BRIDGER'S LAST STAND

by Linda Winstead Jones

  She'd stayed with Reese's company for so long because it was safe, the easy thing to do. After the breakup things had been awkward, for a while, but she'd stuck with her job. Frannie Vaughn did not take chances. She was cautious and reserved and she did not throw a perfectly good job away just because life in the office was a little uncomfortable.

  Well, she'd been cautious and reserved before meeting Malcolm Bridger. She couldn't help but smile at the thought, and her body warmed at the remembrance of the night that had passed. There was nothing cautious or reserved about her relationship with Bridger.

  Frannie had never allowed herself many weaknesses. Caffeine, maybe, which she wasn't really convinced was a weakness. Her love for old things, which was more a quirk, she decided, than a weakness.

  Bridger was definitely a weakness. He made her forget who she was and what she wanted, and when he touched her she threw caution to the wind.

  And would again.

  Being cautious hadn't been particularly kind to her, over the years. Frannie stared at the phone and decided that in order to have everything she wanted, she was going to have to take a chance.

  * * *

  Mal had always loved coming to work in the morning. He was never late arriving, he never went home early, and the only sick days he'd ever taken had been when he'd been watching over Frannie.

  But today he didn't want to be here. When Frannie had kissed him goodbye and reached up to straighten his tie, he'd damn near decided to call in sick again, and spend the day in bed.

  But until this case was solved, Frannie was in danger.

  He scribbled notes and studied old ones, trying to make things come together in his mind. Too much about this case didn't make sense.

  His mind continued to go back to the Riverwatch Hotel. Back to the beginning. Neither Stanley Loudermilk nor Clarence Doyle had an alibi for the time the man at the tattoo parlor in Huntsville had been murdered, or for the time Violet Doyle had been hit and killed. They both had plenty of unaccounted hours for Sunday, more than enough time to rig Frannie's house to blow to kingdom come. As far as he knew, neither of them had the expertise, but the background checks hadn't been finished. Besides, with the Legion for Wackos behind the killer, there was an unlimited supply of such talent available.

  "Hey, Mal."

  He glanced up to see a grinning Jerry Kruse bearing down on him. All Mal could manage as a response was a grunt.

  Kruse didn't appear to be discouraged. "How's the case coming?"

  "It's not," Mal admitted.

  "If you need any help, let me know. All I've got right now are a couple of car burglaries and a string of bike thefts. Nothing that won't wait."

  Mal could almost remember being this enthusiastic, years ago. "Thanks."

  Kruse hung around, and suddenly Mal was certain his offer of help had nothing at all to do with this little visit. "That Frannie Vaughn…" Jerry began.

  "What about her?"

  "You, uh, said you were just friends, and I was thinking maybe I'd give her a call." The kid shifted his weight nervously from one foot to the other. "You know, she could probably use a night out to forget everything that's happened. Maybe dinner and a movie, you know, or—"

  "I lied," Mal interrupted in a deceptively soft voice. "She's not just a friend, and if you ask her on a date I will have to kick your scrawny butt from here to Huntsville."

  Jerry didn't seem to be at all offended. In fact, he smiled widely and glanced over his shoulder. "You were right," he yelled, and Mal heard Harry's laughter from around the corner. "Lunch today is on me."

  Mal tried to smile, to go along with the joke, but he wasn't in a joking mood. Yes, Frannie meant much more to him than he was willing to admit, and until this case was solved, she was in serious trouble.

  It just took a few minutes to drive from City Hall to the Riverwatch Hotel. There was an empty space at the curb, and Mal pulled in sharply and threw his door open. Everything had begun here. Maybe this was where it would end.

  There was a new face behind the counter, a young face as surly as Clarence's had ever been.

  Mal flashed his badge. "I'm looking for Stanley Loudermilk."

  The new desk clerk didn't look impressed or disturbed. "He's not here. He took the day off. I think he said he was going to the river, or something."

  Or something. That was a lot of help. "What about Clarence Doyle? Is he around?"

  "Give him a break, man," the clerk said with a sneer. "They're burying his wife today."

  "I know. I'm investigating her death."

  With a shake of his head, the man headed for a door that led to a back room, an apartment where Clarence and his wife had lived for years. A minute later, he motioned for Mal to join him, and held the door open wide.

  In a room that was permeated by the faint odor of cabbage and old socks, Clarence Doyle sat on a rust-colored couch that had seen many better days. At one corner a stack of books took the place of a missing leg, and still the sofa canted gently to one side. The old man looked older today. Grayer, smaller. Ancient, in his cheap suit and poorly knotted tie.

  "You find the man who killed my Violet?" he asked, glancing sharply up at Mal.

  "Not yet. I'm very sorry for your loss, Mr. Doyle." The old man was sour, mean, judgmental, probably crooked, but looking at him, Mal realized he'd loved his wife. In that instant, he relied on Harry's instinct rather than his usual reasoning. He couldn't believe that Doyle had run Violet down.

  "Save your sympathy," Clarence snapped. "And find the man who killed her."

  Mal sat in a gold wing chair that faced the couch. Here he was face-to-face with Clarence. "That's what I'm trying to do. You can help me," he said in a soothing voice. "The man who killed your wife is the same man who killed Miranda Fossett, right here in this hotel. I'm sure of it. She knew something, she saw a man's face and could identify him for me. Help me catch him, Clarence."

  Clarence wouldn't look at him. "I don't know nothin'."

  Mal squelched the sudden desire to jump to his feet and demand that the man come clean. "It's connected to the hotel, somehow. I'm not stupid, Clarence. I know there's something going on here. It cost Violet her life. Don't you want to help me catch the guy who did this?"

  Clarence lifted angry, rheumy eyes and pinned them to Mal. "Okay, so this isn't the nicest hotel in Decatur. Sometimes I rent a room to a guy who wants to sell a little pot, or to a married guy who wants to get horizontal with a bimbo he met in a bar. Every now and then I'll turn the other cheek when a couple of baby-faced kids carrying six-packs of beer tell me they're twenty-one, or when a fine upstanding middle-aged slut I see in the supermarket now and again checks in with a boy half her age. Sometimes people want to do business for a few days, and they don't want to be disturbed, and I provide them a private place to meet with their associates. That's it."

  It wasn't enough. "Have you ever heard of the Decatur Legion for Liberty?"

  "Those nuts that tried to blow up the courthouse last year?"

  Mal nodded. "Did you ever rent a room to them?"

  Clarence frowned. "If I did, I didn't know it. I don't ask my customers what their business is, you see. I just provide a quiet place, that's all."

  Another dead end. Mal gave the man his sympathies once again, and then left the Riverwatch Hotel.

  Nothing. He had nothing. Instead of going directly to his car he walked down the sidewalk, hoping to burn off some of the energy and frustration that made him feel he was about to explode.

  Somebody had to know something. This killer wasn't operating in a vacuum. Somebody knew who he was.

  He turned onto Bank Street

  . Small businesses, several antique shops, a café and Rick's stretched before him. Nothing was open yet, but soon things would begin to bustle.

  Mal was passing one window when something caught his eye. He stopped, backed up a couple of steps and stared.

  The ceramic angel was tall, much taller than any of the ones Frannie had arranged s
o carefully on her end table. The figure was abnormally slender, and was draped in a mint green robe. The face was angelic, the halo was gold, the wings were wide and white … and one of them was chipped.

  He glanced at the sign on the door of the antique shop, and then at his watch. Twenty minutes until opening time. A woman was busy at the cash register, though, so Mal tapped on the door and flashed his badge.

  * * *

  Frannie always felt better when she had a plan. All those rootless years, when she'd often had no idea what came next, had spooked her. Yes, she had to have a plan.

  And now she had one. Bridger wouldn't like it, and she would allow a little time before putting the plan into motion, but she knew where she was going from here.

  She recognized Bridger's knock, a snappy, insistent pounding that brought a smile to her face. He was early again, as he'd said he would be. Her lunch of a peanut butter sandwich and coffee was long past, but she hadn't even begun to think of dinner, yet. They'd probably have to go grocery shopping.

  "Did you look through the peephole?" he asked as he stepped into the apartment.

  "Of course."

  He closed the door, and she grabbed his tie and pulled his lips to hers for a quick kiss. The touch of his mouth on hers was a comfort, a relief. She'd been waiting, craving that touch all day. How could she miss him so much?

  There was a wadded-up brown paper bag under his arm, and he tossed it carefully to the couch.

  "How'd it go?" she asked as he slipped off his jacket and placed it over the back of a chair.

  He scowled, but not at her. "It didn't. I talked to a dozen people today, and got nowhere. Even stopped by the funeral home this afternoon, for Mrs. Doyle's visitation, hoping that someone who shouldn't be there would show up." He glanced at her hard, the way he sometimes did. "Any phone calls?"

  She shook her head. "Maybe he doesn't know where I am?"

  Bridger didn't quite buy that, though he wanted to. "Maybe he knows I've got caller ID."

  "Maybe he finally believes that I don't have anything he wants."

  He wanted to believe that as much as she did, she thought. She could see his mind working, could see the inner struggle in his eyes. "If that's the truth, he'll disappear and we'll never catch him."

  That was a conflict for Bridger. He wanted her to be safe, but he wanted to get the bad guys, too.

  She decided to change the subject. "What's in the bag? Dinner? I swear, Bridger, man cannot live by ice cream alone."

  He smiled. "It's a little something for you."

  "For me?" She was really surprised. Bridger had never struck her as the type of man to court a woman with gifts and flowers. He was a no-nonsense man, who didn't have time for such frivolities.

  "What is it?" She sat on the couch and glanced at the brown paper bag. "Twinkies?" she asked devilishly. Since she'd discovered Bridger's weakness, she couldn't let it pass. "More ice cream?" Guessing what was in the bag was bound to be more fun than opening it. "It had better not be a gun, Bridger, I told you…"

  He sat down beside her, scooped the bag up off the couch and placed it in her lap. It sat there heavily. "Just open it," he said softly.

  She plucked at the wrinkled brown paper, opening it so she could slip her hand inside the bag. Her hand found something hard and cool and smooth, and she wrapped her fingers around the object and drew it from the bag.

  The paper bag fluttered to the floor at her feet as she stared at the angel. It was magnificent, almost ethereal, and she'd never seen one quite like it. One wing was slightly chipped, and she placed her finger there to caress the rough edge.

  She couldn't see the progress of her finger over the angel's wing, not very well. Tears filled her eyes, blurring her vision. "It's beautiful," she whispered.

  "I saw it in a store window, and I thought about you." Bridger's arm was heavy and comforting around her. "That's never happened to me before," he admitted grudgingly. "But when I saw that broken angel I knew you had to have it."

  "She's not broken," Frannie whispered. "She's imperfect. There's a difference." Tears slipped down her cheeks, slow, fat tears. Bridger did love her. He had to. If he knew how much this meant to her—a new start, a fresh beginning, and still a trace of the past, then he had to love her, a little.

  He slipped a hand beneath her chin and forced her to look up, to look at him. "Oh, no," he growled. "Why are you crying? Dammit, Frannie. Stop." When she didn't immediately obey, he growled. "I can't stand it when a woman cries."

  "I thought Malcolm Bridger could stand anything." She tried to keep her voice light, but it wasn't easy.

  With his fingers he wiped away her tears. "Stop it," he commanded gently. "You didn't cry when that man broke into your house, or when we argued, or even when your house blew up. Why now, Frannie?"

  How could she explain? She didn't have to. He kissed her, and her tears began to dry. He touched her, and there was no more reason to cry. He would love her, perhaps right here on this couch, and their coming together would be beautiful and furious, as it always was. They wouldn't use or even mention protection, but neither would they mention babies or love or tomorrow.

  Bridger took the angel from her and placed it carefully on the end table. One hand slipped beneath her sweater to touch her skin lightly. "I didn't mean to make you cry," he whispered.

  As he brushed his fingers across her skin he lowered his head to kiss her throat. Frannie closed her eyes, relishing the sensation of his mouth on her skin, of his breath brushing against her neck. He wrapped an arm around her and scooted her over so that she was half lying down and he was cradled between her thighs. Nothing felt so good, or so right, as this man touching her.

  Before it was too late, she wanted him to know why she cried. She wanted him to know how the simple gift touched her heart. At the same time, she couldn't allow herself to say too much. Opening her heart completely would scare Bridger away right now.

  "You just don't know how much an imperfect angel means to someone who doesn't have anything but a misbehaving car and a raincoat with a hole in the pocket," she said softly, trying to make light of the tears she couldn't explain as she lifted a hand to his shoulder.

  He growled something against her throat, a wordless response as he feathered small kisses across her skin, and then he stilled suddenly. "What did you say?" He pulled his head back to look her in the eye.

  "I said, you don't know what it means—"

  "The raincoat," he said impatiently.

  "A raincoat with a hole in the pocket?"

  He kissed her quickly, and then a grin bloomed on his face and he sprang from the couch, leaving Frannie half sitting, half lying down, and suddenly alone.

  "What?" she asked impatiently as she stood and followed him into the hall. He already had her coat out of the closet and was shoving his hands into first one pocket and then another. She saw the satisfaction on his face when he found the small hole in the left pocket.

  "Bridger, I know what you're thinking. But what on earth could Miranda Fossett have dropped into my pocket that would slip through that little hole? Besides, I would have felt it if she'd dropped anything in my pocket, and I didn't, so it's not possible that there's any evidence floating around in my raincoat."

  He moved his search to the hem of her raincoat, running his fingers from one end to the other until he obviously found what he was looking for. There was an expression of near joy on his hard face. It was quite unexpectedly enchanting.

  "Lost a key lately?" he asked with a smile.

  "No, I never lose my keys."

  He raised the hem of her coat, and with the pressure of his finger on the backside she could see, very clearly, the outline of a small key.

  Bridger whispered, "Bingo."

  * * *

  Chapter 15

  « ^ »

  A locksmith identified the key Mal found in the hem of Frannie's raincoat as belonging to a safe-deposit box in a local bank, and less than an hour later Harry called a judge a
cquaintance to get a court order giving them the right to open the box and confiscate the contents.

  When the bank opened the next morning Mal and Harry were there, waiting as the teller unlocked the door. No one else, but Frannie and the judge, knew what they'd found, and Mal wanted to keep it that way, for now. If word got out, she could be in even worse danger than before.

  Anything could be in Miranda Fossett's safe-deposit box. They might find proof positive of the killer's identity, and then again they might find nothing at all. All Mal asked for as they took the metal box into a closetlike room, was a crumb, a decent clue to point him in the right direction.

  He turned the key himself, and opened the long metal box. There was cash on top, a good-sized bundle of it. Mal felt a surge of disappointment. Cash would lead them nowhere. He lifted the bundle of bills and revealed an envelope. Even better, in the back right corner of the long, narrow box was an undeveloped roll of film.

  Wearing cotton gloves, Mal took the letter between two fingers and opened it carefully. "Prisoner Mail" was stamped on the envelope, and Jacob Fossett's name was written neatly in the space for a return address, along with the PO box number for the county jail.

  He scanned the handwritten letter and grinned as he turned to Harry. "I knew it," he said. "Fossett was going to spill the beans, he was going to tell everything." The letter fluttered between his fingers. "This is not the letter of a man about to commit suicide. This is a near-desperate letter to his sister, almost an apology for being involved in the bombing. He was going to name names."

  "We have another murder," Harry said. "That does not make me happy. Why are you smiling?"

  "At least we have a motive," Mal said as he returned the letter to the envelope and the envelope to the manila envelope he'd brought in with him. The cash followed, and finally the roll of film. "And a reason to reopen the investigation into Jacob Fossett's death. It'll be interesting to see what's on this roll."