Tall, Dark and Dangerous Part 1

by Suzanne Brockmann

  Mia was surprised again. He hadn’t struck her as being extremely perceptive. In fact, he always seemed to be a touch self-absorbed and tightly wrapped up in his anger. But he was right. There was something that she wanted to ask him about the little girl.

  “I was just wondering,” she said, “if you’ve talked to Natasha about exactly where her mother is right now.”

  He shook his head.

  “Maybe you should.”

  He shifted his position, obviously uncomfortable. “How do you talk about things like addiction and alcoholism to a five-year-old?”

  “She probably knows more about it than you’d believe,” Mia said quietly.

  “Yeah, I guess she would,” he said.

  “It might make her feel a little bit less as if she’s been deserted.”

  He looked up at her, meeting her eyes. Even now, in this moment of quiet, serious conversation, when Mia’s eyes met his, there was a powerful burst of heat.

  His gaze slipped down to the open neckline of her bathrobe, and she could see him looking at the tiny piece of her nightgown that was exposed. It was white, with a narrow white eyelet ruffle.

  He wanted to see the rest of it—she knew that from the hunger in his eyes. Would he be disappointed if he knew that her nightgown was simple and functional? It was plain, not sexy, made from lightweight cotton.

  He looked into her eyes again. No, he wouldn’t be disappointed, because if they ever were in a position in which he would see her in her nightgown, she would only be wearing it for all of three seconds before he removed it and it landed in a pile on the floor.

  The bathroom door opened, and Frisco finally looked away as their pint-size chaperon came back into the living room.

  “I’d better go.” Mia stood up. “I’ll just let myself out.”

  “I’m hungry,” the little girl said.

  Frisco pulled himself to his feet. “Well, let’s go into the kitchen and see what we can find to eat.” He turned to look back at Mia. “I’m sorry we woke you.”

  “It’s all right.” Mia turned toward the door.

  “Hey, Tash,” she heard Frisco say as she let herself out through the screen door, “did your mom talk to you at all about where she was going?”

  Mia shut the door behind her and went back into her own apartment.

  She took off her robe and got into bed, but sleep was elusive. She couldn’t stop thinking about Alan Francisco.

  It was funny—the fact that Mia had found out he’d been kind enough to play silly make-believe games with his niece made him blush, yet he’d answered the door dressed only in his underwear with nary a smidgen of embarrassment.

  Of course, with a body like his, what was there to be embarrassed about?

  Still, the briefs he’d been wearing were brief indeed. The snug-fitting white cotton left very little to the imagination. And Mia had a very vivid imagination.

  She opened her eyes, willing that same imagination not to get too carried away. Talk about make-believe games. She could make believe that she honestly wasn’t bothered by the fact that Alan had spent most of his adult life as a professional soldier, and Alan could make believe that he wasn’t weighed down by his physical challenge, that he was psychologically healthy, that he wasn’t battling depression and resorting to alcohol to numb his unhappiness.

  Mia rolled over onto her stomach and switched on the lamp on her bedside table. She was wide-awake, so she would read. It was better than lying in the dark dreaming about things that would never happen.

  Frisco covered the sleeping child with a light blanket. The television provided a flickering light and the soft murmur of voices. Tasha hadn’t fallen asleep until he’d turned it on, and he knew better now than to turn it off.

  He went into the kitchen and poured himself a few fingers of whiskey and took a swallow, welcoming the burn and the sensation of numbness that followed. Man, he needed that. Talking to Natasha about Sharon’s required visit to the detox center had not been fun. But it had been necessary. Mia had been right.

  Tash had had no clue where her mother had gone. She’d thought, in fact, that Sharon had gone to jail. The kid had heard bits and pieces of conversations about the car accident her mother had been involved in, and thought Sharon had been arrested for running someone over.

  Frisco had explained how the driver of the car Sharon had struck was badly hurt and in the hospital, but not dead. He didn’t go into detail about what would happen if the man were to die—she didn’t need to hear that. But he did try to explain what a detox center was, and why Sharon couldn’t leave the facility to visit Natasha, and why Tash couldn’t go there to visit her.

  The kid had looked skeptical when Frisco told her that when Sharon came out of detox, she wouldn’t drink anymore. Frisco shook his head. A five-year-old cynic. What was the world coming to?

  He took both his glass and the bottle back through the living room and outside onto the dimly lit landing. The sterile environment of air-conditioned sameness in his condo always got to him, particularly at this time of night. He took a deep breath of the humid, salty air, filling his lungs with the warm scent of the sea.

  He sat down on the steps and took another sip of the whiskey. He willed it to make him relax, to put him to sleep, to carry him past these darkest, longest hours of the early morning. He silently cursed the fact that here it was, nearly 0300 again, and here he was, wide awake. He’d been so certain when he’d climbed into bed tonight that his exhaustion would carry him through and keep him sound asleep until the morning. He hadn’t counted on Tasha’s 0200 reveille. He drained his glass and poured himself another drink.

  Mia’s door barely made a sound as it opened, but he heard it in the quiet. Still, he didn’t move as she came outside, and he didn’t speak until she stood at the railing, looking down at him.

  “How long ago did your dog die?” he asked, keeping his voice low so as not to wake the other condo residents.

  She stood very, very still for several long seconds. Finally she laughed softly and sat down next to him on the stairs. “About eight months ago,” she told him, her voice velvety in the darkness. “How did you know I had a dog?”

  “Good guess,” he murmured.

  “No, really…Tell me.”

  “The pooper-scooper you lent me to clean up the mess in the courtyard was a major hint,” he said. “And your car had—how do I put this delicately?—a certain canine perfume.”

  “Her name was Zu. She was about a million years old in dog years. I got her when I was eight.”

  “Z-o-o?” Frisco asked.

  “Z-u,” she said. “It was short for Zu-zu. I named her after a little girl in a movie—”

  “It’s a Wonderful Life,” he said.

  Mia gazed at him, surprised again. “You’ve seen it?”

  He shrugged. “Hasn’t everybody?”

  “Probably. But most people don’t remember the name of George Bailey’s youngest daughter.”

  “It’s a personal favorite.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “Amazing that I should like it, huh? All of the war scenes in it are incidental.”

  “I didn’t say that….”

  “But you were thinking it.” Frisco took a sip of his drink. It was whiskey. Mia could smell the pungent scent from where she was sitting. “Sorry about your dog.”

  “Thanks,” Mia said. She wrapped her arms around her knees. “I still miss her.”

  “Too soon to get another, huh?” he said.

  She nodded.

  “What breed was she? No, let me guess.” He shifted slightly to face her. She could feel him studying her in the darkness, as if what he could see would help him figure out the answer.

  She kept her eyes averted, suddenly afraid to look him in the eye. Why had she come out here? She didn’t usually make a habit of inviting disaster, and sitting in the dark a mere foot away from this man was asking for trouble.

  “Part lab, part spaniel,” Frisco finally said, and she did look up.
>
  “You’re half-right—although cocker spaniel was the only part I could ever identify. Although sometimes I thought I saw a bit of golden retriever.” She paused. “How did you know she was a mix?”

  He lowered his eyebrows in a look of mock incredulousness. “Like you’d ever get a dog from anywhere but the pound…? And probably from death row at the pound, too, right?”

  She had to smile. “Okay, obviously you’ve figured me out completely. There’s no longer any mystery in our relationship—”

  “Not quite. There’s one last thing I need you to clear up for me.”

  He was smiling at her in the darkness, flirting with her, indulging in lighthearted banter. Mia would have been amazed, had she not learned by now that Alan Francisco was full of surprises.

  “What are you doing still awake?” he asked.

  “I could ask the same of you,” she countered.

  “I’m recovering from my talk with Tasha.” He looked down into his glass, the light mood instantly broken. “I’m not sure I helped any. She’s pretty jaded when it comes to her mom.” He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “She has every right to be.”

  Mia looked over toward Frisco’s condo. She could see the flicker of the television through a gap in the curtains. “She’s not still up, is she?”

  He sighed, shaking his head no. “She needs the TV on to sleep. I wish I could find a solution to not sleeping that’s as easy.”

  Mia looked down at the drink in his hand. “That’s probably not it.”

  Frisco didn’t say anything—he just looked at her. To Mia’s credit, she didn’t say another word. She didn’t preach, didn’t chastise, didn’t lecture.

  But after several long moments when he didn’t respond, she stood up.

  “Good night,” she said.

  He didn’t want her to leave. Oddly enough, the night wasn’t so damned oppressive when she was around. But he didn’t know what to say to make her stay. He could’ve told her that he wasn’t like Sharon, that he could stop drinking when and if he wanted to, but that would have sounded exactly like a problem drinker’s claim.

  He could’ve told her he was strong enough to stop—he just wasn’t strong enough right now to face the fact that the Navy had quit on him.

  Instead, he said nothing, and she quietly went inside, locking her door behind her.

  And he poured himself another drink.

  6

  Mia’s legs burned as she rounded the corner onto Harris Avenue. She was nearly there, down to the last quarter mile of her run, so she put on a burst of speed.

  There was construction going on just about a block and a half from the condo complex. Someone was building another fast-food restaurant—just what this neighborhood needed, she thought.

  They’d poured the concrete for the foundation, and the project was at a temporary standstill while the mixture hardened. The lot was deserted. Several A&B Construction Co. trucks were parked at haphazard angles among huge hills of displaced dirt and broken asphalt.

  A little girl sat digging on top of one of those hills, her face and clothing streaked with dirt, her red hair gleaming in the sunlight.

  Mia skidded to a stop.

  Sure enough, it was Natasha. She was oblivious to everything around her, digging happily in the sun-hardened dirt, singing a little song.

  Mia tried to catch her breath as she ducked underneath the limp yellow ribbon that was supposed to warn trespassers off the construction sight.

  “Natasha?”

  The little girl looked down at her and smiled. “Hi, Mia.”

  “Honey, does your uncle know where you are?”

  “He’s asleep,” Tasha said, returning to her digging. She’d found a plastic spoon and a discarded paper cup and was filling it with dirt and stirring the dirt as if it were coffee. She had mud covering close to every inch of her exposed skin—which was probably good since the morning sun was hot enough to give her a bad sunburn. “It’s still early. He won’t be up ’til later.”

  Mia glanced at her watch. “Tash, it’s nearly ten. He’s got to be awake by now. He’s probably going crazy, looking for you. Don’t you remember what he told you—about not leaving the courtyard, and not even going out of the condo without telling him?”

  Tasha glanced up at her. “How can I tell him when he’s asleep?” she said matter of factly. “Mommy always slept until after lunchtime.”

  Mia held out her hands to help Tasha down from the dirt pile. “Come on. I’ll walk you home. We can check to see if Frisco’s still asleep.”

  The little girl stood up and Mia swung her down to the ground.

  “You are dirty, aren’t you?” she continued as they began walking toward the condo complex. “I think a bath is in your immediate future.”

  Tasha looked at her arms and legs. “I already had a bath—a mud bath. Princesses always have mud baths, and they never have more than one bath a day.”

  “Oh?” Mia said. “I thought princesses always had bubble baths right after their mud baths.”

  Tasha considered that thoughtfully. “I never had a bubble bath.”

  “It’s very luxurious,” Mia told her. What a sight they must’ve made walking down the street—a mud-encrusted child and an adult literally dripping with perspiration. “The bubbles go right up to your chin.”

  Natasha’s eyes were very wide. “Really?”

  “Yeah, and I just happen to have some bubble-bath soap,” Mia told her. “You can try it out when we get home—unless you’re absolutely certain you don’t want a second bath today…?”

  “No, princesses can only have one mud bath a day,” Tasha told her in complete seriousness. “It’s okay if they have a mud bath and a bubble bath.”

  “Good.” Mia smiled as they entered the condo courtyard.

  The complex was still pretty quiet. Most of the residents had left for work hours ago. Still, it was summer vacation for the few kids who lived in the building. Mia could hear the distant strains of television sets and stereo systems. Tasha followed her up the stairs to unit 2C.

  The door was ajar and Mia knocked on the screen. “Hello?” she called, but there was no answer. She leaned on the bell. Still nothing.

  Mia looked at the mud caked on Natasha’s body and clothes. “You better wait out here,” she told the little girl.

  Tasha nodded.

  “Right here,” Mia said in her best teacher’s voice, pointing to the little spot of concrete directly in front of Frisco’s door. “Sit. And don’t go anywhere, do you understand, miss?”

  Tasha nodded again and sat down.

  Feeling very much like a trespasser, Mia opened the screen door and went inside. With the curtains closed, the living room was dim. The television was on, but the volume was set to a low, barely discernible murmur. The air was cool, almost cold, as if the air conditioner had been working overtime to compensate for the slightly opened door. Mia turned off the TV as she went past.

  “Hello?” Mia called again. “Lieutenant Francisco…?”

  The condo was as silent as a tomb.

  “He’s gonna be grumpy if you wake him up,” Tasha said, up on her knees with her nose pressed against the screen.

  “I’ll take my chances,” Mia said, starting down the hall toward the bedrooms.

  She was tiptoeing, though. When she reached the end of the hall, she glanced quickly into the bathroom and the smaller of the two bedrooms. Both were empty. The larger bedroom’s door was half-closed, and she crept closer. Taking a deep breath, she pushed it open as she knocked.

  The double bed was empty.

  In the dimness, she could see that the sheets were twisted into a knot. The blanket had been kicked onto the floor, and the pillows were rumpled, but Alan Francisco was not still lying there.

  There was not much furniture in the room—just the bed, a bedside table and a dresser. The setup was Spartan. The top of his dresser held only a small pile of loose change. There were no personal items, no knickknacks, no sou
venirs. The sheets on the bed were plain white, the blanket a light beige. The closet door hung open, as did one of the drawers in the modest-size dresser. Several duffel bags sagged nearby on the floor. The whole place had a rather apathetic feel, as if the person living here didn’t care enough to unpack, or to hang pictures on the wall and make the place his own.

  There was nothing that gave any sense of personality to the resident of the room, with the exception of an enormous pile of dirty laundry that seemed to glower from one dark corner. That and a nearly empty bottle of whiskey standing on Frisco’s bedside table were the only telling things. And the bottle, at least, certainly told quite a bit. It was similar to the bottle he’d had outside last night—except that bottle had been nearly full.

  No wonder Tasha hadn’t been able to wake him.

  But eventually he had awakened and found the little girl gone. He was probably out searching for her right now, worried near out of his mind.

  The best thing they could do was stay put. Eventually, Frisco would come back to see if Natasha had returned.

  But the thought of hanging out in Frisco’s condo wasn’t extremely appealing. His belongings may have been impersonal to the point of distastefulness, but she felt as if by being there, she was invading his privacy.

  Mia turned to leave when a gleam of reflected light from the closet caught her eye. She switched on the overhead light.

  It was amazing. She’d never seen anything like it in her entire life. A naval uniform hung in the closet, bright white and crisply pressed. And on the upper left side of the jacket, were row after row after row after row of colorful medals. And above it—the cause of that reflected light—was a pin in the shape of an eagle, wings outspread, both a gun and a trident clasped in its fierce talons.

  Mia couldn’t imagine the things Frisco had done to get all of those medals. But because there were so many of them, there was one thing that she suddenly did see quite clearly. Alan Francisco had a dedication to his job unlike anyone she’d ever met. These medals told her that as absolutely as if they could talk. If he had had one or two medals—sure, that would have told her he was a brave and capable soldier. But there had to be more than ten of these colorful bars pinned to his uniform. She counted them quickly with her finger. Ten…eleven. Eleven medals surely meant that Frisco had gone above and beyond the call of duty time after time.