Devious - Lisa Jackson [180]
“Did I mention that this was a bad idea?” Slade said as they ducked beneath a velvet rope and slipped quietly along the hallway leading away from the gym.
“Only about a thousand times.”
“Make it a thousand and one, okay?”
“Duly noted.” She hurried around a corner to the staircase, which, of course, was locked. “Damn,” she said, pounding a fist upon the door. She’d thought—well, hoped really—that it would be easier than this. Of course, she’d figured that might not be the case.
“Okay, let’s take that as a sign.”
“To give up?” She was shaking her head no way. “Maybe the door at the south end . . .” But what were the chances? The grounds were locked tight. Disgusted, she let out a frustrated sigh. “I know this might not be a big deal to you,” she said, disappointed, “but it is to me. I think that somewhere in the archives down there”—she hooked a thumb at the basement door—“is the answer to a dozen questions about myself and about Camille, maybe even a clue as to who killed her. I tried going through the church, and Sister Georgia stonewalled me. And if you tell me to talk to the police, it will take forever. By that time, this place could be a pile of rubble.”
“The archdiocese won’t destroy the records,” he argued, but she saw him wavering.
“Not on purpose, maybe, but someone definitely doesn’t want me to know the truth.” She leaned her head back against the panels of the door. “Oh, hell,” she muttered, and Slade touched her on the shoulder.
“I’ve got a Pomeroy lock-pick set in my truck.”
“Not on you?” But she felt a rush of adrenaline; they could actually get through this blocked passage.
“No.” His grin was a slash of white. “I really didn’t think I’d need one.”
“You were wrong.”
“Again, apparently.” He shook his head. “I’ll go get it and will be back in ten minutes, so don’t go anywhere.”
“I won’t.”
“I don’t know . . .” He glanced nervously down the darkened hall.
“I’m here with five hundred people and police everywhere,” she said, reading the worry in his eyes. “And I was a cop.”
“Was being the operative word in that sentence. And you don’t have a weapon.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Why do I think I’m making a mistake?” he muttered, then to her surprise grabbed her around the waist, drew her tight against him, and pressed anxious lips to hers.
When he lifted his head, he rested his forehead on hers. His breathing was as ragged as her own, his heart beating hard enough that she could feel its restless cadence.
“You think you’re making a mistake,” she said breathlessly, trying to make light of the situation, “because you’re the husband. That’s what husbands do.”
“Yeah, right.” He snorted his disbelief and pulled the pistol from the waistband of his pants. “Take this.”
“We’re at a charity event at an orphanage, for God’s sake!”
“And you’re chasing a killer.”
“You didn’t think you’d need lock picks, but you thought a gun might come in handy?”
He glowered at her and pressed the .38 into her palm. It felt good. Solid. Reminded her of her days as a detective. “Take it, or I won’t go.”
“Fine!” She tucked the gun into her purse.
“Use it if you have to.”
“I won’t have to.”
He wasn’t listening to any excuses. “You owe me, wife.” He pulled away and started jogging for the main doors. Tall and athletic, his jacket flapping, his boot heels ringing in the hallways, he disappeared around a corner.
“Oh, don’t I know it,” she whispered, her heart twisting a little.
Sister Charity slipped from the gymnasium after the bidding had begun on a premier item, a trip for two to Las Vegas. That’s what all her devotion and sacrifice had come to; it felt like pawning Jesus for “two fabulous days and nights” in Sin City, an