by Cassie Miles
She went to the desk where she’d left her briefcase. After unfastening the snaps, she rifled through the sheaves of papers and shook her head. “No, I left those numbers at the office.”
“Oh, well. Then there’s not much point in our conversation, is there?” He stood and started picking up the folders he’d scattered in every direction, then he turned to her. “We should get to know each other better, Liz. Maybe I’ll take you up on that soda. Better yet, how about a coffee?”
“Sure, I’ll perk some up.”
When she went into the kitchen, Gary babbled about his care and treatment of the injured rose, and Liz found herself tuning out. How long was the birdman going to hang around?
“…extremely delicate,” he said. “When bruised, the petals wither so pathetically. It’s…”
He left his position by the sofa and went to her desk. While Dash invisibly observed, Gary opened Liz’s briefcase and quickly perused the contents. He continued to talk while he searched.
And Dash wondered. What was he looking for?
Apparently, he didn’t find whatever it was because he closed her briefcase and went to the kitchen. “I’m sorry, Liz, I forgot that I’m supposed to be at Sarah’s place in twenty minutes.”
“I see.” She’d already ground the beans and turned on the coffeemaker. “Well, you can have a rain check on the coffee. I do appreciate that you recommended me for the buyer job, Gary.”
“Any time. Any time.” In a second, he gathered up his stuff and was gone.
Dash materialized himself in the bedroom and came out through the door.
“Weird,” she said. “I wonder what that was all about.”
“He’s definitely looking for something,” Dash said. “But what?”
“I got a sense from him today that I’ve never had before. I’ve always dismissed Gary because he looks like a human egret, but today I had the feeling that he could be dangerous as a hawk.”
“Good instincts,” Dash said.
“And he said that Agatha hired him when no one else would. Is there some way you can check and see if Gary has a criminal record?”
“He doesn’t,” Dash said. “I did routine checks on all the major suspects as soon as I got started on this case. Apart from the usual traffic violations and divorce litigations, none of the principle suspects have criminal records.”
“He might have changed his name,” she suggested. “Gary is a computer whiz. There might be some way he’s buried his past transgressions.”
“Then we may never know,” Dash said. But he was thinking of the super computer at the Logan Street office. Angelo was sometimes brilliant at computers. “But I’ll see what I can find out.”
“Great.”
Her phone rang again, and she snatched it off the hook. It was Dr. Clark Hammerschmidt, returning her call. After she’d apologized for being so abrupt the other day, she said, “I just wasn’t myself. I hope you didn’t mention our conversation to anyone, did you?”
“I was concerned about your well-being,” he said. “I could tell that you were terribly upset.”
“Oh, you’re right. And I’m so embarrassed. So, did you talk to Sarah?”
“To Jack,” he admitted.
“I appreciate your caring,” she said, then hung up the phone, gritting her teeth and making a mental note to never take a personal medical problem to Dr. Clark.
She looked at Dash and said, “He told Jack. Which means that Jack might have told Hector or Sarah or anybody.”
“Why could you assume that?”
“Jack doesn’t handle his own problems. If a copy machine in the office is broken, Jack calls a repairman. If he needs help with his golf swing, he makes an appointment with a pro. If he hears that his executive assistant—me!— is having a problem, he would probably punt it to anybody else.”
“Bottom line?”
“The jogger might have been Jack. But it could have been anyone else.”
“Are you protecting him?”
“No,” she protested.
“So you don’t have a thing going with the boss man?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Good,” he murmured. Her vehemence pleased him. “Okay, I’m going, Liz. Get yourself packed and I’ll be back for you in an hour.”
“One hour. You’ve got it.”
Before he could leave, she called to him, “Dash?”
He swiveled, leaned against the doorjamb. “Yeah?”
“Thank you. I really appreciate being able to stay with you.”
“Nothing to it, sweetheart.”
“Dash,” she called to him again. “I want you to know that you’ve made a difference in my life. It’s good. And I’m grateful. I really…like you. What you’re doing for me.”
A strange warmth flooded through him. “Sure, okay.”
“I mean it. I was always so dull. And now…”
“Elizabeth, you were never dull.”
On the landing outside her apartment, he checked with Cherie. “You make sure nothing happens to Liz.”
“I’ll do the best I can.” She pursed her ruby-red lips. “Of course, it would be easier if I could materialize and take on human form. I’m not much use if bad guys bash through the door with guns blazing.”
“That’s not going to happen. You just stay alert. If you sense danger, put the bug in her ear to get out.”
“And where are you going to be?”
“I’ve got to find a place to live.”
INVISIBLY, Dash whisked through several Capitol Hill area apartment buildings, looking for one that was vacant and furnished. After fifteen minutes of searching at the speed of light, he located a likely high-rise at the edge of Cheesman Park. On the tenth floor, there was an attractive apartment with a magnificent view of the mountains. On the main floor bulletin board, there was a notice that the apartment was available for sublet.
He whipped to the Logan Street offices and stood before Angelo’s desk. “I need an in-depth analysis on Gary Gregory. He’s a computer genius who might have buried his criminal record.”
“Sounds like fun. I’ll get back to you in three hours.”
Dash added, “I also need a couple thousand dollars.”
“A bit much for petty cash.” Angelo looked down his nose, enjoying Dash’s predicament. “Why?”
“Housing.” Dash didn’t have time for filing vouchers and forms in triplicate. He’d left Liz alone with only sultry Cherie as a guardian. Until she was safe, he couldn’t rid himself of the fear that gnawed his belly.
“We have a safe house available,” Angelo said. “This is exactly the type of situation it’s to be used for.”
“It won’t work for this case.”
“And why not?”
Dash thought for a moment, then he said, “I know how you feel about your computer, Angelo. Like it’s a part of you. Like you’re a team.”
“So?”
“That’s how Liz is for me. She makes my brain work better and faster. She’s helping me.” Dash longed for a cigarette, but he didn’t want to annoy Angelo. “So that’s why I want the cash. So I can keep her around. Please.”
“Please? You’re being polite?”
“Guess so.”
“That’s how it always is with you guys,” Angelo nagged. “Give me this. And give me that. The only time you’re marginally civil to me, Dash, is when you want—”
“I don’t have to do it this way,” Dash flared. He was close to losing his temper, but he held back. “I could conjure up the money, but I’m trying to follow standard procedure here.”
“Lighten up,” Angelo advised. “I’ll give you what you want, but you have to listen to my advice first.”
In order to control the anger that was building within him, Dash thought of fleecy pink clouds at sunrise. He imagined harp music. He willed the tips of his fingers, which were prickling with the beginning signs of rage, to recall the softness of satin or angora…or the feel of Liz’s long, smooth hair
. For her sake, he had to calm down.
His voice was reasonably pitched when he said, “All right, Angelo. What would you advise me to do?”
“You’re very unusual, Dash. I’ve never seen another of the avenging angels who had such a clear, unerring sense of right and wrong, combined with a natural skill for investigation.” The swarthy angel, who had been sniping with Dash for decades, leaned across his desk. “Here’s my advice.”
Dash swallowed hard, determined not to be outraged by anything the supervisor said. “I’m ready. Tell me.”
“Follow your heart.”
Angelo reached into a pocket of his robe and produced a packet of money. “I’ll get back to you about Gary Gregory. And where will you be staying?”
Dash gave him the address of the high-rise and sped away, wondering why Angelo had apparently changed his tune from the standard lecture about following rules. This was a kinder, gentler, less punitive message. Something was up. Dash could sense it. Office politics had never been his strong suit, but he could tell things were changing, adapting to the new millennium.
He materialized in the foyer of the high-rise and buzzed the apartment manager’s office. He’d only been away from Liz for thirty-six minutes, but he was anxious.
Through etched glass bordering the door, he saw the manager, a tough-looking middle-aged broad, shuffling toward him. Though she was nicely dressed, the woman looked like she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders. She shoved open the heavy oak door. “What?” she demanded in a low, raspy voice.
“The sublet on the tenth floor,” he said, pulling the wad of hundred-dollar bills out of his pocket. “I want it for a month.”
“Not so fast, buster.” But her eyes had popped wide open. Clearly, she was mesmerized by the crisp rustle of fresh money. “I got to get some info on you first.”
“Okay, but I’m in a hurry.”
Beckoning for him to follow, she dragged her emaciated body across the elegantly decorated, well-lit lobby toward her small office on the first floor. “Everybody’s in a hurry,” she grumbled. “Geez, you’d think every doggone minute was important.”
To Dash, every minute was important. Every second away from Liz was like an eternity of worry.
The woman seated herself behind the desk and picked up a clipboard and a pen. Her cordial expression was pleasant enough. “Name?” she asked.
Dash answered with the standard data quickly until she got to the financial section of the form. “Place of employment?”
“DBAA,” he said.
“Is that some kind of government job?”
“I’m an investigator,” he said, fidgeting in the chair. “I investigate.”
Her lower lip jutted in a frown. “How long you been there?”
“Forever,” he said. “Over twenty years.”
“You don’t look that old.”
“Looks can be deceiving, sweetheart. Can we fill this out later?”
“Can’t give you the key until it’s filled out.” She looked at the form. “Okay. I need your bank, a major credit card and three references.
Great! He was an angel. He didn’t have a bank or a credit card or any of the usual mortal trappings. Though he could conjure up those documents, it took time and effort to make sure all the records matched up. And he didn’t have the time.
He pushed the wad of cash across her desk. “There’s an extra two hundred for you.”
Dash leaned back in his chair. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
Her mouth widened in a huge grin. “You smoke?”
“That’s right.”
She stood behind the desk. “We smokers got to stick together.” She held out her hand. “Welcome, Dash Divine. You got yourself an apartment.”
Chapter Ten
When he soared to Liz’s street, which was less than three miles from his new apartment, Dash knew that something about him had changed forever. For the first time in his celestial life, he had a place to live, an apartment he could call his own. His own bed. His own bathroom. If he wanted, he could select his own pictures and hang them on the wall.
He felt settled, and therefore uncomfortable. For he was unaccustomed to the burdens of ownership. Until now, he’d been eternally free. An angel’s wings gave him flight. His physical form was easily mutated into invisibility. He was not mortal and would live forever. Why, in the name of all that was holy, did he need an apartment?
For Liz. That was the answer that rang within him. He needed a place where Liz would be safe. Because she was of this earth, because she could die, because she could be hurt, he had to protect her.
Dash knew he was doing the right thing in thinking of her personal safety. But it wasn’t natural for him. He hated to admit that Angelo might be right, but he felt like he was being domesticated. Follow your heart Yeah? And was that going to lead him down the primrose path toward being a wimp, a wuss? A sensitive, nineties, politically correct whiner?
When he floated down from the clouds and glanced at her window, he saw Cherie give him the all-clear signal, and he breathed more easily. So far, so good. Liz was still safe.
He materialized on her street and reached into the pocket of his trench coat for a cigarette. Liz had asked him to cut down, but he was outside now, and he needed a moment to gather his wits.
If he continued his association with Liz, this was what his life would be—standing outside and smoking because she didn’t like the smell of it. Women always wanted to change the men around them. He inhaled deeply. If only she knew how much she would need to change him.
He was so engrossed in his thoughts that, at first, Dash didn’t notice the men who were standing across the street, waiting and watching. There were two of them. They were dressed in jeans, similar black jackets and baseball caps. The younger one slouched against the trunk of a tree, staring at the Victorian mansion where Liz lived. The other consulted a street map.
Dash stubbed out his cigarette, stuck his fists in his trench coat pockets and crossed the street toward them. He touched the brim of his fedora. “You guys look like you could use some help.”
“Get lost,” said the younger one.
But the other held out his map for Dash to see. In his other hand, he had a scrap of paper with Liz’s name and address scribbled on it, then he pointed to the house across the street. “Is this the place I’m looking for?”
Dash assessed the men quickly. He sensed danger about them, a potential threat. Their lilting Spanish accents brought to mind Hector Messenger and his travels in South American countries. Why would they be looking for Liz?
The older man puzzled over the two pieces of paper in his hand. “I’m not sure if our address is right.”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” Dash asked.
“This woman who lives here, she’s a secretary. And this is a big house, too magnificent for a mere office worker.”
“Call her up,” Dash said. “She can tell you if you’re at the right place.”
“I don’t have her number,” he said miserably.
“Where’d you get her address?”
“That’s what worries me. I got it from this little blonde in her office.” He made a twirling motion at his temple. “She was a little bit loco.”
The younger man squared off in front of him. “We don’t need your help, mister. You ask too many questions.”
His partner advised, “Knock it off, kid. He can maybe tell us if this is the right house.”
“Look what he’s wearing, Jimmy. A suit can’t tell us nothing.”
Dash hated punks and bullies. This kid was both. Yet there was something familiar about him. “Don’t I know you?” he asked.
“I never saw you before in my life.”
“All your life? Well, I guess you’d remember,” Dash said. “It hasn’t been long since you were out of diapers.”
“I’m old enough.” The kid pulled a blade out of his jacket pocket and held it like a street fighter. “Take a hike, old man.”
/> “Don’t believe I will,” Dash said. “It’s a pleasant evening. I think I’ll just stand here and chat with you two gentlemen. Apparently you’re new in town.”
When the kid made a feint toward him with the blade, Dash reacted. At lightning speed, he grasped the boy’s knife hand and squeezed until the blade fell harmlessly to the grass beneath their feet.
“Who sent you?” Dash demanded.
“Not your business.”
“I’m making it my business, punk. Now, you tell me who sent you or I’m going to tighten my grip.” He exerted more pressure. His fingers were like a vise. “Tell me before I break your wrist.”
“Hey!” His partner stepped between them. “There’s no call for that. I’m sorry the boy was rude.”
“Rude? The punk pulled a knife on me.”
“But no harm done. Okay? We’ll go. Okay?”
“Too late for that,” Dash said. “Tell me who sent you. How do you know Liz Carradine?”
“We’re not looking for her. Really. We want her to help us find somebody else. Okay?”
“Who?” Dash demanded.
Through thin lips, the young man said, “Don’t tell him.”
Dash tightened his grasp. He could feel the wrist bones grind together. The kid’s face was pale. His eyes wavered with pain. Dash let him go.
Immediately, the kid dropped to his knees and scrambled to pick up his knife. Clumsily, he gained his feet, made a threatening motion toward Dash.
The older man stopped him. “Enough, Carlito! Let’s go.”
They ran to a late-model Chevy sedan and tore off down the street. Dash watched them leave. Maybe he should have questioned them further, but he had the answer he wanted.
Carlito. That was the name of Hector’s son. The diffident ten-year-old boy in the photographs he’d seen in the attic had grown into a nasty piece of work.
Dash crossed the street and went through the performance of buzzing Liz’s apartment and waiting until she let him in.
She met him at the top of the stairs with two suitcases packed. “Let’s go, Dash. If I stop and think about what I’m doing, I’ll never want to leave.”
