Nowhere to Hide

by Terry Odell

  “I accept.” He reached for the doorknob.

  “Slow down, Harrigan. You wait here. I was serious about the mess. I need a couple of minutes.”

  “Just so you know, I’m a big fan of the throw-everything-in-the-closet-or-under-the-bed method of cleaning.”

  Over her shoulder, she saw him jogging to his Jeep. After a whirlwind trip moving clutter and an embarrassing pile of lingerie Tracy had talked her into buying, Colleen found Graham on the porch, cell phone to his ear, his notebook propped against the wall as he tried to write without dropping either the phone or the book. She motioned him inside and he followed her to the kitchen where he set the notebook down and continued writing.

  “Sit,” she said.

  Still writing, he hooked a stool from the counter with his foot and slid onto it. She inhaled the rich aroma as she scooped the coffee into the filter. She took two mugs from the cabinet and set them next to the coffee maker, then went to the couch where she could watch him at work from a distance. His voice, the look on his face were all business now, and she automatically thought of him as Harrigan again, even out of uniform. She’d seen his face when she’d called him Graham. How it had gone all soft. She smiled. That was about the only part of him that had been soft.

  But for now, he would have to be Harrigan. This was work. His work, to be sure, but she could help. And she’d be Mac. As wonderful as it had been on the couch in the lounge, with the wine making her head float, his arm around her making her feel safe, the rhythm of his heart as she rested her head on his chest making her insides shimmy like one of Mrs. Hawkins’ gelatin molds back home—that part of the evening was over.

  “Good news?” she asked when he finished the call.

  “I don’t know. I was following a lead, but the person I’m looking for is a biology student at the University of Florida in Gainesville. I finally got one of his roommates, who said he’s in the field doing research and has been gone about three weeks. He’s not due back for another five.”

  “Jeffrey’s case?”

  “Yes. It might be a link. Someone who might have a connection to Jeffrey, or his project.” He placed his notebook on the coffee table and sat beside her.

  “Where is he?” Colleen asked. “Not Alabama? That would be too much to hope for.”

  “No, not Alabama. The roommate doesn’t know exactly where, though. Apparently they’re sharing the rent, but not much else. This guy’s a philosophy major and has no clue other than my guy’s out in the desert looking at rats or something.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Not much I can do. I’ve called in a lookout for his truck—especially airport parking lots. Now what the hell did you find, and how did you get it?” His expression held a warning.

  “I have some of Jeffrey’s financial records. Doris invited me inside and gave me permission to clean all the fingerprint powder. And a citizen can turn over anything she finds to the police. We both know that.”

  “As long as the police don’t ask her to do it, or have knowledge that she’s going to.”

  “Which is the case here.” She plopped her file folder next to his notebook.

  “I’m just thinking about what a lawyer would say, since you used to be a cop. It could get sticky.”

  “Let’s hope that you don’t need what I found in court then. I’m sure once you dig deeper, you’ll be able to access this on your own. I don’t think you’d have to worry about my evidence being the fruit of the poisoned tree, should it come to that.”

  He ran his forefinger down her jaw line. “It’s so strange, talking to you like a cop. I’ve never dated a cop.”

  The gelatin inside her shimmied. “Ground rules, Harrigan. We’re working here. The date part of the evening is over.”

  He shrugged out of his sport coat and placed it neatly over the back of the couch. When his eyes caught hers, she was glad she was sitting down. Those dark rims around his irises held her in a hypnotic trance.

  The coffee maker gave its last hissing gurgle and she got up to pour. “How do you take it?”

  His lips curved upward. “Take what?”

  “Your coffee. Geez, Harrigan, get your mind up where it belongs.”

  “A little milk and sugar if you have it. Black is fine too.”

  She brought his mug to the coffee table. He had removed the contents of the folder and was leafing through the pages, his eyes widening as he worked his way through the pile.

  Colleen leaned in and pointed at one of the items. “Vista Gardens. I checked that one out. It’s an assisted living facility not far from here. You think he was going to put Doris in there after all?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll follow up.” He looked at her and his eyes clouded. “Damn it. You are one hell of a distraction.”

  So was he, but she couldn’t do much about that. “I’ll be right back.” After changing into jeans and a long-sleeved rugby shirt, she went back to the kitchen, picked up her coffee and sat on the floor across from him. “Okay, what have you figured out?”

  He remained engrossed in whatever he was reading. Great. Now he had everything under control. “I didn’t have a lot of time,” she said. “I was afraid Doris would wake up and find me. It wasn’t illegal, but it wasn’t entirely kosher. Not what a good houseguest should do.”

  “Yeah,” he said, still studying the pages.

  “And then this big green dragon came into the room and started breathing fire.”

  He grunted.

  “And a knight on a big black horse crashed through the window.”

  “Right. Good.”

  “Harrigan!”

  “Huh? What?” He set the paper aside and his mouth dropped open. “You changed.”

  “At the time it seemed smart. It seems if I’d waited a few more minutes, it wouldn’t have mattered. What’s so fascinating?”

  “I don’t know. But there is absolutely nothing here Jeffrey couldn’t have done from anywhere if he had an Internet connection.”

  She almost mentioned the computer magic she’d witnessed, but since Graham couldn’t access Jeffrey’s computer files without a warrant, she figured it would be wiser to keep her mouth shut. All she’d seen was proof someone could access his computer from afar. Maybe Jeffrey was alive and well in Alabama, just as Doris claimed. “What about the charge to the Holiday Inn? Can you check with them?”

  She watched as he leafed through the pages again. “You’re right,” he said. “All I saw was that it was from Alabama, which supported Doris’ story. But it’s for a hundred and thirty-seven dollars. That doesn’t sound like much of a hotel stay.”

  “Maybe he was there one night and moved on.”

  “Possibly.” He made some notes and went back to the files. “There’s one canceled check and it’s to a Frederick Gladstone. The memo says ‘Rapture of Raptors,’ whatever that is.”

  “That sounds familiar. Let me look.” She worked her way down through the copies until she found what she was looking for. “Here. Gladstone’s an artist in Vancouver. This letter thanks Jeffrey for ordering the painting and says it will be shipped for Christmas delivery.”

  “The check’s dated September twenty-third, so Jeffrey apparently was alive and well then.”

  “And planning to be back before Christmas.” Colleen set the paper down on the table as the possibility sank in. “Do you think he’s dead?”

  “Schaeffer said to look at the worst-case scenario. I’m supposed to consider everyone’s motive.”

  “I’m not on your list anymore, am I?” She smiled.

  “Not that list.”

  The smile he returned unsettled her again. She forced herself to pay attention. “So who is on your list?” He didn’t answer.

  “Harrigan, I’m a civilian here and I was never a detective. But Randy always said I was a good sounding board. I can listen and I won’t repeat anything. Talking things out can help.”

  More silence. She reached for the files. “I thought I was he
lping. But if you can’t accept it, you can go.”

  He dragged his hands through his hair. “No. It’s not that.”

  She heard his underlying conflict. He was trying so hard to do everything by the book. Her heart squeezed. “We’re not talking about anything confidential. I was standing right there when you talked to Doris about Jeffrey’s step-daughter. If you’d prefer, we can change the names. You know, to protect the innocent?”

  He chuckled. “Or the guilty. I went to Ocala to talk with Kimberly Simon this afternoon. She called the Sheriff’s Office, so I didn’t suspect her, but it turns out her husband is in debt to some unsavory sorts, and she could use the money. She said she thought calling the cops would shake the bushes and she could hit Jeffrey up for the money.”

  “You think she’d inherit if he’s gone?”

  “I have no idea where he’d have his will, but I suppose that would be a big help.”

  “What if I told you I have the keys to his file cabinets?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I’m not sure I want to hear that one. You took them from the house?”

  “They were in my pocket and I kind of forgot.”

  “That’s pushing it, even for a civilian. Tell me you’ll return them.”

  “I’ll return them. Now do you want to hear my theory or not?”

  He swiped his hand across his face. “That should be all right. It’s all speculation.”

  She huffed. “My speculation is Doris is paying his bills and editing his mail. The junk mail is all missing and everything is opened. If he travels a lot, he might have given her access to his passwords.”

  “He must have known she was starting to lose it, or he wouldn’t be looking into a nursing home.”

  “Maybe. Or someone else takes care of it. Back to the people with motives. So Kimberly says Jeffrey gives her money, so she might well be in his will. What about Doris?”

  “With Jeffrey out of the way, she’s likely to avoid moving into a nursing home. At least until she goes totally off the deep end and someone else does it for her.”

  “So she stays on the list. Who’s this absent biology student?”

  “Frank Townsend. He apparently worked for someone Jeffrey worked with.”

  “Wait. I’ve got a spreadsheet started. Let me add your people to my list.” She plugged in her laptop, impatiently waiting while it ran through its routine. “You think they’ll ever get one of these things to turn on the way a light bulb does?”

  He rested his hand on her shoulder, and she changed her mind about the benefits of an instant-on machine. Once it had booted, Colleen opened her spreadsheet. “I’ll add your Frank Townsend. Who did you say he worked for?”

  “A Stuart Gravely. Apparently Gravely and Jeffrey were working together on a land deal that seems to have fallen through.”

  She sensed Graham peeking over her shoulder as she added Gravely’s name.

  “Who are Megan and M.G.?” he asked.

  “Megan’s an old friend and M.G. stands for her grandmother, who hooked me up with Doris and this place. I’ve already asked her about Jeffrey. Nada.”

  “What do the colors mean?”

  She laughed. “It was about four in the morning when I was doing this. I got a little carried away. Pretty, though, isn’t it?”

  He leaned over to look and his warm breath on her neck made her quiver. “You’ve made some interesting notes. I don’t suppose you can give me a copy of this?”

  “Not unless you have a flash drive in your pocket.” She glanced in that direction, immediately averting her eyes. She knew her faced matched her hair.

  His voice was husky when he answered. “No, definitely not a flash drive.”

  This was too fast. “It’s getting late, don’t you think?” She pushed the laptop away. “I’m sure you’ve got a full day tomorrow, and you’ll want to be well-rested. Impress the brass and all.” She refused to lift her gaze. If she did, he’d be Graham again.

  It seemed an eternity before he responded. He cleared his throat. “You’re right. I have a list of too many people to call and with what you’ve given me, even more leads. Thanks, Colleen.”

  “Mac. Please. We’re working. You’re Harrigan, I’m Mac.”

  “Mac. You’ve been a big help. And, since we’re lacking a flash drive, can you e-mail me the spreadsheet?”

  She felt a wave of relief. “I can do that. Give me your e-mail and I’ll send it.”

  He wrote it on the back of another business card. She had to force herself to break the connection as their fingers touched.

  “If you overhear anything about a development called Crystal Shores, let me know.”

  She typed that into a new column and saved the file. “Now I think we should call it a night.”

  He stared at her, and she was caught in the trap of his eyes again. Finally, he spoke. “Before I leave, can I ask one favor?”

  What now? Was he going to lay into her about what lines she could and couldn’t cross again? “Ask, but no promises, Harrigan.”

  “Unbraid your hair.”

  She thought of Tracy and couldn’t keep a straight face.

  “Did I say something funny?”

  “No. Not at all.” She reached back and pulled the elastic from the bottom of her braid.

  “Wait. May I?”

  She stepped closer and his fingers untwisted the base of the braid. When they reached the spot where the plait lay close to her head, he worked his fingers through the strands, setting each one free. Strong, yet gentle fingers. She closed her eyes, reveling in the sensation. Tingly, almost electric. Bolts of lightning shot below her belly. Once he’d loosened everything, his hands lifted and released her hair, running from her scalp to the ends.

  “Good night,” he said. “And thank you. Again.”

  “Mmm hmm. Thank you. For everything.” She raised herself on her toes and grabbed his head and pulled his lips to hers. Her fingers ran through the thick waves of his hair and he pulled her tight against him. She was hot, she was cold, and she hungered for more. Her tongue sought his and she tasted coffee. She heard a ringing in her ears, and then moaning, and didn’t know whose it was. He nibbled on her lower lip, and she ran her hands down his back, pulling him even closer. She felt his hardness and pushed her hips against it. His hands released her hair and they moved up and down her back, mimicking her motions. When she finally needed to breathe, she pulled back and rested her head against his chest. It took awhile to find her voice.

  “Good luck, tomorrow. Will you let me know how things go?”

  “I will. Good night. Colleen.”

  She followed him to the door and watched as he drove away, standing in the open doorway until her pulse returned to a reasonable rate.

  She verified she’d locked the front door, and as she turned away, the square of white cotton on the end table, neatly ironed and folded, caught her eye.

  She laughed out loud.

  *****

  Her hand trembled so much, she was afraid she’d drop the gun. She couldn’t shoot a kid. She had to. Protect the parents. Civilians. No! Don’t shoot! She screamed for him to put the gun down. Explosions. More screaming. Stop. It’s a nightmare. Wake up. She was trapped. Saw the gun pointed at Montoya. Saw the back of his head blown off. But before it burst like an overripe melon, he looked at her, pleading for help. His face. No longer Hispanic. His eyes were blue, their irises rimmed in black. No! Not Graham! Graham couldn’t be here.

  Gasping, drenched in sweat, tangled in the sheets, Colleen sat up with a start. She fought the nausea that followed the nightmares, leaning back against the pillow until her breathing steadied. Three a.m. Her insides churned with the curry she’d eaten. She half crawled to the bathroom, her legs too wobbly to support her. Sitting on the cold tiles, she waited for the sweating to stop, staring at the porcelain bowl, willing herself not to throw up.

  Chapter Sixteen

  At a quarter to six, Graham stood in the middle of his closet, wearing socks
and underwear. He’d slept like a dead man and awakened before the alarm this morning, eager to report to work—dressed like a detective. He reached for his one good suit and stopped. Suits were usually reserved for court appearances and more formal interviews. He had a hunch he’d be tied to his desk all day making phone calls and searching databases.

  He stepped into a pair of black slacks, buttoned up a red and white pinstripe shirt and fingered his meager selection of ties, selecting a plain red one. His charcoal sport coat hung on the back of his dining room chair, with the shoes he’d worn last night on the floor beside it. He felt half naked without the weight of the uniform’s heavy utility belt, but he could get used to it. Real fast.

  Too nervous to eat, he poured a second cup of coffee into his travel mug and went out to his cruiser.

  By the time Schaeffer arrived at the station, Graham had been at his desk checking databases for almost half an hour. He had fifty phone numbers matched to the invitation list Erica had given him and planned to start making the calls at eight.

  “Well, well, well. Look at the early bird. Any worms?” Schaeffer said. He set a Starbucks cup on Graham’s desk and perched on the corner, sipping from a cup of his own. “It’s a latte. Hope it’s all right.”

  Graham pried off the lid and took a sip. “Perfect. Thanks.” He would have accepted a decaf skinny with soymilk from Schaeffer.

  “My office.” Schaeffer’s tone was neutral, but Graham fought an onslaught of butterflies. He remembered to log out before he followed the lieutenant down the hall. One lesson learned.

  Schaeffer sat behind his desk. “I read your report on Mrs. Simon’s interview. Thorough.”

  Some of Graham’s nerves dissipated. “She was cooperative, although there were times I was pretty sure she was holding back. But she needs Jeffrey for his money. I think she wants to find him.”

  “And if he’s dead?”

  “I need to see if I can dig up a copy of his will.” He automatically thought of Colleen and the key to Jeffrey’s filing cabinet. “You think we could get a warrant to search his files?”

  “I still can’t figure a judge seeing probable cause. The man’s not home, but he’s not supposed to be home. Not calling someone’s not a crime.”