Читать книгу Shielded By The Lawman - Dana Nussio - Страница 13

Sarah Cline hated cowering in the kitchen, but it seemed like her only option now. Even if the dishwasher had to be watching her as he sprayed gunk off plates with the pre-rinse hose, she didn’t dare look his way. How would she explain herself, anyway? For someone who understood just how critical it was for her to keep a low profile, who knew what she could lose if she didn’t, she’d practically leaped on the counter and performed a country line dance in her sensible shoes for all the customers to see.

For all of them? No, her side steps and kick-ball-changes had been for been for just one guy. And she couldn’t explain why she’d done it. A cop? She’d learned the hard way how much she could trust them. She hugged herself tighter, her thumb tracing the jagged pucker of a scar on the underside of her left arm. It was covered, just inside her short uniform sleeve. Hidden. Like so many others.

She lowered her arms and wiped her sweaty hands inside her apron pockets. From her awkward angle, she could no longer see the officer through the scratched, round window. She couldn’t blame him for his curiosity after her odd behavior tonight, so she was relieved when she caught sight of him again as he slipped out into the rain. Relieved and something else. Wistful? It couldn’t be that. If anything, regret was the thing pushing down on her shoulders like a lead blanket. Maybe tinged with the same anxiety she awoke to every morning and tried to sleep with every night.

What had possessed her to write that note? She should have minded her own business. She knew better. It couldn’t matter that she’d only today realized that “Mr. Jamie,” the after-school-program volunteer her sweet Aiden had been gushing over for months, was the same “James A. Donovan” whose debit card she swiped at least twice a week. Or that, from snippets of his coworkers’ conversations, she’d learned that something bad had happened to him at work tonight. Or even that the raw expression clouding his hazel eyes was similar to the one living inside her own mirror.

Not one of those things was a good enough excuse for her to meddle in some guy’s situation with a note...or even two-fifths of a pie. Getting involved in people’s lives encouraged them to ask questions. She couldn’t afford that.

Especially not from a cop.

With a shiver, she glanced back at Léon, who was watching her so closely that he’d sprayed water down the front of his apron. He lifted a thick black brow. She frowned at him. This wasn’t the first time she’d hidden in the kitchen at Casey’s, but usually she was avoiding rowdy customers who refused to accept the word no.

But this one...it was all on her.

Shooting one last glance to the front of the diner to be sure he was gone, Sarah stepped into the deserted dining room. She grabbed the tub of refilled salt and pepper shakers, ketchup bottles and containers filled with sweetener packets on her way past the counter.

Ted plucked a peppermint from the bowl by the cash register and popped it in his mouth. “I wondered where you’d wandered off to.”

“Just planning the desserts for tomorrow.”

She marveled at how effortlessly she lied, but then most things came easier with practice. And at age twenty-eight, she’d had plenty of practice.

“The fuzz boys do something to upset you? Because if they did, I could talk—”

“No, they’re good customers.”

“Good. But if they get out of line...”

As Sarah leaned into a booth to reset the condiments, she turned away so that he wouldn’t see her eye roll. Ted hadn’t even hinted that he would ban them for bad behavior. He couldn’t turn away paying customers, especially those who appeared harmless.

But she’d made the mistake of trusting the police once and had barely survived to tell the story. She brushed away that thought with a swipe of her forearm over her forehead. Compared to those Chicago officers, this group seemed like choir boys.

When the image of one particular choir member invaded her thoughts, his wide eyes staring back at her, Sarah’s hand jerked. A saltshaker slipped from her fingers and skidded across the table, leaving a sticky white mess on the laminate.

“Butterfingers tonight?” Ted asked.

“I’m just tired.”

The sound system blared with one of the country ballads she’d once adored, as a singer crooned about a love that didn’t exist. Hearts and hope and heaven easily turned to hurt and hits and hell.

She righted the saltshaker and cleared the residue with her cloth. If only it were as easy to erase the other mistakes she’d made tonight. She had one rule—keep her distance from others—and she’d broken it faster than an order up for scrambled eggs and toast.

She moved to the next table, but Jamie’s face flashed back at her from the mirrored napkin dispenser. He had kind eyes, she decided, and then shook her head. Why had she chosen now to think about that? She must have noticed his eyes before. Maybe because they matched his boyish face. But when she’d really looked at him tonight, what she’d seen had ripped at her heart.

So, blame her odd behavior on the misery in his eyes. That rare vulnerability in a guy whose career suggested a preternatural fearlessness had drawn her in, but that was all there was to it. All there ever could be. Friendships were a luxury she couldn’t afford.

Sarah blinked, the absurdity of those thoughts as shocking as her actions tonight. She needed to go home, where she could reclaim her good sense and her survival instinct. She had to remember the truth: She could count on no one but herself.

“Marilyn’s late,” Ted said.

“Again?”

“She called this time. Car trouble.”

She’d moved to the set-up table and was rolling cutlery, but now her gaze shifted to the door. At least there wasn’t a crowd of diehards arriving from Salute Lounge. If they had a rush, Ted might ask her to stay until Marilyn arrived. Again.

“You’d better clock out then,” he said, as if reading her thoughts.

“I do need to get home.”

“Aiden’s already in bed by now, right?”

“He’d sure better be, or he’ll never get up for school.” She wished she didn’t still stiffen at his mention of her son’s name. It hadn’t turned out too bad, anyway, the few times she’d had to bring her son to work with her.

“He doesn’t have to. There’s no school tomorrow.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know. One of those teacher in-service days. A kid holiday.”

Or a single parent’s nightmare. What was she supposed to do with her son now? Even her sitter, Nadia, worked days twice a week.

“Bring Aiden with you in the morning,” Ted said. “We never get to see him.”

“I just don’t want him to be bored.” Or seen.

“You kidding? He loves it here. Who wouldn’t?”

Maybe a six-year-old who’d prefer to play outside? “Why do you know about this schedule change and I don’t?”

He held up a sheet of paper. “Local school district calendar. I watch it to know which mornings we’ll be overrun with kids and their parents.”

But that didn’t explain why she hadn’t known. Had she missed something in Aiden’s backpack? She tried to keep on top of that mess, but sometimes she was just too tired. It was easier to curl up with her sleeping boy after she’d carried him down the freezing second-floor walkway from Nadia’s apartment to her own.

“Everything’s ready for the morning, right?” Ted asked.

“The cinnamon rolls are all ready to go in the oven.”

“You made extra, like I asked?”

She nodded, his earlier request now making sense.

“And you’ll be able to come in earlier since Aiden doesn’t have school? Eight maybe?”

Her second nod hurt a little more. Aiden would be grouchy if she got him up early on his day off.

“Good. Then you’d better get home.”

She headed back into the kitchen for her jacket before he changed his mind. She slid it on and pulled up her hood in case it was still raining.

Jamie had been soaked when he’d come in earlier, though the others had been dry. The thought struck her as she stepped out onto the sidewalk, where puddles remained, though the downpour had dwindled.

Why was the police officer on her mind again? Didn’t she have enough on her plate without taking on someone else’s problems? Bigger problems even than that she’d known nothing about her son’s school holiday. Obstacles like caring for a child who deserved a better, safer life than she’d given him, and too many bills with a paycheck that wouldn’t stretch. And the ever-present need to look over her shoulder for a boogeyman with a recognizable face, a booming voice and pain-inflicting hands.

As a familiar tickly sensation scampered up the back of her neck, she splayed her apartment keys between her thumb and first two fingers to face off with a possible attacker.

No one was following her. She knew that. Aiden was safe. They were safe. So why did every drip of leftover rainwater from the gutter echo in her ears? Why did each crunch of her shoes on the concrete throw off sounds as difficult to place as a ventriloquist’s voice? That seemed to come from behind her.

She’d made it only to the corner of the storefront when she gave in and peeked over her shoulder. The sidewalk and even the street were deserted. In the lot between Casey’s and its nearest neighbor, Langston’s Furnishings, only two cars remained. Ted’s and the clunker that Léon used to drive himself, the night cook, Marty, and sometimes her to work. At least she wasn’t the only one who didn’t have a car. She hurried across the parking lot, but as she passed Ted’s car, a pair of headlight beams whipped into the lot, the vehicle they were attached to barely slowing to make the turn. The car swerved into a parking space, its driver cutting the engine.

Sarah froze, a squeal escaping her. She needed to run back inside, yet her feet felt glued in place. Instead, she was forced to watch, an unwilling bystander to her own life. The car door flew open, and the driver leaped out and ran right toward her, something light fluttering beneath the figure’s hooded raincoat.

As the runner’s bare legs came into view, Sarah released the breath she’d been holding. “Marilyn?”

Of course, the waitress would be the one racing in and then sprinting across the parking lot with her apron whipping like a flag behind her. So why couldn’t Sarah stop shaking? Why did she have to assume that every fast-moving car would be him coming for her to finish the job, like he’d always said he would?

Marilyn didn’t even come to a full stop when she reached her. “Sorry I’m late. The babysitter—”

“Ted said it was car trouble.”

“That, too.”

Marilyn’s wry smile suggested there was more to it. Sarah nodded. Single moms had to have each other’s backs since no one else did. With a wave, the woman rounded corner to the entrance.

Sarah continued home on foot. It was safer this way. No license plate for police to trace. No checks on the numbers of a driver’s license that matched an eighty-year-old woman’s profile. A deceased one at that.

It hadn’t been Michael running toward her this time, but one day it would be. Safe? They would never be safe. Even if he didn’t know where they were—or who they were—he would find them. No prison walls would be strong enough to contain that type of hate.

It didn’t matter whether he would be able to convince a parole board that he was a safe risk for release or not. Michael’s network could fan out like a freeway map. Why had she ever thought they would be able to escape him?

She shivered and pulled her jacket tighter as she neared her apartment building.

She wouldn’t allow herself to think any more about a guy who had problems of his own and no time to deal with hers. Her only focus could be on that sweet little boy whose hair smelled of baby shampoo and whose kisses were the most precious gifts she could receive. Without hesitation, she would trade her life for her his.

If she allowed herself to think about any man at all, it would be the one who still stalked her nightmares. The one who’d promised to kill her, and always kept his promises.

Michael Brooks wedged himself between the car door and the frame and tilted his head back to pitch a mouthful of profanity at the bawling Chicago South Side sky. The least the sun could have done was shine on his first day seeing it from outside the prison gates in six years, but instead, it pissed all over him like the rest of the scum responsible for putting him behind bars.

“Would you get in and shut the door?” his driver grumbled from inside the car.

Michael whipped his body into the front seat so fast the other man flinched, his head cracking against the door. For the first time all day, Michael smiled. Then he brushed rainwater off the paper-thin jacket covering his button-down dress shirt and no-name jeans he’d been presented upon his release.

“Good to see you, too.”

He glanced around the interior of the cop’s personal vehicle, a foreign-made SUV with many driver distractions across the dash. He brushed his fingers over buttery leather upholstery.

“Nice ride.” Nicer than the guy deserved.

When Larry didn’t answer, Michael wanted to slug him. He’d been itching for a fight all day, an itch among many that hadn’t been scratched for too long. He tossed his measly bag of possessions into the backseat. He had nothing. That was his wife’s fault. Ex-wife. She was responsible for everything that sucked about his life now. No place to go home to. No feminine heat in his bed. No chance to get to know his son. And most of all, no access to his own sweet nest egg.

She would pay for all of it. When he figured out where the hell she was. He would find her, too. He had to. She held the key to his future in more ways than she knew.

Larry didn’t even look his way as he pulled out into traffic. Maybe he was too scared to risk it. Served him right.

Michael waited through a few stoplights in the tiny community where the prison bus had plunked him, but then he couldn’t stay quiet any longer.

“Got anything else you want to say to me?”

Larry’s Adam’s apple shifted a few times, and then his jaw tightened. “I thought maybe you’d like to thank me for coming all the way out here to pick up your sorry ass.”

“You joking? I’d still have my own ride if you and your buddy—”

“Hey, if you don’t want me to be here, I can...”

“Nah. It’s over.”

And if the guy believed that, he had a piece of land near Hyde Park with an active oil well in the backyard. Someone as indebted to him as the loser sitting next to him didn’t need a reminder of what he owed, anyway.

“Thanks for coming to get me,” Michael said finally.

He knew better than to piss off his so-called allies when he just might need them later.

“Glad Clint found you a decent place to live,” Larry said.

Michael’s jaw tightened at just the mention of the second officer’s name. This mess was as much his fault as Larry’s. “If that’s what you call decent...”

Larry made a tight sound in his throat and handed Michael an envelope with cash for the deposit and the first month’s rent. “Anything’s better than another night inside, right?”

He nodded. Any place would be better than spending another night in that concrete hellhole with fluorescent lights that held the place hostage in constant daylight, with those grating buzzes and steel-door clicks that could wake a corpse, and the rock-hard pad that passed for a mattress. But he suspected he would never be able to sleep again without those lights. Those sounds. That mattress.

“The place will do for now.”

Larry pointed to the computer screen on the dash. “Put in your address.”

He looked from the contraption to the driver.

“The GPS.” Then he slid a glance Michael’s way and grinned. “Oh. Right. You probably haven’t used one of those in a while. It was an upgrade on this model.”

Michael didn’t need any reminders of the conveniences he’d missed out on. The things that were this guy’s fault. And Maria’s.

“Doesn’t anyone use maps anymore?” he groused.

He let Larry guide him through the screens to enter the address on that scrap of paper from his pocket. The information on the other side of the crumbled sheet was more important to him, anyway, but Larry didn’t need to know about that.

“It’s going to take a few weeks to get used to all the changes since you...left.”

“Maybe a month.”

He wondered if he would ever reacclimate to a world that didn’t have prison’s clear rules. The order. Inside, each man understood his role, from the murderers holding court at the top of the social hierarchy to the guys playing Susy Homemaker for their meathead boyfriends. Even he had a place, as a master of demand-chain management for chemical life enhancers.

Outside, he was just an ex-con with nothing at all. At least not yet.

“Have you found any answers for me?”

Larry shook his head, still staring at the road. “You’ve got to be patient.”

“I don’t have to be anything. I’ve been waiting for years.”

“Give me a little time.”

“I got that request to you a month ago.”

“Which was a stupid move, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t.”

“Your wife did a fine job of disappearing.” He slid a glance Michael’s way. “Do you think she might have had a good reason?”

“You believed the bitch‘s lies, too?”

The side of Larry’s mouth lifted, but he didn’t say more. Michael’s hands fisted at his sides.

“My marriage is none of your business.”

“Guess not.”

At least Larry didn’t point out that he no longer had one of those. Good thing for him because Michael would have punched him in the throat.

“Just let me know as soon as you find out anything, okay?”

“I will.” Larry reached for a button on the dashboard, and a storage area popped open. He pulled out a burner cell phone and handed it to him. “So we can keep in contact.”

He murmured his thanks, though they would have stayed in contact whether Larry liked it or not. The officer didn’t need to know that he wasn’t the only one searching for answers. Michael had made some buddies inside who had helpful friends of their own.

Larry pulled the SUV to the curb and cut the engine. “That’s the place.”

Michael could only stare through the rivulets on his window. The two-story clapboard house with its peeling paint had probably been showing its age in the fifties.

“It ain’t much.”

That it was a long trip from the apartment Maria used to keep pin neat was one hell of an understatement.

“It’s just until you get a job and get back on your feet.”

“And until my wife comes home where she belongs.”

Larry’s shoulders shifted. “Now even if—I mean after—we locate Maria, it might be a while before you can convince her to, uh, come home. If—”

Michael threw open the car door and grabbed his bag from the backseat before the jerk could say ever. She would come back. The police only knew the things his wife had said when she was upset. She always took them back. Always.

“Just let me know what you find out about my wife.”

He dodged the land mines of crumbling concrete on his way up the walk. Deciding that the cracked doorbell wasn’t worth a try, he knocked hard on the door.

When no one answered, he considered bashing in the window next to it. But since the impact might have been enough to bring down the whole house, he knocked again.

“You sure someone’s supposed to be there?” Larry called out the car window.

“The guy said he’d be here...with the key.”

Finally, a rheumy-eyed skeleton of a man opened the door a crack and pushed a clipboard out. Michael signed without reading it, plunking down the envelope of cash and reaching for the key in the man’s other hand. He could have wrung the weasel’s neck for closing his fist and counting the bills before handing the key to him and closing the door.

With each creak as he climbed the apartment steps, Michael reminded himself that this was temporary, like that sentence he shouldn’t have had to serve. They would find her, and she would return to him, where she belonged. She would be sorry, too. For saying those things to the judge. For ignoring a court visitation order. But most of all, for keeping him from his money and his son.

The instant he flipped the switch inside the apartment, he wished for his prison cell. Yellow, nicotine-scarred walls encased a sunken, stained couch and matching chair. A lone TV tray served as a side table, but there was no television, only a shadowy mark on the wall where one used to be.

This would be fine, he decided, as he took in the lumpy looking mattress with a coverlet on top. From his bag, he pulled out a three-by-five photo of Maria, smiling on their wedding day, tresses of her hair curling around the lacy, borrowed veil. He always imagined her this way. Smiling. His.

“It won’t be long now, sweetheart. We’ll be a family again.”

Michael’s lips formed a grim line. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to make Maria understand that he couldn’t live without her. But that wasn’t the point, was it? He wouldn’t let her live without him.