by Deeanne Gist
She squeezed his arm. “I’m so sorry.”
The officer cleared his throat. “Is anything else missing, Mr.
Sebastian?”
Karl opened a few drawers, went back into his closet, and then came out again. “Not that I can see.” He stopped at the window.
The curtain rod lay at his feet, rich brocade pooling around it like liquid gold. “The guy came in through here?”
“We’re not sure. He definitely left through there, though.”
Karl nodded.
“Would you mind taking a look at the rest of the house to see if anything looks out of the ordinary?”
“Of course not.”
A search of all four stories offered up no further clues.
In the kitchen, the officer shook Karl’s hand. “We’ll be in touch. In the meanwhile, see if you can locate a picture of that jewelry casket.”
“Will do, Officer. Thanks.” He closed the door, then turned back to Rylee.
“I’m so sorry, Karl.”
“Yeah.” He shook himself. “But it’s only stuff. You know? It could have been worse. Something could have happened to you. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“I saw you rubbing your shoulder.”
She touched her right shoulder. “I ran into the doorframe trying to get out of the bedroom.”
He frowned and stepped toward her. “Let me see.”
“It’s nothing. Really.”
He lifted a brow, his eyes more turquoise than blue.
Flustered, she dipped down the side of her summer cardigan.
He brushed her shoulder with his fingers. “Looks like you’re going to have a nasty bruise.”
He was close. Very close.
She shrugged the sweater into place. “It’ll be fine. I hardly even feel it.”
A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, deepening his laugh lines. “Liar.”
She softened. “It’s good to see you smile.”
She’d had a crush on him for three years. Ever since his father, a longtime friend of her family, had helped sell her house on Folly Beach. Anytime Karl made the society news, she always took note.
But she’d never expected him to notice her.
She swallowed. “Well, unless you need anything else, I probably ought to get going.”
“You’ll be back tonight?”
She glanced at her watch. “Yes. I’ll make sure Romeo gets in a good walk and some dinner.”
“Tonight, then.”
She skirted around him, then darted toward the door.
“Rylee?”
She turned.
“This yours?” He held up a pink and yellow Vera Bradley messenger bag.
“Yes.” She took it and slipped it over her head, careful not to wince when the strap hit her sore shoulder. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
She backed up. “Right. Well. See ya, Karl. See ya, Romeo.”
With a quick wave, she stumbled out the door.
Chapter Two
Rylee wasn’t afraid of the dark. If anything, she preferred it. The tourists flooding Charleston all day cleared out of the Battery after sundown, so she had the wide streets and cobbled alleyways all to herself.
But now that she’d come face-to-face with the Robin Hood burglar—or face to foot, anyway—the possibility of running into him again put her on edge. He’d hit the Sebastian house in broad daylight, but most of his breakins had occurred in the dead of night.
Therefore, she’d decided to now start her evenings with the smallest and friendliest canines in her charge, saving her biggest dog, Toro, for the late-night walks.
“Nobody’s gonna mess with us.” Sitting on the Davidsons’ piazza, she gave Toro a vigorous scratch, then strapped on her rollerblades. “And if they do, you be sure to take a bite out of them. Okay, boy?”
The Argentino mastiff panted in response.
She slipped her bag across her shoulders, then stood and pushed off. The two of them headed up Meeting, then hooked a right on Tradd. Toro paused to do his business in front of the old tavern—the carved crescent moons on its green shutters signaled its purpose in the olden days. Across the street—and quite convenient—was what used to be a brothel. Its cream shutters sported hearts.
Rylee looked up and down the street wondering, not for the first time, what it would have been like to live at a time when the most recognizable icons weren’t golden arches, but hearts and moons.
A flash of movement down the alley caught her eye. Stiffening, she scrutinized the area. The darkness ebbed and flowed, making as many varied shapes as the clouds in the sky.
She tugged on Toro’s collar. “Come on, boy. Let’s get moving.”
They turned on East Battery and passed Romeo’s house. Toro began to slow, eventually stopping beside an old carriage post.
She shifted her weight, trying not to hurry him but anxious to keep moving. This particular spot evidently had some enticing smells, though, because she had a hard time drawing the mastiff away.
Glancing behind her, she gave the leash a determined yank.
“Come on, Toro.”
They cut across Atlantic Street to Meeting, then to South Battery. Less than an hour earlier, the antebellum homes opposite White Point Gardens had been ablaze with life. Now they sat dark and foreboding.
Swiveling on her rollerblades, she skated backward. No sign of anyone following. Nothing but a couple of streetlamps and a lot of black to hide in.
Toro trotted along, totally oblivious to the possibility of anyone lurking. Straining to listen, she heard nothing but the clack of her rollerblades and the treetops stirred by the balmy evening breeze.
She faced forward and looked at her watch. Eleven o’clock already. Just one more block to the waterfront, then they’d turn around.
Toro edged ahead on the straightaway, snapping the leather leash taut. His body strained with energy, pulling her forward, dispelling her worries with exhilarating speed. Her lips curved into a smile. She crouched lower on the rollerblades, letting Toro do the work.
This was what she loved about her job, the physical bond between walker and dog, the feeling she was invulnerable, at one with the world around her.
Toro halted abruptly, ears back, tail stiff. Rylee jerked to a stop, glancing back toward the alley. “What is it, boy?”
But it wasn’t the path behind them that held him riveted. He growled into the darkly wooded park up ahead. Following his gaze, she peered into the darkness.
A shape moved behind the hedges. The outline of a man—no, two men—materialized.
Her heart jumped. The figures crouched low to the ground; then one of them straightened and moved forward, coming straight for her.
She tried to speak, but no sound came out.
Toro leapt forward.
“No, Toro! Down! Down!” Grinding her blades against the concrete, she jerked back on his lead with both hands. But it was no use. She couldn’t stop him.
The leash threatened to slip through her palms, but she held tight. The last thing she wanted was to be separated from the mastiff.
Toro dragged her into the park, making a beeline for the men. The silhouettes froze for an instant, then bolted.
The first one cut sideways in the direction of a gazebo. As he passed through a gap in the trees, lamplight from overhead faintly illuminated him. A tall black man with something clenched in his pumping hand.
Her breath caught. A gun?
Toro ignored him, locking in on the other man, who fled toward the edge of the park. The man emerged from the trees onto a circular courtyard surrounding the Confederate Soldier Memorial. In the light, she saw he wore a baseball uniform.
Baseball uniform?
Before she could process that thought, Toro closed the gap, dragging her behind him like an anchor.
The man had nowhere to go. The only thing beyond the park was miles of bay. The moment he stopped for breath,
they’d be on top of him.
But he didn’t stop. He headed straight for the monument, never glancing back. He traversed the broad steps leading up to the pedestal, then took a running leap. His body sailed through the air, arms extended.
Rylee held her breath. No way was he going to reach the top of the pedestal. It was far too high. But his fingers hooked the edge of the stone, and after dangling a moment, he hoisted himself up.
Any other time, she’d have been impressed with his jump. Instead, she focused on the low brick wall surrounding the monument. She barely cleared it, her rollerblades slamming down on the opposite side.
As the memorial’s steps rushed up to meet her, she yanked again on Toro’s leash. Hard. There was no way she could navigate the steps at this speed.
But the mastiff wasn’t stopping. At the last moment, she let go of the leash, swerving to a breathless stop.
Toro launched himself against the pedestal, then threw his body again and again into the air, snapping at the man but unable to reach him.
He stared down at the dog wide-eyed. His face flushed, his chest heaving.
She wasn’t sure what to do. She glanced back into the park. Apart from pools of light here and there, the grounds were dark. A shadow flicked from one tree to another. A chill ran up her spine.
Was the other guy circling back? Would Toro be able to protect her from both men?
She dug through her bag—a jumble of leashes, poop bags, keys, a flashlight, and a water bottle—until she seized on the plastic body of her cell phone and dialed 9-1-1. Twice in one day.
“Yes. There are a couple of guys after me. Please hurry. I’m in White Point Gardens by the Confederate Memorial. I have one of the men cornered.”
“What are you doing?” the man shouted in disbelief.
She glanced at him again. His muscles were taut, his face twisted in outrage.
After answering the dispatcher’s questions, Rylee hung up, only to realize she’d cut off her lifeline. Hesitating, she slid the phone into her cardigan pocket, then peered into the surrounding darkness. Nothing moved.
Behind her, Toro placed his paws on the base of the statue and gave out a deep, booming bark.
The man shimmied farther up the statue’s leg. “Call that albino off!”
She continued to scan the area, resenting the man’s tone. “He’s not an albino. He’s an Argentino mastiff.”
“Whatever he is, just call him off!”
She whirled around. “You call off your friend!”
His laugh caught her off guard. “He’s long gone. Now will you please get control of your dog? I can’t stay up here all night.”
His exasperation seemed real enough, but she wasn’t about to put her back to the park. Gliding to the front of the statue, she positioned herself where she could see both the shadowed grounds and the guy in the baseball getup.
His blue T-shirt, which had Mets plastered across it in big red cursive letters, stretched tightly across his muscled chest. Rust-colored dirt had been ground into his silver pants. He lifted his blue cap, wiped his brow against his sleeve, and gave her a hopeful grin.
She bit her lip. Maybe she’d acted too fast calling the police. Looking at him now, he seemed harmless enough. But why had he been hiding in the dark? Why had he run? Maybe he and his cohort had been canvassing the houses opposite the park.
She unsnapped her blades just in case the other guy showed up. She didn’t want Toro dragging her right to him.
The man glanced at the dog nervously. “Why’d you call the cops? You think I’m some kind of pervert or something?”
“Or something.”
“Dressed like this?” He plucked at his T-shirt, prompting Toro to let out a low growl. “Listen, we were just taking a few photos.”
“In the dark? From behind the bushes?”
“We’re on an assignment.”
“An assignment?”
“That’s right.” He sighed. “My name is Logan Woods. I’m a reporter for the Post & Courier. I’ve been covering the Robin Hood burglaries. Maybe you’ve read one of my stories?” Reaching into his back pocket, he gingerly removed a thick brown billfold.
Toro leapt to attention and started to salivate.
“Here’s my business card.” The card flicked toward her, spiraling to the ground.
Holding the card to the light, she recognized the newspaper’s logo. There was his name in black ink. Anyone could print up fake business cards these days, but this one looked legit.
She glanced at him again. This is the guy who wrote the articles on the robberies? A sinking feeling came over her.
Her idea of a reporter was a pale, paunchy, middle-aged man, and Logan Woods was anything but. He looked as if he spent more time at the gym pumping weight—lots of weight—than sitting behind some desk.
His muscles had mouth-watering definition. Thighs that bulged, a stomach as flat as a wall, a chest that swelled, and serious biceps.
Flashing lights lit up East Battery. Seconds later, a squad car pulled up to the curb. A young officer climbed out of the driver’s seat, slipped a nightstick into the loop on his belt, and headed in their direction.
“Rylee Monroe?” The officer took in her stocking feet, Toro, and the man hugging the statue. “I’m Officer Kirk. You all right?”
“Yes, but there’s another man out there somewhere.”
As Kirk scanned the trees with his flashlight, an old Mustang rattled up behind the squad car. The engine cut off and another baseball player in a Mets jersey jumped out.
Kirk saw the man and straightened. “Detective. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Just passing through after the game to make sure everything was quiet. Saw your lights and figured I’d lend a hand. What’s up?”
“Not sure yet, sir. I was dispatched here on a prowler call.”
The detective inspected the man on the statue. His jutting face caught the gold light, dominated by a prow-like pointer of a nose. He ran a hand over his bristling crew cut, then burst into a grin.
Rylee frowned. “Who are you?”
He flipped his badge open. “Detective Campbell, ma’am. Looks like you caught a live one there.”
“Very funny,” Logan said.
She glanced from one man to the other. “You know him?”
The detective hitched up his baseball pants. “ ’Fraid so.”
“So he’s not a burglar?”
“Why don’t you tell us what happened.”
“This man and another one were prowling—”
Logan laughed. “We weren’t prowling.”
“—were creeping in the shadows along South Battery when my dog here spotted them and they took off running.”
“I didn’t run until that thing charged me.”
Campbell shook his head. “What’s the matter, Logan? This little critter scare you?”
“You’d be up here too if that snarling albino was coming at you with his teeth bared.”
“Is he friendly?” Campbell asked, pointing to Toro.
“Yes, sir.” She patted the dog between the ears. “Very loving and gentle. His name’s Toro.”
Officer Kirk’s walkie-talkie let out a blast of static. He turned down the volume, then looked at Rylee. “You live around here, ma’am?”
“Actually, I’m pet sitting for someone who lives in the neighborhood.” She rummaged through her bag for her address book, producing a creased business card from inside the cover. Kirk looked at the card, then passed it to Campbell.
All she wanted was to get out of there. If the man on the statue really was a reporter—and by now, it was obvious he’d been telling the truth—she owed him an apology.
Her cheeks burned with embarrassment, and she had a hard time meeting his gaze. She waited for the officers to declare it all a misunderstanding, so she could apologize and get going.
Perched on the statue, every muscle in his body burning, Logan finally ran out of patience. The whole thing w
as absurd, and he couldn’t believe it was still dragging on. The woman should have realized right away she’d made a mistake. She should have gotten her animal under control and let him come down. Instead, she’d dragged the police out, and Nate Campbell showed no sign of resolving the situation speedily.
He was probably having fun. It wasn’t every night Nate had a pretty, long-legged girl in his power, and he wasn’t going to rush things any.
Pretty was an understatement. Once she’d come into the light and he’d had a chance to take a closer look, Logan had seen right away that the dogwalker was stunning. Tall and slim, moving with graceful poise in spite of her apparent fear, her cheekbones framed by the jagged tips of her stylish pixie haircut.
And Nate was just eating it up.
“Aren’t you guys forgetting something here?” he called down. “I’m the one who was attacked. What if I want to press charges for assault with a deadly weapon?”
“Toro did not assault you.” She put a hand on her hip. “And he’s not a deadly weapon. He wouldn’t have done anything at all if you hadn’t run.”
“I’d be in the hospital if I hadn’t run.” He gave Nate a pointed look. “Are you gonna help me out?”
Now that he’d had his fun, Nate put on his serious-cop face. “Actually, miss, this man does have the right to walk in the park without fear of molestation by your dog.”
“Walk in the park?” Her jaw dropped. “He wasn’t walking, he was lurking.” She jabbed her finger toward the trees. “And he had somebody else with him—”
“Your dog charged this man and drove him up onto that statue.” He paused and looked at Logan. “How did you get up there, anyway?”
Logan peered down at the cobbled circle bounding the memorial, shaking his head at the height. “If I knew I’d tell you. I’m sure it was impressive.”
Nate snorted.
The dogwalker’s eyes flared with outrage. “This isn’t funny.
Maybe I was wrong, but I really thought this man was a threat to me.”
Logan had looked forward to this woman’s comeuppance, but if she’d really been afraid, if she’d thought someone was after her . . .
“Hey, Nate. It’s all right. I can see why she was startled.”
