A glance outside showed a couple of workmen scrambling over the slope behind her condo, taking measurements. Probably from a geology firm the condo association had hired to assess the landslide danger.
Rachel squinted at the cloudy sky. Today’s forecast didn’t call for rain, thank goodness. She’d hate for one of California’s frequent mudslides to wipe out this condo. Mostly because it represented a huge investment on her modest salary, but also because she might lose her cherished collection of sentimental items, including a floppy stuffed dog her adoptive parents had presented her on her first Christmas with them.
Another treasure was the psychology report her handicapped sister, Kathy, had laboriously researched and typed. Inside the cover, a professor had marked a large red A and the comment, “You show great insight.” Rachel had been thrilled when Kathy gave it to her.
Despite cerebral palsy and birth parents who’d left her to the mercies of the social welfare system, Kathy had a shining spirit and a sharp mind. At twenty-two, she was close to earning a college degree. Rachel cheered her every step of the way.
She’d hate to lose any of this stuff. But in the end, what mattered were people, not things.
On the way to pick up Russ, she stopped to rent some DVDs about off-road biking and motorcycle racing—lots of noise and action, without the confusion of a plot. Or any half-naked women, either.
She tossed them into the back and headed for Russ’s address. It lay on the west side of town in a development called Amber View because of the surrounding brown hills. Or at least, that was their usual color. Due to recent rains, they were verdant with lush growth.
At the end of a cul-de-sac, the house resembled a traditional cottage right down to the white picket fence and cozy front porch. Kind of homey for a bachelor pad, Rachel mused. She’d assumed from the lack of a ring and the guy’s eagerness for a tour that he wasn’t married, but she might be wrong.
Rachel’s spirits sank at the possibility of encountering a Mrs. McKenzie. How ridiculous—as if she and that arrogant doctor had anything in common! But he wasn’t exactly arrogant, she conceded. Merely strong-willed and outraged at being falsely accused of a heinous act. His wife was probably beautiful and well educated.
She’d wince at the sight of Rachel’s hair. Jeez, maybe she ought to follow Connie’s advice and risk another potentially disastrous color job. Or, as Marta had humorously suggested, get a buzz cut and hope the hair grew back curly.
Bracing for an awkward situation, Rachel rang the bell. From the interior she heard masculine footsteps and then the door opened.
Daylight gave depth to the guy’s slate-blue eyes and highlighted the strong bones of his face. “Hey,” Rachel said.
“Office Byers.” He scanned her approvingly. “Nice outfit.”
“You, too,” she responded. A dark-blue jacket over an open-collared shirt—sexy as heck with designer jeans.
Behind him, a big-screen TV and a wall of audiovisual equipment dominated the living room. A lounge chair in the middle of the carpet and a black leather couch along one wall constituted the only other furnishings. The decor screamed bachelor. Besides, had a Mrs. McKenzie existed, she’d have stuck her nose out by now.
Surprised by how relieved she felt, Rachel confined her next comment to, “We’d better get going.”
“A lot to cover before dark?” An eyebrow lifted skeptically.
“Be a shame to cut our tour short if I have to assist at an emergency.”
“Does that happen often?”
Rarely in this town, but the Villazon PD had a mutual-aid pact with surrounding cities. “Once in a while.”
The doctor emerged smelling of sophisticated after-shave, a welcome change from the hairy-male scents Rachel’s colleagues wore. If this were a date, she might feel tingly at the prospect of snuggling beside him in her car.
Okay, she did feel tingly.
“Anything in particular that interests you?” she asked as they climbed into the sporty two-seater. “On the tour, I mean.”
“I’d be happy with an overview and a bit of history.” Russ bent stiffly, perhaps as a result of being pushed against his car yesterday. The encounter had left Rachel with a crescent-shaped contusion on one hip. She considered any duty-related bruise a badge of honor.
Wrenching her mind away from body parts, she focused on matters of historical interest. There weren’t many in a town that blended into its neighbors. “Some legendary stuff used to go on at the high school, like the time the football team hoisted the principal’s car on top of the gym for Homecoming. That was my junior year.”
The quarterback’s father owned a construction company, where the son had learned to operate a crane. Rachel took pride in the fact that no one had ratted on him.
“I was thinking more in terms of pioneers.” Russ smiled. “But I like your version.”
As she started the ignition, Rachel realized she hadn’t carried a male passenger since she’d bought the car last year. Russ’s legs were so long her hand grazed his thigh when she reached for the gearshift, and as they rounded a corner, their shoulders bumped.
“Kind of friendly in here,” she muttered.
“‘Friendly’?” he teased. “I like the way you talk.”
“What way I talk?” She didn’t have an accent. She spoke standard Californian, spiced with the occasional Spanish phrase such as “hasta la vista, baby.”
“You talk like a cop,” Russ responded.
“That’s what I am.” At a stop sign, Rachel waited while two skate-boarders shot from behind a parked car and skittered across the street. “There’s a couple of accidents waiting to happen.”
“I didn’t see them coming.” Her passenger frowned. “Usually I’m on the alert for kids.”
“Hope we don’t end up peeling them off the pavement.”
He chuckled.
“What?” She didn’t see anything funny about her remark.
“I like that you don’t make the usual small talk about jobs and, oh, whatever,” Russ explained. “It bores me, maybe because I’m not good at it.”
That surprised her. He struck Rachel as the glib type.
“I don’t care for small talk, either,” she admitted. “Girl talk is okay, though.”
“Why?” he asked.
“’Cause I need my friends’ advice.”
“On what?” The guy actually appeared interested.
She recalled her earlier line of thought. “These days, they try to tell me how to fix my hair. You may have noticed the dye turned me into a refugee from Bozo the Clown school.” After a moment she added, “I don’t guess women ever offer you advice about what to do with your hair.” More likely, they tried to run their fingers through it.
“Rarely.” He glanced out the window as they exited the development. “Do you have any idea what those gnarly trees are? Or what kind of fruit they’re bearing?”
“That’s an avocado grove.”
“Really? I didn’t realize they grew around here.”
“Used to be a lot of them.” Rachel was pleased to discover she’d absorbed more details about her community than she’d realized. “They’re Hass avocados, the kind with warty black skin. Absolutely the best-tasting. You fix guacamole with any other variety, you have to stir in salsa for flavor, but these suckers are perfect mashed with a dash of garlic salt. Every Hass avocado in the world is descended from a single tree in La Habra Heights. That’s not far from Villazon.”
“Is the tree on the tour?” he asked with a hopeful air.
“It died a few years ago. There’s a plaque where it used to stand,” she offered.
“Only a plaque? I’ll pass.”
She drove past In a Pickle. As she explained its origins, he said he might return later to buy a souvenir jar of pickles but didn’t want to risk having the lid come off in her car.
Rachel appreciated his consideration. “Marta and I rescued a dog once and it threw up all over my old car,” she said. “I never c
ompletely cleared the smell out. There’s nothing worse than beagle barf.”
“Is that so?” Russ chuckled again. Rachel didn’t see what was funny about an upchucking dog.
“Even vinegar didn’t kill the odor. It just made the car stink worse.” They were traversing Arches Avenue. “You’ve seen the civic center, since you work across the street. The only other historic site is Alessandro’s Italian Deli.”
“A deli is a historic site?” Russ inquired.
“Well, not the actual deli,” she conceded. “On that site used to stand the First Bank of Villazon. There’s a rumor that Richard Nixon opened an account there when he had a law office in La Habra.”
“Was that anywhere near the avocado tree?”
“No. La Habra Heights is a separate community north of La Habra. His office isn’t there anymore, by the way. They tore it down. Broke the preservationists’ hearts.” Rachel had no illusions as to how Villazon and environs stacked up against L.A. People traveled long distances to see the Hollywood Walk of Fame and the Page Museum with its skeletons of mastodons and sabertooth tigers. “I realize a deli isn’t exactly the La Brea Tar Pits.”
“On the other hand, I’ll bet the deli sells better prosciutto,” Russ hazarded.
“You’re making me hungry.” She glanced at the dashboard clock. Nearly five. “I’d better drive you home.” Indicating the rear of the car, she explained, “I have to take those DVDs to Hale Crandall’s house. He’s one of our detectives.”
When Russ twisted for a glimpse, his knee bumped her wrist. Rachel felt a little giddy. She’d been experiencing a pleasant buzz from the guy all afternoon.
“Are they evidence?” he inquired.
“They’re motorcycle movies. For a party.”
Swinging back, Russ brushed her again. More buzz than a swarm of bees. “I don’t know a lot of people in this town,” he said. “I’d love to go to the party. Any chance I can tag along?”
Rachel was so taken aback she could only stutter, “Uh…uh, I guess. But it’s a cop gathering,” she protested belatedly. Blabbing to Connie should have taught her to keep her mouth shut. “Backyard barbecue with a hefty serving of testosterone.” She hoped that last bit discouraged him. Chief Lyons wouldn’t like her dragging Dr. McKenzie over there to watch the guys guzzle beer.
“Great,” the doc responded. “I love barbecues.”
Rachel couldn’t uninvite him without being rude. That would tick off the chief worse.
The other cops would needle her later about bringing a date. And if Connie got an eyeful of this guy, she’d have plenty to say. Like, Tell me again why you aren’t jumping his bones.
Glumly, Rachel headed for Hale’s house. She had a feeling the main dish grilling over the coals was going to be her goose.
Chapter Three
In actual fact, Russ didn’t relish the prospect of attending a party with a bunch of sweaty macho guys. He’d rather spend the evening cruising around with Rachel, listening to her loopy presentation and trying to figure out when she was kidding and when she was in earnest, but he was enjoying her company too much to quit now. So he would put up with whatever this party involved rather than go home alone.
He’d never met anyone like her. His parents, a professional couple who claimed to be advocates of social equality, might bend over backward to raise money for the oppressed but showed a subtle snobbery toward those from a blue-collar background.
One of the reasons he’d moved to Villazon was to escape their narrow social circle, which had drawn him in while he lived and worked so close to them. His old friend, a child psychologist named Mike Federov who served on staff at Mesa View Med Center, had praised the town’s friendliness and its healthy mixture of economic and ethnic groups.
Russ preferred to accept people as individuals. And Rachel Byers was unquestionably an individual. Maybe her co-workers would turn out to be interesting, as well.
Their destination proved to be a neighborhood of ranch-style homes in the southern part of town, a few blocks past a shopping center that included a discount furniture store, a gift shop and a supermarket. A row of jacaranda trees lined the street, showing only the first hint of buds that would later blossom into vivid lavender.
“The guys tend to act a little wild on their days off,” Rachel warned as she found a space along the crowded curb.
“Meaning what, exactly?” Russ inquired.
“They’re kind of physical.” She collected the DVDs.
“In what sense?” His idea of getting physical at a barbecue involved nothing more than hefting a hamburger.
“Ever wrestle with your brother? Or your sister?” she said as she climbed out.
Russ had developed a distaste for fighting in high school, when he’d had to deck a few guys to end persistent bullying. Although he’d won, he hadn’t enjoyed the experience.
“I’m an only child. While I’ve done weight training, I never cared for contact sports.” He seized on a more interesting topic. “How many siblings do you have, anyway?”
“Depends on how you figure it.” With that enigmatic comment, she veered onto a walkway, marched up the steps and entered the house without knocking. Since he assumed this must be acceptable behavior, Russ followed.
They appeared to have walked into a pool hall. Cigarette smoke, masculine chatter and the crack of a cue against a ball greeted them. At a billiards table, half a dozen men were so busy playing that they barely acknowledged the new arrivals. Their Hawaiian shirts and cargo shorts made Russ feel overdressed in his jacket and jeans.
On the walls above a mismatched array of chairs and couches, someone had tacked frayed motorcycle posters. Beer cans and food wrappers crowded a few small tables and less-trafficked areas of the floor.
He and Rachel proceeded through a den with a big-screen TV across which aliens zapped each other. The circle of players didn’t even glance up. Despite their age and size, they reminded Russ of video-addicted adolescents.
In the kitchen, doorless cabinets revealed shelves sparsely stocked with canned goods. The countertop overflowed with chips, dips, crackers, cookies and a half-empty box of doughnuts.
Russ peered around for actual food. The appetizing scent wafting through the wide-open sliding door indicated that it awaited outdoors.
A couple of guys interrupted their snacking to return Rachel’s high-fives. “This is Dr. McKenzie. He’s new at the hospital.”
“Guess we’ll be seeing you in the E.R., then.” A beefy fellow with an air of authority offered his hand. “I’m Captain Ferguson. Call me Frank.”
The others also greeted Russ in a friendly manner. Russ didn’t bother to correct the impression that he’d been invited as a sort of comrade-by-association. Besides, pediatricians did consult in the E.R. on occasion.
Rachel sniffed the charcoal-scented smoke wafting through the sliding door. “Burgers ready?”
“You ought to hold off eating.” Derek Reed, who’d introduced himself as the community relations officer, surveyed her lazily. “Hale’s setting up a competition. Just your speed.”
“You mean a game?” Russ asked. Whatever these guys had in mind, he suspected it wasn’t croquet.
“I wouldn’t call it a game exactly,” remarked a fellow who’d given his name as Joel Simmons. “Hope you brought your swimsuit, Rache.”
“Nah. I’ll have to borrow.” Leaving to the imagination exactly what she expected to borrow in a houseful of guys, she led the way to the patio.
A long table held plates, buns and condiments. Beyond it, a group of men and women lounged in plastic chairs watching basketball on a portable TV. To their left, a muscular aproned man—presumably the host—tended a humongous hooded grill.
Russ and Rachel retrieved soft drinks from an ice-filled cooler. “I’ll save the beer for later,” she explained. “Better be on my toes if there’s a challenge.”
An assortment of dented bicycles leaned against the cement wall that surrounded the yard. Russ was about to
ask their purpose when a burst of smoke poured from the barbecue as the cook lifted the hood. “That’s Hale. We better find out what’s on the agenda before he gets busy serving.” Rachel strode in his direction.
She made introductions. When their host heard Russ’s occupation, the detective said, “Good idea, bringing a doctor.”
That sounded ominous. “What’s with the bikes?” Russ asked.
“They were left over from the police auction last week. I bought ’em cheap.”
Russ had read about the sale, which raised money for the department by disposing of unclaimed stolen or lost goods. That didn’t explain why Hale had decided to decorate his backyard with them, a point that wasn’t lost on Rachel.
“Bicycles, pool. They don’t exactly go together.” Picking up a pair of tongs, she snagged a blackened green pepper strip, blew on it and tossed it into her mouth. Her eyes grew teary.
Hale grinned. “Hot enough for you?”
She dashed the heat with a swallow of soda. “Jalapeño?” She’d plainly assumed it to be a bell pepper.
“Worse. Thai dragon.” The name said it all. “So you want to hear about the bikes?”
Although Rachel seemed to have trouble speaking clearly, she managed to nod.
Hale proceeded to outline a contest. Competitors chose a bike and pedaled around the pool. After making a hairpin turn at one end, they were to hop off the bike, dive in and swim across. The entire procedure would be timed.
Rachel chugged more soda. “What’s the prize?” she wheezed, still suffering the effects of the pepper.
“Case of beer.”
Of course, Russ thought.
“Cold?” said Rachel.
“My fridge isn’t that large,” Hale responded. “You in?”
Russ couldn’t let his new friend risk her neck. “Riding bikes on wet pavement sounds dangerous. Have you played this before?”
“Nope. Just thought of it,” Hale responded proudly, and laid cheese slices atop a couple of burgers.
“Did you try it yourself?” Russ challenged.
“Sure. Matter of fact, I set the baseline. Thirty seconds.” Hale gestured toward the pool. “Piece of cake.”
The Doctor's Little Secret Page 3
