One More Valentine

  v1.5

  July 2007

  One More Valentine

  Anne Stuart

  "This is a bad idea."

  "Why?" Helen asked, her voice brave.

  "Because I'll be gone tomorrow," Rafferty replied. "And you'd be alone, figuring you'd been a fool."

  "No. I wouldn't." Helen sat up, slowly. "Don't you know that people spend a lot more time regretting the things they don't do, and not the things they do?"

  "Helen, you're not the type for a one-night stand. You're the kind of woman who needs commitment, who needs tenderness and a future. I can't give you any of that."

  "Why am I trying to talk you into this?" she asked. "Isn't it supposed to be the other way around?"

  He made himself touch her, just to prove that he could, cupping her face with his hands. "Lady," he said, "I'll break your heart."

  "My heart, Rafferty? Or is it your own you're worried about?"

  "I have no heart, Helen. No heart to break."

  "Prove it."

  * * *

  contents

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 Epilogue

  * * *

  Published February 1993

  ISBN 0-373-16473-4

  ONE MORE VALENTINE

  Copyright © 1993 by Anne Kristine Stuart Ohlrogge.

  All rights reserved.

  Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  Printed in U.S.A.

  * * *

  To Julie Kistler, who provided me with the legal and Chicago-area expertise. Any mistakes are entirely her fault. Love ya, Julie.

  This is a work of fiction based on the events of the morning of February 14, 1929, in an old garage in Chicago. The names and lives of the victims have been changed; the details of the massacre are essentially correct.

  Chapter One

  ^ »

  Helen Emerson sat bolt upright in bed and screamed. No sooner had the sound vanished in the darkness than she clapped her hands over her mouth, as if to call back the shriek of unbelieving horror. A moment later she groped for the bedside lamp, turning it on, banishing the ghosts into the darkness where they belonged. She drew her hand back and noticed that it was trembling.

  She swung her legs over the side of the bed and shook her head. Five-thirty in the morning, and she couldn't remember her dream. Couldn't remember the horrific nightmare that had torn her from sleep, and she wasn't sure she wanted to. A few lingering impressions drifted through the back of her mind. A roaring kind of noise, one she couldn't place. And the sound of a dog barking.

  She shook her head and ran a hand through her shoulder-length brown hair. She prided herself on being a practical woman, at least when anyone else was looking, and a nightmare was simply a nightmare.

  But this wasn't the first time she'd had it. There was no way to know whether the same dream had haunted her those other times—she simply didn't remember anything about them. But there was a constant—the thunderous noise, like a thousand drumbeats. And the eerie howling of a dog.

  Pushing herself off the bed, she tugged her oversize T-shirt down and wandered into her kitchen. She plugged in the coffeemaker, then stared unseeingly at the calendar. Friday the thirteenth. No wonder she was having nightmares.

  She stared out into the early-morning light. February had to be the bleakest month of all, particularly in a city like Chicago. The wind whipped off the lake, freezing everyone to the bone, and the whole world seemed gray and desolate. In another month and a half things would start blossoming. For now not even the silly specter of Valentine's Day could lighten Helen's heart.

  She couldn't wait for the coffee. She poured herself a cup as the coffee continued to splash down onto the burner, then wandered into the living room of her apartment. She loved this old building, and her apartment in particular. After decades of decay, 1322 Elm Street was finally part of urban renewal, and Helen was doing her part to bring the venerable old place back into shape. It had once been one of the most elegant town houses in Chicago, but years of neglect had taken their toll, until the place had sat derelict, waiting for someone with enough energy and money to save it.

  On an assistant prosecutor's salary Helen was hardly possessed of the money, but she had energy to spare. There was no distracting man in her life, no one to bring her valentines and chocolate tomorrow, no one she'd send a card to. She would lavish her love on her funky old building, as always.

  No, scratch that. Her brothers would probably send her valentines. They missed the point of the entire celebration. And come to think of it, she'd already mailed valentines to each of her seven nieces and nephews. Maybe she should just forget what February fourteenth stood for and concentrate on chocolate.

  At least it was on a Saturday this year. She wouldn't have to deal with all the forced merriment at work, the arch comments, the little games. Besides, she wasn't feeling very jovial about her job right now. Then again, there wasn't much about her job to make a person cheerful. Dealing with criminals wasn't conducive to optimism.

  She took another deep sip of her coffee, wondering if there was any way she could get out of going to work today. Call in sick, call in depressed. Everyone needs a mental health day now and then—surely Friday the thirteenth would qualify as a good enough reason. Then she'd have another two days to come to a decision about Billy Moretti.

  But she was a responsible woman, and two days wouldn't make any difference. She was a prosecutor, albeit a minor level one, and Billy Moretti had broken the law. It was her job to make sure he paid for it. Even if it felt as if she were kicking a helpless puppy.

  She walked through the apartment, turning on every light in defiance of her electricity bill. It was going to be a cold, blustery day, gray and depressing, and she needed all the light she could get. Maybe she'd get to work early, face up to the Moretti case and any other bit of unpleasantness and then escape in the early afternoon. Treat herself to an elegant, late lunch, maybe even go shopping. When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping. Surely she could find something to waste money on. Even if she had to succumb to her shameful weakness for old movies that she could just as easily tape off television.

  She drained her coffee, shivering in the cool air, and headed for the bathroom. A long hot shower would clear her head, wake her up, help her face the day. But as she stood under the pelting streams of water, she thought she could hear the thundering drumbeats in the distance. And the mournful howl of a dog.

  James Sheridan Rafferty leaned against the old brick building and closed his eyes. He remembered the first time he'd turned up back here, and the horror that had swept through him. He remembered the time he'd come back to find the garage torn down, rubble in its place.

  Damn, he was cold. His feet were freezing, the wind was whipping through his old overcoat and he had no gloves. He shoved his hands into his pockets, shivering, reveling in the physical sensations. He was hungry. He was cold. He was horny.

  He opened his eyes, pulling the crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket, the one Mary Moretti had handed him, her eyes wide and pleading. Back in Chicago for only a few hours and his short stay was already tied up.


  He shouldn't regret it. He'd always been fond of Billy Moretti. Of all of them, he was the one who least deserved his fate. He was only a kid, and a good one at that. Young enough to make mistakes. Old enough to learn from them, and go on. If he got another chance.

  Mary had looked terrified, and no wonder. She was nineteen years old, more than a little pregnant and her husband was looking at some hard time in Joliet prison. The only man she could turn to was James Sheridan Rafferty, and she was frightened of him. Not that he could blame her. He scared a lot of people, a fact that seldom bothered him. It was something about his stillness. Something about his eyes. Something about who he was, that people never quite understood but instinctively suspected. And recoiled from.

  Just as Mary Moretti recoiled from him. But not when her beloved Billy was in danger. For Billy's sake she'd face the devil himself if she had to. And he could tell by the panic in her dark eyes that she considered he was a definite candidate for the job of Satan.

  How could he tell her no? So what if he only had forty-eight hours in Chicago? Forty-eight hours into which he had to cram an entire year of living? He was learning responsibility, even if it was taking decades to sink in. He was learning to care about the other guy. Billy had stood by him, more times than he could remember. He had no choice but stand by him.

  He glanced down at the piece of paper, written in Mary's spidery handwriting. Helen Emerson. Assistant State's Attorney.

  He shook his head. He could never get over that. A woman prosecutor. Hell, she might even have a male secretary. The world had gotten screwy.

  He took a cigarette from the crumpled pack in his coat pocket and lit it, cupping his hands around the wooden match to keep it out of the wind. His first cigarette in a year, and it tasted wonderful. That was another problem—each year fewer and fewer people smoked. It got so he couldn't find a place to light up without someone glaring at him, giving him a lecture about the state of his lungs. He'd usually listen in stony politeness, and the crusader would taper off, unnerved by his stillness.

  One thing was for certain, he couldn't get on with his plans for the next forty-eight hours until he saw what he could do about Billy. It was six o'clock in the morning—Ms. Emerson probably wouldn't make it into work until nine. There was no way he was going to hang around, waiting. Three hours were too big a chunk of time to toss down the toilet.

  He was going to find Ms. Helen Emerson and see if she couldn't be reasonable. He had a certain amount of weathered charm if he cared to use it. Surely he could manage to sweet-talk the woman into dropping the charges. Otherwise, he could always resort to giving her an offer she couldn't refuse.

  He wished he could just forget about Billy. Enjoy his stay in Chicago with a single-minded pursuit of pleasure, as he had so many other years.

  But he was a different man. Time had changed him. And he just couldn't enjoy himself, thinking of Billy stuck away in prison. Thinking of his pregnant, frightened wife. He was going to have to do something about it, and the sooner the better.

  The Elm Street address had an uncomfortably familiar ring, one he couldn't place. It was in a part of town that had once been fancier than what he'd been used to. It had gone downhill since then, turning into slums, and he couldn't imagine a lawyer living there, even one on the city payroll. But he should be getting used to surprises by now, and Ms. Helen Emerson having the power of life and death over one Billy Moretti and living on Elm Street was a minor one compared to some of the others.

  He took a taxi, counting on the fact that his wallet would still be full. It wasn't until they were pulling up outside a residential street that he leaned forward.

  "Hey, buddy," he said to the driver. "What year is it?"

  "You kidding?" The cabbie turned around to stare at his passenger in disbelief.

  "Nope. Just checking."

  "It's 1993, pal. What did you think it was?"

  Rafferty smiled thinly. "Sounds about right to me." He tipped the driver, then climbed out onto the sidewalk, staring up at the building as his memory drifted into focus: 1993. And James Sheridan Rafferty had been dead for sixty-four years.

  Helen heard the doorbell ring. She slammed her hand against the wall in surprise, then cursed, glad her Irish Catholic father wasn't around to hear her. Her brothers, either, for that matter. Despite the fact that her father and all four of her brothers were cops and used to the foulest language this side of the gutter, they still didn't like to hear their sweet little Helen come out with anything as blasphemous as a "damnation." And Helen prided herself on coming out with words that were a great deal more colorful. She'd learned a lot in the three years she'd worked in the Prosecutor's Office.

  Who in heaven's name could be ringing her doorbell at half-past six in the morning? For a moment panic swept through her, as every conceivable family disaster raced through her mind, and it took all her formidable common sense to realize that the telephone would be the obvious medium of communication. If disaster had struck the far-flung Emersons she would have heard about it by now.

  She took another hurried gulp of her third cup of coffee, yanked at the recalcitrant zipper of her calf-length skirt and hobbled toward the door, wearing one high-heeled shoe, the other still in her hand. She had three chains and a bar in place, and she peered through the peephole. "Who is it?" she demanded nervously.

  She couldn't see much of him, since the peephole was scratched, filthy and ancient. He was tall, and dark, and for all she knew he could be a serial killer.

  "My name's Rafferty. You Ms. Emerson?"

  She didn't like the faintly mocking emphasis on the word "Ms." She didn't like his voice, rough and smooth at the same time, with a trace of an East Coast accent. "I'm Emerson," she said flatly, yanking on the other shoe and making no effort to open the door. "What do you want?"

  "I'd like to talk to you about Billy Moretti."

  Great, she thought, leaning against the door. That was all she needed on this rotten, dismal morning. "I'll be in my office at nine o'clock," she said flatly. "See me there."

  "Can't do it," his voice drifted back through the heavy door. "I'm only in town for forty-eight hours and I've got a lot of business to accomplish. I tell you what, Ms. Emerson. It's not even seven in the morning—you don't have to be at work for another couple of hours. Let me buy you breakfast, hear me out and then I'll go away."

  "And if I say no?" She heard her own words with a start of shock. What in the world did she mean, if she said no? Of course she was going to say no. She wasn't going anywhere with the friend of a man she was going to prosecute.

  "Then I'll just stay here until you change your mind." He sounded eminently reasonable and completely implacable.

  "The police are only a phone call away, Mr. Rafferty. I won't be harassed."

  "Lady—" his voice was long-suffering "—trust me, I have no interest in harassing you. I just want to see if we can do a deal about Billy."

  She found herself considering it for a moment. The Moretti case had been preying on her mind for days now. If she could just deal with it then Friday the thirteenth would become a lot more pleasant.

  "Do you work with Abramowitz?"

  "Of course," the voice replied immediately.

  That decided her. If Billy's lawyer was gung ho enough to find out where she lived and come over at the crack of dawn, then the least she could do was meet him for breakfast to discuss the case. After all, they were both professionals. It was silly to be formal about it.

  "Hold on a moment," she said, fiddling with the locks, her hands clumsy. By the time she got the last one opened and pulled the security bar away she was beginning to regret her hastiness in accepting him, but by then the door was ajar and it was too late. At least she kept the chain in place as she peered through the four-inch space at the man waiting in the hallway.

  He stood there patiently enough, and his very stillness was slightly unnerving. He was a tall man, leanly built, and the suit and overcoat he was wearing were nondescrip
t, ageless. His hair was dark, short, combed back from a widow's peak over dark, challenging eyes. She looked into those eyes, into those still, fathomless eyes, and she felt a chill run through her. Followed by a rush of heat.

  "You don't look like the type Abramowitz usually hires," she said foolishly. Certainly not the sort to defend the Billy Morettis of this world. He was too handsome, with his wide, sensual mouth, his narrow, high-boned face, his cool, self-contained grace.

  He smiled then, and she should have been relieved. It was a charming smile, literally, designed to charm wary females. Helen could feel the tug, and she fought it.

  "Looks can be deceiving," he said, his dark eyes running down the narrow length of the door opening. "Are you going to let me buy you breakfast?"

  She should slam the door in his face. She could always give Jenkins the Moretti case, as he'd wanted, but Jenkins was a pig and a bully, very hard core and out to make a point, and extenuating circumstances weren't going to matter to him in the slightest.

  She stared for one long moment at the man who called himself Rafferty, and then nodded, deciding. She was a smart woman, a careful woman. But she was also a woman who learned to go by her instincts. And her instincts told her to trust this man.

  She slid the chain off and opened the door. "Come in," she said, stepping back. "I'll be with you in a minute."

  It wasn't until she was halfway across the room, scooping papers into her briefcase, that she realized how very odd her behavior was. She didn't like to let people, particularly co-workers, into her apartment. For one thing, she was completely disorganized and a borderline slob. For another, yuppies didn't tend to appreciate the 1920s' decor she was striving for. She glanced back at Rafferty, trying to hide her nerves, and then stopped still.