by Diana Duncan
His heart fisted. Without his family’s support, he wouldn’t have survived. He couldn’t imagine going it alone, especially so young. He guided the car into the left turn lane. Understanding dawned as he idled at the red light. No wonder she was so zealous about her job. She had no family or history of her own, so she invested herself in the stories of others.
“That must be tough.” The thought of Zoe struggling all by herself made his chest hurt. He determinedly quashed the pang.
Can’t hurt if you don’t let it.
Emotional distance was the first survival skill his training officer had taught him. Compassion was good. Empathy was dangerous. Cops who invested emotionally in their work burned out. Fast and hard.
“I do okay.” She shrugged. “Lots have it way worse.”
No trace of self-pity, no whining. The lady had guts and a winning attitude. Dammit, he didn’t want to care about her. Didn’t want to respect her. Didn’t want to crave her sexy smile and admire her agile mind.
He turned left and navigated the potholed side street, then pulled up in front of a ramshackle, one-story gray cinderblock apartment complex. No trees blocked the relentless sun. Shabby apartments squatted in a half-square around a patchy brown lawn choked with weeds and strewn with rusted appliances.
“Home sweet rented home.” She unbuckled her seat belt. Wariness edged her expression, as if she feared he might judge her. “Taking the position here was a promotion, but I’m still working my way up the food chain at the station. Right now, I’m plankton.”
How many people had she trusted enough to bring home? How many had judged her? “You should’ve seen my first apartment. Cockroaches big enough to lasso and ride.” He quickly exited the car, had her door open when she was ready to step out.
She smiled and accepted his offered palm to steady herself. Her entire hand fit in his palm. “Your mother sure raised you right.”
Her balance was still uncertain, and he slid his arm around her waist as they navigated the cracked sidewalk. His brain insisted he was supporting. His body, on an independent circuit, voted for scoring. He mentally counted backward from ten. In Gaelic. “She tried.”
“I read in a back issue of the online paper that her women’s rowing team won the Pacific Northwest Championship last year.” She fished the keys out of her bag and after two shaky tries, unlocked the apartment door. “Fabulous hobby.”
She was genuinely interested, and so easy to talk to, the words tumbled out on their own accord. “My whole family loves the water.”
“Really? Me, too. Everywhere I’ve lived, I’ve sought out community pools, lakes, and rivers. Mom and I spent almost a year in Florida when I was a senior in high school and I hit the beach every day after my job at a fast-food joint. I still swim as often as I can get away. Lake, pool, ocean, or bathtub, there’s almost nowhere else I’d rather be.”
Something else they had in common. “Mom took up rowing after Pop died.” Only he knew how long and tormented her journey had been. His mother was the strongest person he knew, yet she’d been devastated. After the first shell-shocked week, Maureen pulled herself together for her sons. But he’d seen the unrelenting anguish she tried so hard to hide. Heard her sobbing in her room when she thought her sons were all sleeping. As the oldest, he’d attempted to shield his brothers from their mom’s worst grief. “She says the physical activity helps her work off stress.”
“The same way Kendo does for you.”
There she went again with the startling insight. The back of his neck itched with the exposed, vulnerable feeling that she could read his mind. How whacked was that?
Nope, his private fears and weaknesses were not up for public consumption.
They stepped inside. He closed the door behind them. The one-room studio was as cramped and care-worn as the outside. She’d propped the windows open a few inches, not wise in this crime-riddled neighborhood, but heat still permeated the air.
Worn avocado shag carpet was scrubbed scrupulously clean, as were dingy off-white walls. Fringed rainbow batik scarves draped above stained, yellowed vinyl shades at the windows. Hawaiian travel posters and tropical calendar prints artfully decorated each wall. Abundant plants in hand-painted terracotta pots added welcome splashes of fresh greenery. With a few inexpensive, imaginative touches, she’d transformed the claustrophobic, dreary room into a bright, cozy, welcoming cocoon.
Obviously, she didn’t have many visitors. The one seat was a fuchsia canvas director’s chair perched in front of a desk made from a door propped on filing cabinets. An up-to-the-minute laptop sat on the desk. She needed a good unit for research, of course, but he’d bet his trusty Glock she’d somehow finagled it for a bargain price. A twin mattress swathed in sunny yellow linens and topped by a turquoise throw was tucked into the corner on the floor. The ugliest cat he’d ever seen lounged in a windowsill above the mattress.
He glanced around, unsure where to put the shaky woman.
“The bed is fine,” she murmured.
He led her to the mattress, gently lowered her.
Sighing, she rubbed her forehead. “Thanks.”
The mud-colored, battle-scarred feline sporting a ragged left ear stretched, yawned, then jumped into her lap. Purring, the contented feline kneaded her thighs as she stroked his back. “Aidan, meet Evander. Evander, Aidan.”
He laughed. A dangerous habit he seemed to be unable to control in her presence. He squatted and scratched the cat under the chin. “You named your cat after the guy who got his ear chomped by Mike Tyson?”
“Well, if the gnawed appendage fits ...”
Their eyes met in mutual amusement. A connection sparked. A moment of shared understanding that felt eerily as if they’d forged a tentative bond. Warmth curled around his heart, and ravenous hunger that had nothing to do with food coiled in his belly.
As if she instinctively recognized his response, her eyes widened and her breathing accelerated.
Waaay too hot in here.
He surged to his feet, severing the link. He switched on a small fan near the head of the bed, the whir overly loud in the sudden silence. He needed to feed her and get the hell out of Dodge. Stay the hell out of Dodge.
Dodge was a damn scary place.
Next stop, Over-the-Cliff City.
“What can I fix you to eat?” Six strides took him to the mini fridge across the small space. A couple of cupboards, a chipped sink, and an inexpensive microwave, toaster oven, and double hotplate completed the “kitchen.”
“Peanut butter on crackers and a glass of milk, please.”
He opened a cupboard door. The meager food supply made Mother Hubbard’s pantry look bountiful. He opened the cupboard beside it. Two plates, two glasses, two coffee cups, and inside a drawer, two sets of flatware. Another indication she never had company. Surely the outgoing reporter had dozens of friends. Was she ashamed to bring them here?
She was alone too damned much. He had to force his hand to relax on the plate before he shattered it.
Her miniscule fridge held half a dozen eggs, a quart of milk, a package of hotdogs, and several seasonal fruits. Her father hadn’t been in the picture, and single moms usually had a hard road to travel. Poverty had probably been Zoe’s reality her entire life.
His neck muscles tightened up again. Yet another reason he wasn’t about to chance leaving a woman behind to raise his children. The emotional strain was traumatic enough, but the additional financial burden made it untenable.
He wouldn’t be doing Zoe any favors by getting involved with her.
He found a box of soda crackers and arranged some on the plate. She’d said she was saving to have her mother moved from a San Francisco care center to Riverside. Long-term care was exorbitant on its own, without incurring extra moving expenses. She obviously got by on very little.
Hot shame prickled his skin. He’d thought her vain. Thought she stayed thin purposely.
The horrible truth was she didn’t have enough to eat.
He’d loved cooking with Pop. Food represented love and security to Aidan, and feeding his family was another way of taking care of them. The fact that he gave a generous monthly donation to the Riverside Food Bank didn’t ease the sting of knowing Zoe went to bed hungry.
Did pride keep her from seeking assistance? Or did she feel guilty about accepting help when she felt others, who in her words, “had it way worse,” needed it more?
She needed someone to look after her. But it couldn’t be him. He couldn’t give her the stability she needed. Couldn’t make long-term promises.
The battle raging inside him cramped his stomach. He’d read about an ancient form of torture where a man’s arms and legs were bound to four horses and then the horses were driven in opposite directions, tearing the man apart.
Right now, he could totally relate.
He carried the plate of crackers over and handed it and the glass of milk to her. “Here you are.”
“Thanks.” She patted the mattress beside her. “Please, sit. Have some.”
To her credit, you’d never know she had it rough. She might feel rocky on the inside, but she presented an upbeat, smiling face to the world. He knew from personal experience it required a shit-ton of courage to stay positive and fight your way back to your feet every time life repeatedly slammed you to the mat.
Even if he could bring himself to take some of her meager food, the lump in his throat would choke him to death. “No thanks. If you’re okay now, I have to go.”
Her lashes didn’t lower quite fast enough to hide the flicker of hurt. “I’m feeling better already, and I’m sure eating will help.” Her voice wavered, and she cleared her throat. “I really appreciate the ride home and the room service.”
Goddammit. He rubbed his breastbone, but it didn’t take away the punch of pain. He hadn’t meant to hurt her feelings. “No problem. I’d stay, but I have family stuff to do. For the wedding.” Even if he didn’t, he’d be bugging out PDQ.
Because he enjoyed her company—far too much. “Sure you’re all right?”
“Yup. See you around the incident sites, SWAT.”
“That a promise or a threat, Lois Lane?”
“Ha. Both.”
“Caveat emptor.” Though he managed to tease her, his leaden heart sank as he closed the door behind him and walked out of her life.
* * *
A little over an hour later, Zoe sorted through a stack of cracked dinner plates inside a huge Dumpster parked behind an office complex. She’d been spending an inordinate amount of time in Dumpsters lately. The contents of this one came from a liquidated restaurant supply company. Until very recently—like last week—the company had been owned by another corporation headed by Tony DiMarco.
After Aidan departed and she’d eaten, she’d shaken off lingering melancholy. Of course he hadn’t been able to stay. His brother was getting married tonight. He hadn’t run out like his gorgeous ass was on fire because of the oppressive heat and cramped dinginess of her ramshackle apartment. Or because he couldn’t stand to be around her.
Probably.
She’d determinedly put him out of her mind, parked herself in front of her laptop and continued the DiMarco investigation. A short time later, she hit the jackpot with a real estate sale. The office building’s name had struck a chord. Sure enough, it was on her compiled inventory of DiMarco’s suspected properties. When her car key plunked through her mail slot as promised, she’d restocked her survival bag and headed out.
She wiped perspiration from her forehead and dug deeper into the garbage. As far as Dumpsters went, this one wasn’t horrendous. Mostly damaged restaurant supplies and office furniture. She’d waded in much more fragrant and colorful trash for evidence. No stale Chinese takeout or greasy pizza crusts this time. Or holey underwear. And since she’d propped up one of the Dumpster’s massively heavy lids against the building’s wall, it wasn’t dark. She’d brought a penlight, just in case, but hadn’t needed it. A shudder wracked her. Thank heaven for small favors.
She examined an unopened package of wooden coffee stirrers. Must be nice to be financially secure enough to throw away brand-new merchandise. Who was covertly liquidating DiMarco’s assets? More importantly, where was the money going? She was on the right track, could feel it in her bones. The restaurant supply house was near the top of the property list—many of DiMarco’s other suspected corporations branched out from it.
Not much time left before all his holdings were converted to cash and the trail went cold.
Proving DiMarco’s security company owned all the others was the last and most difficult step. She was attempting to unravel the tangled web. If purchase dates and amounts corresponded even remotely with the robberies, she might figure out the path taken to launder the stolen money. Not to mention DiMarco or his legal representative would have a tough time explaining how he’d paid cash for more than two dozen businesses.
She relocated a stack of brand-new rose-colored linen tablecloths. Toss it and write it off, what a waste. Maybe she’d salvage a few.
Speaking of administrative waste, Riverside P.D.’s official DiMarco investigation would be hampered by legal channels and red tape. Zoe was under no such restrictions. One step at a time, she’d link DiMarco to the corporations, and the corporations to the robberies ... the likeliest motive for Brian O’Rourke’s murder. Perhaps the cop had gotten too close to uncovering DiMarco’s money laundering operation while attempting to clear his own name. She simply had to find the connection. Then she’d break her story and turn over her evidence to the police.
To Aidan.
She discovered a phone receiver with a raveled cord and tossed it over her shoulder. Aidan had certainly been solicitous this afternoon. He’d treated her with care and consideration, and hadn’t shown a flicker of distaste about her living conditions. At least outwardly. Who knew what the enigmatic man thought privately?
She’d finally pierced a layer of his defenses and made her cop laugh. Memory of that sweet victory curled warmly around her heart, and she smiled. They’d connected in a basic, elemental way, and he’d momentarily dropped his “cop face.”
When she’d glimpsed the man behind the stoic mask, he’d freaked out. Run away.
He could be reluctant to get involved while he still had unresolved issues in his past. She knew all about that. Maybe once he had closure for his dad’s death, he might be less skittish. After years of futile attempts to achieve closure for herself, she was trying to nail the door to her own past firmly shut.
She worried her lower lip with her teeth. Would her skeevy background keep a man from becoming serious about her? What about when her someday soul-mate wanted children? She had no paternal information. No medical history. No gene pool statistics—besides the fact her mom had declared her father “really bad news.”
Hardly a prospect to thrill a potential mate.
Trying not to feel as disposable as the garbage trampled under her feet, she uncovered a dented file cabinet containing a big bag of shredded documents. Finally! The managerial stuff. If the gang on CSI reruns could piece shredded documents together, so could she.
She wrestled aside a cracked computer monitor. Down at the bottom of the pile, she spotted two older model, battered central processing units, known as CPUs. Aha! Now we’re cooking. She straddled one, attempting to pry it apart with the trusty folding multi-tool she carried in her bag. Even if the hard drive inside was damaged or erased, special programs could retrieve the data. Most people didn’t know that.
“You, in the Dumpster,” a commanding male baritone ordered. “Put your hands where I can see them and slowly climb out.”
“Ack!” Zoe started, and nearly banged her head on the filing cabinet. She couldn’t see the man from inside the metal contai
ner, and he couldn’t see her. Still, she recognized her cop’s deep, erotic voice.
What were the odds? Of all the Dumpsters in all the towns in all the world, Aidan O’Rourke had to walk up to hers. “Sorry, no can do,” she yelled.
What could be called a heavily pregnant pause ensued. Then she heard Aidan groan. “I should’ve known. It couldn’t possibly have been anyone else. Jesus, fate has a twisted sense of humor.”
The sound of his gun sliding into a leather holster was reassuring. At least he wasn’t going to shoot her. Probably. “Evacuate the Dumpster, Zagretti.”
“Can’t.” She shook the CPU. She had to wrench the hard drive loose before he thwarted her. “Not done yet.”
“Yes, you are. The psychiatrist’s office across the street called in a complaint. You’re scaring their patients.”
“And they sent the SWAT team? Overkill, much?”
“I was in the neighborhood and answered the call.”
“I’m not bothering anyone.” She pried at the casing edges. “And garbage is fair game.”
“Why can’t you shop at thrift stores, like a normal bargain hunter?”
Her cop sounded so flummoxed, she giggled. If she let him assume she was dumpster-diving, he wouldn’t interfere with her investigation. “Free is a very good price.”
He sighed heavily. “I’ll give you to the count of three.”
“Is that one, two, three, then do it?” she shouted, her question echoing off the metal walls. She continued loosening the casing. “Or one, two, and do it on three?”
“I don’t have time for this, Riggs.”
She grinned. He’d caught the reference from Lethal Weapon 2. “You like classic action movies, too?” The casing broke apart. She unscrewed the brackets, tugged out the hard drive, and stuffed it into her survival bag, then started jimmying the second CPU. “You know, we have an awful lot of the same likes and dislikes.”
“You’re giving me a headache, Lois Lane.”
“I have acetaminophen in my bag.” And, I hope, evidence that’ll put DiMarco away for good.