Nowhere to Hide

by Terry Odell

  “Let me up,” she said. He released her, and she pulled herself to her feet. The room spun, and she grabbed his arm. With his arm around her waist, they walked to the bedroom. After lowering her to the edge of the bed, he pulled back the covers.

  “Sweats?” he asked. “Warm pajamas?”

  “Dresser. Bottom drawer.” Her legs wouldn’t support her, and the room kept fading in and out.

  He handed her a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt. “Here. Can you manage?”

  “Damn right I can,” she snapped. “Go.” He’d seen her stripped emotionally. That was naked enough for one day. She waited until he left the room.

  It took three times longer than it should have, but eventually her trembling fingers unbuttoned and unzipped her slacks, and she got them off and the sweats on. She wriggled out of her wet upper garments, donned the sweatshirt, and crawled under the covers.

  “You all right?” she heard him call from outside the door.

  She wasn’t sure if she answered before she fell asleep.

  When she woke up, she fumbled in the half-darkness that could be morning or evening. The memory of her collapse flooded back, and she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, testing her strength. A double-check of the clock told her it was six-thirty p.m., not a.m. She’d been out for an hour, not thirteen. Tantalizing smells made her mouth water, and she sat upright.

  Sitting seemed to work. Standing? She got to her feet with no hint of dizziness. From the edge of the living room, she could see Graham busy in the kitchen. What did she have in her house that could smell so good? She took a seat at the kitchen table and watched him chop and sauté, stir and sample. He tasted whatever he was cooking and smiled at her. “Hey there. You feeling better?”

  She shook off her embarrassment. “I think I’ll be cured if you’ll share. Smells heavenly. What is it?”

  “Don’t know. Little of this, little of that.” He filled a large pot with water. “Now that you’re up, I’ll start some water for pasta and whatever this is will become pasta a la Harrigan.” He extended a spoon full of something red and rich.

  She leaned forward and tasted. “Heavenly doesn’t do it justice. I didn’t know you could cook.”

  “With five kids in my family, we all had to pull our weight. I enjoyed cooking. Worked out great because Mary Margaret hated it, so she’d swap out cooking for laundry duty with me. I can’t iron worth a damn.” He set the pot on a burner and lowered the heat before turning to her. “There are lots of things you don’t know about me. I hope you’ll want to find out more.”

  And find out everything about her, in exchange. She could read it in his eyes, although his expression was matter-of-fact. Still, the way she’d felt in his arms, she might be able to tell him. Maybe. Not yet.

  “Why don’t you go sit on the couch while I get everything ready?” His eyes bored into hers, still showing his worry.

  She met his gaze, refusing to concede any weakness. “I’m feeling fine. Honest. It happens. I needed to sleep. Can I help?”

  “You can go sit down so I don’t worry about you. I’ve got everything under control.” He turned to the refrigerator and pulled out a bowl of salad. “You have any balsamic vinegar?”

  “What the hell is that? You’re lucky I have vinegar, period. I’ve been to the market once. There should be some Thousand Island in the fridge.”

  He grimaced. “Never mind.” He reached into the refrigerator and removed a jar of mustard and a lemon. “This will do.”

  She watched in fascination as he began rolling the lemon under his palms. “What are you doing?”

  “Breaking down the pulp. You get a better juice yield.” He cut the lemon in half and squeezed it through his fingers into a small bowl.

  “Don’t tell me. Straining the pits.”

  “Sometimes the God-given tools are the best ones for the job.” He added some mustard, salt and pepper and started trickling a stream of oil. “Now go sit down,” he said as he mixed everything together.

  She glared at him before she went to the couch, aware he was watching her, ready to leap to her aid if she faltered. She tried to figure out the feeling that suffused her. Not anger, not embarrassment. Warmth, she decided, as she leaned back into the corner of the sofa, stretching her legs in front of her.

  She picked up the remote and clicked on the television, settling on Channel 13’s twenty-four hour local news. Half her attention on the broadcast, half on catching glimpses of Graham as he moved in and out of view in the kitchen, she caught part of a follow-up story on the stranded whale.

  “Hey, Harrigan! Ever hear about the whale that beached in Oregon in the Seventies? The one they tried to blow up with dynamite?”

  “No,” he called from the kitchen. “I don’t think so.”

  “It was amazing—big chunks of smelly whale everywhere. Even destroyed someone’s car. I wonder what they’re doing with this one.” She was quiet for a moment, then called out, “Harrigan! Come here. The whale. They said they were going to bury the thing at the county dump in St. Augustine. But the pit where they bury large animals couldn’t handle a whale that big and when they started to enlarge it, they unearthed a body. Male. No ID.”

  “Turn it up,” he said from behind her.

  She clicked up the volume and they listened to the announcer.

  “Medical examiners say it has been there for at least several weeks and they are trying to identify the remains.”

  “Gross. I am so glad I don’t have to deal with something like that.” She turned to Graham. “You don’t think it’s Jeffrey, do you?”

  “Saint Augustine is pretty far up the coast,” he said. “There’s no reason to think it’s him.”

  “Well, are you going to call the cops up there and at least ask them to check?”

  “After we eat. He’s been dead for a while. He’s not going anywhere, whoever he is.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Graham went back to the kitchen. The water had come to a boil, and he opened a package of linguini. He lowered small handfuls into the pot, making sure the water never stopped boiling. Once he had half the package in the water, he gave a quick stir, corrected the heat, and let his mind drift.

  Could the man in the dump be Jeffrey? Too easy, too convenient and too much of a coincidence. St. Augustine was in St. John’s County, over a hundred miles away. But he’d call and ask. Colleen’s voice registered, and he turned to see her at the table, watching him.

  “Earth to Deputy Harrigan. You here?”

  He grinned. “Sorry. Cooking’s an outlet for me. Sometimes everything will click when I’m concentrating on cooking instead of my other problems. Lets the subconscious through, maybe.”

  “You’re thinking about Jeffrey, right?”

  He nodded and fished a strand of linguini from the pot, testing it with his teeth. “Two minutes.” He took two plates from a cabinet and handed them to Colleen, then found bowls for the salad.

  “Silverware’s in the middle drawer,” she said. “And I want to hear all about your day.” Those words were spoken softly, as if she remembered how the evening had begun and wasn’t sure she wanted to go there again.

  He got out the cutlery and watched as Colleen laid two place settings. Her color was back, along with the light in her eyes. Satisfied she was all right, he poured his dressing over the salad, gave it a quick toss and passed the bowl to her. While she portioned out the salad, he drained the pasta and mixed it with the sauce.

  “I wanted garlic bread, but you don’t have anything but garlic salt. You don’t have French bread, for that matter. Hope you don’t mind hamburger buns. And you should get fresh Parmesan. This carton stuff doesn’t come close, but it’ll have to do.” He fetched the butter and cheese-topped bread from the broiler and placed one piece on each plate, then added pasta. “Dinner is served.”

  He watched in anticipation as she twirled a forkful and brought it to her mouth. He thought of his lips being where the pasta was.

&n
bsp; Get real. This was not the time. The woman had done a total freak-out and he still had no clue why. “Is it okay?”

  She said nothing, merely sat there with her eyes closed. Finally, the tip of her tongue swirled around her lips, and her eyes popped wide. “Okay? Miraculous is more like it. How did you make anything this good come out of my kitchen?”

  “I like to think I can rise to any challenge.” He put his napkin in his lap to hide the proof, and picked up his fork. “You’ll have to let me cook a real meal for you someday. I think you’re being too kind here. An onion, some canned tomatoes, and a few carrots is hardly gourmet.”

  “Well, compared to my kitchen efforts, this is super good.”

  Once they’d finished eating, Colleen insisted on doing the dishes. “It’s a McDonald rule. Cook never has to clean. It’s your turn to go sit.”

  Graham hurried out to Colleen’s car and retrieved his briefcase. When he came back inside, the sight of her standing so calmly over the sink, arms immersed to the elbows in suds, let him relax for the first time since he’d left the station with her.

  “I called Dispatch,” he said. “They’ll mention Jeffrey to St. Johns and notify me as soon as they have an ID. There’s not much more we can do about that. Their jurisdiction, unless it turns out to be Jeffrey. Which seems unlikely.” After he spoke, he realized he’d said, “we.” As if they were a team.

  Slow down. Way down. He held his breath for a count of ten and then released it slowly as he walked to the couch and spread the papers on the coffee table.

  She came over and sat cross-legged on the floor across from the coffee table, looking innocent and eager. Her red curls fell about her face, and she kept tucking a wayward strand behind one ear. Even with no makeup, wearing baggy sweats and thick wool socks, she was as enticing as she’d been last night in that green dress. He remembered those firm round breasts and knew from the way they moved, tonight they were unrestrained under her shirt.

  Keep your mind above your belt. CID. Detective. Transfer. Promotion.

  “I put on some coffee,” she said. “Now let me have it. Blow by blow of Harrigan, CID Investigator, day one.”

  He had to chuckle. “Maybe not a blow by blow. How about a quick summary?”

  He brought her up to speed on his visit with snooty Mrs. Wyckoff. “Apparently, Doris doesn’t have much money of her own. Jeffrey was trying to work out an arrangement, as the Ice Lady put it, so she could move into the place. They’re pretty exclusive.”

  “What about all those phone calls? Any progress?”

  “If you can call crossing names off my list progress.” He dragged his hands through his hair. “It took hours to get all the phone numbers out of the directories. I made one hundred and thirteen calls, got hold of eighty-seven people and five of them actually knew something about Jeffrey. All agreed he’s a nice man, personable, and the project had merit, although they weren’t ready to commit great sums of money at the time.”

  “Well, what about the project?”

  “It was still in the early stages. They didn’t even have all the permits for the development yet, and most of the people I talked to seemed to say, ‘It looked like something I might support,’ or—”

  “Keep going. I’ll get the coffee.” She popped to her feet and went to the kitchen.

  As he talked, he flipped through the pages, hunting for the list of names where he’d jotted some notes. “Or they wanted to go to a cocktail party with some celebrities. There were a few local bigwigs on the list. Of course, none of them was in for me when I called.”

  He heard the fireworks at Universal start and reflexively glanced at his watch. The crash of a mug falling to the floor brought him to the kitchen in two strides. Colleen was staring at the floor, her eyes not quite focused, shaking her head.

  “Fireworks. I know it’s the fireworks. Why? Why?” she whispered.

  “Come. Back to the couch.” He put his arms around her shoulders and she fought away.

  “I know it’s fireworks.” She squinted at him, as if she was surprised to find him there. “It startled me. I dropped the cup. No big deal. I’ll get another one.”

  “Sure you will. Now come sit.”

  “I need to clean it up.”

  “It can wait. Sit with me.”

  She shrugged away, but stormed across the room and threw herself onto the couch.

  “What happened?” he asked, sitting next to her and taking her face in his hands. “Tell me.”

  She pulled his hands aside. “I did. The noise made me jump and I dropped the mug.”

  “We both know that’s not it.” He drew her head to his shoulder. “Something in Pine Hills, right?”

  “Right.” There was anger in her voice, but he didn’t think it was directed at him. “Bad domestic. Lots of gunfire. Sudden noises set me off sometimes.”

  “You never get used to it.” It made sense now, and he berated himself for not seeing it sooner. But he hadn’t been thinking of her as a cop, and even when she’d told him, he’d only thought of her as a woman. Her breathing had steadied, but he didn’t let her go. “Tell me.”

  “I can’t. Please.”

  He held her tighter. “All right. But I’m here.” She rested her head on his shoulder. After several minutes, he felt her go limp. Her color, although pale, was good, and there was no cold sweat, nothing to indicate she was shocky. He kissed the top of her head. “Sleep, mo chridhe.”

  After fifteen minutes, he worked his way free and settled her down on the couch, covering her with the soft blanket draped over its back. He stood over her for a long moment, watching the rise and fall of her chest, and he realized she filled an emptiness in him, one he hadn’t been aware of. Switching the lamp to its lowest setting, he picked up the pile of papers.

  He crept into the kitchen and set the papers on the table while he sought out a broom, finding one in the oversized closet masquerading as a laundry room. When he finished sweeping up the broken coffee mug, he fixed a cup of coffee for himself and settled down with the papers, glancing at Colleen every few minutes to reassure himself she was all right. She’d said a domestic. Orlando had a specialty squad exclusively for domestics. They were a nightmare. That was another division he had no desire to join.

  One more trip through the file folder didn’t ring any bells, but started a nagging headache. He refilled his coffee and searched for some aspirin. Nothing in the kitchen. He found a bottle of Advil in the bathroom medicine cabinet and swallowed two tablets. When he got back to the living room, Colleen was curled up in a ball, whimpering. He darted to her side and crouched beside her.

  “Colleen. Wake up. It’s a bad dream. You’re home. Safe. It’s Graham.”

  She thrashed and fought him. “No! Stop! Montoya! Look out!”

  He sat beside her, slid his arms under her and rocked her until her demons disappeared. When at last she woke, she gave a shuddering sigh and swiped her palms across her wet face. “Shit,” she said.

  “You’re shivering again.”

  She managed a weak smile. “That’s all right. Usually I throw up.”

  “You okay?” He tried to keep the fear off his face, out of his voice.

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. I might think it was my cooking.”

  “No way.” She fingered the buttons on his shirt. “I’m sorry you had to see all this. They’re my problems, and I’ve got to deal with them.”

  “Not alone, you don’t. How often do you get these nightmares?”

  She shrugged. “Now and then.”

  He glared at her.

  “Okay, so almost every night. I thought moving as far away from Oregon as I could get would help.”

  “Running away never helps.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Of course I don’t. Tell me. Explain.”

  “If I tell you, I have to tell me, too.” She was speaking into his chest now, her words barely audible. He felt the warmth of her breath through the cotton of his
shirt.

  “You can’t hide from yourself, Colleen. We can get through it together. Who’s Montoya?”

  Her head snapped up, her eyes twin green oceans. “How did you—?”

  “You shouted it in your sleep.”

  “I was backing him up. His regular partner was sick. I told you, a bad domestic.”

  “What happened?” He kept his voice as low as hers, kept stroking her back. He could see her reliving the incident, something he was all too familiar with. Still, you had to work through the ones that went south, or you’d burn out.

  “It was going fine. But then their kid showed up on the stairs. Behind us. Had a gun.”

  He watched her eyes, focused somewhere beyond this dimension. “The wife pulled a gun out from under the sofa cushions. Everyone was shooting. I saw the kid aiming at his father. He wouldn’t put the gun down. I asked him to. Begged him to.” Her breathing was rough.

  “Easy. Slow down,” he said.

  “The mother. She said it was a family problem and no cop was going to butt in. She was pointing the gun at Montoya, the kid was pointing his at the father. I had to choose. I shot at the kid. I thought Montoya had the mother, but—but …”

  “You had to choose.”

  She jerked out of his grasp, paced from living room to kitchen and back again. He let her go. She needed to work off the anger, the pain.

  She was screaming now. “I chose the father. Clipped the kid in the arm. Let my partner down. The wife blew Montoya’s head off. She killed him. I saved a wife beater and let my partner die!”

  He got up and went to her. “All cops know their lives are on the line. Every day.”

  “Tell that to the guys. Montoya’s regular partner said I killed him. Because I was a woman. I was a damn good cop. But they look at you like you’re a failure, and they avoid you, and you hear the talking stop when you walk into the squad room, and everyone gets busy with something.”

  That explained some of her reaction at the station. His heart ached for her as he remembered the pain. And how long it took—was still taking—to be fully accepted. “But you work through it and they forget. You prove you can do the job, and they realize you’re a good cop. They’d have come around.”