Dillon spun on his heel and strode to his desk. Yanking open a bottom drawer, he pulled out a small laundry bag stuffed to the brim with wrinkled white shirts.
Mylinski frowned. “You still living in your office?”
“I’m not doing your laundry, Dillon.” Britt shook her head. “That’s where I draw the line.”
Dillon focused on Jacqueline. “Does Amanda have a hat?”
Jacqueline reached into the pocket of Amanda’s coat and produced her knitted pink hat with the pompon on top.
Dillon crossed the office to her, plucked the hat from her hand and perched it on top of the laundry bag. “Britt? Do you still have that knitted blanket in your office?”
“Sure do.” She ducked out the door. When she returned, she wore a gray coat and her own stocking cap jammed down to conceal every wisp of blond hair. She held out a blue-and-white afghan to Dillon.
Settling the laundry bag in Britt’s arms, Dillon draped the afghan over it. If Jacqueline hadn’t seen him construct the disguise, she might well believe Britt had a sleeping child snuggled against her shoulder.
“Al will drive you to the sheriff’s training center near Waunakee. Before you get out of the car, get rid of the laundry bag and take off that hat. I don’t want you taking any unnecessary chances.”
When the door closed behind Britt Alcott and the detective, Dillon once again turned his razor-sharp gaze on Jacqueline. “We may not have a very big window of opportunity here. Are you ready?”
Ready? She’d been ready since before she’d set foot in this office. She propped Amanda on her hip and hugged her close. “Just get us out of here.”
“Do you want me to carry Amanda? We have quite a ways to go. She might get a little heavy for you.”
Amanda buried her face in Jacqueline’s neck and clung.
“It’s okay, punkin.” Jacqueline kissed her little ear. “I’m used to carrying her. I’ll be fine. Just lead the way.”
He nodded and moved to the door, Jacqueline and Amanda on his heels. After pausing to listen for a moment, he opened the door.
“Dillon, you’re just the man I want to see,” a voice boomed from down the hall. A well-dressed man with sandy hair and glasses strode toward them.
Jacqueline jumped back into the office and ducked behind the door, hugging Amanda close. She gasped for breath. Had he seen them?
Dillon reached in and pulled the office door closed. His muffled voice filtered through the wood. “What do you want, Harrington?”
Jacqueline pressed her ear to the door.
“I hear a state trooper brought Jacqueline Schettler and her daughter in,” the forceful voice answered. “I want to talk to the little girl.”
“This is my case, Harrington.”
“It’s the task force’s case.”
“The task force be damned. The case is mine. Now back off.”
“Just doing my job, Reese. Now get out of my way.” The doorknob turned.
Jacqueline’s breath lodged in her throat. Her heart seemed to stop its rapid tattoo.
“You’re too late, Harrington. Detective Mylinski just left with Mrs. Schettler and her daughter.”
The doorknob halted in midtwist. “Mylinski? Where is he taking them?”
“To a safe house.”
The doorknob returned to its original position. Jacqueline dragged a breath into her starving lungs.
“I’m not going to sit back and let you and Fitz control this case, Reese. Not anymore. I’m going to be looking over your shoulder at every step. This time the case is going to be handled the right way. The way it should have been handled all along.”
“Keep your speeches for the campaign trail. You’re going to need every ounce of political hot air you have if you run against Fitz,” Dillon’s voice growled, low and menacing. “Now get the hell out of here. I have work to do.”
Jacqueline held her breath. Silence echoed through the hall. Finally the knob twisted again and the door inched open. Dillon’s tousled hair and dark eyes peeked into the office. “All clear. Let’s go.”
Grabbing a deep breath, Jacqueline followed him down the hall and through the austere reception area of the district attorney’s offices. They stepped out into the main hallway. The beige tile gleamed faintly in the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. They passed several steel doors marked Crime Laboratory. Jacqueline tried not to think about the tests conducted in those rooms. Tests on Mark’s clothing and the bullets that killed Val.
Ahead of her, Dillon opened one side of a double steel door and ushered them into the lobby. Their shoes clicked on the polished black marble floor. Loud as gunshots. Jacqueline cringed with each step.
Dillon led them to a door marked Stairs, pulled a key from his pocket and slid it into the lock. The clack of the turning mechanism bounced off marble floors and walls. He pushed the door open, and Jacqueline scurried into the stairwell after him.
They plunged ahead, down the stairs. Each footfall echoed off the cement steps. Large pipes cast eerie shadows on the concrete walls. Jacqueline held Amanda tightly to her hip with one hand and gripped the handrail with the other. A numbing chill emanated from the steel rail.
A sound followed them from the stairway above. Very faint. A light scratching noise. A key turning in a lock? Shuffling footsteps? Jacqueline bit her lower lip. The thundering of her own heart drowned out the sound.
In front of her, Dillon paused. He glanced up the stairs, in the direction of the sound, his face an expressionless mask. Reaching back, he grasped her hand in his. Strong, warm.
She held on.
The sound grew louder and then suddenly stopped. Jacqueline followed Dillon’s gaze to the large pipes overhead. The sound must be coming from the pipes.
They continued down the stairs. One flight after another. Finally they reached the main floor.
Still holding her hand, he led her through a maze of halls, out a small side door and into the night. The cold air slapped her cheeks and stole her breath.
He hurried them toward a black truck. Pressing a button on a small remote control, he unlocked the vehicle’s doors, yanked open the driver’s door and tilted the seat forward. “Lie down on the floor in the back,” he said, his tone leaving no opening for questions.
Jacqueline climbed in and lay still as death in the back seat of Dillon’s pickup, her arms wrapped tightly around Amanda. Dillon swung himself into the front seat. The truck growled to life and started to move.
Bands of light crept across the interior of the car, plunging them from light to shadow and back again. Amanda curled in her arms, her body tense, her breathing irregular. Jacqueline held her daughter tighter, as if by sheer will she could calm them both. Keep them both safe. But after what she’d heard in Dillon’s office, she doubted her little girl would ever be safe again.
The sounds of street traffic faded. The bands of light grew farther and farther apart. The darkness outside the window closed in, thick and black, broken only by the soft glow of the nearly full moon.
Still they drove on.
The events of the past few hours spilled through Jacqueline’s mind. Could Dillon be right? Could there be a leak in the district attorney’s office or police department? A leak that had led to Mark’s and Val’s deaths?
She shivered. She’d grown up believing the authorities were the good guys. They protected people and kept her neighborhood safe. She’d taught Amanda to believe the same, taking her to the park where police officers handed out Brewers baseball cards to children and taught them about bicycle safety. Had the world she knew—the world she wanted her daughter to know—changed so much?
She pressed her cheek against the silk of her daughter’s hair and drew in the fragrance of her shampoo. An ordinary scent. A comforting scent. A scent from the life they’d left behind. A life that was gone forever.
Raising her face slightly, she focused on the driver’s seat. From this angle she could see nothing but the back of Dillon’s head, his short, dark waves above the headr
est.
He’d gotten them out of the office without anyone seeing them. He’d kept that particular promise. But where did that leave them? Could she trust him to keep her little girl safe?
She had to. Because at this point, she had nowhere else to turn.
Finally the truck rumbled to a stop. Jacqueline lifted her head from the seat, her neck stiff from her awkward position. The moon shed a soft glow on the treetops visible through the truck’s windows.
Dillon opened the door and swung from the truck in one motion. “I’m going to have a look around. I’ll be back in a second. Stay low in the seat.” He slammed the door, and his footsteps faded into the quiet of the night.
Jacqueline cradled Amanda closer.
“Is he going to keep us safe?” Her daughter’s voice was nothing more than a faint peep.
Jacqueline hesitated, but only for a moment. “Yes. He’ll keep us safe, baby.” He had to.
Amanda nodded her little head, but said nothing.
The back door opened. Cold air suffused the warm cocoon of the truck’s interior.
He held out a hand to help her out. “All clear. Follow me.”
She looked at his offered hand. In the stairwell his hand clasping hers had made her feel protected. It had given her a false sense of security. But as much as she wanted to, she couldn’t hide behind that sense of security now. She could rely on Dillon to protect them—she had no choice in that—but she needed to be on her toes, as well. She needed to face reality.
Without accepting his hand, she struggled out of the truck, carrying Amanda with her. The image of Buck Swain with a rifle hung on the edge of her mind. She dashed into the open door of an ordinary-looking ranch-style home, Dillon hard on her heels.
The moment Jacqueline set foot in the kitchen, it was clear exactly how unordinary this house was. Stacks of paper and file folders covered every inch of the kitchen table and piled on the countertops. Time-line charts and gruesome photographs were tacked to the walls in the way teenagers decorate their rooms with posters and magazine covers.
Looking past Dillon and into the living room, Jacqueline could see that the file, chart and photograph decor extended to that room, as well. To top it off, a large desk dominated the adjoining room, dwarfing the normal living-room furnishings. The place looked more like a crime task force’s war room than a home. So this was what a safe house looked like.
Dillon didn’t even glance at the surroundings. He strode across the kitchen floor and opened the refrigerator door. “I’ll put together some sandwiches. The two of you must be starving. The bathroom is around the corner if you want to wash up. The bedroom is next to it. You’ll be sleeping in there.”
“There’s only one bedroom?”
“Only one furnished with a bed. I’m the only one who lives here.”
Surprise stiffened Jacqueline’s spine. “This is your house?”
He glanced around the kitchen as if looking for the reason behind her reaction. His brow furrowed with puzzlement, he shifted his focus back to her. “Yes.”
She let her gaze roam around the house again. The stacks of file folders, the charts and the pictures. Even down to the cluttered desk, the place looked like a copy of his office downtown.
A chill crept over Jacqueline’s skin and delved into her bones. She’d known he was dedicated to his job, to the never-ending fight for justice. She’d known he cared deeply about doing the right thing. But this—the desk, the charts, the photographs—this went far beyond normal dedication. This was obsession. Dillon Reese wasn’t just dedicated to winning justice. He was on a crusade.
She looked back at him. “Why did you bring us to your home?”
He focused on the contents of the refrigerator, the sharp planes of his profile illuminated by the refrigerator’s light. “No one will ever think to look here. You’ll be safe.”
Safe.
She glanced down at Amanda once again, at her little girl’s tired eyes, glassy and wide with fear. God, Jacqueline wanted to believe they were safe. She ached to believe it.
But could she with a murderer and an informant out there she knew nothing about and a man protecting them who was on his own personal crusade?
She once again allowed her gaze to travel over the papers and photos. Two things were clear. There was more to this case than Dillon was telling her. And there was more driving him than a simple dedication.
She had a lot of questions for the cowboy assistant district attorney. And if she was going to keep her baby safe, she needed answers.
Dillon watched Jacqueline usher her little girl down the hall and disappear into the bathroom. A strange feeling sneaked over him. No one but him had set foot in his house since the day he’d bought this secluded hideaway. And even in his wildest fantasies he’d never imagined Jacqueline living under his roof with him. Eating a meal in his kitchen, taking a shower in his bathroom, sleeping in his bed.
Blood pooled in his groin at the images that popped into his mind. Jacqueline in his shower, water sluicing intimately over her soft, naked curves. Jacqueline in his bed, her long legs tangled in his dark sheets, her chestnut hair fanned out on his pillow.
He raked a hand through his hair and pushed the images from his mind. The circumstances were not the stuff of fantasy. He was hiding Jacqueline’s little girl from a murderer, not playing house.
He glanced around the kitchen, his gaze landing on the crime-scene photos tacked to the walls, gruesome in their unblinking detail. Not suitable for a child’s eyes. Not suitable at all. Abandoning his sandwich fixings, he turned his attention to clearing the walls.
What else did he need to do to make the house suitable for Jacqueline and her daughter? Pulling pins and stacking photos, he scrolled through a mental checklist. In addition to sandwich fixings, he had eggs and coffee in the refrigerator. That took care of breakfast tomorrow. But after that, he would need to pick up some groceries. Thankfully the sheets on his bed were relatively clean. Toys for Amanda? Maybe he could swing by a toy store tomorrow, too. What kinds of toys did a seven-year-old girl like to play with?
He’d better ask Jacqueline. When it came to trusting him, she was as skittish as a day-old colt. Especially where her daughter was concerned. Understandable after what they’d been through. What he had put her through.
Damn. His blood boiled at the thought of someone in the D.A.’s office or police department leaking the task force’s every move to Swain. He’d find the snake responsible. He’d protect Jacqueline and her little girl. After all, he’d promised her. And he’d be damned if he didn’t come through this time.
Chapter Five
“I want to know what’s going on.” Jacqueline stopped just inside the living room, hands on hips. It had taken her over an hour to lull Amanda to sleep. Over an hour she’d stewed her questions over in her mind while she rubbed her daughter’s tense little back. Questions about the task force. Questions about Dillon’s obvious obsession. And now, when the time had come to deliver her well-thought-out queries, she’d blurted out the first thing that came to her lips.
Hunched behind the desk, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, Dillon looked up from the legal folder spread open in front of him. His tie hung loose around his open shirt collar, a glimpse of dark chest hair peeking through the frame of starched white fabric. As he straightened in the desk chair, his shirt outlined his muscular chest.
She tore her attention from his chest and narrowed her gaze on his eyes. She wanted answers.
He snapped the file folder closed and met her gaze. “I thought I explained everything in my office. I believe there might be a leak in the district attorney’s office or police department, so—”
“No.” Jacqueline set her chin. Now that Amanda wasn’t looking on, she wasn’t about to swallow his pat little explanations. “I mean everything. From the beginning. I want to know about each person you think might be giving Swain information.”
“This is an official murder investigation and prosecution, Jac
queline. I can’t talk about this with you.”
She stepped toward him. She’d expected him to give her an answer like this, and she was prepared. “It stopped being official when you decided to cut yourself off from the district attorney’s office and smuggle us to your home.”
A muscle twitching along his jaw, he stared at her for what seemed like an eternity. His eyes searched, prodded, fierce and intimate at the same time.
The room grew hot. She fought the urge to squirm under his gaze. Taking a deep breath, she held her hands out at her sides, palms up, an entreaty for fairness. “Listen, you’ve asked me to cooperate with your plan, and I have so far. But I can’t do it blindly. If I’m going to do what’s best for my daughter, I have to know what’s really going on.”
He pushed his chair back from the desk. Heaving a resigned sigh, he motioned to a tawny couch tucked in the corner behind the desk. “Why don’t you sit down? This could get long.”
Jacqueline exhaled with relief. Until he’d spoken, she hadn’t realized she was holding her breath. Pressing her lips together, she walked around the desk in the direction of the couch. She perched on the edge of the firm, almost-new upholstery.
He spun his desk chair to face her, his back to the desk. Close enough for her to smell the clean, masculine scent of him. Close enough to feel his body heat. “What do you want to know?”
She drew a deep breath into her hungry lungs. Swallowing hard, she tried to ignore his gaping shirt and the soft-looking dark hair sprinkling his chest and organize the questions bouncing around in her mind. She forced herself to focus on the questions she needed to ask, the answers she needed to hear. “For starters, what is this task force you and the detective were referring to?”
“More populated counties usually have a homicide division or a violent crime division of the district attorney’s office. But thankfully, we don’t have enough violent crime in Dane County to justify a separate unit. So we have an informal group of experienced assistant district attorneys and investigators who specialize in different areas and work together to prosecute crimes such as armed robbery, rape and murder. The task-force label is merely a political thing. Fitz wants the public to know he’s tough on violent crime.”
His Witness, Her Child Page 5