Читать книгу Lawman - Diana Palmer - Страница 8

THE OLD JACOBS PLACE was in disrepair. The last owner hadn’t been big on maintenance, and now there was a leak in Garon’s study. Right over his damned computer, in fact.

He glared at it from the doorway, elegantly dressed in a gray suit. He’d just arrived in Jacobsville from Washington, D.C., where he’d been taking a course at Quantico on homicide investigation. It was his new specialty, that area of law enforcement. Garon Grier was a career FBI man. He worked out of the San Antonio office, but he’d recently moved from an apartment there to this huge ranch in Jacobsville. His brother Cash was the Jacobsville police chief. The brothers had been alienated for some time. Cash had disowned his family over his father’s remarriage just days after his beloved mother’s death from cancer. That long feud had only just ended. Cash was newly, happily, married to Tippy Moore, the “Georgia Firefly” of modeling and motion picture fame. She had just had their first child, a little girl.

Cash thought the child was the crown jewels. To Garon, she looked more like a little red prune with flailing fists. But as the days passed, she did seem to grow prettier. Garon loved children. No one would ever have guessed it. He had a demeanor that was blunt and confrontational. He rarely smiled, and he was usually all business, even with women. Especially with women. He’d lost his one true love to cancer. It had eaten the heart out of him. Now, at thirty-six, he was resigned to being alone for the rest of his life. It was just as well, he decided, because he had nothing to give to a woman. He lived for his job. He would have liked a child of his own, though. A little boy would be nice. But he had no desire to risk his heart in pursuit of one.

Miss Jane Turner, the housekeeper he’d hired, came into the room behind him, her thin face resigned. “There aren’t any construction people available until next week, Mr. Garon,” she said in her Texas drawl. “We’d best put a bucket under it for now, I reckon, unless you want to climb up on the roof with a hammer and nails.”

He gave her a superior look. “I don’t climb up on roofs,” he said flatly.

She looked him over in the suit. “That doesn’t surprise me,” she muttered, turning to go.

He gave her a shocked look. She must think he never wore anything but suits, when he’d grown up on a sprawling west Texas ranch. He could ride anything with four legs, and he’d won prizes in rodeo competitions in his teens. Now, he knew more about guns and investigation than he did about rodeo, but he could still run a ranch. In fact, he was stocking purebred black Angus cattle here, and he planned to give his father and brothers a run for their money in cattle shows. He had in mind founding his own champion herd sires here. If he could lick the problem of getting qualified cowboys to work for an outsider, that was. Small towns seemed to draw into themselves when people from other places moved in. Jacobsville had less than two thousand people living in it, and most of them seemed to watch Garon from behind curtained windows every time he walked around town. He was surveyed, measured up and kept carefully at a distance for the time being. People in Jacobsville were particular about letting strangers join the family, because that was what they considered themselves—a family of two thousand souls.

He glanced at his watch. He was already late for a meeting with his squad of agents at the San Antonio FBI office, but last night his flight had been unexpectedly delayed in D.C. by a security hitch. It was early morning before the plane landed in San Antonio. He’d had to drive down to Jacobsville, and he’d barely slept. He walked out onto the wide, concrete front porch with its gray floor and white porch swing and white wicker furniture and cushions. Those were new. It was late February, and his housekeeper said they needed someplace for his company to sit when it came. He told her he wasn’t expecting to have any. She snorted and ordered the furniture anyway. She was an authority on everybody who lived around here. She’d probably become an authority on him in short time, but he’d told her graphically what would happen if she dared to pass on any personal gossip about his life. She’d just smiled. He hated that damned smile. If he could have gotten any other spinster lady with her cooking skills to work for him…

He glanced at an old, black car of unknown vintage coughing smoke as it went slowly down the road. That would be the next-door neighbor, whose little green-trimmed white clapboard house was barely visible through the pecan and mesquite trees that separated his big property from her small one. Her name was Grace Carver. She took care of her elderly grandmother, who had a serious heart condition. The granddaughter wasn’t much to look at. She wore her blond hair in a long pigtail, and went around mostly in loose jeans and a sweatshirt. She was shy around Garon. In fact, she seemed to be afraid of him, which was curious. Maybe his reputation had gotten around.

He’d met her when her old German shepherd dog trespassed into his yard. He’d escaped his fenced pen and she came looking for him, apologizing profusely the whole time. She had green eyes, very pale, and an oval face. She was plain, except for her pretty mouth and exquisite complexion. She’d only stayed long enough to make her apologies and introduce herself. She hadn’t come close enough to shake hands, and she’d left as soon as she could, almost dragging the delinquent dog behind her. She hadn’t been back since. Miss Jane had mentioned a week or so later that the old dog had died. Old Mrs. Collier, Grace’s grandmother, didn’t like dogs anyway. Garon remarked that Miss Carver had been nervous around him. Miss Turner told him that Grace was “peculiar” about men. God knew what that meant.

Miss Jane also said that Grace didn’t get out much. She didn’t elaborate. He didn’t ask anything else about her. He wasn’t interested. He liked an occasional night out with an attractive woman, preferably a modern, educated one. Miss Carver was the sort of woman he’d never found interesting.

He checked his watch, closed the front door and climbed into his black Bucar for the drive to San Antonio. He was entitled to use a Bucar—the FBI’s term for a bureau conveyance—even though a new black Jaguar sat in the garage next to his big Ford Expedition. He carried all his gear and accessories in the Bucar. So he drove it to work. It was going to be something of a commute, but no more than twenty minutes either way. Besides, he was tired of apartment living. Miss Turner was astringent, but she was a hell of a good cook, and she kept house without talking his ear off. He considered himself fortunate.

He set off down the driveway, casting a curious glance after Grace’s choking engine. He wondered if she knew that her car had a mechanical problem, and reasoned that she probably didn’t. He glimpsed her from time to time mulching and pruning her roses. She had several bushes of them. That was one thing they did have in common. He loved roses, and during his brief marriage, he’d grown several varieties. It was a hobby he enjoyed, and he had plenty of room to practice it again here at the ranch. Of course, it was February. Not many roses would bloom this time of year.

THE OFFICE WAS BUZZING when he got there. A local homicide detective with San Antonio P.D. was waiting for him, in his office.

“I haven’t even had time to brief the SAC about the workshop, yet,” Garon muttered to the secretary he shared with another agent. “What’s he want?” he added, nodding toward the tall, dark-headed man standing at the window with his hands in his pockets and his black hair in a long ponytail, even longer than the one Garon’s brother Cash, wore. It designated a renegade.

“Something about an abducted child case he’s working on.”

“I don’t do missing person cases unless they end as homicides,” he reminded her.

She gave him a knowing look. “I work here,” she pointed out. “I know what you do.”

He glared at her. “Don’t get smart.”

“Don’t get snippy,” she shot back. “I could be making twenty dollars an hour as a plumber.”

“Joceline, you can’t even put a washer in a faucet,” he replied patiently. “Or don’t you remember what happened when you tried to fix the leaky one in the women’s restroom?”

She pushed back her short, dark hair. “The floor needed mopping anyway,” she told him haughtily. “Now, if you want to know what Detective Marquez wants, why don’t you go and ask him?”

He sighed irritably. “Okay. How about a cup of coffee?”

“Already had one, thanks,” she said. She gave him a smile.

“I hate liberated women,” he grumbled.

“Gee, can’t you lift a coffee cup all by yourself?” she asked with mock surprise.

“When you come asking for a raise, see what happens,” he said.

“When you want a case report typed, see what happens,” was the smug reply.

He muttered in gutter Spanish all the way into his office. He hoped Joceline understood every single nasty word. But if she did, she didn’t let on.

The detective heard his footsteps and turned. He had black eyes and an olive complexion, and a worried expression.

“I’m Marquez,” he introduced himself, shaking hands. “You’d be Special Agent Grier, I assume?”

“If I’m not, I don’t have to look at all that paperwork piled on my desk,” Garon replied dryly. “Have a seat. Like a cup of coffee?” he added, then grimaced.

“We’ll have to go get it ourselves, of course, because my secretary is a liberated woman!” he raised his voice as she went past the door.

“The computer is about to eat your six-page letter to the attorney general about your proposed new legislation,” she called merrily. “Sorry, but I’m sure you can draft a new one…”

“If you ever get married, I’ll give you away!”

“If I ever get married, I’ll give you away,” she retorted and kept walking.

He sat down behind his desk with a rough sound in his throat. “She and my housekeeper must be sisters,” he told the visitor. “I hired them and they tell me what to do.”

Marquez only smiled. “I was told that you head a squad that deals with violent crimes against children,” he said.

Garon leaned back in his chair, and all the humor went out of his face. “Technically I head a squad that deals with violent crime, up to and including serial murder. I’ve never worked child murders.”

Marquez frowned. “Then who does?”

“Special Agent Trent Jones was our crimes against children specialist,” he replied. “But he just got transferred back to Quantico to work on a high profile case. We haven’t had time to replace him.” He frowned. “I thought Joceline said you had a missing person case?”

Marquez nodded. He looked as solemn as Garon did. “It started out as a missing person case. Now it’s a homicide; a ten-year-old girl,” he said quietly. “We’ve checked out everyone close to her, including both parents, and we can’t turn a perpetrator. Now we think it might have been a stranger.”

This was serious business. The news had been full of abducted children who were murdered by convicted sex offenders, all over the country. The case was, sadly, not that unique.

“Do you have any leads?”

Marquez shook his head. “We only found the body yesterday. That’s why I’m here. I found a similar case. I think it’s a serial crime. That means I can ask you for help.”

Garon leaned back in his chair. “When was she abducted?”

“Three days ago,” Marquez said quietly.

“Any latents at the scene?” Garon asked.

“No, and we had the criminologists on their hands and knees all over her bedroom with blue lights. Nothing. Not a single latent fingerprint.”

“He took her out of her bedroom?” he asked, surprised.

“In the middle of the night, and nobody heard anything,” Marquez replied.

“Footprints, tire tracks…?”

Marquez shook his head. “Either this guy is very lucky, or…”

“…or he’s done this before,” Garon finished for him.

Marquez drew in a long breath. “Exactly. Of course, my lieutenant doesn’t buy that. He thinks we’ve got a pedophile who carried the kid away and killed her. I told him that this is the second case of bedroom abduction we’ve seen in the past two years. The last one was over in Palo Verde, and the child was murdered in a similar manner. I found it listed on VICAP, the FBI’s violent criminal apprehension program. I showed it to the lieutenant. He told me I was chasing ghosts.”

Garon’s eyebrow lifted. “Did you check for other unsolved child homicides?”

“I did,” Marquez said somberly. “I found two in Oklahoma eight years ago. They happened about a year apart, and the children were abducted from their homes, but in daylight. I showed the cases to my lieutenant. He said it was coincidence, that there were no real similarities except the kids were strangled and stabbed.”

“The victims,” Garon replied. “How old were they?”

Marquez pulled out a BlackBerry and brought up a screen. “Between ten and twelve years of age. They were raped, strangled and then stabbed.”

“God!” Garon burst out. “What kind of animal would do that to a child?”

“A really nasty one.”

“I’d hoped that the red ribbon would show up in those VICAP postings that matched this homicide. But I had no luck.” Marquez looked up from the BlackBerry. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an evidence bag. He handed it to Garon.

Garon opened it and looked inside. “A red silk ribbon?”

“The murder weapon,” Marquez said. “The first officers on the scene were San Antonio P.D. They found it tied tight around the neck of the ten-year-old girl. Her body was found in behind a little country church north of here yesterday. We transported the body here to our medical examiner for processing. We haven’t released that bit about the red ribbon to the press.”

Garon could guess why. All homicide detectives tried to hold back one or two pieces of evidence so that they could weed out potential suspects who were lying about their involvement in the murder. Every police department had at least one mental case who tried to confess to any violent crime, for reasons best left to a psychiatrist.

He touched the ribbon. “It might have something to do with his fantasy,” Garon mused, having participated in seminars by the FBI’s behavioral science department, observing profilers at work. Modus operandi was the method used to kill. Signature was a feature linking all victims of a serial killer in a way that was important only to the killer, and it never changed. Some left victims posed in obscene ways, some used a particular marking of victims, but a number of serial killers left something that identified them as the suspect.

Garon glanced at the detective. “Have you checked the database for similar ribbons at other crime scenes?”

“First thing I did, when I saw the ribbon,” he replied. “But no luck. If there was such a ribbon, maybe it was overlooked or held back from the file. I’ve tried to contact the police department in West Texas, at Palo Verde, where the last homicide occurred, but they don’t answer phone calls or e-mails. It’s a tiny little jurisdiction.”

“Good idea. What do you want from us?”

“A profile would be a good start,” he said. “My lieutenant won’t like it, but I’ll talk to our captain and see if he’ll make a formal request for assistance. He mentioned the profiling to me himself.”

Garon smiled. “I’ll fill in one of our ASACs, so that he’ll expect it.”

“Not the SAC?”

“Our special agent in charge is in Washington, trying to appropriate funds for a new project we’re trying to get started, partnering with the local middle schools to discourage kids from using drugs.”

“He might need to ask somebody with more money than our government seems to have,” came the dry reply. “On a local level, our own budget is cut to the bone already. I had to buy a digital camera out of my pocket so that I could get my own crime scene photos.”

Garon laughed shortly. “I know that feeling.”

“Is it true, that a lot of cases never get listed on VICAP?” Marquez said.

“Yes. The forms are shorter than they once were, but it takes about an hour to fill them out. Some police departments just don’t have the time. If you could find a second case with a red ribbon involved, I might be able to help you convince your lieutenant that there’s a serial killer loose. Before he kills again,” he added somberly.

“Can you spare us an agent, if we put together a task force to hunt this guy?”

“We can spare me. The rest of my squad is trying to run down a mob of bank robbers who use automatic weapons in holdups. I’m not essential personnel to them. My assistant can run the squad in my absence. I’ve worked serial murder cases, and I know agents in the Behavioral Science Unit I can call on for help. I’ll be glad to work with you.”

“Thanks.”

“No sweat. We’re all on the same team.”

“Do you have a business card?”

Garon took out his wallet and pulled out a simple white business card with black lettering. “My home phone is at the bottom, along with my cell phone number and my e-mail.”

Marquez’s eyebrows lifted. “You live in Jacobsville?”

“Yes. I bought a ranch there.” He laughed. “We’re not supposed to be involved in any business outside the job, but I pulled strings. I live on the ranch. The manager takes care of the day-to-day operation, so I have no conflicts.”

“I was born in Jacobsville,” Marquez said, smiling.

“My mother still lives there. She runs a café in town.”

There was only one café in town. Garon had eaten there. “Barbara’s Café?” Garon asked.

“The same.”

He frowned. He didn’t want to step on the man’s toes, but Barbara was a blonde.

“You’re thinking I don’t look like a man with a blond mother, right?” Marquez smiled. “My parents died in a botched robbery. They owned a small pawn shop in town. I was just six at the time. Barbara never married and had no family. I used to take mom and dad food from the café. After the funeral, Barbara came and got me out of state custody and adopted me. Quite a lady, Barbara.”

“I’ve heard that.”

Marquez checked his watch. “I have to run. I’ll phone you when I’ve talked to my captain.”

“Better make it an e-mail,” Garon replied. “I expect to be in meetings for most of today. I’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

“Okay. See you.”

“Sure.”

IT WAS A GOOD DAY, Garon thought as he drove himself back to Jacobsville. The squad was working witnesses at the last big bank robbery to find any information that would further the investigation. Men armed with automatic weapons were a danger to the entire community of San Antonio. He’d talked to the senior ASAC about setting up a task force in concert with San Antonio homicide detectives to work on the child murder. He had a green light. The ASAC had a friend in the Texas Rangers. He gave Garon his number. They were going to need all the help they could get.

He glanced toward the Carver place as he drove by. Her car was still sitting in the driveway. He wondered if she could start it again. It was a miracle the piece of junk ran at all.

He pulled into his driveway and almost ran into the back of a silver Mercedes convertible. A familiar brunette with dark eyes got out, dressed in a black power suit with a skirt halfway up her thighs that showed off her pretty legs. He knew her. She was the realtor who’d just gone to work for Andy Webb, the man who’d sold him this ranch. Her aunt was rich; old lady Talbot, who lived in a mansion on Main Street in town.

What was her name? Jaqui. Jaqui Jones. Easy to remember, and her figure was more than enough to make her memorable in addition to her job.

“Hi,” she said, almost purring as he climbed out of the Jaguar. “I just thought I’d stop by and make sure you were still happy with your ranch.”

“Happy enough,” he said, smiling.

“Great!” She moved closer. She was only a little shorter than he was, and he was over six feet tall. “I’m hosting a party at my aunt’s a week from Friday night,” she said. “I’d love to have you join us. It would be a nice way to meet Jacobsville’s upper social strata.”

“Where and what time?” he asked.

She grinned. “I’ll write down the address. Just a sec.” She went back to her car and bent over to give him a good view of her body as she retrieved a pen and pad. It didn’t take second sight to know that she was available and interested. So was he. It had been a long, dry spell.

She wrote down the address and handed it to him. “About six,” she said. “That’s early, but we can have highballs while we wait for the others to show up.”

“I don’t drink,” he said.

She looked startled. He was obviously not joking.

“Well, then, we can have coffee while we wait,” she amended, smiling so that he could see her perfectly capped teeth.

“Suits me. I’ll see you then.”

She hesitated, as if she wanted to stay.

“I’m just in from D.C. very early this morning,” he said. “And it’s been a full day at the office. I’m tired.”

“Then I’ll go, and let you get comfortable,” she said immediately, smiling again. “Don’t forget.”

“I won’t.”

He’d gone around her car to put the Bucar in front of the house, on the semicircular driveway, so she simply pulled around him to shoot out the driveway, waving a hand out the window as she passed him.

He went inside, almost colliding with Miss Jane. “That fancy woman parked herself in the driveway and said she’d wait for you. I didn’t invite her in,” she added with a faint belligerence. “She’s only been in town two months and she’s already got a reputation. Put her hand down Ben Smith’s pants right in his own office!”

Apparently this was akin to blasphemy, he reasoned, waiting for the rest.

“He jerked her hand right back out, opened his office door, and put her right out on the sidewalk. His wife works in the office with him, you know, and when he told her what happened, she walked into Andy Webb’s office and told him what he could do with the property they’d planned to buy from him, and how far!”

He pursed his lips. “Fast worker, is she?”

“Tramp, more like,” Miss Jane said coldly. “No decent woman behaves like that!”

“It’s the twenty-first century,” he began.

“Would your mother ever have done that?” she asked shortly.

He actually caught his breath. His little mother had been a saint. No, he couldn’t have pictured her being available to any man except his father—until his father had cheated on her and hastened her death.

Miss Jane read his reply on his face and her head jerked up and down. “Neither would my mother,” she continued. “A woman who’s that easy with men she doesn’t even know will be that way all her life, and even if she’s married she won’t be able to settle. It’s the same with men who treat women like disposable toys.”

“So everybody in town is celibate?” he queried.

She glared up at him. It was a long way. “People in small towns mostly get married and have children and raise them. We don’t look at life the way people in cities do. Down here, honor and self-respect are a lot more important than closing a business deal and having a martini lunch. We’re just simple people, Mr. Grier. But we look deeper than outsiders do. And we judge by what we see.”

“Isn’t there a passage about judging?” he retorted.

“There are several about right and wrong as well,” she informed him. “Civilizations fall when the arts and religion become superfluous.”

His eyebrows went up.

“Oh, did you think I was stupid because I keep house for you?” she asked blithely. “I have a Master’s Degree in History,” she added with a sweet smile. “I taught school in the big city until one of my students beat me almost to death in front of the class. When I got out of the hospital, I was too shaken to go back to teaching. So now I keep house for people. It’s safer. Especially when the people I keep house for work in law enforcement,” she added. “Your supper’s on the table.”

“Thanks.”

She was gone before he could say anything else. He was still reeling from her confession. Come to think of it, the Jacobs County Sheriff, Hayes Carson, had recommended Miss Jane. She’d worked for him temporarily until he could get the part-time housekeeper he wanted. No wonder she was afraid of her old job. He shook his head. In his day, teachers ran the classrooms. Apparently a lot of things had changed in the two or so decades since he graduated from high school and went off to college.

He was lying awake, looking at the ceiling, when there was a frantic pounding at the front door.

He got up and threw on a robe, tramping downstairs in his bare feet. Miss Jane was there ahead of him, turning on the porch light before she started to open the door.

“Don’t open it until you know who it is!” he shouted at her. His hand was on the .40 caliber Glock that he’d stuffed into his pocket as he joined her.

“I know who it is,” she replied, and opened the door quickly.

Their next-door neighbor, Grace Carver, was standing there in a ratty old bathrobe and tattered shoes, her long blond hair in a frizzed ponytail, her gray eyes wide and frantic.

“Please, may I use your phone?” she panted.

“Granny’s gasping for breath and her chest hurts. I’m afraid it’s a heart attack. My phone won’t work and I can’t start the car!” Tears of impotent fury were rolling down her cheeks. “She’ll die!”

Before she got the words completely out, Garon had dialed 911 and given the dispatcher the address and condition of the old woman.

“Wait for me,” he told Grace firmly. “I’ll be right back.”

He ran up the stairs, threw on jeans and a shirt and dragged on his boots without socks. He grabbed a denim jacket, because it was cold, and was downstairs in less than five minutes.

“You’re quick,” Grace managed.

“I get called out at all hours,” he said, taking her elbow. “Jane, I don’t know when I’ll be back. I’ve got my keys. Lock up and go to bed.”

“Yes, sir. Grace, I’ll keep her in my prayers. You, too.”

“Thank you, Miss Jane,” she said in her soft voice. She had a faint south Texas drawl, but it was smooth and sweet to the ear.

Garon bypassed the Bucar, unlocked the black Jaguar and put her inside. She felt uncomfortable, not only because she was in her nightclothes, but because she wasn’t accustomed to being alone with men.

He didn’t say anything. He drove to her grandmother’s house, pulled up in the driveway and cut the engine. Grace was up the steps like a flash, with Garon on her heels.

The old lady, Mrs. Jessie Collier, was sitting up on her bed in a thick blue gown that looked as if it had been handed down from the 1920s. She was a big woman, with white hair coiled on her head and watery green eyes. She was gasping for breath.

“Grace, for God’s sake,” she panted, “go find my bathrobe!”

“Yes, ma’am.” Grace went to the closet and started rummaging.

“Stupid girl, never can do anything right.” She looked at Garon angrily. “Who are you?”

“Your next door neighbor,” he replied. “The ambulance is on the way.”

“An ambulance!” She glared at Grace, who’d returned with a thick white chenille robe. “I told you…we’d go in the…car! Ambulances cost money!”

Grace grimaced. “The car won’t start, Granny.”

“You broke it, did you?” she raged. “You stupid…” She groaned and held her chest.

Grace looked anguished. “Granny, please don’t get upset,” she pleaded. “You’ll make it worse!”

“It would suit you if I died, wouldn’t it, young miss?” she chided. “You’d have this whole house to yourself and no old lady to wait on.”

“Don’t talk like that,” the younger woman said softly. “You know I love you.”

“Hmmmf,” came the snorted reply. “Well, I don’t love you,” she returned. “You cost me my daughter, held me up to public disgrace, made me ashamed to go to town…!”

“Granny,” Grace ground out, her face contorting with pain.

“Wish I could die,” the old woman raged, panting.

“And be rid of you!”

The ambulance came tearing up the dirt road, its sirens blazing, its lights flashing. Grace gave a sigh of relief. She hadn’t wanted their neighbor to hear any of this. It was none of his business. She was too embarrassed even to look at him.

“I’ll go and bring them up here,” she said, anxious to escape.

“Fool girl, ruined my life,” the old woman grumbled.

Garon felt a ripple of pure disgust as he watched the elderly woman clutching her chest. The girl was doing all she could for her grandmother, who seemed about as loving as a python. Maybe it was her illness that made her so nasty. The woman in his life had died expressing apologies to the nurses for having to lift her onto bedpans. That kind, loving, sweet woman had been an angel even in her final hours. What a contrast.

The paramedics came up the steps behind Grace, carrying a gurney. With a nod to Garon, they went to work on old Mrs. Collier.

“Is it a heart attack?” Grace asked worriedly. “Will she be all right?”

One of the paramedics glanced at her. “Are you her daughter?”

“Granddaughter.”

“Has she had spells like this before?”

“Yes. Dr. Coltrain gives her nitroglycerin tablets, but she won’t use them. He gives her blood pressure medicine, but she won’t take that, either.”

“Medicine costs money!” the old lady snarled at them. “All I have is my social security. Couldn’t feed a mouse on what she makes, working part-time at that flower shop and cooking…”

“I can’t leave you alone all day, and I’d have to if I worked full-time,” Grace said in a subdued tone. She didn’t add that she’d have to pay someone to stay with her grandmother, also, and there was no way anybody who knew her would take the job.

“Good excuse, isn’t it?” Mrs. Collier grumbled. She cried out, suddenly, clutching her chest. “Oh!”

“Where are her nitroglycerin tablets?” one of the medics asked quickly.

Grace ran around the bed to the side table, and handed them to him.

Mrs. Collier protested, but he got it under her tongue anyway.

She shivered as it took effect, but the medic who was monitoring her vitals gave the other one a speaking glance.

“We’re going to have to transport her,” he told his colleague. “Can you come with her?” he asked Grace.

“Yes. Just…just let me get dressed. I won’t be a minute.”

She went out without a backward glance, dashed into her room, threw on jeans and a sweatshirt and her old sneakers and rushed right back to her grandmother. She didn’t bother with makeup or even comb her hair. She wasn’t going to a social event, after all.

Garon glanced at her. She wouldn’t win a beauty contest, but she was a fast dresser, he thought with admiration. Most women he knew took hours dressing and making up.

“I’ll follow you in the Jag and bring you home,” he told her.

She started to protest, but one of the attendants shook his head. “We’ll probably have to keep her overnight at least,” he said.

“I won’t stay!” Mrs. Collier raged, but she was still gasping and clutching her chest.

“She’ll stay,” the older paramedic said with a deliberate smile. “Let’s load her up, Jake.”

“You bet.”

Grace stood back beside Garon as they wheeled Mrs. Collier out, still muttering angrily.

Garon didn’t say anything. He escorted Grace down to the Jag and helped her into the passenger seat.

“You’ll need your purse, won’t you?” he asked.

She indicated the fanny pack around her waist. “I’ve got Granny’s cards to check her in,” she said dully. “She can’t die,” she added in a hollow tone. “She’s all I’ve got in the world.”

Which wasn’t a hell of a lot, Garon was thinking. But he didn’t say it. He was resigned to losing most of the night’s sleep he’d been hoping for.