Avenging Angel

by Justine Dare

  "Like I'd marry a cunt like that. I tried to tell Joey she was nothing but trouble, but she had him thinking below the belt."

  Joey. Joel? Regan guessed. "We have two units ar­riving now," the dispatcher said.

  "It happens," Alex said easily. "You can't blame the guy."

  "But she killed him," the man burst out. "She killed my boy."

  Oh, God, Regan thought. "He's still talking," she whispered into the phone, "but he's got the knife at her throat. From what he just said, he may be re­lated to the last serial killer victim." She listened in an agony of tension as she heard the woman swiftly relay that information.

  "This woman killed your son?" Alex was saying. God, how could he stay so calm?

  Regan's breath caught as she saw a police car edging into the parking lot.

  "Doesn't matter if she did it herself. Maybe it was that killer. But it wouldn't have happened if she hadn't made those reports for nothing. All he did was slap her a little when she got out of line."

  The police car crept closer.

  "It isn't fair, is it?" Alex said understandingly.

  "No, damn it! She made him lose his temper, the way she flirted all the time. She was a slut, and—"

  His head snapped to the right. He'd seen the po­lice unit. As he moved, the knife lowered slightly, away from Danielle's throat.

  In the same instant Alex hurdled the high counter, kicking out as he went. His foot caught the spinner rack, sent it crashing to the floor. The man jerked around toward the clatter. Then Alex was on him, wrenching his arm, pulling Danielle free. The moment the girl was clear, Alex took the man down to the floor, pinning him with a knee as he tight­ened his grip on the hand that held the knife. After barely a second, the knife dropped, hitting the floor with a resonant clang.

  It happened so fast Regan forgot to breathe, let alone speak. "He's disarmed," she said belatedly into the phone. Then she dropped the receiver and ran to Danielle, to make sure she was all right.

  There was too much to do for Regan to dwell on the amazing scene she'd witnessed just yet. The po­lice quickly came inside and handcuffed the man.

  "Nice work," the first officer on the scene said to Alex. "Stupid, but nice work."

  Alex gave him a lopsided smile.

  "Hey, I know you," the officer said. "Aren't you—"

  "Alex Edwards, yes. I think we met last year. At that place that got broken into up on Pacific Boule­vard

  ."

  "Yeah, that's it. But—"

  "Thanks for the quick response. He had me scared."

  "What's this about his son?" the backup officer asked.

  "She killed him, damn you," the man said, but the ferocity was waning.

  "I think his son was the man they found last night," Regan told them.

  "Killed by the Avenger?"

  She nodded.

  "That little bitch set him up for it!"

  Regan lost her temper, turning on the handcuffed man. "That 'little bitch' is in the hospital in a coma and may die, thanks to your precious son! He brought this on himself, and if there's any other fault in this, it's yours, since you're obviously where he learned to use violence!"

  He spat at her. She was far enough away so that the spittle didn't reach her, but that didn't stop Alex from taking a step toward him.

  "Easy," the backup officer said. "I'll get him out of here. And we'd better call Detective Garrison, if there's a connection to the Avenger."

  The first cop nodded. "Hey, let's let her book him. I heard she's feeling pretty edgy right now, with her ex being on loan to work the Avenger case. Nothing she'd like better than to get her hands on a prize scumbag like this one."

  The second officer laughed as he dragged his prisoner out of the office. Ex? Regan wondered, re­calling the wedding band she'd seen on the detec­tive's hand.

  "Let me go get some report forms, and we'll get through your statements as fast as we can," the first officer said, and left to go back to his police unit.

  "Start with Danielle so she can go home," Regan suggested. With a nod, the officer led the still shaken girl into Regan's back office. Regan used one of the desk phones to call her parents to come pick her up.

  When she hung up, Regan turned back to Alex.

  "Now," she said, "do you want to tell me where the heck you learned to fight like that?"

  He shrugged. "I took some classes when I was a kid."

  "That looked pretty darn freshly practiced." "I try to keep my hand in. It's a scary world." "Isn't it just," she muttered. She studied him for a moment. "That really was incredibly brave. Stu­pid"—she grinned as she repeated the officer's as­sessment—"but brave."

  "Hey, it worked. Besides, I didn't want it to get any worse, drag on for hours with all of us hostages in here and the cops out there. He was distracted when he saw the police car, so I took advantage."

  "I've never seen anything like that outside a movie."

  "I saw it in an old Miami Vice once. Cable TV is a great thing. I wanna be Sonny Crockett when I grow up."

  "I loved Sonny when I was an impressionable young girl. But now I think that was his problem. He never did grow up."

  "Well, I want the alligator, then. Great pet."

  She laughed, and then wondered that she was able to, considering.

  "That's better," Alex said, and she realized that had been his intention all along.

  He put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed gently. She wanted nothing more than to cross that distance between them, to have the feel of his arms around her again. But instead she just smiled and stayed where she was. After a moment, he let go.

  "Even though you still talk to the male of the species, you don't trust us, do you?"

  The truth hit her with blinding clarity. Living with horror stories about brutal men every day had affected her. It had colored her reactions to any man. It had colored her reaction to Alex. She'd been fighting her response to this man from the moment she'd realized his interest went beyond just his work at Rachel's House.

  "I think," she said shakily, "I need to go home."

  "I'll take you as soon as we're done here. But I don't think you should tell them what happened here."

  "I agree," she said, "but that's not what I meant. I want to go home. I need to talk to Aunt Mary."

  He looked at her for a long moment. "Then I'll take you there," he said.

  "Don't be silly. She's in San Diego."

  "Don't be silly. You shouldn't be driving."

  Regan fought the instinct to say no, to keep dis­tance between them. Finally she said, "Thank you."

  Drew Garrison was still the sexiest man she'd ever seen. The lean, rangy body was still the proto­type of any man who made Lynne look twice. The bit of gray that flecked his dark hair at the temples did nothing to change that, nor did the crow's-feet at the corners of his eyes. They only made him look like what he was, a man, not a boy.

  Lynne got to her feet, not liking the advantage his height gave him when she was sitting. She was a tall woman, so it didn't usually affect her, but with him it did. He was one of the few men who'd ever been able to make her feel as if five feet nine wasn't so very tall after all, even though he was only four inches taller.

  But whatever she gained by standing she lost when he stepped forward and took her left hand. The hand that still wore his ring.

  "I would have thought you would have melted it down and turned it into a toothpick by now."

  "It helps keep the wolves away," she said, giving him part of the truth. A small part.

  "Is that the only reason?"

  "It also reminds me how big a fool I can be." His expression went blank. She shrugged. "You asked."

  "Yes, I did, didn't I?" He changed the subject so obviously that it was clear he didn't care if she knew it. "Ironic, isn't it? I've been a homicide in­vestigator for nearly ten years, but you're the one who gets the serial killer case."

  "Think I can't handle it?"

  His eyebrows rose at
that, and Lynne knew she'd given herself away. For all his sins, Drew had never belittled her ability to do the job. In fact, he'd been her biggest supporter, as angry as she had been at the constant battles of a woman in this still mostly male world.

  "Look," she said, "there's some other stuff going on, so I'm a little edgy."

  "I'd be surprised if you weren't," he said. "But don't doubt you can handle it. You can."

  Now there was the true irony, Lynne thought. She felt as if she were about to buckle under the added weight of the discovery about Nick, and here was Drew propping her up.

  "Yes, I can," she said, determined not to let it show.

  "Is it going to be a problem, me being assigned to help on your case?"

  "It's Ben Durwin's case. I just got sucked in a side door." She saw by the flicker in his eyes that he knew she was dodging the question, so she added firmly, "No, it's not a problem. Unless you make it one."

  "Me? I try never to make problems where there aren't any."

  She nearly gaped at him. He couldn't mean that the way it sounded. If anybody had made prob­lems between them, it had been him.

  "Are you Garrison?"

  The voice came from behind them, and at the sound of the name they shared, they both turned. A young man in uniform stood there, looking hesi­tant. Drew tactfully took a step back, since it was clear she was the Garrison he was looking for.

  She'd seen the young patrol officer around. She glanced at his name tag. McDonald. She'd heard about him, that he'd only been on about two years, but was a go-getter. "You have something for me, or need something, McDonald?"

  "I figured you'd want to know we just brought in the father of the last Avenger victim."

  Great, Lynne thought sourly. "Joel Koslow's fa­ther?"

  He nodded. "Jack Koslow. He went ballistic in the office for that shelter, Rachel's House. He was all crazy, blaming them for his son's death, them and the son's girlfriend."

  "The one in the hospital, nearly dead herself?"

  "Yeah. Crazy, like I said. He took a volunteer worker hostage."

  "Anybody hurt?"

  "No, thanks to some guy that was in there. He took Koslow down like a pro, real smooth. That's the other thing I wanted to talk to you about."

  "That guy?"

  He nodded. "I'm not sure whether this is impor­tant."

  "Right now everything's important,' she said with an encouraging smile.

  "Well, that guy ... he lied about who he is." "Oh?"

  "He said his name was Alex Edwards, and that he was a roofer working at that shelter."

  Lynne flushed, remembering the good-looking man she'd seen and admired. She became very con­scious of her ex-husband just a few feet away, and kept her eyes on the young patrolman. "They are having some work done," she confirmed. "I've seen him."

  "But last year I got a big commercial burglary. I remember it because it was my first big call on my own. Anyway, this guy was there."

  "Roofing?"

  Bob shook his head, rather vehemently. "No. He owned the place."

  Lynne frowned. "You're sure of that?"

  He nodded just as vehemently. "I went back and pulled the original report. The name he gave then was Alexander Court

  ."

  "Court? As in Court Corporation?"

  "Yeah, that was the name of the business. It was one of their property management offices."

  Alexander Court

  . Of Court Corporation. The main support of Rachel's House.

  Well, well, well, Lynne thought.

  CHAPTER 12

  "Oh, honey, if I were you I'd grab that Alex and hang on!"

  Regan took the tall, frosty glass her aunt handed her and shook her head. She'd felt the stress of what had happened begin to fade the moment she'd seen her aunt's face.

  "It's not like that," she explained, wondering if she was trying to convince her aunt or herself. "With all this ugly stuff going on, he's just been re­ally nice about helping."

  "Nice? You call leaping over counters to save people from knife-wielding madmen nice?"

  Regan gave Mary Day a sheepish grin. "Well, that was rather spectacular, I'll admit."

  She took a long sip of the root beer float, a child­hood favorite she now indulged in only when she was here. Alex had dropped her off with a promise to come back and pick her up after a few errands. He'd stayed long enough to be introduced to the woman who was more mother to her than aunt, and had clearly charmed her in the process.

  "And I may be old, but I'm no fool," Aunt Mary said.

  "Nor will you ever be," Regan said. She meant it; the curly hair might be gray, but the hazel eyes, mirror images of her own, were as sharp and quick as the mind behind them.

  'Then listen to me when I tell you that boy's got more than being nice on his mind when he looks at you."

  "I don't know ..."

  "You don't have to, I just told you." At times her father's older sister could be as commanding as he had been. "Now, what are you going to do about it?"

  "Do?"

  "Lord, I know I didn't raise you to be so oblivi­ous, so it must be that place. You're not letting it convince you all men are like those few, are you?"

  She was startled at her aunt's perceptiveness, then realized she shouldn't have been surprised. This wasn't the first time she'd cut through the vines to the root of the situation, as Mary so quaintly put it.

  "I think maybe I was," she admitted. "But I'm trying to get over it."

  "He'd be reason enough," Mary said with a grin that belied her years, and reminded Regan of her father. "Take my advice, honey, and open the door for that one."

  Regan sighed inwardly. Easier said than done, she thought. And was grateful when her cell phone rang. She took it out of the side pocket on her purse.

  "Regan? Lynne Garrison." Regan's stomach clenched. "It's all right, no news."

  "Thank you," Regan said.

  "I just needed to ask you about someone. Gene Pilson."

  "Mr. Pilson?" Regan asked. "What about him?"

  "Any problems with him?"

  "Heavens, no. The opposite, he's been wonder­ful, ever since we moved in."

  "So wonderful he has the run of the place?"

  "The residents voted him access, yes."

  "Would he have access to the files?"

  Regan realized suddenly where this was head­ing. "I know you have to check on everyone, but Mr. Pilson? He wouldn't hurt a soul."

  "Isn't that what outsiders say about most batter­ers?"

  Regan flushed; the woman was right, and she couldn't believe she'd fallen victim to that fallacy that people who seem nice can't be hiding darker sides. She tried to remember the original question and finally said, reluctantly, "He did help me move the file cabinet once. I suppose he could have seen where I put the key."

  "And does he generally know what happens with the residents? Like going to court, or run-ins with their abusers?"

  Regan felt an odd tightness in her stomach. "Yes. Yes, he does. They talk pretty freely in front of him. And he's always popping in."

  "In the interview with Detective Durwin, he said he worked a split shift."

  "Yes, sometimes he goes to work at midnight, sometimes earlier or later. He works at some manu­facturing plant, I think. I always have wondered when he sleeps, since he seems to be up all day, too."

  "Has he ever said or done anything that seemed odd or unusual?"

  "No, he's just a nice man," Regan said. He has to be just a nice man.

  "Ever give you any indication of what he thought of abusers?"

  Regan's breath caught. And just like that she was back to that sunny morning, picking up the paper on the sidewalk in front of Rachel's House.

  Another piece of slime cleaned off our streets....

  My God, she thought.

  Quickly she told Detective Garrison about that morning. And thinking some more, she reluctantly added something else.

  "He always asks if there's anything he sho
uld be on the lookout for, or anyone who's had a recent problem with their abuser."

  "And they tell him?"

  "Yes," Regan said, feeling sick. "They never had any reason not to. He seemed so protective."

  "Maybe he is," Lynne said, grimly.

  "Something wrong?" Aunt Mary asked when Regan hung up.

  "Just the same ugly thing going on," Regan said. "It's awful, trying to think who you know who could be a serial killer."

  After a soothing amount of commiseration, Regan changed the subject to something more pleasant. It wasn't hard. Just being here, in the house she'd grown up in, with the woman who had moved in and taken her widowed brother's ten-year-old child and raised her as her own, and who despite her own racking grief had been the rock that had gotten her through first her father's death, and then her best friend's, restored Regan as nothing else could. As it always did. By the time Alex returned, she had her equilibrium back, and her certainty that Mr. Pilson could no more be the Avenger than she could. Plus a container of cookies that Alex eyed expectantly.

  She also had Aunt Mary's advice ringing in her ears as they drove back to Rachel's House. Hearing "grab that Alex and hang on" was all well and good when he was nowhere around, but when he was barely two feet away in the suddenly cramped cab of his pickup, it took on an entirely new slant.

  "You sure you're ready to go back?"

  "I'm fine. One of Aunt Mary's root beer floats'll do it every time."

  He gave her a sideways look and a grin that had her thinking about her aunt's advice yet again. "I should've taken her up on the offer."

  .... open the door for that one. "I go see her at least a couple of times a month. Come with me, and she'll make you as many as you could hold."

  She couldn't believe she'd said that.

  "I'd like to. Tell me when."

  She couldn't believe he'd said that.

  "All right," she said, barely able to get it out. "In the meantime, she sent home cookies."

  "At least I can find out how good they are."

  When they arrived at Rachel's House, he walked with her up to the door. Mitch was busily at work on the bird-of-paradise plant in front of the porch.