He who, a few hours later, had practically made love to her.
Heat smoldered where he'd touched her and she shoved away the need. He was a dirty cop, wasn't he? Jamie had boasted about him, invited him to his cigar bar. And she'd seen him moments before Tony's murder.
But he hadn't taken her to Jamie. He'd seemed to care about her well-being.
She rubbed her forehead. Maybe he'd called but the weather delayed Jamie from coming to get her.
And then, to wile away the time, he'd tried to make love to her. She'd even reveled in the idea because her body demanded a break after a week of nonstop running.
Sick of herself, she closed her eyes and let the bus carry her into Lower Cove.
The depot here doubled as the coffee shop in a small strip mall near the highway. The driver grabbed the mike and announced a ten-minute break.
She had to get off the hot and stifling bus. The nausea of a few moments ago waned, but she still needed some cool autumn air. Fumbling with her purse and keeping her head low, she made her way off the bus.
Inside the women's washroom, she leaned against the cubicle door and swallowed. Please don't get sick, she begged her body. She didn't want to lose the small breakfast she'd eaten, especially when money was so tight.
Someone entered the washroom. Hastily, Helen straightened and finished her business. The bus wouldn't wait for her.
She threw open the door and hurried out.
A man stood there.
One of Jamie's men.
* * *
Connie Eastman's modest bungalow was at the western end of the city, on the road leading to the small peninsula used as a nature park. Fog had rolled over the whole city and by nine that morning, was as thick as the day-old coffee the chief preferred.
Nick drove along the road at a dead crawl, counting the indistinct houses until he reached the right one, but only knowing for certain when he pulled into the driveway to get close enough to read the number.
As he shut off the engine, his cell phone rang. Settling back into his seat, he answered it.
"Nick?" Mark asked.
"Yeah?"
"News for you. Good or bad, it changes everything."
Shock numbed him when his partner gave the details. Nick had a million questions to ask, but stopped when a slight figure, an older version of Helen, peered out the front window like a ghost. Connie Eastman.
"Can I call you back?" Nick quickly rang off and climbed out of his SUV.
He pulled up the collar of his jacket as he walked to the door. He rang the bell, a damp, disturbing cold slowly replacing the numbness Mark's call had created. A call he still wasn't sure how to take.
Finally, the front door opened and a blast of warmth hit his face. Mrs. Eastman appeared, wiping her hands on a tea towel.
"Mrs. Eastman? I'm Nick Thorndike. I called earlier."
"Oh, yes." She hesitated a moment, and pursed her lips.
"Please, Mrs. Eastman, I need to speak with you." She had been cool on the phone, but now she acted down right cold to him. "May I come in?"
With another hesitation, she opened the door wider. "Come in."
Politely, he slipped out of his damp shoes and followed her into the immaculate living room. The rich smell of sweet baking filled his nostrils.
Seeing him inhale the delicious scent, she said, "I'm baking for the senior center's card party." She extended her hand toward a chair. "Sit down."
She perched herself on the edge of another easy chair. "I've already had other policemen come by to ask questions."
Really? Interesting. "When?"
"Yesterday. I can't imagine how I can help you. Have you found my daughter yet?"
Nick studied her. No signs of overworrying, no tracks of salty tears. She was even baking for a social. With nothing but mild concern in her blue eyes.
She knew where Helen was, all right. He'd stake what was left of his career on it. "No, I haven't found her," he said, finally. "But I should tell you I'm no longer with the police force."
She stiffened. "Are you a private investigator?"
"No."
She folded her arms. "What are you, then?"
He took a deep breath. If he wanted her to be honest with him, he'd have to be honest with her, to a point. He handed her one of his cards. Printed on it were his pager and cell phone numbers. "Suspended."
She leaned forward and put the card on the side table. "I beg your pardon?"
"I said," he answered, louder than he'd muttered a moment before. "I was a police officer. I'm currently on suspension."
"Why?" She peered at him with surprise in her candid eyes.
"That's not important. What's important is finding your daughter."
Mrs. Eastman stared at the tea towel she'd scrunched into a tight ball. "Yes. Of course."
Enough of these courtesy games. He undid his jacket and leaned forward on the seat he'd chosen, the one closest to both the kitchen and front door, yet still had a view of the hall, on the off chance Helen would appear from a bedroom.
"How long has your daughter been seeing Jamie Cooms?"
"On and off for a couple of months. I should have said something, but didn't want to make waves, and she'd—" She stopped and her sudden frown melted away.
"She'd what?"
"She'd…she'd hinted she was ready to quit seeing him." She looked around the room, blinking. "I know she would have tried to do it with as little fuss as possible, but I didn't know she'd…"
"I know she didn't commit suicide, Mrs. Eastman."
The older woman's startled gaze flew to his face. "How do you know that?"
"I stopped her."
"Stopped her?" she echoed.
He gritted his teeth, ordering himself to be patient. If he was undercover, working on an act, this conversation would be a piece of cake. But now, as Nicholas Thorndike, he was nothing but a suspended cop trying to find the woman he'd tried to save. The woman who could save his career. There wasn't any act to follow, no smooth personality to cultivate. His career was at stake, sure, but more importantly, he needed to see a woman safe and everyone involved in this drug smuggling op behind bars.
"Yeah, I saved her life. When I got home yesterday, I saw her on top of a nearby cliff. I raced up and grabbed her before she could throw herself to her death, though she was more likely to slip. It was raining out. And with those sharp rocks below, ready to gouge out a person's guts…"
Mrs. Eastman flinched, her face showing how his brutal description disturbed her. She swallowed to retrieve her composure. "When you got home?"
"Yeah. My house is the only one in the cove."
"Lower Cove?"
Why was she repeating everything he said? He let out an impatient sigh. "That's right."
Leaning forward, she searched his face. "The log home?"
She knew his house? With a frown he nodded.
"You're Abigail Saunders's nephew?"
More surprised than annoyed with her question, he answered, "You knew my aunt?"
"A long time ago. Before you were born, I imagine. I got my first job out of high school working as her housekeeper." She looked again at her hands. "Your aunt introduced me to my late husband."
Her voice dropped at the mention of her husband. Helen's father was dead? He cleared his throat. "Was your husband in the military?"
"Why, yes! Did Helen tell you that?"
"No." He wished he hadn't given the necklace to Mark. He could offer it to her now, earn her trust a little more. "I saw your daughter's necklace."
Connie Eastman paled. Blinking, she dared a hasty glimpse to the mantel of a natural gas fireplace. He spotted a photo there and stood. "Is this your husband? Did he give her the necklace?"
"Yes," she answered slowly.
He retrieved the photo. A man, dressed in combat fatigues and a blue UN beret, hugged a teenaged Helen in front of what looked like military housing. He set the photo down.
"Was she wearing the necklace?" Connie East
man's voice wavered.
"No, she wasn't. Found it in her shoe."
Mrs. Eastman relaxed somewhat. "Do you have it now?"
"I gave it to the police when I called them."
Again, the flare of fear. This time, though, he could see something click in her head. Her mouth pursed until tight little lines radiated from her lips. Her stare went cold.
It didn't take a cop to realize she wasn't going to tell him anything more. With a sigh, he tried anyway. "Do you know where your daughter is, Mrs. Eastman?"
She blinked and stood. "Excuse me, I have cookies in the oven…."
He stood, too, and in one stride, he caught her arm. "I found where she hid her disguise. Where was she headed?"
Mrs. Eastman threw off his light grip and bustled into the kitchen. "I told the other policemen I don't know where she is. I told them—" She cut off her sentence.
"What did you tell them, Mrs. Eastman?"
She bent down and snatched a tray of cookies out of the oven. At the entrance to the kitchen, he felt the steamy sweet scent bombard him, a strong contradiction to the cold tension Connie Eastman cast through the room. "I told them the same thing I told you, Mr. Thorndike."
"Did they ask why you didn't report your daughter missing?"
She whirled around, her hands still in her oven mitts. "They did, and I told them she doesn't call me every day! Not since she started to see Jamie Cooms. Now, please leave my home, Mr. Thorndike, before I call the real police and ask them to remove you."
The real police. The words stung him. He pivoted, preparing to leave.
The phone rang. Mrs. Eastman hurried over to answer it.
"Hello?" A pause, followed by a low gasp as she threw Nick a sharp glance. "I can't talk. I'm busy…"
He stopped. Despite the warmth of the house and the comforting scent of chocolate chip cookies, he went cold.
Mrs. Eastman leaned over the counter, cupping her hand over her mouth.
Damn, it was Helen! He strode over and grabbed the receiver, knowing there would be time later to apologize. "Helen!"
Helen gasped on the other end. "Where's Momma?"
"Helen, don't hang up. It's Nick. Where are you?"
A stifled sob answered him. His heart tightened, blocking a sharp curse before it rose to his lips. "It's okay. Where are you? I'll come get you."
"Put my mother back on." Her voice was a hiccuped whisper.
"Not until you tell me where you are."
Another sob escaped and with a million things whirling through his mind, he considered handing over the phone. He couldn't. Even if Helen told her mother where she was, he knew Mrs. Eastman would never tell him.
He let out a controlled exhale. "Your mother's safe. She's baking cookies. Now tell me where you are."
"I—I'm at the strip mall in Lower Cove."
"Which store?"
"I'll be behind the building. I can't…"
What the hell was she doing at the strip mall? Then he remembered. The bus stopped there. "Can't what? Are you all right?"
A heavy, painful pause lingered between them. Nick held his breath until he could wait no longer. "Are you all right? Answer me."
Her voice hovered on the edge of tears. "N-no. Can I speak with my mother, now?"
"Are you hurt? Call 9-1-1."
"No! I'm fine! My mother?"
"Then stay where you are. I'll be there in twenty minutes." He hung up before she could protest further.
He hadn't reached the front door before Helen's mother caught him. "Where is she?"
"In Lower Cove."
Her fingers dug into his arm and her eyes, the same dark blue as Helen's, widened with anxiety. "What's wrong with her? What have you done to her?"
He shrugged off her hand and grabbed his shoes. "I didn't do anything but save her life, Mrs. Eastman. Trust me, okay?"
"Why should I trust you? You're a suspended cop who—" She shut her mouth.
Nick gritted his teeth. What the hell had Helen said about him? Moreover, what could he say in his own defense? Nothing. "I'm going to get your daughter."
"I'm coming, too."
"Mrs. Eastman, I think it's best for you just to stay here and keep your doors locked."
She ignored him, throwing on her coat as she slipped into sensible, all-weather shoes. That done, she turned to him. "You don't know my daughter like I do, Mr. Thorndike. And you don't know me. I've been giving this a lot of thought, lately. I sent her to that cove because I wasn't strong enough to help her the way I should have. How can I expect my daughter to be strong, when I'm not myself?"
"Your daughter's stronger than she thinks. She was strong enough to run from Jamie Cooms. And she tried to fake her own suicide to throw him off her tail, right?"
"Yes, but—" she said, her voice hesitant.
He looked up from his shoes. "But what, Mrs. Eastman?"
Connie Eastman's jaw tightened. She didn't answer him, but he could imagine what lingered on her lips. But if Nick Thorndike knew where Helen was, Jamie Cooms would know, too.
There were days when he hated his job.
He finished lacing up his shoes. He didn't want Connie Eastman's help, but when he straightened, the woman looked at least six inches taller. He was on the verge of telling her again to stay put, but he stopped. Helen would welcome her mother. She needed her mother a hell of a lot more than she needed him. "All right. Let's go."
He didn't say a word to his pale, silent companion as he put the city in his rearview mirror. The fog still hadn't lifted and when he reached the highway, his headlights cut the thick soup with two wide beams of yellow light.
He wished to hell his heart would stop racing like a jackrabbit. It was too distracting. He was a police officer. He should be able to control himself, think rationally, do what had to be done without his heart going into overdrive.
Lower Cove's only strip mall finally appeared through the lifting fog. He roared into the quiet parking lot, pulling up to a stop at the far end, beside a bar that wouldn't open for another four hours.
He threw open his door a second before Helen shot out from behind the brick building.
Reaching him, she balled her fists and flayed his chest with them. "You bastard! You leave my mother alone!"
Stunned momentarily, Nick grabbed her wrists and propelled her against the wall of the building. He heard her mother rush up behind him and cry out her name.
But Helen wasn't listening. "Let her go! Run, Momma, run!" She yanked one hand free and with her fist, smashed his jaw in a surprisingly painful punch.
What the hell? "Damn it, woman, cut it out! I didn't kidnap your mother, all right? I went to her house to find out where you were!"
"Leave us alone! Can all of you just let me go? I won't tell anyone. I promise."
Nick cursed under his breath. She did know who he was. Rather, whom he played in his undercover role. Wonderful. She knew he was buddy-buddy with Cooms. And then she'd witnessed Cooms murder his best friend, Tony.
Nick swore again. Right after she'd seen him leaving the office with bloodied knuckles, he bet.
He fought down nausea as he took in her outfit. Her coat was torn, her hair, once pinned up to accommodate a wig, stuck out in disarray. A bruise darkened her right cheek, the one that bore trails of dried tears.
He resisted the urge to haul her into his arms. No, she needed her mother. He leaned in close to her, catching the lingering scent of the coffee shop in her disheveled hair. "I'll let you go, but don't hit me anymore. You're a lot tougher than you realize. Okay?"
She nodded and he slowly lowered her arms. Once free, she raced over to her mother. Rubbing his sore jaw, he waited for them to finish hugging.
"What happened to you, Helen?" he asked.
She turned and straightened her clothes. "I went to the washroom when the bus stopped for a break. When I got out of the cubicle, one of Jamie's boys was there."
"Are you sure?"
Her eyes flared. "I know when a man is
standing in the women's washroom!"
"I mean, you knew who he was?"
"His name is Clive something. I think he works as a deliveryman for Jamie, but I haven't seen him in weeks. Big, ugly man."
He nodded. Yeah, he knew the guy. Clive Darlington. A nasty thug with a string of priors he'd managed to pay off with hefty fines, until the last time when a disgusted judge had thrown him in jail. Nick had made it his business to keep tabs on the man. Darlington had been freed yesterday afternoon after serving thirty days for petty larceny.
The facts he'd learned today from Mark also fell into place. They didn't look good. "What happened then?"
She swallowed. "Clive had locked the door and when I came out of the cubicle, he grabbed me. I kicked him in the groin and managed to unlock the door…." She shivered and glanced around.
"But not before he did that to you?" Nick touched her face, brushing his fingers below the growing bruise.
She flinched slightly, but nodded just the same. "I was lucky my wig wasn't properly attached. He grabbed it and it slipped off. Then I ran through the coffee shop kitchen and out the back door. I hid behind the Dumpster. He came looking for me, but something must have scared him off." Fresh tears filled her eyes and her voice broke. "Jamie wants me dead, you know that! Please, Nick, just leave me alone! You were once a good cop, weren't you? Can't you remember? Can't you let me go, just this once?"
Nick hauled her in close, ignoring her mother's short cry. He grabbed her head and nestled it against his jacket front. Stroking her messy hair, he whispered, "It's all right. Cooms won't hurt you again."
She lifted her head and peered at him through watery eyes. "How can you say that after what he did to Tony?"
He cupped her face, not really wanting to tell her why Mark had called him. But she deserved to know. "They found Jamie Cooms floating in the Saint John River this morning. The tide was pushing his body upstream, past the Reversing Falls. He'd been dead for about two or three days."
Relief flooded over her expression and behind him, her mother sighed.
The wind picked up and scattered a few pieces of litter around the corner. Behind the mall, on the nearby highway, a large tractor-trailer raced past, its Jake brake pounding in his ears.
For a moment, he let mother and daughter enjoy the relief. Neither of them realized the nightmare wasn't over.
Trust No One Page 5
