by Liz Johnson
At one point Heather opened her mouth to ask Jeremy if he was as confused by this scenario as she was, but the fear that he would find her skills lacking made her bite her tongue. Instead she rolled the questions around in her mind until she thought she might go crazy. None of it made sense. If the person responsible for the crash was also behind the drugs, why would he knowingly risk thousands of dollars worth of merchandise?
The answers didn’t come easily, and soon they pulled up to an oversize metal shed, the letters PNW stenciled in black paint against the gray wall. Jeremy pulled around the gravel lot and stopped a few yards from the front door.
A cardboard clock with red arms claimed that the office was closed for another half hour, but the door was ajar.
“Worth a shot?” he said.
“Let’s go.” He scooted from behind the steering wheel, and as he walked past her window, she tapped on the glass and shook her head. He opened the back door for her, one eyebrow arched. “I’ll use the crutches this time.” She handed them out to him, and he held them with one hand, helping her out of the car with the other.
“Feeling steady?” he asked after she had the crutches in position. Her injured leg throbbed, reminding her that she had already used it more than she should have for the day. She nodded anyway, letting him lead the way.
The crunch of gravel under the rubber tips seemed excessively loud when the only other noise came from chirping birds. She tried to keep her movements light and silent, but even when they reached the cement sidewalk, the crutches clicked and clacked.
At the front door, Jeremy pulled on the handle, and it swung out with a loud creak. No use trying to be subtle about their entrance, so he called, “Hello! Anyone here? Multnomah County Sheriff’s Department.”
A single door on the opposite side of the counter in the middle of the room stood wide open. Natural light seemed to fill the large space beyond, making it brighter than the office, which flickered under a fluorescent bulb. A dingy watercooler sat on the corner of the counter, and a single armchair with a large rip on the back seemed to fill the rest of the room. Dust layered the once white slats of the blinds, and several dead bugs baked on the windowsill.
She took an involuntary shuffle toward Jeremy, trying to remember if the office had been this dilapidated the last time she was here. It was clear by the look on his face that he wanted to know the same thing, but he remained silent.
“Hello!” he called again, before walking toward the open door.
A face appeared out of nowhere around the door frame, and Jeremy jumped. “Whadya want?”
Jeremy leaned away from the head that didn’t appear to have a body. Reaching for his belt, he pulled off his badge. “Multnomah County Sheriff’s Deputy, Jeremy Latham.”
The other man’s eyes grew almost comically large as he shuffled to stand directly in the door frame. Backlit by the sunlight from the windows in the hangar beyond, his name, although sewn onto his shirt, wasn’t visible. He poked his tongue out of the corner of his mouth, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Geoff Conner.” He pointed his thumb at himself. “You here about that chopper that crashed?” He asked the question of Jeremy but looked past the other man, his eyes raking up and down Heather, giving her chills despite her long-sleeved sweatshirt.
Jeremy took a quick step to the left, blocking Geoff’s view and commanding his attention at the same time. “Yes. Did you know the pilot, Jack Dewit?”
Geoff rubbed his chin, his fingers scraping loudly against two-or three-day stubble. “Sure. There’re only four of us working here. Course I knew Jack.”
“Was he a good pilot?”
“I guess. Been flying more’n twenty years. Never had an accident up until now.”
Geoff’s gaze wandered again to Heather’s blond curls, so Jeremy’s voice snapped to grab his attention. “Are you sure it was an accident?”
Bushy eyebrows wrinkled in suspicion, but before Geoff could say anything a cool voice behind Heather answered the question. “Of course it was an accident. Why would you imply it was anything else?”
Jeremy spun around smoothly, as Heather clattered noisily. Behind her stood a silver-haired man that she’d seen when she’d last been in this office, but she couldn’t remember his name. Jeremy quickly introduced himself, flashing his badge.
Before introducing himself, the other man gazed across the room and said, “Geoff, get back to work. Take care of that mechanical problem we’re having with the R44. It’s got to be ready as soon as we can start tours again.” After the younger man bobbed his head and disappeared, the other continued, “I’m Newt Martinson. I own PNW.”
The tension in the air was palpable, and it surprised Heather. But Jeremy wasn’t thrown at all. “Mr. Martinson, we’re investigating the crash of your helicopter and wondered if we could take a quick look around.”
“Do you have a warrant?”
“No, we don’t. We just wanted to look at where you stored the chopper that went down.”
Martinson’s eyes narrowed, and his voice came out a near growl. “Not without a warrant.”
Heather stepped forward, imploring the other man to show some kindness. “Do you remember me? I was—”
“I know who you are. And I’m very sorry that your sister died, but I have nothing else to say to you without my lawyer present.” He rocked back on his heels, and added as an afterthought, “To either of you.” He inclined his head toward the front door, inviting them to leave.
They took the not-so-subtle hint; and once back on the road, Jeremy caught her gaze in the mirror. “How did you end up using them for your tour?”
She shook her head and shrugged. “Kit knew someone. We got a good deal, and…” She swallowed, trying to dislodge the lump that suddenly formed at the memory of her conversation with Kit about PNW. On the morning of the crash, they’d laughed about the condition of the office, but it hadn’t mattered since they were together, the first real together time their schedules had allowed in months.
Jeremy jumped in, his voice soft. “I think Martinson is hiding something. I don’t know about Geoff, but something at that place isn’t right.”
“I know. But do you think it’s the drugs?”
He shrugged, again falling into the silence that had reigned on and off all afternoon. They both seemed to need time to think through the questions that didn’t have answers. But for Heather, all of the unanswered queries really only led to the singularly important one. Would Kit’s killer pay for what he’d done?
God, please let me do my part to bring him to justice.
The words bounced around in her mind, but didn’t even penetrate the roof of the car. Again her prayers fell flat, useless.
Closing her eyes in frustration, she didn’t see what made Jeremy slam on the brakes so hard that her head banged into the back of his headrest.
Rubbing the stinging on her forehead, she looked up at her house, which had matched the neighboring townhomes when they’d left that morning. Now the two front windows on either side of the door were only jagged shards of glass. And in deep red paint someone had left a message that couldn’t be misinterpreted.
YOUR DEAD.
NINE
“Stay in the car.” What Jeremy had intended to be a firm instruction came out a growled demand, but blood roared so loudly in his ears that he couldn’t hear if Heather even responded. He checked his service weapon, his grip sure and steady as he slipped from the car. The door clicked closed almost inaudibly, and he was already bounding up the steps. His tennis shoes tapped lightly on the cement as he leaned into the town house’s door.
The smell of fresh paint assailed him, and he adjusted his position just before putting his shoulder into the sticky, red mess. Instead he toed the door open, which he hadn’t noticed was already ajar until he was right next to it.
He took a small step, and immediately glass crunched under his foot. His gaze quickly found the broken light bulb in the lantern above the black iron
mailbox. Taking another tentative step, he landed in a relatively safe place and pushed farther into the darkness.
His elbows tight but not locked, Jeremy held his weapon in front of him as he tiptoed through the kitchen and peeked into the bathroom. Then he went into the bedroom, nearly stumbling over Heather’s bed. After checking that the closet was empty, he slipped back into the living room.
Suddenly a floorboard creaked, and he spun toward the front door, where Heather had appeared, leaning on her crutches, but also holding her Glock, an extra that she’d pulled from her gun safe. Against the pale streetlights, he could only make out her silhouette as her hand danced along the wall.
Compared to the inky darkness, the abrupt overhead light burned his eyes. Fighting the spots that danced behind his eyelids, his gut clenched when he heard a solid footstep coming from the area by the bathroom.
Before he could open his eyes, a solid body slammed into him, sending him to the floor. Immediately he reached for the assailant’s jeans-clad leg, but with a quick hop the other man evaded capture, only one person between him and freedom.
Praying that Heather would step aside and be spared another injury, Jeremy pushed himself to his feet just in time to see the masked man kick Heather’s knee and disappear out the door. She crumpled into a heap, her crutches banging to the tile floor. In a moment, he knelt beside her, gently unfolding her limbs and letting her rest her head on his chest.
“Are you hurt? Do I need to call an ambulance?”
“I think…” Her breathing was fast and shallow, as though she couldn’t catch it after running a 10K. “I think I’m okay. Just need a minute.”
He nodded, brushing long, blond curls from her face and tucking them behind her ears. He read pain across her features in the tight lines around her eyes and mouth, and her grip on his hand threatened to cut off circulation.
After several minutes of kneeling on the hard floor, his knees began to ache. Still he didn’t move for fear of causing her more pain.
Finally her hand on his loosened and the lines around her lips began to disappear one by one. Then one blue eye opened. She looked around the room, and he could see the question forming in her mind before she spoke a word. “Why didn’t you go after him?”
“Well…” Good question. Just one he didn’t have an answer for. Truthfully the thought of chasing the intruder hadn’t even crossed his mind. “I had to make sure you were okay. I don’t have much of a case without you.”
That earned him a wavering smile and a trembling pat on his forearm. “Liar.”
He grinned. “Okay. I just figured someone who announces his really bad grammar by painting across the front of a house can’t be that hard to find.”
She chuckled, then wheezed, tucking her arm around her middle. “I think my crutches bruised my ribs on the way to the floor.”
“Now that takes talent,” he said, barely containing his own laugh. “If you’re okay, let’s get you up to the couch. Then I’m going to call the police.”
She nodded as he helped her sit up. Though his knees cracked as he stood, he bent and scooped her over to the couch. When she was settled, a pillow keeping her knee at an obtuse angle, he asked again, “Do you want me to call for an ambulance? Or I can call the doctor?”
“He didn’t really connect with my knee, only the brace. It just surprised me more than anything else.”
Now who was lying? But he let it slide, calling the direct line to the police station and asking for Tony. When Jeremy had filled his friend in on the incident, he flipped his cell phone closed and returned to Heather’s side. Slipping into the seat by her shoulders, he put an arm around her, holding her shaking form close.
She turned her head into the crook of his arm, but it took several moments before he realized that the dampness there was from her tears. Coaxing her face toward him, he thumbed away a few stray drops.
Holding her gaze, he said, “It’s going to be all right.”
“How can you be so sure?” She looked away and swallowed thickly. “It wasn’t all right for Kit. These people…they’re willing to kill for whatever it is they want. And I can’t even defend myself.” Bitterness entwined itself in her last words as she tapped her injured leg. Frustration and fear seeped from her pores, but it wasn’t hers to bear.
“It was my fault tonight. I didn’t look behind the bathroom door. He must have been in there.” It would have been so easy to lose Heather like he’d lost Reena. And there could be no denying his failure to protect the woman in his care. His throat tightened, but he continued. “I’m so sorry.”
She probably didn’t know what to say, but her drying eyes met his as she shook her head. “This isn’t your fault. Unless you sent that bad-grammar guy here, you’re not responsible for any of this.”
The chortle that burst out of him shocked them both, bringing small smiles. Heather blinked, thick lashes resting against her pale cheeks for just a moment. When she opened her eyes, she leaned toward him, resting one hand on his biceps.
He knew he shouldn’t confuse the situation any more than it already was. Knew that they needed to stay focused on the person trying to kill her. Knew that she deserved better than a man who couldn’t protect his own.
And he threw all of that out the window the moment she trapped the corner of her bottom lip between perfect white teeth.
Their lips connected briefly at first, like a feather’s touch. When he hesitated, she kissed him again, more insistent the second time, her lashes brushing his cheeks. He plunged his fingers into the softness of her unruly curls, holding her head steady.
She felt like comfort and renewal, reassurance and compassion in his arms. After their trying day, he needed this link. And he forgot every reason not to hold on to her forever.
Until someone knocked on the partially open door and cleared his throat loudly.
Heather looked up from her folded hands in her lap into the deep brown eyes of Jeremy’s friend Tony Bianchi. Dressed in street clothes, his service weapon was tucked into a shoulder holster under one arm. He flipped another page in his miniature moleskin notebook, his pen still taking detailed notes after nearly half an hour.
She couldn’t imagine that there was anything they hadn’t covered in the interview. Now she just wanted sleep. The adrenaline had evaporated and with it her ability to keep her eyes open for more than a few seconds at a time.
Tony tapped his pen on the page of the notebook, his eyes narrowing at the words written there. “You’re sure you didn’t get a look at the man who was in your house?”
“Like I said, he was about six foot, medium build, maybe smaller than that. He was wearing a black ski mask. I couldn’t see his face. But he was wearing faded blue jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt and black gloves.”
Both of their gazes roamed to the front window where black powder still lined shards of glass. They hadn’t been able to find even a partial fingerprint because of those gloves. But at least the lack of evidence meant the crime scene didn’t have to be preserved, which had allowed Jeremy to nail plywood where the glass had been. He hammered the final nail in place and looked over his shoulder in the direction of the couch.
He seemed to forget that his friend was even in the room, his gaze almost a palpable reminder of his tender kiss. His smile turned knowing, and she felt fire flush her cheeks. Was he thinking about it, too?
His head dipped, and when he looked up again, his grin had vanished.
Suddenly self-conscious about the blush she was sure tinted her cheeks, Heather turned back to Tony, who pushed himself from the couch. “Well, I guess that’s everything we need from you, Heather.” He stuck his hand out, and she looked at it for a moment, still analyzing what Jeremy was thinking. Finally she realized that Tony was offering to shake her hand, and hers jumped out like something had bit her.
“Thank you, Tony.”
His eyes turned soft. “I’m sorry about this, Heather. All of it.” Did that include having Jeremy so close and
the inner turmoil it was already causing? Probably not, but she still didn’t know how to respond.
Jeremy saved her from having to. He walked up, sliding leather work gloves off his hands. The two men shook hands and Jeremy clapped his friend on the shoulder with the other in a completely male stance.
“Thanks for coming out personally. I know you could have just sent someone, but I’m glad that you came.”
Tony nodded. “Always good to see you, man.” He nodded again at her. “Good to meet you, Heather. I’ll call if we hear any news on your case—here and at the hospital.”
“Thanks!” she called, as he walked down the steps to the street. Jeremy closed and locked the door behind him and turned to lean against it. His gaze weighed heavily on her, and she put her hands over her face, trying to keep her head from falling off.
Through the cracks in her fingers, she saw Jeremy walk across the room and reach out to touch her shoulder, but he stopped several inches from her arm. His hand remained elevated for several long seconds before it dropped to his side. Clearing his throat, he asked, “How’re you doing?”
She spread her fingers a little farther apart and peeked at him through the crack. Then she ventured a quick glance at the loose door handle. “Will that hold tonight?”
“We should be okay. It’s flimsy, but we’ll get someone out here tomorrow to get it taken care of.” His stare didn’t stray from her face, and his jaw clenched and unclenched several times. “You didn’t answer my question.”
How could she possibly answer his question? Of course, she wasn’t doing okay. Kit was gone, someone was trying to kill her and she’d bet that same someone had broken into her home. And then there was the matter of that toe-tingling kiss she couldn’t stop thinking about from the man sleeping on her couch.
A sigh escaped before she even realized it was coming. “I need sleep.”
“You haven’t had anything to eat tonight. I could make you something, if you’re hungry.” He nodded toward the kitchen, but his eyes evaluated her from head to floor, as though looking for evidence that she wasn’t telling him the whole truth.
