The Lieutenant by Her Side

by Jean Thomas

  “Maybe not entirely, Mark. Maybe, with what they knew already, they were able to guess.”

  “Yeah, the information we lack ourselves, because he sure was as careful as hell not to go into specifics. Could be he was afraid those letters might end up being read by the wrong people.”

  “But there’s enough here for us to act on it. Something of real substance at last.”

  “You’re thinking to go back to the cops with this.”

  Clare twisted around in her chair to look up at him. “Why not? This letter is proof the other pendants aren’t just our imagination. That they’re real and so valuable Joe and Boerner were murdered for them.”

  “It’s not enough. Myers is too damn narrow-minded to listen again to what he considers a couple of cranks.”

  “Then we approach another detective in the homicide division.”

  “No good. With Myers in charge of the case, no other detective would risk it. And from what you’ve said about the cops up in St. Boniface, they won’t touch it, either. You know what all of them will think, don’t you? That this letter is a fiction, something we’ve concocted to clear your sister.”

  At this maddening moment, as much as Lieutenant Mark Griggs had come to mean to her, and that was more than was healthy for her, Clare could have smacked him. “Then what would be enough?” she challenged him.

  “Hank Kolchek himself. He’s all we’ve got left.”

  All we’ve got left. And the man was waiting down there in Florida for responses to his letter that would never come. It was a thought that saddened Clare.

  It did, that is, until another thought suddenly occurred to her. A chilling one this time. “Oh, Mark, what if the killer got to Hank Kolchek first before he went after Joe and Boerner? He could be dead already.”

  “Yeah, that’s a possibility. But not a certainty. If he is still alive, he should be told what’s been happening here. Warned he’s in danger. I’m going to try calling him. What’s that number?”

  “Wait. I’ll print out a copy of the letter for you. We should have one anyway.”

  By the time she lifted the sheet from the printer, Mark had his own cell phone in hand. She held the copy for him while he read the number in the heading, watched as he punched in the digits and waited, knowing the result before he told her.

  “No answer?”

  “No answer. And no answering machine picking up, either.”

  “Not everyone has an answering machine. Maybe he’s just not at home. I mean, if he has a job somewhere...”

  “Could be that. Could be a lot of things. Or...”

  He didn’t say it, but Clare sensed they were both thinking the same thing. That Hank Kolchek was unable to answer his phone. Would never answer it again.

  She went on looking at Mark. He had a frown on his face now. He kept passing his phone from hand to hand, as if he were playing with a baseball. It took him a moment or two before he made up his mind.

  “I’m going to call the police in this—” he paused to consult the heading in the copy of the letter Clare was still holding “—Muretta. See if they can tell us anything. Do you think you can find the number for me?”

  “If the town has an online phone directory,” she said, swinging around to face her laptop again.

  A brief search yielded both Muretta’s directory and the number of the local police department. She read the number out to Mark. Although she listened attentively while he made the connection and spoke to whoever answered on the other end, she wasn’t able to understand much of what, for her, was a one-sided conversation. It wasn’t until Mark finally ended the call that he was able to satisfy her curiosity, which by now had deepened into a state of anxiety.

  “The town must be a small one like I figured since it was Muretta’s chief of police I spoke to. A friendly guy who’s willing to do whatever he can to help us. Unlike the cops here and up in St. Boniface.”

  Clare didn’t consider that a fair judgment of the New Orleans police force just because they’d had one bad experience with Detective Myers. “You’re forgetting Officer Martinez last night and how he went out of his way for us,” she reminded him.

  “I stand corrected. As for St. Boniface—”

  “Yes. Well, they would be biased when Joe Riconi was one of their own.”

  “Do you want to hear what I learned, or are you going to keep on interrupting?”

  “Sorry.”

  Muttering something about her being overly sensitive where the subject of New Orleans was concerned, which she chose to ignore, Mark proceeded to give her the essentials.

  “The chief didn’t know about the murders of Boerner and your brother-in-law. The news wasn’t major enough to reach that far, I guess. As for Hank Kolchek, he’s heard the name but hasn’t had any personal contact with him. He thinks Kolchek and his wife moved to Muretta from Orlando not long ago.”

  “What else?”

  “He’s promised to send his deputy out to the Kolchek house to check on the situation. As soon as the deputy reports in, he’ll call me back.”

  “So we wait.”

  “We wait.”

  Clare put her laptop to sleep, looked at her watch and got to her feet. “It’s almost noon. Would you like lunch? I think I can manage sandwiches.”

  Mark shook his head. “Maybe just some coffee.”

  That was totally unexpected. Since when did he not have an appetite? Probably, she decided, because he couldn’t think of anything but getting that return call from Muretta. Which had to be why his hands were shoved into his pockets while he rocked back and forth on his heels. A restless reaction that by now was familiar to her.

  He followed her into the kitchen where she started a fresh pot of coffee. She expected him to get out mugs and set them on the breakfast bar, as he’d done earlier, but he seemed unmindful of that necessity. She wished he would at least settle on one of the stools. He was making her nervous, wandering as he was around the kitchen.

  He’s still thinking about that call, she thought, and what might be happening down there in Florida.

  Clare switched on the TV, hoping the twelve o’clock news would report some recent development on the Boerner murder. There was no mention of the case. The station seemed to be more interested in telling its viewers of a heat wave moving into the southeastern area of the country. Louisiana’s residents could expect high temperatures for the next several days.

  “Mark.”

  “Huh?”

  “Mugs, please. The coffee is just about ready.”

  “Okay.”

  He obliged her this time by placing two mugs on the breakfast bar. To her relief, he finally perched on a stool, his cell phone in front of him.

  Clare poured the coffee, turned off the TV and joined him on the other side of the bar. They sipped their coffee in silence. The only sound in the kitchen was the soft tattoo of Mark’s fingers tapping on his cell phone case, as if his action would hurry the call.

  Were he and his fellow rangers like this before going into combat? she wondered. All taut and impatient for the signal to strike?

  She was beginning to share that feeling when his phone finally rang. Scooping it up, he flipped it open and held it to his ear.

  “Griggs here.”

  He listened without comment except for an occasional “Uh-huh.” In the end, he thanked what she assumed was Muretta’s chief of police and snapped the phone shut.

  Clare leaned toward him, as eager now as he had been to hear the report. “What did he say?”

  “Not a whole lot. His deputy called in to tell him there was no sign of foul play at the Kolchek house, recent or past. The place was locked up tight and the car gone from the port. The deputy talked to the neighbors on both sides, but they hadn’t heard or seen anything suspicious and didn’t se
em to know much about the couple.”

  “Well, if they’re new to the neighborhood, that’s understandable.”

  “Either that, or they had a reason to keep to themselves. Whatever the explanation, I don’t think we can expect anything more out of the police down there. Without something more to go on, the chief has gone as far as he can for us.”

  “You know, Mark, even if he didn’t hear about the murders, it’s possible that the Kolcheks did and cleared out. That wherever they are, they’re safe.”

  “Could be.”

  But Clare didn’t think he was ready to buy that easy explanation. Leaving his coffee to grow cold, he got up and began to pace again.

  “What is it that’s got you so wired now?” she wanted to know.

  “I don’t like it. Something is happening down there, or about to happen. Something bad. I can feel it in my gut.” He was quiet for a few seconds, and when he spoke to her again there was a tone of sudden urgency in his voice. “I think we should go down there ourselves.”

  “You’re serious.”

  “Yeah, I am.”

  “Why? What could we do?”

  “Try to find Hank Kolchek.”

  It struck her as a rash proposal. On the other hand, if Hank Kolchek wasn’t yet aware of the danger to him from a former comrade, a killer who seemed to want it all for himself, whatever that all was, then he should be warned. Also, she and Mark needed whatever information Kolchek could provide them in order to save Terry from a prison sentence. It was this in the end that convinced her.

  “It’s kind of extreme, but I can see the necessity of it.”

  “Good. You do whatever you have to do while I see if I can get us on a flight to Florida.”

  Clare left him in the kitchen with his cell phone and the travel section of The Times-Picayune that would provide him with the airline numbers. She went back to the living room where she had left her purse. Producing her own cell phone, she called her school. The office secretary who answered was able to put Clare’s principal on the line.

  She was a sympathetic woman who never failed to understand the family emergencies of her faculty. In this case, it was Clare’s request to delay her return to the classroom. “You take whatever time you need. Your sub has got everything under control here,” she assured her.

  Clare missed her kids, but Terry was a priority.

  “Any luck?” she asked Mark when she rejoined him in the kitchen.

  “Afraid not. It turns out the nearest airport to Muretta is Orlando. There are two airlines from New Orleans that serve it. The first one I tried has a flight out later this afternoon, but it’s already booked full. The second airline doesn’t have an Orlando flight until tomorrow morning.”

  She knew that Mark would never be able to stand that kind of wait. It didn’t surprise her he already had another plan.

  “Look,” he said, “we’ve got most of the day left.”

  “Well, a lot of it anyway.”

  “I say we drive to Muretta, travel through the night if we have to. We’d probably get there sooner than if we flew, especially when you figure we’d have the delay of hiring a rental car in Orlando. It must be interstate just about all the way, isn’t it?”

  “I think so.” Maybe. Clare wasn’t certain of that.

  “There you go.”

  She knew that Mark wasn’t going to be argued out of this one. She didn’t try.

  “I’m going out to the car and bringing up a map of the area we’re headed on my GPS.”

  He started toward the front door. Clare trailed him as far as her bedroom where she knew a change of clothing for the trip, which at this point was no longer questionable, was in order. With a heat wave threatening the whole southeast, she chose a pair of white shorts accompanied by a blue-and-white-striped T and tennies.

  When Mark reappeared with the map in hand, he found her packing a bag with her toiletries and a few other practical garments.

  “You all set?” he asked her.

  “I’m good to go,” she said, zipping the bag shut.

  Since she knew he had never unpacked his own luggage, it was only a matter of carrying their things out to the SUV and making sure the house was securely locked behind them.

  Clare directed him through the city traffic, across Lake Pontchartrain and east into Mississippi.

  She hoped as they sped along the interstate that Hank Kolchek hadn’t already suffered the same murderous end as Joe Riconi and Malcolm Boerner. That they would reach him in time to prevent that. Providing, that is, they could even find him.

  Chapter 15

  He’s saving me for last.

  There was no real evidence of that, but the indications were there. The bastard had been unable to steal his pendant from him last night. Unlike Riconi and Boerner, Mark had been ready for him. Nor had there been any sign of the blue sedan today, either in New Orleans or here on the interstate. Could be he’d replaced it with another car.

  Where was he? Mark wondered. Already in Florida and hunting for Hank Kolchek? Would he get to Kolchek before he and Clare could reach him? Do whatever he was prepared to do to take Kolchek’s pendant away from him? And then turn his attention back to Mark, where this time...

  Yeah, he’s saving me for last.

  But he would find Mark no easier a target the next time than he had been last night.

  What was on that mountain in Afghanistan, Mark wondered, worth so much this twisted SOB was willing to commit multiple murders to get it all for himself?

  “I’m hungry,” Clare announced. “We did miss lunch, you know.”

  “I guess I could eat something myself.”

  “Really? That famous appetite of yours has finally kicked in again, has it?”

  “Seems like it.”

  They left the interstate at the next exit, stopping at the nearest fast food restaurant for a quick meal. Mark remained as watchful there as he did once they were back on the highway, still alert for any sign that they were being followed. Even though he’d convinced himself their stalker was far away now, he didn’t want the risk of any surprises.

  Paying attention to both that and the traffic wasn’t easy. Not with Clare sitting there beside him in those shorts. He found himself stealing glances at her long, shapely bare legs. Visualizing them wrapped around...well, doing things he had no business imagining her doing with him.

  It should have been safer for him to lift his gaze and keep it there. But that was no better. Now when he snatched those glances in her direction he kept thinking about her honey-blond hair, wishing she would take it down from that damn ponytail. That he could see it loose and sexy as she’d worn it that night in the Penguin Hotel bar. That he could sift his fingers through its silky waves.

  Hell, Griggs, keep your mind on the road, will you?

  He managed to do that, but it wasn’t much of an improvement. How could it be when he was aware of her subtle, seductive scent assaulting his senses.

  Face it, even when they were actively engaged in dealing with an enemy, this thing that was between them continued to simmer just below the surface. Longing for what they could experience on a bed or in a shower stall.

  It wasn’t until an innocent diversion captured his attention that Mark found relief. Clare was singing “Danny Boy” softly to herself.

  “You’re doing it.”

  She turned her head to stare at him. “Doing what?”

  “That habit you told me about. Getting a song in your head and driving everyone around you nuts by singing it over and over. Everyone in this case being me.”

  “I’m sorry. Half the time I’m not even aware I’m doing it.”

  “Wouldn’t be so bad if...”

  “What?”

  “Hate to tell you, sweetheart, but you do
n’t have a singing voice.”

  “Well, thanks.”

  Mark chuckled. He couldn’t help it. He loved teasing her like this. And so far, with everything they had been sharing being so intense, there hadn’t been many opportunities for that.

  “You know,” she said, “the view outside this window isn’t exactly stimulating. I had to do something to entertain myself. Besides helping you to look for a blue sedan that isn’t there.”

  He could understand that. The flat terrain of the Gulf Coast was pretty monotonous. “I could put on a CD or play the radio,” he suggested.

  “Bad idea. I’d just get another song into my head.”

  He noticed she was the one now wearing a playful smile.

  “Tell you what,” she said. “Suppose you keep me occupied yourself by telling me about Amber and Valerie. I haven’t forgotten how you talked about those hot babes in your sleep. And this time I want the truth.”

  “The truth, huh? Nothing omitted?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Okay,” he drawled, “here it is. Valerie is my grandmother’s age. They play canasta together back in Tennessee. That’s about as hot as it gets.”

  “And Amber?”

  “Valerie’s eighteen-year-old granddaughter.”

  “Ah, more interesting.”

  “Not if it’s someone too young for you wanting to play around every time you’re home on leave. Why do you think I take off on fishing holidays?”

  “Poor you.”

  Where entertainment was concerned, Mark would have preferred something far more intimate that wasn’t situated in a car rolling along an interstate. But this light bantering had its own appeal.

  There was something else that made him happy. They were making good time on a clear road. He shouldn’t have congratulated himself about it, though. Mississippi was fine. Alabama wasn’t. Getting around Mobile alone was a real headache. It involved a heavy rush hour traffic and long delays complicated by highway construction. The sun was setting behind them by the time they crossed the Florida state line. Mark managed to get them past Pensacola before he and the SUV finally reached their limit.