Hidden Fire, Kobo

by Terry Odell

  Randy thought of what might happen to Kovak's job beyond losing overtime pay. To all their jobs. His stomach burned. Even if he hadn't promised to keep what Laughlin had told him confidential, he couldn't have told Kovak. Not now. "Man, I'm sorry. If there's anything you need …"

  "We're still working things out," Kovak said. "Meanwhile, I have a daughter to watch."

  "Wait a second," Randy said. "What if I ask the chief to consider changing our shifts to four tens? Same forty hours a week, but you'd get three days off to freelance. That's how the county does it."

  Kovak looked thoughtful. "Hell, we're already working ten-hour days half the time. Janie might have to rearrange scheduling, but three days off … yeah, I think that might solve a few problems. Create a few new ones, of course, but that's life. Thanks, big guy."

  "No promises. I'll propose it. Or you can, for that matter."

  They walked back to the rec room in silence. "I'll sit in back," Randy said. "Don't need to block everyone's view." He clapped Kovak on the shoulder. "Enjoy the family moments. We'll find a way."

  Randy settled into a too-small metal folding chair against the far wall of the room, behind several rows of wheelchairs filled with the elderly. Glad to see they were well-groomed and apparently well cared for, he still felt sorry that they were here alone while many of their fellow residents were interspersed with the rest of the crowd. Then, one by one, a line of youngsters—none out of the middle school years, he estimated—came up to a chair, smiled at its occupant and wheeled it into the general seating area. The pride on the faces of the children and the beaming faces on the elderly made his eyes burn.

  He stood and approached a silver-haired woman, her nails manicured an iridescent pink, her lips painted a deep red. "Hello," he said. "I'm Randy Detweiler. May I join you?"

  She stared up at him with pale blue eyes. Lines creased her face like wrinkled tissue paper. "My, but you are a tall one, aren't you?"

  "Only standing up." He dragged his chair closer to hers and sat.

  "You have any smokes?" she asked, winking at him.

  "Sorry. Do they let you smoke here?"

  She huffed. "No. I smoked for over seventy years and I didn't die. Then they stick me in here and say smoking will kill me. Like at ninety-three I'm not going to drop dead soon enough anyway."

  "Ninety-three? I would never have guessed you're a day over eighty."

  She reached over and slapped his thigh. "You're a real charmer. You want to blow this joint and go have some real fun?"

  Randy's jaw hurt from trying not to laugh. "Sorry, ma'am, but I'm spoken for."

  She cocked her head. "Can't handle two women, hey?"

  He patted the hand she hadn't moved from his leg. "I'm thirty-five and I think you might be too much for me."

  She cackled. He swiveled around looking for Sarah, but she hadn't come into the room yet. He sighed. The woman's hand crept up his thigh. Gently, he placed it in her lap.

  "Can't blame a gal for trying," she whispered loud enough to be heard three rows away.

  Sarah appeared beside him. "We have a problem. Can you help?"

  He jerked to his feet immediately thinking of his off-duty weapon in his ankle holster. "What happened?"

  She tugged his arm and pulled him out of the room.

  "Bye, my treetop lover!" echoed after him.

  "I see you've met Mrs. Simonson," Sarah said.

  "You mean she's like that with all the men? And here I thought I was special."

  They were in the doorway now and she stopped.

  "Okay, what's the emergency?" he asked.

  "The dance group left their CDs at the studio and it will take an hour to get them. There's a piano. Will you play?"

  "What? You want me to accompany a bunch of kids dancing?"

  "Please. They've worked so hard and they'll be heartbroken if they don't get to dance. You must know the music—you know everything. Please."

  As if he could refuse those blue eyes. "Crap. You know how long it's been since I've played in public?"

  "Like anyone here's going to notice? Most of the residents can barely hear and the parents will be watching their kids, not listening."

  "Do they have sheet music?"

  "Um … no. They've rehearsed with CDs. But it's classical piano and show tunes. The instructors know the pieces."

  By now, he could sense the restlessness in the rec room behind him. He sighed.

  "All right." She was going to owe him. Big-time. The look on her face said she knew it.

  She hurried away. Soon afterward someone announced the show would be starting shortly. A harried woman in black yoga pants and a form-fitting red top rushed up to him with a sheet of paper. "Thank you, thank you, Mr. Detweiler. You're a lifesaver. These are the pieces." She thrust the sheet in his hands. He scanned the list. Nothing he didn't recognize.

  "You want me to do this? Not having heard your CDs, I'm not going to be able to match the arrangements your kids are used to hearing."

  "They'll cope." She smiled. "Most of the young ones don't even hear the music and the older ones are good enough to adjust. I'll cue you for tempo."

  Her eyes, while not as blue as Sarah's, also couldn't be denied.

  "Where's the piano?"

  "They're bringing it in now."

  Within minutes, he found himself seated at an old baby grand. He ran through a few arpeggios, pleasantly surprised at the tone. He looked to the dance director who gave him a nod. While "Flight of the Bumblebee" wasn't his preferred piece to lead off with, he set his fingers to the keys and began. From his vantage point on the floor facing the raised platform that served as the stage, he watched a swarm of tiny dancers dressed in black and yellow costumes flutter and flit across the floor.

  An hour later, with the grand finale of all the dancers doing a high-kick routine to "Chorus Line", he stood, grinning and embarrassed as all the dancers applauded him. The director insisted he come on stage. He trotted up the steps at the side of the platform.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," the director said. "The man who made tonight possible. Randy Detweiler. Let's show him our appreciation." As one, the dancers bowed and curtsied, and a little bumblebee gave him a plastic-wrapped bouquet of roses. He took her tiny hand in his, bent low and kissed her fingertips. She giggled, flitting on tiptoe back to her spot in line.

  "That's my treetop lover," resounded from the back of the room.

  He stood there, face burning, as the room exploded in laughter. From the doorway, Sarah waved at him. He tipped the flowers in her direction. She shook her head and waved at him again. Motioned him toward her. Although he couldn't see her face, he caught the urgency.

  * * * * *

  Sarah chewed her lip, pacing until the crowd cleared and Randy started down the aisle.

  It was probably nothing, she told herself. But Randy should see what she'd found. He finally made it, after being stopped and thanked by almost every person in the room. She looked more closely at his smile, his flushed face. He was enjoying himself. She'd been amazed at how quickly he adapted to the dancers, how he could adjust his playing to match what they were doing. They probably looked better than if they'd had their canned music.

  Her chest swelled. She was proud of him. She considered the feeling, savoring it, then he finally reached her side. "Here," he said, handing her the roses. He kissed her forehead. "What did you want to tell me?"

  "First, that you were fantastic. Second, keep your hands off Mrs. Simonson. And third, come with me."

  She took his hand and led him through the thinning crowd, passing the reception counter and heading toward a sign marked "Restrooms". She walked past it, then pushed open a set of glass-paned double doors halfway down the corridor.

  The room had reverted from dressing room to staff lounge, although ribbons and glitter festooned the floor. The aroma of coffee replaced the earlier scents of hairspray and makeup. She bent to retrieve a sparkling tiara and set it on the round dining table in the middle of
the room.

  "While I was in here, some of the staff came in for coffee," she said. "They were using these." She opened the drawer where she'd stashed the mugs behind some disposable plates and tableware. Garrigue mugs. She handed one to him. He held in his fingertips, by the edge of the base.

  "If you're looking for fingerprints, they washed them and dried them before putting them away," she said. "The prints on there will be mine."

  "One of your missing mugs?" Randy asked.

  "I can't be positive without reviewing my inventory. But look at it. Do you notice anything?"

  He turned it in his hands. Ran his fingers along the handle, the rim and finally along the edge of the squat pedestal bottom. Would he notice? He stopped, looked at it more closely.

  "Feels like it's been repaired. Like the base broke off and someone glued it back on. Otherwise, looks like an ordinary coffee mug to me. Did I miss something?"

  She shook her head. "No, that's exactly what I think."

  "Well, it broke and someone fixed it. What's the deal?"

  She pulled the other matching mug from the shelf. "This has been repaired in exactly the same way. That seems too much of a coincidence. You're always telling me you don't trust coincidences."

  His brows drew together. "Maybe these were—I don't know—like seconds. The stuff you see at outlet malls. Maybe Garrigue sells his rejects."

  "No way. The man's doing exclusives. He wouldn't allow an inferior piece out of his studio." She hesitated. Her ideas were totally off-the-wall. But maybe Randy could take them down, look at them and see them with his detective eyes. "What if by mistake, he shipped rejects. His assistant might have mixed up boxes or something, since he's away. Maybe someone came in to get them back."

  Spoken out loud, the words sounded ludicrous. Not the way things had seemed when she thought maybe she could solve Randy's case, or at least help him and they'd be working together. Collaborating. Partners, of a sort. Which is why she'd decided to show him the mugs here rather than try to sneak them out. Besides, she couldn't sneak anything past him.

  "Wait." She took the mug from Randy's hands and set it on the table. "That was too stupid for words. Even if he took his pots back, or sent someone to do it, why would they have smashed all that other stuff? Wouldn't they have tried to replace the bad stuff with good ones? But how would they know which ones? He'd have had to get all my records, copy them and track down every sale trying to figure out who bought his pottery. I had all the specific sales data with me.

  "I told you it was a stupid idea." She was talking to the coffee mugs, not wanting to see Randy laughing at her, but she braved a peek in his direction. He looked … thoughtful. Like he was actually considering her crazy idea.

  "Did you ask where they came from?" he said. "Who they belonged to?"

  "I didn't want to say much. This place is a gossip's paradise. People know you're a cop. If I was asking questions, they might make a connection and I thought we should keep a low profile. You know, so the bad guys didn't find out someone was on to them and—" she searched for a term she'd heard Randy use—"rabbit. That is, assuming there's any connection to these mugs and my shop." She took a breath. He must think she was an idiot. "That sounds lame, doesn't it?"

  He laughed, but the underlying warmth was clear. He wasn't laughing at her. "Not at all. It sounds like you're thinking like a cop. Not trusting anyone. Keeping things close to your chest."

  The comparison didn't sit well. Wasn't that what was bothering her about Randy in the first place? But she couldn't deny the upwelling of pride.

  He went on. "You haven't seen them before tonight?"

  She rolled that around in her mind. "No. I've been in here a number of times. I'd recognize a Garrigue in a heartbeat. I'd remember. I bet it's been here less than two weeks."

  "Which could be before you got your pottery."

  "True, but until I check my records, there's no way to tell."

  "Would your records be accurate enough? Don't a lot of pieces look alike?"

  She nodded. "Unfortunately, yes. He doesn't number them or anything. But if I sold a pair of mugs to someone Saturday, I'd have a record and you could ask them, right? And it's possible if I compared these to my inventory photos, I might be able to make out a slight difference."

  "I trust your eye. But I think the most efficient approach would be to ask around here. Subtly, of course." He grinned. "We don't want anyone to rabbit."

  She accepted his teasing.

  He picked up a mug, then set it down. He cradled her face and, for that instant, his face was as transparent as hers had ever been. His eyes shone with love. "But first I need to tell you I had a good time tonight. It's been a long time since I've connected to a bigger picture than my work." His voice was husky. She knew her eyes reflected the same emotions.

  He kissed her. Slow, gentle and compassionate. Everything in his eyes was transmitted through the kiss. She accepted it, returned it, then pulled away. "I had a good time, too. You should let the non-cop side come out more often."

  The non-cop side. She realized she'd hardly ever seen it, other than their private moments, but those were primarily sexual. Seeing him interact with the kids … Unconsciously, she rubbed her belly. She and David had reached the, "it's time for a family" point in their lives right before he was killed. Did her confusion about Randy stem from that ticking clock inside her? The fear that with him, she might not have a family? Or if they did have children, he wouldn't be around to be a father?

  There she went, filling her mind with unanswerable questions. She cleared them from her mind, although she knew they were still in there, swarming around like the dancing bumblebees from tonight's recital.

  Randy gripped her hands, still gazing into her eyes. Abruptly, he dropped them and straightened. His eyes were cop's eyes again. She sensed the door opening behind her. Composing herself, she turned to find a woman in a brightly patterned smock giving them a raised eyebrow once-over.

  "Hi," Sarah said, grabbing the tiara from the table, twirling it in her fingers. "I was helping out with the recital earlier. Looks like someone forgot this."

  The woman seemed more interested in Randy.

  She gave Sarah a brusque nod, but gave Randy a friendly smile. A very friendly smile, complete with the hair-fluffing bit. "You played the piano tonight. You're quite good."

  "Thanks." He gave a noncommittal shrug.

  Sarah grabbed the mugs and carried them to the coffee maker. "We were going to have a quick cup of coffee before we hit the road." She shot the woman a piercing "hands off my man" look and filled both mugs. "Did you want some?" she said over her shoulder. "There might be enough for a third cup."

  The woman glanced at them before returning her gaze to Randy. Her tongue flitted across her lips. Randy came over and took one of the filled mugs, brought it to his mouth.

  The woman's features regrouped into a professional expression. "No, thanks." She went to the small fridge and grabbed a soda. "I guess I'll be going."

  Once the woman had gone, Randy gave her a questioning look. "Since when do you drink real coffee? Or is this decaf?"

  Sarah took his mug and dumped its contents, along with hers, down the sink. "She's not a regular here. That smock says she's from the nursing temp agency. I doubt she pays any attention to the coffee mugs in the cabinet, but I didn't want her to get a good look at these."

  "And that would be because?"

  "Because we're going to borrow them. I'm going to take a closer look."

  She ignored his raised eyebrows and rummaged under the sink for a trash bag. She wrapped the mugs in paper towels and put them in the bag. "I intend to bring them back. Is there a problem? Do you have to arrest me if I walk out of here with them?"

  "Walk out of here with what?" he said, his eyes twinkling.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Randy eyed the plastic bag Sarah held on her lap. She seemed to think there was something to learn from the mugs, and maybe there was. Part of his min
d dealt with the spin he'd have to put on taking the mugs if they turned out to be evidence. Another part simply enjoyed sitting in his truck with Sarah. A mantle of magic surrounded the night and he'd do whatever he could to keep it alive awhile longer.

  Sarah ran her fingers over the bag, as if to reassure herself the contents hadn't vanished. The mugs took on a presence of their own, as if there were two more bodies in here with them. He shifted in his seat. There was that other annoying entity making itself known every time he glanced at Sarah and saw the way her eyes gleamed with pleasure.

  He'd enjoyed watching her mind work in its convoluted way. Like when he and Kovak tossed ideas around. Brainstorming meant nothing was too stupid to consider, especially when dealing with the intelligence level of most of the people they arrested. Criminals, for the most part, were stupid, so stupid ideas were often the ones that solved cases. He caught himself before he said anything. Shit, if he used the word stupid, he'd embarrass her. Or piss her off. Neither option was one he wanted to deal with.

  When they got to her shop, she swiveled in her seat. "You can wait here if you want. I'll only be a few minutes."

  Like hell. "I'll come with you."

  He left the bag on the front seat, locked the cab and followed her to the back door. Inside, she paused. Her breath hitched.

  "I forgot," she said.

  "Forgot what? Do we need to go back to Saint Michael's?"

  She shook her head. "No. I forgot how … different everything looks in here. So empty." He put his hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off. "Doesn't matter. I'll have to get used to it until things pick up."

  He waited, wandering through the half-empty shelves while she went into her office. She'd done a good job of displaying her stock. Someone who'd never been here before wouldn't know anything was amiss. Sarah's artistic touch was evident. The merchandise was arranged to showcase the pieces. Customers would assume there were lots more tucked away in a stockroom.