He had no idea if Greta heard him as she disappeared into the depths of the kitchen to rattle around while he lifted the paper she’d drawn on. His blood ran cold, and the chill couldn’t be tempered by his admiration of her skill as he moved on to the sketchpad. In the few short minutes since he arrived, she’d casually sketched out four images, almost like a comic strip, each of which clearly depicted a violent scene, ending with Doyle Fremont standing over the body of a large man, his eyes open as he stared at the ceiling.
“If you ever get bored with your artwork, you could have a second career as a sketch artist,” Jack said when she returned in an attempt to keep the mood light. It hadn’t escaped his notice that beyond the figures and the arrangement of the sparse furniture and surroundings, the same elements often found in her paintings loomed large. A sense of foreboding, of invasion or attack. Just hovering beyond the line of reality and reason. His eyes drooped and despite his determination not to, he slid down on the sofa and leaned his head back. Control evaporated as he blinked, slowly, slower...and sank into the welcoming, warm darkness.
* * *
“I think you’ll like this tea.” Greta carried a brass tray laden with a steaming teapot, mugs and a plate of macadamia-nut cookies. Her assistant Jessie kept Greta supplied in the sweet treats. “It has rose and...” Greta stopped shy of the sofa, a bubble of surprise popping in her chest. “Oh.”
If she’d ever seen a more delightful sight than that of Jack McTavish sound asleep on her sofa, she couldn’t recall. The lines of him, strong, long, determined to hold on to control even as he drifted in sleep spoke to the deepest part of her. That he felt comfortable enough in her home to let himself go warmed her in a way she’d never felt before, from her tingling fingertips to her bare, paint-splattered toes. Not, she mused, unlike how she felt kissing him.
His face relaxed, the lines around his eyes erased as he let go of this world and slipped into another, another she’d never be able to follow him into. Silly, she told herself, even as she imagined him taking her hand and leading her through a foggy maze of sunshine and roses, away from the darkness that always seemed to loom around her. Light, she thought as she inclined her head and smiled down at him. He was like a light shining at the end of an endless, meandering tunnel. A tunnel she couldn’t let herself fall into.
She set the tray down on the coffee table, careful not to make any noise. She poured herself a cup, then retrieved a weighted blanket from the hall closet. He didn’t move as she draped it around him, didn’t stir as she retook her seat at the other end of the sofa where she sipped her tea and returned to her sketches.
It was, she realized, the most settled she’d felt, not just in the last few hours but in a good long while. Something about Jack’s presence calmed her, focused her, much as it had in her studio when she’d painted him. Now, with her feet curled up inches from him, toes scrunching into the soft fabric of the sofa, she dropped deeper into memory and etched out the details of the scene she’d seen from the window.
The gas fire crackled and burned, taking with it each moment as she lost herself. Not one to need a clock with Cerberus around, she didn’t surface until the cat leaped up next to her, nudged the back of her hand with his head, then slinked cautiously over to Jack.
It occurred to her she should stop the feline from exploring their visitor, but how someone reacted to her beloved cat, or how Cerberus reacted to them, was a test nature had put in place at the beginning of time. When he began to purr and paw Jack’s lap, Greta couldn’t be certain if it was the soft gray fabric of the blanket or the appeal of the man that had the cat curling up and resting his head against the arm of the sofa.
A giggle erupted from inside her before she could stop it. She covered her mouth as Jack stirred, his brow furrowing before he awoke completely, as if trying to decipher where he was.
“Hi.” She rested her cheek in her hand and smiled at him.
“Hey.” That furrow became a full-on frown. He lifted an arm, only to find it trapped beneath the blanket. “Wow. Did I fall asleep? Oh, hi there.” He tipped his chin down and looked at Cerberus. “Nice kitty.” He rested his hand on the cat’s fur as confusion settled on his face. “I’m sorry. That’s never happened before.”
“Falling asleep or attracting cats?” Greta pulled her feet in under her, genuinely interested in the answer.
“Uh, both. Sleep hasn’t exactly been a friend lately. Um...” He lifted the edge of the blanket. “Is this thing magic or something?”
“Or something. Works great, doesn’t it? I have a few all over the loft. I don’t sleep much. Insomnia. But I know I need to, so it helps.” She leaned over and poured him some tea, disappointed that it had gone cold. She looked out the window, saw that the sun had shifted significantly. “I guess maybe I should have awakened you as it’s later than I realized. We both got a bit lost.”
He extricated his hand from under both blanket and cat. “Oh, wow. It’s after four. I really zonked out.” He tried to move. Cerberus glared at him. “I’ll wait a bit. Thanks.” He accepted the cold tea and sipped.
“What do you think?”
“I think it tastes like a mouthful of roses. Not that I’d know,” he added with a quick smile. His cheeks carried color now, healthy color that had her breathing a bit easier. He hadn’t looked particularly well when he’d first turned up. Personally, she’d love to take credit for that healthy color in his cheeks, but she wasn’t quite that arrogant.
“Have some cookies.”
“Cookies?” His stomach growled. “Yeah, sure.” He snagged one, bit in and his eyes lit up. “You bake, too?”
“Not even a little. I’m too easily distracted. Baking takes attention.” She nibbled on her own cookie. “My assistant does, though. And cooks like a dream. She’s studying to be a personal chef and caterer at CSUS, and lucky me, I’m her test subject.”
“What’s her name?” Jack asked and fumbled for his phone. His frown returned when he looked at the screen, but he tucked it away and pulled out a notebook instead. “For my Columbo file. I’m still old-school.”
“Ah.” There was so much to be said for respecting the past. Greta found herself liking him more with each passing moment. “Her name is Jessie Jeffries. I know.” Greta grinned at his expression. “She sounds like a comic book character, doesn’t she?”
“Something like that. She come here often?”
“A couple of times a week, whenever she doesn’t have classes. She’s due here tomorrow, actually. Once your appetite is back, she’ll have whipped me up some of her miraculous mac and cheese to stash in the freezer. It’s my personal favorite.”
“That’s a pretty tempting offer.” He hesitated, hand tightening around his pen. “What makes you think I don’t have an appetite?”
“Your jacket doesn’t fit right. The shirt, either.” She pointed to his button-down. “They’re too big. I’m not judging. But if I were, I’d say I doubt you had a reason to lose weight. So I guess some personal issues came up?”
“Something like that.” He shifted on the sofa, didn’t look at her.
Something in his voice made her heart hurt. If she had to, she’d guess a woman was behind that tone. “She’s not worth it.”
“Who’s not worth what?”
“Whoever broke your heart. Sent you spiraling.” Struggling.
“It wasn’t a woman. It was a bullet.”
“Oh.” Not something she anticipated hearing. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. “It was almost a year ago. Your 9-1-1 call was my first when I got back to the job. So, yeah. Still adjusting.”
He said bullet so casually, she thought for sure she’d misheard. How interesting, that he could speak more openly about nearly being killed than he could about a woman from his past. Dozens of questions popped into her mind, but because she couldn’t chance the conversation turning to her, she choked
down her curiosity and swallowed the sympathy. “I’m glad you’re doing better.”
“Thanks.” He flicked her a tight smile before he set his cup down and scooped Cerberus off his lap with unexpected finesse before he got to his feet. She watched, amused as he struggled to fold the blanket.
“You do that a lot.” She pointed her half-eaten cookie at him. “It’s like you’ve got a separate conversation going on in your head that you don’t want anyone else to know about. I understand if you don’t want to talk about it. I was just making conversation.”
“I think we can find something else to talk about other than me failing superhero school with my inability to stop a bullet. How about you tell me why you’ve moved around so much all these years? Six states in seven years. That’s...restless. Where’s your family? Your parents? Siblings?”
The panic she’d expected descended instantly. Cold, icy panic that nearly had her teeth chattering. He’d looked into her past. The question was, how far? She managed to keep calm as the peace surrounding them disappeared. She smiled but remained silent.
“That’s what I thought,” Jack said. “So. Doyle Fremont.”
“Yes. Doyle Fremont.” As much as she regretted uttering a word about what she’d seen, if she hadn’t, Jack McTavish wouldn’t be standing in her living room folding a blanket. And that, she knew, especially now that she’d kissed him, would have been a shame. She could already feel those locked spaces in her mind opening, expanding. For the first time in a long time, she was anxious to get back to work.
“The accusation you’ve made against Fremont isn’t anything to joke about.” The man who had been sleeping on her sofa disappeared behind the tense, suspicious face of the cop.
“I know.” She flinched. “But talking with you about anything else is more fun. And just a bit less scary.” She shouldn’t be pushing him about his personal life, not when she didn’t want him within an inch of her own.
“Only a bit?”
Clever, she thought. “You found something in his office, didn’t you? Something beyond your impression of Fremont helped convince you I wasn’t imagining things. That’s really why you’re here.”
“Yes.” He picked up his tea and drank deeply, surprising, it seemed, both of them. “I don’t suppose you’re interested in taking a vacation, getting out of town for a while.”
“No.” If she’d had any doubts that he believed her, they vanished with that suggestion. What she’d seen in his eyes earlier had been true. He was worried. “Even if I wanted to, I have a show in a few weeks and a ton of work to do before then. So—” she pointed behind her without looking away from him “—we’ll compromise. I’m definitely going with the heavier curtains.” She popped the last of her cookie in her mouth and picked up her tea. She sipped, swallowed and considered him. “So what do we do next?”
Jack choked on his tea. “By we you mean—”
“You and me.” She snapped her teeth through a second cookie and grinned. “You don’t really expect me to stop now that I’m invested? I’m your only witness, Detective. That means you’re stuck with me. No matter how confused your pronouns were earlier.”
“Uh...” He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. “That’s not the way things work, Greta. This is my job. I will take care of it.”
Had a man’s irritation ever been so utterly appealing? No way was he going to investigate this without her. She couldn’t allow it, not with what she had at stake. “I’m not going to let this go, Jack. I can’t. Not until I get to the truth.” Because she needed to know, with 100 percent certainty, that what she’d seen had actually happened, no matter the consequences.
Chapter 4
Back at the station, Jack exited the elevator right before the end of shift, eyes glued to the screen of his cell phone as he enlarged and reangled the image he’d taken in Doyle Fremont’s office. Too bad his phone didn’t have a filter to lift fingerprints off a stationary object. But there was no mistaking the round piece of glass was a lens that had popped out of a pair of glasses.
“Where have you been?” Bowie’s conspiratorial whisper was Jack’s only warning the deputy was nearby, lurking, as if waiting to pounce on him the second he got back.
“Working.” Did sipping tea, eating cookies and kissing a witness count as work? His lips twitched. “Why?” To say he’d gotten a burst of energy at Greta’s was an understatement. That nap had been the first time in months he hadn’t had the dreams. He actually felt...good. Or he had until she’d announced she expected to be part of the active investigation. As if...
“McTavish!” Lt. Santos bellowed from the other end of the Major Crimes department.
The unassuming cop who had served as Jack’s boss since Jack had transferred from Chicago stood outside his office, looking at him with an expression that would have put a laser beam to shame. “My office. Now!”
While the rest of the department fell into an uneasy silence—their lieutenant was one of the coolest and most controlled cops around—Jack took his boss’s order as confirmation he’d made the right choice when it came to where he’d spent most of his day.
“What did you do? Working on what? We haven’t had more than a D and D and a burglary.” Bowie tagged behind him like a puppy seeking attention. “Are you working on that call from the other night? I thought we were partners on that.”
“I thought we were, as well.” Jack stopped at his desk long enough to stash his sidearm and slip out of his jacket. “I didn’t think you were interested in following up on what a kook had to say.”
Bowie straightened, his normally easygoing expression shifting into uncertainty. “Sir?”
“We protect and serve, Bowie. Everyone. We don’t get to pick and choose who is worthy of our attention. And we certainly don’t suggest they’re mentally unbalanced within earshot without at least looking into things. Nor do we turn them into a sideshow within these walls.” He smacked his drawer closed. “Disrespect a witness again around me and I’ll put you on report.”
“Sir.” Bowie’s jaw locked as his eyes hardened. “I was just—”
“You were trying to make an impression. You made one. Just not a great one, at least not with me.” He caught sight of Lt. Santos returning to his office. “We can talk about this later, but I’m disappointed in you, Bowie.” He knew it was a slap. A big one. And maybe Jack was overreacting. But he had eyes, and he’d seen the pain Greta had attempted to hide behind a forced and amused smile. The urge to protect her felt so primal, even before he’d kissed her, had felt so overwhelming, he wondered if the instinct was coded into his DNA. While he knew he needed to pull that under control, that didn’t stop him from being frustrated with his friend and fellow officer.
“What have you gotten yourself into, Jack?” Lt. Santos closed the door behind Jack as if sealing them in a cone of silence. His boss stood a good foot shorter than Jack, and Santos’s youthful appearance was part of the reason he’d had a long, successful history with gang undercover work. But that same tenacity and coolheadedness was also what made the officers under his command all but quiver in their comfortable shoes even as they worshipped at his feet. “You want to tell me why I’ve got the chief calling me to ask why you’re interrogating Doyle Fremont as if he’s some kind of suspect?”
Well, well, well. He must have spooked him after all. “Fremont called the chief?”
“No. He called the mayor who called the chief. And then his lawyer called all of us. A lawyer we can both assume makes more money in an hour than the two of us make in a year. The word libel was thrown around multiple times.”
“Huh.” All the confidence Jack lost these last months surged back. “That didn’t take long.” What an overreaction for someone who claimed to be an open book.
“What didn’t take long? I don’t like being sideswiped, Jack. Especially by my boss. Sit. Explain.” Santos pointed a s
harp finger at one of the two chairs on the other side of his desk.
“Can I have some coffee?” Jack stared longingly at the personal pod coffee machine on top of his lieutenant’s desk. He might have appreciated the flavors in the tea Greta had served him, but what he needed was a serious caffeine jolt.
“No. I’ve read your medical report, Jack, remember? You’re supposed to be off caffeine.”
So much for coffee to go with the leftover cookies he’d stuck in his pockets on his way out of Greta’s loft.
“What’s going on?” Lt. Santos leaned back in his chair. The anger Jack had seen in his eyes moments before faded behind concern. “You aren’t reckless. Or careless. You don’t go asking for a personal tour of a private business without cause while on duty. Or without a warrant. And you certainly don’t interrogate citizens like Doyle Fremont like a common criminal. So, I’ll ask again. What have you gotten yourself into?”
“Citizens like Doyle Fremont?” Jack echoed and crossed an ankle over one knee. “You make that sound as if he’s entitled to special treatment. Don’t tell me. He’s made substantial donations to the Widows and Orphans Fund.”
“Does this seem like a good time for witty comebacks?”
In Jack’s experience it was always time, but he knew when he was pushing his luck. “Fremont’s dirty.”
Lt. Santos blinked his dark eyes, the only sign he’d even heard Jack speak. “That’s a blanket statement if I ever heard one. Elaborate, please.”
“It’s the call you sent me and Bowie out on my first night back.”
“That nuisance call? I thought some old lady had a nightmare?”
Some old lady? Jack frowned. “Bowie didn’t turn in his report?”
Guarding His Midnight Witness Page 7