by Terry Odell
He rubbed his eyes and checked his e-mail again. No response from Colleen. Crap. He’d probably blown it.
She hadn’t really wanted sex last night. She would have hated herself—and him—this morning. He tried her phone again. No answer. No voice mail, no answering machine. She didn’t answer her cell either. He was starting to worry. What if she’d had another attack?
When the phone rang, he almost hit the ceiling. He reached for the handset, taking a breath to keep from shouting. At first he heard nothing but restaurant sounds—glasses, silverware, and lots of children laughing. Then Schaeffer’s voice came on the line.
“I’ve talked to Judge Meadows. He thought the connection was slim, and strongly suggested you wait until you’ve got more. Maybe more evidence from the truck or the body will come in.”
“But—”
“But nothing, Harrigan. The law is pretty clear. The Gainesville folks working on the other end are a much better bet. They’ve got the body. They can poke their fingers into a lot of pies we can’t get close to. Once they connect—if they connect—Townsend to Gravely, you should be able to work things out with them.”
“Peterson said the same thing. But what about the possibility of foul play? That Jeffrey could be hiding because he killed Townsend?”
“Get something linking Jeffrey to Townsend first. Call Gainesville, tell them your theories, and let them get started. Until then, why don’t you take your weekend?”
“I was hoping to get at least a preliminary report from the ME on Townsend, but it doesn’t look too promising.”
“Lots of waiting in this job, Harrigan. Get used to it. Peterson show you how to file?”
“Yeah. On paper, the black and white gets gray real fast, doesn’t it?”
“That it does.”
Maybe he would take his weekend after all. But first, he prepared his report for Schaeffer. Once he made sure he’d clicked “Save,” he gathered his papers and stuffed them into his case. He got to the lobby as Jerry Clarke entered. In full dress Motors garb. Probably doing motorcade or escort duty.
“Brown-nosing, Harrigan? Coming in on Saturday? Give it up.”
Graham wasn’t sure what annoyed him more, the sneer or the swagger. “I work the case, not the clock.”
“You’ll be back in your cute green uniform soon enough. You wait.”
Graham angled past him, out the door, and tramped to his car. And what the hell was Clarke doing at Central Ops? Motors worked out of thirty-third street.
Chapter Twenty-two
Colleen sat at her kitchen counter, sipping from a bottle of water and staring at her computer. Her workout after visiting the trauma board had released some more tension, her body felt loose and limber, but somewhere along the line she’d started thinking about Graham Harrigan again, and now she couldn’t control the renewed screaming in her head. She felt like one of those Saturday morning cartoons, where the angel and the devil vied for Bugs Bunny’s attention.
Go to him. Don’t let him near you. You’re moving too fast. He’s worth letting in.
She read the poem Graham had sent one more time. Did he have them lined up in his computer ready to send to women he dated? So what if he did? He’d bothered to send it, hadn’t he?
Answer him. Don’t be rude.
Shit. She typed “Thanks,” hit send, and shut down the computer.
Traffic at Doris’ had died down. The box of brownies sat, untouched, by the sink. How much worse could an afternoon with Doris be than one sitting here alone and confused? She opened the box and arranged them on a platter, holding back a couple for herself. Even on a platter, they still looked store bought, and she wondered if Graham made brownies.
Chocolate offering in hand, filing cabinet keys in pocket, Colleen marched up the driveway to the house, practicing her friendliest smile. Doris, neatly put together and fresh-looking, answered the doorbell in a yellow and green floral print dress. Her green tote sat on a table by the door.
“Hi,” Colleen said. “I brought you some brownies.”
“Well, I can see that for myself, dear. Come in, but only for a few minutes. The girls and I are going to a matinee and then to dinner. Golden Corral has a great early-bird special for seniors.”
“You can save these for dessert, I guess.”
“We might do that.” Doris took the platter and headed for the kitchen. Colleen followed her into the house and waited on the couch in the living room. When Doris came back, she was licking her thumb and forefinger.
Colleen gave Doris what she hoped was a concerned smile. “Are you recovered? Have you found out anything about the break-in?”
“I’m fine, and nobody’s called me to say anything. Bad enough they have to fingerprint all my friends like common criminals. How embarrassing.”
“It’s standard procedure. That way, they can compare the prints and know which ones have a legitimate reason for being here.”
“Don’t talk down to me, young lady. I’m well aware of why they did it. It was still an indignity.”
“I didn’t mean it that way. I’m sorry.” Colleen pulled back. Doris was sharp as a tack today. There would be no sneaking anything around her this trip.
“I don’t remember anyone breaking in,” Doris continued. “The patio door was open, so the cops think it’s a big deal. I don’t always lock that door, you know.”
“I’m glad to see you’re fine. Can you tell me about the pills? Did someone force you to take too many?”
Doris bristled. “It was an accident. A plain old accident. I had a doctor’s appointment. Makes me nervous, so I took a Valium. She says it’s okay.”
“She?”
“Dr. Young. But I was still nervous and I couldn’t remember if I took one, so I guess I took another one.”
Or two, Colleen thought. Still, it didn’t sound the least bit out of character for Doris. She heard a car door slam and footsteps approach. Doris stood and walked toward the door.
“Sorry, but I’ll have to be leaving now,” Doris said and picked up her tote. “Thanks for the brownies.” She held the door open. Three women, all about the same age as Doris, stood at the entryway. One handed some envelopes to Doris.
“The mailman just left. Thought I’d save you a trip,” she said.
Doris set the mail on a table by the door. “Elizabeth, Louise, Jane, this is Colleen McDonald. She lives in the guest house. She was nice enough to bring some brownies in return for some gossip about Wednesday’s excitement.” Doris gave Colleen a sardonic smile.
Colleen felt a rising blush. “Nice to meet you.”
She revised her evaluation. Tacks had nothing on Doris today. Razor sharp. Samurai sword sharp. She watched the women pile into the now-familiar green Chevy and drive away.
At her apartment, the mail carrier had left five cartons at her entry. Once she dragged them inside, she slit open the first box. When she pulled back the cardboard, a package, wrapped in pink paper, perched on top of her things.
She smiled in spite of herself. Mom would have added something, especially after Colleen had insisted on no teary goodbyes. She ripped the wrapping and inhaled the scent of home. Without opening the round tin inside the box, she knew it would be full of her mom’s cinnamon cookies. And, under the tin, wrapped in tissue, were three scented cinnamon candles. She read the note.
I know you don’t like to cook, so maybe the candles will remind you of home when the cookies are gone. Good luck, we miss you and you can visit any time. Love, Mom.
Visit. Colleen knew it was her mom’s way of saying she could turn around and come home instead of living across the country and she’d be accepted, no questions asked. Respecting her choice to move, yet still hoping she’d come to her senses soon enough and run back to Oregon. Tears brimmed and she pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes.
Enough. She tuned in a rock station on the stereo and started pulling things out of boxes. She hooked up the answering machine, set the date and time, wincing at the
sound of her own voice when she tested the outgoing recording. She set it to mute so she wouldn’t have to listen to herself, and went back to unpacking.
The last box, the big one, she hauled to her bedroom closet. She had almost finished putting her clothes away when Harrigan’s voice from the living room sent her heart pounding. Once it registered that it came from the answering machine, she kicked the box aside and ran to her nightstand for the phone.
“Hi,” she said, interrupting his message. “Sorry about the machine.”
“New?”
“The rest of my stuff arrived. I’ve been unpacking.” She sat on the bed, flopped back against the pillows. The sound of his voice ironed out all her rough edges. “I thought you’d be working all day. Any news?” Had he gotten her stupid e-mail?
“Not much. But what I have, I’d like to share. I think I owe you a beer. You up for it?”
He sounded so calm. Like last night, comforting women, sleeping on their couches, was something he did all the time. “I guess. What time?”
“How about I come by at five?”
That gave her an hour. “Sounds good.”
She heard the click as he disconnected and she hung up. She dug out a pair of cotton slacks and a long-sleeved blouse and took them to the kitchen to iron. The smell of the fabric as she slid the iron back and forth helped center her. Not quite cinnamon cookies, but it delivered the comfort of home all the same.
She put away the ironing board, got dressed, and went back to her computer. This time, it was with a stirring of anticipation, not fear, when she logged onto the Trauma message board she’d tapped into earlier When she saw six responses to her opening message, the feeling she wasn’t alone wrapped around her like a warm blanket. And she knew where she could come the next time the nightmares hit.
At the sound of the doorbell, she logged off the site. The smile playing across her face as she went to answer the door was uncontrollable, no matter how she tried to force her features into a casual expression. When she peered through the peephole, she saw a smile on Harrigan’s face as well. She took a deep breath and pulled the door open.
Blue was supposed to be a cool color, but his eyes were like a blowtorch melting her insides. “Hi,” she said.
“Hi, yourself.” He held out a tall, narrow gift bag. “I brought you something.”
“Come in.” She took the bag, felt a bottle inside. Wine? She grabbed it by the neck and pulled it out. When she read the label, she burst out laughing. “Balsamic vinegar. You shouldn’t have.” Without thinking, she kissed his cheek. Smooth, and smelling of some spicy aftershave. “Thanks. I’ll put it in the kitchen.” She gave him a questioning look. “It’s not supposed to go in the fridge, is it?”
“No. Cupboard or counter is fine. But there’s more.”
A shake told her whatever remained in the bag was small and light. “Let me guess. Baking powder, right?”
“Yep. For next time. I mean … if—”
Was he blushing? “I think we should go have that beer,” she said.
“I think so, too.”
“Wait a second. Let me get my GPS.”
He lifted his eyebrows. “Are you insinuating I’m going to get lost? I live in this town, you know.”
She took the unit from the living room shelf and walked back toward the door. “Nothing like that. It just arrived, and I thought I’d start programming in some of the local waypoints. Seeing the readouts kind of drives home how far I’ve moved. Besides, I have to make sure it still works.” Because she didn’t think she was ready to deal with those blue eyes yet, she studied the display.
“No problem.”
“Hold this for a second,” she said. “Let me get my keys.” After she secured the door, she saw Harrigan studying the readout before he handed back the GPS.
“I guess this makes you navigator,” he said.
They walked out to his car and she remembered to wait for him to open her door. For some reason, it seemed to please him, and that made her feel good.
*****
Graham managed to find a parking spot not far from the Ale House entrance. Colleen walked alongside, close enough so he could have held her hand if he’d been willing to risk a rebuff.
“My turn,” Colleen said as they approached the door. She grinned and pulled it open.
He stepped into the dimly lit restaurant, immediately punched by the noise of the sports bar crowd, the smells of beer, grease, and burgers. Once they were seated, Colleen clicked a button on her GPS. “Okay. Now I can locate this place any time.”
“Why do you carry that?” he asked. “Or, should I ask how many other bars and pubs you have programmed?”
She flashed the smile that lit up her eyes and warmed him lower down. “None. I did a lot of hiking, backpacking and camping in Oregon. Back there, latitudes are in the mid forties. Here,” she looked at the display again, “they’re in the upper twenties. Longitudes are in the eighties here. Not like the mid one-twenties. I have come a far piece, as my grandfather used to say.”
Something clanged in his head. “Let me see that.”
She passed the unit across the table. He considered the numbers, then dismissed his hunch as too neat and tidy. “Never mind.” He handed it back.
“You were thinking something. I could see it. Share.”
“Jeffrey had some numbers written in his bird field guide. For a while, I thought they might be safe deposit boxes, or bank accounts, but they didn’t make sense. Looking at those numbers made me wonder if they might be coordinates, but they’re all too much the same. They’re all six digits, all start with eight zero. We’re at eight one.”
“You think they’re longitude numbers?” She was leaning toward him, resting her elbows on the table. “If they are, eight zero won’t be too far away.”
“Even if they are, they don’t do much good without latitude, do they?” When the server arrived, he ordered a Guinness and some onion rings. “There should be enough rings to share, or do you want something else?”
“Sounds fine.” She smiled at the server. “I’ll have a Guinness as well.” Once the waitress left, Colleen’s expression turned more intense. “You said you found the numbers in a field guide?”
“Yeah. I was flipping pages and found his life list. The numbers were in the margin of one of the pages.”
“Maybe that’s where he saw the birds,” she said.
“Most likely. But if these were longitude, he’d need latitude. Why wouldn’t he have listed both sets?”
“Who knows?” Their server came back and set their food and drinks down. Colleen’s eyebrows lifted. “Not bad. Even a shamrock in the head. Nice touch.” She raised her glass. “Slainte.”
He gazed into her green eyes. Her earlier nervousness was gone. “Slainte,” he repeated. After taking a moment to watch the bartender’s artistry fade into the thick foamy head of his drink, he took a sip. “Warmer today, isn’t it?”
“Back to the weather, are we?” She lowered her gaze to her glass.
They munched on onion rings and sipped in silence. He watched Colleen, who seemed engrossed in the cascading bubbles. Frustration gnawed at him. “Damn it, Colleen I don’t know where to start. I’m afraid to ask how you are, because I don’t know how you’ll take it.”
Finally, she met his gaze. “I’m better. I’ve never been good at talking about my feelings, but I found a website and started typing about them. It’s not a cure, but it’s loosening things up.”
He read the honesty in her eyes, and something loosened for him too. “I’m glad.” He reached across the table and touched her hand. “And if you ever want to talk, I’ll be there.” In the back of his mind he was aware of the ambient noise in the restaurant—he’d chosen this place for that reason. And, although he shouldn’t have been able to hear her hesitant voice above the din, when she finally spoke, it seemed there was nobody but Colleen in the room, and until she spoke, nothing but silence. The sound of his given name cut through every
thing else.
“Yes?” he said, seeing color rise to her face.
She spoke more to her onion rings than to him. “You were right last night. Thank you.”
Something grabbed inside his chest. He wiped the grease from his fingers and clasped both her hands in his. “Look at me.”
Her gaze lifted, lowered, and lifted again before fixing on his.
“That was probably the hardest thing I’ve ever done,” he said. His voice was barely audible to himself, yet he knew she heard every word. “And when the time is right for you, I hope I’m the one you’ll ask.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Graham groaned at the sound of the telephone. Who the hell was calling him at the ungodly hour of—? He glanced at the clock by his bed. Holy crap, it was ten-thirty in the morning.
“I wondered if you wanted to go for a drive,” Colleen said, brightening his mood considerably. She no longer sounded flustered, but there was a hesitation there, one he wished she didn’t feel when she talked to him.
“I’d like that. Anywhere in particular?” He tucked the handset under his ear and shuffled out to the kitchen to start some coffee.
“Near as I can tell from the coordinates, somewhere about an hour or so from here.”
He stopped measuring the coffee and grabbed the handset before it dropped from his shoulder. “What are you talking about? Colleen, you didn’t—”
“Didn’t what? I asked Doris if I could check out a bird in one of the books in Jeffrey’s office. It’s a pretty safe bet the numbers you showed me yesterday were longitudes, and now I have the latitudes. I’m going to drive over there to satisfy my curiosity. I thought you might want to come along.”
“You’re damn right I want to come along.” His pulse was racing and he tried to convince himself it would turn out to be nothing more than some bird sighting locations. Still, he’d be doing something that might relate to the case, and he’d be doing it with Colleen. “I need a quick shower, but I’ll be ready by the time you get here.” A very cold shower.
