The Lawman and the Lady

by Pat Warren

  Nick noticed her faraway look and wondered why she didn’t make it a point to attend a close friend’s wedding. She seemed genuinely pleased at both friends’ good fortune in finding happiness the second time around, yet there was an underlying sadness in her voice. “Since they’re both well-off, have either of these women offered to help Maggie with her financial difficulties?” He was wandering off the subject, but she’d aroused his curiosity. He wanted to know what kind of people her best friends were.

  “They sure did. After Molly married Devin, they offered to pay Maggie’s overdue taxes, calling it a loan to salvage her pride. But Maggie refused. Laura has access to a large trust fund and she offered as well, but again Maggie wouldn’t go for it.”

  “What about you?” Nick asked, wondering if it was the cop or the man wanting to know.

  Tate squared her slender shoulders and her green eyes turned frosty. “I’m not rich nor do I have a wealthy husband, but I help Maggie all I can. I pay rent, pay her for watching my son when I’m at work, buy groceries and I help out around the house. Is that what you wanted to know?”

  Nick drew in a deep breath and wished he hadn’t as the lightly floral scent of her wrapped around him. He managed to hold his ground, but not easily. “What about the boy’s father?”

  Tate’s expression tightened. “He’s been out of the picture for years.” She narrowed her eyes, not bothering to hide her annoyance. “Anything else?”

  Nick pocketed his notepad and pen. “I’ll need to go through the house and check the inventory as soon as possible. I’d like you to be there to let me know what if anything is missing.”

  Shoving her hands into her slacks pockets, Tate looked up at the ceiling, praying for patience. Why had she been naive enough to think this conversation would end her involvement? “I want to stay with Maggie for a while yet. I can meet you at the house about four.” She turned, anxious to walk away from his scrutinizing gaze.

  “That’s fine.” He knew his next statement would probably rock her, but she had to be told sooner or later. “And I’ll want to talk with your son.”

  Frowning, she swung back. “Why?”

  “The first officer to arrive on the scene wrote in his report that Maggie told him that the man in the ski mask kept asking where Josh was. Would you happen to know why that would be?”

  The blood drained from Tate’s face as she reached a hand to the arched wall to steady herself. No, please, no. It couldn’t be starting all over again, just when things had settled down. How long must she keep running?

  Her protective instincts on red alert, Tate straightened and licked her dry lips, trying belatedly to conceal her reaction from this observant detective. “No, I don’t. Josh has known Maggie all his life. Seeing her hurt like this is very hard on him. I won’t have him interrogated.”

  Nick almost smiled, but knew that wouldn’t win him any points with this mama bear protecting her cub. “I seldom grill little boys. I’d simply like to talk with Josh. With you present, of course. There has to be a reason the intruder asked about Josh, and perhaps whatever that is will be the key to his identity. You do want us to catch the man who did this to Maggie, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do.” Her words were clipped, angry. Guilt and fear mingled with her need to safeguard her son. Tate felt torn and very tired. “Please understand, I need to shield my son. He’s been through a great deal in his short life.” With that, she turned and left the alcove, walking quickly back to Maggie’s room.

  Watching her go, Nick wondered what exactly Josh had been through to make his mother so protective, and where his absentee father was. He’d have to be careful, to go slowly in questioning both the boy and his mother. Someone had hurt Tate Monroe, hurt her badly. He hoped he could convince her that he was one of the good guys.

  After stopping at the precinct to make a few calls, Nick Bennett drove his Taurus out of the parking lot heading for Maggie’s house on Mesquite Drive. He was in one of his infrequent reflective moods.

  For as long as he could remember, Nick had wanted to be a cop like his uncle Paul, a homicide detective up in Phoenix, much to the dismay of his parents. His father, Anthony, who’d been a building contractor until his recent retirement, had wanted Nick to go into business with his two older brothers, Tony and Sam, who now owned and operated their lucrative construction firm. But, although Nick had spent his high school and college summers working for Bennett Construction, he knew he wasn’t cut out for that kind of work.

  It hadn’t been easy disappointing his family, especially his mother, who wasn’t happy about the dangerous side of his chosen profession. Ten years later, since he’d never had to fire his weapon in the line of duty and never been injured, Roseanne Bennett was relaxing. A little.

  The thing was, when a man came from a big, loving Italian background where family was the most important thing, going against their wishes made him feel like a rat abandoning ship. Fortunately they’d set aside their disappointment and these days, his dangerous work was rarely mentioned. Now, all he heard was their nagging about when was he going to get married and give them grandchildren like his two brothers and two sisters had. Always something, Nick thought, but with a smile.

  All this introspection had been brought about by his conversation with Tate Monroe. She was a woman alone raising a son and living with a widow who had no family left. Nick thought about the weekly dinners and holiday get-togethers at his parents’ big cluttered house, everyone talking at once, laughter and lots of good food, and he felt sorry for those who didn’t have that kind of camaraderie and unqualified acceptance.

  Which brought him back to wondering just exactly what it was that Josh Monroe had been through in his short life. Nick couldn’t imagine having children without his family’s moral support. Where was Tate’s family?

  Nick pulled up in front of Maggie’s sprawling white house at exactly four, but the only vehicle nearby was the police car belonging to the officer guarding the house since the front door lock had been broken. Mesquite Drive was a narrow street in an older neighborhood of mostly two-story frame homes painted a variety of colors and sporting wide front porches. A teenage boy rode by on a bicycle, balancing a friend on his handlebars, both staring at him. Across the street, an older woman pulling a grocery cart stopped to talk with a middle-aged man trimming his shrubs, their eyes on him. Next door, a man with white hair put down the newspaper he was reading and eyed him, openly curious. Crime scenes always interested people.

  Getting out, he wondered if Tate had calmed down or if she’d stand him up.

  The yellow crime scene tape was still in place. Nick stepped around it and greeted the officer sitting on a rocking chair on the wood porch painted a deep gray. “Hey, Bobby. How’s it going?”

  The young officer scrambled to his feet. “Pretty quiet, Nick. A few nosy neighbors gawking is all.”

  “I’m expecting one of the occupants soon. I’ll wait for her inside. Has a locksmith been called?”

  “On his way.”

  Nick checked out the jimmied lock and wondered where all Maggie’s neighbors had been that one hadn’t noticed this guy messing with her door, then going in. And why had Maggie marched right in when she’d returned home and found the lock broken? The woman was too gutsy for her own good.

  Inside, he stopped, hands on hips, looking around. What a mess! Cushions yanked off the couch and tossed on the floor, books and curios from the bookcase flung aside, the desk drawers methodically upended and emptied. The man left no space untouched.

  Then the fingerprint guys had come through dusting every surface with fine black powder. When Tate saw this, she’d be horrified. No sooner had the thought formed than he heard a car with a wheezing engine pull into the driveway. Glancing out the window, he saw Tate and her son climb out of an older yellow Buick LeBaron convertible. A ’92 or ’93 he’d guess and probably had the mileage to prove it.

  Her arm protectively around the boy’s shoulders, Tate guided Josh onto
the porch and nodded to the officer who greeted them both.

  “Is that yellow tape necessary now?” she asked the police officer. “People are driving by and staring.”

  Nick answered for him. “Officer, you can take the tape down now.” He held the door open for them, aware this would be her first glimpse of the wreckage.

  “Thanks,” Tate said, stepping inside. She looked around, her lips thinning, the hand on her son’s shoulder tightening. Otherwise, she gave no sign of how upset she must be inside. Nick had seen worse, but she probably hadn’t.

  “Listen,” he began, “I can call this cleaning crew that we recommend. They’re honest, reasonable and work fast. Why don’t I help you look through things to see if anything’s missing, then I’ll call them to do the heavy stuff?”

  She’d wandered to the large kitchen where canisters of coffee and sugar and flour had been emptied onto the floor, some dishes smashed as if in an angry frenzy, doors to the cupboards hanging open, spice containers helter-skelter on the counter. Tate felt her shoulders sag at the enormity of the cleanup task. But she couldn’t afford to pay a crew no matter how reasonable they were. And this was her obligation, not Maggie’s.

  Since her frightening conversation with the detective at the hospital, all she’d been able to think of was that her worst nightmare was beginning all over again. He’d tracked her down and found her again, just when she’d begun to think he’d forgotten all about her. And now Maggie was hurt and Josh was in danger. Where could she go? Where could they hide? Would this ordeal ever end, and end happily?

  Nick couldn’t tell if the weary look on Tate’s face had to do with the mess she was facing or something else. When she turned, he caught a hint of fear in her eyes. Anyone who’s experienced a home invasion would have lingering fear, but he had a feeling she was afraid of something else. “Tate, did you hear me?” he asked gently.

  “I heard you. We can’t afford a cleanup crew. I’ll manage.” She placed her shoulder bag on the kitchen table, just about the only clean spot in the room as Josh spotted something and rushed over to a box upended near the back door. “What is it, sweetie?”

  Kneeling, the boy choked back a sob. “My…my Pokémon cards. They’re all over and some of them got wet.” Obviously upset, he tried to pick up the scattered cards.

  Moving to his side, Tate felt her heart twist. The new craze of collecting Pokémon cards and playing games with them had been the first thing Josh had shown real interest in in ages. She’d bought him as many as she could afford and Maggie had found a tin box to store his collection. “Don’t worry, honey. You pick up the dry ones and I’ll clean off the others. They’ll be okay.”

  Having watched the scene, Nick wandered over. “I have two nephews who collect these, too.” He stooped down and began to help the boy. “Which are your favorites?”

  Josh looked at him suspiciously, moving closer to his mother. Tate had explained to him on the way over that Maggie’s place had been trashed by bad guys and that the police were going to catch them. He’d been okay with that, but it was hard to tell the bad guys from the good ones sometimes, especially if you were seven, she thought.

  She brushed a lock of her son’s blond hair off his forehead. “Josh, Mr. Bennett’s a detective. He’s going to find out who hurt Maggie and made this mess. It’s okay. He’s here to help us.” Tate prayed she was right, that Nick could find the person responsible and put him away for good. But if her worst fears were realized, she doubted that, even if identified, any investigation would get to the arrest stage. Unfortunately some people were above the law.

  It was hard to tell if Josh believed his mother since he didn’t answer Nick, but he did accept his help. Tate watched for a few minutes, then straightened. “I have to change clothes before I can start here. I’ll check to see if I find anything missing as soon as I return. Josh, come upstairs with me, please.”

  Left alone, Nick decided this was way too large a job for one small woman. He found a utility closet next to the back door and pulled out a broom and dustpan. Then he went to work sweeping up the kitchen floor.

  Changed into a navy T-shirt and jeans, Tate brushed her hair back, trying to tame the unruly waves, then quickly formed a ponytail. Her mind, however, was downstairs focusing on the mess someone had made of dear Maggie’s home. And it was most likely her fault, all her fault. That sharp-eyed detective was already suspicious of her answers to his many questions. She’d have to watch that.

  Sitting down, Tate pulled on her white canvas shoes and stooped to tie them. She hadn’t known many cops, except the ones who’d come to her apartment a while back when someone she’d once trusted had sent a man to try to persuade her to give up her son. The police had taken lots of notes of her vague answers to their questions and then advised her to get a restraining order. How could she file charges against one of the most powerful men in the state, someone respected and admired by nearly everyone? She knew no one would believe her.

  Familiar guilt washed over Tate as she sat still for a moment. One mistake and look at the ramifications, all these years later and all the years in between. That mistake had cost her dearly and now was probably the cause of Maggie’s beating. Fortunately the older woman would recover. But if Maggie had died…

  No, she wouldn’t allow herself to go there. Rising, Tate took a deep breath and swallowed the old guilt as she’d done many times before. They’d get through this somehow.

  She passed by Josh’s room and saw that he was busily playing with his Pokémon cards, talking to himself, involved. Relieved that he was handling the break-in and that the intruder hadn’t made it to the second floor, she started downstairs. Probably Maggie arriving home had interrupted his search.

  At the archway into the kitchen, Tate stopped, staring. Nick had taken off his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. His shoulder holster, the gun barely visible, was a stark reminder of his profession. But that wasn’t the astonishing part. The floor had been swept clean, the broken dishes piled into the trash bin and Nick was busily wiping off the counter. “Hey, what are you doing?” she asked, surprised enough to blurt out her first thought.

  He glanced over as he turned on the faucet to rinse some lingering sugar down the drain. “Just giving you a hand.” He saw the play of emotions on her face—surprise, annoyance, relief.

  Hands on her hips, she walked over. “Do you pitch right in like this for every case you handle? Must keep you pretty busy.”

  Nick shrugged. “I’ve got the time. If you won’t let me call out a crew, then I’m volunteering.”

  She was clearly taken aback. “But I…” The doorbell ringing startled her. She swung around, a question in her eyes.

  “Easy,” Nick said, wiping his hands on a towel. “It’s just the locksmith. Come tell him what kind you want installed. You really should have a dead bolt.” He urged her toward the living room.

  Silly to just about jump out of her skin at the sound of the doorbell, Tate told herself. The last thing an intruder would do would be to ring the bell. Besides, the young police officer was still outside. It was just her nerves, that was all.

  While she talked with the locksmith, Nick watched her. In that casual outfit, her hair in a youthful ponytail, she looked younger. But there was no disguising that lush body, even though her clothes were anything but tight. She must have guys lined up at both doors.

  When she finished, Tate turned and saw that Nick was picking up books and making piles by the bookcase. “Honestly, you don’t have to do this.”

  Nick set down a small stack, then faced her. “Can you just say thank you and let it go at that?”

  Her eyes narrowing, she couldn’t help wondering what he’d want in payment. “I’m not used to accepting help without…without…”

  “Without someone wanting something in return?” He shoved a pile of paperbacks onto a high shelf. “Well, that isn’t the case here. Why don’t you check out the desk? If something’s missing, it’s probably from the
re.”

  Okay, she’d take him at face value, Tate decided. At least until he showed his true colors. Which he probably would sooner or later.

  It took Tate quite a while to sort out the piles of scattered papers and repack the desk drawers and the big file drawer. By the time she’d finished, Nick had completed the bookcase, straightened all the lamp shades, put the pillows back on the couch and had just dragged out the vacuum.

  “As far as I can see, nothing’s missing,” Tate told him as she rose from the desk chair. “Of course, it’s Maggie’s desk and I don’t know what all she had in it. We’ll know more when she takes a look.”

  “Were there any valuable papers in there and are they still there?”

  “Yes, a few. Maggie doesn’t have a safe-deposit box. The deed to her house, an insurance policy, her will, even her bankbook are in those files, neatly labeled.” She shook her head. “I can’t imagine what he was looking for.” Even if it was the man she suspected, she could think of only one thing he’d want and that couldn’t be hidden on a shelf or in a cupboard.

  Nick seemed lost in thought, Tate noticed. Funny how he managed to look even more masculine with one hand leaning on the handle of a vacuum. One of the few men who could carry that off.

  “Apparently he didn’t find what he was looking for,” Nick mused aloud. Or was it who? Like maybe her son? He swung his gaze to Tate and saw her watching him. Though her expression was cautious, it wasn’t devious. Since he’d told her the man had pressed Maggie for Josh’s whereabouts, hadn’t she figured out what he was searching for? “What about an address book? Does Maggie have one and is it still there?”

  Tate moved back, opened the middle drawer and held out an aged leather address book. When he walked over, she handed it to him without a word.

  Nick flipped through it, seemingly casual, but when he got to the M’s, he stopped. Tate Monroe’s name was written in a shaky script like all the other entries, but there was no address or phone number next to it.