She nodded, turning to leave. “All right,” she said quietly. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
Malcolm was already leaning over the engine that had perplexed Jock. The engine he’d promised Mr. Mahoney was going to be purring by two this afternoon. “Don’t let her suck her thumb too much.”
The advice was carelessly tossed in her direction like a discarded gum wrapper. Surprised that he’d offered it, that he’d say anything that wasn’t yanked out of him, Christa turned around to look at him again.
He never looked up, but he could feel her eyes on him just the same. He knew she was waiting for him to say something more. She’d probably stand there all day until he did.
Malcolm moved the overhead light clipped to the hood so that it illuminated the area beyond the spark plugs. “If she doesn’t stop, she’ll distort her palate and you’ll be looking down the wrong end of a two-thousand-dollar bill for braces in about eight years.”
The prediction stunned her almost as much as the man himself did. Did he have children? She glanced at the sign to the extreme left that told her that Malcolm Evans was the proprietor of Evans Car Service. She wondered if that was him. Something vague, just beyond the periphery of her thoughts, nagged at her, but she couldn’t grab hold of it.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” She waited, but he said nothing else. With a perplexed sigh, Christa walked away from the service station.
Tyler was still waiting for her when she returned to her van. He was leaning against the hood of his car, talking to Elliott. The other squad car was nowhere in sight.
Straightening as she approached, Tyler nodded toward the gas station. He’d watched her brief encounter with Robin’s rescuer. Body language told him that it hadn’t gone the way Christa had wanted it to.
“What was that all about?”
Christa opened the passenger side and climbed in with Robin. All she wanted to do now was go home, sit holding Robin in her arms and forget about all this.
“I was just trying to thank him. I wanted to do something to show how very grateful I am.” She shrugged as she snapped the seat harness around Robin. “He told me to get out of the way.”
Tyler had surmised as much from the look on her face. “Some people can’t handle gratitude. They get embarrassed.”
Christa climbed out again, then pulled the door shut. She turned her face up to Tyler’s. “I know, but if he hadn’t been there—”
He wouldn’t let her do this to herself. She’d already been through too much lately as it was.
“But he was.” When she looked away, Tyler bracketed her shoulders with his hands, forcing her to raise her eyes to his. “Don’t dwell on what ifs, Christa. It’ll drive you crazy. You were the one who taught me that, remember?”
She sighed. “Yes, I remember.”
Her shoulders sagged as if all the fight had been drained from her. Tyler knew better than that, but he let his hands drop to his sides.
“We’re going to need you to come down to the station and make a statement.”
Christa just wanted to put this all behind her. Being a cop’s daughter, she should have realized she couldn’t do that so quickly. “Now?”
Ordinarily, he would have said yes. But this was his sister. And though she was trying to put up a brave front, he knew she was shaken. Hell, he was shaken by what had almost happened. She deserved a little slack.
“No, why don’t you go home first? Take care of the bump on your head and clean up that scrape.” Taking hold of her hand, he turned it to examine her palm. The blood was already beginning to dry. “You can come down to the precinct later.” She flashed a small smile in response. Even that lit up her face. It was more like the Christa he was accustomed to. “Want me to drive you home?”
Home was a condo she had just leased last week. It was a little more than a mile down the road and still in a state of chaos, but right now, it was a haven.
She shook her head. “No, you go do what you have to do to earn your paycheck.” Christa saw the concern in his eyes. She placed a hand on his arm. “I told you, I’m fine.”
Tyler could only shake his head in response. “Stubborn as ever.”
Her eyes slanted toward the gas station. Malcolm Evans, if that was his name, was bending over the car he’d begun working on when she walked away. Its yawning hood was hanging open over him like the mouth of a shark that was getting ready to deliver a final bite.
“Yeah,” she answered, “I am.”
A deep, cleansing breath that helped her push aside the entire harrowing experience. She pulled open the door on the driver’s side of the van and climbed in. Robin sat dozing in her seat. Poor thing, she was exhausted.
That makes two of us.
Tyler shut the door behind her. “Buckle up or I’ll have to issue you a ticket.”
“Bully.” She slid the metal tongue into the clip. It clicked into place. “I’ll be by later this afternoon, all right?”
“Whenever you’re ready. Ask for Detective Harold. He’ll ease you through this.”
“Thanks.”
As she pulled out of the parking lot, she saw her brother in her rearview mirror. He was walking over to the gas station. She wondered if he was going to have any better luck with the solemn-eyed Good Samaritan than she had had.
The police station had grown a great deal since she’d wandered the small, narrow halls as a child. Those times, she had been ushered in by her mother to visit her father at work.
A sense of pride had always shimmied through her here, even though she’d been very young. The pride had multiplied as her brothers joined the force. Christa liked the idea of them being part of what made things right in the world, part of what kept the peace.
The halls weren’t narrow anymore. Renovated, the station seemed like something that belonged on the ground floor of a corporate building, not a police station. But it was a station nonetheless. A place where perpetrators were fingerprinted, where victims told their stories. It was a place where people came after bad things had happened to them.
People like her.
Christa shivered and wished she didn’t have to go through this.
It could have been a lot worse, she reminded herself as she squared her shoulders.
Detective Harold was a new name to her. She’d known many of the old-timers. Her father had always brpught his work home with him, cleaning up some of the coarser, uglier details as he went along. The men he worked with became a phantom part of the family.
The redheaded policewoman at the long reception desk looked up and waited expectantly as she asked, “May I help you?”
“I’m Christa Winslow. I’m here to see Detective Harold.”
The policewoman rose, nodding as if she’d been expecting her. “Wait right here.” She disappeared behind a wall that separated the long front reception area from the rest of the station.
Christa heard the automatic doors in the rear of the lobby open and close. Curious, she turned to see who had entered the precinct.
It was her reluctant Good Samaritan. He walked across the gleaming tiled floor, the heels of his scarred boots beating out a steady cadence, marking his approach. Even if the foyer had been crowded, she still would have singled him out. There was an aura about him.
A hundred or so years ago, people would have stopped to gawk at the stranger who rode into Dodge. He had an air of quiet power about him, power that wasn’t to be challenged. He was tall and straight like a doublebarreled shotgun and looked to be twice as lethal when crossed.
Something made her doubt that the appearance was deceiving.
Their eyes met at exactly the same moment, and she nodded at him. He slowly acknowledged the greeting.
She looked out of place here, Malcolm thought. She reminded him of a daisy pushing her way through a crack in the pavement.
When he reached her, she spoke first. It didn’t surprise him. He wouldn’t have spoken at all. The nod was enough for him.
Apparently, it w
asn’t enough for her.
“Hi.”
Her greeting was bright, cheery, as if they were old friends rather than people who didn’t even know each other’s names. What was her name? Christine? Kristin? No, the policeman had called her…Christa. That was it. Christa.
He didn’t have trouble recalling that the baby’s name was Robin.
“Are you here to give a statement?”
Malcolm only nodded in reply. He didn’t want to be here, but he couldn’t very well tell that to the police. So he had worked through lunch and gotten Mahoney’s car in running order, then left when the part-timer had shown up to help Jock. Though he had hoped only to have the gas station cover meager expenses, business was picking up steadily. If it continued, he was going to have to hire more help. The thought didn’t please him. The fewer people he had to interact with, the better.
Christa remembered what he’d said to her earlier. “I guess this is really interfering with your schedule.” Again, he nodded. Why couldn’t he say something? Nerves sharply cut through the veneer of politeness she was attempting to maintain. “You know, they’re going to ask you to talk.”
The way annoyance appeared and then disappeared across her brow amused him. His mouth curved just the slightest bit.
“I’ll talk,” he answered quietly.
He could smile. The sight of it softened her. “I’m sorry about all this.”
It hadn’t occurred to him to hold her accountable for the inconvenience. He’d chosen to pursue the fleeing van; she hadn’t forced him to do it.
“Not your fault.”
She blew out a breath. “I know, but if you hadn’t come to my rescue, to Robin’s rescue—”
“Then things would be a lot more serious than they are now.” He saw another apology or exclamation of everlasting gratitude hovering on her lips. He wanted neither. “Forget it.”
It was a curt command, but she wasn’t about to obey. “I can’t,” she insisted, vehemently enough to catch his attention. “I can’t forget it. What happened today could have changed my life forever. It could have changed Robin’s life forever. Or ended it. You prevented that. It’s not something I can just push out of my mind.” She paused only for a moment, searching his face. “Why won’t you let me thank you?”
Malcolm didn’t want to get into it with her. He looked past the blond head, searching for someone to give his name to and get this all over with. But there was no one behind the long ebony-and-chrome desk.
“Let’s just say that this was a small payment on a debt I owe.”
His answer baffled her. She found herself wanting to make sense out of it. “I don’t understand.”
He shook his head, dismissing her part in it. “That’s all right. You weren’t involved.”
There were no landmarks to help her pick her way through the maze. She didn’t like being lost. It was clear to her that he was carrying on some inner conversation with himself that she was only accidentally privy to. It was a subject that obviously caused him pain. Because of what he’d done for her, for Robin, she was determined to learn more.
The policewoman chose that moment to return. “If you follow me, I’ll take you to Detective Harold.” She raised her eyes to Malcolm’s face.
“I’m Malcolm Evans. Officer McGuire told me to come in to give my statement regarding—”
She nodded. “Detective Simms is waiting to see you. Why don’t you both come around the desk and follow me inside?”
Malcolm stepped back and gestured for Christa to go first.
Malcolm Evans. So that had been his name on the sign earlier. Ever since she’d read it, the name had been teasing her. She’d heard it before, though the connection eluded her. It flittered back and forth in her mind like an annoying gnat.
The policewoman ushered them to two adjacent desks in the squad room before disappearing.
For the next twenty minutes, Christa and Malcolm gave their statements to two detectives. Detective Harold questioned Christa about the incident as gently as if he were dealing with his own daughter. She discovered that he had known her father. She answered his questions as completely as she could, all the while trying to listen to what Malcolm was telling Detective Simms. She succeeded only minimally.
Detective Harold offered her the paper he had just finished typing. Glancing over it, she signed her name on the bottom.
Christa laid the pen down. “Is that all?”
“No.” Tyler’s voice came from behind her. “Now you have to pick him out of a lineup.”
She offered an apologetic smile as she rose to her feet. “Sorry, I would have known that if it wasn’t happening to me.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Tyler slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Who’s baby-sitting? Dad?” She nodded. “You know, he makes a much nicer grandfather than he did a father.”
Christa laughed. “Sometimes these things take time. Dad’s a late bloomer.” A stern disciplinarian, her father had turned into a pushover with Robin.
“Almost finished?” Tyler asked the burly man at the next desk.
In response, the detective took out a pen and handed it to Malcolm. “Just needs a signature.”
But Malcolm was in no hurry to sign. Instead, he slowly read through the words the older man had typed on the form.
Tyler laid a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder. “We’ll wait for you in the hall.” The question was silent, evident in the set of the wide shoulders. “We’re going to need your ID, as well—separately,” Tyler explained.
Malcolm only nodded in response. Tyler ushered Christa into the hall.
“So, how did it go?”
“Pretty painless. Detective Harold’s nice—just like you said.”
“Nothing but the best for my baby sister.”
Christa looked toward the glass encompassed squad room. Malcolm was signing the bottom of the form. “Do your baby sister a favor?”
He knew better than to say yes right away. “What?”
“Can you get me some information on him?”
Tyler didn’t have to ask who “him” was. It was against the rules to give out information on the forms, but some rules could be bent on occasion, and this seemed a harmless enough infraction.
“Why?”
“I have a feeling I know him, or of him, from somewhere.” She saw the skepticism in Tyler’s eyes. He probably thought she had other reasons for asking. Maybe she did.
Christa had never been the type to drift through life, Tyler knew. She had to be an active player and turn everyone around her into one, as well. “Isn’t it enough that he was there at the right place at the right time?”
She shook her head. “It’s because he was that I want to know.” She looked toward Malcolm thoughtfully. “There’s something bothering him.”
Tyler frowned. As if she didn’t have enough problems to deal with as an out-of-work single mother with a small daughter to raise and a deadbeat ex-husband who would never make any child-support payments. “There’s something bothering all of us, Christa.”
“I know, but-”
Humoring her, he kissed the top of her head. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do,” he promised.
She grinned up at him. “I never doubted it for a minute.”
Chapter Three
It was past four o’clock when Malcolm finally walked out of the police station. As he hurried down the stone stairs that led to the parking lot, he noted that the lot had thinned out considerably. There was only a smattering of cars left. Business at the police station had to be slacking off, he mused.
Walking toward the black sports car, he became aware of the grating, whining noise. It was a sound he was more than passingly familiar with. Metal on metal, sparking nothing but aggravation as it prophesied a stranded motorist.
Malcolm automatically glanced in the direction the noise was originating from.
He might have known.
It was coming from her van.
His initial impulse was to ignore
the sound, and her, and just keep walking. That would have been the sensible thing to do.
Malcolm got as far as the driver’s side of his own car before he finally turned around. The grinding noise put his teeth on edge as she tried to turn the ignition on again. He couldn’t just drive away and leave her like this. In a vague way, it was tantamount to a fireman ignoring a fire alarm or a policeman ignoring a cry for help.
He’d thought that she would be gone by the time he was finished at the station. Her brother and another policeman had led Christa in first to look at the men in the line up. It had taken her all of one minute to pick out the man who had car-jacked her van.
It had taken him a little less than three minutes to make the same choice. Malcolm had deliberately taken his time after that, hoping she’d be gone when he walked out of the station.
Obviously, he hadn’t taken enough time.
She was going to kill that thing if she didn’t stop. By his count, she’d tried to start the van six times since he’d left the building.
“C’mon, c’mon, start,” Christa chanted under her breath. The mantra wasn’t working. The engine refused to turn over.
She turned the key again just before he reached her. The window on her side was open, and he heard her mumbling something under her breath, but he couldn’t make it out. The grinding noise drowned it out.
“You’ll flood the engine.”
Christa started, her head jerking up at the sound of someone at her elbow. When she saw it was Malcolm, she relaxed, but not before the exasperated sigh escaped her lips.
“Right about now, I’d like to drown the engine.”
Malcolm nodded. It had been a long time since a car’s problems had baffled him, but he could relate to the helplessness she had to be experiencing.
It was the way he had felt about life when he had found himself alive in the hospital bed. Alive when Gloria and Sally were gone.
The Man Who Would Be Daddy Page 3