“That’s notpossible. My father was a God-fearing man. He would never take hisown life.”
Eyes narrowed, Dwyer rightedhimself. “If I had a dime for every ‘God-fearing person’who ended themselves during the onset of the Depression, I’d berich as J.D. Rockafella.”
“My father isn’t…Imean my father wasn’t like most people,” Celesteinsisted. “You see—”
Dwyerslammed his arm down on the desk, fist upright. “No, you seehere. Your father committed suicide.” His thumb shot out fromhis enclosed fist. “For starter, there was no forced entry.”His index and middle fingers followed. “Your father didn’thave any enemies…he was cash poor.” His ringer shadowedthe other three. “And we only found his fingerprints on thegun.”
Despite being slammed withthe cold hard facts, Celeste wasn’t ready to give up. Even ifshe had to revisit her horrible childhood, the detective needed toknow he’d erred in his investigation.
Celeste leaned forward, asteady stream of questions she’d prepared earlier on her lips. But she was forestalled when Dwyer picked up the police report andshoved it toward her.
“If there isn’tanything else,” he said rather matter-of-fact, “I gottawrite up reports for a dozen other cases before I find my tail in asling.”
Celesteblinked. Was he sending her packing? But she had too manyquestions, which needed answering! A seasoned performer since the ageof fifteen, she possessed a skin rivaling an alligator’s and astubbornness inherited from her father. And no taciturn, shady copperwould dispel her doubts or prevent her from discovering the truth.
“You have to under—”
Dwyer cuther off, “Goodday,Miss Newsome.”
Dismissed not once, buttwice Celeste choked. As she struggled to regroup, he continued, “Ihope you can find your way out.”
Even though Dwyer hadforgotten his manners, she had not, “Thank you for your time,detective.”
Feeling as if in a fog, andsuddenly parched, Celeste pushed to her feet. With shaking fingers,she picked up her father’s police report and placed it in herpurse.
Barely cognizant of hersurroundings, Celeste retraced her path down three flights of stairsthrough memory alone. But by the time her feet hit the sidewalk, shewavered. Sweat beaded her upper lip and her hands were shakingviolently.
Celeste glanced up GoldStreet and the twenty-block walk south back to Fort Green suddenlyturned into an insurmountable exodus without reinforcements. Ofcourse, she could hail a cab, but by the time she got back to Trudy’sapartment she would probably be a wreck.
She stood on the curb anddeliberated a few seconds more then turned about and headed in theopposite direction. If she walked to the end of the block, turnedeast, she’d run into Young Turks, a seedy cocktail loungelocated on the cusp of Fort Green. The bar had been a favorite diveof Armand Illy, a French Algerian trumpeter who’d dragged herthere more times than she cared to remember because the placereminded him of home.
Celeste didn’tparticularly care for the place’s red lighting, wood-paneledwalls and furniture. The latter was hell on the behind after a longbender. But the bartender was liberal with the sauce. And right nowshe needed a stiff one.
Whatabout her date with Shane? Celeste flipped her wrist and noted thetime. Only half past two, she still had time to spare.
Celesteput her feet in motion. One drink couldn’t hurt.
CHAPTER Nine
Shanerefused to pace.
Even in street clothes, healways followed the fighter’s cardinal rule: never let youropponent see you sweat.
Shane rolled his shoulders,self-directed anger coursing through him. He had no one to blame, buthimself. What he’d done had been ungentlemanly. He’dforced her hand and manipulated her just so he could see her again.And now he was warming a city corner alone and suffering from guilt.
The guilt wasn’tanything new, Shane conceded.
Ever since that night it hadbecome a constant companion, gnawing at his conscience.
It was also the primaryreason he’d wanted to meet Celeste outside his gym instead ofher father’s store.
Shane felt the familiar kickin the gut. He’d practically been a regular at Newsome’sSugar Sweets. He’doften pitched in as soda jerk when things got too busy for theReverend. Shane figured he’d spent just as many hours behindthe counter as he did at the Navy Yard Athletic Club.
Now he avoided the formerlike the plague.
Shane’s balled hisfist. He deserved to burn in hell for what he’ddone. Correction…for what he didn’t do. And now he wasonly adding to his sin by courting the Reverend’s daughter.
So why take the low roadnow? What was it about that broad? Why couldn’t he be thebetter man and leave her alone? Because ever since he laid eyes onher all he could think about was sucking on those luscious lips ofhers, caressing her skin and licking from her delicate ear lobes toher toes.
With a muttered curse, Shanethrew in the towel. Notonly the round but the entire card belongedto her. Obviously,he and she weren’t meant to be.
They were from two differentworlds. She was too refined for him, a famous showgirl who probablyhad egg and butter men vying for her attentions at every corner. Shane had money—he’d socked all of his prize money awayover the years—but he didn’t have the class that camewith it. Right now he wouldn’t be surprised if she found dirtunder his nails.
“Face it kid, sheain’t going to get off that pedestal for you.” Notcompletely, he mused. Oh, she might have fun slumming it, but broadslike that always remembered their place. And it wasn’t withhim.
Shane scratched the back ofhis head. In all honesty he’d wished the circumstances weredifferent. This one had done a number on him.
Giving up his illusions andcursing a mad blue streak a
