McQueen's Heat

by Harper Allen

  She wiped her eyes. There were still at least a dozen letters she hadn’t read, but they would keep. When she’d finished reading them all she would put them away in a safe place, to be taken out whenever she needed to feel Claudia’s presence.

  It wouldn’t be like having her back. But after seven years of locking the memories of their friendship away, regaining them was a comfort.

  Glancing up at the kitchen clock she saw with surprise that it was nearly eleven. Carefully she gathered up the pile of letters, but as she stretched the elastic band around them it broke, shooting across the room to bounce off the nose of an offended Pangor.

  “I didn’t do it on purpose.” She released the elastic that confined her hair at the nape of her neck and used it to bind the letters. “I suppose you wish Mr. Wonderful were here. Don’t worry, he’ll be back soon.”

  She filled the kettle and plugged it in. Restlessly she boosted herself to the counter, her feet crossed at the ankles and bouncing idly against the cupboard doors.

  Chandra still didn’t buy Stone’s theory. She’d said as much at the Red Spot, but that hadn’t stopped her from handing him a scrap of paper with an address scribbled on it.

  “You didn’t get this from me, McQueen,” she’d warned. “And any visit you pay to the Fodor woman is going to be strictly unauthorized, so if she doesn’t want to talk just leave.”

  “I’ll handle her with kid gloves,” McQueen had protested. “But if her old boyfriend’s back I’ve got a feeling our Glenda’s not going to need much persuasion to talk.”

  He’d seen Tamara’s incomprehension. “Sorry, I forgot you don’t know the background. Glenda Fodor came to my attention in the first place because at two of the early fires I suspected as being this bastard’s work, she should have been in the buildings when they were torched, and she wasn’t. When I learned that a part-time salesgirl who’d called in sick half an hour before a fire started at the store where she worked and a tenant who’d moved out of the Alpine Apartments a day before that building went up in flames both had the same name, one hell of a warning bell went off in my head.”

  “Glenda’s not that bright. That’s probably why her story was so unshakeable,” Chandra said dryly. “She just kept saying she must have been lucky.”

  “Yeah. I knew she was lying, but since she obviously wasn’t the arsonist herself I couldn’t press her.” Stone shook his head. “But then I learned from one of her former neighbors at the Alpine that she’d started going out with a new boyfriend about a week before she’d moved. Glenda had told me she wasn’t seeing anyone.”

  “And the sketchy description the neighbor gave of the boyfriend matched Robert Pascoe, a suspected arsonist for hire no one knew too much about,” Chandra added. “But since Glenda denied having a boyfriend, that was the end of that lead.”

  “Only because I was hauled up on the carpet for suggesting we put her under surveillance,” Stone said curtly. “She was on the edge, goddammit. I think she wanted an excuse to crack. If we’d given her that excuse, then maybe the Mitchell Towers blaze—”

  Chandra’s next words were quiet. “Someone made the wrong decision, Stone, but it wasn’t you. One of these days you’re going to have to realize you can’t change the past.”

  His head had jerked up, the raw pain behind his gaze an almost tangible force. “Hell, Chand, I know I can’t change the past,” he’d said harshly. “I’ve even come to realize that it can’t be blotted out. All I’m trying to do now is to make sure it doesn’t repeat itself, and whether you buy into my theory or not, that’s exactly what I think is going to happen.”

  Beside Tamara the kettle began to whistle. She reached over and unplugged it.

  Stone had seemed unusually edgy after his dispute with Chandra, and when the two women had ordered more coffee he’d gotten abruptly up from the table, as if he couldn’t stay still any longer.

  “I’m going down to the Y, see if I can find a pickup game of basketball,” he’d said without preamble. “If I’m not home by the time you want to turn in, that’s my problem.”

  He’d turned and gestured to their waiter on the other side of the room. Before he’d gotten more than a couple of tables away he turned back. His gaze had sought hers.

  “I just have to do something physical, Tam,” he’d said tightly. “Wear myself out. Do you understand?”

  “I think so.” She’d kept her own voice steady. “Do you understand that I’m behind you all the way on this, Stone?”

  A fraction of the tension seemed to seep out of his rigid posture. “I never worked with a partner before, honey,” he said hoarsely. “Never thought I wanted one. I’m probably a real prick to work with.”

  “I’m sure you are, McQueen.” She’d flapped a hand at him, her smile suddenly wobbly. “Go shoot some damn hoops.”

  “He’s going to hit the bars.” Chandra’s comment had come as Stone had walked away, and although there had been no condemnation in it something in Tamara had flared.

  “I’m getting real tired of hearing about how Stone McQueen’s nowhere near the man he used to be,” she said sharply. “Have you considered the possibility that after what he’s gone through he might be even tougher than he was before, Chandra? For God’s sake, that’s how they strengthen steel—by putting it through fire. For a friend you seem awfully eager to write both him and his theories off.”

  “That’s not true!” Chandra’s eyes had widened in denial. “I owe Stone my life, dammit, and if anyone’s stuck by him all these years it’s been—”

  She’d fallen abruptly silent, and her gaze had gone to her hands, tightly clenched on the table. When she’d looked up, her features had been etched with strong emotion.

  “Maybe you’re right,” she’d said. “Maybe it’s my own past, not McQueen’s, that’s the problem. Hank’s my second husband. You didn’t know that, did you?”

  “No.” Tamara had frowned in confusion. “But what’s—”

  “No,” Chandra had echoed. She’d given Tamara a searching look. “You’ve never exactly encouraged confidences. I wonder why that is?” She’d looked away. “John had always been a drinker. I married him thinking I could change him. When he started hitting me I thought that was somehow my responsibility, too.”

  “You don’t have to tell me this.” Tamara’s words were automatic, and she regretted them immediately. “But—but I’d like to listen if it’s not too hard for you to talk about,” she added haltingly.

  “It’s hard.” Her companion’s tone was brittle. “It was harder at the time it was happening. I didn’t tell anyone that the man I’d once loved had turned into a terrifying stranger who used me as a punching bag. I kept telling people at work I’d walked into a door or slipped on a newly washed floor, and they kept pretending they believed me.”

  She looked up from her hands at Tamara. “One day I ran into McQueen for the first time since he’d transferred into the investigative division. I was sporting a shiner no amount of concealer had been able to cover completely, and I began to go into my usual routine. Everyone else had been polite enough to let me get away with it, but I’d forgotten McQueen didn’t give a damn about polite. He told me to cut the crap and tell him who was beating me up so he could do something about it. I wanted to tell him, Tamara.” Chandra’s eyes darkened. “But I was ashamed to. I told him to mind his own business.”

  “I’ve noticed McQueen doesn’t do that too well,” Tamara said softly.

  Chandra’s smile was faint. “No. But this time his bull-headedness saved my life. That night John kept trying to pick a fight with me. When I told him I was tired and I was going to bed, that was all he needed.”

  The tightly clasped hands on the table were shaking, Tamara saw. She covered them with her own as Chandra continued, her voice uneven.

  “I remember lying on the bedroom floor trying to cover my head with my hands. I remember wishing I’d told Stone the truth, and screaming out his name as if he could hear me and save me. I rememb
er seeing John’s boot drawing back to kick me in the face, and knowing I was about to be murdered by my own husband.”

  Her hands shook uncontrollably in Tamara’s grip. “And then I remember seeing Stone race in. He knocked John halfway across the room and when John came charging back, Stone simply and methodically beat him to within an inch of his life. At the end he stood over him and said in the coldest voice I’d heard any human being use that if John ever came near me again he was a dead man. Then he picked me up and drove me to the hospital.” She looked up at Tamara, her eyes bright with tears. “I found out later he’d taken it upon himself to keep watch outside my house that night. He’d been worried about me.”

  “That sounds like him.” Her own voice was far from steady, Tamara noted, and of the two of them it was hard to tell who was clasping whose hand the tightest. “No wonder you didn’t give up on him when his own life unravelled.”

  “But I did.” Chandra shook her head. “I’ve been telling myself how noble I’ve been to stick by him, when all the while I’ve let my experience with John color my reactions. No one can stop someone else from drinking. I didn’t acknowledge the fact that Stone obviously found that out for himself, and did something about it.”

  “He’s been going to AA for about eight months now. He says he hasn’t had a drink since, and I believe him.”

  “So do I.” Chandra had bitten her lip unhappily. “Maybe that’s why I don’t want to believe he’s right about Robert Pascoe coming back to haunt him, Tamara. Maybe I’m afraid that if it’s true, Stone will be destroyed all over again—and this time he might never recover.”

  Was there any possibility Chandra’s fears could be right? Tamara wondered now. She saw Pangor prick up his ears and a split second later she, too heard the sound of footsteps coming up the walk. Already she could recognize his step, she realized as she slid off the counter. But could she truly say she knew the man?

  Never in a million years, she told herself resignedly, hearing him twisting at the doorhandle and then swearing in what he probably thought was a low tone. But she knew all she needed to know, and what Chandra had told her tonight only bore out the impression she’d already formed.

  Beneath that rough exterior was a man who embodied all the old-fashioned and unfashionable virtues of his sex. McQueen would go to the wall for the people he cared for. He believed that justice sometimes included vengeance, and whether he admitted it or not, he was a protector—of a woman he considered a friend, of the victims whose lives were torn apart by evil, of a little girl who’d put her trust in him. And he was used to playing a lone hand.

  Too bad about that last one, Tamara thought, unlocking the dead bolt and opening the door. The man’s got to evolve a little, for crying out loud.

  “I had to wait half an hour to get into the showers. I figured you would have turned in already.” He raised surprised eyebrows at her. She gave him an appraising look.

  “And you were hoping that if you made enough noise you’d get me out of bed?”

  “Something like that.” His grin was unrepentant. “Our team lost. Spectacularly,” he added, following her into the kitchen. “Probably because our cheering section only consisted of an old wino who’d wandered in by mistake and fell asleep, and the other side had a couple of hookers rooting for them. You should have been there to even up the score, honey.”

  “I would have been, except I couldn’t find my thigh-high rubber boots and my special spandex firegirl’s outfit.”

  This wasn’t her, Tamara thought, opening the refrigerator and hoping the color in her cheeks wasn’t too visible. She didn’t banter, for heaven’s sake. Behind her she heard him laugh, and ridiculous pleasure spread through her. Retrieving a carton of milk, she turned to the counter.

  “Besides, I got the impression you needed to be alone,” she said carefully. Pulling a saucepan from the cupboard, she measured out two mugs of the milk. “You weren’t just playing basketball tonight, were you, Stone? You were wrestling demons.”

  She turned to him, wondering if she’d gone too far. He returned her gaze steadily.

  “Just the one.” A corner of his mouth lifted but his eyes were clouded. “I’m sure Chandra thought the demon had got the better of me. Is that what you suspected?”

  “No.” His gaze cleared, and she was glad she’d answered so immediately. “It only had power over you when you didn’t admit it existed, Stone, and you don’t strike me as the type to hide the truth from yourself for long.”

  She switched on the stove’s burner, suddenly a little unsure of the intimate turn the conversation had taken—the intimacy she herself had introduced. She was breaking all her rules tonight, she thought tremulously.

  “Don’t I?” She had to have imagined the odd note in his voice, because when she glanced over her shoulder he smiled at her before gesturing at the elastic-bound bundle on the table. “Taking on a few demons of your own, Tam?”

  “I thought I was.” She’d bought a couple of bars of milk chocolate on the way home from the Red Spot. Now she unwrapped one and broke it into squares. “But as soon as I started reading them it was as if I could hear Claudie’s voice, Stone, and I realized that there weren’t any demons at all. There was just an old friend—a friend I’d missed.”

  “A friend who hurt you.” He frowned as she dropped the chocolate into the simmering milk. “What the hell’s that?”

  “Real hot chocolate, and you’re going to drink it and love it, McQueen,” Tamara replied unconcernedly. She found a wooden spoon in the utensil drawer and began stirring the milk. “Yes, what Claudia did hurt me terribly. But that’s all I’ve allowed myself to remember about her, and tonight brought back everything else we’d shared. I decided that those good memories outweighed the single bad one. Does that make any sense?”

  Instead of answering her question, he asked one of his own. “So you’d forgive an unforgivable action if there was enough on the other side of the scale to balance it?”

  She shrugged, a little taken aback. “It would depend on the circumstances, I suppose. That’s just the conclusion I came to in this particular case.” She moved the pan from the burner. “You know, it wasn’t even what she did that stayed with me for all these years, it was how she did it. Of course, I realize now she must have felt she had no choice.”

  “You did the arithmetic on Petra’s age, too?” Stone took the mug she was holding out to him.

  “I did the math, but it shouldn’t have been necessary.” She grimaced as she pulled out the chair across from him. “The signs were there at the time, and I refused to see them. Claudia and I were closer than sisters—how could I not have guessed she’d fallen in love with Rick? And how could I not have realized he’d fallen for her, especially when I never really felt I was the right one for him?”

  She frowned at the steaming mug in front of her. “Maybe Claudia and I were more alike than I ever knew. Perhaps we both were more in love with the idea of creating a family of our own than with Rick himself.” She raised her gaze to his. “But at the time I thought what I felt for him was the kind of love poets wrote about, the kind people died for. When I found out the wedding wasn’t going to take place I thought I would die. Being me, I wasn’t about to let anyone know how I felt.”

  “Don’t tell me you had your secret tissue stash back then.” His teasing didn’t camouflage the uncharacteristic gentleness in his voice. “How did you handle it, Tam?”

  “I didn’t.”

  She heard the dangerous brittleness in her answer, and hastily raised her mug of chocolate to her lips. Was she really going to tell him? she thought, swallowing a mouthful of the too-hot liquid. After never telling anyone, was it finally going to be to Stone McQueen, of all people, that she recounted the shameful details of that terrible night?

  He’s the only one you can tell, she thought with sudden certainty. He knows what it’s like to hit rock bottom, to sink lower than you ever thought yourself capable of sinking. You’ve carried this secret
around for seven years, dammit, and he’s the first person you’ve met who might understand.

  “I didn’t handle it well at all. It just looked like I was handling it,” she said, avoiding his eyes. “Our reception was to have been held in one of the big hotels downtown—no expense spared, Uncle Jack had said. I walked up the aisle in my wedding dress and told the whole churchful of guests that I planned to go ahead with the party and I hoped everyone would join me.” She smiled shakily at him. “I think half of them thought I’d lost my mind, and the other half thought it was some kind of tasteless gag. But in the end most of them showed up at the reception, though my aunt and uncle refused to.”

  “Jack should have done more than that,” McQueen said harshly. “Dammit, he was a firefighter. He knows what shock looks like. Didn’t he see you’d gone over the edge?”

  “His immediate concern was Aunt Kate.” Tamara’s reply was defensive. “She was already having trouble with her heart back then, and he wanted to get her home.”

  She paused. “You know, I’ve told other people this much of the story. You’re the first who’s ever seen that. But the fact that I was in shock doesn’t explain why I ended the night the way I did.”

  “You got a little drunk? You went a little crazy?” He looked away, his jaw tight. “Hell, honey, you don’t have to go into the details.”

  “That’s my line, McQueen.” She gave an unsteady laugh to cover her sudden discomfiture. She stared into her mug, and then raised it to her mouth. “But you’re probably right—what do the details matter? If you’ve seen one jilted bride go off the rails, you’ve seen them all, I guess.” She took a sip of her drink and managed a grin. “So what do you think of Hot Chocolate a la King? Admit it—it beats the pants off Omelet McQueen.”

  She looked up, and saw he was watching her. For a moment their gazes locked—hers wide and too bright, his dark with what she took at first glance to be anger, although she knew instinctively it wasn’t directed at her. This time she was the first to look away, but even as she did he spoke.