Nowhere to Hide

by Terry Odell

  “One more question. What did you do in Pine Hills?”

  Colleen made sure her gaze didn’t waver. “Desk jockey. You know. Phones, filing, faxes.” Not a lie, that’s exactly what she’d been doing before she quit.

  He gave her a lopsided grin. “Thanks. That should do it. But I might be back.” He opened the door.

  He’d walked about five paces when she hollered after him. “Don’t you think it’s a little strange that Jeffrey would be looking at land in Alaska in November?”

  With that, Colleen stepped inside and closed the door. Something about Harrigan unsettled her, so she was going to forget him and turn this yellow and green floral arrangement into something she could live in. She found a rock station on the stereo, changed into dry clothes and let her mind float as she put away her things. She was home. She had a bed, a hot shower and an adequate food supply. And thanks to Blockbuster, some entertainment.

  Colleen opened one of her suitcases and dug beneath a pile of shirts and sweaters until her fingers made contact with the bubble-wrapped packet. She opened it and stared at the photograph, then set it in the center of the shelf directly above the television.

  Squinting at the picture, she saw herself at age ten, already hitting a growth spurt, all knees and elbows, her hair a mass of frizzy red curls. Her three brothers mugged for the camera, blissfully unaware of the grown-up responsibilities that awaited. A family portrait, taken right before her oldest brother, Michael, left for college. Such happy times. Her mother’s face glowed with pride. How young her father looked, with his red hair still thick and wavy. Colleen had his green eyes, although everyone said she took after her mom.

  Colleen concentrated on that image and pushed away the memory of her mother’s face when they’d said their goodbyes. The look of pain, of defeat, knowing she couldn’t make the hurt go away for her baby girl, but a look that said she accepted Colleen’s decision.

  Well, she wasn’t a baby girl anymore. It was time to move on. She unearthed one more bubble-wrapped package from the depths of her suitcase. Slitting the tape, she carefully unrolled the wrap and pulled out the half-full bottle of single malt Scotch.

  She put it on the shelf next to the family photo, rotating it so the black line glared at her. The line she’d drawn with an indelible marker, at the level of whisky in the bottle. She ran her fingers run down the smooth glass. She gripped the cap.

  No. Suck it up. She wasn’t a drunk. Until the incident, she hardly drank at all.

  She set the bottle back on the shelf. With shaking fingers, she turned it around so the line wasn’t visible.

  For dinner that night, her first real night in her new home, Colleen made herself a salad, sautéed a salmon filet, squeezed a lemon over it and nuked some broccoli. Half of her cooking repertoire. The alternative was a chicken breast and green beans. She carried everything into the living room and settled in front of the television for her date with Bond. The original James Bond.

  When the closing credits rolled, she carried her empty plate to the sink and grabbed a giant chocolate chip cookie. An explosion resounded through the room. Her heart jumped to her throat and she instinctively reached for the nonexistent gun at her hip. The cookie fell, and she hit the floor.

  She tried to quell her pounding heart, forcing herself to concentrate on the sounds. Not gunfire. Besides, this neighborhood didn’t look like the drive-by type. She raised herself to a half crouch and went to the door. Easing it open, she peeked toward the street.

  Doris stood at the edge of the driveway, caught in the glow of a streetlamp. Colleen hurried to join her, ignoring the trickle of sweat running down her back, trying to control her rapid breathing.

  “Oh, hello, Colleen. I so enjoy fireworks. Don’t you?”

  “Fireworks?” Colleen followed Doris’ gaze. Sure enough, a globe of red, green and blue lights erupted in the sky, followed by the sounds of multiple explosions.

  “Universal Studios. We’ll get them at eight every night until after Thanksgiving. Wait until New Year’s. They do a show that’s over the top. And we get it for free.”

  “Fireworks,” Colleen repeated. Of course. She’d moved to a whole new planet. Maybe a whole new universe. “Pretty. Nice. Good show.” She backed down the driveway and raced to her apartment.

  That icy hand gripped her insides again as she remembered the day she’d confessed to the department shrink she couldn’t be a cop. Had accepted the mental disability pension. She’d almost turned it down rather than admit failure, but what the hell. The department had said she’d earned it. She’d barely made it to the ladies’ room before puking her guts out.

  Dropping to the floor, she did as many push-ups as her arms would allow, then flipped and did crunches until her abdomen burned. Calmer, she took a quick shower, pulled on an oversized sleep shirt, and crawled under the covers.

  Exhaustion buried her like wet concrete. As she drifted off, she heard a man’s voice from the main house. Had Jeffrey come home?

  Chapter Three

  Colleen jerked awake, drenched in sweat and tangled in the sheets. She sat up and fought the nausea as the memories came back, crystal clear and in freeze frame, like a slide show from hell.

  A domestic dispute. By the book, she and Montoya using all the right phrases: “Yes, Mrs. Bradford. You don’t need the knife. Relax, Mr. Bradford. I’ll take the bat. Let’s sit down. Talk to me, Mr. Bradford.” The tension lifting.

  Someone on the stairs. “You bastard! You’ll never hurt my mother again.” Kid, late teens at best. Brandishing a gun. Shooting. So much shooting. The noise. The smells. Gunpowder. Blood.

  Once she stopped shaking, Colleen checked the time. Six fifteen a.m. Nightmare or not, that had to count as sleeping through the night. The restlessness wouldn’t leave, however. She brushed her teeth and changed into workout clothes. A ponytail and baseball cap completed her ensemble. She tucked keys, ID and credit cards into a pocket and ran the two miles to the Y at a comfortable pace.

  Katie, according to the young woman’s name tag, handed her a membership application and snapped Colleen’s photo for an ID card.

  “Weight room?” Colleen asked.

  “Down the hall. And here’s a group exercise schedule.” She slid a paper across the counter.

  Colleen smiled, but left the paper where it was. No groups. Just sweat. She grabbed a towel in the locker room and avoided eye contact with everyone else as she strode through the gym and went straight for the free weights. Within minutes, she was lost in the routine, moving from one set of exercises to another, sweat dripping, endorphins flowing. The piped-in music and the underlying smell of sweat disappeared until there was nothing but the resistance of the weights.

  The workout served its purpose, getting her emotions on an even keel, and Colleen allowed a break for a cup of coffee in the lounge area.

  A man swaggered into the room, poured a cup of coffee, giving her an up and down gaze as he stirred in sugar and creamer. “Hi, Red. You’re new. You looked damn good in there.”

  Colleen gripped her cup and felt the Styrofoam start to collapse. She relaxed her hold and glared at the man. Probably late fifties, his jet-black hair an obvious dye-job. Well-muscled arms and shoulders, but a thickening around his middle. Heavy links of gold around his neck. She could see him holding in his stomach.

  “Nobody calls me Red,” she said. “Not since Bobby Feltcher in sixth grade, and he walked funny for a week. He never had kids. I’m not sure why.” Colleen smirked at the way the man’s stomach deflated and his hips jerked.

  “Ouch. So they call you Irish, then? All that red hair?”

  “I’m Scottish. That’s two strikes. Want to go for three?” She stared into his eyes the way she would during an interrogation.

  “Maybe another time.” The man took his coffee and retreated.

  “Wow. You were brilliant.” A young blonde woman stepped to the coffee counter. Patches of sweat on her fashionable workout pants and matching camisole top said s
he didn’t come to the Y to socialize. “That’s Stu. He comes on to everyone, but I’ve never seen anyone fend him off so beautifully. You’re new, aren’t you? I’m Tracy.” She gave Colleen a wide grin.

  “Colleen.”

  “Welcome. I saw you with the free weights. You’re good. I do machines three times a week, but don’t venture far into the testosterone side of the gym.” Another smile crinkled her eyes and she sat in the chair opposite Colleen.

  Colleen shrugged. “It’s what I’m used to. And there were other women over there.”

  “Right. But most of them are working with personal trainers.”

  “I like doing my own thing.”

  “Do you live around here?” Tracy laughed. “Listen to me. I’m almost as bad as Stu, giving you the third degree.”

  Maybe it was leftover endorphins, or maybe Colleen was ready to accept her new life, but the mundane get-acquainted ritual seemed comfortable. She smiled. “I just moved in, about two miles up the road.”

  “Where do you work?”

  “Nowhere yet. Thought I’d get the lay of the land first. I figured I’d start the day with some mind clearing and then dive into the details. Like finding some wheels.”

  “You need a ride home? I’d be honored to chauffeur the woman who got rid of Stu in under thirty seconds.”

  Colleen grinned. “Thanks, but the run will do me good.”

  “Wait a second.” Tracy scribbled something on a napkin. She handed it to Colleen. “This is my number. If you want anyone to show you around, give you a feel for the neighborhood, anything, give me a call. I dance at a dinner show, but I’m off Tuesdays and Wednesdays.”

  Colleen hesitated, then plunged in. “I could use a ride to the Honda dealer. I’m not sure how far away it is, or how to get there. It’s on Orange Blossom Trail.”

  “I’d love to.” Tracy turned her head toward the clock. “Nine-thirty. What if I pick you up at eleven? We can have lunch.”

  “I think I’d like that.” Colleen wrote her address down for Tracy. “See you at eleven.”

  Colleen jogged home, feeling lighter in spirit than she had in weeks. She slowed to a walk for the last block, moving from the edge of the road to the sidewalk as a cream-colored Park Avenue whizzed by, a cloud of white hair barely topping the steering wheel. Doris? Colleen picked up her pace and jogged down the driveway. A glimpse through the garage window confirmed it. The car was gone. Damn. The woman had said she wasn’t supposed to be driving. Colleen shook her head. Not her problem.

  She unlocked her front door and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. Deputy Harrigan’s card sat on the counter where she’d dropped it. She picked it up and stared at the number before putting it down again. She wouldn’t rat Doris out, but she made a mental note to speak to her about driving.

  She showered, changed into jeans and a lightweight blue sweater, and gathered her hair into a twist with a plastic clip. Promptly at eleven, Tracy knocked at the door. Colleen grabbed her purse and followed Tracy to the curb. Dressed in leggings and a long tunic top, Tracy moved like a dancer, almost floating.

  Behind her, Colleen adjusted her stride, trying not to walk like a cop on patrol, to Tracy’s silver Lexus sedan.

  Later, sitting at a small table in the Food Court at the Florida Mall, Tracy finished the last bite of her salad, then wiped her mouth. “You got a great deal on the car.”

  Colleen took a sip of her smoothie. “Three older brothers. They made sure I knew how to stand up for myself.”

  Tracy pushed her plate aside and leaned over the table. “Will you come with me when I need a new car? You are the queen!”

  Colleen laughed out loud. And couldn’t remember the last time she had. “Sure. Any time.”

  Tracy glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to meet my boyfriend in an hour. You think you can get back to your place all right? Stay on Sand Lake and you’ll be fine.”

  Colleen watched Tracy weave her way through the maze of tables at the food court. She couldn’t help but notice the way eyes, especially male eyes, followed as she walked past. Surprised by a pang of emptiness, she took another drag on her straw.

  Smoothie finished, Colleen tracked down her new Honda Civic in the parking lot. She ran her hands along the fender and smiled before opening the door. The silver paint gleamed; the new car smell filled her nostrils. She was in control.

  By four, the cable guy had come and gone, and she was wired for broadband. Now she could hunt for Jeffrey Walters. Show Harrigan a thing or two and get him off her back at the same time. She started surfing and almost as quickly stopped. Without the access her police status had given her, she wouldn’t be able to find out much about the mysterious Jeffrey.

  Doris might be more helpful. Working on an opening, Colleen headed toward the main house. She’d passed the garage and rounded the curve toward the front entry when a man’s voice, raised in anger, came from the house. Straining to listen, she could hear bits and pieces, but not enough. The landscaping gave her some cover, and she crept closer, wiping her palms on her jeans.

  “What do you mean you rented the apartment? You couldn’t have waited a couple more months?”

  Damn. Was that Jeffrey? Had Doris rented the apartment without telling him? Colleen crouched behind a hedge, away from the windows, where she couldn’t be seen.

  “I needed the cash,” Doris whined. “You certainly weren’t providing any.”

  “Be patient, woman. And remember what I told you about leaving the computer on. It’s important.”

  The voices stopped, and Colleen heard the door slam. She made herself as invisible as possible and watched as a man wearing tan slacks and a black windbreaker stormed toward the street. First impression said he was between forty and fifty. Average height, slender build, but he was moving too fast for her to get much more. He stopped with one hand on the door of a black BMW and turned toward the house, his eyes scanning the property. Had he spotted her? She held her breath. After staring in her direction until she was sure he must have seen her, he slid into the driver’s seat, started the ignition, and pulled away from the curb. Sidling beside a maple tree, Colleen tried to get a look at his license plate.

  She stifled a laugh. What could she do with that information? Run a make on the plate? No, she would play this out in her new identity as Colleen the civilian. She strode to the front door and pressed the bell. When the door opened, Doris’ blue eyes were ablaze. She gave Colleen a blank stare for a moment, before her expression turned to one of recognition.

  “Oh, it’s you. I’m sorry. I was distracted. Would you like to come in? I was in the middle of … of something, I know that. In the kitchen.”

  She followed Doris, catching a hint of air freshener over cigarette smoke. In the kitchen, teacups, plates and a half-empty platter of cookies sat on the counter. The coffee maker filled the room with the smell of scorched coffee, although it seemed to be a much better quality of scorched coffee than the Pine Hills station had offered. A hint of hazelnut.

  Doris marched to the sink. “Dishes. That’s what I was doing.” She swirled cups into soapy water.

  “Did you have company?” Colleen asked.

  “My bridge club.” Doris smiled. “Have a cookie.”

  Colleen plucked a sugar cookie from the platter and leaned against the counter. “You said Jeffrey was in Alaska looking at property. I’ll bet it’s cold there now. Did he complain about it when you talked to him?” She watched Doris’ eyes for any change of expression, but the woman was engrossed in soaping and rinsing.

  Doris blinked. “Alaska?”

  “Yes. You said Jeffrey was in Alaska.”

  “I don’t know why you thought he’d be in Alaska. It’s cold there now. I’m sure I said Alabama. You must have misheard me.” She focused on the dishes in the sink.

  “I guess I must have.” Still, Colleen wasn’t going to be dismissed. “Doris, I need to tell you something. It’s important.”

  “Everything is important.” Th
e words were barely audible.

  “I saw you driving earlier today.”

  Doris bristled. “You must be mistaken about that too. I’m not allowed to drive.” But there was something in her voice that said she knew she’d been caught.

  “Look, it’s not a smart thing to do, especially when there’s a reason for the deputies to be poking around. If you need a lift, why don’t you ask me?”

  “Pah! I needed some cream. Milk’s not good enough for Elizabeth. I was in and out in a flash and I’m careful. My suspension’s almost over, anyway. And why should the deputies be poking around?”

  “Because nobody’s heard from Jeffrey, remember?”

  “I have. He’s fine. In Alabama.” She stared at Colleen.

  Colleen pressed on. “I thought he might have come home. I saw a man leaving your place a few minutes before I got here.”

  “That wasn’t Jeffrey. Jeffrey’s in Alabama.” Her stare held an edge of defiance.

  “I think you might remind him to call his daughter. That way, we can straighten out this confusion and the sheriffs won’t be around again.”

  With a dismissive headshake, Doris crossed behind her and wiped down the kitchen table. “I can tell him. But I can’t make him call.”

  Chapter Four

  Graham finished filing his reports, surprised to see it was four-thirty. Instead of going home, he drove to Central Ops. Roger Schaeffer in CID might let him poke around a little. The lieutenant seemed to be one of the few who thought Graham had a shot at the CID spot. His recommendation could make the difference.

  Traffic thickened as rush hour approached, but instead of running plates, he let his mind drift. Who was Colleen McDonald? She’d been hiding something, but hadn’t seemed frightened. Nervous, maybe, but not running from the cops.