Loving Constance

by Lyn Cote

  But during office hours, Connie had worked hard to keep her mind on business. Now today, she entered the elevator across from her office in late afternoon. She was finally going to tour the burn site.

  One of the partners of the firm, T. R. Grove—a distinguished, well-preserved man in his early sixties—joined her and smiled. “Trying to get off early on Friday?”

  Connie returned the smile. “No, I’m off to do some research.”

  “That’s a good excuse.” The door opened and he stepped out.

  Connie was left with nothing to say. What could she say? Any excuse would sound like just that—an excuse. Grove hadn’t struck her as an odd duck when she’d interviewed for the job. Stop obsessing. He probably was just trying to make small talk.

  But now she almost felt guilty. I’ll just come back to the office after I tour the site and check for messages. That should make the point I wasn’t leaving the office early for personal reasons.

  As she drove to the gutted warehouse on yet another very warm day, she tried to control her discouragement over today which was, Grove had reminded her, Friday. Troy had been missing for one week today.

  Lord, we’ve all prayed. Our churches are praying. What’s happened to Troy?

  O’Neill’s mocking voice echoed in her mind— You believe in instant results? Like on TV?

  The blackened shell of the warehouse loomed at the end of a street near the freight railroad line. Connie parked her car and approached the acrid ruins. Her lack of experience taunted her. She wished she’d been able to find an impartial expert. Reading up on the subject had not given her the confidence she wanted. What do I think I’ll find that the fire marshal missed? What do I know about arson investigations?

  “Well, I’m about to learn, firsthand,” she muttered.

  “Hey!” a gruff voice hailed her. “This is private property.” An older man in a work uniform limped toward her. “And it’s dangerous. I was hired to keep everyone out of here.”

  She took out her driver’s license and held it up like a badge. “I’m Mr. Sanders’s lawyer, Connie Oberlin.”

  “Thought you would’ve come earlier this week.” The man studied her license.

  “I tried to get here, but things kept coming up.” She slipped the ID back into her purse.

  “Are you sure you want to get dirty?” The man eyed her business suit. “And it’s touchy. Some places aren’t too safe.”

  Motioning him to follow her, she walked to her trunk. She opened it, slipped her purse in and pulled out a package. “I bought this. I should be fine.” She ripped open the clear plastic and removed a gauzy white painter’s coverall she’d purchased at a hardware store. Everything she’d read had suggested that a fire scene was indeed a dirty crime scene.

  “Okay. Have fun, Ms. Mason.” The older man walked away with a wave over his head.

  At first, she didn’t get his calling her by the wrong name and then it clicked. Ms. Mason as in Perry Mason. At least he didn’t call me Della Street.

  Then she slipped her key into a pocket, lifted a flashlight, camera and clipboard from her trunk and slammed it shut. Prepared, she headed into the fray. Before long, she wished she’d brought a nose plug, too. The smell of a fire—one which had included the burning of treated wood—left an indescribable stench.

  After reading the marshal’s report so many times she felt as though she’d memorized it, she had no trouble in locating the fire’s point of origin. Or what the fire marshal had decided was the point of origin—the fuse box.

  The fact that the warehouse still had an antiquated fuse box rather than circuit breakers struck Connie as suspicious in itself. I can’t believe Floyd Sanders hadn’t brought this up to code. But I don’t want to make a big deal out of that, either. It makes him seem more culpable rather than less. Her spirits lowered.

  Switching on the flashlight, she studied the burn marks on what was left of the charred wall around the fuse box. Some wires had obviously been clipped and taken as evidence. That had been in the report. She followed the remaining wires trying to see anything that would give her something that might work to her client’s advantage.

  Her cell phone rang. She flipped it open. At first, she only heard sobbing at the other end.

  Then a quavering voice mumbled, “Connie? It’s… Annie.”

  “Annie, what is it?” Had Annie gotten bad news about Troy? Connie’s heart jerked to a faster pace. “What can I do?”

  More weeping. “Please…talk…detective. Can’t take this…much long-er.”

  Frustration and dismay shivered through Connie. It had been a week now. They should have heard something from O’Neill by now. “Don’t worry, Annie. I’ll go right now.”

  “So worried…can’t sleep.”

  “Is Gracie there with you?” Connie asked.

  “No, Sandy.”

  Sandy was Mike’s second wife and a sweet person. Connie was grateful that Annie wasn’t alone. “I’ll call you after I talk to him.”

  “Okay.” Annie hung up.

  Connie turned and headed back to her car.

  Jittery, Connie approached the classic 60s brick ranch home on the edge of Taperville, O’Neill’s house. His intriguing face came to mind, his dark brows drawn together in a customary frown and his cool gray eyes. His mouth that rarely smiled. She felt like she was approaching a lion’s cage and the lion might not have eaten for the day.

  But the memory of Annie’s weeping on the phone stiffened her resolve. She must pick up something, any little fact, to help Annie get through another night. She pushed the doorbell hard and long and waited, conscious of the heat of late afternoon. Perspiration dotted her upper lip. She took a deep breath. What’s the worst he can do to me?

  O’Neill opened the door and stared at her, betraying no reaction.

  “I’m sorry to bother you at home,” she stammered, awareness of him splashing over her. He was dressed in cutoffs and a T-shirt. The casual attire made her more abashed at intruding, made him more intimidating rather than less. “I need to talk to you.”

  “How’d you find me?” He held a spatula like a spear in his hand. He moved not an inch. His brooding presence lapped against her consciousness—insistent, almost menacing.

  “I stopped at the department and your brother gave me your address.” She shifted on her feet. While talking to Chuck, tracking down Rand hadn’t seemed intrusive. She’d been a fool. She was invading his space. And he wasn’t a man one wanted to trespass on. Only Annie’s need held her in place.

  O’Neill had planted himself in her path and his stance warned her away. She gripped her resolve tightly. She glanced downward though her eyes wanted to connect with his. She fought his sway over her. “Chuck said you wouldn’t mind.”

  He let out a rush of air—a sound of irritation. “Come in.” But no welcome tinged his voice. He motioned her to enter.

  She hesitated at the threshold, feeling that crossing it would be a violation of their limited acquaintance, that she would regret entering this man’s private realm. She did already. “No, we can talk out here. I don’t want to invade your—”

  “Come in,” he repeated, a sharper edge to his tone. “I’m cooking and don’t want my supper to burn.”

  The snap in his tone energized her. He wasn’t happy, but he’d be more aggravated if she caused the ruin of his meal. With palpable hesitance, she allowed herself to be drawn inside and back to the kitchen. She didn’t have a right to be here. But you are here, a little voice admonished.

  Guilt weighed down her stomach, both over Troy and over crossing a line of professionalism with this detective, of bearding the lion in his den. “I’m sorry to bother you at home and on a Friday night.”

  A trespasser, she halted by his maple kitchen table. Golden sunshine bathed the bright room, which surprised her. Neat, orderly, in shades of white—it was the antithesis of the grim man standing in its center.

  “Annie called me about twenty minutes ago in tears,” Connie conti
nued, trying to project the urgency she felt into her tone.

  She let her eyes rove over the room. White curtains at the window fluttered with the warm breeze. With her fingers, she lifted the weight of her damp hair off her warm neck. A welcome breath of coolness whispered on her nape. “It’s the first time she’s asked me to find you…” Finally, she couldn’t resist the impulse. She looked into his eyes.

  O’Neill ignored her words, but stared at her as though trying to pierce her flesh with his gaze. Then he moved to the stove.

  “Have you made any progress in finding Troy?” Her voice sharpened more, she felt unnerved by his intensity—drawn to it. “I need something to tell her, something that will give her hope.” Connie didn’t like the final note of desperation that crept into her voice.

  His back to her, O’Neill switched off the burner under a frying pan. He didn’t turn around. “I don’t want to get Mrs. Nielsen’s hopes up.” His voice was uncompromising steel. “This is proving to be a knotty case.”

  His forceful aura drew her. She fought it. “But—”

  “Do you want me to make up something for you to tell her?” He turned around. His expression was cynical.

  “No,” she snapped, as irritated with herself for coming as with him. “Just tell me what you’ve been doing this week. At least, that much would help.”

  “What I’ve been doing this week,” he parroted. Mocking her? He approached her, slowly as though pacing out a duel. “Tracker dogs combed the forest preserve for him. They picked up nada. He’s officially been designated as a missing person and all local, state and national databases have been notified. No leads. I put out an APB on him and his plates. No one has seen either. I’ve run Troy’s name through every possible database from every airline to every credit card company.”

  “Why?” She fought being intimidated by his powerful presence.

  He halted right in front of her, only a kitchen chair between them. His gaze bore into her, deep and hot. “To rule out the possibility that Troy has left on his own.”

  “Why do you persist in believing that Troy has left Annie?” Her hands itched to shake him, get to him, make him take her seriously. “It doesn’t make sense. He’s not like that.”

  O’Neill studied her silently. She felt his piercing gaze, panning over her, probing her again, making her uneasy, fearful. Why? Did he know something he couldn’t tell her? Or did he think she’d been less than candid? She didn’t like it. She didn’t want anyone doubting her motivations.

  Then self-accusation rose in her throat. Had she come here for Annie or for herself? Had her own fear for Troy’s safety propelled her? Had Annie’s phone call merely provided an excuse for this visit? She half turned from him, giving him only her profile. Did this detective sense the burden she carried, the guilt about caring too much?

  “Connie, we’ve already discussed this.” His voice was cool, heavy with disapproval. “I have to follow the routine. That’s how an investigation is carried out. By turning over rock after rock until I find a clue. With your law education, I shouldn’t have to point this out.”

  I won’t be dismissed with the standard police line. “What routine lines have you pursued?” she insisted.

  “I’ve told you. I’ve been investigating his credit cards.” He gripped the back of the kitchen chair in front of him.

  His nearness flowed over her, forcing a physical response that heightened the flush on her cheeks. “You mean whoever is responsible for his disappearance might have stolen and used them?” She’d thought of that.

  “Yes,” he explained, “or someone who came along, found Nielsen unconscious in his truck and stole his wallet.” Only inches and the chair separated them.

  “But how would that help you find Troy?” she demanded. She turned, moved closer. Her knees bumped the rim of the chair.

  “It would help me as I try to determine if he’s a victim or a man who’s abandoned his family.”

  “No!” she exploded. “Troy wouldn’t leave Annie.” Leave me. This unspoken confession left her emotions spinning. She grabbed for the chair back and clutched his hands instead. She squeezed them, trying to squeeze an admission from him. “Isn’t it’s possible that Troy might have hit his head and suffered a brief loss of memory?”

  “True cases of amnesia are rare.” His voice was like cold water dashed in her face.

  Connie tightened her clasp over his hands, trying to change him, move him. Lord, I’m all mixed up. This has nothing to do with me except that Annie and the boys need Troy back. I don’t matter. Let my conscience prick me if I step beyond that line. She stared down at the chair, concealing the depth of her reaction from him.

  “You think you have to keep pushing so I’ll do my job,” he accused her.

  “You haven’t had to watch Annie dying inside.” Me dying…. She held that back, changing it to, “You just don’t know how…it feels.” Know how I feel.

  O’Neill didn’t move, didn’t blink.

  She checked herself again, careful not to say something that might betray her secret to him. I fell in love with Troy when I was fourteen. And God forgive me, I still care about him. But if he’s happy with Annie, I’m happy, too. “Annie and Troy are a match made in heaven,” she said, forcing herself to face reality. “They love each other….”

  “A match made in heaven?” Rand jerked his hands from under hers. “I didn’t think anyone still talked like that.”

  “Go ahead, make fun.” A backlash of resentment laced her voice and she didn’t care how he took it. She leaned forward, challenging him. “You don’t know how it feels.”

  “I know how Annie feels.” He flung the words at her. He swung away from her and jerked open a cupboard.

  Connie stared at his back. What did he say that for? “I don’t know what you mean.” Then an unwelcome thought occurred to her. What was he trying to tell her? Her heart pounded even harder. “You can’t mean…you didn’t…”

  He turned to face her, his face contorted. “Over ten years ago, my wife was kidnapped from a mall parking lot and murdered.”

  Chapter Four

  Rand vibrated with shock at hearing his own words. He stood there stupidly, holding onto a cabinet door. Why did I tell her that? Why did I just rip myself open in front of this woman?

  Rand closed his eyes, opened them, and tried to recall why he’d opened the cupboard. He couldn’t think. His heart pounded as though he’d just made a dash for his life.

  “Your wife? I’m so sorry.” Connie’s voice flowed soft and rich with compassion.

  The words set his teeth on edge. That’s what everyone said—“I’m so sorry.” What else could anyone say?

  “It was a long time ago,” he dismissed her comment. He’d revealed his secret to this stranger. Heat and then cold flashed through him.

  Why had he told her? What was it about this woman that had breached the wall of silence he maintained around the heinous sin that had stolen Cara from him? He drew breath and forced the lid down over the past, shutting it up tight once more. His emotional rush fizzled, leaving him shaken.

  “Then you do know how I…” her voice stumbled. “I mean, how Annie feels.”

  He faced her, letting the cupboard door bang shut. “I always take missing persons cases seriously. You can count on it.” He didn’t like the impassioned note in his voice. This woman was making him feel—feel things that belonged to the past. He groped for the loosened, shredded ends of his self-control.

  Her eyes downcast, she pressed her leather shoulder bag closer to her side. “I’m sorry I bothered you at home. I really have no excuse…”

  “It’s okay.” Please go. I need time alone. Something twisted inside him. She looked so crushed, defeated. He hadn’t meant to do that to her. “Have you eaten?” Again, his mouth was speaking words he didn’t want to say. “I was just making myself an omelet.”

  “No, I…”

  I can’t send you away looking like that. “Just sit back down.” Stay. �
��Why not eat a bite? We’ll talk about something…like the Cubs. Or are you a White Sox fan?”

  “I’m not much of a sports fan.” She took a step back, preparing to leave him.

  The more she edged away, the more he wanted her here. Stay. “We’ll just eat and then you can go. No strings attached.” He finally was able to clamp his mouth shut.

  “I don’t think I can eat anything.” She folded her arms in front of herself.

  “Something simple will go down easy.” Please stay. I didn’t mean to take my past out on you. “I’ll make the omelets and then we’ll just sit out on the deck and relax, take a break.” The idea of having this lovely woman sitting beside him for a meal, so he wouldn’t have to sit alone as usual, arced through him—an aching need, an undreamed-of temptation. He was amazed at how much emotion he could feel or how much he wanted her here. Stay, please stay.

  She gave him an appraising look, considering his offer.

  “No pressure. Just a quick, quiet meal.” His un-checked pulse galloped. He awaited her reply.

  “All right.” She relaxed visibly as though a burden had been lifted. She let her purse slide off her shoulder down to the chair between them, landing with a jingle of keys. “Can I do anything to help?”

  “No,” he said, able to draw a deep breath again, “just take off that suit jacket and make yourself comfortable.”

  “Rand!” a familiar voice hailed him through the open windows. Through the back door walked his very pregnant sister, Molly, and her family.

  “We didn’t know you had company,” his brother-in-law Larry said, grinning at him in a way that belied his words. He carried their two-year-old daughter, Alexa.

  Surprise shot through Rand. It took only an instant to see Chuck’s hand in Molly’s sudden appearance. Chuck had sent Connie over, and then Molly to make sure Rand didn’t run the pretty lawyer off. You’re dead meat, little brother.