The Closer He Gets

by Janice Kay Johnson

  Oh, heavens—her muscles were tightening and she wanted to retreat a step. “You’ve been worrying about whether I’d back down, but it’s more likely you will.”

  “No.” There was no give in the one word, but his expression revealed his troubled state of mind. “The police culture does push us to support one another, and there’s good reason for that. We do a tough job. We have to be able to trust fellow officers. Civilians don’t always understand why we react the way we do...the split-second decisions we make. And we’re human. We make mistakes. This...was different.”

  Watching him, Tess felt a burning in her eyes and sinuses. Yes, her first instinct had been right. This was a good man. She could trust him.

  She took a shaky breath. “Okay. Thank you.”

  “You didn’t call me about the note.”

  “It made me mad, but I considered it petty. This is different.” In so many ways. What scared her most was that whoever had done this damage must have used a knife, and probably not a wimpy little pocketknife. This wasn’t just property damage. It was an escalation of the threat. Those deep slashes repeated the threat in an ugly way.

  Or else.

  At the sound of a car turning into the alley, they both turned. Tess relaxed to see the rack of lights atop the white police car that she knew would have a blue stripe down each side.

  Then Zach focused on her again, the intensity burning in his eyes. “Tess, if anything else happens, however petty it seems, call me.”

  “But...you implied we should keep contact to a minimum. You didn’t want us to be seen together.”

  She couldn’t miss the determination in the hard lines of his face.

  “This campaign to silence you trumps that. Promise me, Tess.”

  Unable to tear her eyes from his, she finally nodded. “I promise,” she whispered. “But you have to let me know if they threaten you, too. Okay?”

  “Deal.”

  A door slammed behind him. Zach turned but rested a warm, reassuring hand on her back.

  Safe, she thought, letting herself lean just a little. For now.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  AT THE TITLE company Zach shook hands and accepted congratulations along with a sheaf of papers, many copies bearing his signature. He also took possession of two keys—and a bank mortgage. Despite her big, practiced smile, his Realtor looked as if she felt a little bit sorry for him.

  He considered himself lucky to have been approved for the mortgage given the condition of the house. It really was a dump. The appraiser had expressed serious reservations. However, the structure was essentially solid. The wiring had been redone at one point. There was an undertone in the appraiser’s report suggesting she was mildly surprised to have found something positive to say. The plumbing, however, was vintage, to put it kindly.

  Nothing in the report was news to Zach. He had a good eye and enough experience to make a realistic evaluation. He’d looked at half a dozen houses when he’d first arrived in town, and passed on the others because of cracked foundations, walls or floors seriously out of plumb, or rot that wasn’t limited to the roof. His gut told him this one was redeemable. His inner eye could see the end result: a charming 1940’s era bungalow.

  He had climbed up himself to evaluate the roof, which was emerald-green with moss. He’d been reminded of pictures he’d seen of sod roofs in Scandinavia. When he scraped aside the moss in several places and poked a screwdriver into the cedar shakes, he hadn’t been surprised to find them squishy.

  That made a new roof number one on his agenda. As always, he intended to do much of the work himself, but would have to hire some help. That was a drawback to starting over in a new town. He didn’t yet have any friends he could coerce into giving up a weekend or two to sling shingles.

  From the land title company, he drove straight to the house. He wanted to walk through and decide whether he could actually live in the place starting May first, only a couple weeks from now. Otherwise he’d have to keep his current apartment for another month.

  Doing that might be smart, but he went by the “penny saved, penny earned” philosophy. Plus, once he got started, he liked to work late into the night when he felt restless. There were plenty of jobs that didn’t have to be done all in one go. He could strip and refinish the wood floors or molding, install new interior doors or tile when he had an hour or two. Living-in would be more convenient.

  Parking in the driveway, he smiled crookedly. An objective observer would probably think he was nuts. The bright green roof, peeling paint and sagging porch didn’t make a good impression. A couple of the windows had broken panes, which was no big deal as he would be replacing all the windows anyway.

  Demolishing the porch would be a good, early job, he decided. He could build a new one on his own, no problem, and it would provide a nice facelift. A more generous porch with room for a couple of Adirondack chairs or a glider would attract potential buyers when the time came, too.

  He circled the house first, making mental notes. Fence around the backyard was a teardown. Back stoop was history, too, except for the concrete pad and couple of steps.

  That looked just like the ones leading from the back door of his childhood home.

  He tried to shake off the whisper of memory even as he tipped his head back to look up into the big maple tree. He’d come damn close to walking away because of that tree.

  In the future, some dad might help his kids build a tree house, he thought, eyeing an ideal broad branch. He and Bran had had a lot of fun in the one Dad had built with them, until that hideous morning.

  A fence had enclosed the backyard of the house where he’d grown up, although he recalled it being ramshackle. When he’d gone by his childhood home on his second day back in Clear Creek, he’d noticed the fence was gone. If the yard had been open to the neighboring ones back then, would Sheila’s killer have dared attack her right there under the maple tree, only feet from the back door?

  He might have stuffed her in the trunk and driven her elsewhere, Zach reminded himself.

  The fact he’d...assaulted...and killed her steps from what proved to be an unlocked door was one of the reasons the cops had suspected Michael Murphy. It felt too bold for a stranger to have dared. Zach’s mother slept like a log. Zach had a distant memory of his father teasing her, saying she’d handled the middle-of-the-night breastfeeding of all three of their babies without even knowing she was doing it.

  Zach swore aloud. Maybe he shouldn’t have bought this house. Hell, returning to Clear Creek at all had probably been a mistake. Investigating his little sister’s murder was one thing, but he sure as hell didn’t need to be hammered by memories.

  His long strides took him around to the front of the house again.

  Different house, he reminded himself. Different time.

  “That man said ‘shit,’” a high, childish voice declared. “You heard, too, didn’t you, Dylan?”

  “I heard,” a boy replied.

  Zach turned to see two kids standing just on their side of the property line, apparently having popped out of their own fenced backyard to get a look at the man who’d said a bad word.

  The little girl looked maybe five or six. Blond hair straggled out of lopsided braids that wouldn’t last much longer. Her brother, who appeared more curious than shocked, had to be nine or ten. Much the same ages Sheila and Zach had been when—

  He blocked that thought, forcing himself to nod. “Hi.”

  “Somebody already bought that house,” the boy said, jaw jutting.

  Zach smiled. “I know. I’m the one who bought it.”

  “Really?” He eyed the structure dubiously. “Mom says probably someone will tear it down.”

  “Nope. I plan to fix it up.” He, too, eyed the house. “New roof first.”

  “Jessie ’n me kind of like t
hat one. Dad says it looks like one of the greens at Pebble Beach.” He sounded uncertain what that meant. “It’s better than our lawn.”

  “It is pretty, in a way,” Zach conceded. “Unfortunately moss isn’t very good for the wood it’s growing on. The roof is rotting.”

  “Jessie?” an alarmed woman called from the children’s backyard. “Dylan? Where are you? Who are you talking to?”

  The woman rushed through the open gate, not stopping until she had one hand on each of her kids. “You know you aren’t supposed to talk to strangers,” she scolded them before saying to Zach, “May I ask what you’re doing on this property?”

  “I’m your new neighbor,” he said, smiling. “I’m afraid your kids heard me, uh—”

  “He said a bad word,” her daughter announced.

  He grimaced. “I did.”

  The mother relaxed enough to chuckle. “Well, it wouldn’t have been the first time. When the lawn mower won’t start, their father gets a little vocal.”

  He laughed. “I’m Zach Carter. I’m a deputy with the sheriff’s department. I just closed on the house today.”

  She stepped past her children and held out a hand. “I’m Karen Thompson, this is Jessie and Dylan, and my husband is Dean. He’s a heating contractor.” Her gaze stole past him to the roof. “Are you actually going to live here?”

  “I am. As I was telling Jessie and Dylan, replacing the roof is my first job. I’m hoping I might get it done before the end of the month, which would mean I could move in.” He grinned at the kids. “It wouldn’t be so good if I’m living here when it doesn’t have a roof at all.”

  The girl stared at him in apparent fascination. “What if it rained?”

  “And it rains around here a lot.”

  “Dean knows all kinds of contractors and subcontractors,” Karen said. “If you want recommendations, I’m sure he’d be glad to help.”

  Zach nodded. “I may do that, although, to tell you the truth, I plan to do most of the work myself.”

  “Really?” She looked politely incredulous. “Even the roof?”

  “I’m afraid I will need help with the roof,” he admitted ruefully.

  A minute later, having exchanged phone numbers, he let himself in the front door of his new home. Standing in the middle of the bare living room with its scarred floors, dirty walls with holes in them and a fireplace with mortar crumbling between the bricks, Zach had a thought. He knew one other person here in Clear Creek who could probably recommend contractors and construction workers with various skills.

  What better excuse to stop to talk to Tess Granath?

  He’d vowed to stay away from her.

  It worried him to know he was going to be reckless enough to do it anyway.

  * * *

  TESS TILTED HER head to one side, studying her newly arranged display of sample ceramic tiles. She had just added a line of sculpted tiles she really liked. The manufacturer did custom work, too. She didn’t get a lot of customers who could afford the custom route, but once in a while...

  “Tess, someone to see you,” Greg called.

  “I’m back in tile!”

  Aside from the window displays, which included wallpaper, tile and window treatments, the front of the store and most of the square footage was given to samples of wood, laminate and vinyl flooring as well as carpet. One wall was devoted to blinds and other window treatments. Tiles were displayed in a large nook tucked behind the office area, and wallpaper books filled their own room. Customers serious about selecting wallpaper could spend hours back there, leafing through books.

  She turned, a welcoming smile pinned into place. When a tall, lean man appeared, she did a double-take.

  “Zach.”

  He was impressive in his uniform, but no less so in well-worn jeans that hugged the long muscles of his thighs, athletic shoes and a long-sleeved, black, crewneck T-shirt. Each time she saw him, she was startled anew at the vivid blue of his eyes. His aura of intensity wasn’t softened by his friendly smile. He had tamped down the desolation, or maybe only aloneness, she’d seen before. Only shadows remained.

  “Nice place,” he said. His gaze having taken her in thoroughly, he scanned the display. “Hey, I like these.” He headed straight for the new tiles, picking up one with beautifully detailed leaves and a rustic bronze glaze. He flipped it over, saw the price and winced. “Well, that’s not happening.”

  Tess couldn’t help herself. She automatically went into sales mode. “You could use them sparingly, sprinkled among plain tiles of the same color. I sometimes think the effect is even better.”

  Zach set the one he held back in its place and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans, the smile more in his eyes now than on his lips. “I’ll keep that in mind. First things first. The roof, then the plumbing. Not to mention the fixtures, faucets and cabinets.”

  “The roof?”

  He grimaced. “My new nine-year-old neighbor told me today that his dad says it’s more velvety than the greens at Pebble Beach.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Yep. Actually, I stopped by because I got to thinking you might be able to recommend some contractors or just plain laborers. I’ll probably need help at several stages.”

  “Beginning with the roof.” Tess smiled. “Already met your neighbors, huh?”

  “The mom and two kids on one side. I said a bad word and managed to shock the little girl.”

  Tess laughed. “I didn’t know kids could be shocked anymore.” She nodded toward a doorway. “Come on into my office. I’ll dig up some names for you.”

  She stopped on the way to introduce him to Greg. As tall as Zach but lanky, with a likable quality that helped with business, Greg had celebrated his fortieth birthday in January. After blowing out the candles, he had insisted with complete confidence that he didn’t look a day over thirty. He’d just grinned and run his hand over his receding hairline when his wife giggled.

  He and Zach shook hands and assessed each other, the way men did, after which Zach followed her into her cramped office, thereby shrinking it further. It was something of a relief to squeeze between her desk and one of too many metal filing cabinets to sink into a chair.

  “I see you dazzle your customers with your clever use of a small space,” he commented with an undertone of amusement.

  Tess gave him a look. “I don’t let most customers see my office.”

  He just laughed.

  She reached for her card file. “Do you need skilled roofers or just day laborers?”

  He sat across from her, stretching out his long legs comfortably and crossing them at the ankles. “Maybe some of both. I’m a decent roofer, but I don’t want to be the only one who knows what I’m doing. On the other hand, a beefy guy or two to heft bundles of shingles up a ladder to the roof would be welcome, too.”

  She thought he had plenty of muscle to do the job. Afraid she might be blushing, Tess concentrated on flipping through the cards, jotting down a name and number when an appropriate one jumped out at her.

  Very conscious of him watching, she asked, “Is it still tense for you at work?”

  “You could say that.” His voice was more clipped than it had been. “I haven’t heard from you. I’ve been hoping that meant you haven’t had any more unpleasant surprises.”

  It had been five very long days since he’d rushed to her rescue in the alley.

  Now, she used a finger to keep her place and met his eyes. “There haven’t been. But I admit I’ve been extra cautious every time I open a door or find myself alone for a minute.”

  Zach frowned. “Are you ever alone here?”

  “Of course I am!” she snapped. Okay, overreaction. “The back door is always locked except when we’re accepting deliveries. But my partner and I each go out to homes on a r
egular basis. Seeing the space allows us to make better recommendations. As time allows, we do the measurements, too, and occasionally even installation. Me more often than Greg,” she added. “I’m not a big fan of installing blinds, although I can do it, but I’m a whiz with wallpaper and I actually enjoy laying tile.”

  “Another thing to keep in mind,” he said with a hint of a smile.

  “I could be persuaded.” She raised her eyebrows. “Wallpaper, too?”

  “Probably not. Isn’t it women who like flowers on the walls?”

  “Pinstripes are available.” Tess wrinkled her nose. “There’s such a thing as wallpaper covered with hunters in camo, carrying rifles and dead ducks. And, of course, the requisite Irish setters.”

  He laughed. “Sounds perfect for the dining room.”

  “Wallpaper is a good way to dress up an otherwise pedestrian bathroom,” she began then made a face. “Sorry. It gets to be a habit. Um...” With an effort she focused again on the card file. When she came to one, she pulled it out and dropped it in the wastebasket beside her desk. Seeing Zach’s silent query, she explained, “He has a no-show problem. Three strikes and you’re out with me.”

  “I’m not real patient with that particular character flaw, either.”

  Finally she handed him a piece of notepaper on which she’d written ten names and phone numbers as well as specialties.

  He scanned them. “Thanks. I’ll make some calls right away. I closed on the house today and I’m hoping to be able to move in before the end of the month.”

  “It’s livable?”

  His sudden grin took her breath away. “Depends on your standards. I don’t mind sort of camping out for a while.”

  “Do you have furniture?” she asked, curious.

  “I have some stuff in storage in Portland. I’ll probably send for it. It’s pretty limited, though.” He shrugged. “Bed, recliner, TV. My books and music, some DVDs.”

  “Cinder-blocks and boards?” she teased.

  His laugh cut grooves in his cheeks. “I’m a little past that stage, but I admit I’ve been rootless. When you know you’re going to move often, acquiring furniture that has to be hauled along with you lacks some appeal.”