No Way Out

by Andrea Kane

  Dr. Garber had presented the final details of his research, then opened the floor to questions. As fate would have it, most of those questions had dealt with recognizing the preliminary signs of emotional distress in young children so that the problem—and its cause—could be nipped in me bud. The answers only served to fuel Julia's worry over Brian. Oh, she realized his symptoms lacked the severity and long-term manifestation of Dr. Garber's case studies. Still, the entire workshop might have served as a red flag to Brian's parents, had they been there.

  But they weren't. For all Julia knew, they didn't even notice the glaring signs. They were loving parents, but if they were absorbed in their own problems, it was possible Brian's symptoms weren't being recognized, much less contended with. It was all speculation on her part. And if she kept her agreement with Connor, it would continue to be.

  Damn, she was so confused.

  She knew Connor wasn't giving her all the facts. That didn't bother her nearly as much as the reasons behind his evasiveness. Okay, he was protecting his family. He'd as much as said so.

  But from what?

  She couldn't force him to confide in her. On the other hand, he couldn't force her to stop asking. And even though she'd agreed to do things his way—for now— she'd also emphasized that she wasn't making any promises.

  He'd never had time to respond to her stipulation before Brian returned, bookbag in hand. Then again, his reaction couldn't have been too severe. He'd still asked her out to dinner. But how much of that invitation stemmed from his wanting another chance to drive home his point, and how much from his urge to explore the undercurrents simmering between them?

  It would be interesting to find out.

  A chain reaction of screeching tires and sudden brake lights ahead of her jerked Julia back to the moment. Re-flexively, she slammed her foot down, bringing her Beetle to a halt. What was going on? It was after ten o'clock—why was she sitting in rush-hour traffic?

  She rolled down her window and peered out to see if she could make out the problem.

  About a quarter-mile ahead, she could make out some flashing red lights. Police cars. God, she hoped that didn't mean there'd been an accident. But it was a possibility. It was raining. The streets were slick. And it was Friday night. While DWI-related crashes weren't common occurrences in Leaf Brook, they did happen.

  The section of Main Street she was approaching led to one of the corporate mini-centers. There were two or three popular bars across the way, where the corporate employees went for Friday happy hour. A few stupid ones sometimes drank too much and then got behind the wheels of their cars. Once in a while, someone got hurt.

  Julia clutched the wheel tightly, hoping this was just a fender bender and nothing more.

  The traffic crawled forward, and Julia went with it.

  It took fifteen minutes before she reached the spot where the two cop cars were positioned, just outside the entrance to a municipal lot. One police car was blocking off the lot, the other was parked across the street. There were two officers standing in the road directing traffic. Julia scrutinized the area but didn't see any sign of broken glass, a mangled vehicle, or an ambulance. That suggested that whatever had happened had happened in the lot.

  She was half tempted to question the policeman who was briskly gesturing the drivers along, just to reassure herself that there were no fatalities. But he looked tense and preoccupied, and his rain slicker was getting wetter by the minute. Now was definitely not the time. Whatever had happened would no doubt show up in tomorrow's newspaper. In fact, Julia thought with a grim frown, reporters like Cheryl Lager had probably been at the scene and gone, heading back to their offices to get a jump on writing up the story. The messier the better.

  * * *

  Inside the municipal lot, Officer Benjamin Parks followed up with the last potential witness, jotting down a few additional facts. Detective Frank Taylor circled the area, making a final check for any evidence that might have been overlooked.

  He doubted he'd find any. Whoever had done this was a pro.

  Car thefts in Leaf Brook were rare, although the number had been picking up these past few months. But this one didn't fit the usual pattern. Usually, the cars that were stolen were current, popular models, worth a good price and with parts that were easily fenced. like the Toyota Camry that was stolen from the lot on Maple Avenue last month, or the Honda Accord that was ripped off from the Water Street shopping center a few months back. Not so this time. According to the police report he'd been handed, this time the car in question had been a classic— a 1955 two-tone pewter and white Chevrolet Bel Air sedan. Its owner—or, rather, its driver, since the car belonged to the man's son—ran a small temp agency in the corporate center. Albert Kirson, his name was. Poor guy—he'd been a real mess when he came into the station to file his report. Seems he'd borrowed the car for work only because his own Ford Taurus was in the shop. And now he felt lousy about facing his twenry-three-year-old son with the news. The kid had saved for six years to earn enough for a down payment on that car. Sure, his father made a decent living, but that classic cost fifty grand. Not the kind of cash a small-business owner with two kids in college and one in grad school had lying around.

  Detective Taylor shook his head ruefully. It always happened to the decent guys. Albert Kirson was a perfect example of that. Even the timing hadn't played in his favor. If it had been an election year, he might have gotten the kind of press that would have drummed up a big sympathy vote. As it was, he'd get nothing but an insurance check and a lot of grief from his son.

  Well, for his part, he was glad he'd voted for Kirson in the last election. The man made a damned fine city council member. Tayior hoped he'd stay on even after the mayor moved up to the state senate.

  11:00 P.M.

  Stephen was sitting at the edge of his bed, getting ready to catch the late-night news, when the phone rang.

  Automatically, his head jerked around, his gaze focusing on the bathroom door. Still shut. And the sound of running water meant Nancy hadn't finished her shower.

  He groped for the phone, feeling an immediate constriction in his chest. These days, phone calls at odd hours could mean nothing but trouble.

  He lifted the receiver. "Hello?"

  "Ah, good. I can hear the local news playing in the background," Philip Walker said in a conversational tone. "Check out the very local late-breaking incident they'll be reporting before the weather. You'll find it fascinating."

  Click.

  Sweat beaded on Stephen's brow. What the hell had Walker done now?

  He sat through the international and national highlights, his fists clenched in his lap. When he saw the words late-breaking, followed by a shot of Albert Kir-son's face, he turned up the volume, listening intently as the chiseled, unemotional anchorwoman gave the details of the city council member's stolen vehitle.

  Stolen from one of Leaf Brook's municipal lots.

  Shit.

  Nancy walked out of the bathroom, towel-drying her hair. Her gaze was fixed on her husband. "Stephen? Did I hear the telephone?"

  He nodded, fully aware of what she was really asking. "Yeah." Time for a partial truth. "It was someone from my staff telling me about this." He pointed at the screen. "Albert's car was stolen tonight. Actually, the car belonged to his son, Jeff. Al borrowed it for the day. It was taken right from his lot at work."

  His wife's attention shifted to the TV, and her brows knit. "That's terrible. It's also been happening a lot these past few months. One of my clerks had her car stolen while she was shopping. Are these professional jobs, or do you think it's kids?"

  Stephen shrugged. "Except for tonight, it screamed professional. But a classic Chevy? That's not exactly an easy car to unload. I don't know who's doing it, but it can't continue. We need to get some decent security at the Leaf Brook municipal lots. It's one of the major issues on my plate right now."

  Nancy nodded, a wave of relief sweeping over her face—relief that had nothing to d
o with the car thefts. Stephen could read her mind as if she'd spoken. That's the Stephen I know, she was thinking. Maybe he's coming back to himself after all.

  Well, he wasn't there yet.

  But he would be.

  * * *

  11

  April 7

  It rained all day Saturday.

  That meant no baseball practice for Brian.

  Usually, that would be cause for major dejection. Today, it only resulted in minor disappointment, since Uncle Connor was there to pal around with.

  The whole family had breakfast together, after which Stephen closeted himself in his home office, Connor went to his room to catch up on a few important business calls, and Nancy and Brian sprawled on the family-room floor, going head to head in three games of Battleship.

  Connor emerged before noon. He patiently answered his nephew's barrage of questions about why he had to work on weekends when he wasn't even the mayor, then made up for his absence by taking Brian out for a burger and an afternoon movie.

  Stephen remained behind closed doors, and the light to his office line remained steadily lit.

  Somewhere around three o'clock, the doorbell rang.

  From her chair in the downstairs den, Nancy looked up, wondering who it could be. Doubtless one of Stephen's colleagues or one of his campaign workers. They saw more of her husband than she did these days. Certainly more of him in a positive functioning state— like when he wasn't drinking or gambling.

  Stop feeling sorry for yourself, she lectured herself sternly. No one's forcing you to stay in this marriage. You're here because you want to be. Because you love Stephen, because he's Brian's father, and because you remember how it was, how it can be, between you. Everyone has problems. We're no exception. We'll get through this. We have to.

  She sighed, massaged her throbbing temples. If only she didn't feel so utterly depleted, physically and emotionally. And if only she could restore Brian to being the happy-go-lucky kid he'd been a few months ago. Having Connor here helped, but still there were times when Brian seemed far away and withdrawn...

  The doorbell rang again, yanking Nancy away from her thoughts.

  With a start, she came to her feet. She'd completely forgotten there was someone at the door. Blinking away the moisture that had gathered on her lashes, she set aside her paperwork and padded down the hall to the entrance-way.

  "Who is itr

  "Me, Nance." It was Cliff Henderson's voice.

  She took a deep breath and opened the door. "Hi," she greeted her friend, forcing a practiced smile.

  "Hi, yourself." He stepped inside, tapping the file that was tucked beneath his arm. "Stephen and I have a meeting. We've got a ton of paperwork to review." Abruptly, he paused, studying Nancy's face and frowning. "What's wrong?"

  Now, that was a first. As a politician's wife, Nancy had learned never to let her feelings show. Over the years, she'd developed one hell of a public face, if she had to say so herself. Even Cliff, who was closer to them than anyone, had never seen through her carefully maintained veneer. If her distress was transparent enough to change that, she must be slipping.

  She had to try harder.

  "Nancy?" Cliff pressed, shutting the door and moving toward her. "What is it?"

  "Why? Do I look that lousy?" Despite her attempts to sound normal, she could hear the odd, strained quality to her voice.

  "No. You look stressed out. Like you've got the weight of the world on your shoulders. Anything I can do?"

  Funny, she remembered the days when it was Stephen who gave her this kind of emotional support.

  Then again, there had been other days when he'd been the cause of her needing it.

  "Thanks, Cliff," she replied, squeezing his arm. "You're an amazing friend. I don't know what I'd do without you. I can't understand why some incredible woman hasn't snapped you up yet."

  A corner of his mouth lifted. "Because Stephen got the last one of those. I'm spoiled. I'm waiting for another you."

  Maybe the me often years ago, Nancy reflected sadly. But not the me of today. I feel like a tired old woman.

  "Thanks for the compliment," she said aloud. "As for the offer to help, I really appreciate it. But, truly, there's nothing's wrong. Nothing but exhaustion. The boutique's been a zoo, the campaign is picking up speed, and Brian's practices are exploding into high gear. Oh, and Connor's here for a visit. So I'm running around like a chicken without a head. I was just winding down last night, when Stephen got that call about Albert Kirson's car being stolen. I guess it was too much in one day. I didn't shut an eye all night."

  Operating on autopilot, she gestured for Cliff to take off his raincoat. "Why don't you give me that, and go have your meeting? Stephen's in his office. He's been buried in phone calls all morning."

  "That doesn't surprise me," Cliff murmured, shaking out his damp trenchcoat before giving it to Nancy with a nod of thanks. "Albert Kirson's car being stolen probably instigated more debates over security at the Leaf Brook municipal lots."

  "Exactly."

  This conversation Nancy could handle. The issues. The dilemmas of the city. Even the campaign. She was programmed to address all that on the same autopilot.

  "I know Stephen's very concerned about the number of car thefts the city's been having," she offered. "I hope the council and the police can come up with a solution that works all the way around."

  "Yeah, me, too." Cliff paused, again scrutinizing Nancy's face, this time coming to some kind of decision. "Where's Brian?"

  "Connor took him to a movie. They should be home around five."

  "Then why don't you use this time to take a nap? You're beat. And with Tornado Brian whirling back into the house in no time, there'll be no relaxing until eight-thirty or nine."

  True enough. And, God, the thought of a nap sounded wonderful. "You're right," she acknowledged, mentally relegating her paperwork to the back burner. "I shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. I'll go upstairs right now and catch a few Zs." She was already heading for the stairs. "You go ahead and have your meeting with Stephen. I hope it's productive."

  Her final words were swallowed by a yawn.

  Cliff watched her go, contemplating her bone-weary ascent with a worried scowl. He was torn between a rock and a hard place. And he wasn't sure there was any way to squirm free.

  Deeply troubled, he made his way down to Stephen's office.

  4.35 p.m.

  Greg had awakened that morning to a blaring alarm clock. He'd punched the sleep button, only to have the blast of loud music replaced by the pelting of raindrops against his window.

  So much for teeing off.

  He'd called the golf course, confirmed that the game had been canceled.

  Great, just great.

  Now, not only did he have to pump an entire city council for information, but he had to do it all by telephone. And finagling information that way was a real pain in the ass, because he couldn't fully gauge the guys' reactions without seeing—and reading—each of their expressions.

  On the flip side, there was a positive edge to all this, an edge that did much to improve his humor. Instead of whipping into action at six a.m., he could do his fact-finding much later in the day, which meant that Stephen Stratford would have all that time to make his own calls. Whatever support he managed to drum up, Greg would learn about in his late-afternoon conversations. As a result, he'd have a much more comprehensive understanding of the situation to report.

  Bearing that in mind, he'd waited until three to begin his game of six-way political tag. What he'd found out had been enlightening, although not surprising, in light of Friday night's high-profile car theft.

  There had been two converts to the mayor's cause. As of now, two council members, including Kirson, were eager to give Philip Walker the contract he sought. The other four, however, were not. Their preference was to institute the less expensive, city-run program and step up local police surveillance in the municipal lots.

  That meant th
at even with the mayor's vote, he was one vote short.

  Close but no cigar.

  Greg poured himself a glass of wine and sat down on his couch, crossing his legs at the ankles. Funny thing about that car theft, he mused, sipping at his wine. Albert Kirson's car, of all things. Quite a coincidence.

  6:30 P.M.

  Connor yanked on a dark blue turtleneck sweater, ran a comb through his hair, and glanced at die clock. He had to be out of there in ten minutes, or he'd be late picking up Julia. Which he had no intentions of being, given his plans for the evening. However, he was determined to speak with Stephen before he went.

  He hadn't seen his brother since breakfast. Nor, for that matter, had Brian. Stephen had still been closeted in that damned office when they got back from the movie.

  What the hell was going on?

  As far as Connor knew, Stephen had restored the five hundred thousand dollars he'd given him to his campaign account. So why was he still so uptight? Had the hole he'd dug himself been even deeper? Could he possibly owe more than he'd admitted?

  Time to find out.

  Slinging his sport coat over his shoulder, Connor left his room and headed straight for Stephen's office. As he reached the closed door, he could hear the muffled sound of voices raised in anger. Stephen and Cliff. They were obviously having a disagreement—a big one. That was rare. It was also damned inconvenient. But it wasn't going to stop him.

  He knocked.

  "Can't it wait?" Stephen barked.

  "No, it can't." Connor walked in, nodding at Cliff. "Hi, Cliff. Good to see you."

  "Hey, Connor." Cliff looked unusually flushed.

  "Sorry to barge in, but I need a minute with my brother, and I'm about to head out for the evening."

  "No problem." Cliff scooped up his papers. "It's late. And I've got dinner plans myself." He shot Stephen a look. 'Think about what I said."

  "Right." A muscle was working in Stephen's jaw. "See you."

  Connor waited until Cliff had gone, then shut the door carefully behind him. "What was that all about?"