The conversation was brief and one-sided, and when Bridger hung up Frannie had no idea what the conversation had been about. Then she turned around, his cup of black coffee offered in her hand, and he smiled.
"Jane Doe has a name."
* * *
Coffee, a bath and a change of clothes later, Mal led Frannie down the narrow hallway of police headquarters to the detectives' room. She'd insisted that she could stay home on her own, but wisely she hadn't insisted very hard.
Jane Doe's name was Miranda Jane Fossett. As soon as he'd heard Harry utter the name he'd made the connection. Her brother was Jacob Fossett, a once promising young, idealistic boy who had died a terrorist in jail last year.
Fossett had been a member of a group that touted themselves as red-blooded, true-blue freedom fighters. The Decatur Legion for Liberty, which Harry had quickly renamed the Decatur Legion for Wackos, was a paramilitary group that held meetings and training sessions in all parts of Morgan County, their members dressing in camouflage and carrying enough ammo to start a small war.
They were an equal-opportunity army, banding against everyone and everything that didn't conform to their beliefs, but their number-one target had always been government. State, federal and local, they protested any claimed right to govern their lives, while citing their constitutional rights to protest. Morons.
No one had taken them very seriously, at first. People were drawn in by the word liberty, a powerful, patriotic word, but they didn't stay long. The Decatur Legion for Liberty began to dwindle in numbers. There were rumblings in the department that they started selling drugs and guns to raise funds for their cause. They were under investigation for those crimes when they planted a bomb in the Morgan County courthouse.
The explosion had been a small one, but the bomb had been built to kill and it had. A lawyer and a woman who was going to court over a speeding ticket were both killed, and three others had been injured.
Everything led to Fossett. He'd been seen, they could trace the bomb materials to him, and he was a vocal member of the Legion for Liberty. Within two days they had him in custody.
Fossett had not acted alone, and he was not the leader of the Decatur Legion for Liberty; he simply wasn't smart enough, and he was a follower, not a leader. He would have talked eventually to save his hide, Mal knew it, but within days Fossett was dead in his jail cell.
They said he hanged himself. There was even a note that rambled on about not giving in to the pressures of the establishment, about how he'd rather die than live in a cage. The legion had become quiet after that. Some said they'd disbanded but Mal didn't believe it. Fanatics didn't scare that easily.
Mal hadn't bought the story surrounding Fossett's death then, and Miranda Fossett's murder just made him more certain that the nuts weren't only still out there, they were still active.
Frannie wasn't leaving his side if that was the case. Until they had all these bastards accounted for, she wasn't safe. If only he knew who they were looking for.
"Wait here," he instructed, pulling out his chair for Frannie. She sat slowly, her eyes taking in everything.
"This is not what I expected, Bridger," she said, swiveling to face him. "Looks too much like my first cubicle." She grinned and picked up his coffee mug. The one Harry had given him that said If I Knew Any More I'd Be A Threat To National Security.
She eyed the file folders and the computer as she replaced the mug on his desk, and he could almost see the housekeeping plans in her eyes. Yes, it was a mess, but it was his mess and he knew where everything was.
"Don't touch anything," he ordered as he left her there. He almost ran Jerry Kruse over as he made his way to Harry's desk. Jerry was new to detectives, and had been working in the burglary division. Young and energetic, he had been a good uniformed cop and was working out to be an even better detective.
"You on call this weekend?" Mal asked as he passed.
"Yeah." Kruse smiled. "Thought I'd hang around here and catch up on some paperwork instead of sitting at home and waiting for my pager to go off."
The paperwork never ended. Once you got behind it was a nightmare to catch up. "Good plan." Mal headed on to Harry's desk, but Kruse's lowered voice stopped him.
"Is that your witness?"
Mal turned around as Jerry nodded slightly toward Frannie. "Yeah."
"Not exactly a tough assignment, watching over that one, huh?" Kruse didn't exactly leer, but Mal didn't like the gleam in the detective's eyes. "Pretty lady."
He rejected the number of angry responses that came easily to his lips. "Finish your paperwork, kid."
Kruse ignored him. "Are you two…" He waved his hands, palms up, in the air, leaving the question unfinished.
"We're friends," Mal said, gritting out the word Frannie used to inadequately describe their relationship. "Just friends."
* * *
Frannie's fingers positively itched to reorganize Bridger's cubicle. What a mess! But on closer inspection she noticed that there was a kind of order to his disorder, so she left it alone as he'd requested.
"Ma'am, can I get you a cup of coffee while you wait?"
Frannie spun around in the comfortable swivel chair and faced a nice-looking man who wore a friendly grin and a suit as immaculate as the one Bridger had taken from the trunk of his car this morning.
"No thanks," she said, instinctively answering his smile. "I'm fine."
He didn't leave but leaned up against the edge of Bridger's cubicle and made himself comfortable. He wore the standard short haircut, his brown hair neat except for the one strand that fell over his forehead in a casual manner he'd probably sculpted before the mirror. Instead of a conservative tie like something Bridger would choose, this detective wore one that sported a vivid image of Bugs Bunny.
"I understand you've had a rough week," he said in a lowered voice that was kind and soothing, rather like Harry's. She wondered if the pleasant, intimate tone was something these guys practiced as surely as they practiced firing their weapons.
"You could say that," she admitted. Every detective, uniformed policeman, dispatcher and desk clerk probably knew exactly what had happened to her this week, including the fact that Bridger had all but moved in with her.
His smile faded slowly. "Are you handling it all right? It's not easy to have your whole world turned upside down, I know."
Frannie took a deep breath. "I don't have any choice but to handle it, do I?" That was the truth. Hysteria would get her nowhere. Panic wouldn't help at all.
The man offered his hand and tried a gentler smile. "My name's Jerry Kruse," he said as Frannie took the extended hand. He didn't shake her hand, simply held it easily for a moment. "And I have to say, Miss Vaughn, I think you're handling this very well. I'm sure it helps your peace of mind that Detective Bridger is helping you out. He's the best."
Yes, he is.
Kruse took his hand from hers and crossed his arms over his chest. "If anyone can solve this case, he can."
"I'm sure you're right."
"Like I said," Kruse said with real admiration, "Mal's the best."
"Have you worked with him long?"
They fell into an easy, comfortable conversation. Jerry told her about his promotion to detective, and Frannie told him about getting fired. Only now she could smile as she told him that Reese had offered her the job back and she'd turned it down.
"So what are you going to do now?"
She'd given it a lot of thought last night as she tossed and turned. "I think I'll get a part-time job, just to supplement my savings, and then see if I can line up some freelance work."
He seemed to like the plan, and even encouraged her when the old doubts about taking a risk came to her. And then the conversation came to a natural end.
Kruse shifted, moving his weight from one foot to the other. "Maybe, when this mess is all over, I can give you a call? There's this great Chinese restaurant in Huntsville. Do you like Chinese?"
"Yes." He was flirting
with her! Frannie would have laughed if she hadn't been afraid of offending him. He was a nice guy, and more than a little good-looking, but right now she most definitely was not interested. Still, it was interesting to note that she'd been looking in the wrong places for her Prince Charming. All she had to do was get arrested. "But I don't think—"
"Don't turn me down now," he interrupted. "It's just a thought, that's all."
Bridger saved her, appearing behind Kruse with a scowl on his face. "What's a thought?"
"I just asked Frannie if she'd like to have dinner with me sometime."
Bridger forcibly moved Kruse back and away from his cubicle. He lowered his voice, but Frannie could hear every word. "It's very bad form to hit on the witnesses, Kruse. Lay off."
Bridger came around the corner and offered his hand to help Frannie from the chair. "Let's go."
Frannie laid her hand in his and let him pull her to her feet. She stifled a small smile. Was he jealous? Maybe just a little bit?
Of course not. What wishful thinking that was! He let go of her hand once she was standing, and turned to walk toward the exit. She followed, watching his back.
Bridger was always wound pretty tight, as if he were constantly waiting for some disaster to occur, and right now he looked even more unyielding than usual. His shoulders were squared, and the muscles in his neck were strained. She knew how to make him feel better, how to make him forget that all was not as it should be, but she didn't dare.
Harry waited near the door that led to the hallway. "Hey, I have a great idea. How about tomorrow you two come to the house. Paula is dying to meet Frannie. We'll grill steaks and play cards and discuss baby names."
"No," Bridger said sharply.
Frannie was disappointed. It would be nice to spend an afternoon with Harry and his wife and Bridger, almost like a real date.
"Come on," Harry said, his voice cajoling. "Prove to me that you haven't forgotten how to have fun."
Bridger opened the door. "We have plans."
"We do?" Frannie glanced up, and the look Bridger gave her was one that hinted at apology.
"I almost forgot. I have this family thing tomorrow, and like it or not it'll last all afternoon." His dark eyes were pinned on her, and at the moment they were completely unreadable. "Food, kids, relatives coming out of the woodwork."
It sounded so wonderful, but where would she be while Bridger got together with his family? "I'll call Darlene and see if she's busy. Maybe I can spend the day with her. Or maybe…"
"Oh no, you're not getting off that easy. You're coming with me," Bridger commanded, leaving no room for argument.
* * *
They decided on take-out from Mal's favorite Mexican place for dinner, and the meal was spread out over her kitchen table, along with two tall glasses of sweet iced tea.
After eating a pitifully small meal, Frannie declared that she was stuffed, then she pushed her plate away and leaned back.
"So," she said, her eyes unerringly on his face, "tell me about your family."
He narrowed his eyes. "Can't this wait until tomorrow?"
She grinned at his discomfort. "No."
He pushed his plate away. "I hate to do this to you, I really do. My family is definitely best met one at a time. The whole clan at once is enough to scare off even the toughest person."
She heard the touch of humor in his voice and laughed out loud. "That bad, huh?"
He didn't answer, but simply stared at her over leftover tacos and burritos and a half-eaten Mexican pizza. He didn't want to talk about his family, not now.
Another celibate night in this house was going to kill him, although he didn't dare take the chance of telling Frannie that and scaring her off. If she kicked him out, there wouldn't be anyone to keep an eye on her, and it was much too soon to have even a glimmer of hope that she'd be safe alone.
Maybe she felt the same frustration he did. He could almost see it in her, as she starting clearing the table. Every now and then he'd catch her fingers trembling slightly, or he'd watch closely and see that she held her breath. At this particular moment she couldn't quite look him in the eye. She looked at the dishes in her hand or the leftover food, and once he caught her staring at the salt and pepper shakers as if they were fascinating.
If only he could be sure that what he saw was a frustration similar to his own, and not fear.
"What do you usually do on Saturday night?" he asked.
She didn't turn to answer him as she wiped off a dish and spoke into the sink. "Oh, nothing. Watch TV, maybe rent a movie. What about you?"
"Same thing," he grumbled. "Usually." It was going to be a damned long night.
If it wasn't for this case he would take a chance and kiss her again, just to see if she melted the way he was almost certain she would, just to see if the feeling would be as powerful as he remembered. If she reacted the way he thought she would, he'd have her right here on the kitchen table. He stared at the pale oak as the too-clear fantasy filled his mind.
It was a chance he couldn't take. Frannie was skittish, and who could blame her, after what she'd been through this week. He didn't want to scare her away.
Maybe the silence got to be too much for her, because she reached across the counter to turn on the radio. They caught the end of an old song, a fast and silly tune that had played at Rick's on Tuesday night, and then a booming voice said, "An all-eighties weekend!" Frannie laughed as she reached out to change the station.
He loved her laugh. It was so real, never forced, never phony. He loved so many things about her, and that real laugh was just one.
In her search for an alternative to the retro weekend music, she found a station that played a soft and easy song, an instrumental with strings and a softly played piano. Evidently that satisfied her, because she went back to washing dishes.
Watching her was not a chore, not at all. He loved her long legs, and her delicate fingers, and her blue eyes, and her funny haircut. Taken one at a time, maybe there was nothing extraordinary there, but together, oh, together they made a fine picture, the kind of picture a man could get lost in.
Outside, the light faded to gray, and the light over the sink illuminated this particular picture for him right now. Frannie was all soft edges and golden halos, gentle and unconsciously seductive motion. As she washed the dishes she never once looked over her shoulder. She either didn't know he was sitting at her kitchen table studying her, or else she didn't care.
All of a sudden her head snapped to one side, and she stared wide-eyed at the back door. "Bridger," she whispered without so much as glancing in his direction. "Somebody's out there."
He stood slowly, his eyes on the back door. There was nothing to be seen through the parted yellow curtain and the glass beyond it. "You sure?"
"Absolutely," she whispered. "I saw a face in the window, just a glimpse, but I'm sure."
He moved quickly toward the kitchen door and threw it open. The bushes to his left rustled, and a man in a baseball cap burst from his hiding place and took off running.
Rage and adrenaline rushed through Mal's veins. He cleared the low back porch with one leap, reaching for his weapon as he landed.
The man skittered around the corner, plowing into a flowering bush and then trampling a small tomato plant in his clumsy attempt at escape.
Mal pursued the man, easily hurdling the remaining tomato plants and a few freshly planted beans, gaining on the clumsy trespasser with every step. His anger grew with each pounding step he took, with every inch he gained on the Peeping Tom.
"Police!" he shouted. "Stop!"
Surprisingly the trespasser in the baseball cap did as Mal commanded, coming to an abrupt halt in Frannie's front yard.
Mal raised his revolver and pointed it at the man's back. If this was the same man who'd broken into Frannie's house on Wednesday night, he might very well be armed.
"Hands in the air where I can see them," he ordered as he took a step closer, and once again the man obe
yed readily.
"Turn around."
The man was circling slowly when Frannie opened the front door. Frannie, and Mal both recognized the Peeping Tom at the same time.
"Reese!" she said, about the time the man faced Mal.
"Frannie," Reese said testily. "This man has a gun pointed at me."
Mal lowered his weapon. "What the hell were you doing prowling around this house? And why did you run?"
"I was not prowling," Reese defended himself. "I saw the car out front, and I just peeked in the kitchen window to see if Frannie was here and if she was alone. And I ran because—" the man blushed easily "—well, it's an embarrassing situation to be caught in."
Mal grinned, though in truth he didn't feel at all like smiling. "You can put your hands down now."
"You scared the life out of me," Frannie said from her position in the open doorway. "What were you thinking?"
"I wanted to talk to you again, to see if I couldn't change your mind about coming back to work." Reese, who looked maybe eighteen years old with his hair tucked under the baseball cap, cast a suspicious glance in Mal's direction. "But I didn't know he'd be here again."
As Mal passed Reese he couldn't resist whispering, "Still, not again."
* * *
Chapter 10
« ^ »
Bridger kept his eyes on the road, so Frannie felt free to study his profile and give the view the full attention it deserved.
He looked as if his second night on the couch had been as restless as her nearly sleepless night in her own bed. His eyes were slightly squinted, as if the day were bright and sunny instead of gray and overcast, and his mouth was set in what might have passed for a small frown. It was a face set in granite, harsh and uncompromising.
"What are you staring at?" he growled without taking his eyes from the road.
Frannie was embarrassed to be caught watching so blatantly. There had to be an excuse. She reached out and plucked at the sleeve of his green knit shirt. "I didn't mean to stare. It's just that until this morning I thought maybe you'd been born in a suit and tie." The jeans and knit shirt looked good on him. If only he'd lose the gun.
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