Hazardous Duty

by Christy Barritt

  I grinned. “Never.”

  The car rumbled down the driveway and continued rumbling until I pulled up to the police station. I charged into the building and tapped my finger on the counter while the receptionist talked on the phone.

  The attractive, overweight young woman pulled the phone away from her ear and sneered. “Can I help you?”

  “I need to see Detective Parker. It’s important.”

  She looked me over. “Is he expecting you?”

  “If he’s smart.”

  The woman raised her over-plucked eyebrows and turned back to the phone. “I need to put you on hold. One minute.”

  Her gaze flickered back to me, and I could have been certain she was sizing me up like an ex-boyfriend’s prom date. It almost made me wish I’d worn something other than my “I Love Carbs” T-shirt.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Gabby St. Claire.”

  She gave me another once-over before dialing an extension. “Detective, there’s a Gabby St. Claire here to see you. Says if you’re smart, you’ll be expecting her.” The woman pulled the phone from her ear and smirked. “He says go on back. Second door on the left.”

  Honesty prevented me from saying “thank you.” I walked to his office, the rubber bottoms of my black flip flops barely making a sound against the linoleum floor.

  I pictured Parker’s reaction when I told him what I found out.

  “You really will make a great forensic scientist one day, Gabby,” he’ll say, admiration shining in his eyes.

  “It’s all in a day’s work.” I blow on my fingertips and rub them against my shirt in false modesty.

  “I’m hoping you and I will be seeing more of each other, and not just on a professional level.” His voice is low and husky, and his eyes are smoldering.

  “Why Detective Parker, it looks like we have a relationship to investigate. Care to join me?”

  I came to his door and started to knock, but before my fist connected with the wood, it open and the detective stared at me. His gaze wasn’t especially friendly, but not hostile either.

  Or was it?

  I had a feeling my vision of how this meeting would play out was closer to a delusion than reality.

  “Come in,” Parker said, his back to me as he walked to the desk. He plopped into a beat-up swivel chair, complete with duct tape on both of the top corners. He looked at me with so much skepticism that I felt like a conspiracy theorist for a moment. “What can I help you with, Ms. St. Claire?”

  I stood in the doorway, contemplating what approach I should take. Coming on too strong would irritate him. Being too nice would make me easy to ignore. Middle of the road, Gabby. Middle of the road. “Did you find out anything about the gun?”

  “It’s being tested now.”

  “So you haven’t confirmed it’s the murder weapon?”

  “Not yet.”

  The middle of the road was getting me nowhere. I needed to zip into the fast lane. “On the news they said that the suspect is behind bars. This gun makes it clear that there could be another suspect, that the wrong person has been arrested.”

  “We won’t know anything until we test the gun.”

  I pushed away from the doorway and lowered myself into the driver’s seat—er, chair—in front of Parker. I still had my trump card to play. I put my mouth in gear and charged full speed ahead.

  “I found out something that shines new light on the case.”

  An eyebrow quirked. “Did you?”

  “A witness places Mr. Cunningham at the scene of the crime right before the fire started last night. Our political superstar in the making set the fire in order to conceal the evidence.”

  Detective Parker leaned forward and sighed. “Ms. St. Claire, Mr. Cunningham was in the hospital last night. He’s not being discharged until this afternoon.”

  Chapter Seven

  “What?” The neighbor said she saw Cunningham. He was a guilty man. No questions. No doubts.

  No evidence to prove it.

  He waved a folder. “I have the paperwork to prove it.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  The detective nodded curtly. “You heard me correctly—Michael Cunningham is a victim here, plain and simple. Don’t try to twist it any other way.”

  “But—”

  “No, buts, Ms. St. Claire. Just let us do our job, and you . . . you go clean houses. There’s no need of you worrying over this.”

  “But, Detective—”

  “Trust that the evidence is being handled by professionals, and let it go. We’ve got it from here.” He rose and drew in a deep breath. His gaze tried to put me in my place, which was no easy task. “Thank you for your help and concern. I’ll let you see yourself out.”

  I opened my mouth, but found myself speechless for one of the first times in my life. The next thing I knew I was on the sidewalk, staring at the one-story red brick building.

  What just happened?

  I turned around, about to march back inside, but dropped my hand from the doorknob. I needed time to think this over. I needed to talk things through with someone else.

  But who?

  Not Harold, he’d only worry. Not Sierra, she’d find a way to turn it into a save-the-animals campaign. My dad wasn’t an option. He had his own problems.

  I drew in a deep breath and resigned myself to ponder it. With one last glance at the police station, I went back to the car.

  ***

  I parked in the lot of my apartment building, got out, and slammed the car door, channeling my frustration by abusing Sierra’s innocent car. I was too upset to go home. Instead, I hurried across the street to The Grounds, my favorite coffeehouse and hangout. The converted old Victorian housed a coffeehouse on the first floor and an Internet café upstairs. It was a hodgepodge of tables and chairs, accented by brightly colored walls with abstract art slashing through them. On Friday and Saturday evenings acoustic music filled the shop, and on Tuesdays poetry readings.

  I walked into the dimly lit structure, immediately surrounded by the rich smell of Columbian coffee and the quiet rumble of chatting java addicts munching on Italian biscotti and French pastries. Latin music drifted through the overhead, and Swedish oak chairs scratched across the rusty German wood floor. It made me proud to be an American.

  Sometimes, when crime was low and everyone else in the city rejoiced—as they should—I had to drag my dejected, out-of-work self here to slave away for some extra money. The owner, Sharon, was a sweetheart and more than willing to let me work odd shifts. I think more than anything she liked to hear my on-the-job stories. But if she wanted to pay me minimum wage to rehash my days, then so be it. As long as I could keep my apartment.

  I paused in the doorway and allowed the scents and sounds to ease into my lungs, to curl into my tense muscles. Coming here always made me feel better. And then I spotted Riley sitting at an old farm table in the corner and felt better yet. He sat, reading the paper and sipping on a steaming bright yellow mug.

  I watched him a minute. He looked so astute, almost aristocratic the way he sat casually at the table, slowly bring his steaming mug to his lips while reading the newspaper. All he needed was to raise his pinky finger and I’d have been sold.

  For a minute, I pictured him doing this every morning. The thought warmed my heart in ways it shouldn’t, yet the image seemed so normal, so peaceful. Riley did something to my heart—and my imagination—that frightened and compelled me.

  With a quick wave to pink-haired Sharon behind the counter, I walked across the wooden floor. Without invitation, I plopped into the chair across from Riley. I was looking for a distraction, and I’d found a very nice looking one.

  Riley looked up and stared at me a moment. “Gabby.” His blue eyes made me catch my breath. No man should have eyes that gorgeous, framed by lashes that long. I had to apply tubes of mascara to even make mine visible. “I almost didn’t recognize you without the soot.”

  Ah, wonderful.
Those first impressions that you never had a second chance to make. “Believe it or not, I don’t always look like a case study for the loony bin.”

  He grinned, showing perfect white teeth. How does someone with an obvious affection for coffee keep their teeth that white?

  “I didn’t think that at all.” He reached for his mug and took a sip. “So, how are you today?”

  Such a simple question. Up until twenty-four hours ago, the answer would have been easy. My biggest concern had been coming up with a catchy jingle. Now the sleuth in me itched to get out.

  I’d always had a penchant for mysteries, starting in seventh grade when I deduced that old lady Jones across the street had sneaked a dead body from her house under the guise of rolled carpet. I decided to keep an eye on her and quickly discovered she had a habit of cleaning in the nude. I concluded spying was better left to the professionals.

  I’d moved on to tracking down who had taken a picture of bottle-cap glasses Suzy picking her nose in the girls’ bathroom at school. Sure I’d been kicked out of school for a week when I punched head cheerleader Amy Murphy in the eye upon discovering she was the culprit, but it had been worth it. I’d solved my first crime.

  I’d wanted anything to distract me from my dysfunctional home life—science experiments, who-done-it capers, and, most recently, musicals. Who didn’t love a happy ending? I sure hadn’t had one yet, but deep inside I hoped one day the tables would turn.

  Riley waited for an answer to his simple question, so I stuffed my thoughts to the side and blurted out the truth.

  “I’m lousy. How about you?”

  “Lousy? What’s wrong?”

  “Don’t get me started.” I waved my hands to ward off his questions, noting as they fluttered past that I desperately needed a manicure. While out, I should buy some of those teeth whitening strips and some mascara. Riley was putting me to shame. “Let’s talk about something else. How’s your feathered friend?”

  Half his lip pulled up in a disgruntled, but good-natured smile. “Demanding. Every time I cook something, he squawks until he gets a piece of it. That bird can down steak, cheese, vegetables, anything.”

  “Didn’t you just bring him home at 2 A.M.? That’s a lot of cooking for less than twenty-four hours.”

  “I was awake last night and needed something to eat. Then I fixed breakfast this morning and had an afternoon snack.”

  “Any word on your AC?”

  “This weekend.”

  I noted the glaring sun bearing down on the pavement outside. “Bummer.”

  He set his newspaper aside and leaned forward, his eyes warm and friendly, reminding me of a sparkling swimming pool on a warm summer day. “So, why have you had a lousy day?”

  I leaned back and stared at the painting of a woman hugging her guitar as I contemplated my answer. “Work stuff.”

  “Find a stain you couldn’t get out?”

  I rolled my eyes. “If only Mr. Clean and I could fix this mess.”

  Riley’s brows shot up and I could see true concern on his face. “Need to talk about it?”

  I drew in a deep breath. Oh man, were those magic words. “The detective on the case dismissed some evidence I found while cleaning up after a crime.”

  “Are you sure it was evidence?”

  I caught his gaze. “I’m positive. If you saw this evidence, you’d know it, too.”

  “Why did he dismiss it?”

  “I have no idea.” My jaw clenched thinking about Detective Parker’s arrogance. “It makes it so clear that the wrong person has been framed. This morning I even found a witness to confirm my theory.”

  “Did you tell the detective?”

  “Of course I told the detective.” I slapped the table and Riley’s coffee cup jumped. “I might as well hand the guy a video of the murder being committed.”

  Riley ducked, and I realized I’d raised my voice.

  “Sorry, you didn’t deserve that. I’m mad at Detective Parker and I’m biting your head off. Not fair.”

  Riley pulled his hands in front of his neck. “Okay, as long as my head’s safe from your teeth, go on with your story.”

  That wrung a little laugh out of me, but I was too annoyed to stay amused. “He didn’t care. Said it couldn’t be true, that I should let him do his job, and I should do mine.”

  Riley leaned forward, resting on his folded, muscular arms. “Sounds like you have some decisions to make.”

  I sighed. “I know. That’s the problem. I have no idea what to do.”

  “Give it time and you’ll know.”

  “I don’t know if I can. Time is crucial in police work. If I let this slide, an innocent man could end up charged with murder. He’s already sitting in a cell.”

  Riley nodded. “You’re right. Mr. Clean isn’t of much use with this one.”

  I wished I could talk to him more, share all the details of what had happened. I couldn’t, though. I barely knew the man, though I did hope that might change.

  I cleared my throat. “Enough about me. How about you? What do you do for a living?”

  Riley’s lips pulled into a tight line, and he looked toward the front door as if he wanted to run out it. I’d always been good at blurting just the wrong questions, and today was no exception.

  “I’m in-between jobs right now.”

  I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know. It was too much like my childhood. My father was constantly between jobs. My theory was, if he’d hunted for work the way he hunted for whiskey, he’d have been CEO of Goldman Sachs. His only disability was laziness.

  We both glanced out the window at the same time and saw Sierra, a bag in hand, collecting something from the grass by our apartment building. Only too glad to abandon thoughts of dear old dad, I stared at Sierra.

  “What is she doing?” I asked.

  “I wish she was looking for Lucky’s owner, but I’m thinking no. Maybe she’s collecting litter.”

  “Care to go find out?” I asked.

  He nodded toward the bare table in front of me. “Aren’t you going to get coffee?”

  I realized I hadn’t ordered. I glanced behind me at the menu on the wall and shook my head, even though an iced mocha tempted me. “I think I’ve soaked up enough caffeine just from breathing the fumes. I’ll pass today.”

  Our chairs scraped across the floor, and we headed outside, toward Sierra. She used the sleeve of her white shirt to wipe the sweat glistening at her forehead as she scooped up an acorn from the weed-infested grass beside our building. Her glossy black hair was tied off her face with a rubber band and it bounced as she glanced up and spotted us.

  She wiped her brow again. “What’s going on?”

  “Just seeing what you’re doing.” I noted the bagful she’d already collected.

  “A new project. Nothing exciting.” Sierra looked at Riley. “How’s the bird?”

  “Fine.”

  She shifted her bag and placed her hands on her narrow hips. The skinny animal lover could eat what she wanted—no meat, of course—and never gain a pound. “You guys want to come over for some brownies tonight?”

  We agreed.

  “Bill is coming too.” Sierra looked at Riley. “He’s the radio talk show host across the hall from me.”

  “I’d like to meet more of the neighbors,” Riley said. “Any chance Bill wants a pet parrot?”

  Sierra laughed, shook her head, then continued collecting nuts.

  Riley and I walked into the building and paused at the stairs. “I guess I should finish unpacking,” Riley started.

  “Moving isn’t fun. That’s why I’ve vowed to stay in this apartment for as long as I can.”

  He sent me that disarming grin of his and leaned against the banister. I couldn’t figure him out. One minute he seemed so high class, the next like the all-American boy grown up. He obviously wasn’t in a hurry to get back to work.

  Free spirits rarely were.

  “I hope to stay here for awhile, too,” he
said.

  I followed his gaze as he glanced around the stairway, which badly needed a paint job. Various scrapes and smudges dirtied the wall. The house was kind of like its residents—eccentric, wounded, and toting lots of baggage.

  Then again, who wasn’t like this house once you really got to know them?

  Some of what I was thinking must have shown on my face because Riley furrowed his brow and asked, “What’s that look for?”

  “Just thinking about this house.”

  I looked around at the dark wood molding that added depth to the walls and imagined the place in its heyday. “I bet she was beautiful at one time.”

  “She still is a beauty. She’s got character, you know? Not many places do anymore.”

  A man that appreciated character. What more could I ask for? “Character’s a good thing.”

  Our eyes connected.

  Riley smiled. “Absolutely.”

  Our gaze only held for a few seconds, then Riley looked away. “Well, I guess I should get to work. I keep putting it off, though I’m not sure why. It might have something to do with heat and that noisy bird.”

  We walked upstairs together. The silence stretched and I dived into that old standby, talking about the weather. “Days don’t get much hotter than this. What did the weatherman say it was outside? Almost 100 degrees?” I asked.

  “That’s one thing I miss about San Diego—it was perfect weather year round.”

  “Sounds nice.”

  “It was.” He glanced at me. I only noticed because I was glancing at him too. “But Norfolk is nice, too.”

  We reached the landing and faced each other. Before either of us could speak, a squawk cut through the air. We burst into laughter. Running into Riley had been a good thing. I already felt better.

  “Your roommate is calling.” I pushed a curl that had escaped from my ponytail behind my ear.

  “I don’t want to keep His Majesty waiting.” Riley gave me one of those captivating glances again, one that beckoned me to look back. “Have a good day, Gabby.”

  I nodded and disappeared inside my apartment. Riley seemed like a good neighbor—friendly, warm, a good conversationalist. I pictured him traveling all over the U.S., having no place to call home and liking it that way.