Where Danger Hides

by Terry Odell

  “Isn’t there something I can do in here instead?” he asked. The mood of the dining room, populated with so many empty stares, stooped shoulders and shuffling feet prickled his innards as if he’d swallowed a porcupine. Although the room was filled with strangers, it was Rachel’s eyes haunting him. A hollow-eyed Rachel, not the happy Rachel he wanted to remember.

  Miri eyed him curiously, then handed him the plates. She glanced over her shoulder toward two of the workers who filled plates with what he assumed were their own meals. They carried them out, casting wary glances his way.

  “They’re nervous enough.” Miri said in a low voice once they’d left. “You’re a stranger and they’re not going to feel comfortable with you around. I’ll help in here. You can do more good serving. The folks in the line hardly notice the servers and they might say something helpful.”

  With a glance toward the door, he re-tied his apron, hoping the workers would return. They didn’t. “But you’re more tuned in to what’s normal and what’s different.”

  “You’re an investigator,” she said, practically shooing him to the door. “I’m sure you’re very good at it. Smile, turn on that dazzling charm and scoop food. It’s for one more hour, then we shut down.”

  She was right. The sooner he dealt with this as a field assignment and quit resenting Blackie for sticking him with the job, the sooner he could move on. When Miri pivoted and strode to the sink, Dalton savored her retreat. Trivial or not, the job came with one attractive perk.

  “Suck it up,” he muttered under his breath and pushed open the door to the dining room.

  Chapter 7

  Miri sat across from Dalton at Gino’s Pizza. She raised her eyebrows. “I don’t see why you wouldn’t eat at the House. There was enough left over. And the tuna casserole’s not that bad.”

  A server placed a pitcher of beer between them. Dalton poured two glasses and pushed one across the table. He quaffed half a tumbler and wiped his mouth.

  “Got nothing against tuna casserole,” he said. “My mama made a fine one. She could stretch her food budget until you could see right through it. I’m sure Galloway House’s recipe is tasty, but after breathing it for over an hour, I was ready to leave.”

  “The added aroma of eau de unwashed can do something to the appetite, too, I suppose.”

  Dalton shook his head. “No, actually, I’m used to that.”

  “What? Private investigators don’t bathe?” Even in the garlic-laden atmosphere, he couldn’t hide that sandalwood scent. The one that syncopated her heartbeat.

  His eyes widened for an instant, then his expression snapped back to neutral. He slid the shaker of red pepper flakes from hand to hand across the wooden table like a hockey puck. “Stakeouts can get complicated. Not always time for regular personal hygiene.”

  Working at Galloway House, she’d seen that look before. All too often. The one that said, Oops. Almost told the truth. She let it pass. Something about working in the dining room had shaken him. He never made eye contact, and any charm he’d exuded had been forced.

  He’d also lost his flirtatious streak, and she hadn’t decided how she felt about that yet. Her brain said it was for the best, but something lower down wanted to feel him against her, the way she had on Patterson’s dance floor.

  Pushing those thoughts aside, memories of Elena invaded, and Miri sobered. “I guess we should talk about the missing people. I made a list like you said, but didn’t get very far with a spreadsheet for comparisons before . . . you know.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “You okay?” His tone was hollow.

  She stared into his gray eyes. They resembled the ones she saw across intake forms. Empty. No, not empty. Full of despair. “Better than you, apparently, and I knew Elena. What’s wrong?”

  He rubbed his face. His composure returned when he lowered his hands. “Nothing. Tired.”

  She leaned back as the server brought their sausage and mushroom pizza. Miri picked up a slice and wrestled with the dripping strands of cheese before taking a bite. “Eat,” she said around a chewy mouthful.

  He did. Slowly, with frequent refills of his beer glass. Miri ate three slices, Dalton barely finished two. She eyed the three left on the platter.

  “All yours. I’m stuffed,” she said.

  “No, thanks. I’m fine.”

  Part of her wanted to shake him until whatever was troubling him spilled out. Another part wanted to rock him the way she rocked Sammi’s little Suzie.

  Nonsense. They’d just met, and his life was his business.

  He flipped some bills onto the table. “Be right back,” he said.

  As she worked her arms into the sleeves of her parka, she watched him cross the restaurant toward the restrooms. Steady enough on his feet. She’d only had half a glass of beer, and the pitcher was empty. Despite the fact that outwardly he appeared sober enough, there were some rules she never broke. She’d switched to root beer when Dalton downed his second glass.

  Grabbing her purse, she scooted out of the booth and positioned herself between the restroom and the exit. When Dalton emerged, she smiled and held out her hand, palm up.

  His eyebrows arched in question.

  “Keys,” she said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re not driving. Or if you are, I’ll take a cab.”

  “I’m not drunk.”

  “You drank almost an entire pitcher of beer.”

  “Which in a place like this is barely three beers, and lousy beer at that. Plus, I ate. I said I’m fine. I know my limits.” Anger flashed in his eyes, dark and menacing as winter storm clouds.

  She kept her tone level, imaginary hands pressed to her ears to block the arguments between Nancy and their mother that reverberated through her head. “The issue is I don’t know how you handle liquor. I do know I’m not getting in a vehicle with you behind the wheel. Keys or cab. Your choice.”

  The vein at the side of his neck throbbed. His lips flattened to a thin, white line. In one move, he spun on his heels and jammed his hands in his pockets. He marched to the restaurant door and shoved it open.

  Miri followed a wary three steps behind as he stormed toward his car. When he reached the rear bumper, he beeped the remote twice, then yanked the passenger door open and threw himself into the seat. Miri exhaled and crossed behind the car to the driver’s side. Dalton stared straight ahead, arms folded over his chest. The keys dangled from a cup holder between the seats.

  She worked the key into the ignition. “Seatbelt,” she said, reaching for the lever to slide the seat forward. She fastened her belt, waiting to hear Dalton’s click into place before she started the car. “Where to?”

  “You want to work, or do you think I’m too drunk to use a computer?” The way he enunciated each word was pure mockery.

  “I didn’t say you were drunk. I said I didn’t want you behind the wheel. It’s a rule of mine.”

  “Fine.” He unfolded his arms long enough to turn on the radio. The Eagles were stuck in Hotel California.

  Ignoring him, she jammed the car into gear and wheeled into the street. Once she decided where they were going, she settled into the drive. Ten minutes later, Dalton still hadn’t uttered a word.

  If he was playing a game of wills, he’d grossly underestimated his opponent. Working with troubled souls all day for the past eight years provided plenty of practice in waiting out a recalcitrant teenager. Right now, Dalton wasn’t much different. Something troubled him, and she wanted to help, but he had to take the first step.

  She shot him glances as they drove beneath streetlights that illuminated the car’s interior like a flickering silent movie. The vein in his neck wasn’t throbbing anymore. Although he had his eyes fixed dead ahead, she knew he was aware of every peek.

  Fifteen minutes later, Miri pulled into the driveway of a small clapboard bungalow. James Taylor’s You’ve Got a Friend started playing. She lowered the volume and stared into the night. Memories returned, d
ulled by the passage of time.

  “When I was four, my father drove drunk and killed three people. He died in jail. It didn’t keep my mother from drinking, though. By the time I was twelve, she was wasted all the time. When I was fourteen, she walked out one day and never came back.”

  She switched off the ignition and tossed Dalton the keys. Then she marched up the path to the front door and knocked.

  * * * * *

  “Fuck. Shit.” Beam me up, Scotty. Please. Dalton gave it a moment, but when the universe didn’t sparkle and the porch stayed right where it was, he sped after Miri. Never mind she’d done the right thing.

  He clomped up the wooden steps to Miri’s side. “I’m sorry. I was a total jerk.”

  She didn’t move. “I’m not going to argue that one.”

  Before he could respond, the door opened. A single light bulb—more of a dark bulb, Dalton thought—barely illuminated a small foyer. A rangy African-American woman smiled, her white teeth gleaming. “Miri,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t expect you tonight. Come in.” She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Miri.

  Still embracing, the two women moved into the foyer. Dalton clenched and unclenched his fists, waiting. What the hell were they doing in a quiet middle-class neighborhood? Not Miri’s place, from his preliminary check on her.

  “I brought an extra pair of hands, Elsie. Meet Dalton.” She motioned for him to join them. “Dalton, this is Elsie.”

  He nodded, letting his eyes adjust. Instrumental music played softly in the background. Elevator music. Miri shifted and closed the door behind him.

  Elsie, nearly six feet tall, all bones and angles with a face like weathered cedar, looked him up and down with curious brown eyes. She wore a faded Raiders jersey over baggy knit pants. Fuzzy pink bedroom slippers covered her feet.

  “Welcome, Dalton.” She gave him a firm, no-nonsense handshake. “Let’s go, then. Miri’ll get you started. I’ll set things up.” Despite a slight scuffing of her slippers, her step as she departed was as no-nonsense as her handshake.

  “What the—?” he whispered to Miri. “I thought we were going to—”

  “Shh. Change of plans.”

  He followed Miri into a small laundry room, where she hung her parka on a hook. She handed him a yellow paper gown. “Put it on,” she said, slipping into one of her own. “Ties in the back.” At the sink, she turned on the water and squirted some soap from a dispenser. “Wash.”

  He fastened the crinkly paper at his neck and followed orders. Miri was clearly the commanding officer on this op. But he had a bad feeling about this—a really bad feeling. Sickrooms and hospitals gave him the willies. Who had they come to see?

  When Miri led him down the hall and he heard a baby crying—no, make that babies, plural—he was ready to jump ship.

  “Miri—”

  “Shh. Keep your voice down. Sudden noises upset them.”

  As if crying babies didn’t upset him?

  “Go. Sit.” She pointed to one of three rocking chairs in a room with five cribs and other bits he recognized as nursery furniture. Elsie fussed over one of the cribs, then brought out a squirming, squalling blanket.

  His heart went into triple time forced march rate. Blood rushed in his ears. Before his knees went to full Jell-O mode, he sank into the nearest chair. “What are we doing here?” he said to Miri. “What am I doing here?”

  “Elsie and her husband Joe are foster parents extraordinaire. They take in the ones nobody else will touch. The mothers were on drugs, or HIV positive, or alcoholics. The babies need human contact. Lots of it.”

  Elsie appeared in front of him. “Hold out your arms. Come on, don’t tell me you’ve never held a baby.”

  He shrugged. Words couldn’t get past the baseball in his throat. When he accepted the bundle from Elsie, his hands shook.

  Elsie adjusted the infant in the crook of his arms. “Relax. Big guy like you shouldn’t be afraid of a tiny baby. Keep his head supported. This is Xavier. He’s a little feisty tonight, but he’s been fed and has a clean diaper. Figured you might want to start out easy.”

  Easy? She had no idea. Dalton zeroed his attention on Miri’s calm, soothing voice, coaxing her baby to eat.

  “If you’re okay, I’ve got some things to do out front,” Elsie said.

  “We’re fine,” Miri said. Her furrowed brow meant he’d be toast if he disagreed.

  Elsie padded out of the room. Panic-stricken, Dalton looked at Miri. She smiled, which helped relax him. Not a lot, but it helped.

  “Hold him close. Rock. Singing is good, too. Or talk to him.”

  Sing? Talk? He couldn’t swallow. Breathing was an effort. He pushed his feet against the floor and set the chair in motion. Xavier didn’t seem to notice.

  Miri’s charge now made slurpy, sucking sounds.

  Dalton stared at a mobile dangling above one of the cribs. He focused on the shapes swinging gently back and forth above the crib. Fish. Fish were good.

  Think about fish. Snorkeling. Deep sea fishing. Fly fishing. Anything but babies.

  Xavier squirmed away, still squawking. Dalton jiggled him. “Shh,” he managed.

  Would Rachel’s baby have been like Xavier? Would she have cared enough to cuddle it? Would it have ended up with strangers?

  Dalton tucked the infant more securely into a one-arm hold and used his free hand to tease the blanket away from the baby’s head. Xavier’s eyes opened. For an instant, those eyes, so big in that tiny face, locked onto his. The baby gave one more wriggle, flailing his skinny arms. When Dalton reached out to tuck the limbs back where they belonged, Xavier’s tiny hand fisted around Dalton’s finger.

  The baseball in Dalton’s throat caught fire. Hot tears brimmed behind his eyes, overflowed and trickled down his cheeks. He shifted his head so they didn’t land on Xavier’s face.

  You got it, little fella. Sometimes life sucks.

  “Try putting him over your shoulder. You won’t break him,” Miri said. “Use a firm touch. It makes him feel more secure.” From across the room, a not-so-tiny belch resounded. “Atta girl, Zoey.”

  He followed her suggestion. Holding and rubbing kept both hands occupied. One more distraction.

  Miri crooned softly to her charge, who responded with a grunt. “Someone needs a change,” Miri said. “Don’t you, sweetie?”

  Dealing with crap—figurative and literal—that was something Dalton understood. Not that he had any experience in the actual mechanics of diaper changing, but somehow he thought it would be easier to deal with than the crying.

  Dalton couldn’t fight his growing restlessness. He stood, careful to keep Xavier pressed against him, and paced the small nursery. Four steps one way. Turn. Four steps back. Almost like dancing. He moved his feet in a slow rumba. Xavier stopped squirming. His breathing, right next to Dalton’s ear, cycled through ragged and hiccupy to slow and even. The tiny body went limp and boneless, dead weight on his shoulder.

  He kept his face tucked into Xavier’s blanket. Tears stung his eyes. Dalton couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried.

  Liar. It was fourteen years ago. It’s over. Rachel’s gone. So is her baby. Get a grip.

  But he found himself on the wrong side of the wall he kept between himself and his emotions. No matter how he tried to scale it, to get behind it where things made sense, his toes lost their footing, his hands slipped and he tumbled onto his ass. So much for getting a grip.

  Miri ambled back to the rocking chair, her hips swaying a maternal cadence. Guys weren’t blessed with that gene. He went back to his rumba with Xavier, who made contented sucking sounds.

  Miri rubbed her cheek against her baby’s face. “Zoey, you’re such a sweetie. Someday, someone’s going to love you more than anything. You wait. If your first mama can’t take care of you, the right one will be here before you know it. You didn’t do anything wrong, sweet little Zoey.”

  The baseball—no, a softball—returned to Dal
ton’s throat. Trapped with an infant he didn’t dare disturb, he half-stumbled toward the rocking chair.

  Before he got there, the door opened and Elsie tiptoed in. “How are the little darlings?”

  Head bowed, Dalton approached her. Her own maternal instincts must have kicked in, because she reached for Xavier. The kid weighed eight pounds if he weighed an ounce, but there was a ton of empty sitting on Dalton’s shoulder.

  Reaching behind his neck for the tie of his gown, he hauled ass for the door.

  Chapter 8

  “Your man have a problem?” Elsie asked.

  Miri gave Zoey one final kiss on her petal-soft cheek and set her in her crib. She stroked the infant’s fuzz-covered head. “He’s not my man. We’re working together. He seemed upset—I thought this would help. Apparently, I was wrong.”

  “Honey, you go take care of your own things. I’m fine. I got another cuddler coming in, and Joe will be back soon enough.”

  Careful not to disturb Xavier, Miri squeezed Elsie’s arm. “See you.”

  Crumpling her gown and cramming it into the basket in the laundry room, Miri tried to understand Dalton’s reaction. One thing she was sure of—it had nothing to do with being afraid to hold a baby. Parka slung over her arm, she sucked in a breath, counted to five, exhaled and headed for the porch.

  From there, she could see Dalton silhouetted behind the wheel of his Navigator. Although the keys still sat in her pocket, she had a feeling he would have hot-wired the car if he’d really wanted out of there. She trotted down the steps and eased the passenger door open. When the interior light flashed on, he swerved his head toward the window.

  “You can drop me off at my place,” she said, no louder than she’d spoken in the nursery. “We can go over the files tomorrow, if you’d like.” She jangled the keys.

  “Your call.” When he spoke, she smelled butterscotch. Without touching her, he took the keys and cranked the ignition.

  She watched his control return with the engine sounds. “Take me home, then. It’s been a long day. Tomorrow’s fine.”