Books By Diana Palmer

by Palmer, Diana

  "Yes, from Marc Brannon. He was with them for two years. He's a Texas Ranger. I, uh, sort of worked with him on the Texas murder case. Actually, he's related to the vice president and the state attorney general, too."

  "You pulled strings," she guessed.

  "It was the only way to get into the Bureau and stay out of prison," he chuckled. "They had to agree that I did a decent job of investigation, just the same. But they think they're punishing me by sticking me up here in north Georgia, away from the action."

  "Seems to me you're right in the middle of the action, if what we're guessing is true," she com­mented.

  "Just what I thought. So we have to handle this just right."

  "We?" she queried, with her tea glass held sus­pended at her lips.

  "I've had assigned partners who were less suppor­tive," he pointed out, pursing his lips. "Besides, you have connections. The police actually like you."

  She grinned. "I never told you what my dad did for a living, did I?"

  He shook his head, entranced.

  "He's a cop."

  He chuckled. "Now, why didn't I guess?"

  "He's in administration since he got his degree, but he was a beat cop for years," she added. "I learned a lot just by watching and listening."

  "That's how we all learn."

  "What are you going to do next?"

  "I'm going to bug my basement."

  She grinned. "How exciting! Care to bug my barn, too?"

  "I suppose I'll have to, if we expect to catch anybody. None of the higher-ups have much confidence in my suspicions."

  She reached across the table and slid a long-fingered hand over his and smiled. "You'll show them."

  His heart lifted. She made him feel capable of do­ing anything. His eyes brightened. "Thanks."

  She shrugged. "Sometimes, all it takes is having somebody believe in you," she said simply, and let go of his hand. "I'll help any way I can," she added.

  "I'll give that some thought," he promised.

  Curt went back home, irritated with his lack of progress on the job.

  His mother was sprawled on the sofa with her lap­top while the big dog was lolling on its back on the carpet, sound asleep. It barely opened one drooping eyelid long enough to glance at him before it closed it again.

  "Some watchdog," he muttered, sitting down across from her in a chair.

  "Where have you been?"

  "Trying to convince people to believe I'm not an idiot," he sighed.

  "You're not an idiot, dear."

  "Thanks."

  "Can I help?"

  He gave her a long scrutiny. "Yes. You've had plenty of experience covering murder cases and rack­eteering. Who do you think is hiding out in Mary Ryan's barn?"

  "Abe Hunt, your federal witness who won't testify," she replied with a smile. "Is that what your boss won't believe?"

  He nodded miserably.

  She shrugged and went back to her keyboard. "His misfortune. You catch your witness, dear, and let the others try to excuse their mistakes."

  "You sound very confident."

  "I raised you to be the best at what you do. And you are." She glanced at him with a whimsical smile. "So why are you sitting here doing nothing?"

  He chuckled as he got to his feet. "I'm off to the basement to convert wire and batteries and lights into covert ops material," he remarked, stretching. "Good thing I know electronics."

  "And you didn't even want to go to a technical school," she scoffed.

  "I only did two semesters," he reminded her. "Just long enough to know that I wasn't cut out for television repair. But I learned how to make listening devices," he added wickedly.

  She glared at him. "So I recall."

  "I never told anyone except you what I found out," he protested.

  "It was still illegal. Imagine, bugging the police chiefs office!"

  He grinned.

  She waved him off without another word.

  He didn't tell her that he'd learned most of the craft from an older student who was heavily into covert work, even back then. But he'd paid attention and absorbed all he could, because he figured to do federal law enforcement for a career.

  It took most of the afternoon to string the wire— he didn't have the sophisticated bugs that were pow­ered by tiny batteries. But what he had was workable, including a grid-pattern of weight-sensitive devices concocted of cardboard, wire and tape, which would reveal the presence of anybody weighing more than forty pounds. That left out most of the neighborhood dogs. He hooked his device to a central board with small lights and had his mother walk across to Mary's garden, ostensibly to pick a radish, but actually to let him test out his equipment.

  Of course, if a hit man was really out there, and watching, he'd know what Curt was up to. But Curt was willing to bet that he was asleep somewhere, so that he'd be sharp and awake that night to continue his surveillance—assuming that Hunt was also going to move around at night

  None of which explained what Hunt was doing in this neighborhood in the first place.

  If that was why the hit man was here.

  If there was really a hit man.

  For the first time, Curt was beginning to doubt his own assumptions. He'd made a lot of stupid mistakes, like not being quick enough to stop the Russian pre­mier from being gored by a Brahma bull at the pres­ident's summer home in Texas. A week in the Oke-fenokee Swamp had cured him of carelessness, but he'd made other mistakes. What if he'd only made assumptions here that weren't true? If he didn't turn up the federal witness he was going to have egg on his face. He was going to be the laughingstock of the whole law enforcement community. He blanched at the thought.

  Then he remembered Mary Ryan's words, and the look in her soft eyes when she'd told him she had confidence in him. And then he had his mother walk across Mary's garden, ostensibly to pick a pepper, and his homemade board lit up like a Christmas tree with every step she took. By gosh, he was good, and he was right, and he was going to prove it to those stuffed shirts at headquarters!

  Late that afternoon, when Mary got home, he went across in his jeans and T-shirt to talk to her.

  They went into her kitchen, but before she said a word, he held up his hand and took an electronic de­vice from his pocket. This was an older one, but it worked just as well as it had when he bought it five years ago. He swept the room for bugs and found none.

  "Just to be safe," he assured her, as he put it back in his pocket with a smile. "Be careful when you go out back. I've wired the yard."

  She stared at him. "You've what?"

  "Wired the yard. I've planted pressure-sensitive devices all the way to the barn and the street..."

  "In my tomato plants?" she exclaimed, horrified.

  He glowered at her. "Not in your plants. In the weeds. Those yellow things..."

  "My marigolds," she wailed. "They're organic pest control!"

  "Will you listen?" he asked with pure disgust.

  "This is no time to get wild about a few flowers. This device might save your life!"

  She took a deep breath. He couldn't be blamed for all her plants. The police department had walked over several while they were searching for footprints out there. "Okay," she said, gritting her teeth.

  "When this is all over, we'll go to the garden sup­ply store and I'll buy you ten flats of flowers," he promised.

  "I grew these from seed..."

  ''Don't start that again!''

  She put her hands on her hips and glared at him. "You have no idea what a garden represents, do you?" she burst out, furious.

  He moved forward, caught her by the waist, swung her against his tall, powerful body, and kissed her fiercely.

  She struggled for a few seconds, went still, and then slowly began to lean into him. Her hands rested at his belted waist then slid, caressing, into the small of his back. Her mouth opened under his, and his arms contracted, hard.

  It had been a long time since he'd enjoyed kissing a woman so much. He had
n't realized how long it had been until she began protesting his bruising hold.

  He lifted his head, dazed, to stare down into her misty eyes.

  "You do that very nicely," she commented breath­lessly.

  "Thanks. So do you."

  She searched his dark eyes. He looked back at her with barely contained passion.

  "A garden represents the children you don't have," he murmured, watching her swollen lips in­stead of her shocked eyes. "You have to have some­thing to nurture, so it's vegetables and flowers instead of kids." He kissed her again, hungrily. "You could try nurturing me," he suggested against her mouth. "My mother's tired of dirty socks on the bedroom floor and wet towels under the sink."

  She laughed huskily. "You think I'd like wet tow­els under mine?"

  "Why not?" he murmured, kissing her again. "We have similar professions and we're both nice people. We could raise lettuce and hell."

  She nibbled on his full lower lip. "I'll think about it."

  "You do that. In the meanwhile," he added wryly, moving her gently away from him, "we might get to the matter at hand. Which is, I've bugged your barn and my mother's basement and wired both yards. A dog can't walk around here without setting off alarms."

  "How about a cat...or a mouse?" she asked with a pert grin.

  He tapped her nose with his forefinger. "Don't make fun of my elaborate preparations. I'm going to catch somebody tonight, even if it's only a Peeping Tom. My reputation's at stake."

  "I wouldn't say that," she said with a demure smile.

  He grinned from ear to ear.

  But although Curt sat in his basement until the wee hours, his board didn't light up. Nothing happened in the neighborhood. The dog slept like the dead beside Matilda Russell's bed.

  Curt fell into bed at dawn, so tired and worn-out that he couldn't manage to keep his eyes open. It was early afternoon before he woke up.

  He opened his eyes to a wet spot on his bare arm. He rolled over and there he was, the dog, sitting calmly beside the bed, hassling right over Curt's prone body.

  "Oh, yuck," Curt muttered, wiping his arm on the sheet. "What's with you?" he demanded.

  The dog kept panting. It really looked like he was trying to grin. He was beating time with his large tail at the same time. The thump-thump-thump was oddly calming.

  With a sigh, Curt reached out a lean hand and rubbed Big Red's head gently. "You're not so bad, I guess...hey, what's this?"

  He felt a lump on the clasp of the collar that had gone unnoticed. He sat up, wide-awake now, and un­fastened the collar. There was something taped there. He removed the black tape to reveal a thin tube. It twisted open.

  "This is a hell of a thing," he muttered to himself. He pulled out a thin roll of paper with writing on it.

  "Curt, I've got lunch, dear!" his mother called from the kitchen. "Are you awake?"

  "I'm awake!"

  He opened the paper and looked at it with mount­ing curiosity. There were letters and numbers on it, but in no sort of order. It was like a code.

  He got out of bed, securing the tube back on the dog's tossing neck as he protested the motions of Curt's hands.

  "Found something," Curt told his mother as he strolled into the kitchen. He'd already swept it for bugs the night before, and he was certain they weren't being overheard. "Look at this."

  He handed her the paper. She studied it with nar­rowed, intelligent eyes and handed it back. "Code?" she asked aloud.

  He studied the numbers again. "Yes," he said. "It makes some sort of sense, but I can't untangle it."

  "Where did you find it?" she asked.

  "In a little tube taped under your new pet's col­lar," he told her. "And it looks as if it's been there for a while." He was worried. "What if the federal witness was trying to get in touch with me, and the dog was his messenger? I've blown days, because I didn't understand why the dog was here!" he ex­ploded.

  "None of us would have thought of looking for a message on a dog, dear," Matilda told him with an amused smile. "Sit down and have lunch. We'll look this over some more. Hear anything last night?" she added.

  He shook his head. "It was as quiet as a church on Monday," he murmured, accepting a cup of hot cof­fee from his mother. "No lights, no sound, no noth­ing. It's the damnedest thing. I know somebody was hiding out in Mary's barn. I'm almost positive we had somebody in our basement. But everybody vanished.

  Including Hunt's cousin, who left fire trails getting out of the neighborhood."

  "The cousins are back."

  "What?"

  "They drove by while I was having breakfast this morning," she said easily. "I watched them get out of the car. It was just him and her and their two kids, the boy and the girl."

  "Nobody else?" he asked suspiciously.

  She shook her head. "I kept a fairly decent watch on the station wagon, just to make sure nobody crawled out of it," she added. "But I didn't see a soul."

  "Maybe they helped Hunt to go somewhere and then left him," he was thinking out loud. "That would explain the lack of activity."

  "It would," she had to confess. "But what is that message all about?" she added, indicating the slip of paper in his hand.

  He grimaced. "I don't know. The letters and num­bers are jumbled, but even so, they make sense. It isn't a combination," he added absently, studying them. "Or a locker number, of any sort I recognize."

  "Coordinates?" she suggested.

  He shook his head. "Not possible."

  "Read them to me."

  "LPST23LBSDB129," he murmured. He shook his head. "See? No sense."

  "Was there anything else in the tube?" she pon­dered.

  "A piece of brown paper, apparently put there to hide this little slip of white paper...wait a…”

  He got up and ran down the dog, who was wolfing down water. "Sorry, guy," he murmured as he un­twisted the tube again. He opened it and had to use a car key to extricate the stiff little tube of brown paper that was concealed. He replaced the tube, stood up, and unfolded the stiff tube.

  "Eureka!" he exploded.

  Five

  Curt barely took time to explain his find to his mother and put on his clothes before he rushed out to the car and drove himself, at unlucky speeds, to the courthouse in Lanier County.

  Fortunately, Mary's court case had concluded early with a quick verdict. She was shuffling papers in the courtroom when Curt burst in.

  "I need you," he said, barely giving her time to gather her briefcase before he took her hand and tugged her out of the courtroom and right out of the building.

  "But I have to see the court clerk," she protested.

  "You can phone and get your assistant to do it. We've got a break!" He put her into his car, got in, started it, and handed her the folded slip of brown paper.

  "It's a pawn ticket!" she exclaimed.

  "Yes! I've got something else, too." He fumbled in his pocket and handed her the jumble of letters. "Can you make out the code from what you've got in your hand?" he challenged, having already made the connections himself.

  "Yes. Let's see... It's the Lanier Pawn Shop, this is the ticket, then there's another set of letters and numbers..." Her head came up. "If I'm right, this is a pawn ticket for a safe-deposit box key, which is located at the Lanier City Bank!"

  He grinned. "Sharp girl."

  "What do you think it is?" she exclaimed.

  "I have no idea. But with any luck, it's something concrete that will prove Hunt's mob boss committed murder to stop an investigation."

  She was as excited as he was now. They rushed into the pawn shop with the ticket. As they expected, they received a safe-deposit box key from the clerk at the shop. They then sped to the bank. They pro­duced credentials and still had to get the bank presi­dent to preside over the opening of the safe-deposit box.

  But when they inserted their key, there was a sur­prise waiting. The key didn't work.

  "How can that be?" Curt exploded. "This is the right number. It
's the right key!"

  The bank president was scratching his head when the young woman who had been standing uncom­fortably behind them spoke up tremulously.

  "It wasn't my fault, sir," she moaned. "They had credentials, too. They said they were from the Justice Department. They had the box drilled and the con­tents removed, and then we had to have the lock changed..."

  The bank president was livid. "You didn't say any­thing about this, Miss Davis!"

  "Sir, I told my supervisor. You've been out of town," she added defensively. "It was three days ago!"

  Curt cursed under his breath. There went his evi­dence.

  "We can have the box drilled again," the bank president said, disturbed.

  "Don't bother," Curt replied quietly. "By now, every piece of evidence in it is gone. We've been beaten to the punch, royally. But thanks for your help."

  "Damn the luck!" he exploded when they were driving back to the courthouse. "If I'd just examined the dog three days ago!"

  "Who would have expected a stray dog to carry evidence of a crime?" she comforted him. "You're not superhuman, you know."

  He grimaced. "I could kick myself. The evidence is gone, the witness is gone, and I'm in the doghouse again."

  "I didn't see any other federal agents doing much better," she pointed out. "At least you've been try­ing!"

  "For all the good it did me. I've been up all night staking out the neighborhood, and I have nothing to show for it. Except a few dead marigolds," he added with a rueful smile.

  "I've got plenty left," she assured him. "Don't beat yourself to death over it. I could make supper for you tonight," she added. "Then we could go and play billiards in your basement. I love billiards."

  "You do?"

  She grinned. "My girlfriend and I used to be the terrors of the tables when we were in college."

  He sighed. "That would make a nice end to the day. Something to actually look forward to," he added with a slow smile. "Thanks."

  She shrugged. "What are friends for?" she asked, and she smiled back.

  In the end, Mrs. Russell cooked for all of them. Over ham and potato salad with Matilda Russell's homemade bread, they had a lively discussion about the criminal justice system and the excesses of the twenty-four-hour news stations.