Читать книгу Protecting Her Son - Joan Kilby - Страница 11

CHAPTER THREE

PAULA DROVE INTO the carport, hoping Jamie hadn’t seen the toy. Somehow she had to get him into the house through the back door.

“What’s that on the porch?” Jamie unbuckled his seat belt even before the car had stopped.

“Nothing. Jamie—”

Too late. He was out of the car and running across the lawn and through the flower bed. “It’s a car.”

“Jamie, honey, don’t get excited.” She hurried after him, dropping her purse in her haste. She grabbed it from among the petunias, wasting precious seconds. “It’s probably a mistaken delivery.”

“It’s for me,” Jamie said. He kneeled on the mat, a gift card in his hand. “My name’s on it, see?”

Jamie might not be able to read yet but she’d taught him to recognize his name and phone number and to print both. He also knew the alphabet.

“It’s from…” His small brow furrowed as he laboriously spelled out, “D…A…D.” He looked up at her. “What does that spell?”

Paula gazed into her son’s small trusting face and felt her heart break. She never lied to him. Ever.

“Mum?” His eyes searched hers.

Taking a deep breath, she swallowed. Her hands felt clammy. “D-dad. It spells, Dad.”

Jamie went still, his eyes wide and unblinking. “But I thought— You said he was overseas.”

Okay, maybe that one lie.

“Um, he was.” Her fingers curled into her palms. How dare Nick disturb their peace? How dare he think he could buy his child? “He must be back.”

“Yay!” Jamie stood and ran down the steps as if expecting to see his father out on the sidewalk. “Where is he?” Looking up the street he took a step forward and called tentatively, “Dad?” Another step. “Dad! I’m home.”

Though it was a fine evening, it was past dinnertime and no one was outside. There were no strange cars parked nearby that she didn’t recognize. Through the curtains in the houses across from hers came the blue flicker of TV screens. Chances were no one had seen who’d placed the toy car on her step.

“Jamie.” Paula ran to take his hand and tugged him toward the porch. “He must have gone.”

Jamie dragged his feet, looking over his shoulder. “He’ll come back, right?”

“No.” Her free hand curled into a fist she would dearly love to smash into Nick’s face for raising a little boy’s expectations.

Jamie stopped dead, crestfallen. “But he’ll want to see me if he’s back from his trip. Won’t he?”

Oh, God. “I don’t know. He’s not—” She thought desperately, agonized at seeing her son hurt. “His job doesn’t allow him to be a family man.”

“But he came here. We weren’t home. He’ll come back,” Jamie said logically.

“Let’s go inside,” she said, leading him up the steps. “You’ll have your bath and get ready for bed. Then we’ll talk about your father.”

“I want to play.” Jamie crouched beside his new toy. Gripping the slick red hood of the racing car with small fingers he tried to pull off the wires holding it on to the cardboard packaging.

“No!” Paula snatched up the toy. “I’m sorry. You can’t have it.”

“It’s mine!” He scrambled to his feet, his arms reaching upward. Tears rolled down his cheeks. “My dad gave it to me.”

Paula fumbled with the key, stabbing it into the lock as she held the car high, feeling like the world’s meanest mother. She got the door open and dragged Jamie, kicking and screaming, into the house. She put the car on top of the bookshelf in the living room.

“Why won’t you give it to me? I hate you!” Jamie yelled, his face red.

Paula crouched and took him by the shoulders. “Listen to me. I know you’re angry and upset. But your father is not part of our lives. We can’t accept presents from him.”

“Why not?” Jamie wailed, rubbing his eyes. “Why can’t I see him? He wants to see me.”

“Just because.”

Because he’s a bad man. I’m afraid he’ll hurt you.

“I want my car. My daddy brought it to me!” He was working himself into a full-blown tantrum such as he hadn’t had since he was three years old.

Paula tried to fold him in a hug to rock him but he tore away from her and flung himself face down on the carpet, his ribcage heaving.

“You have to trust me, sweetheart,” she pleaded. Only me.

A knock sounded at the door. Great. All she needed was some nosy neighbor thinking she was beating her kid.

She left Jamie pounding his fists on the floor while she answered the door. “This isn’t a good t—” Riley stood there wearing a pair of faded jeans and a black polo shirt. “What are you doing here?”

Riley began to speak but Jamie’s howls were too loud to ignore. He peered past her, into the house. “Is something wrong?”

“Did you come by for a reason? Because I’m pretty busy. As you can hear.”

Suddenly Jamie stopped howling. His footsteps thudded behind her. “Is that Dad?” Seeing Riley he stopped short, suddenly going shy. His anxious gaze tore at Paula’s heart. “Is he…?”

“No, sweetheart.” Her cheeks burning, she said to Riley, “You should go.”

Instead, Riley crouched, eye level with Jamie. “I’m Riley, your mum’s partner at the police station. What’s your name?”

Jamie pressed back into Paula’s legs. Her arms went around his shoulders. His small chest jerked as he hiccupped.

“My sister Katie is your teacher at school.” Riley spoke with the studied casualness of a cop talking down an out-of-control offender. Any other time Paula would have admired his technique.

Jamie sniffled. “Ms. Henning?”

“That’s right. What’s your name?”

“Jamie,” he mumbled.

“Nice to meet you.” Riley held his hand.

Jamie hesitated then placed his small hand in Riley’s to be given a hearty man-shake. Wiping his eyes with his sleeve, he stood a little taller. “Do you have a gun? Mum won’t let me hold hers.”

Oh, no, not the gun conversation. Jamie asked at least once a week to see her gun despite her constantly telling him it wasn’t a toy. At least he seemed to have forgotten the car—for the moment. “Not now, Jamie.”

“When I’m not on duty my gun is locked up,” Riley said. “Your mum’s right. No one but a police officer is allowed to touch our weapons. One day I might show you my gun.”

“Cool,” Jamie said shyly.

“It’s time for Jamie to get ready for bed.” Paula rubbed his arms. “Go on, mate. Into your pajamas.”

“Aw, do I have to?”

“I’ll read you the dinosaur story tonight.”

Jamie went, dragging his heels and glancing over his shoulder at Riley. Paula watched him with a tiny frown. With her father dead and her only brother living in Sydney, Jamie didn’t have many male role models in his life.

“So,” she said, turning back to Riley. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I was passing on my way home from the shooting range and thought I’d see how you were doing after the hazing.” He shoved his hands in his back pockets, making his shirt stretch across his chest, hinting at some serious pecs. “You seemed to take it hard.”

“I didn’t take it hard.” Paula lifted her gaze—and her chin—a fraction. “I simply wasn’t expecting it.”

“Okay.” He studied her, relaxed but assessing, then seemed to decide to take her words at face value. “Nice kid, Jamie. Something upset him before I came?”

“It’s really none of your business.” Riley’s earlier words sank in. If he was at the shooting range he would have his gun in his car. When it counted he’d backed her up. A small thing, but she liked him for it.

“I appreciate you not bringing out your gun. Jamie can make a pistol out of a slice of bread but I don’t want him anywhere near a real weapon.” She sighed. “Plus, you made him forget what he was crying about.”

“I guess he was disappointed at not seeing his father.” Riley tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. “Doesn’t he know what his dad looks like?”

“His father is not in our lives.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “That’s all I’m going to say. I don’t mix work and home.”

“No worries.” Riley held up his hands, palms out. “Just curious.”

“‘Curiosity killed the cat.’” The phrase she threw at Jamie when he got into stuff she didn’t want him exploring popped out.

“Satisfaction brought it back.” Riley’s sudden, sexy grin made her think of a tomcat, whiskers dipped in cream, sensual, sleek and satisfied.

Sensual? Yessiree. With the porch light gleaming on his dark hair, his broad shoulders and long-limbed athletic stance, there was no getting around the fact that Riley was hot. And tonight he’d shown he was sensitive to her wishes regarding her son. But he was her partner, out of bounds on every level. She was trying to get her career on track, not become sidelined by another inappropriate attraction.

“I need to go to Jamie. He’s waiting for me to read a story.”

Riley nodded, and backed through the door. “See you tomorrow.”

Paula resisted watching his butt move in snug jeans as he walked to his black sports car. Instead she closed the door firmly.

Before she went to Jamie she removed the toy from the high shelf and carried it out to the carport. She started to lift the lid on the rubbish bin then changed her mind and put it in the trunk of her car to take to the thrift shop tomorrow. No reason some other little boy couldn’t benefit from Nick’s largesse.

After she read Jamie a bedtime story she stayed in his room until long after he fell asleep, watching over him. A glimmer of moonlight through the curtains shone on his mussed hair and bunched pajama top. She might not be enough for him anymore but he was everything to her.

Please, don’t let anything happen to my boy. Don’t let anyone hurt him or try to take him away from me.

* * *

FROM THE SQUAD CAR’S passenger’s seat Riley watched Paula covertly through his dark glasses. They were parked on the side of the highway again, in the shade of the ti tree. Without the air-conditioning the heat of the day was almost unbearable, even with the windows rolled all the way down.

Paula was preoccupied, staring intently out the window in silence, a slight frown marring her near-flawless complexion. Was she thinking about her ex, Jamie’s father? What was the story there—love of her life or rat bastard?

Last night in her foyer, for a moment, a spark had jumped between him and Paula. It must have been seeing her in a clinging blouse and short skirt instead of her uniform that had him noticing her breasts, her legs and pretty much everything in between. Their little verbal exchange toward the end had been out of character. Not professional, almost flirting.

She’d realized it, too, and backed off so quickly she’d practically left skid marks. And if she hadn’t, he would have. He liked how she was strong as a cop and as a mother, but they worked together—a no-go zone as far as he was concerned. And it didn’t take a genius to work out that she had issues with her ex. He didn’t want to get in the middle of that.

The radio crackled.

“Code twelve on Nepean Highway at Wooralla Drive.” Patty’s Irish accent became more pronounced the more urgent the situation. “Repeat, code twelve, Nepean at Wooralla. Fire and ambulance dispatched to the scene. Car sixteen, do you read me?”

Paula started the engine and hit the switch for the flashing red and blue lights. Siren blaring she forced her way into the stream of traffic.

“Copy that, Dispatch,” Riley said into the radio. “Estimated time to scene, five minutes.” He glanced at Paula. “Correction. Officer Drummond at the wheel. Make that two minutes.”

“Right outside the primary school,” Paula muttered through gritted teeth, as she slowed behind a vehicle whose driver was oblivious. “Idiot.”

“That intersection is notorious.” Riley braced a hand on the dash as she swerved to pass on the wrong side. “It’s worse now Summerside has gotten so big.”

“Big?” Paula spared him a brief glance sideways. “I’d hate to have seen it when it was small.” She fixed her gaze on the road again. “School lets out now. You’d think people would drive more carefully.”

“Must be hard having a young kid,” Riley said. “Every time there’s an accident near the school, wondering if your child has been injured.”

“Let’s not go there, okay?” Paula crested a slight hill and slowed as she approached the intersection.

Heat shimmered off the pavement, making wavy lines in front of the crashed vehicles—a black SUV and an electric blue Holden sedan. The fire engine was there, the crew swarming over the road, directing traffic, putting out cones to block off one lane.

Children, teachers and parents congregated on the corner nearest the school. Some stood and watched while others hurried away.

Riley’s vision blurred suddenly in a haze of red and black. A convulsive shudder ran through his body. Dizzy, he dropped his head forward. Dozens of school children. Innocent, defenceless.

Paula screeched to a halt diagonally across the intersection. She frowned at him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He raised his head, tried to shake off a lingering chill. Good thing he hadn’t been behind the wheel or there might have been another accident.

Paula gave him a hard look. “Take over from the firefighter directing traffic.”

Still dazed, Riley didn’t quibble with Paula taking command. He waved cars through the intersection, watching events unfold as if watching a movie. An ambulance siren wailed, approaching rapidly. In the Holden a man in his early twenties was slumped behind the wheel, unconscious. A blonde woman was climbing out of the SUV, her arm bleeding. She was crying. Her two kids were in the backseat, also crying. The fire crew brought out the Jaws of Life to pry open the Holden’s smashed-in door.

Riley was beset by a feeling of unreality, of being disconnected to events going on around him. What was going on? Had he come down with some sort of flu bug? He didn’t feel sick so much as disoriented. And that damned headache was back. He’d left his cap in the squad car and the hot afternoon sun beat on his unprotected head.

Another squad car pulled up. Crucek and Jackson climbed out.

“Take a break.” Crucek jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “You’re white as paste. Thought you would have seen worse in Afghanistan.”

Riley started to protest then gave up and walked to the Holden where Paula and the paramedics had congregated. The medics were loading the unconscious driver onto a gurney. His hair was stringy and lank, his emaciated arms covered from shoulder to wrist in tattoos. He had the sallow, unhealthy look of an addict.

“Alive?” Riley asked one of the paramedics.

“Barely.”

“Are you taking blood samples? Testing for alcohol and drugs.”

“I can tell you right now he’s using.” The paramedic nodded to the track marks on the driver’s arms.

Paula held up a used syringe between gloved fingers. “This goes to the lab for analysis. Somehow I don’t think the guy’s injecting insulin. And I want this car back at the station so we can search it properly.” She unclipped the radiophone on her vest and pressed buttons. “Patty, get a tow truck out here.”

She turned to Riley. “Hey, rookie, are you okay? You seem like you’re about to faint.”

He tried to pull himself together. He and Paula were supposed to be equal partners but he’d just behaved like the greenest recruit who’d ever thrown up at an accident scene while she had effortlessly taken control and directed operations. He had no problem with women being in the police force or in command. He did have a problem with himself looking like a pansy ass.

Protecting people was what he did. If he couldn’t do that, who was he?

“I’m fine,” he growled. “Just a touch of sun.”

* * *

IN THE PARKING LOT behind the police station Paula popped the trunk on the blue Holden. From the interior of the car came the sound of cloth ripping as Riley tore apart the backseat. Simon Peterson was on a dolly underneath, shining a flashlight into crevices.

The direct afternoon sun turned the pavement and brick building into a recipe for heatstroke. Paula barely noticed she was perspiring. Finding that syringe had given her a rush of adrenaline. Mentally she ran through the illicit injectable drugs—speed, heroin, crack cocaine…

Finally she was involved in a task she’d been trained for, a potential drug investigation. This could be her break-out opportunity, a chance to shine, to earn her detective stripes, budget constraints or no.

She stuck her head inside the trunk, letting her eyes adjust to the shaded cavity. It was loaded with junk—oily rags, empty black garbage bags, a pair of worn leather boots and a stack of tattered men’s magazines. Her hands protected by gloves, she threw these items onto a large tarp spread on the pavement.

An ancient first-aid kit was tucked at the rear of the trunk. She opened that and pulled out rolled bandages and dressings encased in yellowing paper. She threw them on the tarp, too.

Paula wiped the sweat dripping down her neck with the back of her hand and called to Riley. “Find anything?”

“Not yet,” came his muffled reply.

With everything out of the trunk the stained mat lining looked lumpy. Paula tried to lift it. The clips holding it down were rusted shut on one side. The other side of the mat was stuck beneath the spare tire. She pulled on the tire. It was wedged in tightly. Bracing her foot against the bumper, she hauled on it harder.

Riley backed out of the car, his hair mussed, a smear of dirt across one cheek. “Need a hand?”

“Nope.” With a grunt she gave a final tug. “Got it.” She staggered backward. The tire flew out of her hands, bounced across the tarmac. Something fell out—a plastic bag half full of white crystals. “Jackpot.”

Riley walked over and picked up the bag. He opened it, tasted a bit and grimaced. “This ain’t no coffee sugar. It’s crystal meth.”

Crystal methamphetamine. Her skin prickled. Nick Moresco had built an empire around this drug.

Paula tore the trunk liner away. Approximately two dozen plastic bags of crystal meth were lined up in neat rows, flattened to avoid detection.

Riley whistled. “We’ve got ourselves a dealer.”

Peterson, a skinny twenty-two-year-old with pimply skin, asked more eagerly than was seemly, “Do you think he’s local?”

“We’ve never seen this junk in Summerside before.” Riley gestured to a peeling bumper sticker. “But Bayside Holden is in Frankston.”

Paula felt the heat now. She wiped her forehead again. It was clammy. Moresco was fresh out of jail. Hard drugs had come to town. Her town. Where she lived and worked, where Jamie went to school.

Coincidence, or something more sinister? Suddenly light-headed, she bent over, her hands on her knees.

“Hey, what is it?” Riley gripped her shoulder. “You okay?”

“It’s frickin’ déjà vu,” she mumbled.

“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.”

“It’s the heat.” She tried to suck in a breath. Spots danced before her eyes. If those bags of crystal meth were Nick’s doing…

She dug deep and found the resolve to straighten her spine. If the drugs were his doing, he would be caught and punished. “Let’s get these bags logged and put in the evidence room.”

More paperwork. At least it took her mind off Moresco. It was after five o’clock before she and Riley had filed the last report. She pushed away from the computer. “I’m beat.”

“Let’s take a walk,” Riley suggested. “Have you tried the ice cream on the corner yet?”

“Not yet.” Ice cream. Cold, sweet, tempting. The man doing the offering was sexy, smart and strong.

Wouldn’t it be nice to do something simple like go for ice cream with a man she was not only attracted to but beginning to like and respect? But her life wasn’t simple. And Riley had never given the slightest indication he’d like to hang with her after work. He had to have an agenda. And she suspected she knew what it was.

“I have to pick up Jamie.” She made a show of checking her watch.

“Fifteen minutes.” He gave her a disarming smile. “My treat.”

Might as well get this over with. She put in a quick call to Sally to let her know she’d be there by six at the latest. No problem according to Sally. Jamie was happily playing with another little boy in her care.

Outside the station Riley turned into the arcade that led through to the main street. In the narrow shadowed lane she was more aware than usual of his sheer physicality. His height and the breadth of his shoulders were accentuated. His stride seemed longer, his demeanor relaxed but alert.

“What’s your favorite flavor?” Riley asked. “Chocolate, vanilla, rocky road…?”

“Pistachio.”

“You can tell a lot about a person by the ice cream they choose,” he confided, his head tilted toward her.

“Bull.” He was softening her up. Even knowing that, she grinned, fascinated.

“You have a taste for the exotic. You’re not afraid to be different. You don’t care what people think of you as long as you do what you believe is right.”

“You’re making this up.”

His dark eyes danced. “Am I wrong?”

Not entirely, but she wasn’t going to give him that. “What’s your favorite flavor?”

“I have no favorite. I love them all.”

“Ah, you’re a commitment-phobe. You flit from ice cream to ice cream.”

“No, I’m a man who keeps his options open.”

“Same thing.” She gave him a nudge, her bare elbow making contact with the damp cotton of his shirt, and below the cloth, his rib cage.

Teasing felt surprisingly good. The moment would be fleeting so she allowed herself to relax and enjoy for a change. The scorching heat of the day had died, leaving the air pleasantly warm as the shadows lengthened. They strolled down the sidewalk, Riley nodding and greeting people as they passed.

A bell over the door tinkled as they entered the air-conditioned ice-cream parlor.

A blonde fiftysomething woman behind the counter had a ready smile for Riley. “How did you enjoy the casserole?”

“Um, yeah, it was great,” Riley said, scratching the back of his neck. “Paula, this is Sandra, my stepmother. Paula’s my partner,” he said to Sandra. “She has a craving for pistachio.”

“I don’t—” Paula started to protest then got distracted by the twinkle in his eye. Hmm, maybe she did have a craving. But she would have to be satisfied with a frozen treat. Her awareness of him was growing, no doubt due to spending hours sitting in the squad car together. She would have to be careful not to encourage him.

Sandra handed Paula a waffle cone piled with three fat scoops of pistachio ice cream. “Complimentary to Summerside police officers.”

“Thank you.” Paula took a lick and her eyes closed briefly. “Heavenly.”

Sandra began to construct a second cone for Riley at his instruction—raspberry, butterscotch and licorice. “Are you all settled in at the house?”

“That’s a way off. Tonight I’m going to start tearing apart the kitchen.” He was nodding at the display of fresh cakes and pastries under glass covers on the counter. “You’re selling desserts now.”

“The new owner wants to expand the fresh-food line,” Sandra said.

“New owner?” Riley’s eyebrows rose. “Shane Kennedy has owned this place since I was in high school. Never thought he would give up such a prime location.”

“Apparently he was offered a price he couldn’t refuse,” Sandra said. “It was all very sudden. I didn’t even know the shop was up for sale.”

The bell above the shop tinkled. A teenage boy with blond curly hair and a pretty dark-haired girl in school uniform entered holding hands.

“I’ll let you go,” Riley said to his stepmother. “Catch you later.”

“Thanks again for the cone,” Paula called.

Outside Paula lapped at the cone to stop the rapidly melting ice cream from dripping onto her hands. “It’s a bit undignified, don’t you think, for cops to be eating ice cream on the street corner?” She couldn’t conceive of doing this in her city precinct.

“The locals are used to it. But let’s go sit.” He started walking toward the grassy square and a wrought-iron bench beneath a shady gum tree.

Paula sank onto the slatted seat. For a few minutes she concentrated on her cone, enjoying the cool sweetness of the pistachio confection.

“You have a bit of ice cream…” Riley touched her nose.

She batted his hand away and fished in her pocket for a tissue. “Have I got it all?”

He pretended to scrutinize her, his eyes amused.

“Never mind.” She threw the remains of her cone in a nearby bin and wiped her fingers.

“Feeling better?” Riley was sober now.

“Yes,” she said warily.

“Good.” He looked away, at the row of shops and cafés, post office and supermarket, then at her. “Suppose you tell me what you meant by déjà vu.”

Paula stilled. Pedestrians walked through the little park but she couldn’t have said whether they were male or female, young or old. She knew Riley had picked up on her muttered comment. He came across as laid-back but he was always on alert.

“I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure…”

“Maybe I can help.”

She studied his intelligent eyes, his determined jaw, his sensitive mouth. “Maybe you can. I think I know who’s behind the crystal meth we found in the Holden.”

“Who?” Riley prompted.

“Nick Moresco, the drug lord I put in jail seven years ago.”