Same Place, Same Time

CHAPTER TWO

MORGAN LOOKED OVER Trista’s shoulder into the metal box. “Are you sure your secretary kept the key here?”

“Of course I am.”

“Does anyone else have access to it?” Morgan asked, undaunted.

“This is a small practice. There’s only Brenda and me.”

“Well, what about when Brenda goes for lunch or to the washroom—does she lock the drawer?”

Trista felt her patience snap. “We keep a fifty-dollar petty-cash supply in there, Morgan. Hardly a fortune.”

He ignored her flare-up. “So any one of your clients might have had the opportunity to take that key?”

Trista bristled further at his assumption. “Why does it have to be one of my clients? Perhaps it was a deliveryperson, or a courier. Why, even the young man who comes in every week to water our plants could have found that key as easily as any of my clients.”

“That’s a good point. Why don’t you make a list of all the deliverypeople, etcetera, that you’ve had through the office in the past few weeks?”

Trista sighed. She was sorry now that she’d ever mentioned anything about the noises she thought she’d heard. “Isn’t this a lot of fuss for a simple office break-in? Especially when nothing has been stolen?”

“You know darn well I wouldn’t go to these lengths for a simple break and enter.” Morgan’s eyes flashed dangerously.

Trista was silent for a moment before asking, “You really think someone was after the Walkers’ file? That there’s a connection with the murder?”

“I do.”

His blunt answer shook her as much as anything else had that night. She didn’t need these problems in her life.

“Well, I don’t.”

“Really? You don’t find it suspicious that someone has been nosing around in your files just one day after your client was murdered?”

“Ever heard of coincidences?”

“Heard of them, but I don’t believe in them. And if you thought about it, I think you’d agree with me. You’re just so anxious to get me out of your office you can’t think straight.”

Trista looked away. Yes, he was right. She did want to get him out of her office. Their past was an emotional minefield capable of blowing them both to bits. “This is doing neither of us any good.”

“I agree. But unfortunately, I have a job to do. Now, would you please check your office and make sure the Walker file is still there.”

Biting back a sarcastic comment on the virtual immobility of a manila folder, Trista left the reception area and went back to her office, scooping the slender file with the Walker label from the out basket on her desk. While she was at it, she slipped the cassettes from the Walkers’ two most recent sessions into the file. When she returned, she saw Morgan’s attention focus on the file and realized that he was interested in more than making sure the file was here. He held out his hand expectantly, but she ignored it.

“This is confidential information, Morgan. You know that.”

“Goddammit, Trista! This isn’t some stupid university-ethics course.”

Trista’s memory provided her with an instant flashback. It was early spring, just about this time of year. They were in university and Morgan was sitting against the trunk of a large maple tree, quizzing her on professional-ethics scenarios from one of her psychology courses. The air had smelt rich and sweet with the spring’s new growth and Morgan’s smile had made it very hard to concentrate on finals, even though they’d only been days away.

As quickly as the memory came, it was gone, leaving her with a dull aching sensation of sadness and loss. They’d been such kids back then, with no idea of the trials ahead of them.

“This is a murderer we’re dealing with, Trista. And that murderer could have been the person who was in your office tonight. Doesn’t that worry you?”

Trista swallowed. She hadn’t thought of it quite that way. “That doesn’t excuse me from releasing confidential information. Especially when you have no evidence that the information in these files could be useful.”

“Who says I don’t? You know as well as I do that’s an issue for the courts to decide. Anyway, Jerry Walker is dead. What does his confidentiality mean to him now?”

“He may be dead, but his wife isn’t.” Trista spoke defiantly, but she recognized the determined look in Morgan’s eyes. If he wanted to be stubborn about this, she knew he could apply to the courts for access to her files. Whether it would be permitted or not was another question. If possible, the whole situation was one she’d rather avoid.

“Look, I’ll go over the file tonight. If I see anything that might be pertinent, and if it’s something that can be revealed without compromising my clients, I’ll tell you.” She offered the concession, hoping Morgan would be satisfied.

But he just shook his head. “I don’t mean to question your intelligence, but what makes you think you’re in a position to judge what might or might not be pertinent to this case? Come on, Trista. If you won’t let me take the file, at least let me look through it here. You can watch, if you like.”

“You know I can’t do that! Why are you being so stubborn? I’m trying to cooperate. If you insist, I’ll review the file right now.”

Morgan looked at her bleakly. He knew she was acting in accordance with her legal responsibilities. Which put him in a pretty weak bargaining position. “Oh, damn it to hell, Trista. I guess if that’s the way you want to play it…”

“It is.”

“Okay then. But we’ll do it tomorrow, after you’ve had some rest.”

The understanding in his words was not reflected in his expression, which was full of the anger and bitterness she’d seen when he first walked in the door. As for leaving this for tomorrow—Trista knew it was wise, but the idea of unfinished business, of having to face him again…

“I’d rather get it over with tonight.”

“No. It’s too late.” Morgan turned from her. She could see the stiff set of his shoulders, feel the anger radiating from him.

She bit down on her lower lip. This was as hard on him as it was on her. She shouldn’t forget that part of it. After gathering her briefcase and jacket, she walked over to the master control and began switching off the lights.

Morgan met her in the hall, watching as she locked the main door behind her. “Tomorrow you should have your secretary check more thoroughly to make sure nothing’s missing. And have the locks changed.”

She nodded. They rode the elevator together, and paused at the outside door.

“See you tomorrow then,” she said, waiting for him to walk away from her.

But he didn’t budge from her side. “I’d like to drive you home.”

“Really, Morgan. This is getting to be a little much. You know how safe the Toronto subway system is.”

Stubbornly he stood beside her. “I’d feel better if I saw you safely to your door.”

What about her? She definitely wouldn’t feel better with him beside her. “Do you really think it’s necessary to be so cautious?”

He turned to face her, his eyes bleak. “When you’re dealing with a murderer, it never hurts to be cautious.”

“THIS IS IT.” Trista pointed out a low-rise brick apartment building with bay windows and small, square balconies with white wooden railings. Across the street, the newly budding trees that bordered the northern boundary of High Park stretched long, twisting branches into the blue-black sky. The park, which covered several hundred acres, represented sanctuary to Trista. The man sitting beside her represented quite the opposite.

“I know,” Morgan said as they pulled into a rare parking spot in front of the building.

The moment he stopped, Trista had her hand on the door handle. Quickly she turned to say goodbye, only to be faced with the back of his leather jacket as he stepped out of the car.

He was at her door and helping her out of the passenger seat before she was able to say, “I’m fine, really. There’s no need to fuss.”

His hand on her arm was familiar, and oddly enticing. Trista’s reaction frightened her and she pulled away, earning a look of pure scorn. He made no attempt to touch her again, however, as she led the way up the sidewalk and unlocked the security door to her building. When he held the door open for her, she once again prepared to say goodbye, only to find him following behind her.

“Really, Morgan. I should be just fine from here.”

The ground beneath them trembled as a train passed through the underground subway that ran along Bloor Street. In the pale light of the apartment lobby, Trista could see Morgan’s mouth form a determined line.

“I’m not doing this for the fun of it. You obviously prefer to risk facing a murderer in your apartment than five more minutes of my company. Or perhaps it hadn’t occurred to you that if someone was desperate enough to search your office, they might also be desperate enough to search your home? That they might actually be in there right now?”

Trista drew a quick breath. He was just trying to frighten her. Wasn’t he? Still, she didn’t protest as he followed her up the stairs to her apartment. Nor did she question that he knew exactly which door was hers. She handed over her key to his waiting hand and watched as he first listened at the door, then turned the key in the lock.

“Wait here for a minute while I look things over.”

It was as dramatic as the movies, but she complied, staying in the hallway while he conducted a search of her apartment. It was a full five minutes before he reappeared at the door.

“It looks okay.”

She could hear the relief in his voice. “Of course it’s okay,” she said matter-of-factly, trying to keep her own fear out of her voice. They traded positions. Now he stood in the hall, and she in the apartment, her hand on the door, eager to close it and to wipe the image of him from both her eyes and her mind.

“I’ll come by your office tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “Around four.”

She nodded. “Fine.” She tried to close the door, but his hand forestalled her.

“What about the file?” he asked, his eyes on the briefcase in her hand.

She didn’t understand what he was getting at. “It’s in here,” she said, lifting her black leather bag.

Impatience creased his forehead. “I realize that. But do you have a safe?”

“No, I don’t. But I really don’t think—”

“Then let me take it. I do. If someone broke into your office today to get their hands on the file, then it’s much too important to leave lying around.”

Trista shook her head in a slow, exaggerated motion. “Definitely not.”

He leaned against the wooden door frame. “Why? Don’t you trust me? Afraid I’ll read the file when you’re not looking?”

“I just don’t think a safe is necessary.”

“Since when did you become the expert on crime?”

Okay, he had a point. Trista opened her briefcase and took out everything but the Walker file. Closing the metal clasp, she spun the combination wheel, knowing the small lock would hardly keep Morgan out if he decided he wanted in. But he wouldn’t do that. At least, the man she remembered wouldn’t. She was beginning to realize there was a big difference between the two. The knowledge that part of that was her fault flooded her with guilt.

“Take it,” she said, suddenly not caring if he did decide to break in. What were professional ethics compared to what she owed this man?

He eased the handle out of her hands, gently. “I won’t open it, Trista.” His voice was suddenly, heartbreakingly, soft. “You can trust me.”

Reaching her other hand to an itch on her cheek, Trista felt the dampness of a tear. Ashamed, embarrassed of her own weakness, she closed the door between them without another word. After turning the dead bolt firmly into place, she leaned against the cold steel of the door and listened to the sound of his footsteps fading as he walked down the hall. She could feel her throat tighten and she swallowed hard, willing the tears to stop before they had a chance to get out of control.

She needed something to calm her down. She went to the kitchen and picked up the kettle. Hand shaking, she tried to hold it steady under the stream of water from the faucet. Water sprayed over the stainless-steel sides, spotting the sink and surrounding counter area. The cold metal hissed when she placed it on the burner.

Why did this have to happen? Why? Why? The quiet refrain pounded in her head as she waited for the water to boil. Why would someone murder Jerry Walker? Could it have been the woman he was having an affair with? Had Nan known he was having an affair? She must have suspected, yet neither one of them had mentioned anything in their sessions. Was it possible Morgan was right and there was a connection between the murder and what had happened in her office tonight? If so, what was it?

Trista frowned, thinking of the professional dilemma she was facing. As the Walkers’ counselor, she was bound to keep her clients’ information confidential. If there truly was information in her files that could help bring Walker’s murderer to justice, however, morally she would feel bound to reveal it.

Trista thought back over the past sessions she’d held with the Walkers. She couldn’t think of a single fact that might help Morgan in his investigation. Of course, she’d have to review her notes to make certain. With any luck she’d find nothing and then she wouldn’t have to worry about the issue of confidentiality. Assuming Morgan believed her, that was.

Morgan. Trust him to insist on keeping the file at his place. Always playing the role of the protector. She felt her stomach twist into knots at the thought. Not that she didn’t trust him with the file, because she did. It was knowing that she would be talking to him and seeing him again that made her so anxious. He’d been right in what he’d said to her tonight. She would almost prefer taking her chances with the murderer to facing Morgan again.

As the kettle began to whistle, claiming her attention, she found that same refrain repeating itself in her head. Why? Why? Only this time she pondered not Walker’s death, but the great misfortune that, of all the detectives in the Toronto police force, Morgan Forester had been the one assigned to this case.

MORGAN LAY NAKED between his cool, white cotton sheets, unable to sleep despite his state of near exhaustion. God, how he hated her! And he hadn’t even realized it until he’d seen her standing there at her office door, still so beautiful, elegant and slim, with fiery hair that contradicted her frosty demeanor. Her ivory skin had whitened at the sight of him, her eyes had looked more green than brown as she stared at him in shocked dismay. Not that he’d expected her to welcome him…but did she have to look at him as if he was a serial killer or something? Talk about adding insult to injury. It had taken all of his self-control to mask his fury, to resist the urge to grab her by those frail shoulders and shake some sense into her.

As for her, she was obviously far from pleased at having him suddenly drop back into her life, but that was her problem. How did she think he felt about it? Did she imagine he wanted to have to work with her? Anger rose like bile in his throat, and he clenched his fists beneath the light covers. There was nothing to be gained by letting the situation get to him. It wasn’t her fault her client had been murdered, any more than it was his fault he’d been assigned to the case. There was nothing either one of them could do about the circumstances, so they’d just have to make the best of it.

He thought about the break-in at her office and wondered if the Walker file had been the motive behind it. Trista didn’t want to think so, but he was convinced there was a connection. And since the intruder hadn’t managed to find the file, it was certainly possible he might try Trista’s home next. He felt his gut twist at the thought. Ironic that as much as he hated her, he still felt this need to protect her.

Protect her. What a laugh. He’d noticed that she hadn’t liked that he knew things about her. Like her phone number and address, where she worked, the hours she kept. She probably thought he’d found all that out tonight, when he’d learned of her involvement in the case.

But he’d always known. Whether she liked it or not, he had kept tabs on her, and would continue to do so. Despite everything else, he still felt it was his duty.

The file, locked in his safe, called to him. He longed to read it. Not only to check whether there was any information pertinent to the case, but because of its link to Trista. He found himself hungry for the sight of her strong, slanted script. For comments and thoughts she might have written that could shed some light on her own thoughts and opinions. Was she happy? Did she ever think of him? Were there regrets…?

Morgan turned, pulling the top sheet with him over to the other side of the bed. He wouldn’t look at the file—and it wasn’t the locked briefcase that was stopping him—so why was he torturing himself thinking about it? And more important, why was it that after three years, just the sight of her had his emotions tied up in knots?

This was a case like any other. And she was just another witness. As long as he remembered to keep things in their proper perspective, he’d be okay. He had to believe that, or he’d go crazy.

“I SUPPOSE WE WERE as happy as the average couple.” Nan Walker crossed and then uncrossed her legs, obviously uncomfortable with Morgan’s questions about her marriage.

They were sitting in her living room, she in a tall wingback chair, Morgan across from her on an overstuffed love seat. In her early forties, Nan looked the part of a mourning widow in a black wool dress, dark stockings and black high-heeled shoes.

Nan Walker was attractive, with even features, and expensively styled hair. But all that black made her look washed-out and dull—an impression furthered by her body language and voice. An aura of uncertainty and self-consciousness surrounded the woman. As she spoke she wrung her hands, and Morgan noted her fingernails were bitten to the quick.

She must have noticed him looking. She said quickly, as if ashamed, “It’s a bad habit I’ve had since I was a girl.”

Bit of a mouse. Morgan jotted his notes in the steno pad he usually carried in his breast pocket. He’d begun a new page, starting up after the notes he’d written at Trista’s office last night. Trista. Now he shifted uncomfortably in his chair, remembering his sleepless night and the look of her dark, empty windows when he’d driven past her apartment that morning on his way to work.

He’d been going to offer her a ride to her office, but she’d already left. He guessed she took the subway to Spadina, then caught the streetcar to King. With the hours she kept, he wondered why she bothered with a home address. She might as well set up a cot in the corner by her desk.

Across from him, Nan squirmed distressfully. He remained silent, knowing that eventually she’d feel compelled to fill the awkward silence.

“We have—I mean had—” she stumbled over the tense as people in these situations often did “—the business, and of course our son, Jason. We’d built a life together.”

“Jason’s in university, is that right?”

Nan sat a little higher in her chair. “Yes. He’s taking summer courses at Queen’s University, in Kingston. He’s studying business administration even though he swore to his father that he wasn’t interested in taking over the family business.” Nan’s smile faded a little at this.

Family dispute over son taking over the business. “And how do you feel about your son getting involved with the hardware stores?”

“Oh, I’d like it, of course. It would keep him here, close to home. I’d certainly see him more. But he has to do what makes him happy.”

Right. The answer was a little too pat. Morgan briefly wondered exactly what family problems she was attempting to smooth over before he went on to his next question. “He’s coming home?”

“Tonight.” Her face brightened at the thought. “He may withdraw from his courses so he can help me sort out the estate.”

Adores her son. “Perhaps you could ask him to contact me when he gets in.”

A frown creased Nan’s forehead. “Is that necessary?”

“Routine questioning. Nothing to worry about.” They’d already confirmed that Jason Walker had been in class at the approximate time of his father’s death. And Kingston was several hours by car from Toronto.

Likewise, Nan Walker had an alibi. She’d been at work in the hardware store on Queen Street all day, except for a half-hour lunch break. As the motel was a good twenty minutes from the store, it seemed unlikely that Nan could have done her husband in rather than order a tuna on whole wheat as she’d claimed to do. Further solidifying her alibi was that the clerk from the diner remembered preparing the sandwich—apparently, requesting mustard on tuna was a little unusual.