Nowhere to Hide

by Terry Odell

It was her eyes, he thought, once he realized she wasn’t going away. Bright green, but with no sparkle, and deep shadows underneath. Pain, barely hidden, behind them. He followed his mental image downward—past the upturned nose, the dimple that appeared when she’d smiled. He’d seen her in a shapeless robe and again in faded jeans that hung loose and baggy. Had they fit once? Had she bought them second-hand? He recalled the weight that seemed to hang on her shoulders. Yet for all the pain those eyes carried, when she’d sidestepped his questions, he’d read a flicker of interest. Barely a flicker, but it was there.

  At Central Ops, Graham slipped his cruiser into an empty slot and strolled through the lobby, pausing at the Harley on display while he dug out his fob to unlock the inner door. Upstairs, Schaeffer sat at his desk, phone to his ear and motioned Graham in.

  “What do you need, Harrigan?” he asked when he hung up.

  “I’ve got something fishy, but nothing specifically wrong. I know it’d be low priority with CID, and thought I might do some preliminary poking around on my own.”

  “Explain, but make it quick. I promised Sharon I’d be home in time for the PTA meeting tonight.”

  “No problem. Wouldn’t want to keep you away from a PTA meeting.”

  Schaeffer chuckled, his eyes almost disappearing when he did. “It’s not the PTA meeting I’m looking forward to, it’s what will happen afterward. And what won’t happen if I’m late.”

  Graham laughed. Roger and Sharon Schaeffer had a good marriage, something rare in this job. “Okay. In a nutshell. I got a routine Check Well Being call. Daddy hadn’t returned grown stepdaughter’s phone calls, she’s concerned. Everything seemed normal. Nobody home, no signs of violence. Yard looks good, no backup of mail or newspapers. Only thing that’s strange is the elderly aunt who used to live in the guest house is living in the main house, and there’s a new tenant in the guest house.”

  “So what’s the case? No signs of foul play, the guy’s probably out of town.”

  “I went back mid-day and the aunt says her nephew’s looking at property in Alaska.”

  “And?”

  “And what can you see in the way of property in Alaska in November?”

  “Interesting.” He paused, stared at the ceiling, then at Graham. “I know you want the CID slot.”

  “I’m top of the list.” He skipped mentioning that Clarke was too.

  “You off duty? Got a few minutes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.” Schaeffer took a pencil and tapped it against his coffee mug. “You think the tenant knows anything?”

  “She says she never heard of Jeffrey Walters. New in town.”

  “She pretty?”

  Damn it, Schaeffer had to know things weren’t like that. Graham held his gaze steady and locked onto Schaeffer’s. “I don’t see how that’s relevant, sir.” He stood.

  “Chill, Harrigan. Go grab a cup of coffee. I have to make a call.”

  Graham tried to read Schaeffer, but the man was already punching numbers into his phone. He backed out the door and wandered down the maze of corridors to the break room.

  You’re overreacting. Schaeffer doesn’t think you want to work the case because there’s an attractive woman in the picture. Does he?

  The coffee soured in Graham’s stomach, and he emptied the cup into the sink after two sips. He strode past empty desks and cubicles toward Schaeffer’s office. Most of the support staff in CID had already gone home. He acknowledged a passing SWAT team discussing serving a warrant. That was one division he had no desire to join.

  When Graham returned, Schaeffer was hanging up the phone.

  “Sit down,” he said. “I talked to Briggs.”

  Graham’s lieutenant. He waited. Schaeffer’s face was unreadable.

  “There’s a cross-training opening in January. You’ve got a good shot at it. Briggs is willing to do without you for a day if you want to test the waters.” Schaeffer stood and reached for his jacket. “If this was your case, where would you start?”

  Graham tried to keep a smile from bursting out. He kept his voice level. “Check hospitals and morgues in the tri-counties first.”

  Schaeffer nodded. “Sounds like a plan. Report here tomorrow. Do some database searches. Impress me with your detective skills, and we’ll see what shakes.”

  Graham followed Schaeffer downstairs to the lobby.

  “Tomorrow,” Schaeffer said at the door.

  Graham watched him walk away. Tomorrow, he’d said. Graham didn’t want to wait that long. He retrieved his laptop and joined a smattering of uniforms hunched over their computers in one of the communal workrooms. A DMV check showed Doris’ license had two months to go on a six-month suspension. Two tickets, a minor accident and a judge who had little patience with drivers over sixty. Keyboard clicking and background conversation faded into the background.

  Two hours later, Graham turned off his laptop and rubbed his eyes. Schaeffer had warned him about how much time he’d be spending on the computer if he got into CID. It was past seven o’clock, he was hungry, and he didn’t have much more than when he’d started. Less, actually. When the Volusia County morgue told him they had a John Doe, Graham realized Jeffrey Walters could bite him on the ass and Graham wouldn’t know it was him. Another DMV check told him Walters was fifty-four, white, male, five-ten, but there was no picture. The license was issued in 1989, before the photos were computerized. What kind of a system renewed licenses with stickers? That might save time and money, but it didn’t make it identifications easy.

  As long as Graham was digging, he might as well be thorough. He’d start over from the beginning and take a closer look at all the players. Lose all his assumptions. He’d call Kimberly Simon and see if she could send him a recent photograph of Jeffrey. He’d see if Doris Walters had pictures as well. And, if Colleen were home, he’d find another question for her too.

  *****

  Colleen settled onto the couch armed with three more movies and a pepperoni and sausage pizza, bought more out of reflex than hunger. She promised herself this wouldn’t be a habit. Tomorrow she’d look at jobs, for sure. She set the pizza on the counter, hoping she might be hungry later, and tried to lose herself in the movie, but tonight the magic wasn’t there. She stared at the screen, her mind drifting.

  At a shrill noise, she jerked to attention. Not from the television. The movie was over. She held her breath, listening. The sound finally registered as a smoke alarm. She sprinted toward the main house.

  Doris stood on the front porch, wearing a flowered chenille robe, wringing her hands. “I don’t know how to make it stop,” she repeated over and over. “It’s so loud.”

  “Calm down. Tell me what happened. Is there a fire?” Colleen kept her tone steady but firm.

  “It’s not the toaster. I know it’s not the toaster. I’m careful with the toaster. I’ll show you.” Before Colleen could react, Doris had darted past her and into the house.

  “Doris, wait! Don’t go in there. It’s not safe.” Colleen covered her ears against the piercing alarm and moved quickly through the house in search of Doris. In the smoke-filled kitchen, a smile on her face, Doris displayed the toaster, its plug dangling from her hand.

  “See. I’m careful with the toaster.”

  “Good, Doris. Yes. Please take the toaster outside.” Over her shoulder, Colleen watched Doris leave, then palmed the louvered pantry door, the source of the smoke. Not too hot, so she pulled it open. Immediately, smoke from a plastic trash can engulfed her. She covered her nose and mouth and kicked the can to the center of the floor. The can tipped onto its side, spewing its burning contents. Too late. Fire had already ignited packages of paper goods on the lower pantry shelves. On the next shelf, rows of cleaning supplies stood lined up in neat rows, waiting to be set ablaze.

  Eyes tearing, Colleen scanned the room. A fire extinguisher hung on the wall. She grabbed it, but the gauge read empty. Choking from the noxious fumes, she moved for the phone, dialed 911 and ga
ve the dispatcher the address. Coughing, half-blinded, she dashed outside to wait for the firefighters.

  Doris paced the porch, still mumbling about the toaster.

  This wasn’t the Doris she’d met yesterday. “You were right, Doris. It wasn’t the toaster. The firemen are on their way. Let’s go and wait.” Gently, she guided the woman away from the house. Within minutes, sirens and lights filled the street. Colleen directed them to the source of the fire. A paramedic stepped out of the ambulance and began talking to Doris. Colleen left them and moved closer to the house.

  “Stay back, ma’am,” a fireman said. “Why don’t you let the medics check you out too?”

  Colleen wiped her eyes. “I’m fine.”

  The smoke disappeared and shortly afterward, the firefighters emerged, stripped off their breathing gear and gathered at the truck. “You live here, ma’am?” asked one of the men, his caramel-colored skin glistening with sweat.

  Colleen shook her head. “I live in the guest house down there.” She waved her arm in the general direction of her place.

  “You shouldn’t have gone inside. You never know what could happen.”

  “I know. But Doris was in there.” She glanced toward the ambulance, where Doris and the paramedic were engaged in animated conversation. “I don’t think she’s completely aware of what happened.”

  “We managed to keep the fire contained in the kitchen. Looks like someone emptied an ashtray in the trash without making sure the butts were completely out. There were some cleaning rags in there too. We’ve left the windows open to air things out. The two of you can go inside.”

  “Good. I’m sure she’ll want to get back to her home. I know I do.”

  Colleen glanced at Doris, who was being escorted by the paramedic, a burly man guiding her by the elbow. The paramedic spoke to Colleen. “She seemed disoriented, but appears to be lucid now. It might be smart to keep an eye on her for a while,” he said.

  Colleen groaned inwardly. Roller coasters that sounded like tornados, fireworks masquerading as drive-bys, a landlady who drifted into outer space from time to time—would she ever have a night of peace and quiet? Still, an evening with Doris might give her a chance to talk about Jeffrey.

  The paramedic continued. “She said one of her bridge group must have dumped the ashtray.”

  “I told you, that was Elizabeth,” Doris said. “The woman smokes like a chimney.”

  Doris stood by her side as Colleen watched the trucks and ambulance drive away. Colleen spoke first. “I’ll bet there’s a mess in your kitchen. Would you like some help cleaning?”

  Doris didn’t say anything, simply turned and walked into the house. Colleen gave a wistful glance toward her apartment before following Doris inside.

  In the kitchen, Colleen surveyed the damage. “Do you have a mop? I’ll try to clean the floor, but I’m afraid you might need to paint over the smoke stains.”

  Doris disappeared into the garage and returned with a mop and pail. Her eyes shone. “I’ll call Mary Beth tomorrow. Her husband used to be a painter.” She gestured at the blackened walls. “I think yellow would brighten the room, don’t you? Or maybe some wallpaper. Something with flowers.” Doris sat at the table, rambling about wallpaper and curtains as Colleen wielded the mop.

  “Do you think you ought to call Jeffrey and tell him about the fire?” Colleen asked.

  “I don’t think it will be necessary. I’ll have everything looking pretty in no time.”

  The doorbell rang, followed by a loud knock. Colleen glanced at Doris, who seemed engrossed in thoughts of a new yellow kitchen.

  “I’ll get that. Wait here. We can talk some more.” Colleen stuck the mop in the bucket, dried her hands and went to answer the door.

  After a man identified himself as an Orange County deputy sheriff, Colleen pulled the door open as far as the security chain allowed. A shade under six feet, his dark brown hair shorn in a buzz cut, he wore navy blue slacks and a sport coat, his paunch overhanging his belt. Had Jeffrey’s case gone to the detectives?

  “Sorry to bother you, ma’am.” He flashed a badge. “I picked up on the fire call and thought I’d make sure things were all right after the police report yesterday.” The way his gaze slithered from her head to her toes made her shudder.

  “Everything’s under control, Deputy. The fire was an accident, no damage. I’m helping Mrs. Walters.”

  “Have you heard from Jeffrey Walters?”

  “No. But Mrs. Walters insists he’s fine and is right where he’s supposed to be. Are you taking over for Deputy Harrigan?”

  “Deputy Harrigan has to focus on his regular duties.”

  “Well, Deputy, I have to focus on my clean-up duties. I’ll be sure to let Mrs. Walters know she should call the Sheriff’s Office the next time she hears from her nephew.” She matched his emotionless smile and shut the door. Damn cops. Always playing their territorial games. She marched to the kitchen.

  “Okay, Doris. That was another deputy. Will you promise to call them when you hear from Jeffrey again? And tell him to call his daughter, remember?”

  Doris’ face and voice lost all expression. “Jeffrey is in Alabama.”

  Okay, she’d try another tack. “What about his homeowner’s insurance? Do you know where he keeps his papers? Maybe I can help.”

  A flicker of fear crossed Doris’ face. Her voice quavered. “No. No insurance. No papers. I’ll be fine.” She took a deep breath and cleaned her glasses. When she put them on, her eyes were clear. “Thank you for all your help. I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

  Twenty minutes later, the kitchen was clean. A wave of exhaustion poured over Colleen and she trudged down the drive to her apartment, praying the rest of the night would be peaceful.

  Chapter Five

  The chili at the Celebrity Deli was good—not as good as his, of course—but it filled Graham’s empty belly. As he worked his way through his meal, he changed his mind at least a dozen times about dropping in on Colleen. Both his gut and head told him she couldn’t be involved with Jeffrey Walters.

  His earlier database searches on Pine Hills had given him hits on golf courses, nature preserves, even hotels. Maybe some day they’d get computers like the ones on Star Trek, but until then, he’d need a little more to go on. Whatever Colleen was running from, he couldn’t believe it had anything to do with this case or anything else outside the law. An assumption, he knew, but one he was going to stick with until he had a good reason to change it.

  Once he admitted he was looking for an excuse to see her again, Graham picked up the check, tossed some bills on the table and drained the last of his coffee. Eight-thirty wouldn’t be too late. Revitalized, he headed to Doris Walters’ house.

  When he reached the address, the main house was dark, but he caught a glimpse of Colleen trudging toward her apartment. Her shoulders were slumped and her feet barely cleared the pavement.

  He sat behind the wheel, trying to understand what about Colleen intrigued him. A scent of smoke in the air tickled his nostrils. “What the hell?” He got out of the car, and reached Colleen’s door almost as soon as it closed. His heart pounded against his vest, and he strained to remember one of the dozen professional scenarios he’d fabricated to explain his visit. When the door opened, his pulse raced even faster, and all the rehearsed lines vanished. Dark shadows under Colleen’s red-rimmed eyes were accentuated by black smudges on her cheeks.

  Alarm added to the pounding in his chest. “Are you all right? What happened?” He hesitated, then pointed toward her face. “Your face. It’s—”

  “What’s wrong with my face?” Her fingers rubbed her cheeks and she pulled them away, studying them.

  “Nothing.” Nothing at all. Even smudged and dirty, it was a wonderful face. “I mean, you’ve got—” He handed her his handkerchief, gesturing to his own face.

  She grabbed the cloth and scrubbed at her cheeks. “It’s soot. I thought you’d heard. There was a fire at Doris’ a little whi
le ago.”

  “Fire? What happened? Are you sure you’re okay?” He took a closer look. She appeared all right and he relaxed.

  “I’m fine. I told everything to the paramedics and then to the detective.”

  Detective? Had Schaeffer been toying with him and assigned the case to someone in CID? “What detective? When?”

  “About half an hour ago. Plainclothes. White. Six feet, brown hair, cut short. Big belly. Said he was following up.” A look of disgust crossed her face. “Damn, I never asked his name.. He flashed the badge, and all I wanted was for him to go away.”

  Had to be Clarke. But why? Was Schaeffer setting them up so he could watch both of them try to be detectives? That didn’t sound like Schaeffer. As far as Graham knew, this wasn’t a legitimate missing persons case, not yet.

  “I almost forgot,” Colleen said. “Doris said Jeffrey’s in Alabama, not Alaska. That I must have misheard her.” She gave him half a grin. “I didn’t mention that to the detective.”

  “Thanks for telling me, then.” Score one point for him.

  “I’m tired, Harrigan. Why are you here?”

  “I guess I hoped you’d be ready to tell me a little more about who Colleen McDonald is.”

  Head lowered, she scrubbed her fingers over her red curls. “Like what? Didn’t you dig out my sordid past on your magic computers?” When she finally lifted her face, her green eyes, tired as they were, met his with defiance.

  “No,” he said. “I decided you would tell me when you were ready.”

  Some of the tension left her face. “Well, Deputy Harrigan, I thank you for that vote of confidence. And as for who I am—I told you before. I’m someone who wanted a change.” Another one of her half-smiles. “And I think this town is giving me one.”

  “What about a trade, then? Let me in for a minute. We can talk.”

  She hesitated, but motioned him inside and sank to the couch. “More of your one Celt to another stuff?”

  “Sure. Here’s mine—I’m one of five kids. Shawn’s the oldest, then Mary Margaret. I’m in the middle, followed by Jenny and Jeremy—they’re twins.”