Falling For Him

The morning sunshine highlighted her hair, and he thought of angels. The imagery struck him as ironic, especially considering the fact that Claudia Parrish was as likely a suspect as anyone in the ongoing corruption within the Homicide Unit. After all, the evidence tampering hadn’t ended when her partner’s life had. And the most recent involved one of Claudia’s own cases.

Gavin hadn’t been surprised to learn of Judge Warner’s dismissal of the Brown case. Reports of the missing gun were in the file his lieutenant had handed him weeks ago—a thick file that made Claudia Internal Affair’s prime suspect.

After five years on IAD, he prided himself on his ability to read people. Claudia Parrish, however, wasn’t easy to read. Either her defensiveness was an honest response, or there was more behind the sharp tone she’d adopted with him earlier.

He definitely had to be careful. He couldn’t afford to alienate Claudia. Not when he needed to get close to her—close enough to find out the truth.

Dear Reader,

My ongoing research with Baltimore’s Homicide Unit rarely offers a dull moment. Not only does it provide a constant source of ideas for stories, but these determined and dedicated detectives are inspiring models for the kinds of strong and intriguing characters that inhabit the pages of the books I love to write.

In creating Falling for Him, I wanted to represent these admirable men and women of the Baltimore Police Department as the everyday heroes they are, working exhausting shifts and dealing with aspects of life we can only imagine. I’ve seen the toll that such a job can sometimes take on an individual and the way detectives’ work often wears at their spirit and their personal lives. With that in mind, I created Detectives Claudia Parrish and Gavin Monaghan—both with their own strengths and weaknesses, both with the same drive and perseverance in their quest for what they believe in, in their jobs and in their hearts. I hope that the courage and integrity of each and every one of the Unit’s members has been captured in Claudia and Gavin’s story, as well as that enduring sense of hope and love we all need to embrace.

Sincerely,

Morgan Hayes

Books by Morgan Hayes

HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE

632—PREMONITIONS

722—SEE NO EVIL

773—DECEPTION

Falling for Him

Morgan Hayes

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Lynette.

Also…

To The Hutch—I’d be lost without you gals!

To Jackie Navin and the rest of my stunning critique group.

And with very heartfelt thanks to Sgt. Steve Lehmann of BPD Homicide—a real hero.

And to the rest of the guys on the Unit: Mike, Cliff, Bill, Homer, Wayne, Joe and too many others to mention. You know I love you guys!

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

CLAUDIA KNEW HE WAS DEAD even before she’d brought her car to a skidding stop along that cold, dark street. She knew the second she heard the Federal Hill address crackle over the police radio. Her mind refused to grasp the idea, but in her heart, through her entire body, she felt it, as surely as if a part of herself had died.

The ambulance, the half-dozen squad cars with their revolving lights, and then the crime-scene van parked outside the two-story row house confirmed her fears.

Frank was dead.

Claudia leaped from the car, hardly registering the sharp pellets of icy rain slapping her face as she made her way through an already gathering crowd and ducked under the yellow crime-scene tape.

“Detective Claudia Parrish,” she said, giving the officer barely a second to acknowledge the silver shield she flashed, before mounting the front steps two at a time.

The stairwell seemed tighter than usual, hot, with a cloying mustiness that she didn’t recall in all the times she’d been up here. She was out of breath before she reached the top-floor apartment, but it wasn’t the two flights that had winded her. It was shock. It closed around her chest like a fist, clenching steadily until she thought each gasp might be her last.

Frank.

Even the entrance of the apartment didn’t seem right—it felt cramped and narrow. The splintered door, half-off its hinges, displayed the force that had been used to gain entrance.

The world tilted briefly, and she lifted her hand, about to catch herself against the ruined doorjamb. But she stopped. This was a crime scene. Instead, she buried her hands deep in the pockets of her trench coat. Not that it mattered—they would find her prints all over the apartment anyway.

“Detective Parrish,” she heard one officer say. Surprise lifted his tone as she stepped past him and several other uniformed officers.

“Come on, guys. Clear out.” She recognized Sergeant Gunning’s growling voice from farther back in the apartment. “It’s getting crowded in here. Everyone out except the techs, all right? Now.”

She moved through the apartment, each stride shakier than the last, until she drew near the open bedroom door. Frank’s bedroom.

He was dead. But she still expected to hear his voice above the others, analyzing the scene—after all, he was the squad’s best.

There was the bright flare of a camera’s bulb, the high-pitched whine of its recharge, and then another flash. Sergeant Gunning’s hulking figure filled the doorway, his head bowed and shaking in disbelief.

I shouldn’t have left you last night, Frank. The thought tumbled through her mind, over and over. I should have been listening instead of arguing. Instead of accusing. I should have believed you. Should have trusted you.

She stopped in the doorway, her gaze involuntarily drawn past the crime-scene technicians to the corner beside the bed. She caught a glimpse of his white leather sneakers, and the first wave of nausea churned in her stomach.

She must have gasped, because Sergeant Gunning turned to face her.

“Oh, damn. Claudia. What are you doing here?”

“I heard…on the radio…” Her sergeant’s exclamation alerted the others of her presence. They parted. And then Claudia saw him.

She took one unsteady step forward. Sergeant Gunning’s hand settled on her shoulder for a brief moment, as if intending to hold her back. But he didn’t.

“Frank.” His name didn’t echo only in her thoughts. Claudia heard her own voice, thin and wavering, fill the sudden silence. Her breath shortened, and her heart raced as she took in the scene.

Nothing, not ten years in uniform and another two in Homicide, could have prepared Claudia for seeing her own partner sprawled across the carpeted floor.

Even as she stood over his body, she expected him to move. It couldn’t be Frank’s lifeless body lying there, dressed in blue jeans and a T-shirt…the Baltimore Ravens T-shirt she’d bought him just last month. But it was. Claudia choked back a sob and struggled against another rush of queasiness. She tried to focus, process this like any other crime scene.

Detach. Put your emotions aside. Think like a detective, Frank would have advised her.

Claudia scanned the room. There was no indication of a struggle. The bed was made with Frank’s suit laid on it for work. His pager and cell phone were on the dresser, and his shoulder holster hung over the back of the chair next to it. Empty. The 9mm police-issue Glock was in Frank’s hand instead.

“No signs of forced entry,” Claudia heard Gunning say behind her. “The boys had to use the ram to get in when no one answered. Neighbors reported the gunfire. Claudia? You gonna be all right?”

Her knees threatened to buckle as a numbness crept over her. She lowered herself to kneel next to Frank.

“No one was seen entering or leaving the apartment,” Sergeant Gunning went on. “Couple people heard the shot less than an hour ago and called it in. We’re going to conduct a thorough canvass, but…it doesn’t look like…”

Sarge’s voice faded from her awareness. As did the rest of the room and the people around her. She couldn’t detach. It wasn’t possible. This wasn’t just another victim.

This was Frank. Her partner of two years, her best friend…

The edges of her vision blurred until there was only Frank. Her hands shook when she reached for him. Part of her knew she shouldn’t touch him, but no one in that room would dare to stop her.

The sob Claudia had fought so hard to contain escaped at last. His hand was still warm as though there was life. She caressed it, turning it over and sweeping her fingers across his broad palm, feeling its softness. Strong hands, yet lovingly gentle, she thought, remembering how they had felt on her body, how they’d touched her and held her in a way no other man ever had.

She lifted his hand to her face and pressed it against her cheek. There was the faint trace of aftershave—the same smell she’d woken to this morning, lingering on her sheets from the day before…before their argument.

I’m sorry, Frank. I’m sorry I didn’t listen. Sorry I didn’t believe you. I should have been here.

She squeezed his hand, half-expecting a response. His hair was mussed, and she had to force herself not to brush her fingers through it. It was getting long again, she thought. He needed a cut.

She was about to touch his face when someone grasped her shoulders.

“I’m sorry, Claudia. You can’t.”

She started to resist the person pulling her away, until she looked up. She recognized Lori Tobin from the crime lab.

“We’re not finished,” she told Claudia with an apologetic expression. “I’m really sorry.” Her whisper was sincere, and Claudia only vaguely noticed the woman’s sympathetic touch as she guided her to one side. For Claudia, there was only Frank.

She wanted to cry. No, she wanted to scream. She wanted to touch him, to hold him, to feel him with her once again—alive.

The fist around her chest clenched tighter, and Claudia swallowed hard against the bitterness that crept up her throat. She straightened her shoulders. She had to pull herself together. Frank would want that, she thought. He’d want her to be strong. To be professional, and to keep up appearances.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” she managed to say, fighting the tremble in her voice.

“There’s nothing to make us think otherwise,” Gunning argued. “The door was locked from the inside. There’s no sign of a struggle.”

“This is not what it looks like,” she repeated, trying to convince herself against what was so painfully obvious.

“We’ve got a single shot, with a contact wound to his right temple.” Gunning placed one broad hand on her shoulder, but it did nothing to calm her whirling emotions as suspicion prickled along her neck. “I’m sorry, Claudia. I know you don’t want to believe Frank could have done this. No one does.”

“He didn’t kill himself, Sarge.”

“Claudia—”

“I know Frank.”

“His own gun’s in his hand, Claudia. Don’t do this.”

“Don’t do what?” She stepped away from him. “Frank did not kill himself. There’s something not right here. Something…I don’t know what, but this just doesn’t feel right.”

She shook her head and then madly scanned the room once more. This wasn’t right. When her gaze found Frank’s body again, there was the hot sting of tears. She clenched her jaw to dam them.

“He wouldn’t do this. It’s not his way. I know him, Sarge. I know Frank.” Better than any of them did. Better than any of them even realized. He was more than just her partner. More than her best friend. Frank was her lover, the one person she cherished more than life. And now…

What am I supposed to do, Frank? Tell me what I’m supposed to do? This time, when Claudia tried to lower herself to Frank, needing to feel his warmth once more before it was gone from his body forever, Sergeant Gunning held her back. And this time, nothing could stop the tears.

CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS HER LAST SHIFT of a week on midnights. Claudia glanced up from the file on her desk and out the windows of the sixth-floor Homicide offices. At five o’clock the city hall dome was taking on the first rosy reflections of the morning sun. Her optimism grew. The squad might just make it through the night without a call. One more hour and the next shift would be in to relieve them. Then she could go home to a long-awaited and well-deserved bath, and finally to bed.

Claudia stretched. She’d been up twenty hours straight, and every muscle was stiff with fatigue. From the main office around the corner where the rest of her squad had spent the night in front of the TV, she heard the early-morning news. Again she prayed for the phone not to ring.

If memory served her, she actually had the weekend off. And she planned to make it two glorious sleep-filled days. Turning back to her desk, Claudia confirmed her schedule on the wall calendar. Had she not looked, she probably wouldn’t have taken note of the day. October 16, the anniversary of their first kiss.

It hardly seemed an entire year ago. She could still recall the scent of Frank’s aftershave. Throughout their two-year partnership in Homicide she’d smelled it on him, but on that particular night, his very ordinary aftershave had suddenly become intensely arousing. She remembered the feel of his hand and the taste of his kiss, with the subtle hint of red wine. But then, it wasn’t a kiss easily forgotten, Claudia decided as images of that initial encounter whispered through her memory. And definitely not a night easily forgotten—filled with tenderness and passion, deep love and mutual respect. And the two brief months that followed had been the best in her life.

Claudia cast her gaze to the desk abutting hers. Frank’s desk—clean, neat…empty. After ten months, it continued to be unassigned, in part because of budgetary constraints, but primarily because it remained a silent memorial. Sarge had cleared out any necessary papers, but the rest went untouched. Even the calendar blotter was still there, left at last December, as though time had stopped after Frank’s death.

But hadn’t it? Hadn’t time stopped for Claudia since that night?

She glanced at the stack of open case files on her desk. Her work had certainly gone on, even if her life hadn’t. There had been no easy answers, no real way to deal with the loss. She’d spent weeks after Frank’s death arguing with herself and with others in the unit that he wasn’t capable of suicide, that Frank Owens wasn’t a quitter. It wouldn’t have mattered how intensely Internal Affairs had hounded him with their false allegations of evidence tampering, Claudia had contended. Frank had withstood the pressure and could have continued doing so. He would have pulled through IAD’s investigation, untainted, proved innocent and, most of all, alive.

Yet, as the months slipped by and the inquiry into his death had come to a conclusion, even Claudia had begun to wonder if Frank had been a quitter. She’d wanted to believe he’d been murdered, but in the end, she’d only been wasting time and energy searching for a nonexistent killer. The final reports hadn’t lied; the facts were there in black and white—suicide.

With no evidence proving otherwise, Claudia had found herself reevaluating the superb detective she’d known, the strong man she’d loved.

Claudia looked to his desk again, the empty chair, his folded reading glasses and an unopened box of Cracker Jacks that no one would even think about touching. In a way, she blamed herself; she should have listened to Frank that last time she’d seen him, when they’d argued about IAD’s unrelenting pressure. Maybe then she would have seen the signs.

But she couldn’t hold herself entirely responsible for Frank’s suicide, Claudia thought, leaning back in her chair and closing her eyes. Internal Affairs was as much to blame—especially whoever had suspected Frank in the first place. If they’d done their job properly, the allegations would have been cleared up quickly, and the real person behind the evidence tampering would have been caught.

Instead, the department, the entire force, had let Frank take the fall. His suicide had sealed a guilty verdict in the minds of his co-workers and allowed the true perpetrator to go free.

Yes, IAD had pulled that trigger as surely as Frank had, Claudia decided long ago. And if there had been any way for her to find out exactly who had headed the inquiry into the corruption, she would have.

She’d tried early on. But from the start the IAD probe had been hush-hush. It had taken weeks of rumors before anyone even knew what it was IAD was looking into, and no one could identify the lead investigator. Not that it was general practice to publicize that kind of information. But usually with a few well placed questions to someone who knew someone else, an answer could be had. In this instance, however, Claudia had been met with nothing but closed doors and tight lips.

“Are you still alive back here?”

“Not really,” she said, her eyes shut. “You wanna call Homicide or should I?”

Tony Santoro laughed softly. Claudia heard the hard-soled click of his shoes as he crossed the room. And when she opened her eyes, she watched a playful smile brighten his usually careworn expression. After six years with the unit, there was no denying the job had taken its toll on Tony’s otherwise handsome face. Dark circles under his eyes and deepening creases along his forehead were telltale signs of the long shifts and too much overtime.

Frank had begun to take on that appearance, Claudia recalled. And when she glanced in a mirror she’d be greeted with similar features. It was definitely a hazard of the job.

Tony perched on the corner of her desk. “You do look sorta dead, Parrish. Why don’t I call it in?” he joked. “Any suspects?”

“Sure. You can start with the State’s Attorney Office.”

“Oh yeah, you had the Brown arraignment yesterday.”

Claudia nodded. “Not that it made any difference. Brown’s out on the streets right now, probably shooting someone else.”

“I heard they dismissed it. I’m sorry.”

She straightened in her chair and closed the Brown file, wondering why she’d even bothered to look at it again. Just another drug-related shooting.

“Oh well,” she said. “I guess that’s what happens when you can’t manage something as simple as maintaining a murder weapon. Without it, the State’s Attorney Office had no case.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“No? It was my investigation. The evidence was my responsibility.”

Tony moved behind her and lowered his hands to her shoulders, gently massaging out the knots of tension for her. He seemed to recognize that no words were necessary. It had been ongoing and completely random—missing or tampered-with evidence. And, according to IAD, the source wasn’t Evidence Control. Claudia wasn’t the only detective in Homicide who had fallen victim to it. Even Frank, with all his careful work, had had three cases thrown out at the arraignment stage because of lost evidence. No doubt, this had been the reason IAD had targeted Frank.

Still, for Claudia, losing a case because of “misplaced” evidence was not something she ever figured would happen to her.

Obviously aware of the topic’s sensitivity, Tony changed it. “By the way, since you’ve been holed up back here working on your files all night, I bet you didn’t know the new guy was in.”

“New guy?”

“Yeah. Monaghan.”

“I thought he was with the other shift.”

“He was until today. He switched over. Been in Sarge’s office for about three hours. Swapping war stories. Sounds like he’s got some heavy-duty experience under his belt.”

“Oh, please. Are we talking about the same guy? Just finished a stint driving the commissioner’s car?”

“Yeah, for a year. But who can blame him for taking a cushy job after eight years with DEA, and several before that with Homicide in D.C. That’s pretty heavy-duty, if you ask me.”

Claudia nodded. Obviously she’d been too buried in her own work these past few weeks to catch enough of the rumors circulating the unit.

“So I guess this means Sarge is counting on Monaghan’s vast experience to boost our clearance rates, hmm?”

“Oh, no, Detective Parrish,” Tony said with comedic flourish as he reclaimed his position on the corner of her desk. “We’ve got you to do that for us.”

Claudia gave him a sarcastic smile and started putting her files away.

“So what do you think?” Tony asked, stretching his arms over his head. “Ready to pack it in? Other squad should be here soon. Guess we’re not going to get a call now.”

His words still hung on the last shred of silence in the office before it was shattered by the warbling ring of the phone.

“Kiss of death, Tony. You do it every time,” Claudia muttered as she reached for the receiver. “Homicide. Detective Parrish.”

Sure enough, it was a call. Over the phone, Central Dispatching gave Claudia the details, and by the time she had jotted down the address, she glanced up to see Sergeant Gunning enter the room.

“All right. We’re on our way.” Hanging up, she wheeled back her chair and stood. “Five hundred block of Boston Street,” she told her sergeant. “White male. Looks to be a shooting.”

“Do you want me to take it, Sarge?” Tony asked. “I think Claudia here is running on empty.”

Under normal circumstances, Claudia would already have been out the door, but today “running on empty” hardly began to describe her exhaustion.

“No,” Gunning responded at last, scratching at what had to be two-days’ worth of stubble. “I want Claudia on this one.”

She kept her groan to herself. Then again, it wasn’t as if she couldn’t use the extra work to keep her mind off other things.

“I’m on it, Sarge.” She took her gun from her desk drawer and holstered it, shoved a fresh notepad into her jacket pocket and started for the door. “I’ll just get my coat and—”

“And take Monaghan with you,” he added.

Claudia stopped dead. “Pardon me?”

“You heard me. You’re partnering up.”

“Sarge, I haven’t partnered on a case since—”

“I know. That’s why I want you to take Monaghan.”

“Uh, Sarge,” Tony interrupted, obviously hoping to rescue Claudia. “Look, why don’t I go with Claudia on this one. We’ll get it wrapped up before breakfast and be done with it.”

Gunning shook his head. “This isn’t Claudia’s case. It’s Monaghan’s. I want you to back him up, Claudia.”

“You’re assigning Monaghan as the primary detective?” She tried to curb the disbelief in her voice. “Come on, Sarge, he’s only just started with the squad. You can’t honestly tell me that he’s ready to lead his own investigation.”

And then, as if on cue, a man stepped around the corner. He cleared his throat quietly, and Claudia felt the immediate flush of embarrassment warm her cheeks.

There was no doubt in her mind regarding the man’s identity. In fact, he even looked the part of the commissioner’s driver, so clean-cut and crisp that she could easily imagine him in some chauffeur’s monkey suit. Immediately Claudia found herself hoping Tony was right about Monaghan’s experience, because the man bore little resemblance to a seasoned detective who’d reputedly been run ragged by Drug Enforcement and Homicide.