Sole Witness

by Jenn Black

  “Oh.” Davis turned back toward her as he tucked in his button-down shirt. “And stay off the phone in case I try to call you. I don’t have call waiting.”

  “You’re a dinosaur.”

  “So, no phone calls unless they’re either from me or to me. Got it? If I call and get the busy signal, I’m going to assume the worst. And if I get here, sirens blaring with the SWAT team behind me, and you’re chatting with your fan club, I’m going to be really, really mad.”

  “First, I don’t have a fan club. Secondly, you’ve turned into a very suspicious man.”

  “I’m a cop. I’m supposed to be suspicious. A lot of bad people do a lot of bad things for a lot of bad reasons. If keeping you inside and off the phone saves your life, then that’s a sacrifice we’ll have to make.”

  “I won’t touch your phone, Mr. Sacrifice. Don’t worry.”

  Davis tilted his head to one side. “If all goes well, you could be back in your own place by tonight. Forensics is done with your house. As soon as we get the perp in custody, you’re home free.”

  Tonight. No more Davis. Home free.

  “Yeah,” she managed.

  He glanced at his watch. “I have to get going. I’m already late.”

  Davis stood and looked at her for a long moment without moving. Lori had the feeling that if she gave the slightest indication of encouragement, he’d haul her to his chest and give her a good-bye kiss she’d never forget.

  Lori just wasn’t sure that was the best idea, for either of them.

  Before she had a chance to figure out what she really wanted, the moment was gone. Davis tossed her a too-cheery grin and walked out of the bedroom, leaving her to her own thoughts. A moment later, his engine gunned to life below and he was gone.

  She was alone. Isolated in this tiny house atop stilts. Stifled.

  Sighing, she picked herself up out of the bed and stumbled to the shower. The steamy water didn’t help to clear her thoughts.

  Davis was putting himself and his career on the line by keeping her here, covering her up. She wished he didn’t have to do that, but the truth was that a killer wanted to cover her up permanently. With six feet of dirt.

  Lori rinsed the shampoo from her hair and squinted around the tub. No conditioner. Typical man.

  His house felt lonely without him in it.

  She felt stranded. Abandoned. Helpless. And without a car, she was physically stuck here. How did her life get like this? Somehow, she must’ve gone down the wrong road, her once-bright future now tangled and bleak. She shut off the water and toweled dry, then hunted for her army bag in search of clothes.

  Her mother was probably worried sick about her.

  Lori snorted at her own foolishness. Who was she kidding? Mama didn’t give a fig what happened to her. Nonetheless, that didn’t mean she shouldn’t be responsible and let her know she was all right. She glanced at the phone by the bed. No calls, he’d said. Fine.

  If the Lord had wanted humans to use landlines, he wouldn’t have invented cell phones.

  Too bad Davis hadn’t packed her charger. Only two bars of power remained. Even worse was the message flashing across the center of the screen. No service available.

  Stupid beach.

  Bet if she walked a little ways inland she could get a better signal. Lori’s eyes widened. That’s right, she didn’t need a car to walk. She wasn’t trapped here after all, perched in this towering monstrosity of picture windows.

  Then again, he hadn’t left her a key. She wasn’t so irresponsible as to leave his house unlocked even for a brief moment. Was she?

  He meant for her to feel protected in his house, but instead she felt exposed. Open. Vulnerable. Not to the killer—to the view from the windows.

  With every ripple of the ocean, she imagined the house swaying with the waves and toppling into the tide.

  Lori peeked out the glass and gulped.

  She could almost feel the house swaying. No way could she stay inside all day, just waiting for a strong breeze to knock over the stilts and plunge her, walls and all, into the salty water.

  Clearly, if she stayed here, she’d lose her mind.

  Davis’s whole point was for her to stay clear of people, right? She could do that. Just walk far enough away to get a decent cell signal. Just for a few minutes.

  Lori strapped her cell phone to her waistband and headed to the kitchen to check the cupboards. Davis wasn’t kidding about the Coco Puffs. Three boxes, two of them open. Men.

  Next, she opened the refrigerator.

  Half a gallon of milk. A six-pack of Heineken, one missing. A carton of cage-free eggs. Loaf of wheat bread. He kept bread in the refrigerator? No matter. When she got back she’d make French toast. That would tide her over for a while.

  Lori paused for a moment at the door leading outside. This was it.

  Davis would kill her if he knew, even though she’d be gone less than five minutes. Plus, she might kill herself trying to get down those ridiculous stairs.

  She took a fortifying breath and opened the door. The salty breeze enveloped her.

  Eyes tightly closed, Lori counted backwards from thirteen until her feet reached the hot sand. Looking up, she smiled in triumph. She did it. Escape, if only for a moment.

  A glance at her phone told her she still had no signal. Well, should she try to the right or the left? Both directions seemed desolate and sparse, a few stork-like houses dotting the beach.

  The drawbridge curved back toward the direction they had first come.

  Since she definitely wasn’t walking around for miles, Lori headed off the other way.

  The road curved ahead. The new vista displayed a few more houses, a small café, and a convenience store. A poster in the café’s window declared “Lunch. Dinner. $5 Pitchers.” The neon Open sign was unlit.

  She checked her watch. Ten fifty-five. Not lunchtime yet.

  Lori eyed the convenience store. She’d love to go in, but she’d better not. Davis would kill her. But on the outside, various vending machines lined the front of the store.

  Ice. Three newspapers. Isla Concha ATM.

  In seconds, Lori had her purse open and counted her cash. She had eighty dollars. And she was living—temporarily—with Davis. She was probably good for now.

  But what about her bills?

  Most payments debited automatically from her checking account. What if she didn’t have enough in there? Who knew how long she’d be hidden away from home.

  She ought to transfer some money from her savings to her checking. Just to be safe. Nobody would see her do it because she wouldn’t go inside the store.

  What’s the worst that could happen?

  Mind made up, Lori jogged across the street to the ATM. The brief exercise felt great. She missed her morning run. Maybe tomorrow she could jog along the beach.

  She slipped her bankcard into the machine and punched in her PIN.

  Transferring money from one account to the other only took a few seconds, but she felt better about her finances already. Besides, now she could use her debit card everywhere she went without worrying about her balance.

  She turned from the machine just in time to see the café’s Open sign light up. Lori’s stomach grumbled. Maybe she ought to get some takeout. She’d better not leave the house again and who knew what time Davis would get home.

  Fifteen minutes later, Lori was halfway back to the beach house with a bag of hot food teasing her nostrils and her belly when she remembered her cell phone. She fumbled for it and peered at the screen.

  Roaming. Figured.

  At least it had a signal. She flipped it open and dialed her mother’s house. No answer. The machine clicked on and her mother’s staticky voice came across the line.

  “Mama, this is Lori. I’m just calling to say I’m okay. In case you were worried.”

  Feeling stupid and inadequate, Lori snapped the phone closed. She probably shouldn’t have bothered, but she did feel a little better.

&nb
sp; Suddenly, Davis’s house loomed in front of her, the stairs somehow seeming even less sturdy than before.

  “You can do it,” Lori told herself firmly, and somehow made it back inside.

  French toast forgotten in favor of French fries, Lori noshed straight from the takeout bag and flopped onto the couch in the living room. Hopefully Davis hadn’t called while she was gone. Lori clutched the paper sack guiltily.

  Well, what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

  Once she’d finished eating, she disposed of the evidence in the kitchen trash and wandered around his house. Keeping her eyes off the windows meant keeping them on all of Davis’s things. Her scrutiny felt a little nosy, like she was invading his privacy.

  Then again, he’d searched her house. Turnabout was fair play.

  Besides, wasn’t she dying to know who Davis Hamilton had become? Wonder what he did with his time when he wasn’t busy being a cop and doing cop things.

  Lori headed into the ill-named second bedroom.

  The phone was missing from its cradle. The desk was buried under an avalanche of files, and a dusty laptop lay forgotten to one side. The workout equipment, on the other hand, was well worn and dust-free.

  A small bookcase graced an inner wall, not visible from the hallway.

  Lori knelt in front of the shelves and ran a finger along the spines. Clancy. Crichton. Lots of paperback cop fiction. She’d had no idea Davis liked to read novels.

  Wonder what he’d thought of her romance collection.

  If she kept this up, she’d soon learn all his secrets. What an intriguing idea! Lori cocked her head. Almost as intriguing as the idea of him modeling. For her. In a sexy cop uniform.

  Maybe not the cop uniform. Too gay-bar. Better he be naked.

  Yeah, that was how she liked him. Inspiring. Lori grinned.

  She walked back into the bedroom, this time looking closer at the artwork on the walls. The paintings were signed, but not by Davis. He probably hadn’t drawn a single line since high school. What a waste of good talent.

  With a sigh, Lori went back into the living room and collapsed onto the couch. She reached for the footrest handle with an idle hand, expecting each section to recline individually.

  Instead, she heard a crunch. He’d shoved something behind the couch.

  On her knees, Lori peered in the dark crevice shadowed against the wall. She reached in and pulled out a large leather art portfolio, about two feet by three. Good lord, she uncovered clues about Davis left and right. Maybe she should’ve become a detective.

  She opened the hidden portfolio carefully, imagining it stuffed with all the beautiful paintings she remembered from his high school art career. But only Davis the man, not Davis the boy, could have created the heart-wrenching charcoal portraits that cascaded across her lap.

  Messy, soulful sketches of strange faces peered up at her.

  Wide-eyed children in some, lost-looking men in others, women with pleading eyes in the rest. Who were these people?

  Lori flipped over the sketches to find dates on the back. Last month. Last year. Seven years ago. Underneath each date was some kind of code. What was it? A case file number?

  Oh, boy.

  These were the people Davis tried to help every day of his life.

  They weren’t faceless numbers to him. They were real. They tormented him. He’d captured them here, in exquisite terror, pleading for his help.

  And had he helped them? Were they found, rescued, saved, vindicated? Their lives restored? Their killers caught? There was no indication whether justice had or had not prevailed, whether the faces were of closed or open cases.

  A lump in her throat, Lori carefully stacked the loose pages back into the portfolio and replaced it behind the couch.

  The twisting in her gut informed her that this haunted, emotional side of Davis was the last thing she’d needed to see. A jolt of panic sliced through her soul as the truth cemented in her heart.

  There was no helping it. She was still hopelessly, helplessly in love.

  Lori slapped a hand to her face. Great.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Davis left the Detective Sergeant’s desk feeling like a recalcitrant third grader forced to explain himself in front of his parents at the principal’s office.

  Yes, the star witness had been in danger again. No, they didn’t have the perp in custody. Yes, he knew how important this was to everyone involved. No, he didn’t think his badge was a toy. Yes, he was on the case. Now.

  Tonda Carver lingered in his chair when he returned to the noisy open workroom.

  “What are you doing?” Davis snapped then regretted his irritable tone.

  “Waiting for you,” Carver answered with an unconcerned shrug. “Expectantly. Get it? Expectantly.” She patted her belly and grinned.

  “Yeah, yeah.” Davis cast his gaze to the cracked ceiling panels. “Please tell me you’ve got something good.”

  “I got something great, partner. Two somethings. A name and a warrant. With me?”

  “Hell yeah.” Davis glanced at the address on the warrant and led the way to his car.

  Twenty minutes later, they emerged from an elevator onto a deserted condo hallway. In unison, both withdrew their weapons and crept forward.

  “Think Ms Tompkins is home?” whispered Carver, tilting her head toward the door.

  “Nah.” Davis admitted. The Camry wasn’t in the parking lot below. Besides, their luck hadn’t been that good. Just in case, he was keeping his gun handy. Seventeen rounds ought to give some kind of an advantage, if it came to that.

  Carver banged on the door with one fist. “Amber Tompkins! Police!”

  No response.

  The neighbor’s door on the far side creaked open. An enlarged head dotted with oversized pink curlers peeked out the top. “She’s not here, officers,” came the quivery voice.

  “How do you know?” asked Davis.

  “That one always plays her television set up loud, even late at night. Some of us like to get some sleep by eight or nine. Last night, nothing. That’s when I know she’s gone.”

  Carver jiggled the door handle.

  The elderly woman in the curlers stepped from her doorway, showing off a flowery floor-length nightgown and fuzzy slippers.

  “Doors automatically lock when you shut ’em. Security feature. You need in? Want me to call the Condo Association? Someone’s always downstairs, one to answer calls and the other to check vehicles for proper permits.”

  Davis forestalled Carver before she could do more than open her mouth. “Sure, ma’am,” he said with his most grateful expression. “We’d appreciate that.”

  “Be just a minute. Stay right there.” She slipped back inside.

  “I wanted to kick in the door,” Carver grumbled.

  “What do you think you are, a weeble-wobble? You’d have toppled right over, big mama. Besides, I’m the door-kicker around here because I’m the man. You’re the little lady.”

  “What’s your problem, then? Kick it in, you big ball of masculinity.” Carver smirked.

  “Normally, I’d love to. But this time we better play by the rules. That nice neighbor just rang the Condo Association. You don’t mess with them. They’re like the mafia. But meaner.”

  Carver heaved a dramatic, adolescent sigh. “You’re no fun.”

  Davis flipped open his notebook to jot down his description of the neighbor and their conversation. He had barely finished scribbling the last details when the elevator reopened and a bent, tiny old man hobbled out.

  “Who is that, Father Time?” Carver hissed.

  “No, that’s Jasper,” the pink-curlered neighbor called out helpfully, stepping back into the hall. “From the Condo Association. He’s got keys.”

  A giant metal ring dangled from one spindly hand as Jasper from the Condo Association limped his crooked gait toward them.

  Carver snorted. “No kidding. Keys weigh more than he does.”

  Davis elbowed her in the
arm and moved clear from the doorway.

  Jasper bent his head over the jangling mess of keys until he extracted the correct one. He stepped forward long enough to unlock the door and push it inward before he turned on his heels and headed back to the elevator.

  “Jasper not much of a talker?” Carver asked the neighbor.

  “Jasper is deaf,” the old lady answered cheerfully. “That’s why he checks parking permits.”

  “Yeah, Carver,” muttered Davis. “Pay attention.”

  She scowled at him and motioned toward the open door with her gun hand. He nodded, aimed his weapon, and stepped inside.

  He remembered the kitchen from last time. Dirty dishes, overflowing ashtray, funky smell. Clear. Two open walkways flanked the kitchen. He went left while Carver went right.

  Davis stepped into a small, carpeted living area. Single window, blinds drawn. TV off. One couch, one recliner, one small table with chairs. No place to hide. Clear.

  Carver stood to his right, at the entrance to a small hallway. Davis slid past her. He doubted anyone lay in wait, but this was one situation where women expecting children should not go first.

  To his right stood a green-tiled bathroom. Toilet seat down. Sink flecked with hair. Shower curtain open. Clear. To his left was the bedroom. Full-size bed, unmade. Carpeted floor, littered with clothes. Closet door open. Davis knelt and looked under the bed. Shoes. He stood.

  “Clear.”

  Carver popped an orange lozenge in her mouth, her weapon already holstered. “Thanks, Captain Obvious.”

  He shooed her backward until they stood in the entranceway again.

  “We’re not taking any chance of screwing up the scene.” Davis snapped on gloves and booties and motioned for her to do the same. “Weapons, evidence, anything forensics can use.”

  “I know what to look for, Columbo. I’m the one who got the warrant, remember?”

  Davis stepped back inside before she caught him smiling. Carver was so easy to rile up. Being her partner was just like having a sister.

  She went straight toward the bedroom and began rummaging through drawers. He headed to the bathroom to bag the hairbrush, toothbrush, plastic water glass, anything with potential DNA. When they’d collected as much as they could, they started back for the station.