Warrior Without a Cause

by Nancy Gideon

  "Your English is very good, Rose. How long have you been in the States?"

  "I come here with Mr. Jack six years ago. I was just a little girl then."

  Tessa smiled. Oh, yes, and she was so old and mature now. "What about school?"

  "I do my lessons on the Internet. And sometimes a teacher comes to stay here for a while, like Mrs. Walker who taught me how to do my numbers. I am a good student, she tells me. I get all As on my homework. Mr. Jack checks it for me every night. He says if I want to be a teacher, I have to work very hard at my lessons."

  "Is that what you want to be? A teacher?"

  "Sí. They have need for teachers in my country. I will learn here then help my people. I am very lucky to be in such a place when so many have so little."

  Tessa's heart took a twisting turn. She could have been listening to herself talk at that age. Only she'd wanted to be a lawyer, saving the world in a one-woman crusade for justice. Though jaded and a bit tarnished, those were still her ideals.

  "I think that's a wonderful plan. You will make a good teacher. What will you teach your people?"

  "How to get better jobs. How not to be afraid."

  It was hard to swallow the emotion in her throat. "Were you afraid when you were there?"

  "Not all the time, Miss Tessa. Sometimes my friends and I would pretend that we were models in New York City and we would have pretty clothes and little dogs and live way up high in an apartment building. But that was when I was little. I will never be a model because my legs are too short. But teachers can have short legs, so I will be a teacher."

  "I think you've made a very wise career decision." Tessa pulled up her knees and wrapped her arms around them as she regarded the preteen. "What about friends, Rose? Who do you play with here?"

  "I am too old to play."

  Tessa's smile was bittersweet. "You're never too old to play."

  "I have my aunt and Mr. Jack. And I have met other girls in the chatroom through my online school."

  But no flesh-and-blood friends. No peers. No girls to giggle and gossip with. Aren't you lonely? Tessa wanted to ask, but just looking at the girl, at the way she stroked Tinker with such gentle concentration, she had her answer.

  "Should you be in here, little monkey?"

  Rose responded to Jack's scolding tone with a beaming affection. "I was telling Miss Tessa about learning to be a teacher."

  "Then show her that you've learned some manners and let her get up and get dressed for breakfast."

  With cat in arms, Rose slid off the bed and hobbled obediently to the door. As she passed Jack, he rumpled her hair. A brief fondness crossed his features but was gone too quickly for the girl to notice as she glanced up at him.

  "Tell Connie we'll be ready to eat in a few minutes."

  "Sí, Mr. Jack."

  And then it was just Jack in her doorway and Tessa beneath her covers.

  He filled the frame with a dangerous and dreamy presence, the latter making the former all the more apparent. This morning, wearing tan Dockers and a navy-blue polo shirt, he looked more like an investment banker than a mercenary trainer. The scent of his aftershave teased up images of soft pine needles and walks hand-in-hand. And the all too observant look he gave her conjured up other images, including Jack Chaney beneath the covers with her.

  Very aware that she was clad only in her underwear, Tessa tugged the bedspread higher. Catching the movement, Jack grinned. A heart-stopping, pulse-tripping flash of brilliant white and charm.

  "Guess I'd better show some manners, too, and let you get dressed." He still made no attempt to move.

  She inclined her head in deference to his mode of attire. "No run this morning?"

  "Day off. We've got other work to do."

  That vague reply told her nothing. But the sudden tension that crept into his posture said it had something to do with a man hanging in a prison cell.

  "Give me five minutes."

  Jack nodded.

  As he started to turn, Tessa called, "Where's breakfast?"

  "Follow your nose."

  * * *

  Thinking she'd be following the crisp scent of his aftershave, as Tessa moved down the wide hallway she was enticed by another mouthwatering aroma. The delicious smell led her into another sun-drenched portion of the house where a slanted, glass-paneled ceiling angled to meet a windowed wall over the kitchen area. And again she was struck by the innovative architectural choices that blended the cozy feeling of a lodge with modern efficiency.

  Circling a butcher-block island, the large cook area was a vista of shiny stainless steel, rugged concrete countertops and painted glass-fronted cabinets. Gleaming cookware dangled from an exposed beam above the island and a garden of fresh herbs flourished along the wall of windows. Constanza worked at the industrial-size stovetop, flipping tortillas and an egg mixture filled with flavorful chorizo sausage and peppers. She didn't seem to mind Tinker weaving figure eights around her ankles.

  "Hola, Miss Tess," she called without missing a toss. "There is juice and coffee on the table."

  "Thank you. That smells fabulous."

  "Gracias."

  Rose already waited in the breakfast nook where a table topped with colorful blue, yellow and white calla lily tiles was flanked by booth seating. Tessa slid in opposite her, gravitating toward the hot carafe of coffee. The only thing that could distract her from that rich fragrance was the sight of Jack Chaney peering over Constanza's shoulder to check on their meal. The fit of the tan Dockers did wonders for his backside.

  "Go easy on the sauce, Connie. We don't want to set our guest on fire."

  So, she was a guest now. When had that change occurred? When he'd hustled her up from the bunkhouse without so much as a word? When she'd sat down in the middle of family territory wearing a civilized nubby maroon sweater, black slacks and gold jewelry instead of jogging clothes? She wondered how being Jack's guest differed from being his student and how the change in living quarters would figure into the mix.

  "Don't worry, Constanza," she called amiably. "I like it hot."

  Jack turned to regard her with raised brows. "Really? A cool cucumber like you? I never would have guessed."

  "The tonnage of what you will never guess about me would amaze you," she countered, vigorously stirring cream into her coffee.

  His grin flashed wickedly. "I look forward to being constantly amazed then."

  Anxious to divert their conversation toward something a little less heated, she remarked, "What I find amazing is this house."

  "Thank you. The architects were great at interpreting my ideas."

  "You designed this?" Now she was amazed.

  "Not completely." He slid in next to Rose in the booth and helped himself to coffee. Tessa couldn't help notice how big and brown his hands were, how quick and efficient his every move. "I put together bits and pieces of places that had impressed me during my travels and they fit it all together. A lot of the inspiration came from a ranch in Montana where I spent a few weeks recovering from … an injury to my leg."

  Tessa read between the lines. Probably a gunshot wound.

  "I liked the way that place related to nature but I wanted things practical and convenient, too. I wanted lots of private space, lots of glass and wood and good old honest concrete mixed in with raw timber, plaster and Cor-Ten steel. You get the open feeling without sacrificing security."

  Hence, all the glass. She surveyed the slanted windows with a new appreciation. The better to see you coming, my dear. "I bet nothing's coming through that, is it?"

  His steady stare was her answer.

  Bulletproof glass. A sealed panic room. Probably hidden cameras and trip alarms galore. A paranoiac's dream. Was Chaney trying to keep the world out or his own private haven in? Fine for him but was it fair to the little girl?

  Plates filled with breakfast burritos smothered in a smoky chipotle sauce with a side of refried black beans and fresh fruit wedges ended conversation until dishes were scoured an
d stomachs full. Jack leaned back to pat his flat belly.

  "Connie, if you cooked like this every day I'd be content to sleep in the sun and do nothing, just like a plough horse out to pasture." He glanced at the floor. "Or this lazy, pampered cat."

  "Tinker deserves to be lazy and pampered." Tessa jumped in on the defensive. "He led a hard life in his rather wild misspent youth."

  "So did I, but it didn't turn me into a fat domestic content to let the mice come to me."

  "That is because you are a cougar not a house cat, Mr. Jack," Rose piped in, enjoying the banter between the two of them.

  "A cougar," he mused, liking the sound of that. "Well, this cougar's going to get his claws out if some little girl doesn't get to her studies."

  With a squeal of laughter, Rose scrambled across his lap, pausing to hug Constanza on her hurry from the room.

  "Cougar," Tessa snorted, sipping her doctored coffee.

  "You prefer the timber wolf analogy. Either works for me.

  They sat in companionable silence, drinking their coffee while the sun warmed them. Finally, Jack ruined the moment.

  "What are you going to do now that O'Casey is dead?"

  She stared into her cup while her insides went cold. "Are you suggesting it's time I just give up and leave things the way they are?"

  "I'm asking if you have any other solid leads."

  "I have some, so you're not off the hook yet, Chaney."

  "What are they?"

  "Leads."

  "What kind of leads?"

  "Solid leads."

  Jack smiled thinly. "If you had good leads, the police would still be investigating."

  "Okay, there are no other leads. O'Casey was my last hope. Happy now?"

  He didn't look happy. He looked contemplative. "Because the threats haven't let up, whatever evidence your father had is still out there."

  "You act as if you actually care." Frustration lent a bite to her tone. It was petty and unfair to blame him for her dead end but she felt petty and nothing about her father's case was fair.

  "Not really," was his dismissive reply. "Just making conversation to entertain my guest."

  "Guest, my rear end."

  "And a very nice hind end it is, too."

  "You're acting like a hind end."

  "That's the thanks I get for trying to be helpful."

  "Try harder, why don't you? You're the expert in these sorts of things."

  "But you didn't hire me for those skills and as I recall, I advised you at the time that they were not for sale."

  "I think we need to go practice our sparring. I'd like very much to hit you."

  He laughed and leaned his elbows on the back of the booth, annoyingly relaxed and even enjoying himself. At her expense.

  "Did your father have a home office?"

  Knocked off track, Tessa regrouped some quickly collected thoughts. "Um, sort of. My mother didn't like him bringing work home but I think he'd sneak his laptop in if he was into something … big. Like this case."

  "Would he have kept papers there?"

  "Not hard copies."

  "Disks maybe?"

  "Disks maybe."

  Why hadn't she considered that? Surely, Martinez's men had by now. And if the information was there…

  "I need you to take me to my father's house."

  "Stan was going to stop by as soon as your brothers left this morning."

  Tessa waved an impatient hand. "She won't let him in. She has no use for Stan or any of the 'street people' we worked with. She might meet him politely at the door but she'd never let him inside her palace. And she'd never let him go through Dad's things."

  "And she'd let you?"

  "That's what I need to find out."

  * * *

  She sat tense and silent on the passenger side of the Dodge Ram. A quick call to Stan had informed him that they were on their way to the Bloomfield Hills estate. Relieved of that duty, Stan promised to find out all he could about O'Casey's supposed suicide. The coroner would have him on the table later that day and, seeing as how he was an old friend of Stan's, the P.I. was going to hang around in case something useful happened to slip out. Such as signs of forced inducement.

  Jack was used to Tessa's headlong enthusiasm when it came to matters of proving her father innocent. Yet she was oddly restrained at the notion of returning to her family home. Too many memories? He wondered but he didn't ask. That was her business and none of his. It was just odd. To get a better feel for the situation, he decided to prompt a little conversation.

  "Would your father have left some clue with your mother?"

  Tessa laugh was sharp. "I don't think so. My mother is fairly clueless about everything except fashion sense and how to throw the perfect fund-raiser. Like I said, she never took an interest in my father's career except in how it could improve her social status."

  That didn't jibe with the pictures Jack had seen of Barbara D' Angelo at her husband's side. She'd been aglow with pride and energy. True, most of the press revolved around her adeptness as a hostess but then not every woman was cut out to be a workaholic dynamo, like her daughter. An oil-and-vinegar situation? Or did rivalry over D'Angelo's attention divide them? Again, none of his concern. He didn't come from an Ozzie and Harriet background so he couldn't cast any stones. Nor could he even guess at what passed for normal behind closed doors. For the last three years of their marriage, his parents hadn't exchanged a word that wasn't two or three decibels above the sound barrier. But he couldn't picture the D'Angelos as yellers. Probably just cool and civil and proper as all get-out.

  "Will your brothers still be with your mom?"

  "They left for their respective parts of the country early this morning."

  "I'm surprised you didn't want to be there to see them off."

  "They weren't here to see me." He didn't detect any hostility there, just candid fact. "They were here mostly to do damage control to smooth over all the fuss I made. They share the popular conclusion that I created a conspiracy out of grief. I don't blame them really. They've got their own lives and have been distanced from what's been going on. I didn't want to drag them into it." She paused. "They were also here to make sure our mother didn't fall apart. She collapsed when she heard my father was dead and I don't think she's said a coherent sentence since. I'm surprised she didn't throw herself into the open grave on top of the casket. But that would have meant getting her Chanel suit dirty."

  Jack raised a brow at that bit of bitterness but again made no comment. "So his death hit her hard?"

  "My mother has spent her life on a pedestal. The thought of not having someone to worship her every move was probably devastating. She's never had to do anything useful or productive unless the media was there to take pictures. I imagine she's at quite a loss without anyone to adore her and out of her depth at the thought of having to balance her own credit card statements. That is if her doctor doesn't have her drugged into a stupor."

  "Don't you think that attitude is just a little uncharitable?" He said the words as if it didn't matter one way or the other to him what she thought.

  "You don't know her. You didn't have to grow up being measured to the standard of her perfection."

  Which made Jack wonder who was doing the measuring, Tessa or her mother? Or was it Robert D'Angelo? He cast a quick sidelong glance at her stony profile and couldn't figure how she might have fallen short. She had looks, brains, tenacity and character by the truckloads. Unless she lost points for Miss Congeniality. Tessa D'Angelo was nobody's vapid party girl. He couldn't picture her batting her eyes and stoking an ego to wheedle a pledge for some innocuous charity. She was all business. Did she think that made her less feminine? Less appealing? Not to any living, breathing male. But maybe it did to her own fragile self-esteem.

  Something had inspired the resentment that practically oozed from her pores when her mother was the subject matter.

  "It's that one, the Tudor on the right."

  They'd ent
ered an exclusive gated community and were cruising down a manicured boulevard taking sour looks from the yard crews working at the palatial estates. Obviously they didn't feel the big noisy four-by-four belonged in the Lifestyles of the Rich and Almost Famous setting.

  Palace was an understatement.

  The D'Angelo homestead was an impressive stucco-and-timber three-story in a tax bracket so far above his it might as well have been on Jupiter. A plush lawn sloped gracefully up to meet a circular drive and landscaping out of some home-and-garden magazine. As he approached, he caught a hint of a pool and tennis courts out back, behind the four-stall garage. Though showy and pretentious in scale and address, just like the others in the exclusive cul-de-sac, there was no sign that anyone actually lived here. Had that occurred when Robert D'Angelo died or had it always been a showplace rather than a home?

  If she'd been tense before, Tessa was now like one of the white Carrara marble statues gracing the side gardens. Her features were perfectly composed and completely lifeless as if just being here drained the vitality and personality from her. The only movement was her hands, which were winding and twisting the leather strap of her handbag into tortuous knots. Mimicking her insides, perhaps.

  He parked the bulky truck at the front door, half expecting some liveried house servant to rush out and chase him away. Or to direct him to the servants' entrance. But the house was quiet with the appearance of being empty. In fact or just in spirit, he wondered.

  "Home sweet home," he commented.

  Tessa didn't smile or even blink. "Let's get this over with."

  He came around the vehicle but she didn't wait for him to open the door. She hopped down and began to approach the double doors with the enthusiasm of going to a tax audit. He fell in beside her. The desire to touch her arm or the small of her back in a show of support was nearly overwhelming but he didn't extend the gesture. He didn't think she was even aware of his presence. Her focus was on the front steps and the foyer beyond. Would she knock or just open the door as if she belonged? Mother, I'm home. Somehow he couldn't picture that fond scenario.

  The door opened before they reached it and they were met, not by some snooty servant, but by Barbara D'Angelo herself.