Nowhere to Hide

by Terry Odell

  “Not bad if your first case turns into a murder.” She stopped. “I didn’t mean that. Murder isn’t something to be happy about. I meant, if you can solve a murder on your first case, it would clinch the CID transfer, wouldn’t it?”

  “If they’ll even let me keep it. Rookies don’t get murder cases. And I’m not even a homicide rookie.” He ran his hands through his hair. “I only got this case because Schaeffer figured I couldn’t mess up no matter how green I was.”

  She stood and intercepted him in mid pace. “You’re a good cop, Harrigan. There’s no reason to pull you.”

  He took her by the shoulders and pulled her to him. “Thanks.”

  She leaned against his chest for a minute, heard his rapid heartbeat. “You need to get going.”

  “You understand?”

  “Of course. Let me get my keys.”

  “You can drop me at my place, and I’ll get my car.”

  And she wouldn’t have to face the station with all its uniforms again.

  They walked to her car and she handed him the keys. “You drive. You know where you’re going.” His hand met hers on the passenger door handle. Its warmth sent her pulse tripping.

  She watched him circle the car, slide into the driver’s seat, and start the engine. He looked so … She searched for the word, studying his moves, his face. Excited, eager. Cute. She looked again. No, not cute. There was a hardness underneath, a seriousness that said he was already processing information, trying to lay out a plan of action. She fastened her belt and left him to his thoughts as they drove away.

  He’d be working as much as he could, she knew. Never mind it was his day off, or there was nothing solid yet. She’d seen the same look in Randy’s eyes and knew Harrigan was pulling layers of cop over the man who’d spent the night with her. He glanced her way and smiled. She felt herself blushing, caught in the act of drinking in his good looks.

  She rolled down the window. The air was warm after the rain. Something else to get used to in this place. She inhaled. Smoke. Her first thoughts went to Doris, but they were too far from her place. “You smell smoke?”

  “Brush fires. They’re normal.”

  “Didn’t the rain do anything?”

  “Didn’t rain very hard and probably didn’t rain where the fires are.”

  “We’re talking about the weather again, aren’t we?”

  “Usually a safe subject.” He patted her thigh. “We’re almost at my place. I can put on some coffee, and you can come up while I make the first calls. Might take a while to catch Schaeffer on a Saturday.”

  “That’s okay. I have stuff I need to do and I don’t want to be underfoot.”

  “You most certainly would not be underfoot.”

  “Harrigan. Don’t worry about me. Go be a cop.”

  He drove into a sprawling complex of beige and gray two-story buildings and stopped to punch an access code into a keypad by the wrought iron entry gate. He wound through a maze of buildings before parking in a slot numbered 7-134. “The offer of coffee still stands.”

  “I’m fine.” She unbuckled her seatbelt and walked around to the driver’s door. “Allow me.” She opened it for him while he leaned over the back of the seat to retrieve his jacket and briefcase.

  “You know how to get back to your place?” he asked.

  “Yes. Even without my GPS. I was watching. And I have a map. And I’m not a man. I’m not afraid to ask for directions.”

  He got out and kissed her forehead. “Call me if you need anything.”

  “Get out of here, Harrigan. Good grief, you fall apart one time and everyone thinks you’re made of crystal.”

  “I happen to love good crystal.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Graham watched Colleen disappear around the corner, making a mental note to call her later. While his computer booted, he pulled his ancient copy of Yeats from the bookshelf. The musty odor sent him back to his grandfather’s country house in Cork. Most of Granda’s books smelled like that. He turned to one of the pages his grandfather had marked so long ago. He tried reading it aloud, but after two lines, felt totally foolish. He didn’t have the true soul of a poet, he guessed.

  Instead, he went to his computer and opened his e-mail program. He clicked Colleen’s address and copied the poem.

  Satisfied his two-finger typing hadn’t made any errors, he poised the cursor over the “send” icon. Was he being too forward? No matter. He cared, he wanted her, and he wanted her to know.

  He added one more line: “I’ll be thinking of you,” and clicked the mouse.

  The message sent, it was time to be a cop. He called Schaeffer.

  “You realize it’s Saturday morning, don’t you, Harrigan?”

  “Yes, sir. But I thought you should know.”

  “Spit it out. The kids have a soccer game.”

  Graham took a breath. “Remember at Gravely’s office when Erica told us Jeffrey had been there and Gravely got a call from Frank Townsend? Well, Frank Townsend’s body was found in a dump in St. Augustine. It’s possible Gravely was one of the last people to see Townsend alive. And Townsend’s vehicle was found at long-term parking at Orlando International, so we could request collaboration. I’ve already asked the St. Johns Medical Examiner for a copy of the autopsy report.”

  “Hang on.”

  He heard muffled shouting about going on ahead, that he’d catch up. “And maybe I should go see Gravely,” Graham continued. “There’s a possibility that he, Jeffrey, or both, might have something to do with Townsend’s death. I could get a warrant for his files.”

  “Questioning the guy is one thing, demanding to see his files is something else. You ever filed for a warrant?”

  “No.”

  “Tell you what. I’ll call ahead, test the waters. Judge Meadows is on call this weekend, and he’s usually lenient, but it’s still gray. It would help if you get something from the ME on the body, or the lab from the truck. Tell me your next step.”

  Graham combed his fingers through his hair. Replayed what he’d thought out. “Get a forensics team to do a complete search of the vehicle. Call Gainesville and St. Johns and see if we can cooperate. Hound the lab for whatever prints they got from the Walters’ places. Maybe catch some more of those folks on my phone list.”

  “Sounds like more than enough for your day off. But if you’re that serious, you can go in and see if someone can walk you through the paperwork. Peterson should be there. Tell him I sent you. Right now, the dead body belongs to St. Johns and Gainesville. Unless something else turns up, I’ll see you Monday morning.”

  When Graham got to Central Ops, Ed Peterson sat at his desk, tapping a computer keyboard. The man raised his long, narrow face with its droopy eyes at Graham’s approach and gave him a quick smile. “Harrigan. Heard you caught a case. Welcome aboard. What brings you in today?”

  “Got some new details to check out. Thought I’d see if I could wrap up a couple of loose ends. Schaeffer said you’d walk me through the warrant process.”

  The droopy eyes lifted a fraction. “In a minute. I’m almost done here—they fished someone out of a retention pond near Disney early this morning. Not good for the tourist trade. Looks accidental, but I’m waiting for the final report.”

  Graham felt a quick surge of excitement. “Got an ID?”

  “Don’t get all worked up,” Peterson said. “He’s not yours. This guy’s African-American, middle forties. They found him in his car. Judging from the half-empty whiskey bottle on the seat, the guy probably drove it into the pond himself. I’ve been digging up next of kin.”

  “Then I’ll go to the lab to see if they’ve got anything for me on the break-in.” Graham left the office, setting his case on the desk he’d used yesterday.

  At the lab, he approached the glass-enclosed counter. A bony woman, her skin the color of dark chocolate, pushed aside the papers she’d been studying.

  “Who are you and what do you want?”

  “Deputy Gr
aham Harrigan, ma’am.” He gave her his best smile. “I’m working the Walters case. Wondered if there were any hits on the prints.”

  “And you came down here to ask? You new?”

  “Transferred from Patrol, Sector Three, to CID.” He left out the cross-training part. “It looks like there might be a murder connected to the break-in and I thought I might get something here.”

  “Hang on.” She went to her computer and started clicking. “Walters, you said. You have the case number?”

  He gave it to her. By now he’d needed it so many times he knew it as well as his Social.

  “Still open.” She furrowed her brow. “Low priority when it came in.”

  “You think you can inch it up a bit on the priority scale? Help the new kid look good for his boss? It would mean a lot. Please?” He tried his hopeful puppy look.

  She rolled her eyes as she shook her head, but he saw her bite back a smile.

  “I’ll see what I can do.” She squinted at the screen once more. “There was some orange juice being analyzed too, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Full of Valium?”

  “Full of orange juice, Patrol. Pure unadulterated OJ. The premium kind with lots of pulp.” She picked up her papers. “The report will be ready when it’s ready.”

  He hoped he’d hidden his disappointment.

  Peterson was waiting when Graham got back. “Okay, here’s what you need to do.” He clicked through the computer screens and brought up the affidavit forms. “You need to know exactly what you’re looking for, where you think it will be, and you have to convince the judge it’s worth violating someone’s privacy because a crime has been committed and you think they might be connected. You think you’ve got enough for that? Remember, you’re going to have to sit across from a judge while he or she looks at you like you’re grasping for straws even when you’ve got everything crystal clear. They’re not going to waste time on hunches.”

  Seeing it laid out that way sent Graham’s stomach dropping. Getting a warrant had always sounded magic. He’d known you couldn’t make one appear out of thin air, but at the moment, he couldn’t imagine having enough Irish Blarney to convince a judge he needed to root through Jeffrey’s file cabinets.

  “Schaeffer said he’d call Meadows and test the waters.”

  “That’s good. He and Meadows have a history. A good one. But Meadows won’t cross any lines without good reason. You think you can tie your guy to this murder? Assuming he didn’t simply fall into a pit at the dump and die there.”

  “Until you started talking, it seemed possible.”

  “Got the autopsy report?”

  “Not yet. And, before you ask, no, I don’t have the forensics on the truck at the airport yet.”

  “If I may offer some words of wisdom here.” Peterson gave him a patient smile. “Slow down, wait for the reports, and go through channels on Monday.”

  Peterson pushed his chair back and Graham sidestepped out of his way. “Now I’ve got to round up a chaplain and tell some people their daddy’s dead. Not my favorite part of this job.” He crossed the room and pulled his jacket from a coat tree. “Take your weekend, kid.”

  It wasn’t until Peterson had left that Graham realized there hadn’t been a single reference to Proctor, spoken or otherwise. Peterson had treated him like a cop. A decent cop. The frustration at not being able to do much leveled off.

  He went to his desk and plugged his computer into the jack. When he entered his login, he got an “Access Denied” message. What the hell? He looked around, but the room was virtually deserted. He tried again, making sure he typed his codes correctly. Same thing. Cursing, he turned off the power, waited for the machine to reboot and tried again. This time everything went through. Shaking his head at the vagaries of modern technology, he pulled out his notes.

  Staring at the three sets of numbers from Jeffrey’s field guide didn’t help. Safe deposit boxes? But why three? Then again, why not? Jeffrey’s bank would still be open. Back to the phone.

  Jeffrey’s numbers bore no resemblance to anything at that bank. Would Jeffrey have more than one bank account? Colleen hadn’t found anything else in her quick look at his mail. Without a way into Jeffrey’s files, he was spinning his wheels. Gravely was off limits until Monday. The forensics team wasn’t finished with Townsend’s truck.

  Nothing much but his phone list until Schaeffer called. Graham could feel his ears throbbing already. Before he started, he logged into his e-mail to see if Colleen had answered. Nothing. He remembered her, frightened and vulnerable. He tried her number. Busy. He went back to the list, found the next number, and dialed.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Colleen stood inside her apartment, hands on her hips. Maybe if she got rid of all the traces of Harrigan, she could think clearly. She took a quick tour of her apartment. He hadn’t left a mess. The kitchen was spotless and even the bathroom didn’t look like he’d been there. Still, she scrubbed the tub, scoured the sink, and put clean sheets on the bed, smoothing down the spread. Harrigan might cook to free his mind. She cleaned.

  Her mom had tried to raise a princess when she’d finally had a daughter. It had lasted until Colleen was three or four. She had vague recollections of frilly dresses and shiny patent leather shoes, soon abandoned in favor of hand-me-downs from her brothers. She’d tagged along everywhere they went, begging to be included in all their games, and eventually had broken their resistance, even if it meant doing their chores in return. She smiled as she remembered being about eleven and finding those magazines under Patrick’s bed. She’d brought them to her dad. Pat had stopped asking her to clean his room after that.

  The ringing phone snapped her back. Harrigan? Not now. She checked caller ID. Tracy. Right. Calling for the blow-by-blow. “I can’t talk now. You caught me at a bad time.”

  “Sister, you don’t sound good. Did something bad happen? Did Deputy Blue Eyes hurt you?”

  “No. No, he’s great. It’s just—complicated.”

  “Can I help?”

  Maybe she could. Colleen’s stomach fluttered as she tried to sort her thoughts. “You’ve had relationships, right? You understand guys and sex. I mean, they’re thinking about sex all the time, right?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say all the time. More like ninety per cent of the time.” Tracy laughed. “The other ten percent, they’re having it.”

  Colleen closed her eyes. “I was brought up Catholic. You know, sex is reserved for marriage, a woman’s duty to her husband, yada yada yada. I lost my virginity in about five minutes when I was fifteen and that was the end of it.”

  “You haven’t—?”

  “No, I haven’t. Let me finish.” She felt like she was stripping herself bare, but forced herself to go on. “How do you know if it’s the real thing, or just sex?”

  “Shit, that’s the question of the century. Give me a second.” Tracy was silent for a while. “You know what it’s like when you really have to pee? And then you finally get to go and it’s such a relief. But it’s over. You feel fine and don’t think about peeing again. That’s what it’s like when it’s just sex. But if, when it’s done, you get the release, but it doesn’t seem over and you keep thinking of him, wanting him, then it’s more than sex.”

  Telling Tracy she’d talk more later, Colleen went back to her cleaning. Did she want Harrigan—Graham—or didn’t she?

  And later, when she opened her e-mail program and saw Harrigan’s address in her inbox, her heart skipped. Was he hiding behind the safety of an impersonal message? Easier to make pancakes than dump her face to face. She could imagine the message. It’s been fun, but I need someone who doesn’t freak out at fireworks.

  Holding her breath, she clicked the e-mail open. She read it. Reread it. What did it mean? How should she respond? Thanks, but can’t you come up with something original? Why let Yeats do your talking? Can’t think of anything to say on your own?

  She had to stop trying to second guess everything. Graham H
arrigan was a warm, thoughtful man who managed to understand her needs better than she did. What if they’d had sex last night? How would she be feeling now? Even more confused. And probably full of regrets. Unless he was the right one.

  If so, maybe it was time to do something about her issues. Maybe she’d finally visit the website she’d bookmarked. The one the police counselor had told her about, “Dealing with Trauma.” She’d never clicked past the entry page. Talking helped. Randy had said so, the counselor had said so, and Harrigan had said so. She’d never been able to talk. But impersonal messages under anonymous screen names should be easier. No worrying about her voice cracking, about not crying.

  She gathered her resolve and clicked onto the Trauma message boards. There were questions from other women. Answers that gave support. Drumming up more courage than when she’d faced the kid with the gun, she clicked into the message window and introduced herself. Admitted she had a problem. When she hit send, it was as if someone had removed the weight of a dinosaur from her shoulders.

  *****

  At one o’clock, Graham yawned and leaned back in his chair, trying to work the kinks out of his neck and back. Colleen’s too-short couch wasn’t much for comfort, but being near her was worth the aches and pains piled on top of a lousy night’s sleep. He worked on his third cup of coffee in half as many hours as he waited for Schaeffer’s call.

  He’d crossed another dozen names off his list. Crystal Shores, according to call number ninety-two, was supposed to be a complete community. Time-shares, golf, tennis, condos, and exclusive single family homes. Close to beaches, the Space Center and the wildlife preserve, it was designed to appeal to tourists and locals alike, with a push toward retirees.

  He went over his notes. Call number fifty-three had said he’d known Jeffrey to be an avid birder. He’d spoken to him at the cocktail party about how convenient the site would be to local migration routes and breeding areas, as well as the typical beach sites. Well, Graham already knew Jeffrey liked birds. Stood to reason he’d hustle something where people could be close to the preserve. Jeffrey might even have planned to buy in for himself.