Читать книгу In Harm's Way - Lyn Stone - Страница 10

Robin slid into a booth at the diner. Detective Winton— Mitch, since he had insisted on first names—took the side facing the door. She remembered reading once that gunfighters of the Old West had done that.

He smiled when he handed her a plastic-coated menu and held the pleasant expression as he looked up at the waitress. “Hey, Mabel. How’s it goin’?”

The heavyset blond with frizzy hair grinned back and popped her gum. “Great. Y’all want coffee?” She wrinkled her nose at Robin and said with mock confidentiality, “This rascal’s on my list. He ain’t been in here for weeks. You musta been keepin’ him real busy lately.”

Mitch cleared his throat to regain the waitress’s attention. “Just bring us the coffee, Mabel. Got any of that country ham I like?”

“You betcha.” The waitress thumbed a page off the top of her order pad, scribbled, paused and asked, “Your usual with it?”

“Yes, ma’am. You want eggs with yours?” He raised a brow at Robin.

She declined and placed the menu on the table. “No eggs, no ham. Just a waffle. And a glass of water.”

Mabel laughed and winked. “You ain’t gotta watch that figure, hon. Bet he’ll watch it for you.” She scooped up the menus and wriggled off behind the bar. Robin winced at the way Mabel screamed the order through the opening to the kitchen in back. So all Southern belles weren’t soft spoken.

“The cook’s a little hard of hearing,” Mitch explained. He clasped his hands on the table next to the rolled-up napkin that held his flatware. “I guess this place is out of the ordinary for you, huh?”

It seemed to amuse him, bringing her to a restaurant like this. Robin was determined not to react the way he obviously expected. She had eaten in worse places, though not often.

Dylan’s Diner looked like a fifties diner that hadn’t been refurbished since its creation. More antique than retro. A bar ran the length of the place, its chrome stools topped with mottled red leather cushions. Old photos of Elvis, Dolly, and others she didn’t recognize dotted the walls in a haphazard arrangement. An old-fashioned jukebox stood at the far end of the room in front of the rest rooms.

The booths were in fairly good shape. Blinds covered the windows that began at table level and nearly reached the ceiling. Thankfully they were closed, so Robin didn’t have to see the neighborhood outside. It had looked rather seedy driving through it.

“Sorry, but there aren’t too many eating places open this time of the morning, at least not on the way to where we’re going. Dylan’s plays host to the night crawlers in this area.” He shrugged. “I’m one of ’em when I pull night duty.”

“This is fine,” Robin said, gingerly unwinding her fork, spoon and a serrated steak knife from their paper wrapping and arranging them in a proper place setting. The utensils appeared to be clean, she noted with relief. “I’m really not that choosy.”

“Good sport, aren’t you?” He shrugged out of his windbreaker and laid it in the corner of the booth. “Beaner is a fair cook. The food’s good here, trust me.”

Robin sighed. He kept saying that. Trust me. If he only knew how impossible that was, that she would put her trust in any man. Or any one else, for that matter. It was good that he didn’t seem to expect an avowal of it. Maybe it was only a figure of speech with him.

“How far is it to this apartment you mentioned?” she asked, wondering if she would be required to stay in this particular area with its unkempt houses interspersed with run-down storefronts.

He didn’t answer her. His full attention was suddenly riveted on the entrance. Robin had heard the door open and close, felt the draft.

She started to look over her shoulder and see who had come in when Mitch grasped her hands, squeezed and whispered. “Trouble! Lie down, Robin. Sideways in the seat and slide under the table. Do it now!” He shoved her hands off the table sending her flatware clattering to the floor. She followed.

Robin didn’t even think about protesting. She did exactly as ordered, curling herself around the sturdy chrome pedestal. Mitch was grappling with his ankle which was mere inches from her face. He pulled a gun from a small holster strapped to his leg.

Oh, God, it was a robbery! That had been her first thought when he warned her to duck out of sight, and she’d been right. All those years in New York and never a bit of trouble, and now… She heard Mabel scream and scooted as near the wall as she could.

“Drop it, cop, or I’ll blow her away,” said a deep voice.

A clunk sounded on top of the table above Robin.

“Move back,” the voice shouted. “To the back of the room.”

Robin watched Mitch’s legs and feet as he slowly backed out of her limited line of vision.

Desperate for something to defend herself, Robin searched the floor for the steak knife, but couldn’t find it. She grasped the fork. Her breath rushed in and out between clenched teeth and she felt sick.

When a head appeared wearing a ski mask, Robin yelped. A large and rather dirty hand reached under the table, attempting to grab her foot, the closest part of her to the aisle. He was cursing, saying something, but the words wouldn’t register. In terror that he would drag her out before she could stop him, Robin struck. She stabbed the fork into his hand. The tines disappeared into hairy flesh and the resulting roar was deafening.

All hell broke loose, and she couldn’t see a thing but the blur of tangled legs. Mitch Winton had attacked. That much was obvious.

Robin twisted around, feeling beneath her for the knife. She couldn’t simply wait to see what happened. That robber could kill Mitch and drag her from beneath the table and…

She thought she heard sirens above the grunts and curses and the smack of fists against flesh. Several shots rang out and glass broke. Tires screeched outside, blue light bounced around the room like a strobe. The police! Thank God! She heard the thunder of footsteps, cursing, doors slamming.

“It’s safe. You can come out now.” Mitch was crouching on the floor beside the booth, peering at her.

Robin wriggled around the table support and grasped the hand he offered to help her out. “Are…are they gone?” she asked, scanning the diner as they stood.

“They ran out the back.” He took the steak knife from her, placed it on the table, then picked up his pistol. Bracing his right foot on the booth seat, he replaced the gun in its holster and snapped the flap.

“Shouldn’t you…go after them or something?”

He shook his head and indicated she should sit down. Her legs were so shaky, she nearly fell. “The cops are pursuing. Excuse me a minute.”

Robin watched as Mitch went over to the bar and leaned over it. “You okay down there, Mabel?”

“That bastard shot my winder,” she complained, her voice rising as she got up off the floor. Her hair was a worse mess than before, and there was coffee all over the front of her white shirt and red nylon apron. “Broke my coffeepot, too.” Then her gaze jerked toward Robin. “Y’all didn’t get hurt, did ya?”

“No, we’re fine. That silent alarm works pretty good,” Mitch commented. “Quick thinking, Mabel. You’re a peach.”

“Thank you for tellin’ me I needed the thing.” She brushed herself off with a towel and smiled over the counter at Mitch, then at Robin. There were tears in her eyes, and she sniffed. “Y’all will have to wait a little bit until I get another carafe out of the back and get some more coffee goin’.”

“Don’t worry about the order,” Mitch told her gently. “You look a little shaky. Why don’t you just relax and catch your breath.”

“Don’t leave!” whined Mabel, reaching out toward Mitch with a trembling hand. “Don’t go now.”

Mitch took it and smiled at her. “I won’t go yet, Mabel. But you go on and take a break, huh? Powder your nose and fix your hair. I’ll be here when you get back.”

She nodded and sidled down the back of the bar, around it and toward the door marked Ladies.

Robin knew how poor Mabel felt. Right now she wanted Mitch Winton and his gun as close by as they could get. He seemed to know that and came over to join her in the booth.

“You’re a scrapper. I wouldn’t have guessed it.” His chuckle was warm, approving. “Surprised the hell out of him, plowing that fork through his hand. Glad you were on my side.”

Robin stared at him, not sure whether she was upset at his apparent calm or reassured by it. She glanced at the door. “They might come back.”

He laughed outright at that, then grimaced, grasping his side.

“You’re hurt!” Robin cried, sliding out of the booth.

“No, no, sit back down. I took a kick to the ribs. Nothing serious. Either those guys really were as big as they looked or I’m gettin’ soft in my old age.”

“They could have shot you!” she cried. “What did you mean rushing them that way?”

He sighed and leaned back, his fingers still exploring the site of his injury. “You made him so mad with that fork, I was afraid he would shoot you if I didn’t move on him right then. They heard the siren and split before I could do much.”

Robin raked her hair back behind her ears, shook her head and gave a deflated sigh. “James’s death and now a robbery. What next?”

He leaned forward over the table and peered into her eyes. “Robin, he went straight for you. Once he had threatened Mabel, he never even looked at her again. His buddy was standing lookout at the door. Neither one asked for the contents of the register. Never demanded my wallet. They knew I was a cop, knew my name, but I’ve never seen them before. I think they knew who you are, too. It was your purse they were after. Didn’t you hear him?”

“No, I wasn’t really listening.” Robin frowned down at the thin strap that lay securely around her neck and across her body, the leather rectangle resting against her hip. “My purse? But why? Do I look rich?”

Mitch smiled. “As a matter of fact you do, but I don’t think it was your money he was after. It was something else. What do you have in there?”

She lifted the purse onto the table and opened it. “Powder, lipstick.” Robin listed the items as she emptied the contents piece by piece. “Credit cards, address book, a bit of cash, James’s CD, a small brush, old theater ticket stubs and,” she said, plunking down a little spray can, “pepper spray.” She frowned and scoffed. “I should have remembered that. I completely forgot I had it. All I could think about was locating the knife.”

Mitch picked up the spray container and turned it around several times, then shot her a questioning look. “Somehow, I don’t believe this was what he was looking for, do you?”

She surveyed the pile of stuff. “The CD, you think? What could anyone possibly want with that?”

“Your husband wanted it badly enough to have you bring it all the way from New York instead of mailing it.”

“Maybe you’re right,” she admitted, meeting his gaze. She shoved it toward him. “You take it. Keep it.”

“No,” he said, returning it to her. “Hang on to it until we can have a look at what’s on it.”

Mabel returned from the ladies’ room, obviously relieved that Mitch was still around. “Be just a minute,” she said, pushing through the door to the kitchen. “I’ll get that coffee carafe.”

Robin exhaled and rested her forehead on her hand. “Could we leave, please?”

“No, not yet. We still have to eat, and I don’t think Mabel’s up to winging it with only ol’ Beaner in the back for company. We’d better hang around until Bill and Eddie come back or send word that they caught the bad boys.”

Robin resigned herself. “Somehow I always thought of Nashville as a rather tranquil city full of musicians.”

He laughed. “If that were the case, I’d be playing backup guitar and bemoaning the fact that I can’t sing.”

“You can’t sing?” she asked, eager for any diversion.

“Well, I can, but you wouldn’t want to hear it. Trust me.”

There it was again. Maybe it was only a figure of speech, his saying that so often. If someone was after James’s disk and was willing to go after it with guns, she knew she had to trust someone. Mitch Winton certainly seemed the likeliest candidate in town.

Dawn was about to break when they were finally able to leave the diner. Mitch kept stealing glances at Robin, wondering when she would crash. She seemed to have gotten her second wind by the time Bill and Eddie had come back to interview them about the supposed robbery. The poor girl must have had it up to her ears with cops by this time.

She had separated the miniblinds with one finger and was looking out the window now, probably marveling at how hospitable Nashville and its occupants had been to her since her arrival.

“Why didn’t you tell the officers your theory about the disk?” she asked, breaking the silence.

He turned onto the off-ramp leading to his neighborhood. “Because it’s only that. A theory. Besides, they would have wanted to take it with them, see what was on it.” He smiled. “I thought we might do that.”

She remained quiet then, so he turned on the radio. “Fiddle with the stations there and see what you can find,” he suggested, really wanting to see what she would settle on. Her taste in music might tell him a little more about her. Was she really as highbrow as she looked, or was there a closet blues fan inside that slick exterior?

She parked it on the local news, listening intently. When the newscast was over and no mention was made of her husband’s murder, she clicked the radio off. A small frown marred her almost perfect features.

They were almost perfect, but not quite. Mitch had noted, a little belatedly, that her chin was a shade too prominent, gave her an almost haughty look. Her nose would have been cuter, would have made her more appealing and approachable, if it had tilted up just slightly, but it was straight as a die. Too aristocratic. Looked as if it had been straightened on purpose.

That made him wonder if she really had enhanced herself with surgery anywhere. Her breasts looked smallish and were probably real. She said she had modeled and small was necessary with braless fashions, he guessed. She might not be absolutely perfect but came a little too close to it for Mitch to believe it was all real. Oh well, models had to use what they had and improve it if they could, he reckoned. It was a business, and he couldn’t fault her for it if she’d resorted to that.

“Nice nose,” he commented. “Mind if I ask what it cost? Mine’s been broken twice and I’d sure like the name of a good doctor, one who wouldn’t do a Michael Jackson on me and make me look like Janet.”

She laughed, sounding surprised. “You think I’ve had my nose done?”

Mitch shot her a smile. “Looks great.”

“Thank you. I was born with this nose,” she informed him.

“Don’t be insulted,” he said. “I just wondered.”

“Are you able to breathe well?” she asked.

“Sure, no problem.” Other than when she looked at him a certain way and stole his breath.

“Then leave your nose alone. It fits your face.” Then she added grudgingly, “Not because you broke it. It’s a nice nose…and face.”

She liked his face. Mitch mumbled his thanks and focused on his driving, not enjoying the little thrill that ran through him when she gave him that compliment. He had to get over this growing obsession with the woman, his need to know everything there was to know about her. Jeez, what did it matter whether she’d had her nose done? What was it to him? Nothing, that’s what.

What did that say about him, that he was getting so wrapped up in her this quickly? His objectivity was shot to pieces, had been since the minute she turned those baby blues on him in that bedroom at the crime scene. He needed to get a grip. Problem was, he wanted to get a grip on her.

That ol’ bugaboo, sexual attraction, of course. It had never hit him quite this square in the gut, however, and he was having trouble straightening up. The blow to the ribs he’d taken in the diner didn’t even compare. He pressed on the injury just to make it hurt, just to feel something that would counteract what she was making him feel.

Her hand covered his. “Broken?” she asked with a look of tender concern. The touch of her hand on his set his nerve endings jangling.

“Nah. Just bruised. You should see the other guy,” he quipped.

Her breath huffed out and she removed her hand. “I hope I never do! Do you really think they’ll try again? If it is the disk they were after?”

Mitch shrugged, relieved that they were on less intimate ground. “Could be. You don’t have to worry about that right now. No one knows where we’re going except the chief, and we aren’t being followed.”

She swiveled and glanced out the back window. “You’re certain?”

“Absolutely.”

A few moments later she had leaned her head back against the headrest and closed her eyes. It was all he could do not to pull the car over just so he could sit there and watch her sleep for a while.

Mitch sat up straighter behind the wheel and clutched it tighter than necessary, reminding himself that Robin Andrews was still the primary suspect in a murder case. Not only should he avoid getting involved with her on any level other than making sure she didn’t skip town, he should not let her bravery back there at the diner impress him so much.

So she had a healthy sense of self-preservation. So what?

He drove on, deliberately listing all the reasons Robin might have had to shoot that man she had married.

Had Andrews cheated on her? For whatever reason, he’d left her there in New York to fend for herself. And he might have gotten her mixed up in something shady by asking her to bring him that disk. The murderer had been looking for something in that apartment, something not found yet. And those guys who attacked them in Dylan’s were definitely after whatever Robin had. Maybe she knew more about that than she admitted.

Surely she wasn’t capable of murder. But she sure hadn’t hesitated to plant that fork in the perp’s hand tonight. Maybe she hadn’t hesitated to plant a bullet in James Andrews’s brain a little earlier in the evening.

The best he could do was keep an eye on her, get to know her as well as he could and try to determine the extent of her guilt. Or, best case, prove she was innocent.

“Well, this is it,” the detective told her as Robin became aware of their surroundings.

Streetlights cast their glow over shadowy houses with gingerbread trim. They stood like a double row of old-fashioned sisters, each unique yet bearing a family resemblance. Some were spruced up beautifully, but a few carried the marks of age and neglect. Ancient oaks spread their branches over small, neat yards as well as most of the street. “Peaceful,” she muttered.

“Quiet, anyway,” he agreed, opening his door and getting out. He came around and opened hers.

A gentleman to the bone, she thought, wondering what kind of cop that made him. Other than the intensity of those eyes, he seemed almost too deferential to be true. He frightened her with all of this courtesy.

Robin tried to shake off the fear, chalking it up to watching too much television and its stereotyping of lawmen from the South. Good ol’boys who had laws of their own. God, she hoped that had no basis in fact.

She took the hand he offered to help her out of the Bronco. It was warm and strong, his touch too casual to signify anything other than a gesture of assistance. But Robin felt the power of it, nonetheless, the tingling awareness that this man could destroy her if he wished.

He had given her fair warning. She would never make the mistake of underestimating Detective Mitch Winton.

There was no concrete reason to believe his attitude was a deception. If he was trying to lure her into trusting him enough to confess she’d killed James, he’d have a long damned wait for either her trust or an admission of guilt.

She knew she should have gone to a hotel. He’d said he lived near here, hadn’t he? What had she been thinking? Her brain was so foggy from stress and lack of sleep, she hadn’t been thinking at all. First thing in the morning she would find another place to stay. She would call a taxi and have it take her downtown.

Depending on the very person who had nearly arrested her for murder—and still might do so—was worse than absurd. Yet she couldn’t afford to alienate him completely. Making him angry was the last thing she should do.

He led her up the walkway and the brick steps of the house. The wide front porch with its draping ferns and off-white wicker rocking chairs seemed to welcome her.

Fishing his key ring out of his pocket, he unlocked the door and entered before her. When he had switched on the lights, Robin stepped inside, taking in the gaudy floral wallpaper and large, gold-leaf mirror hanging over a marble-topped rose-wood hall table. He immediately ushered her toward a sturdy, curved staircase. “Second floor.”

She made a note to examine the small paintings hanging in the stairwell later when she could focus properly. They appeared to be very old pastoral scenes. Everything looked old. Ancient.

Again he unlocked a door and turned on the lights.

“Make yourself at home. There’s the bedroom through there. Since she took practically everything but the kitchen sink with her, Sandra’s things shouldn’t get in your way. I expect there are some nonperishables left in the kitchen, but we’ll get you supplied with whatever you like later today.”

He glanced at his watch as if he had somewhere else to be, but she didn’t want him to go yet.

“Exactly who is Sandra?” Robin thought he’d said a friend, another policeman, rented this place. She’d erroneously assumed it was a man.

“Sandra Cunningham,” he explained. “She’s at the FBI academy for a training course.”

He sounded terribly proud of this person. Robin made herself smile at him. “Are you sure this friend won’t object to my invading her space while she’s away?”

“Positive she won’t, but I’ll call her and let her know.” He backed out of the door. “Speaking of calls, if you’ll excuse me, I need to make some. I’ll do it from my place.”

“You live close by?”

“Just next door.” He looked at his watch again. “Try to get some sleep this morning and I’ll check back with you around noon.”

Robin turned the dead bolt after the door closed and leaned against the solid panel. She listened for his footsteps on the stairs, but didn’t hear them. He must move like a cat.

She looked at the phone on the table by the window, then decided it might be best to wait until after she had slept to call her mother. Dealing with her would take energy Robin didn’t have at the moment. Exhausted beyond bearing, she went straight to the bedroom and stretched out across the big brass bed.

Usually she preferred being by herself, but now almost wished Mitch Winton had stayed. She suddenly felt too alone.