by Irene Hannon
Standing under the hot spray, Mitch tipped his head back and let the water sluice down his body. He’d planned to shower as soon as he got home around noon, but his eyes had been gritty with fatigue. Instead, he’d fallen across the bed—and into an instant deep sleep.
When he’d awakened a few minutes ago, he’d been in the exact same position as when he’d conked out. He doubted he’d moved a single muscle in the four hours he’d slept.
Much as he wanted to stay under the relaxing stream of water, he twisted the knob off and stepped out, toweling his hair dry. He needed to get an update on the homicide, throw on some clothes, and head to Alison’s office.
He padded barefoot to his room, then pulled on jeans and a black T-shirt, tucking his off-duty compact Glock into the concealed holster on his waistband.
As he ran a comb through his damp hair, a shuffling noise in the hall caught his attention and he crossed to the doorway. His father was slowly walking toward him, one hand braced against the wall. He was slightly bent, as if in pain, and his complexion was an alarming shade of gray. Beads of sweat stood out on his upper lip.
“Dad?” He tossed the comb on the dresser and started toward his father. “What’s wrong?”
Walt stopped, grimacing, as he rubbed a hand over his chest. “I’m not sure. Must be that frozen Mexican dinner I ate at lunchtime. It was a lot spicier than I expected. I just want to lie down for a while. It’ll pass.”
He made an attempt to continue down the hall toward his bedroom, but Mitch stopped him with a firm hand on his arm. “Tell me what hurts.”
“My chest. Like a real bad case of indigestion. And my arm. But I was working in the garden earlier, and my muscles are out of shape.”
Mitch tried to rein in his panic. “We need to get this checked out.”
“I know what you’re thinking.” He propped a shoulder against the wall, breathing heavily. “But it can’t be a heart attack. I just had bypass. They fixed all my clogged arteries.”
“I know that, but we’re not taking any chances. Did you take an aspirin?”
“No. There’s a bottle on the counter in the kitchen.”
“Okay. I’ll get one for you. Sit here.” He tried to ease his father to the floor, but Walt shook him off.
“I’ll sit in a chair.”
Before Mitch could stop him, he pushed off from the wall and retreated six steps to his favorite easy chair in the living room.
Expelling a frustrated breath, Mitch strode to the kitchen and grabbed the portable phone. After punching in 911, he propped it against his shoulder, shook an aspirin out of the bottle, and filled a glass with water. He gave the dispatcher all the particulars, then returned to the living room.
“Here. Take this. Drink all the water.”
His father’s hand was shaking, and as Mitch bent down and cupped his own around the gnarled fingers that had taught him how to wield a saw and tenderly plant seedlings and bait a fishhook, tears pricked at his eyes.
Please, God, don’t take him yet. Give us some more time together. Please!
The plea to the Almighty came unbidden, surprising Mitch as much as he suspected it surprised God. It had been years since he’d prayed. Years since he’d felt the need for divine intervention in his life. But back in the familiar home of his youth, where the seeds of his faith had been planted and nurtured, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to direct a request to God.
Or perhaps observing the powerful, fortifying faith that was so important to his father and Alison was making him take a second look at the possibility of a relationship with the Lord.
Now wasn’t the time to mull that over, however. As his ears picked up the distant wail of an ambulance, he refocused on his father. The only thing that mattered at the moment was getting him through this crisis.
The two paramedics had the same priority. After asking Mitch a couple of questions, they gave the older man their full attention. But Mitch did step in when his father began protesting about a trip to the hospital.
“Dad . . . don’t fight us on this, okay? The paramedics think you need to go, and I agree.”
“Look at it this way, Mr. Morgan. If everything checks out, you can say I told you so to your son.” The paramedic grinned at his patient and continued to ready him for transport without missing a beat.
Walt aimed a peeved look at the three of them. “I’m telling you all, it’s a lot of fuss about a bad case of indigestion. I know better than to eat that spicy Mexican food. But fine, I’ll go. Waste of time and money, when a few Tums would take care of the problem.”
As Mitch followed the paramedics out, locked up, and slid behind the wheel of his car, he hoped his father was right. He’d like nothing better than for this to be a false alarm—but he wanted that verified by medical professionals. He’d come home to spend time with his father. And he intended to do everything he could to ensure that time wasn’t cut short.
Daryl wiped his palms on his slacks and looked toward Alison’s office building from the passenger seat of Bev’s car. In fifteen minutes the nosy social worker would walk out that door.
And they were ready for her.
Bev had followed him to the deserted storage-unit facility he’d found on his scouting expedition. He’d left Chuck’s truck in an isolated corner of the parking lot, and they’d continued to Alison’s South County office.
Although Alison had left at quarter to five the day he’d followed her home from here, white-collar types didn’t punch a time clock. She could cut out early if she wanted to. That’s how life worked for the lucky people. He and Bev needed to be set to move the second she appeared at the door.
“You ready?” He shot a quick glance at the woman beside him.
Bev examined her makeup in the mirror and patted her wig. “As soon as you say the word.” She rubbed at a smudge of lipstick with her finger. “You know, you never did tell me exactly what this woman did to you.”
“She got me sent to prison.”
“Yeah?” She stopped rubbing and slanted a glance at him. “How’d she do that?”
“By sticking her nose in where it didn’t belong.”
“A busybody, huh?” Bev sniffed and tucked a stray strand of hair back into the wig. “I don’t like snoops either. There was a brownnoser in high school who was always ratting on her classmates to the principal. Got me busted once for smoking in the girl’s john. And it was just a plain old cigarette. Like that was some huge crime.” She rolled her eyes. “You point her out and I’ll be ready to give the performance of my life. What’re you gonna do with her, anyway?”
“Teach her a lesson.”
“We did that with the brownnoser in high school too. Some of the kids broke into her locker and trashed it. The rest of us spray painted a message on her car. She stopped being such a jerk after that. I guess we scared her. Is that sort of what you have in mind for this woman?”
“Sort of.” Daryl grinned, his gaze fixed on Alison’s office. “And I can guarantee that when I’m finished with her, she’ll never stick her nose in where it doesn’t belong again.”
Or anywhere else.
17
Alison had expected Mitch to call no later than 4:30 with his ETA.
It was now 5:15.
And he wasn’t answering his cell phone.
Frowning, she drummed her fingers on her desk. It was possible some new development in the homicide had diverted his attention. But he didn’t seem like the type to forget a promise, no matter how distracted he might be.
She considered driving herself home . . . but she wasn’t keen on incurring Cole’s anger—or Mitch’s displeasure—again.
With a sigh, she pulled out a phone book and scanned the listings, searching for his father’s number. Mitch had sounded exhausted earlier; maybe he’d fallen into such a deep sleep he hadn’t heard his cell phone ring.
After locating Walt’s number, she tapped it in. Once again, the phone rolled to voice mail. She left a message there, as
she had on his cell.
Stymied, Alison replaced the handset in its cradle. She hated to call Cole, but she’d rather disturb his rest than face a dressing-down later. Maybe if she offered to talk to him on her cell from the time she left the building until she was safely locked into her car, he’d be okay with her driving home alone.
It was worth a try.
But calls to both his cell and apartment numbers produced the same result.
No response.
Again she left messages.
Alison was less worried about Cole’s lack of response than she was about Mitch’s. If the painkillers were as high-powered as she suspected, Cole could be down for the count. A ringing phone might not rouse him.
On all the messages, she’d said she’d wait fifteen minutes for a callback. To pass the time, she answered email and refiled some case folders. All the while hoping the phone would ring.
By quarter to six, it hadn’t.
So now what?
As far as Alison could see, there wasn’t much choice, unless she wanted to hang around the office until someone finally got her message. But who knew when that might be? She’d already been waiting an hour.
And cooling her heels in her office was not the way she wanted to spend her evening.
Time to go to Plan B—a repeat of her morning ritual. She’d wait until she saw other people in the parking lot, then hurry to her car. Once she was locked inside, she’d be safe.
Cole and Mitch might not like it, but short of calling a cab and leaving her car in the parking lot all night—not an appealing option—she didn’t know what else they expected her to do. She was the last one in the office, and Rog had left for the day. There was no one to walk her out.
Gathering up her purse and briefcase, Alison stood and flipped off the light in her office. As long as she kept a sharp lookout in the parking lot, what could happen between the door and her car?
And in less than thirty minutes, she’d be safe and sound in Cole’s apartment.
Employing the best-defense-is-a-good-offense tactic by giving her brother grief for not answering his phone.
“So how much longer are we gonna wait?” Bev shot Daryl an impatient look and tapped her finger against the steering wheel.
Good question.
Daryl squinted at the entrance to Alison’s office, located in the corner of the L-shaped mall and partly shielded from view by a planting area of trees and shrubs. The social worker should have come out an hour ago. Why was she running so late?
This delay hadn’t been part of his plan. If they sat around in the parking lot much longer, they might start to arouse suspicion. That kid on the skateboard had already given them a couple of curious looks.
On the other hand, the delay could work to their advantage. The later Alison left, the less chance other occupants of the building would be leaving at the same time. As it was, no one had exited in the past ten or fifteen minutes. The building was probably deserted by now.
Except for Alison.
“Chill out, Bev. Her car’s still here. She has to leave eventually.” He gestured toward the older model white Civic, parked farther down the row, closer to her office. The cars in this part of the mall lot had thinned out, but there were still three between theirs and hers.
“Yeah, well, I’m getting hungry.”
He was too. And thirsty. But there would be time to eat and drink later.
“She’s not going to spend the night. You can eat when the show is over. All artists have to suffer for the sake of their art. Why don’t you run over your lines again?”
Crossing her arms over her chest, she glared at him.
Although he ignored her irritated look, he, too, was getting restless. Maybe this thing wasn’t going to go down tonight after all. What if Alison intended to stay until seven or eight? There was no way Bev would hang around that long. She was already beyond edgy. They might have to try again another day.
A muffled rumble of thunder suddenly reverberated through the hot, muggy air, adding to his jitters. Dark clouds were beginning to mass on the horizon, suggesting a storm would soon be rolling through.
He hadn’t counted on bad weather either.
Just when he was on the verge of chucking the whole thing, a movement in the doorway of the building caught his eye.
Alison.
A rush of adrenaline jerked him upright from his slouched position, and his heart slammed into overdrive.
This was it.
“Bev . . .” He elbowed her, keeping Alison in sight through the branches of the trees in the planting area. “Here she comes. Are you still with me?”
His partner blinked and peered at the front of the building. Alison was hovering outside the door now, scanning the parking lot.
“She seems nervous.” Bev leaned forward, one hand resting on the wheel, the other shading her eyes against the glare of the setting sun.
“Yeah.” Daryl grinned. “She does.”
The exact effect he’d intended to achieve with acts one, two, and three.
Now it was time for the finale.
He slumped in the seat again, tucking the cowboy hat he’d salvaged from Chuck’s prop closet low over his forehead. “You remember the plan, right?”
“Of course.” She adjusted her wig and grabbed her purse. “Don’t worry. I’ve never forgotten a line onstage. Mr. Montesi said I was a real pro.”
The opinion of her high school acting coach was of no interest to Daryl. All he cared about was her performance tonight.
Because if it wasn’t flawless, they were both in big trouble.
Alison remained by the door for several minutes. But at last she crossed in front of the building, following the walkway that led around the planting area. Daryl did a quick survey of the parking lot. There were a few people down by Home Depot, all focused on the carts they were pushing or busy stowing their purchases in their car. None were close enough to cause a problem.
Perfect.
“Okay, Bev. Go!”
Taking the cue, she opened the door and slid from the car.
And as he watched her walk in the direction of Alison’s Civic, making a pretense of digging through her purse, he flexed his fingers and took a deep breath to steady his pounding pulse.
The curtain was going up.
“Hey, Dr. Lampke. Sorry to delay your dinner.”
While his father greeted his cardiologist, Mitch pushed off with his shoulder from the wall in the corner of the ER treatment room where he’d spent the past hour and twenty minutes. There’d been nonstop action since they’d arrived—constant monitoring of vitals, blood tests, an EKG, an echocardiogram. They’d given his father oxygen, hooked him up to a heart monitor, administered nitroglycerin, and fed him more aspirin.
The whole experience had freaked Mitch out. A fact he’d tried to hide under a placid demeanor. If his father was having a heart attack, the last thing the older man needed was more tension and anxiety in the room.
“Not a problem, Walt.” The midfiftyish man ran a hand over his salt-and-pepper hair and smiled at his patient. Mitch hoped the doctor’s upbeat manner was a positive sign. “I never get home before seven. I’ll be there in plenty of time.” Turning toward the corner, he held out his hand. “Hello, Mitch.”
The man’s pleasant expression and firm handshake were comforting, but Mitch wasn’t going to assume anything. “So what’s the word?”
“All positive news.” The doctor addressed both Mitch and his father. “Your vitals are all sound, Walt. Blood enzymes are fine. Heart rhythm is normal. All the vessels are pumping nicely. But I want to take a quick listen.” He fitted his stethoscope in his ears and proceeded to do just that. When he finished, he pulled out the earpiece and smiled. “You want my diagnosis? Indigestion.”
Thank you, God. Mitch sagged against the wall.
“I told you it was that Mexican food.” Walt wagged a finger at Mitch. “Wasted everybody’s time.”
“On the contrary. You did
exactly the right thing,” Dr. Lampke interjected. “Never, ever take a chance with chest pain. A small percentage of patients do have heart attacks not long after bypass surgery. For some reason, their coronary arteries go into spasms. A lot of research is being done on that phenomenon, as a matter of fact. Bottom line, though, you didn’t make a mistake by coming in. I’m just glad to report that salsa, not spasms, was the cause of your chest pain and discomfort.”
“So I can go home?”
“Yes. As soon as they get your paperwork in order. One piece of advice—stay away from the Mexican food for a while, okay?”
“Trust me. If I never see a refried bean again, it will be too soon.”
The doctor chuckled and once more shook their hands. “Call me if you need anything. Otherwise, I’ll see you in my office for your next routine visit.”
Once he exited, Walt scrutinized Mitch. “You don’t look so hot.”
“I’ve had calmer days.”
“Maybe you’ll feel better after you have some dinner.”
Dinner.
Angling his wrist, he checked his watch—and muttered a word he rarely used.
Walt raised his eyebrows. “What’s wrong?”
“I was supposed to meet Alison at her office. We were going to pick up some Chinese food and eat at her brother’s.” Even as he spoke, he was reaching for his cell phone.
Except it wasn’t there.
And he knew why. In the midst of the emergency, he’d left it sitting in the charger in his room.
He switched to the phone on the wall. Tried several times to dial out. Failed.
“That one’s out of service.” A nurse pushed through the door and motioned behind her. “There’s one at the desk you can use while I unhook your father from all this equipment.”
“Thanks.” He hung up and looked toward his dad. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“No problem. You tell that pretty little lady it’s my fault you stood her up.”
His father increased his volume as Mitch pushed through the door and it swung shut behind him.