Hidden Fire, Kobo

by Terry Odell

  He spun around. His nostrils flared. A vein at his temple throbbed. Involuntarily, she leaned back in her chair.

  "Not forbid," he said, each syllable clipped. "But I would emphatically suggest they might want to stay with someone until we had a few more leads on whoever might have done this." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sorry. We're both upset. Let's not fight."

  She was being unfair. "You're right. I'm probably overreacting. But I want to go home. Do something. Sitting here, watching you work makes me feel helpless. It's easier when you're doing something isn't it?"

  He nodded.

  "So, let me go home. Let me be doing something, even if it's staring at a spreadsheet. Maybe I'll see a pattern. Find a clue."

  His face relaxed. "Like what?"

  How the heck should she know? But it was something to do. "Didn't you once say you had to look at everything and then figure out what was usable?"

  "I did." He ducked his head and gave a half-smile, as if he was embarrassed to have his own words used to make her point.

  "So, who knows what I'll find. But I know I won't find anything sitting here all night, or alone at your place."

  "All right. I'll run you over, then come back and follow up with locating witnesses. And I'll call New Jersey to verify Chris is where he's supposed to be."

  "And you'll call me when you find out?"

  "You'll be the second to know."

  Sarah marched to the door.

  Randy smiled at her. "Pine Hills Police's ace detective concludes that the lady is ready to leave."

  She couldn't help the smile that spread over her.

  The silence between them was gossamer-light as they drove to her apartment. Her stomach did a quick somersault when she saw the patrol car parked in front of her building, but she took deep breaths until it relaxed.

  "Anyone I know?" she asked.

  "Rick Montoya," Randy said. "Until midnight. It might be drive-bys after that, but call me if—"

  She cut him off. "I'll be fine. You're programmed into my speed dial. I'll have the phone on and with me, even in the bathroom. Promise."

  He parked in the small lot behind the building. "Wait here a minute." He got out and walked around her Element, bending low to look underneath, running his fingers along the edge of the hood.

  It's his job. He's not trying to scare you. He's being careful.

  She waited for him to open her door and help her out. Part of her was grateful for his support, yet another part hated the reminder she was vulnerable.

  He kept his arm around her waist as they walked up the stairs. He stopped her at the door and took her hand as she slotted the key into the lock. "Let me."

  She relinquished her hold and stepped back. Raising a hand to her forehead, she massaged her temples while he walked through her apartment. The thoughts echoed.

  It's his job. He's not trying to scare you. He's being careful.

  It didn't ease her nerves any more than it had downstairs. She'd been fine until he started doing all his cop stuff. She shook her head, straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin.

  "All clear," he said when he came back.

  She breezed past him. "Great. Now I can get to work and so can you." She turned the burner on under the teakettle. "I'm going to have some tea and work at my computer. Call me when you catch the creep." Without making eye contact, she gave him the best grin she had available and made shooing motions. "Go. Strike while the iron's hot. Get the game while it's afoot. Whatever it is you do."

  He stood where he was for several heartbeats. She took a mug from the cabinet, dropped a tea bag in it and wiped her already clean counter.

  "Lock the door behind me." His voice was quiet, but she heard the hurt.

  She scrubbed an invisible spot on the stove, sensing him walking toward the door. Knowing he'd wait in the hall until he heard the deadbolt snick into place, she did as he asked. Her knees wobbled, but only for a few seconds. She stopped at her CD player, filled the room with the upbeat sounds of Cyndi Lauper, turned on all the lights and stared at the couch, wondering if she could drag it in front of the door.

  Idiot. How will you get out if you have to? Stop being a baby. There's a cop outside your apartment. Nobody's coming up here.

  She teased back the curtain and checked that the patrol car was still there. After she made her tea, she pulled her chef's knife from the block and set it beside her at the computer.

  Staring at her spreadsheets did nothing more than make her eyes burn. Without today's data, what good was it going to do, anyway? She played seven games of computer Mahjongg, drank way too much tea and thought about a bubble bath. She got as far as the bathroom, but the idea of taking all her clothes off gave her the willies. She locked the bedroom door, exchanged her slacks for sweatpants, then her sweater for a sweatshirt and pulled back the spread on her bed. Behind closed eyelids, visions of the destruction at her shop played like a video on endless repeat. So many beautiful things, such wanton destruction.

  They didn't break everything. Think about what's still good.

  Concentrating on the stock she thought she could salvage, she tried to reconstruct her displays in her mind. She hadn't had time to go through everything. There had to be enough left to get started again. She refused the thought of a Going Out of Business Sale and visualized a Grand Reopening instead. There was a lot of broken pottery, but the paper goods were all right, for the most part. Many of the wooden pieces, too.

  After tossing and turning for an hour, she gave up on sleep. She needed her records which were on the computer in her office. She'd download them to her flash drive, then come home and do data entry until she could sleep. She laced on her sneakers and grabbed her purse. She got as far as the door and changed her mind. No point in letting Montoya see her. He'd call Randy who would make a fuss about what might be nothing. Check first, call later.

  She tucked her hair into the hood of her sweatshirt and crept down the back stairs.

  * * * * *

  Randy opened the cover on the piano's keyboard. He warmed up with a few arpeggios, letting his mind drift with the familiar exercises. Starsky and Hutch padded into the room and took their customary positions in Gram's old chair.

  He turned to look at them. "Any requests, guys?"

  Starsky cocked his head as if deliberating, while Hutch lifted a hind leg and did some indiscreet grooming.

  "Pathetic, aren't we?" He picked out the strains of "Another Saturday Night". Was this the way he'd spend his life? Home alone with his cats? "No offense, guys. It's not that I don't like your company, but I had other ideas for this weekend."

  Starsky yawned and kneaded his paws into the cushion a few times, then curled into a ball. Hutch gave a quiet meow and flopped on top of Starsky.

  Thirty minutes spent engrossed in Chopin's complexities and Randy thought he'd be able to sleep. He turned the volume up on his cell phone, grabbed a quick shower and crawled into bed. Half an hour later, still awake, he turned on the light and dialed the phone.

  "Montoya here." The soft voice of Carmen, the dispatcher bled through in the background. Code for a routine traffic stop, then some friendly banter. Must be a quiet night. Randy's tension eased.

  "It's Randy. Report?"

  "Lights went out around eleven. No signs of anyone."

  "Thanks, Rick. You can get back to your regular sector. I'll remind Dispatch to increase visibility in the neighborhood for the rest of the night."

  "Yes, sir."

  Randy ended the call and checked in with Carmen, reminding her of the order he'd placed earlier.

  "I got it, Randy. We're a man short tonight, but Mrs. Tucker's apartment's on my sheet."

  He heard the implied, "We know what we're doing" in her tone.

  "Thanks. I didn't mean—"

  "Forget it. It's covered. If you feel guilty, I like chocolate-covered cherries."

  He made a mental note to have a box on her desk Monday night, then turned off the light, sinking into
sleep. He didn't know how long he'd been out, or how long his phone had been ringing once the sound separated itself from a dream. He fumbled for his cell, trying to shake enough cobwebs from his head to find the button, but it wouldn't stop ringing.

  Not his cell. His landline. He twisted around and grabbed the handset with one hand, turned on the lamp with the other. "Detweiler."

  "Hey, Randy. Guess I woke you. It's Carmen."

  Carmen. Dispatch. Adrenaline surged and his brain cleared. "Go."

  "Someone called in lights on in That Special Something. And there's a gray Honda Element parked in back. I've dispatched a unit. Thought you'd want to know."

  Damn it. What was Sarah doing back at her shop? Why hadn't she called him? "Thanks, Carmen. I'm rolling. I'll be on radio in five."

  He threw on jeans and a polo, shoved his feet into his shoes, grabbed his jacket and gun and raced to his truck. Once he left the quiet of his residential neighborhood, he activated his dash lights and stomped on the accelerator.

  He forced a calm to his voice when he keyed his radio. "What can you tell me, Carmen?"

  "Nothing yet. A unit's on its way from an underage drinking call by the river."

  "Who?" he asked. "Montoya?" He glanced at the clock. One a.m. No, Montoya would have been off duty nearly an hour ago.

  "Neville."

  Wonderful. He remembered the man's attitude when he'd been called off patrol for perimeter duty at the murder scene. Almost antagonistic. Randy wondered if Neville always asked for third shift because it let him slack off while he counted down to retirement. No matter. Right now there wasn't anyone else.

  "ETA?" Randy asked.

  "Under ten."

  Which would put the officer on scene well before he arrived. Until tonight, he hadn't thought much about living outside the city limits. Gram had left her house to him and he never considered living anywhere else. He enjoyed the drive in, the drive home. Gave him time to gear up on the way to work, unwind on the way back. Also gave him an out if the neighbors started asking too many favors.

  If the town council disbanded the police force, he might end up working for the county and he'd be able to answer a call on his own block. But right now, he regretted not living closer in. His foot pressed harder on the gas.

  "Neville, it's Detweiler," he said into the radio, trying not altogether successfully to keep the emotion out of his voice. "Keep me apprised. I'll be there in under twenty."

  "Yes, sir. Had to let the kids off with a warning when I got the call about some lights on in a store downtown." Mockery dripped from his voice, roughened by too many cigarettes.

  Crap. Did Neville think he'd been pulled to do a favor? He kept his tone professional. At least as professional as it could be, considering he wanted to throttle the guy. "I have no doubt you scared the kids enough so they won't be back."

  Neville sputtered a sound that might pass for a laugh, then coughed. "Yeah, I made them dump the booze. Told them they were lucky whoever killed that guy in the field the other night hadn't been waiting for them. Took their car keys. They're waiting on a ride."

  Hoping to lighten the mood, Randy searched for something positive to say. The best he could come up with was, "Look on the bright side. No booking paperwork."

  Neville coughed again. "You're right about that."

  Randy ignored the issue of the confiscated car keys for now. Let Neville's supervisor deal with it. "What's your twenty?" he asked. "Did you call for backup?"

  "No point calling for backup until I know what we've got. Besides, you're rolling. I'm in front of the shop, Detective. Looks quiet. I'll go around back, sir." The words were clipped, terse, relayed in full-blown reporting-to-a-superior mode. With a generous dash of condescension on the side.

  Heart pounding, he listened, waiting for the radio to reveal the scene. Like being blind and only hearing the sound of a movie.

  "I'm parked in back, sir. Checking the vehicle which is registered to one Sarah Tucker of Pine Hills. Nothing unusual noted. Engine's warm, not hot."

  Randy gritted his teeth. "Thank you, Officer Neville. Can you tell me what's going on inside?"

  "Yes, sir, Detective Detweiler. I'm approaching the door."

  The radio went silent.

  Damn. Attitude or not, with both hands occupied, Neville wouldn't be able to key his mic. Randy bit back the urge to ask questions, knowing his voice in the officer's earpiece could distract him, keep him from doing his job. Put him in danger. Put Sarah in danger.

  Or had something already happened to her? Had she gone back to the shop? Had the asshole who'd wrecked her shop come back for something? Had she walked in on him? All the pictures, the crime scenes he'd studied in San Francisco kaleidoscoped through his head, with Sarah's face filling the images.

  And why the hell had she gone back without calling him?

  Damn it, Neville. Report.

  Despite the acid-dump to his gut, he found the wherewithal to keep from interrupting. Carmen would be monitoring the radio and policy was to check with an officer every three minutes if they were on a call. He could wait three minutes. Two minutes, thirty-eight seconds. He hit the horn as some idiot in front of him decided flashing blue lights in his rearview mirror meant slow down to the speed limit.

  Great. Now the jerk was stopping? In the middle of the road? What ever happened to move right! He hit the horn again. The guy pulled onto the shoulder. Finally. Randy straddled the center line, dodging another idiot in the oncoming lane. The sweat trickling down his neck was not from the near miss.

  One minute fifty-two seconds.

  Chapter Ten

  Sarah jumped to her feet at the resounding knock accompanied by a growling male voice shouting, "Pine Hills Police." Brushing her hair out of her eyes, she rushed to the back door. She squinted through the peephole into the distorted face of a glowering police officer. In the yellow light of the streetlamp, his skin tones took on an unhealthy jaundiced shade beneath the brim of his uniform hat. Bulldog jowls. Broad nose above his scowl. She lowered her gaze enough to take in the police uniform shirt. He didn't look familiar, but she didn't normally see the night shift.

  She had one hand on the knob before caution took over. "May I see some identification, please?"

  "Are you alone in there, ma'am?"

  Something in his tone raised her hackles. "Please let me see your identification." She whipped her head around, trying to remember where she'd dropped her purse when she'd come in. She'd call Randy and verify this guy was a real cop. No, not Randy. She would call the police department. Do things through the channels any proper citizen would use.

  "I'm Officer Neville, ma'am. Just checking. Someone called in about your lights being on." His tone was less menacing.

  "One minute." She grabbed her purse, rummaging for her cell while looking through the peephole again, seeing a Pine Hills police badge and ID card. She'd seen Randy's enough to assume these were authentic. Besides, she couldn't think of a reason someone would want to pretend to be a Pine Hills cop. Cautiously, she unlocked the door.

  Officer Neville stepped to one side as she did, then strode into her shop, closing the door behind him. "And would you have identification for me, ma'am?"

  She palmed her cell phone and fished out her wallet with her driver's license. He gave it a cursory glance and a quick head bob.

  "Are you all right?" He had his holster unsnapped and one hand on the butt of his pistol. "Is anyone else here?" His voice was lower and less belligerent.

  "No, I'm alone. I'm fine. This is my shop. I have a right to be here."

  "I'm sorry, but it is unusual to be working after midnight."

  She swept her arm across the room. "Well, Officer Neville, there is a lot to do, wouldn't you say?"

  His eyes never softened and she decided she definitely didn't want to be a crook if this guy was around. Then again, that was his job. Most of the time Randy didn't get called until after the crime was committed. This man was the one who dealt with them in p
hase one—when the bad guys were likely to be doing their bad stuff. She gave him her shopkeeper smile.

  "I appreciate your concern. Would you like to look around and see for yourself that I'm alone here? That everything's all right?" If you could call piles of broken merchandise and overturned fixtures all right.

  He grunted something she took for a yes.

  Stepping aside, she waved him in. He glowered again—his people skills needed a major overhaul—and wandered through the shop, not altogether carefully. She moved ahead of him, picking up things before his shuffling gait added them to her unsalvageable pile. Halfway to the office he stopped and pressed his finger to his ear, nodded, then pressed the mic attached to his collar.

  "On scene. Owner claims she's alone. I'm verifying her statement."

  She opened her mouth to retort but decided he'd be out of here faster if she left him to his verification and snapped it shut. Keeping a discreet distance behind him and an eye out for his clumsy feet, she watched as he gave her office a cursory look.

  He touched his mic again. "Everything is clear. Show me on normal patrol."

  The back door burst open and Neville drew his weapon. "Stay here," he said, shoving her deeper into her office. He stood sideways inside the doorway, back to the wall.

  "Neville? Sarah?" Randy's voice sent relief surging through her.

  "In back," she called.

  Neville holstered his gun and stepped into the shop. "False alarm, sir," he said to Randy, who stood at the rear of the store. She noticed Neville's tone was as gruff with Randy as it had been with her.

  "Mrs. Tucker admits to being here working, which explains the lights." Neville stood at attention, almost as if challenging Randy to find fault with his explanation. Waiting.

  She watched Randy. A hint of the expression Sarah had seen when he confronted Penny Scholnik on the news crossed his face. His pale face. His beaded-with-sweat face. He glanced her way, his eyes asking for confirmation she was all right. She nodded.

  He drew himself to every inch of his six-and-a-half-foot height and returned his gaze to Neville. In a flash of insight she realized Randy had started as a patrol officer long before he became a detective and the power to intimidate was still very much a part of him. Neville didn't flinch, Sarah gave him that much. She doubted she could say the same if she were in Neville's position.