Avenging Angel

by Justine Dare

"Move on what?"

  "You said the woman who runs Rachel's House was attacked this morning."

  "Regan Keller, yes. The suspect's in custody."

  "And he's the husband of one of the residents?"

  "Ex-husband now. Apparently getting the final divorce papers set him off." Her mouth quirked. "Most guys just get drunk."

  "That's what I did," he said, and Lynne's breath stopped at this uncharacteristic intrusion of the personal. "Fortunately, I got too drunk to do what else I'd intended, which was drive off a cliff. Or perhaps unfortunately."

  The idea that he had reacted that strongly shook her; whenever they'd encountered each other dur­ing the painful process, he'd seemed calm, accom­modating, almost uncaring.

  Her stomach knotted, and that kept the edge in her voice. "What's the idea?"

  For a moment he didn't answer, but when he fi­nally spoke there was no sign of reaction to her tone. "If our killer is going after anybody who makes a move against the women of Rachel's House, what's he going to do about somebody who goes after the woman who runs the place?"

  Lynne went still. "You mean Regan? That he might go after the guy who attacked her?"

  "We already know our killer is tied in some way to the place. It might be enough that Bowers' ex-wife is there. He might see this as an attack on her as well."

  "He did go after Regan because he couldn't get to Marita."

  "It could even be more convoluted. If in his mind it's all of Rachel's House he's defending—"

  "Then he might feel he has to defend Regan, too?"

  "I know she hasn't been abused like the others, but she's part of Rachel's House, a big part, right?"

  "She's the rock it's built on," Lynne said.

  "Then he might feel he has to protect her most of all. It might even be enough to get him over having killed an innocent man last time."

  It made sense. "You want to set up on Bowers?"

  "My gut says it's our best shot."

  His gut when it came to murder, as she knew perhaps better than anyone, was right a lot more often than wrong. "You call Greer yet?" she asked.

  "No, I wanted to run it by you first."

  The obvious question was why he'd called her when technically this was Durwin's case. But she wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer to that, so she didn't ask.

  "I want you to work it with me."

  Sit trapped with him in a surveillance vehicle for hours on end? Nothing to do but talk or maintain a stony silence that would only feed the already palpable tension between them? Not her idea of a top ten way to spend her time.

  "You'd probably be better off with Ben, or even Nick."

  She winced as that "even" slipped out, waited for him to pounce on it. But he didn't.

  "Probably," he agreed, "but I want you."

  She shivered, hating those words, even out of context. But it wasn't like him to manipulate her. Maybe he didn't realize. When he got on a scent, everything else fell by the wayside.

  "Lynne?"

  With an effort she pulled herself together, accept­ing the inevitable. "I was just thinking ... first we'd better call the jail and make sure they'll let us know if he bails out."

  "I already did. They said he hasn't called any­body."

  "Nobody cares, maybe. His ex-wife sure doesn't."

  "Good for her. So are you with me?"

  Like I have a choice, she thought. "I—"

  "Hang on, my pager just went off."

  She heard a rustling, and for the first time thought to wonder where he was. The last she'd heard, from a fellow cop who'd run into him and couldn't resist telling her, was that he had an apartment very near their old house. Before she could dwell on that, he was back.

  "The jail. Only reason they'd call me is if he's bailing."

  Resigned, Lynne said, "I'll meet you at the station."

  "I'll pick you up. You're on the way anyway."

  "All right. I'll meet you out front."

  "Ten minutes. I'll call the jail on the way."

  He hung up without saying good-bye.

  She splashed water on her face, then dressed hurriedly. Nights like this had trained her to keep her hair and makeup simple, and she was ready quickly.

  She had been outside less than a minute when a standard-issue plain unit pulled up. The minute she got in and closed the door, he hit the accelera­tor hard.

  "He's already gone." Anger rang in his voice. "What?"

  "The jailer said they tried to call me three times before they finally thought of my pager. Idiots."

  "You need call waiting," she said before she thought.

  "You're the technoholic, not me," he snapped.

  It wasn't true, she wasn't a technoholic as much as he was a technophobe. She just tried to keep up, while he regarded things like call waiting as just one more way to be found when he didn't want to be. He'd resisted the pager until the sheriff's office had mandated them for detectives.

  But she should have known better than to say anything. "Who bailed him out?"

  "Some guy named Yantz. They said Bowers seemed surprised to see him, and more surprised he was bailing him out."

  "Yantz," Lynne muttered.

  "You know him?"

  She shook her head. "I don't think so, but the name rings a bell. Wait a sec."

  She dug into her purse for the dog-eared note­book she carried, thinking that that alone proved she wasn't a technoholic. She didn't trust any of the new handheld electronic personal organizers to hold crucial information on an investigation. If it went down, or any data was lost, it could jeopar­dize an entire case. But she wisely didn't say it.

  "I remember writing that name, fairly recently, but I don't remember why, or even if it was this case, but I—"

  She stopped, staring at the page she'd just flipped to.

  "You found it?" .

  She nodded slowly.

  "Who is he?"

  Her mouth tightening, she looked at him. "Marita's father."

  CHAPTER 18

  He'd made it nearly twenty-four hours.

  Alex paced the living room of the carriage house, passing time and again through the shaft of morn­ing light.

  When the phone rang he whirled. His mind leapt to Regan, even knowing she didn't have this num­ber. He took a steadying breath before answering, and heard the voice of his mother.

  "Alexander, I only have a moment, but I thought you might want to know that Bowers was bailed out late last night."

  "Was bailed out? As in somebody else posted it?"

  "Yes." His mother's voice told him she wasn't happy. "His now ex-wife's father."

  "What?" Alex exclaimed. "Marita's father bailed out her abusive husband after he attacked Regan?"

  "That's what I was told. I thought perhaps you might want to let Regan know."

  I thought you said I should stay away."

  "I didn't mean forever, dear. Now I have to go. I'll talk to you later. I should be home by noon."

  She hung up, and for a long moment he stood there with his hand on the receiver, wondering if he should call Regan or simply show up at Rachel's House. Just show up, he decided. It would be harder for her to blow him off in front of everybody.

  When he got there a few minutes later, Mitch was just unloading his tools from the back of his mini-truck. He stopped when he saw Alex, shoved some gear back into a slot in the truck bed, and walked toward him.

  "I heard what you did, helping Regan."

  "I'm just glad I was there," Alex said.

  Mitch nodded. "Some people wouldn't help, they'd just stand by and watch. You didn't."

  "Couldn't," Alex said. "To be honest, for the first time I really, honestly understood the Avenger. I wanted to strangle the guy myself."

  Mitch just looked at him for a moment, then slowly nodded. "I'm glad you were there, too." He grinned suddenly, warmly. "Even the Avenger can't be everywhere, I guess."

  Alex laughed. "Guess not. Is she here? Regan?"

  "I th
ink so. I haven't seen her leave for the office yet." Mitch grimaced. "Not that she'd want to go back there."

  "She shouldn't," Alex agreed, "but she will."

  He started up the walk. Mitch followed, and laid out a pair of snips and a bag for clippings on the front porch. Alex stuck his head in the door first, wonder­ing if perhaps he should have brought a hat to put on a stick and poke it in, to see if anyone shot at it.

  The caution was unnecessary. Regan wasn't even watching the door. She and Laura were huddled around Marita, who was sitting in the big chair with her feet curled up beneath her and looking more upset than he could remember seeing her.

  "How could they let him go so fast?" she was saying, her voice strained.

  "Thanks to our justice system, he's only been ar­rested once and got off with a fine, so bail was probably low." Regan didn't sound angry, merely tired. She'd probably seen this once too often.

  Marita looked up and saw him, and waved him over. "Come join the misery party, Alex."

  Regan looked at him, but didn't speak. Feeling as if he were crossing a minefield, he made his way across the room.

  "I see you heard about your ex getting out last night," he said.

  "Yeah," Marita said, her tone morose.

  "I'm sorry," Alex said, meaning it. "If I were you, I wouldn't know who to be maddest at, him or your father."

  Marita blinked. "My father?"

  Uh-oh, Alex thought.

  "What about my father?"

  "I..." He looked at Regan. Whatever anger she was still feeling toward him, it apparently wasn't strong enough to leave him dangling.

  "Detective Garrison called to warn us he had bailed out," she said, "but that's all she said. What does Marita's father have to do with it?"

  Alex wished he'd kept his mouth shut, but knew it was too late now. He started to speak, but stopped as a gasp from Marita told him she'd figured it out.

  "He did it? My father bailed him out?"

  "I'm sorry, Marita. When you said you knew about the bail out, I thought you knew that, too."

  "That son of a bitch!"

  From the normally steady-tempered Marita the curse seemed extraordinarily vehement. She jumped to her feet and ran for the stairway. Laura followed close behind.

  Regan stayed. She sat down in the chair Marita had vacated and simply looked at him.

  Here we go, Alex thought.

  "I really thought she already knew," he said, knowing he was stalling, and wishing he'd spent more time thinking about exactly what he was going to say.

  "It's best she does know."

  He wondered if that was also aimed at him. He walked the length of the living room, then came back. Regan didn't speak. Finally, he sat down on the edge of the coffee table in front of her.

  "I'm sorry, Regan. I never meant to hurt you." He ran his fingers through his hair. "I've never done this before."

  "Done what? I know you've apologized before."

  "What I meant was I've never gotten personally involved with anyone on a job before."

  "Is that what we are? Personally involved?"

  "I thought so." He took a breath. "I hope so."

  That seemed to startle her, and she glanced up. He pressed his case.

  "Everything I said to you was the truth. As much of the truth as I was free to say. This started out as a job for my mother, but it changed, it changed in a hurry."

  "I understand why she did it. I even understand why she didn't want me to know. But..."

  He grimaced. "She's not very happy with me ei­ther."

  "But she asked you to come here." "To protect you, not to hurt you." "It's a bit late for that."

  "Regan, please. You've got to believe that I was going to tell you. And then that whole thing with Donna and her son happened, and I just couldn't add that to your load."

  She lowered her eyes again. "I'd like to believe that."

  "Ask my mother. I told her I was going to tell you, that I had no choice anymore."

  "No choice?"

  "Because I couldn't keep lying to you, even lies of omission."

  She let out a long, sighing breath. He leaned for­ward, reached out to her, then drew his hands back, not sure his touch would be welcomed.

  "It's your call, Regan. I don't blame you for being mad at me. I should have told you before we ..." He grimaced, then plunged on. "There's no excuse for that. But you've always been good at putting yourself in another's shoes. I hope you'll try mine, and realize I was between a rock and a hard place."

  After a long, silent moment, Regan raised her eyes, meeting his gaze at last.

  "Is your mother the rock or the hard place?"

  He blinked. And then he caught the slightest glint of humor in her eyes. Not enough to relieve him, but enough to give him hope.

  "

  Where the hell could he be?" Drew muttered.

  "I wish I knew,' Lynne answered.

  They'd gone straight to Bowers' apartment, but no one was there and the vehicle registered to him sat empty and cold. Thinking he might have gone home with Marita's father, they raced there, arriv­ing just as the man pulled into his driveway and got out of his car—alone. They'd gone back to Bow­ers' small, dreary house and been there ever since. Now it had been daylight for an hour.

  "We could go ask Yantz where he dropped him," Drew said, in that distracted tone that she knew meant he was just turning options over in his mind.

  "No, you were right about that one. He'd proba­bly tip Bowers off that the cops were asking about him, and he'd run."

  "We're trying to save his ass, damn it."

  "He doesn't know that. I'm not sure he'd believe it if we told him."

  Drew shook his head in frustration. "It's point­less for us to sit and wait for him to come back. A uniform could do that."

  "What else can we do? We don't know what he'd do, where he might go ..."

  Drew looked at her as her voice trailed away. "What?"

  "Maybe," she said, digging her cell phone out of her purse. "Just maybe." "What?"

  She waved him quiet as she dialed the number she by now knew by heart. It rang only once before a voice she didn't immediately recognize answered with a cautious hello.

  "May I speak to Marita, please?" "I don't know ... Who's this?" Laura, Lynne decided. "Is this Laura? This is De­tective Garrison." "Oh."

  There was a whispered exchange with someone else in the background. Lynne tried to rein in her patience, knowing these women had every reason to be cautious. A rustling sound and then Marita's voice, rather stiff.

  "Detective? Regan's busy. We don't want to in­terrupt her just now."

  "Is there a problem?"

  "She's with Alex. I think it's one of those heavy kind of talks."

  About time, Lynne thought, guessing at what they must be talking about. "That's all right. It's really you I wanted to talk to."

  "It's all right, I already know."

  "Know what?"

  "About my father bailing Daryl out."

  Lynne winced. "I was hoping you wouldn't have to find that out."

  "I appreciate your concern, Detective, but I'd prefer to know. It keeps me strong."

  "I hadn't thought of it that way. But that's not what I called for."

  "Oh?"

  "I need to ask you something about Daryl." "What?" Marita asked, sounding very wary. "I need to know where he'd likely go to celebrate getting out of jail."

  She didn't hesitate. "The Alley. Bar over on Thirty-second Street

  . It's where he always goes." "Even at seven in the morning?" "Especially at seven in the morning." "Thanks, Marita."

  She disconnected and looked at Drew. "The Alley," she said.

  A familiar smile curved his mouth. "Nice work, Detective Garrison."

  "Just drive, Investigator Garrison."

  The old joking exchange made them both un­comfortable enough to avoid each other's eyes for a while. When they arrived, Drew eyed the dingy-looking hole in the wall. The Alley a
lso masquer­aded as a restaurant in order to be able to open up early for its loyal clientele who had to have a shooter with their eggs in the morning. Closing be­tween two and four a.m. was their flick of acknowl­edgment to state law.

  "I'll go in," Drew said. "Nobody will know me. They might have seen you around."

  She doubted that was the real reason, but she ac­cepted it. "I’ll watch the outside. Pull over there so I can see the back door, too."

  He took the order without comment, and backed the car into a vacant slot on the street opposite the bar, so she could pull right out if she had to.

  She didn't. In a few minutes Drew was back, sliding into the passenger seat she'd vacated.

  "I don't know how anybody can face pancakes and beer at seven in the morning," he said, his lip curling.

  "Not on the pancakes, I hope?"

  I didn't look that close. I didn't want to know. Anyway, he was there earlier, after they reopened at four, but he left."

  She started the car. "Shall we cruise between here and his place?"

  Drew nodded. "Maybe we'll find his drunk butt staggering down the road."

  They didn't.

  Without a word Lynne turned and started back, this time going up and down the side streets and alleys. The neighborhood changed from houses like Bowers' run-down place to a mixture of tidier houses and the occasional small storefront or strip mall, and then into the mostly commercial area that housed The Alley and a few other low-rent but high-volume businesses.

  Prodded by instinct, Lynne turned down the alley for which the bar was named. As they reached the next street, she saw across it a small business complex, newer, with a large parking area to the rear. At this hour it was mostly deserted.

  "It's the right kind of place," he said. "Commer­cial, empty at this hour, paved area out of sight from the street."

  "I know," she murmured as she nosed the car to­ward the back of the building.

  Drew spotted him as soon as they cleared the big Dumpster. He was on his knees like all the others, placed like some bloody, prayerful supplicant neatly in the center of, Lynne noticed with a grim spurt of black humor, a blue handicapped parking symbol.

  There was little doubt he was dead, but she knew they had to check.

  "Best only one of us goes," Drew said.

  She nodded. The less they messed with the crime scene the better. And he was the expert, she couldn't argue with that. She opened the trunk of the car and got out a chalk marker. She handed it to him, then handed him a pair of disposable latex gloves.