She
pulled out her badge and a business card and dropped the card on his gut,
showing her badge. “I’m going to watch your son, Mr. Jenkins. If I see so much
as a nick on that boy, I’m going to have you picked up for child abuse. Once
you’re inside, I’m sure you’ll find some people who’d just love to see that
pinky of yours at work.”
The
man picked her card up off his gut and stared at it. Shock had settled into his
eyes.
Sam
handed another card to Billy. “Memorize my phone number. You need me, you
call.” As she walked away, she added Billy to her mental list of kids to be
watched. She spotted Rob watching her with a mixture of fear and interest.
It
was a look she’d never seen on his face before.
Nick
shifted in the car, the morning paper curved over the door as he worked on the
crossword. It was hotter than hell and the sun beating down through the
windshield was baking him. He’d read in the paper that they were now officially
calling it a heat wave, but he could have told them that two weeks ago.
Sam
sat beside him not seeming to mind the fact that they were like two chickens in
a Pyrex dish. In fact, she seemed to bask in the warmth. As though the hotter
it was, the more comfortable she felt. He, on the other hand, was just plain
roasting.
On
the street where Sandi Walters had last lived with her mother, there was no
shade on the block—no trees, not even much lawn, just one house on top of
another.
Scanning
the street, Nick didn’t see any adults, but the Walters’ neighborhood was alive
with the sounds of children. Some rode old rusted or too small bikes up and
down the street. Another group played in a sprinkler across the street, trying
to find some relief from the heat, until a fat man with no shirt came out and
yelled at them to stop.
Nick
focused on the crossword, trying to ignore the heat. They were following normal
procedure with Sandi Walters’ murder, starting by investigating people known to
the victim. And they had to tread carefully, and keep a low profile on their
suspicion of possible police involvement. Sam was coordinating a team to delve
into the whereabouts of officers who had been involved in the Sloan case. Most
of them were still on the force. Many were still in the area. There didn’t seem
to be many good leads in either direction.
Nick
felt the car shift beneath him and looked up from his crossword. Sam moved and
frowned out the window. When she didn’t look over, he returned his attention to
the puzzle. “Papal scarf,” second letter was “r.” He looked past it. “Court”
was the next clue—three letters. “Woo,” he wrote. He glanced back at Sandi
Walters’ house and then down again. “Tantalum symbol.” He wrote “totem.” The
car bounced again. This time when he looked up, Sam was staring at him.
“What?”
“How
do you stand it?”
Nick
looked around. “The heat?”
She
exhaled. “No. The waiting. Just sitting here is driving me crazy.”
He
shrugged, looking back at the crossword. He kind of liked the solitude of
surveillance. Of course, now he wasn’t alone. Sam’s constant motion made it
hard to relax.
She
moved again and he put the puzzle down. “You want to talk?”
Her
eyes widened. “No,” she snapped as though he’d asked her to strip right there.
He turned back to the crossword. “I can’t believe I’m on a stakeout,” she said
a minute later.
He
set the paper down. So she did want to talk.
She
caught his look. “What?”
“Do
you miss homicide?”
She
frowned and shook her head. “No.” She stared out the windshield. “I’m doing
good where I am.”
“Damn
straight you are.”
“And
it’s better for the boys. Detective hours were so unpredictable. I need to be
there for them. More even than I am, I think.”
“You’re
doing a great job with them, Sam.”
She
smiled at him, and he turned away. He didn’t remember her smile being like that
last time they’d done a stakeout together. He shifted in his seat, ready to
leave.
Sam
leaned her head back and closed her eyes.
He
picked up the crossword again, thinking it was an easy solve compared to the
puzzle sitting next to him. And a hell of a lot easier than fighting his own
reactions when he watched her.
“I’m
terrible at crosswords,” she said, sitting up and glancing over his shoulder.
He
didn’t answer her. He was sure he’d already used all his good answers and there
wasn’t another damn thing he could possibly say without evoking a negative
reaction. Forty-seven down was “billiard shot”—five letters beginning “m-a.” He
smiled and wrote “massé,” thinking about when he used to play pool with the
guys from his uncle’s band. Now, when he saw a billiard table, it was usually
because he was in the local pool hall hauling someone off to jail.
Sam
sighed and rubbed her temples. “How long have we been waiting?”
Nick
shrugged. “About two hours.”
“I
should’ve brought something to do.”
He
looked up, unable to keep from smiling. “You want to help with the puzzle?”
She
shook her head. “I can’t do those things, I swear.” But she pulled the paper
toward her.
He
smelled her cucumber soap and the citrus scent of her shampoo. Alarms squealed
through his head.
Moving
back a safe distance, he dropped the page and pointed to a clue. “How about
‘Tennyson heroine’? Second letter is ‘l’.”
He
watched as she concentrated, remembering when he’d first asked her what perfume
she wore. She had waved her hand and sworn, “Nothing. I can’t stand the stuff.”
And yet she was surrounded by beautiful smells, each of them reminding him that
she didn’t want him—hadn’t wanted him since that one time. And it had not been
enough.
It
had been two and a half years, but he could still remember it clear as day. He
had brought Rob and Derek home late one night after a ball game. They were the
last of six or seven kids he’d taken home, and they had insisted that he come
in to see the latest video game. Sam had tried to get them to bed, but they’d
insisted. “Just one more game.” They’d played for over an hour, until Sam
finally put her foot down and got them into bed.
Nick
had been on his way out. He had never felt awkward with Sam. They had similar
jobs, saw the same things. They’d worked together on cases before Nick had
started coaching Rob’s team. They had the job in common, and they both cared
about Rob and Derek. Maybe Nick cared too much. He had wanted kids of his own,
had thought his wife, Sheila, wanted them too. It hadn’t worked out that way.
Sheila found a man with more money, and she had his kids. Nick always felt
welcome with Derek and Rob, though, like he was helping, but Sam had never
acknowledged it before.
As
he passed through the kitchen, she had stopped him. She had actually touched
his arm and then pulled her hand back as though he’d been on fire.
“Thank
you for being so good with them,” she said.
He’d
never seen anyone look so beautiful. And then she invited him to stay for a cup
of coffee. Just a thank-you, he knew, but he felt the promise of so much more.
She
was making coffee when the phone rang. He never found out who had called. All
he knew was that her face went ashen when she answered it. She dropped the
coffeepot, and the glass shattered on the floor, the hot liquid burning her
legs. But she didn’t move.
The
phone still pressed to one cheek, she stood there, shaking her head and
whispering in the smallest voice he’d ever heard from a grown woman, “No, no,
no.” When he finally rose from the table, the phone was dead.
“What
happened? What’s wrong?”
But
Sam didn’t speak.
She’d
just shaken her head and shivered like a child.
Nick
forgot about getting answers from her. Instead, he cleaned up the broken glass
and took her to her room to change her clothes.
But
instead of changing, she simply sat on the edge of her bed and cried. The
creamy skin of her neck, the scattered freckles that he imagined covered her
breasts and stomach were all vivid in his mind. He tried to get her to talk
about it, to tell him what was wrong, but she refused.
“Just
hold me,” she said.
And
he did. He wrapped his arms around her and she accepted his embrace. He would
have stayed all night—would have stayed a week, if she’d let him. But after
less than ten minutes, she composed herself and showed him to the door. Ten
lousy minutes, and the next time he saw her, it was as though it had never
happened. The wall was back up, and he’d never been able to bring it down
again.
Not
that there hadn’t been other women. He had dated off and on, but he hadn’t
found anyone that he wanted the way he wanted Sam Chase.
And
now they saw even more of each other. They went to the movies, took the boys
out to dinner. Friends, she told him. He wondered if there was a more
depressing word in the English language.
He
moved his head further out the window, wishing for any sort of breeze. Damn, it
was hot.
Sam
grinned. “Elaine.”
He
frowned. “What?”
“Tennyson
heroine—Elaine.” She snatched the pen from his hand and wrote it in. Then,
moving toward him on the seat, she shared the page. “What else?”
Nick
pointed to another one, watching her from the corner of his eye. Her eyes were
a warm sea green, like the Gulf off the coast of Texas. He watched her frown in
concentration as she focused on a problem, then the grin of excitement when she
got it right.
Beneath
the hard, independent exterior, Sam hid the excitement of a child. He watched
her reactions with people. Her eyes wide when people were kind, narrow and
stubborn when the odds were stacked against her. What attracted him most was
her passion for the job. He had seen her go after a scumbag and not let up. And
yet another side of her was soft.
Sometimes
when she looked at him, he would swear that her eyes were scared, maybe even of
him. But before he could understand her, the curtain would fall and he’d be
staring at the strong, hard Sam again.
Surveillance
made him think about the damnedest things. He frowned, trying to push Sam out
of his mind. With her sitting beside him, it was almost impossible. Suddenly he
wished he were alone on the job.
He
rubbed his eyes under the bridge of his sunglasses, pulling them off to massage
the ache he got behind his left eye whenever Sam started to take over his
brain.
He
glanced at the house and wished this stint was over. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe
Sandi Walters wasn’t killed by anyone she knew. Damn if he wasn’t ready to give
up. Sitting in this car with Sam beside him much longer was going to make him
nuts.
He
shifted in his seat and took a drink from the warm Coke on the dash. Just then,
a beat-up brown Toyota Camry passed, followed by a white Buick Skylark. Nick
watched the Skylark pull into Sandi’s driveway.
“Company.”
Sam
dropped the puzzle and they both watched the car.
The
driver, a heavyset man with a beard almost as big as his gut, pulled himself
out of the car and dropped a smoking butt onto Sandi’s brown lawn. With a
glance over his shoulder, he opened the front door and let himself in.
Nick
snatched up the two-way radio. “Three-eleven, this is Thomas. Can you confirm
I.D. ?”
“This
is Three-eleven. That is a negative.”
“It’s
not Mick Walters,” Nick repeated to confirm.
“That’s
correct.”
He
and Sam exchanged a look.
“He
knows them well enough to have a key,” Sam said.
“Not
someone we knew about.”
Sam
raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like someone we ought to talk to.”
“I
agree.” Nick picked up his wireless radio and pressed the black button on the
side to speak. “Check registry on the vehicle.” He repeated the plate number
and said, “Three-six, please stand by to enter the premises.”
He
and Sam waited in silence for a response.
Nick
pulled the search warrant from his pocket. He hoped he wouldn’t need it,
especially since it was still blank. How could he have a judge sign it when he
didn’t know what or who the hell he’d want to search?
“Thomas,
this is dispatch.”
Nick
activated the radio, keeping one eye on the empty car across the street. “I
read you.”
“The
car is registered to a James Lugino, address is listed in the city of
Martinez.”
Nick
made note of the suspect’s name. “Any priors?”
There
was a brief pause. “Charged with possession during a routine traffic stop. He
served ninety hours community service.”
Ninety
hours of community service meant pot. “Mary Jane?”
“Affirmative,”
came the response.
“Big
step from smoking dope to shooting someone up with heroin and then raping and
killing her,” Sam said, pulling her Kevlar vest down over her head and
strapping the heavy Velcro on her left side. She put her holster on over it and
a blazer over the whole ensemble, looking in all her layers like she was about
to head out onto the ski slopes.
Nick
pulled on his own vest. He slid the magazine out of his Glock and checked it.
“Let’s hope for some answers and some damn air conditioning.”
“Wimp.”
He
threw her a scathing look and spoke into the radio again. “Three-eleven, this
is Thomas.”
“Three-eleven
responding.”
“Please
move your vehicle to block the suspect’s and remain in the car for backup. We
will wait for you to be in place before moving in.”
“Yes,
sir,” came the response.
Nick
waited, watching as the unmarked cruiser approached and stopped behind James
Lugino’s car. He saw no movement from within.