Trust No One

by Barbara Phinney

  Wait. Last night the tide was low and now the water surged across the stretch of empty sand. In a few hours, the tide would be high again.

  He scrubbed his face. Nothing was making sense. If she'd thrown herself off last night, as the tide was going out, she'd have been left on the beach. Not the most efficient way to die.

  He'd seen his share of suicidal people and this woman didn't fit the profile anymore. Those who were determined to kill themselves were very efficient at it. So where had she gone?

  He climbed down to the next ledge and peered over it to the ragged cliff below. Nothing, again. Did she have a change of heart and head for the crisis center? He doubted it, despite his asinine attempts of persuasion last night.

  Muttering, he climbed back up to the top ledge. Her shoes and the socks shoved inside of them were sodden with rain. He picked them up and drained out the water. Each sock dropped to the rocks.

  And so did something shiny.

  A tiny set of vanity army dog tags on a delicate gold chain. Lifting the necklace up, he tilted his hand away from the brilliant sun to read the inscription.

  Helen Eastman. Cyprus. 1985.

  He frowned. Her name was Helen and if he judged her age right, someone in the military had done a United Nations tour of Cyprus while she was in her early teens. Her father, perhaps?

  He shoved the necklace into his pocket and scanned the shoreline again, knowing the information wouldn't help him find her right now.

  How had she managed to slip away from him? He'd always prided himself on being a light sleeper, but sometime in the night, she'd replaced her warm body with a throw pillow and disappeared without waking him.

  Well, there was nothing he could do out here. He carried her belongings back to his house, where he threw the wet socks over the clothesline and propped up the shoes beside the woodstove. Then he phoned Mark.

  "Can you run a check for me?" he asked.

  "Is it about Cooms? You're not allowed to work on this case, Nick," Mark warned.

  "This has nothing to do with the case. It's a woman who might be missing. Her name is Helen Eastman."

  "Where does she live?"

  Nick grimaced. "Try Saint John. I think she might be hiding from an abusive boyfriend or husband."

  There was a distinct, reluctant pause, but finally Mark answered. "Okay. I'll call you back."

  After he changed into clean clothes, he spent the morning pacing the floor, stopping only to make coffee for himself. He resisted the constant urge to call Mark back, knowing that when the chief was p.o.'d, he was wise to lay low. Dennis Hunt's hot temper didn't cool easily.

  A banging at his front door made him spin around. Helen? He stalked over and threw it open, halfway disappointed when his partner stepped into view and over the threshold. Mark wore a grim look, made all the sterner by his dark uniform. He dumped a green garbage bag on the floor. "Your stuff."

  His insides tight, Nick thanked him. Then he asked, "Did you find out anything about Helen Eastman?" He couldn't breathe. He should have stayed awake all night and as soon as the storm let up, he should have driven her into the crisis center himself. What a fool he'd been.

  Mark shut the door. "I asked you if this had anything to do with Cooms. You lied to me, Nick."

  "No, I didn't."

  Mark pulled a faxed photograph out of his jacket. "Is this the woman you're talking about?"

  He took the thin paper. It was Helen all right. He recognized the soft, pouty lips. Luscious lips. And her hair had been as glorious as he suspected. Long, dark waves danced around her shoulders as she looked away from her companion—Jamie Cooms.

  With a wash of cold dread, he glanced up at Mark. "Where did you get this?"

  "Saint John just got their hands on it."

  He gripped the fax, obviously a photocopy of a single snapshot. "Are the Saint John police now snapping photos of their suspects like old friends?"

  Mark smiled wryly. "Only the special cases." He sobered. "Did Cooms ever mention a girlfriend?"

  "Yeah, he did. He'd had a string of them, but this latest one was new. He'd just started to date her. I hadn't been able to get a name."

  He rubbed his jaw. Helen Eastman wasn't the kind of woman Cooms usually favored. The guy preferred thin, cultured blondes. He looked back up at Mark. "He didn't trust his buddies with his women, so I didn't expect to meet her. And that cigar bar party was a bust, remember? Cooms left as soon as he arrived, and didn't come back until much later." A frigid line of ice water trickled down his spine. The night of the party, he'd caught only the briefest glimpse of Cooms with a dark-haired woman, a millisecond before they turned and left. Someone said later that his girlfriend had taken ill.

  He'd come so close, damn it.

  "I don't know what happened at the party. You haven't kept me up to date." Mark's tone was cutting. "This Eastman woman's landlord, a guy named Chester Ellis, called the Saint John police this morning, saying Eastman hadn't been around for a week. Ellis let them into her apartment and they found the photo shoved under some papers on top of the refrigerator. When the constables recognized Cooms, they handed the case over to the Major Crimes Unit."

  Nick's hands started to shake. "When was she last seen?"

  "A week ago. They've got an eyewitness who saw her running from Cooms's office a few minutes after you left." Mark paused before his voice dropped. "Around the same time the coroner figures Tony DiPetri was shot."

  Nick dropped to the arm of the couch, feeling his sweatshirt under him. He put out a hand to touch the back cushion, hoping to restore the reserve he'd always enjoyed. DiPetri's needless murder had eaten at him all last week because he'd been there, with Cooms, moments before the man's death. Bloodying his knuckles on DiPetri's face to prove himself to Cooms.

  Mark leaned over him. "Do you realize Helen Eastman could be our only witness?"

  He nodded. Oh, yeah, did he ever realize that.

  "Did you tell her who you were?"

  "No."

  "Did she recognize you?"

  She must have. That was why she was gone this morning.

  Mark kept talking. "This is a stupid question, but did you tell her you were undercover? Because if you did, there's a lot of officers out there who need to know—"

  "Damn it, no!" He took a deep breath. "You know I would never do that."

  "Do you realize that she might be willing to testify against Cooms and every suspect involved, if she's really on the run?"

  "Yeah, yeah," he snapped. Helen, the woman here last night, the woman who made him feel alive for such a short, tender time….

  "Nick, where is she?"

  He blinked Mark back into focus. "I don't know."

  "Blast it, Nick, how can you not know? You just called me about her. Where is she?"

  He swallowed. "I think she may have committed suicide."

  Chapter 3

  "Don't screw with me, Nick. Where is she?" Mark grabbed him by the shirt and hauled him up to glare in his face.

  He let Mark vent his anger because he felt pretty much the same way.

  But Mark tightened his grip. "This is our first break in a murder investigation, not to mention the op. You might not care about it, but I sure as hell would like to see this whole thing wrapped up. I've put too much time into it and into figuring out your moves, since you never bothered to keep me informed."

  Enough of this crap. Nick threw Mark off, easily, as he was the bigger of the two. "Look, I want Cooms behind bars as much as you do," he snapped. "And I'm not screwing with you, either."

  "Then why did you say she's killed herself?"

  "I didn't say she's killed herself. I said it may be a possibility, but frankly, I'm not sure." He blasted out a frustrated sigh. "I caught her yesterday up at the edge of the cliff, ready to throw herself off. Or so I thought. I didn't even know who she was. When I called out to her, she took one look at me and fainted."

  "What happened then?"

  He threw out his hand to indicat
e his living room. "I brought her in here. By that time, the weather was too miserable to take her into Saint John. The storm turned out to be a real kicker, so I figured I'd drop her off at the crisis center today."

  He paused, reluctant to expand on the actual events of last night. "When I woke up, she was gone."

  "You went to bed and left her alone?" Mark let out a laugh of disbelief. "Why?"

  He knew what Mark was suggesting. No police officer would leave a suicidal woman alone. If she'd been in custody, she'd have been checked every five minutes.

  But Helen hadn't been in a cell and Nick wasn't about to explain how he managed to keep his arms around her most of the night. It was bad enough he'd fallen into so sound a sleep, he didn't even remember her slipping a pillow into his arms and fleeing.

  Mark's cell phone rang abruptly. Shortly after he answered it, he frowned, thanked the caller and hung up. He stared at Nick. "Go on."

  Nick was instantly suspicious. "That was about Helen, wasn't it?"

  Mark paused, and Nick knew his straitlaced ex-partner too well. "Mark, that woman tried to throw herself off my cliff. She could exonerate me, for pete's sake. Give me a break."

  Mark lifted his eyebrows and shook his head. "All right. Here's an interesting piece of info. Saint John just ran her name through the computer. She's got a lousy credit rating. Five years ago, she emptied her overdraft protection and moved down here."

  Nick blinked. What for? Did it have anything to do with Cooms's drug business? He felt his jaw tighten as the possibilities flickered through his mind. "What else?"

  Mark's gaze danced around him, lighting on his own phone, still held tight in his hand. He pursed his lips. "She's…Nick, you know I'm breaking all the rules here. I'm sorry."

  "So why the hell did you tell me about her bank account?"

  "Old habit, I guess. Look, Nick, she stole from her bank and got caught. We don't need to guess why, considering Cooms has been—"

  "Shut up." He didn't want to hear anymore. Not while he considered Helen might be dead, and he could have stopped her.

  Both men fell into an uneasy silence, until Mark, shoving his fingers through his hair, glanced over to the living room. Nick followed his gaze when Mark focused on Helen's shoes, tipped over in front of the fire.

  "Those hers?"

  He nodded. "Looks like she's taken my rubber boots."

  "She wears sneakers? Not the kind of woman I could see with Cooms."

  "I thought the same thing." Cooms didn't seem the type to date a coltish thing like Helen. Odd.

  "Did you go back up to the cliff?" Mark asked.

  He bristled. "Of course. There's no sign that she returned there. So I brought her shoes and socks back with me. And this." He pulled out her necklace. "This is where I got her full name. When I suspected she may not have thrown herself off the cliff this morning, I came back here and called you."

  "Any idea where she might go?"

  Nick shook his head. They hadn't done much talking. The kind of getting-to-know-you stuff they'd done didn't include words. He looked up at Mark, keeping his glance quick so his ex-partner wouldn't catch the guilt lingering there. "Did anyone check her bank accounts here?"

  "I imagine Major Crimes in Saint John will. Why?"

  He stood and stretched out his aching muscles. No jogging yesterday or today, and he felt stiff already. "If she witnessed Cooms shoot DiPetri, then she's been on the run for a week. She'd need money. Does she have any family here?"

  "The landlord said she has a mother, but we haven't located her yet."

  "Call me when you do?"

  Mark's face clouded over with warning. Nick crushed the urge to snap at him. Finally, Mark spoke, his voice low. "This isn't your case, anymore."

  "Don't you think the mother would like to know what's happened to her daughter?"

  "The mother didn't file the missing persons report." Mark wore a cocky look which Nick considered punching off his face. But why bother? He was madder at himself than anyone else and with good reason.

  "Well, I know my mother would like the man who stopped me from committing suicide to drop by and say hello. But if you don't want to tell me, I still have some friends in Saint John who could find out for me."

  Mark's mouth went tight. "Don't bother them. I'll call you with the address. But frankly, Nick, if the woman hasn't missed her daughter yet, I'd say she doesn't care too much."

  He didn't answer. Rather, he furrowed his brows together. Yeah, what kind of a mother was she?

  "Nick?"

  He looked up at Mark. "What?"

  "Do us both a favor, okay? Stay off the case. I know you like to run the show, but frankly, it backfired on you this time. Don't let this case ruin your career."

  He snorted. "I don't have a career anymore."

  Mark smiled, ever so briefly. "If we can find Helen Eastman, you might. Providing she isn't dead." He turned and walked out the front door.

  Nick sagged as the police cruiser disappeared down the driveway. Mark had been the best partner he'd ever had. Not that there were many to choose from. His first partner, fresh out of the academy, was the worst. He froze during an armed standoff, leaving Nick to talk the scared kid into dropping his weapon, or take him down.

  Except the boy hadn't put down his weapon and Nick had glanced toward the crowd and caught the mother's eye. He couldn't take the kid down in front of her, so he aimed for the legs. Meanwhile, the boy had aimed for Nick's heart, but got him in the shoulder.

  He and the suspect ended up at the local emergency room, while a doctor sewed up two flesh wounds. The boy's was in the thigh. Nick took one in the shoulder.

  Had the bullet entered three short inches up and to the right, he'd have taken the shot in the neck.

  He rotated his left arm, feeling the scar tighten over the muscle. He hated partners, but he had to say, Mark was his best. A bit by-the-book, but all right.

  And right about Helen. If they could find her and she was willing and able to testify against Jamie Cooms, his career might be salvageable.

  He scrubbed his day-old beard, contemplating the shower he needed badly. Though not while Helen was out there somewhere, alone. Did she have enough money? Was she considering suicide again? Had she already?

  An icy chill danced down his spine. How could he look her mother in the eye and tell her he'd let her walk out of his house to kill herself?

  He stopped in midthought. Her mother hadn't missed her. But no gentle thing like Helen Eastman would go a week without calling her mother. Sure she was on the run, trying to hide, afraid but gutsy enough to walk out on the cliff—

  Holy cow. The sweater, rent in two.

  The neatly placed shoes, the necklace that was so precious, she'd tucked it safely into her shoe. The hair, hacked off to better fit under a wig.

  The reluctance to peer over the cliff…

  Ramming his feet into his sneakers again, he threw open the front door. Outside, he searched the soft, wet ground, finding Mark's thick-soled prints beside his own.

  And there! His boot prints, barely indented!

  Careful not to disturb them, he followed them into the trees, traveling to the start of a neglected path that wasn't far from the one leading to the cliff. If his childhood memories were correct, this path led to a small bog.

  Her trail of broken branches was easy to follow and he plunged into the woods. The thin trees, their lower limbs dead wood, snapped at his jeans like angry dogs.

  Hope seized him when he reached the small bog. The spongy earth was forgiving to intruders, but someone had recently flipped back a wide section of rich green peat moss, revealing the black acidic soil beneath.

  His rubber boots stood beside the hole. So did a clear plastic bag with her jeans, bra and panties inside it.

  Bingo!

  The sun hit his back as he hunched down. Indian summers were always hot after a good storm.

  Sheltered from the bay wind, he carefully spread out the plastic bag. Inside i
t, a few strands of blond hair glinted in the sun. The color and shine told him it was from some kind of cheap PVC wig.

  Relief swamped him and he sank to his knees on the soft peat. She hadn't killed herself, nor had she ever intended to. She wanted to fake her death and disappear. A bit amateurish, but hell, he didn't care.

  And like the good daughter she must be, he'd wager she'd told her mother. That was why Mrs. Eastman didn't report her missing. At least not until after the suicide was to take place when she could "suggest" where Helen might have gone.

  Time to pay the mother a visit.

  * * *

  Helen sank into the back seat of the bus and slowly let out the breath she felt she'd been holding for a week.

  Only one other time had she fully relaxed, let out her breath in a swirl of pleasure….

  No. She refused to think of that insane moment.

  An elderly man and his young grandson came down the aisle toward her. She watched, waiting with another bated breath for some suspicious behavior. But the pair ignored her and settled down in the seats close to the lavatory.

  Returning to Saint John had been a big risk, but she needed the ordered chaos of a major depot. Dressed in her disguise, she had driven straight through to the east end bus station. She'd parked her car in the long-term lot and boarded the first bus. Now it rumbled out of the city depot, headed for its next stop, Lower Cove.

  Lower Cove. Helen sank deeper in her seat. She should never have chosen that cove in which to fake her suicide, but Momma's suggestion had made sense at the time. If her "death" had to be discovered, it may as well be somewhere Momma knew. Her mother could say she'd told her about the place many times. It would be more convincing that way.

  Giving in to the idea was the least she could do for her mother.

  She shivered. She'd have been in Maine by now, maybe through it and on her way up to Quebec, if Nick hadn't pulled her off the cliff.

  Last night's events still tumbled about in her head. An impossible set of odds had put him living in the very house her mother had spoken of so often. Him, the dirty cop. The man who'd carried her back to his home, who'd taken care of her, instead of finishing off what she had pretended to start.