Читать книгу Too Close For Comfort - Sharon Mignerey - Страница 9

Rosie’s grip tightened around the cup of coffee. ‘‘I want to know everything.’’

Ian sat down on one of the chairs next to the table, stretching his long, denim-clad legs out in front of him. Absently she noticed saltwater stains below the knees, indicating he had waded through ocean water at some point. His posture was deceptively relaxed, at odds with the anger in his eyes. Gone was the affectionate man who had teased Annmarie through breakfast. Her apprehension grew as she watched him lift his mug to his lips. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he took a couple of swallows of coffee.

He set the cup down and met her gaze. ‘‘The man who was killed was an assistant D.A. in San Jose.’’

‘‘Oh, my God.’’

‘‘It gets worse,’’ Ian said.

Rosie wasn’t sure how it could be worse. She sat down and set her mug on the table, then realized she was trembling when coffee sloshed over the top.

‘‘The D.A. who was killed…he was working on a big case with organized crime connections.’’

‘‘This Marco person?’’

Ian nodded. ‘‘Indirectly. Marco works for Franklin Lawrence. At least, that was the gist of what I overheard right after he shot me.’’

Rumors had floated around the Silicon Valley for years that Lawrence, like his daddy before him, had mob connections going clear back to Bugsy Malone. The sort of thing you heard about but never paid much attention to. Now she wished she had.

‘‘How…when?’’ Rosie asked. Lily was a research scientist at the University of California, a genius in a field of microbiology Rosie barely understood. How could Lily have witnessed a murder?

‘‘She was on her way home one night. There’s an empty stretch of winding road—’’

‘‘You mean just beyond the country club?’’ Rosie asked, mentally following Lily’s path home. Lily’s neighborhood was tucked in the hills between an office park and exclusive neighborhoods that included a vineyard and the country club.

‘‘That’s right,’’ Ian said. ‘‘I didn’t know you’d ever been there.’’

‘‘I used to live in Los Gatos. Get to the point—she was on her way home.’’

Ian nodded, a flicker of surprise chasing across his face. ‘‘She just had the pure dumb luck to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. Because this was such a high profile case, the D.A. kept her identity a secret, which worked out just fine until about ten days ago.’’ Ian’s voice grew rough. ‘‘Excerpts of her grand jury testimony were leaked to the press. With the clues they were given, it didn’t take them long to figure out the top-secret witness was your sister.’’

‘‘Oh, God. Lily—’’

‘‘—is fine,’’ Ian said, reaching for Rosie’s hand. ‘‘She’s safe. I promise.’’

She knew his gesture was an offer of comfort, but she flinched, anyway.

His hand dropped to his side. ‘‘Lily thought Annmarie would be better off with you.’’

Rosie shook her head. ‘‘Not with some maniac out there looking for you…’’ Except, to have any leverage with Lily they didn’t want Ian—they wanted Annmarie. In the back of Rosie’s mind that was a fact she had known all along—known and pushed aside.

Suddenly cold, she wrapped her arms around herself and surged to her feet. She moved to the window and stared outside, imagining a foe behind every tree.

Without facing him, she said, ‘‘In the middle of the night, Hilda got a call. The guy was looking for a missing child. He said he was from the Bay area.’’ She turned around and searched his face, knowing the answer but asking anyway, ‘‘It wasn’t you?’’

He shook his head.

‘‘Lily was wrong.’’ Agitated, Rosie waved a hand toward the window. ‘‘What we need is a SWAT team or a platoon of marines or the National Guard.’’ She frowned, deciding she had been too hasty in telling Hilda to bring her kids.

‘‘We’ll figure a way out.’’

We? She didn’t intend for there to be any we where this man was concerned. ‘‘What’s your connection to my sister?’’

‘‘I’m her next-door neighbor.’’

She closed her eyes, trying to remember what Lily had said about her neighbors. Only two came to mind: an elderly couple and a guy who always mowed her lawn. As she remembered, her dad liked the guy, a real compliment since he was usually suspicious.

According to their mom, Lily would have been lost without the guy’s help when her husband died. Since Lily hadn’t mentioned him by name—at least not that Rosie remembered—Rosie hadn’t given him much thought, other than to dismiss her mother’s assertion that the man was wealthy. Her mother also thought it was too bad that the two of them weren’t attracted to each other. Rosie knew how in love her sister had been with her husband, and she knew that Lily believed she would never re-marry. Rosie studied Ian, trying to imagine him in the role of the helpful lawn-mowing neighbor. Not likely.

‘‘The one who mows her lawn?’’ she asked anyway.

Ian grinned. ‘‘The same.’’

‘‘The one who doesn’t have a job because he’s supposedly as rich as Midas?’’ She still didn’t believe it.

‘‘Yep.’’

‘‘What do you do when—’’

‘‘I’m not traipsing around in the woods in the middle of the night?’’ He shrugged. ‘‘A little of this. A little of that.’’

‘‘No job?’’

‘‘No job.’’ Abruptly he stood up, scribbled on the pad next to the phone and handed it to Rosie. ‘‘Call your sister. She’ll fill you in.’’ He headed toward the back door.

‘‘Where are you going?’’ Rosie asked, glancing at the unfamiliar phone number on the sheet, then back at him.

‘‘To scout around the house and figure out how many different ways we can be ambushed.’’

‘‘By Marco?’’ She hated the nonchalant way he talked about the danger.

He nodded. ‘‘Smart girl. Call your sister.’’

Rosie stared after him as he went outside. Smart girl. It was the sort of comment that got her dander up. Swallowing the immediate retort that came to mind, she went to the phone and dialed the number.

On the porch Ian glanced back through the window, reassured to see Rosie with the phone to her ear. Good, he thought.

Technically he had told Rosie the truth about not having a job. Ian sponsored an intervention program for kids who reminded him of himself as a kid, who lived in neighborhoods that bred predators the likes of Marco. Ian’s involvement was hands-on and included his dream for an Outward Bound type of program.

Lily’s request came in the middle of negotiations to buy a ranch, where Ian hoped to establish a working environment that would provide a final chance for those kids most at risk. His option to buy it had expired yesterday. Given the chance, he would make the same choice again. He’d find another piece of property—after Annmarie was reunited with her mom.

Some things were worth any cost. As a child, he had been part of a family constantly moving from one crisis to another. His mother hadn’t dealt well with any of them. Ian was never sure whether his mother hadn’t had a shoulder to lean on or if she had simply never asked. Lily had become his surrogate little sister, and she needed help. He couldn’t turn his back on her.

Ian stepped off the porch. The misty streamers of clouds had dissipated into a high overcast. There was no doubt about it— Rosie Jensen had the best view anyone could want anywhere.

As he gazed out over the water and the steeply rising mountains, a profound sense of homecoming swept through him. The scenery in front of him moved him as little else ever had.

To his surprise the water was glassy smooth and a deep-jade green. Mountains stretched in the distance, rising from the water, cast in varying shades of blue, snow hanging in the high gorges. Directly across from the inlet less than a mile away, a scarred monolith of rock soared, stretching hundreds of feet above the water. A crumpled silver stream fell out of a steep canyon where dark pines grew, the water splashing into the inlet from a waterfall. Only the tall fins of a cruising pod of orcas reminded Ian that he looked out on an ocean, not a mountain lake.

He inhaled deeply, thinking of his dream for a ranch that would provide a wilderness experience and an opportunity for physical work. This place was even better than the ranch in northern California that he’d hoped to buy. With the water and the pine scent of forest, a boy might forget his anger while here—at least for a little while.

It was a dream that wouldn’t happen if he failed at keeping Annmarie and her aunt out of harm’s way. That thought in mind, Ian methodically explored the perimeter of Comin’ Up Rosie. Despite the whimsical name, he discovered it was a well-organized, working nursery where thousands of baby trees grew. Seedlings were protected within the shelter of a large greenhouse. Outside, larger trees grew—if they could be called that when they were little more than a foot tall—in orderly rows. After seeing the thousands of clear-cut acres of timber as they had sailed north from Seattle, Ian was glad to know that some of those trees would be replaced.

As for the compound itself, defending it wouldn’t be easy, but it wasn’t as bad as he had feared. From the porch of the house, much of the inlet was visible, and anyone approaching by water would be seen for a long while. The winding road that led toward the small town of Lynx Point disappeared into the forest a quarter mile beyond the gate. Ian would have liked it better had the road been visible for miles. The steep mountain that rose behind the house was the same scoured rock as the one across the inlet. No easy access to Rosie’s property in the direction. Not without rock-climbing equipment.

The place that worried him most was a steep slope on the hill behind the greenhouse. He climbed it, checking where he was visible from the compound below and where he wasn’t. He climbed higher, hoping to see more of the road. A huge boulder jutted out from the hillside, bright green moss growing at its shaded, moist base. Spotting a couple of footprints in the earth, he dropped to his haunches.

They sure weren’t Rosie’s. The boot belonging to the print was close to his own size twelve. Ian stood, matching his stance with the angle of the prints. He looked around for anything that might have been left behind. Beneath a shrub, he found a wadded-up piece of wax paper. From the smell of it, it had recently held a lunch meat sandwich.

Ian stood and gazed down at the tranquil landscape. From this vantage, only Rosie’s nursery and the lake-smooth water between Kantrovich Island and the next one was visible. He could only imagine two reasons anyone would be up here watching.

One. Someone knew this was where he and Annmarie were headed. If Lawrence couldn’t get Annmarie to use as leverage to keep Lily from testifying, maybe some other member of her family would do just as well.

Ian frowned, not liking that conclusion.

Two. Rosie or maybe one of her employees simply liked climbing up here for the view. A more benign reason for the footprints.

Damn. There was no other choice but ask her if she came up here. If this was all innocent, it would give her an unnecessary scare. If it wasn’t—hell, then she really would have something to be scared of.

Ian cocked his head to the side, listening, acquainting himself with the hum of noise that belonged to the island. Compared to any place he had ever lived, the island was quiet. The faint lap of water against the shore, the occasional chirp of birds, the steady chug of a fishing boat as it sailed up the channel…the sound of a vehicle coming up the road. Ian turned toward the gate and watched an ancient Volkswagen bus approach. Whatever color it might once have been was indistinguishable beneath layers of dirt and rust.

It wasn’t likely to be the sort of approach Marco would make. Besides, the nurse Rosie had called was due soon, so this was probably her.

In another minute the minibus came through the gate and rolled to a stop in front of the house. Doors opened, and no less than half a dozen children piled out, followed by two women. Both had long, dark braids, and both were dressed in jeans. The smaller of the two carried a black bag. Indeed, the nurse had arrived.

Rosie stepped onto the porch. ‘‘Hi, Hilda,’’ she called. ‘‘That was quick.’’

Her voice carried to Ian, and he frowned, again looking at the footprints in the ground. If voices always carried this far this easily, whoever had been watching her could hear as much as he could see.

The taller of the two women, a robust woman with jangling earrings and bracelets, laughed as she approached the porch. ‘‘You wanted me to take my time getting here?’’

‘‘No,’’ Rosie said, giving her a quick hug. ‘‘But I didn’t expect that you’d hurry, either.’’ She held a hand out to the other person. ‘‘Mama Sarah, how are you today?’’

‘‘Same as yesterday,’’ she responded.

Rosie hugged her, too, a smile on her face. ‘‘Old?’’ she quipped.

‘‘Not so old that I can’t keep you in line.’’

‘‘Where is this wounded, gun-packing stranger?’’ Hilda asked. ‘‘Did you follow my advice and lock him in the storage shed?’’

Rosie shook her head and held the door open. Whatever her reply might have been was lost to Ian as they went inside. One of the kids threw a Frisbee to another. Another couple of the kids emerged from a shed, their arms laden with squirming kittens that they carried to the porch.

One of the older kids came out of one of the storage sheds pushing an old motor scooter, which started right up. A second later, Rosie’s dog came flying out the door and down the steps, prancing next to the scooter. The kid stopped, then helped the dog onto the scooter, where he sat on the seat in front of the kid, paws resting on the handlebars. They took off again, the dog’s ears flapping and his mouth opened in a wide doggy grin.

Ian watched them a moment, liking the fun and wondering how you went about teaching a dog to ride a motor scooter.

Descending the slope, he decided the reinforcements were good. If Marco stayed true to form, he wouldn’t try anything while other people were around. There wasn’t much likelihood he would mistake one of these kids for Annmarie—her towhead was nothing like the dark ones of the kids playing in the yard.

One of the children opened the door to the kitchen and asked, ‘‘Hey, Rosie, can we have some milk for the kittens?’’

Ian couldn’t hear her reply, but it must have been affirmative because the kid smiled and said, ‘‘Thanks.’’

A moment later she came onto the porch with a bowl of milk. She set it down, laughing at something one of the children said. She glanced around the compound, and her laughter died when her gaze lit on him. She watched him cross the compound, her expression frankly appraising, a look that left him feeling as though he hadn’t measured up in some way. He hated the feeling and the defensiveness that came with it. Annoyed with himself, he smiled…a defense he’d learned over time that hid his real feelings and that had the added benefit of making others believe he didn’t let much of anything bother him.

‘‘How’s your sister?’’ he asked.

‘‘Worried about Annmarie,’’ she said.

‘‘You didn’t tell her about our trouble?’’

‘‘Now why would I do that?’’ she asked, folding her arms over her chest. ‘‘She has enough on her mind.’’

‘‘She does,’’ he agreed.

‘‘She said that you had promised to stay with Annmarie even after bringing her here. That’s not necessary, you know.’’

‘‘It is to me,’’ he said. ‘‘I promised.’’ In his own mind it was just that simple. He didn’t have many rules by which he lived his life, but the ones he had were carved in stone. Keeping his promises was at the top of the list. ‘‘Are you satisfied that I’m who I say I am?’’

‘‘If you’re asking did Lily vouch for you, yes. Her best friend and a man of good deeds, she said, adding that my folks like you, too.’’

A man of good deeds. He wasn’t, but it sounded exactly like something Lily would say. As for her folks liking him—the feeling was mutual, though he doubted anyone else’s opinion would sway Rosie.

Hilda appeared in the doorway behind Rosie, and Ian met her gaze. Her eyes were dark-brown, their shape similar to Rosie’s, full of intelligence and curiosity. She was a head taller than Rosie. She came onto the porch and extended her hand. ‘‘Hilda Raven-in-Moonlight.’’

‘‘Ian Stearne,’’ he responded, taking her hand.

She firmly shook it once, then released it. ‘‘Let’s take a look at that wound.’’ She turned back to look at the kids playing in the yard. ‘‘Jonathan,’’ she called.

‘‘Yeah,’’ one of the Frisbee-throwing kids answered.

‘‘You come get me if you see anyone coming.’’

‘‘Even Uncle Josh?’’

She chuckled. ‘‘Especially Uncle Josh.’’

‘‘Who’s he?’’ Ian asked, the hair at the back of his neck suddenly raising.

‘‘Hilda’s brother,’’ Rosie answered, leading Ian back into the house. ‘‘He comes and goes. Mostly goes. Mama Sarah, this is Ian Stearne.’’

‘‘I’m pleased to meet you,’’ Ian said, extending his hand to the old woman.

‘‘How do you know?’’ she asked, keeping her own firmly wrapped around her mug of coffee. She met his gaze, her eyes magnified behind thick glasses.

He laughed and sat down at the table. ‘‘I’m an optimist, I guess.’’ He glanced briefly across the kitchen at Hilda, who stood at the sink scrubbing her hands.

A twinkle lit Mama Sarah’s eyes. ‘‘You don’t know?’’

‘‘Sure I know. How could a man not be pleased to meet a lady like you?’’ he asked with a grin, which earned a laugh from her.

Drying her hands, Hilda approached the table. ‘‘This man who shot you. What does he look like?’’ Without waiting for an answer, she added, ‘‘Take off your shirt.’’

Ian briefly met her gaze, then Rosie’s, before peeling off the sweatshirt. ‘‘That’s a strange question for a nurse.’’

‘‘That’s not why I’m asking,’’ she said, reaching for her bag. From it she pulled out a wallet and handed it to him.

Ian opened it, revealing a law enforcement shield.

She smiled. ‘‘The island’s only nurse, Mr. Ian Stearne, and the local law. Now, then. About the man who shot you.’’

‘‘Marco’s about five-ten or five-eleven. Wiry build, a narrow face, and a scar on his cheekbone. Since it was dark, who knows what color his hair and eyes are.’’

Without speaking, Hilda tipped his head to the side, her touch firm as she prodded the flesh around the wound at the base of his neck.

‘‘How do you know his name?’’ Rosie asked.

‘‘Heard his buddy call him that right after they shot me.’’ Ian answered. ‘‘The other guy is about Rosie’s height.’’

‘‘This man. Does he have an accent?’’

He looked up at Hilda. ‘‘Yeah.’’

Hilda prodded the flesh around the wound. ‘‘This is quite a bruise. Almost looks like somebody kicked you.’’

‘‘Somebody did,’’ he returned, glancing at Rosie. He’d been expecting…hoping for…Marco. When he realized the person beneath him was a woman, surprise had frozen him. ‘‘She did a neat scissor kick, getting me right there.’’ He pointed at the wound.

‘‘That musta hurt,’’ Mama Sarah said.

‘‘It did.’’ He figured he didn’t need to add that the kick to his shoulder was the lesser of the two injuries Rosie had given him.

‘‘The man with the scar arrived yesterday…ate his meals at the Tin Cup,’’ Hilda said. ‘‘He was meeting friends here, he said, so they could hike up the glacier.’’ She shook her head. ‘‘Everybody’s been laughing at him about that.’’

‘‘Why?’’ Ian asked.

‘‘There aren’t any glaciers on the islands this far south—only on the continent side of the fjords.’’

‘‘Ah.’’ A chill crawled down Ian’s spine.

‘‘Plus,’’ Mama Sarah added, ‘‘he wears city-slicker shoes.’’

Like ones that could have left the footprints up on the hill. The shoe that had left the print had a smooth sole.