In the Air Tonight

by Lori Handeland

  She frowned. “Nothing?”

  “Was it a he? She?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “Definitely a he. Or a she.”

  Bobby’s lips twitched. He shouldn’t be amused, but he was. “They didn’t trash the place, unless you call knocking your phone on the floor along with a few of the ‘One fish, blue fish’ papers a mess.”

  She lifted dark brows toward hair as black as his own. The contrast of that ebony hair and milky skin made him think of Snow White. Too bad he wasn’t any kind of prince.

  Foolish thoughts. What was wrong with him? Probably nothing more than his having had no dates in the last year combined with the enticing sway of her ample breasts loose beneath that ancient tank top. Any man would want to be her prince the instant he saw breasts like that.

  “Who are you?” she asked, her gaze on the gun in his hand.

  He slid his weapon into the shoulder holster. “Bobby Doucet. I’m a detective with the New Orleans PD.”

  “You’re a long way from New Orleans.”

  His gaze touched the trees again. “Don’t I know it?”

  “Why?”

  As now was not the time for that explanation, he ignored the question. “I didn’t find anyone in the apartment, Miss…”

  “Larsen,” she said. “Raye Larsen.”

  “The intruder could have come down the stairs on your heels, then hoofed it into the woods at the sight of my car.”

  “Maybe.”

  “The other option is that no one was there in the first place. Take your pick.”

  A police cruiser, lights flashing, slid to a stop behind Bobby’s car. Apparently someone had noticed its presence after all and called 911. Or maybe the night watch had finally gotten back to this street. It wasn’t as if there were that many streets to keep track of.

  A sinewy fellow with tufts of white hair above his ears and none anywhere else stepped out. “What’s goin’ on here?”

  “Chief!” Miss Larsen hit the locks and nearly smacked Bobby in the chest as she opened the car door. She was taller than he’d first thought, at least five seven in bare feet.

  “Raye, what are you doin’ out here?” He turned his scowl on Bobby. “Who are you?”

  “Detective Bobby Doucet. Chief Johnson?”

  The man nodded.

  “I think you’re expecting me.”

  “Not in the middle of the night,” Johnson grumbled.

  Bobby cast a glance at the numbers displayed on his dashboard. Since when was ten o’clock the middle of anything? In New Orleans ten was barely the beginning.

  “Miss Larsen requested my assistance.”

  The chief’s scowl deepened. “What kind of assistance?”

  “I saw someone lurking around the crime scene,” she blurted.

  Bobby opened his mouth, then shut it again. What the—

  Johnson’s eyes moved to Raye’s face, studiously avoiding parts lower than her chin. “Who?”

  She shrugged.

  “And then?”

  “The detective arrived, and I flagged him down to tell him.”

  “You saw a strange man in a strange car and thought he could help you with the stranger?”

  She nodded.

  Bobby wasn’t sure what to do. She was lying. Then again, he’d found no meat-cleaver-wielding maniac in her apartment, nor any sign of one. Perhaps she’d decided she’d had a vivid dream while drunk paper correcting and just wanted it all to go away. He could relate.

  “Was there anyone there?” the chief asked.

  “No,” she answered. “Must have been a shadow.”

  Johnson grunted. He wasn’t convinced. But what could he do beyond calling the woman a liar, and why would she lie about something so pointless? Bobby couldn’t wait to find out.

  “You have a place to stay, Detective?”

  “Just point me to the nearest hotel.”

  “Forty miles that way.” Raye’s finger indicated the direction he’d just arrived from. Come to think of it, the only hotel he’d seen between here and the Dane County Regional Airport had given him Psycho flashbacks.

  “There’s no hotel in town?”

  “We don’t need one,” she said. “Visitors stay with the relatives they came to visit.”

  “That’s…” He wasn’t sure what it was. Obviously not impossible.

  “There’s a bed-and-breakfast,” the chief said. “You want to run him over to your dad’s place, Raye?” Johnson lifted his eyebrows. “After you put on some clothes. If he sees you walking around like that he’ll have a stroke.”

  If her attire was stroke inducing she better hope her father never came to New Orleans. Bobby didn’t think he’d seen a bra—unless it was worn without a shirt—on Bourbon Street in years.

  The chief paused with one foot inside his cruiser. “Let’s meet at my office in the morning, Detective, and I’ll bring you up to speed. Say seven?” The chief didn’t wait for an answer, just climbed into his car, pulled around Bobby’s and away.

  “Talk about the middle of the night,” Bobby muttered.

  “I’ll grab some shoes, a jacket.” Raye turned, and he snatched her arm. She hissed as if in pain, and he released her. Her perfect white flesh was marred by finger-shaped bruises.

  “You didn’t say he touched you.”

  “He didn’t.” She continued toward the stairs. Bobby followed. There hadn’t been anyone there before, but he still didn’t feel comfortable letting her go back alone. He wasn’t sure why.

  “Who did?” He started up after her.

  She paused, casting a glance back. “I don’t need your help to dress.”

  She might not need it, but he wouldn’t mind giving it.

  “You really want to go up there alone?”

  She shrugged, and the strap of her thin cotton tank slid to the edge of her shoulder. He held his breath, half hoping it would fall.

  “I was imagining things.”

  He dragged his gaze to hers. “You do that a lot?”

  “What’s a lot?” She lifted her hand and shoved her hair from her face. The bruises shone black in the moonlight.

  “Who hurt you?”

  She dropped her arm. “I’m a kindergarten teacher.” At his blank expression, she continued. “Kids run, and they can’t stop. They fall. They slide. They bump themselves and their teacher. I’ve always got a bruise somewhere. I’m lucky I still have my front teeth.” Her lips quirked upward. “Most of them don’t.”

  She was lying again. Maybe not about the bruises in general, but about these, definitely. Bobby could smell it as clearly as that slight whiff of something burning on the breeze.

  Chapter 3

  I stomped up the steps and into the apartment before Detective Doucet could call me a liar. I tried to shut the door in his face, but he was too quick. I kind of liked that about him. Among other things.

  Those blue eyes, the latte shade of his skin, cheekbones to die for, long legs, great arms, and a deep voice, with an accent that invited questions. He sounded both Southern and foreign. Although this far north, Southern was foreign.

  He was beautiful and built. Not that we didn’t see both in New Bergin. But not like this.

  The most exotic being ever recorded in northern Wisconsin was Johnny Depp who had come here to make a movie about Dillinger. And while the grapevine had labeled him one helluva nice guy, local photo ops proved he was not as pretty as he appeared on screen—nor half as tall.

  Bobby Doucet was about six one. I found it a welcome bonus to have to tilt my head to see into his face. Even scowling he was mouthwateringly gorgeous.

  “I’ll be right out.” I pushed on the door.

  “I’d rather you let me in.” He pushed back.

  “You said there was no one in the apartment.”

  “There wasn’t.” His gaze narrowed. “Why didn’t you tell the chief about the intruder?”

  I couldn’t tell Doucet that I’d started to wonder if the figure I’d seen was just another ghos
t. Then he’d stare at me as if I were nuts. Wouldn’t be the first time for me, but it would be the first time for me with him. And I liked the way he’d been looking at me. As if I were as exotic a being in his eyes as he was in mine.

  “Maybe I imagined him. Her. It.” I released my hold on the door.

  I’d hoped my Puritan was hanging about inside, and I could ask why he’d suddenly chosen to speak to me tonight when he never had before. As he wasn’t, no need to leave the detective out in the cold.

  “It?” Doucet repeated, and I spread my hands.

  “What else do you call a dream?”

  “Nightmare?”

  I’d been halfway to my bedroom but the word made me turn. His eyes were as haunted as my life. “I’m sorry.”

  “Why?” He glanced away. “Everyone has nightmares.”

  I didn’t think everyone had the kind of nightmares we did, those that hung around in the light. But I didn’t know him well enough to ask. Does anyone ever know anyone that well? I liked to think so, to hope so, otherwise what was the point of anything?

  “True enough.” I closed the bedroom door. If I was taking him to my father’s bed-and-breakfast I needed more than a jacket and shoes. I yanked out jeans, socks, a real shirt, and a bra. I felt as if I were arming myself for battle. Because I was.

  I knew in my head that I could no longer be sent “back,” but in my heart I felt my father still kind of wanted to. I might have stopped talking to the specters in the presence of anyone but myself, but he remembered. I think I’d freaked him out too much for him to ever forget.

  Whenever he was around, I tiptoed. Not literally—much—but I was always afraid I might do something wrong. Even more afraid I wouldn’t quite know that I had. No matter how hard I tried, I didn’t fit in here because I wasn’t being myself. I couldn’t be.

  As a kid I’d been uncomfortable in my own skin, forever awkward, and the vultures—I mean teenagers—sensed it and pounced. I didn’t get picked on often, but I did get picked on well. The taunts of “Stray Raye” still drifted through my head more often than I liked.

  I stepped into the living room, retrieved my cell phone and keys, took a fortifying chug of my wine then offered the glass to the detective.

  “No, thanks.”

  We stepped onto the landing and I locked the place behind us.

  “Should I follow you?” he asked.

  “Don’t have a car.”

  He laughed, then he saw I was serious. “Why wouldn’t you have a car?”

  “Everything I need is in walking distance.”

  “I heard it snows here.”

  “A lot. So?”

  “Then what do you do?”

  “Wear boots.”

  “But—”

  “I don’t melt in the rain, or freeze solid if the rain turns to snow. I know how to dress for the weather and a car would only sit on the street and rust. I’m a teacher. It’s not like I have money to burn.”

  “You don’t ever leave town?”

  “Of course.”

  “How?”

  “Other people have cars, and I have family. Friends.” Make that friend, but Jenn had a car. I just had to really want to go somewhere badly to get in one with her. She drove a lot faster than she walked. “There’s also this fabulous new invention called a bus. Lots of people can ride in it!”

  “Very funny,” he said, though he didn’t appear amused. “Just point me in the right direction, and I’ll drive myself. You don’t have to come.”

  “I don’t mind. It’s not that far.”

  “Then I should definitely be able to find it.”

  “Maybe. However, you can’t just walk up to the door and rent a room.”

  His forehead creased. “Why not?”

  “It’s my parents’ house. A big house, which is why there are rooms to rent, but my father isn’t going to let any nut job off the streets inside.”

  “Are there a lot of nut jobs on the streets?”

  “Apparently more than we thought.”

  “Touché,” he said, and I caught again that hint of France, which intrigued me far more than it should. Could he speak French? Would he?

  I climbed into the passenger seat, and he got behind the wheel. “I’ll bring you home as soon as you vouch for me.”

  “Not necessary.”

  He shifted into drive. “What about the maniac?”

  “I imagined him. Her.”

  “It,” he finished, taking the right turn I’d indicated. “There’s a dead woman in town who begs to differ.”

  “Dead women don’t beg,” I said.

  He cast me a quick glance. “You’re lying again.”

  What could I say? He was right.

  *

  Raye’s directions led into the damn forest. Did the place seem farther than far because of that? Or were distances different in a place so vast?

  Bobby’s low-slung mid-sized rent-a-car scraped along the dry, rutted trail between towering pines. He should have upgraded to the SUV, but he’d figured at this time of year that would be a waste of money.

  He’d never seen trees this tall. They had to be older than God.

  Something clanged against the undercarriage so loudly Bobby held his breath and waited for the car to die, but it didn’t. Lights flickered ahead, materializing into the ground-floor windows of a very large house.

  “Were your ancestors lumberjacks?” The place appeared big enough to house Paul Bunyan; the barn would have sheltered his blue ox.

  “I don’t know my ancestors.” She got out of the car. “I’m adopted.”

  He bit back his automatic I’m sorry. Why would he be?

  Because she’d sounded so sad. He thought again of those bruises on her arm and hustled after her, reaching the foot of the steps just as she knocked. Why was she knocking on her own front door?

  The porch continued around both sides of the house. Several rocking chairs sat near handcrafted tables, perfect for holding a glass of iced tea or a chess set. Bobby could imagine relaxing here on a sunny afternoon. Except the woods were so thick and the trees so high the sun might only shine in this clearing for an hour at midday.

  The door opened, and the silhouette of a man appeared; the lights at his back were so bright Bobby’s eyes ached.

  “Father.”

  Who called their father “Father” anymore?

  “I brought you a guest.”

  Though Bobby still couldn’t see a face, he sensed when the man’s gaze turned in his direction. “Nice to meet you, sir. I’m Detective Bobby Doucet, from New Orleans.”

  Mr. Larsen continued to stand inside, his expression shrouded by the night.

  “Chief Johnson sent him over,” Raye added.

  Her father pushed open the screen. Would Bobby have been invited in if not for Chief Johnson?

  Raye reached for the door. Bobby’s hand, already doing the same, connected with hers. Silvery blue sparks leaped through the silent night. They both pulled back, and the screen door banged.

  “Sorry,” Raye and Bobby blurted at the same time.

  “Get a move on,” Mr. Larsen said. “I was just about to head to bed.”

  Considering the barn and the early bedtime, Bobby wondered if the Larsens had once been farmers. Though if they had where were their fields? He doubted trees this big sprouted up like beanstalks.

  Raye led him into a kitchen that appeared rustic. Butcher block. Large handcrafted table with matching chairs. Frilly, seemingly handmade curtains. However, the appliances were state-of-the-art. The countertops and the floor covering might appear old, but they’d been made to.

  “Detective Doucet, this is my father, John.”

  If Raye hadn’t already told him she was adopted, he would have wondered. John Larsen was a short, squat man with silvery-blond hair, a florid complexion, and eyes of so light a blue Bobby thought it must hurt them to be exposed to the sun. Which might explain why he lived in shadow.

  “Mr. Larsen.” Bobby held
out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  They shook. “I suspect you’re here about the dead woman.”

  “I—” Bobby began.

  “First murder in New Bergin in several lifetimes.”

  “You’re very lucky,” Bobby said. He had several lifetimes’ worth of murder a week in New Orleans.

  “And what are you?”

  “Homicide detective.” Bobby figured that was obvious but maybe not.

  “No. I mean…” The man waved his hand, indicating Bobby’s head, chest, feet.

  Bobby glanced down. His fly was zipped; his shirt was buttoned. His shoes were a little scuffed, and he’d taken off his tie on the plane but—

  He lifted his gaze to Raye, who was rubbing her head as if it ached. “I don’t—”

  “Thanks, Father. I’ll show him his room.” She grabbed Bobby’s arm and practically dragged him through the door and toward the wooden staircase.

  The steps gleamed with varnish, as did the hand-carved newel post and railing. Bobby ran his palm over them.

  “Beautiful,” he murmured. The craftsmanship was equal to some of the best restorations in New Orleans, and there were a lot of them.

  “Father did all the work himself. Carved the tables and chairs too.”

  “He’s a carpenter?”

  “And a teacher.”

  “You followed in his footsteps.”

  “Didn’t help.”

  He frowned. Help what?

  “He was a high school shop teacher. Retired before he was phased out.”

  “Phased out?” Bobby echoed.

  “Younger teachers cost less, and shop teachers aren’t necessary.”

  “I enjoyed shop.”

  “Enjoy isn’t on the program these days. Math. Science. Advanced placement.” She held up a hand. “Don’t get me started.”

  He understood the frustration in being a public servant. He’d gone into law enforcement to help people. Instead he spent a lot of time fighting the system instead of the bad guys.

  “But my father’s a lemonade maker.” Her lips curved, though her expression was more melancholy than amused. “Turned what he taught into a second career, and he’s doing pretty well.”

  “Your mom?”

  “Gone,” she said. “Cancer.”

  “I’m sorry.” He resisted a bizarre urge to take her hands in his and warm them. “That’s rough.”