Читать книгу Pregnant Protector - Anne Duquette Marie - Страница 7

May, Monday morning

DETECTIVE NICK CANTELLO of the San Diego PD’s homicide squad sat in shocked silence in the shift lieutenant’s office, and he wasn’t a man who shocked easily.

My partner’s dead? Julio’s dead?

He must have spoken the words aloud.

“Tough break,” said the shift lieutenant, a big, beefy cop named Joe Lansky.

“Why the hell didn’t you call me?” Nick’s normally smooth baritone was hoarse and grating. His lean face was pale under his tan. “Why didn’t anyone call me?”

“We tried, Cantello. Your cell didn’t pick up and you weren’t at home. Homicide rode by.” Lansky’s eyes were filled with compassion.

Nick was too stunned to see it. As a man who loved deep-water boating but couldn’t afford a decent boat on his salary, he regularly paid for a weekend charter down to Mexican waters. Just as he had this weekend. But he always carried his cell phone charged, and he’d come straight to work Monday morning directly from the harbor, riding Julio’s motorcycle.

“Someone should have called! You should have kept trying.” Shock gave way to a sudden, horrible thought. “Oh, my God…his family. Does Lilia know?”

At Lansky’s nod, Nick felt a painful twist in his gut. Julio and Lilia Valdez had two kids and a third on the way. In his soft, quiet way, Julio had told Nick the good news over a beer two nights ago.

“How did he die?” Nick asked.

Lansky spit out a foul expletive. Then, “It’s bad…”

Nick doubted he could feel worse than he did right now. “Give it to me.”

“MVA Friday night.”

Motor vehicle accident.

“It was raining,” Nick said with particular emphasis that only locals could understand. It had rained steadily all the way to the harbor, an uncomfortable event for even a man as experienced with motorcycles as he was. Southern California’s desert climate made rain a rare event, something people talked about. It also provided both law enforcement and the public with a lot of grief. The freeways connecting Tijuana/San Diego/Los Angeles/Hollywood carried the densest traffic in North America. The desert climate meant no measurable rain for months. When rain did arrive, months of embedded oil floated to the surface on heavily used roads. Everything from local streets to packed interstates became almost oil slicks. For local drivers who had little practice driving in rain, vehicular accidents skyrocketed in those first wet thirty minutes. Then came the infamous California pileups, with the accompanying injured and dead.

Lansky nodded. “Yeah. His—your car—spun out. I understand you two swapped keys in the parking lot. Why’d you take his bike?”

The “bike” was a huge Harley-Davidson motorcycle, for Julio and Nick had met at a SDPD motorcycle fund-raiser and had hit it off instantly. When both were promoted and transferred to the detective unit, neither had to ask the other to be his partner.

“Julio’s wife called right before the shift ended. Said the refrigerator wasn’t working. The repairman couldn’t get there until the next morning. She needed him to pick up some ice. So we swapped.” Guilt stabbed through his pain. “If anyone should have spun out in the weather, it should have been me on the bike…not him. Hell, my tires are brand-new.” An uncomfortable pause told Nick more bad news was coming. “What?”

“There’s more. Someone took a shot at the car in the rain. Your car,” Lansky said pointedly.

For a moment, Nick fought to prevent being violently ill. He took a deep breath, like a raw rookie viewing his first homicide scene.

“Julio left the office when you did. It was after rush hour, Cantello. Traffic was moving, but not that fast, with the rain. Julio spun out right after the shot was fired. We got cell phone reports from other drivers on the scene and we’ve been interviewing them all weekend.”

Traffic on Southern California freeways was congested day and night, Sundays and holidays included. Beach exits were standstills in the summer. Tempers flared. Drive-by shootings in slow, crawling congestion were no novelty. Like earthquakes and wildfires, road rage was a price to be paid for living in the Sunbelt’s beach paradise and driving its massive freeway system.

Nick swallowed hard. “Did…did Julio take a hit, or just the car?”

“We don’t know yet. The divers are still trying to recover the vehicle, but it’s been all weekend, and still nothing. That shot sent Julio straight into the ocean. We had a chopper on-site, but by the time rescue got there…” Even the gruff veteran couldn’t finish.

Julio drowned, and I was off on a pleasure cruise with a damn cell phone that didn’t pick up in Mexican waters. It’s my fault. Nick’s heart seemed to stop as he realized, That should have been me. I had his bike. He had my car.

Nick echoed the words of all loved ones during tragedy. “I can’t believe it. Are you sure?”

“We interviewed more than twenty callers over the weekend.”

“Did they find the shooter? Description of vehicle?” He didn’t ask the question he usually asked, What about motive? He desperately tried, but for the life of him he couldn’t get the words out.

“Nothing. The captain contacted the local gang specialists, but initiations usually involve members of another gang. Never cops. We’ll be checking out more after the autopsy. In the meantime—” Lansky drew in a deep breath “—the department’s handling the funeral arrangements. Julio’s wife and kids have left to stay with family in Mexico until then. She said she’d call you in a few. You need to check in with the captain and take some time off.”

Nick issued an earthy expletive, which miraculously loosened the constriction of his throat. “I switched vehicles with my partner, he ends up dead, I might be tied to the real motive and you want me to go home?” Nick swore again.

Lansky’s reaction was mild. He even shrugged.

“I didn’t say home. You’ll probably get desk duty. Take it up with the captain after roll call.”

Nick said nothing as his lieutenant rose from his chair. Sorrow had largely replaced shock now, but the guilt was still there when Lansky called the roll and started the fifteen-minute morning briefing. Nick ignored the other members of the squad—the lucky ones who still had their partners—and listened to Lansky skip Julio’s name on the roster. It hurt, almost as much hearing the news the first time.

Lansky reviewed what new information SDPD had gathered from the cell phone callers over the weekend—which wasn’t much. “Funeral details will be posted later on. As always, full dress,” Lansky ordered.

The silence in the downtown San Diego squad room was broken by a whispered, “I knew that rain meant bad luck.”

During funerals held for Southern California cops, it always seemed to rain. This, in water-rationed San Diego. Always. Half the shaken cops in the room would probably repeat the old superstition—cops who rarely cried on the job, but waited until they were home with their lovers or spouses or six-packs of beer.

“Any other comments?” Lansky asked. “No? We’re still investigating the possibility that the killer was targeting Cantello.”

Nick felt the eyes in the room turn toward him.

“So far, we have no motive. The captain himself will be coordinating with Homeland Security. If anyone has any leads, come to us. As I told you before, expect overtime. This is one of our own.”

Nick’s lips tightened into a thin line. I should be in charge of this. He was my partner.

“Keep your eyes open,” Lansky continued as he picked up his uniform hat. “The same goes for your wallets, boys and girls. For those of you who missed seeing me over the weekend, I’m collecting for Valdez’s wife and kids. Contribute on your way out.”

“Baby showers, birthdays, retirement parties—now this,” someone mumbled. “Any more collections and I’ll need a second job.”

Nick recognized the bleak attempt at humor, and wished it had been from anyone other than that particular guy. Nick didn’t particularly like Homicide’s T. J. Knox. In fact, he found him just as irritating as his father, Sergeant Richard Knox. Nick tended to avoid both men. Still, he couldn’t fault the son’s generosity. The bill in T.J.’s hand was a large one.

Nick didn’t bother with his wallet. He quickly scribbled out a check, instead, then ripped it out with a vicious yank that tore a tiny chunk off the corner.

“Here, Joe.” He folded it and dropped it into Lansky’s hat.

Lansky unfolded the check and deliberately eyed the first digit and subsequent three zeros before the decimal point.

Nick snatched the check out of Lansky’s beefy fingers and stuffed it back into the hat. “Mind your own damn business.”

“You cops are my business. The captain’s still waiting to see you.”

“I said I’m not going home,” Nick ground out.

“So tell Girard, not me. I’m just passing on the message.” Lansky’s eyes were already on the next contributor. “Is that all you can give? Now Cantello here, there’s a man who knows how to donate. Look at his check.”

Nick’s face burned as Lansky retrieved his check and waved it in the offender’s face.

Damn that Lansky. Damn dress uniforms and funerals. And damn Julio’s killer to hell.

CAPTAIN EMIL GIRARD WAS waiting as Nick stepped into his office. Seated at his desk, his boss looked thin and faded, almost to the point of frailty. But the correct impression of an elderly man soon to retire vanished when you noticed his eyes—alert and intelligent. Girard’s body might be past its peak, but his mind still functioned in high gear.

“Sorry about Valdez. We tried to track you down,” Girard said quietly, gesturing toward a chair. “You don’t have a house phone, do you?”

Nick shook his head and sat. He thought having an economical cell phone voice-mail system was enough. Sunbelt house phones were expensive, and like many practical residents, he did without one, using his cell exclusively for his personal calls; he had a police cell for work. Unfortunately, California’s cell towers couldn’t always handle heavy traffic or Mexican waters.

“How are you holding up?” Girard asked.

Nick’s response was clipped. “A hell of a lot better than his family. I didn’t even get to talk to them! I want to work this case, Captain. I’ve got a high percentage of solves, and—”

“I’m familiar with your record, Detective,” Girard interrupted softly. “Just as I’m sure you’re familiar with policy. It’s against procedure for you to investigate your partner’s death.”

Nick was prepared. “Then I’ll quit and investigate this case myself. I am this case. Julio died, when it should’ve been me. And with or without my badge, I’ll do whatever it takes to bring the man in, procedure be damned. Take your pick—it’s your call.”

Girard looked away. Nick rose and reached for his police-issue 9 mm. “Fine. You have my resignation—effective immediately.”

“Sit down, Detective. You can stay.”

“I can?” Nick couldn’t believe it. “No refusal, lecture or a trip to the police psychologist before forced desk duty or a leave of absence?”

“Later. Your co-workers warned me you’d pull a stunt like this. We need your help now. That is what you want, isn’t it?” Girard asked.

“Yes. What’s the catch?”

“You need a partner to watch your back.”

“I already have…” For the first time, the full impact of his loss sunk in. He didn’t have a partner. He had a partner. Julio was dead.

Nick’s hazel eyes narrowed. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Until we know more, you get one. She’s a cop, it’s her job and you have to sleep sometime.” Girard handed Nick a file from across the desktop. “Consider yourself joined at the hip until this case is solved.”

Nick read the name on the file. “Lara Nelson? Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“She’s never worked San Diego Downtown. She works Pacific Beach and La Jolla.”

If he hadn’t been so grief-stricken, Nick would have felt envious. The seaside section of San Diego called Pacific Beach sprawled north from Mission Bay and Sea World. P.B., as locals called it, teemed with bronzed surfers, college students, bars, nightclubs and comedy clubs. P.B. ran smack into La Jolla’s multimillion-dollar cliffside homes of the rich and famous—San Diego’s version of Los Angeles’ Malibu Beach. And it definitely lacked the crime other parts of San Diego had.

Grief didn’t quite suppress his curiosity. “How’d she manage that beat?”

“She’s just come off compassionate leave. We’re easing her back in.”

Nick avoided the too-sensitive subject of compassionate leave.

“Besides, the Nelsons breed and train canines for us. We want them to keep providing those dogs. Nelson Kennels are the best, Cantello. The best.”

“She’s not a detective?”

“No, K-9.”

“That’s no help!”

“Doesn’t matter. She and her dog also do private bodyguard work. She’ll keep you in one piece. And she’ll understand your feelings. She just buried her fiancé—I understand he flew choppers for the hospital up near Yosemite.” The captain paused. “Anyway, she passed her psych evaluations. I want her to keep an eye on you. Emotional men with guns shouldn’t be working the streets alone—or at all, for that matter. If Lara Nelson tells me you’ve slipped up, you go on desk duty.”

Nick swallowed hard at the thought of his new partner. He couldn’t work up resentment against anyone who felt the pain of loss he now experienced.

“Or,” Girard continued, “straight to the seventh floor.”

Nick didn’t want a trip to the police psychology unit. Profilers and counselors worked on the seventh floor. The only therapist he’d ever seen had been years ago during mandatory testing interviews for all rookies in the academy. A private person, he hadn’t enjoyed the experience, though he’d been classified as normal. His innate honesty would compel him to admit that he wasn’t feeling normal now.

At present, he barely kept a lid on his emotions. And that inner whisper, the one saying he should have kept his own car in the rain, received the original phone call, come in and gone straight to “the scene,” had to be kept quiet. Because of a pleasure trip, others had supported his friend’s wife and two young sons. He hadn’t even seen them after the death and before they’d left for Mexico! What kind of cop wasn’t there for his partner’s family? He had to call them as soon as possible.

Nick realized Girard was still talking. “…inter-agency cooperation. We’ve got the feds looking into this one. And Lara Nelson’s objectivity could be a plus. Lansky agrees.”

Nick’s eyebrows rose. “Lieutenant Lansky?”

“Yes. He and I both knew Lara’s mother—she was a cop—when she worked K-9,” Girard explained. “The Nelsons aren’t outsiders. I trust them. So does he.”

“But the lieutenant’s—” Nick broke off. He’d been about to say: As close to retirement as you.

A pause. “We won’t let Julio’s death go unsolved. Your job is to provide information. Nelson’s is to keep you alive.”

“Get someone from Homicide. She’ll hold me back.”

“Not as much as if you tried to do this as a civilian.”

Nick backed off, knowing he’d pushed his luck as far as he could. He reached for the file and reopened it, scanning the photo. Lara Nelson, white, late twenties. She looked somewhat nondescript, as did most subjects in the small official photos. Her record showed brains and nerve. The blue eyes beneath blond bangs in the photograph spoke of determination, not foolishness. But then, determination hadn’t kept his partner alive. Nick took a deep breath.

“When do I meet her?”

“She’s waiting down the hall. For now, we’ve given her an office here instead of at K-9. You go where she says. And Cantello, no driving. Give yourself some time to get your feet back under you.”

The meeting was over. Nick headed for the door, immediately using his cell to call the family in Mexico. There was no answer, nor did any answering machine pick up. He called again, with the same result.

Sympathetic looks followed him as he headed for the office. Nick ignored them all. He wasn’t ready for sympathy. Sympathy never eased the pain of a death. He’d seen the families of too many victims to believe it did. Justice helped a little—sometimes. Nick’s heart ached anew for Julio’s widow and children. Even a marriage that included kids didn’t always make for happily ever after. Not if one parent was a cop.

Nick knocked at the closed door of the spare office and stepped back as a woman with a big German shepherd at her side opened the door. He found himself meeting the eyes of a woman who didn’t hide her emotions. She might be a stranger who never knew Julio, but he knew that sympathetic look of pain couldn’t be faked. It hit him hard. He felt a powerful urge to reach out and pull her close.

“Officer Nelson?” he said instead.

She nodded, her eyes unblinking, her tanned face framed by head-hugging short blond curls. The simplicity of it suited her, Nick noticed objectively. He also noticed she wasn’t very tall, small even for a female cop. But he knew that brains often made up for brawn. With her dog, he suspected she had all the brawn she needed.

“Detective Cantello.” She reached for his hand and held it tightly. “Sorry to meet under these circumstances.” Only after releasing his hand did she turn briskly to the door to close it behind him and gesture toward the chair.

She ordered her dog to sit in German, the language the animals were traditionally trained to follow. Before 9-11, most police dogs were obtained in Germany, and though they weren’t now, law enforcement continued to use German commands. This prevented the dog from responding to a criminal’s English-language commands.

Nick watched her dog sit strategically at the side of the desk where it could watch both partner and newcomer. Lara Nelson moved with strength and grace, and so did her dog, a large female, mostly tan, with black markings on the face, ears and legs.

Lara introduced Nick to Sadie, then asked outright, “You have any problems with me, now’s the time to say so.”

He appreciated her bluntness, and suddenly the words spilled out. “I don’t want a bodyguard. I only agreed to this to keep from getting a desk job during the case. I refuse to stay sidelined or holed up someplace, and I intend to find Julio’s killer with or without your help.” The words came out more harshly than he’d intended. “Or your company.” He defiantly stood.

She didn’t. Her hand dropped from her dog’s head, and her soft, feminine look was replaced by a surprising toughness.

“I’m in charge of your safety,” she said. “My partner and I are now your shield. If I have to use my training and my dog to make you follow my orders, I will. Sadie comes from my parents’ kennels. They train only the best dogs, and they gave me the best of the best. Would you like a demonstration of our ability to keep you in line?”

She didn’t even move from her chair. “Sadie, Zur Wache!” Immediately the shepherd changed from adoring pet to dangerous guard dog. Nick realized Lara’s hostess act had nothing on her dedication to duty.

“No need,” he said, annoyed yet respecting her stand. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“Wise move. My mother was a K-9 handler. One of my older sisters works K-9 with the bomb squad. The other works K-9 Search-and-Rescue. Our dogs will do anything for us. If you deliberately work against me and anything happens to the public, to Sadie or to me as a result…” She left the words unfinished.

“I won’t do anything to risk anyone else. You have my word.” There’s been enough death already to go around.

“Then we understand each other.” With a single command, Sadie relaxed. Lara leaned forward on the desk, the hint of restrained power remaining in both woman and canine. “That being said, I am not in charge of your emotions, Detective. Nor am I your superior when it comes to law enforcement. As you are an officer of the law, I don’t think restricting your movements and hiding is needed at this time.”

Nick’s head jerked up. “No safe house?”

“No official safe house, but my house. Definitely safe,” she emphasized. “With the Valdez family in Mexico, we’ll need you to cover ground only they would know.”

Nick found himself quite speechless for the second time that day. There was something in the way she held her head, a quiet dignity about her, that spoke volumes.

“So I’ll be able to investigate Julio’s murder unhampered?” he managed to ask.

“As long as you let me protect you. You’ll follow my orders for your safety. To do that, I remain at your side until this case is solved.” She brushed away a speck of dust from the desk and met his gaze straight on. “If your…activities interfere with that, then and only then will I feel the need to curtail your actions by any means necessary. That includes reporting to your superior and mine—that’s Captain Girard.” There was steel in the voice coming from that delicately boned face. “Until I get back to K-9.”

“Got it,” he said, his voice grating like gravel. “Appreciate your understanding, Officer Nelson.”

“Hey. He was your partner.” Her businesslike manner slipped more than a little as she smiled. “My car’s outside. Let’s roll. And please, call me Lara.”

THE K-9 SQUAD CAR computer display and communication unit kept track of messages as Lara and Nick rode in silence. Sadie sat alertly in the back, Nick’s bag of clothes from the weekend on the floor beneath. Nick felt strange sitting next to her, instead of Julio, during the drive toward the pricey homes perched on the cliffs of the La Jolla shoreline. As the squad car approached her home, he took in everything with a trained observer’s eye: the white stucco front, the riot of flowers, the carefully manicured lawn. His gaze skipped over the expensive foreign cars to the frothing shoreline far below. As the Pacific sparkled and crashed green-blue in the sun, he thought of his own small apartment in an older blue-collar neighborhood of San Diego.

Nick couldn’t help but be curious about Lara Nelson’s circumstances. Girard had said Lara worked in La Jolla; he didn’t say she lived there. Homes in La Jolla went for three million dollars and up. Only movie stars, hi-tech industrialists and old-money types lived on these cliffs. Space and the world-famous view were at a premium. Those looking for an opportunity to buy had to wait a long time for a property to go on the market.

Nick breathed in the salt air as Lara parked the car on the pristine, oil-free driveway. He’d always appreciated beauty and begrudged no one his or her fair share. He wondered if Julio’s fatherless children would ever find their own place in the sun. Then, because a man in his kind of life accepted harsh realities, he shoved aside such thoughts and exited the car, stepping onto the fancy tiled sidewalk.

As man, woman and dog entered the pink-tiled foyer, Nick slipped and stumbled slightly. Lara grabbed at his waist, alarmed.

“You okay?”

“Fine. Just slipped on the tile.”

“Carrara marble. My dog and I slip on it, too.” Surprisingly, her arm remained firmly around his waist as she steered him to the couch in the large foyer.

“Sit down. I’ll get you some coffee, if you’d like.”

“I don’t want any damn coffee,” he said harshly. Then he backpedaled, realizing she didn’t deserve rudeness. “I’m sorry. No, thanks.”

“Okay, but how about a beer? Or a scotch. You’re not on duty.”

Nick thought for a moment. “Scotch sounds good.”

“Ice?”

“Neat.”

“Sit down and put your feet up. I’ll be right back. Sadie, stay.”

He felt the dog’s eyes on him as he studied the room. A concert grand stood as the room’s focal point, its lacquered finish gleaming despite the curtains being drawn over the huge bay windows. The floor was highly waxed parquet hardwood, while the obviously expensive leather couch and matching hassock were the only pieces of furniture evident. There was no television and no stereo. The only things in profusion were voluminous collections of sheet music on the shelves and a few scattered pieces on the piano.

Lara returned with an iced tea for herself and the scotch for him. Her dog rose to its feet expectantly and trotted to her side. Lara shook her head, but remained standing. “Relax, Sadie. I’m not going anywhere,” she said with a smile of affection for the animal. Sadie lay down again and stretched.

The smile transformed the woman’s face. She was breathtakingly lovely. So lovely that it took him a moment to realize she was still holding out his glass.

“Thanks.” He tested the scotch with a small sip, then a bigger one.

“Feeling better?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “Thanks.” The scotch, smooth as silk, burned a path to his midsection, replacing some of the icy coldness with heat.

“There’s more if you want,” Lara offered. “Just say the word. You wanna get drunk, I don’t have a problem with it. God forbid if anything happened to my partner.” Her hand dropped to rest on the molded head of her four-legged companion.

Getting drunk—something he hadn’t done since his college days—appealed, but only for a moment. If he were drunk, he couldn’t work. He’d take a quick shower, not for hygiene but to shock his body into alertness, and he’d exchange the constricting work clothes for jeans. He’d shove his grief down where it couldn’t hamper him, and then, only then, would he start to work on finding Julio’s killer.