Читать книгу Task Force Bride - Julie Miller - Страница 11

Chapter Two

Why did that woman jump every time he spoke to her?

Edison “Pike” Taylor bit down on the urge to curse and concentrated on the wiry older man who’d put his hands on Hope Lockhart. With his canine partner, Hans, loudly making it known that Pike had backup—in case six feet four inches of armed cop wasn’t intimidating enough—he subtly maneuvered around the gray-haired coot who smelled as if he’d just walked out of a bar. Despite a nonchalant adjustment to the bill of his KCPD ball cap, Pike turned his shoulder into the space between Hope and her assailant, blocking any chance of the man reaching for her again.

Damn it. She drifted back another step, as if she was just as afraid of him as she was this guy. He and Hans had been patrolling this neighborhood for months now. And, as members of KCPD’s Rose Red Rapist task force, they had answered every call to the scene of a female assault victim in the area, including one this past summer to the flower shop across the street that Hope’s friend Robin Carter—well, Robin Lonergan now that she’d recently married—owned.

Up until that night, Hope Lockhart had been this prim, uptight shop owner—a stereotyped old maid who wore glasses, buttoned-up suits and her hair in a bun. She’d said barely more than “Hello, Officer” to him whenever they ran into each other on the street. She was either too busy, too snooty or too disinterested to make friendly conversation with him, despite his best efforts. It had become a challenge of sorts every day or night he worked for Pike to walk Hans by her storefront and wave or tip his hat to her through the display windows to see her sputter or blush or quickly turn away.

But on the night of the flower shop attack, when Hope had come over to check on the well-being of her friend Robin, and Robin’s infant daughter, he’d suddenly seen her in a whole new light.

Hope Lockhart wasn’t a snob at all. She was shy—a woman on the quiet side—maybe about as awkward making conversation with him as he’d been trying to tease and get a rise out of her. Hope Lockhart was guarded, a little mysterious, even. She was pretty, too. Not in a knock-your-socks-off kind of way. But if a man looked—and he’d been doing more looking than he should have that night—he’d notice there was more to Hope than a tight bun and those boring suits she wore like some kind of uniform.

That night she’d worn the same trench coat she had on now, hastily tied over a nightgown, showing a V of creamy skin that dropped down between some seriously generous breasts. Without the pins and barrettes, long, curly hair tumbled over her shoulders in sexy, toffee-colored waves. He’d noticed her eyes behind those skinny glasses that night, too. They were big and gray and deep like a placid fishing lake early in the morning before any boats or lines had disturbed the surface. But she’d about bolted from the room and gone all shades of pale when he’d tried to talk to her. Kind of hard on a man’s ego.

Shyness didn’t explain why she didn’t like him much. But with her unwillingness to get better acquainted, he had no idea why. An aversion to cops? Was she intimidated by big men? Had he said something to offend her? Hope’s reaction to him that night—and every other time he and Hans had crossed her path since—read fear to him. And that kind of fear—when he was damn sure he was one of the good guys—rubbed him the wrong way.

Pike glanced down over the jut of his shoulder to see Hope massaging the arm this man had grabbed. “Are you hurt, ma’am?”

That gray gaze darted up to meet his for a split second before dropping down to the pavement. “I’m okay.”

Anything creamy or sexy or pretty was locked up tight beneath the buttoned-up coat and tightly pinned hair she wore tonight. Pike discovered that that bothered him, too. Why would a woman go to so much effort to hide what were potentially the prettiest things about her?

Hiding? Afraid?

Ah, hell. Why hadn’t he fit the puzzle pieces together sooner? If Hope’s covered-up appearance and skittish behavior didn’t speak to some history of abuse, Pike didn’t know what did.

Pike focused squarely on the man in front of him, even though he spoke to Hope. “Do you want him to stay?”

“We were just having a conversation, Officer, um...” The older man squinted the name on Pike’s shirt into focus. “Taylor. I’m Hank Lockhart—Henry Lockhart the first.” He extended a hand that Pike ignored. “I’m Hope’s daddy. I happened to be in town and thought I’d drop by and have a visit.”

Her daddy? Paying a surprise visit after midnight?

“Hank?” A blonde woman, wearing a top that was too tight and skimpy for her age and the autumn weather, climbed out from behind the wheel of a parked Toyota. “Is everything all right? You said this would only take a minute. You’ve kept me waiting for more than an hour.”

“Not now, Nelda.” Hank waved off the woman, who’d tried to signal Pike’s arrival when he pulled up.

“You didn’t say she was friends with the cops. You said this was going to be easy—”

Hank swung around, pointing a bony finger at the woman. “Get back in the car.”

With an annoyed huff, the woman tossed back her overbleached hair and slid behind the wheel.

Friends with the cops.

Pike slipped another peek at the woman cradling a small package in her hand and warily keeping an eye on everyone involved in this late-night tête-à-tête, including him. Hope didn’t seem any more open to the idea of becoming friends now than she’d been during the other brief encounters they’d shared. And though he wished he knew what he’d done to earn such a cool reception from the bridal shop owner, Pike knew he didn’t have to be liked by all the residents he’d sworn to protect and serve—he just had to protect and serve them.

“Did you want to press charges against him, ma’am?” Pike asked.

“Charges?” both Lockharts answered in unison.

But while Hope didn’t seem to know how to answer the question, Hank had no trouble arguing his innocence in the matter. “Charge me with what? We were having a family discussion. A private one, I might add. I don’t know where you came from or why you’re here. But I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Hope?” Pike prodded, willing her to snap out of her meek silence. He’d come here, looking for a suspicious white van, and he’d shown up right in the middle of some kind of domestic dispute. He could arrest this guy and make him go away for the night, but not for any longer if she refused to speak up. Pike hooked his thumbs into the top of his utility belt and waited for an answer. “What do you want me to do?”

Nelda honked the horn again and Hank swore beneath his breath.

To Pike’s surprise, he heard a soft voice behind him. “My father was just leaving.”

So the old man hadn’t completely knocked the spirit out of her.

“We’re not finished, girl,” Hank dared to argue. When he turned that bony finger on Hope and took a step toward her, Pike quickly shifted to block his path. “About that job we were discussing—”

“I said he was leaving.”

The rising confidence in Hope’s tone made it that much easier to back her up—and made it clear that in this situation, at least, she’d appreciate a little help from him. Pike nodded toward the irritated blonde. “I wouldn’t want to keep you, Mr. Lockhart.”

The grizzled older man sized up Pike with one contemptuous glance, then angled his head to make a final plea to his daughter. “Don’t you do this to me. You can’t punish me forever. You know I need—”

“I suppose it’s about time to walk my dog.” Pike pulled out his black, reinforced leather gloves and nodded to the muscular German shepherd fogging up the rear window of his departmental vehicle, intently watching Pike’s every move. Right on cue, the dog started barking again. “Hans has been cooped up inside my truck for a long time tonight.”

He watched the color bleed from Hank Lockhart’s cheeks, making the broken capillaries in his alcoholic’s nose stand out in redder, sharper detail. That’s what he figured. Pike’s canine partner had a knack for convincing people to do exactly what Pike asked.

“I get your message loud and clear.” Offering a placating hand that sported half a dozen homemade tattoos that indicated the man had done some jail time, Hank Lockhart finally retreated. “I’ll talk to you later.”

A soft trace of vanilla joined the damp scent of dying leaves on the late-night breeze as Hope stepped onto the sidewalk beside Pike to watch Hank and his lady friend drive off down the street. The sounds of a heated argument leaked through the open car windows and faded as the car turned the corner and vanished into the night.

Pike stuffed his gloves back into his pocket. “He’s hurt you before, hasn’t he?”

Hope’s breathy sigh was confirmation enough. So maybe he’d been a little blunt with his speculation. Knowing she’d grown up with an abusive man went a long way toward explaining her ready distrust of him. And made him more determined than ever to prove that he wasn’t the bad guy here.

A long twist of honey-brown hair had freed itself from the severe confinement of the clip at the back of her head and lifted like a feathery banner in the breeze. As she captured the wayward curl and tucked it behind her ear, Pike realized that that was where the sweet scent from a moment ago had come from. Once again, he wondered why Hope Lockhart would hide something so feminine and pretty as that glorious hair from the world.

Either unaware of or uninterested in the stirrings of awareness she sparked inside him, Hope turned away to the parking lot, dismissing him. “Good night, Officer Taylor.”

Pike got the brush-off message but followed her, anyway. “Do you have a restraining order against him?”

She set aside a small package on the rear fender of her car and reached for a bigger, heavier box. “I haven’t seen him for a couple of years. He doesn’t even live in Kansas City.”

“He’s here now. I’d consider filing for one.” Pike nudged her aside and picked up the box for her. “Where to?”

Her mouth opened to voice a protest, but once she understood he wasn’t leaving her here alone at this time of night, she pointed to the side entrance of her shop. “Thank you.”

“Miss Lockhart—Hope—is it okay if I call you that?” After a momentary hesitation, she nodded and opened the door for him. “You want to tell me about that 911 call?”

She held open the interior door, as well. “It had nothing to do with my father, Officer Taylor.”

“Pike.”

“Pike,” she repeated, then paused, knotting the smooth skin above the nosepiece of her glasses. “What kind of name is Pike?”

He grinned, seeing the first opportunity for a normal, friendly conversation between them. “There’s a story behind it. Taylor is my adoptive parents’ name. But I was born Edison Pike.”

No comment. But the curiosity was still there.

So he forged ahead. “Like Thomas Edison. I think my grandmother who raised me was hoping for an inventor—someone brainier than I turned out to be. And for a while, I did think about going into veterinary medicine. But what can I say? I come from a family of cops and firefighters. I always liked the action more than the books. But I kept the nickname as a way of honoring the woman who took care of me for the first few years of my life.”

She tilted her eyes up to his, flashing him a look that said his words didn’t make sense, before she led him through her shop to the back room. “Your grandmother raised you—but you’re adopted?”

Well, at least he knew she’d been listening. Pike ignored the gowns, mannequins and fancy accessories surrounding him and focused in on the curly lock bouncing against Hope’s neck as she walked. “Gran died when I was ten. I went into foster care, where I met my mom and dad and my three brothers. They’re adopted, too. Alex is the oldest. Then there’s me, Matthew and Mark.”

Hope turned on the light and hugged the door frame to stay out of his way as he carried the box into the storage room. He set the box of picture frames and photo albums down on the shelf she indicated. “There was no other family to take me when Gran got sick. I lucked out, though. My mom, Meghan, had been a foster child in the same house when she was younger, and she liked to come back and help out whenever she could. She brought me my first dog—a smaller, mutt version of Hans—that she’d rescued from a fire. I named her Crispy. I think Mom kind of adopted us even before she married Gideon Taylor.”

Pike paused when he realized he was rambling to fill up the silence. He reached over Hope’s shoulder to turn off the light switch and watched her scuttle out of the room, leaving a trail of vanilla deliciousness in her wake. Hmm. Maybe the KCPD brass had made a mistake in selecting him and Hans to do frontline PR and security work between the task force and the community. Apparently, his presence was more unsettling than reassuring—at least with this particular community member.

Protect and serve. Forget the sweet fragrance and tempting lock of hair. He just had to earn Hope’s trust and keep her safe. She didn’t have to like him.

Inhaling a deep, resigning breath, Pike followed Hope out to the counter at the center of the shop. “I’m doing all the talking. If you don’t say something soon, I’ll never shut up.”

Was that...? No. A smile?

“I don’t mind. I like to listen.”

Some unknown weight lifted off his chest and Pike grinned right back. He’d almost made her laugh.

But just as soon as it had softened her mouth, Hope’s smile disappeared. She pulled her purse from beneath the counter and looped the strap over her shoulder. “I was a foster kid, too. My mother passed when my brother was born. And Hank wasn’t... He couldn’t handle her death and we... Harry—my brother—is just a year younger. When I aged out of the system, I filed for guardianship and we moved to Kansas City. I went to school and Harry enlisted in the Marines.”

“Sounds a lot like my mom’s story.”

Ah, hell. Wrong thing to say. Telling a young woman she reminded him of his mother—no matter how much he loved that mother—wasn’t the smoothest line a man could use.

Just as he thought he was getting somewhere with Hope, her body language became all stern business again, and she spun toward the parking lot exit. “I called because there was a van following me home from the wedding I worked today. At least, I thought it might be. When I saw it drive past my shop several minutes later, I realized it matches the description of the van your task force may be looking for.”

Pike shook his head at the abrupt change in topic. But then the import of what she was saying hit and he hurried after her to catch her before she reached the door. He turned in front of her, blocking her path. “This van was following you?”

She tipped her head back, adjusting her glasses at her temple to look him in the eye even though she was sliding back a step. “I don’t know that he was intentionally following me. But he was driving behind me, maybe a little closer than I’d like, on the street. When I saw him drive by again and circle the block, that’s when I called KCPD.”

This was exactly the type of lead the task force had been looking for. And he’d been worried about making nice with her? “Did you get a license plate? A description of the driver?”

She shook her head. “I can’t tell you much. He was dressed in black. Wore a stocking cap pulled down over his forehead and...”

“And what?”

Her shoulders lifted as though she doubted what she’d seen. “At first I thought he was wearing a white scarf around his neck. But I got a closer look the second time he drove by. He had on a surgeon’s mask.” She raised her hand to her face to indicate how little she’d been able to see. “It covered his nose, mouth and chin.”

Wait a minute. Pike propped his hands on his belt, tuning in to the details beyond her description of the driver. “The second time?”

She nodded. “He circled the block and came back by the shop.”

“Did he see you? Do you think he was looking for you?”

“I don’t know. I know we made eye contact, but then he sped off and my father showed up and...” She shrugged again. “Sorry I can’t tell you more. But I can give a pretty accurate description of the van if that helps.”

“We’ll take whatever help we can get if it leads us to our rapist.” Pike hesitated a moment before stepping aside and following her into the vestibule and waiting for her to lock the shop door. He guessed the other interior door, built of antique walnut and bolted tight, led upstairs to the apartment above the shop. Had she carried in all those other boxes, packed with the similar white netting and tissue paper tonight? By herself? After midnight?

With a serial rapist at large in the city?

How many other nights had she worked this late and come home alone? Even if the guy in the van wasn’t the Rose Red Rapist, and her father hadn’t been on-site to bully her, she’d been at risk.

Swallowing the acrid taste that suspicion left in his throat, Pike gave one last glance at the racks of fancy dresses and froufrouy displays that marked her bridal shop as foreign territory. He was too big, too male, too comfortable in his black uniform to ever fit in with all the lace and glitz and monkey suits there. Maybe that’s why she’d barely spoken a dozen words to him over the past few months. They had next to nothing in common. But ignoring the extra security he provided this neighborhood wasn’t an option. Not anymore. Hope Lockhart needed to accept somebody’s help in making her habits smarter and safer.

“How often do you come home late like this?” he asked, holding the outside door open for her.

“Once or twice a month,” she answered, walking to the trunk of her car. “Depending on how elaborate the wedding is and how late the ceremony or reception runs.”

Pike reached behind the badge on his belt to pull out a KCPD business card with his contact information on it. “Next time you’ve got a car full of stuff to unload by yourself late at night, you call me.”

“I’m perfectly capable of—”

“I’m not talking muscle.” The breeze lifted the distracting swirl of caramel hair again and Pike was reaching for it before he’d even thought the impulse through. He caught the silky twist and wound it around his fingertip, watching twin dots of color warm her cheeks as he tucked it behind her ear. Yeah, maybe his hand lingered a little longer than it should have, but those curls were just as soft as they looked. “I’m talking company. You shouldn’t be alone on the streets or in this parking lot after dark. It’d make my job a lot easier if I knew I didn’t have to worry about one of the locals getting herself into trouble with a serial rapist—or a long-lost father.”

“I’ll try not to be a bother.” She pressed her hand against her ear and the nape of her neck, as though checking to see if the wayward strand he’d touched was still there. Her eyes darkened and she turned away, acting as if his curious touch had somehow upset her.

“That’s not what I meant.”

She hurried to retrieve the small parcel still sitting there, never giving him a chance to apologize.

“I know what you...” The box toppled off the trunk of her car before her fingers ever touched it. It landed flat on the ground, came to a complete rest, then wobbled on the asphalt. The thing rocked back and forth, moving several inches, as though it had sprouted feet and was slinking away. “That’s weird.”

When she went to pick it up, Pike latched onto her arm and pulled her back. “Hold on. Is that box from the wedding?”

“No.” She quickly moved away, hugging an arm around her waist and clutching her collar together at the neck. “My father had it when I came home.”

Pike let her go and squatted down to get a closer look at the package. Loosely taped. Plain brown wrapping. Moving away like a drunken snail. Something was wrong here. “Gift from your dad?”

“He handed it to me. Said he picked it up outside my door. I’m not sure where it came from.”

Pike read Hope’s name and this address scribbled directly onto the brown paper. “You got any friends who are into practical jokes? Maybe it’s full of Mexican jumping beans.”

But Hope wasn’t laughing. “I thought it might be from my brother overseas. He’s in the Marines. But there’s no APO address, country of origin or customs label, either.”

“There’s no cancelation stamp, period. This didn’t come through the mail. If your dad didn’t bring it, then someone left it here.” Pulling his gloves from his hip pocket, Pike rose to his feet. “Let me get Hans out to check it before you open it.”

“That’s not necessary. I...”

But Pike was already heading to his truck. He pulled Hans’s leash from the front seat before opening the back door. “Hey, big guy. Want to go to work?”

The familiar whines of anticipation were as clear as a verbal yes. Pike rubbed his hands around the German shepherd’s jowls and neck, reinforcing their bond and cueing his intention before he clipped the work leash to the harness between Hans’s shoulders. Pike rotated the dog’s collar so his brass badge hung in front of his deep chest. Then he patted the tan fur twice and issued the command to exit the truck.

Jogging at a pace that gave Hans a chance to stretch his muscles, Pike took him in a circle around the perimeter of the parking lot before he tugged on the lead and slowed the dog to put his sensitive black nose to work. “Find it, boy. Such!”

Working in methodical steps along the building’s south brick wall and around Hope’s car, Pike let Hans sniff the ground and vehicle. This was a game for the dog. In addition to his security work, he’d been trained to search for certain particular scents, and once he found one and sat to indicate his discovery, he’d be rewarded with a game of tug-of-war with his favorite toy. If Pike led him straight to the box, Hans might not identify it as anything suspicious because he hadn’t had the chance to track the scent first.

“There he goes.” Hans’s rudderlike tail wagged with excitement as he zeroed in on the trunk of the car. His breathing quickened and his nose stayed down as he picked up the trail of the mysterious package. “Find, it, Hansie,” Pike encouraged, repeating the command in German. “Such!”

His black nose hovered over the package, touched the ground beside it. He whined at a high pitch, then jumped back as the package moved again. Hans was panting heavily now, more worked up with excitement than with the duration of the search.

“What is it, boy?” The dog lifted his dark brown eyes to Pike and sat. “He’s not hitting on it like he does when there are drugs or explosives inside.” The dog’s high-pitched squeal indicated a degree of discomfort or uncertainty. “This is something different. I don’t think it’s anything dangerous or he’d let us know, but I’m damn curious to open it.”

After tossing Hans his toy, and giving him a few seconds of play time to reward him for completing his job, Pike pulled his utility knife from his belt and flipped it open. “I’m going to go ahead and open it. Unless you want to?”

With a cautious hand, Pike slit open the packing tape and peeled off the outer wrapping. As he set the paper aside, he turned his ear to a clicking noise coming from the tottering box. He leaned closer. Not clicking. Chattering. Shuffling, maybe. Oh, man. Was there something alive in there? Forgetting caution and feeling pity for whatever poor creature had been trapped inside, he sliced through the cardboard and pulled open the flap.

“Whoa.” Pike landed on his backside as he jerked away from the bugs tumbling out through the opening in the box. Hans barked at Pike’s surprise as the insects poured out, scurrying across the asphalt, seeking their freedom. Dozens of them. Hundreds, maybe. Cockroaches. Crickets. Centipedes. Creepies and crawlies he couldn’t identify. “What sick son of a...?”

He scrambled to his feet and backed toward Hope, positioning himself between her and the swarm of shock and terror. “Don’t come over here. You don’t need to see this... Hope?” Pike spun around, desperate for a glimpse of prim-looking glasses and tied-up hair. “Hope!”

She was gone.