Buried Secrets

by Irene Hannon

  No more flirting today.

  Turning away from the remains of her meal, he caught sight of a small, palm-sized device. A pager?

  Who used pagers these days?

  As he leaned closer to examine it, her office door swung open.

  “I hope Tally kept you comp—” She came to an abrupt halt, her smile fading.

  Great. First he flirts, then he gets caught nosing around her office.

  His orchestrated trip to West County wasn’t going anything like he’d planned.

  He straightened up. “I was checking out the view.” Lame, lame, lame.

  “It’s just a parking lot.” Her tone was cool and flat.

  “I noticed.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. Might as well give her the whole story. “To tell you the truth, I needed to get the blood moving, so I was wandering around while I waited for you to come back. I didn’t get enough sleep last night.”

  Her rigid stance seemed to soften slightly.

  Or was that wishful thinking?

  “I expect entertaining your brothers requires a fair amount of energy and stamina. Are they the culprit for your lack of shut-eye?”

  “Yeah.” But not for the reason she’d suggested.

  “I thought SEALs were trained to go without sleep for extended periods.”

  “I’m not a SEAL anymore.”

  “Getting soft?” A flicker of amusement sparked in those hazel irises.

  “Must be. But don’t ever tell Lance or Finn I admitted that.”

  That earned him a real smile. “My lips are sealed.”

  He skirted around the edge of her U-shaped desk, and she sidled past him as they exchanged places.

  “For the record, I didn’t touch any of your files or your computer.” He retook his seat beside Tally.

  She slid into her chair. “I’m sure you didn’t. Sorry for overreacting. Seeing someone hovering over my desk brought back a few . . . unpleasant memories.”

  “Want to share them?” The question was out before he could stop it.

  She gathered up the remains of her lunch and dumped them in the trash can. When she continued, her words were measured and careful. “Let’s just say being a female cop isn’t always easy. Some men resent women on the force, which can be communicated in a lot of ways—including sabotage. Didn’t work with me, though. On the positive side, it’s less of a problem now than in my early days in law enforcement.” She seized a wayward piece of cellophane and disposed of it too. “Sorry about the mess on my credenza. I usually clean up from lunch right away, but I got too engrossed in the case.”

  That was all he was going to get about her background.

  But it was enough to know his initial assessment of this woman had been spot-on.

  She was a smart, savvy, seasoned pro who’d made a success of a career that would have intimidated a lesser person. When it came to guts and determination, Lisa Grant stood second to no one.

  So why had she left a coveted, hard-earned detective slot with a big-city PD to be chief of a tiny municipality?

  The question hovered on the tip of his tongue—but he bit it back. If she wanted to explain, she wouldn’t have changed the subject. Best to follow her lead and stick to safe topics. He was past his pushy allotment for one day.

  “If you call that a mess, I hope you never see my apartment—especially while my brothers are inhabiting it. And to tell the truth, I was more interested in that device on your desk than the food. I was leaning down to look at it when you came back.” He gestured toward the beige gadget with the LED window. “Does Carson still use pagers?”

  She angled away, toward the apparatus, then slowly reached out and picked it up, weighing it in her hand as if debating how to answer his question.

  At last she swiveled back to the front and regarded him with an expression that was neutral . . . and unreadable. “It’s a glucometer.”

  He might never have seen a glucometer before, but he’d heard the term—and drew the obvious conclusion.

  So much for safe subjects.

  “You’re diabetic?”

  “Yes.” The admission came out flat. Resigned. Weary.

  He tried to wrap his mind around the fact that the vibrant woman across from him had a serious medical condition.

  It wasn’t computing.

  Yet the device in her hand was real.

  He dredged his brain, searching for any stray facts about the disease, but came up blank. No one in his circle of family or friends had it.

  So how sick was she? Did people still die from diabetes?

  His stomach contracted.

  He wanted to press for details—but in the end he listened to the advice coming from the left side of his brain and gave her an opening, leaving the choice about how much to share up to her.

  “I’m very sorry to hear that.” His words, too, were measured. “Have you always had it?”

  “No.” She set the glucometer on the desk in front of her. “I was diagnosed a year and a half ago.”

  About the time she left Chicago.

  Had the disease played a role in that decision?

  He didn’t ask—much as he wanted to.

  “That had to be tough.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How serious is it?”

  In the silence that followed his question, Tally left his side and padded around the desk.

  As he laid his head on her knee, she scratched behind his ears. “I have an amazing friend here. He always knows when I need a dose of moral support.”

  “New friends might be willing to offer that too.” Once again, the words were out before he could stop them.

  Lisa transferred her attention from Tally to him. He saw speculation in her eyes . . . and something else he couldn’t identify.

  The silence lengthened.

  He waited her out.

  At last she leaned back in her chair, keeping one hand on Tally’s head. “I appreciate that. And I’d be happy to answer your questions about diabetes, but that could take more time than you have available on a busy Tuesday afternoon.”

  “I have the time.” Not really—but he’d make it.

  She opened the box of dog biscuits he’d brought, fished one out, and fed it to Tally. “How much do you know about the disease?”

  “Almost nothing.”

  “Then here’s the quick and dirty. Diabetes happens when the pancreas either doesn’t produce enough insulin to make glucose, or the body isn’t able to recognize and use insulin properly. There are two types. Type 1 is the more serious and requires insulin. Type 2 can often be controlled with diet and exercise, though sometimes medication is needed. I have Type 2, the most common form, and so far I’ve avoided medication. But I have to monitor my blood sugar every day with this.” She tapped the glucometer. “I also have a regular exercise routine and a strict diet.”

  So she wasn’t a picky eater after all. Her food choices were dictated by her disease.

  “Is this hereditary?”

  “It can be—but not in my case. Type 2 is also most common in people who are overweight, have a low activity level, and eat an unhealthy diet. None of those apply, either . . . except maybe the unhealthy diet part. When I was working a case hard in Chicago, I grabbed whatever was handy. Fast food and vending machines were my friends. But in general I ate healthy. So I wasn’t a typical candidate.”

  “How did you know you had it?”

  Her eyes clouded, their usual spark dimming. “This is where the story gets a bit more involved. You sure you have time?”

  “Yes.”

  She picked up her bottle of water and lifted it in his direction. “Would you like some? Or we have coffee. Florence always keeps a pot going.”

  “No, thanks.”

  After taking a swig, she set the bottle on her desk. “My diagnosis came the hard way. I’d been working a juvenile homicide. A six-year-old girl who’d been found in a field, beaten to death. Everything pointed to her father as the killer, but we didn’t
have any hard evidence—and I was determined to find some.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes.”

  Why was he not surprised?

  She took another drink. “But along the way, I was not being kind to my body. I was subsisting on lots of caffeine, lots of carbs, and too little sleep. I was always hungry and thirsty and tired, which didn’t surprise me given the circumstances. I figured the episodes of blurred vision were also related to fatigue, and the weight loss was due to stress. So I kept going. On top of all that, I was watching over my shoulder for a recently released ex-con I’d helped put behind bars, who’d vowed to get revenge.”

  “Talk about a full plate.”

  “Yeah.” Tally nuzzled closer, and she patted his head. “One night I arrived home very late after following up some leads on the homicide. As I got out of the car in the alley behind my apartment, something didn’t feel right. But since I had a mega headache and my hands and legs were shaky, I assumed my instincts were off after another long day without proper food. So I wasn’t in fighting form when the knife-wielding ex-con jumped me.”

  Mac’s heart stumbled. Given that Lisa was sitting across from him, she’d clearly survived the attack—but at what cost?

  Before he could ask, she continued.

  “I managed to kick the knife out of his hand and pull out my gun, but all at once I got dizzy. He was on me in a heartbeat. I held on to the gun, but I knew I wasn’t going to win the struggle. He was big, and my strength was ebbing. Then all at once, a miracle happened. A patrol car turned into the alley. He yanked the gun away, backed off—and the last thing I remember is a loud bang.”

  Shock ricocheted through him. “You were shot?”

  “In the shoulder.”

  Despite all his years of high-risk SEAL ops in war-torn countries, he’d suffered nothing worse than a sprained ankle. Yet Lisa had been shot in the line of duty on a Chicago street.

  Somehow that didn’t seem right.

  Yet she’d made a full recovery—hadn’t she?

  “You’re okay now, though?”

  “After months of physical therapy, yes.”

  He exhaled. “I’m sorry you had to go through all that. It had to be a nightmare.”

  “Yeah. But you know what? It was also a blessing.”

  He squinted at her. “Getting shot was a blessing?” That seemed like a stretch, even for a person of faith.

  “Yes. The ER docs were the ones who discovered the diabetes after I went into insulin shock. That can be deadly—and I’d ignored my symptoms far too long. So they not only treated my shoulder, they got my insulin situation straightened out. The whole experience also straightened out my head.”

  “What do you mean?”

  With one finger, she traced a trail of condensation down the side of her water bottle, then swiped up the moisture pooling at the base. “The day you told me about your life-changing experience in Afghanistan, I said I’d left Chicago for a lot of the same reasons. I loved what I did, but the job sucked up all my time and energy. While I was recovering, I had a lot of time to think—and to reexamine my priorities.”

  She paused and took another long swallow of water. “I knew I wanted more in my life than work, but since I can never do anything halfway, I realized the demands of big-city law enforcement weren’t going to give me the luxury of doing other things—like falling in love and creating a family. I heard about this job while I was recovering, and it struck me as providential. The rest, as they say, is history.”

  She was right. Their stories had a lot of parallels.

  “Do you ever miss the big-city job?” Because he’d sure missed being a SEAL in the beginning.

  “Once in a while.” She shrugged. “But there are trade-offs in life for everything. I was willing to ratchet down the job intensity in order to create a life that could accommodate a family.”

  “Has your new life done that?”

  She averted her gaze as she ruffled Tally’s ears. “I’ve only been in Carson a year. I figured it would take that long to get the lay of the land, establish a routine, and make certain I had the diabetes under control. I still have occasional issues with the latter.”

  Now the incident made sense.

  “Like the day you lost your balance at the excavation site?”

  “I had a feeling you didn’t buy my explanation. Yeah, I was tired and hungry and my blood sugar was off. I carry hard candy around for just such situations. But those don’t happen often anymore, and I’m now starting to get around to next steps.”

  “Such as?”

  “Putting more emphasis on my personal life.”

  Kind of like him.

  “It’s interesting that we both appear to be in the same place at the same time.”

  “Very.” She met his gaze.

  So the lady was as interested as he was in seeing where the sparks between them might lead.

  Mixing business and pleasure wasn’t wise, however. From day one of his professional life, he’d kept the two separate—and he wasn’t changing course now.

  But as long as Lisa had given him this opening, he needed to lay some groundwork for down the road . . . and put his cards on the table.

  “Once this case is over and we aren’t working together anymore, what do you say we investigate this odd coincidence in timing?”

  A hint of pleasure danced across her face. “I could be persuaded.”

  That was the best news he’d had all day.

  “On that high note, I think I’ll exit. If the mayor is paying calls, you must have some hot potatoes on your plate.” He rose.

  She stood too, wrinkling her nose. “I got pulled into mediating a dispute between him and one of the city council members this morning. As I’m discovering, politics is rampant even in small municipalities.”

  “Amen to that. So what’s next on the agenda?”

  “Calls to the FBI and the Columbia PD.”

  “How can County help—me, specifically? I know you can handle this on your own, but I’d like to stay in the loop.” For personal as well as professional reasons.

  Folding her arms, she cocked her head as she considered his question. “You know . . . since the County lab will do the DNA analysis on the sample we get from the Czech Republic, would you want to work with the FBI to make those arrangements? That would save me a few steps.”

  “I’d be happy to.”

  “I’ll try to nail down some contact information over there ASAP. In the meantime, enjoy the rest of your visit with your brothers. Any special plans?”

  “No. They’re content to eat, sleep, and play couch potato.”

  “Hard to blame them, after what they deal with on a daily basis.”

  “Yeah.” And they’d be heading back into the thick of it way too soon. His stomach clenched, and he took a slow, deep breath.

  Tally’s ears perked up, and he circled the desk to nose against his hand.

  “See what I mean about his sixth sense?” At Lisa’s soft comment, he looked over at her. “He knows when people are worried and need comforting. If it’s any consolation, you have my empathy too. It can’t be easy having loved ones in combat zones.”

  “No. It’s not.” He patted Tally. The dog’s ministrations were welcome—but far better would be a hug from the woman on the other side of the desk.

  Not on the agenda today, unfortunately.

  With one final scratch behind the dog’s ear, he picked up his file and crossed to the door.

  “I’ll keep them in my prayers, Mac.”

  At her gentle comment, he turned.

  She was watching him from behind her desk, slender fingers resting on the polished surface, a beam of sun setting off those fiery sparks in her hair.

  Funny.

  True McGregor that he was, he’d noticed her considerable physical attributes immediately, just as his brothers had.

  Yet there was so much more to Lisa.

  While he still appreciated her beauty, these days he
also saw the compassion in her features. Heard the warmth in her voice. Felt the caring in her heart.

  She was the whole package.

  And once again, he wished he could seek comfort in her arms.

  Instead, with a husky thank-you, he beat a hasty retreat before he did anything rash.

  But he consoled himself with one parting thought.

  Maybe someday.

  9

  Tapping her foot on the tile floor, Jessica checked her watch and did another three-sixty of the mall from her seat at the Starbucks kiosk.

  Erika had two more minutes. Max.

  Jessica took a sip of her iced green tea, pulled out her phone, and scrolled through her schedule. Fridays were always busy, but tomorrow would be crazy—a staff meeting, a working lunch with the strategic planning committee, and a full afternoon of presentations for their newest client, Gram’s Table restaurant chain.

  She cringed. Couldn’t they have chosen a less folksy—and tacky—name?

  Still, she couldn’t fault the company’s success. Frank Nelson’s winning formula of home cooking, coupled with a family-friendly environment and family-style service, was giving established chains serious competition. Who’d have thought, when he started the business fifteen years ago, that a concept built on hearth, home, and traditional values would ever be anything more than a niche market? Especially with his insistence that the restaurants close on Sunday—a big family out-to-eat day—and that every table feature a framed blessing for the meal.

  Not very PC—but customers nationwide loved it, and the chain was experiencing exponential growth.

  The very reason she’d gone after the account. Hard.

  And all the homework, all the schmoozing, had paid off. She’d wooed Frank Nelson away from his previous PR firm, and the CEO had signed on the dotted line with Peterson-Bradshaw four weeks ago. Tomorrow they’d be presenting their ideas for a brand-new publicity campaign aimed directly at target consumers, designed to ratchet up the chain’s visibility, standing, and sales.

  It was an amazing coup—and Robert Bradshaw was pleased with her work.

  Very pleased.

  The corners of her mouth rose. Impressing the boss was always a smart move, even for the heir apparent.

  But there was still a lot of work to do before tomorrow’s meeting with Nelson and his team.