In Harm's Way

by Lyn Stone

  “No problem. Being underestimated works mostly to our advantage. Mine, anyway.”

  “I’ll certainly keep that in mind,” she said, but without any asperity.

  Mitch hadn’t meant it as a warning. Or had he? Was he subconsciously trying to prepare her for the fact that he wouldn’t cut her any slack if she was lying about killing Andrews? This second-guessing himself was driving him nuts.

  “Will you be all right?” he asked, shoving his self-analysis to the back burner. “Financially, I mean. What about your work?”

  “I can function just as well from here, assuming I can have my laptop back.”

  “Back? Where is it?”

  “It’s at James’s apartment. So is my suitcase,” she said.

  Mitch bumped the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. “I should have thought about that. We can go for your things first.”

  He moved into the lane to take the next exit, intending to reverse their direction. “They’re probably finished checking them out.”

  “Wait!” she said, reaching out, almost touching his arm. Then she drew back. “Could…could we not go back there just now?”

  He understood. “Sure. I’ll call and have one of the guys bring them to you or I’ll go pick them up.”

  “Thank you.”

  The ensuing silence extended and became uncomfortable. He was usually a pretty good conversationalist, but for the life of him, Mitch couldn’t think of anything else to talk about that didn’t involve discussing some aspect of the murder. He had nothing at all in common with a woman like Robin Andrews.

  Instinctively he knew she was going to hate the apartment. He could imagine her world, envision her living in monochromatic, uncluttered splendor in some New York high-rise. Where he was going to put her, she’d think she had landed on another planet, or at least in a former century. But it was the best he could do for her under the circumstances. She would just have to get used to it.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked, figuring he couldn’t go wrong applying the lowest common denominator. Everybody needed food.

  She considered for a minute. “I could probably eat, yes. Fruit or something light.”

  “How do you feel about waffles?”

  “Ambivalent,” she said, sounding resigned.

  Mitch sighed. Damned if he was going shopping all over town for yogurt, fresh fruit or whatever this time of night. She could eat what he ate or go hungry.

  “Waffles it is, then,” he said.

  He had a feeling Robin Andrews was going to have trouble adapting outside her natural habitat. All the more reason to get the Andrews case solved as soon as possible and send her back to New York where she belonged.

  Chapter 3

  Robin slid into a booth at the diner. Detective Winton— Mitch, since he had insisted on first names—took the side facing the door. She remembered reading once that gunfighters of the Old West had done that.

  He smiled when he handed her a plastic-coated menu and held the pleasant expression as he looked up at the waitress. “Hey, Mabel. How’s it goin’?”

  The heavyset blond with frizzy hair grinned back and popped her gum. “Great. Y’all want coffee?” She wrinkled her nose at Robin and said with mock confidentiality, “This rascal’s on my list. He ain’t been in here for weeks. You musta been keepin’ him real busy lately.”

  Mitch cleared his throat to regain the waitress’s attention. “Just bring us the coffee, Mabel. Got any of that country ham I like?”

  “You betcha.” The waitress thumbed a page off the top of her order pad, scribbled, paused and asked, “Your usual with it?”

  “Yes, ma’am. You want eggs with yours?” He raised a brow at Robin.

  She declined and placed the menu on the table. “No eggs, no ham. Just a waffle. And a glass of water.”

  Mabel laughed and winked. “You ain’t gotta watch that figure, hon. Bet he’ll watch it for you.” She scooped up the menus and wriggled off behind the bar. Robin winced at the way Mabel screamed the order through the opening to the kitchen in back. So all Southern belles weren’t soft spoken.

  “The cook’s a little hard of hearing,” Mitch explained. He clasped his hands on the table next to the rolled-up napkin that held his flatware. “I guess this place is out of the ordinary for you, huh?”

  It seemed to amuse him, bringing her to a restaurant like this. Robin was determined not to react the way he obviously expected. She had eaten in worse places, though not often.

  Dylan’s Diner looked like a fifties diner that hadn’t been refurbished since its creation. More antique than retro. A bar ran the length of the place, its chrome stools topped with mottled red leather cushions. Old photos of Elvis, Dolly, and others she didn’t recognize dotted the walls in a haphazard arrangement. An old-fashioned jukebox stood at the far end of the room in front of the rest rooms.

  The booths were in fairly good shape. Blinds covered the windows that began at table level and nearly reached the ceiling. Thankfully they were closed, so Robin didn’t have to see the neighborhood outside. It had looked rather seedy driving through it.

  “Sorry, but there aren’t too many eating places open this time of the morning, at least not on the way to where we’re going. Dylan’s plays host to the night crawlers in this area.” He shrugged. “I’m one of ’em when I pull night duty.”

  “This is fine,” Robin said, gingerly unwinding her fork, spoon and a serrated steak knife from their paper wrapping and arranging them in a proper place setting. The utensils appeared to be clean, she noted with relief. “I’m really not that choosy.”

  “Good sport, aren’t you?” He shrugged out of his windbreaker and laid it in the corner of the booth. “Beaner is a fair cook. The food’s good here, trust me.”

  Robin sighed. He kept saying that. Trust me. If he only knew how impossible that was, that she would put her trust in any man. Or any one else, for that matter. It was good that he didn’t seem to expect an avowal of it. Maybe it was only a figure of speech with him.

  “How far is it to this apartment you mentioned?” she asked, wondering if she would be required to stay in this particular area with its unkempt houses interspersed with run-down storefronts.

  He didn’t answer her. His full attention was suddenly riveted on the entrance. Robin had heard the door open and close, felt the draft.

  She started to look over her shoulder and see who had come in when Mitch grasped her hands, squeezed and whispered. “Trouble! Lie down, Robin. Sideways in the seat and slide under the table. Do it now!” He shoved her hands off the table sending her flatware clattering to the floor. She followed.

  Robin didn’t even think about protesting. She did exactly as ordered, curling herself around the sturdy chrome pedestal. Mitch was grappling with his ankle which was mere inches from her face. He pulled a gun from a small holster strapped to his leg.

  Oh, God, it was a robbery! That had been her first thought when he warned her to duck out of sight, and she’d been right. All those years in New York and never a bit of trouble, and now… She heard Mabel scream and scooted as near the wall as she could.

  “Drop it, cop, or I’ll blow her away,” said a deep voice.

  A clunk sounded on top of the table above Robin.

  “Move back,” the voice shouted. “To the back of the room.”

  Robin watched Mitch’s legs and feet as he slowly backed out of her limited line of vision.

  Desperate for something to defend herself, Robin searched the floor for the steak knife, but couldn’t find it. She grasped the fork. Her breath rushed in and out between clenched teeth and she felt sick.

  When a head appeared wearing a ski mask, Robin yelped. A large and rather dirty hand reached under the table, attempting to grab her foot, the closest part of her to the aisle. He was cursing, saying something, but the words wouldn’t register. In terror that he would drag her out before she could stop him, Robin struck. She stabbed the fork into his hand. The tines disappeared into hairy fle
sh and the resulting roar was deafening.

  All hell broke loose, and she couldn’t see a thing but the blur of tangled legs. Mitch Winton had attacked. That much was obvious.

  Robin twisted around, feeling beneath her for the knife. She couldn’t simply wait to see what happened. That robber could kill Mitch and drag her from beneath the table and…

  She thought she heard sirens above the grunts and curses and the smack of fists against flesh. Several shots rang out and glass broke. Tires screeched outside, blue light bounced around the room like a strobe. The police! Thank God! She heard the thunder of footsteps, cursing, doors slamming.

  “It’s safe. You can come out now.” Mitch was crouching on the floor beside the booth, peering at her.

  Robin wriggled around the table support and grasped the hand he offered to help her out. “Are…are they gone?” she asked, scanning the diner as they stood.

  “They ran out the back.” He took the steak knife from her, placed it on the table, then picked up his pistol. Bracing his right foot on the booth seat, he replaced the gun in its holster and snapped the flap.

  “Shouldn’t you…go after them or something?”

  He shook his head and indicated she should sit down. Her legs were so shaky, she nearly fell. “The cops are pursuing. Excuse me a minute.”

  Robin watched as Mitch went over to the bar and leaned over it. “You okay down there, Mabel?”

  “That bastard shot my winder,” she complained, her voice rising as she got up off the floor. Her hair was a worse mess than before, and there was coffee all over the front of her white shirt and red nylon apron. “Broke my coffeepot, too.” Then her gaze jerked toward Robin. “Y’all didn’t get hurt, did ya?”

  “No, we’re fine. That silent alarm works pretty good,” Mitch commented. “Quick thinking, Mabel. You’re a peach.”

  “Thank you for tellin’ me I needed the thing.” She brushed herself off with a towel and smiled over the counter at Mitch, then at Robin. There were tears in her eyes, and she sniffed. “Y’all will have to wait a little bit until I get another carafe out of the back and get some more coffee goin’.”

  “Don’t worry about the order,” Mitch told her gently. “You look a little shaky. Why don’t you just relax and catch your breath.”

  “Don’t leave!” whined Mabel, reaching out toward Mitch with a trembling hand. “Don’t go now.”

  Mitch took it and smiled at her. “I won’t go yet, Mabel. But you go on and take a break, huh? Powder your nose and fix your hair. I’ll be here when you get back.”

  She nodded and sidled down the back of the bar, around it and toward the door marked Ladies.

  Robin knew how poor Mabel felt. Right now she wanted Mitch Winton and his gun as close by as they could get. He seemed to know that and came over to join her in the booth.

  “You’re a scrapper. I wouldn’t have guessed it.” His chuckle was warm, approving. “Surprised the hell out of him, plowing that fork through his hand. Glad you were on my side.”

  Robin stared at him, not sure whether she was upset at his apparent calm or reassured by it. She glanced at the door. “They might come back.”

  He laughed outright at that, then grimaced, grasping his side.

  “You’re hurt!” Robin cried, sliding out of the booth.

  “No, no, sit back down. I took a kick to the ribs. Nothing serious. Either those guys really were as big as they looked or I’m gettin’ soft in my old age.”

  “They could have shot you!” she cried. “What did you mean rushing them that way?”

  He sighed and leaned back, his fingers still exploring the site of his injury. “You made him so mad with that fork, I was afraid he would shoot you if I didn’t move on him right then. They heard the siren and split before I could do much.”

  Robin raked her hair back behind her ears, shook her head and gave a deflated sigh. “James’s death and now a robbery. What next?”

  He leaned forward over the table and peered into her eyes. “Robin, he went straight for you. Once he had threatened Mabel, he never even looked at her again. His buddy was standing lookout at the door. Neither one asked for the contents of the register. Never demanded my wallet. They knew I was a cop, knew my name, but I’ve never seen them before. I think they knew who you are, too. It was your purse they were after. Didn’t you hear him?”

  “No, I wasn’t really listening.” Robin frowned down at the thin strap that lay securely around her neck and across her body, the leather rectangle resting against her hip. “My purse? But why? Do I look rich?”

  Mitch smiled. “As a matter of fact you do, but I don’t think it was your money he was after. It was something else. What do you have in there?”

  She lifted the purse onto the table and opened it. “Powder, lipstick.” Robin listed the items as she emptied the contents piece by piece. “Credit cards, address book, a bit of cash, James’s CD, a small brush, old theater ticket stubs and,” she said, plunking down a little spray can, “pepper spray.” She frowned and scoffed. “I should have remembered that. I completely forgot I had it. All I could think about was locating the knife.”

  Mitch picked up the spray container and turned it around several times, then shot her a questioning look. “Somehow, I don’t believe this was what he was looking for, do you?”

  She surveyed the pile of stuff. “The CD, you think? What could anyone possibly want with that?”

  “Your husband wanted it badly enough to have you bring it all the way from New York instead of mailing it.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” she admitted, meeting his gaze. She shoved it toward him. “You take it. Keep it.”

  “No,” he said, returning it to her. “Hang on to it until we can have a look at what’s on it.”

  Mabel returned from the ladies’ room, obviously relieved that Mitch was still around. “Be just a minute,” she said, pushing through the door to the kitchen. “I’ll get that coffee carafe.”

  Robin exhaled and rested her forehead on her hand. “Could we leave, please?”

  “No, not yet. We still have to eat, and I don’t think Mabel’s up to winging it with only ol’ Beaner in the back for company. We’d better hang around until Bill and Eddie come back or send word that they caught the bad boys.”

  Robin resigned herself. “Somehow I always thought of Nashville as a rather tranquil city full of musicians.”

  He laughed. “If that were the case, I’d be playing backup guitar and bemoaning the fact that I can’t sing.”

  “You can’t sing?” she asked, eager for any diversion.

  “Well, I can, but you wouldn’t want to hear it. Trust me.”

  There it was again. Maybe it was only a figure of speech, his saying that so often. If someone was after James’s disk and was willing to go after it with guns, she knew she had to trust someone. Mitch Winton certainly seemed the likeliest candidate in town.

  Dawn was about to break when they were finally able to leave the diner. Mitch kept stealing glances at Robin, wondering when she would crash. She seemed to have gotten her second wind by the time Bill and Eddie had come back to interview them about the supposed robbery. The poor girl must have had it up to her ears with cops by this time.

  She had separated the miniblinds with one finger and was looking out the window now, probably marveling at how hospitable Nashville and its occupants had been to her since her arrival.

  “Why didn’t you tell the officers your theory about the disk?” she asked, breaking the silence.

  He turned onto the off-ramp leading to his neighborhood. “Because it’s only that. A theory. Besides, they would have wanted to take it with them, see what was on it.” He smiled. “I thought we might do that.”

  She remained quiet then, so he turned on the radio. “Fiddle with the stations there and see what you can find,” he suggested, really wanting to see what she would settle on. Her taste in music might tell him a little more about her. Was she really as highbrow as she looked, or was
there a closet blues fan inside that slick exterior?

  She parked it on the local news, listening intently. When the newscast was over and no mention was made of her husband’s murder, she clicked the radio off. A small frown marred her almost perfect features.

  They were almost perfect, but not quite. Mitch had noted, a little belatedly, that her chin was a shade too prominent, gave her an almost haughty look. Her nose would have been cuter, would have made her more appealing and approachable, if it had tilted up just slightly, but it was straight as a die. Too aristocratic. Looked as if it had been straightened on purpose.

  That made him wonder if she really had enhanced herself with surgery anywhere. Her breasts looked smallish and were probably real. She said she had modeled and small was necessary with braless fashions, he guessed. She might not be absolutely perfect but came a little too close to it for Mitch to believe it was all real. Oh well, models had to use what they had and improve it if they could, he reckoned. It was a business, and he couldn’t fault her for it if she’d resorted to that.

  “Nice nose,” he commented. “Mind if I ask what it cost? Mine’s been broken twice and I’d sure like the name of a good doctor, one who wouldn’t do a Michael Jackson on me and make me look like Janet.”

  She laughed, sounding surprised. “You think I’ve had my nose done?”

  Mitch shot her a smile. “Looks great.”

  “Thank you. I was born with this nose,” she informed him.

  “Don’t be insulted,” he said. “I just wondered.”

  “Are you able to breathe well?” she asked.

  “Sure, no problem.” Other than when she looked at him a certain way and stole his breath.

  “Then leave your nose alone. It fits your face.” Then she added grudgingly, “Not because you broke it. It’s a nice nose…and face.”

  She liked his face. Mitch mumbled his thanks and focused on his driving, not enjoying the little thrill that ran through him when she gave him that compliment. He had to get over this growing obsession with the woman, his need to know everything there was to know about her. Jeez, what did it matter whether she’d had her nose done? What was it to him? Nothing, that’s what.