Man Shy

by Catherine Mulvany

  The pickup was squeezed into one of the narrow slots that edged the front of the long, low building. Brody had parked in one of the wider diagonal spaces on the east side of the small lot. Mallory cut across the pavement, thankful that she’d worn her sneakers. The rubber soles were perfect for furtive operations.

  She made a beeline for the rear of the gray pickup, peering intently into the canopy before turning to cut between the truck and the burgundy car parked beside it.

  The back end was full of something. What, she couldn’t say, since canvas tarps covered the contents, hiding them from view. Disappointing, but not really surprising. What crook worth his salt drove around town with the evidence of his crime on display?

  What was surprising was the identity of Davis’s passenger. He’d been lying down on the seat, but when he heard Mallory’s soft footsteps, he jerked erect, and she found herself staring into a pair of big brown eyes.

  A black Lab, the owner of the big brown eyes, opened his jaws in a doggy smile and woofed a soft greeting.

  “Great watchdog you are, buddy.”

  The Lab pressed his nose against the window, gazing at her wistfully. Bubba hadn’t impressed her, but his dog was a born charmer.

  “You’re a darling,” she told him, “but I don’t have time to pi c” Her words died away as she noticed what the dog was leaning against—a perfectly ordinary navy-blue duffel bag that wouldn’t have surprised her a bit if it hadn’t been for the red-and-black-lace-trimmed garter belt partially caught in the zipper.

  Women’s underwear. Guess that might explain what a redneck like Bubba was doing at the Blue Russian. But oh, boy. The thought of Bubba in a garter belt boggled her mind.

  Caught off guard, Mallory nearly had a heart attack as the door of the Blue Russian flew open and two men came out. One was the owner, the other, Bubba. So where the heck was Brody? she wondered, worried. Out back in the trash bin?

  Before the two men had a chance to turn her direction, she ducked out of sight, flattening herself on the pavement and squeezing under the burgundy car.

  Her heart slammed so loudly against the wall of her chest, she was half-afraid the men would hear it. Two pairs of shoes marched past her nose. The owner’s well-polished oxblood loafers offered quite a contrast to Davis’s scuffed work boots, making it easy to tell the two apart even from this vantage point.

  “What are you doing here?” The speaker’s voice was deep and faintly accented. The owner. Dimitri, Kyle had called him. “Not too bright using the old man’s truck again.”

  “Oh, he don’t notice nothin’. Besides, I needed it. The boss asked me to run some errands.” This voice was coarser to match the run-over heels and knotted leather shoestrings of Davis’s work boots.

  “I’m busy, Arlo. What’s the problem?”

  Arlo? As in Arlo Davis? Were there two of them? An Arlo Senior and an Arlo Junior perhaps?

  “The boss sent some stuff over. Says he ain’t got room for it.”

  “Storage isn’t part of the deal. I’ve got too many nosy employees.”

  “But the boss said—”

  “All right, dammit. But bring it around to the rear. No need to advertise.”

  Dimitri stomped back inside and Arlo circled the truck and got in on the driver’s side.

  Where the heck was Brody?

  She slid cautiously across the rough pavement and out from under the car on the opposite side, crouching down between the next two cars.

  She waited until the pickup had backed out of its space and eased around toward the rear of the building before she ran across the lot to Brody’s Jeep.

  “Where were you?” he demanded as she piled in on the passenger’s side.

  Mallory nearly jumped out of her skin. “I thought you were still inside. How did you get here?” She took a couple of deep breaths in an effort to slow her adrenaline-charged heart. “I didn’t see you leave the bar.”

  “I slipped out the side door.” Brody frowned. “But you didn’t answer my question. Where were you? I thought I told you to stay in the Jeep.”

  “No, actually you asked me to keep an eye on the pickup. Which I did, turning up some very interesting evidence in the process.”

  “Stupid move.” Brody was tight-lipped. His frown had grown into a full-fledged scowl. “What if the passenger had caught you snooping around?”

  “I’m not an idiot, Brody. I was careful to make the whole thing look natural. And as it happened, it didn’t matter since the passenger is a dog.”

  “A dog? As in woof-woof?”

  “Yeah, a big black Labrador. Nice, friendly pooch.”

  “Okay, you got lucky. There was no second man. But what if Bubba had caught you poking around? He wasn’t inside more than fifteen minutes.”

  “He almost did catch me. I had to hide under a car.”

  Brody swore.

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking about the possible danger. And right now that’s beside the point. We’re wasting time. As we speak, they’re probably unloading all the stolen goods.”

  “What stolen goods?”

  “Arlo said—”

  “Arlo?”

  “That’s what the Russian called him. Confused the heck out of me too. Anyway, while I was hiding I overheard their entire conversation.” She did a quick recap. “So you see, we’re wasting time. We should be sneaking around to the alley to keep tabs on them.”

  “That conversation doesn’t prove a thing. I have a hard time believing Ivanovich is involved. Hell, his place was one of the first the burglars hit.”

  “Clever, huh? Who’d suspect one of the victims?” She shrugged. “I told you what they said. Feel free to draw your own conclusions, but my guess is they’re disposing of the evidence as we speak.”

  “Maybe you’re right. It’s worth checking out anyway.”

  Mallory started to get out of the Jeep, but Brody stopped her. “Aren’t we going to go see what’s happening out back?”

  “Not until I call for backup.” He put through a call to the dispatcher on his car phone. “Damn,” he muttered as he hung up.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “She gave me an ETA of ten minutes. All patrolmen busy at present.” He smacked the steering wheel, then checked his watch. Swearing softly under his breath, he got out of the Jeep. Mallory started to follow, but he stopped her with a shake of his head. “No, you keep an eye peeled for a cruiser. Tell them I’m out back.”

  “Should you be doing this alone?”

  “No, but I don’t seem to have a choice. Don’t worry. I’m just going to watch. I won’t make a move without backup.”

  And he would have followed through on that promise, only by the time he got around back, the truck was deserted, the tailgate hanging open. No Dimitri Ivanovich. No Arlo Bubba Bo Bob Davis. And as far as Brody could tell, no evidence either.

  Swearing under his breath, he lurked in the shadow of a steel storage shed. Hell, even if a uniform showed up this minute, they couldn’t prove zip. And he’d bet his pension Dimitri Ivanovich wasn’t going to invite them to have a look around inside without a search warrant. Dammit, what now?

  He heard a noise behind him, the rattle of a rock skittering across the strip of concrete connecting the shed with the Blue Russian itself. He started to turn but barely made it a quarter of the way around before something solid connected painfully with the back of his head.

  Mallory watched and waited as the minutes crawled by with agonizing slowness. This was far worse than her earlier stint of surveillance. At least then she’d had something to keep an eye on. Now all she had to stare at was the second hand on her watch.

  Hadn’t Brody said his backup was due in ten minutes. It had been almost fifteen. Fourteen and a half, to be exact. So where the heck were they?

  A patrol car appeared so suddenly, it was almost as if she’d conjured it up from the depths of her imagination. Though if she truly had been doing the conjuring, she’d have produced Cesar Rios instead of
Officer Regan Armstrong. Armstrong parked next to the Jeep, so close Mallory couldn’t open her door without scraping the insignia off the cruiser’s driver’s-side door.

  Officer Armstrong rolled down her window, motioning for Mallory to do the same. Then she deliberately shone her flashlight in Mallory’s face. “Where’s Hunter?”

  “Could you shift that light out of my eyes, please?”

  Armstrong moved the beam an inch or so to the left. “I said, where’s Hunter?”

  “He went around back to keep an eye on the pickup.” Mallory explained what she’d overheard. “Only I’m beginning to get worried,” she added. “He’s been gone almost twenty minutes.”

  “Damn hotshot. Should have waited for backup.”

  “He was waiting for backup. All he intended to do was watch, not apprehend. What took you so long anyway?”

  “Look, lady, don’t question how I do my job.”

  Mallory opened her mouth to let Officer Armstrong know exactly what she could do with her job, then thought better of it. Alienating Brody’s backup was not a brilliant idea.

  “Around back you say?” Armstrong asked.

  “Right.”

  Without another word, Officer Armstrong doused her flashlight, rolled up her window, and started her engine.

  “Wait! I’m going too!”

  Either she didn’t hear Mallory’s shout or she wasn’t interested in company. She backed out of her parking slot and drove around the side of the building into the alley.

  “Charming,” Mallory muttered. She rolled her own window up, then hopped out of the Jeep to follow on foot.

  Officer Armstrong had parked her squad car so it blocked both the alley and access to the alley from the parking lot. When Mallory came around the end of the Blue Russian, she saw the policewoman standing under the security light near the back door, hands on hips, frowning at the No Parking sign tacked to the wall. She turned at the sound of Mallory’s approach. “This place is deserted.”

  Nothing like stating the obvious, Mallory thought.

  “So where’s the pickup?” Armstrong demanded.

  “More importantly, where’s Brody?”

  “Out hotdogging it, no doubt. Detective Hunter’s a born hero.” Armstrong made it sound like a disease,

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Have you looked for him?”

  The redhead shrugged. “Looked for him where? There aren’t a hell of a lot of places to hide back here.”

  “The shed?”

  “Locked,” said Armstrong. “Ditto the back door. No bushes. No trees. No place to hide. Except c”

  Both of them noticed the big blue trash bin on the far side of die shed at the same time.

  “Oh, jeez. Not the Dumpster.” Mallory stumbled over to it on legs that seemed to have turned to rubber. She banged on the side. “Brody! Are you in there, Brody?” she asked, hoping he wasn’t. After her last experience, she wasn’t anxious to look but knew she had to.

  There weren’t any sandbags on top this time and she managed to lift: the heavy cover by herself. It fell back, connecting with the wall of the shed with a resounding clang. “Brody?”

  “Did you find him?” Officer Armstrong moved up beside her and shone her flashlight inside. The Dumpster was empty except for some flattened boxes and Brody Hunter.

  Mallory’s partially digested shrimp fried rice burned its way back up her esophagus. What had Tim said earlier? Déjà vu all over again? Only this time the red stuff wasn’t tomato sauce. “Call an ambulance,” she managed to say before being very, very sick all over Officer Armstrong’s shiny black shoes.

  EIGHT

  Mallory had been relieved to discover Brody’s injuries weren’t as serious as they’d first appeared. He’d come to before the ambulance arrived, more mad than hurt, furious that he’d taken another blow from an unseen assailant. “With head wounds you always bleed like a stuck hog,” he’d told Mallory. “I swear, when I catch up with this joker, I’m gonna stick him in a trash bin and see how the hell he likes it.”

  “At least this Dumpster didn’t stink like the other one,” Mallory’d said, her comment earning her a disgusted look.

  After giving Officer Armstrong his statement, Brody’d been rushed off to Brunswick General. Mallory had stayed behind to answer a few more questions, then trailed the ambulance to the hospital in Brody’s Jeep.

  She entered the emergency room through the automatic doors and approached the woman behind the admitting desk. With iron-gray hair permed to a frazzle and the poker-stiff posture that suggested a military background, she was what Mallory’s father would have described as a starchy old trout. Busy attacking the keyboard of her computer as if she had a grudge against it, she didn’t even glance up at Mallory’s approach.

  “Excuse me?” Mallory said.

  The receptionist glared at her. “Hang on. I’m almost done.” She bashed away, clickety-click, for another minute or two before looking up again, this time with what was probably meant to be a smile, though Mallory’s first thought was: Grandma, what big teeth you have!

  “I’m here to see Brody Hunter. An ambulance brought him in half an hour ago. Head injury.”

  “You a relative?”

  “No.”

  The woman’s face closed up. “Then I’m afraid—”

  “I’m a friend,” Mallory said quickly. “Close friend. Fiancée, in fact.” She jammed her left hand into the pocket of her jacket to hide its ringless state.

  The woman’s disbelieving stare probably would have intimidated most people. Fortunately, Mallory was used to her mother, and by comparison, this receptionist was a marshmallow.

  “Where is he?” She peered over the woman’s shoulder into the emergency room proper, where white- and green-clad figures rushed back and forth like industrious ants.

  The receptionist pointed heavenward and Mallory’s heart gave a lurch, even though she was positive Brody’s injuries hadn’t been serious enough to send him to the pearly gates. “Second floor,” the woman said. She checked her clipboard. “X-ray department.”

  Mallory heard Brody the instant she stepped off the elevator. No doubt the rest of Brunswick could hear him too.

  She found him in a waiting room at the end of a long, empty corridor. The scene was like something from One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Two LPNs held him on one side, two orderlies on the other, while an RN, a statuesque brunette built along the lines of an Amazon, strapped him to the gurney. And the whole time Brody was yelling, his language foul enough to bring a blush to a truck driver’s cheek.

  “What is going on here?”

  The tableau froze at the sound of her voice. Everyone stared at her, including Brody, his harangue halted in mid-epithet.

  He soon found his tongue, however. “Mallory, tell these officious morons they can’t keep me here against my will. I have rights, and that includes the right to check myself the hell out of this damn torture chamber.”

  “Not until you have the X rays Dr. Yamamoto ordered.” The nurse fastened the last restraint and the others took a wary step back as Brody lunged against his bonds.

  “You’re not keeping him overnight for observation?” He must have lost half a pint of blood. What was wrong with these people?

  Brody and the nurse both glared at her. “That was the original plan,” the nurse said, “but he’s right. We can’t keep him if he doesn’t want to stay, and by the looks of him, I’d say he doesn’t have a concussion, anyway. Still, it’s not my call. The doctor’s the one who ordered the pictures, and Mr. Uncooperative here isn’t leaving until he gets them.” Hands on hips, she turned her glare back on Brody. “If you don’t calm down and quit swearing, I’m going to personally wash your mouth out with soap. And if that doesn’t do the trick”—she grinned evilly—“I can arrange for an enema.”

  Brody scowled. “I bet you would, Nurse Ratched.”

  “That’s Nurse Ratcliff. And you can make book on it, buster.” She turned back to Mallory. “By the way, who ar
e you, and what are you doing here?”

  “I’m his c” Fiancée, she started to say, but remembered in time about her ringless left hand, now resting on Brody’s shoulder in plain sight of God and everybody. “His sister.”

  Nurse Ratcliff narrowed her eyes. “You two don’t look alike.”

  “Different mothers,” said Mallory.

  “Different fathers,” said Brody at the same time. They exchanged a glance. “My father married her mother,” he explained. “Technically, she’s my stepsister.”

  Technically, he was a liar.

  The nurse evidently thought so too. She didn’t look convinced, but she let it pass. “Don’t you people have work to do?” she asked the gawking staff members. As they shuffled away she addressed Mallory. “You’ve got about ten minutes before they’re ready for him. See if you can reason with the big bozo. A night in the hospital isn’t going to kill him, whereas if he rushes back out and gets knocked over the head again c” She shrugged. “You know what they say. Third time’s a charm.”

  Mallory stared after the nurse’s retreating back. What she meant was, nobody’s skull could stand up to such punishment on a regular basis. Next time Brody might not be so lucky.

  Mallory didn’t realize her grip had tightened on Brody’s shoulder until he accused her of trying to cut off his circulation.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  He looked up at her, one eyebrow raised. “Do you think Ratched was serious about the enema?”

  Mallory laughed. “Dead serious. You’d better settle down. That is not a lady to mess around with.”

  “How about you, Mallory?” He grinned. “Can I mess around with you?”

  “Whoa, boy. Off-limits. I’m your sister, remember?”

  “Stepsister,” he corrected. “No blood tie. Come on, honey. One little kiss. That’s all I need. One little teensy-weensy kiss and I promise I’ll be a good boy and not throw any more tantrums for Nurse Ratched.”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea to get overstimulated in your condition.”

  “Then you’d better leave, sis, ’cause just being in the same room with you is enough to get me overstimulated.”