Take Me Back (Paradise, Idaho Book 4)

by Rosalind James

  “Call it friendship,” Jim said. “Call it Army strong.” DeMarco had been an MP. “Or is loyalty just for Marines?”

  DeMarco sighed. “You had to go there.”

  “Seems I did.”

  “All right, then,” DeMarco said in resignation. “I liked the lady. Seems like a raw deal, and this whole thing is starting to smell like yesterday’s fish.”

  Which is why he was here now with Jim at four thirty on Monday afternoon, searching Hallie’s house for the telltale pinholes of cameras while Jim carried the portable bug detector and swept the place as he’d swept her car earlier, and Hallie followed behind and didn’t say anything.

  Once again, Jim came up with nothing. He went over the family room extra thoroughly, cursing the recklessness that had had him ignoring this possibility, just because he’d needed Hallie stretched out on that felt.

  She wasn’t looking at him as he ran the detector over the walls, behind the bar, around the legs and pockets of the pool table.

  “Clean,” he said.

  “Nice table,” DeMarco said, running a hand over the surface, exactly where Hallie had been lying, her hands behind her, holding still for Jim. Her mouth open, her breath coming hard, her sweater pulled down, her skirt up around her waist, and her legs spread, while he’d played with her. While she’d made the kinds of noises and said the kinds of things that would’ve been gold on any recording device.

  “This is solid,” DeMarco said. “Wasn’t here before, or I’d have remembered. New?” he asked Hallie.

  “Um . . . yes.” There was some pink in her cheeks now, and she was nibbling at that lower lip, had her arms wrapped over her chest, and Jim was having major professionalism issues.

  “You played much on it?” DeMarco asked.

  “Some.”

  “Good times,” he said, and Hallie shot a look at Jim that he met with a shake of his head. No. I didn’t.

  “Right,” DeMarco said. “Looks like you’re clean.”

  Jim handed Hallie the bug sweeper. “I’m leaving this with you for a while.” He’d given her a demo of it at the beginning and had her run over the living room to make sure she understood how to use it. “You can sweep with it as often as you need to, make sure nobody’s dropped anything, that you stay clean. So you don’t have to worry.”

  “Thanks,” she said, and put it in her purse.

  DeMarco said, “I guess you’re coming along on the next part of this, too, Ms. Cavanaugh. But I have to emphasize—you’ll be there as an observer, only because Jim thinks our subjects will be less comfortable lying to us if you’re there. That doesn’t mean you’re questioning them, or talking at all.”

  “I understand,” she said.

  DeMarco glanced at Jim, and Jim could read the thought. Yeah, right.

  “Well,” DeMarco said, “let’s go, then. Get it over with.”

  “Did you call ahead?” Hallie asked on the ride over to Eileen’s. She was in the backseat, which Jim didn’t like. He’d offered her the front, but she’d said, “I’ve never sat in the back of a cop car before,” and looked at him, and he’d shut up.

  “No,” DeMarco answered her. “We didn’t call. It works better if you catch people off guard, before they’ve had a chance to rehearse, or to get advice. If she didn’t do anything wrong, she’s got nothing to worry about.”

  “That’s a nice thing to say,” Hallie said, “but not true.”

  That earned a quick look in the rearview mirror and another glance at Jim, which Jim answered with a raised eyebrow of his own. Then DeMarco pulled up in front of Eileen’s apartment house in Frogtown, and the three of them climbed out.

  Jim and DeMarco walked up the steps, with Hallie waiting below, and DeMarco rang the doorbell. After a minute, Eileen answered, wearing old jeans and a faded blue T-shirt.

  “Oh,” she said on a breath. Her eyes had widened, and her face paled. Jim guessed two deputies in uniform could do that. “My daughter? Is it—is she—”

  “No, ma’am,” DeMarco said. “It’s nothing to do with your daughter. We just have a couple questions for you.”

  “Oh.” She sagged a little and put a hand to her chest. “Sorry. She went to a friend’s after school, and I thought for a minute—but never mind.”

  “May we come in?” DeMarco asked.

  “Uh—sure, I guess.” She opened the door. When she saw Hallie, she said, “Oh.”

  “I just came along,” Hallie said, which was lame, but seemed to reassure Eileen.

  They sat on a faded couch with Eileen perched on a kitchen chair that she pulled over from the dinette. Her little boy, who’d been playing with some trucks on the floor, came over, and Eileen pulled him into her lap, wrapping her arms around him as if for comfort. She still looked tense as hell, which could mean anything or nothing.

  DeMarco said, “We have reason to think that somebody may have planted a device in Ms. Cavanaugh’s vehicle. We’re wondering if you know anything about that.”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “And how would I— Like what? Like a . . . a bomb?”

  Jim could tell Hallie was about to jump in, but DeMarco beat her to it.

  “Did you leave anything at her house?” he asked. “Take anything from it? Or did anybody approach you to do that?”

  “No!” she said. “I wouldn’t. I’d never—you mean, did I put something in her car? Or steal something from her house? I wouldn’t do that.” She was leaning forward in her chair, clasping her little boy tight, her face intent. “I wouldn’t. Not to anybody, but to Hallie? How could I do that to her?”

  “Mommy,” her son complained, “you’re hurting.”

  “Oh. Sorry, sweetie.” She let go of him, and he climbed down and went back to his trucks.

  Jim stepped in, then. “We’re not trying to get you in trouble here, Ms. Hendricks. This is for Ms. Cavanaugh’s safety. Maybe somebody asked you to pick up something they’d left there. Something small. A pen, a bunch of keys.”

  “No,” she insisted. “I would’ve told Hallie if I’d done that.”

  “You’re sure?” Jim pressed. “It might’ve seemed completely innocent. We’re not interested in going after you for it. All we need is the name and to know what happened.”

  “No,” she said again. “I didn’t. Don’t you see? I was in—I was at the bottom. I didn’t know how I’d ever get out. I was . . . if it hadn’t been for my kids, I’d have . . .” She glanced at her son and didn’t finish the sentence. She looked at Hallie now. “You know. You must know. How grateful I am. I’d never—”

  “And nobody’s even approached you,” DeMarco cut in. “Asked any questions about cleaning her house. Offered you money, maybe. A hundred dollars to pick something up that they dropped, because Hallie was annoyed with them, and they didn’t want to ask her. It wouldn’t be stealing. It would have been their property. Nothing valuable. All we need is a name. Even if you said no—we need a name.”

  Eileen was shaking now, the tears coming to her eyes. “I don’t know how to prove it,” she said, and Jim thought, as he often did, that this job was sometimes harder than the one he’d used to do. “I don’t know how to make you believe that I didn’t. That if anything like that happened, I’d have told Hallie. Or I’d tell you now. It would be . . . it would be against everything I believe in.”

  Hallie made a choked noise in the back of her throat, and Jim said, “Well, thanks. We had to check. And if anybody does talk to you, asks you anything at all about cleaning for her, even somebody you think can’t possibly have anything to do with any of this—you’ll call us?” He handed over his card. “And please don’t talk about this. We’d rather it not get back to the person that we’re investigating, if possible.”

  “Yes,” she said, clutching it. “And no. I promise.”

  DeMarco stood, and the others did, too. Eileen asked Hallie, “But you’re all right? Nothing happened? It wasn’t a bomb?”

  “No,” Hallie said. “It’s fine. But please—really—don
’t tell anybody. Jim thinks that’ll be safer for me.”

  Eileen nodded. “Sure. I won’t say. I don’t want to talk about your house anyway.” Her face twisted. “Believe me.”

  Hallie’d clearly totally forgot about not talking or interfering, because she’d wrapped her arms around Eileen and was patting her on the back and saying, “I know. It’s all right. Really. Nobody thought you’d done anything wrong.”

  Jim cleared his throat, and Hallie stepped back. “We won’t take up any more of your time,” Jim said. “Thanks again for your help.”

  When they were in the car again, DeMarco said, “I have to say, since Jim here probably won’t—that’s not what we call, in technical terms, ‘being an observer.’ That’s more what we call ‘talking.’”

  “Well, I couldn’t just let you browbeat her,” Hallie said, buckling herself in. “I waited as long as I could. But she was crying.”

  “Yeah,” DeMarco said with a sigh, starting up the rig again. “Which is why we take civilians along on all our investigations. Because they’re so helpful.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Jim said. “I thought we got a pretty strong reaction. That’s always helpful.”

  “Don’t tell me you do think she did it,” Hallie said. “If you do, I don’t think much of your detection abilities.”

  “Nice,” DeMarco said. “But, no. I’m satisfied. You satisfied?” he asked Jim.

  “Yeah. Always an outside chance, but good to know that nobody’s approached her.”

  “Right,” DeMarco said. “And off we go to the next stop. At which,” he told Hallie, “you don’t talk. And I mean it. Or I take you home right now.”

  “Are all cops this dictatorial?” she asked. “Or is it just you and Jim?”

  Jim caught the lift at the side of DeMarco’s mouth. “What? Dudley Do-Right? He’s always the good cop. Didn’t you notice?”

  “Ha,” she muttered, and DeMarco smiled some more.

  “Right,” Jim said with relief. “Here we are.” Done with this conversation and at his mom’s house. A pretty weird place to be showing up in an official role.

  Another trip up the walk, but this time, Jim stood back with Hallie while DeMarco did the honors at the doorbell.

  “Dictatorial?” Jim asked out of the side of his mouth.

  “I could’ve said ‘alpha,’” Hallie answered sweetly. “But I thought it might embarrass you.”

  He was still digesting that when the door opened to reveal his mom.

  Oh, yeah. This wasn’t awkward. Much.

  “Ma’am,” DeMarco said. “I’m here to talk to your son Cole.”

  His mom, of course, looked right past DeMarco to Jim, because that was one of a mom’s gifts: the ability to find you anywhere. “Jim?” she asked. “What’s this about?”

  Jim came up the steps. “Something else happened out at Hallie’s,” he said, “and we’d like to talk to Cole about it. Make sure he doesn’t know anything.”

  Her eyes were sharp, and now they went to Hallie. “You’re all right, though?” she asked her.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “And, uh—hi.”

  “Well,” Vicki said, opening the door wider, “you’d better come in and ask whatever it is. Take them into the living room, Jim. I’ll go get Cole.”

  When Cole came out, he was slicking his hair down with both hands, looking completely nervous and awkward.

  Uh-oh. Jim sure hoped he hadn’t been wrong.

  “Should I get Anthea?” Vicki asked. “Since she’s Cole’s lawyer?”

  “If you want to do that,” DeMarco said, “you’re free to. We just have a few questions, though.”

  “Well,” Vicki said, “Jim’s here. So go ahead.”

  DeMarco shot Jim a look that didn’t require any interpreting. This is why you shouldn’t be here.

  They went through the whole thing again, and Cole seemed genuinely confused. He, too, thought “device” must mean “bomb,” which was a good sign.

  “Seriously?” he asked Hallie. “Somebody put a bomb in your car? How did you find out?”

  This time, she didn’t answer, at least. DeMarco answered for her. “No. It wasn’t a bomb. And you don’t know anything about this? Anybody who’d want to check where your . . .” He cleared his throat. “Your sister had been, or where she was going?”

  “No,” Cole said. “Why would I?” His face changed, then. Nothing wrong with Cole’s processing speed. “Wait,” he said. “They’re trying to find out that you went the same place as Jim. But to do that . . .” He looked at his brother. “Did they put something on your car, too? Were they tracking you? You mean, for, uh . . .” He stopped himself, turned red, and said, “Man, that’s messed up.”

  “Would you mind,” DeMarco asked, “if we took a look at your computer? At your online purchases?”

  “Ah . . . I guess,” Cole said.

  “We’d like to rule you out, that’s all,” DeMarco said. “We’re talking to lots of people.”

  “Go get him your computer,” Vicki said quietly. She was sitting tall. Sitting like a queen.

  “Mom—” Cole said.

  She turned on him, fierce as a tiger. “If you’ve done this, tell them. Tell them now. Show them. Get it over with. Tell your sister. Tell your brother. Tell me. Let us know it was you, so Hallie doesn’t have to be scared anymore. And if you haven’t, prove it, so they can find out who it was. Help your sister.”

  “Vicki—” Hallie began, sounding helpless, but when DeMarco turned his head and stared at her, she subsided.

  “I’ll get my computer,” Cole said. “Because I didn’t. I’ll prove it.”

  They sat in silence while he was gone. Jim couldn’t think of what to say, and his mother didn’t say anything.

  Cole came back into the room about thirty seconds later, holding a laptop. “This is my computer for, uh, school and everything. I’ll need to borrow Mom’s computer, so, uh . . .”

  “We’ll get it back to you as soon as possible,” DeMarco said. “Couple days. Just have to run it through a few programs.”

  Cole was shuffling from foot to foot, looking miserable and uneasy, and Jim said, “It wasn’t somebody else, was it? If we need to go over to Ingeborg’s house and look at his shopping history—Mom’s right. Tell us. Help Hallie. How do you think it felt for her to know she was being tracked?” His hands were fisting despite all his efforts at self-control. “Maybe it wasn’t your idea. Tell us anyway. Help her.”

  “I didn’t,” Cole said. “I swear.” He looked completely anguished now, and Jim studied him for long moments during which Cole didn’t shift his eyes away, and decided he was telling the truth. Cole wasn’t a good liar. Fortunately.

  “I heard what you guys said,” Cole went on. “I heard what Mom said, with Anthea. I don’t . . .” He was gulping now. “I don’t want to make everybody . . . disappointed with me again. I know I . . . I know I did that. I don’t want to do it anymore.”

  “Felt crappy,” Jim said.

  “Y-yeah,” Cole said.

  “Right,” Jim said. “We’ll check this.”

  “But you believe me,” Cole appealed. He looked at Hallie. “You believe me, don’t you? Because I didn’t.”

  “I believe you,” she said. Strong and true. She did the same thing she’d done two weeks earlier. She stepped forward, took him in her arms, and held on. “Because you’re my brother.”

  Cole grabbed hold of her, a convulsive movement, and held her for a second before he pulled away and turned his head, clearly embarrassed by the emotion he’d betrayed.

  Hallie, meanwhile, looked at DeMarco, and said, “So I talked. Sue me.”

  “Well,” he said, “it’s not exactly by the book, but we’ll let it slide.”

  “We’ll head out, then,” Jim said. He wrote out a receipt for the laptop, handed it to his brother, and said, “Quick as we can.”

  “Uh . . .” Cole was looking nervous again, and Jim thought, Oh, no.

  “What?�
�� Jim asked.

  DeMarco was already heading to the door, with Hallie following, and now, Cole’s eyes were darting side to side. Jim said, “In here,” and led the way into the kitchen, where he turned to face his brother. “OK,” he said. “Shoot. If there’s anything to tell, it’s a whole lot better if you tell me now.”

  “Uh . . . there might be some, uh . . . Will they look at everything? Or just for, you know . . . um, shopping?”

  Jim hardened his heart. “What’s on there? What are we going to see? Tell me now.”

  “Well . . .” Cole swallowed. “Maybe some . . . videos.”

  Jim wanted to laugh, but he didn’t. “Right. You got some porn on there.”

  “I tried to remember to clear my history every time,” Cole said, “but, uh . . .”

  “They can see,” Jim said. “Wiping isn’t really wiping. OK. What kind of thing?”

  “What . . . kind?” Cole was looking wild-eyed now.

  “Anything illegal?” Jim pressed. “Any kids?”

  Cole gaped at him. “Kids? No. I mean . . . no. I like, uh . . .”

  “What?” Jim pressed.

  “Uh . . .” Cole muttered the words. “Sort of . . . MILFs. And,” he added hastily, “regular stuff. I mean, normal.”

  “Ah.” Jim forced himself not to smile. “Well, I don’t think mature ladies would be a problem.”

  “Are you going to tell Mom?” Cole asked.

  “Nope. I’m not. And if I did, I doubt she’d be real surprised. She’s already raised one teenage boy, remember.”

  “Yeah, but you didn’t . . . you’re so straight.”

  “Sometime,” Jim said, “we’ll have a talk about how straight I wasn’t, except that I don’t want to give you or Mac the idea that it’s OK. Tricky business. But—no. I wasn’t. And I need to go. They’re waiting.”

  “Tell Hallie,” Cole said. “Tell her I said—that I hope she’s OK. That stinks, if somebody’s following her. Tell her I’ll help, if I can.”

  Jim did what he’d so rarely done. He grabbed Cole, hugged him hard, thumped him on the back, and said, “You bet, bud. And that’s a stand-up thing to say. That’s the real deal.”