Avenging Angel

by Justine Dare

  "Your father is ...?”

  "He died. Years ago, when I was a kid."

  "I'm sorry."

  From most people, it was a platitude, but he knew Regan had been there. At nearly the same age.

  "So was I. You know how tough it is. But we made it," he said, gesturing to include her in the statement.

  She nodded. "Yes. I had my aunt Mary, thank God. She couldn't have kids of her own, so she spent her maternal energy on me."

  This was the kind of chat, the tentative getting to know you kind of stuff that he'd wanted, yet knew was so dangerous. But he couldn't seem to stop himself.

  "Do you still see her?"

  "Yes, often. She's only down in San Diego. And makes the best home-baked cookies in the state, I might add."

  He widened his eyes. "Do you think she might spare a couple for a poor, hungry roofer?"

  "Just turn those baby blues on her, you'd get the whole plate. She's a sucker for a good-looking man."

  Alex blinked. It wasn't that he wasn't used to compliments on his looks, he got them often enough, they just weren't usually so neatly deliv­ered.

  "Thank you," he said.

  Regan shrugged as if she'd only been acknowl­edging a fact, which made it all the more effective.

  Their meal arrived, smelling delicious, but she'd only had three bites of her enchilada when her phone rang. Her gaze shot to him as they both re­membered what the last call like this had been. She dug her phone out and answered.

  His heart sank when he saw her expression change. Another one? Then she spoke, and he was both relieved and concerned.

  "Where is she? How bad is it?" She listened for another moment. "Did they catch him?"

  Alex watched as anger joined the dismay on her face.

  "Bastard," she said, startling him. "I'll be right there."

  She slammed the flap of the cell phone shut, breaking the connection. She looked at him. "I'm sorry, Alex, but—"

  He shook his head, already waving down their waiter. "I'll have him box up your dinner. You may need it later."

  She gave him a relieved look. "Thank you."

  "Where are we going?" he asked when, food boxed and in a bag on the floor, they were back in his truck.

  "You don't have to go. You can drop me off and I'll take my car." "Where?"

  "Western Medical Center."

  "That would be backtracking, then," he said, and headed out without giving her any more chance to argue.

  He could feel the anger radiating from her.

  "Want to tell me, or is it none of my business?"

  She clenched her hands into fists in her lap. "Mindy's boyfriend got to her."

  He swore. There was no mistaking what that meant, not when they were heading to the main trauma center hospital for the county.

  "How bad?"

  "Bad," she said. "Last time he cost her half her hearing in one ear. This time ..."

  Her voice broke. He reached out and took her hand, wrapped his fingers around the tight knot of her fist.

  "This time," she whispered, "he may have killed her."

  CHAPTER 9

  "She did it. I know she did it."

  Lynne looked up as a clearly agitated Nick Kelso yanked off his jacket and tossed it over the back of his chair.

  "Who?" she asked.

  "Wheeler's wife."

  "Did you get a match on the partial print CSI found on the watch?"

  "Not in our files. I've sent it to IAFIS."

  The Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identifica­tion System, Lynne knew, should have an answer in less than two hours. "Does she have an alibi?" she asked.

  "She claims she was at a party."

  "Should be easy to verify, then," Lynne said neu­trally.

  "I've already checked it. People say she was there, but nobody can swear she was there the whole time."

  Lynne thought he was stretching a bit, but said only, "Must have been a big party."

  "Yeah, some useless society woman thing."

  Lynne winced inwardly. A memory stirred, that Nick's ex-fiancee had been from a socially promi­nent family. She hoped he wasn't letting that get in the way.

  "What's she like, the wife?"

  "Typical. Polished, refined. One of those fragile-looking ones, the kind that milk it."

  "Not a big woman, then?"

  "No."

  "Odd. He was a big guy."

  Nick yanked his chair out and dropped down into it. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Maybe she didn't do it herself, but she's in it up to her gold-draped neck, I'll swear to it."

  "You think she hired somebody to do it?"

  "Or seduced them into it."

  "Wouldn't be the first time," Lynne said, al­though she wasn't liking his sour tone. "Yeah."

  Nick shoved his fingers through his hair. She thought again what a walking California poster boy he was, great body, golden hair, the frequent killer grin. And then another image overrode the man before her, an image of a man with thick, dark hair, smoky gray eyes, and a grin that rarely ap­peared. Her mouth tightened. Why couldn't she fall for an open-book guy like Kelso? But no, she al­ways went for the dark ones, in looks and nature. Quite a track record she'd compiled.

  And now she was about to run head-on into the biggest speed bump on that track.

  She stood up abruptly, needing to move, to get out. She fastened the belt clip holster with her two-inch Smith & Wesson at the small of her back, then pulled on her lightweight linen blazer to conceal it.

  "You're headed out?" Nick asked.

  She nodded. "I'm going to stop by Rachel's House. They've probably heard about your case by now, so I want to let them know it isn't related."

  "What difference does it make to them?"

  She blinked. "They're pretty upset, Nick."

  "Why? It's the guys who are getting offed."

  If he didn't get it, she didn't have time to explain it to him now. So instead she changed the subject. "You still have those crime reports you pulled for our case?"

  "The DVs? Yeah."

  "Put them on my desk, will you?"

  "I finished going through them already. No help there."

  "Still, I'd like to have them handy. Wouldn't mind having your notes, too."

  "I'll dig them out and get them to you first chance I get."

  She wanted to demand them now, although she wasn't quite sure why. So instead she tried to be tactful. "Soon as you can. I'd like to get it in my head before the cavalry arrives."

  "I said I'll get them to you."

  He seemed tense about it, but he had just had a murder case dumped on him when he was sup­posed to be only on loan in the first place.

  "Okay, thanks."

  He unleashed that grin. "It's just that I like to fin­ish a job, even when I didn't want it in the first place."

  "Yeah, yeah," Lynne said to his mock whine as she left.

  Reminded by their conversation, she stopped to thank records for pulling all those old domestic-violence files, something she'd been meaning to do, since Nick had a tendency not to bother to ac­knowledge anyone else's efforts. As she left there, she ran into Captain Greer coming from the direc­tion of the chief's office.

  "No task force yet," he told her. "But Investigator Garrison will be reporting here from the sheriff's office this afternoon."

  "Yes, sir," she said levelly.

  "You're sure there's no problem?"

  "We're actually quite civilized," Lynne said.

  "I'll leave it to you, then," Greer said. "It will make up for Kelso being pulled off your case."

  "For which he'll be eternally grateful," Lynne said.

  "I doubt that, as hard as he pushed to get as­signed to it."

  Lynne drew back slightly. "He what?"

  "He must have been in my office three times a day, asking to be put on the case."

  "Oh."

  She didn't say any more, just thanked him and continued toward her car. It didn't make sense, she thought, remembering wh
en Nick had first come to her.

  I've been assigned to your case until it's cleared. You have?

  Told you my luck was rotten.

  She would write it off as just typical cop griping if he hadn't kept at it so.

  Since they stuck me on this thing, I'll pull my weight.

  Damn, I didn't want this assignment anyway.

  She shook her head. By the time she had arrived at Rachel's House, she had decided she was going to get a hold of Nick Kelso's files as soon as she got back to the station.

  She parked down the street and waited for any sign that anyone was paying any attention to her. When she saw nothing, she got out of her car and began to walk door to door, holding her notebook as if she were some kind of survey taker. If anyone was watching, they would have no way of know­ing what house she'd really intended to go to.

  When she got to Rachel's House, she thought again how it looked like any other house in the quiet neighborhood. She wondered if the cul-de-sac location had been chosen purposely, then decided it probably had. If anything went wrong, there was only one exit to watch.

  As she went up the walkway, she changed her mind; the front yard, at least, looked better than most on the street. She'd noticed when she'd come here for the interviews that flowers bloomed pro­fusely, bright spots of cheerful color that seemed to almost glow in the sunlight. Somebody had a green thumb, she thought. Ben had talked to the gardener already about the case, but she was tempted to track him down and ask him for some gardening hints.

  And somebody, she thought as she heard hammering from above and looked up, had great taste in roofers. That was one prime segment of the male population up there. She remembered the note Ben had left in the file, that he'd been vetted by Court Corporation, had been doing work for them for years.

  The man glanced down at her, and smiled when she did. "Detective?"

  The roofer came down the ladder with an easy grace that told her he'd done it often before.

  "Yes, Mr. Edwards, isn't it?"

  "Yes. I was just wondering ... I know it's proba­bly routine that you check everyone out, but..."

  "Are you wondering if we checked you out?"

  He blinked. "Actually, no. I assumed you had, since I'm working here."

  Lynne smiled. "I wish more people would take that so casually."

  He shrugged. "No, I was wondering about ... the guy next door. Gene Pilson."

  Lynne frowned. "I'm sure he was covered in a canvass of the neighborhood, but I don't recall any­thing specific, why?"

  "I don't know. But he is over here a lot, and seems to have the run of the place. It's probably nothing, but I didn't know if you knew he had a lot of access."

  "No. I didn't know that," Lynne said. "Thanks. I'll look into it."

  The man nodded, went back up the ladder, and she heard the sound of hammering resume almost immediately.

  Thoughtfully, she stepped up onto the porch.

  When she knocked, Regan herself answered the door.

  "What's wrong?" Lynne asked instantly. Regan's demeanor, along with her reddened eyes, fairly shouted that something was.

  Regan opened her mouth, then shut it and waved a hand in a defeated gesture. Lynne hadn't known her very long, but she had a good idea what it would take to beat down this woman. She took her arm and led her back inside.

  In the living room, four women were seated on the sofa. All of them wore expressions very like Regan's.

  "What happened?" she asked.

  "Mindy. One of our residents," Regan managed to say this time. "I just came from the hospital. She's in a coma."

  Lynne went still. She knew better than to think the woman was simply ill. Not when she was liv­ing in a place like Rachel's House. The women on the couch were watching her, not knowing who she was but, she guessed, ready to judge her by what­ever she said here.

  "Who did it?" she asked softly.

  It was the right question. The women's tension eased.

  "Her boyfriend found her last night. We don't know how, but he did." "Did you call it in?"

  "Yes. I gave them everything I knew. They took a report, said they'd look for him."

  "I'll rattle their cages," Lynne promised.

  "You're a cop?" One of the women, dark-haired with rich brown eyes, had stood up.

  "I'm sorry," Regan said quickly, ushering Lynne toward the group. "This is Detective Garrison. She's working on the murders. This is Marita, and that's Laura, Trish, and Belinda. The others will be here later."

  They were all looking at her warily. And Lynne didn't miss the usage of first names only, although she knew what went with them from the files.

  "I'm on your side," she tried to assure them.

  "Oh?" The one who had stood up, the one Regan had said was Laura, spoke with a world of weary disbelief in her voice. "Is that why when I called the cops they said I should just not provoke my husband? Or told me I should just drop it because if it went to court no one would believe me?"

  Lynne winced. "God, I hate hearing that crap."

  Her honest reaction seemed to appease them, for the moment at least.

  Regan gestured her to a chair. "Was there some­thing you needed?"

  Lynne took the offered seat. "Yes." She glanced at Regan. "You told them about our conversation last night?"

  She nodded. "You didn't say not to, so I—"

  "No, that's fine, I knew it was going to hit the pa­pers anyway." She looked at the others. "I just wanted to confirm for you that on this one there doesn't appear to be any connection to any of you, or to Rachel's House."

  "Thank goodness," Marita muttered.

  "However," Lynne said reluctantly, "you may not be out of the woods as far as the serial killer goes."

  "Why?" Regan asked.

  "This is what I couldn't tell you, but it's going to be released this afternoon. We're ninety-nine per­cent certain this wasn't the same killer."

  After the buzz of reaction died down, Lynne ex­plained that she couldn't tell them the details, and stressed that they should continue to be wary, and take the same precautions of accounting for their time and whereabouts that they had been.

  "Thank you," Regan said when Lynne rose. "I know you must be terribly busy, and it was kind of you to come out here to let us know."

  Lynne turned to face all of them. "When this is over, I'm looking forward to working closely with Rachel's House. My goal is to be so darn good at my job that it's the bad guys who have to hide, not you."

  That got her a set of smiles from women she doubted had much reason to smile in their lives.

  When Regan offered to show her out, Lynne shook her head. "You stay together. Oh, and let me know how Mindy is, will you?"

  "I will."

  "Is her family with her?"

  "Her mother's bedridden, and can't travel. She lives with Mindy's brother. When I spoke to her, she said Marty was out on the road but she'd try to reach him. He's a trucker."

  Lynne remembered that, from the first round of interviews with the Rachel's House family members. She also remembered Marty Baker from Kelso's interview as a angry young man, at least on the subject of his sister's boyfriend.

  "If she hasn't reached him by tomorrow, let me know. I'll put out an all-points for him."

  "Thank you," Regan said. "I'll do that."

  When she stepped outside, Lynne was startled to find the good-looking roofer sitting on the porch, close to the door. He was sipping a can of soda, so she gathered it was break time. When he saw her, he got to his feet.

  "Sorry, didn't mean to be in your way. I'm Alex," he said, holding out his hand.

  "Detective Garrison," she returned, not seeing any reason to go beyond that.

  She half expected him to ask, as most anyone on the fringes of a murder investigation would, about the case. But he only nodded, said something about getting back to work, and retreated to the roof.

  A small pickup truck pulled up directly in front just as she reached the sidewalk. It was f
ull of gar­dening tools, and a man got out. Instinctively she noted his average height and build, deep tan, and the black baseball cap with the words "Howe Landscaping" embroidered across the front.

  "The yard looks lovely."

  "Thank you," he said. "I've got to catch up, though. I was sick for a few days. But I've worked on it for a long time."

  "It shows."

  He hesitated, then asked, "You're one of the detectives, aren't you?" "Yes."

  "I think it's rotten, that they're getting dragged into this," he said with a glance toward the house. "Their lives have been bad enough."

  He sounded protective, Lynne thought. That was kind of sweet. "We'll have it cleared up soon." I hope.

  "If there's anything I can do to help," he offered. "Just keep an eye out." "I always do."

  She walked back to her car thinking that for a battered women's shelter Rachel's House had a couple of decent men around.

  At the rustle of sound at the door, Regan turned from the painful sight of Mindy's swollen, unrecog­nizable face to look at Pamela, the day-shift ICU nurse who had just come on duty.

  "Someone left a huge bunch of flowers for her," Pamela said, her slight Southern drawl a welcome softness in this sterile place. "I'm sorry we can't bring them in. The man left them at the floor desk."

  Mitch, Regan thought instantly. "Sandy hair, sort of cute, very tan?"

  "Actually, dark hair, extremely cute, with a scar that tweaks one eyebrow."

  Regan sucked in a breath. "Alex?"

  Pamela nodded. "He said he brought them in from someone named Mitch, though."

  "Ah. Mitch has been sick, he probably didn't want to risk coming himself."

  "I wish everybody had such good sense."

  Regan backed out of the way as Pamela checked the computer screen that hung over the bed, and the tubes that were connected to Mindy, helping connect her to life.

  "She's holding steady,' Pamela said encourag­ingly. Regan gave her the best smile she could man­age. The woman was obviously dedicated, and never failed to save time to speak to worried family members, even at this early hour. She started to­ward the next alcove and her next patient, then stopped and looked back at Regan.