B007S2Z1KC EBOK Read online

  Oh, yes, he was definitely looking at her. She put up her chin and stared steadily back.

  “Any questions?”

  She could think of several. Like, did he really believe his appropriate little speeches? Could he be so persuasive if he didn’t? His words revealed another side of him, a side she could easily admire, of a man determined to do his duty whether he found it personally agreeable or not. His attitude seemed so at odds with his earlier weary cynicism. Was he that good a cop or just that good an actor?

  He answered a question about door locks and security lights and another about block captains. He waited. If the lack of response from his audience surprised or disappointed him, he didn’t let on.

  “Then, if that’s all—” the killer smile flashed “—I won’t keep you from this delicious lunch that you’ve prepared.”

  Reverend Ray stood and frowned over the tops of his glasses at the people sitting in the front rows of folding chairs. “We all want to thank you, Sergeant, for your time and your presence here among us. I’m sure many of us will want to speak with you while we share our meal.”

  Admonished, his congregation clapped politely. And they did come forward, Clare noted later as she filled a paper plate. A few older men shook Matt’s hand, and Letitia Johnson, Richie’s grandmother, patted it. A few folks, hesitant about casting blame in their pastor’s hearing, sought out the cop to air old neighborhood gripes. Clare wondered how Matt would sort out the grudges from the genuine complaints.

  It was none of her business what he did.

  Yet she couldn’t help noticing his patience with an elderly lady’s grievance against her neighbor’s dog, or his alert attention to an angry young man’s charge of being hassled on the street. His respectful public manner was very attractive, she admitted. No wonder the reverend liked him. She did, too. That didn’t mean she was running for president of the Matt Dunn Fan Club.

  Bypassing a three-layered gelatin mold, she helped herself to Alma’s fried chicken and a few spears of spicy dilly beans. At least tonight she wouldn’t have to cook.

  “Reverend Ray thinks you’re a natural to head the Neighborhood Pride committee,” Matt’s brown velvet voice said behind her.

  Her heart skipped. Her hormone level jumped. Discomfort over her unreliable, undeniable response made her tart. “Find yourself another volunteer, cowboy.”

  He shook his head, reaching around her to ladle potato salad on his already loaded plate. He came close; stayed close. She could smell the starch of his shirt and the clean, male scent of his skin. “Can’t do that. The whole thing’s your fault. You planted the idea, anyway, with that stuff you stuck around my porch.”

  “Hosta and daylilies,” she corrected him, and recognized her error when his eyes gleamed. With his cop’s memory and his detective’s eye for detail, he would have remembered what she planted. He was just yanking her chain.

  “I’m too busy,” she said.

  He ignored her, snagging a slab of com bread to balance on top of a mound of greens. “I thought we’d start with that empty lot on Alston and Magnolia. The house was confiscated and razed in a drug shutdown a couple years back. I can get the city to loan us a Dumpster. I’ll organize the cleanup, and you can handle the landscaping. Might be nice to put a playground in over there, a ball park or something.”

  She liked the idea. She was impressed by his initiative, pleased by his thoughtful response to the needs of the children in the community. Determined to resist his attraction, she frowned anyway. “Alston and Magnolia? I was negotiating to purchase that for garden space.”

  He heaped barbecue on his sagging plate. “Oh, yeah? Well, they might let you have it. Of course, you turn everything over to cabbages, the kids aren’t going to have any place to play.”

  “Better cabbages than crack dealers,” Clare retorted.

  “Well, there’s one thing we can agree on.”

  Before she’d grasped his intention, he’d taken her elbow and steered her gently to a couple of vacant chairs. Pulling one away from the wall, he lowered himself into it and stretched his right leg in front of him, effectively cutting off her escape.

  “So, what’s going on at the lot?” he asked.

  She wasn’t sure if she was flattered by his concern or irritated by his technique. Maybe both, she admitted. Maybe some deeply ingrained genetic code made her respond to his overly protective Neanderthal attitude.

  “I’m sure you’ve seen the team tilling,” she said. “Snow peas are going in this week.”

  “What else?”“Sugar snaps,” she offered, knowing that wasn’t what he wanted.

  He grunted. “How’s security?”

  She crumbled a biscuit. She didn’t want him to think it was anything she couldn’t handle. In spite of his Mr. Public Service image today, she couldn’t be sure the threat of danger wouldn’t bring him stomping across the street, playing policeman to her kids, antagonizing her crews. “No problems.”

  He munched coleslaw, waiting.

  Her appetite faded under his skeptical regard. “All right. We’ve had a few incidents of minor vandalism. Nothing terrible.”

  “Property damage?”

  “Some,” she admitted. “Split hoses, some torn bags of fertilizer, that sort of thing.”

  “Knife, probably. Did you report it?”

  Clare sucked in an annoyed breath. He knew damn well she hadn’t. “No. What would be the point? I’m not going to file an insurance claim, and the police aren’t going to be able to catch whoever’s responsible.”

  “No witnesses?”

  “No. No one’s seen a thing. The day care classes are there in the afternoon, and I’m right next door at night. You’re across the street, and you haven’t seen anything.”

  He tore the meat off a drumstick and studied the bone. A week ago, she might have thought he was just hungry. A week ago, his good ol’ boy manner might have tricked her into relaxing her guard. She knew better now. She braced for his next question.

  “Be hard for a stranger to do much under those circumstances,” he observed. “Have you considered your culprit is someone who works for you?”

  “Of course I’ve considered it. But no one I’ve hired is going to jeopardize his paycheck or sabotage his job by striking at the project.”

  He raised his brows in silent challenge.

  “It just doesn’t make sense,” she insisted. “Besides, there’s never been any trouble in the mornings when the team is at the lot.”

  “You could hire a watchman.”

  “If I could afford one.”

  His thumb rubbed his jaw. She caught the scent of his aftershave. “So you got a dog instead.”

  “You don’t miss much, do you?” Clare asked ruefully.

  “Yeah, I’ve got my binoculars trained on your place day and night.”

  His dry response made her smile and then blush.

  “Where’d you get the mutt?” Matt asked.

  “Richie found it yesterday in the alley behind the Shop-N-Go.”

  He started to grin. “And conned you into taking it?”

  “Only temporarily,” she said defensively. “If its owner can’t be located, or a permanent home found, I’ll have to call animal control.”

  His big hands folded the edges of his empty plate together. “I’d figured you’d be a sucker for a homeless dog.”

  It was ridiculous to feel guilty. “I don’t have time for a dog. I don’t know anything about dogs. And I don’t want the responsibilities of a pet.”

  “So, you’ll take care of it only as long as you don’t have to actually care about it, is that it?”

  Stung, she glared at him. “Would you adopt an animal you didn’t know and didn’t want, just because it needed a home?”

  “I might. I’ll take a closer look at it, anyway.” He motioned toward the meal on her lap. “Aren’t you hungry?”

  “Not any more.” The response sounded childish, even to her.

  He held out his hand for her
plate. “Might as well go now, then.”

  Confused, she trailed him to the big plastic garbage can set by the doors. “Go where?”

  He tossed her lunch away. “To look at your pup.”

  “You’re serious.”

  He looked almost as surprised as she felt. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

  ***

  Richie accompanied them from the church, eager to show off his find.

  Matt shook his head. “That is the ugliest mutt I have ever seen.”

  The sound of his voice, too deep and unfamiliar, sent the half-grown dog scrambling to its feet in the shade of the shed. Its tail tucked tight between skinny haunches and its floppy ears pressed back, the dog’s wide, anxious eyes darted from Clare to the boy. Somebody—Richie, probably, Matt thought—had put a cheap nylon collar on the dog and fashioned an impromptu leash of rope. A frayed section a few feet down testified that the pooch had its own ideas about being tied, but it made no attempt to growl at them, attack or run away.

  “No damn good as a guard dog, either, I take it.”

  “He’s still real young,” Richie said in the dog’s defense.

  “And friendly,” Clare added in an amused tone as the pup sidled forward.

  Somewhere on the walk from the hall, she’d regained her usual sociable composure. Matt wasn’t sure if the attitude was for his benefit or the kid’s, but he thought he preferred her ruffled. It wasn’t Saint Joan he’d held in his arms the other night, and he didn’t want her to forget it.

  “Swell.” Matt started to hunker down. His torn thigh muscles warned against it. To cover his start of pain, he asked Richie, “What’s its name?”

  The boy looked at Clare.

  “Trigger,” she replied.

  “Trigger?” The dog wagged its tail uncertainly. What a mutt. What a name. “Why Trigger?”

  She elevated her pretty little nose and explained. “On TV. The dog who was always rescuing people.”

  He spared her a pitying glance. “You’re thinking Rin Tin Tin. Trigger was Roy Rogers’ horse.”

  Richie snickered. “Maybe we shoulda named him Lassie.”

  Matt grinned. “Or Silver.”

  Lightly, Clare cuffed the back of the boy’s head, knocking his baseball cap down on his nose.

  “Do I need this from you?” she asked no one in particular.

  “Sugar,” Matt said, “you have no idea what you need.”

  “Don’t ride me, cowboy,” she warned.

  His throat went dry. He’d like to. Oh, but he’d like to. Not that he could say so in front of the kid.

  Clare, meeting his eyes, suddenly blushed. Matt grinned and extended one hand to the dog.

  The ugly dog. He frowned. Starved, too. Gently, he grasped its lower jaw. “Hey, Trigger. Hey, boy.”

  The thin tail stirred. A doggy tongue brushed his fingers.

  God. A dog. He didn’t have room for a dog in his life.

  He looked up at Clare, but she was watching Richie, parallel lines of concern etched between her brows. Wasn’t that what she had claimed? No room, no time. No claims, no responsibilities. He knew the song. Hell, he’d sung it himself. And yet he wanted to do something to shake that tidy little box she lived in. Hey, it was just a dog.

  “I think it’s some kind of shepherd-boxer mix,” he said.

  “Is that good?” Richie wanted to know.

  “Depends.” Matt’s fingers worked the loose skin on the dog’s neck, finding the exact spot that made it close its eyes in pleasure. “You want a dog that eats like a horse and poops like an elephant, yeah, it’s great.”

  “Grandma says we can’t keep it in the apartment. Even a small dog. They got a rule against pets.”

  He tendered this information in the matter-of-fact tone of a kid who wants something desperately and has learned too young that life doesn’t always answer your dreams.

  “Tough,” Matt sympathized.

  “Course, if you was to take him, I could visit,” Richie offered casually. “Walk him for you, maybe.”

  The words reverberated in Matt’s skull like an echo from childhood. Can I come, Dad? I won’t be any trouble. Maybe you could give me something to do. And his dad, most often refusing, letting him sometimes come along. Off duty in the patrol car. To the station on a weekend. Little things, little times, important to a kid.

  It wasn’t going to kill him to look after one dog, Matt rationalized. After all, a dog wasn’t a family. A dog didn’t worry about you when you were late on the job. A dog didn’t wonder and wait for a phone call to tell it whether you were coming back alive or already dead. A dog—especially a dog like this, a dog who’d been around—would take the little he had to give and be grateful for it. Food and shelter, that’s all a dog wanted.

  And the kid could walk him.

  “Yeah, sure, why not?” He looked up again at Clare to find her clear, whiskey-colored eyes soft and glowing. They made him feel good. Too good, maybe, but he’d worry about that later.

  “Guess we’ve got ourselves a dog.”

  ***

  He was flat on his back with his legs in the air, but he wasn’t having any fun at all.

  Grunting, Matt slowly lowered his feet to the floor, counting to distract himself from the pain.

  “...two, three, four—damn it, Trigger!”

  The dog sprang back as Matt’s legs crashed to the floor. Wiping drool from his face, he glared at the mutt.

  “Stupid animal.”

  Encouraged, the dog wagged its tail.

  “Yeah, yeah. Time for your walk. Richie’s late today, huh?”

  Trigger’s thin ears cocked and flopped forward. Matt knew the dog couldn’t understand a damn word he said, but its eagerness made him smile.

  “No fun being cooped up in the house, is it? Bet we’re both used to more action. What do you say we call Kelton and put in for an early transfer?”

  God. Matt laid his head down on the floor in disgust. Now he was having heart-to-hearts with a dog. This place was getting to him. That woman was getting to him. Maybe he should call the department, check in with the chief, talk to Johnson or Dingle or somebody, anybody, before he forgot he belonged in the detective division, not playing at crime prevention on the southeast side.

  He rolled to his side and levered himself up, swiping the towel from the floor to rub over his face and chest. Trigger padded behind him into the kitchen, nails clicking on the linoleum.

  Matt punched the number in from memory.

  The desk sergeant answered the phone. “Operations. Officer Cowper.”

  The dog’s water bowl was empty, Matt noticed. He filled it at the tap. “Hey, Tom. Matt Dunn. I’ve got to invoice some stuff to the department. Peggy in?”

  As he bent to set down the bowl, Trigger panted gratefully in his ear.

  “Sure, Matt. How’s it—You got somebody with you? Grabbing a little R and R, you lucky dog?”

  “Dog’s the operative word, Tom.”

  “That’s no way to talk about one of your ladies, Matt.”

  Matt straightened, rubbing the back of his neck. The desk sergeant had met Marcia, he remembered. Amy, too. “Dog, Cowper. D-O-G. Three letters, four legs, one bite. Give me to Peggy.”

  “A real dog? You starting a K-9 corps now you’re living on the mean streets?”

  “You’re a riot, Tom. The most excitement I’ve had this week was a picnic supper in the church basement.”

  Cowper laughed. “I hear you. For a minute there I thought you were so hard up you were calling about your little car thieves.”

  Matt’s neck prickled as if he were going down a dark alley with no backup. “What car thieves?”

  “Those kids. I thought you knew.”

  His apprehension grew. “If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking. Give it up, Cowper. What kids?”“Christ, Matt, I can’t remember the names. Boothe, I think it was. And Johnny Something. No, it was Something Johnson. Know ’em?”

  His gut tightened. Tyler and Richie. Which co
uld mean Clare was involved. He fought the flicker of panic. You’re a cop, he thought. Get the facts.

  “Yeah,” he said, keeping his voice casual with an effort. “Yeah, I know them. Threat or assault?”

  “Nope. Nonviolent felony. Stewart made the collar.”

  Relief eased the knot in his gut. Nonviolent was good. Nonviolent meant she wasn’t hurt, that Richie had been stupid but not necessarily insane. He’d go down there and make sure the kid was all right, and then he’d bust his butt.

  “Parents notified?” he asked.

  “As near as. One kid’s father, and a grandma. Someone’s bringing her in.”

  “Okay. Do me a favor, would you? Hold the Johnson kid til I get there.”

  “Sure thing, Supercop.”

  Matt hung up and swore. Trigger looked at him with anxious eyes.

  “It’s okay,” he reassured the dog, trying, against all reason and experience, to believe it. “We’ll get him home.”

  In spite of some trouble operating the clutch, he made it to the station in under twelve minutes. He went in through the police entrance, acknowledging the friendly greetings and ribald jokes on his way to the desk sergeant. God, he wished Will were with him. He needed his ex-partner’s patience. On his own, Matt was jumpy as a rodeo bull, all anxious, angry energy with no real place to go.

  But it felt good to be back, all the same. Cowper was forthcoming. Within fifteen minutes, Matt learned that Richie and the Boothe kid were being held in separate interview rooms with attendant adults present. Patrol Officer Stewart and the juvenile detective assigned to the case roved between them, asking questions. The junior court counselor had been notified.

  Stewart came out, came over. Matt knew the patrolman. A good uniform cop, levelheaded and thorough. Richie was lucky.

  “Sergeant,” Stewart said, shaking hands. “Good to see you back. I hear you have an interest in the Johnson boy.”

  Matt appreciated the patrol officer’s attitude. “Yeah. Thanks. I don’t want to step on any toes here, though. It’s your case.”

  “Yeah, but it’s your watch. I understand. And you got to live with Dragon Lady afterward, right?”

  Suspicion tightened the knot at the back of Matt’s neck. Stewart couldn’t mean... “Dragon Lady?”