Protecting the Single Mom

by Catherine Lanigan

  Trent found he was more intrigued by her than ever.

  They turned again and bolted into the sun.

  Trent stood just behind the evergreens where he could see Cate, and he knew his presence would not intrude—at least not yet.

  The women rowed back and eased to the shore. In unison, they lifted their oars straight up at the command of their leader, Sarah.

  The bow swept into shallow water and stilled.

  The women got out, and moving as a single unit, they hoisted the boat over their heads and carried it to the boathouse.

  Trent waited patiently while they said their goodbyes and grabbed their belongings. Each woman went to her car, waving and chatting. Calling out future sculling dates to each other. None of them saw him.

  Walking toward her car, Cate whipped the fluorescent cap from her head, shook out her short hair and caught sight of him. An apprehensive smile crept onto her face.

  “Hi,” he said, though he didn’t move. “You were magnificent.”

  “How did you know I’d be here?”

  “Checking on you is my job. Remember?”

  “Uh, right.” She frowned and continued to stare at him.

  He shrugged. “Luke told me about the sculling. Sarah said you were rowing with them today.”

  “Oh,” she replied, looking down at the sand and then up at him. “I forgot you know them pretty well.”

  “I do.” He paused. “Listen, I’ll be honest. Yes, I was on my way to check on something—police business. I apologize if I’m intruding. But I was curious.”

  “About what?” She took a small step toward him. Could anyone be this beautiful? No makeup, her hair rumpled from the cap.

  Trent felt as if he’d walked into a dream.

  “The rowing. You were beautiful. I mean, er, it was beautiful to watch you...all...out there.”

  She chuckled lightly—a tinkling sound carried on the wind.

  “We practice whenever we can.”

  “Apparently. It’s gotta be freezing out there.”

  “I hardly notice. I’m in another world on the lake.”

  “And what is that world?” he asked, moving even closer. He had to be nearer. He was getting the feeling that was the only way to be with Cate. Close.

  “Freedom. Utter, boundless freedom.”

  “You deserve that, Cate,” he said sincerely.

  Her eyes delved into his. “You really mean that, don’t you?”

  “I do. I’d like to make sure that happens for you.”

  “Well then, Detective Davis—” she smiled and rocked back on her heels as if ready to walk away “—I’ll hold you to that,” she said with more wariness in her voice than he would have liked.

  “Good.”

  It was all Trent could do to resist touching her. He was on duty, and she was like a shot of hot bourbon to an addict. Enticing. Forbidden. “I’d better go.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Don’t let me hold you up.”

  He lifted his hand to touch hers. Kiss her palm. But that was crossing the line. Breaking the rules. Again.

  He dropped his hand. He didn’t want to frighten her. She had enough in her life to deal with. He didn’t need to add to it. “Call me if you need me,” he said.

  She nodded. “I have your number in my cell phone.”

  “Promise. If anything—”

  “I promise, Trent,” she replied, then went toward her car.

  Trent watched her, unable to move from the spot. He had to see...

  Just as she opened the car door, she stopped, looked at him and waved.

  “Yes,” he whispered to himself. It wasn’t much, her looking. But it was a sign that maybe, just maybe, he’d made some kind of a favorable impression.

  He knew he shouldn’t be feeling this attraction to her. He had serious baggage, and after being with her, holding her, he realized she was not only a good person, but kind and sweet, as well. She deserved the best life could offer—not a guy who was half-whacked with PTSD.

  Sure, he’d vowed to himself never to get involved with a woman. And he hadn’t. For years. But that was before—Cate.

  He waited until she drove away. He believed that when she’d looked back at him, she was looking at Trent and not simply Detective Davis.

  Trent had always been a man of few illusions, but for today, he wanted to hold on to this one.

  CHAPTER TEN

  IT WAS AFTER ten when Trent emailed Richard Schmitz at the CPD inquiring about Raoul Le Grande. He leaned back in his desk chair and looked around the station. Nearly everyone had gone home. He was always the last guy to leave. And why not? He had no “home” to go home to. He was where he should be. That’s what he told himself—constantly.

  He could hear Ned Quigley, the dispatcher, cracking jokes with the patrolmen who were cruising the town. Sixteen minutes ago he’d gotten a report that all was quiet on Cate and Danny’s street. He was amazed at how much that information settled his nerves. Not that he was anxious. Nah. No reason to be. She was one victim on the department surveillance list. She was in need of protection, and she was getting it.

  “Officer down!” Ned yelled across the room.

  Trent bolted out of his chair, grabbing his jacket as he raced past the paper-littered desks. “Who? Where?”

  “Washington Avenue. It’s that new kid, Johnson. He wasn’t responding to my calls, so I asked Henderson to drive his route and see what he could find. He found Johnson unconscious. Davis,” Quigley said with a sputter, “he’s at that warehouse where your Le Grande sting—” Ned respectfully didn’t elaborate.

  Trent muttered a curse and rammed his arms through his jacket sleeves. “How long ago?”

  “I just hung up with Henderson.”

  “Call him. Tell him I’m on my way. Did he call for an ambulance?”

  “On its way.” Ned waved him off.

  Trent raced out of the building. It was less than a quarter mile to the abandoned building where Johnson was. At this time of night, few people were on the streets. Even the majority of the bars shut down around nine thirty. There was only one bar on Main Street that stayed open until curfew at 2:00 a.m. When the shifts at the manufacturing plants changed at midnight, a few patrons would go there before heading home, but even they didn’t stay longer than an hour. Indian Lake was a quiet town. Exactly the kind of demographic to make a drug kingpin drool.

  Trent sped around the corner and headed down Washington. Instantly, he saw Officer Henderson’s patrol car lights flashing red and blue against the crumbling brick walls. Trent could hear the ambulance siren in the distance.

  Trent shot out of the car, slamming the door behind him. “Was he shot?”

  “No.” Henderson shook his head. “They hit him over the head with something.”

  Johnson was lying on the ground next to Henderson, conscious but dazed. “Sir? What happened?”

  “Lie still,” Trent said as he crouched to inspect Officer Johnson’s head. “That’s a real goose egg, all right.” He chuckled, hoping to dispel his own tension. “You were lucky. If you were attacked by the Le Grande gang, they could just as easily have shot you and not thought a thing about it.”

  “Yes, sir.” Johnson closed his eyes briefly. “I was trying to see the license plate. I should have radioed in...”

  “Yes,” Trent replied. “You always call the station before getting out of that vehicle. Basic rule.”

  “I know that, sir. I screwed up.”

  Trent remembered being this young and naive. That was a thousand lifetimes ago. In the military. Trent almost smiled. Almost. “You’re going to have one heck of a headache.” Trent peered at him. “And did you get the plate number?”

  “Yes, sir. I memorized it. OMY435. It was an Illi
nois plate. New model Ford Transit van. Black.”

  “That’s a common vehicle. Paneled sides. Commercial looking. No one would suspect it of being anything other than a delivery truck or a construction van.”

  “I thought the same thing, sir. Except that a brand-new van like that wasn’t local. Construction guys here have rusted-out pickups.”

  “So you went to investigate.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good man.” Trent patted his shoulder.

  The ambulance screamed down the street and pulled to a stop in the parking lot. Two EMTs flew out of their rig and hustled to Trent.

  He stood. “Take care of him, guys. He’s one of my best.”

  Trent looked at Johnson, who smiled broadly at him. “Get some rest. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  “Sir. Yes, sir,” Johnson said.

  Trent walked to his car, got in and radioed the dispatcher. “Run a trace on a black Ford Transit van. Illinois license.” Trent gave the number. “I’ll stay here until Johnson is taken to the hospital. I want to look around. I’ll keep Henderson with me. Can you get his regular patrol covered?”

  “Ten-four.”

  * * *

  ONE HOUR LATER, Trent was no closer to any clues than he had been before. The one thing he assumed was that Le Grande must believe there were still drugs in the building. The cops had confiscated everything they’d seen. Surely, Le Grande knew that. Or was it something else? The cops had used their drug-sniffing dog, Max, to find drugs. Heroin specifically. Max was not a marijuana-sniffing dog. Nor a bomb-detecting canine. Each of those talents was specific to a single dog. A heroin dog would miss marijuana.

  “And there’s no such thing as a money-sniffing animal,” Trent mumbled to himself as he and Henderson explored the elevator shaft. The elevator, no doubt installed in 1903 when the building was erected, ran from the first floor to the basement only. A staircase on the other side of the building went to the second and third floors. The elevator mechanism was broken. A set of twelve folding metal steps had been placed on the elevator floor so that a person could climb from the first floor down to the elevator floor. However, the platform had apparently broken in transit, which left it hovering two and half feet above the concrete basement floor.

  “They should condemn this place,” Henderson grumbled as he jumped off the rickety wooden platform, high-powered flashlights in both hands.

  Trent swept his light around at the open pipes running across the ceiling, the brick walls whose mortar was only a memory. It smelled musty, but wasn’t wet. The electricity had been turned off, and Trent assumed the water had been, as well. Stacks of old furniture—chests, mirrors, armchairs and tables—huddled at one end, looking like forgotten refugees. A rocking chair sat by itself in the middle of the room as if someone had recently used it.

  Maybe they had.

  Trent walked toward the furniture, shining his light on a particular chest of drawers.

  “Sir?” Henderson asked, following behind.

  Trent pointed at the chest. “Shine both your lights on those drawers. Notice anything?”

  “Looks like an antique to me, sir. Colonial drawer pulls. Maple wood. Not my taste,” he joked.

  Trent shook his head. “Your light beams are reflected off the brass. There’s no tarnish,” Trent said, walking over to pull on the drawer. “Which would signify that it’s been polished by someone opening the drawer many times. Presumably to hide something.”

  Trent yanked on the drawer as Henderson walked up and stood next to him.

  “Holy crap!” Henderson exclaimed. “What is that?”

  “Thousands of dollars, I’d say,” Trent replied, looking at the stacks of cash. “Wrapped and tagged, neat as you please.” Trent smiled to himself. “No wonder Le Grande sent his minions back here. My guess is that Johnson interrupted them. They got spooked and ran before getting what they came for.”

  “So, Johnson’s a hero.”

  “Uh-huh.” Trent shoved the drawer in. “After he gets a reprimand.”

  Henderson kept his eyes on the drawer. “Yes, sir.”

  “I have to call this in. I was certain Forensics came down to the basement after the bust. I need to read that report. If they did, then that means that the money was put here after that, and Le Grande is still using Indian Lake as his hub. Le Grande’s gang stashed the money here thinking it was safe now that the investigation is over. These guys in the black Ford van tonight could have been the buyers or some of Le Grande’s pickup men.”

  Trent pulled out his cell phone and tried to call the station. “No signal.” He looked around the basement. “This place is built like a tomb.” He walked toward the elevator shaft. “Probably lead lined.”

  “Yes, sir,” Henderson replied.

  “I meant that as a joke,” Trent said, climbing onto the elevator platform.

  “I got it,” Henderson replied. “A reference to superheroes and comic books.”

  “Exactly. And I’m hoping that Le Grande is stupid enough to think he’s a superhero.”

  “Why is that, sir?”

  Trent climbed the metal steps. “Because superheroes aren’t real. And in the end, they have to have someone else write their story. I intend to be that somebody. And what an ending I’ll write for Le Grande.”

  * * *

  STAKEOUTS WERE THE bane of every investigator’s existence, and yet, given patience and time, they almost always produced results. Trent unwrapped a tuna sandwich he’d bought at dinnertime from the Indian Lake Deli and hadn’t had a chance to eat. He took a bite—whole grain bread and guacamole spread. No question about it, Olivia Melton and her mother, Julia, made the best tuna in town.

  Trent had parked his unmarked car nearly a block away from the abandoned building where Johnson had been assaulted earlier that night. It was past four in the morning, but Trent’s adrenaline had been flowing since he’d found the drug money.

  Forensics had come and gone. He’d finished his report in record time, and now he was spending his off-duty hours doing what he did best. Catching bad guys.

  Chief Williams had told Trent that after the sting, the team had scoured the building, including the basement. No money had been found.

  From that information, Trent’s gut said the guys in the Ford van were most likely the buyers, and if so, they’d be back to get their money. None of them would risk having the cops find it.

  But find it, he had.

  Fifty thousand dollars was a lot of cash. The department had it counted three times before processing, reporting and locking it up. That was big money for Indian Lake. But was it big for Le Grande? Trent knew dealers who would murder for only five grand. Fifty was a lot more motivation.

  Trent washed down the last few bites of his sandwich with water from his sports bottle. Picking up his binoculars, he zoomed in on the alley behind the building. No activity.

  He put down the binoculars just as his cell phone pinged with an incoming text. Because thoughts of Cate punctuated his mind regularly, he realized that he hoped she would call him. Not because she was in danger, but because she wanted to talk to him.

  It was a selfish wish. He had no right to expect anything from her. No right to foist his very flawed life upon her.

  But if he were different, healthy and the circumstances were normal... It was easy to imagine being with her.

  He looked at the screen. It was his mother reminding him about Sunday dinner. He’d have to drive into Chicago. She still worked as a nurse at Rush-Copley Hospital, although was set to retire in two years. She’d come to Indian Lake in June for the boating Grand Prix and had fallen in love with the place. Suddenly, she was talking about moving to Indian Lake to be closer to him. Trent had asked her if there was a problem with her health. She assured him that she was fine. Maybe that was what reti
rees did. Pull up roots. Start over. Have an adventure. His mother had worked all her life. After his father died eight years ago, when Trent was still in Afghanistan, she’d put up a good front. She kept busy, but he could tell her life would never be the same. She always said they’d had a real romance.

  Trent leaned his head on the neck rest. He closed his eyes, suddenly feeling the weight of the day. His mind drifted. He saw Cate’s face in his mind. He conjured a romantic scene of the two of them walking hand in hand along Cove Beach. He could almost feel the sand under his feet.

  Taste the grains...

  Instantly, he was in Afghanistan. Back there.

  There were four men in his team. Since they were being thrown out of a helicopter, they traveled light. Lightweight guns. Backpacks with only the essentials for this mission. Special Forces knew their purpose was to outsmart the enemy, not engage them. They packed smaller guns and less ammunition than their colleagues. They planned well and always left an escape route if things went south.

  Trent and Parker Adams had been on every mission together. They practically read each other’s minds. Their CO expected them to lead the two younger SF members.

  The fact that the army’s helicopters were all in need of massive repairs after years of service was accepted. Part of daily life.

  The mission had been to extract an American businessman who was being held captive in Kandahar by al-Qaeda terrorists. The building had been located. A Special Forces sniper had been placed on the roof of a building across the street. Timing was set for ten minutes after midnight. They were to rappel to the alley behind the building. Go in through the back door, which was unlocked by their informant. They were to walk down two hallways to a rear room where their package was located. The guards ate at midnight in the front rooms before the new crew came on duty. The army’s informant had sent exact specifications with measurements of the hallway and rooms.

  Nothing about an extraction was ever simple, but Trent had believed this one was the most thorough reconnaissance he’d seen.