by Irene Hannon
“It is to me.”
“Then you go get it!”
Tears welled in her eyes. “I can’t. They’re looking for me. But they’re not looking for him.” A tear rolled down her cheek. “Chuck, you know how much it means to me. And I’ve done favors for you for years. Personal favors.”
He gave her an impatient perusal. Daryl saw him waver. Capitulate.
The bottom fell out of his stomach.
“Okay. Fine. Daryl, stop by the apartment and get her locket. She’s right. No one’s looking for you, and they don’t have the manpower to plant some cop at her place 24/7 anyway. You’ll be okay.”
Chuck started fooling with some TV remote device he was taking apart with obsessive fascination, piece by piece, on the kitchen table. Bev rummaged through the cabinet next to him, foraging for lunch.
The matter was settled.
And Daryl was in the hot seat.
Again.
11
“There she is, son. Looking mighty pretty too.”
Following the direction of his father’s gaze, Mitch caught sight of Alison. She was on her cell phone, focused on the wall in front of her, in a far corner of the restaurant’s foyer. And she did look pretty. She had on that sleek pinstripe suit with the sexy slit in the skirt again. A smile tugged at his lips as he gave the exposed length of her leg a leisurely perusal.
“Lucky you aren’t hooked up to one of those blood pressure machines, like I was at the doctor’s office. It’d be off the scale.”
At his father’s comment, heat surged on Mitch’s neck. He did his best to keep it below his collar as he turned to the older man, who was several inches shorter than his own six-foot frame.
“Dad . . .” He put a stern warning note in his voice. They’d had a long conversation en route to the restaurant, and his father had promised to keep the lunchtime discussion light and impersonal. No hints about a romance between his son and the lovely Children’s Service worker.
Things were not getting off to a promising start.
“This is just you and me talking, Mitch. I’ll behave when the young lady joins us.” He slashed his finger in an X shape on his chest. “Cross this rejuvenated ticker of mine.”
Before Mitch could pursue the subject, Alison saw them. Lifting her hand in greeting, she ended the call, slipped the phone back in her purse, and walked across the foyer.
He picked up on her slight limp at once.
Touching her arm as she joined them, he scrutinized her face. “Everything okay?” He flicked his gaze toward her legs.
Her cheeks pinkened and she adjusted the strap of her shoulder purse. “Too many hours in heels.” Smiling, she transferred her attention to his father. “It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Morgan.”
“Please call me Walt.” He gave her extended hand a vigorous shake. “And the pleasure is all mine—and Mitch’s. Right, son?”
Mitch shot his father another warning look. This was exactly why he’d hesitated when Alison had called about lunch. At some point since he’d returned to St. Louis, his father had decided his son’s social life was lacking. And he seemed to think Alison might be the solution.
Truth be told, so did Mitch. But he preferred to deal with this relationship at his own pace—doing his best to match it to Alison’s. The last thing she needed was pressure to get serious too quickly, and he didn’t want his dad scaring her off.
“So tell me, Alison, why isn’t a beautiful young woman like you married by now?” His father took her arm as they followed the hostess to the table.
Relegated to the rear, Mitch rolled his eyes and stuck close. It was going to be a long lunch.
As Alison gave her order and handed her menu back to the waitress, she snuck a peek at Mitch. He was studying the oversized bill of fare, faint parallel grooves creasing his brow.
“I’ll have the burger with everything on it.” Walt started to close his menu.
“Dad.” There was a warning note in Mitch’s voice. “Think healthy. No more artery-clogging fat.”
Sending his son a disgusted look, Walt opened the menu again, gave it a quick scan, and passed it to the waitress. “The grilled chicken sandwich.”
“Fruit cup, slaw, or fries?” Pencil poised, the young woman waited while the older man considered his options.
At last, he gave a long-suffering sigh. “Fruit.”
“And you, sir?” She smiled at Mitch. Not just a polite, be-nice-to-the-customer smile. A real smile. Warm. Personal. Inviting.
If Mitch noticed, he gave no indication.
“Turkey club. With slaw.” He handed her the menu without making eye contact.
Alison watched the waitress’s smile fade. Understandable. A woman would have to be dead not to hope a tall, dark, and handsome man like Mitch would notice her.
He caught her watching him, and the slow smile he sent her way—the one that produced the hint of a dimple in his cheek—made her wish they’d crank up the air-conditioning in the restaurant. She picked up her glass of ice water and took a long drink.
“It sure is a hot one.” Walt hoisted his glass too. “I’m glad the doc gave me the okay to start swimming again.”
Setting her glass back on the table, Alison turned her attention to the older man. “You like to swim?”
“Yes. Until the old ticker acted up, I went to the Y and did laps three times a week. Been doing that for years. Swimming is great exercise, you know—and good for the waistline.” He patted his trim midsection. “Of course, even in my prime, I was never in Mitch’s league. I still have a roomful of awards from his swim meet days.”
“That was a long time ago, Dad.” Mitch reached for a package of crackers from a basket on the table and ripped open the cellophane.
“You’re as good as you ever were. Maybe better. You don’t get to be a SEAL unless you can swim like a fish.”
“That was a long time ago too.”
“Four years ago isn’t that long. And you still swim laps every day.”
Alison looked over at him. Yeah, that made sense. His lean, muscular build belonged to a swimmer. As did the broad shoulders and powerful chest. “How do you manage to fit that in?”
“Usually goes before the sun gets up,” Walt supplied without giving Mitch a chance to respond. “Sometimes he waits till after dinner, though. Me, I like to swim before lunch. Nice way to break up the day. I’ll be able to drive myself too, now that the doctor gave me the green light to get behind the wheel.”
“No need to rush things, Dad.”
Alison studied Mitch. He was playing with his crackers, not eating them. And he was keeping a keen eye on his father. There was some dynamic here she couldn’t identify. Nothing bad. But interesting.
“I’m not rushing things. Surgeon said it was fine. I’ll be able to drive myself to church now too, but I hope you’ll keep coming, anyway. It’s nice to have you back in the pew beside me.”
Alison stared at him. “You’re going to church?”
“Yes, isn’t that great?” Walt grinned at her. “He started attending again not long after he met you. Interesting coincidence, isn’t it?”
Clearing his throat, Mitch crumbled a cracker, then brushed all the fragments into a neat pile. “So how is your mom doing since her bout with the flu, Alison?”
Not the smoothest segue she’d ever heard, but she got the message. Mitch didn’t want to talk about going back to church. And that was okay. The important thing was that he’d taken a first step back toward his faith.
And that was the best news she’d had all day.
Daryl pulled into a parking spot in the lot at Bev’s apartment building and surveyed the three-story structure of peeling white stucco. The concrete sidewalk was cracked in several places, the downspout was dangling, and the lawn was more mud than grass. He doubted it looked any better inside. Still, it couldn’t be as bad as Chuck’s trailer.
Settling his sunglasses on his nose, he inspected the area. It seemed quiet on this early Thursday
afternoon. The lot was half empty, none of the cars were occupied, and there wasn’t a soul in sight. If the cops were anywhere around, they were keeping a very low profile.
Time to go in.
He palmed Bev’s keys, pulled the borrowed baseball cap lower on his forehead, and opened the door. If all went well, he should be in and out in less than five minutes.
As he slid from the car and skulked toward the entrance, he kept an eye out for anything that looked suspicious. But nothing raised a red alert. Good. The simpler this detour was, the better.
After unlocking the front door with the key Bev had specified, he draped the hem of his T-shirt over the knob, twisted it, and slipped inside. All appeared to be normal here too. A worn beige carpet, frayed along the edges, ran the length of the hall, and from the far end the muffled sound of rap music seeped through a door.
He didn’t linger by the entrance. Once outside of 1E, he inserted the other key and used his T-shirt again to turn the handle.
The door didn’t give.
Daryl frowned. Had Bev given him the wrong key?
He tried again.
Nothing.
Maybe, by chance, the key for the main door worked for her unit too. It was worth a shot.
Switching keys, he tried to insert the one he’d used out front.
It didn’t fit.
Stymied, he examined the two keys in his hands. Only one explanation came to mind.
After the visit from the police, the landlord had changed the locks.
Pocketing the keys, Daryl started back down the hall toward the front door. No sense wasting time here. If Bev wanted the locket that badly, she’d have to call the superintendent she was so chummy with and see if he could get it out for her. That was a better plan all around, anyway. As far as he was concerned, this little side trip had been far too risky.
Relieved to be on his way out, he pushed through the door—and almost knocked over the woman who was reaching up to press the bell for the superintendent.
The woman who had ruined his life.
Alison Taylor.
His heart slammed against his rib cage and he dipped his chin, pulling the brim of his cap even lower. How bizarre was this?
He brushed past her, averting his head. Not that there was much chance she’d recognize him. It had been years since she’d seen him, and his hair had been much longer in those days. But her presence unnerved him nonetheless.
Mumbling a muffled “Sorry,” he kept walking. And didn’t look back until he was safely behind the wheel of Bev’s car.
Alison was still standing by the door. Dressed in a classy business suit. Paying no attention to him as she waited for the superintendent to answer her ring. If she had any clue who he was, she gave no indication of it.
He put the car in gear, backed out of the spot, and pulled away. Glancing in the rearview mirror, he saw that a guy had answered the door. Fortysomething, with a paunch his white undershirt did nothing to disguise. He was staring after the car—as if he recognized it.
Assuming the man was the superintendent, that was a definite possibility.
A cold trickle of sweat inched down between Daryl’s shoulder blades, and he tightened his grip on the wheel. At least Chuck had changed the plates. If the superintendent alerted the police that Bev’s car was in the area, the cops would be looking for the wrong plates.
As for his own appearance, he could alter that. With one hand, he whipped off the glasses and cap. Then, despite the heat, he shrugged into the black jacket on the seat beside him, covering his tan T-shirt.
The sooner he got away from the area, however, the better. Because he still had a lot of things to do before he returned to the trailer. First, smurf some cold pills for Chuck. While he was making a circuit of stores taking care of that, he also intended to pick up a few supplies he needed. Latex gloves. Plastic sheeting. A burger too, while he was at it.
Then—tonight—he’d pay another visit to Alison.
He checked the rearview mirror. No sign of the cops.
The tension in his shoulders eased, and he let his thoughts return to Alison. He’d only seen her up close once before, the day she’d refused to turn Kyle over to him after calling the cops. The day he’d been busted. He’d been too angry to notice details then. But today he’d gotten a better look at her. She had a pretty face—and big blue eyes. The kind that could turn a man to mush if she smiled at him.
But she wouldn’t be smiling later.
Daryl’s lips twisted into a smirk, and he bent down to finger the knife sheath hidden under the seat.
He couldn’t wait.
“That was a mighty tasty piece of salmon, son.” Walt wiped his lips on a paper napkin and sat back in his chair. “You sure have given that grill a workout since you’ve been home.”
“You need to learn to use it too. It’s a very healthy way to cook.” Mitch rose and picked up their empty plates. So far, getting his father interested in the culinary arts had been a losing battle. “Would you like some more iced tea?”
“Yes, thanks. But if you keep waiting on me, I’m going to get lazy.”
“How come I don’t think that will happen?” Mitch retrieved the pitcher of tea. “Case in point: I noticed the freshly turned earth in the garden as I pulled in tonight. You were busy after our lunch.”
“The doc said it was okay.”
“It’s too hot to be out in the sun.”
“It’ll only get hotter. Wait till July.”
“Why don’t you forego the garden this year?” Mitch refilled his father’s glass, then cut them each a slice of angel food cake, ladling sliced strawberries over the top.
“I’ve had a garden every year of my adult life, and I’m not about to quit now. But I might scale it back a little.” Walt dug into the cake the instant Mitch set it in front of him.
There was nothing wrong with his dad’s appetite, that was for sure. Another positive sign. The older man’s rising energy level was also encouraging. He should be grateful his father was making such a speedy recovery.
He took his own seat again and used the edge of his fork to slice through his cake. “I guess you know what’s best.”
His father stopped eating and stared at him. “Well, that’s quite a change from the mollycoddling you’ve been dishing out up to now. What happened?”
Mitch lifted one shoulder and continued to eat. “Alison suggested that I trust you to test your limits—and assume you have the common sense to respect them.”
“Did she, now.” His father grinned and speared a strawberry, waving it to punctuate his next comment. “I knew I liked that girl. She has a first-rate head on her shoulders and a warm heart. That’s a winning combination. So when are you going to take her out on a real date?”
After spending the entire dinner listening to his father effuse about today’s lunch—and sidestepping the older man’s queries about his intentions with Alison—he should have known better than to bring her up again.
“When life slows down.” He took a sip of his iced tea and stirred in some more sugar.
“Trust me, son. That’ll never happen. Life just gets busier and busier until you’re my age. And then there’s not much left of it to enjoy. You have to go for the gusto when the opportunity presents itself. What’s holding you back, anyway? Don’t you like her?”
“Of course I like her. What’s not to like?”
“My point exactly.”
“I need to take it slowly, Dad. She was involved in a serious relationship a year ago that didn’t work out. That’s why she brushed off your question today about why she wasn’t married. Now she’s a little gun-shy.” Mitch kept his explanation spare, careful not to reveal too much of the personal information she’d shared in confidence. “I don’t want to rush her. That could backfire.”
Walt speared another strawberry and twirled it on his fork. “You want my opinion?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No. Your mother always said I was too
outspoken, and she was right. But as one Musketeer to another, I can tell you the lady is interested. You pussyfoot around too long, she’ll find somebody else.”
Mitch took a sip of tea. “I’m not pussyfooting around.”
“Yeah?” His father gave him a skeptical look. “You haven’t even taken her on a real date.”
“I’ll get around to that.”
“Hmph. He who hesitates . . .”
“If it makes you feel any better, I’m planning to call her after I get back from swimming and ask her out for Saturday night.”
His father’s face brightened. “That’s the best news I’ve had all day. At least she’ll know you’re interested.”
Smiling, Mitch finished off his cake and rose. “Trust me. She knows I’m interested.” He winked and reached for his father’s empty plate too.
Walt smiled back. “Well now. Maybe there’s hope for you yet.” He stood and shooed Mitch away from the sink. “You go on and swim. I’ll clean up in here. It’ll help me get the blood moving. Besides, the sooner you get home, the sooner you can call that pretty little lady.”
“No argument from me.” Mitch draped the dishcloth over the sink and headed for the hall to collect his duffel bag.
“And son . . .”
At his father’s words, he turned in the doorway.
“If I haven’t told you lately, it’s good to have you home again.”
Mitch tried to swallow past the sudden pressure in his throat. “It’s good to be home.”
As he continued toward his room, Mitch realized that affirmation was true on many levels. Although he’d liked the NYPD, he loved his dad more. Since the bypass scare, spending time with him had become a top priority.
And as it had turned out, his new job was proving to be every bit as interesting as the NYPD gig.
Plus, he’d met Alison. That had been a huge—and unexpected—bonus.
Grabbing his duffel bag from the corner of his childhood bedroom, he glanced around at the dozens of swimming ribbons, medals, and trophies that decorated the walls and shelves. The ones his father had told Alison about at lunch. He’d sweated blood to win most of them. Pushed himself to the limit. Been harder on himself than any coach had ever been.
