The Lawman and the Lady

by Pat Warren

  Tate’s gaze swung to Nick’s face, recalling that Maggie had told them the intruder who beat her had a black ponytail and wore black clothes. She saw that he remembered, too.

  “You’re very observant, Josh,” Nick praised. “You’re doing great.” Even though there was a look of anxiety on Tate’s face. It seemed that the boy hadn’t told his mother about the man in black. Did she recognize that description?

  “Did the man come up to you, try to talk to you?”

  Josh shook his head.

  “About that car, can you tell me what it looked like?”

  “It was black and really long. And the windows were dark.”

  “You mean like tinted windows?”

  “Yes. The man got out of the car and stared at our house. I was watching from mom’s bedroom window.”

  “He just stared, didn’t do anything else?”

  “He talked with someone in the back seat.”

  “Did that person get out, too?”

  “No. The window was open halfway, but I couldn’t see him. He was smoking a cigarette and he tossed it out. Then the other guy got back in and they drove away.”

  Nick looked at Tate. “Your son has the makings of a first-rate detective. He seems to take in every detail.”

  “That’s not the life I want for him, thank you.” Tate stroked her son’s blond hair. “Is that all?”

  “Just one last question. Josh, if I showed you a bunch of pictures, do you think you could pick out the man with the ponytail?”

  Suddenly frightened, the boy moved closer to his mother. “No. He had sunglasses on. I don’t want to look at any pictures.”

  “Okay,” Nick hastened to reassure him, as well as his mother. “No pictures.” What had spooked the kid? he wondered. Realizing the tension was back, Nick signaled for the check.

  There was a short discussion about paying, but Nick won. “You can pay next time,” he told her.

  Out in the parking lot, he held the door for Tate while she made sure Josh was buckled into the back seat. But before she stepped in, he leaned close to her, resolutely ignoring her scent that had been playing havoc with his concentration all day, and told her that if she could convince Josh to look at some photos or even give a more detailed description to their police artist, they’d have a better chance of finding this guy.

  Tate’s reluctance was evident as she quickly sat down. “I don’t want him to be put through that if he doesn’t want to do it,” she said, and reached to close her door, effectively ending the conversation.

  The ride home was even more quiet than the ride over. Nick hated putting that fearful look into her beautiful green eyes, but he felt sure that Tate Monroe knew more than she was revealing. However, he reminded himself, he’d have to move slowly if he wanted her to open up to him.

  And meanwhile, he’d do a little investigating on his own.

  When he pulled up in front of Maggie’s, Tate had the door open before he’d shifted into Park. “Thank you for dinner. We both really enjoyed it, but it’s been a long day and I’ve got to get Josh to bed.” Moving quickly to forestall any resistance from Nick, she got out and helped her son.

  Nick got out anyway. “Would you like me to go in and check out the house, just to make sure it’s okay?”

  “No, thanks. We’ll be fine.” With cops crawling all over the house most of the day, she doubted the intruder would return.

  “Okay, then. I’ll be in touch,” Nick said, wondering if she heard. Or if she even cared.

  “Good night, sweetie,” Tate said as she pulled Josh’s bedroom door halfway closed. “Sleep tight.”

  “Leave the hall light on, please, Mom.”

  “Okay.” Even though he had a night-light on in his room, Josh liked the hallway lit in case he had to get up. Drawing in a deep breath as she made her way to her own room, Tate didn’t mind. If a hall light meant her son would rest more easily, it was a small thing. If only her own sleep would be less fitful by the simple addition of a light on.

  Checking her watch, she wondered if it was too late to call her district manager and arrange for a couple of days off until Maggie was home and settled. She’d also have to find a day-care center or summer children’s program for Josh until Maggie was once more able to take care of him while she was at work. Picking up her bedside phone, Tate decided she’d best call now.

  Ten minutes later, she hung up, ever so grateful that Judith Dunn was so understanding. How many times had she had to call her boss and explain yet another reason she couldn’t be in? Too many to count. And all the times she’d taken a leave of absence, moved away for several months, only to return and have Judith pleased she was back and ready to go to work again. Of course, when she was there, she worked hard, but she still felt lucky to have Judith on her side.

  Tate slipped off her shoes and began undressing. Lucky. It wasn’t a word she associated with herself ever really. Luck wasn’t something a person could rely on anyhow. We make our own luck, good or bad, her father used to say. How true those words were, she thought as she stepped into the adjoining bathroom and turned on the water. A hot soak would feel good.

  Pinning her hair up onto her head, Tate gazed dispassionately at her image in the mirror. Most of her life, she’d had people tell her how lucky she was to have such lovely skin, such beautiful hair, such a lovely figure. She supposed that was luck of a sort, being born to good-looking parents from a great gene pool. But it was nothing she’d personally done. Her looks were just there, no big deal.

  Others often made it a big deal, Tate acknowledged, testing the water with her fingers, then adding fragrant bubble bath. Men fell over backward over a beautiful woman until the woman no longer heard the compliments and wound up wondering if only her looks were of importance to them and not who she truly was. Women often became jealous even if she did nothing more than walk into a room. Tate knew she’d never deliberately done anything to earn that reputation, but there it was. Which was probably why she trusted only Molly and Laura.

  And men not at all.

  Shutting off the water, Tate climbed into the bubbly, steaming water gingerly, then lay back, closing her eyes. Her mother, from the little she could remember, had also been beautiful. Only she’d gloried in it, flirting outrageously, breaking hearts along the way. Especially her father’s when she’d walked away from her family the year Tate turned eight and her brother, Steve, was only six. Later Tate had learned that she’d left a note saying she simply couldn’t stay the wife of a small-town tailor. She needed to be free.

  Dad had handled her departure better than Tate or Steve, who’d both blamed themselves way into their teens. Her father never spoke of their mother with bitterness, saying that she was like a beautiful butterfly who’d stayed with them a while, then had flown off to share her beauty with the world. However, he’d warned Tate that beauty was a gift and that she mustn’t take unreasonable pride in it. She’d heeded his advice.

  Tate inhaled the warm aroma, letting the soothing water heal her tired body and mind. Where, exactly, had being beautiful gotten her? Because she’d instinctively known early on that men wanted her mostly for one thing only, she’d been reluctant to date. Then one had come along who’d seemed way above the crowd, a handsome, charismatic man who’d looked into her eyes and actually listened to what she said as if her words mattered, as if she were important, special.

  He hadn’t rushed her into bed, but rather they’d talked for hours—about books and music and horseback riding and hiking—all manner of things. They’d taken long, leisurely walks in the woods together, cooked dinner at his place, camped by the river and slept under the stars. Gradually she’d allowed herself to trust him. Loving had followed as surely as night follows day. The morning she realized she’d been thinking of love and he’d been thinking of an interlude was one of the worst times in her life.

  Tate trailed damp fingers through the floating bubbles, her mind floating, too, back in the past. Everything had fallen apart then and
nothing had been the same since. Her warm and tender love had turned to bitter ashes. At first, she’d wanted to die—of heartache, of shame. But Maggie had pulled her through, talking softly, encouraging, some nights just holding her while she wept. And there’d been Molly and Laura, more like blood sisters than friends, always there for her in those days when she’d been so needy.

  The only good thing that had come out of that terrible time was Josh, her beautiful boy. He was the only male she could trust without question, the only one she’d ever allow to get close to her. And yet, because of her mistake, her error in judgment, both Josh and Maggie were in danger. Last year, when they’d been on the run, she’d known that Molly had been threatened, too. Then Laura had been stalked and even forced off the road, landing in the hospital. That had somehow frightened even the madman hounding all three of them, for there’d been no sign of him for many months. Tate had prayed he’d abandoned his sick plans.

  How could she have been so naive?

  No, she might as well admit her suspicions. The invasion at Maggie’s wasn’t caused by some intruder looking for valuables rumored to be hidden in her home. Tate could think of only one person who might have ordered the break-in and she could guess what his hired thug had been searching for. What she didn’t know was how to handle him.

  Sitting up, she soaped her washcloth and swished it around her shoulders and arms. Her thoughts drifted to Detective Nick Bennett. She could tell he wanted her to open up to him, but how could a man who’d come from the warm and loving family he’d described ever be able to relate to her problems? Get a restraining order, he’d suggest probably. But if she named names, he’d realize she couldn’t do that. If she revealed too much and if somehow the news got out, the stalker would turn up the heat and somehow manage to take Josh. She couldn’t be with her son every minute. And what could she do to stop such a man? Move again? The very thought started her trembling.

  The bathwater had cooled. Tate pulled the plug, rinsed off and wrapped herself in a large white terry-cloth towel. As she walked into her bedroom, she thought she heard a car engine start up right outside. Cautiously, she moved to the window and peeked out between the soft folds of the sheer curtains. Just then, a sleek black car with tinted windows flashed on its lights and slowly pulled away from the curb.

  Damn him!

  With shaky hands, she drew the drapes closed over the windows, then did the same across the room before hurrying to Josh’s room, his windows facing only the rear of the house. He was sleeping soundly, thank heaven. The new dead bolt had been installed and before she’d come upstairs, she’d checked the back door as well as made certain the window locks were all secure. Yet she knew that if someone really wanted to get in, they would. Not overtly though, for the man in question had too much to lose if an illegal move could be proven and traced to him.

  Just because she felt better doing it, she went around and pulled drapes closed over all the windows. Both she and Maggie hated the closed in feeling, but Tate felt she had no choice if she wanted to get even a small measure of sleep tonight. Gazing around the living room, she felt such a wave of repulsion, of violation, that someone would come in here and touch their things. Would she ever truly feel safe here again? Was there even a secure place for her somewhere?

  Climbing the stairs, Tate forced herself to square her shoulders. Damn it, she was not going to let him win. She would find a way to fight him. He was trying to spook her, to intimidate her into giving up. Apparently, he didn’t know her as well as he thought he did, for she wasn’t a quitter. Maybe Nick was right and she should persuade Josh to look at pictures of known area criminals. If the stalker was among them, if the henchman of the man she feared most landed in jail, perhaps he’d back off. She held little hope for this scenario, but it was worth a try.

  Tate hung up the towel and slipped on an old University of Arizona football jersey that she liked to sleep in. Slipping under the covers, she prayed sleep would come and without the accompanying nightmares that so often interrupted her nights.

  Closing her eyes, she tried to concentrate on something pleasant. Unbidden, her mind conjured up a pair of steady gray eyes in a tan face and a mouth that looked hard and a little grim, but that she imagined could be soft and warm. Nick Bennett wasn’t the man for her. No man was. But she could dream…

  Nick stepped closer to the open window in the living room of the small third-floor apartment and cautiously stuck his head out. The nervous Hispanic man, about thirty-five, was sitting on a narrow ledge holding his infant daughter in his arms while sweat poured down his face. “Mr. Espinoza, my name’s Nick. Why don’t you hand the baby to me, then we can talk better? I want to help you.”

  “Go away,” the man sobbed. “No one can help.”

  The domestic violence call had come in just as Nick and his partner, Detective Lou Patrick, were heading back to the precinct from a routine check on a probation violator. It was the worst kind of call, the one where a woman and two children were in grave danger from an angry husband, the call police officers dreaded most. In many cases, the man was a loose cannon, totally unpredictable and usually dangerous. Lou had radioed back that they’d take it since their car was close to the address. Nick had done a quick U-turn and turned up the speed, but he hadn’t turned on the siren, thinking the arrival of the police might push the guy over the edge.

  As they’d entered the apartment, Nick saw a small, dark-haired Hispanic woman sitting on the couch cradling a boy of about six and moaning softly. She’d managed to tell them that she and her husband had been quarreling because she wanted to go back to work now that the baby was no longer nursing because they needed the money. But Jorge didn’t want her working. One thing led to another and when his son had tried to protect his mother, Jorge had slapped the boy so hard that he’d fallen, hitting his head on the end table. Shortly before they arrived, Jorge had climbed out the window with the baby. Rocio Espinoza wailed out her fears.

  While Lou called for medical assistance for the boy, Nick decided to try to talk the distraught man back inside. Once before, he’d managed to talk a jumper off a rooftop ledge, but he was well aware how the slightest wrong move could end in disaster.

  Now, as he studied Jorge Espinoza hugging his baby and rocking as tears coursed down his cheeks, Nick prayed he wouldn’t make a mistake. Peripherally he saw a fire truck arrive down below, the men hurrying to get a net in place in the event that Jorge either jumped or fell. Or, even worse, tossed the baby down. He also noticed a TV truck pull up and swore under his breath. Just what they needed, media attention during a volatile situation.

  Nick removed his jacket and took off his gun holster, leaving them with Lou. Taking a deep breath, he climbed out the window and managed to sit down on the ledge several feet from where Jorge watched him with sullen, unfriendly eyes.

  “Don’t come no closer or I throw her down,” Espinoza warned.

  “Okay. But I don’t think you really want to do that, Jorge. I can tell by the way you’re holding your baby that you love her. Am I right?”

  Jorge paused to gaze at his baby’s face. “She’ll grow up to be just like her mother. Rocio was a good woman, but not no more. She don’t want to stay home and take care of the kids. She wants to work in that bar every night where men can stare at her and grab at her. I make good money. Why does she want to work? Only for the men, for the attention.” He hugged the baby closer. “It’s better my little girl dies now than she grows up like her mother.”

  At least he now knew the problem, Nick thought as he searched for the right words. “It’s hard, isn’t it, working long hours and then having to stop to pick up the kids at day care, dinner not ready when you get home.”

  Jorge nodded as he swiped tears from his face with his shirt sleeve. “Yeah. She don’t think about that. Already my son talks back to me. Where’d he learn all that? At that day care where the older boys teach him. He’s got no respect.”

  Which was undoubtedly why he’d hit the boy
. Was it the first time he’d hit his son? “I understand but, Jorge, there’s a way to work this out.” Moving ever so slowly, Nick scooted nearer, his eyes on Jorge’s face. “I’ll help you talk to Rocio. I know a nice family restaurant not far from here where she could work the day shift. The owner’s a friend of mine and he’s a good man. Like you, a hard worker. I could make sure your wife’s home by the time you get here. What do you say?”

  “The baby’s too young to leave with strangers. They mess up your kids.” Jorge met Nick’s eyes for the first time. “You have kids?”

  “No, but I have six nieces and nephews, so I know how you feel. Suppose we talk Rocio into waiting until the baby’s six months old, or even a year? How about that?”

  “She don’t listen to no one. She disrespects me, you know.” Jorge shifted his little bundle and the baby woke up and started crying, undoubtedly picking up on the tension. Inside the apartment, Rocio could be heard wailing and moaning.

  Nick saw the TV cameras, two by now, trained on them, and wished the news hadn’t gotten out. The EMS truck pulled up and two men jumped out, running into the building with their medical equipment. He swung his gaze back to Jorge and saw that the man was fidgeting on the narrow ledge, trying to quiet the baby.

  He had to do something and fast.

  “Look, Jorge, let me have the baby. You’re a proud man, a good man. You don’t want to hurt your daughter. Let’s put her inside and then you and I will talk to Rocio.”

  Jorge shook his head, pushing to his feet unsteadily. “No, you’re lying. You’ll just lock me up and Rocio will be free to mess up my kids and shake her butt around at that bar.”

  Nick pressed his back to the building and managed to stand, but his heart was in his throat. He saw the net below, but would it catch them? “I promise you, Jorge, I will sit down with you and Rocio and work this out. Just hand over the baby.”

  Jorge shook his head vigorously. “You don’t care about me. No one cares about me.” Then suddenly, he lost his footing, his arms flailing out, trying to regain his balance.