Crime and Passion by Marie Ferrarella Page A

spent time combing through a month of Smith’s telephone records. He’d requisitioned them the minute he’d gotten back to the office. Not that it really mattered. The call from whoever had paid Smith off to leave the drawing had come from a telephone booth.
    It came as no surprise.
    Santini had left the squad room more than half an hour ago, telling him to pack it in for the night and go home. “We can always go at stuff better after a good night’s sleep,” he’d said as he’d walked out.
    Good night’s sleep. That was a laugh. Clay sincerely doubted that that was in the cards for him tonight. Not as long as Ilene was under the same roof.
    He flipped through the report Harry had left with him. There was absolutely nothing new there. He’d gone over it until the pages were worn. There was nothing more he could do tonight. He wanted to remain in the office.
    Tired, edgy, with no new news, no headway, he just didn’t feel up to facing Ilene. He had nothing to tell her that would help erase any of the fears he’d seen in her eyes last night. They couldn’t pin this on Walken or any of the other CEOs, at least not yet.
    But not assuaging her fears wasn’t the only reason he didn’t want to face her.
    Over the course of the day he’d almost called her three times. Almost. But each time he’d flipped his cell phone closed, squelching the effort before it ever was completed.
    The less contact he and Ilene had, the better off they’d both be.
    Or so he told himself.
    Rocking back in his chair, he blew out a breath. He knew he couldn’t put off going home, especially not tonight. His father was throwing a party, one that actually had a reason for being this time. It was Rayne’s twenty-fifth birthday, and he would catch hell from all sides if he didn’t attend.
    Clay closed his eyes. Ilene’s image rose before him. Muttering a curse, he opened them again.
    He was being a coward and he knew it. That didn’t happen very often, and he hated the feeling that came with it. He’d never been a coward. Any time he dealt with fear, it just goaded him on—
    That wasn’t strictly true. He’d been a coward once before. And that time had involved Ilene, too.
    With a sigh, he logged off his computer and shut it down.

    When he turned onto his father’s block, Clay noticed there was no place to park in the immediate area. Cars littered both sides of the street, almost nose to tailpipe. The vehicles, big and little, spilled over to the next block in both directions. Clay was forced to leave his own car several streets over.
    As he walked back to the house, his hands shoved in his pockets, the fog from this morning had returned and now enshrouded him.
    Somehow, it seemed fitting.
    By the time he arrived at the front door, key in hand, his hair was iced with droplets of condensation. The cool, clammy air had seeped into his clothing. It did nothing to improve his mood.
    The blast of hot air and noise that hit him the moment he unlocked the front door immediately began to evaporate both the droplets and his mood.
    For a moment he just stood there, absorbing everything, trying to focus on who was where. Every place he looked, he saw another member of his family. He tried hard not to zero in on Ilene. He succeeded.
    But when he didn’t see her immediately, he wondered if she’d been stubborn and taken off, going back to her place. It would be just like her.
    Just when he was about to turn around and take a run over to her place, he saw her. She was walking in from the kitchen, carrying a tray of one of those concoctions that his father liked to make so much. The parts Clay could readily identify involved cheese and crackers, but there were a lot of other things residing in the velvety spread he felt were best left anonymous. Bottom line was that it tasted good.
    He supposed love was a little like that, too. There were things you could identify and things that defied classification. The bottom line was important there,