He could have her for one more night. And hope that she’d come to him again.
If he wanted to be a liar he could.
If he wanted to trick and manipulate her.
But they’d had an agreement. No personal relationship. No expectation.
She trusted him.
He couldn’t betray that trust.
“Let me make a phone call and have someone meet us there with an evidence bag. We’ll be in and out in no time.”
She nodded. Looked relieved. “Thanks, Sam. For everything.”
Her gaze was warm. Personal.
And he somehow knew that she was saying goodbye.
CHAPTER THIRTY
IT WAS AFTER eleven by the time Bloom was finally alone. Sam had stayed while a forensic officer got what he needed from her kitchen. The two had just left together, backing down the driveway one after the other.
She watched from the living room window. Saw their taillights go down the street and then around the corner.
Only then did she turn around and take a deep breath.
She was free.
* * *
BLOOM’S SECOND NIGHT at home, she was very busy. First thing she did was unload the painting she’d done at Sam’s house from the back of her trunk. She hung it over her fireplace. He’d made arrangements for her to access his house on her own, after work, to collect her things. She didn’t know where he’d gone, but wherever it was, he’d taken Lucy with him.
She missed seeing the girl.
Sam had left her bags outside her closed bedroom door and she’d had them filled and ready to go in under twenty minutes.
She’d taken another extra twenty or so, standing inside his bedroom. Remembering. Telling herself she was storing moments to draw on later if she ever doubted her capacity for intimacy in the future. If her mind ever played with her and tried to tell her that Kenneth’s lies about her—that she was a frigid bitch—were true.
Then she’d made a deliberate about-turn, paused in the doorway long enough to look back at the bed, and with a whispered, “Thank you, Sam,” was out of there, down the steps and inside her Jaguar.
Ken’s violence hadn’t stopped her. She was still there. Painting new stories. Replacing the ones he’d destroyed. He hadn’t won. She had.
When she had returned home, it occurred to her that she could have brought other paintings from the office to fill some of the other vacancies left on the walls after officers had carried the slashed paintings away as evidence. She decided, instead, that she’d paint new ones.
The old ones were the story of healing from Ken’s abuse. The new ones would be about her true, healed self, living life to the fullest.
She had new things to say.
She wasn’t sure what, yet, but things were different now.
Ken was in jail and she was still standing. Free. Without anyone telling her what to do.
She was older. More mature.
And thought a glass of wine sounded good. So she opened a new bottle from the rack in the garage and poured herself some in one of the crystal wineglasses she’d purchased the day her divorce had been finalized.
She took the glass out to the deck and, watching families and couples out on the beach, walking, sitting, enjoying the evening, she drank every drop.
* * *
FREELANDER CONTINUED TO eschew his innocence. No wonder, he had his expensive attorney sitting right beside him. The professor wanted out on bail. Sam was able to hold him at least until forensics came back on the knife. Use of a deadly weapon carried different charges.
Sam was giving Cordoba one more day to make a move. Then he was going to LA for a real confrontation. One way or the other, he was getting what he needed.
* * *
FRIDAY NIGHT WAS Bloom’s third night of freedom. She worked late. Stopped at the grocery store. She was in no hurry to get home. The wine, the deck, the people-watching would wait.
It wasn’t like she had a dog waiting for her.
The wine was as good as she thought it would be when she got to it. The people were there—on the beach. The evening breeze was nice and the tail end of the sunset was spectacular.
Maybe getting a dog wouldn’t be a bad idea. She would call animal rescue in the morning, just to see what they had.
And maybe she should think about moving. Get a smaller place.
One without memories of Ken.
Memories of Sam will still be there.
“That’s the point. I learned a lot about myself through him. I am grateful to him,” she said softly. Affirming out loud to give the thoughts more substance. More power. To put them out into the universe as a statement of intention.
You learned how to get out of hiding.
Now that was just the wine talking. How could she possibly have learned how to get out of hiding when she’d been in hiding?
Unless she was glad she’d been able to leave Sam behind and come home again. She tested the thought out in her mind.
Daring that inner voice to pipe in again.
If it did, she was cutting it off from any more wine that night.
Which would be a shame since she really needed another half glass.
Needed?
Yeah, she’d caught that one herself without any internal help. Thank you. She’d meant wanted.
A man was walking down the beach. She’d noticed him because of his dog. A black Lab. About the size of Lucy.
She meant Madge.
He threw a stick into the ocean. The dog dove in after it and brought it back to him. They walked together side by side. And a few minutes later, the man threw the stick again.
He reminded her of Sam, but shorter and stockier. Maybe a little younger, too.
But the way he tended to his dog...like it was a real person...
Like Madge had been to her. Parents and sibling rolled into one.
And she hadn’t even been able to be there when Madge got sick. When they’d had to put her down.
She’d begged to be allowed to come home.
“It’s just a dog,” she’d been told.
Sam knew dogs weren’t just dogs.
For such an arrogant, hard-nosed, married-to-his-job cop, he sure was sensitive.
And gentle. So...gentle.
But strong. A mirage of pictures of Sam flashed before her mind’s eye as she watched the man and dog continue down the beach toward her property. They’d be passing her soon. And then be gone.
As Sam was.
A pang of loneliness stabbed her. Because of the dog. Because of Madge.
You have a second chance.
She wanted to tell that inner voice to shut the hell up. But she’d worked too hard, too sincerely.
And she knew. She wasn’t healed yet. She hadn’t recovered. She’d gone into hiding.
And sex with Sam had brought her out.
She hadn’t known, going in, that the feelings he’d arouse in her weren’t just physical. Couldn’t possibly have known that to all the physical pleasure he’d given her, a key to her heart had been attached.
She’d never been given sexual pleasure before him.
She’d loved, though, once. Deeply. Unconditionally. She’d felt safe and secure and filled with joy.
Anytime she was with Madge.
She’d loved fiercely, as a little girl loves.
And now she was all grown up.
Madge had led her to Lucy who’d led her to Sam. In a heart sense. She understood. Intellectually she got it.
But as her heart opened up, as the pain of Madge’s loss, of being stripped from everything she knew as a small child, of a lifetime of fear and insecurity, of not fitting in, of loneliness started to engulf her, Bloom was
n’t sure she had what it took to accept the bad so she could embrace the good.
She had what it took to stand up. Brush herself off. To take care of herself. So that she could use her gifts to help others.
* * *
SAM HAD THE entire weekend off. Saturday morning, dressed in his coat and tie with his off-duty weapon strapped to the belt of his dress pants, he got in his car and drove to LA.
Juan Cordoba was waiting for him. He’d known he would be. The message he’d left for the other man had been curt and to the point.
Meet me or you’ll wish you had.
“Hey, man,” Cordoba greeted as Sam walked into the bar where they’d first met. Before noon on a Saturday the place was empty.
Which was just fine with him.
Cordoba could have ten guys waiting around corners and behind things. He didn’t much care. If they killed him they’d all go down.
At least he’d let them think half the police force knew he was there; in truth, no one did.
Freelander was going to be able to make bail unless Sam found a charge that carried more weight than breaking and entering. Especially when the crime had been committed in a marital home that was included as part of a show cause hearing that had been postponed by the defendant’s ex.
“I’m here to deal, Juan,” he said, his tone easy as he took a seat at the high-top table across from the other man.
“I got no deal with you.”
“A smart man would listen before he made a statement like that.” His tone didn’t change.
“I’m listening.”
“I’ve got Freelander in custody.”
“I heard. My baby sister come crying to me about it. Seems she had a call from the guy. Turns out she’s in love with him and now she’s not sure she wants to testify against him.”
Cordoba was not making Sam happy.
“What’d you tell her?”
“That she had to do the right thing.”
The man looked him straight in the eye as he spoke. And Sam relaxed. He’d read Cordoba right.
“So here’s the thing. I know Freelander used his connection with your sister to unload drugs to members of the East Side gang two years ago in exchange for protection in the event that he ever went to prison.”
“That’s news to me.”
“I thought you were a smart man.”
Cordoba bowed his head and then faced Sam again. “I’m listening.”
Good. He still had his interest, which meant that Cordoba knew about those drugs.
“I’m a Santa Raquel cop,” he said. “I got no jurisdiction here.” This wasn’t about the job anymore. It was about Bloom. About keeping his word to her. Keeping her safe.
Juan nodded. Leaned forward, his arms on the round table between them.
“I don’t care what you guys have going on here. I see before me a good guy who’s telling his sister to do the right thing.”
“That’s right. I’m a good guy.”
“But I know about those drugs,” he said again. “And sooner or later, I’m going to find a hospital record of someone who OD’d on them. Or find a mama whose kid lost his way because of them. Or find someone who’s in more trouble than the drugs would bring who’s willing to rat in exchange for favors. If I don’t break Freelander first, which is a definite possibility. And then it not only becomes your problem, it becomes your baby sister’s problem because she’d be an accessory...”
Cordoba didn’t look as happy now.
“But as I say, this isn’t my jurisdiction. And I have no reason to call anyone here and tell them what I don’t see.”
“What do you want?”
“Proof that puts Freelander away permanently.” They wanted the same thing. Which was why this was going to work.
Cordoba looked over Sam’s shoulder. Sam braced himself. He could have called it wrong. He could take a bullet to his back.
But he knew he wouldn’t.
“Did Freelander come to you offering you the drugs in exchange for protection?”
“It might not have happened exactly like that.”
The room was deadly silent.
“How might it have happened?”
“He might have tried to sell some scripts to some people I know and they might not have wanted to pay for them. They might have offered to take them off his hands, though. You know, just to dispose of them properly.”
“To flush them down the toilet?”
“Something like that.”
Cordoba had brokered the deal. Sam knew it.
“I need proof. Witnesses. Something. And I need it fast.”
“What do I get?”
“You get to go about your business as usual. If you testify you get my backing that you disposed of the drugs.”
He was implicating himself.
But only if he went through with a lie to authorities.
Which he wouldn’t do.
“You get Freelander away from your sister for good,” he said then, knowing the ace he really held. Everyone had a vulnerable spot. Cordoba’s was Jean. The girl who made good.
“This witness...can you guarantee, if he’s a juvie and ain’t got no record, that he’ll get immunity?”
Sam nodded. Didn’t promise.
Silence fell. Sam let it lie there.
“I’ll get you your witness,” Juan finally said. “And to show my good faith in your honor, I’ll do one better...”
Because Cordoba wanted Freelander gone as badly as Sam did. Freelander’s phone call to Jean must have really gotten to her.
“What’s that?”
“I’ll give you an out of work doctor-type who been writing scripts for some of my people, telling them they’re sick when they ain’t.” The street talk came out in full force.
“You got any of those prescriptions that haven’t yet been filled?”
“I can get my hands on a pad of them.”
“Would that pad have Freelander’s fingerprints all over it?”
“On every page. He signed them all.”
“And you’ve come to me about it because I came to you looking for your sister and you’re tired of this doctor trying to mess up your neighborhood, right?”
“That’s right.” Cordoba met him stare for stare.
“Good.”
“We have a deal?”
Sam stood. Shook on it.
And noticed the little square photo frame hanging from Juan’s neck.
The photo was a girl. Side view. The point of the chin bone looked familiar...
“Who is that?”
“My sister, Jean,” he said. “I raised her since she was born.”
He wanted to care about Juan’s troubles. About having a little sister you had to protect. But he kept staring at that photo.
“Her hair’s dark in that picture.”
“Of course it’s dark. Look at me.”
He pictured the nurse’s aide. The blond hair that had been parted down the middle. It had looked natural. But...
“When I saw her the other day it was blond.”
“She admits to me today that when Freelander got out and took up with one of his own kind she had some fool idea that if she dyed her hair right and got some of those lenses that change eye color he’d look her way again.”
The photo he’d passed around. The woman who’d posed as a guard in Bloom’s office...same profile. Same point to the chin.
“Jean, is she your half sister?” The man was wearing her picture around his neck.
“No, man! She my full blood sister. She all I got left in the world.”
Jean had lied to him. Which, to Sam, meant she had something to hide.
“Get me that pad
,” he said, hardly able to stay put long enough to get the proof he needed.
He was on his phone to Chantel before he was in his car.
“Get to Bloom. Make sure she’s safe. Freelander was telling the truth. He didn’t have anything to do with the attack on Gomez. Or The Lemonade Stand. His current coed is telling the truth, too. She only used that uniform for sex, like she said. We’ve got the wrong girl.”
“Sam? I don’t know what you’re talking about. We just got word back on the knives. One tested positive for canvas residue. It had Freelander’s prints all over it.”
He had to think. And drive. And get the hell back to Santa Raquel. Putting his bubble out, he entered the freeway at Mach speed. Gave Chantel a staccato version of what he knew, and what he was sure of even though he had no proof. And then said, “Just get to her, Chantel. Keep her safe until I get there.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
AS SOON AS he hung up, Sam called Bloom. He got her voice mail. She never picked up when she was with clients.
He told her to call him before she left her office.
His next call was to Gomez. And then to the captain. He wanted a “be on the lookout” out for Jean Cordoba—blond or dark-haired. He wanted people sent to Bloom’s office and house. He wanted a call back as soon as someone knew she was safe.
He was stepping way over his boundaries.
Captain Salyers assured him it would all be done immediately and to drive safely.
Salyers hadn’t acted surprised.
Did everyone know he’d fallen for his victim?
Or was he just seeing things that weren’t there?
One thing was for certain, this whole love thing wasn’t something he’d choose if he had the choice.
And if he got Bloom out of this safely—when he got her out of it safely—he was going to have a talk with her.
He understood that she needed to be alone. To heal. He got the irony in the fact that when his ex-wife had loved him desperately and needed him to love her in return, his driving need had been his job. And now here he was, needing Bloom to love him, and her driving need was to be on her own. Doing her job.
Still, he was going to be honest with her. Because the last man she’d slept with had done nothing but lie to her. Hide from her. Betray her. She deserved to know she was loved.
The Promise He Made Her Page 24