The Garage Dweller

by Seelie Kay

  The battle over a runaway’s garage dwelling sends an attorney straight into the arms of the local police chief.

  Criminal defense attorney Julianna Constant is skilled at emasculating witnesses and hogtying juries, but she is unprepared to deal with a homeless teenager found living in her garage. The boy she has known since childhood wages an unwinnable battle to stay in her home, as Constant struggles to protect her family. Ultimately, the threat to her safety and emotional well-being mounts, and Julianna pushes back, falling right into the arms of the new police chief, a man who always carries two sets of handcuffs and uses them for more than just restraining criminals!

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The Garage Dweller

  Copyright © 2017 Seelie Kay

  ISBN: 978-1-4874-1096-4

  Cover art by Angela Waters

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by eXtasy Books Inc or

  Devine Destinies, an imprint of eXtasy Books Inc

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  www.eXtasybooks.com or www.devinedestinies.com

  The Garage Dweller

  By

  Seelie Kay

  Dedication

  To my four brothers and sisters—Sme Rodina! Long may we stand.

  The Garage Dweller

  I sat in my driveway in my car, watching the rain pour down in buckets.

  The temperature hovered around 90 degrees, and even tempered by a rather fierce rainstorm, the humidity was stifling. I glanced up at the sky, hoping the rain would ease up.

  I had no intention of parking outside, as I normally do. On a good day, my short wavy blonde hair sat sedately on my head. Humidity added a bit of frizz, but rain turned my hair into a swirling tornado of untamed tresses. I already looked like I had stuck a finger into an electrical socket. After a long day of dealing with impertinent clients and irrational judges, and getting soaked in between, I was not in the mood to subject myself further to the unrelenting torrent of water that had been unleashed from the sky. Summer in Wisconsin can really suck.

  I hit the button for the garage door opener, and as the heavy door slowly lifted, I screamed.

  Directly in front of me was a sleeping bag, a few food wrappers, and some empty soda cans. Off to the side, a table and chair were set up, furniture that had once sat on my deck. There was a radio and an empty bottle on the table. Unbeknownst to me, someone had been living in my garage. WTF!

  Suddenly, all the mysterious noises in the middle of the night and the disappearing food came to mind. I had chalked up the missing food to my teenage son and his friends—they were human garbage disposals after all—but even my son had dismissed my late-night noise complaints, making jokes about my overactive imagination and my imminent decline into old fart madness. I had not thought to look in the garage because it was seldom used. In the summer, I almost always parked on the driveway.

  I pulled out my cell phone and called the Little River Police. The population of my bucolic suburb is under 15,000. There isn’t a lot of crime, nor is our police force particularly busy. They arrived in minutes.

  For some reason, the rain relented and the sun burst forth. A stern-looking cop emerged from the police car with a much younger partner. He was about my age—50—but his hair was already silver gray. He approached my car window and smiled at me. I hit the window opener and the glass slid down. “I’m Officer David Manders, ma’am,” he said in one of the sexiest bedroom voices I have ever heard. “What’s going on?”

  I felt the tiniest of flutters in my stomach, but I ignored it. I pointed to the now fully-exposed garage. “Apparently, I have a garage dweller.” I got out of the car and walked toward the opening. Manders was at least a head taller than me, and I was wearing heels. The difference between the air in the car and outside was stunning. I stopped and unbuttoned my suit jacket. Manders almost plowed into me. His arms went around me to steady both of us. Before he quickly released me, I became aware that our bodies fit together perfectly.

  The younger cop, who seriously looked to be wet behind the ears, chuckled. Manders shot him a fierce look and the young man went silent.

  They entered the garage and looked around. My garage is designed to shelter four cars, something my ex-husband had insisted on when building our home. Now half was filled with assorted boxes and junk I had been unable to part with, while only two stalls were open. Manders turned to me, removed his wraparound sunglasses, and lightly scratched his thin, straight nose. He had the most amazing blue eyes, and they were framed by dark lashes. My stomach did another little flip-flop.

  “Any idea who is living here?” Manders asked.

  “None,” I said. “I texted my teenage son, Danny, and sent him photos. I am waiting for him to get home. However, no one has ever been given permission to live here, and if I had granted permission, I would hardly force them to live in the garage. I have a guest bedroom.” I took off my jacket, revealing a cream-colored shell, one that did nothing to hide my curves. Damn, it is sweltering in here.

  The other cop started moving around the garage, trying the doors into the house and the one that led to the outside deck. “Do you always leave these doors unlocked?”

  I frowned. “No, I always keep them secured. There is no reason for either to be open. I rarely go into the garage in the summer, and neither does my son. And both doors have extra locks.”

  At that moment, my son, his tires squealing, pulled into the driveway. I winced as Danny slammed on the brakes, his car narrowly missing one of the unopened garage doors. He jumped out of the car, looked into the garage, and yelled, “What the fuck?”

  Again, I winced, mortified that Danny was incapable of filtering his words in front of the police. Since his father had departed years before, my son had assumed the role of home protector. As he often told his friends, “This is my home, dammit, and what I say goes.” Now, he was behaving like an enraged man-boy. Impulse control just went out the window.

  Manders introduced himself to Danny and asked, “Any idea who has been living here, or why these doors are unlocked?”

  Danny looked puzzled. “Why would I let someone live in my garage?” He walked to the door to the deck and pointed to the bolt on the frame. “This door is supposed to be bolted, my mom insists on it.” Danny then moved to the door that led into the house.” There is a chain on the inside of this door.” He turned the handle and the door swung open, all the way open. “Damn.” My son looked at me and shook his head. “I don’t get this.”

  Manders looked at both of us. “Have you noticed anything missing? Heard any unusual noises?”

  Danny groaned, and a sheepish look crossed his face. “My mom has been complaining about night noises. I thought she was losing it. Houses make noises.” He shrugged, then looked at me. His blue-green eyes, so like mine, were filled with guilt. Danny walked over to me and hu
gged me, his tall, lean frame towering over my petite one. “Sorry, Mom.” Then, as only teenagers can when caught exposing affection for a parent, he quickly released me and stepped back.

  “Missing any food or money?”

  My son sighed. “Well, Mom has been complaining about missing food, too, like peanut butter and boxes of crackers, but again, I thought it was senioritis.” He looked at me and tried to smile. “I know, Mom. I should have listened.”

  Despite my discomfort at discovering the garage dweller, I smiled. Those are words I don’t often hear out of my 16-year-old. “Your mother is never wrong,” I said, a slight smirk on my face.

  Both policemen laughed.

  “Anything else missing?” Manders asked.

  Danny ran a hand through his long, brown hair, and looked at the items surrounding the sleeping bag. “Dammit,” he said, walking over and picking up a few items. “This is my phone charger. I thought I lost it. And this is an extension cord I use for some speakers in the basement. I didn’t know it was missing.” Danny began to rummage through the trash and pulled out an empty jar of peanut butter, then the remains of a box of crackers. “And here is the missing food my mom has been complaining about.” My son could not look me in the eye.

  Manders asked, “Mind if I take a look around your house, inside as well as out?”

  I laughed. I’m a criminal defense attorney. I know better than to allow the police to wander freely on my property. Unfortunately, my fear overrode my common sense. “Sure, but I would avoid my son’s bathroom. That place is nasty.”

  Manders graced me with a wide smile. The man had nice, firm lips. The kind I would willingly engage in a passionate kiss. He also had a very sexy smile. Mmmmmm.

  Under different circumstances, I might have swooned. The man was hot.

  He chuckled and said, “Been there, done that. Just hand him a can of cleanser and tell him to start scrubbing.”

  I laughed, again. Danny frowned.

  I walked to the open door to the house and turned to Manders. “Shall we?”

  He smiled and motioned to the young police officer. “Harrison, take the exterior. There’s a deck out there, make sure you look under it. And check for broken locks on the windows. We need to know how this person gets into the garage.” Harrison nodded and walked away.

  While my son followed sullenly behind, I led Manders though my house. He and Danny checked the basement, and when I heard a startled, “Oh, shit!” I knew they had found something awry. Trudging up the steps, Danny looked at me and muttered, “The skank has been using the washer and dryer. His clothes are still in the washer.”

  I tried to fight the panic building within me. “Danny, try to think. Would any of your friends be living in the garage? Are any of them having problems with their parents or talking about running away?”

  Manders emerged from the basement as Danny replied, “No. I can’t think of anyone. Besides, why would anyone want to live in a garage?” That’s the problem with a child who has been denied nothing. My son had no concept of how it is to live without. I was convinced no one in their right mind would live in a garage unless they were desperate. That desperate someone could be one of his friends.

  Manders held up a wet, rumpled T-shirt. The front was emblazoned with some weird graphics and the name of a band. “Any idea who this belongs to?”

  Danny shrugged. “The Milwaukee Rat Race is a local band. There are a lot of those t-shirts out there. I even have one, somewhere. A lot of kids wear them.”

  “Let’s check and see if you can find yours,” Manders said. He followed Danny into his room. I couldn’t help it. I cringed. Even my cleaning lady refused to set foot in there. I was surprised Manders didn’t make a comment about the smell.

  Then I began to worry. Was this garage dweller bold enough to swipe Danny’s clothes? I was starting to freak out. I had read a book once about a homeless kid who was living in the crawlspace underneath someone’s home. During the day, when everyone was at school or work, he would roam the house, stealing clothing and food, acting like the home was his own. At night, he would hide in the crawlspace, eavesdropping on the actual residents in the home. That story did not end well. Now I was as creeped out as I had been when reading that book.

  Who moved into a stranger’s garage, especially in Wisconsin? Even our summer nights sometimes got uncomfortably cool, and on hot days, locking yourself into a stuffy garage was beyond human tolerance. However, the thought that we had been put at risk and could have been in danger, was more troubling. That did not sit well with me.

  While Danny picked through the pile of clothing on the bottom of his closet, I hurried upstairs to check my gun safe. As a criminal defense attorney, I dealt with a lot of unsavory characters. I had a license for concealed carry, but rarely tucked the gun into my briefcase or my purse. I was more worried about home invasion than a violent confrontation. Still, with so many kids running in and out of my home, I tended to keep my gun under lock and key. Each time I had heard a noise, I texted my son. He always headed home within an hour, and I always waited for him to get home before checking things out. I’m not stupid, nor am I extraordinarily brave. However, we have never found anything suspicious.

  Up until this moment, I had never felt seriously threatened. It wasn’t that I thought I was invincible. It was just that in almost 30 years of practicing law, there had not been one incident of violence directed toward me. In fact, the security system that had been installed years before was rarely used. I felt no need to for it, and forcing a kid to consistently use it was foolhardy. More often than not, Danny or one of his friends had set off the alarm, scaring the crap out of anyone within earshot. It had been proven to be more of a hindrance that an asset. Back then, I had felt safe and secure. Unfortunately, in a matter of minutes, that sense of safety had been shattered.

  I went downstairs as Danny walked out of his room, carrying his Milwaukee Rat Race shirt. He smiled. “At least the dude hasn’t been messing with my clothes.”

  The doorbell rang, and I let Harrison in.

  “Find anything?” Manders asked.

  “Part of the screen around the bottom of the deck has been removed, almost as if someone has been hiding under there, but that’s it.” He shrugged. “I suspect whoever was staying there is long gone.”

  Manders shook his head. “Harrison,” he said sternly. “You’re making unwarranted assumptions again. We found the perp’s clothing in the washer. He may come back for that.”

  Harrison said, “I noticed the motion-activated lights around the deck. Do those work? Are they turned on at night?”

  I nodded, but Danny shook his head. “Actually, the ones in the back are burned out. I kind of forgot to replace them.” I stared at him, shaking my head in disgust. We had the tools to protect ourselves and we hadn’t used them. Now we were paying for it.

  Manders looked at me. “Ma’am, we can set up a regular patrol, or you can call us when you hear something. I’m not sure what else we can do. Lock your doors. Turn on the alarm. Replace the burned-out lights. You should be fine. Home security works best when actually used.”

  I cocked an eyebrow, my eyes filling with rage. “Ever read What goes bump in the night, fellas? Maybe he, or she, is just waiting for the right opportunity. Maybe he, or she, already has figured out a way around our security. I am not going to sit around and wait until someone takes an ax to my son or me. I work with criminals every day. I know how they think and how they act. Someone has access to my house, and I don’t like it. I will engage the locks and turn on the security system, but the question remains, how did they get into my house in the first place? And who has been roaming my house? You still don’t know that, and that, gentlemen, is your job to find out.”

  My sweet smile dissolved into a snarl. “Believe me, if you don’t do your jobs, I will unleash the bowels of hell on you. I will not only contact the chief, I will also contact the Mayor, my alderperson, my congressman,
and anyone else I can think of. You will not put my family at risk because you are too lazy to get off your asses and do your jobs.”

  The two cops stared at me. I suspect many civilians did not speak to them that way. But I had also dealt with my share of incompetent or just downright lazy cops. I knew their job responsibilities better than they did.

  “I want this person caught. I will not live in fear. So I suggest you devise a plan for catching this bastard.”

  I left the room to call the security company, and made an appointment for the next day. If I was going to use the security system, I needed to find a way around the reasons we had chosen not to use it in the first place.

  When I returned, Manders asked, “How do you feel about someone hanging around in the house? The perp will spot a patrol. Our best chance of catching them is when they sneak into the house to get their laundry or to steal food.”

  “What do you have in mind?’

  “I’ll come back after dark and take the first shift. Harrison can take over in the morning. In the meantime, leave the stuff as is in the garage. No need to alert him that he has been discovered.”

  “Him?” I asked.

  “There were men’s briefs in the washer. I imagine not many women wear those.”

  I nodded. “Okay. Just tell me when you’ll be here. I don’t want to be caught in the shower.” I blushed. I really did not mean that the way it sounded. The thought of being caught by Manders while naked had possibilities, but... oh, hell.

  Two hours later, my son left for another shift at the sub shop where he was employed. He had been sworn to secrecy. A Facebook post could scare the perp off.

  I settled in to watch some comedy I found On Demand. As instructed, I left all the doors unsecured. About 15 minutes into the movie, Manders slipped in through the front door carrying a bottle of highly-caffeinated iced tea and a bag of donuts. Yeah, I smirked, too.