by Rita Herron
Detective Dawson handed her a bathrobe from the chair beside the bed. He made certain the towel was secure around her wrist. “Put this on. And try to stay calm, miss.”
“Did you have company?” Ford asked again. His persistence annoyed her, but she decided to play it cool.
Veronica belted the robe tightly and sat on the edge of the bed. “No, I was alone all evening.” Detective Dawson’s body felt hot next to her. His eyes were like liquid pools of scotch whiskey, tame and wild at the same time. They reflected none of his thoughts, but if she wasn’t mistaken they hinted at a burning desire she recognized as male interest.
She didn’t have time for male interest. She needed this detective to find out if someone was trying to kill her. Or maybe he knew her history and had already decided she was a flake.
She’d endured skepticism before. She didn’t know if she could endure it again.
“You have to believe me,” she said, panic lacing her voice. “There was someone here. He tried to kill me.” She covered her face with her hands as the memory flashed through her mind.
Detective Dawson patted her shoulder in a comforting gesture. “Relax, miss, it’s over now.”
Ford wasn’t so kind. He narrowed his eyes at her, reminding Veronica of a mean old bulldog, then held up an empty wineglass. “Ms. Miller, were you drinking last night?”
Veronica hesitated. She knew where this line of questioning was headed, and she didn’t like it. Not one little bit.
“I had one glass of wine,” Veronica said through clenched teeth. “It wasn’t even full.”
Ford rattled a prescription pill bottle in front of her. “And these? Did you take some before you went to sleep?”
Veronica closed her eyes and grimaced inwardly. “I…I’ve had trouble sleeping. The doctor recommended them. But I didn’t take one last night.”
Ford held the bottle up to the light. “Sleeping pills? Hmm.” A smug expression crossed his weathered face. “You know, mixing alcohol and drugs can cause hallucinations.”
“That’s not what happened. I told you—someone attacked me.”
Nathan Dawson’s warm, strong hand covered hers. “Relax, Ms. Miller. We’re dusting for fingerprints.” He gestured to where two officers searched for clues. “You said you fought him. Do you think you injured him?”
Veronica struggled to remember. “I…I thought I stabbed him, but I’m not sure.”
“Where?” The detective pointed to his chest, then each of his limbs in turn as he spoke. “Left side? Right? His arm?”
“His right arm,” Veronica said. “He grunted and moved off of me then.”
Dawson smiled. “Good, that’ll help us. We’ll have the blood sample from the knife analyzed to see if there are two blood types on it. If something happened here, I’ll get to the bottom of it. It could have been a robbery attempt.”
Ford cleared his throat. “Listen, Dawson, there’s something you ought to know.”
Dawson gave Ford a warning look. “Later, Ford. Right now, we have a crime scene to investigate. Now get busy.” Ford sighed disgustedly and left the room.
“I’ve been getting hang-up calls,” Veronica said, hoping to tell her side of things before Ford had a chance to muddy Dawson’s impression. “And I’ve been hearing noises as if someone’s been hanging around outside my apartment. I told the police, but they haven’t done anything.”
“I’ll check into it,” Dawson said.
“Thank you, Detective.” Veronica twisted her fingers together as she forced herself to meet his intense gaze.
Nathan Dawson didn’t move. His amber eyes turned from a light brown to a darker shade streaked with gold. Veronica’s entire body tingled with awareness. But she reminded herself her reaction was simply because he was being nice to her. He was going to help her.
She had to make him believe her. She wasn’t crazy. Reporters and people who knew of her background would disagree, but she knew differently. She’d actually lived a mundane, quiet life for the past few years in Fort Lauderdale. Then she’d moved back to Oakland, a suburb of Atlanta, her hometown, and strange things had started happening. She’d been a frightened and withdrawn little girl when she’d left Oakland. But she wasn’t a little girl anymore. And she was tired of running scared. She’d been running her whole life.
But not this time. This time she intended to get to the bottom of things.
The paramedics rushed in, accompanied by Ford. “I’ll let them see to you now.” Nathan rose from the bed as one of the paramedics took his place. “We’ll talk some more later.”
He felt in his pocket for his cigarettes, then remembered he’d quit six months ago, the day he’d walked out of the hospital and realized he had a second chance at life. Literally. The accident had almost stolen his future, and he’d decided he wouldn’t finish the job with nicotine.
But damn, he missed the buzz. Especially now. Hot on a case. And the woman? Hell, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt such a jolt of heat slide into his gut. A good, long smoke always cleared his head, something he desperately needed.
He stepped outside with Ford, but felt like he was abandoning Veronica. Something about her tugged at him. Maybe those enormous dark eyes. Or those high, sculpted cheekbones. Or that jet-black hair that streamed down her back like reams of silk.
Mentally shaking himself, he forced his mind to forget the physical attraction he felt for her. It had no business in his job. Besides, the woman was scared out of her mind. She claimed someone had tried to kill her, and it was his job to find out who attacked her. He knew real fear when he saw it, and this woman had been terrified.
“Listen, Dawson,” Ford said as soon as he made it to the front stoop. “I don’t think anyone tried to kill this broad.”
Dawson gritted his teeth. “She is not a broad. She’s a woman—a citizen who has requested our help.”
Ford slammed his fist against the rail. He made no attempt to lower his voice. “You’ve been suckered in by those pretty looks. Don’t you know who she is?”
Dawson chewed the inside of his cheek. “Should I? Is she someone famous?”
“Not the way you mean.” Ford sighed audibly. “She’s a kook.”
“What?” Dawson tried to hold on to his patience. “If you’ve got something to say, Ford, spit it out.”
Ford scratched his beard. “We’ve gotten a couple of calls from her before.”
Nathan eyed Ford with curiosity. “Yeah, she told me that. Why didn’t someone follow up on it?”
Ford grunted in obvious disgust. “’Cause she’s a flake. Two weeks ago she said someone was lurking outside her apartment.”
“And?”
“Turned out to be a stray cat. I told you, she’s a nut.” Ford’s big belly shook as he let out a harsh breath.
Nathan frowned, still unconvinced the woman wasn’t in danger. “There could have been someone there.”
“She called again last week. Said someone had been in her office.”
“Yeah? What did you find?” Nathan arched an eyebrow.
“Nobody but a cleaning service. Said she’s been getting hang-up calls, too, and some pretty weird messages.”
In spite of himself, Nathan was growing more and more curious, not just about Veronica, but about this case. “What kind of messages?”
Ford shrugged. “Don’t know. When she brought in the tape, it had been erased.” He shifted to his left foot and rubbed his thigh. “My guess is, she made it all up. Trying to get attention.”
“Yeah? What makes you think that? Her injuries look pretty damned real to me.”
“Well, she’s weird. Everyone who grew up around these parts knows about her.”
“And why is that?” Nathan asked, growing tired of Ford’s cat-and-mouse game.
“’Cause of what happened to her folks years ago.”
Nathan leaned against the porch railing. “What about her parents?”
Ford pulled out a wad of chewing tobacco and
stuffed it in his mouth. “That’s the interesting part. Veronica Miller grew up around here, but she moved to Florida to live with her grandmother.”
Nathan knew there was more. Ford was obviously enjoying dragging the story out, adding suspense. “Okay, I’ll bite. Tell me the rest.”
Ford grinned. “Veronica Miller’s parents died right here in this town. Same time of year as this. Police called it a murder-suicide. Father killed the mom, then killed himself.”
Nathan swallowed, feeling the cold bite of winter all the way down to his toes. Through the glass door, he saw the paramedic helping Veronica through the hallway. She looked pale and fragile. Then she glanced up and met his gaze, and the corners of her mouth lifted in a slight smile of relief. His gut tightened.
“They say Veronica witnessed the whole thing, but she doesn’t remember it,” Ford continued.
A drop of sweat rolled down Nathan’s neck. “How old was she?”
“Seven.” Ford paused. “There’s more. Reporters went nuts over the story. The girl had to see a shrink.” Ford spat a blob of tobacco juice off the porch edge. “Sounds to me like she still may be crazy. You know they say kids never get over traumatic things like that. Makes some of ’em pure schizo.” He studied the toe of his battered boot. “There were rumors she might even have killed her parents herself.”
“It’s hard to believe a seven-year-old would be strong enough to kill two adults,” Nathan said. “Any evidence to support that theory?”
Ford scratched his beard. “Just the fact she was holding the murder weapon when the police arrived.”
Nathan adapted his poker face. “Let me guess. The parents were killed with a knife.”
Ford grinned. “Yep. A kitchen one. Kind of like the one she had when we got here. And she kept muttering that it was her fault. Some said her grandma whisked her away to cover it up.”
A sigh of frustration escaped Nathan. He looked out over the small landing of her apartment complex. The outside lights shone brightly, and pansies filled the flower beds. What a beautiful little complex, and what a sad story.
Veronica and the paramedic came to the door. She seemed vulnerable and troubled and she’d called him for help. As an officer of the law, he had to protect her. But what exactly was he protecting her from? From some weirdo or from herself? She could be telling the truth. But if Ford was right and Veronica was unstable, perhaps she hadn’t been attacked at all.
A rancid taste filled his mouth. He wanted to believe her, but he had to check out all angles. And knowing about Veronica’s past shed a whole different light on the situation.
Chapter Two
A dozen questions tumbled through Veronica’s head.
“We’ll have this arm stitched up in a minute,” the doctor said. “You were mighty lucky. Another quarter of an inch and your main artery would have been severed.” Arlene Baits reminded Veronica more of her grandmother than a physician. She’d been especially tender and kind while she’d cleaned Veronica’s wound, chatting to distract her from the unpleasant chore.
But the past few hours kept replaying themselves in Veronica’s head like an old horror show. The only halfway bright spot had been meeting Detective Dawson. He hadn’t looked at her as if she were nuts like so many people in the past. But she’d seen him talking to Ford, whispering and glancing back and forth at her. Something was up. Either they’d found evidence in her apartment they didn’t want to tell her about or they didn’t believe her. She knew what Ford thought. But she couldn’t read the other detective. He’d been kind and concerned and performed all the seemingly appropriate police tasks. But he kept staring at her as if he could see into her soul.
No man had ever looked at her that way. She shivered, then flinched as the doctor dabbed antiseptic over the small nick on her throat.
“All done. How did you say this happened?” the doctor asked again.
“Someone broke into my apartment and attacked me,” Veronica said for what she felt like was the umpteenth time. At least she hadn’t implied she’d tried to commit suicide like the paramedics.
The elderly woman clucked her tongue. “Can’t be too safe these days. I keep a dead bolt. And my puppy dog, Randall, barks at anything that gets near me.”
Veronica smiled. Maybe she needed to get a dog.
“What’d you say your name was, dear?”
“Veronica Miller.”
“Oh.” Dr. Baits tilted her head sideways as if in thought. “I knew of some Millers a long time ago.” Her eyes widened, then narrowed again. She suddenly pressed her lips tightly together. Her hands trembled as she helped Veronica down from the examining table.
Veronica wondered at the woman’s strange reaction. The doctor was old enough to have known about her parents. And their murder. Maybe she remembered them. Maybe she had an idea who had killed them.
“You can go now,” Dr. Baits said, her face pale.
Veronica started to question her, but Dr. Baits quickly opened the door. “That detective said he’s waiting to drive you home.” The woman forced a smile, but Veronica recognized the lackluster quality. “Handsome young fella. Better not keep him waitin’.”
Handsome didn’t matter, Veronica told herself. Just as long as he could do his job.
“Thanks for everything, Dr. Baits.” Veronica felt weak. Perhaps she’d return when she felt better to question the woman. She wobbled on unsteady feet but managed to make it to the waiting room without collapsing. All she wanted was a nice warm bed and some sleep. Then she remembered what had happened in her bedroom, and knew she couldn’t sleep there tonight.
“Are you all right?” Detective Dawson rose from the stiff-looking vinyl chair and rushed instantly to her side. His arm curved around her elbow in support. Veronica was immediately grateful she’d changed from her thin cotton gown into a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt.
“I’m fine,” Veronica lied. “Just exhausted.”
The detective nodded. “You want to go home? Or do you have some family—” an odd expression crossed his face “—or do you want to go to a friend’s house?”
Veronica froze, her gaze colliding with his. She read understanding and something else she couldn’t identify. His eyebrows furrowed, and once again that strange probing look darkened his eyes, making her wonder what he had on his mind or how much he knew about her. Questions lingered in his expression. He seemed to have as many as she did.
“No friends,” Veronica said as he walked her to the car. She thought of Eli, her parents’ friend who lived only a few miles away. He was also her godfather, but she didn’t feel comfortable horning in on his family. “I just moved here a couple of months ago,” Veronica said, deciding not to go into a long explanation.
“From Florida?”
“Yes, but I was born here,” Veronica said. Maybe she should tell the detective bits of her past before he heard the distorted version from someone else. “My parents died when I was a child so I moved away with my grandmother.”
“What brought you back to Oakland?” Dawson asked.
“I’m a tax attorney. After my grandmother died, I didn’t have any real ties to Florida. When Abe Walsh retired, I took over his practice.”
“I remember Walsh,” Dawson said. “Decided to travel the world. Must have retired with a hefty chunk of change.”
Veronica remained silent, her thoughts scattered. She’d had to return to this town. Back in Fort Lauderdale, her boyfriend, Ron had pushed for more commitment, but she’d been leery. Her childhood nightmares had returned, occasionally a flash of something from her youth seeping in. Eli had contacted her, too, wanting to see her—it seemed like everything had come together at once, bringing her here. She’d decided if she finally put all her ghosts to rest, maybe she could move on with her life.
“You want to go back to your apartment?”
An image of yellow police tape, shattered glass and dark shadows filled her mind. Veronica shook her head. “No, a hotel would be nice. I’d like to stop
by and pack a bag though.”
He opened the car door. “Sure. You should have dead bolts installed tomorrow.”
“I will.”
Dawson made his way to the driver’s side and climbed in. “Which hotel?”
“One of the busy ones in town,” Veronica said automatically. One where no one will know me. She wrapped her arms around herself in a protective gesture. “Maybe I can lose myself in the crowd.”
AFTER NATHAN MADE SURE Veronica was settled into the hotel room, he headed to the station. If Veronica thought she could ever be lost in a crowd, she was wrong. The ridiculous thought made him chuckle. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. And he realized when she’d made the statement that she didn’t have a clue how men saw her.
Or had her statement meant something else? Had she wanted to lose herself as in commit suicide? He’d considered the possibility as soon as he’d seen the wrist wound. The paramedic had immediately asked her the same question. Her big dark eyes had turned to the young man in disbelief, as if she couldn’t fathom why he would ask such a thing. Considering her confused state, the combination of alcohol and possibly sleeping pills along with her troubled past, the assumption seemed logical.
But still, something bothered him about the incident. He didn’t know what had happened at her apartment, but he didn’t think she’d tried to take her own life.
“Stop thinking with your hormones and use your brain,” he muttered to himself as he turned into the precinct. It might be 2:00 a.m., but he intended to start his investigation of Veronica immediately. He only hoped she didn’t turn out to be nuttier than his Aunt Willemena’s fruitcake.
An hour later, his eyes blurring, he slurped down the dregs of his third cup of coffee and choked down a stale bear claw. The files on the Miller family lay before him. There appeared to be enough for the beginnings of a novel.
