by Trish Reeb
Detective Grant sat again. "I don’t want to frighten you, but it’s possible whoever attacked you killed Taryn."
Although it had occurred to her, too, hearing him say it sent her mind reeling. To a dark and scary place. She swallowed, gulping back the fear rising from her abdomen.
"Think he knows who you are?" Cole asked.
If not before, he would now if he checked the handbag she conveniently left by the door. Hackles raised on her neck. "Wait." She started to lean over for the large plastic bag on the bottom of the bedside stand.
"I’ll get it," Detective Grant said, bending.
Alex eased back into her pillow, thankful for his intervention.
He handed her the bag.
She rummaged through her clothes for her purse, her anxiety spiking. "My handbag’s not here." He'll know who I am. Where I live.
Detective Grant frowned. "Do you live alone?"
"With Sami and Sid."
He screwed up his forehead. "And they would be?"
She sighed. "My cats."
"Cats?"
"You got something against them?"
"I think they’re cool, but my allergies don’t care for them much."
Her mind a muddle, his response barely registered.
"Can you stay with anyone for a few days?"
"Is that necessary?"
His eyes bore into hers. "It's clear he knows where you live."
Alex chomped on her lip. Where would she go? Moving in with Gino and his two roommates brought to mind boxer shorts, fast food, and upright toilet seats. No thanks. Ellery and Sheila would take her in if she asked, but she couldn’t bring her cats. They’d eat the Humbargers' three Yorkies before they let out a yip. Bobbi's kids wouldn’t give her a rest wanting her all to themselves. Despite the excuses, she didn't want to impose on anyone. "Sorry, no place to go."
He leaned forward. "All right, Alex, where do you live?" He cleared his throat and arched the scarred eyebrow.
She couldn't tell if fear or the familiar way he'd said her name sent her heart into a fast dribble. "Canton."
"Okay, here's the deal. I’ll arrange for police surveillance and you keep your alarm activated, home or not." He paused. "A security system is installed?"
She nodded.
"Promise me something?"
Anything you want. "What?"
"Change your locks when you get home tomorrow. The sooner, the better."
Just thinking about it wore her out. She closed her eyes, sleep calling.
"You’re tired. The rest of my questions can wait until Monday. If you think of anything at all between now and then, call me."
Alex opened one eye, then the other.
He waggled his card.
"Already have one, thanks."
He sent her a skewed look. "Only helps if you use it. Here’s my cell number so you can reach me directly." He wrote it on the back and laid it on the table.
Alex closed her eyes. "Thanks." She listened to his footsteps until they faded. If only she could sleep into next year, wake up to find Taryn's killer behind bars, and the pain of her death dulled by the passage of time.
A male nurse dropped by to check her blood pressure, scaring her into wakefulness. How ridiculous. What frightened her? The thought that the ghost sent him to finish the job he'd started? Calm down, Alex. You're not the protagonist in one of Mom's mystery novels. Even though it seemed as if she'd stepped into the pages of one.
She shuddered. Maybe she should rethink going home. But she had nowhere else to go.
CHAPTER 11
Cole left the hospital, the blinding late afternoon sun urging on his sunglasses. The low grade heat warmed his face despite the cold air, until he bowled into a gust of wind. Flipping up his collar, he double-timed it to the car.
The wind in Michigan, like the sun, could appear and disappear like . . . magic.
Cole, you can do better. Desi’s voice. They’d often played word games on long car trips. Yeah, he copped out and came up with a cliché, but it did remind him he needed to get back to the community center soon. Before Desiree’s hospitalization, he spent at least one evening a week teaching magic tricks to elementary school kids and playing pool with the teens. Cole smiled. The older kids scoffed at magic until they observed the cool sleight of hand. Once they attempted the trick and learned it required skill, their respect for the art, as well as the man, grew exponentially. Learning magic bolstered the kids’ confidence and reinforced their work ethic. To do it well required hours of practice. By and by, he pulled them out of their comfort zone and into nursing homes and hospitals to entertain young and old patients. They learned compassion, to appreciate their youth, and value their health. Yeah, he missed the kids. Maybe it was time to start picking up the pieces of his old life and rejoin the living.
Cole drove to the City of Westland to learn who screwed up, Burkhart or the suburban police. It didn’t make sense. Burk asks to help and doesn’t follow through?
Would the outcome differ if they'd secured the apartment? Hell, yes, it would've kept Alex out. Who're you trying to kid? Maybe she learned her lesson. In what lifetime?
He could think of no counter argument.
After consulting the Westland P.D. he called Burkhart, who worked midnights, at home and asked him to meet him at Pizza House. Arriving within seconds of each other, they crossed the parking lot together. Burk rushed ahead to open the door of the restaurant for Cole.
The waitress led them to a booth, distributed the menus, and obtained their drink order.
"How’s the case going, kid?" Burkhart asked.
"Let's order first. I’m starved," Cole answered, postponing the confrontation.
They studied their menus in silence. Once Cole decided, he set it aside and let his gaze tour the tired restaurant in need of a Ty Pennington makeover. Extreme.
A young couple and a yowling toddler in a high chair occupied a corner table. The mom produced a Ziploc bag of goldfish crackers and spread them on the tray. The little boy stopped crying and wrapped his chubby hand around one. He lifted it to his mouth. The goldfish fell into his lap. His mother popped one in before he could react. The toddler captured another cracker while Cole silently cheered him on.
"Kids are cute, aren’t they?" he said.
Burk closed his menu. "Yeah, as long as they belong to someone else."
"How are your two?"
"Grown, thank Gott. Didn’t think I’d survive their adolescence. But they’re gut."
Burkhart’s German accent thickened when he seemed tired or stressed. What had caused it, trouble sleeping or too much pressure on the job?
Burk slid out of his seat to fetch a coat that fell off the back of a chair at the next table. He handed it to the owner, smiled, and retreated. "You ever think about having kids?" he asked, sliding into his seat.
Cole stared at him. Desi's gone. Either the man was clueless, or he didn’t care if his words hurt. The reckless question fueled Cole’s anger about the oversight at Taryn’s.
"Ready to order?" the waitress asked, setting their drinks in front of them.
Burkhart asked for a small pizza with the works. "Don’t forget the anchovies."
Cole ordered a side of spaghetti and a dinner salad. He pushed his anger down. "You on a diet?"
Burkhart raised an eyebrow.
"You usually order a medium."
Hands on his ample belly, he laughed. "Don’t want to spoil my dinner."
Cole forced a smile.
"You going to tell me how the case is going?" Burkhart asked.
Cole jumped in with both feet. "WPD failed to secure the vic’s apartment." He wondered if the old man even noticed that he rarely used Burk's lingo "vic" or "victim." Probably not. Burkhart, too self-centered for one thing, wouldn't consider the words stole the one thing the victims had left—their identities. Burk detached. Cole kept it personal. For the sake of this conversation, he’d talk Burk’s language.
Burkhart slammed a hand
on the table. "You kiddin' me? I contacted them right after we talked. Westland screwed up."
"There’s no record of it."
He lifted an eyebrow. "You checked up on me?"
Cole clenched a fist under the table. The guy wouldn't take this lying down. He should've known. Burk never relented without uttering the last word. Not this time. "No choice. This afternoon an A&B occurred at Taryn's place resulting in Tamburelli's hospitalization."
"Can’t be more than one Tamburelli."
"Bingo."
"Better put that woman on a leash, man." Burkhart tapped the table, using an index finger as he said each word. "She’s," tap, "trouble," tap.
"Sealing the place off could've prevented the assault."
"You’re joking, right?"
Cole wouldn't win this argument any more than the one in which he engaged with himself. "You log in the person you talked to and the time?"
"Think it’s my first day off the block?" Burkhart stood. He threw his napkin down on the table. "I don’t need this horseshit."
"Man, sit down. These questions are valid and necessary. You know you’d do the same."
Burkhart rocked side to side a moment and then sat. "You’re right," he said, sucking in air and puffing it out.
Then it became all about Burk. How he once put a veteran cop in his place, blah, blah, blah, blah.
Cole only half listened. If Burk told the truth, the error belonged to the Westland police. Bottom line, it was Burk’s word against theirs. For now, Cole lacked a reason to doubt him and couldn’t think of why he’d lie. He wished Sterling Haygood were here instead of floating somewhere out on the Caribbean. At least he could get his take on it. No. No, he couldn’t. He chuckled to himself. He'd given up tattling and his tricycle at the age of four.
The food arrived and the two men ate in silence.
As they finished their meal, five teens shuffled into the restaurant. Dressed in tees the size of pup tents, saggy jeans, and do-rags, they created a lot of ruckus moving to their table. They resembled each other as they scuffed past—their legs spread wide presumably to hold up their pants, material pooling at their feet.
"Look at that ho. Ain’t she fine?" one said, gesturing to the waitress.
Another dude grinned and flashed her the once-over. "Yeah, check out that booty." They laughed and knocked knuckles.
One kid brushed against the table.
Burkhart glared at him. "Watch it, man."
The youth snickered. "My bad." His attire resembled that of the other four boys except the do-rag lay untied on his shoulders exposing copper red cornrows.
Burkhart’s eyes followed the teens. "Kids today got no manners," he said, unfolding his napkin and leaning back in the booth. He regarded Cole. "Hey, I feel like shit about this. Anything I can do to make it up to you?"
Cole considered it. He didn’t need his help; but, on the other hand, he’d ruffled Burk’s feathers. He should repair the damage in case he needed his help down the road. Cole told him about Yolanda Morgan losing it. "Her story smells like sour milk."
"Like how?" Burkhart sipped his Coke.
"Arrived an hour ahead of schedule, noticed a busted window in the black of morning. Shit like that."
"How’d she happen to come in so early?"
"Couldn’t sleep, planned to eat breakfast at Joe’s Coney Island." Cole drained his glass of water.
"Hell, that ain’t nothing." After rambling on about his experience, he asked, "Anything else?"
"Only the assault at Ms. Richards’ apartment."
"Any suspects?" Burkhart’s knife slid off the Formica and he dove under the table for it.
Cole leaned back. "Taryn’s boyfriend showed shortly after Alex's assault," he said, once Burkhart reappeared.
Burk righted himself. "Spouse or boyfriend’s prime suspect in a murder."
"Haven't had time to question him yet." Thanks to Alex.
Burkhart raised an eyebrow. "Shoulda been one of the first."
Cole stiffened, resenting the criticism. He’d talked to Jordan briefly before heading to the hospital to see Alex. They'd scheduled an appointment for the next morning.
"Alex able to describe the perp?"
Cole glanced at Burk. "No." Tired of the conversation, he didn’t elaborate.
"What can I do to help?"
Okay, why not. Maybe the breakdown in communication hadn't been Burk’s fault. "Do a back-ground check on the SG. Including work, volunteer, private life, anything you can find."
"What’s her name again?"
"Yolanda Morgan."
Burkhart didn’t bother writing it down. Must possess a good memory, Cole thought, better than mine and nearly twice my age. Shouldn’t it be disintegrating about now? Without thinking, Cole blurted the question bugging him all day. "What would you do about Alex Tamburelli?"
Burkhart smiled, revealing his dimples. He winked. "Know what I'd do if I were ten years younger."
"Try twenty."
They laughed, the tension rolling off Cole’s back.
CHAPTER 12
Cole drove the short distance home thinking about Burk, a nickname acquired from Haygood. They'd been partners for seven years until Haygood applied for a leave of absence to care for his wife when she underwent a mastectomy. Cole never liked Burk much; but, because of his friend, he tolerated him.
Though angry about the snafu over Taryn’s apartment, the guy seemed pleased when Cole allowed him the opportunity to redeem himself. It wouldn’t hurt, though, to have one of his people follow up on Morgan. Better safe than sorry.
Although he and Burk laughed at Alex’s expense, her situation was far from humorous. The assailant knew where she lived. Reminded of their deal and his promise to contact the Canton police, Cole pulled out his cell phone. He hoped they’d cooperate and be more efficient than their counterpart one suburb away. After making the call, he relaxed a little. But he knew better than to trust his agreement with Alex. The Band-Aid fix didn't guarantee she'd stick to the program.
Cole drove into his driveway, used the remote to open the door to the detached garage, and parked next to Desiree’s red Lexus. Someday he’d sell it. Not yet. He couldn't even bring himself to clean out her half of the closet that still bore the scent of jasmine.
He let himself into the house and hung his coat in the hall closet. "I’m home," he called. The answering silence thundered in his ears. How long would it take to get used to the quiet? Of living alone?
Retrieving his laptop from upstairs, he shook off the loneliness and unrelenting bone-deep sorrow. Needing more space than his office rendered, he spread his notes across the dining room table. The chore of organizing the notes demanded an hour of his time. Transferring them into documents on his computer consumed another two.
Finished, Cole glanced at the clock. Nine-thirty. Too early for bed, and too pumped to sleep, he wandered into the den and flicked on the TV. After surfing over a hundred channels, he killed the connection and went to the bookcase. He pulled out a movie Desiree bought for him and he'd not yet watched. For the next hour and a half, he submerged himself in Brick, a noir mystery art film set in a southern California high school. How serendipitous, how well she knew him. She'd predicted he’d cheer for the underdog, an unpopular kid turned gumshoe detective. Thanks, Babe.
After making a short detour to the kitchen to transfer ground beef from the freezer to the refrigerator, Cole climbed the stairs. He prepared for bed, brushing his teeth and stripping down to his boxers. After pulling back the covers and plumping the pillows against the headboard, he grabbed Harlan Coben’s latest book from the nightstand and slipped into bed.
He scanned the room. Desiree, possessing an eye for style, incorporated an eclectic mix of furniture and accessories pleasing to both his masculine and her feminine tastes. She’d offset the heavy mahogany king-size bed and dressers with a duvet she called antique ivory and an array of bright pillows. He pictured her now on the settee in front of the bay window, fluf
fy socks—the more colorful and thicker the better—on her always cold feet.
Cole opened the book and read half a page, but thoughts of Desiree kept seeping in between the words. He abandoned Harlan Coben and ran a hand along the empty space beside him. When would it end, or at least diminish, this ache for her body lying next to his at night? Or in the morning, when the yearning seemed more powerful than his survival instinct? And the guilt, when would the guilt stop?
A painful scene played in his head.
Mrs. Turner’s grief-stricken eyes plead. "You can’t do this," she says. "You just can’t."
Cole attempts to hug her, but she steps back. "We have to let her go. The doctor’s say—"
She balls her fists, raising her voice, "I don’t care what they say! She’s my baby!"
"There’s no brain activity."
"What if they’re wrong?"
Mr. Turner wraps an arm around his wife. "Come on, honey, watch your blood pressure." He throws Cole a piercing look. "If anything happens to my wife because of this, I’m holding you responsible."
Mrs. Turner storms down the hall, her husband following. Neither looks back. They barely speak to Cole at the funeral and, despite his efforts, have not communicated since.
Cole wiped the tears from his eyes. He lifted the framed photograph taken the year before at a ski lodge in Vail, Colorado. A bundled up Desi beamed at him. He stared at it for a long time, soaking in her beautiful face. Sadly, he relied on photos to refresh the picture in his mind of Desiree that seemed to grow fainter by the day.
He drifted to sleep around midnight, thoughts of Desi and the Taryn Richards’ murder swirling in his head like sand in a whirlwind.
CHAPTER 13
Saturday, February 10
Alex awakened to a nurse wrapping a blood pressure cuff on her arm. Still dark outside, the nightlight provided enough illumination to make out the hospital room to which they’d transferred her late last night. The events of yesterday tumbled through her mind, crashing into each other like boxcars in a train wreck.
Taryn’s gone. Tears threatened. No more girls’ nights out. No more late night phone calls. No more giggles that got going and didn’t quit. Alex smacked at the tears running down her cheeks.