Donnell Ann Bell

by Donnell Ann Bell

  Bruce removed a thick Pendaflex folder from his briefcase followed by a much smaller one. “Here’s the information you requested, Lieutenant.”

  “Thanks.” Joe moved farther into the room. “I hope you weren’t counting on a tip. I wasn’t expecting such a high-paid runner.”

  Ignoring Joe’s sarcasm, the D.A. said, “When I told Sgt. Sandoval to alert you about Maxwell, I knew you’d be concerned, I didn’t think you’d become obsessed. What’s with you, Joe? Maxwell’s getting out. You’re not a rookie. It’s a done deal.”

  “Just couldn’t remember the facts of the case, that’s all.”

  Bruce shook his head. “Don’t take up politics, my friend. You’re a terrible liar.”

  “Thanks for bringing these by. Give Marianne and the kids my love.”

  “You asshole.” Bruce jabbed an index finger on the convict’s file. “Why the interest in these old cases?”

  Christ. Joe had known better than to go digging. Bruce was right. The details of his first major bust were all but seared into his brain. He was searching for clues. Big ones, as to why Melanie Norris had suddenly appeared in the Springs, his neighbor no less, with Drake Maxwell on the verge of being released.

  Was it possible, after all these years, that the two were set on revenge?

  Taking a deep breath, Joe closed the door. He glanced about the room. “Shrink, huh? I don’t even have a couch.”

  Bruce lifted a shoulder. “That’s why you’ll only get the mail-order version of my psych experience. C’mon, Joe. Between you and me. What’s going on?”

  Bruce Bennett was a bulldog of a prosecutor, but honest as any man Joe had ever known. For some reason it mattered that he spare Melanie’s reputation if at all possible. With the D.A.’s promise assured, Joe recited the bizarre happenings of yesterday.

  For several long seconds, his colleague didn’t speak. When at last he did, Bruce said, “So that’s why you ordered her file. I wondered. Statistically speaking, I’d say you’ve been hit by lightning.”

  “About as probable,” Joe admitted.

  “You think she’s out for revenge?”

  “The thought occurred to me. If she were, though, you’d think she’d do it in a less conspicuous way than moving next door. Honest to God, Bruce, she was as shocked as I was.”

  The D.A. opened Melanie’s smaller file and perused it slowly. “I recall this now. We were after Maxwell, and she was our link to put him away. Correct me if any of these facts are wrong, but this states your partner apprehended Maxwell while you ran after Melanie. It was Clyde Rogers’ testimony that put Maxwell behind bars, not yours.”

  “That’s how I remember things. Still, people fixate on the damndest things.”

  “They do, indeed.” Bruce frowned. “Melanie Daniels accepted a five-year plea, but as anticipated, she received parole after nine months. According to her case file, Maxwell threatened retaliation after she testified against him.”

  “So the revenge theory seems less plausible,” Joe said. “You think she’s running?”

  “If she is, she didn’t run very far.” Bruce continued turning pages. His gaze settled on something, then widened. Frowning, he glanced at Joe. “Impeccable prison record, no parole violations.”

  “Do I hear a but in there?”

  “How old did you say her son is?”

  “Same age as mine. Fifteen. Why?”

  “You have a go.” Bruce slid the file across the desk. “My wife accuses me of being a judgmental schmuck. Maybe I’m taking these words out of context.”

  “Comes with the territory.” Joe read the parole board’s benign report, followed by a much more damning statement provided in her parole officer’s handwritten scrawl.

  Melanie Daniels Norris may not have committed a crime in the last several years, but she was certainly no innocent. Along with disgust, an odd sense of disappointment clutched at Joe’s chest. “The parole officer claims she exchanged sexual favors with a corrections officer.”

  Bruce met Joe’s stare. “And as a result bore the man’s child.”

  “Mel, take line two. Chloe, these arrangements were due at the Cliff House yesterday.”

  As predicted Mel was a zombie at work, but store owner Aaron Meyers was too absorbed in running two floral design businesses to let her dig her grave and rest in peace. With Thanksgiving a couple weeks away, customers were already planning December’s holiday season as well.

  Mel answered, “Pinnacle Creations,” and took a large order from one of Aaron’s wealthy customers. “That was Elaine Preston,” she hollered over the ringing phones and five jabbering co-workers. “Her husband wants custom wreaths designed for his major clients.”

  Aaron gasped. “Of course, she can’t let us survive Thanksgiving first. How many?”

  “Twenty-five,” Mel replied, wincing, “by December first.”

  “Talk about multi-tasking,” Aaron said. “All right, girlfriend. This is your project. Call the south shop. If they don’t have what you need, call the supplier. Do what you have to do.”

  Store manager Karlee Stanfield hung up from another line and glanced from him to Mel. “Aaron, isn’t it a little soon? Do you want me to ask one of the others―”

  “No. Melanie can handle this.” Leaving no room for debate, Aaron moved onto the next assignment.

  Mel gave Karlee what must’ve been a panicked look.

  “He’s right, Mel. You can,” the manager said. “But I’m here if you need me.”

  Watching her coworkers go about their own creative frenzies, Mel phoned the south store, then pulled several supply catalogs from the shelf.

  On shaky legs, she’d walked into the exclusive shop a month ago and asked for a job. Her horticulture background had helped, but there was always the prejudicial application where she was required by law to list her felony conviction. The storeowner had studied the form for a good while before saying, “When can you start?”

  When she replied, “Tomorrow,” he’d said, “I need you today.” Mel immediately liked Aaron. She loved his entrepreneurial spirit, his creative flare and willingness to let her experiment with color, fragrances and design. He’d never said a word about her past, paid her a fair wage, and was tolerant of her single-mother status.

  In short, Aaron was as opposite from Lt. Joe Crandall as a sparrow from a scorpion. What was she going to do if the lieutenant insisted on separating the boys? Surely Luke would want to know why, and this time she’d have no choice but to tell him.

  She opened the supply book and immediately found the section listing accoutrements. While jotting down the items she wanted for the wreaths, all she could hope was that on his way home from work, the cop would be run over by a semi. Hey, it wasn’t a very nice thought, but Joe Crandall wasn’t a very nice man.

  By four o’clock, fatigue won. Mel switched from bottled water to caffeine. The same way he paid attention to an intricate floral arrangement or an item left undone around the shop, Aaron noticed. “Everything okay?”

  “Fine. Didn’t sleep much last night, that’s all.” Inhaling the exquisite scent, Mel wound a silver ribbon around a frosted vase containing a dozen hand-dyed blue roses.

  “Oh my God, Mel, those look incredible,” Aaron gushed.

  Smiling at the results as well, she said, “They’re for Jeff Kellerman. He’s proposing tonight and his fiancée loves blue.”

  “Mel,” Karlee called. “Line three. It’s your son’s school.”

  She glanced at the clock and the pleasant moment faded. Luke should be in the gym by now. She rushed to a nearby wall phone. “Hello, this is Melanie Norris.”

  “Mrs. Norris, Coach Hood. Sorry to disturb you at work, but Luke went down on his ankle. The good news, I don’t think it’s broken, the bad news, it’s the size of a grapefruit.”

/>   Mel’s gaze dropped to the scrap-strewn floor as she pictured a very despondent teenager. “Oh, no. What about tryouts?”

  “Luke’s on the team, Mrs. Norris. To be on the safe side, though, we should x-ray that ankle.”

  “I’m on my way.” She disconnected to discover all work had stopped and that her coworkers were staring. “Luke,” she explained. “He hurt his ankle. The coach wants it x-rayed.”

  Aaron approached her work area with her jacket. “Go. Call me if you need anything.”

  Mel gaped at the storeowner. How had she managed to find these people? Her boss and her coworkers were nothing short of generous. As she walked out the door, she cast a grateful glance back.

  At eight-thirty Matt bounded down the stairs and raced into the den, pulling Joe’s mind from the department performance reviews due tomorrow.

  “Dad, Luke’s home. My homework’s done. Is it cool if I check out his ankle?”

  Joe removed his reading glasses. “Now? Why not call him instead? It’s getting late.”

  Matt’s entire body went rigid as he screwed up his face. “Call? Luke lives next door, Dad. How lame is it to call him? Besides, it’s not late. Coach Hood’s over there, too.”

  Joe blew out a frustrated breath. “Thirty minutes, son. No longer. It’s a school night.”

  “Dad!”

  “You’re wasting time, aren’t you?”

  The kid demonstrated speed Joe hoped to see on the court.

  He resumed reading, but like with every other report he’d read today, had trouble focusing. From behind him an antique cuckoo clock tried to cluck, but the poor thing just managed a cough. Joe smiled, thinking of his mom in far away Germany and remarried to a master clockmaker. Somehow Joe suspected Herr Alfred Leidel endured the new Frau Madelyn Leidel’s novice tinkering for her companionship, rather than her skill.

  Joe might never get used to his mom living clear across the Atlantic, rather than in the States, but he relished that she was finally happy, and that he’d inadvertently had something to do with it.

  He stared at the fireplace mantle and walls lined with his mother’s new hobby. At first he’d found the ticking obnoxious. Now, it was a reminder to the cynic in Joe that occasionally good triumphed.

  Enveloped in the warmth of a gas-lit fireplace, and well aware of the correct time, his one regret was he’d let go of a Maya print of an Indian woman and a wolf in the divorce. He should have fought harder for it, he decided, and settled for staring into the leaping flames.

  So, Rick was over at Melanie’s. The coach wasn’t married, but had a longtime girlfriend. The boys are like glue. It could get awkward around your place if you get involved with the mom. Not that there was much chance of a friendship evolving between Joe and Melanie, but how much of the coach’s warning had been because Rick was interested himself?

  Concentrate, damn it. Jealousy over a woman Joe sent to prison? He shook his head. This was it. He’d finally snapped. Using a marker, he highlighted a supervisor’s negative feedback on a rookie patrolman.

  It was too bad about her kid’s ankle, though.

  Joe glanced out the window at the house next door. She’d done a lot to the place already. Where battered mini-blinds used to greet him, new curtains framed the windows, soft lights illuminating the rooms beyond. Maybe he should prove he wasn’t a total asshole and ask about Luke’s ankle, too.

  Thankfully, the doorbell rang, putting that absurd notion out of his head. Joe rose to answer.

  His neighbor stood on the doorstep, looking tired, beautiful and as vulnerable as he’d found her last night. She’d swept her auburn hair into a ponytail. Dressed in skin-tight jeans and a turtleneck, Melanie Norris looked more like a college student than the mother of a fifteen year old.

  The November wind picked up and she rubbed her arms. “I’m sorry to bother you, Lieutenant.”

  Joe opened the screen door. “Come in.”

  “No. I’m only here―”

  “You’re freezing. Come in.”

  Rolling her eyes, she stepped into the entryway. “I want it clear I’m trying to respect your wishes―”

  “I have a fire going. Let’s talk in here.” He turned, hoping she’d follow.

  The ploy worked.

  Her expression wary, Melanie accompanied him into the den. She took one look at his clock collection and blinked. For most, they were conversation starters. Joe had no doubt he was the last person she wanted to make idle chat with, and, therefore, must have had a reason for coming. “Last night you said you wanted to keep the boys apart, but now Matt’s over at my house. I don’t want him getting into trouble on my account.”

  “I gave him permission. I’m not completely heartless, Mrs. Norris. Matt wanted to check on Luke.”

  Joe’s tone must’ve not set well. She arched an eyebrow and looked toward the door like he carried a disease, and she wasn’t about to stand there and catch it. “Fine. That’s all I came to say.”

  “How is he?” Joe didn’t want her to leave. Not yet. Melanie Norris intrigued him.

  She shoved her hands in her back pockets, pulling tight the ribbed sweater. “Luke?”

  Immediately Joe’s gaze fell from her face to her breasts. He jerked his head upward. With the fire reflecting in eyes the color of the bourbon on his shelf, he issued a silent Damn.

  “He’s okay, I guess. Disappointed. He thinks his life’s over because he’ll be on crutches for a week. But Coach Hood will have Luke riding a stationary bike and working with the trainers. . .” Evidently remembering that Joe was the enemy, Melanie’s lips formed a straight line. “Anyway, thanks for letting Matt come over. It means a lot to Luke.” She turned to leave.

  “Mrs. Norris.”

  She faced him. “Yes?”

  “Why did you stay in Cañon City?”

  “What?”

  “I’m curious. Why not leave after you were paroled? Why stay in a place that, no doubt, must’ve held bad memories?”

  Two red stains appeared on her cheeks and she lowered her lashes.

  The damn file, Joe thought. It’s true. For some crazy reason, he’d hoped she’d explain it away.

  “I’m surprised you don’t already know the answer to that, Lieutenant.”

  “I’ve heard one side. I want your version.”

  Her hip brushed a ruler resting on the edge of the desk. She managed to catch it before it fell. Her eyes flashed as she smacked it against her palm. “I don’t owe you an explanation, so I’m only going to say this once. Luke is a good kid. No matter what you think of me, he doesn’t deserve your wrath. And why I stayed is none of your business.”

  She struck the desk, obviously to stress her point, but the flimsy plastic snapped in two. Her anger dissolved into wide-eyed astonishment and her cheeks flushed even redder. Thrusting the remainder of his ruler at Joe, she said, “Great. Next, you’ll press charges against me for destroying your property. I promise, if you spare me, I’ll buy you a new one.”

  “Melanie...”

  But he was talking to air. He’d pushed, she’d pushed back.

  As the screen door slammed, Joe lifted his gaze to the den’s picture window, then followed her progress into her home’s side entry.

  Well, you might’ve handled that better. But when had he ever handled anything outside of cop mode? Joe traced his fingers over the ruler’s jagged edge. It resembled their relationship, sharp and broken. Living side by side, he knew they couldn’t keep the boys apart. So his son would be hanging out with a convicted felon’s kid. Melanie was wrong. It was his business, damn it.

  Joe drew back the blinds. He studied the front of his neighbor’s house, absurdly relieved to see Rick’s ancient gold Camaro no longer parked at the curb.

  Where the hell was the fury Joe had felt when he’d lea
rned her identity in the parking lot? Or this morning when he’d read the parole officer’s disturbing report? His reactions were hardly appropriate for a police veteran of twenty-two years.

  You’re going to like her, Joe.

  Like her? Melanie Norris scared the shit out of him. She bordered on too good to be true. And no matter how much she viewed his questions as an invasion of privacy, or unless she packed up and became someone else’s neighbor, he meant to learn every sordid detail.

  Chapter Six

  Joe had numerous character flaws. Indecisiveness wasn’t one of them. Yet, as he entered Warden Simon Rivers’ office to wait, the soundness and ethics of coming here weighed heavily on Joe’s mind.

  Particularly since the warden Joe had come to talk to most likely had never heard of Drake Maxwell.

  The East Cañon Complex where Joe now stood housed seven prisons, from minimum to close security, high-risk offenders. Maxwell had been incarcerated in the Colorado State Penitentiary, a prison ranked level V. No big surprise there. But the man Joe had come to see supervised the Arrowhead Correctional Center, a level III facility.

  Two years previously, however, before it closed, Simon had been warden of the Colorado Women’s Correctional Facility, the prison where Melanie Daniels had done time.

  So what was Joe doing here? His job, he told himself, or at least what was necessary. Maxwell was a book already read, Melanie Daniels Norris an unfinished novel.

  Warden Rivers had been detained, his secretary explained. To pass the time, Joe peered out the window of the top man’s office, finding nothing aesthetic about miles of razor wire, guard towers and cinderblock fencing. From the northwest, a storm was rolling in, and with clouds the color of charcoal, and not a patch of blue sky to be seen, snow threatened.

  Beneath Joe’s jacket, his shoulder holster lay conspicuously empty. He missed the 9 mm Glock he’d locked in his trunk. Inside the prison, he’d be required to turn the gun over to security. Call him paranoid, but he trusted his weapon to no one.

  The door opened, and a winded man with a graying crew cut and wire-rimmed glasses entered. “Lieutenant Crandall? Simon Rivers.” He extended his hand. “I apologize. My meeting ran long.”