by Karen Rose
Marcus glanced over at Scarlett, his brows nearly leaping off his forehead he raised them so high in question. ‘Other one?’
Scarlett’s cheeks were flushed. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, Mrs Pepper, but we’re pressed for time. I just came home to walk Zat.’
‘Of course.’ She sobered abruptly. ‘Be careful, Scarlett. I have a bad feeling in my knees. You’re overdue for trouble.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Scarlett said dutifully. ‘I’ll be very careful.’
‘You never did tell me your name, young man,’ Mrs Pepper said briskly.
‘O’Bannion, ma’am. Marcus O’Bannion.’
‘It’s nice to formally meet you. You come back if you need anything, y’hear?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said. He gave the old woman a courteous nod, then turned to follow Scarlett into her garage. Once inside, he stood for a moment, looking around, then turned in a circle to see it all. ‘Wow.’
Half of the garage was empty, a telltale oil spot on the floor marking it as where she parked her little Audi. But the other half was filled with wood in various stages of production, and with tools – power saws and routers and lathes . . . He sucked in a breath. And with glass.
Stained glass in all colors and shapes sat propped up on shelves. About ten shards in the colors of the rainbow hung from the ceiling, twisting and spinning in the breeze created by the ceiling fan.
‘You should have a window,’ he said quietly. ‘They’d sparkle.’
‘They do, when I open both garage doors and let the sunshine in.’ She pulled the second door up and stood back, a small smile playing on her lips.
‘Did you make them?’
‘Yes. These hanging here were the rejects because the glass is all bubbly, but I like them. Sometimes I’ll make them bubbly on purpose now.’
‘I like them too. All this . . .’ He pointed to the woodworking tools. ‘All yours?’
‘Yep. I inherited it from my grandfather along with the Tank. The Land Cruiser,’ she clarified. ‘I was the only one of his grandchildren that showed any interest in woodworking. It helps me vent off stress when I have a bad day at work.’
He picked up a finely turned wooden spindle that would eventually end up in a chair. ‘You make furniture?’
‘Some. I fix a lot. Sometimes people throw away stuff that’s still good. It just needs a little TLC. Some sanding, a new leg or some upholstery. A coat of paint or varnish. Then it’s good as new. Better, even.’
‘What do you do with the furniture you rescue?’ he asked.
‘Donate it, mostly. I keep some. Give a few pieces as gifts.’ She pointed to an old-fashioned roll-top desk that had been stripped and sanded, the drawers freshly stained. ‘That’s going to be a wedding present for Deacon and Faith. It’ll look nice when it’s done.’
‘Faith will love it,’ he said, knowing his cousin’s fascination with antiques. She had spent the past nine months inventorying then selling off many of the best pieces she’d inherited from her grandmother, putting the money in a fund for the victims of the killer who’d taken Mikhail’s life and the lives of so many others. ‘She’ll treasure it because you put so much time into it.’
Shrugging self-consciously, Scarlett reached up to pull the string on the overhead light bulb, illuminating the garage before pulling both outer doors down. Marcus considered helping her, but he was enjoying watching the movement of her body as she stretched and turned and flexed. She came to her feet after pulling down the second door and stared at him, clearly seeing the appreciation on his face.
‘It’s not a crime scene,’ he said, looking his fill. He’d seen her shiver before when he’d dropped his voice deeper, so he did that now, shamelessly enticing her with any tool at his disposal. ‘And we are definitely not in public.’
‘No,’ she said huskily, sending every drop of blood from his head to his groin.
He moved toward her, but she sidestepped him. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I have to walk the dog.’
Marcus exhaled heavily and followed her from the garage into her laundry room, closing the door behind them. ‘You’re trying to kill me now,’ he muttered, then smiled when he heard her chuckle.
‘Maybe just a little, but you can take it.’ She dropped to one knee at the sound of pattering of dog claws, their rhythm staccato. ‘Hey, boy,’ she crooned as a three-legged bulldog came around the corner. Her hands gently cupped the dog’s jowly head, her thumbs scratching his ears. ‘Fooled you, didn’t I? I came in a different door than I left this morning. Made you work to find me.’
The dog looked up lazily and uttered a token growl at Marcus, making her laugh. ‘He’s not much of a watch dog, but that’s okay. Zat, this is Marcus. He’s okay.’ She looked up at Marcus over her shoulder. ‘He won’t bite you.’
Marcus hadn’t thought he would. He’d been too absorbed in watching Scarlett’s face as she talked to the dog to even care if the dog had bitten him. She was softer, gentler than he’d ever seen her. And suddenly he envied the dog, who was the current recipient of that gentle touch. Slowly he eased down on one knee beside her, so close that their hips bumped and her cheeks colored the prettiest pink.
‘You adopted him from Delores’s shelter, didn’t you?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Not the first time I went out there, or even the second. But he was still around the third time I visited her. I kept thinking that a family with kids would take him and give him a good home, but nobody did. So I did.’ Her voice softened to a croon again. ‘Idiots didn’t know they’d passed over the best dog in the shelter, did they, Zat? So I’m the lucky one.’
Marcus’s throat tightened as he wondered if she knew how much she’d just shared with him. This woman fixed broken things. He wondered if she saw him as broken too. He didn’t want to think so, even though he knew it was true. ‘Why do you call him Zat?’ he asked as he scratched behind the dog’s ear, for the simple pleasure of brushing against her hand as he did so.
‘It’s for the movie – Zatoichi. He’s a blind swordsman.’ She shrugged. ‘Japanese martial arts movies are a thing with my brothers. Phin especially. I sent him a picture of Zat when I adopted him, hoping it would bring back some good memories of our Zatoichi movie marathons, but I haven’t heard a word.’
‘How long has it been since you sent it?’
‘A month.’
‘Send it again,’ he suggested softly. ‘He may want to reconnect but not be able to. Yet. He can always say he didn’t get the first text. Or the first twenty. Just don’t give up on him.’
‘I haven’t. I won’t.’ She met his eyes. ‘You haven’t given up on Stone.’
‘No. I can’t. He . . . needs me.’
‘Why?’
Marcus hesitated. ‘That may be a story for another day.’ He waited for her to get angry, but she surprised him again, nodding sagely.
‘I get it. Some secrets are yours to tell. Others aren’t.’ She stood up quickly and walked into her kitchen, done in classic 1970s. But it wasn’t retro, it was original, the wallpaper bright enough to make his eyes bleed. ‘It’s on my list of things to do,’ she said apologetically. ‘But the stovetop and the microwave both work, so I can eat until I can afford the oven I really want.’
‘What do you really want?’ he asked, curious now.
She opened a drawer and pulled out a catalog. ‘This.’
Marcus whistled at the six-burner, two-oven Viking range. ‘That’s a monster. Do you cook, too?’
‘I was one of seven kids and my mom worked a full-time job. We all can cook.’ She paused, lifting her brows. ‘But I can cook.’
‘I have one of these,’ he said, pointing to her dream oven. ‘In my apartment. It’s never been used.’
Her eyes widened. ‘That’s a crime.’ She took the catalog and put it away. ‘Speaking of crime, I need to walk Zat, get you back to your job and get back to mine.’
No, not yet. Just a few more minutes. His mind scrambled, then remembered. ‘What about my h
ead? You were supposed to fix it.’
She blinked, startled. ‘I forgot. I’m sorry. I’ll walk him and then tend to you. Come here, Zat. Let’s go outside.’
His gaze dropped to her ass when she bent over to fix a leash to the bulldog’s collar, and he shoved his hands back in his pockets when they itched to touch her smooth curves.
‘Just make yourself at home,’ she said. ‘But don’t sit on anything but the blue couch or the rockers in the living room. Everything else I’m still fixing.’
Marcus followed her to the back door, watching as she patiently waited for the three-legged dog to hop down the steps. Then he watched her pull her cell phone from her pocket as she walked with Zat around her backyard, where the dog proceeded to water every blade of grass he could.
‘You’re letting out all my AC,’ she called over her shoulder, not turning to look at him. ‘Close the door or you’ll air-condition the whole damn neighborhood. I’ve got to check my mail. I’ll be in soon.’
He complied reluctantly, not wanting to miss a moment of their time together. Which made him sound all touchy-feely, he thought, but he didn’t care. Now that he’d decided to go for this relationship, he didn’t seem to be able to slow himself down. He wanted her – all of her. And he wanted her now.
She, however, seemed to be wanting to slow things down. He’d have to follow her lead on this one. There was no way he was forcing her to do anything. Even if it killed him. Which it just might.
Reining in his desire, he went into the living room to sit on the blue couch, but stopped short in the doorway. The room resembled a furniture store more than a living room. There were desks and nightstands and even two twin-sized headboards leaning against a wall. Chairs of all shapes and sizes were clustered in groups. Some, like the desk in the corner, were clearly broken, some were works in progress, and others appeared pristine. There were upholstered chairs, desk chairs, dining room chairs . . . and three brand-new rocking chairs.
The rockers drew his interest, and he crouched beside one of them, running his hands over the wood, looking it over. The workmanship was flawless, the design sleek yet homey. A carved inscription on one of the curved runners caught his eye. SAB.
Scarlett A. Bishop. She made these. ‘Shit,’ he whispered. ‘She’s really good.’
‘Thank you,’ she said from behind him.
He looked over his shoulder to see her standing there, her phone in one hand, the wrapped-up leash in the other. She’d shed the tactical vest and her weapons, leaving her in a thin top that showcased every curve. ‘What does the A stand for?’ he asked.
Her dark brows lifted. ‘You mean that didn’t come up when you ran my license plates?’
He refused to be embarrassed about that. ‘It probably did. I was so relieved that the Land Cruiser belonged to you that I didn’t ask for anything else.’
One corner of her mouth quirked up in an almost-smile. ‘Anne. The “A” is for Anne.’
‘Good Catholic middle name,’ he said, and was startled to see her almost-smile fade as her eyes went expressionless.
‘The Bishops are a good Catholic family,’ she said bitterly, then turned on her heel and disappeared down the hallway, leaving him to wonder what he’d said. Because he’d obviously touched a raw nerve.
He heard water running, and thirty seconds later she reappeared carrying a tackle box with FIRST AID neatly printed on the side. ‘Have a seat on the sofa and I’ll take care of your head. Then I really need to start working on finding Annabelle. I ran a search of all the churches within a two-mile radius around the Anders house. There are over forty of them, assuming Tabby attended a church nearby. If we expand the search area, we’re up in the hundreds.’
Marcus didn’t think he should tell her that he’d already tasked Gayle with calling the churches in the area, asking if they had a parishioner named Annabelle. Gayle had found nothing so far. But another thought had occurred to him during the mostly silent drive to Scarlett’s house. While she sat the tackle box on a scarred end table, he sat down on the blue couch as she’d directed, then took out his phone and brought up the website he used for background checks. But before he started his search, he noticed that the contents of her first aid kit would put most medics’ packs to shame.
‘Are you preparing for the apocalypse?’ he asked, pointing to the box.
‘Close enough,’ she said, taking out a pair of latex gloves. ‘I’m the babysitter of choice for all my nieces and nephews. They can play rough with each other, so I’m fully certified in CPR – adult and infant – and have taken the basic paramedic’s training. No kid’s getting hurt on my watch.’ She glanced at him as she pulled on the gloves. ‘Do you have any latex allergies?’
‘Nope. My body is one hundred percent latex tolerant. Especially the retractable parts.’ He waggled his brows, which made her laugh.
She looked over his shoulder at his phone. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I was thinking about Annabelle and Tabby, how their paths might have crossed and how Tabby would get in touch with her.’
‘They go to church together and she used that cell phone she was trying to reach when you found her.’
‘Maybe. Probably, even. But what if it’s simpler than that?’
She sat on the arm of the sofa, so close he could smell her hair. ‘What do you mean?’
He forced his mind to clear, a nearly impossible task with her so near. ‘Whoever took the Anderses – kicking and screaming – didn’t know to look for Tabby, which means Chip kept her a secret. Do you think he’d let her go to church?’
Scarlett bit her lower lip and Marcus swallowed a groan. She shook her head. ‘No, you’re right. Vince Tanaka had our resident Internet guru do a background on Tabby. I saw the email when I was out walking Zat. The search came back saying that Tabitha Anders’s last known address was outside Boston, but the address was obviously a fake. Chip was hiding her for some reason. So if she and Annabelle didn’t meet at church . . .’
‘Maybe her name is Church.’ He typed in Annabelle Church and the Anderses’ zip code. Fifteen seconds later, he had a match. Fifteen seconds after that, Google had given him the connection between Tabby and Annabelle. ‘Annabelle Church lives three blocks away from the Anderses and is a regular golfer at the country club.’ He turned his phone so that she could see the article and photo that Google had provided. ‘She won last year’s seniors’ tournament.’
Scarlett leaned closer to his phone, filling his head with her scent. But she didn’t seem to be aware of the effect she had on him, absorbed only in reading the article on Annabelle Church.
‘This says that she won the tournament despite suffering from a seizure disorder that’s left her unable to drive a car. She drives to the course in this tricked-out golf cart using the bike path.’ Taking off the gloves, Scarlett pulled up a map of the Anderses’ neighborhood on her phone. ‘The bike path runs through the trees behind the Anders house. You’re right. I guess I made that harder than it needed to be.’
‘It was only a guess, Scarlett.’
‘A damned good one. Let me get this name to Isenberg. She can send a squad car and someone from Children’s Services to get the baby and bring Ms Church in for an interview.’ She got up from the arm of the sofa and gave him a hard nod. ‘That was good thinking, Marcus. Thank you.’
Her approval warmed him inside even as he cooled on the outside when she stepped away from the sofa to make her call. He sighed heavily, knowing that he’d screwed his chances of getting close to her again as she tended the cut on his head.
Finding Ms Church had been the right thing to do, but too many times the right thing sucked ass.
Eighteen
Cincinnati, Ohio
Tuesday 4 August, 4.15 P.M.
‘That was good investigating,’ Lynda Isenberg said when Scarlett gave her Annabelle Church’s address.
‘I can’t claim credit,’ Scarlett told her. ‘Marcus O’Bannion found her.’
‘Oh. I
see.’ A very long pause. ‘Anything you need to tell me, Detective Bishop?’
Scarlett winced. Lynda only called her ‘Detective Bishop’ when Scarlett had done something wrong. Kind of like being called ‘Scarlett Anne’ by her parents. Both pissed her off. ‘No, ma’am.’
‘I see. Are you sure? I understand he was there with you at the crime scene.’
‘Yes, ma’am, he was. And yes, I’m sure. I have no conflict to report.’ Not yet, anyway. All they’d done was kiss a little. Well, okay, that kiss wasn’t exactly little. But Marcus wasn’t a suspect and it wasn’t like they’d declared their undying love for each other. Either of those would be a conflict of interest. ‘I have to feed and walk my dog but I’ll be in the office by the time you have Ms Church brought in to CPD. See you then.’ She hung up before Lynda could point-blank ask her if Marcus was with her, only to have her cell phone start chiming with an incoming call.
Scarlett grimaced at the caller ID. When it rained, it poured. She hit accept and swallowed her sigh. ‘Hi, Dad.’
On the sofa, Marcus’s eyes widened with interest.
‘Scarlett Anne, are you all right?’ he demanded. ‘I heard you were shot at.’
Scarlett let the sigh out. Being part of a family of cops meant never having any privacy on the job. Her father had particularly good sources of information – he and Lynda Isenberg were old friends. ‘I’m fine, Dad. Not a scratch on me.’
‘I heard you were in the line of fire because of a reporter.’ Her father’s disdain was unmistakable.
‘He’s a publisher, not a reporter.’ It was a fine distinction, but a critical one. A publisher who did the right thing even when it meant losing a scoop. ‘And actually I don’t have a scratch because of him. He pushed me out of the way. Took all the flying splinters and rock himself, shielding me.’
‘Oh,’ her father said gruffly. ‘Well. I’ll thank him when I meet him, then. Your mother wants to see you, to prove to herself that you’re not dead.’