B007S2Z1KC EBOK Page 11

  “Might be a good idea,” Matt acknowledged.

  Isaac shook his head.

  “You file a report?” Another shake. Matt wondered if Isaac was in trouble with the law, or in trouble with people who scared him worse than cops. Vipers? His gut clenched at the thought of the gang striking so close to Clare. “You know who did this? Or why?”

  A sidelong look this time before Isaac answered, “N-noo.”

  There was enough hesitation in his voice this time to give Matt some hope. “Okay. You change your mind, you let me know.”

  Isaac nodded. “Thought I’d take that mulch over to the lot on Dennison,” he told Clare.

  “All right,” Clare said, looking worried. “Take George with you to help unload.”

  She waited until he was out of earshot before she rounded on Matt. “That’s it? Is that all you can do?”

  He hated to disappoint her, but the sooner she accepted the reality of his job, and the limits of his abilities, the better. He would ask around, call the department, even look for witnesses. But Supercop was a myth. “Unless he’s willing to admit that an offense took place or give up a motive or identity, yeah.”

  Those wide, considering eyes regarded him a moment longer, and then she nodded abruptly. “All right. Thank you for trying. And for showing up in juvenile court the other day. It meant a lot to Richie, your speaking up for him like that.”

  At her praise, he shifted uncomfortably. “As long as it meant something to the judge.”

  “It did. Without your supervision, I’m sure the judge would have assigned a longer probation.”

  Her candid, warm regard did something funny to the cold, tight places inside him. He’d been better off when she thought he was a shmuck. He shrugged. “Whatever. What about Tyler? He giving you any problems?”

  In court that Monday, Clare had promised the Boothe kid continued “gainful employment,” one of the conditions of his twelve-month probation. Another mistake, in Matt’s opinion, but that time the judge hadn’t listened to him.

  “No,” Clare said firmly. “And he won’t.”

  “Must be nice to be sure.”

  She gave him her Joan of Arc look, and Matt bit back a grin. He didn’t much want to interrogate Isaac or make small talk about Terrible Tyler and his problems, he realized. He wanted to kiss her again.

  “No more vandalism?”

  “Not as much,” she said guardedly. “Having the day care on the lot in the afternoons is helping. And your patrols with the dog. I must watch you go by three times a day.”

  And then she blushed to the tips of her delicate ears, as if she’d just admitted to spying on him naked. Well, well, thought Matt, with masculine satisfaction.

  She looked away. “I’m pretty sure the problems we were having were just caused by kids in need of supervision.”

  He would have envied her positive attitude if he hadn’t been so certain it was going to get her hurt. “Not delinquents in need of the business end of a hairbrush?”

  That brought her head back around. “My parents never spanked me.”

  He snorted. “Probably afraid you’d break. There were three big boys in our family.”

  “And your father hit you with a brush?” She sounded scandalized.

  With an effort, he kept the amusement from his voice. “Naw. Dad used the flat of his hand, always. Mom used the brush.”

  “My parents—” She stopped.

  Something in that bright, well-brought-up face nagged at him. Cop’s instincts. Something was eating her.

  “Your parents...” he prompted.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Probably not,” he agreed. “So why not tell me?”

  “Oh...” She ran slender fingers through her hair. “My parents didn’t believe in corporal punishment. Mother would just get this displeased look on her face, and Daddy would go on and on at the dinner table in this very low voice about how disappointed he was, and I’d want to die.”

  She’d done the expected thing all her life, she said. And it hadn’t been enough for her. He studied her straight, gallant little figure, the lines of laughter around her mouth and the sadness in her eyes, and had to jam his hands in his back pockets to keep from touching her.

  “I’d rather get belted,” he said.

  He saw the shock pass quickly across her face and then her eyes danced.

  “Yes,” she said. “So would I.”

  Matt looked over her head at the curving red rows of clay and the green shoots pushing through the earth. He tried to fit her presence in the neighborhood with what he knew of her background, with the indefinable privilege that still clung to her posture and voice. It didn’t square.

  “So how do your folks feel about their daughter digging in the dirt in southeast Buchanan?”

  “They hate it,” she answered promptly. “They think I’m throwing my life away on these kids.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “No.” Her voice was so low, he had to bend to hear. “This project is my life now. These kids are my reason for living.”

  The funny crack she’d opened in his chest yawned into a chasm that threatened to swallow him whole. Matt stepped back in alarm. He tried for a teasing reply, but it came out more harshly than he intended. “If you can call what you’re doing living.”

  Her eyes narrowed at his attempted humor. “Do you want to explain that remark or take it back?”

  He almost apologized. That alone told him how far gone he was. “Well, look at you.” He gestured. “You hide yourself in jeans and T-shirts. You won’t date. You don’t drink too much. You spend your time with a preschool class, a bunch of ex-cons, a minister and an eleven-year-old boy. Your life might as well be over.”

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wanted to kick himself.

  Clare stared down her nose at him like Saint Joan finding something nasty on the bottom of her shoe. “I’ll have you know my life is fine. Full. Perfect.”

  “Yeah? What are you doing this Saturday night?”

  “Why? Are you asking me out?”

  He wanted to. He fought the ricochet of panic. He was crummy at this relationship stuff. “I could be.”

  “Too bad. Because I can’t go.”

  “Why not?” he asked, figuring she deserved the chance to tell him what a jerk he was.

  But she was too good for that. “I have plans, as a matter of fact.”

  “What? You going to do your laundry? Wash your hair?”

  “I’m going out, as a matter of fact.”

  He started to feel an entirely different sort of panic. “With a man?”

  “Isn’t that usual on a date?”

  “I don’t know what the hell is usual for you. I thought you weren’t interested in a relationship.”

  “Maybe I’ve changed my mind.”

  His body sat up and took notice. His heart began to pound in time with the throbbing in his thigh. Wresting his mind from the image of Clare’s bright, intelligent eyes cloudy with desire, he asked cautiously, “What kind of relationship?”

  She looked flustered. Looked away.

  He smiled, in tenderness and bitter amusement. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. You’re a nice girl, sugar. You’ve got girlfriend written all over you.”

  The chin went up. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting a relationship based on shared goals, shared feelings, and good communication.”

  Nothing wrong except that he’d never been able to pull it off. “What about sex?”

  She shook her head impatiently. “I’m talking about a partnership.”

  “Sugar, the nicest thing about having a partner is you don’t have to talk about feelings. Your partner’s been there. Your partner already knows.”

  “You’re talking about your job. Your partner was a man.”

  “Exactly.”

  She pulled herself up to her full height. She maybe reached his armpit. “Are you telling me you couldn’t be partners with a woman?”


  Matt wasn’t sure any more what he was telling her. He liked her so much, her big ideas and soft heart and fighting spirit. He didn’t want her to waste herself on a guy like him. But he didn’t want her thinking he was a total male chauvinist pig, either.

  “No. There are some really good female detectives in the department. Marge Martinez, Shirley Dickson—I’d be proud to call either one of them my partner. It’s different when it’s someone you work with.”

  “Did you ever date one of them?”

  “Yeah,” he retorted. “I tried for a while with Shirley. I figured she’d understand about the job.”

  Her face softened slightly. “And?”

  He kneaded the back of his neck. “And she broke it off. Said we were too much alike or something.”

  “But other women would understand. If you’d explain to them, talk to them...”

  He was no damn good at it. Every time he’d tried, and he’d tried plenty, he’d failed. Sooner or later, the Marcias and the Kimberlys tossed the whole litany of complaints at his head: he was cold, he was controlling, he was preoccupied, he was a selfish bastard. Eventually, he’d stopped expecting any woman to put up with him, to put up with the late nights and broken dates and his moods coming down from a bad case. He tried to make a joke of it.

  “Sugar, the last thing I want to do off duty with an attractive woman is talk.”

  Without meaning to, he’d hit a nerve. Her shoulders were proudly straight, her chin militantly firm. But there was a world of hurt in those grave, clear eyes, and her soft mouth trembled before she pressed her lips together.

  “Don’t let me keep you, then,” she said. “I’ve got to get back to work.”

  And she pivoted on her heel and marched down the tidy rows of tiny green plants, leaving him staring after her.

  Chapter 8

  Matt might be no damn good at the personal relationship stuff, but he knew how to run an investigation. He left Clare’s lot determined to discover who was behind the attack on Isaac.

  Most assaults stemmed from obvious motives: jealousy or gain or revenge. Questioning Isaac’s neighbors quickly established that the crew chief lived alone and kept to himself so it wasn’t jealousy. He didn’t own enough to make robbery the most probable motive, and he clearly knew his assailant, so it wasn’t a case of mistaken identity. Either Isaac had witnessed or interrupted a crime, or the motive was revenge.

  It had taken one quick phone call to find a past association between Clare’s crew chief and the Vipers, and the better part of an afternoon to find a witness, a box boy at the overpriced corner grocery two blocks from Clare’s.

  “I don’t want trouble,” the kid kept insisting, his eyes sliding away from Matt’s. “I didn’t really see anything. Just that the four guys were talking before they went into the alley, and three of them were mad.”

  But he identified Isaac’s navy knit cap, and the gang colors of his assailants. It was enough for Matt to call Stewart.

  “Appreciate it, Sergeant,” the beat officer said. “But if the victim won’t come forward... You want a search of the crime scene?”

  “Done,” Matt said briefly. He’d kept his field kit with him.

  Stewart chuckled. “Once a detective, huh, Sergeant? What did you get?”

  Matt checked his notes. “Scuff marks, no footprints. Blood, no hair. I’m bringing in a sample, but I’m guessing it belongs to the victim. No fibers, no buttons, no weapon. Looking at his face, I’d say this was fists, anyway.”

  “So, what can I do for you?”

  “I need an ID. I’ve got a description of a black male, late twenties, medium build, with an arm tattoo. Anybody you know?”

  Stewart swore. “The tattoo...hooded viper, left arm?”

  Anticipation kicked through Matt’s system. “Snake on the left arm. Yeah.”

  “Maybe Eddie Boothe,” Stewart said. “Released about a month ago. He’ll be looking to reestablish himself on the street. I can put you in touch with his parole officer.”

  “I want to bring him in,” Matt said. “Noncustodial witness. I want to talk to him.”

  ***

  “He’s got an alibi,” Stewart reported in disgust, coming out of the interview room. “You sure your victim won’t cooperate?”

  “I’m working on it,” Matt said. “How tight’s the alibi?”

  “Tight enough. Claims he was with his girlfriend. She corroborates. Without physical evidence...”

  “Understood.” Matt was an officer of the law, sworn to uphold it. He might want to lock this yahoo up and throw away the key, but without some evidence to tie him to the crime, Eddie Boothe would walk.

  Tension coiled inside Matt as he entered the small, bleak room. The air was stale with cigarette smoke. Used butts floated in a foam cup on the table.

  Boothe lounged back, his chair tipped on its rear legs. He stared insolently at Matt. “Can I go now?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You got no call to keep me. I ain’t been charged with nothing.”

  “Not yet,” Matt agreed. He strolled forward, keeping his hands in his pockets so he wouldn’t be tempted to slug the guy. “What do you know about the Neighborhood Garden Project, Eddie?”

  “Nothing.”

  Matt hadn’t expected to hear different. “How about Isaac Mills?”

  Eddie fingered the writhing gold snake that dangled from his right earlobe. In prison, Matt knew, it would have been a symbol of his status, announcing to the initiated that he was a man to avoid, a man you didn’t mess with. “I know lots of people.”

  “Yeah? Give me some names.”

  Boothe was silent.

  “Who do you know at the project? You’ve got to know somebody,” Matt said, probing for a response. “Your cousin works there, doesn’t he?”

  That earned him a glare, but didn’t produce a name. Matt needed names to protect Clare. He strolled closer to the tipped up chair. “Come on, Eddie. Prison take away your memory? Or just your nerve?”

  Dark eyes gleamed with malice and something else. “I know the garden lady. Candy ass Clare Harmon. Like to get to know her better. A lot better.”

  Anger geysered inside Matt. His foot connected with the back of Eddie’s chair. It toppled. With a yelp, Eddie pumped his arms in the air to right himself. The chair’s front legs crashed to the floor.

  “You want to watch yourself,” Matt advised softly, dangerously. “You’re putting yourself in a real bad position, Eddie."

  “You got no call to threaten me.”

  Matt raised his eyebrows. “I’m just warning you about your posture, Eddie. It’s not safe to lean back like that.”

  “You want to talk safety? You watch your back on my turf, Mr. Police Sergeant.”

  “It’s my turf now,” Matt said. It was true. He was becoming invested in that crummy neighborhood. “I moved in right across the street from Mrs. Harmon’s lot.” He stepped up, lowered his voice. “Now, let me tell you something. You touch her, you come near her, you even look in her general direction, and I’m coming after you. And I’ll take off my badge before I do it. Are we clear?”

  “Crystal.” The voice hissed disdain, but the insolent gaze dropped.

  Matt stepped back, satisfied he’d made his point. Maybe he couldn’t make Clare happy, but he could try to keep her safe. “Fine. Don’t let me see you around, Eddie.”

  ***

  Clare dug through the dry-cleaning bags at the back of her closet. The silk-and-sequined relics of her life as an attorney’s wife rustled like the ghosts of Christmas Parties Past.

  What had she been thinking? In less than twenty minutes, one of her late husband’s ex-colleagues was coming to escort her to the mayor’s annual law enforcement fundraiser. She must have been out of her mind.

  Although Gary Shepard hadn’t seemed to think so, she reassured herself. Maybe he’d been surprised to hear from her after she’d turned down all his invitations two years ago, but he was already planning on going to the
mayor’s event. No, he assured her, he didn’t have a date. It was more a business than a social occasion, wasn’t it? A chance to network, to buttonhole opposing counsel or cozy up to an elusive city councilman. Clare understood, didn’t she?

  Clare, gripping the phone, had breathed a sigh of relief and congratulated herself again on thinking of blond, divorced Gary. She understood perfectly. For the past three years, she’d gone alone to the mayor’s function for the exact same reasons, to bend the ears of Buchanan’s elite on behalf of her project.

  There was nothing wrong with wanting a relationship based on shared goals, shared feelings, and good communication. She had so much more in common with Gary than with Matt. At least with Gary she wouldn’t have this rolling feeling in her stomach all the time, like an acrobat attempting high aerial maneuvers without a net.

  Matt’s challenge popped into her mind. What about sex?

  She rattled the hangers to drown him out, reviewing her options. The red dress was too revealing, the purple one made her look like an eggplant, and the basic black lacked punch. Damn it. She was too old to be fussing over what to wear like a ninth grader going to her first high school dance.

  Matt’s dark voice mocked her. You hide yourself in jeans and T-shirts.

  Her mouth set. She pulled out the last hanger. Filmy blue plastic floated to the bedroom floor as she uncovered a long-sleeved ivory gown. Perfectly plain, its appeal lay in the drape of the bias-cut silk over what little curves she possessed.

  It would do, she decided, and began to dress.

  She was ready with time to spare.

  Clare paced her tiny living room, unsteady in her unaccustomed heels, even shakier now that the moment had come and she was actually going out with a man for the first time since Paul’s death. Dinner in the kitchen didn’t count, she decided. Her palms were sweating. She resisted the impulse to wipe them on the ivory silk of her skirt.

  Not with just any man, she reminded herself. With Gary, corporate lawyer extraordinaire, who’d attended Paul’s funeral and helped settle his affairs. She was safe with Gary. With Gary she wouldn’t feel the absurd highs and lows, the zings and tingles, that infected her in Matt’s presence. With Gary she could pick up the strands of her life.