by Terry Odell
She recalled the tension he’d carried after an evening rocking babies. Yet now, when there was the possibility they were riding toward danger, a mantle of calm surrounded him. Was he simply humoring her? Didn’t he believe her? Hunter had freaked. Hunter never freaked.
“Something is wrong, you know,” she said.
He gave no indication he was catering to the whims of a silly female. “It’s definitely a possibility.” He inched his chin toward the radio. “Music? Might help the time pass. There are some CDs in the console.”
She lifted the cover and pulled one at random. The car’s interior was too dim to read the title, and she didn’t really care what it was. She popped the case open and slipped the disc into the player.
Country music thumped from the speakers. A female singer complained about falling to pieces. Dalton’s fingers tapped the steering wheel in rhythm. Rather than try to find something she liked, she let the CD play. Dalton smiled in her direction. “Patsy Cline. The best.”
So much for changing the CD. Besides, at this point, she didn’t think even John Coltrane could distract her. She tried to listen, but her mind wouldn’t hold on to the melody or process the lyrics. Outside, only the changing numbers on the mile markers proved they’d made headway.
“Hand me my jacket, darlin’.”
“Huh?” The interior of the car was comfortably warm, but she reached over the seat and snagged his parka. “You cold?”
“Nope. Check the right outside pocket.”
She held the jacket up, orienting herself to left and right, and lowered a finger into the opening. Plastic met her touch. She reached deeper into the pocket and felt hard lumps.
“Help yourself,” he said.
She pulled out a small bag of candy. As she wrestled it open, a whiff of butterscotch floated up.
“Mind unwrapping one for me?” he said. His hand hovered, palm up, between them.
The simple task of twisting the yellow cellophane from the candy seemed beyond her, but she convinced her fumbling fingers to behave. When she dropped the disc in his palm, he gripped her hand. His squeeze said he’d make everything all right. She tried to believe it.
Not loosening his grip, he raised her hand to his lips and sucked the candy into his mouth. His tongue caressed her palm while his thumb rubbed circles on the back. He released her with a kiss.
His voice rumbled from his chest. “I’d share this one with you, but that might get us killed.”
Butterscotch and sandalwood surrounded her senses. “Thanks. I’ll have my own. This time.” She tipped out a candy and dropped the bag into the console. Guilt assaulted her. Thinking of sharing a butterscotch kiss wiped out thoughts of Nancy. Dalton encompassed her entire being. Whatever he was thinking—and she bet a motel room and a bed topped the list—had no business in his head when her sister might be dead. Oh, God, that couldn’t happen. Nancy couldn’t be dead. She refused to consider that possibility.
Headlights from a stream of oncoming semis illuminated Dalton’s face. Filled with compassion, not lust. Realization hit her like a trumpet fanfare. He’d been distracting her, not out of a testosterone surge, but to keep her mind off Nancy. Helping her pass the time while there was nothing to do but watch the mile markers flash by.
“Water’s in the cooler in the back,” he said. “There are some wipes in the glove box.”
Her fingers traced the sticky palm of her opposite hand. “Do you anticipate everything?”
He chuckled. “Would be great if I could. Figured if my hand’s sticky, yours is, too.”
“Oh. Yeah.” She reached for the glove box and found the packets of wet wipes. “You want one?”
“You can do the honors.”
She tore open the packet and unfolded the towelette, swiping the cold, lemon-scented wipe over her hand before using it to clean Dalton’s.
She sucked her butterscotch, swearing she wouldn’t look at another mile marker until she finished. “Can you tell me about any of your cases? Anything interesting, or exciting?”
Another shrug.
“Can’t talk about them, or won’t?” she asked.
“Little of both. The more interesting ones fall into the can’t category. The others are boring.”
If another semi hadn’t illuminated the car’s interior, she might have believed him. She crunched on the candy and peered out the window.
Ten miles closer.
* * * * *
Dalton left Miri to her musings. He lifted his cell from the console well and punched the speed dial number for the covert ops control center.
“Hey, Cowboy! How’s it hangin’?”
“Fine, Zeke. Is the team back?”
Miri’s head jerked away from the window. He pressed the phone tighter against his ear and concentrated on Zeke’s words.
“Airborne. ETA at twenty-three hundred. Smooth sailing all the way.”
Knowing nothing was ever smooth sailing, Dalton shared the relief he knew any team felt once they’d completed a mission. “Tell ’em to have a brew for me.”
“Why not come out and join us? You’re not banned from the compound, right?”
“Actually, I’m working on another project. I need a favor.”
Eyes wide, Miri leaned forward and he gave her a reassuring smile.
“Can you monitor the Riverside County sites?” he asked.
“Can I? You mock me, sir. Of course, but what am I looking for? Riverside County’s huge.”
If anyone could slip in and out of computer databases undetected, it was Zeke. “Anything unusual to do with migrant workers. Missing persons.” He hesitated, avoiding Miri’s eyes. “Nancy or Hunter Sanderson. A new housing project funded by Andrew Patterson. Crap, anything at all unusual. Start around Santa Angelino and work out—probably toward Mexico.”
“With or without local help?”
“I need you to run solo for now, pard.”
“You’re not going rogue on us, are you? I know you’re hot for Rafael, but don’t blow your career.”
“This has nothing to do with Rafael.” But he sure as hell wished it did. With Rafael, he knew where he stood. In that world, everyone was a bad guy. “I got the job from upstairs, but it’s under the radar.”
“Gotcha. I’ll be in touch.”
“I’ll owe you.”
“Damn right.” Zeke disconnected.
“What was that about?” Miri asked. “What team? Where are they back from? Who’s Rafael? Does he have something to do with Nancy?”
“You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?” He’d known before he made the call that Miri’s involvement in the case might prove troublesome. The trick would be making sure he isolated this case from the rest of his Blackthorne duties when he talked to her. His training, where maintaining a cover was second nature, seemed to evaporate in her presence.
She offered him another butterscotch. “Why not? There’s nothing else to do. Besides, we’re on the same side here, right?”
“Rafael’s a leftover from another case,” he said, accepting the candy but setting it into a cup holder. “Nothing to do with Nancy.”
“So what about the rest? You were asking about migrant workers along with Nancy. And Hunt.”
He nodded. “I called Blackthorne’s offices and asked someone to do a little investigating.”
“But we’re not calling the local cops. I figured that much out. Why? Won’t they have more resources than we do?”
He smiled at the “we.” Then again, she was part of this, regardless of how much or little help she’d be. “Until I know more, I’d rather not show my cards.”
She nibbled her lip. “I get it. You think the worst of everyone first.”
Ouch. But close to the truth. Too close. “Not everyone.” He reached over and stroked her thigh.
She pulled her leg away. “You did a background search on me.”
“Darlin’, I did that after you became a professional obligation because that’s the way it is in this
job.”
“Wouldn’t you rather see the glass as half-full, not half-empty all the time? It’s got to be a depressing lifestyle.”
“I prefer to think of it as an ounce of prevention. Not knowing something important and getting ambushed—that’s depressing.” He cut his eyes in her direction, but she seemed willing to let the matter drop. “Next exit’s ours. Should be there in under half an hour.”
Miri slid one hand up and down the seatbelt strap, making a scraping sound. She leaned the other against the window as she peered into the darkness. The scraping stopped and both hands made a visor against the pane.
“Are you sure we’re going in the right direction?” she asked after they’d pulled off the highway and onto the 86 spur. “There’s nothing out there.”
“You said she lived out in the boonies. The GPS coordinates are right.” He tapped the small dash-mounted unit.
“You’re sure it’s not broken?”
“Relax, darlin’. It’s working fine, and we’re almost there. I want you to be calm. There’s a chance this is all a misunderstanding and Nancy will be home.”
“I wish I could believe you. But . . .”
“Miri, we’re going on your gut instinct here. He didn’t ask you to help. He might not be all that glad to see you. Or want you to know if Nancy really is missing.”
“I keep telling you, I can feel it.”
“Okay. We’ll take the half-empty glass. She’s not there. If your brother-in-law is as upset as you say, we’ll want to keep him calm, not fan the flames. Can you do that?”
“I’ll try.”
“Darlin’, you need to practice what you’ll say. He’s expecting me—as the man Patterson sent—tomorrow. Arriving tonight is bad enough, but you’re going to be a total surprise. Start with that. You tell him you were coming down to see Nancy.”
“But—”
“Practice. Make it sound natural. Something like, ‘Hunt. I was on my way down to surprise Nancy when you called. You hung up before I could tell you. You sounded worried. Is everything all right?’ ”
She nodded. “How do I explain you? I mean, I can’t pop in with a date.”
“At this point, my investigation is secondary. Tell him the truth. That someone hired me to check into Patterson’s project. He might be pissed, but you can vouch for me and make him understand that if Nancy’s missing, I’m no longer on that job. That I want to help. The important part is he’s gotta trust me.”
Houses appeared in the distance, and soon they were in a dark and quiet area of small, widely scattered residences. He followed his GPS directions through the last few turns and navigated to the driveway of a bungalow, verifying the address on the mailbox. Miri fidgeted in her seat.
“This is it,” she said. Her seat belt clicked and retracted with a clunk.
He stopped, backed a few yards into the driveway and killed the engine, reaching for Miri’s arm before she could leave. “Wait a second.”
“Why?”
He leaned over and kissed her gently on the lips. “What are you going to say?”
Her gaze rolled heavenward. “Hi, Hunt. Is Nancy back yet? I was on my way to surprise her when you called.”
“Not bad, darlin’, but try not to say it all in one breath, and take longer than two seconds. Remember, you’re concerned, not panicked.”
“Easy for you to say.” She opened the door. “Is this where you say ‘Break a leg?’”
“Go. Walk, don’t run. I’ll be right behind you. Wait on the porch.” He let her start down the drive, then dug through his pack for his Glock.
Chapter 23
“Hi, Hunt. I was in the neighborhood,” Miri muttered under her breath as she strode toward the door. “Yeah, right. I always drop in on people at ten-thirty at night.”
She fought to stay calm as she walked up the dirt path. Faint moonlight and a pair of yellow porch lamps gave her enough illumination to keep from twisting an ankle in the ruts and potholes.
The porch steps creaked. Despite the urge to pound on the door, she followed Dalton’s instructions and waited. The stucco could use a fresh coat of paint. Was it white, or a faded yellow? Why did she care? Delaying the inevitable. Dalton’s touch on her shoulder came without warning. Her breath hitched.
“There’s a light on in back. Seems to be the kitchen. Silver Escalade in the carport.”
She hadn’t noticed. That’s why he was the super-sleuth. His matter-of-fact tone calmed her. Slightly. She lifted her hand and tapped on the door. No response.
Dalton said, “I don’t think he heard you.” He stepped forward and rapped with enough force to be heard two doors down.
A light came on at the window. The door opened. Miri stifled a gasp.
Hunt’s normally impeccable appearance rivaled Dalton’s the day he’d shown up at the park to rescue Reggie. Blond hair stood up in unruly spikes. He dug his fingers through it. On his jaw, gold stubble stood out in stark contrast to his pasty complexion. He’d aged ten years since the night of the Sanderson’s party.
“Miri?” His voice was a hoarse croak. He held a tumbler half full of golden liquid, and Miri smelled whisky on his breath. He blinked several times. “God, Miri. Why are you here?”
“Hunter.” Calm. Relaxed. Concern, not panic. She exhaled, then drew in a quick breath. “You didn’t give me a chance to talk when you called. Dalton and I were already on the road. What’s wrong?” No way could Hunt expect her to pretend things were copasetic.
His eyes, normally a brilliant green, were dull and bloodshot. He shifted his gaze to Dalton, then back to her, as if he couldn’t trust what he saw. He gulped from his glass and tugged at his hair.
“Mr. Sanderson?” Dalton spoke in a calm, reassuring tone. How did he do it? Of course, Nancy wasn’t his sister. “We need to talk. May we come in?”
Hunt stood as if anchored to the worn carpet. Miri stepped forward and took his hand. She pried the glass from his fingers and slid her arm around his waist. “Let’s sit down, Hunt.”
“Guess you should come in,” he said. Miri walked alongside him as he trudged to a small beige sofa in the living room.
She could do this. This was what she did, for God’s sake. Took care of distraught people, listened, ferreted out what they were really saying, separated it from what they were trying to hide. She helped Hunt lower himself onto the couch and sat beside him, holding his hand. Her peripheral vision caught Dalton sliding an armchair closer.
She focused on Hunt. “Nancy isn’t here, is she?” When he didn’t respond, she went on. “How long has she been missing, Hunt? It’s me. Miri. Talk to me. I’m on your side.”
He looked at his hands, then around the room. “I need a drink.”
“Later, Hunt. First, we talk.”
He blew out a ragged breath. Miri forced herself not to flinch as the alcohol fumes stung her eyes.
“She’s happy.” There was defiance in his tone. “She doesn’t mind living here.” He swept his arm around the small room with its shabby furniture. Lowering his head into his hands, he kneaded his temples. “I think she feels comfortable. Maybe more than at our San Francisco house.”
Miri nodded. She and Nancy lived in a house not much different from this during the few happy years of their childhood, when they were a family.
“Start at the beginning, Hunt.” She mouthed the word, coffee in Dalton’s direction. He hesitated. She jerked her head toward the kitchen.
“Who’s he?” Hunt said, apparently registering Dalton’s presence for the first time.
“That’s Dalton. He’s a private investigator, and he’s good. He’ll know what to do.” She hoped.
Hunt blinked several times. His gaze moved from Dalton to Miri. “Private investigator? How? I didn’t . . . what’s he doing?”
She ignored his real question. “He’s going to make some coffee.”
“Don’t want any.” He massaged his stomach. “Had plenty.”
“Well, we’ve been on the road a
long time. I’m sure Dalton would like a cup.”
Hunt moved to get up. “I should help. I’m being rude.”
Miri gripped his hands and drew him back. “It’s fine, Hunt. Tell me what happened.”
“I didn’t want her to come, you know. We argued about it. I told her she should wait until everything was established. Andrew Patterson thought that would be a better move, too. But she insisted.”
Miri smiled sympathetically. “I know how she can be when she makes up her mind to do something.”
He scrubbed his face with his hands. His long, slender fingers trembled. “From the minute we got here, she was going like gangbusters.” His shoulders straightened, and the man Miri recognized as her brother-in-law reappeared. Someone who maintained his dignity and control. “Patterson’s plans include an extensive community center, and she took it upon herself to make it special.”
“That sounds like Nancy.” Miri smelled the aroma of brewing coffee.
Dalton returned with a package of Fig Newtons and set it on the table. “Coffee’s going. I thought you might feel better if you ate something.”
Barely glancing at the package, Hunt reached for the cookies and extracted one. With it halfway to his mouth, he froze, as if his arm had turned to stone. Staring at the cookie, he dropped it onto the floor. Miri bent to retrieve it. Nancy’s favorite, she remembered as she set the fig-filled square on the table and pushed the package away.
“Wednesday,” Hunt whispered. “I haven’t seen her since Wednesday. She went shopping on Tuesday—” he gestured toward the Newtons. “Wednesday morning, I had a trip to Indian Wells.” He seemed calmer. “You know, there are more millionaires per capita there than anywhere in the U.S. I figured we could get some funding. I tried to talk Nancy into coming with me, but she wanted to work on the center. Plus, I think she said one of the local kids was sick and she wanted to take him to the doctor.”
“Were things all right between you when you left?” Dalton asked.