Tough Customer- Sandra Brown

[Dalyia]

This has all the elements of an excellent read. It has humor,suspense,mystery and a few surprises. In this novel Caroline King is forced to contact a former flame when her daughter is stalked by a deranged killer. But Dodge and Caroline have a few secrets of their own. The novel has a few colorful characters which makes it very entertaining. I thought Smoke Screen was a suspenseful novel. But Tough Customer is in a class by itself. Sandra Brown finest.

محتوى مخفي

يجب عليك الرد لرؤية النص المخفي

[Dalyia]

PROLOGUE

HE WAS OUT OF THE TRUCK WHILE DUST AROUND THE TIRES was still rising.

The ambulance's emergency lights sent pulsing shafts of color into the surrounding forest. The doors of the ambulance had been left open by the EMTs, who, he assumed, were already inside.

His boots crunched in the gravel as he covered the distance to the porch in three long strides. He entered the house through the open front door, stepping into a wide foyer. His eyes swept the main room on his left. Nobody in it. Nothing apparently disturbed. Two empty wineglasses were on the coffee table in front of a slipcovered sofa. Traces of lipstick were on one of the glasses but not on the other.

The sofa faced a stone fireplace, where a leafy fern had been placed in the grate for the summer. Rocking chair with woven cane seat. Patchwork quilt folded over the arm of an upholstered easy chair. Magazines and books in shelves and stacked on various tables. Reading lamps.

It was as homey, cozy, and placid a setting as could possibly be.

He registered it all within seconds. Beyond the living room was a dining area rimmed by a bay window, but he left off exploration when noises from above drew his gaze up to the gallery that ran the width of the house. Taking the stairs two at a time, he rounded the landing, making sure not to touch the newel post, and proceeded up to the second floor.

He walked along the gallery, which led him into a short hallway and to an open bedroom door. Again he assessed the room in a glance. Matching lamps on either side of an unmade queen-size bed cast disks of light onto the pale, peach-colored wall. A ceiling fan with blades made of palm leaves circulated overhead. There were three wide windows. Through the louvers of the shutters he could see the continued play of the colored emergency lights on upper tree branches.

The EMTs were kneeling on either side of a prone figure, a man, judging by the bare feet and hairy legs, which was all of him that could be seen from this vantage point. Under the man, blood had soaked into the rug.

One of the EMTs glanced over his shoulder and bobbed his head in greeting. "Hey, Ski. We've been expecting you."

He walked into the room. "What have you got?"

"Messy GSW to the lower left torso."

"Is he gonna make it?"

"Don't know yet."

Until she spoke, Ski hadn't realized that the second EMT was a woman.

"A good sign, though," she added. "The lady said he was conscious right up till we got here."

"Lady?" Ski asked.

The first EMT nodded into an open doorway, which they were presently blocking. "She called in the 911."

"Name?"

"Hers? Uh..." He was distracted by situating the IV bag. The name escaped him.

The female EMT supplied it. "King."

"Caroline King? The realtor?" Ski asked with surprise. "This is her house?"

The woman EMT shrugged. "That's the name in our database."

"So who's the guy that got shot?"

"Lady said his name is Ben Lofland."

"Are they the only two in the house?"

"Appear to be. The front door was standing open when we got here. We followed her shouts upstairs. Found him lying here as you see him. She was kneeling beside him, clutching his hand, crying. We haven't seen anybody else. She's shaken up pretty bad."

"Did she shoot him?"

"That's your job," the woman EMT replied.

Satisfied that the shooting victim was stabilized enough to transport, the two competently placed him on the stretcher they'd carried up with them, affording Ski a better look at him. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties. He had even features and the trim build of a runner or tennis player. No facial hair, visible tattoos, or distinguishing scars.

He was wearing nothing except a pair of gray knit underwear. It had been cut away on the left side, where there was now a large bandage. The woman EMT threw a blanket over him. The guy was out cold, but he groaned as they strapped him down.

Hearing the clomping of footsteps, Ski turned just as another deputy barged into the room, then drew up short. "I got here as soon as I could," he huffed. His wide-eyed gaze moved past Ski to the dark, wet bloodstain on the rug, then to the victim on the stretcher.

He was younger than Ski by more than a decade, nearly a foot shorter, soft around the middle. His apple-cheeked face was flushed, and he was out of breath, either from excitement or from running up the stairs. He was a rookie. This was his first shooting. To him, it must represent the Big Time.

Ski said, "Give them a hand, will you, Andy? Getting that stretcher around the landing might be tricky. Don't touch anything in the process unless you put on gloves."

"Right."

"Hal's on his way to help secure the house."

"He's got some miles to cover."

"And until he gets here," Ski said sternly, "it's up to you not to let anybody else inside, and that includes our own men. I'm counting on you. Got it?"

"Got it." The younger deputy hiked up his slipping gun belt and accompanied the EMTs out.

Ski crossed the room and went to the open door that had been blocked by the fallen victim.

He looked into a bathroom, where a woman was sitting on the rim of the tub, rocking back and forth, her elbows on her knees, her head in her hands. He had a bird's-eye view of the center part in her hair. Ski thought it might be auburn, but it was hard to tell because it was wet. It formed a heavy curtain on both sides of her face.

A summer-weight cotton robe had been carelessly tied at her waist. The wide sleeves had fallen back to reveal slender arms sprinkled with pale freckles. The skirt of the robe had separated above her knees, leaving her legs bare. Her toes were curled into the deep pile of the bath mat.

She wasn't Caroline King.

Inside the bathtub, the porcelain was wet. Three of the pewter rings holding the shower curtain had been detached from the rod, leaving the wet curtain hanging unevenly. A bottle of shampoo in the corner of the tub was uncapped.

She must have been interrupted while taking a shower, which explained the damp patches where her robe was stuck to her skin.

Lying on the floor a few inches from her feet, incongruous with the vulnerability of her pink, bare toes, was a .38 revolver, a standard Saturday night special. The base of the commode would have kept it from being seen by the EMTs. Ski wondered if that had been deliberate.

He removed a pair of latex gloves from the hip pocket of his jeans and worked his right hand into one of them, then cautiously walked forward and bent down to pick up the revolver by the trigger guard. He thumbed the latch, and the cylinder swung out. There was an unspent bullet in each of the six chambers. He sniffed the barrel. It hadn't been fired recently.

As though only then realizing that he was there, the woman lowered her hands from her face and looked up at him. Her light brown eyes remained disconnected and vague. The whites of them were streaked with red from crying. Her skin was very pale, her lips practically colorless.

She swallowed noisily. "Is he all right?"

"Not really."

Whimpering, she looked past Ski to the bloodstain just beyond the threshold. "Oh, God." She pressed trembling fingers against her lips. "I can't believe this happened."

"What did happen?"

"He's got to be all right. I should be with him. I must go."

She tried to stand, but Ski placed his hand on her shoulder and pushed her back down. "Not now."

For the first time since he'd come into the room, she focused on him. "Are you ... Who are you?"

He unsnapped the leather wallet on his belt and opened it to show her his ID. "Deputy Ski Nyland, Merritt County S.O."

"I see." But Ski didn't believe she actually did. She'd barely glanced at his ID. Her watery gaze was imploring. "Please tell me he's going to be okay."

"What's your name?"

She seemed to have to think about it. Then she hooked her wet hair behind her ears and answered in a husky voice. "Berry Malone."

Ski noted that her last name wasn't the same as that of the man who'd been shot. Neither of them was named King.

He said, "The wounded man, Ben Lofland ... is that right?"

She gave an abrupt nod.

"He's on his way to the ER."

"He's not dead?"

"Wasn't when they left with him."

"He bled a lot."

"He did, yeah."

"He can't die."

"Unfortunately, he can."

She made a choking sound and whispered, "I must call his wife."

"His wife?"

She stared at Ski for several seconds, then covered her face with her hands and began to cry in loud, wracking sobs.

Ski planted his feet wider on the bathroom floor tiles. "What happened here tonight, Ms. Malone?"

She moaned into her hands and shook her head.

"Is this your pistol? Did you shoot Lofland with it?" He didn't believe she had, at least not using the pistol now in his possession. But he wanted to see what kind of reaction he'd get by asking.

She dropped her hands from her face and gaped at him. "What?"

"Did you--"

"No!" She surged to her feet, reeled slightly, then steadied herself by placing a hand on the edge of the pedestal sink. "I didn't get out the pistol until after I'd called 911."

"After you'd called 911?"

Her head bobbed an affirmation. She gulped a breath. "I was afraid ... afraid he would come back."

"Who?"

Before she could answer, sounds of a commotion downstairs reached them. A door slammed. Voices were raised. Ski heard Andy telling someone that they couldn't come in. Just as insistently, a female voice, ordered him out of her way. Apparently Berry Malone recognized the woman's voice, because suddenly she gave a sharp cry and slipped past Ski through the bathroom door.

"Hey!" He was careful to hurdle the bloodstain on the rug as he chased after her. Midway across the bedroom, he made a grab for her arm but came up with only a handful of cotton fabric. She whirled around and yanked it from his grip, but not before he got an eyeful.

Then in a flash of bare skin and printed textile, she vanished through the bedroom door.

Ski went after her, crossed the gallery in a run, and bolted down the stairs, hot on her heels.

[Dalyia]

CHAPTER
1

WHEN HIS CELL PHONE'S JINGLE PULLED HIM FROM A deep sleep, Dodge figured the caller was Derek. Likely his employer had had one of his famous middle-of-the-night brainstorms and wanted Dodge to act upon it immediately.

Dodge couldn't think of what might be so crucial that it couldn't keep till daylight, but Derek paid him to be on twenty-four-hour call, if for no other reason than to act as a sounding board.

He fumbled for his phone in the dark and, without even opening his eyes, figuring he was about to be sent out on an errand he wasn't in the mood for, answered with an unfriendly and unenthusiastic "Yeah?"

"Dodge?"

Surprised to hear a woman's voice, he sat up and swung his feet to the floor. He reached through the darkness for the lamp switch and turned it on. Using his lips, he pulled a cigarette from the pack, then flicked on his lighter. As he took his first inhale, he wondered which woman, among the vast number with whom he was acquainted, he had pissed off this time. He didn't remember getting on anyone's fighting side recently, but maybe that was his transgression--disremembering.

Since he hadn't yet responded to his name, his caller asked with uncertainty, "Have I reached Dodge Hanley?"

He was reluctant to confirm it before he knew who was asking. He preferred keeping a low profile. He had a driver's license because it was a necessity. He carried a single credit card, but it had been issued in Derek's name. Dodge used it only when doing business for the law firm. Privately, he operated strictly on a cash basis, and not even Derek knew his home address.

"Dodge? Is that you?"

He replied with a sound that was half word, half dry cough. "Yeah."

"This is Caroline."

His lighter slid from his fingers and fell to the floor.

"Caroline King."

As if she needed to specify which Caroline. As if she needed to jog his memory.

After a long moment, she said, "Are you still there?"

He sucked tobacco smoke into his lungs and exhaled as he said, "Yeah. Yeah." To prove to himself that the call wasn't part of a dream, he stood up and took a few steps away from the bed. But because his legs were so shaky, he backed up and sat down again on the sagging mattress.

"Fair to say that you're surprised to hear from me?"

"Yeah." That seemed to be the only word he was capable of uttering. How many Yeahs did that make now? Four? Five?

"I apologize for the hour," she said. "It's late here, and I realize it's an hour later in Atlanta. I mean, I assume you're still in Atlanta."

"Yeah." Six.

"How are you? Are you well?"

"Yeah." Shit! Had he forgotten the language? Find some other words for crissake! "Uh, I'm okay. You know. Okay."

He was okay except for a total brain shutdown, a heart rate that had shot off the charts, and a sudden inability to breathe. He groped for the ashtray among the clutter on his nightstand and laid the cigarette in it.

"That's good," she said. "I'm glad to hear it."

Then neither of them said anything for so long that the silence began to hum.

Finally she said, "Dodge, I never would have bothered you if not for ... I would never ask you for anything. I imagine you know that. But this is vitally important. Urgent."

Jesus. She was sick. She was dying. She needed a liver, a kidney, his heart.

Plowing his fingers up through his hair, he cupped his forehead in his palm and, dreading the answer, asked, "What's the matter? Are you sick?"

"Sick? No, no. Nothing like that."

Relief made him weak. Then he got angry, because--just like that--he'd become emotionally invested. To counter his stupid susceptibility, he asked impatiently, "Then why are you calling me?"

"I have a situation here that I don't know how to handle."

"Situation?"

"Trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

"Can you come?"

"To Houston?" A place to which he swore he would never return. "What for?"

"It's complicated."

"What about your husband? Is it too complicated for him? Or is he the problem?"

A few seconds ticked by. Then, "He passed away, Dodge. Several years ago."

This news filled his ears, his head, with pressure. Her husband was dead. She was no longer married. He hadn't known, but then why would he? It wasn't like she would have sent him an announcement.

While his ears thrummed, he waited for her to say more about her husband's demise. When she didn't, he said, "You still haven't told me the nature of this trouble."

"The kind you specialize in."

"That covers a lot of ground."

"I don't want to go into it now, Dodge. Can I count on you to be here?"

"When do you need me?"

"As soon as you can get here. Will you come?"

Her stubborn refusal to be more specific pissed him off. "Probably not."

A hostile silence quivered between them. He picked up his cigarette again, inhaled deeply, blew it out. He wanted to hang up on her. Wished he would. Wished he could.

Quietly she said, "I understand your reluctance to become involved. Truly I do."

"Well, what did you expect, Caroline?"

"I don't know what I expected. I acted on impulse without thinking it through."

"You call me in the middle of the freakin' night. You tell me shit, but I'm supposed to drop everything and come running to get you out of some kind of unspecified trouble?" He paused for effect, then said, "Wait. Why is this sounding familiar to me? Is this sounding familiar to you?"

She responded exactly as he'd expected her to: with pique. "I'm not asking you to help me, Dodge."

"Well, good. Because--"

"It's Berry who's in trouble."

"Looks like somebody actually cooks in here now." Dodge sat down at Derek and Julie's breakfast table in their organized but well-used kitchen. "Didn't used to."

Derek laughed. "I don't recall ever turning on the oven before Julie and I got married." He lifted the coffeemaker carafe with an implied offer of some.

"Sure," Dodge said. "Two sugars. The real stuff."

Derek carried over the mug of coffee along with the sugar bowl, a spoon, and a cloth napkin. Dodge fingered the fringe on the napkin's hem and looked at his employer with raised brows.

"Julie insists on cloth."

Dodge snuffled as he scooped sugar into his mug. "She actually use all those gizmos?"

Derek followed Dodge's gaze to the ceramic jug that held some of Julie's cooking utensils. "Yep. They've got a gadget for everything. You wouldn't believe."

"Where is she?"

"Upstairs throwing up."

Dodge blew on his coffee and took a sip. "That sucks."

"No, she's actually glad about it."

"She enjoys puking?"

"Morning sickness is a good sign. It means the embryo has latched on to the lining of her uterus, which creates all kinds of hormonal chaos, which causes the nausea, which--"

"Thank you," Dodge grumbled into his coffee mug. "I don't want to know anything about Julie's uterus. In fact, I'd just as soon keep the mysteries of human reproduction mysterious."

"I thought I heard your voice." Julie entered the kitchen and smiled at Dodge. She looked the picture of health despite her bout of nausea. "It's awfully early for you to be up and about, isn't it? Especially on a Saturday."

"Sounds like you've had a rough morning."

"I don't mind so much. It'll pass soon, and the sickness is a good sign, the result of the embryo latching on."

Derek laughed. "We've been over that. Dodge doesn't want to hear any more."

"Fair enough." She asked if Derek had offered their guest something to eat to go with his coffee, and when he said no, she sliced him a piece of pound cake, which he accepted, knowing what a great cook she was.

Through his second bite, he mumbled, "If I'd married you, I'd have gained twenty pounds by now."

"Have you seen Derek naked lately?"

"Hey!" Her husband of six months smacked her on the fanny, then pulled her into his lap, bounced her on his knees, and nuzzled her neck, saying, "You're the one getting chubby." He splayed his hand on her abdomen, which as yet showed no signs of the pregnancy. She placed her hand over his, and they exchanged a warm, meaningful look.

Dodge cleared his throat. "Y'all need me to leave the room, or what?"

Julie slipped off her husband's lap and took a chair across the table from Dodge. "No, I'm glad you're here. Derek sees you nearly every day, but I don't get to."

Dodge ribbed his boss about his honeymoon giddiness, but he was glad about the marital happiness these two had found with each other. Derek and Julie Mitchell were among the very few people on the planet that Dodge had even a limited tolerance for. He'd go so far as to say he respected and liked them, although, as with everyone he knew, he kept them at arm's length, more for their sake than for his own. He wasn't good for people. Something in his makeup was destructive.

"What brings you by?"

Derek's question seemed innocuous enough, but Dodge knew better. Derek had razor-sharp instincts and uncanny intuition, which served him well in his chosen profession of defense attorney. Despite their easy chitchat, his boss had sensed that something was out of joint. When was the last time Dodge had come calling early on a Saturday morning? Never.

Dodge shrugged with feigned indifference and sipped his coffee, nursing a twinge of uneasiness about having to lie to this man who was the closest thing he had to a friend.

"How pissed would you be if I asked for some time off?" He kept his eyes fixed on the contents of his coffee mug but sensed the puzzled glance Derek exchanged with his wife.

"I wouldn't be pissed," Derek said. "You've earned the vacation time."

"Think before you speak, Counselor. Because I don't want to get somewhere and have you phoning me in the middle of the night, asking me to run down some lowlife that--"

"Dodge. You won't get an argument from me. You're past due a vacation. If something comes up while you're away, it can wait till you get back."

"Like hell it can. Even if you say it's okay for me to go, those hotshots you've got working for you would have a fit. They don't address me unless it's with 'Dodge, when ...?' As in, When can you get that background info for me? When can I expect the skinny on this guy? When can you track that down?"

Derek said, "Everyone in the office depends on you."

"See, that's what I'm talking about. If I left for a few days, the whole damn firm would collapse."

Dodge had been of considerable help solving the case in which Julie had been involved. The murder of Paul Wheeler had been a tragedy in every sense except that it had brought Julie and Derek together. Initially, Dodge had suspected Julie of being a liar, manipulator, and worse. She'd borne his hostility and suspicion with dignity and now seemed to hold no grudge. He thought she might even like him a little.

It was to her that he shifted his gaze now. But maybe that was a mistake, because she was regarding him with concern, which, in his present frame of mind, was almost more dangerous than her husband's incisiveness.

"I hope your reason for needing time away isn't health related," she said softly.

"Like what, dying of lung cancer? No, no, I'm not," he said when her concern was replaced by alarm. "Not that I know of. Not yet." He shifted in the seat of his chair and patted his shirt pocket, reassuring himself that the pack of cigarettes was there, even though he'd just as well pee on the Mona Lisa as light up in their kitchen.

Back to Derek, he said, "Forget it. I knew better than to ask." Placing his hand over his heart, he said, "The firm needs me, and, if I'm loyal to nothing else, I'm loyal to Mitchell and Associates."

"Cut the crap. What's going on?"

"Going on? Nothing. I got this notion to--"

"Take some time off, and I said okay. But now you're arguing with me for saying yes, fine, go. Why?"

"No why to it. It was a dumb idea, that's all. I thought of slipping off somewhere for a few days, but..."

"Did you have a destination in mind?" Derek grinned. "One of those tropical islands you're always talking about. National Geographic--type places where all the women go topless?"

"I wish."

"Then where?"

"Buttfuck, Texas."

Dodge could have kicked himself for blurting that out. He hadn't meant to.

Derek stared at him for several seconds, then deadpanned, "Does that have a zip code?"

Dodge rolled his shoulders. "Doesn't matter. I'm not going."

No one said anything for several moments, and Dodge sensed another mystified look pass between Derek and Julie. She asked, "What's in Texas?"

"Texans."

His droll reply didn't have the jocular effect he'd hoped for. He looked at Julie again, and he didn't know what the hell it was that was drawing him to her this morning. Sure, she was and always had been easy on the eyes, but that hormonal ruckus taking place inside her was inspiring in Dodge all kinds of sentimentality that went against his nature.

Typically when someone asked him a personal question, even something as innocuous as "What's in Texas?" he would tell them to stay out of his effin' life. But he found himself answering Julie simply. "Business."

Derek reacted with a start. "Business?"

"Relax, Counselor. I'm not looking into another job. This is business of a personal nature."

"A personal nature."

"Jesus, is there an echo in here?" he asked crossly. "Why are you making a big deal of it anyway? Business of a personal nature could be constipation."

"I've just never known you to have personal business of any kind, but especially not in Texas."

"Well, that just goes to show that you don't know everything, doesn't it? Besides, why are we still talking about it? I'm not going. I'd get down there, and this goddamn cell phone would start buzzing like a band saw. You'd be asking me how soon I could get back. Not worth it. Forget I asked." He tossed his fringed napkin on the table and stood up. "Look, thanks for the coffee. Tasty cake, Julie. I gotta be shoving off."

"Sit down."

"Excuse me?"

The set of Derek's jaw was resolute. "You're not leaving this house until you tell us what the hell is going on."

"I told you. I got this notion to--"

"This isn't about vacation time. Sit down."

Dodge dropped back into his chair. But with attitude. After several moments of hostile glaring, he raised his shoulders. "What?"

"Do you remember when I told you about Julie and me?" Derek asked.

"About the flight from Paris?"

"Precisely. I admitted to you why I was compromised and couldn't represent Creighton Wheeler. I bared my soul to you because I knew I could trust you with my deepest, darkest secret. With my career. My life."

"Okay. So?"

"So that trustworthiness works both ways, Dodge. You have our confidence. What's going on?" Derek waited, and when Dodge didn't say anything, he added, "Must be something really important, or you wouldn't have put on such a dog-and-pony show about vacation time. You're here because you wanted to tell us something and didn't know how to go about it."

"You're a shrink now, too? Being Georgia's hottest trial lawyer isn't enough for you anymore?"

Derek didn't flinch.

"What's in Texas, Dodge?" Julie asked again.

Her softness of voice got to him as Derek's badgering never could have. His shoulders slumped in defeat. "Not what. Who."

"Okay, who's in Texas?"

He avoided looking at both of them as he picked up his mug and walked it over to the sink, where he poured the contents down the drain. "My daughter." He felt their astonishment even before he turned around and saw their shocked expressions.

Derek said, "You don't have a daughter."

"Yeah, I do."

"Since when?"

"Since thirty years ago," Dodge said.

Derek shook his head to clear it. "You specifically told me that you didn't have a daughter."

"No I didn't."

"Dodge, I remember the conversation. You were checking into Creighton Wheeler's background. You told me that, based on what you'd learned about him, you wouldn't want your daughter dating him. And I said, 'You don't have a daughter.' And you said, 'If I did.'"

"See? You're the one who said I didn't, not me."

"But you implied it."

"Sue me."

"This quarreling isn't very constructive, is it?" Julie divided her reproach between the two of them, landing on Dodge. "We're just surprised, Dodge. You've mentioned a couple of ex-wives, but never children."

"Not children. Child. One."

He looked down at his shoes, wondered when they'd last been shined. If they'd ever been shined. He really should have them buffed at least. Maybe, if he had time at the airport...

Airport? Airport, hell. He wasn't going.

"When did you last see her?" Julie asked.

"On her birthday."

"Her last birthday?"

He shook his head. "Her actual one. The day she was born."

Their stunned silence teemed with questions he didn't want to answer. But Derek had the tenacity of a bulldog. "So why are you considering going to see her now?"

"I'm not."

"For the sake of argument, let's assume you are."

Dodge chewed on his inner cheek with annoyance and indecision, then heard himself telling them that his daughter had got herself into a jam. "I don't know the details, but it's a police matter. And her ... Somebody thought that maybe, with my background, I could help out. But I don't think so, and, anyway, why would I want to?"

Derek and Julie continued to look at him, their gazes admonishing and speaking volumes. Lowering his head, he dug into his eye sockets with his thumb and middle finger, then dropped his hand and sighed. "Shit, shit, and double shit."

[Dalyia]

CHAPTER
2

FOR NEARLY HALF AN HOUR, B ERRY AND C AROLINE HAD BEEN sitting on hard, unforgiving wood benches, like church pews, just inside the entrance of the Merritt County Court House. When Ski Nyland approached them, he looked like a man with a purpose for which he was running late.

"Sorry to have kept you waiting. I got a call."

Caroline asked, "Something positive?"

"I'm afraid not, Ms. King. Oren Starks is still at large, and I've only got a few minutes before I need to get back to the hunt." He touched the cell phone attached to his belt as though to guarantee that his line of communication hadn't been cut. His gray gaze slid to Berry, acknowledging her for the first time since he'd joined them. "Ready?"

"I've been ready."

After a beat, he said, "I guess marketing adheres to a stricter timetable than law enforcement does."

Touche, Deputy, she thought. Her remark had been bitchy, and bitchiness was something she was striving to fix. However, given the stressful circumstances, she felt entitled to backslide.

Taking the edge off her tone, Berry said, "It's just that I thought you got everything you needed from me last night. I didn't expect to be summoned here again this morning."

"Sheriff Drummond asked for the meeting. Your lawyer is already up there."

"Then we should join them without further delay," Caroline said with a graciousness that Berry envied. She'd never mastered that special trait that seemed to come naturally to her mother.

Deputy Nyland gestured for them to precede him.

As they crossed the lobby, Berry wondered why he wasn't in uniform. He hadn't been wearing one last night, either, but she had figured he'd been off duty when her 911 had interrupted his Friday evening.

Today, except for his sport coat, he was dressed for a rodeo. Jeans and boots, crisp, white, western-cut shirt. He was also as laconic as any western-movie cowboy. She wondered if he envisioned himself as such. All he needed was a large white hat, a big tin star on his chest, and a six-shooter strapped to his thigh.

She assumed he was carrying a weapon somewhere. He might remove it when he was in the courthouse, but more than likely he kept it on, concealed from view, as were the emergency lights behind the grille of his tricked-out SUV, in which he'd driven her here last night to get her statement about what he'd referred to as "the shooting incident."

Now, as they waited for an elevator, Berry noticed how dwarfed her mother was by his height. Even Berry, who'd been taller than every boy in her class since seventh grade and had graduated high school with only a few of them having outgrown her, felt diminutive next to him.

They decided in favor of the stairs over waiting any longer for an elevator. As they walked up the one flight, Berry felt his stare like a physical pressure on the center of her spine.

The courthouse structure dated back to 1898, but it had been well maintained. The sheriff's office had original paneling and hand-carved molding around the plaster ceiling. The window glass was wavy but lent the room character. The wide desk was flanked by matching flagpoles. Between Old Glory and the Texas state flag hung a painting depicting Santa Anna's surrender to Sam Houston.

When they entered the office, the two men in it stood up. One was the lawyer her mother had summoned to the house last night. The other was Sheriff Tom Drummond.

He stepped from behind his desk and met them halfway to embrace Caroline, taking her shoulders between his hands and kissing her cheek. "Always a pleasure to see you, but I hate the circumstances of this meeting."

"So do I, Tom." She turned to indicate Berry. "I believe you met my daughter last year at the country club's Labor Day picnic."

"Of course. Ms. Malone."

"Berry, please."

He took her hand and patted it warmly. "I assure you, this case has the full attention of this office. Your mother's company has become important to this community by turning a stagnant real estate market active. Anything concerning her concerns me, especially your safety. We're going to catch this character. I give you my word."

"Thank you. I have every confidence in you."

The lawyer--his name was Carlisle Harris, Harris Carlisle, Berry couldn't remember which--was roughly the sheriff's age. He was a nice-looking, pleasant gentleman, but she felt sure her mother had chosen him more for the evident shrewdness behind his bright black eyes than for his cordiality.

He had shown up at the lake house last night as though Caroline had waved a magic wand to produce him. As soon as her mother had learned the nature of the emergency and Ski Nyland had begun posing questions about Berry's pistol, Caroline had politely asked him to hold off until she called her attorney. The deputy hadn't liked it, but he had complied, and Berry hadn't uttered another word until the lawyer got there.

He stepped forward now to shake hands with her and Caroline in turn.

The sheriff must have sensed Ski Nyland's impatience because he curtailed the pleasantries and suggested they all take seats. Berry and her mother sat side by side on a well-worn leather sofa. The men sat in armchairs that formed a semicircle facing them.

The sheriff began. "Ski has given me a rundown of what happened out at the lake house last night, and I have a copy of your official statement, Berry. Harry, you got a copy?"

"I did," said Harris Carlisle. "Thank you."

"Is there anything you'd care to add to it, Berry?" the sheriff asked. "Anything you've remembered between last night and now that could help us track this guy?"

She shook her head. "I was as comprehensive as I could be. To capsulize it, Oren Starks has been stalking me for months. Last night he came to the lake house, shot Ben, and threatened to kill me."

"You met Starks at your place of employment, is that correct?"

"Delray Marketing in Houston."

"I understand that he was fired from the company."

"Some months ago."

"Do you know why?"

"He wasn't a good fit," she replied. "At least that was the water- cooler speculation for why he was let go."

"Did you think he was a good fit?"

She turned to Deputy Nyland, who'd posed the question, and answered coolly. "It isn't in my job description to evaluate co-workers."

"Candidly, did you think Oren Starks was a good fit?"

"No, I didn't."

"Why not? Wasn't he any good at what he did?"

Berry gave a half smile. "Oren wasn't good at his job, he was exceptional."

"I don't follow, Berry," the sheriff said. "Ski said you painted this guy as an oddball."

"His personality has no bearing on his skill," Berry said. "Marketing is about creativity, and strategy, and making dozens of components come together to form a harmonious whole. One wrong element throws the whole thing off. At Delray, Oren was our go-to guy when a campaign wasn't coming together the way it should. He had a knack for isolating the piece that didn't fit."

"Yet he was a misfit at the company," the sheriff said.

"Ironically, yes. He made people uncomfortable. Women in particular. I wasn't the first he focused his unwanted attention on."

"Were sexual harassment complaints filed against him?"

She shook her head. "None officially. Oren didn't do anything overt. No touching. No obscene e-mails or lewd texts. He's too intelligent, too sly to do something that could have trapped him.

[Dalyia]

"But he was very clever with innuendos implying an intimacy that didn't exist." As an afterthought, she added, "If you took issue with one of his remarks, he could make you feel as though you'd mistaken his meaning."

"Was this your experience?" the sheriff asked.

"Yes. At first. I began to think I was reading too much into the things he said and did. But after he was fired, he became more persistent and aggressive. To the point where I grew frightened of him. I thought that if I came here and stayed the summer in Mother's lake house--which she'd been trying to get me to do ever since she bought it--if I came here, essentially disappeared for a while, Oren would become discouraged or simply lose interest and leave me alone."

"When you say stalking..." The sheriff leaned forward, inviting her to elaborate.

"Calling several times a day. Constantly sending me text messages."

"Why didn't you change your phone number?" Deputy Nyland asked.

"Too many people have that number. Clients, co-workers, people who need to reach me for a quick solution to a time-sensitive problem. It would have been very inconvenient to change it."

"More inconvenient than being stalked?"

"You don't have to answer that, Berry," her lawyer said.

She didn't answer. Instead, she redirected her attention to the sheriff. "Oren would show up at my house uninvited. Sometimes he would be parked at the curb, or even sitting on the porch, waiting for me when I returned home. He would appear at restaurants where I was having dinner and would send flowers with enclosure cards that suggested a romantic relationship. I assure you there was none. He sent me small gifts that--"

"Like what?"

Flustered by the deputy's constant and skeptical interruptions, she had to think for a moment. "He once sent me a video game. A Dungeons & Dragons kind of game. Fantasy stuff with wizards, evil sorcerers, castles with mazes. You know the kind of thing."

"You're into that?"

"Not at all, Deputy Nyland. But Oren is. He loves puzzles of any kind, and he's good at them."

"Which made him good at working out solutions to marketing campaigns with problems," the deputy said.

"Exactly."

"What else? What other gifts?"

"A bestseller by an author he knows I like. He stood in line for hours--so he claimed--to have the book inscribed to me. He gave me a CD that he'd burned himself. The most personal gift was a silver charm bracelet. Thin chain. One charm. A heart."

"Did you return these gifts?" Nyland asked.

"At first I tried, but Oren refused to take them back. Eventually I just kept them."

"Why?"

"Because attempting to return them involved seeing him or talking to him, and that's what I was trying to avoid."

Harris Carlisle interceded. "I think we understand the concept of stalking, don't we, Tom? Ski? The man has pestered her beyond endurance, and last night his obsession turned violent."

The sheriff nodded. "Please, Berry, continue."

"I forgot where I was."

"You moved here for the summer."

"I hoped to be rid of Oren forever. I don't know how he discovered the location of Mother's lake house--the address isn't in the phone book. But he did," she said quietly. The reminder of what had taken place caused emotion to well up in her throat.

Quietly her mother asked if she'd like some water. She shook her head. Caroline took her hand and gave it an encouraging squeeze. The deputy shifted in his chair, making the old wood squeak, and looked toward the door as though anxious to adjourn.

Berry was tempted to ask if she was keeping him from something more important but then realized that of course she was. He was coordinating the search for Oren. The sooner he was done here, the sooner he could get back to it.

Without further delay, she picked up the story. "Last night Oren came to the house. He scared me out of my wits. I was in the shower. Suddenly the curtain was flung open and there he was, Psycho style. Except instead of a knife, he was pointing a gun at me."

The sheriff turned to Caroline. "You were out, I understand."

"I'd been away all day. I'd intentionally made myself scarce because Berry had told me that she and Mr. Lofland would be working on a very important project. I didn't want to be a distraction.

"After work, I went straight from the office to attend a dinner party hosted by former clients. Sort of a housewarming. I had told Berry not to wait up because I wasn't sure how late I'd be. Apparently I arrived shortly after Deputy Nyland got there. A deputy sheriff was standing guard at my front door. He forbade me to go inside.

"Berry had tried to call and alert me to the emergency, but my cell phone was in my handbag, and I'd silenced it during the party. I hadn't thought to check it before I left for home."

The sheriff looked across at Nyland. "When she got there, you two, you and Berry, were still upstairs?"

"We heard the argument between Andy and Ms. King at the front door. Came down. Ms. King called Mr. Carlisle."

"Which was my right to do."

The deputy conceded the point with a nod. "Soon as he got there, I continued interviewing Ms. Malone. First off, I asked if Starks had broken in. He hadn't."

"That's correct, Sheriff," Berry said. "All the doors to the house were unlocked. Ben and I had been in the pool, we'd cooked steaks on the outdoor grill for dinner, so we'd been going in and out all evening. I hadn't yet locked up for the night.

"Oren simply came through the front door; at least I assume he used the front door since that's the way he went out. The time between him yanking open the shower curtain and my placing the 911 call couldn't have been more than a few minutes. It all happened in a blur."

"In your statement you said the man was maniacal."

"She said he was unhinged."

Berry looked quickly at Deputy Nyland again, surprised that he recalled the exact word she'd used to describe Oren's state of mind. "That's right. He was wild-eyed. He was sputtering. 'I must kill you. You realize that, don't you? I've got to kill you.'"

Beside her, Caroline shuddered and gripped her hand tighter.

"The instant I saw him and the pistol, I screamed. That seemed to rattle him even more. He was shushing me and repeating, 'I don't have a choice. I've got to do it. Don't you see? Don't you understand?' He spoke in a sort of chant. He was..."

The four of them looked at her expectantly. As she searched for the word, she looked at each of them in turn, ending on the deputy, whose gray gaze remained unwavering.

"Unhinged," she said with a helpless shrug. "That's the best word to describe him."

"Well, he went there to kill you," the lawyer remarked. "One wouldn't expect him to be rational."

"No."

"Had you ever seen this side of him before?" the sheriff asked.

"Only once, when he became extremely angry at me for rejecting him. But last night he was more upset than even then." She wished for a moment to ponder that, but when Nyland shot another
look toward the door, she plowed on. "Ben must have heard my screams and Oren's raving. He came running from the guest bedroom. When he reached the bathroom door, Oren heard him, spun around, and fired the gun."

She paused, reliving that horrifying moment: the jarring sound, the unbelievable sight of Ben falling backward, the wild expression on Oren's face when he turned back to her. Through it, she'd told herself that this couldn't be happening, that traumatic, violent events like this didn't happen to normal, nice people like her.

But it had happened. She'd lived it. However, now as she tried to describe the scene and her feelings about it, she knew her words would be inadequate to convey what she'd felt at the time.

"All I can say is that it was unreal, and yet it was reality taken to another dimension. Every sensation was overblown. After the gun blast, I remember experiencing a sense of timelessness, of suspended animation. But then Oren suddenly turned and ran. That galvanized me. I climbed out of the tub. I paused only long enough to bend down and tell Ben that I would get help, then I ran from the room to see what Oren was doing, where he'd gone."

"You weren't afraid that he would shoot you also?"

"She explained that to Ski last night."

"Calm down, Harry," the sheriff said, mildly rebuking the attorney. "I only ask because I'm curious."

Harris Carlisle signaled for her to continue.

"Honestly I didn't think about it, or I probably wouldn't have done it," she said. "I acted on instinct. I went after Oren, and by the time I reached the gallery, he was rushing down the stairs. At the landing he lost his footing and fell. He tumbled all the way to the ground floor and landed on his back.

"He saw me watching him from the gallery. He struggled to get up. He pointed the pistol at me, and that's when I thought for certain that I would soon be dead. I threw myself to the floor, trying to take cover behind the railing. He pulled the trigger until the pistol was empty."

[Dalyia]

Her mother placed her hand over her mouth to contain a small, distressed sound.

"Miraculously, his shots missed," Berry continued. "When he realized he had no more bullets, he struggled to stand up. He was yelling, 'I'll kill you. You must die.' Things like that over and over again. Then he turned and staggered through the front door."

After a short silence, Nyland asked, "He didn't reload?"

"No."

"He just ran away, vowing to kill you."

"That's right."

"Which is consistent with what she told you last night, Ski," the lawyer reminded him.

"Yeah, I know." He held Berry's gaze, and she could see wheels spinning behind the gray eyes. "Lofland was down. You were otherwise alone and defenseless."

"Yes."

"Starks had you in the bathtub, where he could have shot you at point-blank range. Instead, he made out like he was going to flee. Then you went after him, still defenseless, right?"

"Right."

"You didn't have your pistol yet?"

"No."

"Starks emptied his pistol from a dicey angle and at a distance of ... what? Thirty feet?"

"I suppose. I don't know."

The sheriff leaned forward. "What are you driving at, Ski?"

He looked at his boss. "If Starks was that intent on killing her, saying he must, saying she had to die and so on, why didn't he shoot her in the bathtub? Why sputter threats against her life, then turn and run, when he could have popped her right then? Doesn't make sense to me."

"People do crazy things," the sheriff said. "He chickened out. He saw God. Who knows? When push came to shove, the best he could do was threaten her life, not actually take it."

"I guess," the deputy said, sounding unconvinced.

"I can only recount what happened, Deputy Nyland," Berry said. "I can't explain Oren's behavior. I don't know why he didn't seize his opportunity and shoot me dead. But I'm glad he didn't."

"Goes without saying," he mumbled.

"Please go on, Berry," the sheriff urged. "What happened next?"

"Once Oren was out of sight, I ran back into the bedroom and called 911 on Mother's landline. I hadn't heard a car engine, so I wasn't absolutely certain that Oren had left the premises. Because I was afraid he would come back, I took a pistol from the drawer of the nightstand. I had put it there the day I moved into the lake house."

"Even after leaving Houston, she feared for her safety against this guy," the lawyer said. "She bought the pistol as a precaution, Tom. It's registered to her, and she has a license to carry."

"I believe you, Harry," the sheriff said around an impatient sigh. "My wife keeps a twenty-two in her nightstand drawer except when the grandkids are visiting." He turned back to Berry.

"There's really nothing more," she said. "I stayed there in the bedroom with Ben until the paramedics arrived."

The sheriff expelled a long breath. "We're lucky you're with us today."

Caroline solemnly agreed.

"What's the latest on Ben Lofland's condition?" the sheriff asked.

"Fair," Nyland reported. "He's in surgical recovery. His wife's with him."

Berry knew he'd thrown in that last part just to embarrass her. She shot him a dirty look, but he was addressing the sheriff and didn't see it. "Houston PD and Harris County S.O. are assisting us in trying to run down Starks."

"You got the arrest warrant?"

"Right here," he said, patting his breast pocket. "I stopped at the DA's office on my way here." He glanced at Berry. "That's why I was late."

"Does Starks have any prior arrests?"

Nyland looked back at the sheriff and shook his head. "No criminal record. Clean as a whistle. Not even an outstanding parking ticket. He's not at his house, although the car registered to him is in his garage."

"He would have rented a car," Berry said.

"No record of that."

"Okay then, he'd've stolen one," she said, testily. "Or borrowed one. Or roller-skated. I don't know how he got here. I just know he's too smart to have used his own car if he came here with the intention of killing me."

Caroline intervened. "Deputy Nyland, we might feel better about the situation if you outlined for us the efforts being made to capture him."

His flinty eyes shifted to Caroline. "Yes, ma'am. While I was interviewing Ms. Malone last night, other deputies were notifying the sheriffs of surrounding counties. They dispatched their deputies immediately.

"But Merritt County alone has more than nine hundred square miles, and a lot of it is virgin territory. There are only twelve of us in this department, and that includes the court bailiff, a jailer, and a retired schoolteacher who comes in three days a week to help out with paperwork."

"He's right," the sheriff said. "And neighboring counties are of similar size and makeup and have even fewer personnel in their departments than we do."

Nyland said, "What we're saying is, there are a lot of good hiding places in this part of the state, and peace officers are spread thin."

Berry was certain her mother's intention hadn't been to question Deputy Nyland's competency, even by implication, but apparently Nyland was sensitive to criticism.

No one said anything for a moment, then Berry said, "I'm almost positive that Oren's leg was injured in his fall down the stairs. He was practically hopping on one foot when he left."

"I'm sure you've canvassed medical facilities in the area." Sheriff Drummond looked to his deputy for confirmation.

"Last night, sir, and it continues farther afield as we speak."

"DPS?"

"Last night I sent out a blanket e-mail. DPS, Texas Rangers, municipal police departments. I provided a description of Starks, but, unfortunately, we don't know what he's driving."

"I'm sorry," Berry said. "Maybe I should have followed Oren when he left the house. But at that point I didn't know if Ben was dead or alive. My first priority was to get medical attention for him."

"Understandably," the sheriff said.

Nyland turned to Berry. "Do you have any photos of him?"

"Of Oren? No."

"None were found at his house when it was searched."

"Not a single photograph? That's odd, don't you think?" Caroline asked them collectively.

"This whole thing is odd," the deputy said, almost under his breath. Then, "I'll ask Houston PD to go to that marketing outfit, see if they have a photo of Starks in their employee files. It would help to circulate one." He came to his feet. "Sorry, but I need to excuse myself and get back out there. Sir, you know how to reach me."

"I want to be kept up to speed, Ski. Don't go through the office lines. Call my cell."

"Yes, sir." He nodded in the attorney's direction. "Mr. Carlisle." To Berry and her mother, he doffed an imaginary hat. "Ladies."

Then he walked out. As soon as the door closed behind him, Sheriff Drummond said, "Ski's manner could use some polish, but you couldn't ask for a better man to be conducting this manhunt. His background is--"

He was interrupted by a soft beep. "Excuse me, Tom." Caroline took her cell phone from her handbag. As soon as she looked at the small screen, she shot to her feet. "I was expecting this call. I really should answer."

Without another word, she left the office. Berry stared after her, puzzled by her mother's uncharacteristic rudeness.

"Must be important," the sheriff observed out loud.

Berry echoed, "Must be."

[Dalyia]

CHAPTER
3

DODGE CURSED THE TOUCH-SCREEN KEYBOARD ON HIS CELL phone, wondering who in the hell had fingers small enough to actually type something on it. "Damn computer geeks," he muttered.

Of course it would help if, at the same time he was trying to peck out his message, he wasn't also driving an unfamiliar car and lighting a cigarette.

Finally he gave up on getting the text typo-free and sent it with only a few misspellings. The important thing was, Caroline would receive the message that he was on his way to Merritt.

He still couldn't quite believe that, after thirty years and counting, Caroline had contacted him. She'd called with a desperate plea for help. For Berry, not for herself. I'm not asking you to help me, Dodge, she had said.

Well, good, he'd said back. Because if she'd asked him for a personal favor, he would have hung up on her. He was certain he would have. Probably. Maybe.

But Caroline was too clever to take that approach. Instead, she'd called him for their kid's sake. He would look like a real bastard if he didn't at least show up and check things out, wouldn't he?

Derek and Julie had thought so, and they'd told him as much. Insisting on driving him to the airport, they'd packed him into their car without further ado. They'd even ushered him through the
ticket-purchasing process and seen him as far as the security checkpoint, mistrusting that he would follow through on his reluctant decision to go.

Throughout the flight, he'd told himself that he could always hook a U-turn at the Houston airport and fly right back to Georgia. Or he could go someplace else for a few days. Mexico sounded good. Tequila and brown-eyed ladies. Or a Caribbean island. Many to choose from. All had girls in string bikinis that matched the potent pastel drinks. Yeah, sand, surf, and getting tanked sounded good.

Instead, he had called Caroline as soon as he landed at Intercontinental, before the plane had even taxied to the gate.

When she answered, she'd sounded breathless--relieved?--and told him it wasn't convenient for her to talk just then but she would text him directions to their meeting place. With the text message, she'd added a postscript, asking that he text her when he was in his rental car and on his way.

Which he'd done, and now, he was ninety minutes away from seeing her.

The thought of it filled him with a sick anxiety that made him mad at himself. He would make it clear to her from the get-go that he wasn't about to get sucked into any mess not of his making. He had come only to listen, provide some advice if he could, and then leave. If at any point he determined that she was crying wolf, he would tell her to go to hell, that she was on her own, which was the way she had wanted it. Well, wasn't it?

He should have told her that last night the instant she identified herself. He should have hung up, finished his cigarette, then rolled over and gone back to sleep.

Instead he'd got up, showered, and dressed. He'd even packed a suitcase, on the outside chance he lost his senses and heeded her summons.

While waiting for daylight to come so he could go see Derek with the hope of being refused time off, he'd sat there in his shabby room, on his sad double bed, staring into the lonely darkness, wondering again if the call had been a dream.

Because before that, he hadn't dreamed about Caroline in ... hmm ... at least three, four nights.

He had never been to Merritt, wasn't even sure he'd ever heard of it before. He took the interstate north out of Houston, then exited onto a four-lane divided highway that angled slightly east for about seventy miles until he left it for a two-lane highway that cut due east, cleaving a pine forest like the straight and narrow shaft of an arrow.

It was beautiful country, the kind of forested terrain that most people didn't associate with Texas, which typically called to mind barren plains, tumbleweeds, and oil derricks silhouetted against an endless sky. There were plenty of oil and gas wells in East Texas, too, but the dense forests concealed them. In this part of the state, the sky looked smaller, closer.

Twenty miles outside of Merritt, he began seeing billboards advertising bait shops and taxidermy services, public piers, lake resort communities, cabins for rent, and RV campgrounds. A mile out, he spotted a pink and white sign for Mabel's Tearoom, and his stomach did a somersault.

Mabel's Tearoom. On your left as you approach town, just inside the city limit sign. 2:30. That had been Caroline's reply to his text.

He glanced at the dashboard clock and saw that he was just going to make it by the appointed time. Actually, he'd hoped to arrive early, so that he could already be there when she came in, and he would see her before she saw him.

Thirty years could do a lot of damage. He wondered how Caroline had withstood time. Her hair might have gone gray. She could be wrinkled, flabby, fat. If so, by comparison, he would look reasonably good.

But what he feared was that his manner of living for the past three decades was going to be glaringly apparent. She would see lines in his face that had been etched by vices, hard living, and a total disregard for his health.

Too late to worry about it, though. The damage had been done, and he was here.

Mabel's Tearoom had lacy curtains in the windows and pink geraniums in white wood planters on either side of the entrance. He wondered which of the three cars parked in front was Caroline's.

He was glad he'd taken time at the airport to get his shoes shined. Maybe he should have got a haircut, too, and a professional shave, but then he wouldn't have made it here by two-thirty.

He'd love another cigarette. Just one puff might sustain him through the next few seconds. But...

He pushed open the door and walked in. Announcing his arrival, a little bell above the door jangled, sounding to him as loud and portentous as Big Ben. The place was a single room. Three of the little tables were occupied. One by Caroline.

When he spotted her, his turncoat heart stuttered and stalled. Jesus, she was beautiful. Absolutely, positively, breathtakingly as beautiful to him as the last time he'd seen her.

Being the only person in the place with testicles, he felt about as agile and inconspicuous as a woolly mammoth as he walked toward her. She stood as he approached and stuck out her right hand.

Well, that was one question answered: There would be no hug. Not even a long time, no see one.

"Dodge, thank you for coming."

Even though he hadn't immediately recognized her voice on the telephone last night, probably because it would have been the last one he expected to hear, the years hadn't altered it. Though now it had a flutter, like maybe she was just as nervous to see him again as he was to see her.

"I was afraid you wouldn't," she said.

"I started not to."

She released his hand immediately after giving it one firm shake, then resumed her seat. He pulled out the chair across from her and sat down. Then for a time they just looked at each other.

Her hair was lighter than he remembered. Maybe she was using blond to cover

[Dalyia]

strands of gray. Whatever, he liked it. It was still that rich cinnamon color that he'd never seen on anyone before or since.

Sherry-colored eyes. Once, when he'd waxed poetic--poetic for him, anyway--about her coloring, she'd laughed. Cinnamon and sherry? I think you read that in a recipe book. And he'd replied, Maybe so, because you look good enough to eat.

He'd bet he could still encircle her waist with his hands. A strong wind could blow her away. Upon closer inspection, he saw a few fine lines at the corners of her eyes, and there was a slight softening of the skin along her jaw, but her complexion was flawless and appeared as soft as ever, and looking at her made him ache all over.

He sensed that this lengthy perusal was as painful for her as it was for him. Painful for him because he couldn't gobble up the sight of her fast enough, and painful for her because she was seeing in his face the corrosive effects of the life he'd lived since she'd last seen him.

She cleared her throat. "How was your drive?"

"Fine."

"Traffic?"

"Not too bad."

"No problem with my directions?"

"I got here." He tried to smile, but his lips felt stiff.

"Welcome to Mabel's. What can I get y'all?"

Dodge hadn't realized the waitress had approached. Feeling helpless, he looked across at Caroline for guidance. She said, "I'll have Darjeeling, please."

He had no idea in hell what that was. Forcing his lips to move, he asked if they had regular Coke, and when the lady said yes, he ordered one.

"Anything to eat? Our apricot scones are worth the calories."

"Nothing for me," Caroline said.

"Me neither, thanks."

She left to get their drinks. Dodge didn't know then, or remember later, what the server looked like, if she was young, old, tall, short, skinny, plump, if she was disappointed that they hadn't tried the apricot scones or if she didn't give a flip and only wanted her shift to be over so she could get out of there. He was functioning in a vacuum.

Caroline must have sensed his uneasiness. "I chose this place because I've never been here. I know a lot of people in town, and it's a friendly community. I thought our first meeting should be where it was unlikely we'd be interrupted."

He wanted to ask what would have been wrong about meeting at her house, but he already knew the answer. She would want to meet in a public place, where a scene was less likely to occur.

"This is fine. Just awfully..." He glanced around. "Frilly."

She smiled, and that made him relax a little.

"I don't know where to start," she said. "I don't know anything about your life in Atlanta."

"What do you want to know?"

"Why there?"

"That's where I ran out of gas. Thought it was as good a place as any."

"You joined the police force?"

"Fulton County Sheriff's Office. They had an immediate opening. I started as an investigator. Good job. Good benefits. Stayed with it for twenty-five years. But the city grew, mostly in self-importance. The office got very button-down. I was getting sick of all the rules and regulations.

"Then I solved a case and had to testify at trial. That's where I met Derek Mitchell, attorney at law. He cross-examined me. We were on opposing sides, but we impressed each other. He asked if I would be interested in working for him as his firm's investigator."

"Less button-down?"

He shrugged. "It's been all right so far."

"It was very generous of Mr. Mitchell to let you leave to come here on such short notice."

"As bosses go, he's okay."

She rearranged her legs beneath the table and took great care with smoothing the napkin in her lap, keeping her eyes down. "Do you have a family?"

"No."

She raised her head and looked across at him. "You never married?"

He replied with a guffaw. "Don't I wish."

She appeared on the verge of giving way to natural curiosity and asking about his marital status but didn't. Wisely, he thought.

Instead, she said, "You didn't know until last night that I was a widow."

"Nope."

"I'm still in real estate. Did you know that?"

"Figured as much."

"I thought you might have. ... I mean, your being an investigator by trade, I thought you would have--"

"Kept track of you over the years?"

"Frankly, yes."

"Frankly, I did. For a while. Then I ... stopped."

"Lost interest?"

"Lost hope."

He sounded pathetic even to his own ears. Practically growling, he said, "I don't suppose smoking is allowed in here."

Her head went back several inches. "You smoke?"

That caused him to laugh. "I don't actually smoke. I just inhale. Smoking takes too long to get the nicotine into my bloodstream."

"When did you start smoking?"

"Thirty years ago."

The significance of the time frame didn't escape her. She held his gaze for several beats, then said, "You should quit."

"What for?"

Their stare held until the waitress returned with her tea and his Coke, which was served in one of the vintage bottles accompanied by a slender glass of ice sitting on a little china plate with a white paper doily underneath it. They didn't have Coke in ordinary cans in Merritt, Texas? He didn't touch anything, afraid he'd break something.

Caroline thanked the waitress, spooned sugar into her cup, then poured steaming tea out of a little white pot with pink flowers painted on it. "It's still weak. I didn't let it steep long enough," she remarked.

Okay, enough of this bullshit. "You gonna talk to me, or what?"

She set her spoon in the saucer. It clinked against the cup as though her hand might not have been quite steady. She looked across at him. "Last night, in my house, a man was shot and seriously wounded. Berry was there."

Dodge placed his elbow on the edge of the table and cupped his mouth with his hand. For the next quarter hour, Caroline talked, pausing only occasionally to emphasize a point or to organize her thoughts. He listened without interrupting her. He would gladly have sat there looking into her face and listening to her voice until his vices caught up with him and his heart stopped.

But eventually, she paused and took a deep breath. "Around noon we had a brief meeting with the sheriff," she said. "Tom Drummond. He's a nice man. We're social friends. He's held the office for as long as anyone can remember. Berry talked through last night's event with him, although I think that meeting was more of a courtesy to me than anything. Tom's duties are basically administrative. He relies on Deputy Nyland for investigative work."

"Did you have a lawyer there during this meeting?"

"Yes. Last night, and again today."

"Good."

"He wasn't really necessary. Berry's under no suspicion. She hasn't deviated from her first account to Deputy Nyland."

"Do they believe her?"

The question took her aback. "Why wouldn't they?"

"Do they?"

"They seem to."

Dodge didn't comment. He asked, "So where do things stand now?"

"The official word is that Oren Starks is being sought for questioning, but Deputy Nyland secured a warrant for his arrest. As soon as I got the okay from him, I hired professionals to clean up the mess in the house. They're there now.

"I didn't want Berry to see those rooms again until everything was back to normal, so after our meeting at the courthouse, we went to lunch at the country club. Then I dropped her at the hospital. She wanted to check on her friend's condition. I came here to meet you."

She took her first sip of tea. It was no longer steaming. He watched her graceful hands, the way they handled the delicate cup and saucer. Her fingers were almost as translucent as the china. "That's everything up to the present."

Dodge waited for several seconds, then asked, "Does she know I'm here?"

Caroline shook her head.

"Does she know you called me?"

Another negative shake.

There were many unspoken questions on that subject hovering between them. For the moment it was better to let them hover. "This deputy. Nyland? Can he find his ass with both hands?"

She smiled. "Your vernacular is still colorful, I see."

"Sue me," he said, and she actually laughed. Music to his ears. Then her expression became serious again as she thoughtfully considered the answer to his question. In concentration, her forehead wrinkled just as he remembered. The lines were a little deeper.

"Tom speaks highly of him. He places a lot of trust in him."

"He would. Nyland's his deputy."

"From what little I've seen of him, he appears competent."

"What's he like?"

"Characteristically you mean? Serious. All business. Watchful. A man of few words. Even a bit brusque at times."

"I know a lot of button-up, by-the-book cops who've never solved a crime or found a fugitive," Dodge grumbled. "So, back to my original question."

"I don't know the level of his competency, Dodge," she replied with a trace of impatience. "That's partially why I called you."

He wanted to know what the other part of partially was, but again he saved that conversation for later. If there was a later. That was still a big if. So far this seemed Mickey Mouse. A bullet, a loss of blood, but not the earth-shattering, calamitous event he'd expected when he packed his suitcase last night.

"This whack job, Starks," he said. "What do you know about him?"

"Only what Berry has told me."

"I'll need a lot more than that, Caroline. I need to know what she hasn't told you or doesn't know herself."

"I figured that much. What I can tell you is that he's been pestering her for months. She was at her wit's end when I convinced her to get out of Houston for the summer. She agreed to, but it hasn't been easy for her."

"In what way has it been uneasy?"

"She's very focused and ambitious. She works as hard as ever from the lake house, but it's not the same as being in the office. I know because I've done it. There are inherent problems to working out of a satellite location. She hasn't talked to me in any detail about the difficulties posed by being away from her office, but I can tell when she's worried or--"

"You two are close?"

"Very, Dodge," she replied earnestly. "Very."

It knifed his heart to know how important they'd been to each other, and how dispensable he'd been to both. He hadn't done anything to make himself vital, though, had he? There were reasons for his being inessential to their lives.

Guilt was a parasite that would eat you alive, but only if you let it. So he forced self-flagellating thoughts from his mind and focused on what Caroline was telling him about the daughter he didn't know.

"Oren Starks had made her life hell or she wouldn't have moved to Merritt, even temporarily. She would be in Houston, at Delray, working. She thrives on it. She lives for it. Last year, someone else got a promotion she was hoping for, and she was crushed. Admirably, she used her disappointment to propel her, so that the next time a promotion comes along, she'll get it. Her career at Delray has been the focus of her life."

Her face became even more troubled. "She would never have imposed this exile on herself unless she felt she had no choice. Which should give you an indication of how much she'd come to fear this man. You called Oren Starks a whack job, but I think he's more dangerous than that, Dodge. And I believe Berry fears he is, too. Last night proves it."

"Yeah, let's talk some more about last night." Setting aside his timidity toward all things breakable, Dodge pushed away the glass of melting ice and took a drink of his Coke straight from the bottle. "Specifically, what about this Ben Lofland?"

"He'll survive the wound."

"That's not what I meant."

Caroline fiddled with her spoon, avoiding eye contact. "He and Berry are friends."

"He's married."

"Happily, Berry says." His silence caused her to lift her gaze back to his. "I believe her, Dodge. She's never lied to me. If she says their relationship is platonic, then that's what it is."

He took another swig of Coke, but his eyes stayed fixed on hers. "Okay. So, the guy caught in his undershorts recovers from his wound and lives happ'ly ever after with his oh-so-understanding wife. The competent veteran Sheriff Tom, who's your nice, social friend, along with his trusty, tight-assed deputy catch the bad guy and lock him behind bars. Berry returns to her Houston office. Then all's well and life goes on." He leaned forward. "Why'd you call me here? Come up with something more dire than this, or back to Atlanta I go."

"What's more dire than Berry's life being threatened?"

"That's exactly what I'm trying to get from you," he said in a tense whisper. "The death threats of a guy who's unhinged, sputtering, and chanting can't be taken as serious unless his motivation for being unhinged, sputtering, and chanting is. So, either cough up what you haven't told me yet, or I'm outta here."

Her eyes sparked. "You're still a bully, aren't you?"

"Yeah. And I still want to fuck you. Just like I did the first time I set eyes on you."

[Dalyia]

CHAPTER
4

Houston, Texas, 1978

DODGE SET TWO CAPPED FOAM CUPS OF COFFEE ON THE counter.

The cashier smiled at him. "Is that it?"

"How about throwing in those doughnuts, gratis?" He gestured to the clear acrylic box, which in the morning was filled with fresh bakery goods. At this hour of the night, all that remained were one glazed doughnut with sprinkles and one with chocolate icing.

"Un-uh, no way."

"You won't sell them. They're dried out. See the cracks in that chocolate?"

"The last time I gave you something for free--that Eskimo Pie, remember?--I got in serious trouble with the boss."

"Come on, Doris," Dodge wheedled. "He's not here." He winked at her. "I'm not gonna tell on you."

"He's an A-rab, you know," she said in an undertone. "He'll call it stealing and cut off my hand or something."

"Pretty please? With sugar on it?"

"Oh, shoot." She glanced at the security camera. "At least pretend to pay me for them."

"You're the best, Doris."

"And you're full of shit. I haven't forgotten that you promised to take me dancing."

Grinning, he said, "I'm taking lessons."

"My ass."

Out the corner of his eye, he caught the flash of headlights on the patrol car parked in front. "Gotta go. Don't bother sacking the doughnuts. Just set them on top of the coffees."

She did as he asked, and, as he backed out the door, balancing the cups and doughnuts, she said, "I'm holding you to that date."

Dodge's partner had kept the engine running. He reached across the front seat and pushed the passenger door open. "We're on."

Dodge tipped the doughnuts off the cups and onto the console. "You get the sprinkles, I get the chocolate."

"You got the chocolate last time."

"Sue me." Placing his coffee cup in the holder, he buckled his seat belt. "I'm the one stealing from the A-rab, and one of these days I may have to make good my promise to take Doris dancing. What've we got?" he asked as he fixed the plastic lid on the coffee cup so his partner could drink while he drove. He'd already sped from the 7-Eleven parking lot and turned on the emergency lights.

"Domestic."

"Damn!" Dodge, like most cops, hated responding to domestic disturbances because the offenders often turned their rage onto them. Cops got killed that way. He bit off half the stale chocolate doughnut. "Who called it in?"

"The alleged victim."

"That's good. Means he hasn't killed her."

"Not yet," Jimmy Gonzales returned grimly.

Gonzales looked more Anglo than Dodge did. When they'd become partners, Dodge had asked where the Hispanic name had come from. Gonzales had shrugged and said, "Dunno. Must've been a Spanish or Mexican gene in the deep end of the pool."

"Did the caller say her name?" Dodge asked him now.

"Nope. Disconnected after giving the address. No answer when the dispatcher called back. The house is a rental."

Gonzales was a good partner, reliable, always enjoyed a joke, but knew when it was time to shut up and focus on the job. As now, while they covered the short distance from the convenience store to a tidy house on a quiet street in a middle-class neighborhood.

He pulled the squad car into the driveway and left the lights on. He and Dodge alerted the dispatcher of their arrival and got out. They were watchful and wary as they approached the house. Dodge was particularly skittish about the windows overlooking the front yard and the exterior lighting, which seemed to him as bright as spotlights on him and Gonzales.

They made it to the porch without being shot at or threatened, and he counted that a good sign. When they reached the door, Gonzales stood aside, his hand on his holster. Dodge raised the brass knocker and tapped it loudly several times. "Police. Is there a problem in there?"

The door was pulled open immediately by a man who, Dodge would guess, was in his late twenties. His shirttail was hanging out, but his clothes looked expensive. He was good-looking and clean-shaven, although his black hair looked like it had been recently groomed with a gardening tool. His whole aspect was one of agitation.

He divided a look of disgust between the two officers. "I can't believe she called the police."

"Where is she?" Dodge growled.

"She's all right. She got upset--"

"Where is she?" Dodge asked with menace, emphasizing each word.

The man hitched his thumb over his shoulder. "Bathroom. End of the hall, right-hand side. She's locked herself in. Can you turn off those damn lights on your car?"

Dodge didn't deign to answer. He pushed past the man and crossed a neat living room, stepping into a dark hallway. He heard Gonzales telling the son of a bitch that the emergency lights stayed on and asking if an ambulance was needed. "Hell, no!" the guy exclaimed. "I didn't hurt her."

"Maybe I'll call one anyway," Gonzales said.

"I'm telling you, she's fine."

"What's your name?"

"Jesus."

"Are you cursing or being a smart-ass?"

That's all Dodge heard. He'd reached the end of the hall. He knocked on the bathroom door. "Ma'am? This is Police Officer Dodge Hanley. Would you open the door, please?" He tried the knob. It was locked. "Ma'am? Are you all right? Can you hear me?"

He heard the snick of the lock, then the door was opened. She was petite, reaching no higher than his collarbone. The guy who'd met them at the door was about Dodge's height, over six feet. Without even knowing the circumstances, Dodge already wanted to kill him.

The overhead light shone on reddish hair. Her head was bowed, and she was holding a folded, wet washcloth against the side of her face like a compress. She was fully dressed, but her clothes and hair were in disarray, as though she'd struggled.

"Ma'am, do you need an ambulance?"

She shook her head, then lowered the compress and tilted her face up.

When she did, Dodge felt his whole body expand and levitate as though it had suddenly been inflated like one of those Thanksgiving Day parade balloons. Then her eyes tethered him and slowly he resettled, but he still didn't return to normal. He retained that sense of buoyancy.

"I'm all right." Her eyes were the color of sherry, and if aged whiskey generated sound, it would be exactly like her voice. "I should have called back, told the operator there was no reason to dispatch the police, but Roger had taken the phone away from me, and I was afraid..."

"To leave the bathroom," Dodge stated, finishing for her when she foundered.

She lowered her head again and reapplied the compress.

"What's your name?"

"Caroline King."

"Is he your husband?"

"Boyfriend."

"Whose house is this?"

"Mine. I mean, I lease it."

"He live here, too?"

"No."

"Does he pay the rent?"

Her head came up quickly, and Dodge could tell that his implication had affronted her. "No. I do."

He was glad to know it and didn't apologize for asking. Instead, he gestured at her upper cheek. "Mind if I take a look?" She removed the washcloth. At the outside edge of her eye socket, the skin was red and beginning to swell. "We'll get you to the emergency room."

"There's no need for that. Really."

"Okay, but let's get some ice on it." He stepped aside.

She went past him, down the hall, and into the living room, where her abuser was seated on a sofa, being questioned by Gonzales. Upon seeing her, the guy shot to his feet. "Do you see, Caroline?" he shouted at her. "Are you enjoying my humiliation?"

"Okay, Mr. Campton. Calm down."

"Don't tell me what to do." He shoved Gonzales with both hands. "Do you know who I am?"

"I sure do." Before the offender could react, Gonzales spun him around and pushed him facedown on the sofa. In seconds the man's hands were shackled behind him. "You're the guy on his way to jail."

The cuffed man began screaming a litany of curses aimed at Gonzales. Unfazed by the insults to himself and his lineage, he asked Dodge, "She okay? Do we need an ambulance?"

"I don't think so. Just shut him up."

Caroline King had hastened from the room. Dodge followed and found her in a compact kitchen, where she had planted her hands on the edge of the counter to brace herself against it. "Will he be arrested?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Will he go to jail?"

"Oh, yeah," Dodge said, relishing the thought.

She turned. "There'll be trouble over it. His family has money. Significant money. A battery of lawyers."

Dodge didn't give a rat's ass. "Have you got some ice in here?" Without waiting for an answer, he opened the freezer above the fridge and removed an ice tray. He shook cubes into a cup towel he'd found folded on the counter. He twisted the towel to hold the cubes inside, then passed the makeshift ice pack to her.

She took it and pressed it against her eye socket. "Thank you."

[Dalyia]

"You're welcome."

He pulled a chair out from under the dining table and remained standing beside it until she sat down, then he took the second chair. He removed a small spiral notebook and pen from the pocket of his uniform shirt. He wrote down her name. "What's his name?"

She hesitated, then said quietly, "Roger Campton."

Dodge wrote down the name and put a question mark beside it, wondering why it sounded familiar. She seemed to read his mind. "He's part of the Campton Industries family."

Holy shit. As she'd said, Significant money.

This kitchen, the house, the neighborhood itself, were strictly middle class. Pridefully well maintained, but hardly opulent. Again, his puzzled expression must have given away his thoughts.

She said, "You're wondering how Roger and I met."

He gave his head a noncommittal bob.

"He introduced himself to me at a Christmas party at his parents' house last year."

Dodge's eyebrows shot up. "You were a guest?"

"Server. I was working the holiday season for a caterer. It was a moonlighting job."

This told Dodge several things about her. She was a single working woman on a budget that required moonlighting to make ends meet. She paid her own way and wasn't too proud to admit it. Her slim prettiness had caught the rich boy's eye, which wasn't surprising. Nor was it surprising that she would want to hook up with a Campton heir, all that dough, and what it represented.

Right now it represented a black eye, which made Dodge's insides roil with anger. Why would a woman, who appeared to be self-sufficient otherwise, put up with that?

"Has he done this before?" Dodge asked.

"Never."

"Never to you, or never to anybody?"

"Never to me. I don't know about anybody else."

Dodge made himself a note to check on that. "What set him off?"

She raised her shoulders, and again Dodge was struck by how delicate her frame was. "We were having an ordinary quarrel, a difference of opinion, and he flew into a rage. I've never seen him like that before." She wet her lips. "But he's been under a lot of pressure lately."

"What kind of pressure?"

"Business. He and his father have been having disagreements. Roger takes them to heart."

"What did you do or say that caused him to slap you?"

"I said something to the effect that his father had more experience and that perhaps in this particular instance Roger should give him the benefit of the doubt."

"You took his old man's side against him."

She lowered her head, addressing the tabletop. "I guess that's how it sounded to Roger."

"Doesn't excuse him from slapping you."

"No."

"Are you going to stay with him?"

She raised her head and looked at him with surprise. "Of course."

Dodge watched her, said nothing.

She licked her lips. "I'm sure this was an isolated incident, Officer. Roger lost his temper. Flew off the handle. It could happen to anybody who's under stress."

He shook his head decisively. "Most people are stressed one way or another. They don't hit. Only somebody with a violent streak does that."

She set the ice pack on the table. The cubes were melting, dripping through the cloth. She stood up. "My cheek feels much better. The ice helped. I'll be all right. Don't let me keep you from your other duties."

Reluctantly Dodge replaced his pad and pen in his pocket and followed her back into the living room. Through the windows, they saw Gonzales pushing down Campton's head, none too gently, and guiding him into the backseat of the patrol car. "Will he be charged with a crime?" she asked.

"He'll be accused of assaulting a police officer," Dodge replied. "Whether or not the charge sticks isn't up to me or to Officer Gonzales." He paused, then added, "You've got a better shot at him. You could file an assault charge. I urge you to."

"I promise to think about it." Because she avoided his eyes when she said that, Dodge figured it was an empty promise. "Thank you for responding so quickly," she said.

"No need to thank me. That's what we're for."

"I know, but thank you anyway." She gave him a tremulous smile, and he knew that, as soon as he left, she'd start crying. She was barely holding it back. "Good night, Officer--" She gave her head a small shake. "I'm sorry."

"Hanley. Dodge Hanley. Good night, Ms. King." He tilted his head toward the police car, where Roger Campton sat fuming in the backseat. "He won't be out before morning at the earliest. We'll be slow to get the paperwork done. But keep the doors locked anyway."

"I will."

He hesitated on the threshold and looked at her for several moments, but he couldn't think of anything to add to what had already been said. He didn't have a valid excuse for sticking around any longer, so he bobbed his head good-bye and turned toward the patrol car.

* * *

"So what I was thinking," Gonzales was saying, "is that we ought to volunteer."

Dodge, who'd been woolgathering, brought his partner into focus. Their shift had ended a half hour earlier. Now they were seated on opposite sides of a booth at Denny's, where they were having breakfast before going home.

"What?"

"You haven't been listening, have you?" Gonzales used the handle of his fork to stir sugar into his coffee, then sucked it off before applying the tines to his huevos rancheros. "Your mind's still on that broad."

"What broad?"

His partner guffawed. "Don't play dumb. The little one? Red hair?"

Angrily Dodge speared a chunk of potato and put it in his mouth. "She wasn't a broad."

Gonzales grinned. "Sure are touchy about her."