Trust No One

by Barbara Phinney

  He straightened. Hey, he wasn't her boyfriend. He was nothing but a suspended cop who was just doing a good deed. That was all.

  When—and if—he did have a relationship, he wouldn't just be a boyfriend.

  As an undercover cop, he'd been too wrapped up with each investigation to deal with another person in his life. It was no different now. Especially now, with Helen. She'd drained her overdraft and got caught. What the hell had she done with the money?

  It didn't matter. He was suspended with nothing to offer a woman.

  Suspended. Nothing to offer. How ideal.

  "I should go inside," Helen whispered across the warm interior of the truck.

  "Wait." He leaned over and tunneled his fingers through her short, blunt hair. He cupped the roundness above the nape of her neck and hauled her in close. She blinked at him, that same mix of fear and need that both angered and aroused him.

  Damn, he wished things were different. He wished he was leaning over her in their bed and starting to make love for the umpteenth time and she was as trusting as he was aching.

  But things weren't different and all he could do right now was touch his lips to hers. She responded, opening to him. He could feel her tongue greet his, gingerly. Meeting her warm moisture sent hot arrows of pleasure through him, making him hard with possibilities.

  He was not denied the kiss, after all.

  The porch light flashed on. Helen pulled back, giving him one of her haunting looks before throwing open her door.

  "Thank you. For everything."

  He watched her slip in past the volunteer, who threw a cool look directly at the windshield, before shutting and no doubt locking the door.

  The porch light flicked off, plunging Nick into the cool semidarkness of late afternoon. He leaned back against the headrest.

  Sending Helen there was for the best, he told himself. Any thoughts of a big bed were only caused by his libido reacting to her absolute femininity, or some institutional need to fit in with the rest of humanity. If and when he found a woman, she would be his partner. Only after she'd earned his trust.

  Helen hadn't done that yet.

  With a sigh, he backed out of the driveway and drove down the street. A restless itch tickled him and he didn't want to go home. There was nothing to do there, except stare at the couch and play a mental game of What-If.

  Pushing down the signal arm, Nick changed lanes and headed for the Saint John police station.

  The men he'd worked with deserved an apology. They'd put in plenty of overtime on the investigation, even before DiPetri's murder. And he imagined that Cooms's own death had now added to their workload.

  He pulled into the back parking lot and luckily found an empty space. As in most cities, parking was always a matter of good timing. Then he strode into the building.

  "Hey, Nick."

  He turned around at the front door to find Mark walking down a hallway with several files.

  "What are you doing here?" he asked.

  Mark shook his head. "Just tidying up some paperwork from when I was acting chief. Really useless stuff, like chief of police meetings and next year's canine training schedule."

  Mark had been acting chief of the Lower Cove police for a week last month when the chief took his wife on a Caribbean holiday. Nick was glad Mark had been stuck with the duty and not him. Training schedules and meetings often brought the chief into Saint John. But being undercover had effectively removed Nick from that boring duty.

  "Mark," he began, "About Helen Eastman—"

  Mark's expression turned dark. "Nick, you're off the case."

  "I'm a concerned citizen."

  "Jeez, Nick, let us do our job." Mark shot a glance over his shoulder. "Listen, we've issued a warrant for Clive Darlington's arrest. If he's in Saint John, he'll get picked up."

  "Thanks." Relief drained through Nick. He ached to ask what else Mark might know about Helen, but he knew his ex-partner. He'd walk the straight, thin line between rules and loyalty.

  "Nick?" Mark's voice dropped even further. "Hell, I shouldn't say anything, and you didn't hear it from me, but Helen Eastman's money problems aren't related to Cooms."

  "What are they related to?"

  An officer walked past and Mark straightened. "A con artist. Old case. She must have been looking for a bit of security. You know, with her father dying and all. But it backfired on her. Did you only come here to ask about her?"

  "Not quite." He tried to sift through the details, absorb the fact that Mark had just stepped way across the thin line he liked to walk. Finally, shifting his weight, he added, "I figured I owed the guys an apology for screwing up their case. Or do you think they want to see me?"

  Mark lifted his eyebrows in surprise. "With Cooms dead, all they want to see is the shooter delivered to them complete with a written confession. If you don't have that, I suggest you keep it brief."

  In other words, they're too busy to be bothered. Nick watched Mark leave, wondering if the staff here had already received Helen's assault file.

  Mark would make sure they knew. He was the one who went by the book, not Nick.

  Changing his mind about the apology, he turned on his heel and left the station.

  * * *

  Helen ran her fingers through her new haircut, courtesy of one of the volunteers, as she paced the deserted living room. The repair job lifted her spirits somewhat, but outside, the dreary afternoon waned into a dreary evening. So much for the sunny weather this morning.

  Edgily, she approached the window. She shouldn't be doing this, peering through the gauzy sheers expectantly. Who know if Clive Darlington was out there, waiting for her to appear. Perhaps waiting with a rifle.

  But why?

  If Jamie hadn't ordered Clive to find her, who had? Nick had said she was still in danger. If she could trust him. And if she couldn't, why did he bring her here?

  Shivering, she moved back to the center of the room. She should call her mother, let her know she was safe, but the volunteers had asked her to restrict her calls.

  She wandered out into the hallway. The voices of the other women filtered down to her from the kitchen as she glanced through the open door to her left and into the small, empty office.

  Just one call. She'd feel so much better if she heard her mother's voice. Glancing quickly over her shoulder, she slipped into the room and silently shut the door.

  Within seconds, her aunt's phone was ringing.

  "Hello?"

  "Aunt June, it's me, Helen."

  There was both tension and relief in the older woman's voice. "Where are you? I've tried to call you all day!"

  "I'm at a women's shelter. Is Momma there?"

  "No, dear. That's why I've been trying to get you. She popped out this morning, saying she was going to return to her house for a change of clothes and some food. She hasn't come back yet."

  Helen sank down into the chair, cold flooding into her. "When did she leave?"

  "About eleven this morning. She was very upset. I think that's why she forgot her things."

  Tears sprang into her eyes and she hastily brushed them away. No need for panic, yet. "Did you call her house?"

  "All day. No answer!"

  The room began to spin and Helen grabbed the arm of the chair for support. Her mother missing? Please, Lord, no.

  "Shall I call the police?" her aunt asked.

  Helen snapped out of her fear. "No!"

  Afraid she would have to explain her situation to her aunt, she backed off from the fear and anger that threatened to bubble up. "No, not yet. They won't do anything for forty-eight hours, anyway." She drew in a strengthening breath. "I'm sure she's running around doing some errands and has let time slip away. I'll go over to the house myself and see if she left a note or something, okay?"

  Satisfied for the moment, June agreed. "Call me when you get there."

  Hanging up, Helen flew around the desk. Out in the hall, she knew she had only this chance to leave. The volunt
eers were there to protect the women, sometimes even from themselves and she knew they would try to stop her from leaving.

  Helen grabbed her coat from the front closet and stole outside.

  Afraid she had triggered the alarm, she dashed down to an adjacent street and hailed a cab. Here's hoping the change she found at the bottom of her pocket was enough to pay the fare.

  The cab dropped her off in the empty driveway of her mother's home, taking every last cent she had, before backing away. Her mother's car was nowhere around. By now, dusk and a faint drizzle chilled the neighborhood. Smeared into the wet pavement was the reflection of the single streetlight down the road. Neighbors were probably all tucked into their warm homes with hot suppers and blaring TVs.

  She walked up to the front door, slowing her pace as she stared at the house.

  The front door was wide open. Oh, God, please, no!

  Gingerly, Helen slipped in, warring with herself the wisdom of calling out to her mother, or just running away to a neighbor's to call the police.

  She listened. Nothing. The air was damp and still and cold over her tongue as she barely inhaled.

  Apart from the open door, nothing looked different. Her mother's shoes were lined up in military precision by the closet. The carpet was clean, no muddied bootprints.

  She tiptoed into the living room. The same eerie stillness greeted her. Nothing seemed out of place, and yet, something was wrong. She could feel it.

  Each room of the bungalow was empty. Helen checked the closet in the spare room where her mother kept a set of small suitcases. They were all there. She checked the cookie jar. There was about ten dollars in cash in it. She set the lid gently back in place, cringing as the clink echoed in the still kitchen. At least she knew where the money was, in case she needed it.

  She found a fully thawed roast in the refrigerator. Odd. Her mother would have taken it to her aunt's apartment to cook.

  If she'd come back here.

  Fighting back her alarm, Helen headed for the phone. There was only one person she could call. But she didn't know his number.

  Instead, she called the Lower Cove Police Department.

  "Chief Hunt," a voice answered.

  "I'm looking for Nick Thorndike."

  The chief paused. "He's not available right now. Can I help you?"

  She remembered the burly, humorless man and decided to take a chance. "Could you please pass on a message for me?"

  "How about I give you his pager number? You can leave your message there." He rattled off a number, leaving her to scramble for a pen and paper, hoping she wrote the number down correctly.

  After paging Nick, Helen sank into the nearest chair. This was too much. She willed herself to stay calm, running through a mental list of all the places her mother might go. But nothing viable came up.

  The phone rang, making Helen jump. She grabbed it quickly, hating the way the ring blasted through the air.

  "Hello?"

  "It's Nick. What's wrong? Why are you at your mother's place?"

  "How did you know I was here?"

  "Reverse directory. What's wrong?"

  She bit back tears. She hated herself for being weak, for not knowing what to do and most of all she hated herself for liking the way Nick's rich voice trickled heat down her spine to warm her cold body. "My mother's missing. When I called Aunt June, she told me Momma had come here this morning to pack some things up and she hadn't returned yet. I came straight here and the front door was open and the place is empty…."

  Nick barked in her ear. "Helen, don't tell me you just walked in and called me?"

  "Yes."

  He swore again.

  "There's no one here. And Momma never came back. She left all of her suitcases and a roast in the fridge and money in the cookie jar, but the front door was wide open!" She took a shaky breath. "It feels like someone was here."

  "Is the front door still open?"

  Helen shut her eyes to her own foolishness. "Yes."

  As if hearing her contrition, Nick turned calm, soothing. "It's all right. Go and close it and lock it. Don't hang up. Just go do that right now and come back to the phone."

  She did as he said. When she returned, Nick's warm voice sounded approving, coaxing. "That's good. Now, I'm coming out to get you, okay? I'll be about twenty minutes, so why don't you make yourself a cup of tea and relax? But don't open the door or answer the phone. Not to anyone."

  "Okay."

  "You'll be fine, Helen. I'm leaving now."

  "Thank you." She wet her dry lips and wished she could somehow crawl through the telephone wires to him. He was crooked and couldn't be trusted, her head told her sternly, but her heart ached to hear his voice, and her body ached to feel him grip her again.

  And she wanted so badly to trust him.

  Chapter 5

  Nick roared into the driveway. The house ahead of him was cold and dark, unwelcoming. He leapt out of the truck and strode up to the door. Pounding on it, he called out, "It's me, Nick."

  A moment later, Helen threw open the door. He plowed in and dragged her into his arms, ignoring the way she stiffened briefly. He released her as quickly as he'd hugged her. "Let me check this place out."

  He did a thorough search, every room, every nook, every dark corner of the basement, even. Only when he was satisfied they were alone, did he let out a long breath.

  "Why did the women at the shelter let you go?" he asked when they returned to the living room.

  "They didn't. I slipped out." Seeing his darkening expression, she blurted out hurriedly, "I couldn't stay there, not allowed to make a call or anything while my mother was missing!"

  Of course not. Relenting, he said, "Phone the shelter and tell them you've gone to check on a relative and will be back as soon as possible. They'll be worried about you."

  Nodding, Helen went into the kitchen to make the call. When she came back, she glanced warily around the room, anywhere but at him, he noticed.

  "Is there anything missing here that you might notice?" he said to mask his irritation.

  She scanned the living room, then the kitchen and finally her mother's neat little bedroom. "No. But it feels different. I can't explain it, but it's like someone was here. Looking at things." She shivered, rubbing her arms. "It's a creepy feeling."

  At the sound of her wavering voice, Nick strode across the carpet and pulled her into his arms. There, looking down on her as she rested her head on his chest, he noticed someone had fixed her massacre of a haircut. Giving into the temptation, he touched the soft waves, then plunged his fingers into the silky thickness and shut his own eyes.

  She clung to him with an intensity that brought to mind the other night. Automatically, Nick's body went rigid.

  He broke the embrace. What the hell was he thinking, taking her in his arms, not once, but twice, like they were old and familiar lovers? They weren't. One short-lived mistake on his couch didn't make them lovers. It didn't make them anything. It was just that she constantly carried this aura of needing someone.

  It wasn't him. No way.

  He shook away the mental image of her on his couch. "Did you call your mother's friends?"

  "She would have told Aunt June if she was going to see them. She's very good that way."

  "Look, we can't do anything about your mother tonight. The police won't either. But we can try to figure out what someone would want here."

  "There isn't anything here that anyone would want. My mother threw out a lot of stuff when she moved here. I got some of it, but most of it was just old junk." She looked around the room remorsefully. "We never had very much."

  "Did you ever leave anything here?"

  She shook her head. "I may have forgotten a jacket or something, but not recently."

  "When did your mother move here?"

  "After my father died. We had to move out of the married quarters on the base he'd been posted at in Ontario. She bought this place with his insurance money to be closer to her sister.
They grew up in Saint John."

  "What about your brothers and sisters?"

  "I'm an only child."

  Nick watched her straighten her shoulders. He forced his police training to take over, to somehow prevent him from hauling her back into his arms again. "You were close to your father?"

  She nodded, walking over to the mantel and picking up the small photo there. "Momma was sick a lot, nothing serious, but she ended up having a hysterectomy. She relied on Dad a lot. It was hard when he died and we had to move away. We'd spent most of his career, nearly all my life, at that base. We had to start again."

  She paused, as if wanting to add something. But it never came.

  "Why don't you live with her?"

  Helen clenched and unclenched her fingers. There was another unusual pause. "I lived at home in Ontario, because I had a good job on the base. When Momma said she wanted to move back to Saint John, I decided to move out. So I managed to get a job as a receptionist for Globatech, the company that builds specialized equipment for the government."

  Globatech. A fairly new company, it had secured a forgivable loan from the federal government, as long as it employed several hundred people in the city. Everyone knew that. It had been in the news enough. He could see the flashy symbol in his mind, but it wasn't from the outside of their corporate headquarters, as seen in the news clips. It was from somewhere else he couldn't place.

  Should her job there mean something to the investigation? Globatech wasn't on his mental list of companies Jamie Cooms dealt with.

  Nick gave Helen a pondering look. "How did you meet Cooms?"

  She paced the living room. "He came to a meeting one day and I was the one who directed him around. Globatech uses a language all its own and it's hard to navigate through the labs without help. Jamie came back several times and then asked me out."

  Nick felt his mouth tighten to a thin line and made the pretense of taking the photo she still held and replacing it, in order to hide his expression. "What kind of business did he have with Globatech?"

  She shot him a confused look. "Real estate. They rented some of his warehouse space down by the docks. Nothing big, I don't think. After the original agreement was signed, he never came back to Globatech. Not ever."