Not able to bear the silence one minute longer, he pushed off the couch and crept into the kitchen. Dorothy faced the sink, staring out the window into the dark back yard. He stopped just inside the door. Her kitchen always smelled of baking. Always had, ever since he and his brothers had been little kids. The memory choked him up now. He’d ruined everything. “Mom, I’m so sorry,” he whispered.
His mother turned, tears in her eyes. “Sam, my baby.”
“I know. I’m so sorry about Petey. If I could change it, I would. You don’t deserve this. No one does.” He moved toward the big wooden dinner table in the middle of the kitchen, leaned on it, his fingers splayed.
“No, I mean you. You’re my baby too.”
He shook his head. “No.” It was all he could do to keep from sobbing.
“Sam.” Suddenly right next to him, she moved quickly and quietly in stealth mother mode.
He flinched at her hand on his shoulder. Her touch became firmer as her arm slid around his shoulders. He had to be half a foot taller than his mom, but she pulled his head to her shoulder and petted his hair. He couldn’t control it any longer and made a terrible, low sound, his tears coming fast. “I’m sorry, Mom.” He slid his arms around her waist and let her motherly warmth console him.
“Baby,” her voice broke. “I love you. So much. It wasn’t your fault. Petey wasn’t your fault. You tried to help him.”
“No, Mom, don’t…”
“No, you did. You were young. That horrible man was already killing Petey.” Her voice broke. “Petey was killing himself.” She sobbed harder, held him tighter. “We didn’t know how to reach him. I might have beat that bastard up too, if I could have. So would your dad. And Jeffie.”
She pushed back a little and took his face in her hands. “Look at me. Sam, we love you. You’re our son too. You did what you did out of love. How could you have known what would happen?” She kissed his cheeks, his forehead. “We’re so proud of you. Of what you’ve done all these years.”
“You didn’t know what I was doing.”
“We knew you were a policeman. One of the good guys.”
“Mom.” Tears ran down his face, dripped into his beard, and he wiped his face with a shirt sleeve.
His mother chuckled through her tears. “Just like when you were a kid and cried, you wiped your eyes with your sleeve then, too. Do you know how much like that little boy you looked just now? Oh, God, you’re a big boy now, aren’t you? Over six feet tall with that darling beard.” She tugged at the hair on his chin, then just held him, crying and laughing, too.
“You don’t hate me?”
“That’s not possible. Believe me, if you’re ever a dad, you’ll know.”
His body tightened. He laid his cheek on her shoulder, his face turned away from her. “That’s not likely.” Grief welled again, this time for Liz.
“Oh, it’s likely all right. Just give yourself time and forgive yourself. We forgive you, baby.”
“Mom? Can I just go out the back door and leave? I can’t go back in there and look at Dad and Jeff.”
“No. Sammie. Just go in and say goodbye. You have the courage for that. You don’t have to talk about this any longer, but you have the courage to say goodbye and accept their forgiveness. To get past this, you have to do that much.”
He took a deep breath. “Yeah.”
“Then, soon, I want you to come back and tell us about this woman.”
His gaze jerked toward her. “How did you…?”
Her smile broadened. “I didn’t…until now. Not for sure. Come on, honey. Say goodbye, and then you’re out of here. And come home soon. I love you.” She held his face, brushing tears from beneath his eyes with her thumbs.
Driving back to his apartment, he tried to put everything that had happened into perspective. His life had fallen in the dumper, but his family still loved him, inexplicably forgave him, and loved him. His career might be over, but he would survive.
* * * *
Liz stayed holed up in her parents’ house for two days. They were wonderful people, both free spirits at heart. Her father had settled into public relations for a not-for-profit for autistic kids. Her mom owned a small jewelry shop which carried original artisan-designed pieces.
The Aspens were hysterical when they discovered she’d been part of the hostage situation. Her sister, Miry, had seen it on CNN. Fuzzy distant shots of her being pulled out of the house, of her being held with a gun at her head, naturally shocked all of them. They could just make out the tape across her mouth. They feared she’d been raped. She assured them she hadn’t.
They put the phone permanently on the answering machine because of the reporters and only responded if the police called. Each night, she awoke alone in the darkness, sheets and blanket twisted right out from under the mattress, cold sweat washing her body. Her heart pounded, stomach ached, her throat tightened as she relived the attack. Fear of smothering, fear of rape, the pain of his knee in her belly, his arm around her neck—she’d been terrified she would die right there in front of her house, the place she’d always considered her refuge. Even so, she missed it.
Sam didn’t call the first day. She felt as if she could barely breathe for the heartbreak. Sitting huddled in the kitchen on the second day with her hands cupping a soothing cup of hot tea, she also fought the anger at being attacked in her own home. Anger at the man. Anger at Sam for apparently being the cause and not here to confront.
What had she expected? After the shooting, he’d held her and called her love and sweetheart and darling.
I guess that was just for the moment, to calm me down, to make me be a good girl, and go to the hospital.
She pushed thoughts of him far, far away. They both got what they’d wanted out of the relationship.
Pfft.
And they didn’t really have a relationship. She sternly told herself to forget the great sex. Sam obviously had.
Pushing the chair back, she paced. She didn’t care about him. Not about whatever the story was with his brother. Not about the sadness and disconnect she sensed in him.
Don’t think about the hot sex, the sweetness, the softness of his beard on her skin, the thoroughness of his kisses.
God! Stop it!
She rubbed her temples with her fists as if wiping away the memories.
On the third day after almost being killed, her landlord called and said everything had been cleaned up outside her house, and that a cleaning crew took care of the inside. She could go home. Of course, her parents didn’t want her to go back there and live alone, but she insisted.
Bailey came over soon after she got home and told her rehearsals for the play had been put on hiatus for a few weeks while the producers trolled for funding. They went to lunch at the Cedar Room to celebrate her recovery. A couple glasses of champagne later, and she had a delightful buzz.
“You don’t look good, Liz.”
“Well, thanks a lot, Bailey,” she snapped. “I really needed that.”
“I’m sorry. I mean you look tired. Are you sleeping?” He tried to grasp her hand.
“I’m fine.” She felt disoriented. She wasn’t fine.
“Honey, you can’t fool me. You’ve been through more than anyone I know. You deserve to be worn out from it.” He tipped the bottle of champagne in her direction asking if she wanted a refill.
She nodded yes to the drink, but admitted, “No. I still wake up in a cold sweat. Sometimes even when I’m awake.” She met her friend’s eyes, blinked away incipient tears.
“It’ll get better in time, sweetie, but until it does, you can talk to me. Any time. You know that.”
He held her hand in silence. Murmuring conversations at nearby tables, glass and silverware tinkling, all these sounds disappeared into the white noise in her mind.
“So what’s happening with the stud muffin, girl?” Bailey asked, changing the subject.
She jerked out of her daze and pouted at her friend. “Why couldn’t he be mor
e like you? Loyal and sensitive.”
“Ha. If he were more like me, I’d have him in my bed. Seriously Liz, he got you shot. He got you held hostage.”
She shuddered at the memory and poured herself another glass of champagne.
“He’s dangerous for real,” he added.
“Why don’t we go away for a few days? A vacation. We could go somewhere fun. And warm.” She tried to come up with a city. “New Orleans. Let’s go there.”
“You know I’d love to go, but I’ve got a gig at the Blackstone.”
“Yeah. I guess I forgot.” Bailey sang hot jazz numbers in the lobby bar of the famous hotel downtown.
“Why don’t you go?”
“Alone?”
“Yeah, it would do you good to have some time to yourself. Shop. Eat. Drink. Par-tay. Hey, maybe Jordin would go with you.”
“No, I’m not really that close to her. Not like with you.”
Their food arrived, and they waited for the server to leave before speaking again.
“Okay, I’ll go by myself.”
“Don’t sound so defeated. You’ll have fun. Get away from all the bad stuff that’s happened here. See the sights, and you’ll come back refreshed,” Bailey assured her.
“Sure I will.” Well, at least she’d made a decision.
“And,” he reminded her. “I’ll only be a phone call away.”
* * * *
Wandering Bourbon Street, Liz decided she wouldn’t dwell on Sam. She’d live in the moment and not focus on lovers strolling arm in arm along the historic streets. Ornately decorated balconies and heavy, moss-laden live oaks added to the romantic atmosphere. She walked her feet off so she could sleep at night and stuffed herself at every recommended gourmet restaurant she had time for.
She refused to think about Sam. Damn him, she’d gotten along without him for twenty-eight years. She could do it again. He was just one man. She wouldn’t waste her time wondering about him, about the mysteries of his past or about what he might be doing right this minute.
* * * *
Lost in thoughts of Liz, Sam stared at her darkened house and the blackness of her bedroom window. Was she still at her folks’? Was she all right?
You deserve this torture.
He couldn’t take it any longer. He had to know what was going on with her. His sergeant hadn’t let him take part in the investigation and definitely wouldn’t let him interview her. So, all he had access to were the written reports. She’d been mugged and held hostage. He hated to think of her body covered in bruises, hated to think of her being afraid. If the sniper hadn’t killed Dominguez with one shot, he, Sam, would have done it point blank. Another person he cared about being the victim of that asshole tore him up inside.
That’s why, the next morning he found himself driving to the northwest side, retracing his tracks to her parents’ house. He had to check on her. He didn’t mind if she hated him. He didn’t blame her. He just needed to be sure she was okay.
“Is Liz here?” He felt like a high school kid asking for his prom date.
“You’re the police officer who brought her home, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Detective Bolt.”
Stay professional. Act like you’re not personally involved.
Fucking idiot.
“Come in. Liz isn’t home now.” Mr. Aspen ushered him inside. “Would you like some coffee, Detective?”
“Um, no, thank you, though.” The living room looked nice, just like his folks’ house. Pretty and pristine. He imagined the recliners and TV were set up in a well-used family room. Motioned to the sofa, he started to sit but popped back up when Mrs. Aspen entered. “Did she go back to her place? I haven’t seen…um…”
“No, she went on a vacation. Do you need her to answer more questions? I thought she’d finished with the police. The other officer said she had.”
“No. I…um…I was just following up.”
“Good,” Mrs. Aspen interrupted. “Because she was pretty shook up even though she tried to hide it for our sakes.”
“Can you tell me where she went or how long she’ll be gone?”
“Sure. I guess that’d be all right. You are with the police, after all.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t show you my badge.”
“Oh, no, I know you are. We saw you the night you brought her home.”
He pulled his ID out anyway. “So, where did she go?” He tried to be patient but wanted to bellow his frustration if he could get a deep enough breath.
“New Orleans.”
“Okay. Does she have friends there?”
“No, she just wanted to get away,” Mrs. Aspen said.
“Could you tell me where she’s staying?”
“Unh, sure. Let me get the slip of paper. I have it in the kitchen by the phone. Are you sure we can’t get you anything to drink?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.” He was about as fine as…well, he didn’t know what. But he wasn’t fine.
“The Monteleon in the French Quarter, Detective. She’s staying a week.”
“Okay. When will she be back?”
“Well, she just left yesterday, so a few more days. She’ll be back Saturday.”
“Thank you. If you hear from her, would you tell her that Sam, Detective Bolt, asked after her?”
“Yes, we sure will,” Mrs. Aspen responded. “That’s very nice of you to be concerned. This whole thing was awful for her. We didn’t want her going away alone, but she insisted she’d be all right. Liz can be stubborn.”
Mr. Aspen added, “She’s always been independent, wanting to do everything by herself, but I’m sure the officer isn’t interested in this.”
“Thank you for the information. I appreciate it.” He almost laughed aloud. He was interested. He wanted to ask them all about her, wanted to know all her childhood secrets. They smiled at him when he left and offered him good luck.
But now, all that mattered was how fast he could get the next flight to New Orleans and find her. On desk duty, he had plenty of comp time coming to him. At home, while he packed, he booked a flight that afternoon to New Orleans, and called the Monteleon for a reservation. He’d figure everything else out when he got there. His stomach churned thinking of her in the bars. The guys would be all over her. He hoped she’d learned her lesson about walking the streets alone at night.
Chapter 14
In the early evening, Sam landed in New Orleans. Warmer and balmier than Chicago, sultry heat wrapped damply around him, raising a sheen of sweat just when he didn’t want to look grungy. By the time he got to the hotel, all the crazies and tourists roamed the streets. First, he’d try to find Liz. If necessary, he’d use his badge at the front desk to get her room number. At this point, though, he didn’t want to call attention to either of them.
She didn’t answer when the hotel operator put him through to her room. Damn. What now? Look through the hotel dining rooms and bars first then hit the streets? Yeah, that’s a plan.
A little cooler now, he strolled past Café du Monde, peered at the crowds there and didn’t see her. Delicious smells wafting from the Central Grocery reminded him he hadn’t eaten. Buying a muffaletta, he wolfed it down and continued prowling the narrow streets. He picked jazz clubs at random and checked them out. What would he do if he saw her cozying up to another man? Hell, he’d rip the guy’s guts out.
On the flight down, he’d gone over and over his reasons for following her. At first he tried to tell himself it was to make sure she was all right. But that wasn’t the whole truth. She wasn’t just another nameless victim. Yes, he felt responsible for getting her involved in his mess, but there was more. He didn’t want to name it, and it was damned inconvenient. Stupid. She represented everything he wanted in life but didn’t deserve. So why had he come? He should just let her get on with her life. Son of a bitch that he was, though, he couldn’t let her go.
He also knew it could be like finding a needle in a haystack to think he could spot her this wa
y. He’d be better served by sitting in the hotel lobby and waiting for her to come back.
And if she’s with some man…well, I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.
Nursing a beer, he ensconced himself at a table at the hotel bar so he could watch the front doors. Two hookers approached him, but he wasn’t interested. It didn’t take them long to move on to greener pastures. After more than an hour of sitting on his fanny and brooding, look who should walk through the revolving doors. Liz Aspen. He almost missed her, but something about those legs caught his eye.
A red leather skirt showcased her spectacular legs. A soft black sweater hugged her breasts. And she was alone.
Thank you, God.
Should he go to her now? Why the hell had he flown all the way down here? Now, he wasn’t sure what to say. Normally, because of his line of work, he made decisions on the fly. This time he wasn’t one hundred percent sure of his reception. Their short affair had been intense, and she’d been as into it as he’d been.
As fast as that he became hard.
And while he wasted time mulling things over, she’d made it to the elevator, and the doors closed.
Fucking idiot.
He’d give her time to get to her room, then he’d call.
* * * *
Liz welcomed the privacy of her own room. New Orleans, although a wonderful city, exciting and beautiful with great music and terrific food, felt lonely. The lovers surrounding her, all the sex for hire, the free sex, it all made her think about Sam. She had to sit down, her knees almost giving out at the memory of their lovemaking. Slouching, resting her head on the back of the chair, she allowed herself a moment of recollection. Maybe she should reacquaint herself with her battery-operated friend to take the edge off and help her sleep.
Quinn, Jane Leopold - Undercover Lover (Siren Publishing Classic) Page 10
