Together always (18 page)

'*One of the small bottles of Kamchatka, please."

"Screwdrivers, huh?" John set the bottle of vodka on the counter. It hadn't taken him long to learn that most of the people who came in enjoyed a moment or two of conversation. This man was no exception.

"I have a friend coming to dinner tonight and I know she has a fondness for them."

John rang up the sale and took the money the man handed him. As he gave him the change, their eyes met and he felt a twinge of uneasiness. There was something in the back of the older man's eyes that didn't seem right.

*'You must be Mike's boy. Michael, isn't it?"

*'John. My father was the only one who ever called me Michael."

The man smiled. **Mike always did like to go his own way."

**Did you know my father?" John asked, trying to pinpoint the source of his uneasiness.

*'A long time ago. A very long time ago. I've been out of the area and we saw each other only once before he was killed." He shook his head. *'A terrible tragedy, that. Do the police have any idea who was responsible?"

* They're working on some leads." Over the years he'd learned the hard way to trust his instincts. He didn't doubt his uneasiness but he couldn't find a source for it. There was just something about the man.

*'Well, I'd best be on my way. I wouldn't want my friend to think I'd abandoned her. My condolences on your father's death."

*'Thanks. Come in again." He spoke automatically, his eyes narrowed on the man as he walked to the door. There was nothing there to warrant the way he felt. The man turned at the door, the lights casting his eyes into shadow, giving him a vaguely threatening look. Or maybe it was the way his left brow kicked up at the outer edge, twisted by an old scar that ran toward his temple. Whatever it was, something about the man made him uneasy.

"I'll definitely be back." The bell pinged sharply and then the door was swinging shut behind him. John watched through the window as he walked up the street. Apparently he lived close enough to walk. Or he'd parked his car out of

sight. The suspicious thought popped into his head but he shook it off.

He was getting paranoid in his old age. It was one of the hazards of his job and one of the reasons he was giving serious thought to a change of career. He crossed to the door and flipped the Closed sign outward before turning back to look at the store. Yes, there was a definite feeling of pride in having reopened the place and he'd enjoyed running it for the day, but he knew it wasn't something he could do forever.

In an odd way, he felt as if he were getting to know his father by running the store. It was surprising how much you could learn about a man by looking at the way he ran his business. Maybe it was a way to make peace with the past.

He'd asked for this time off to put his life in order. His father's death had punched home his own mortality and made him face the fact that he was getting too old for the kind of games he was still playing. It was time to make some changes. He knew that. The only question was, what kind of changes?

But he had time. All the time he wanted, they'd promised. And while he was thinking about what he might want to do with the rest of his life, he was enjoying the present, the first time off he'd taken in more years than he could remember. Trace and Lily were providing the closest thing he'd had to a family since he fought with his father and left home.

Trace didn't entirely trust him. It wasn't hard to read that wariness in his eyes. He should probably tell him that they'd met before, remind him of that snowy Oklahoma afternoon, but some perverse part of him wanted to see if Trace would figure it out on his own.

Lily was another story. She seemed to have accepted him without question. He was Mike's son and that was all she required. She was an interesting little thing. So young and

yet so old. And her face,.. God, he'd traveled the world and he knew just how rare beauty like that was, yet she didn't seem to be aware of it. Under other circumstances he might have been t^npted to try for more than friendship from her. Not that it would have done him any good. You simply had to see the way she looked at Trace to know that only a fool would bother trying to come between them.

He shook his head and reached out to shut off the lights. Thinking about Trace and Lily wasn't getting him home and it wasn't getting him any closer to a decision about his own future. He stepped outside, turning up his collar against the cold night air. He could worry about his future another time. For now, getting home was enough to think about.

Chapter Eleven

"Just what was stolen, Mr. Gillespie?" Trace tried to sound official and interested but his heart wasn't really in it. This was the sixth time in the past year that Gillespie's little Italian grocery had been robbed. No fingerprints that shouldn't have been there, no sign of forced entry, nothing but money taken.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Gillespie's oldest son. Marty was nineteen and he had what Trace considered a severe attitude problem, the kind of attitude that might have been improved by someone giving him a quick kick in the seat of the pants. Trace wanted to be first in line. Marty was leaning against the outer wall of the store, his hands shoved into the pockets of his tight jeans, his back curved in an impossible slouch. His too-f mouth was twisted in a smug smile that made Trace want to bypass the kick in the pants and go straight for a punch in the lip. You didn't have to ask the boy if he was cool, everything about him shouted it.

*'Did you or your wife hear anything last night? See anything that might give us a clue?"

''Not a thing. They were very quiet."

It probably helped that "they" had a key. Trace looked up, meeting Marty's eyes head-on. He didn't have any doubts about who was responsible for the repeated burgla-

ries. The first officer to suggest it to Marty's father had been harangued in Italian, and then the old man had called the station to complain. Trace didn't make the same mistake. He didn't doubt that Gillespie knew what was going on; the old man just wasn't ready to admit it yet. Until he was, there wasn't a whole lot the police could do. Marty looked at him for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders, widening his eyes in a mock-innocent stare before peeling himself away from the wall and wandering into the store, where Trace's partner, Sally, was questioning his mother.

Trace looked back at the boy's father, seeing the hurt and anxiety in the old man's eyes. The look doubled his urge to knock a few of the kid's teeth out.

*'He's a good boy. He's had a little trouble finding work now that he's out of school." Trace made a few useless notes and nodded. It wasn't easy to find a job, especially when you didn't bother to look.

A movement in the street caught his attention and he glanced up. That was the second time that car had gone by. A pale blue Chevy Nova with a crunched right fender. It must have cruised around the block. The angle of the sun cast shadows over the driver's side. It was impossible to make out more than just a vague outline of someone behind the wheel. He could see that the person was looking this way but there was nothing surprising about that. The squad car parked in front of the little grocery was enough to catch the attention of any passersby. They were probably hoping to see someone being handcuffed or a little police brutality, something to liven up their day. Trace returned his attention to the old man.

They were still standing in front of the store a few minutes later when the car came by again. Trace had put away his notebook and was listening to Gillespie talk about the problems of fatherhood. It was about all he could do for the old man until he was ready to face the fact that his oldest son

was stealing from him. Inside, he suspected Sally was being fed bites of Mrs. Gillespie's lasagna or her spaghetti sauce or whatever today's special was. Which meant that she was going to moan about the ruination of her diet for the rest of the afternoon.

He heard the car before he saw it. The engine had a miss that he hadn't consciously noticed but he remembered it when he heard the car turn the corner and start toward them. His back tightened as it crept closer. Stupid. The driver was just gawking, hoping to see something exciting. Nothing to justify the sudden anxiety he felt.

He turned his head, keeping half an ear on Gillespie's words. It was the same Chevy and he still couldn't see the driver clearly. The car was slowing again, barely creeping. The passenger window was open. There was nothing sinister about the car. Just a beat-up Nova that had definitely seen better days. He started to turn back to Gillespie when something caught his eye, a funny glint of light from inside the car, like sun catching on something metallic. Like a gun barrel.

Trace lunged forward, catching the old man at the waist and dropping them both to the pavement. Thp staccato explosion of an automatic weapon sprayed the air where he'd been only seconds before. Glass shattered in the store window, falling to the ground in a shower of tinkling sounds.

Trace didn't stop moving once he hit the ground. He rolled, taking the old man with him until they were both sheltered behind the patrol car. Assured that Gillespie was safe, Trace scrambled to his knees, drawing his gun. Keeping to a crouch, he moved toward the front of the patrol car. The Chevy was still there. He could hear the miss in the engine. The question was, where was the driver looking? Would he have time to get off a shot?

He took a deep breath, tasting the acid tang of fear in the back of his throat. He could hear the sound of his own

heartbeat, a little too loud, a little too fast. He raised himself cautiously, making sure that he was still protected by the bulk of the car. A quick breath and then he hit the ground in front of the car in a diving roll that ended with him on one knee. He brought his weapon up and snapped off two quick shots. Both hit the windshield but they clearly didn't incapacitate whoever was handling the gun. His shots were answered with a spray of gunfire that would have torn him to pieces if he hadn't already moved. The bullets smacked into the pavement where he'd >been but Trace was already behind another car.

There was a sharp report and the smack of a bullet biting into metal. Looking over his shoulder, he could catch just a glimpse of Sally's pale hair. She was still in the store, protected by the old brick. He saw her aim again and then the sound of a taillight shattering. It was apparently all the incentive the driver needed to cut his losses.

He floored the gas pedal and the car took off with a roar. Trace ran around the end of the car he'd been using as shelter. The license plate was clearly visible, the numbers imprinted on his brain. Not that it would do much good. He was willing to bet that the car was stolen.

"You all right?" He turned as Sally ran up to him. Adrenaline still pounded in him but he took a deep breath and nodded.

*'No damage. Everyone okay in the store?"

His guess about the car turned out to be correct. The owner had reported it stolen three hours before the shooting. The Gillespies were all intact, though the same couldn't be said for their store. The squad car was towed off for repairs and Trace and Sally spent the afternoon giving reports and going over nonexistent details. In the end, the only guess anyone had was that it was a random cop killing. Or attempted cop killing.

That idea was worse than shootings where a motive could be found. Everyone was edgy, wondering if this was an isolated incident or the beginning of some kind of spree where the next cop might not be as lucky as Trace had been.

By the time he got home, Trace was worn-out. All he wanted was a tall Scotch, a hot shower and a bed, and he might even be willing to forgo the shower. He parked the 'Vette in the garage next to Lily's car and leaned his head back against the seat for a moment. He'd thought about what to tell Lily all the way home and he'd decided that there was no need to worry her. No one had been hurt. Why upset her over nothing?

He opened the door and climbed out of the low car, wincing as he straightened. Every muscle ached. He wasn't sure if it was tension or tumbling on the pavement that had done it, but he felt as if he'd gone forty rounds with a punching bag and lost.

He let himself in through the back door. The lingering scent of turmeric told him that John must have cooked dinner. The house always smelled like the local Indian restaurants after he cooked. Trace hadn't eaten since morning but he wasn't hungry. Too much had happened for him to be interested in food.

The low murmur of the television filtered through from the living room. He got out a glass and some ice, shutting the refrigerator quietly, though there was a good chance they'd heard the 'Vette and knew he was home. He was tempted to go straight upstairs but the Scotch was in the living room, so he carried his glass there.

John was sprawled in a chair, his long legs stuck out in front of him, his attention on the television, though he didn't look too interested in the sitcom that was dancing away on the screen. A burst of canned laughter didn't draw even the flicker ftf a smile from him. Lily was curled up on the sofa with a book in her lap. There was a lamp on over

her shoulder and the light caught in her hair, finding blue highlights in the heavy black length.

She looked up, her mouth curved in a welcoming smile. It was enough to soothe some of his tension. How bad could the world be when Lily could smile at him like that?

''Hi, You worked late."

"Hi. I hope you didn't hold dinner for me." He moved to the small bar and poured himself a glass of Scotch.

*'No. Lily and I polished off an excellent batch of chicken curry all by ourselves. I outdid myself, if I do say so myself." John pulled himself a little more upright.

Trace took a hefty swallow of his drink, feeling it bum its way down his throat before settling in a warm pool in his stomach. He turned, arching a brow at John.

"That's not saying much. The last time you cooked, it took longer to get the burned chicken off the bottom of the pan than it did to cook the stuff.''

"Details." John waved his hand dismissively. "Actually, we did leave you some dinner. It's in the fridge."