Nowhere to Hide

by Debby Giusti

  He ran along the water’s edge. Warmed by the sun and the exertion, he allowed his mind to dwell on nothing except the surf pounding against the shore. The water worked magic with him.

  He passed Cowan’s property. Matt would like to be a fly on that guy’s wall. Joel had moved to Sanctuary a year ago. Shortly after Matt got wind of a drug operation setting up shop on one of the Georgia islands.

  A little background check on the playboy newcomer paid off. Three years ago, Joel had been arrested for possession of a controlled substance. Pain medication for an old back injury, or so Joel claimed. The offense earned him thirty days in jail, two-hundred-fifty hours of community service and two years probation.

  Too much of a coincidence in Matt’s mind, especially when Joel paid cash for one of the most expensive homes on the island, then bought a top-of-the-line sailboat, the envy of every mariner for miles around. He filled his three-car garage with two Beemers and a Jag, threw elaborate parties and liked his women tall, blond and well-endowed.

  Although all the residents enjoyed a privileged lifestyle, Joel Cowan seemed extravagant even by Sanctuary standards. And Matt couldn’t find a source for all that wealth. Made him wonder if the guy wasn’t involved in something illegal. But Matt needed proof.

  He glanced back at Joel’s house just as a woman stepped onto the deck. Another trophy for the island’s Casanova.

  Please God, don’t let Lydia get involved with him.

  Funny to find her chatting with Joel today when she seemed so reserved at the beach. Matt needed to do a little checking on his own. See what he could dig up on the pretty widow’s husband, as well.

  Returning to the office, Matt showered and changed into a fresh uniform. He had converted a back room into his living quarters, preferring to sleep there rather than in an apartment miles away on the mainland.

  A few people called him a workaholic. He wouldn’t deny the accusation. But he had a job to do and people to protect.

  His first phone call was to tell Jason he was back at his desk. Matt had taken a chance hiring the kid three months ago. So far it had paid off. Jason had a fierce determination to do what was right and an unfailing loyalty to Matt for giving him his first job in law enforcement. If the kid had a flaw, it was an exuberant enthusiasm that sometimes got in the way of sound judgment.

  The second call was to the Marina Coffee Shop. Matt ordered a pastrami on rye, fries and a milk shake to be delivered, fully prepared to spend two or three hours catching up on paperwork.

  Halfway through the sandwich, the phone rang.

  “Security, Lawson.”

  “Chief?”

  Recognizing the woman’s voice, Matt struggled to keep from emitting a groan. “What can I do for you, Muriel?”

  Sanctuary Island’s head librarian reminded him of an old busybody schoolmarm.

  “Somebody stick a romance novel in with the encyclopedias?” He couldn’t resist teasing her.

  She cleared her throat. “For your information, I set up that children’s book club you wanted for the summer.”

  “Glad to hear it, Muriel. The kids will love it.”

  “Kids I can handle. It’s the teenage boys that give me fits. What about those two who were looking at the girlie pictures on the computer last week? You happen to talk to their father?”

  “The dad promised he’d handle it. Doubt you’ll be seeing either of them online for a while.”

  “If only.” She sighed. “You know how I feel about the Internet.”

  “Good grief, Muriel, it’s the twenty-first century. Computers are a part of our lives.”

  “Easy for you to say,” she huffed. “If you’d seen what I did today, you’d change your opinion, quick enough.”

  “More boys ogling girls?”

  “As a matter of fact, someone did access a pornography site.”

  Matt reached for the rest of his sandwich. “Give me the boy’s name.”

  “It wasn’t one of the teenagers, this time, Chief. It was an adult. ’Course there’s no law against what she was viewing. But I just don’t like it.”

  Matt dropped his sandwich back on the foam takeout box. “She?”

  “Yes, sir. New to the island. Her name’s Lydia Sloan.”

  SIX

  Matt hung up the phone and tossed the rest of his sandwich in the trash. He’d lost his appetite.

  Why would Lydia Sloan log on to a pornography Web site? Although he hadn’t known her long, she seemed like a decent person. If she’d accessed a porn site, there had to be a reason. But what?

  For the life of him, Matt didn’t have a clue.

  He rubbed his forehead and thought of Tyler. The boy deserved a mom who baked cookies and helped with school projects.

  Life could be so complicated, especially for a kid who just wanted to be loved.

  Matt knew that all too well.

  Not that he hadn’t survived.

  Cut Lydia a wide berth, his voice of reason whispered.

  Easier said than done.

  He shook his head and grabbed a folder from his in-box. Sam Snyder’s request for retirement. The gate guard wanted to spend the rest of his days cruising the island in his new motorboat, catching whatever happened to nibble at his line.

  Matt couldn’t blame him. Sam was a good man with a big heart, but his performance had slipped over the last few months. Like the night of the storm. Sam had left the gate open and the guardhouse unmanned while he checked the embankment. The water was rising, but he never called for help.

  If Matt hadn’t sent Jason to look for the old guy, no telling how long the entrance would have gone unmanned.

  Matt had given Sam the benefit of the doubt on more than one occasion. If the situation continued, he’d be forced to let the older assistant go. Retirement seemed a better solution.

  Matt signed the form and forwarded it to the Island Association for their approval.

  Losing Sam meant one less set of eyes and hands to share the workload. Matt wouldn’t leave the island shorthanded. But he didn’t want to twiddle his thumbs in Sanctuary any longer than necessary. He promised Connie he’d find Pete’s killer. He wouldn’t let her down again.

  Reaching for the phone, Matt tapped in the number to the Atlanta Police Department and asked to speak to Detective Roger Harris.

  “Son of a gun,” Harris said when he got on the line. “Never thought I’d hear your voice again. Where are you?”

  Matt stretched back in his chair and ran his free hand through his hair. “Would you believe Georgia? On the coast. I’m chief of security for Sanctuary Island.”

  Harris let out a whistle. “I’m impressed. Hobnobbing with the wealthy. Not bad, not bad at all.”

  “I wouldn’t call it hobnobbing. More like responding when their security alarms go off.” A vision of Lydia standing in Ms. O’Connor’s kitchen floated through his mind.

  “Definitely a step up from investigating drug lords on the streets of Miami.”

  Matt shifted in his chair.

  “You always loved the work,” Harris continued. “Not like most of us looking for an easy way out. You hear Smith and Paris left the same time I did?”

  “They ever find evidence on Paris?”

  “Negative. He’s working here in Atlanta.”

  “Not my favorite guy.”

  “Ditto,” Harris added. “’Course none of us compared with you, Matt. You were the best. And you know how I felt about Rodriquez.”

  “Yeah, well…” A tightness filled Matt’s chest. Fourteen months and he still couldn’t get around it.

  Clearing his throat, he forced his mind back to the issue at hand. “Listen, I’ll be short a man before long and wondered if you knew anyone who might like to move to the coast. Maybe a guy on pension with a few good years left. The pay’s not bad and it’s usually nice and quiet down here.”

  “Matter of fact, someone does come to mind. Butch Griffin. Twenty-year man. Retired about a year ago. Took a security job for a large c
omputer firm. The company downsized, and Butch’s looking for work. I’ll give him a call, if you’d like. The guy’s good. Keeps his nose clean. And knows his stuff. How soon do you need him?”

  “I’ll notify the Island Association. Should be able to put him to work as soon as he gets here.”

  Matt appreciated the recommendation. Maybe he could stay on track with his departure plans if a new hire shared the load. Meanwhile, it wouldn’t hurt to bait Harris and see what he caught.

  “The name Sloan mean anything to you?”

  Harris hesitated. “Yeah, why?”

  “We had a stranger pass through these parts not too long ago. Weird guy. Fulton County plates, only he says he hasn’t been to Atlanta in months. No APB out on him so I didn’t call you.”

  Matt stretched the truth. If the Sloan name was tied to anything suspect, Harris would know.

  The detective expelled a deep breath, then laughed. “Wouldn’t be the same Sloan we’re interested in unless your stranger was about five-six, blond and answered to the name of Lydia. The story was all over the Atlanta papers. Arson case.”

  Matt sat up straight. “Yeah?”

  “Husband died in the blaze. Wife and kid made it to safety. About seven months ago. Nothing to go on, but there’s speculation the wife torched the place.”

  “Insurance?”

  “Enough. Seems she upped the limits on the house just the week before. With his life insurance, she’d be sitting pretty, except for the question of arson. Now, she’s skipped town. No one seems to know where she went. Or why she disappeared.”

  Matt felt the back of his neck tingle. Had Lydia started the fire that killed her husband? If not, then why did she leave Atlanta and head for the seclusion of Sanctuary? Was she running scared? Or on the run for another reason?

  “What’d the arson investigation come up with?” Matt asked.

  “Nothing concrete.”

  “So you haven’t put out an APB on her?”

  “Not yet,” the cop replied.

  Matt knew he should tip Harris off to Lydia’s whereabouts, but he kept his mouth shut. He’d do a little investigating on his own.

  Matt shook his head as he hung up the phone.

  From what he’d seen, Lydia’s son came first in her life. If she had set the fire, surely she would have ensured Tyler was far from home. No, she wasn’t an arsonist.

  But she was hiding from something or someone.

  “I love you, honey,” Lydia whispered to Tyler as she tucked him into bed that night. She left the door open so the light from the hallway shone into his room. Ever since the fire, he was afraid to sleep in the dark. Not that she blamed him.

  Lydia had a hard time sleeping, as well. She usually awoke with the memory of smoke filling her nostrils. Some nights, the fire seemed so real her eyes burned and she shook with fright.

  She told herself it was only a dream. But the nervous quiver in her stomach wouldn’t stop until she made her rounds. She’d peek in on Tyler, then check each room to ensure a fire wasn’t flaming out of control.

  Had she turned off the oven? Could a candle be burning? Perhaps the charcoal grill had overturned and hot briquettes were sparking into something dangerous.

  Every night her search found nothing amiss. No fire, no smoke, no reason to be alarmed. Relieved, she’d end up in Tyler’s room, looking down at her precious little boy.

  Why had they been saved seven months ago? Somehow she’d awakened with her only thought of getting Tyler to safety. She still didn’t know how she’d managed to carry him through the flames.

  She’d like to think God had interceded on their behalf. But after all that happened, how could she believe He had listened to her cries for help? More important people had His ear, not a woman who had made a mess of her marriage—and her life.

  Tears formed in Lydia’s eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She walked into the kitchen, grabbed a tissue and wiped it over her face. Would she ever be free of the terrifying memory of that night?

  Someone had entered their house and started the blaze. But who?

  Ruby hoped to find something when she went through the records at the club. A long shot. And Lydia wouldn’t hold her breath it would pay off. She needed to keep digging. Once she knew who was responsible for Sonny’s death, she’d know who was after her son.

  Ruby had mentioned the investigative reporter. Trish Delaney might provide some answers.

  Lydia dug through her purse for the phone number and dialed.

  “Atlanta Journal-Constitution. Delaney.” The woman answered with a raspy smoker’s voice piled on top of a country twang.

  “This is…” Lydia hesitated. “This is Lydia Sloan. You said I could call anytime day or night.”

  “I remember. The Men’s Club.”

  “When you phoned before, I thought I could find what I needed on my own. Things have changed, and I’d like your help.”

  “I’ve done a little checking, Mrs. Sloan. Word was, your husband wanted out. Is that right?”

  Lydia sighed. “At first I didn’t know what he was involved in. He told me it was freelance work. He was a computer technician. Worked on Web sites. I never thought it was anything like this.”

  “How’d you find out?”

  “He had an office at home. I walked in and saw one of the pictures on his monitor.” Lydia paused. “Made me sick.”

  “Of course it did.”

  “I wanted to leave him that night, but we have a son. Sonny promised to end it.”

  “So you stayed?” the reporter prompted.

  “I gave him ten days. He said he’d find a way out. First, he had to gather evidence. Said they’d kill him if he walked away without having something he could hold over their heads.”

  “Who are they, Mrs. Sloan?”

  “I…I don’t know.”

  “And what happened?”

  “He died nine days later.”

  “Any idea what he found?”

  “Not a clue. He must have known they were on to him. He even had me up the insurance on our house. After his death, I went through his papers and computer files. Nothing. One night, he was mugged leaving the club. Two days later, someone tried to run him off the road.”

  “Did he recognize the car?”

  “A black Mercedes. I did some checking. The car had to have been scratched or dented so I called dealers for their service records. Then, I contacted all the garages in the surrounding area, but nothing turned up. I even hired a private detective who ran scared once he got wind people in high places were involved in the club.”

  “Pretty much a dead end.”

  “I’ve tried every angle I could think of and haven’t gotten anywhere. Can you help me?”

  “Any idea where your husband might have hid the incriminating evidence?”

  “Under their noses.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A year ago, Sonny lost a good job when he played a little trick on his CEO. He buried a very inflammatory joke on the company Web site. Guess the other I.T. guys got a kick out of it until someone leaked the information.”

  “So the boss was ticked?”

  “He fired Sonny.”

  “What are you saying, Mrs. Sloan?”

  “Since my husband used his computer skills before to hide a joke on the Web, he may have tried the same technique again.”

  “You think he planted evidence of the corruption on the Men’s Club Web site?” Trish Delaney sounded incredulous.

  “I know it seems odd. And so far, I haven’t found anything. Call it woman’s intuition, but I keep getting the feeling that’s where I need to look.”

  “Interesting. And unique. I’ll access the site. See what I can find. Give me a little time.”

  “I’ll call you,” Lydia said.

  She hung up feeling more optimistic than she had in months. Trish Delaney had the contacts and expertise to accomplish what Lydia couldn’t. As much as she didn’t want her story turned into front-page
news, someone had tried to hurt Tyler. That upped the stakes.

  Lydia filled the teapot with water and pulled a teabag from the cabinet. She needed to distance herself from all that had happened in Atlanta. A good book and a cup of herbal raspberry would soothe her troubled spirit.

  The pot whistled. Lydia poured the boiling water and, cup in hand, walked back to a small, tiled sitting area off the master bedroom.

  A noise caused her to look up at the narrow window over the writing desk.

  She screamed.

  The cup dropped from her hands and shattered on the cold tile floor.

  SEVEN

  After his conversation with Harris, Matt logged on to the AJCs Web site and double clicked on Archives. Tapping in a time line and the key words Sonny Sloan, he hit Search. Three articles flashed on the screen. Matt saved them to a disc and printed a hard copy.

  Harris had been right. According to the stories, Sonny died in a house fire seven months ago. Lydia and her son had escaped. Two residents of the middle-class Atlanta neighborhood said Lydia had packed her car with personal belongings and parked it in the driveway the night of the fire.

  Matt ran a hand over his forehead. If she didn’t know about the fire, why’d she pack her car? It didn’t make sense.

  Unless she was planning to leave the next morning.

  He shoved the papers into his top desk drawer, scooted his chair back and started to stand when the phone rang.

  “Security. Lawson.”

  “Chief, it’s Luke Davenport. My wife just got home from the gals’ neighborhood bridge party. Said she heard noise down on the beach. Probably teens. Remember that problem we had last summer?”

  “Bonfires and booze. Yeah, I remember. Mrs. Davenport see anyone?”

  “Just heard noise, that’s all. Maybe we’re overreacting, but after that problem they’re having on the mainland—”

  “I’ll check it out. Call me if you hear or see anything else.”

  “Thanks, Chief. Appreciate your help.”

  Matt hung up, then rang Eunice.

  “Where’s Jason?”

  “In the marina area,” the dispatcher said.