B007S2Z1KC EBOK Page 22

  She wasn’t sure she could survive loving and losing Matt.

  ***

  The phone’s shrill summons was both a premonition of danger and an uncomfortable reminder of the night before.

  Matt frowned. “You want to get that?”

  Clare sighed against his chest. “Not really.” She lifted herself on one elbow, reaching across him for the receiver. “Hello.”

  “Clare, this is Letitia Johnson?”

  Some of Matt’s tension eased away as he recognized the voice of Richie’s grandmother. A lifetime of slights and small humiliations had stamped the older woman’s speech, so that most of her sentences came out as questions, with an interrogative lift at the end.

  “Mrs. Johnson, hi,” Clare said warmly. “How are you?”

  “Well, not too well. I was hoping you maybe could tell me where my Richie is?”

  Clare sat up in bed, tucking the receiver tight against her ear so Matt couldn’t hear any more. “Excuse me?”

  Matt observed her face. He didn’t trust that tone of voice. He didn’t like the twin lines of worry that formed between her brows or the set of her mouth. Oh, she got her voice under control soon enough, making soft, encouraging noises into the phone, but her face gave her away.

  Trouble, he thought.

  She hung up, running her fingers through her hair.

  “What?” he asked.

  She reached for the soft blanket crumpled at the foot of the bed. With regret, Matt watched her cover herself, her slim, pale body disappearing under blue folds.

  “It’s Richie. He’s missing. He never showed for his court counselor appointment at three, and he didn’t come home for dinner.”

  Uneasiness stirred his gut. He attempted to ignore it, for Clare’s sake. “He’ll be okay. He’s probably at a friend’s.”

  “He would have called,” she insisted, wrapping the blanket more tightly around her.

  Hell, Matt thought. Right now his first concern was protecting Clare. Between her stubborn disregard for her own safety and the warm, confused tangle of his own feelings, the job was tough enough. His prized objectivity had flown out the window. He’d never been this way with a woman before. He’d never felt this way for a woman before.

  But Richie... Matt rubbed his jaw. He was fond of the kid. The kid was important to Clare. And since his walks with the dog had been curtailed, Richie had seemed eager to prove his reliability. He wouldn’t have broken the conditions of his probation without good reason.

  “Miz Johnson...has she notified the police?” he asked.

  “No. She told the court counselor he was sick.” Clare made a face, acknowledging his unspoken criticism. “I know. But she’s scared, Matt.”

  “She’d rather see him in trouble with the Vipers than the police?”

  “She just doesn’t want to see him arrested again.”

  “I guess I could give Joe Stewart a call.”

  “Won’t that mean telling him Richie violated probation?”

  She was too softhearted for her own good.

  “He has violated probation,” Matt felt compelled to remind her.

  Clare just looked at him expectantly. He could no more resist her than he could fly to the moon, and that worried him more than Richie’s situation.

  “What do you want me to do?” he asked.

  “Go find him.”

  Right.

  He drew in his breath at the confidence shining in her eyes. “Clare, he could be anywhere.”

  “Not really. He’s not at school, he’s not at home, and he’s not here.”

  “Exactly,” Matt said grimly. “Anywhere. I’m not leaving you alone while I search half the city for an eleven-year-old kid who’s probably snuck into some movie theater.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Because I love you.

  He almost said it. The words burst so loudly in his brain he was afraid for a moment he’d spoken them out loud. Because the thought of taking you out on the streets with me, of exposing you to some thug with a gun, is more than I can stand.

  He expelled a lungful of air. He wasn’t ready to say those things to her yet. He wasn’t prepared to deal with the risk to his own professional detachment or the danger to Clare’s carefully achieved peace. But there were other, more tangible threats he could protect her from.

  “It’s too dangerous, that’s all.”

  She made a dismissive sound. “We wouldn’t have to go far. Just around the neighborhood.”

  She was in her Joan of Arc mode again, he saw, and smiled even as he shook his head.

  “Come on,” she coaxed. “You’ve got to walk the dog anyway. We’ll just keep our eyes open.”

  “You’re pushing it, sugar.”

  “You know it, cowboy.”

  God, she was stubborn. And brave and concerned and determined to do the right thing. There might have been some man somewhere who could refuse her, with her eyes like a saint’s and that blue blanket falling off her shoulders, but it sure as hell wasn’t him.

  “Once around the block,” he stipulated. “And back before dark.”

  Her smile broke over him like sunshine.

  ***

  Nearly home, Matt thought with relief, watching the shadows between the buildings, counting his steps.

  And never stopped to ask himself when Clare’s house had become home.

  They’d seen no sign of Richie, although when they stopped at the convenience store one of the corner regulars thought he remembered seeing the boy go by with Tyler Boothe.

  “Appreciate it,” Matt said as they turned away.

  “No problem.” The man hesitated, blowing out smoke from a cigarette. “My wife says you got the electricity turned back on in our building last week.”

  Matt remembered. He’d met the woman on patrol. “Yeah?”

  The regular shrugged. “It’s not so bad, having a cop live down the street.”

  Quiet satisfaction stole through him. “Thanks.”

  Trigger strained against the leash. Matt allowed the dog to pull him along the sidewalk, conscious of Clare’s bright look beside him.

  “Well, that was lucky,” she remarked.

  “Not lucky. He knew me, so he could talk to me. That’s the purpose behind putting police into the neighborhood.”

  She raised her eyebrows, but there was no real challenge in her face, only warm approbation. “Becoming an advocate for the program, Matt?”

  “Yeah,” he said slowly, surprising himself. “I guess I am.

  She tucked her arm in his. “So, what do we do now?”

  Matt frowned. “Let’s check on Tyler’s whereabouts, since the boys were seen together. Though I’m warning you, Clare, if we don’t catch up with Richie soon, we’ve got to call his probation officer.”

  She nodded, accepting that. “I have a home number. I can call Tyler’s dad.”

  “Fine. And check again with Miz Johnson, see if—” Matt froze.

  Foreboding flooded Clare. “What is it?”

  “Stay here.”

  Thrusting the leash at her, Matt took off across the darkening street in long, loping strides that favored his stiff right leg. Trigger barked and lunged after him. Jerked half off her feet, Clare temporarily lost sight of Matt.

  “Damn it, dog!” She stumbled, yanking at the leash. Trigger subsided, doggy face anxious and confused. Clare could sympathize. Gripping the strap tighter, she looked across the street for Matt.

  In the alley along a squat row of brick town houses, beside a brown spray-painted Dumpster, Matt loomed over his target. Clare recognized the death’s head T-shirt and razor-shaved blond head of the teen slouching against the wall.

  Tyler Boothe.

  Shortening the leash, she hurried across the road.

  “...don’t need to tell you nothing, man,” Tyler was saying. Matt crowded a step closer, still not touching the boy. “But maybe you want to,” he suggested.
<
br />   Tyler responded in a spate of ugly words.

  “Tyler Boothe!” Clare planted her hands on her hips.

  The strap bit into her wrist as Trigger jumped for the teen’s legs. Clare relaxed the leash, satisfied when Tyler dropped his defiant posture under the dog’s enthusiastic onslaught, petting and pushing its head away as the thin tail whipped back and forth.

  Beside her, she felt a degree of tension leave Matt’s big body.

  “We’ve been looking all over for you,” she scolded. “Where’s Richie?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Sure you do,” Matt said.

  Tyler shot him a baleful look.

  Gently, Clare intervened. “We’ve been worried about you. Richie missed an appointment this afternoon. Is he in trouble?”

  Tyler shuffled. “Don’t know.”

  Her heart squeezed. “Meaning, maybe?”

  He was silent.

  “Where’d you leave him?” Matt asked.

  Tyler looked down. Away. Anywhere but at the two grownups questioning him.

  Clare bit her lip in frustration, worry knotting her chest.

  “We know you were with him,” Matt said calmly. “Somebody saw you. So, where did you take him? Willard’s?”

  “It weren’t my fault. He wanted to come.”

  Clare could believe it. Tyler was older, dangerous, glamorous. A visit to the abandoned drugstore where the Vipers hung out would have seemed a sign of acceptance, an incredibly cool adventure. Eleven-year-old Richie had probably begged to go along. And had no idea how to handle things when he got there.

  “So, he’s still there,” she said, carefully making it a statement, not a question Tyler would feel forced to deny.

  The teen shrugged. Yes.

  She turned to Matt in appeal. It felt so natural to turn to him for support she barely registered her growing dependence. “We need to go.”

  “No.”

  “Matt—”

  “You’re not going anywhere.”

  “But Richie—”

  “Richie should have known he was walking into trouble.” Matt turned back to Tyler, slumped against the dirty brick wall. “Who else is there?”

  He looked away. “Nobody.”

  “Then why did Richie stay?”

  No answer.

  “I’ll call Stewart,” Matt told Clare. “He can check it out.”

  “No.” She gripped his arm. “I want to go.”

  “You’re going home.”

  “You have no right....” She met his eyes, black, level, demanding, and sighed. Some rights, it appeared, she’d surrendered with her heart. She couldn’t deliberately place herself in unnecessary danger, knowing what her carelessness could cost Matt. But she wouldn’t abandon Richie, either.

  “All right,” she conceded. “But you go. Richie knows you.”

  “He knows Stewart, too.”

  “Officer Stewart arrested him. Please, Matt.”

  Tyler shifted along the wall. Matt stopped him with a look.

  “I’m not leaving you unprotected,” he said, turning back to Clare.

  “I’ve got the dog,” she offered with a tentative smile.

  Trigger sat at Tyler’s feet, tongue lolling happily.

  “Some protection,” Matt said. He rubbed the back of his neck.

  Clare waited, willing him to see things her way.

  “Okay,” he said at last. “You go home. I’ll call for backup. We wait for Stewart. He sticks with you, and I’ll go after Richie and haul his sorry little butt home.”

  Clare wiped her palms along the thighs of her jeans. “Shouldn’t Officer Stewart go with you? In case there’s trouble.”

  “It won’t be anything I can’t handle. Besides, according to Tyler, here, we don’t have any particular reason to think Richie’s in a fix. We know you are.”

  Clare shook her head impatiently. “I’m fine. I’m more worried about Richie.”

  And you, she added silently. But she couldn’t tell Matt that. He didn’t want the burden of her concern.

  Chapter 15

  “Coffee?” Clare offered, turning from the kitchen counter.

  Officer Stewart hitched up his belt and sat down. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

  The patrolman had arrived within minutes of Matt’s call. Clare had watched in quiet appreciation as the two policemen conferred, determining without any show or fuss what needed to be done. Matt took off moments later.

  Strangely, Tyler lingered. He’d even volunteered to feed the dog and hook him to the lead by the shed. After the teenager had trailed the dog outside, Officer Stewart looked to Clare with an inquiring frown.

  “He works for me,” she explained defensively, but Tyler’s unexpected cooperation bewildered her, too.

  Stewart took a sip of coffee, brown eyes concerned. “Isn’t he the one got your other boy in a scrape?”

  Clare sighed. “Yes. Twice. But I think he’s sorry this time, or he would have left.”

  “Boothe, isn’t it? Tyler Boothe?”

  “That’s right.” Clare perched in the chair opposite, irresistibly reminded of Matt sitting at this same kitchen table, drinking coffee, turning the orange mug in his large, capable hands. Matt, looking up with his wicked grin and dark, knowing eyes. Matt, whose terse style and tough physique couldn’t disguise his moral strength and generous heart.

  “Sure be interesting to hear what his cousin has to say about all this.”

  Memory fled as cold slithered down Clare’s spine to coil in her stomach like a snake. “His cousin? Eddie Boothe? Do you think he’s involved?”

  “Matt does. He even suggested we question him regarding the attack on Reverend Carter, but Boothe’s been real hard to find today.” Stewart smiled. “So, if Matt doesn’t pick Eddie up at Willard’s, we ought to be able to get him for parole violation, at least.”

  Oh, lordy, Clare thought helplessly, and then amended it to more formal prayer. Please, God. Knowing Matt was headed to the Vipers’ hangout was bad enough. She didn’t want to think of him walking into a confrontation with Eddie Boothe. What if her husband’s killer was at Willard’s? What if Richie wasn’t?

  “Here,” Stewart said suddenly. “Don’t you worry. The sergeant can take care of himself.”

  Clare smiled ruefully. “It shows, huh?”

  “Some. My wife bakes.”

  She blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “When Millie’s worried, she bakes to fill the time ’til I get home—cookies, brownies, pies.” Stewart patted the slight bulge above his belt. “Biggest danger I’m in is from overeating.”

  Despite her worry, Clare was grateful for the officer’s attempt at comfort. “I’m not used to waiting. I’m not sure I’ve got what it takes to cope.”

  “Now, why would you say that?”

  Even to Matt’s friend and fellow officer, Clare could not unburden her fear. Lightly, she said, “Well, for one thing, I can’t cook.”

  Stewart patted her hand. “You’ll do. You’re a brave lady. And there’s nothing going to happen to Sergeant Dunn.”

  ***

  The streetlight over Willard’s was out.

  Matt swore. He was getting too old for this crap. Let some young and hungry rookie spend his Sunday nights on patrol. Matt wanted to be home.

  He sat in the truck, considering. Could be the light bulb had burned out. The strapped city government tended to ignore maintenance on the southeast side. Or it could be that someone who wanted the cover of darkness had shot out the light again.

  The plywood over the drugstore windows wore the spray painted legends of Buchanan’s turf wars: the Vipers, the Dog Pound, the Eastie Boys. Less than a generation ago, Matt reflected, they’d fought one another with fists and sticks and bottles. Now it was knives and guns, and Willard’s was indisputably Vipers’ territory. Better armed and organized than the other gangs, the Vipers were responsible for much of the violence and most of the drug traffic in town.

  He had no real hop
e of finding Boothe. Stewart had assured him they’d canvassed the place twice for the Vipers’ leader. But Tyler had brought Richie here.

  Matt got out of the truck, wishing Will were along.

  The front door was locked. Matt shrugged. Sometimes the simplest approach worked the best. He knocked.

  No answer. He stood back, looking for light around the edges of the boarded-up windows. Nothing.

  Unzipping his jacket, he moved silently down the dark alley to the back of the building. A low black silhouette scuttled across the gravel near the Dumpster. Rats. Matt’s gorge rose. The animal paused to peer at him, and he recognized the swaying hips and banded tail of a raccoon.

  Hell. He was jumpier than he thought.

  Behind the buildings, the cinder strip was empty of everything except garbage and a few parked cars. He shone his flashlight into the vehicles. Empty. A few upstairs windows on either side of the deserted building were lit, but no faces appeared in the yellow squares, no voices challenged his presence. The stairwell leading to the back entrance was very dark.

  Cautiously, Matt felt his way down the steps, giving momentary thanks that Willard, whoever he was, was no longer in the picture. Abandoned property required no search warrant. Quietly, he tried the door handle. It was unlocked.

  Turning the knob, he pushed at the cold metal door. Nothing squeaked. He held his breath, listening to the roar of blood in his ears.

  And a television, with the volume set low, coming from the front of the store. Adrenaline pumped through his veins. Grinning, Matt flicked off his flashlight and followed the sound of canned laughter down a dark and narrow hall.

  His boots sticking to the linoleum, he passed a tiny, open kitchen. Smells—waste and refuse—drifted from a washroom on the right. Two other doors were locked, one with the key still in the knob. Storerooms, he guessed, or broom closets.

  The blue glow of a television tube penetrated the last few feet of hallway. Matt paused, letting his eyes adjust.

  Richie was nowhere in sight. But the room wasn’t empty. Gaze fixed on a tiny, flickering screen, a young man in baggy clothes lolled on a dirty mattress someone had dragged before the counter. His legs stretched out before him. A fast-food bag lay beside him. He turned his head to suck on a king-size soft drink, and his earring danced in the light.