Читать книгу Christmas Kidnapping - Cindi Myers - Страница 11

Chapter Two

Andrea stared at the water glass on its side, ice cubes scattered across the cloth. Jack had taken off after the purse snatcher so suddenly she hadn’t had time to process everything that had happened. One moment he was saying something about the guy at the bar watching them, and the next her purse had disappeared, and so had Jack.

“Would the gentleman like the rest of his meal boxed to go?”

Andrea blinked up at the waitress, whose face betrayed no emotion beyond boredom, as if purse snatchings and overturned tables were everyday occurrences.

“No thank you,” Andrea said. “Just bring the check.” She glanced toward the door, hoping to see Jack. Had he caught the thief? Had he been hurt in the attempt? She needed to get out of here and make sure he was okay.

The waitress returned with the check and Andrea realized that, without her purse, she had no way to pay the bill.

“I’ll get that.” Jack’s hand rested atop hers on the tab. He dropped into the chair beside her, his face flushed and breathing hard. “He got away,” he said. “I’m sorry about your purse.” He shifted his hip to retrieve his wallet and winced.

“You’re hurt,” she said, alarmed.

He shook his head. “I’m fine.” He removed his credit card and glanced around. Two busboys were righting the overturned table and most of the other diners had returned to their meals. “Where’s our waitress?” Jack asked. “I’m ready to get out of here.”

He helped her with her coat and kept his hand at her back as they left the café. “What was in your purse?” he asked. “I’m assuming a wallet and credit cards. Driver’s license?”

She nodded. “And my car keys, house keys and cell phone.” She took a deep breath. “I can call and cancel the cards, get a new license, and I have spare keys at home. I’ll have to get a new phone.”

“Let me take you by your place to get the keys,” he said.

“You don’t have to do that. I can call someone.” Maybe Chelsea, who was babysitting for her, would come—though that would mean bringing along Ian and Chelsea’s baby, Charlotte.

“I have the whole afternoon free, so you might as well let me take you.”

“All right. Thank you.”

Jack drove a pickup truck, a black-and-silver late-model Ford that was the Western equivalent of a hot sports car. She gave him directions to her home and settled back against the soft leather seats, inhaling the masculine aromas of leather, coffee and Jack Prescott. If some genius were to bottle the combination, it would be a sure bestseller, the epitome of sex appeal.

“Nice place,” he said when he pulled into the driveway of the blue-and-white Victorian in one of Durango’s quiet older neighborhoods. Snow frosted the low evergreens around the base of the porch and dusted the large pine-and-cedar Christmas wreath she had hung on the front door. Jack had to move Ian’s tricycle in order to get to the walkway to the steps.

“Sorry about that,” Andrea said. “I keep telling him not to leave it in the way like that, but he forgets.”

“He’ll be ready for a bicycle before long,” Jack said. “If he’s five.”

“He’s been asking for one for Christmas but I don’t know...” The thought of her baby riding along the narrow and hilly roads of her neighborhood filled her with visions of collisions with cars or tumbles in loose gravel.

Chelsea opened the door before they were up the steps, Charlotte in her arms. “Oh, hi, Andrea.” She sent a curious glance toward Jack. “I didn’t know who was here in that truck.”

“My purse got stolen at lunch,” Andrea said. “I came home to get my spare keys. This is Jack. Jack, this is Chelsea. She’s my best friend and she looks after Ian while I work. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

“Hello, Jack.” Chelsea pushed a corkscrew of black curls behind one ear and smoothed the front of her pink polo shirt.

“I’ll just get my keys and get out of your hair.” Andrea started to step past her, but at that moment, Ian barreled out of the house.

“Hey, Mom!” He grinned up at her, the dimple on the left side of his mouth and the thick fall of dark hair across his forehead foreshadowing the lady-killer he would no doubt be one day. Just like his father. “You came home early,” Ian said.

“Not to stay, I’m afraid.” She hugged him and smoothed the hair out of his eyes. But his attention had already shifted to Jack. Ian ducked his head behind her leg and peeked out.

Jack squatted in front of the boy—it had to be an awkward movement, considering his injuries, but a slight wince was the only sign of difficulty he gave. “Hello, Ian,” he said. “My name is Jack.”

“Mr. Prescott,” Andrea corrected. She nudged her son. “Say hello, Ian.”

“Hello.” The words came out muffled against her leg, but Ian’s eyes remained fixed on Jack, bright with interest.

“What’s your favorite food, Ian?” Jack asked.

Ian looked up at his mom. “You can answer him,” she said.

“Grilled cheese sandwiches,” Ian said.

Chelsea laughed. “He would eat grilled cheese every meal if his mother and I would let him.”

“I like grilled cheese, too,” Jack said.

“I’ll just get my keys.” Andrea slipped inside and went to the drawer in her bedroom where she kept her spare set. She paused to study the photo on her dresser, of her and Preston and eighteen-month-old Ian on her lap. Ian liked to hold the picture and ask questions about his father, but one day pictures and her memories weren’t going to be enough. A boy needed a father to help him learn to be a man.

She returned to the porch to find Jack and Ian in the driveway, studying something on the tricycle. “What’s going on?” she asked Chelsea.

“Guy talk.” Chelsea dismissed the two males with a wave of her hand. “What’s this about your purse being stolen?” she asked.

“A purse snatcher. Jack chased him, but the guy was too fast.” She jingled her keys. “I’ll have to call when I get to my office and cancel my credit cards and see about getting a new driver’s license.”

Chelsea sidled closer and lowered her voice. “Jack is definitely a hottie,” she said. “How long have you two been an item?”

Andrea flushed. “Oh, no, it’s not like that. I mean, we just met.”

“You don’t act like two people who just met.” Chelsea grinned.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You can’t take your eyes off him. And he feels the same way.”

Andrea glanced at Jack, something she realized now she had been doing every few seconds since she had returned to the porch. He was kneeling beside the trike, listening while Ian gave some long explanation about something. Just then Jack looked up and his eyes met hers, and she felt a jolt of pleasure course through her.

Jack stood and patted Ian’s shoulder. Then the two rejoined the women on the porch. “Ian was telling me about the pedals sticking on his ride,” he said. “I’ll bring some oil over sometime and fix the problem for him.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” she protested. Jack was a client. They were supposed to have one casual lunch and some conversation. Now he was getting involved in her personal life.

“I’m going to help Jack fix my bike,” Ian said.

“Mr. Prescott.” Her voice sounded faint, even to her, as she made the automatic correction.

“It’s no trouble,” Jack said.

Arguing about it, especially in front of Ian and Chelsea, seemed a waste of breath. “All right.” She knelt and hugged her son. “I have to give a speech tonight for a police-officer spouse group, so I won’t be home until late,” she said. “But Chelsea has a special treat for you.”

“Pizza and a movie.” Chelsea put a hand on the boy’s head.

“And root beer?” Ian asked.

Chelsea looked to Andrea. “All right. You may have one glass of root beer with your pizza,” Andrea said.

“A big glass,” Ian said.

Jack laughed. “You’re quite the negotiator, pal,” he said.

Ian beamed at the praise. Butterflies battered at Andrea’s chest. This wasn’t good. She didn’t want Ian so focused on a man she hardly knew. Especially a man like Jack, with a dangerous job and a reckless attitude. “We’d better go,” she said. “I have clients to see this afternoon.”

“I like your truck,” Ian said to Jack.

“Maybe I’ll give you a ride sometime,” Jack said.

Andrea waited until they were in the vehicle and driving away before she spoke, choosing her words carefully. “You shouldn’t have said that, about giving him a ride in your truck,” she said.

“I would want you to come along, too,” he said.

“Saying you’ll take him for a ride promises some kind of ongoing relationship.”

His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel, the only sign of any emotion. “Would that be so bad?”

She turned toward him, her hands fisted in her lap. “You’re my client. I hardly know you.”

“I had a good time today,” he said. “I’d like to see you again. You and Ian.”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“It just...wouldn’t.”

“Because of the client thing? What if I decided not to see you in a professional capacity anymore?”

“It wouldn’t matter.” She looked out the window, at the passing lines of shops crowded along the highway in Durango’s downtown area. Evergreen garlands, wreaths and hundreds of tiny white lights decorated the Victorian buildings, making the scene look right out of a Christmas card. People filled the sidewalks, hands full of shopping bags, or carrying skis or snowboards, fresh from a day at Durango Mountain Resort.

“Is there someone else?” he asked. “Do you have a boyfriend? I didn’t get that vibe from you.”

What kind of vibe would that be? But she wasn’t going to go there. “I’m busy with my job and raising my son,” she said. “I don’t have time to date.”

“You don’t have time to date a cop.”

His perceptiveness momentarily silenced her. She stared at him.

“I’m not a trained therapist, but if your husband was killed in the line of duty, it doesn’t take a degree to figure out you might not want to repeat the experience.” He glanced at her, then back at traffic. “But even civilians can get hit by buses or fall off of mountains or have a heart attack while mowing the lawn.”

She shook her head. “I don’t want to date you, Jack.”

“Fine. But I will have to see you again.”

“Why is that?”

“I’m going to try to find out more about the guy who snatched your purse. I’m going to try to find him.”

“Don’t worry about it. Everything in there can be replaced.”

“Maybe. But I don’t think he was in that café this afternoon for the sole purpose of stealing a random stranger’s purse. He was watching us—watching me—for a while before he made his move. I want to find out why.”

“I doubt you’ll get my purse back,” she said.

“Maybe not. But I have to see you again anyway.”

“Why?”

“I promised Ian I’d fix the stiff pedal on his tricycle. And I always keep my promises.”

Yes, Jack Prescott would keep his promises. He would do his duty and live by his pledge, whether that pledge was to a friend or a woman or a little boy like Ian. But he would also keep his promise to give all he had for his country. Even if that meant his life. That last promise was one she wasn’t sure she could live with.

* * *

AFTER JACK DROPPED Andrea at her office, he called Special Agent Cameron Hsung, one of his fellow Search Team Seven members. “Hey, Jack, how are you doing?” Cameron’s cheerful voice greeted him. The half-Asian twentysomething was one of the younger members of the team, an IT specialist who had been recruited, like the other members of Search Team Seven, because of his super-recognizer skills.

“I’m doing great.” Jack rubbed his thigh, which burned with pain as a result of his pursuit of the thief and squatting to put himself at eye level with Ian McNeil. “There’s no reason I couldn’t come back to work right now.”

“I’m guessing your doctor has a different idea,” Cameron said.

“He says at least two more weeks of leave. But what does he know. How’s the case going?” The case—the sole focus of the team at the moment—involved a terrorist cell headquartered here in western Colorado. The suspected leader of the cell, a man named Duane Braeswood, had jumped from the Durango and Silverton tourist railroad two months ago, but a subsequent search hadn’t turned up his body.

“We got a lead that a man matching Braeswood’s description had shown up at a hospital in Grand Junction,” Cameron said. “But by the time local law enforcement made it there, he had disappeared.”

“So he was injured?”

“Pretty badly, I guess,” Cameron said. “After a bit of a hassle, we got a copy of the medical report. He had a broken leg, some busted ribs, and a bruised liver and kidneys.”

Jack winced. “So he probably didn’t get to the hospital—or out of it—on his own.”

“That’s what we’re thinking. We got some security video but it’s pretty blurred. Typical cheap system that hasn’t been maintained. Nobody thinks about these things until they actually need the equipment to do its job. Then it’s too late.”

“The man doesn’t seem to have any shortage of helpers,” Jack said.

“Yeah, well, money buys a lot of things—even friends.”

“Right. And speaking of friends, I need a favor.”

Cameron groaned. “Something tells me I should say no before I even hear this.”

“It’s nothing complicated. A friend of mine had her purse stolen while we were at lunch today.”

“You have a woman friend?”

“Don’t act so surprised.”

“At least you’re using your leave productively. Who is she? How did you meet?”

“Her name is Andrea McNeil. She’s a therapist.”

“You mean the police therapist you were going to see? Man, what did you do, put the moves on her from the couch?”

“We were having lunch. That’s all.” Though he definitely wanted more. A guy didn’t meet a woman like Andrea every day, and he wasn’t buying her argument that she didn’t want to date him. He understood her reluctance, given her history, but she must have felt the connection between them. And he thought he was savvy enough to have picked up that she hadn’t agreed to have lunch with him because she fell for his “I’m so lonely” line. She was really interested. All he had to do was take it slow and prove that exploring the chemistry between them was worth the risk. “I thought I recognized the purse snatcher. I think he’s in our database.”

“Uh-huh. And what is this favor you want from me?”

“I want a copy of the database so I can look for this lowlife and find him.”

“That database is classified,” Cameron said. “It’s not supposed to leave this office.”

“It’s not like you’re releasing it to a civilian. I’m a member of your team.”

“Technically, you’re not on the team right now. You’re on medical leave. You’re not even allowed to come to the office.”

“Because some bureaucratic pencil pusher is afraid of getting sued if I slip and fall on a wet floor or something before my doctor has cleared me to return to work. That’s why I need a copy of the database on my personal computer.”

“Jack, it’ll cost me my job if anyone finds out.”

“No one will find out. It’s not like I’m going to go around showing the thing off. I just want to track down this guy.”

He thought he heard Cameron’s teeth grinding together. “All right. But don’t go all Lone Ranger on me. If you find anything, you bring it to us.”

“I will. I promise.”

“Okay. Meet me when I get off at six, at that tavern around the corner.”

“The Rusty Moose.”

“Yeah. Dumb name, good beer. You can buy me one and I’ll get you what you need. And hey, if your therapist friend has a friend, maybe you could introduce us.”

“You have to find your own dates, Cam. That’s where I draw the line.”

“Hey, I figured it was worth a try.”

Jack hung up the phone and started the truck. He couldn’t shake the feeling the purse snatcher had been up to more than looking to steal a handbag. There had to be a connection to his case. Even if he was supposed to be on medical leave, that didn’t mean he couldn’t do a little investigating on his own. He was out of the hospital and doing pretty good. He had never been the type to sit around and do nothing, and he wasn’t about to start now.

* * *

BY THE TIME Andrea made it home from her meeting, she was drained. As much as she enjoyed sharing her expertise with groups, she identified a little too closely with the challenges faced by members of the Law Enforcement Spouses organization. She remembered what it was like to be in their shoes and deal with the constant worry about her loved one. Though she was happy to listen to their concerns and offer strategies for coping, she knew her words weren’t really enough.

She was surprised to find the house dark when she arrived. Chelsea usually left the porch light on for her. She fumbled her way up the steps and opened the door. Silence greeted her—another oddity. Even though it was past Ian’s bedtime, Chelsea liked to stay up and watch movies or her favorite reality TV shows. “Chelsea? Is everything okay?” she called as she reached for the light switch.

A half-eaten pizza sat on the coffee table, an almost-empty glass of root beer tipped on its side next to the pizza box, the brown liquid pooling on the table and dripping on the floor. One of the couch pillows was on the floor, too. Heart in her throat, Andrea took a step forward. Then she saw the blood.

Or at least, she thought it was blood. The pool of brownish-red liquid on the rug beside the coffee table definitely wasn’t root beer. It could have been spilled syrup, except that no one would be eating syrup with pizza, would they?

She reached for her phone to call 911, but of course, the thief had stolen it, along with her purse. “Chelsea!” she shouted, headed toward the kitchen and the phone there. “Ian!”

She stumbled over something in the hallway—Chelsea lay on her back, her hands and feet tied, a gag in her mouth. She stared up at Andrea, eyes wide. Shaking, Andrea dropped to her knees and pulled the gag from the babysitter’s mouth. “What happened?” she demanded. “Where is Ian?”

“Ian’s gone.” Tears spilled out of Chelsea’s frightened eyes. “Two men took him. He’s gone.”