Читать книгу Tommy's Mom - Linda Johnston O. - Страница 13

“Hey, sport.” Gabe’s heart went out to the quietly crying child. “Did you have a bad dream?”

He nodded solemnly, one small hand clenched into a fist at his side and the other rubbing his eyes. He wore a baggy yellow pajama top and matching shorts that revealed his thin legs. His feet were bare.

“Oh, Tommy.” Holly headed across the room toward her son. She lifted him into her arms, nuzzling him.

For an instant, Gabe envied the little boy.

He joined them by the door and looked down at Tommy, who’d laid his head on his mother’s shoulder. There was a vague clean scent around him, like baby powder or soap.

It blended well with the fragrance hinting sweetly of luscious fruit that wafted gently about his mother.

Tommy’s dark hair was about the same shade as Holly’s. Gabe had thought so, but he hadn’t seen their hair so close together before. Tommy’s was mussed from sleep.

Holly’s was skillfully mussed, thanks to the artful look of her sexy hairstyle.

“Would you like to tell me about your dream?” Gabe asked, putting two fingers on Tommy’s damp cheek. “Sometimes it feels better if you talk about it.”

But Tommy didn’t move, except to close his eyes. Tears still streamed down his face. Holly rocked him gently.

“Okay, I’ve a better idea,” Gabe said. “How about if I read you a story?”

The small head rose, and Tommy smiled through his tears.

“That’s not necessary,” Holly said. “It’s late, and I’m sure you’re tired.”

“I’ll sleep better myself after a story,” Gabe said firmly. He wasn’t about to explain to Holly in front of Tommy, but he had begun his campaign to get the child to talk.

“Well…all right.”

Gabe got the message. She wanted him to leave. There could be a million reasons why, not the least of which was that he made her uncomfortable. He understood that. He’d felt uncomfortable, too, in those last minutes before Tommy appeared in the living room. Still did. Right down in his crotch. This woman was damn sexy without even trying.

She was also hands-off.

He intended to help her, whether she wanted help or not. He’d spend a little male quality time with her son, for starters. That was something she couldn’t do herself.

And if he got Tommy to reveal exactly what he’d seen the morning his daddy died, well, all the better.

HOLLY SAT on a small blue chair near the desk in Tommy’s room, watching her son’s enthralled expression as Chief Gabe McLaren read him a bedtime story.

Gabe had let Tommy choose the storybook. It was one of Tommy’s favorites, full of brightly colored pictures of wild animals, real and imaginary.

Gabe kept a muscular arm around the small boy in the pale yellow pajamas. Tommy’s head rested against Gabe’s broad chest. She saw it move up and down with the vibration when Gabe laughed at something in the story. Which was often.

It was a wonderfully moving sight—man and boy together in sweet companionship.

The problem was that the man was a virtual stranger.

Thomas had seldom read a bedtime story to Tommy. That was a mother’s role, he’d said. So was feeding the boy, bathing him and taking care of him when he was ill. Throwing a ball to him—well, that had been a father’s job, except that Thomas had gotten bored with it easily, particularly when Tommy hadn’t always been able to catch what he tossed.

Holly had been pleased and surprised that father and son had at least gotten into the habit of spending quality time together on the mornings she slept in. Or at least she assumed their time together went well. Thomas always shrugged at her questions, and Tommy had just beamed.

“Uh-oh,” Gabe was saying as Holly’s attention returned to the tableau on the bed. “You know what? I’ve forgotten what this animal says, and I’m too tired to read it. Do you know?” He looked at Tommy, who nodded.

“Good. That’ll help. The animal is a bird, isn’t it?”

Again, Tommy nodded.

“It’s a funny-looking one. I’ve never seen a big blue owl before, have you?”

This time, Tommy shook his head.

“Right here, it says the owl made a noise like owls do. But the letters are too fuzzy for my tired eyes. Can you read them?”

Tommy shook his head again.

“Well, do you suppose you could tell me what an owl says? If not, I’m afraid we won’t be able to finish the book. What do you think this owl said?”

Tommy looked distressed. Worried for him, Holly was about to join them and finish reading the darned book, when Tommy said, almost too softly for her to hear it, “Hooo.”

“That’s it!” Gabe gave Tommy a big hug. “That’s exactly what it says. I’m awake now. Let’s finish this book.” Over Tommy’s head, he caught Holly’s eye and gave her a big, conspiratorial wink.

It was all Holly could do to prevent herself from hurrying across the room to hug them both.

“I CAN’T THANK YOU ENOUGH,” Holly said at the front door awhile later. Tommy was tucked once more into bed, sound asleep.

Gabe had gotten him to talk!

And, very patiently, he hadn’t pressed Tommy to say any more, not that night. But at least that one, tiny “Hooo” had been a start.

“You’re very welcome, Holly.” He was grinning, a very masculine, proud smile. He obviously recognized the significance of his accomplishment.

“So you’re a police chief and a child psychologist. What else do you do?” Holly couldn’t help teasing despite her exhaustion…and the fact that she was aware that, once he left, she was going to be very much alone in this house, a widow by herself with a sleeping child.

“Try me,” he said, his grin growing even broader. Damn, but he was sexy.

And damn her, too, for even noticing. Widow, she reminded herself, grinding the word into her mind, as if her overactive emotions were a food processor. You’re a widow. As in no men, no sex, just loneliness.

For now, that was fine with her. Maybe forever.

And yet, as Gabe shook her hand and held on long enough to warn her to lock her door behind him, there was a lingering heat in her fingers. The sensation bothered her. A lot.

So did the way he looked at her—a disconcerting combo, in the depths of his eyes, of sympathy, amusement, distance…and lust.

Quickly, she shut the door behind him, trying not to slam it. She leaned on it, closing her eyes.

Gabe McLaren wasn’t just a man trying to be kind. He was aware of her as a woman.

She was aware of him as a man.

But that was simply because she was in mourning. Sure, she was lonely—a widow—but she wasn’t stupid.

Gabe McLaren was a cop. He might remain a part of her life until Thomas’s murderer was caught. After that, she’d merely need to convince him that neither Tommy nor she needed his help or any other cop’s to survive.

As she dutifully locked the door, though, she realized something: attempting to convince Gabe McLaren of anything he didn’t want to believe might be as futile as trying to get the wild waves of the Pacific to settle down for an afternoon nap.

HOLLY COULDN’T sleep that night. Big surprise. She hadn’t slept much at all since Thomas’s death.

Why? she wondered, lying in the dark with her eyes wide open. It wasn’t as if they had been so close that she missed him here, in her bed. Or even out of it.

Still…he had been her husband. He’d been a major part of her life, notwithstanding how distant they had become recently.

She groaned and sat up, flicking on the lamp on her bedside table. Glancing around, she recalled how she had so defiantly made this bedroom her own, decorating it with flowery Laura Ashley sheets and curtains.

One of the quilts she’d sewn was folded carefully at her feet. And a couple of her own favorite stitched creations hung on the walls.

What would Gabe McLaren think of her “silly little crafts,” as Thomas had dubbed them?

And why did she even wonder about it? Why hadn’t she shown him any when he’d expressed an interest in seeing her artwork?

Forget it. She had much weightier matters to think about. Like her husband. Thomas was gone forever now. He’d been buried today.

No, yesterday. This was a new day, no matter how early it was.

And no matter what Thomas and she had or hadn’t been to one another at the end, Holly mourned him.

Maybe it would help to keep busy. But she didn’t feel particularly creative right now. Perhaps what she could do was to start going through Thomas’s things.

Not his clothes. Not now, in the middle of the night when she felt so sad. But paperwork. That would keep her mind occupied without devastating her.

She rose, put a light cotton robe over her short nylon gown, and went down the stairs to the small room that had been Thomas’s office. She flicked on the light and sighed, “Oh, Thomas.” He hadn’t liked her to come in here, so she hadn’t, for months. Thomas hadn’t liked to pick up after himself, either, and this room, furnished with desk, chair, small tables for computer and TV, and junk, reflected it. Now, she would have to sort through all the piles, figure out what to save and what to toss.

“Not tonight,” she told herself. She nevertheless picked her way through the debris on the floor and sat down on the desk chair. The room smelled musty. She’d air it out tomorrow.

For now, feeling overwhelmed by the magnitude of the task, she decided just to tackle the smallest piles on the desk. One contained mostly magazines. That was easy. Those about police she would donate to the station, if anyone wanted them. The risqué ones she would toss out. The few dealing with investments…well, those were probably disposable, too.

She wondered suddenly if Gabe McLaren read investment magazines, girly magazines or just ones sent to cops. She laughed at herself and went to work on another pile.

This one was more problematic. It contained files, mostly unlabeled. The ones that were labeled were primarily credit card bills—what credit card was this? It referenced a company different from the one that issued their shared card. It had been sent to Thomas at the address of the N.B.P.D. station.

She glanced at the charges: firing range practice, gasoline, a local department store. Nothing unusual. But why were these charges on a separate credit card? She hadn’t seen anything recorded in their checkbook indicating payments on this card.

She put that file down and tried another. It contained a list of all the shops along Pacific Way, the traffic-free street perpendicular to the beach where Sheldon, Evangeline and a multitude of other local trendy tourist establishments had their stores. Nothing too exciting about that.

There were a few other files, some with familiar financial information, others with photographs, mostly of Tommy.

Not her, of course. Or of all of them together.

Still, this folder caused tears to flow down Holly’s cheeks. No matter what else Thomas had been, no matter how estranged she and he had felt from one another, her husband had loved their child in his own way. And Tommy had certainly adored his daddy.

Who had killed Thomas? Was the money stolen from Sheldon’s worth a human life? Or had there been another reason…?

Shuddering, Holly arranged the stacks on the desk into neater piles, then headed back to her bedroom.

“YOU WANTED to see me, Chief?” Al Sharp’s posture seemed relaxed, with one hip leaning against Gabe’s desk and his arms loosely crossed, but Gabe saw a wariness glinting from eyes too insolent and set a little too close together. He was clad in his police patrol uniform, complete with Sam Browne about his waist containing his .35 Beretta and ammunition, but his hat was nowhere to be seen.

“Yeah. Sit down, Al.” Gabe motioned to one of the chairs facing him. It was late morning. He hadn’t slept much the night before, thinking about the Thomas Poston murder.

About his cute little son, Tommy.

And about beautiful, sad—sexy—Holly Poston.

Mostly about Holly Poston. About grieving Holly Poston, who was absolutely off-limits.

Still, he was going to get answers. Fast. For her sake and Tommy’s, as well as his own.

He’d come into the office full of determination. He’d reviewed the file again. And again.

And now he felt as frustrated as hell.

Al settled in and leaned back. His eyes left Gabe for the first time, taking in the rest of the office.

Gabe had left a lot as it had been when his predecessor, Mal Kensington, was chief of police, but he’d added his own touches to the décor. On the wall now hung a detailed satellite map of the area, some congratulatory plaques and medals Gabe had earned while with the Sacramento Police Department and, for his amusement and the possible discomfiture of those who came to visit, a photograph of himself shaking hands with Evangeline Sevvers, mayor of Naranja Beach—and Aunt Evangeline to him.

He’d also heard that he was a heck of a lot more organized than Mal had ever been. The top of his desk was nearly empty. He was a great believer in keeping things filed for easier access when he needed them.

“What’s up?” Al was clearly growing uncomfortable at the delay. With his extra chin and nearly shaved head, he resembled a tall and skinny bulldog. But he’d proven to be much less than a bulldog on the investigation.

“Thomas Poston’s murder. You know—”

“Chief. Sharp.” Jimmy Hernandez strode into the room and sat in the chair next to Al’s.

Detective James Hernandez’s Hispanic facial features were broad and sharply geometric, his body lean and trim beneath his khaki shirt and dark slacks. No uniform for him, as a detective. And usually no suit coat, either.

He had been hired by Gabe first thing when Gabe had been hired to run the Naranja Beach P.D. Jimmy had been one of the best damn detectives Gabe had ever met when they’d worked together with the Sacramento Police Department.

He was one of the few people who knew why Gabe had really been hired for this job. He’d come along to assist Gabe—as well as to head the local detective unit.

“Glad you’re here, Jimmy. I was just beginning to tell Al that I haven’t been happy about the progress we’ve made on the Poston case.”

“Yeah?” Jimmy glared at him. They might be friends and cohorts, but Jimmy made his own opinions known. Very known.

“Yeah,” Gabe replied. His cool gaze was on Jimmy, who barely hid a grin. They both knew the criticism was leveled at Al Sharp, not the chief detective. Most likely, Al knew it, too.

Al was a patrolman as his partner Thomas had been, and not a detective. Still, because of the special circumstances of this death, Al had taken a leading role in the investigation. He’d known Thomas well. He knew a lot of the same people Thomas had known. And he, maybe more than anyone else, was motivated to solve his partner’s murder.

“I’ve consulted with Jimmy every step of the way,” Al said, “just like you told me, chief. Right, Jimmy?” He glanced over at the detective beside him.

“You tell me, Al,” Jimmy replied.

“I’ve talked to everyone you suggested,” Al said defensively, “asked the questions you insisted on, and like that.”

“I figured,” Gabe said. “And ‘like that’ is why I’m taking a bigger role in the investigation myself. Five days have passed, and we don’t even have a suspect. That’s too long. Way too long.”

Gabe rose behind his desk and leaned forward as if he were going to get right in Al’s face. The patrolman had insisted on participating in the investigation. Thomas had been his partner. His friend.

But he was going to learn that wanting was not the same as succeeding. And if he took something on while part of Gabe’s force, he’d damned well better produce.

Gabe had been attempting to be a good guy since arriving in Naranja Beach and taking over the position as police chief. He’d figured he was more likely to get the information he needed for his covert investigation if he fit in, became part of the furniture. So far that hadn’t worked.

And Jimmy hadn’t been any more successful than Gabe so far.

Gabe was about to change his strategy. Especially since he believed the two deaths could be related.

“We’re going to know who killed Poston and why within the next week, or heads are going to roll. Got it, both of you?”

Jimmy nodded, but Al’s tone was curt, his expression surly as he said, “Yeah.”

“That’s ‘yeah, sir,’ Sharp.”

“Yeah, sir.” Al stood and gave a mock salute.

“What’s your plan, Jimmy?” Gabe asked. “Al knows people around here. Who do you want him to question?”

“Concentrate on the people who heard little Tommy Poston crying on Pacific Way that morning,” Jimmy said. He remained seated, one leg crossed casually over the other as he looked up at the patrol cop. “Did he tell them anything?”

“You know the kid’s not talking.” Al’s attempt to hide his annoyance came across as a sneer he turned into a cough.

“Yes, I know,” Jimmy said. “But he might have been then, in his fear and excitement. In any event, talk to those people.”

“I have.”

“I know,” Gabe told him.

Al’s glance signaled a hint of relief, as if he believed Gabe was about to support him. Wrong.

“I read your report,” Gabe continued. “But there’s a lot that isn’t in it. Talk to them again. Did they see anything else? Hear anything besides Tommy? I want to know everything from exactly what each of them was eating for breakfast at Naranja Diner that morning when they heard Tommy scream, to how many times it made them belch. How foggy did the marine layer make the air, or could they see anything or anyone along Pacific Way? Got it?”

“Yeah—er, yeah, sir,” he amended as he met Gabe’s eye.

Only then did Gabe let the patrol cop escape his office.

“You figure he’ll get those answers?” Jimmy asked dryly.

“What do you think?”

Jimmy grinned as he stood and walked toward the door. He turned back to Gabe. “I think I’ll do some follow-up myself.”

“You got it,” Gabe said. “And while you’re at it—”

“Yeah, yeah. If I can be subtle enough, I’ll see if anyone knows anything about the other situation.” Jimmy left the office.

What next? Gabe wondered.

He decided to call Holly, and ask her…what? Something to do with the case, like… Nothing. He was merely looking for an excuse to call her this morning, fool that he was.

Forget the call.

Shaking his head, he went to the file cabinet. Extracting a folder labeled Poston, he thumbed through it.

The physical evidence was minimal and inconclusive. The murder weapon was something sharp, like a knife, but hadn’t been found at the scene. Sheldon Sperling had said a decorative letter opener, part of his artsy stock, seemed to be missing. His shop had been dusted for fingerprints, scoured for hairs and other clues, but it was open to the public. Even if everything could be identified, it still might not point to the perpetrator.

Sperling. He’d been hit on the head and didn’t remember much. But he was a person Gabe wanted to question himself, a lot more than he’d been able to at Holly’s after Poston’s funeral.

And if he just happened, in Sperling’s shop, to see some of the needlework created by Holly Poston…

He was becoming obsessed with the woman, damn it, and he’d only just met her.

No. He was obsessed with the case. She was an integral part of it. Thomas Poston’s murder was his first big challenge as the head of the N.B.P.D.—his first big official challenge. He would solve it, and quickly. And, hopefully, the unofficial assignment, too.

But as soon as the Poston case was solved, he would let the others on his force play guardian angel to the Postons.

GABE DIDN’T MAKE it to Sheldon’s shop as anticipated. While driving his department-issued brown sedan along Naranja Avenue toward Pacific Way, he saw a familiar vehicle. Holly Poston’s bright red minivan was parked at a meter along the street.

Where was she? He pulled over at a yellow line—one of the perks of his job—and looked around. City Hall, where the N.B.P.D. offices were located, was a mile behind him. In this area, Naranja Avenue contained rows of low-rise stucco office buildings and a few retail shops—much less trendy than those along Pacific Way. Two blocks down was Naranja Community Hospital.

Gabe wasn’t able to guess where, around here, Holly had gone. But then he spotted her, hand in hand with Tommy, emerging from the nearest building. It contained mostly medical offices.

His insides compressed as if in a vise. Was one of them ill?

He exited his car and approached them.

Holly looked tired. Her lovely dark eyes drooped, and the dark circles beneath them had grown larger.

But somehow the sight of her spurred not only his sympathy but sexual stirrings, too. Again. The heat he felt looking at her wasn’t only from the strong California sun that beat down on the avenue on this midsummer afternoon. Not at all.

Holly was dressed in jeans and a form-fitting short-sleeved T-shirt that showed off every soft curve. Curves that just begged to be touched….

Idiot, he berated himself. Or was it pervert?

Holly watched her cute little son, who was clinging to her hand but lagging behind. He was in bright red shorts, a navy T-shirt and sandals.

“Holly?”

She looked up quickly, a startled expression on her face.

“Sorry,” Gabe said. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I was just driving by and saw your van.” He glanced behind her toward the medical building. “Is everything okay?”

“Sure,” she said, her tone a shade too bright. “We just came to see the doctor.” She knelt down beside her son and gave him a hug. But Tommy looked listless and didn’t hug back.

Gabe’s heart went out to him. To both of them.

“Tommy woke up a couple of hours after you left,” Holly continued, “and didn’t get back to sleep. He had a bad dream.”

Stooping down to their level, Gabe read between the lines. Tommy had awakened, crying, after a nightmare and had kept Holly up all night. She was frightened for him. What caring mother wouldn’t be? She had taken him to a doctor. A pediatrician or a psychologist? Poor little Tommy might need both.

“Did Tommy have a tummy ache?” Gabe asked gently, though he suspected what the answer would be.

“No.” The frantic expression in Holly’s eyes suggested that she had reached her wits’ end and didn’t know how to help her scared son. “We saw Tommy’s new doctor again, a special one who likes to talk to children and likes them to talk to her, too.”

“I hope it was a good visit,” Gabe said. But he could tell from Holly’s demeanor that it hadn’t been, that Tommy hadn’t opened up even to a specialist.

“It was a fine visit,” she said nonetheless, her voice falsely cheerful. “It was so good that we’re going back to see the doctor again next week. And maybe then Tommy will take his turn and talk, too.”

“Great. How about if I come over tonight and read Tommy another bedtime story. Would that be all right with you, sport?” Gabe held his breath. Tommy obviously had something he was keeping inside. Gabe wasn’t an expert like the doctor they’d seen. He wasn’t likely to be any more successful at extracting whatever it was from the child. But someone had to, for Tommy’s sake, as well as for the investigation. And Gabe was going to try. He’d gotten one word from the boy, at least. Maybe he could get more.

He allowed himself to breathe again when, very slowly and solemnly, the sweet-faced child nodded.

Gabe stood. “Great. You guys like pizza?”

Holly rose, too. “You don’t have to do that,” she whispered very softly, so only Gabe could hear.

“I know I don’t have to,” Gabe replied. “I want to.” The damned unsettling thing about it was that he did. He wanted to return to that pretty beach community house with its attractive furnishings. He wanted to spend more time with this very sexy woman whose only interest in him, if any, would disappear as time passed and memories of her husband faded.

Any man she became attracted to now, when her emotions were turned upside down by her loss, would be thrown out like yesterday’s pizza crusts when she began to heal.

And that wasn’t for Gabe. Not again.

But he intended to unravel the threads that had led to her husband’s death. As quickly as possible.

Almost subconsciously, his conditioning as a longtime cop kicking in, he heard the sound of someone driving too fast down this busy street. He looked up. At the same time, he heard one bleat from a siren. Good. A patrol officer was on it.

A small, white car pulled over to the side of the street into an empty space right beside where Gabe, Holly and Tommy stood, a patrol car with rotating lights hugging its rear. It was the unit assigned to Bruce Franklin and Dolph Hilo.

Gabe, and all the people on the sidewalk, watched as the two officers did all the right things: taking their time getting out of their vehicle—undoubtedly checking the plates with their onboard computer, then approaching the stopped car.

Dolph Hilo was the officer who got out on the passenger side, nearest where Gabe stood with Holly and Tommy. He smiled and saluted.

And just as at his father’s funeral, Tommy Poston began to scream.