Forever Mine (31 page)

“Right now I need to leave you alone when it’s the last thing I want to do. You should have someone here with you after what you’ve been through tonight. That person should be me, but it can’t happen, not tonight when it’s most important. By now you should have a pretty clear picture of my life.”

“I don’t need handholding.”

He buttoned his coat. “Look, let’s just leave it alone. When you’ve had time to think, you’ll realize I’m right. Tomorrow—or rather this morning—you’re leaving for Cabo. When you return home, you’ll have a different perspective.”

He fished in his pocket and came up with her house key. He laid it on the table.

Allie recognized the finality of the gesture and knew she had no choice but to accept it.

“Sure.” She kept her comment short, not trusting her emotions.

“Okay,” he said, his tone weary. Then he turned and walked out of the room.

She waited until his footsteps receded and the front door closed before she slumped onto a kitchen chair. The overhead light swept away the night’s gloom but could not relieve the emptiness that filled her heart. She folded her hands in her lap. Exhaustion drained her of energy, and she couldn’t imagine rising from the chair, undressing and going to bed. The simple act of movement seemed impossible. With everything that swirled through her head, she’d spend a sleepless night. If it wasn’t so late, and if she thought it would lighten her spirits, she’d put on her running shoes and do a few turns around the block. But since she deemed exercise beyond her, she sat and let her thoughts punish her mind.

On the same night, she’d won a highly coveted spot in the Designorama finals and lost Ben. One held the promise of a bright future, the other an unfulfilled longing. What were the odds?

Factor in a serial killer and the odds became astronomical. Well, she hit two out of three: a coveted chance to prove her talent and maybe someday produce her own fashion line, and she’d cheated death. That would send most women over the moon. Most. Not her. Not now. She’d spend that night, and countless others, wondering how she was going to make it through the rest of her life without Ben.

Chapter Forty-Four

Ben sat on the deck of the houseboat with his legs dangling over the stern. His fishing pole lay beside him, the baited line submerged somewhere below the still surface of the lake. A nearby bucket held two fish, which, along with the few his father had caught, would comprise the major part of their dinner.

If only he had an appetite. From the moment he’d walked out of Allie’s kitchen, the best he could muster was a few bites at breakfast and dinner. Lunch was a distant recollection. He tried to reconcile eating so sparingly with his success at losing the few pounds he’d put on sitting in the torture chair at Allie’s bedroom window.

He had finally fulfilled his promise and carved three days out of his vacation time to take his father fishing. Thompson had decamped with his family to Disneyland, and there was no excuse for Ben to avoid providing Martin with a few days of companionship. He’d weighed sunshine and fresh air alongside the prospect of hanging around at home, and chose fishing in hopes of nudging his mental health back on track.

Once they hit the lake, though, and the solitude pressed in on him, he realized a ball game, even a trip to the gym, or a movie—activities he routinely put off—would have better served his mood. But his father’s humor had improved considerably with the break from the monotony of his daily existence. For that reason, Ben was glad he’d suggested the outing. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the best company. Blessed with an outgoing personality and usually as verbal as he was physical, he’d become almost taciturn.

“How’s it going back here?”

Ben glanced up to find his father standing beside him, and shrugged. “I guess they’re not biting as much today from this end.”

“How about a cold beer? You’ve been nursing the same one all afternoon.” Martin had periodically left the canvas chair he’d positioned at the bow to check on Ben’s progress. Although the temperature hovered in the low seventies, Martin wore long pants, a sweatshirt and brimmed hat to protect him from the sun. He picked up Ben’s mostly empty bottle, now warm to the touch, and dumped the contents overboard.

“No thanks, Dad. I’ll wait until later.”

The sun was somewhat harsher than Ben had expected. That, along with the alcohol, had left him uncharacteristically lethargic. At least the sun and the beer were good excuses. Deep down, he knew there was another reason, but had determined not to venture there. Best to permanently close down the memory of his last night with Allie and bury it so deep it stood no chance of a resurrection.

Martin leaned against the hip-high side railing. “Your last case must have really ground you down. I remember, from when I was on the force, how surveillance was often more exhausting than an outside investigation. At least that’s how I saw it.”

From the time Ben first mentioned his assignment, Martin continued to show a natural curiosity about the case. To satisfy him, Ben had reiterated the sequence of events starting with the call from the Seattle police alerting San Francisco PD to Barnett’s intention to connect with Allie. Also, the phone conversations during which she was forced to encourage meeting him and Barnett’s showing up at the competition. Whatever he had told his dad, including Jimmy having copied Barnett right down to the
Forever Mine
heart and lying in wait for Allie, had captured and held Martin’s full attention.

The recitation ended with the same scenario: Jimmy with his hands on Allie and Ben with the barrel of his gun jammed into the back of Jimmy’s skull. More than once, over the past week, he asked himself if Allie hadn’t been directly in his line of fire, would he have pulled the trigger? However, barring surrendering his ethics, he’d never have done anything to further terrorize her. Nor had he wanted to leave her with that one last impression of him. Giving in to wanton violence would have marked him as being no better than Dave and Jimmy. Instead, what he left her with was his impression of a white knight galloping to a damsel’s rescue only to later run the lady through with his trusty lance.

Ben hadn’t wanted to talk about the case, since hardly any aspect of it didn’t involve mentioning Allie.

“The department will probably give you another commendation,” Martin said.

Ben slapped at a mosquito that lit on his upper arm. “Nah. I don’t want recognition. Be nice if a raise came my way instead.”

“At least you had the satisfaction of closing out the case. A few more days and you’ll be back at the station house and on to another one.”

Ben resettled his cap, pulled the bill down to further block out more of the sun. Was closing cases all that comprised his life? The answer roared at him. Yes, and it didn’t present a cheery picture. Worse, his present gloomy situation was one of his own choosing.

Martin picked up the bucket. “Why don’t I take these fish inside and start cleaning them along with the ones I caught? How about if later we put them on the grill over a low fire?” A Hibachi sat on a small weather-beaten table at the stern.

“Sounds good, Dad.” Ben reeled in his line and rose to his feet. He propped his rod against the cabin wall, rethought the offer of another beer and shelved it. Under the late afternoon sun, the lake’s surface sparkled with a silvery sheen. A water skier seemed to glide effortlessly behind a speed boat. The roar of the motor slashed through the quiet. The wake rippled toward the houseboat but waned enough so only gentle waves lapped against the side. A few pleasure craft plied the far end of the lake. Ben removed his cap, folded it in half and shoved it into his back pocket.

For a moment, his mind stilled. He stared down at the water and briefly closed his eyes. Then he left the deck and entered the cabin. Martin had prepared enough fish to satisfy a quartet of hungry sailors.

“Doing a great job.” Ben headed toward the bedroom he shared with his father and where he kept his iPhone. He scooped the cell off the nightstand, turned it on, pulled up the menu and fingered the icons. When he found what he wanted, he tapped in a few strokes.

Chapter Forty-Five

Space at the El Toreador Resort restaurant and bar was jammed with revelers by nine o’clock Friday night. People perched like roosting birds on the wood railing that ringed the venue’s three open sides. Waving pesos, a crush of people stood three deep at the long mahogany slab where a trio of bartenders filled orders for tropical drinks and Mexican beer. Ceiling fixtures spilled light from bulbs sheathed in perforated tin shades; candle flames flickered inside glass chimneys that sat on the bare wood tables. Waiters, balancing trays heavy with food and drinks, navigated the limited space. A three piece mariachi band roamed the room and added to the lively atmosphere.

Allie had drifted to a side railing to avoid being trampled by the ever-swelling crowd. She sat on the rail with her back to a sturdy roof support. The cloudless night and full moon shed brilliant light over the calm sea and added to the tropical ambiance of swaying palms and scented jacaranda blossoms. Countless stars pricked the sky.

Since arriving in Cabo, the sights had failed to awe her as they had her friends. She lay on the beach without truly enjoying the sun and ate without fully tasting the flavors of the rich, spicy food. Tonight, after dinner, she’d already consumed one pina colada and was working on a second. Even the rum-laced drinks failed to rise above the ordinary. So as not to put a damper on the festivities, she buried her ennui under a false lightheartedness.

At the airport, she read the
Chronicle’s
lead story det
a
iling the disaster that had unfolded at Designorama. A photographer captured Dave bursting through the curtain and into the dressing area. Another shot caught Ben vaulting up onto the runway after him. The accompanying article recounted something of Dave and Jimmy’s sordid history. As yet, there was no mention of her connection to them. She wondered if, eventually, a reporter would stumble onto Jimmy’s capture inside her house and dig until the story’s every detail aired.

A mariachi band serenaded a nearby table then moved on to another. The restaurant was very noisy and, for once, the commotion suited Allie. She welcomed the distraction since it made it difficult to think. The few disjointed thoughts she’d cobbled together usually scattered like sand in the wind. She sipped her pina colada, anxious for the night to end. Tomorrow, she’d return home.

She had insisted upon paying for her own drinks in an effort to discourage the man standing in front of her. Her bent knees kept him at a two-foot distance. Tall and tan, with a shock of dark hair, he’d zeroed in on her almost from the moment she’d attached herself to the rail. Other than admitting to her name, she’d said little while making a pretense of listening to him rattle on about himself. She wanted to tell him he was wasting his time, but couldn’t find the right words, words that wouldn’t sting. Because she’d been rejected was no reason to inflict hurt on another person. She thought it best to wait for an opening then politely excuse herself.

Three men formed a loose circle around Michaela who attracted them like hummingbirds to nectar. The occasional glance she cast toward Allie was meant to encourage her to enjoy the masculine company. She alone knew about Allie’s heartache over Ben. Sarah and Jen were somewhere in the crowd, probably hoping to make a connection. Jen’s Frenchman had dropped
le bombe
that he was relocating to New York without her to open a new restaurant, and Sarah had failed to connect with her student’s father.

“…been to Chicago?”

“What? Oh, I’m sorry. Chicago?” Allie said. “No, I’ve never been there.”

The man rambled on about the wonders of the great city. Allie caught snatches, nodded her head, pretending interest, while her mind searched for plausible excuses to disengage from him. Over his shoulder, she made eye contact with Michaela, but her silent “rescue me” plea bore no fruit.

“…spring and fall are best…the lake…great weather…”

Allie’s gaze shifted back to Michaela who jabbed the air with a finger and pointed toward the center of the room. Allie frowned, mouthed, “What?”

A moment later someone tapped Mr. Chicago on the shoulder and said, “Okay, pal, move it along now. We don’t want any trouble here.”

Ben.

Allie jerked is surprise, sloshing pina colada over the rim of her glass.

“Hey.” Crowded by Ben, the man took a step back. “What do you think you’re doing? Get away from me.”

Ben nailed him with his cop glare, reached into his pocket and pulled out his ID wallet. He flipped it open to display his gold detective’s badge, which he held six inches from Mr. Chicago’s face. “This is police business,” he said. “I’d advise you to cooperate.”

“Wha…”

“Do you know this woman?” Ben jerked his head toward Allie.

Deep furrows cut into Allie’s brow. She winced.

“Uh…wait…wait a minute…” Confusion mingled with alarm in the man’s dark eyes.

Bewilderment clouded Allie’s brain. What was Ben doing there? Had Dave escaped from police custody? She clamped a hand to her chest to still her racing heart.

“Maybe I should ask you a few questions before I move on to her.” Ben pocketed his ID. “Or maybe I won’t bother with an interrogation right now. I’ll just take you along when I haul her in.”

“No.” Panic skirted along the edges of the man’s eyes at the prospect of a Mexican jail. He shook his head hard enough for his hair to fly in every direction. “I swear I don’t know her. We only met a few minutes ago.”

He backed away.

“Whatever she did, I had no part in it,” He said then turned and bolted into the crowd.

Ben waited a moment before facing Allie. “Nice guy,” he said in a tone laced with sarcasm.

Allie pulled in a deep breath and held it so long she became lightheaded. She waited for Ben to say something, but he remained mute. At least his stern cop persona gave way and his expression softened. His eyes swept over her face. He took her mostly empty glass and set it on the floor. Allie wiped her sticky fingers on her white shorts.