by Beverly Long
Waking up had been a relief.
She showered, put on white capri pants and a blue shirt and caught the five-o’clock bus. Thirty minutes later, it dropped her off a block from OCM. The morning air was heavy with humidity. It had the makings of another ninety-degree day.
She entered the security code, unlocked the front door, entered and then reset the code. She didn’t bother to go downstairs to her office, heading instead to the small kitchen at the rear of the first floor. She started a pot of coffee, pouring a cup before the pot was even half-full. She took a sip, burned her tongue and swallowed anyway. She needed caffeine.
While she waited for her bagel to toast, she thought about Detective Montgomery. When he’d walked away, in the wake of Howard’s insults, she’d wanted to run after him, to apologize, to make him understand that she’d do what she could to help him.
As long as it didn’t put Mary in any danger.
But she hadn’t. When Howard had hustled her back inside the hotel, she’d gone without protest. Jamison had made it abundantly clear. Attendees had coughed up two hundred bucks a plate. If they wanted to dance, you danced. If they needed a drink, you fetched it. If they wanted conversation, you talked.
Liz had danced, fetched, talked and smiled through it all. Even after her toes had been stepped on for the eighteenth time. No politician could have done better. She’d done it on autopilot. It hadn’t helped when Carmen had come up, fanning herself, and said, “Who was that?”
“Detective Montgomery,” Liz had explained.
“I suspect I don’t have to state the obvious,” Carmen had said, “but the man is hot.”
Liz had almost laughed. Carmen hadn’t even heard the man talk. Or felt the man’s chest muscles when he’d held her close—not too close but close enough. She hadn’t smelled his clean, fresh scent.
Detective Montgomery wasn’t just hot; he was smoking hot.
Her bagel popped just as she heard the front door open. She relaxed when she didn’t hear the alarm. Who else, she wondered, was crazy enough to come to work at five-thirty in the morning?
When she heard Jamison’s office door open, she almost dropped her bagel. He probably hadn’t gotten home much before two.
She spread cream cheese evenly on both sides and started a second pot of coffee. Jamison was perhaps the only person on earth who loved coffee more than she did. She had her cup and her bagel balanced in one hand and had just slung her purse over her shoulder when she heard the front door close again.
She eased the kitchen door open and glanced down the narrow hallway. Empty. All the office doors remained closed. “Hello?”
No answer. She walked down the hallway, knocked on Jamison’s door and then tried the handle. It didn’t turn.
She walked down the steps to the lower level. Her office door and all the others were shut. “Good morning?” she sang out, a bit louder this time.
The only sound she heard was her own breathing.
Liz ran up the stairs, swearing softly when the hot coffee splashed out of the cup and burned her hand. She checked the front door. Locked. Alarm set.
She relaxed. It had to have been Jamison. What would have possessed him to come in so early and leave so quickly? She hoped nothing was wrong. She walked back downstairs and unlocked her office. It was darker than usual because no light spilled through the boarded-up window.
She had to admit that the wood made her feel better. Maybe she’d ask Jamison to leave it that way for a while. At least until she got her nerves under control.
Rationally, she didn’t put much stock in the letter. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that one of her clients or their partners had decided to jerk her chain a little. It didn’t make her feel any better, however, to think that the shooter had been aiming for Mary.
She intended to somehow make the girl open up to her, to tell her if there was any connection between her and Dantel Mirandez. But in the meantime, she needed to get busy. She sat down behind her desk and opened the top file. Mary was not the only client who was close to delivery. Just two days before, Melissa Stroud had been in Liz’s office. They’d reviewed the information on Mike and Mindy Partridge, and Melissa had agreed to let the couple adopt her soon-to-be-born child. Liz needed to get the necessary information to Howard so that he could get the paperwork done.
At twenty minutes to eight, she heard the front door open again. Heavy footsteps pounded down the stairs, and within seconds, her boss stuck his head through the open doorway.
“Hey, Liz. Nice window.”
She shook her head. “Morning, Jamison. How are you?”
“Exhausted. It ended up being a late night. We didn’t leave the hotel until they pushed us out the door. Then Reneé and I and a couple others went out for breakfast. I didn’t want to say no to any potential donors. I’ve got a heck of a headache, though. It was probably that last vodka tonic.”
“Jamison, you know better.” Liz smiled at her boss. “Had you been to bed yet when you stopped by here this morning?”
“This morning? What are you talking about?”
“You stopped in about six. I had coffee made, but you left before I could catch you.”
“Liz, how many glasses of wine did you have last night?”
Liz dismissed his concern with a wave of her hand. “Two. That’s my limit.”
“Well, you may want to cut back to one. Reneé had set the alarm for seven, and we slept through that. I barely had time for a two-minute shower just to get here by now.”
Liz shook her head, trying to make sense out of what Jamison said. “I heard the door. The alarm didn’t go off. I’m sure I heard your office door open. But when I came out, there was nobody around.”
“It must have been a car door.”
“No, it wasn’t,” Liz protested.
“Then it was Cynthia or Carmen or one of the other staff. Although I can’t imagine why anybody would have gotten up early after last night. What were you doing here?”
“Mary Thorton is coming at eight. I wanted to get some stuff done first.” No need to tell Jamison that she’d been running from her dreams. He already thought she was losing her mind.
“Have you talked to her since the shooting? Poor kid. She must be pretty shook up.”
“I’m sure she was. Detective Montgomery thinks she knows more than she’s letting on.”
“Is that why he came to the dance last night?”
Liz was surprised. Jamison rarely noticed anything that didn’t directly concern him. But then again, Detective Montgomery had a way about him that commanded attention.
“Yes.”
“At least he wasn’t in uniform. That wouldn’t have been good for donations. How do you think the party went?” Jamison asked, sitting down on one of Liz’s chairs.
“People seemed to have a good time,” Liz hedged. When his eyes lit up, her guilt vanished. He could be a bit self-centered and pushy, but Liz knew he’d do almost anything for OCM. She would, too.
Even spend an evening with Howard Fraypish, who had been Jamison’s college roommate. After college, Jamison had taken a job in social services and married Reneé. Howard had gone to law school, graduated at the top of his class, married his corporate job and produced billable hours. Lots of them, evidently. The man had a huge apartment with a view of Lake Michigan, and he’d opened his own law office at least five years ago.
The two men had stayed connected over the years, and when Jamison had been hired
as the executive director of OCM, he’d hired Howard’s firm to handle the adoptions.
“Want a warm-up?” Jamison asked, nodding at Liz’s empty cup.
“Sure.”
They walked upstairs to the kitchen. Liz had poured her cup and handed the glass pot to Jamison when his cell phone rang. Liz started to walk away, stopping suddenly when she heard the glass pot hit the tile floor.
She whirled around. Jamison stood still, his phone in one hand and his other empty. Shards of glass and spilled coffee surrounded him.
“Jamison?” She started back toward her boss.
“There’s a bomb in my office.” He spoke without emotion. “It’s set to go off in fifteen minutes.”
Chapter Three
Detective Sawyer Montgomery arrived just minutes after the bomb squad had disarmed, dismantled and disconnected—she wasn’t sure of the technical term—the bomb that had been left in the middle of Jamison’s desk. It had taken them eleven minutes to arrive. The longest eleven minutes of Liz’s life.
Beat cops had been on the scene within minutes of the 911 call that Liz had made from Jamison’s phone after she’d pulled him, his phone and herself from the building. They’d blocked off streets and rousted people from their apartments. OCM’s neighbors, many still in their pajamas, had poured from the nearby buildings. Mothers with small children in their arms, old people barely able to maneuver the steps, all were hustled behind a hastily tacked-up stretch of yellow police tape.
Liz had wondered if Detective Montgomery would come. She hated to admit it, but she’d considered calling him. In those first frantic moments before help had arrived, she’d desperately hoped for someone capable. And Detective Montgomery absolutely screamed capable. She doubted the man ever encountered anything he couldn’t handle.
But now that he’d arrived, Liz wanted to run. She couldn’t decide if she wanted to run to him to seek shelter in his embrace or run far from him to protect herself from his intensity, his questions, his knowing looks.
Liz watched him get out of the car and scan the crowd. He said something to the man who rode with him. Liz knew the exact moment he spotted her. It didn’t matter that three hundred yards separated them. Liz felt the shiver run up her arm just as if he’d touched her.
“What the hell happened?” he asked when he reached her.
Liz swallowed, trying very hard not to cry. How ridiculous would that be? No one had been hurt. No one injured. And she hadn’t even thought about crying until Detective Montgomery had approached.
“Bomb threat,” she said. “Actually, more than a threat, I guess. The bomb squad removed it just a few minutes ago.”
“Where was it?”
“In the middle of my boss’s desk. In a brown sack.” The tears that she’d dreaded sprang to her eyes.
“Hey.” Detective Montgomery reached out and touched her arm. “Are you okay?”
He sounded so concerned. That almost made the dam break. “I’m fine, really. Everyone’s just been great.”
Detective Montgomery frowned at her, but he didn’t let go. The most delicious heat spread up her arm.
“Come over here.” He guided her toward the curb.
“Okay.” Whatever he wanted. As long as she didn’t have to think. Because then she’d think about it, the bomb and the look on Jamison’s face. She’d remember the pure panic she’d felt as they’d run from the building.
He pulled his hand away, and Liz felt the immediate loss of heat all the way to her stomach, which was odd since his hand had been nowhere near her stomach. He unbuttoned his suit coat, took it off and folded it. He placed it on the cement curb. “Why don’t you sit down?” he suggested, pointing at his coat.
“I can sit on cement,” she protested.
“Not and keep those...short pants clean,” he said. His face turned red. “I know there’s a word for them, but I can’t think of it right now.”
He was smokin’ hot when he was serious and damn cute when he was embarrassed. It was a heck of a combination. “They’re called capri pants.”
He smiled. “It might have come to me.”
Oh, boy. She sat down. She knew she needed to before she swooned. “I’m sure it would have, Detective Montgomery.”
“Sawyer,” Detective Montgomery said. “Just Sawyer is fine.”
Liz nodded. The man was just being polite. After all, in a span of less than forty-eight hours, their paths had crossed three times. They weren’t strangers any longer. She was sitting on his coat. “Liz is fine, too,” she mumbled.
“Liz,” he repeated.
She liked the way the z rolled off his tongue. She liked the way all the consonants and the vowels, too, for that matter, rolled off his tongue. It was a molten chocolate center bubbling out of a freshly baked cake. Smooth. Enticing.
Maybe he could read her the dictionary for the next week.
“I need to ask you some questions,” he said.
She wasn’t going to get a week. “Sure.” Why the heck not? Together they sat on the faded gray cement, hips close, thighs almost touching. Liz wanted to lean her head against his broad shoulder but knew that would startle the hell out of him.
She settled for closing her eyes. It seemed like a lifetime ago that she’d crawled out of bed and caught the five-o’clock bus.
“Sawyer?”
Liz opened her eyes. The man who had been with Sawyer when he’d arrived now stood in front of the two of them. He was an inch taller and probably ten pounds heavier than Sawyer. He had the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.
Was the sky raining gorgeous men?
“What did you find out?” Sawyer spoke to the man.
“Bomb, all right. Big enough that it would have done some damage. Quick to shut down. Looks like they wanted to make it easy for us.”
Sawyer didn’t say anything.
“Who are you?” Liz asked.
The man’s face lit up with a broad smile showing perfect teeth. “I’m Detective Robert Hanson. My partner has no manners. Otherwise, he’d have introduced us.”
“I’m Liz Mayfield.”
“I guessed that. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I—”
“What else?” Sawyer interrupted his partner.
Detective Hanson shrugged. “We’ll get the lab reports back this afternoon. Don’t expect much. Guys thought it looked like a professional job.”
“Professional?” Sawyer shook his head. “Half the kids in high school know how to build a bomb.”
“True.” Detective Hanson stared at Sawyer. “Did you get her statement?”
“Not yet,” Sawyer said, pulling a notebook and pen from his pocket.
Detective Hanson frowned at both of them. Then he turned toward Liz. “Who got in first this morning?”
“I did,” she said. “I got here about five-thirty.”
Sawyer looked up from his notebook. “Short night?”
Liz shrugged, not feeling the need to explain.
“Door locked when you got here, Ms. Mayfield?” Detective Hanson asked.
“Yes. After I came in, I locked it again and reset the alarm.”
“You sure?”
“I’m usually the first person in. I know the routine.”
“Did you see anything unusual once you got inside?”
“No. I went to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee.”
“Then what?”
“I heard the front door, and then I thought I heard Jamison’s door open. It appears I was right.”
“You didn’t see anybody?” Detective Hanson continued.
“No. When I left the kitchen, I looked around.”
“Then what—”
“You looked around?” Sawyer interrupted his partn
er.
“Yes.”
“You should have called the police.”
She frowned at him. His tone had an edge to it. “I can’t call the police every time I hear a door.”
“You got a threat mailed to your office, and then shots were fired through your window,” Sawyer said. “Maybe you should have given that some thought before you decided to investigate.”
“Maybe we should keep going.” Detective Hanson spoke to Sawyer. “You’re taking notes, right?”
Sawyer didn’t respond.
“After I looked around—” she emphasized the words “—I went down to my office and started working. After Jamison arrived, we came upstairs for coffee.”
“What time was that?”
“Almost eight. Jamison’s cell phone rang and then...we called 911. That’s about it.”
“It sounds like you stayed pretty calm. That takes a lot of guts.” Detective Hanson smiled at her again.
She smiled back this time. “Thank you.”
Sawyer grabbed Robert’s arm. “Come on. Let’s go. I want to talk to the boss.”
Liz stood—so quickly that her head started to spin. She picked up Sawyer’s suit coat, shook it and thrust it out to him. “Don’t forget this,” she said.
He reached for it, and their fingers brushed. The fine hairs on her arm reacted with a mind of their own. What the heck was going on? She’d never ever had this kind of physical reaction to a man. Especially not one who acted as if he might think she was an idiot.
Sawyer jerked his own arm back. “I’ll...uh...talk to you later,” he said. Great. She had him tripping over his own tongue.
Sawyer got twenty feet before Robert managed to catch him. “Hang on,” he said. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Sawyer shook his head. “Just forget it.”
“You act like an idiot and think I’m going to forget it?”
