Still of the Night Read online

  Praise for Dee Davis:

  “Fans of contemporary romantic suspense should add Ms. Davis to their list of authors to watch for.” —Romance Reviews Today

  “Dee Davis pours on the atmosphere and cranks up the danger in this terrific thriller.” —Romantic Times on After Twilight

  “Author Dee Davis is making quite a name for herself in the romantic suspense field.” —Romantic Times

  “A great romantic read from a wonderful romantic writer.”—Roundtable Reviews on Wild Highland Rose

  Still of the Night

  Dee Davis

  Still of the Night is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

  Copyright 2004 by Dee Davis Oberwetter

  All rights reserved.

  Originally published as a mass market paperback in the United States by Dorchester Publishing as part of the anthology Silent Night in 2004

  Cover design: Frauke Spanuth, Croco Design

  http://www.deedavis.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please delete it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Also by Dee Davis

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  About Dee Davis

  Also by Dee Davis:

  Romantic Suspense

  Dark Of The Night

  Dancing In The Dark

  Midnight Rain

  Just Breathe

  After Twilight

  Eye Of The Storm

  Chain Reaction

  Last Chance Series:

  Endgame

  Enigma

  Exposure

  A-Tac Series:

  Dark Deceptions

  Dangerous Desires

  Desperate Deeds

  Daring (novella)

  Deep Disclosure

  Deadly Dance

  Double Danger

  Women’s Fiction

  A Match Made on Madison

  Setup In Soho

  Time Travels

  Everything In Its Time

  The Promise

  Wild Highland Rose

  Anthologies

  Hell with the Ladies (Marcus)

  Hell on Heels (Jezebel)

  CHAPTER ONE

  New York City

  "I'll be home for Christmas...."

  Judy Garland crooned in surround-sound, and Jenny Fitzgerald resisted the urge to throw something. She’d wanted to get rid of her husband. That much was true. But not in a permanent sort of way.

  All she’d wanted was a divorce, and now Connor was dead.

  He’d never be home for Christmas again. Which made the carol all that much more of a twisted joke. Stifling a sob, Jenny threw the pants she was folding onto the bed, her gaze dropping to the envelope on the nightstand. The divorce decree.

  All it needed was a signature and it was final. Only, Connor hadn't bothered to open the envelope, and it seemed that widowhood made the point moot. Jenny grabbed the envelope and stuffed it into her purse, not sure why exactly she did so, except that she didn't want it mocking her.

  "How about a break?" Sandy Markham appeared in the doorway, her face purposefully cheerful. "I found some wine." She held up a bottle, her expression turning apologetic.

  Sandy had been Jenny's best friend since first grade. She'd helped Jenny toilet-paper Connor's house in the sixth grade, found her a date when Connor's family moved just before junior prom, celebrated their reunion in college, been maid of honor at their wedding, supported Jenny when she'd decided to leave Connor, and, two days ago, she'd stood beside her at his memorial service.

  A lifetime of memories all tied to a dead man.

  "Wine would be good." Jenny folded another shirt and laid it in the box marked for St. Ann’s.

  Sandy walked into the room, setting the bottle on the bureau. "Are you sure you should be doing this? I mean, there isn't any hurry. Surely you could wait until—"

  "Until what? I'm stronger?" Jenny crossed her arms over her chest, hugging herself.

  "Oh, honey." Sandy frowned. "I didn't mean it like that. I just hate to see you so upset."

  Jenny shrugged, picking up another shirt. "It's got to be done. Mr. Bowman's let me out of the lease, but that means the apartment has to be empty by January."

  "So at least wait until after Christmas. Or hire someone to do it."

  "I will. I just wanted to go through his personal things. I can't…” She sat down on the bed, burying her face in her hands, then pulled up, forcing a smile. "I can't stand the idea of anyone else going through them."

  Sandy wrapped an arm around her. "I understand. But we don't have to do it all in one day. Right?"

  Jenny nodded, emotionally drained. "I guess I just thought doing something would make me feel better. Accept the reality of it all. I mean, after six years as a cop's wife, you'd think I'd be used to the idea of death."

  "Death as an abstract is a lot easier to conceptualize than the real thing." Sandy sighed. "Besides, this isn't just any death. It's Connor."

  And that said it all, really. Connor Fitzgerald had been an integral part of her life, and even their impending divorce hadn't erased the memories. No matter what he'd done, Jenny still cared. His death only punctuated that fact.

  "I must have imagined something like this happening at least a million times," she said. "It's part of what drove us apart, I guess."

  "Yeah, that and Amy Whitaker." The minute the words were out Sandy ducked her head, her face white with regret. "I shouldn't have said that."

  "Why not?" Jenny asked, her insides threatening to fuse together. "It's true."

  "Yeah, but I shouldn't have brought it up. As usual, my mouth just engaged before my brain." Sandy offered a weak smile. "For what it's worth, I still really have trouble with the idea. I mean, he was so in love with you. Anyone could see that. Even afterwards—" She broke off, obviously at a loss for words.

  "Sometimes love just isn't enough." Jenny shrugged, pretending a nonchalance she didn't feel. "Besides, Amy was just the tip of the iceberg. Being with Connor was never easy, and his working Vice just made it that much harder. He was gone all the time, and he couldn't talk about his work. It just got more and more difficult to connect." She fought against old feelings of failure, pushing them aside with a sigh. "Anyway, none of it matters anymore. Connor is gone. And the past has to become just that—the past."

  "I think that's the problem," Sandy said, her gaze concerned. "It isn't over. Not really. Too much was left unsettled between the two of you. And that's what's making it so hard to accept that he's gone."

  "Maybe you're right." Jenny stood up, wiping her hands on her jeans. "You know, I keep expecting him to come through that door and yell at me for going through his things. Crazy, huh?"

  "No. Not at all. In fact, I suspect it's absolutely normal. But that doesn't make it any easier." Sandy's smile was sad. "Hey, why don't we go out for a while, have something to eat, and then we'll come b
ack here and tackle the rest?"

  "No." Jenny shook her head, squaring her shoulders. "Let's just get it done." She reached for a sweater, trying to ignore the familiar smell of Hugo Boss. "I will have that glass of wine, though. There's a screw pull in the second drawer by the sink."

  Sandy grabbed the bottle and headed for the kitchen. As soon as she was out of sight, Jenny sank back onto the bed, her thoughts in turmoil. She'd hoped that with the memorial service behind her, she'd at least feel a sense of relief. Instead, the pain seemed only to intensify. Repression was what her psychiatrist would call it.

  Heartbreak seemed a better word.

  She'd known Connor almost her whole life. Loved him. Hated him. Loved him again. And then she'd left him. But she hadn't managed to get him out of her heart. That had simply been beyond her abilities.

  Now he was gone, and she was, as usual, left behind.

  What she needed was closure. Only she wasn't going to get it. At least, not in a way that she could live with.

  The doorbell and the phone rang at the same time, and Jenny dove across the bed. She wasn't really up to talking, but better answering the phone than the door. She'd let Sandy handle that.

  She fumbled with the receiver, losing her grip on it once, then finally managed to put it to her ear. As she said hello, she heard the murmur of voices in the foyer. When it rained, it poured.

  For a minute the other end of the line was silent. Long enough that Jenny started to put the receiver back in the cradle, but the sound of static made her stop, her heart pounding in her ears.

  "Get out of there." The voice was low, almost inaudible. "Now."

  The line went dead, followed by a popping noise. Jenny glanced automatically at the window, listening for further sounds from the traffic below, her beleaguered brain finally confirming that the noise had come from the direction of her living room.

  She started to call out, but some inner voice held her silent, and she moved toward the bedroom door, holding her breath. The hallway was empty, but she could still hear voices. Masculine voices.

  She waited for Sandy to say something, the skin on her arms crawling with gooseflesh, but Sandy was silent; only the men's voices carried down the hall. As if they'd been cued, the words from the telephone caller echoed through her brain.

  Get out. ... Get out.... Get out....

  But she couldn't leave her best friend.

  Edging forward, she was careful to stay tight against the wall, telling herself that there was a perfectly logical explanation to everything. Still, better to be careful. She reached the end of the hall and stopped. Any farther and she risked being seen. Better to assess the situation first.

  Connor's voice sounded in her ear, almost as if he were there giving her instructions. Sucking in a fortifying breath, she risked a peek around the corner. Two strangers stood in front of the breakfast bar. One of them was holding a gun. Feeling as if she were watching a movie, or some surreal reenactment of a crime, Jenny's eyes fell to the floor.

  Sandy was lying in a pool of blood, eyes wide—sightless.

  Jenny clutched the wall for support, a scream rising in her throat. With a force of will she hadn't realized she possessed, she clenched her jaw, swallowing the sound. Noise was her enemy.

  Moving back, she tried to combine speed with stealth, but she managed only to trip on the rug, her hands hitting the wall with enough force to sound like a cannon. She knelt on the floor, holding her breath, praying for everything she was worth.

  A minute passed, and then another, and when no one entered the hallway she began to crawl back to the bedroom. Her mind was already planning an escape route. All she had to do was make the window and the fire escape and run like hell.

  It was doable. Despite the fact that Connor had always teased her about her lack of common sense, she had a good head on her shoulders, and with that and a little luck she'd get out of this alive. She hoped.

  "It's not in here," one of the men called to the other, his footsteps sounding absurdly loud against the parquet floor. "I'm gonna check the other room."

  Terror held Jenny frozen for a moment, her mind refusing to acknowledge that danger was approaching. A new appreciation for deer caught in headlights flashed through her brain. Then the terror bit into her, her adrenaline rushed, and she sprang to her feet, scrambling for the bedroom.

  She skirted the bed, grabbing her purse in the process, her hip slamming into the bedside table. Ignoring the pain, she slung the purse onto her shoulder, commando style, and reached up to flip the lock on the window, praying that it would open silently.

  Behind her, she could hear the man's footsteps in the hallway. Just seconds to go until he rounded the corner. Cursing her lack of strength and the fact that they'd never had the window repaired, she worked to jerk it upward, feeling it give inch by inch. Slowly. Too slowly.

  "What the hell?"

  Despite herself, Jenny shot a look over her shoulder. The man in the doorway was reaching for his gun. Grabbing a pillow, she swung back to the window, hitting it with the full force of her hand. Even with the protection of fiberfill she could feel the shattering glass, shards of it cutting her arm.

  A hiss followed by more shattered glass got her moving again. The stranger had shot at her. She pushed her body through the window, pillow first. She landed on the fire escape with a clatter of metal and broken glass, and rolled to her feet, another bullet ricocheting off the railing.

  With panic born of terror, Jenny sprinted across the landing to the ladder, her feet finding purchase as her brain struggled to find sense among madness. She swung around the ladder onto the next landing, and heard the gunman hitting the grating above her. Slamming herself back against the brick wall, she edged forward. Another bullet hit the exposed metal rail.

  Frozen, the sound of her pursuer sent Jenny into motion again. She slid down the next ladder, her feet hardly hitting the rungs, and dashed across the third landing, pushing a potted tree over in an attempt to slow her enemy. As the third ladder disappeared behind her and she rounded the corner to start the fourth, she heard the man above give a muffled curse.

  Score one for the deer.

  The fifth landing was the last, the sliding ladder leading to the ground her final means of escape. She swung onto it, waiting for her weight to send it toward the ground, but nothing happened. Holding tightly to the sides, she wished for once that she weighed more than a hundred and ten pounds. The ladder refused to budge, the telltale signs of rust mocking her actions. She glanced across at the darkened window of the second-floor apartment. It was shut tightly against the frigid air, the closed blinds making it look even more forbidding.

  Still, it was her only chance.

  She moved to step back onto the landing just as the gunman rounded the corner, his expression deadly, the gleam of his gun in the lamplight even more so.

  Stifling a scream, Jenny clambered back onto the ladder and pushed downward for everything she was worth. The damn thing still refused to move, and the man above her drew closer, his mouth cracking into a smile.

  He leveled his gun, and Jenny considered jumping. The pavement below might hurt, but at least it offered a thread of hope. She leaned out from the ladder, her weight shifting as she prepared to leap.

  She heard the report of the gun and an accompanying groan. For a moment she thought it was her own; then she realized the sound came from the ladder. Her movement, or maybe serendipity, had loosened the rust, and she slid noisily toward the ground—her assailant's latest bullet hitting nothing but air.

  In seconds she was on the ground and running up Fifty-eighth toward Third Avenue and the Christmas crowds. If the man followed her there, it was unlikely he'd be able to shoot. All she had to do was lose herself in the people.

  The street was unusually quiet, and her footsteps echoed in her ears, accompanied by the tympanic sound of her assailant's heavier tread. Not daring to look back, she ran on, zigging back and forth across the sidewalk like a drunk, some latent m
emory about escaping gunfire urging her on. Connor's voice was again playing in her head.

  Run, Jenny. Run.

  She staggered onto Third, her breath coming in ragged gasps. One block more and she'd be at Bloomingdale's. The crowd was already streaming around her, protecting her as they jostled along, unaware of her plight.

  It was tempting to grab a stranger and ask for help, but adrenaline kept Jenny moving. There was safety in distance, and that was what mattered right now. Once she was safe, she could call for help.

  The light changed and the crowd surged across the street. Jenny moved with it, the sounds of New York at Christmas assailing her from all sides, taunting her with the reality that amid the supposed joy of the season, her life was unraveling. Her husband and best friend were dead. And somewhere behind her, a man with a gun wanted her dead, too.

  She pushed through the door of Bloomingdale's and past the army of women spraying perfume. Just a few steps more and she'd be at the elevator.

  Her mind fixed on the safety of the fourth-floor ladies' bathroom. It was always crowded, but particularly at Christmas. There was safety in crowds; that much she was certain of. And the bathroom would be even better. No man, not even a gunman, would dare to follow her there. Not into a crowd.

  She slid inside the elevator, pressing her back against the wall, waiting as harried shoppers pushed forward to fill the metal box. A tall man in black was the last on, and her heart accelerated, panic threatening again. But her brain intervened with the knowledge that it wasn't the same man. This one was taller and thinner.