Where Danger Hides

by Terry Odell

  He saluted.

  She inched open the door, determined to ignore the incessant demands that would surround her when she stepped inside. It was Friday, she had the weekend off, and even Mrs. Sanderson’s party sounded good. She hesitated, then pushed the door closed.

  “What’s wrong?” Dalton asked.

  “For the time being, nothing. And I intend to keep it that way. Come with me.” She trotted down the steps and jogged to the rear entrance, Dalton half a pace behind. “Wait here.” She slithered through the door, grabbed her bag, then darted outside again.

  Dalton stepped away from the wall, where he'd been leaning. “What was that all about?”

  “Nothing.” She pulled out her cell and called the House.

  Keisha answered. “Miri? You all right?”

  “I'm fine. And I'm officially off duty until Monday.” She snapped the phone closed and looked at Dalton. “Well? Where’s your car?”

  * * * * *

  Dalton leaned his hands against the tile in Miri’s shower as the steamy water sluiced over him, whirlpooling acres of muck down the drain. The bathroom was small, clean, and totally Miri. No fancy labels, merely no-frills utilitarian products that would get the job done. An oversize T-shirt hung from a hook on the door. No doubt what she slept in. She’d emerged from the bathroom in sweats covering her from wrist to ankle, barefoot, her damp hair fastened in a ponytail. That he hadn’t embraced her right then was a testament more to his exhaustion than his self-control.

  He closed his eyes. Three days of an adrenaline-enhanced existence meant he was going to crash soon—big time. Thoughts of the neatly-made double bed in the adjoining bedroom—no, he wasn’t going there. Get real. Sleep was first and foremost on his mind. Dead-to-the-world, round-the-clock, dreamless sleep.

  As if that would happen. Miri insisted they wait until they were clean before they spoke of his findings, which was fine with him. He never felt dirty roughing it with the team, but in Miri’s presence, he was all too aware of the way he looked—and smelled.

  He flipped the cap of the shampoo bottle sitting on the windowsill in the shower and squirted a liberal dollop into the palm of his hand. As he lathered it through his hair, a familiar spring breeze scent filled the shower. Whoa. One part of him wasn’t completely exhausted.

  Ignoring his response and thankful he’d used most of the hot water, he hurried through the rest of his shower. A new disposable razor rested on the edge of the sink. He fetched a canister of some pink shave gel from the shower and dealt with his overgrown stubble.

  Being clean lightened his spirits, and he slipped into the jeans and Longhorns sweatshirt from his duffel. For good measure, he brushed his teeth.

  He opened the bathroom door to release some of the steam, and a delicious aroma, second only to spring breeze-scented shampoo, enticed him to the kitchen.

  Miri was setting plates on a small table in an alcove of the kitchen.

  “Smells fantastic. You didn’t need to go to any trouble.”

  “Nuking leftovers is hardly trouble.”

  “What can I do?”

  She eyed him from head to toe and back again, her gaze resting on his face. “Sit before you collapse, I think.”

  He pulled out one of the ice cream parlor-style chairs with its blue-and-white checked seat. “The shower worked wonders.”

  “A hot meal should be even better.” She retreated to the kitchen and returned with two plates. “You’re in luck. I was on a cooking spree last week. Most nights I grab something at the House, but I had an uncontrollable urge to try something different.”

  Dalton inhaled the aroma in front of him. “I think I might be in heaven here, darlin’.”

  “It’s nothing fancy. Pork tenderloin with a spice rub. Maybe you should taste it before you decide.”

  “No question.” He forked up a piece of pork and chewed, savoring the spicy flavors against the tender, mild meat. “Definitely heaven.” He scooped some mashed potatoes. “You mind if we hold off on business for a few minutes? I’ve been living on field rations for days. If you can call it living.”

  “Can I ask a question?”

  Her voice was hesitant. He put his knife and fork on the plate. “Anything.”

  “What do you really do?”

  He picked up the fork and shoveled another bite, formulating an answer as he chewed. “I do investigative work for Blackthorne, Inc. You know that.”

  “You’re the one who said detective work was mostly staring at computers. I couldn’t help but notice the gash on your arm. How did you get it?”

  Had she recognized it as a healing bullet wound? “It’s nothing. Sometimes the people we investigate don’t like it when we find them.” He took a sip of water. “Most of what I do is confidential. I meant it when I said I respect a client’s privacy. I have to ask you to trust me on that.”

  “All right.”

  Something about the way her eyes squinted when she spoke told him she wasn’t totally convinced, but she dropped it, and they finished the meal in a wary silence.

  When her plate was empty, Miri rose. “Why don’t you go into the living room? I’ll take care of the dishes and you can tell me what else you found. I assume it was about Tania and Elena.”

  “I’ll help.”

  “It’s no bother—it’ll take me two minutes. Go. Relax. The kitchen chairs aren’t very comfortable, especially for someone your size. I hardly use them except for a cup of coffee.”

  The soporific results of the hot shower and meal gave Miri’s overstuffed couch an almost overwhelming attraction. Instead of relinquishing himself to its lure, he wandered the small living room. Stopping at the small entertainment system, he browsed her CD collection.

  “Anything you want to hear?” she called from the kitchen. “Feel free.”

  “You like jazz.”

  “Good work, super-sleuth. Whatever gave you that idea?”

  He gave a quiet chuckle. “My outstanding powers of observation.”

  The water stopped running and she padded to his side. She reached around him and tilted a case from the shelf. “I thought I told you to sit.” She gave his shoulder a gentle shove toward the couch.

  Familiar music filled the room. Memories of his grandmother’s house. It took several seconds to register. “Glenn Miller?”

  She nodded. “In the Mood. I didn’t know what you liked, so I went with a compilation of classic jazz.”

  “I think our signals got crossed,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  He reached for her arms, gently pulling back the sleeves of her sweats. The scrapes and scratches gleamed under what he assumed was an antibiotic ointment. “I was supposed to be taking care of you, remember?”

  “Seemed like you needed it more.”

  So much for his reputation of having the best poker face on the team. “Let's get started.” He motioned her to the couch. She scooted into a corner, one leg tucked under her.

  He retrieved the envelope he’d dropped on the end table when they’d arrived and situated himself at the opposite end of the couch. “What did you know about Tania and Elena?”

  “Elena was about twenty-three. We helped her find a job doing alterations for a dry cleaner, but she dreamed of being a dress designer.” Miri pulled the elastic out of her hair, slid it over her wrist and ran her fingers through the damp locks. He felt her raise a barrier of detachment, something he knew too well, but she couldn’t eradicate the compassion. “I guess impatient describes her. We tried to make her understand there weren’t any shortcuts to success. She quit after a few weeks. I wondered if someone was trying to take advantage of her—”

  “Sexually?” he interrupted.

  Miri nodded. “She wouldn’t talk about it. Then she was gone. Nobody heard from her until the cops showed up with her picture.”

  “Tania?”

  “Runaway. Bad family situation. Her father used her as a punching bag. She took it, figuring if he was beating her, he
was leaving her mother alone.”

  “But she left.”

  Miri snapped at the elastic on her wrist. “Her father died.”

  “You know how?”

  “She never said and we don’t ask. If you’re asking if I think she had something to do with it, the answer is no. But I can’t tell you why. Instinct.”

  “Did either of them do drugs?”

  “No way.”

  “How can you be sure?” The words exploded, harsh and demanding, surprising even him.

  She jerked upright. “We’ve got strict anti-drug policies.”

  Thoughts of Rachel swamped him. He struggled for detachment, reaching into the depths of his control to keep his voice neutral, his features bland. “Users can get around them.”

  Her eyes clouded. “What are you trying to say?”

  He focused at a point on the wall behind her. “They found evidence of methamphetamines in both women.”

  “No. No way. Absolutely no way.”

  “That’s not what the medical reports showed.”

  “You got their medical reports? I thought we agreed no cops.”

  “At the time, we were looking for similarities. And I didn’t go to the cops. I have some connections. This was off the official records.” He handed the faxed sheets with the summary of the autopsy findings to Miri.

  She scanned the pages, then slammed them onto the coffee table. “Impossible. This is a mistake. They both hated drugs. Neither used before coming to us. Elena lived as a resident for months. There’s not that much privacy—someone would have seen the signs. I would have noticed.”

  Conviction and indignation flowed in her voice. His dinner congealed in his belly. “Can you be sure?” His voice came from far away, ringing in his ears.

  Miri’s hand rested on his thigh, barely touching, but it scorched like a branding iron. She didn’t speak. When he met her gaze, her eyes sucked him in, dragging him down until he was drowning in their amber depths.

  “Rachel. My wife. Died of an overdose.”

  “What happened?”

  The words hung in his throat before he could speak. “We were the perfect small-town couple. The whole cliché thing. Buddies in grade school, awkward friends in junior high, while we tried to get a handle on the boy-girl thing.” He swallowed, remembering. “You know—roping calves one day, and then there’s a school dance, and you don’t know what to make of her all dressed up.”

  Miri nodded, the dip of her head almost imperceptible. She waited, leaving a void demanding to be filled. Like a bronco bursting into the rodeo ring, his words tumbled out.

  “I couldn’t see a future in town—Dad was selling off more and more of the ranch and getting ready to retire. I joined the Navy. Serve my country, get college paid for. Rachel stayed with her parents while I did my training.”

  He drew a ragged breath. “Once I was out of Basic, she couldn’t wait to get out from under her parents’ roof. I was based in San Diego. We moved. I shipped out. I thought . . . I thought she was happy there, making friends. I didn’t know. She never said . . . her letters and e-mails . . . upbeat. Shore leave—” he clawed his fingers through his hair—“was good.

  “I had no idea—no clue—” Damn. His throat felt like sandpaper. His chest ached. His eyes burned. “She was lonely. She hooked up with some people. Not the quiet life she was used to. Partied, they gave her drugs. To take the edge off, but they consumed her until that’s all she lived for.” He hung his head, stared at the floor.

  Miri gave his thigh a gentle squeeze. “It’s hard to help when you’re not around.”

  “Dammit, if I’d have known, I’d have gone AWOL to get her help. There was nothing anonymous like Galloway House around. Maybe if there was, and she’d found it, or—shit, I don’t know. I had to piece it together when I got back. I didn’t know until after—I had to tell her parents—” He choked on the words. “She was . . . pregnant . . . when she died.”

  He hadn’t noticed when Miri got up, but she pressed a glass in his hand. When he lifted it toward his mouth, the alcohol fumes stung his eyes. He swallowed a mouthful, the fire burning all the way to his belly. Then he set the glass down.

  She settled onto the couch beside him, not making contact, but close enough for her body heat to radiate through his jeans.

  After a moment, she asked, “When did she die?”

  “Fourteen years ago this month. Next week.”

  “Can you forgive me?” A tear trickled down her cheek.

  “Forgive you? What?” What could she possibly have done?

  “I thought—I thought you had this thing about the kind of people I deal with. That you couldn’t handle being around them. That you were—I don’t know—above them. But you were remembering.” More tears followed the first. “Oh, God, Dalton. I dragged you to Elsie’s and made you deal with babies—that must have hurt so bad. I am so sorry. So damn sorry.”

  He fought for control, clenching his jaw, his fists, every muscle in his body. “I can’t believe I told you this. Nobody outside my family knows. Not even the people I work with. And they’re closer than family sometimes.”

  She handed him his drink.

  He pushed it away. “I’m driving, remember.”

  “When’s the last time you slept?”

  His shoulders twitched upward. “Been awhile.”

  “The couch pulls out. It’s made up.”

  He took her wrist, held it like a lifeline. “You know what?” he whispered. “I don’t even know if the baby was mine.”

  Chapter 13

  Miri stepped to the bathroom sink and splashed cold water on her face before bringing a pillow and extra blanket to Dalton. He hadn’t moved since she’d pried away from his grip and left him on the couch. His hands hung limply between his knees. His eyes stared, glazed, into the distance. At least his ragged breathing had steadied.

  She crossed to the CD player and turned it off. When she approached the couch, Dalton gave no signs he noticed.

  Could he be asleep?

  Her heart tugged. She fluffed the pillow in the corner of the couch and unfolded the blanket, wondering if he’d simply tip over if she nudged his shoulder. Before she could turn off the lamp, his hoarse whisper filled the silence.

  “No.”

  “Okay.” Her fingers dropped from the switch. “You need sleep. Lie down.” She indicated the pillow.

  “Don’t . . . don’t go.”

  The effort it took him to ask was palpable. She sank onto the couch and set the pillow on her lap, both an invitation and a barrier. Patting it, she whispered again, “Lie down.”

  His head hit the pillow with a shuddering sigh that seemed to resonate from the depths of his soul. Leaning over him, she tugged gently on the blanket and arranged it over his shoulders.

  “Sleep.” She stroked his hair. “I’m here.”

  Curled on his side, Dalton found her hand. She held it, feeling it relax as he finally surrendered to his body’s demand.

  Propping her feet on the coffee table, she scrunched into the couch cushions and rested her head against the back. She wrestled with the idea that Tania and Elena had been mixed up with drugs but couldn’t wrap her brain around it. She closed her eyes. Dalton’s slow, rhythmic breathing lulled her. The last thing she remembered before drifting off was the way his warm fingers remained curled around hers, even in sleep.

  Sometime later she awoke, her neck stiff, her feet freezing and her calves sore where they rested on the edge of the coffee table. One thing was certain. Remaining here for the rest of the night was out. Dalton waking up with his head in her lap was not something she was ready to deal with. She needed time to regroup. She unclasped his hand and laid it on the couch near his face. Carefully, she extricated herself from under him, supporting his head on the pillow as she eased it back down. His breathing never altered.

  She tiptoed to her bedroom. Two a.m. With luck, she might get a few hours of real sleep before Dalton awoke. While she lay there, she
mulled over the right approach for the morning—to offer sympathy, companionship, or merely pretend he’d fallen asleep without saying anything to her. Hell, for all she knew, he’d been so exhausted he wouldn’t remember a thing.

  She sighed. Nothing was ever that easy. Besides, she’d remember.

  The next time she opened her eyes, sunlight filled the room. She squinted at the clock. When was the last time she’d slept until ten? Dangling her legs over the side of the bed, she waited for the cobwebs to clear before venturing out. To her surprise, Dalton was exactly as she’d left him, except the hand that had held hers now hung to the floor.

  She trotted downstairs to pick up her newspaper from the lobby. When she got back, Dalton hadn’t stirred.

  She set a pot of coffee to brew, then took a shower. Feeling more alive, she sat in the kitchen and read the paper while she sipped her coffee. She found news of yesterday’s explosion in the middle of the local section. She refilled her mug before finishing the article. Eight people dead, no names released, pending identification and notification of next of kin. Detached, clinical language, with undertones of good riddance, one less drug house and eight fewer people to run through the legal system. Keisha swore she’d seen Luisa on television, but nothing in the article confirmed hers was one of the bodies. She squinted at the blurry photo in the article, trying to identify anyone she knew. Fire engines, cop cars, medics loading a stretcher into an ambulance, and a Dumpster, which reminded her of Luisa. Tears threatened.

  Movement from the living room caught her attention. Almost eleven. Schooling her features into a friendly but neutral expression, she prepared for the inevitable morning-after awkwardness even though there hadn’t been a traditional night before. Should she take the proactive route? She poured another mug of coffee but had second thoughts about initiating the conversation.

  Dalton sat on the couch scratching his head.

  Don’t be silly. Bring him the coffee.

  She hesitated at the counter, her back to him, speaking to the coffeepot. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”