Make Mine a Marine

by Julie Miller

  Drew ejected the disk from the computer and tucked it into the back pocket of his jeans. The usual rush of tackling a new mystery mingled with something deeper, indefinable. He knew a need to succeed beyond the satisfaction of rising to a challenge. Beyond the need to discover his past.

  "I'd like to trace the author of this journal," he said. "Find out who James Moriarty is. Maybe there's a clue in here we haven't figured out yet."

  "I can talk to Brodie. Or Kelton Murphy. They both worked with my husband. Maybe one of those names in the file means something to them."

  "I don't know this Murphy, but if he's like Maxwell, he won't be too thrilled that we're working together."

  The smudges of mascara at the corners of her eyes made her look little older than Kerry. But he saw nothing adolescent in the determination that steeled her shoulders. "I'll hire you."

  "To do what?"

  "I'm not sure yet. It doesn't matter. But if you're working for me, then they can't question us spending time together."

  A spiral of hair had fallen loose across her cheek again. Drew brushed it back, her freckled skin cool and smooth beneath his roughened fingers. "You sure you want to deceive your friends?"

  She laid her hand over his, holding on in a rare gesture of trust. "I'm not deceiving them. I'll pay you every penny I have if you can find Jonathan."

  Chapter Four

  Faith sat on the third step in the drafty stairwell of the rickety brownstone watching over her trickiest assignment. The circle of light she carried with her kept her warm enough, but Drew Gallagher, blending with the shadows of the predawn hour, huddled deep inside his leather jacket.

  "You should be home," she reprimanded him gently, knowing he wouldn't hear her. "You deserve a good night's sleep."

  She sighed, lifting her bangs with a puff of air. She rested her elbows on her knees and plopped her chin in her hands. This job was proving to be her most difficult case. The temperature around her suddenly dropped, and she shivered. She tilted her face upward, understanding the silent message. "All right, so it’s my only case." She sat up straight and spread her arms wide, beseeching the light from above. "It’s the only case I've ever had.”

  The temperature fell in a sudden rush to a subarctic level. Her teeth chattered in contrite apology. "I know, I know—I should have listened to you and minded my own business. I thought I could help."

  She relaxed as the heat returned. Soon she could breathe again, surrounded by a glow as soft as a rosy sunset.

  Drew Gallagher wasn’t faring as well, though. He pulled his hands from his pockets and wriggled his fingers, encouraging circulation before burying them inside his jacket again. The banister hid him from sight, but did nothing to stop the winter chill that whistled in through the broken pane on the front door. Taking pity, Faith left her perch and floated down to him. She wrapped him in a hug he couldn't feel and tried to instill some of her warmth into him.

  Alert as always, his gaze darted from the front door in a quick scan of his surroundings. "Yes!" she urged him, waving her hands in front of his face. "Notice me. Listen to me."

  But he shrugged his shoulders and turned his head back to the front door.

  Faith groaned in frustration. "You don't see me at all, do you?"

  A noise rustled behind her, and she crinkled her nose at the putrid odor burning through her sinuses. She turned to identify the acrid stench. The drunk on the inside stoop had rolled over.

  "I'll bet you do."

  The vagrant's bleary eyes squinted open and looked right at her. His pasty, gap-toothed smile made her cringe. "Hey, honeybunch."

  "Shut up." Drew answered the mistaken come-on with a cold look that made Faith turn away, too.

  "Thank you." She preened as if Drew’s warning had been a gallant defense on her behalf "See? You do the right thing. You're a good man." She tapped his chest. "But until you believe what's in your heart, you'll never see me. I’ll never be able to explain. You'll never understand what you have to do." Her weary sigh stirred the fall of hair at his shoulder, the subtle movement getting lost in the January breeze. "I guess I'll keep doing what I do best."

  The lights surrounding her blinked. She threw up her hands, chastised like the meddling novice she was.

  "Okay, fine. I'm working on it. I will find out what I do best. Just give me time." She floated up through the second and third floors and made her way back to the citadel at the outer reaches to study other events beginning to take shape in her guidebook. She'd been doodling on the first page, only half-listening when they'd explained how this guardian angel guidebook worked. There'd been something about noninterference and guidance through successful rites of passage to earn her wings, too.

  She hadn't realized that wings could be so important. But without them, she'd be stuck here. Alone.

  Maybe one day she'd find out how everything worked. Then she could make things right for Kerry.

  She'd write her own book about it. Illustrate it herself and share it with her cohorts. Yeah, once she

  figured out why humans fought so hard to hang on to life, why love bound two people together through mistakes and miracles, she'd be in demand, not stuck way out in…

  The lights around her flashed, bleeding first to orange, then a vivid scarlet. She heard the echo of thunder rumbling in the distance.

  "I know, I know." Her deep sigh filled the empty expanse. "No books. No wings. Not until I learn to do the job right."

  She prayed Drew Gallagher had the kind of time she needed to figure it all out.

  * * *

  Drew shivered. The warm draft of air that had brought feeling back into the tips of his fingers vanished with the momentary awakening of his smelly companion on the stoop.

  The Drew Gallagher of the fictional world lived and breathed dumps like this. The make-believe detective passed in and out of the seamy underbelly of the world as if he'd been born to it. Yet he could shave, don a suit and tie and an attitude, and blend just as easily with the upper crust of society.

  The flesh-and-blood Drew Gallagher had taught himself the same skills. But this night, maybe more than ever before, he wondered what he was really like. What was his real name? His real profession? His real neighborhood?

  He sure as hell hoped he came from a place far away from this perpetual gloom and squalor. He wanted to come from a place bathed in warmth and light. Where people shook hands and made eye contact. Where they stuck out their necks and helped their neighbor because that person needed help.

  Where a woman believed in a man’s survival just because she loved him.

  Drew shifted, the creak of his leather holster the only sound he made. He’d offered to help Emma because he thought he could gain her trust. Because having her indebted to him would make her more inclined to help him find his truth.

  But his conscience warred with his head. He couldn't move past the guilt that gnawed at his stomach. He tried to be a good man. He didn't like using her.

  But a man had to look out for himself first, didn't he? The fictional Drew Gallagher would play this game through to the end. He'd track down her husband, then demand that she rack her brain, submit to hypnosis, do whatever it took to remember her connection to him.

  Problem was, the real Drew Gallagher had discovered a liking for Kerry's bubble-bath freshness, and the exotic herbal scent of Emma's hair.

  And the idea that he might hurt or fail either one of them sat on his conscience like a lead weight.

  The sound of an overbuilt motor revving and sputtering to a stop outside the door brought his focus back to the task at hand. He identified his man by the hurried crunch of slick-soled shoes on the unshoveled sidewalk. Swallowing his questions and his conscience, Drew snagged Stan Begosian by the elbow and steered him to his apartment door without breaking stride.

  "Evening, Stan," he said in a low-throated whisper. "Pretty late for a man like you to be out on the town, isn't it?"

  The smaller, stockier man quivered in Drew's grip.
>
  "I didn't do nothing wrong. I’m out on bail. I can stay out as late as I want as long as I stay in town."

  Drew seized Stan's hand and guided the key into the lock. "I'm just worried about your health on a wintry night like this. Why don't you invite me in?"

  The lock tumbled over, and Drew shoved Stan in ahead of him, closing the door behind them and pocketing the keys.

  "You can't barge in like this. I have rights."

  Drew ignored the protest and scavenged around the studio apartment, digging through drawers and opening books. "How'd you make bail money, Stan?"

  Begosian huddled in the center of the room, turning to watch Drew's progress. "I don't have to say nothing. You ain't a cop."

  Drew let his gaze stray over to Stan's dark, beady eyes. "You're facing two counts of attempted kidnapping and an assault charge. You don't have the kind of money to pay that bond. Who's backing you?"

  Stan fidgeted inside his brown tweed coat, and his gaze darted to the kitchenette area. With a feigned interest in the sofa cushions along the way, Drew crossed to the small stove and sink.

  "I had some money saved up."

  "From what? Selling your dirty pictures?" Drew poked around the pile of pans and plates in the dish drainer. For a cockroach, Stan lived in a remarkably well-kept place.

  Stan took a step in his direction, but halted when Drew looked up. "I don't do that kind of stuff no more. I'm in therapy."

  "Who pays for that?" A quick examination of the lone drawer and cabinet revealed nothing unusual. "The D.A. seems to think you're back in business. And quite frankly, you're throwing around a lot of money. That makes me wonder if he’s right."

  He followed the nervous flutter of Stan's glance a second time. "I tell ya, I'm clean. I just wanted to help out that lady friend of yours."

  Drew opened the refrigerator door, but Stan bolted across the room and slammed it shut. Drew scratched a nonexistent itch on his nose, waited for Begosian's focus to shift to the tiny movement, then strong-armed him out of the way. While he explored the bare-bones contents of the fridge and freezer, he held Stan by the collar at arm's length. "I don't think you're into helping anybody but yourself. I'll just bet…"

  He pulled out an old-fashioned metal ice-cube tray. Instead of frozen water, he found a plain white envelope anchored beneath the metal dividers. A slow, calculating glare rooted Stan in place after Drew released him to open the envelope.

  A scrawled name leaped off the bottom of the check inside. The sixth sense awakened and kicked into overdrive.

  "You have a ten-thousand-dollar check here signed by James Moriarty."

  "And you got no search warrant!" Stan lunged for the check. Drew sidestepped, and his attacker stumbled past and slammed into the counter.

  Drew strolled into the sitting area. "Like you said, I'm not a cop. I don't need a warrant." Begosian backed off from making a physical threat. Drew fluttered the check in the air. "This has made an appearance since the police searched your place. Did Mr. Moriarty pay your bail? Did he tell you to give that disk to Emma Ramsey or her daughter?"

  "Just the mom." He followed Drew, fixing his covetous gaze on the check. "I was supposed to give it to Mrs. Ramsey and ask for money. I figured the little girl would be easier to talk to."

  Drew snatched the scumbag by the collar and hauled him against the wall, pinning his neck and dealing out a bit of the retribution he'd wanted to exact at the museum. "You sure talking is all you had in mind?"

  Stan squirmed like a bug pinned in a display. "I swear. I don't do that no more. All I was supposed to do was get the disk to Ramsey and ask for money so it'd look like my own job."

  Drew let him dangle. "What does James Moriarty look like?"

  "I don't know. I never talked to him. Some lady called me long distance. And then a guy from New York."

  "Detroit, too?"

  "Yeah." Stan stopped struggling, more awed by Drew's knowledge than by the force of his grip.

  "There's no postmark on this envelope. Where's the envelope the check came in?"

  "It came in that one." Drew squeezed harder. "Honest! I found it in my mailbox downstairs."

  "Then it was hand-delivered."

  "Yeah, I guess. Is that important?"

  "It means this Moriarty has another local connection. You have any friends?" Stan's eyes swelled to the size of quarters. Drew eased the pressure a fraction, not anxious for his talkative source to pass out on him. A guy with Begosian's history wouldn't make a lot of friends, even in the criminal world.

  "You said you had more than one call?"

  "Yeah. I got a different job each time. Different instructions."

  "They all have to do with Emma Ramsey?"

  "Not exactly."

  Drew altered his grip, tugged, and tossed him onto the sofa. "Make yourself comfortable, Stan, and explain 'not exactly’."

  * * *

  Emma's purse beeped with an irritating repetition that made her long for the days when she couldn't afford a room to sleep in, much less a cell phone with unlimited calling access. She reached into the outside pocket of her bag and punched the button with practiced efficiency as she put it to her ear. "Emma Ramsey."

  "Em. It's Drew Gallagher."

  His raspy baritone dispelled her annoyance and shrank the world to the sound of his voice. The confines of her spacious van seemed suddenly smaller and warmer. “Hello, Mr. Gallagher.”

  "Where are you?"

  "Sitting at a traffic light on Lee's Summit Road wondering why I don't shop closer to home. Kerry's in the back seat engrossed in a computer game." She glanced in the rearview mirror to check the accuracy of her statement. "She waves hi."

  The answering beat of silence alerted her to the knowledge that this was more than a friendly call. "Tell her ‘hi’ back."

  She waved her fingers in the air. Kerry smiled and returned to her game. Emma turned the heater down a notch, feeling suddenly a little too comfy, a little too cozy. She had hired Drew to find her missing husband, not help renew her small-talk skills. "Did you find something?"

  "Yeah." A sharp sigh followed his clipped response. "Moriarty's journal looks legit, after all."

  Emma frowned in surprise. “You mean he's a real person?"

  "The name's an alias for a real person. The dates in the journal correspond with crimes that have been committed in New York, New Orleans, and Detroit."

  "The places on Begosian's phone bill?"

  "Yeah." Instead of enlightening her, his answer only added more confusion to the mystery. "Can I make a copy of that disk? The D.A.'s allowing me a few liberties, as long as I keep him apprised of whatever I find in my investigation."

  "If it'll help." His long silences leaped the cell connection and echoed inside the van. Fewer than twelve hours had passed since he'd left her home the night before. How much work could a man get done between midnight and ten in the morning? Despite her intention to keep their relationship that of employer and employee, she couldn't help but comment. "You sound tired."

  "I had a long night."

  "Is something wrong?" A car horn blared behind her, alerting her to the green light. She eyeballed the red Suburban in her rearview mirror and thought a choice curse at the driver she couldn't see. The vehicle darted around her once she cleared the intersection. She pressed on the accelerator to keep the brown sedan that pulled in behind her from passing her as well.

  "Em? You still there?"

  Distracted by the onslaught of Saturday morning traffic, she found it easier to separate herself from her concern over Drew's sleeping habits. "Sorry. The light changed."

  "Look, I need to catch a few hours of sleep. Can you meet me for dinner?”

  The offer caught her off guard. "I don't know."

  She never went out on weekends. She reserved that time for Kerry. She rarely missed any breakfast or dinner with her daughter. The few times she deigned to meet a man outside the office, there were usually hundreds of thousands of dollars and contracts or
labor demands involved. She never went out on a…date.

  As if he could read her mind through the hesitancy in her voice, Drew pushed her for a response. "It's just business, Em. I found out a few things. It's a little complicated to get into over the phone."

  An absurd rush of disappointment deflated her ego. "Do you want to come over to the house?"

  "I don't think so. We need to talk, and I don't want any distractions."

  "All right." She eyed the precious cargo in the back seat. "I'll get a sitter."

  "Fine. I'll pick you up at six-thirty."

  "I'll be ready." It didn't please her to discover that she regretted slipping into her business-as-usual mode with Drew. "Anything else?"

  "Your friend Maxwell work on the weekends?"

  Another request from left field. Another reason to worry, she suspected. "No. But he would if I asked."

  "Good. Tell him to beef up security at LadyTech."

  "Why?" Every defensive hackle rose to the fore.

  "I think someone is trying to infiltrate your company."

  "Do you have a name? Who?"

  "James Moriarty."

  * * *

  Drew guided Emma into the little out-of-the-way steakhouse and hung his jacket on a brass hook just inside the door. He didn't argue when she said she wanted to keep her coat. Her conversation had dwindled down to the square set of her shoulders and a few perfunctory yes’s and no’s.

  Once at their table, she sat straight as a pillar, with her purse in her lap, and darted sidelong glances at the passing patrons and railroad-themed decor. Was the place not classy enough to meet her standards?

  She'd chosen to wear casual gray slacks and a sweater instead of something more formal. Even dressed-down, she carried herself with an understated elegance that garnered intrigued glances. He'd hoped to keep things low-key so they could talk. He didn't want to worry about using the right fork or whether his black sweater passed a certain dress code.