Free Broken Honor by Patricia; Potter

one asked.
    He shook his head. “The gun isn’t mine. It belongs to the intruder.”
    â€œStand away from the bed, and stay there until we get some word from the detectives.”
    Irish glanced at the woman in the bed. Her face was white, her fingers clenched on the blanket. Her gray eyes were huge. It was obvious she was trying to stifle the terror she must feel.
    â€œIt’ll be all right,” he said to her even as he wondered whether anything would be all right for her again. He knew what it was like to have your life hang in the balance. A movement to the right rather than the left could mean death. But it came with his chosen profession, not hers. That kind of fear should never have invaded her life.
    And his gut told him it wasn’t over. He also knew no police department would provide the kind of protection she might need, not even on the basis of events during the past few days.
    He listened as the police asked all the expected questions. Who might want to hurt her? Then they turned to him. Doubt and suspicion laced their questions as they listened to his recital of the facts. Had he actually seen the man place the pillow over her face? How did he know that the man was, in fact, trying to kill her? Couldn’t he simply have been picking up something that had fallen on the floor?
    â€œHe pulled a gun when I appeared,” Irish said dryly. “I don’t think he was a Good Samaritan.”
    One officer looked at him suspiciously. “You sure the weapon didn’t belong to you?”
    He knew, suddenly, that his were the only prints on the gun. The only other witness was the distracted nurse at the station, who probably wouldn’t remember anything about the intruder except that he looked like any other deliveryman.
    It was his word, and his word only; and no one, including Amy Mallory, seemed inclined to accept everything he said.
    Thirty minutes later, the detectives Irish had talked to earlier came into the room, and the two policemen gave a brief account of what had happened.
    Then they turned to Irish. All friendliness was gone. He surmised that they had checked on him and discovered he was here unofficially. “Colonel,” one said, “your commanding officer would like to talk to you.”
    â€œBut first we do,” said the other. “Can you give us a description of the … assailant?”
    â€œAn inch shorter than I am. A little thinner. Light brown hair, cropped short. Brown eyes. I could give a description to a police artist.”
    â€œWe’ll take you down to the department when we finish here. But first I want to know your interest in this. And your interest in Miss Mallory, especially since it’s not official.” As they had been led to believe . The detective didn’t have to say the words. They hung unsaid in the air but were evident in their suspicious eyes.
    Irish had led them to believe he was on a case. Now they knew he’d lied. He wished now he had been more forthcoming, but he’d always known how he’d felt when outsiders wanted information.
    It was too late now.
    â€œMiss Mallory and I have a connection,” he said. “Our grandfathers served together during World War II.”
    â€œAnd they were both accused—by implication, anyway—of stealing Nazi loot,” Amy Mallory said, her gaze confronting his directly.
    He nodded. “I came to talk to Miss Mallory about it, to ask whether she had any papers of her grandfather’s.”
    The detective’s eyes sharpened. He turned back to Amy. “Papers?”
    Amy Mallory’s gaze moved from Irish to the detective and back again. He could feel her indecision.
    â€œMiss Mallory?” the detective said.
    Her eyes met Irish’s, then turned back to the detectives. They were defensive. “I told you earlier that Jon Foster had three boxes of my grandfather’s papers in his office. That’s why I went up there last