A Time to Protect

by Lois Richer

  Kyle shook his head, his eyes huge. “No. One minute I was by myself, the next he was pulling me. I pretended to go along then tripped him. I got the shovel, hit him, and he knocked me down. Then all of a sudden he was gone.”

  “Why Kyle?” Chloe demanded, her blue eyes blazing. “Why would they suddenly go after my son? He doesn’t know anything.”

  Brendan pointed to the black coat the now hung by the door. “Kyle was wearing your coat. They thought he was you.”

  The words hit the room with the force of an iceberg, shattering her calm. She sank onto the nearest chair, her mouth slightly ajar as if to absorb the shock.

  “He’s about the same height, auburn hair, same slim build under that coat. In the dark it would be easy to mistake you. Until he saw Kyle’s face and short hair. Then he knew.”

  “It’s my fault,” she whispered.

  “No, it’s mine. If I’d realized he was going to the curb I’d have stopped him. I should have made sure before he went out the door.”

  Darcy tapped his shoulder. “We’ve got nothing,” she told him. “Nobody saw them coming or going. A neighbor noticed a car parked by the curb for a couple of hours but never paid any attention other than to note it was black.”

  “Thanks.” Brendan let his throbbing head droop into his hands and pressed the heels of his palms against his forehead. “So we’re back where we started. No leads, nothing to chase.”

  “Not quite.” Chloe rose, picked up the phone and told whoever she reached that she’d be late. The voice on the other end argued for a few minutes but finally accepted her adamant response. She hung up.

  “What do you mean ‘not quite’?” He tried to read the expression in her eyes but couldn’t. Nervous worry chewed at him. “Chloe?”

  “I saw him.” She crossed her arms over her chest, face alight with excitement. “I got a very good look at his face when he was threatening you. I can identify this man.”

  Excitement whistled through his veins. Finally a lead. “Are you certain? It was pretty dark out there with the snow and all.” He studied her, found no doubts. Please God, let this be the beginning of the end to this.

  “I’m positive. Yes, it was dark. But he was standing directly under the streetlight and he’d lost that hat he always wears. If I saw a picture I could identify him.”

  Brendan whooped out his joy, hugged her tightly then grabbed his phone and phoned Jake. “You’ve been working on security video from the newspaper office, haven’t you?”

  “Yes. I managed to clear things up quite a bit. We’ve got some clean clear shots of this guy Colleen called Redding, if you ever need them.”

  “That would be tonight.” He stepped into the adjoining room. “I know you don’t want to leave home in this mess, Jake, but I need a big favor. Someone tried it again tonight, only Chloe got a look at the guy. If she can pick him out, we could issue an APB.”

  “You want Redding’s picture buried among others so it won’t stand out, right?”

  “Yes. If the ID is going to stand up in court later, she has to be certain enough to pick out the right man. Can you do it?”

  “Be there in thirty minutes.”

  True to his word, Jake showed up, photo album in tow. He accepted a cup of coffee, sat down at the kitchen table and waited for Chloe to thumb through the pages. Brendan was on pins and needles and for once he was glad Chloe’s kids had been shepherded upstairs by Darcy, who was giving them a run for their money at video games. Fergus kept checking the street.

  Chloe studied each page deliberately and silently. Her teeth nipped at her bottom lip as she passed page after page with no comment. At one point she glanced at him and her mouth spread in a wide smile.

  “Don’t look so scared, Brendan. I can do this. If he’s here, I’ll find him.”

  Two minutes later she stabbed the page with her index finger. “There. That’s the man who was under the light tonight, the guy who had the gun on you.”

  “You’re sure?” Jake’s impassive face gave nothing away. “He looked exactly like this? Nothing a little different?”

  She closed her eyes, pursed her lips. “He had on a light blue shirt under his coat,” she whispered. “Brown cords that were wet, as if he’d stood in the snow for a while. Not boots, but shoes. Black leather, I think. Also leather gloves—black, soft so they bent around his knuckles. He’d cut himself shaving. Here.” She tapped a fingernail against her chin.

  “What else can you remember?” Jake asked quietly.

  “Slim. Six foot two or three—a little taller than Brendan. Dark hair, dark eyes, messy eyebrows that need a trim.” She opened her eyes wide, stared at Brendan. “When he lifted his hand with the gun I saw a spider tattoo on his wrist, the same tattoo I saw in the hospital that night.”

  Brendan allowed a slow smile to spread as joy rippled through him. “Exactly what we need. Thank you, Chloe.” He turned to Jake. “Can you issue the warrant? It’s about time we had a little chat with this guy.”

  “Consider it done.” Jake winked at Chloe. “You have quite the memory.”

  “I’ll confess to a terrible habit,” she told him. “I catalogue people as soon as I meet them. Bully, wimp, harassed, victim—granted, a crisis is the worst possible time to evaluate anyone but I do.” She shrugged. “It helps me gauge how the patient will handle further stress and how their family will react.”

  “I’m going to remember that.” His computer bleeped and he clicked on another screen. “Brendan? We’ve got something.”

  “Already?” Maybe this whole thing would work out without further problems for Chloe. Brendan bent over to study the screen, his blood turning to ice as he read. Last year, then-CIA agent Peter Vance had posed as a Chicago drug dealer in Venezuela to infiltrate the Diablo crime syndicate. He’d fingered the man they knew as Redding as the syndicate’s top hit man. Now that same man was after Chloe. Brendan closed his eyes and prayed.

  It wasn’t over yet. Not by a long shot. Not as long as Chloe was the target of a killer who always completed his mission.

  Always.

  Chapter Twelve

  Chloe finished her report, but her mind was not on the job. Instead her gaze wandered to Brendan, who sat ramrod straight in his chair, his face hard and tight.

  He’d been so kind, so gentle. He’d tried to ease the news, but there was no good way to soften the fact that a man had been hired to ensure she died.

  “You’re worn out.” Katherine Montgomery leaned closer to whisper. “No, you don’t show it, so don’t worry about him.” She lifted a shoulder toward their boss who was watching them. “Sylvester shouldn’t have scheduled you for tonight. You were supposed to have two days off before Thanksgiving, but as usual, he’s totally involved in himself.”

  Chloe smiled at the cheerful blonde, admired her pretty new haircut. “You always look as if you’ve stepped out of a fashion magazine, Katherine.”

  “You should talk!” Katherine sniffed as she surveyed Chloe. “I don’t know how you do it. Immaculate as usual. Not a hair out of place. Anyone would think you’d been sleeping instead of treating overdosing kids.”

  “It’s awful, isn’t it? Not even out of their teens and they’ve already got a huge strike against them.” Chloe forced herself to shake off the horrid images. “I’m so glad mine aren’t into drugs, though I do worry about Kyle. I wish I knew a way to make him understand that life is a series of choices and if you make a bad one, you have to deal with the consequences.”

  “Just keep praying for him.” Katherine squeezed her shoulder.

  “I will. Thanks for showing me those verses. I’ve thought about them a lot and they really help. Brendan gave me a book I’m reading. It’s good, too.”

  “Good. Now get out of here before he falls off that chair. He needs to sleep.” She chuckled as his head bobbed then jerked up. “He’s beat.”

  “Yes.” But as she pulled on her coat and walked beside Brendan to his vehicle, Chloe knew she would have little su
ccess persuading her protector to rest. He seemed consumed by the need to catch her attacker, which was why his detour on the way home surprised her. “Where are we going?”

  “I’ve got to stop by what will soon be the new museum. Don’t worry, we’ve got a car following us, so we’re safe. If I don’t check up on the donations in person, sometimes they don’t happen.”

  “Donations for what?”

  “Christmas baskets. I’m putting together some things for a few needy folks. Ms. Sainsbury promised to give us something.” He pulled into the driveway. “Have you met her?”

  “The name doesn’t ring a bell.” Chloe stared at the building. “When is it supposed to open?”

  “Whenever she’s ready, I guess. I don’t think a date has been set.” He peered upward, frowning. “Which is why I didn’t understand her approaching me to donate something before her place is even open.”

  “Maybe she thinks it will drum up business.” Chloe saw no signs of activity. “Do you think there is anyone here?’

  “Must be somebody around. The front door is open.” Brendan checked with the other agents, got the all-clear and helped Chloe out of the truck. “We’ll go inside. This shouldn’t take long.”

  Though it was fairly early, there were two contractors’ trucks parked at the far side. Whoever owned them was nowhere in sight. Brendan stood back, waited for Chloe to pass in front of him. Inside Chloe took stock of the area and the many crates, which she assumed were pictures waiting to be hung.

  “I’m telling you that I need the climate in this building to be perfectly stable. Some of the work I’m expecting to display can only be shown if the humidity and temperature are within the parameters I’ve set.” The sharp tones echoed from the back. “You said you could handle this job. I expect you to do it the way I want.”

  Brendan made a face at Chloe. “She sounds angry. Probably not the best time to ask for a donation,” he whispered.

  “We’re here. Might as well try.” Chloe stepped farther into the room and tried to identify where the voice had come from, which wasn’t easy given the harsh dissonant chords that suddenly blared from hidden speakers. She pointed to the back room. Brendan nodded, followed.

  “Hello?”

  A tall, slim woman was bent over, digging into a box, her attention totally focused on its contents.

  “Ms. Sainsbury?” Brendan touched her pale white arm to get her attention, stepped back as the woman straightened and jerked back in one move, her chiseled face hard and white, fingers curling against her thigh.

  “What do you want?” she asked in an English accent as she quickly bundled the carton closed and positioned her body in front of it as if to protect whatever lay hidden inside. “We’re not open. Please call back.”

  “I’m sorry I startled you. I called out but—” Brendan motioned upward as yet another blazing chord resonated around the room.

  Ms. Sainsbury reached into the pocket of the pencil skirt she wore, pulled out a small black disk and pressed it. The music died away.

  “The electrician is testing the sound system. That’s his idea of music.” She scrutinized him quickly then favored Chloe with the same look. “What is it that you want?”

  “I’m Brendan Montgomery. I don’t know if you remember—you offered to donate something.” The blank stare did not alter. “For the Christmas baskets I’m putting together?”

  “Oh. The donations.” Her lips barely moved but they lost the snarl. “Of course I remember. Please, follow me. This area is for staff only.”

  “We didn’t mean to intrude.” Brendan waited for her to lead the way, making a face at Chloe as they walked back into the show room. “Your gallery is shaping up nicely. Will you be open before Christmas?”

  “At the moment nothing is certain. Some things have not gone according to plan.” She shuffled through the mess of papers littering the desk. “It is a matter of receiving the merchandise and displaying it.”

  “May I look at the pictures you’ve already hung?” Chloe was entranced by the expressions of color and space that dotted the walls here and there. “You have some beautiful pieces.”

  Though she stared at Chloe’s face, the woman seemed disinclined to answer. Chloe waited until Brendan began to describe the recipients of his baskets before moving toward her favorite Impressionist paintings. One poster in particular held her attention. It was near the door to the room where they’d found Dahlia Sainsbury, lit by the first bits of morning sun.

  Chloe couldn’t stop staring at the soft wash of pinks, blues and seafoam green—and while she did, the past rushed back.

  “I got it for your birthday, sweetheart. Do you like it? It’s a copy of a famous painting by an artist named Renoir and it’s called ‘By The Seashore.’ I got it so you’d remember that I love you very much.”

  The sweetness of that voice encouraged the rise of bitter gall. Lies, all of it. She still had that picture, tucked away in a corner of her house where she wouldn’t be reminded of how easily she’d trusted, how easily she’d been duped. Just one year after he’d given her the picture and claimed he loved her, her father had left her behind to live with his new family. The pain crushed her heart anew. Did he know he had grandchildren that would soon be grown? Did he care that they’d never even met him?

  “Chloe?” Brendan’s curious voice drew her out of the quicksand of pain. “Are you ready to go?”

  “Yes.” She fought to smile. “Thank you for letting me look. Your gallery is going to be fantastic.”

  A marginal thaw set in, the white chiseled face cracked enough to smile. “Thank you. I’m hoping others in Colorado Springs will feel the same.”

  “It’s a big undertaking though.” Brendan waved a hand. “Must be difficult to do all this yourself.”

  The smile died. “I’m well able to care for the museum myself, Mr. Montgomery. But if I should need help, I’m sure I can find it.”

  “Yes, I’m sure there are many who’d love to work in this atmosphere.” Chloe pointed upward. “The lighting is wonderful. The windows allow the sunlight and yet it’s not overly bright. You must have worked long and hard to achieve this effect.”

  “The Impressionists utilized the wonderful light of France in many ways. Monet, Pissarro, Morisot, Degas, Renoir—all of them were trying to buck the constraints of the natural or academic art that had been in vogue. Their commitment to this new artistic style affected them personally as well as artistically. Pissarro’s French cities, Degas’ ballerinas, Monet’s flowers—they were innovators mocked by a journalist who used the term ‘Impressionist’ to scoff at their work. He had no idea.” Dahlia cold voice warmed as she spoke. Dots of color appeared on each cheek. “I apologize. I get a little carried away with this subject.”

  “Don’t apologize, please. It’s your enthusiasm for your work that will make this place take off. I think teachers will love to bring their classes here for some art history lessons. You’re far more interesting than any textbook.” She’d meant it in a nice way, but Dahlia’s face tightened, her eyes narrowed.

  “I am most uninteresting, I assure you, Mrs. Tanner.”

  “Have we met before?” There was something about this woman that Chloe couldn’t quite decipher. Was that fear in her eyes? “It’s just that you knew my name and until Brendan spoke about your museum, I’d never heard of you.”

  “No, I—uh, don’t believe we’ve ever met.” Dahlia turned for a moment, keeping her face turned. “I guess someone must have pointed you out to me.”

  “I see.” Chloe smiled, wondered if she should press some more. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Miss Sainsbury. I hope your museum does very well. I’ll be sure to watch for the announcement.”

  “Yes.” Dahlia’s closed expression gave nothing away, but her scrutiny was intense.

  Brendan finally cleared his voice. “So, was there something I could pick up or would you rather I came back?”

  Dahlia stared at him as if she’d forgotten he was there. �
�Pardon?”

  “While you two talk,” Chloe interrupted, “may I use the bathroom?”

  “Certainly. Just through there.”

  As she washed her hands after using the luxurious bathroom, Chloe marveled at the exquisite detail. Dahlia definitely knew quality. The marble countertop and framed mirror were exquisite, the black granite floor a perfect complement. As she walked out, the handle of her bag caught on the door handle, spilling her things across the floor. As she knelt to gather them, a movement just beyond, in the unpacking room, caught her attention.

  A man in black pants and a black shirt slipped through the side door and walked to the box Dahlia had been unpacking. He pulled out a square-wrapped package, laid it on the table and counted out six bills, which he then tucked under the package. Finally he let himself out the back door.

  Wishing she could have seen his face, Chloe returned to the front of the museum and was surprised to hear a flicker of warmth in Dahlia’s hard tones.

  “You must come back to see my Christmas displays. Even if I can’t get the gallery open before then, I’m going to put up decorations. In fact, I was unpacking some when you arrived.”

  “Good plan.” Brendan sounded rather desperate and the look he gave her told Chloe he intended to waste no more time. “I’ll send someone to pick up your donation later.”

  “Perhaps I’d better call you. I’m sorry I couldn’t locate it today but there’s so much to do and things are in rather a muddle.” She shifted some papers on the counter as if to demonstrate. “There’s just never enough time in the day.”

  “I know what you mean,” Chloe said.

  “I left my card on the counter,” Brendan said. “Call and leave a message when you’re ready.” He steered Chloe out the door. “Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye.” Before they’d descended all the steps, Dahlia had shut the door and turned the “closed” sign out.

  Brendan held the car door open while Chloe climbed inside, his expression comical. “Ever get the feeling you’re not wanted?” he asked as he did up his seat belt.