Читать книгу For the Baby's Sake - Beverly Long - Страница 8

“Hey, Montgomery, you owe me ten bucks. I told you the Cubs would lose to St. Louis. When are you going to learn?”

Sawyer fished two fives out of his pocket. He hadn’t expected his boys to win. But he’d been a fan since coming to Chicago two years earlier and going to his first Cubs game at Wrigley Field. He wasn’t sentimental enough to believe it was because of the ivy growing on the walls that it somehow reminded him of home. He liked to think it was because the Cubs, no matter if they were winning or losing, were always the underdog. Sort of like cops.

He folded the bills and tossed them at his partner. “Here. Now shut up. Why does the lieutenant want to see us?”

“I don’t know. I got the same page you did.” Robert Hanson pulled a thick telephone book out of his desk drawer. “It’s a damn shame. Veronica spent the night, and she’s really at her best in the morning. Very enthusiastic.”

“Which one is Veronica?”

“Blonde. Blue eyes. Nice rack.”

That described most of the women Robert dated. Sawyer heard the door and looked up. Lieutenant Fischer walked in.

“Gentlemen,” their boss greeted them, dropping a thick green file on the wood desk. “We’ve got a problem.”

Robert sat up straighter in his chair. Sawyer stared at his boss. The man looked every one of his fifty years. “What’s up?” Sawyer asked.

“We’ve got another dead body. Looks like the guy was beat up pretty good before somebody shot him in the head.”

“Mirandez?” Sawyer hissed.

“Probably. Our guys ID’d the deceased. Bobbie Morage.”

Sawyer looked at Robert. “Morage was tight with Mirandez until recently.”

Robert nodded. “Rumor has it that Morage was skimming off the top. Taking product home in his pockets.”

Lieutenant Fischer closed his eyes and leaned his head back. “No honor among thieves or killers.”

“Any witnesses?” Sawyer asked.

His boss opened his eyes. “None. Got one hysterical maid at the Rotayne Hotel. She found him on her way to the Dumpster. Look, we’ve got to get this guy. This makes three in the past two months. Eight in the past year.”

Sawyer could do the math. He wanted Mirandez more than he’d wanted anybody in fifteen years of wearing a badge.

“Are you sure you can’t get Mary Thorton to talk?” The lieutenant stood in front of Sawyer, his arms folded across his chest.

“I don’t know. Like I told you yesterday, she’s either in it up to her eyeballs, or she’s just a dumb young kid with a smart mouth who doesn’t know anything. I’m not sure which.”

“What about her counselor? What was her name?”

“Liz. Elizabeth, I guess. Last name is Mayfield.”

“Can she help us?”

“I don’t know.” Sawyer shook his head. “If anyone can get to Mary, I think she’s the one. She said she’d try.”

“We need the girlfriend. Push the counselor if you need to.”

Sawyer understood Lieutenant Fischer’s anxiety. People were dying. “She does have her own issues,” he said, feeling the need to defend the woman.

Lieutenant Fischer rubbed a hand across his face. “I know. You get any prints off the note she got?”

“Nothing that we couldn’t match up to her or the receptionist. We got a couple partials, and we’re tracking down the mail carrier to rule him or her out. I don’t know. It could be coincidence that she got this and then Mirandez went after Mary Thorton again.”

“I don’t believe in coincidence,” Lieutenant Fischer said, his voice hard.

Sawyer didn’t much, either. “I’ll go see her now.”

“I’ll go with you,” Robert offered, clearly resigned that Veronica was an opportunity lost.

Blonde. Blue eyes. Nice rack. Liz Mayfield had green eyes, but other than that, she was just Robert’s type. “No,” Sawyer said, not even looking at Robert.

“Hey, it’s no problem. I like to watch you try to use that old-fashioned Southern charm.”

“I don’t need any help.” Sawyer looked at his lieutenant and got the nod of approval he needed.

“Fine,” Robert said. “Go ahead and drag your sorry ass over there again. I’ll just stay here. In the air-conditioning.”

Lieutenant Fischer shook his head. “No, you don’t. You’re going to the hotel to interview the maid again. She doesn’t speak much English.”

“Doesn’t anybody else speak Spanish?” Robert moaned.

“Not like you do. I’ve got officers who grew up in Mexico that don’t speak it as well.”

Robert grinned broadly. “It’s hell to be brilliant.” He ducked out the door right before the telephone book hit it.

A HALF HOUR LATER, Sawyer parked his car in front of the brick two-story. He walked past a couple brown-eyed, brown-skinned children, carefully stepping around the pictures they’d created on the sidewalk with colored chalk.

Sawyer nodded at the two old men sitting on the steps. When he’d left OCM the day before, he’d taken the time to speak to them personally, hoping they’d seen the shooter. From his vehicle, just minutes before the arrival of what he still believed was Mirandez’s band of dirty men, he’d seen them in the same spot, chatting.

They’d seen the shooter. It didn’t help much. He’d worn a face mask.

He took the steps of OCM two at a time. He just needed to get inside, talk to Liz Mayfield and get the hell out of there. Before he did something stupid like touch her. He’d thought of her skin for most of the night. Her soft, silky skin. With legs that went on forever.

Sawyer glanced down at the street-level window. Plywood covered the opening, keeping both the sun and unwanted visitors out. He didn’t stop to wonder how unwelcome he might be. He walked through the deserted hallway and down the steps. He knocked once on the closed door and then again when no one answered. He tried the knob, but it wouldn’t turn.

“She left early.”

Sawyer whirled around. He’d been so focused on the task that he hadn’t heard the woman come up behind him.

“Sorry.” She laughed at him. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Looking at her could scare almost anybody. She had bright red hair, blue eyeliner, black lips, and she wore a little bit of a skirt and shirt, showing more skin than material. She couldn’t have been much older than eighteen. If she had been his daughter, he’d have locked her in the house until she found some clothes and washed the god-awful makeup off.

His son would have been just about her age. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Nicole.” She held up the palm of her hand and wriggled her fingers. “Don’t you recognize me?”

She was the part-time receptionist who had gotten her prints taken. An evidence tech had taken care of it for him. He’d been busy filling out case reports—one for the shooting, a separate one for Liz Mayfield’s threat. “Sorry. Thanks for doing that, by the way.”

“I’d do almost anything for Liz. Like I said, though, she’s not here. She left early. Maybe to get ready for the dance.”

Sawyer tried to concentrate. “A dance?”

“OCM is having a dance. A fund-raiser. Jamison says we’re going to have to shut the doors if donations don’t pick up.”

Sawyer had finally had the opportunity to talk on the telephone with Jamison Curtiss, the executive director of OCM, late the evening before. The man had flitted between outrage at both the shooting and the note Liz Mayfield had received, to worry about the bad press for OCM, to despair about the neighborhood all in a matter of minutes.

Sawyer had told himself, several times while he was shaving this morning, that it had been that conversation that had spurred dreams of Liz Mayfield. Otherwise, there’d have been no reason to take his work home, to take it literally to bed with him.

Dreaming about a woman was something Robert would do.

“Dinner is two hundred bucks a plate,” the girl continued. “Can you believe that? Like, I’d cook ’em dinner for half that.”

“Where?”

“Like, at my house.”

Sawyer shook his head. “No, where’s the dinner?”

“At the Rotayne Hotel. Pretty fancy, huh?”

“As fancy as they get.” As long as they keep the dead bodies hidden in the alley. “What time does it start?”

“Dinner’s at seven. My grandmother wanted me to go. Thought I might meet a nice young man there.” She wrinkled her nose.

“Not interested?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Last one I met got me knocked up. Guess Grandma kind of forgot about that. I don’t know what I would have done if Liz hadn’t helped me find a family for my baby. Now she’s living in the suburbs. Like, with a mom and dad and two cats.” The girl’s eyes filled with tears.

“Uh…” He was so far out of his league here.

“Anyway,” she said, sniffing loudly. She tossed her hair back. “She’s the best. Some lawyer guy helps her. He talks fast, drinks too much and wears ugly ties. Easy to spot.”

“What’s his name?” Sawyer asked.

“Howard Fraypish. Liz went to the dance with him.”

Sawyer pulled his notebook out of his suit coat pocket and made a note of the name. Yesterday, after they’d gotten Liz Mayfield’s prints, he’d asked her whether she was seeing anybody. It was a legitimate question, he’d told himself at the time.

She hadn’t even blinked. Said that she hadn’t dated anyone for over a year.

Going to a dance with somebody sounded like a date.

“I think she just feels sorry for him,” the girl added.

So, she and lawyer guy weren’t close. Maybe there was someone else. He had a right to ask. Maybe the connection wasn’t Mary or Mirandez. Maybe the shooter’s target had been the pretty counselor. It wouldn’t be the first time a spurned love interest had crossed the line. “She seeing anybody else?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

He was glad that Liz hadn’t lied to him. But it still surprised him. A woman who looked like Liz Mayfield shouldn’t have trouble getting a date. She had the kind of face and body that made a man stupid.

He’d made that mistake once in his life. He wouldn’t make it again.

HE TRIED TO REMEMBER THAT, two hours later, when he watched her glide around the room. She had on a long, dark blue dress. It flowed from her narrow waist, falling just shy of her ankles. It puffed out when she turned.

She’d pulled her hair up, leaving just a few strands down. Sawyer rubbed his fingers together, imagining the feel of the silky texture. The dress had a high collar and sleeves ending just below the elbow. She barely showed any skin at all, and she was the sexiest woman there.

Classy. It was the only word he could think of.

Determined to get it over with, Sawyer strode across the dance floor, ignoring the startled whispers or shocked glances in his wake. He felt as out of place as he knew he looked with his faded blue jeans and his beat-up leather jacket. He’d shed his suit earlier that evening before suddenly deciding that he needed to see Liz Mayfield tonight. She’d had her twenty-four hours. It wasn’t his fault that she was a party girl and wanted to dance.

He met her eyes over the shoulder of her date. Her full lips parted ever so slightly, and her face lost its color. He shrugged in return and tapped the man between them on the shoulder.

The guy, early forties and balding, turned his head slightly, frowned at Sawyer and kept dancing.

Sawyer tapped again. “I need a few minutes with Ms. Mayfield.”

They stopped. When the guy made no move to let go of her, Sawyer held out his hand. She stared at it for several seconds then stepped away from her date. Suddenly she was in his arms, and they were dancing.

He wanted to say something. But his stupid mind wouldn’t work. He couldn’t think, couldn’t talk, couldn’t reason.

She smelled good—like the jasmine flowers that had grown outside his mother’s kitchen window.

He wanted to pull her close and taste her. The realization hit him hard, as if someone had punched him. He wanted his tongue in her mouth, her breasts in his hands and her thighs wrapped around him. He wanted her naked under him.

Sawyer jerked back, stumbling a bit. He dropped his hands to his sides. The two of them stood still in the middle of the dance floor like two statues.

Why didn’t she say something? Hell, why didn’t she blink? She just kept her pretty green eyes focused on his face. Sawyer kept his breaths shallow, unwilling to let any more temptation into his lungs. “Any more letters?” he asked. He kept his voice low, not wanting others to hear.

She shook her head. “Our mail doesn’t usually arrive until after lunch. I left before it got there.”

“So, no news is good news?”

“For tonight.”

He understood avoidance. At one point in his life, he’d perfected it. He felt silly standing in the middle of the floor. He stepped closer to Liz Mayfield, and she slipped back into his arms as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Which didn’t make sense at all because it had to have been ten years since he’d danced with a woman. It felt good. She felt good.

He really needed to remember that he wasn’t here to dance. “What did your little friend have to say?” he asked.

Her body jerked, and he realized he’d been more stern than necessary. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“That’s fine,” she said. “It’s just that I…I didn’t see Mary today.”

“She didn’t show, did she?”

Liz shook her head and jumped in with both feet. “I had to cancel most of my appointments. I didn’t feel well.” That much at least was true. She’d been sick after hearing Mary’s voice mail. I’m not coming today. I’ll see you tomorrow at the regular time.

Liz had tried to call her a dozen times before giving up. Dreading that Detective Montgomery would find her before she had the chance to locate Mary, she’d left the office. She’d worried that a frustrated Detective Montgomery might take matters in his own hands and track Mary down.

Liz had never expected he’d show up at the fund-raiser. But she should have known better. Detective Montgomery didn’t seem like the kind of guy who gave up easily. In fact, he seemed downright tenacious. Like a dog after a bone.

She tried to hold that against him. But couldn’t. While it made for an uncomfortable evening, she couldn’t help appreciating the fact that he’d held her to her twenty-four hours. He took his work seriously. She could relate to that.

“Are you okay now?” he asked, sounding concerned.

She nodded, not willing to verbalize any more half-truths. From across the room, she caught Carmen’s eye. She was standing behind the punch table, pouring cups for thirsty dancers. Liz could read the concern on her pretty face. She’d had that same look since Liz had told her about the letter.

Liz shook her head slightly, reassuring her. Carmen was little, but she could be a spitfire. If she thought Liz needed help, she’d come running.

“Who’s that?” Detective Montgomery asked.

“Carmen Jimenez. She’s a counselor, too. I think I mentioned her yesterday.”

“I remember. Did you tell her about your letter?”

“Yes.”

“She hasn’t gotten anything similar?”

Liz shook her head.

“I’ve got some bad news,” Detective Montgomery said. “We found another dead body this morning. Right outside of this very hotel. He’d been shot. Up until a few weeks ago, he’d been a cook for Mirandez.”

“Mirandez has a cook?”

He leaned his mouth closer to her ear, and she felt the shiver run down the length of her spine. “Not like Oprah has a cook. A cook is the guy who boils down the cocaine into crack.”

“Oh. My.”

“People keep dying,” he said. “It’s my job to make it stop. If Mary knows something, it’s her job to help me.”

She’d been wrong. He wasn’t like a dog after a bone. He wanted fresh meat. She pulled away from him, forcing the dancing to stop. She couldn’t think when he had his arms around her, let alone when his mouth was that close. “If you had enough to arrest her,” she protested, “you’d have done it yesterday. You don’t have anything but a wild guess.”

He had more than that. The tip had come from one of their own. It had taken Fluentes two years to work his way inside. Sawyer didn’t intend to sacrifice him now.

Push the counselor. He could hear Lieutenant Fischer’s words almost as clearly as if the man stood behind him. “She was there. And you need to convince her to tell us what she saw. She needs to tell us everything. Then we’ll protect her.”

“You’ll protect her?”

“Yeah.” For some reason Liz’s disbelieving tone set Sawyer’s teeth on edge. “That’s what we do. We’re cops.”

“She’s eight months pregnant.”

“I’m aware of that. We would arrange for both her and her baby to have the medical care that they need.”

“And then what?” she asked, her tone demanding.

Sawyer threw up his hands. “I don’t know. I guess the baby grows up, and in twenty years, Mary’s a grandmother.” Sawyer rubbed the bridge of his nose. His head pounded, and the damn drums weren’t helping. “Look, can we go outside?” he mumbled.

She seemed to hesitate. Sawyer let out a breath when she nodded and took off, weaving in and out of the dancers, not stopping until she reached the exit. They walked outside the hotel, and he led her far enough away that the doorman couldn’t hear the conversation.

She spoke before he had the chance to question her. “I’ll talk to her. She’s supposed to come to OCM at eight tomorrow morning. It’s her regular appointment.”

“And you’ll convince her to talk to us?”

“I’ll talk—”

“Liz, Liz. Back here. What are you doing outside?”

Sawyer turned back toward the hotel door. Her date stood next to the doorman, wildly waving his arm. The man started walking toward them, his long legs eating up the distance.

“He doesn’t know about my letter,” Liz said, her voice almost a whisper. “I’d like to keep it that way.”

When the man reached Liz’s side, he wrapped a skinny arm around her and tugged her toward his body. For some crazy reason, Sawyer wanted to break the man’s arm. In two, maybe three, places. Then maybe a kneecap next.

“You had me worried when I couldn’t find you,” he said.

She stepped out of the man’s grasp. “Detective Montgomery is the detective assigned to the shooting at OCM.” She turned back to Sawyer. “Detective Montgomery, Howard Fraypish,” she said, finishing the introduction.

The guy stuck his arm out, and Sawyer returned the shake. “I’m OCM’s attorney,” Fraypish said.

The man’s hot-pink bow tie matched his cummerbund. “I better get going,” Sawyer said. “Thanks for the information, Ms. Mayfield.”

“I certainly hope you arrest the men responsible for the attack at OCM,” Fraypish said. “Where were the city’s finest when this happened? At the local doughnut shop?”

Was that the best the guy could do? “I don’t like doughnuts,” Sawyer said.

“Are you sure you’re a cop?”

Liz Mayfield frowned at her date. The idiot held up both hands in mock surrender. “Just a little joke. I thought we could use some humor.”

Sawyer thought a quick left followed by a sharp right would be kind of funny.

“I should have called you, Detective. Then you wouldn’t have had to make a trip here,” she apologized.

“Forget it.” His only regret was the blue dress. He knew how good she looked in it. He wondered how long before he stopped thinking about how good she’d look without it.

LIZ WOKE UP at four in the morning. Her body needed rest, but her mind refused to cooperate. She’d left the hotel shortly after midnight. She’d been in her apartment and in bed less than ten minutes later. She’d dreamed about Mary. Sweet Mary and her baby. Sweet Mary and the faceless Dantel Mirandez. Jenny had been there, too. With her crooked smile, her flyaway blond hair blowing around her as she threw a handful of pennies into the fountain at Grant Park. Just the way she’d been the last day Liz had seen her alive. Then out of nowhere, there’d been more letters, more threats. So many that when she’d fallen down and they’d piled on top of her, they’d covered her. And she hadn’t been able to breathe.

Waking up had been a relief.

She showered, put on white capri pants and a blue shirt and caught the five-o’clock bus. Thirty minutes later, it dropped her off a block from OCM. The morning air was heavy with humidity. It had the makings of another ninetydegree day.

She entered the security code, unlocked the front door, entered and then reset the code. She didn’t bother to go downstairs to her office, heading instead to the small kitchen at the rear of the first floor. She started a pot of coffee, pouring a cup before the pot was even half-full. She took a sip, burned her tongue and swallowed anyway. She needed caffeine.

While she waited for her bagel to toast, she thought about Detective Montgomery. When he’d walked away, in the wake of Howard’s insults, she’d wanted to run after him, to apologize, to make him understand that she’d do what she could to help him.

As long as it didn’t put Mary in any danger.

But she hadn’t. When Howard had hustled her back inside the hotel, she’d gone without protest. Jamison had made it abundantly clear. Attendees had coughed up two hundred bucks a plate. If they wanted to dance, you danced. If they needed a drink, you fetched it. If they wanted conversation, you talked.

Liz had danced, fetched, talked and smiled through it all. Even after her toes had been stepped on for the eighteenth time. No politician could have done better. She’d done it on autopilot. It hadn’t helped when Carmen had come up, fanning herself, and said, “Who was that?”

“Detective Montgomery,” Liz had explained.

“I suspect I don’t have to state the obvious,” Carmen had said, “but the man is hot.”

Liz had almost laughed. Carmen hadn’t even heard the man talk. Or felt the man’s chest muscles when he’d held her close—not too close but close enough. She hadn’t smelled his clean, fresh scent.

Detective Montgomery wasn’t just hot; he was smoking hot.

Her bagel popped just as she heard the front door open. She relaxed when she didn’t hear the alarm. Who else, she wondered, was crazy enough to come to work at five-thirty in the morning?

When she heard Jamison’s office door open, she almost dropped her bagel. He probably hadn’t gotten home much before two.

She spread cream cheese evenly on both sides and started a second pot of coffee. Jamison was perhaps the only person on earth who loved coffee more than she did. She had her cup and her bagel balanced in one hand and had just slung her purse over her shoulder when she heard the front door close again.

She eased the kitchen door open and glanced down the narrow hallway. Empty. All the office doors remained closed. “Hello?”

No answer. She walked down the hallway, knocked on Jamison’s door and then tried the handle. It didn’t turn.

She walked down the steps to the lower level. Her office door and all the others were shut. “Good morning?” she sang out, a bit louder this time.

The only sound she heard was her own breathing.

Liz ran up the stairs, swearing softly when the hot coffee splashed out of the cup and burned her hand. She checked the front door. Locked. Alarm set.

She relaxed. It had to have been Jamison. What would have possessed him to come in so early and leave so quickly? She hoped nothing was wrong. She walked back downstairs and unlocked her office. It was darker than usual because no light spilled through the boarded-up window.

She had to admit that the wood made her feel better. Maybe she’d ask Jamison to leave it that way for a while. At least until she got her nerves under control.

Rationally, she didn’t put much stock in the letter. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that one of her clients or their partners had decided to jerk her chain a little. It didn’t make her feel any better, however, to think that the shooter had been aiming for Mary.

She intended to somehow make the girl open up to her, to tell her if there was any connection between her and Dantel Mirandez. But in the meantime, she needed to get busy. She sat down behind her desk and opened the top file. Mary was not the only client who was close to delivery. Just two days before, Melissa Stroud had been in Liz’s office. They’d reviewed the information on Mike and Mindy Partridge, and Melissa had agreed to let the couple adopt her soon-to-be-born child. Liz needed to get the necessary information to Howard so that he could get the paperwork done.

At twenty minutes to eight, she heard the front door open again. Heavy footsteps pounded down the stairs, and within seconds, her boss stuck his head through the open doorway.

“Hey, Liz. Nice window.”

She shook her head. “Morning, Jamison. How are you?”

“Exhausted. It ended up being a late night. We didn’t leave the hotel until they pushed us out the door. Then Reneé and I and a couple others went out for breakfast. I didn’t want to say no to any potential donors. I’ve got a heck of a headache, though. It was probably that last vodka tonic.”

“Jamison, you know better.” Liz smiled at her boss. “Had you been to bed yet when you stopped by here this morning?”

“This morning? What are you talking about?”

“You stopped in about six. I had coffee made, but you left before I could catch you.”

“Liz, how many glasses of wine did you have last night?”

Liz dismissed his concern with a wave of her hand. “Two. That’s my limit.”

“Well, you may want to cut back to one. Reneé had set the alarm for seven, and we slept through that. I barely had time for a two-minute shower just to get here by now.”

Liz shook her head, trying to make sense out of what Jamison said. “I heard the door. The alarm didn’t go off. I’m sure I heard your office door open. But when I came out, there was nobody around.”

“It must have been a car door.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Liz protested.

“Then it was Cynthia or Carmen or one of the other staff. Although I can’t imagine why anybody would have gotten up early after last night. What were you doing here?”

“Mary Thorton is coming at eight. I wanted to get some stuff done first.” No need to tell Jamison that she’d been running from her dreams. He already thought she was losing her mind.

“Have you talked to her since the shooting? Poor kid. She must be pretty shook up.”

“I’m sure she was. Detective Montgomery thinks she knows more than she’s letting on.”

“Is that why he came to the dance last night?”

Liz was surprised. Jamison rarely noticed anything that didn’t directly concern him. But then again, Detective Montgomery had a way about him that commanded attention.

“Yes.”

“At least he wasn’t in uniform. That wouldn’t have been good for donations. How do you think the party went?” Jamison asked, sitting down on one of Liz’s chairs.

“People seemed to have a good time,” Liz hedged. When his eyes lit up, her guilt vanished. He could be a bit selfcentered and pushy, but Liz knew he’d do almost anything for OCM. She would, too.

Even spend an evening with Howard Fraypish, who had been Jamison’s college roommate. After college, Jamison had taken a job in social services and married Reneé. Howard had gone to law school, graduated at the top of his class, married his corporate job and produced billable hours. Lots of them, evidently. The man had a huge apartment with a view of Lake Michigan, and he’d opened his own law office at least five years ago.

The two men had stayed connected over the years, and when Jamison had been hired as the executive director of OCM, he’d hired Howard’s firm to handle the adoptions.

“Want a warm-up?” Jamison asked, nodding at Liz’s empty cup.

“Sure.”

They walked upstairs to the kitchen. Liz had poured her cup and handed the glass pot to Jamison when his cell phone rang. Liz started to walk away, stopping suddenly when she heard the glass pot hit the tile floor.

She whirled around. Jamison stood still, his phone in one hand and his other empty. Shards of glass and spilled coffee surrounded him.

“Jamison?” She started back toward her boss.

“There’s a bomb in my office.” He spoke without emotion. “It’s set to go off in fifteen minutes.”