One Forgotten Night Page 8

  Nina had learned more about her work at Zakroff and Duchesne. Her job consisted of appraising stones offered for sale and bidding for them on the firm’s behalf. Since Z and D had been specializing in emeralds, she had been traveling to Colombia for the quarterly gem auctions, which were attended by buyers from all over the world. Although she was much younger than many professionals in her field, she was regarded as one of the top gemologists on the East Coast; once a year she taught a course on gems for the mineralogy department at Princeton University.

  Nina also discovered that she earned a very good salary—”and worth every penny,” Armand had assured her. All her bills were paid up and she had some savings. The luxury sports car, bought earlier this year, appeared to be her only extravagance; before buying it, she had driven a no-frills compact that she’d had since college.

  Mike had examined Nina’s finances, too, and had failed to come up with anything suspicious. No big sums of cash from unexplained sources, no expenditures that didn’t match her income, no known debts. If she did have a secret, something connected with drugs or gambling or smuggling, she’d managed to keep every last trace of it out of her everyday life—and that, Mike knew, was no easy trick.

  “In short, no leads on the shooting,” Mike summed up for Nina as they compared notes.

  “Same here. I haven’t found out anything about what happened Wednesday night or Thursday morning. But I’ve learned a lot about my life.”

  “Feel better?”

  “Yes,” she said, a bit surprised. “I do. At least I feel like I belong somewhere now, and I have something I can do. I’ll just have to wait for the rest of it to come back.”

  * * *

  Mike drove Nina home and dropped her off. He checked the street—yeah, there was Simms, on the job just like he was supposed to be. Mike gave him the high sign as they drove past his car, and then, to his surprise, Nina leaned over and waved. Bemused, Simms waved back. Mike grinned at Simms’s startled expression. This was no ordinary surveillance job.

  “So what’s the plan for tomorrow?” Nina asked as she prepared to get out of the car.

  Mike didn’t want to tell her that he didn’t really have a plan. There weren’t any solid leads to follow; he just didn’t want to let this case go. To let Nina go. And it wasn’t just that he liked being around her—although that was beginning to be a big problem in itself. But how could he tell her that he had a feeling in his gut that kept warning him that things weren’t what they seemed? How could he tell her that he was afraid her life might still be in danger? So he told her the simple truth.

  “There’s no plan, but I’ll be in touch. This evening and tomorrow morning I’ll be at headquarters—you call me if you need anything, all right? I’ve got to put in some paperwork. You’re not my only case, you know.” This last was said jokingly; Mike didn’t want to leave her, but he didn’t want it to show. Keep it light.

  “Yeah, I know,” Nina replied as she got out of the car, legs flashing. Before closing the door she leaned in and said, “But I’ll bet I’m the only amnesiac gemologist shooting victim you’re working on right now.”

  “What d’you know?” he exclaimed in mock surprise. “You are.” And the only long-legged, green-eyed redhead. “See you.”

  Mike watched Nina’s slim form slip inside her front door and waited for the lights to come on in her apartment before he drove away. He wished he’d met her in some ordinary way, some way that had nothing to do with his job, so that he could have gone upstairs to that lighted room with her. He wished it even more half an hour later, when he found a note from Hecht on his desk: “1:30 p.m. tomorrow, my office, re Dennison.” Reading the note, Mike had a sinking feeling that he was about to be pulled off Nina’s case.

  * * *

  That night Nina called her brother Charley in Chicago. He sounded glad to hear from her, but it was clear from the first minute of the call that he was distracted, all wrapped up in his wife and kids. Nina chatted brightly for a few moments and ended the call without telling him about her amnesia. His voice had triggered no recollections, and after the call she felt more alone than she had before.

  Her hand hovered over the dial. Mike had said to call him if she needed anything. She couldn’t tell him what she needed; she wasn’t even sure herself. All she knew was that she craved the sound of his voice. And if she called him, his voice wouldn’t be enough. She’d want to see him, and if she saw him, she’d want to touch him....

  “Get over this,” she said aloud. “You’re drawn to him because he’s the only guy you know. It isn’t real. Pretty soon you’ll get your life back on track and forget all about him.” But the words had a doubtful, unconvincing sound.

  Got to get to work. Nina sat at the desk and began scanning the papers that Mike had read yesterday. Armand had urged her to spend the weekend with his family, but she had turned him down, telling him that she needed to continue with the task of sifting through her things, hoping to awaken memories. Now she was doing just that, examining the bits and pieces of her life, and she was finding them depressing.

  There was no evidence of any wrongdoing in her past. That was a relief. But she didn’t find much evidence of fun, either, or of passion. She read dozens of letters and cards from friends, both men and women, dating back to her college years. None of them were truly intimate. None hinted at love—or hate. All of her relationships seemed to have been careful, sensible and controlled.

  Like her apartment, with its tasteful, understated furnishings in neutral colors. Like her diary, with those terse, businesslike entries. Like her clothes, so professional and so...so beige. The only excitement in her wardrobe was her underclothing, which was surprisingly lacy and colorful. But it doesn’t look as though anyone else ever sees it.

  Nina hated to admit it, but her existence looked a little cold and empty. She was getting the impression that hers had been a life lived from the sidelines. It was the life of a cautious spectator, not that of a player. Well, I’m having an adventure now. It doesn’t get much more adventurous than being shot at and losing your memory.

  After an hour or so, Nina made some chamomile tea and propped herself up in bed with the diary to record her impressions of the day. This time she only used up a week’s worth of pages, although her words ran out beyond the neat lines into the margins. She ended with, “What next?”

  Only after Nina closed the diary and turned off the light did she admit to herself that when she wrote those final words she hadn’t been thinking about her amnesia. She’d been thinking about Mike Novalis and wondering what “I’ll be in touch” had meant.

  Chapter 5

  When Mike walked into his chief’s office the next day he found Hecht with a short, saturnine man who looked about fifty. Mike pegged the stranger right away: only a fed would wear a gray flannel suit on a Saturday. Sure enough, Hecht introduced him as David Irons, the senior FBI supervisor in charge of the Zakroff and Duchesne investigation.

  Irons was holding a copy of the report Mike had put on Hecht’s desk last night, summarizing the status of Nina’s case. “It’s come to my attention,” he said, with a hard look at Mike, “that you’ve been investigating a shooting that took place at about 1:30 a.m. Thursday morning.”

  Mike leaned back in his chair, folded his arms across his chest and nodded.

  “The victim was one Nina Dennison, an employee of the firm Zakroff and Duchesne.”

  Another nod. Mike didn’t mean to be a hard-ass, but guys like Irons rubbed him the wrong way. Sometimes they seemed more concerned with their turf, with who outranked whom, than with getting a job done.

  “And have you found out who shot Dennison, Detective Novalis?” Irons asked.

  “No.”

  Hecht glared at Mike, so he elaborated. “I didn’t turn up any leads among her co-workers or in her personal life. Her story of amnesia seems to check out.”

  “Well, then, Detective Novalis, you’ll be glad to know that you don’t have to pursue this unrew
arding case any further.” Irons made a note on the report and slipped it into a thick file, which he snapped shut. “As you know, my task force has been working on Miss Dennison’s firm from another angle for some time. We’ve determined that her shooting was a simple drive-by. Case closed.”

  “How do you know it was a drive-by?” Mike said challengingly.

  Irons smoothed his short, thinning dark hair with the palms of both hands and said, “I’m not at liberty to discuss the federal investigation at this time. Trust me, we have good reason.”

  “Damn it, we’re all on the same side here, aren’t we?” Mike burst out, exasperated. “Why can’t you federal guys ever throw us cops a bone?”

  Irons smiled briefly. “As I said, I’m not at liberty—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Mike interrupted. “What about the search of Dennison’s apartment?”

  Irons shrugged. “A break-in. It happens. Probably a junkie who trashed the place when he didn’t find any drugs or cash.”

  “The gun in her drawer?”

  “Ballistics traced the registration. It was one of a batch stolen from a gun shop in Jersey a couple years back. It’s probably been on the street ever since.”

  “But how’d it get in Dennison’s apartment?”

  Irons sighed. “People own guns, Novalis. You know how easy it is for even a law-abiding citizen to get hold of an unregistered firearm. She probably bought it herself.”

  Mike shook his head. “She’s not the type.”

  Irons shot him a sharp look.

  “Anyway,” Mike continued, “we found it sitting right out in the open. A thief would’ve seen it and taken it. The way it looks to me, that gun was put there to set Dennison up, make it look like she’s implicated in something, and that doesn’t look good for her.” Mike rose to his feet and looked down at Irons, whose smooth face and sharp eyes gave nothing away. “I think Dennison’s life may still be in danger,” Mike said. “I want round-the-clock protective surveillance on her.”

  “Your own report contains no evidence of a continued threat. And your theory about the gun is just moonshine, Novalis. Chances are she bought the gun, and the guy who broke into her place was so high he didn’t know what he was doing. I can’t assign protection just because you don’t think she’s ‘the type’ to own a gun.” Irons’s tone was tinged with sarcasm. “Give me some real proof.”

  Mike’s jaw tightened. “I’ve got no proof, nothing concrete.”

  “Well, my task force does have good evidence,” Irons responded. “I’m sorry I can’t discuss it with you, but you’ll just have to leave this matter in our hands.”

  “The department could keep a watch on her,” Mike suggested. “At least when she’s at home.”

  Irons glanced at Hecht, who scowled but said, “Novalis, you’re off the case. Period.”

  “I want to know what we’re gonna do in case the shooter has another chance at her,” Mike insisted stubbornly.

  “We’re not doing anything,” Hecht said with exaggerated patience. “I pulled Simms off surveillance. Like the man said, it was a drive-by. The shooter won’t be back.”

  Every instinct Mike possessed after years on the force was screaming that this was wrong. “I still think—”

  “Look, Novalis,” Irons interrupted brusquely, “I’ve read your file. I know you used to be an outstanding undercover vice cop. I know you had a reputation for blowing off the rules from time to time, doing things your own way. Nothing wrong with being an unorthodox cop—until something explodes in your face. And you have, shall we say, a history of going off the rails when there’s a good-looking woman involved in a case.”

  Rage surged through Mike’s veins, but he didn’t speak. He forced himself to remain expressionless as he stared back at Irons.

  “I don’t want you screwing up my task force, Novalis,” Irons said. He smiled thinly, but there was steel in his voice. “Nina Dennison has nothing to do with my case, but I need a clear field. Stay away from her, stay away from Zakroff and Duchesne.” Without waiting for an answer he nodded to Hecht and strode out the door.

  Hecht reached into his desk drawer for a cigar. “Smooth-talking bureaucrat,” he muttered. “Might as well be a politician.”

  Mike was still standing, staring at the spot where Irons had been; his fists were slowly unclenching.

  “That was a little rough,” Hecht said, and cleared his throat. “The guy’s an uptight jerk. But he’s right—he calls the shots on this one. So do yourself a favor and forget this shooting. Get back to work on your other files.”

  Mike turned and stared cold eyed at his boss for a moment. But all he said as he left the office was, “You got it. I’m off the case.”

  * * *

  Mike spent a couple of hours trying to work off his anger. A session on the pistol range and another in the weight room of the police gym didn’t do much to help. But his innate honesty forced him to admit that he didn’t know whether his anger stemmed from Irons’s air of superiority and his refusal to discuss the case, or from the thinly veiled contempt in his voice when he’d referred to Mike’s past. Don’t be too hard on Irons, he told himself. You’ve said worse than that to yourself. A million times.

  One thing was clear to Mike: He had to tell Nina that his case was closed. He owed her that much. An odd sort of bond had formed between them over the past few days, a partnership, and there was more to it than the undeniable sexual attraction that crackled in the air between them. Although he’d never been able to banish all traces of his initial suspicion and skepticism, Mike had come to admire Nina’s spirit. Without memory, she was as alone as anyone could be, yet she hadn’t let fear or pain crush her.

  All right, he decided, I’ll call her now. Maybe it’ll make her day to hear that she’s no longer under police investigation.

  But when he left the gym, Mike didn’t go to a phone. He headed for his car.

  * * *

  Nina didn’t realize that things had changed until the early afternoon, when she went to the grocery store. Last night she’d peeked out of her bedroom window just before going to bed. The blue-and-white police car had been parked in its usual spot, across the street from her building. Now it was gone. On the way to the store she kept checking her rearview mirror. Nothing.

  Her first reaction was a heady feeling of relief: She was no longer under police investigation. Then she felt a pang of disappointment. Why hadn’t Mike Novalis called to tell her what was going on? Surely he wouldn’t just walk out of her life without a farewell? She tried to convince herself that she had no reason to be surprised or hurt. So the two of you shared a few sparks—big deal! To him you’re nothing but routine police business. Get over it. But the words didn’t ring true, and Nina simply couldn’t bring herself to believe them. There had been some connection between Mike and herself, of that she was certain. But what it meant, or whether it was a good thing, she could not say.

  It was only later, after she had put away her groceries, that another thought, a slightly ominous one, occurred to Nina: If I’m no longer under police investigation, does that mean I’m no longer under police protection? Should I be scared?

  She dismissed the thought at once. Mike would never have let them drop the surveillance if there were the slightest danger to her. On no evidence at all other than the two days they had spent together, Nina knew he would never let her get hurt. He was too good a cop for that. But she wished she had heard from him one last time. And still she couldn’t quite believe that he wouldn’t at least call to say goodbye.

  So she was not altogether surprised when Mike turned up on her doorstep later that afternoon. When he asked her if everything was okay, she replied with a question of her own, lightly phrased but serious in intent: “Is that an official inquiry?”

  And when he looked down at her with an oddly helpless, searching expression and said, “No,” Nina knew that something important had shifted in their relationship. Mike hadn’t come to her because of his job. He was there be
cause he wanted to be. The knowledge both exhilarated and frightened her. Now what do I do? What do I want?

  Mike had wrestled with the question of what to tell Nina, and he had finally decided that his only option was to give her the official line as laid down by Irons and Hecht. Without alluding to the FBI’s interest in Zakroff and Duchesne, he explained to her that the investigation into her shooting was over. This didn’t mean that the police had found the shooter, he told her—only that they had found nothing to suggest that the incident was anything but a random drive-by shooting, one of the street crimes that had become all too frequent in the city. The fact that the shooting had resulted in amnesia only complicated the case, but ultimately the amnesia was not a police matter.

  “What about the gun you found here?” she asked.

  “Well, it’s not registered to you, so I can’t give it back to you.”

  She shuddered. “I don’t want it. That’s not what I meant.”

  “I know. It’s a street gun, stolen from a gun shop in Jersey a few years ago.”

  “But how did it get here?”

  Mike sighed. “I don’t know. But I’ve got no leads to follow on the gun or anything else. I’m closing the file.”

  “Does this mean that you finally believe I really do have amnesia?”

  “I’ve got no reason not to,” he replied, and then he reached out and brushed her long bangs back from one temple. “Hey, you’ve taken off your Band-Aid,” he said. “I can hardly see the mark. You won’t have much of a scar.” He let his fingertips linger for a moment on her smooth skin; he’d been wanting to touch her for so long that he could not deny himself the feel of her.

  Nina’s pulse began to race when he touched her hair. So she hadn’t simply imagined the attraction—on his side or on hers. It was there, and stronger than ever. She was so absorbed by the sensation of his fingers grazing her skin that she didn’t realize until much later that he had failed to answer her question.