Authors: Deeanne Gist
The car boomed with sound, picking up right where Logan had interrupted the song. After a few bars, she still couldn’t place it. Nasally vocals charged with attitude, a pounding, unsynthesized beat.
They whizzed down Fleming Road, passing one apartment complex after another—each a bit shabbier than the last. Hers loomed on the right, a two-story brick building modeled on a drive-in motel, with all the doors opening to the outside.
A metal staircase at the end of the building went up to the second-floor porch, which was cluttered with brown ferns and dirty grills, chained bicycles and folding lawn chairs with frayed seats. Thanks to the manager’s loose grasp on the concept of maintenance, most of the sconces beside the doors were burned out. Liz and the tenant two doors down from her were the only ones with working outdoor lights.
The gravel crunched beneath the tires as she pulled to a stop. Before she could get the door open, Logan was at her side. He took her hand as she exited, his eyes roaming the apartment block and the empty lot across the street. He frowned.
“Upstairs,” she said, looking up.
Liz’s curtains flickered.
Logan saw the movement and tensed.
“Wave to Liz, Logan. It’ll make her day.”
He obeyed, but the gesture was stiff. The surroundings were clearly not to his liking. They weren’t to her liking either, but she’d learned to put up with them. Liz pulled the curtain wider, smiled, and waved down at them.
They climbed the stairs, then picked their way through the accumulated debris on the wide balcony. Logan skimmed his hand along the railing, then paused, holding up his fingers for inspection.
“Here we are,” she said, stopping at her door. After turning the key in the lock, she had to butt it open with her hip. “It sticks sometimes.”
He rattled the doorknob, staring like he’d never seen one before.
Crossing the threshold, he closed and opened the door a few times.
Before she knew it, he was on one knee, peering into the gap between the knob and door.
“This thing’s a joke,” he said. “And you don’t even have a deadbolt or a chain.”
Dropping her purse on the kitchen bar, she flipped on the lights.
“I don’t need a deadbolt, Logan. There’s nothing worth stealing here.”
He closed the door one final time. “Living on Fleming Street, you should have four deadbolts.”
She hurried through the den, grabbing her gym shorts off the back of a chair, scooping up a pair of Latisha Petrie’s hand-me-down red stilettos.
“Where’s your dog?” He still had his hand on the doorknob, ready to flee, perhaps, if the need arose.
“No worries. I don’t have one.” She scurried into her room, grabbing a pile of dirty clothes from the floor, then dropped everything on the dresser and closed the bedroom door behind her.
“You’re kidding.”
She shrugged. “Much as I’d love one, my work schedule would keep him penned up all the time.”
It wasn’t just that, though. It was the expense. And if she had any extra money at all—which she didn’t—she needed to spend it on her car.
He frowned. “Then you absolutely need a deadbolt. Promise me you’ll get one.”
“We’ll see. You thirsty?”
He sighed. “I guess.”
He stood at the threshold, giving the room a once-over. His long navy athletic shorts hung on his hips. His nicely shaped calves belonged to a man who’d climbed a million stairways and run a million miles. On his feet, he wore what looked like the original pair of Reeboks—pieces of them, anyway.
She pulled two glasses from an upper cabinet. “Do you like Kool-Aid?”
“Kool-Aid?” He rubbed his chin. “I don’t think I’ve had any since fifth grade. What flavor is it?”
“Black cherry.”
“Sounds great. Can I help?”
“No, no. I just have to pop the ice out of the tray. Make yourself at home.”
He took her literally and flipped through cd jewel cases, shook random paperbacks to see if anything would fall out, and then discovered her box of dvds.
The Sound of Music
—played so often the disc had permanent scratches—got a cursory look, then he went back to the books, pulling out a copy of
Last of the Mohicans
.
“Not one of your favorites, I guess,” he announced, holding up the bookmark that had been tucked near the front of the book.
“It’s nothing like the movie.” She gave him a guilty shrug.
He returned it to the shelf, then eyed her couch as if he feared a stray spring might be lurking under the upholstery.
She smiled. The overstuffed couch was out of date, but he had no reason to fear. It was still in good shape. Most of her furniture was left over from the house she and Nonie had shared. There were a few flea market finds sprinkled in, things she’d intended to repaint or refinish or at least wipe with a damp cloth, only she’d never found the time.
He paused over the shrine of family photos she kept on the top of an old buffet. He picked a frame up and turned it toward the light. “These your parents?”
She nodded. “They’re gone now. My dad . . . my dad left when I was a girl. My mom . . . Well, she was very down after that and . . .
died shortly after.”
His eyes softened. “I’m sorry.”
She came around the bar and handed him his Kool-Aid. “It’s just me and Nonie now.”
He replaced the photo, then pointed at another. She and Nonie on the beach in winter hats and scarves. Maybe six . . . no, seven years ago.
“Is that her?”
“Yes.”
“I’m looking forward to meeting her.” He touched his glass to hers and took a deep swallow of his drink, his Adam’s apple rolling with each swallow.
She sipped at hers.
“Feeling better?” he asked.
“Yeah.” To her surprise, she really did. “Thanks for coming out and following me home and everything.”
“Anytime.” He made no move to go.
She looked at his drink. “You want some more?”
“Sure.”
He followed her, leaning on the bar while she opened the fridge and poured another glass.
“Right before I left the office today, I found out that George refused Karl’s offer of representation.”
She looked up sharply. “What?”
“Yep. Said ‘thanks, but no thanks.’ ”
She gaped at him, stunned. “Why would he do that?”
“Maybe because he knows Karl would bungle the case. I told you, Karl may be licensed to practice criminal law, but I looked it up today—he hasn’t handled a defense case for years. Estate law is his thing, and to be honest, I’m not sure he’s any good at that. His daddy owns the firm, that’s his claim to fame. If I were George, I wouldn’t want him handling it, either.”
She handed him the refilled glass. “Still, it’s better than a court-appointed lawyer, don’t you think?”
“Not necessarily.” He took a swallow. “So, do you think what happened to your car is connected to the Robin Hood burglar?”
“Actually, I think it might be something else.” She told him about the bald, round-faced man who’d confronted her in the park.
He made her repeat the description, right down to the smell of the cigar. His face hardened. “That had to be Marcel Gibbon. You ever heard of him?”
“Should I have?” She settled back against the kitchen counter, keeping the bar between them.
“Marcel’s sort of notorious around here. I got a call from him earlier today, which is pretty strange, since it’s usually me who has to make contact. And he doesn’t like talking on the phone.”
“What did he want?”
Logan dug in his back pocket, producing the list of clients she’d given him after he’d dropped her off at the Petrie house. Next to her writing, he’d added some notes of his own.
“He was making sure I knew about George’s alibis for the Robin Hood breakins. I copied them down right next to yours.” He offered her the list. “The funny thing is, he said you were with George for the Ormsby break-in, but according to your notes—”
“He told me that, too.
Insisted
I was with him, when I knew perfectly well I wasn’t.” An involuntary shudder rippled through her. “How is George connected with that man?”
“They go way back. Nobody could prove it, but rumor was that the job George went to prison for was masterminded by Gibbon.
He’s clean these days, supposedly, but the man’s still connected.
I guess he’s looking out for George for old times’ sake. Maybe he owes him one, you know?”
She knew Logan rubbed elbows with a lot of unsavory characters. That’s why she’d planned to call him in the first place. Still, knowing it and hearing him talk about it so casually were two different things.
“He owes him one?” she repeated, shaking her head. “He didn’t strike me as the kind of person to return favors. I’d be surprised if he cares about anyone but himself.”
“And I’d say you’re right.” He made circles on the bar with the bottom of his glass. “But I don’t think he’s the one who broke into your car. That’s not his style.”
Seeing Daisy broken into, her space violated, her things gone through and stolen, she couldn’t help but feel the evil of it. “The person who broke into the car . . .” She looked down at her scuffed loafers. “He took some . . . personal things.”
“I heard you telling the officer.”
“It’s . . .” She felt her throat tighten, then looked up. “It scared me, Logan.”
And that was just the tip of the iceberg. The stalker. The Robin Hood burglar. The police. All of them frightened her.
He put his glass down and came around the corner. “Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“You can’t make a promise like that.”
His voice was firm. “I just did. And I meant it.”
The tiny kitchen shrank with him in it. He wasn’t a huge man, but he wasn’t puny either.
Embarrassed, she slipped her hand into her cardigan pocket, her fingers brushing his car keys. She pulled them out. “These are yours, I think.”
“You keep them. I’ll get that window fixed for you.”
Her lips parted. “You don’t have to do that.”
“It’s no trouble. Besides, I have connections in this town.”
She knew she should argue, but the monthly bill from Bishop Gadsden sat in the bill holder. She had enough to pay for it, but not enough for the deductible her car insurance was going to require to get that window fixed. If he knew someone who might do it pro bono, she was just frugal enough to let him call in a favor. “I have insurance.”
“I saw it in the glove box.”
She slipped his keys back into her pocket. He tracked every move of her hand.
“Rylee.” He edged forward.
She drew her hand out.
He touched her, the lightest whisper of contact.
It was a perfect moment to kiss. She knew it, and she could tell he did, too. But she wasn’t ready. Just having him in the apartment was huge. No way could she handle a kiss.
Yet every nerve in her body stood at attention. Waiting. Hoping. Anticipating.
He hesitated, then stepped back, giving her a charming, schoolboy grin.
Later
, that grin seemed to say.
Not like this
.
She let out a pent-up breath.
He moved toward the door. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“Prop something under that doorknob when I leave.”
She gave a slight smile. “All right.”
She went out on the railing to watch him go, waving at the departing car. As soon as he disappeared from the lot, Liz threw open her door and padded onto the balcony.
“Who was that gorgeous man?”
Rylee turned, smiling in spite of herself.
Liz had on her fuzzy pink sweats. She grabbed Rylee’s sleeve.
“Come over here and tell me all about it.”
The next morning, Logan found Nate Campbell tapping the last of the creamer into a mug of coal-black police station coffee, looking like he’d pulled an all-nighter.
At the sight of Logan, the detective slowly straightened, his features tightening. “After that article of yours this morning, you’ve got some nerve showing your face around here.”
Logan jerked his head toward Nate’s cubicle. “Can we talk?”
Nate led the way, motioning him into the chrome chair opposite the desk. “If you’re thinking an apology’s gonna make everything all right, you’re wrong.”
An apology.
Yeah, right.
Logan propped an ankle on his knee. “Maybe if you’d let me see the police reports I’ve been asking for, I wouldn’t have so many questions about your case.”
Nate jerked a drawer open and tossed a thick file on top of his desk. “What’re you gonna want next? My firstborn?”
Logan reached for the file.
Nate slammed his hand on top of it. “In your dreams, buddy.”
Logan slowly retracted his hand. Nate’s vehemence took him a bit by surprise. In the past, whenever he’d hinted in print about the shortcomings of police investigations, the detective hadn’t batted an eye. He’d even tipped Logan off about some corner-cutting on the part of Sheila Santos, a rival on the squad.
“You’re taking this awfully personal,” Logan said.
A tic in the detective’s jaw pulsed. “Did it ever occur to you that you don’t have the whole picture?”
“So give me the whole picture.”
“Ask me some questions and I’ll answer what I can.”
Logan pulled out his notebook. “What’s the status on George Reid?”
“He made bail this morning, and we’ve cut him loose. He refused to make a statement or cooperate in any way. We’ll be keeping an eye on him to see if he leads us to the goods.”
“Exactly what evidence do you have on him?”
“You mean besides the fact that he’s a convicted felon with an almost identical modus operandi, and he just so happens to have been working for a majority of the victims?”
“That’s it?”
“Isn’t it enough?”
It would have been, ordinarily. For Logan, these types of coincidences usually equated to a strong circumstantial case. When the arrest had first broken in the newsroom, people who remembered back to the George Reid case slapped their foreheads: Well, duh.
George seemed like an obvious suspect. The only thing keeping Logan from joining in was that the same could be said about Rylee—minus the criminal record. If the only thing they had on George was his record and the fact he worked for a majority of the victims, then their case was pretty thin.