Turn on a Dime - Blane's Turn (8 page)

“No one’s around,” he said, tucking the Glock away. “They’re probably long gone by now.”

Sirens screamed in the distance. It was about time. Blane was slightly concerned that Kathleen might be too upset to talk with the police, but she proved more resilient than he’d thought, recounting to the uniformed cop what she’d told him in a calm, steady way. The only time she faltered was when she got to the part about finding Sheila’s body.

Her voice cracked and she swayed a little on her feet. Blane quickly slid his arm around her waist. If she passed out, he’d be able to catch her before she hit the ground.

The cop kept questioning her, Blane listening while he carefully watched Kathleen for any sign that she couldn’t continue. Then something she said caught his attention.

“She worked as an escort,” Kathleen told the cop, who glanced up from his notepad, his eyebrows climbing.

Shit. Of all the fucking coincidences.

“Did she say who she worked for?” he asked.

“No, she never said.”

Thank God.

“Did she tell you anything else about this escort service?”

Blane tightened his grip on Kathleen’s waist, hoping she was clever enough to pick up on his signal. If this friend of hers worked for who he thought, then no one needed to know how much or how little Kathleen knew, not even the cops.

Kathleen hesitated before answering and Blane held his breath. “No. That’s all I know.”

Blane relaxed his hold on her. Smart girl.

The questioning was interrupted by the removal of the woman’s body and Blane felt Kathleen stiffen. She didn’t need to see this.

He turned her into him, pressing lightly on the back of her head, and she obediently rested against his chest. Tears soaked through his shirt as Blane held her. She was such a little thing, curled into him as though he could protect her from anything. And, Blane thought as they loaded the crimson-stained figure into the waiting ambulance, perhaps he could.

A few minutes later, Kathleen seemed to pull herself together and moved to step away. Blane reluctantly released her. Her eye caught something.

“Tigger!” she cried, rushing forward and picking up an orange cat. One who could use a diet, judging by its rather plump proportions. Kathleen cuddled the overgrown feline to her chest and headed back to her apartment. Blane didn’t hesitate before following.

“Why did you want me to stop talking?” she asked him once they were once again behind closed doors. She sat on her couch, the cat resting contentedly in her lap while she stroked his fur.

Blane eyed the cat with something akin to jealousy. “You didn’t tell me she was a prostitute,” he said instead of answering. This case had just taken a very different turn. The last thing he needed, or wanted, was Kathleen asking questions.

“Why should it matter?” Kathleen shot back, her tone one of pique and misunderstanding Blane’s irritation entirely. “She was my friend and someone killed her. It doesn’t make her death any more acceptable because of what she did for a living.”

The headache was back, though it hadn’t really left, the pain like a knife in his skull. “No, but it does make things more dangerous,” Blane replied bluntly, sinking down next to her on the couch. God, he was tired. He idly wondered if he shoved the cat to the floor and laid his head in her lap, would she pet him instead?

“What do you mean?” she asked, her tone a less combative.

Blane decided to tell her a little, just enough to scare her. “There’s only one escort service in Indy, and if that’s who she worked for, the last thing they’re going to want is for that fact to get out. Or any information on who her johns were.” Now for the warning. “I want you to keep quiet about what you know, or else you could become a target.”

She seemed to take this to heart, Blane was glad to see, mulling it over while she petted the cat. Blane’s eyes narrowed as he watched the animal purr under her touch. Probably would get to sleep in her bed, too. Lucky bastard.

“I don’t know if I can do that,” Kathleen said.

“What do you mean?” Blane asked, taken aback.

“I can’t just pretend I don’t know anything,” she said.

Oh yes, you can.

“Sheila told me she was seeing some guy that kept requesting her. She’d mentioned him several times. The police should know that information. It could have been him and not Mark that killed her.”

Mark.
The computer guy
, she’d told the cops. Surely that couldn’t be—

“You don’t know that,” Blane said.

“No, but somehow I can’t see Mark doing that to her either. He just didn’t seem the type.”

As innocent and naive as Kathleen was, it was a wonder she hadn’t already been taken for a ride by some piece-of-shit guy out for a quick lay and easy out. She was an honest-to-God good person, kind and loyal.

She’d be fortunate indeed if it didn’t get her badly hurt someday.

“Ted Bundy didn’t look like a homicidal maniac either,” Blane tried to reason with her. “If you think this man she talked about might have been involved, then I’ll look into it.”

“You will?” she asked, finally turning away from the cat to look up at Blane.

“Yes. Better me than you.” Promise her the fucking moon, anything, just put her off and keep her safe. But apparently he’d said the wrong thing because her eyes narrowed and she sat up straighter, her little shoulders squaring like she was readying to do battle.

“Why is that?” she asked. “Because you’re a man?” She said
man
like it was a bad thing.

The answer seemed obvious to Blane, whether she liked it or not. Facts were what they were and he was much better equipped to deal with killers than was Kathleen. “Yes,” he said, then to placate her pride, “I also have more resources at my disposal than you.” Such as the Glock tucked into the small of his back.

Kathleen’s pale cheeks flushed rose. “Oh,” she said. “Well, thank you.”

Blane hid a smile at her tone, which was about a mile short of thankful. But considering what she’d gone through tonight and the fact that she’d let the line of questioning go, he could afford to be gracious.

“Are you going to be all right?” he asked. She looked at him strangely. “By yourself. Is there someone I can call to come stay with you?” Being alone after witnessing your friend’s butchered body wasn’t something Blane would wish on anyone.

To his surprise, her cheeks grew even redder and she avoided his gaze. “I’ll be fine,” she replied with a shrug.

It occurred to Blane then that maybe she
didn’t
have anyone to call. She’d been working at his firm for, what, three months? And she’d already told him she had no family and no boyfriend, though the lack of the latter still stunned him. Were men her age idiots as well as blind? He made a quick decision. No way was he leaving her alone.

“Look,” he said, glancing at his watch. “It’s really late. Why don’t I just stay on the couch for a few hours? You can get some sleep and I’ll leave in the morning.” Yes. Stay on the couch. Couch couch couch. Cat gets the bed, the shit.

Her eyes filled with tears before she quickly looked away. She cleared her throat. “If you wouldn’t mind,” she said, her voice husky, “I would appreciate that.” She paused, then said, “Um . . . unless you have someone . . . waiting for you?”

Kathleen’s face was bright red now and she still avoided his gaze. It took Blane a moment to figure out what she was talking about that would have her so embarrassed.

The aesthetician from tonight. What was her name? Blane had already forgotten. Apparently, Kathleen figured she was waiting in his bed. Or he’d just left hers.

“No,” he said. “Not tonight.” Or any night, with that particular woman. Kathleen, on the other hand . . .

Blane shut that thought down right away, though his gaze lingered on the expanse of leg revealed by the little cotton shorts she wore.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked politely, standing and picking up the cat. At least the way she held the pet concealed her breasts that strained against the thin fabric of her T-shirt. She seemed unaware of her state of undress, which was hardly her fault, considering. Unfortunately, it hadn’t escaped Blane’s notice.

A cold shower
, Blane thought. Good God, could he be any more inappropriate? He blamed it on his exhaustion and the ache pounding in his skull.

“I’m fine,” he said, wanting her to go to bed before he did something colossally stupid. He pulled out his cell. “Just going to make some calls.” Who the fuck would he be calling at this hour? But she seemed to buy it, giving him a tiny nod before disappearing into her bedroom.

Blane sighed, tossing his cell down on the battered coffee table along with his keys, wallet and gun. He stood, discarding his jacket and tie, idly folding back the cuffs of his shirt as he surveyed Kathleen’s apartment.

Her furniture looked to be family hand-me-downs, which was expected, given her age and background. The couch had definitely seen better days, the fabric worn and the cushions flattened from years of use. An old patchwork quilt was folded neatly over the side. A ghastly orange recliner sat in the corner, the faded print screaming nineteen seventies.

After kicking off his shoes, Blane briefly considered turning on the television, but he didn’t see a remote. Besides, his head was still killing him. He should’ve asked her if she had any medicine.

The sofa was too short for him to stretch out on, so Blane rested his head against the back and closed his eyes. He’d learned a long time ago to sleep wherever and whenever he could, despite the inconvenience or discomfort. It was a trick that served him well, and he was asleep within moments.

The sound of a scream woke him. Blane was instantly alert, on his feet with his gun in his hand before he’d even processed where the scream had come from.

Kathleen.

Blane glanced at the front door, but it was still firmly shut and bolted. No one had entered.

Of course. Nightmare.

Setting the gun back down, Blane hurried to Kathleen’s bedroom, hesitating only briefly before opening the door.

A dim glow from the streetlight outside filtered in through the blinds on the windows, illuminating the figure on the bed. Kathleen thrashed, kicking the sheets and covers away, and the cat leapt to the floor. She screamed again, a sound that tore through Blane the way a baby’s cry would his mother.

Grasping her shoulders, Blane tried to wake her.

“Kathleen!” he said, but the word didn’t seem to penetrate. She began fighting him.

Blane sat on the bed and wrapped his arms around her, hauling her upward and imprisoning her against him. “Kathleen!” he tried again. “Wake up! You’re okay. It was just a nightmare.”

This time, she seemed to hear him. She stopped fighting, going abruptly still. Her chest heaved and she shook like a leaf.

Blane relaxed his grip as another hard tremor shook her. A pang of sympathy made him turn so he sat with his back to the wall, pulling Kathleen onto his lap. He remembered very well the first few times he’d seen what war could do to the human body, to his friends. Nightmares had been par for the course until, God forbid, a man grew accustomed to the horrors.

Kathleen didn’t protest, just curled against him as though wishing she could crawl inside his skin. It felt good to be able to help her, bring her some kind of comfort. No one had needed him, at least not in that fashion, for a long time.

He needed to get her mind off it. Blane thought for a moment, remembering a particular story from when he had taken Kade diving. “My family used to vacation every summer at a lake in New Hampshire, Lake Winnipesaukee,” he said. “We had a summer home there and every May I couldn’t wait until school was out and we could go. The days were filled with things young boys love to do. Hiking through the woods, hunting, tracking bears.”

Blane made it sound much more idyllic than it had been. He left out the part where his father had worked nonstop, completely ignoring Blane and his mother. But Blane had still loved the place, and had taken Kade there, hoping he’d love it, too.

“I still went after my father died, taking my brother with me. We used to take our boat out on the lake. We’d water-ski or dive. The water was always cold, but we didn’t care. The trees were deep green, the sky a brilliant blue, and the water ice-cold.” Kade had taken to diving as though he were part fish.

Half of Blane’s attention was on talking, the other half was on Kathleen. She’d stopped shaking, his story effectively distracting her. He rubbed her back lightly, wishing it was her skin he touched rather than cotton.

“One time we were diving and I wasn’t paying enough attention to my brother,” he continued. “He wandered away. I was frantic, trying to find him in the dark water. Nearly exhausted my air supply.” The little shit. It hadn’t been the first time and wouldn’t be the last that one of Kade’s close calls would terrify Blane. And those were just the ones Blane knew about.

“What did you do?” Kathleen asked when he didn’t continue.

Blane pulled himself out of his thoughts. “Found him, finally. He was only twelve, maybe thirteen, at the time and since I was older, I was responsible for him. We made it up with moments to spare and then I wanted to kill him for scaring me half to death, though really it was my own fault. I didn’t lose track of him again after that.” Not even when Kade wanted him to.