Shielded by the Lawman

by Dana Nussio

  Marilyn didn’t even come to a full stop when she reached her. “Sorry I’m late. The babysitter—”

  “Ted said it was car trouble.”

  “That, too.”

  Marilyn’s wry smile suggested there was more to it. Sarah nodded. Single moms had to have each other’s backs since no one else did. With a wave, the woman rounded corner to the entrance.

  Sarah continued home on foot. It was safer this way. No license plate for police to trace. No checks on the numbers of a driver’s license that matched an eighty-year-old woman’s profile. A deceased one at that.

  It hadn’t been Michael running toward her this time, but one day it would be. Safe? They would never be safe. Even if he didn’t know where they were—or who they were—he would find them. No prison walls would be strong enough to contain that type of hate.

  It didn’t matter whether he would be able to convince a parole board that he was a safe risk for release or not. Michael’s network could fan out like a freeway map. Why had she ever thought they would be able to escape him?

  She shivered and pulled her jacket tighter as she neared her apartment building.

  She wouldn’t allow herself to think any more about a guy who had problems of his own and no time to deal with hers. Her only focus could be on that sweet little boy whose hair smelled of baby shampoo and whose kisses were the most precious gifts she could receive. Without hesitation, she would trade her life for her his.

  If she allowed herself to think about any man at all, it would be the one who still stalked her nightmares. The one who’d promised to kill her, and always kept his promises.

  Michael Brooks wedged himself between the car door and the frame and tilted his head back to pitch a mouthful of profanity at the bawling Chicago South Side sky. The least the sun could have done was shine on his first day seeing it from outside the prison gates in six years, but instead, it pissed all over him like the rest of the scum responsible for putting him behind bars.

  “Would you get in and shut the door?” his driver grumbled from inside the car.

  Michael whipped his body into the front seat so fast the other man flinched, his head cracking against the door. For the first time all day, Michael smiled. Then he brushed rainwater off the paper-thin jacket covering his button-down dress shirt and no-name jeans he’d been presented upon his release.

  “Good to see you, too.”

  He glanced around the interior of the cop’s personal vehicle, a foreign-made SUV with many driver distractions across the dash. He brushed his fingers over buttery leather upholstery.

  “Nice ride.” Nicer than the guy deserved.

  When Larry didn’t answer, Michael wanted to slug him. He’d been itching for a fight all day, an itch among many that hadn’t been scratched for too long. He tossed his measly bag of possessions into the backseat. He had nothing. That was his wife’s fault. Ex-wife. She was responsible for everything that sucked about his life now. No place to go home to. No feminine heat in his bed. No chance to get to know his son. And most of all, no access to his own sweet nest egg.

  She would pay for all of it. When he figured out where the hell she was. He would find her, too. He had to. She held the key to his future in more ways than she knew.

  Larry didn’t even look his way as he pulled out into traffic. Maybe he was too scared to risk it. Served him right.

  Michael waited through a few stoplights in the tiny community where the prison bus had plunked him, but then he couldn’t stay quiet any longer.

  “Got anything else you want to say to me?”

  Larry’s Adam’s apple shifted a few times, and then his jaw tightened. “I thought maybe you’d like to thank me for coming all the way out here to pick up your sorry ass.”

  “You joking? I’d still have my own ride if you and your buddy—”

  “Hey, if you don’t want me to be here, I can...”

  “Nah. It’s over.”

  And if the guy believed that, he had a piece of land near Hyde Park with an active oil well in the backyard. Someone as indebted to him as the loser sitting next to him didn’t need a reminder of what he owed, anyway.

  “Thanks for coming to get me,” Michael said finally.

  He knew better than to piss off his so-called allies when he just might need them later.

  “Glad Clint found you a decent place to live,” Larry said.

  Michael’s jaw tightened at just the mention of the second officer’s name. This mess was as much his fault as Larry’s. “If that’s what you call decent...”

  Larry made a tight sound in his throat and handed Michael an envelope with cash for the deposit and the first month’s rent. “Anything’s better than another night inside, right?”

  He nodded. Any place would be better than spending another night in that concrete hellhole with fluorescent lights that held the place hostage in constant daylight, with those grating buzzes and steel-door clicks that could wake a corpse, and the rock-hard pad that passed for a mattress. But he suspected he would never be able to sleep again without those lights. Those sounds. That mattress.

  “The place will do for now.”

  Larry pointed to the computer screen on the dash. “Put in your address.”

  He looked from the contraption to the driver.

  “The GPS.” Then he slid a glance Michael’s way and grinned. “Oh. Right. You probably haven’t used one of those in a while. It was an upgrade on this model.”

  Michael didn’t need any reminders of the conveniences he’d missed out on. The things that were this guy’s fault. And Maria’s.

  “Doesn’t anyone use maps anymore?” he groused.

  He let Larry guide him through the screens to enter the address on that scrap of paper from his pocket. The information on the other side of the crumbled sheet was more important to him, anyway, but Larry didn’t need to know about that.

  “It’s going to take a few weeks to get used to all the changes since you...left.”

  “Maybe a month.”

  He wondered if he would ever reacclimate to a world that didn’t have prison’s clear rules. The order. Inside, each man understood his role, from the murderers holding court at the top of the social hierarchy to the guys playing Susy Homemaker for their meathead boyfriends. Even he had a place, as a master of demand-chain management for chemical life enhancers.

  Outside, he was just an ex-con with nothing at all. At least not yet.

  “Have you found any answers for me?”

  Larry shook his head, still staring at the road. “You’ve got to be patient.”

  “I don’t have to be anything. I’ve been waiting for years.”

  “Give me a little time.”

  “I got that request to you a month ago.”

  “Which was a stupid move, if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Your wife did a fine job of disappearing.” He slid a glance Michael’s way. “Do you think she might have had a good reason?”

  “You believed the bitch‘s lies, too?”

  The side of Larry’s mouth lifted, but he didn’t say more. Michael’s hands fisted at his sides.

  “My marriage is none of your business.”

  “Guess not.”

  At least Larry didn’t point out that he no longer had one of those. Good thing for him because Michael would have punched him in the throat.

  “Just let me know as soon as you find out anything, okay?”

  “I will.” Larry reached for a button on the dashboard, and a storage area popped open. He pulled out a burner cell phone and handed it to him. “So we can keep in contact.”

  He murmured his thanks, though they would have stayed in contact whether Larry liked it or not. The officer didn’t need to know that he wasn’t the only one searching for answers. Michael had made some buddies inside
who had helpful friends of their own.

  Larry pulled the SUV to the curb and cut the engine. “That’s the place.”

  Michael could only stare through the rivulets on his window. The two-story clapboard house with its peeling paint had probably been showing its age in the fifties.

  “It ain’t much.”

  That it was a long trip from the apartment Maria used to keep pin neat was one hell of an understatement.

  “It’s just until you get a job and get back on your feet.”

  “And until my wife comes home where she belongs.”

  Larry’s shoulders shifted. “Now even if—I mean after—we locate Maria, it might be a while before you can convince her to, uh, come home. If—”

  Michael threw open the car door and grabbed his bag from the backseat before the jerk could say ever. She would come back. The police only knew the things his wife had said when she was upset. She always took them back. Always.

  “Just let me know what you find out about my wife.”

  He dodged the land mines of crumbling concrete on his way up the walk. Deciding that the cracked doorbell wasn’t worth a try, he knocked hard on the door.

  When no one answered, he considered bashing in the window next to it. But since the impact might have been enough to bring down the whole house, he knocked again.

  “You sure someone’s supposed to be there?” Larry called out the car window.

  “The guy said he’d be here...with the key.”

  Finally, a rheumy-eyed skeleton of a man opened the door a crack and pushed a clipboard out. Michael signed without reading it, plunking down the envelope of cash and reaching for the key in the man’s other hand. He could have wrung the weasel’s neck for closing his fist and counting the bills before handing the key to him and closing the door.

  With each creak as he climbed the apartment steps, Michael reminded himself that this was temporary, like that sentence he shouldn’t have had to serve. They would find her, and she would return to him, where she belonged. She would be sorry, too. For saying those things to the judge. For ignoring a court visitation order. But most of all, for keeping him from his money and his son.

  The instant he flipped the switch inside the apartment, he wished for his prison cell. Yellow, nicotine-scarred walls encased a sunken, stained couch and matching chair. A lone TV tray served as a side table, but there was no television, only a shadowy mark on the wall where one used to be.

  This would be fine, he decided, as he took in the lumpy looking mattress with a coverlet on top. From his bag, he pulled out a three-by-five photo of Maria, smiling on their wedding day, tresses of her hair curling around the lacy, borrowed veil. He always imagined her this way. Smiling. His.

  “It won’t be long now, sweetheart. We’ll be a family again.”

  Michael’s lips formed a grim line. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to make Maria understand that he couldn’t live without her. But that wasn’t the point, was it? He wouldn’t let her live without him.

  Chapter 3

  “Welcome back, Officer.”

  Jamie stopped, the open door still pressed against his shoulder. Sure enough, Ted, the same diner owner who’d cashed him out less than twelve hours before, waved at him through a crush of customers waiting to be seated. Didn’t the guy ever go home? And why were there so many kids there on a school day?

  Not for the first time, Jamie wondered what he was doing there, even if the mingling scents of cinnamon rolls and bacon already had his mouth watering. He waved back as he realized that his plan might have a hole in it. If Sarah had worked last night, she probably wouldn’t be there to answer his questions this morning. And, in the unlikely case that she was there, what would he say to her? That they’d exchanged a few strange looks? And a note? And pie?

  Despite the line of waiting guests, Ted sidled over and spoke in a quiet voice. “Everything all right last night?”

  Jamie lifted a brow. Was it obvious that he was there to scope out a woman? But when Ted squared his shoulders as if bracing himself for a complaint, Jamie suddenly understood.

  “Just couldn’t stay away.” Those words were truer than the guy would ever know.

  “We love hearing that.” Ted grinned and nodded several times. “We’re slammed because the kids are off from school, but we’ll get you seated as soon as we can. And don’t worry about the cinnamon rolls. Sarah made extra...”

  Jamie wasn’t sure what Ted said after that. At the mention of Sarah’s name, he couldn’t help scanning the room, looking for her again.

  “Order up, table 21,” a feminine voice called out, somehow rising above the din of conversations.

  He didn’t need the pounding of his pulse in his ears and the weightless feeling inside him to tell him the voice was Sarah’s. Sure enough, her head peeked out through the opening where waitresses collected their orders.

  Her head was bent at first, but suddenly those pretty blue eyes were staring back at him and widening with something closer to uneasiness than surprise. Then, just like last night, she disappeared into the kitchen.

  Well, that was one time too many. He wasn’t the one who’d written that note or cut that pie. She’d created all the questions, so it was about time for her to offer some answers.

  Jamie squeezed through the line of customers and strode across the dining room, not stopping until he reached the kitchen’s swinging door. Before he could talk himself out of it, he rapped on it.

  For several seconds, he waited. Through the window, he caught sight of several waitresses zipping past.

  When her face appeared in the circle, his breath caught. Only she wasn’t smiling the way she usually did when she took his burger order. As the door opened a few inches, he backed out of the way.

  “May I help you, sir? I mean... Officer?”

  “Jamie,” he croaked.

  She lifted a brow, but her flour-covered hands were gripped together. Though he’d dreamed of someday being this close to Sarah, he’d never imagined the event with anxiety pouring off her in waves.

  “I’m, um, off duty,” he said.

  “I can see that.”

  “Right.”

  As he brushed his sweaty palms on his jeans, he mined his memory for that list of questions that had been lining up like a troop formation. The waitress who appeared behind Sarah gave him a reprieve.

  “Behind you, sweetie.”

  “Sorry, Belinda.”

  Sarah pushed through the doorway and held the door for the other waitress. Once the woman had passed, Sarah slid into the opening again.

  “As you can see, Officer, we’re a little busy this morning, so...” She stepped back, allowing the space to narrow.

  Jamie could feel the answers he craved and his first opportunity to have a real conversation with her slipping away with the incremental closing of the door.

  “Wait.”

  Her gaze lowered to his hand, which seemed to have shot out on its own to grip the door. Immediately, he released it, but when Sarah’s gaze lifted, that look was in her eyes again. Was it fear? Of him?

  “Sorry. That’s not—” He cut off his words and took an obvious step back. “Look, I’m doing this all wrong. Can we talk? Just for a minute?”

  She shot a glance over her shoulder, as if she would welcome any excuse to say no, but turned back to him and nodded. With a wave for him to follow, she stepped out from behind the counter and led him to the hall where the customer restrooms were located. At least there wasn’t a line. He was nervous enough without an audience.

  Halfway down the hall, she wheeled around so quickly that Jamie had to jerk to a stop to avoid running into her.

  “I didn’t mean anything by it,” she said.

  “I don’t know what you mean.” He did, and that was the hell of it. Those small things he’d built up to Mount Everest proportions
meant nothing at all to her.

  She shrugged, watching the toe of her shoe as it tapped the industrial tile floor.

  “You know. The note.”

  “So, it really was for me.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

  “Of course, it—” She stopped herself and gripped her crossed arms over her chest.

  “There wasn’t a name at the top.”

  “I just wanted to say thank-you. You know. For your work in the community.”

  “Oh.” Well, she hadn’t announced that she found him irresistible, but it wasn’t the worst thing she could have said.

  “Because I’d kind of overheard about your rough night.”

  “Thanks,” he said, because there wasn’t much else he could say to that.

  “I just wanted you to know that your work is appreciated. That’s all,” she rushed to add.

  “And I appreciate your saying so.”

  He would also be grateful for a graceful exit. Or an escape route of any kind. Everything made sense now. Her strange look when he’d arrived the night before. Charity, not a come-on. And the pie? She and Trevor had been in cahoots on that one. What kind of police officer added those measly clues up to a sum of romance?

  “Well, thanks for clearing that up, but you probably need to get back to your tables.” His gaze lowered to the jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt she wore beneath her apron rather than a uniform, and then to the dusting of flour on her sleeve.

  “Oh. You’re baking.”

  “I do that in the mornings.” She cleared her throat. “And I should get back to it. Everyone seems to want cinnamon rolls instead of pancakes this morning.”

  That she shuffled her feet then didn’t surprise him. He’d mentioned her baking again. But the way she wrung her hands and kept looking over her shoulder toward the restrooms and side kitchen door seemed excessive. How could she expect scrumptious desserts like hers to remain a secret?