Читать книгу Storm Clouds - Cheryl Wolverton - Страница 15

She’d endured the nurse’s ministrations. She’d needed two small stitches in her hairline—not the first time she’d had that happen. She’d actually had to sew herself up a couple of times when she’d been out in the field. And once her partner had needed stitches.

She’d had little time for the nurse—especially as she’d prattled on and on about God.

Her boss and her friends mentioned religion but never pushed. But that was all they talked about here. She didn’t remember it being like this ten years before—but then she’d been running and scared, so anything would have been better than where she’d come from. And back then, she might have actually been interested—before her brother had turned her away, before she’d gone back and faced her uncle.

She forced her mind away from the past. She’d gotten over that. She’d gone through therapy and knew it wasn’t her fault. She could handle herself fine.

“Find anything?”

She heard the voice behind her and jumped. How had he sneaked up on her? Turning, she lifted an eyebrow. “What are you doing here?”

David smiled that gentle smile that unnerved her. “I brought you here remember?”

She scowled. “You know what I meant.”

His smile turned crooked. “I called my boss. He’s quite upset about the Jeep.”

He was trying to make her feel guilty, she realized, and it was working. Turning back to her brother’s room, she went back to searching his dresser.

“But don’t worry, I explained everything,” David continued. He hadn’t moved from by the doorway. “My boss thinks I’m suffering hallucinations so he’s given me some time off.”

She whirled back around.

He chuckled. “Not really. I did take some vacation, however.”

Her eyes widened. “Why?”

“You need help.”

“I do not need assistance,” she informed him. “I used to work in security.” She didn’t want to tell him Secret Service. “I can handle myself.”

She returned to searching and heard his soft tread as his feet crossed the tiled floor and hit the carpet.

“Are all Americans this stubborn?”

His voice was deep and melodic. He could be an announcer for a radio. She looked up in the mirror at his reflection. “That’s so cliché.”

He shrugged. “I’ve never been to America.”

“And all Australians live in dusty wastelands and have kangaroos as pets, I assume?” she replied.

He chuckled. “As a matter of fact, we do have a few kangaroos on the property here, but sorry, back at my flat in Fleting, I have no kangaroos.”

“Fleting?”

“Not too far from Wallabee actually,” he informed her.

Realizing she had been distracted, she focused back on the dresser.

“Where have you searched?” he asked and backed off.

“All of the usual places. I haven’t found anything.” She jerked open the top drawer where she remembered her brother’s cuff links being stored and blinked.

“What have we here?” David asked, curiously and moved forward.

“Looks like an address book. But why wouldn’t the police have found this?” She pulled it out and opened it. It wasn’t an address book, but had notes jotted in it. People’s names, descriptions of places and such.

“Perhaps because they wouldn’t expect something to be stored in there—other than men’s tie tacks?”

“Sloppy police work,” Angelina muttered.

She went over to a bench that ran under the window and sat down. David followed. Slowly she flipped through page after page. “There’s a lot in here I don’t understand.”

David reached for the book. She allowed him to take it; the professional part of her understood that as a local, he might see something she didn’t.

And he did. “Cowboy lingo.”

She blinked. “What do you mean by that?”

“That’s what you call it isn’t it? Ranchers?”

“I know what the word means.” She shook her head. “What do you see?”

“This is how we measure off kilometers. And this means Fleting actually and here is an abbreviation for a street in Wallabee. Fleting is a bigger town. I think this might be a nightclub.”

“My brother wouldn’t go to nightclubs,” she argued.

David stopped flipping the pages and looked up at Angelina. “You really don’t know much about your brother do you?”

Coolly she replied, “We don’t get along.”

He started to comment, shook his head and then said, “Let me explain how I met your brother.”

“I don’t see—”

“It has to do with the nightclub.”

She hesitated. Time was ticking away. Her brother was missing, and this man wanted to share stories with her. But she’d learned in her business it was better to be thorough than to go off half-cocked. If she wanted to find her brother, she was going to have to step back and act professionally instead of like a family member.