The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 4

by Nora Roberts

  “And I didn’t handle it well.”

  “Essie, you ought to give yourself a break.” He saw surprise cross over her face, as if she’d never thought of any such thing. “What’ve you been up to today?”

  “Keeping busy, pestering Phoebe with food on trays until I imagine she wants to knock me over the head with them. I finished a project and made half a dozen lists I don’t need.”

  Little tickled his interest more than the wordproject. Duncan stretched out his legs, prepared for a cozy chat. “What’s the project?”

  “Oh, I do needlework.” Essie waved a hand toward the foyer, where the shipping box waited for pickup. “Finished up a bedspread—wedding gift—last night.”

  “Who’s getting married?”

  “Oh, a sometime customer of mine’s goddaughter. I sell some of my pieces locally and over the Internet here and there.”

  “No kidding?” Enterprising projects doubled the interest. “You’ve got a cottage industry?”

  “More like a sitting-room interest,” she said with a laugh. “It’s just a way to pay for my hobby, earn a little pin money.”

  While he sat, at ease, his mind calculated: handmade. Customized. One of a kind. “What kind of needlework?”

  “I crochet. My mother taught me, her mother taught her. It was a keen disappointment I could never get Phoebe to sit still long enough to teach her. But Carly’s getting a hand at it.”

  He scanned the room, homed in on the deep blue throw with its pattern of showy pink cabbage roses. Rising, he moved over to pick up an edge, study it.

  Oh yeah, add in intricate and unique.

  “Is this your work?”

  “It is.”

  “It’s nice. It’s really nice. Looks like something maybe your grandma made over lots of quiet nights, then passed down to you.”

  Pleasure shone like sunshine on Essie’s face. “Why, isn’t that the best of compliments?”

  “So, what, do you make specific pieces from, like, what, patterns, or tailor to clients?”

  “Oh, it depends. Why don’t I get you that coffee?”

  “I’ve got to head out in a minute. Have you ever thought of…Hey.”

  It was the way his face lit up that had Essie pursing her lips, even before she turned and saw Phoebe in the parlor doorway.

  “Now, what are you doing up and coming downstairs by yourself?” In full scold, Essie hurried over to her daughter’s side. “Didn’t I put that bell right on your nightstand so you could ring if you wanted anything?”

  “I needed to get out of that bed. I’m not going to lie there Cousin Bessing it all damn day.”

  Duncan saw the look, the quick flash of maternal disapproval before Essie turned back to him. “You’ll have to excuse her, Duncan. Feeling poorly brings out the sass in her. I’ll go make us that coffee.”

  “Mama.” Phoebe brushed a hand over Essie’s arm. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

  “You get a pass on that, due to being hurt. Talk to Duncan awhile. He’s come out on this rainy day just to see how you’re feeling.”

  Phoebe only frowned at him as her mother left the room. “Yes, I know I look worse than I did yesterday.”

  “Then I don’t have to mention it. Do you feel worse?”

  “Some parts of me do. Including my temper.” She glanced back toward the foyer, sighed. “Being fussed over makes me irritable.”

  “I’ll try to restrain myself, then. And I should probably take these back.” He picked up the shopping bag he’d brought in. “As it hits on two points—not wanting to lie around, and being fussed over. I assume bringing by a gift is fussing.”

  “Depends on the gift. Oh, sit down, Duncan. I’m irritating myself with my bad mood.”

  “I really have to go. I have a couple of things.” He held up the bag, shook it lightly. “You want?”

  “How do I know when I don’t know what’s in it?” She limped her way over, peered into the bag. “DVDs? God, there must be two dozen.”

  “I like to read or watch movies when I’m laid up. And I thought reading might be tough with the bum wing, so I went for movies. Chick flicks. I lean toward the oeuvre ofThe Three Stooges, but figured it would be wasted around here.”

  “You figured correctly.”

  “I don’t know if you go for that type or if you like slasher films or watching stuff blow up, but I figured in a household of four women, this was the best bet.”

  “I like chick flicks, and slasher films and watching things blow up.” Intrigued, she poked in the bag. “Since when isThe Blues Brothers a chick flick?”

  “It’s not, I just happen to like it. It’s the only one I picked out, actually. Marcie at the video store handled the rest. She assured me that they’re all appropriate for a kid Carly’s age, unless her mother’s a real tight-ass. She didn’t say tight-ass,” he added, when Phoebe narrowed her eyes at him. “I inferred.”

  “It’s very thoughtful of you. And Marcie. And when these help stave off screaming boredom, I’ll think of you.”

  “That’s the plan. I have to go. Tell your mother I said goodbye.” He touched his lips to her forehead beside the bandages. “Take a dose of Jake and Elwood and call me in the morning.”

  “If I don’t walk you to the door, I’ll have to lie to my mother and say I did.” She set the bag down to lead him out. “I appreciate the movies, and everything else you did—and didn’t do. Such as comment on my bed hair and foul disposition.”

  “Good. Then when you’re feeling up to it, you can pay me back and have dinner with me again.”

  “Are you bribing me with DVDs?”

  “Sure. But I think my discretion over hair and mood earns even more points.” Since it pleased him to see her lips curve up in a quick smile, he lowered his for a little taste. “I’ll see you later.”

  He opened the door just as a woman jogged up the steps. “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey back. Lieutenant.”

  “Detective. Detective Liz Alberta, Duncan Swift.”

  “Oh yeah, we spoke on the phone.” He held out a hand. “Nice to meet you, and I’ll get out of your way. Talk to you later, Phoebe.”

  Liz turned, studied Duncan as he dashed out and through the rain. As she lowered her umbrella she raised her eyebrows at Phoebe. “Nice.”

  The tone, the look, told Phoebe that Liz referred to the exit view. “Oh yeah, it certainly is. Come in out of the wet.”

  “Thanks. I didn’t think I’d find you up and around today.”

  “If I don’t get back to work soon, I’m going to go straight out of my mind.” She took Liz’s umbrella, slid it into the porcelain umbrella stand.

  “Bad patient?”

  “The worst. Are you here for a follow-up?”

  “If you can handle it.”

  “I can.” Phoebe gestured toward the parlor. “Anything I should know?”

  “Your weapon hasn’t been recovered, but I did bring you this.” She pulled an evidence bag out of her satchel. Inside was Phoebe’s badge. “It was found at the base of the stairs, where we assume your attacker tossed it. No prints but yours.”

  “He wore gloves,” Phoebe murmured.

  “Yes, so you said.”

  Her badge would have been hooked to the waistband of her skirt, Phoebe thought. He’d cut her skirt to pieces, shoved his hand up under what he’d left of it to…She shook her head. No point, none, in putting herself back there. “Sorry. Please, sit down.”

  “How’s the shoulder?”

  “I tell myself it could be worse. It could. It could all be worse.”

  “Lieutenant—”

  “Just make it Phoebe. This may be an official follow-up, but we’re not in the house.”

  “Okay, Phoebe. You and I both know that sometimes the emotional injuries take a lot longer to heal than the physical ones.”

  Knowing and experiencing were two different things. “I’m working on that.”

  “All right.”

  “He s
et me up. Arnie Meeks set me up and he took me down.”

  Before Liz could respond, Essie wheeled in a cart. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you had other company. Duncan?”

  “He had to go. Mama, this is Detective Alberta. My mother, Essie Mac Namara.”

  “You took care of my daughter when she was hurt yesterday. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. It’s good to meet you, Mrs. Mac Namara.”

  “I hope you’ll have coffee, and some of this cake.” Essie set cups, saucers, plates on the coffee table as she spoke. “I just have a few things to see to in the kitchen.” She lifted the tray holding the pot, the creamer, the sugar. “Y’all just let me know if you need anything else.”

  “Thank you, Mama.”

  “Detective Alberta, you don’t mind pouring, do you?”

  “No, ma’am.” Falling in, Liz picked up the coffeepot, poured out the cups. She shot a glance over as Essie slipped out of the room. “I thought carts like that were just for movies and fancy hotels.”

  “Sometimes this house feels like a little of both. You’re going to tell me that you’re actively investigating, but don’t have any solid evidence implicating Officer Arnold Meeks at this time.”

  “I am, and I don’t. I spoke with him. He was in the building and was smart enough not to deny it. He claims he was getting a few items out of his locker at the time of the attack.”

  “This was payback, Liz.”

  She looked out the window as her mother had earlier, but instead of being comforted by the rain, felt trapped by it. Trapped inside when there were things todo.

  “I’ve bumped up against a few other cops, that’s just the way it is. But no one recently, and never anyone to the extent Meeks and I rammed heads. I slapped him back, I suspended him, I recommended a psych eval. He wanted to kick my ass then and there, and in fact considered drawing on me. I saw it in his eyes, in his body language. As did Sykes, who interrupted for that reason.”

  “Yeah, I spoke with Detective Sykes, and he concurs that he sensed trouble from Meeks that day in your office. ‘Sensed’ isn’t going to be enough. I’ve got nothing that places him in that stairway. In the building, yes, with a grudge against you, yes. He’s called in his delegate, and he’s got his father’s considerable weight behind him. If you can give me more, if you remember anything, any detail.”

  “I gave you everything.”

  “Let’s go over it again. Not just from the attack, but from when you left the house that morning.”

  Phoebe knew how it worked. Every repetition of the story could add another detail, and another detail might turn the investigation.

  She went through it. Heading out to catch the bus as her car was in for repairs. She’d borrowed the MP3 player Ava liked to use when she gardened, and had tried to convince herself the bus was more relaxing, maybe more efficient than driving herself.

  She detoured for coffee before taking the to-go cup into work.

  “Did you notice anything? Anyone? Get the sense you were followed?”

  “No. I can’t say I wasn’t. I wasn’t tuned for that, but I didn’t have any sense of it either. I went straight up to my office, started paperwork.”

  She went through it, the officers and detectives she’d spoken with, the movements. Routine, routine, routine, she thought. Just another Monday morning.

  “After my conversation with the captain, I started down.”

  “You always take the stairs.”

  “Yes. It’s habitual.”

  “Did you stop, talk to anyone?”

  “No…Yes. I stopped by my PAA’s desk to tell her I was going down to the session. Wait.” Phoebe set down her coffee, sat back, closed her eyes. She pulled it back into her head, the running image of herself striding out of her office, across the squad room.

  “She held me up there for a minute, asked me some questions, nothing necessary—especially since she’d know I was running close to the clock. I didn’t think anything about it at the time, except for being a little annoyed because I was cutting it close, and because she already knew—or should have—that I had the session waiting on me.”

  “Who’s your PAA?” Liz asked as she pulled out her notebook.

  “Annie Utz. I’ve only had her a few months. She stalled me.” As she thought back, tried to bring it into focus, Phoebe closed her eyes. “I think she was stalling me, just a minute or two. Then she said something about how I’d be taking the stairs down, like always.”

  Phoebe opened her eyes, and now they were fierce with fury. “She was signaling him, by radio or phone. Son of a bitch, she was letting him know I was on my way.”

  “Do you know if Arnie Meeks and your PAA have a personal relationship?”

  “No. She’s new, like I said, only a couple of months on the desk. Sharp-looking, single, friendly. Maybe a little on the flirty side, but nothing over the line. She was nervous, a little nervous yesterday. I was in a hurry so I didn’t pay attention. I didn’t think of her, of that quick conversation again until now.”

  “I’ll talk to her.”

  “No. No, we will. I’m going in with you.”

  “Lieutenant. Phoebe—”

  “Put yourself in my place.”

  Liz drew a deep breath. “Do you need any help getting dressed?”

  Phoebe was struggling, sweating and cursing her way into a shirt when Essie steamed into the room. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

  “Trying to get into this goddamn shirt. I have to go with Detective Alberta.”

  “You’re not to go anywhere but back to bed, Phoebe Katherine Mac Namara.”

  “I should be back within an hour.”

  “Don’t make me drag your stubborn self into that bed, Phoebe.”

  “Mama, for God’s sake.” Frustrated and starting to ache again, Phoebe dropped her arm. “Will you help me button this stupid shirt?”

  “No. I said you’re not going anywhere.”

  “And I said I am. There’s a lead on my case, and I—”

  “You arenot a case. You’re my child.”

  Out of breath, Phoebe cradled her bad arm. And through her own anger and annoyance saw the warning glints of panic in her mother’s eyes. “Mama…All right, let’s both calm down.”

  “I’ll calm down when you get your beat-up self back into bed where you belong.” Marching over, Essie flung back the bedclothes. “Right this minute! I’m not—”

  “Mama, listen to me. My arm will heal, the rest of me will heal on the outside. We know how it is on the inside though, you and me. We know. So you understand when I tell you I’m not going to heal until the person who did this to me is held accountable.”

  “There are other people who can see that he’s held accountable.”

  “I know you feel that way. I know you have to. Understand that I feelthis way. That I have to. I can’t live afraid, Mama, I just can’t.”

  “That’s not what I want, that’s not what I’m asking you.”

  “But I am afraid. And I close my eyes and I’m back in that stairwell.”

  “Oh, baby.” Tears swam as Essie hurried over to stroke her daughter’s face.

  “Part of me’s going to stay afraid, and I’m going to keep finding myself trapped in that stairwell, until I do this. Help me with this shirt. Please.”

  Though her eyes were damp, Essie studied Phoebe’s face and saw clearly enough. “I don’t want you to live the way I do. I don’t want you to be afraid.”

  “I know that.”

  Slowly, her eyes on Phoebe’s, Essie buttoned the shirt. “Do you have to go so far the other way?”

  “I guess I do. I’m sorry.”

  “Phoebe.” Gently, Essie eased Phoebe’s arm back into the sling. Then she brushed at Phoebe’s hair with her fingertips. “When you get back, you’re going straight to bed.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And you’re going to eat all the dinner I bring up to you.”

  “Every bite.” Phoebe
kissed Essie’s cheek where the little white scar rode under carefully applied makeup. “Thank you.”

  When Phoebe came back into the parlor with Essie at her side, Liz looked from one to the other. “Ah…your PAA called in sick this morning. I have her home address.”

  “We’ll try her there.”

  “Detective? I don’t care if she does outrank you, you take good care of my baby girl—and see she gets home.”

  “I’ll do that, Mrs. Mac Namara. Thank you for the coffee.” Liz waited until they were outside to open her umbrella, and to speak again. “I don’t care if you do outrank me, I take the lead on this.”

  “No argument. Friendly, flirty and efficient, that’s how I’d describe her. Mid-twenties. I think she likes being around cops—likes the buzz. Thanks,” she added when Liz opened the car door for her. “How bad do I look?” Phoebe asked when Liz got behind the wheel.

  “Not quite bad enough to scare small children.”

  “Let her see me first. My gut says he didn’t tell her he was going to hurt me. Scare me, maybe, or just plead his case.” Despite the rainy day, Phoebe slipped on her sunglasses. “But I don’t think she’d have gone along if she knew he intended to hurt me. She calls in sick the day after. She’s probably scared, guilty, wondering what happened. The way cop shops work, she’s heard a few variations. She sees me first, she’s already going to start cracking.”

  Annie looked sick when she opened the door to her apartment. Against the cotton-candy pink of her pajamas, her face was white and drawn. Her eyes popped wide when she saw Phoebe. Stumbling back, she stuttered out Phoebe’s name.

  “Annie Utz? I’m Detective Alberta. Can we come in?”

  “I—I—”

  “Thanks.” Liz pushed the door all the way open so Phoebe could walk in ahead of her. In the background a couple of soap opera actors argued bitterly over someone named Jasmine.

  “Lieutenant Mac Namara needs to sit down. She’s hurt pretty bad.”

  “I…I have a head cold. I’m probably contagious.”

  “We’ll risk it. You heard about what happened to Lieutenant Mac Namara, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. I mean, I guess I did. I’m so sorry, Lieutenant. You should be home, resting.”

  “Annie…Mind if we turn this off?” Without waiting for permission, Liz picked up the remote and ended the threatening tirade of a shirtless blond hunk. “I’m looking into what happened to the lieutenant. You were the last one to speak to her before she was attacked.”