In Harm's Way

by Lyn Stone

  Mitch smiled at Robin. “How about that? We’re in luck.”

  “Right. Lucky us.”

  While Nathan went inside to pay for the gas, Mitch walked her around to the passenger side of the truck and opened the door. Robin knew she had little choice but to get in and spend the duration of the trip sandwiched between Mitch and the chain saw sculptor.

  “Hold that for me?” Nathan asked with a wide smile when he returned and opened the truck’s door on the driver’s side. Without waiting for her answer, he gingerly placed a cold six-pack of beer in her lap.

  Robin politely declined when Nathan offered her a stick of chewing gum. He unwrapped several and folded them into his mouth, squeezed his frame behind the steering wheel and twisted the key with fingers that looked like dirty bratwursts. Nathan smelled of wood shavings and fish. At least there was no foul body odor.

  “You like squirrels?” he drawled, popping the gum.

  “Me?” she asked, looking up at him, and she did have to look up. He was very tall, even taller than Mitch.

  “Yes, ma’am.” His attention remained mostly on the road as he drove, but Robin was very aware of his interest in her.

  “I don’t really know,” she replied to the squirrel question.

  “I got one I’ll give you,” he said. “You’ll like it.”

  Robin darted a look at Mitch, who wore a benign smile, as if nothing out of the ordinary had been said.

  After jouncing around on rutted pathways through what seemed a jungle, they finally arrived at a grouping of modest little cabins built of cinder blocks, all painted chocolate brown. The shutters and woodwork were bottle green.

  “We’ll take the one at the far end,” Mitch told Nathan. “Probably be here about two or three days. I’ll send you a check for it when I get home. That okay?”

  “Sure. Y’all need anything, just come on up to the house and get it. If I ain’t there, I’ll be down at Peggy’s. Just go on in.” He took the beer from Robin. “I’ll bring that squirrel by in the morning. Got a little work to do on’er yet.”

  Robin nodded, wondering what one did to a squirrel to get her up to par. She dearly hoped he was talking about one of his sculptures and not the real thing.

  The thick woods they had traveled through backed the row of six tiny structures and one large one that sat well away from the rest. Nathan’s house, Robin guessed. He proved her right by heading off toward it with a backward wave of one hand, the other clutching his six-pack. Beside his front door a huge figure of an Indian stood guard. It had been hacked out of a log. Chain saw art had a certain rustic charm.

  “What did you arrest him for?” she asked Mitch.

  “Trumped-up charge of drunk and disorderly. He was planning to fight Peggy’s old boyfriend who was due home that evening from a stint in the army. See, Nate used to be a boxer. If he had killed Tommy, it would have been murder.” Mitch made a fist. “Lethal weapons.”

  “Did he resist arrest?”

  Mitch laughed. “No. We got him drunk first. He went like a lamb. By the time he’d sobered up and we cut him loose, Tommy had said his hello to Peggy and left for…Montana, I think it was.”

  Robin didn’t blame Tommy at all. Montana sounded good.

  Mitch pushed open the door to the last cabin and entered first. “Looks okay. Come on in.”

  The place surprised her with its cleanliness. Plaid café curtains covered the windows, and there were matching spreads on the two sets of bunk beds.

  “Indoor plumbing,” Robin muttered as she checked out the interior of the boxy little unit Mitch had chosen.

  One large room served as the living and dining area and contained a tiny kitchen set into one corner. Built into another corner of the square floor plan was a small bathroom and closet. She explored, opening the doors and checking out the cabinets.

  Linens, paper products and cookware were furnished, but there was no food. “What do we eat?”

  Mitch stowed the items he had bought at the gas station shoppette. “We have soup and crackers,” he said holding up a can. “Beans,” he added, “and cookies.”

  Robin rolled her eyes, stifling a cutting remark about his unhealthy choices. Secretly, however, she sort of anticipated eating what he had bought and was glad he’d left her no alternative. Especially for those cookies.

  “Nate will have potatoes, meal, oil, soft drinks and whatever else we need. He keeps a sort of store with things people need to cook fish. Also has bait.”

  “Worms,” Robin said, making a face.

  “Want to go catch dinner?” he asked, thumping the cabinet door closed. “I’ll borrow some rods. We can fish off the jetty.”

  “What’s a jetty?” she asked, truly curious. “It’s not a boat is it? Tell me it’s not a boat. I do not like open water.”

  “Come on, city slicker, I’ll show you,” he said, holding out his hand. Reluctantly she took it and followed him back outside.

  “All this fresh air,” she said, taking a deep breath and then another. It smelled damp and vaguely like mildew, Robin decided, rethinking her need to indulge herself in it.

  He walked her across grass splotched liberally with weeds and onto a long, weathered dock that stretched over the water and rested on stilts. Waves lapped at the pilings just below the surface of the boards.

  The fishing camp was located on a section of bank that curved in, a sort of bay, that began with the dock, or jetty, and formed a semicircle that reached well beyond the far end of the camp where Nathan’s house stood. She could just imagine Nathan and his screaming saw hewing out the trees and creating a clearing for this place.

  “River’s high,” Mitch commented, looking out across the expanse of water. The opposite side was not visible but hidden by thickly treed islands that blocked the view.

  “This so isn’t me,” Robin mumbled to herself.

  “I know, hon, but it’ll do for a couple of days, won’t it? It was this or involve family, which I didn’t want to do.”

  “No, no, of course not. I completely understand. It’s fine.”

  He went on. “Damien and Molly have little kids. I didn’t want to go there, maybe put them at risk. If we’d gone to a motel, I’d have had to use a credit card. Easy to trace us, then. I was afraid somebody might be picking up transmissions from Kick’s cell phone and would know we were at his house. I can’t decide how else anyone would have known where to find us to get your purse.”

  Robin nodded. “Makes sense.”

  He laced his fingers through hers and turned back toward the cabin, walking slowly, looking at the ground as he spoke. “Let’s stay here awhile just in case. If they’re going to look for you at Kick’s, they’ll do it in the next day or so. When it’s time for the inquest, it should be safe to head back and go to his place. Meanwhile, nobody knows where we are but Nate.”

  “And he wouldn’t tell even if someone asked,” she guessed.

  Mitch shook his head. “No. Nate and I have been friends since we were kids.”

  Now that surprised her. “You’re serious?”

  He sat down on the edge of the porch and indicated she should do the same. “Nate’s had a rough time over the years and looks a little ragged around the edges, I know. But he has a good heart, Robin. He’d do anything in the world for me just as I would for him.”

  This sort of loyalty and longstanding friendship was foreign to Robin, but she had to trust that Mitch knew what he was talking about. It gave her yet another view of him, this time of a man who had cultivated a very eclectic set of friends.

  There was that former FBI guy who was also a lawyer, whom Mitch said would be glad to help him out. And Nate, who seemed to be on the other end of the spectrum, an undereducated ex-boxer who carved bears and Indians.

  Yes, she was Alice, and Nashville was Wonderland.

  “This will be fine,” she told Mitch. “I can adapt.”

  “I believe you will.” His beam of approval did strange things to her insides. She leaned aga
inst the log column that supported the porch and took a deep breath to calm her nerves. It was peaceful here and she imagined she would get used to the smell of fresh air.

  Mitch absolutely reveled in teasing her. He liked to think it was to provide a distraction, so she wouldn’t be worried about the disk and who was after it, but he knew better.

  Robin was just so susceptible to jokes and so totally unpredictable about how she reacted to them.

  “Nate modeled this one from life,” he told her, resting one hand on the fierce, blocky statue of the bear that dominated a backyard filled with sawdust.

  “He did not.”

  “Oh, yeah. Kept the ol’ fella chained up over there by that tree. He finished getting a likeness, then turned him loose.”

  She looked at him askance, then surveyed the surrounding woods. “He let it go?”

  “Sure did. Big mistake, too. The brute ate a fisherman who’d come up from South Georgia. Polished off his day’s catch for dessert. Nate advises everybody to put food out in the woods every night to keep the bears from breaking into the cabins.”

  “You liar. There are no bears,” she declared, her laugh a little nervous. “And, anyway, bears don’t eat people!” A small hesitation. “Do they? I mean, I realize they must bite, but…”

  He shrugged. “They are carnivorous. Check it out. This is part of a wildlife refuge, and they say the bears are multiplying like rabbits around here.” He walked over to the edge of the woods where the ground was clear and pointed down. “See there?”

  Frowning, she peered down at the huge paw prints he had made earlier by adding “claws” to footprints Nate had left there. After a short perusal, she straightened and glanced toward their cabin. “Well, leave the food if it’s necessary,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact. She was walking fast, not running, trying hard to conceal her haste in getting away from the bear signs. “But don’t leave the cookies. Sugar can’t be good for them.”

  Mitch hid a smile. She’d acquired an addiction to Oreos and rationed them like a smoker would the last pack of cigarettes.

  The two days they spent at Nate’s camp would have been perfect if not for his overactive hormones. Seeing her clad only in that tacky orange T-shirt when she was ready for bed made him…well, ready for bed. But certainly not for sleep. He knew he was going to be seriously sleep deprived when they left.

  She, on the other hand, bloomed in the wilderness like a wild violet. The absence of makeup, the slight two-day tan and the couple of pounds she had gained gave her a healthy glow.

  “There’s an outdoorsy person in you,” he teased, pinching her determined chin. “And she likes it here.”

  Robin angled her head away from his touch. “And she will be damned glad to return to civilization! Air-conditioning! Dishwashers! Restaurants!”

  “You don’t like cleaning fish?” he asked innocently, watching with interest as she mangled her attempt at the chore.

  Her glare should have slain him on the spot. Mitch laughed and took over before she sliced him up with the filet knife.

  He could have stayed here with her forever and been completely happy. Well, happy if he thought they could really be together, which he knew was a fantasy. Staying three days was pushing his luck. Hunford or Kick, himself, would put out an APB on her if Mitch didn’t return her as promised.

  “We’ll be in tonight,” he told Hunford on the phone during his daily call in. But he didn’t tell him exactly where they would be going. He stowed the phone and spoke to Robin. “I guess we have to go.”

  Did he imagine he saw a flash of disappointment in her eyes before she lowered them? Maybe it was only fear of giving up the safety of the camp.

  “I should call Damien. We need to get that disk turned in.”

  She looked as if she wanted to say something about that.

  “What is it?”

  “Never mind. You’re right, I guess.”

  But Mitch knew she had been about to suggest something else.

  As if by mutual agreement, neither of them had discussed either the disk or the case since coming here. She had needed to get away, to get rid of some of that fear that kept her so tense.

  Much as he would love to shield her from it and avoid it himself, he knew they had to go back and face the music.

  “So, where to? Detective Taylor’s house?” she asked.

  “That’s the plan. He did offer.”

  Chapter 9

  Robin allowed Mitch to assist her out of the truck. “Goodbye, Nathan. Thanks for the squirrel.” She clutched the small, carefully hand-carved animal to her chest and smiled at Mitch’s friend. “I love it.”

  Nathan beamed, the gap in his teeth not objectionable at all, now that she was used to looking at him.

  “Aw, it ain’t nothin’,” he said, ducking his head.

  “It’s something to me, Nathan,” she said, meaning every word. The man did have talent. Mitch was right. Nathan was more than he seemed at first glance. A regular Gentle Ben. Bear guy. Eccentric artist and sometime pugilist.

  She assessed Detective Taylor’s house and grounds as Mitch made his farewell and waved Nathan off.

  Then to her surprise, Mitch led her around to the back of the house, took a credit card from his wallet and promptly opened a door with it. She’d read about people doing that and had seen it done on TV, but was stunned that a member of the police force had so little security at his own home.

  It helped immensely when she saw Mitch open a metal box just inside the doorway and punch in a numbered code to shut off an alarm system. “Top of the line,” Mitch told her. “Installed it myself for him.” He flipped on the cold fluorescent lights.

  “That was nice of you. I remember you discussing that silent alarm with the waitress at Dylan’s Diner. Do you have stock in an alarm company, by any chance?” she asked.

  He nodded as he closed the little door on the alarm housing. “In a way. Pop owns one. I get discounts for friends.”

  She considered the sterile kitchen that looked as if it had never been used. Stainless steel everywhere. Extremely modern. No homelike touches, no curtains, no color.

  They walked through the dining room and into the living area. Again, sleek lines, monochromatic, functional furniture that looked incredibly uncomfortable. She wished for the cabbage roses and potpourri of the other borrowed apartment. “This gives me the creeps,” she muttered.

  She was unaware that she’d spoken out loud until Mitch laughed. “Me, too. As for the decor, Kick was…uh, dating…an interior decorator for a while there.”

  “Her first job, no doubt,” Robin said. “I believe I like Nathan’s taste more than hers.”

  He chuckled again and tossed the plastic bag containing their toiletries and extra shirts onto one of the Eames-style chairs. “Well, make yourself at home as much as you’re able. I have to make a call.” He pointed to a corridor leading off the living room. “Find us a couple of bedrooms. Kick’s is the first one on the right. I wouldn’t open that door unless your shots are up to date.”

  He flopped down on the sleek sofa and pulled out his phone.

  Since he’d said that about the bedroom, she had to look, of course. She twisted the knob and peeked inside his partner’s room. Just as quickly she closed the door. Mitch was right. Calling the room a mess would have been kind.

  It made her wonder just what sort of man Kick Taylor was. Definitely one who prized outward appearances and kept his slovenliness a closely confined secret. She would bet he took his women to one of the other bedrooms when he brought them home.

  “Told you so,” Mitch called to her.

  Robin sauntered back to the living room. “You think you know me so well, don’t you?”

  “Better than you think. I knew you’d look,” he quipped as he met her gaze with one of amusement.

  “All right. I admit to being curious. I simply wanted to see how he really lives,” she said in defense of her snooping. “That says a lot about a guy.”

&n
bsp; “Difference between Kick and me is that he likes to put up a good front. In my case, what you see when you walk in the door is pretty much what you get.”

  Yes, and that seemed very significant to Robin. Mitch Winton was an open book. True, she hadn’t seen all the pages yet, but they were there for her to turn if she wanted to. People who deliberately hid their faults from the world made her uneasy. It was exactly what she did.

  “How long has Detective Taylor been your partner?”

  “Not long. He got a promotion and transferred over from Vice a few months ago when he made sergeant. Why?” He frowned.

  “He seems very…eager,” she commented.

  “Yeah, I guess,” Mitch said with a humorless laugh. “He’ll outgrow that, believe me.”

  Robin feared that might not happen soon enough to help her. Kick Taylor had made it clear he believed she had killed James.

  “He thinks I’m guilty,” she said.

  “Maybe not anymore,” Mitch said. “He has to be wondering why somebody stole your computer and suitcase from the crime scene and is now chasing you around town.”

  “He doesn’t know about the disk yet,” Robin reminded him. “That might convince him I’m not the only one who could have done it.”

  “I’d like to run it by Damien first, I think.” He looked at the phone and back at Robin. “I think that’s our best bet.”

  Mitch made the call but got Damien’s answering machine. Saying that you had a disk with several pages of Russian on it that people were willing to shoot you for was not a message to leave anywhere. He decided to try again later.

  The name he had recognized on the disk really bothered Mitch. Rake Somers he had known for a long time. The man was crooked as a dog’s hind leg, but no one had been able to pin anything specific on him.

  Mitch had had one run-in with Somers soon after coming over to Homicide. A body had turned up down at Mose Landing, the victim a former chauffeur of Rake’s who had just rolled over as a paid informant. He’d died wearing his wire. No doubt Somers had ordered the hit. But there wasn’t a shred of proof linking him to it.

  Vice had Somers under surveillance most of the time, but he always seemed to come up squeaky clean. It was rumored the feds were investigating him, too, hoping to implicate him in a highly organized shoplifting racket that covered three or four states. So far, no one had gotten lucky.