a grown woman now—no grief-stricken teen, no rebellious coed—a mature career woman of thirty.

She’d willingly given up her scholarship to study art in Europe and enrolled in the justice studies program at Central Missouri State University in nearby Warrensburg. She’d taken care of her father, and now she took care of Kansas City, Missouri, too.

She sought justice for the innocent victims like her sister. Like her mother and father. And like that poor man this afternoon, buried alive and left to die.

Like a family reunion of battle-scarred survivors, she and John now met at the start of every new case. Each time, he waited patiently to drive her to her car at the front gates. And each time, she made the same promise to her sister and parents.

She spread her palm flat over the cold granite that bore her family’s names and recited her vow. “I’ll find out who did this to us. There will be justice for the Raffertys.”

She curled her fingertips into the grooves cut deep into the stone.

“I promise.”

Ginny headed down the hill toward the road. Her charcoal-gray chinos, damp from a day’s worth of rain, stuck to her legs like a second skin and chilled her. The warmth of John’s truck sounded pretty inviting right about now. She really ought to make an effort to cultivate his friendship. He’d always been so kind. But she’d never been very good at that sort of thing. Making friends had always been Amy’s forte. Some day soon—tonight, maybe—she’d overlook her insecurities and take him out to dinner.

Well, maybe not tonight. A telltale chirping vibrated at her hip. Stopping beside the road, she pulled out her cell phone and flipped it open.

“Detective Rafferty.”

“Yeah, Gin. It’s Merle.” She turned her face away from the phone to mask her weary sigh. She and her partner had been on the clock since eight that morning. How could he still sound energetic nearly eleven hours later?

“What’s up?” she asked.

“I got a name on that murder at the Ludlow you asked about. Back in 1989. An eighteen-year-old kid named Mark Bishop.”

That’s not the first dead body I’ve seen at the Ludlow Arms.

Ginny’s own energy kicked up a notch. “Was that case solved?”

Merle spoke as if he was reading the information straight off his computer screen. “History of family violence. Died from a blow to the head. The death was attributed to his father, Alvin Bishop. Neighborhood bully. He had a record of abuse and neglect with Social Services, and a string of minor convictions. Everything from drunk and disorderly to assault on the garbage collector.”

“But no charges were filed?” She sensed more unfinished business.

“A warrant was issued for the father’s arrest. But he disappeared before his arraignment. Listed as a missing person ever since.”

“So justice was never served.” Either pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fall into place, or she’d opened a box with more pieces than she could count. That body at the morgue could be Alvin Bishop. “Get Mac Taylor at forensics on the line. Tell him to run Bishop’s name through as a possible ID on our John Doe.”

“Will do.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah.” A twinge of frustration colored his voice. “The statements I took from those two homeless guys, Zeke Jones and Charlie Adkins, are useless.”

His frustration just became hers, too. “They didn’t see anything?”

“Who knows? Charlie said nothing, just sat there staring at me. Zeke kept spouting off his name, rank and serial number. I thought I was in the twilight zone.”

Sometimes, witnesses saw a male detective as a threatening presence, and were more apt to open up to a female. She hoped that, and not one of the mental disorders that affected some homeless people, was the case with these guys. “I’ll give it a shot tomorrow.”

“Thanks. I’ll get you the address for the shelter where I sent them.” She was just about to hang up when she heard Merle call her name. “Hey, Gin?”

She put the phone back to her ear. “Yeah?”

“You have dinner plans?” Ginny rolled her eyes heavenward at the sincere catch in his voice.

She pictured his sweet, unlined face and the gradual aging she saw day by day in his dark green eyes. This wasn’t the first time he’d asked her out. It wouldn’t be the first time she said no, either. “You know how I feel about going out with the men I work with.”

His voice rushed over the line. “Hey, no. I’m your partner, I’m just worried about you. We missed lunch, remember?”

“I remember.” She forced a smile, as if he could see her relief. “I’ll get something to eat, don’t worry. You get out of that office, too, okay?”

“I will.”

“Good night, Merle.”

“’Night, Gin.”

She hung up and dug inside another pocket for a specific slip of paper. A business card. Taylor Construction, Brett Taylor, Owner.

She looked at the card and pictured the man. Big. Rugged. Smart-mouthed. “Do you always show up when there’s a dead body in the neighborhood?” she asked the image.

Memorizing the number, she hurried to John’s truck and dialed before climbing in.

John spared her an indulgent smile before putting the truck in gear. “Duty calls, I take it.”

She nodded through the unanswered rings. “I’ve got an opportunity to ask a few questions I shouldn’t put off.”

He wound through the hairpin turns toward the cemetery’s front gates. “One of these days I want you to tell me you’re in a hurry to meet a young man.”

She smiled. “John, you sound just like my dad.”

An answering machine picked up. Brett himself had left the recording. Even across transmitted miles of a recorded message, Brett’s basso profundo voice reverberated through her like a mellow jazz tune, at once enervating and intriguing her.

She asked him to call her cell number and then hung up.

“Just like that.” John’s amused voice captured her attention.

“What?”

He shook a gentle finger at her. “The look on your face when you talked to that man. That’s the look that tells me you’ve got a social life.”

Ginny frowned. “I talked to his machine.”

He pulled up behind her car and put the truck in Park. “But you’re wishing it was the real thing.”

“Please.” Brett Taylor? Social life? Neither phrase was part of her regular vocabulary. “He’s a possible material witness to a murder case, nothing more.”

“If you say so.”

“I say so.” Her protest sounded vehement, even to her own ears. She tried to come up with a plausible explanation. For John. “Look, I don’t really date much. I’m too caught up in my work.”

“It’s important work you do,” he said in a voice of sage experience. “But it isn’t everything.”

For her, it had to be. Relationships were too awkward for her. Many men were threatened by the nature of her job, her devotion to duty. More men lacked the patience to work through her eccentricities, and she’d never developed those most feminine skills that could encourage a man to make the journey with her.

And if she should ever meet a man with the patience and fortitude and self-assurance to withstand a relationship with her, she’d run away as fast as she could. She would never put herself in the position of losing someone she cared about again.

Maybe John understood that, after all. His weary silence revealed a man who had lived more life than most people his age. He surprised her by reaching across the seat and squeezing her hand. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope I don’t see you again very soon.”

She squeezed back, understanding. “Me neither.”

BRETT PACED the small confines of his office, turning the mouthpiece away from his impatient sigh while one of his investors grilled him for information about the story he’d seen on the local evening news.

“The Ludlow’s still going to be renovated, right, Brett?”

Brett righted the phone. “No, Mr. Dennehy. That’s the one we’re tearing down, remember? The other buildings are structurally sound. But not the Ludlow Arms.”

“It was home to a lot of people, you know.”

The older man’s wistful tone added another rock onto the load of responsibility Brett carried on his shoulders. “I know, sir. Hopefully the refurbished buildings will draw quality tenants like yourself.”

Bill Dennehy perked up as a new thought hit him. “Do you think that body was in the basement when Alice and I were living there?”

“I don’t think so.” Bill had been lucky enough to live in the Ludlow Arms during the building’s heyday. He knew these streets the way Brett’s grandparents had known it. Thriving. Friendly. Safe. “Trust me. A little bad press isn’t going to stop me from renovating the neighborhood.”

“Alice won’t come to that fund-raiser of yours if there’s any more news like this.”

“Of course not, but…”

He felt a tap at his shoulder and stopped midprotest. Five perfectly shaped, copper-tinted nails reached for the phone. His gaze dropped to the half-amused smile on the mouth of the tall brunette beside him.

“I’ll handle this. You pace.” She nudged Brett to one side and turned her attention to the caller. “Mr. Dennehy. Sophie Bishop. Yes, I remember you from the old neighborhood…”

Brett’s frustration turned to admiration as he watched his old friend work Bill Dennehy through a trip down memory lane and onto the road toward a charitable donation. He sat back in the chair behind his desk and watched her do her thing.

He’d hired Sophie for her expertise in fund-raising and public relations. He could only afford to pay her peanuts, but she’d been quick to volunteer her time. She, too, came from the Market Street area of Kansas City, and seemed as eager to see a rebirth of the community as he was.

Things were a little awkward between them, but he hoped she’d moved past their broken relationship. No longer the adoring young college student he’d once dated as a favor to her brother, she’d matured into a powerful, successful woman of the world. And she put her money where her work was. Sophie had been the first to sign up for one of the luxury condos he planned to put in the Peabody Building. Surely that kind of support was proof that they could still work together as old friends.

“Mr. Dennehy, that’s sweet.” It wasn’t as if Sophie had to be any man’s charity date. With long, shapely legs that stopped somewhere just short of her neck, and the sleek, sculpted features of a fashion model, she’d draw any man’s attention. But Brett looked at her and saw…Mark’s sister.

His feelings for her weren’t all that different from what he felt for his own sister, Jessie. Just as strong, just as protective, just as pure.

He rolled his chair up to the desk and leaned his elbows on top, watching with pride and gratitude as she smoothed over the investor’s concern. “I’ll be sure we have a corsage for her at the fund-raising ball. I look forward to seeing you and Mrs. Dennehy there. Bye now.”

She pressed the off button and handed over the phone with a flourish that made Brett throw his hands up in surrender. “Okay, so you saved my butt. Go ahead and gloat.”

“I’m just doing my job, big boy,” she laughed. She perched on the corner of his desk and tugged the hem of her taupe silk suit down to within inches of her knees. Brett sat back and waited for the rebuke. “Next time there’s a publicity glitch like this, call me. Don’t wait for me to see it on the evening news.”

“He was my third call tonight.”

Sophie shook her head, making light of his doubt. “We can use this in our favor. Murder’s the kind of thing that used to happen in this neighborhood. But no more. Not with Brett Taylor on the job, transforming the dark alleys and dangerous streets into a place where families can work and kids can play.”

Brett frowned and pushed to his feet, uncomfortable with the heroic status, even if it was said in a teasing vein. He walked around the desk and picked up her cashmere stole. “You’d better hit the road. I’m keeping you from your date.”

Sophie grabbed her purse and joined him. She turned her back to him and let him wrap her shoulders in the oversize scarf. He closed his arms briefly in a friendly hug. “Thanks, kiddo. I owe you one.”

“I know. I’m keeping tabs.” A knock on the office door gave Brett the excuse to pull away. Sophie used the opportunity to pull on a pair of leather driving gloves. “Expecting any reporters?”

“No.” Maybe he was looking forward to this next visitor just a little too much. Heedless that Sophie followed him, he hurried through the outer office and opened the trailer door.

Ginny Rafferty stood outside. The harsh glare of the porch light softened in the silver shimmer of her hair. He released his anxiety on a single breath and let his features relax into a genuine smile. Her crossed arms bespoke all business, but he appreciated her sunny beauty like a breath of fresh air. And the challenging glint in those cobalt eyes stirred his thoughts away from spooked investors and a budget that wouldn’t balance.

“You said to meet you here,” she said in greeting.

Those blue eyes shuttered and darted to the side before he heard the voice beside him. “Brett?”

He stepped back, feeling ridiculously jarred by Sophie’s intrusion. The contrast between the two women rendered him silent for a moment. Tall and petite. Dark and fair. Smiling expectantly and expressionless.

Fortunately, Sophie had the sense to see him past the awkward moment. She extended her hand in polite greeting. “I’m Sophie Bishop, an old friend of Brett’s.”

Ginny shook hands. “I’m Ginny Rafferty. I’m a—”

“New friend,” he interrupted before she could rattle off her official job and title. Sophie had done enough for one night. He didn’t need her to run interference for a police investigation. He didn’t want anyone to interfere with a chance to talk to Ginny. “Soph does public relations for me.”