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Daddy Protector
Jacqueline Diamond


A Real Hero Needs…The neighbor made Connie Simmons see red. An irresponsible party animal with the kind of magnetism that made her knees shake, he was mostly an irritation–with a generous dollop of temptation mixed in. But because he rescued her child from a fire and got hurt, it was only neighborly to call a truce.…The Right Time And PlaceDetective Hale Crandall had spent months wondering how to patch things up with the blond bombshell next door. Saving her adopted son Skip–while it almost got him killed–had been a lucky break. Now he just needed to make himself an indispensable part of their lives–and wait!









“That’s a good line. You should use it on a susceptible female.”


“Which you’re not?” Hale asked sweetly.

Connie felt heat rise to her cheeks and to cover it grabbed a roll of pressure bandage and began winding it around his foot. “Don’t call me angel. Or honey bunch or any of your other smarmy endearments.”

“Smarmy?” he echoed.

“Naive women must melt when you shower them with phony compliments. Well, not me!” She smacked the end of the bandage so it clung without requiring adhesive.

He flinched. Connie felt guilty, but not enough to apologize.

“Okay, okay.” Hale shrugged. “I have a naturally flirtatious manner. Don’t take it personally.”

“Exactly my point!”


Dear Reader,

I loved telling the story of Connie and Hale, next-door neighbors who drive each other crazy. They’re opposites in many ways, but dramatic events reveal the underlying values they hold in common. And then there’s that sizzling attraction they’ve fought so hard to suppress, breaking forth at last!

I also enjoyed weaving in the details of Hale’s work as a police detective. This is the second of three related books I’ve written featuring two policemen and a policewoman.

Hope you enjoy the continuing stories of Connie, her friend Rachel and her cousin Marta. Still to come is a book in which Marta, who’s struggled for years to recover from a serious accident, finds happiness with the seemingly unattainable man of her dreams.

For details, reviews and information on future books, please visit my Web site, www.jacquelinediamond.com. Hope to see you there!

Best,







Daddy Protector

Jacqueline Diamond






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




ABOUT THE AUTHOR


A former Associated Press reporter, Jacqueline Diamond has written more than sixty novels and received a Career Achievement Award from Romantic Times BOOKreviews. Jackie lives in Southern California with her husband, two sons and two cats. You can e-mail her at jdiamondfriends@aol.com (mailto:jdiamondfriends@aol.com) or visit her Web site at www.jacquelinediamond.com (http://www.jacquelinediamond.com).




Books by Jacqueline Diamond


HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

913—THE IMPROPERLY PREGNANT PRINCESS

962—DIAGNOSIS: EXPECTING BOSS’S BABY

971—PRESCRIPTION: MARRY HER IMMEDIATELY

978—PROGNOSIS: A BABY? MAYBE

1046—THE BABY’S BODYGUARD

1075—THE BABY SCHEME

1094—THE POLICE CHIEF’S LADY * (#litres_trial_promo)

1101—NINE-MONTH SURPRISE * (#litres_trial_promo)

1109—A FAMILY AT LAST * (#litres_trial_promo)

1118—DAD BY DEFAULT * (#litres_trial_promo)

1130—THE DOCTOR + FOUR * (#litres_trial_promo)

1149—THE DOCTOR’S LITTLE SECRET


To Beverley Sotolov and Jennifer Green.




Contents


Chapter One (#u17776cfa-a139-5c4e-94c1-5999a77ee82a)

Chapter Two (#u61f35e7a-c2cb-506f-bc4b-29de89f3a541)

Chapter Three (#ufbbaac20-f1df-550d-bc32-742b5787d8d4)

Chapter Four (#uc0932d90-e2c5-56d9-9dbe-29137eed26a0)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)




Chapter One


Hale Crandall really ought to put on some clothes. He looked fantastic without them, though, in Connie’s opinion.

Sweat spread a bronze sheen across his rugged chest and face, from which exertion had stripped the customary know-it-all grin. A fierce, driving leap…breath coming hard…intensity turning his brown eyes to near-black…

Then he missed the softball, stumbled across the grass from his yard and plowed headfirst into the pansies and marigolds in Connie’s flower bed. As she drove up, her amusement mutated into annoyance at her havoc-wreaking neighbor.

Muttering under her breath, she pulled her maroon sedan into the driveway and stomped on the brake. She yanked the door handle too hard, resulting in a chipped fingernail. Well, great! Not exactly Hale’s fault, but she felt even more irked at him, anyway.

As she marched along the sidewalk—no sense ruining her strappy high heels or her lawn by taking the shortest route—she ignored the group of boys, assorted ages and states of griminess, who’d stopped playing to check on their ringleader. Why weren’t they spending a Saturday in June doing something useful, like studying? Although Connie didn’t have any children, she volunteered to tutor kids struggling in school, and knew how many of them blew off their assignments.

She stopped a few feet away from her neighbor. “Look at this mess! I hope you plan to replant those flowers.” She barely refrained from adding a well-deserved, “You idiot!”

A dirt-smeared Hale pushed himself onto the grass and retrieved a clot of nasturtiums from atop his thick, dark hair. “Yes, ma’am,” he replied with his customary sardonic edge.

With his taste for high jinks, she thought he might plant stink-weeds. “When you’re buying the plants, be sure to get the same colors and varieties,” she said. “It’s the least you can do.”

Rising, Hale dusted himself off. “I’ll have my butler make a note.” One of the boys giggled.

“Don’t get smart with me!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

As he turned away, Connie tried not to stare at his well-muscled bare back. Sure, Hale Crandall was one fine specimen of masculinity. Unfortunately, in her book, that too often meant thickheaded and irresponsible.

The problem was his resemblance to her ex-husband, Joel, Hale’s best friend and fellow cop at the Villazon, California, Police Department. Together, the two overgrown adolescents had contributed to the breakup of her marriage. The only thing she’d snagged from the wreckage had been a pitiful monthly alimony check and this house—right next to Hale’s.

“Hey, guys. Game’s over!” As he headed for the porch, Hale waggled one hand at his followers, who dispersed reluctantly.

Connie retrieved her purse from the car. She had only an hour to grab an early dinner before returning to the gift shop she owned, since she’d agreed to let Jo Anne Larouche, her clerk, leave at five for personal reasons.

Her mother would have scolded Connie for being too soft on an employee. But in her opinion, treating workers well kept them loyal. And she was willing to work long hours if that’s what success required.

From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a straggler trailing into Hale’s house, a wiry little boy with blond hair. Darned if he didn’t bear a strong resemblance to Skip Enright, the six-year-old she tutored at the town’s homework center. Co-founded by a retired teacher and by a close friend of Connie’s, the after-school-and-weekend operation used volunteers to help kids master reading and math.

Just before the boy disappeared indoors, a cobalt gleam flashed from the heels of his running shoes. She’d bought Skip a pair exactly like those to celebrate his successful completion of first grade. Not only were they expensive, but she’d found them during a buying trip to L.A. That left no doubt in her mind about his identity.

Between the boy’s independent spirit and his foster mother’s preoccupation with the pending birth of a grandchild, he roamed far too freely around town. Anxious to provide sorely lacking supervision, Connie had brought Skip home several afternoons with the permission of his foster mother. If he’d wandered this way in search of her today, then she’d better retrieve him and drive him home.

To avoid any more contact with her neighbor than necessary, she took out her cell phone and dialed Hale’s number. Once he learned about the little intruder, he’d likely send the kid straight out.

A machine picked up. Why didn’t the man answer? And he refused to provide the number of his cell. Probably he didn’t care to listen to her complain whenever he threw one of his loud parties, Connie admitted, but still…

She glared at his ranch-style home. Even under the best of circumstances, she disliked setting foot inside it. Too many uncomfortable memories from when her husband used to hang out there. Come to think of it, there were no best circumstances.

Marching along the walkway, she tried to ignore the weeds peeping through the cracks and the brown fronds dangling from an overgrown bird-of-paradise plant. At the top of the steps, she pressed the bell twice, waited and then knocked loudly. Zilch.

Being ignored had never stopped her before when she had a bone of contention with her neighbor, and it wouldn’t prevent her now from collecting the boy to whom she’d grown so attached.

Turning the knob, she went in, hit by the lingering smell of cigarette and cigar smoke. Although Hale didn’t indulge, his guests obviously did.

A billiards table dominated the living room amid mismatched chairs and a couch. On the walls, motorcycle posters reinforced the pool-hall theme. A crumpled potato chip bag lay in one corner.

She passed a den dominated by a vast TV screen and videogame system, and reached the kitchen. Skip was perched at the kitchen counter munching what appeared to be cheese puffs. Above him, doorless cabinets revealed a tooth-rotting supply of cookies and chips. Simply allowing a youngster in this kitchen ought to count as child abuse!

Hale, his head in the kitchen sink as he sprayed water over his upper body, either didn’t notice the boy or didn’t mind. Averting her eyes from the masculine figure, Connie addressed Skip. “Hi, fella. What brings you here?”

The boy grinned. “Cool place, huh?”

“If you say so.” Despite the possible damage to her suit from his soiled clothing, she gave him a hug.

The half-naked host switched off the water, grabbed a frayed towel from the counter and rubbed his hair as he swung around. Moisture beaded on bare flesh…as if Connie cared!

Only a slight hesitation betrayed his reaction on spotting her. “Aha. The princess braves the ogre’s lair.”

“Are you aware that this little boy followed you inside?” she demanded.

“I may be stupid but I’m not blind.” He seemed to take pride in ducking the issue.

Irked, Connie continued, “Didn’t it occur to you to find out where he belongs?”

The towel draped across his bare shoulders, Hale regarded her with feigned innocence. “Hey, he’s a guy. Why can’t he just hang out?” He tossed a handful of cheese puffs one by one into the air and caught them in his mouth. Missed one, picked it up and ate it anyway.

“Hale…”

“Okay, okay,” he said. “A lady named Paula was trying to drop him off at your place. I said he could stay here ’til you showed up.”

That would be Paula Layton, Skip’s foster mother. Apparently she hadn’t bothered to call. “She left him with a complete stranger?” That was scary. Just because someone lived next door didn’t make him trustworthy.

“She saw my picture in the paper last year when I got a commendation.” Hale had been honored for recognizing an L.A. robbery suspect at the supermarket. He’d quietly called for backup and trailed the man outside to collar him without endangering shoppers. “What can I say? I stick in some people’s minds.”

“Like a piece of chewing gum on their shoe,” Connie mocked. Of course, she’d been impressed by Hale’s actions, too, but admitting as much would only give him an advantage in their ongoing game of one-upmanship.

Skip seemed to find her remark funny. His laughter bubbled up, wonderfully free and open. He retained a warm spirit, despite a history of neglect that included removal from his birth home after neighbors repeatedly called social services about his lack of supervision. He’d been returned to his parents briefly, until their arrest for selling drugs. Eventually they’d agreed to relinquish custody.

“The kid’s been here about an hour,” Hale added. “This Paula person said her daughter was in labor and she had to rush off to the hospital. She wasn’t sure but he might have to stay overnight.”

“She might have phoned!” Connie wondered what the woman would have done with Skip if Hale hadn’t been available. “I understand her desire to be at the hospital, but she could have made babysitting arrangements. Her daughter’s full-term, so this hardly comes as a surprise.”

The real problem wasn’t today’s drop-off but Paula’s increasing inattentiveness to her ward. With a grandchild on the way, the woman seemed to have lost the motivation that had inspired her to begin foster parenting in the first place.

As his foster mom became emotionally detached, Connie became more attached to Skip. Maybe he’d awakened her long-dormant maternal instincts. Maybe his personality, combined with the approach of her thirtieth birthday, had done the trick, but regardless of the reason, she’d grown to love him. And from there, an impulse to provide him with a home had developed into a powerful longing.

Foster parents had priority in an adoption. However, in response to Connie’s inquiry, Paula, whose married daughter had then just announced her pregnancy, had conceded that she might be willing to give him up. To learn whether she’d be allowed to adopt as a single parent, Connie had consulted a lawyer. He’d explained that school-age children were hard to place compared to infants and toddlers, and someone like her who’d already formed a connection with Skip ought to encounter no problems.

She’d applied to adopt and undergone the required home study. Then, to her disappointment, Paula had changed her mind. Her grandchild-to-be was a girl, and her husband liked having a boy around. Yet however sincere Mr. Layton’s interest, the trucker spent weeks at a stretch on the road.

Still, Paula’s lackadaisical style hadn’t quite crossed the gap into negligence, and her opposition would doom any attempt to gain permanent custody. Since Connie couldn’t afford a legal battle and wasn’t sure she’d win, anyway, she simply did her best to provide support.

“Okay if I take you to the store with me for a couple of hours?” she asked Skip. She maintained a stash of toys to occupy customers’ children.

“Sure!”

Connie removed the snack bag and rolled it shut. “Let’s eat at my place. Frozen dinners okay?” She hoped he liked fish or chicken. Those were all she’d stocked.

“Cool!”

Hale tugged an old T-shirt over his head. Clinging to his damp torso, it revealed almost as much as it hid. “I’d offer to watch him myself if I didn’t have plans for the evening.”

“You’ve done plenty already.” The boy needed stability and order. The less contact he had with this man, the better, in Connie’s opinion. “Thanks for filling in.”

“No problem.” He flashed a teasing smile. “I’ll stop by a garden center tomorrow and pick out your posies. Nothing I enjoy more than spending a Sunday afternoon digging in the dirt, getting back to my ancestral roots as a farmer.”

Under the circumstances, Connie decided not to comment on the greater likelihood that he’d descended from some notorious scoundrel. “I’d appreciate it.”

She shepherded Skip out of the house, her mind racing. There was barely time to call Paula and explain that they’d be at the shop—as if the woman gave the boy a second thought!—and to heat the dinners.

As she opened her door, she recalled Hale’s mention of plans for the evening. Those probably involved one of the women she occasionally glimpsed on his property or whose voices drifted over the wall from the swimming pool. His female interests always appeared to have great fun, but as far as Connie could tell, none of them lasted long.

Well, the man’s love life didn’t concern her. The two of them moved in entirely different spheres, and she meant to keep it that way. No matter how terrific he looked without his shirt.

HALE FISHED OUT another handful of cheese puffs. The party at the captain’s place didn’t start for an hour and he was hungry. Perhaps he should have insinuated his way over to Connie’s for one of those frozen dinners.

Bad idea. He grimaced at the memory of plunging into her flower bed. Why couldn’t she be satisfied with just grass? As for her house, a man couldn’t swing his arms without upending half a dozen china or glass doodads.

Noticing cheese crud on his T-shirt, Hale stared down in displeasure. Oh, well, he had to change into fancy duds in a few minutes, anyway, to mingle with the upper crust at the gathering.

Villazon’s relatively new police chief, Willard Lyons, encouraged his brass and detectives to hobnob with the town’s leaders. In view of the police department’s image problems—there’d been a couple of scandals—tonight’s cocktail party hosted by Captain Frank Ferguson counted more as public relations than as entertainment.

Much better to spend the evening tossing back beers with a few buddies, or even better…Wait! Wait! Hale tried to short-circuit the scenario that sprang to mind. No use. In his king-size bed lounged Connie Simmons, blond hair spread across the pillow and luscious breasts threatening to burst from beneath the sheets. Lips parted, waiting breathlessly for him to peel away the covers.

A cheese puff slipped through his fingers, this time straight to the floor, which already cried out for sweeping. Hale stared downward, still tantalized by his vision.

He couldn’t fathom why his fantasies never quite revealed Connie’s nudity, since he’d been drawn to her ever since his buddy Joel had introduced the sensual beauty seven or eight years ago. Instead of being an only child, why couldn’t he have sisters who brought home friends like that? If he’d gotten to her first, well, no guarantees about anything long-term, but for sure he’d have satisfied his curiosity.

Grumbling under his breath, Hale went on a hunt for the vacuum cleaner. Must have loaned it to somebody. Unable to find a broom, either, he got down on his hands and knees and used his hands to scrape the kitchen detritus into a pile, which he then pushed onto a spatula.

The activity must have restored function to his rational side, because he recognized at last why he couldn’t bring himself to picture Connie’s tantalizing hidden body parts. Because it would be like cheating on my pal.

He and Joel had survived a lot together, including virtual outcast status two years ago when Joel was forced to testify against a lieutenant and the department’s then-chief, Vince Borrego, about their misconduct. The stress had made Joel touchy, for which Connie, still married to Joel, perversely blamed Hale. Easier than accepting the fact that she hadn’t stood by her husband when he needed her.

That might be another reason Hale didn’t allow his daydreams to get too…intimate. Even under the best of conditions, serving on a police force took a heavy toll on relationships. Why waste the effort on a woman who’d already demonstrated an inability to stay the course?

Except that, in the matter of Hale’s taste in women, she fit like a key in a door. The door to the bedroom.

He stuffed the empty bag into the trash, then sauntered toward the hall, stopping to pluck a couple of darts off the sofa and stick them into the dartboard. In the master bedroom, Hale drew the curtains on the side facing Connie’s house. The fact that his window lay directly opposite hers forced them both to be extra careful about privacy.

He’d ordered the heaviest drapes he could find. Black velvet, to match the black satin sheets. Hale took pride in having coordinated at least part of his decor, not that Connie would ever witness it.

Rinsing off in the kitchen hadn’t satisfied him, so he showered, shaved, dashed on cologne and wrestled with a shirt, suit and tie. Might as well get a bit more use out of the outfit he’d bought last month for Officer Rachel Byers’s wedding.

Rachel was one of Connie’s closest friends, as well as a buddy of Hale’s. She’d married the town’s new pediatrician, Dr. Russ McKenzie, at the Villazon Community Church. Big affair, with the entire police department invited, and a blast afterward at the Villa Inn. Weddings were great fun, as long as they were someone else’s.

Hale was striding toward the garage when he spotted Skip’s small duffel bag atop the washing machine. He’d forgotten setting it there after the boy arrived.

A peek inside revealed pajamas printed with cartoon characters. A toothbrush and a couple of toys were tucked underneath. A safe bet the kid would go to bed before Hale made it home.

Returning this stuff meant confronting the dragon lady once more. With a shrug, he let himself out through the garage and spared a longing glance at the motorcycle and all-terrain vehicle he hadn’t had a chance to ride in ages.

At the next house, Connie’s maroon sedan was gone. A wisp of memory flashed through his mind as he stared at the empty driveway: her blond hair caught in the breeze as she zoomed up and parked the red convertible she used to drive. Joel, tuning his car in the garage, had ignored his wife’s struggle with sacks of groceries. Marriage did that to a guy, Hale supposed. Turned him blind, deaf and really, really dumb.

Which was kind of how he felt, standing on the porch ringing the bell when he knew nobody would answer. He supposed he could drop the duffel on her rear porch with a note. But Connie’s Curios was on the way to Frank’s house, and besides, Skip might want his toys.

A visit to the gift shop. Since he’d never set foot inside, this ought to prove interesting.

Hale tooled through the neighborhood past fallen lavender blooms that mirrored the cloudlike shapes of jacaranda trees. A short distance beyond the residential area, a strip mall featured a discount furniture store, a supermarket, the storefront office of the weekly Villazon Voice, and at the corner of the intersection with Arches Avenue, Connie’s Curios. Its red-and-white exterior framed a lacy window display bearing the banner “Welcome June Brides.”

In the parking area, the thin sprinkling of cars gave the place an isolated air. On a weekend, the small office building around the corner and behind the gift store didn’t generate much traffic, either.

Connie should rethink her policy of staying open ’til seven on Fridays and Saturdays. That was only an hour later than usual, but it felt late.

As a cop, Hale knew that Villazon, situated on the eastern rim of Los Angeles County adjacent to Orange County, had a low crime rate. But no telling who might wander into Connie’s Curios looking for a till full of cash.

Joel had disagreed with his wife’s decision to go into business, Hale recalled. She’d insisted she had the right, since she was investing half of an inheritance from her grandparents in it, but he’d have preferred to buy a vacation cabin. If her safety had been a concern, though, Joel hadn’t mentioned it. Since he’d already blown the other half of her inheritance on a bad investment entered into without Connie’s agreement, Joel had reluctantly backed down.

Hale stepped inside to the accompaniment of chimes. The swirl of pinks, reds and lavenders and the array of frilly merchandise made him feel dizzy. Who on earth bought this many greeting cards, stuffed animals, china bells and figurines, mugs, T-shirts, pens, magnets, clocks, key chains, puzzles, scrapbooks and candles? Not to mention comic books, animal characters and action figures.

Still, a fellow could go for the bins of wrapped candies and racks of Swiss and Italian chocolate bars. Might be worth springing for one, except he’d probably arrive at the captain’s house with a smear of chocolate on his tie.

From behind the counter, Connie regarded him frostily. “Something I can do for you, Detective?”

Sure, lots of things. But none of them in public. “Thought you might have some use for this.” Hale swung the duffel onto the counter, dislodging a catalog showing gift baskets. “It belongs to Skip. Where is the little guy?”

She indicated a children’s nook where, ensconced in a beanbag chair, the boy was absorbed in watching a shiny red TV set. “He got tired of helping me count change.”

Hale whistled. “I didn’t expect a store like this to carry electronics.”

“We offer specialty items tailored for kids. Grandparents get a kick out of them. We have gadgets for adults, as well.” Connie appeared to warm to her subject.

“Where do you find stuff like that?” Since the items she stocked bore little resemblance to the products in ordinary stores, Hale supposed she must have special sources.

“Catalogs, sales reps, the Internet and specialty trade shows in Anaheim and L.A.” Both convention centers lay within a forty-five-minute drive.

So far, no customers had entered, and he’d observed none when he arrived. “You earn a living at this?”

Although her forehead puckered, Connie didn’t fling a retort. “There’s a thin margin of profit, but yes. I’m always bringing in new merchandise, so people drop by frequently, and we have regular customers who collect specialty items. Also, I coordinate with party and wedding planners, arrange craft classes and maintain gift registries. Plus, we do about forty percent of our business in November and December.”

“You carry the same stuff at your other stores?” Connie owned the concession at the hospital and a boutique in the town’s funky shopping mart, In a Pickle, which occupied the site of a former pickling plant.

“Each one is unique.” She spoke with uncharacteristic patience. “I encourage my managers to imprint their personality and cater to their clientele. So you’ll find a lot of food items and Latin American imports at the Pickle, and flowers, books and magazines at the medical center.”

Hale had run out of questions. Wanted to keep her talking, though. Maybe he felt a little protective, seeing her here alone on a Saturday evening. And the cozy scents of cinnamon and peppermint hinted at a childhood he barely remembered. Also, he wasn’t too keen on the dull evening ahead.

“So are you planning any more—” Hale halted at a peculiar scraping noise from the back of the store.

Connie shifted uneasily. “Sounds like someone’s in the storage room. Or it could be an animal, I suppose. A cat might have sneaked in from the alley.”

Hale kept his voice low. “How about an employee?”

A headshake. “Jo Anne left a while ago.” Her fists tightened atop the counter. “We had a break-in attempt from the alley a few nights ago after hours. The alarm scared off whoever it was.”

He reached into his jacket for the holstered gun he always carried. “You leave the back unlocked during working hours?”

“No, but Jo Anne put out the trash. Maybe she forgot to lock up.”

“Who else has a key?”

“Just Jo Anne.” She gave a little cough before continuing. “She wouldn’t enter that way without letting me know.” She shot a glance at Skip, who remained fixed on the TV screen.

Through the glass front, the parking lot appeared as sparsely occupied as when Hale had arrived. No sign of trouble there.

“I’ll check it out.” He pointed the gun’s barrel toward the floor. “Might be a rodent or some merchandise falling over.”

“Let’s hope…” Connie halted at another noise from the storeroom. It sounded to Hale like the scuff of a shoe.

“Call 911,” he ordered tensely. “Stay low behind the counter, out of the line of fire. Leave Skip where he is.” There was no time. Someone might burst out at any second.

Connie reached for the phone. No hysterics or nonsense. Hale appreciated that.

Raising the gun, he approached the rear door at an angle, kicked it open, shouted, “Police! Come out with your hands up!” and braced for action.




Chapter Two


Credit card fraud. Shoplifting. Vandalism and burglary. They were all issues Connie had prepared for when she opened a shop. The classes she’d taken had even instructed her how to handle a break-in: “Don’t keep much money in the till. If a robber demands it, give him everything on hand.”

But a furtive intruder from the alley, on a Saturday night when she might have been the only adult present? Terrifying.

She forced herself to breathe steadily as she provided the dispatcher with her name and location. “I think someone’s broken into my storeroom. An off-duty officer is checking it out. Hale Crandall. He requested backup.”

“I’m sending it now,” the woman responded. “Please stay on the line.”

No one had responded to Hale’s verbal challenge. Instead, she’d heard a scuffling noise as if the intruder was retreating.

After a split second, Hale had gone after him. Typical testosterone-infused male, running an unnecessary risk, except that, perversely, Connie admired the heck out of him for doing it. Much as she normally preferred standing on her own two feet, she felt a surge of gratitude for Hale. Certainly not an emotion she usually associated with her neighbor.

As a siren wailed in the distance, Connie wondered what was happening out of her sight. She thought she heard men speaking in the alley, or was that the TV?

Across the shop, Skip got up and trotted between the displays to join her. “Where’d Hale go, Connie?”

“We heard a noise,” she told him.

“Wow! I saw his gun!” He beamed, too young to grasp that his new friend might get killed. But Connie remained all too aware of the danger.

For the three years of her marriage, she’d lived with the fear of a knock at the door and the news that Joel was dead or wounded, and she’d vowed never to forget that life was fragile. But she’d never once worried about Hale. A moment before, he’d stood in front of her, tall and cheerful and seemingly indestructible. Now she might lose him, and that possibility scared her more than she would have expected. A lot more.

She heard footsteps coming through the storage room. A moment’s tension, and then Hale called out, “Tell dispatch to cancel the cavalry. I’m okay.”

“Hale says everything’s fine,” she informed the woman on the phone.

“May I speak to him, please?”

He entered, grinning. The cocky expression gave Connie an urge to slap him for provoking such anxiety.

Behind him trailed a sheepish Vince Borrego, the town’s former police chief who, since being forced to resign, had worked as a private investigator. His office lay across the alley in the building behind the shop, and he occasionally visited to pick up treats for his daughter and grandchildren.

She thrust out the phone to Hale. He stepped aside with it, leaving her to face the older man.

“Sorry for the ruckus.” In his late fifties, Vince had a gravelly voice and deep wrinkles, souvenirs of his former heavy smoking and drinking. “I was leaving my office and noticed your rear door ajar. Decided to make sure nobody’d sneaked inside, but when Hale shouted a warning, it startled me. I’ve been trying to stay out of trouble, given my history in this town, so I skedaddled. Dumb move.”

“Thanks for your concern. About the open door, I mean.” Connie found it reassuring that the ex-chief had been looking out for her security.

“Glad to help.”

In front, a police cruiser halted. Hale concluded his discussion with the dispatcher and went to consult with the officer.

“Hi, Vince!” Skip high-fived the older man, who lived in the same fourplex as the Laytons. Connie had bumped into him a few weeks earlier when she dropped her student off after a tutoring session, and discovered that she and Vince shared similar concerns about the boy.

“Good to see you, fella.” To complete the greeting, Vince lightly slapped the little hand down low, as well as on high. “Got to get you together with my grandson. You’re close to the same age.”

“Cool!” With Connie’s permission, the little boy chose a couple of hard candies and trotted back to the TV.

“What brings our little man to Connie’s Curios?” Vince asked as he picked out several chocolate bars.

She explained about Paula’s dropping him off at Hale’s house. “I’m glad she didn’t leave him alone in the apartment,” he responded. “She does that on occasion, although usually for less than an hour.”

“Even so, that’s disturbing.” When Connie had asked her lawyer about the matter, he’d explained that the law didn’t specify a minimum age at which a child had to be supervised. Once children reached school age, authorities generally didn’t crack down unless harm resulted.

Fortunately, the fourplex where Skip lived belonged to Yolanda Rios, co-founder of the homework center, and she helped keep an eye on the boy. It was she who’d discovered he was having problems in kindergarten the previous year and brought him in for tutoring.

“I talked to a lawyer about adopting. If Paula’s not going to make a real home for him, I wish she’d give me a chance,” Connie grumbled.

“You’d make a great mom,” Vince was agreeing when Hale returned.

He broke stride, evidently having overheard the end of the conversation. “Did I miss something?”

“Nothing important.” Vince paid for his purchases. “If things do work out, don’t forget my daughter, Keri, has a home daycare license.”

“She’s first on my list.” Connie’s friend Rachel, whose step-daughter stayed with Keri after school, sang the woman’s praises.

With a wary nod to both of them, the ex-chief exited. Hale stared at the man’s retreating back. “What was that about?”

“Vince rents the apartment across the hall from Skip’s. They’re friends.”

“Yeah, well, he seems awfully chummy with you. �You’d make a great mom,’” Hale mimicked. “You haven’t forgotten the guy’s got wandering hands, have you?” Part of Vince’s problems with the PD had involved his misconduct toward a female officer.

Connie couldn’t decide whether to laugh or take offense. “He’s never made a pass at me. Besides, he’s too old.”

“How old is too old to pursue younger women?” Hale scoffed. “Besides, why was he plying you with compliments?”

She curbed her temper by remembering that her neighbor had risked his neck to investigate the noises. Softly so the boy wouldn’t hear, she replied, “He was responding to my statement that I’d like to adopt Skip.”

“Gee, I guess you forgot to mention that to me. But of course everybody confides in Villazon’s Grandpa of the Year, don’t they?” Hale muttered.

How unfair! “You may find this hard to believe, but Vince has changed. He cares about people.”

“What did he offer to do—plant incriminating evidence on Paula so she’d lose custody?” he cracked.

The remark undoubtedly reflected deep-seated anger at Vince and the painful impact he’d had on his colleagues. A few years earlier, Officer Elise Masterson had accused the then-chief of sexual harassment and named Joel as a witness—his job as a watch commander put him in a key position to observe departmental goings-on. Joel had also had to testify in a separate investigation into claims that a lieutenant had beaten a prisoner and that Vince had covered for him.

The department had endured a rough period, its reputation besmirched and the officers’ loyalties divided, with many criticizing Joel for testifying. Hale had stood by him, and after the hiring of a new chief, the whole affair had blown over.

Vince had taken early retirement and the department fired the lieutenant, Norm Kinsey. Both had left the area until, six months ago, Vince moved back to be near his daughter.

On his visits to the shop, he seemed affable and courteous. In Connie’s opinion, the ex-chief had learned a hard lesson from the loss of his career and the breakup of his marriage. It wasn’t his fault that, a few months ago, he’d shot and killed a prison escapee who’d targeted his family, and news reports had rehashed the entire original scandal just as it was fading from the public’s memory.

Plant evidence against Paula! How absurd. “He didn’t offer to do anything of the sort.”

“Take my advice and watch out for him,” Hale answered dourly.

How could he be so paranoid? “You’re being unreasonable,” she said.

“Do me a favor and keep your guard up.” Before she could answer, Hale added, “You’re seriously interested in adopting?”

She nodded. “Very much so.”

He checked that Skip remained in his corner before asking, “Why a boy? You’ve got a house full of frilly stuff.”

She was taken by surprise. “This isn’t about choosing just any child! It’s about Skip. Hale, we don’t choose who we love.”

He tugged at his tie. Whoever he was dating tonight, he must think highly of her to endure such discomfort. “The boy deserves a father figure.”

“I grew up without a father, and I’m fine!”

That she’d grown up fatherless wasn’t entirely true. Although Connie’s parents had divorced when she was ten, Jim Lawson had lived nearby and remained theoretically involved. But Connie had never felt he’d played any meaningful role in her life.

The incident that stood out in her mind had occurred when she was fifteen and spending a weekend with him, her step-mother and their one-year-old son. On Saturday night, their babysitter had canceled at the last minute. Never mind that Connie was excited about attending a school dance with a new boyfriend; her father had insisted that she stay home and fill in. He’d dismissed her tears as selfish.

Selfish! She still got mad thinking about it. If she’d had other, warmer memories of her dad, no doubt she’d have forgiven him. But she didn’t.

“Yeah, well, I grew up without a mother, so between the two of us, we had an almost perfect childhood.” Hale grinned, then added, “Before you adopt, though, remember that the great thing about other people’s kids is, when you get tired of ’em, you can send ’em home.”

“That’s what I used to think, too,” she admitted. “But people change. I’ve changed. Maybe you will, too, someday.”

“Stranger things have happened.” A slight concession, or perhaps simply a way of ducking the subject. “I’d better be going. Lock the back door first, okay?”

“Absolutely.”

After she did so, he left via the front, passing a couple of teenage girls who ogled him blatantly. They giggled incessantly while picking out hair ornaments, and Connie suspected the subject was Hale.

She rang up their purchases, amused that her neighbor inspired so much girlish interest. He had been considerate to drop off Skip’s bag.

And fiercely protective when he heard the noise in back. Remembering the tension in his dark eyes and the power in his movements gave her a twinge of longing. A zap of common sense followed on its heels.

The great thing about other people’s kids is, when you get tired of ’em, you can send ’em home. She could hardly expect any other attitude from Hale. Vince Borrego might have reformed, but she doubted her playboy neighbor ever would. Too bad. He sometimes showed hints of potential for being a good man.

Connie went to switch off the video and collect Skip. She had enough love in her heart to make a home for this child if she was ever lucky enough to get the chance. That would be family enough, at least for now.

AS USUAL ON A Monday morning, Hale found his desk piled with reports from the weekend. His assignments in the Crimes Against Persons Unit ranged from missing persons to assaults. A small city like Villazon had mercifully few homicides but plenty of felonies, and he spent the morning reviewing crime-scene accounts and citizen complaints, following up on witnesses and conferring with other law-enforcement agencies whose cases overlapped his.

Recalling the adrenaline rush he’d experienced during the incident on Saturday at Connie’s shop made him miss his years on patrol. Not that he didn’t occasionally get to take down a suspect, but in his position as a detective, the paperwork drove him crazy.

Still, Hale enjoyed the challenge of discerning the facts and tracking down crooks. He supposed he ought to be studying for the exam to earn promotion to sergeant, which Joel had passed several years ago, but that might mean a transfer to a different division.

He didn’t require extra income to pay alimony, either. Sipping his third—or maybe fourth—cup of coffee of the morning, Hale flexed the arm muscles he’d strained yesterday replanting Connie’s flowers. Darn, that woman was bossy! But fun to tease, and kind of sweet once in a while.

Opening the first case file, he got to work. The hours vanished silently and swiftly, until the scream of sirens from the fire station next door jolted him from his absorption. “Chemical fire in a warehouse on the east side,” noted Detective Lieutenant E. J. Corwin, who paused in striding toward his office.

A second siren blared. “What kind of chemicals?” Things could get ugly fast in any blaze, especially one that involved toxic substances. Firefighting was even more dangerous than police work, according to Hale’s insurance agent.

“Unidentified.”

Not a good sign. However, police usually only got involved with fires to control traffic. Or when bodies turned up, which he hoped didn’t happen.

Thirty minutes later, as the idea of buying a sandwich from a vending machine loomed large in his mind, the phone rang. To his terse response, a woman said, “The chief would like to see you in his office, Hale.” The voice belonged to Lois Lamont, the sixtyish secretary whose tenure dated back to the late Mesozoic era.

“I’m on my way.” He rang off. He had no reason to expect trouble, but neither did he usually pal around with Willard Lyons.

The new chief had come on board the previous year to clean up the PD’s image. At Saturday night’s party, he’d glad-handed the community leaders and stayed until the bitter end, or at least as much of the bitter end as Hale had observed before bowing out at eleven.

The man worked hard, and according to office gossip, he’d had a reputation as a decent cop in his previous positions with the Whittier PD and LAPD. The guys respected him, even if no one felt particularly chummy. Will Lyons’s manner didn’t invite chumminess.

Hale walked past the watch commander’s office and the traffic bureau, his curiosity growing with every step.

The secretary’s desk and several file cabinets crammed the small outer office. When he entered, Lois peered at him through owlish glasses beneath a fuzzy orange halo of thinning hair. “None of your cheekiness today, young man. He’s not in a good mood.”

“Moi? Cheeky?” All the same, Hale appreciated the warning.

“I hope you haven’t settled for any of the ladies in this town yet,” Lois continued. “My beautiful nieces put them in the shade. You really ought to let me introduce you. They won’t stay single forever.”

She’d been offering to fix him up for years in what had evolved into a running joke. Judging by the photos on her desk, the girls seemed pretty enough but not Hale’s type. Not blond and smart-mouthed with a quick temper. “I’m married to my work,” he said. “Haven’t you noticed?”

She sighed, then indicated the inner door. “Go ahead.”

Inside, light through a large window flooded the expansive office. The wooden desk and conference table from Vince’s tenure had been refinished and the chairs reupholstered. Satellite images of Villazon hung where once the walls had displayed photos of the town’s quaint former city hall.

“Close the door, please,” the chief said.

Must be a sensitive subject. Curious and a bit wary, Hale obeyed and followed the chief’s directive to take a seat.

With his broad chest, thin mustache and close-cropped brown hair, Will Lyons fit the image of a police administrator. Not merely a bureaucrat, though; more than once, he’d helped resolve an investigation by asking key questions of the detectives.

In his thirteen months on the job, not once had Lyons acted nervous or uncertain in Hale’s presence. Now, however, he folded his hands atop the desk and cleared his throat.

The words “So what’s bothering you, boss?” nearly slipped from Hale’s lips. That’s what he’d have said to Vince in the old days. But no one joked freely with Chief Lyons and, besides, Lois’s warning rang in his ears. So he waited.

Finally the chief said, “I’d like you to probe something discreetly. It may appear that I’m protecting myself, but the fact is, I think this may be an attempt to embarrass the department. If at any point you believe these contentions are true, Detective, you’re to treat this as you would any other case.”

Curiosity about the subject warred with an instinctive dislike of subterfuge. “Why me?” If this was a politically sensitive issue, he’d rather it went to someone of higher rank, such as Frank Ferguson, captain of the detective bureau and interim chief before Lyons’s arrival.

“Because every man and woman on this force likes and respects you,” his boss replied. “I’m a relative stranger here. If any of this comes out, they’ll trust you to be absolutely honest.”

Did his fellow officers respect him that much? As chief party animal, Hale knew he had friends. But if he was truly held in such high regard, it meant more than all the commendations he’d received over the years.

That kind of esteem, however, brought responsibility. “What exactly are you asking me to do?”

Lyons tapped a pad by his phone. “I received a troubling call this morning from Tracy Johnson at the newspaper.”

The publisher, editor and reporter of the Villazon Voice pursued stories with a zeal that often scooped dailies and TV stations. She’d never given the police a break, but she was usually fair.

“What about?” Hale asked.

The chief released a long breath. “A source of Tracy’s claims my son is dealing drugs.”

Here was a potato hot enough to burn anyone who touched it, Hale mused. Which made it possible the chief had chosen him at least in part because, if anything went amiss, a lowly detective made a better scapegoat than a high-ranking officer.

The chief’s nineteen-year-old son, Ben, had reputedly run wild since his mother’s death from cancer five years earlier. He’d served a stint in juvenile detention for drug use and now participated in a treatment program. He also took classes at community college and delivered pizzas.

The young man and his strict father didn’t get along. Were barely speaking, according to the grapevine.

“She has no details and refuses to name her source,” Lyons went on. “Since she can’t prove anything, she volunteered the information in exchange for a promise that, whenever we have news to release, we give her a heads-up if possible.”

“Big of her,” Hale muttered.

“I didn’t agree to an exclusive, only that we’d alert her.” After a moment, the chief added, “She did say she hoped it isn’t true.”

“So do I.” Okay, they had an unconfirmed report about drug dealing. “Shouldn’t the narcs handle this?” Or perhaps an outside agency, given the potential conflict of interest.

Lyons stared out the window as if he’d developed a keen interest in the adjacent library. “You don’t have children, do you?” Without pausing, he continued, “If I launch a formal investigation of my son based on rumor, he’ll perceive that as a betrayal. I’d also be throwing him back into hot water, perhaps unfairly, just when he’s starting to get his act together. It’s not his fault that his dad’s the police chief and everything that concerns me makes news. On the other hand, I can’t ignore this.”

“This drug program he’s in, don’t they monitor him?” Hale inquired.

“He finished the program two months ago.” The chief refocused on his visitor. “He’s on probation and I’m sure they test for drugs, so I really don’t believe there’s any truth to this.”

“You’ve seen his place, right? Notice anything strange?”

The chief released a frustrated breath. “Ben doesn’t care to have his old man around, so Frank did me the favor of dropping by a couple of times to see if he was okay. I gather my son didn’t welcome him, but he did let him inside, and Frank saw nothing obviously amiss. So what do you say?”

Hale tried to decide what, as a towering figure of integrity, he ought to do. He decided to simply act like himself. Also, his gut told him that despite the polite phrasing, this was an assignment, not a request. “So I’m to sniff around and discover if there’s any truth to it?”

“Exactly. His landlady’s a retired teacher by the name of Yolanda Rios. She should be aware of the signs if he’s dealing.”

The kid lived in the same complex as Vince and Skip? Well, there was a coincidence. Still, in an area with a low vacancy rate, he’d heard that Yolanda preferred to rent to friends of friends, and it wasn’t much of a stretch to imagine that both Vince and Ben had found their way to her through their connections in the community.

This could be fortunate. As the chief said, a former teacher ought to recognize the signs of a drug pusher, including frequent visitors at odd hours and higher spending than the person’s income justified. Also, if Ben had resumed using, he would probably exhibit a glassy stare, mood swings and other symptoms.

“I took a history class from Mrs. Rios once. Great teacher,” Hale noted. “She has a fondness for strays, but she’d never tolerate drugs.” An interesting possibility occurred to him. “I have an idea where that tip may have originated. A guy who wouldn’t mind throwing egg on our faces.” In response to Lyons’s querying look, he explained, “Vince Borrego. He rents from Mrs. Rios, too.”

Dark red suffused the chief’s face. “Borrego’s mixed up with my son?”

Hale backpedaled. “It might be a coincidence. I can ask if Mrs. Rios has observed them together.”

You didn’t have to be psychic to read the thoughts of the man across the desk. He’d been unhappy about the ex-chief’s return to town and dismayed at the publicity that surrounded Vince’s involvement in the fatal shooting. Having his predecessor underfoot as a private investigator didn’t sit well, either. This latest revelation must feel like the last straw.

However, Lyons never acted petty or vindictive. “Don’t target Vince as the bigmouth unless someone else fingers him. I’m not on a witch hunt and, if the allegations are true, he’s simply doing his civic duty. However, I don’t consider him a reliable source, so please get your information about my son elsewhere.”

“Understood.”

Hale realized that he’d tacitly accepted the assignment. Well, the case had to be investigated and the chief had chosen him. On the plus side, if he dealt with it effectively, the chief’s goodwill might come in handy. Say, whenever Hale got around to seeking a promotion. Testing was only part of the procedure.

He collected a few items from his desk and headed outside to his unmarked department-issue car, which came equipped with a computer and other high-tech equipment. Hungrier than ever, he set course for Alessandro’s Deli.

The usual lunch crowd thronged the terrace. Inside, more diners jammed the tiny tables and lines formed at the self-service counters. Pastrami, meatballs, tomato sauce. Man, those Italians had a gift.

Hale was waiting when, from the rear, he glimpsed a blonde at the head of his line gesturing toward a display of pasta salad. The young male clerk dropped the serving spoon, apologized profusely and proceeded to stuff so much salad into a container that dribs and drabs spilled out as he forced it shut.

Typical foolish response to a pretty lady, Hale supposed. He might have reacted the same way at that age.

The clerk rang up the sale and the customer lifted her sack. When she turned, his heart did a silly skip-and-race kind of thing. Connie.

Hearts don’t race. And grown men didn’t feel a jolt of pleasure at glimpsing a woman they saw practically every day. Still, with the inviting part of her lips and that confident air, she had something special. One of these days he intended to read a book of poetry and find out what it was.

Hale felt a ping of disappointment when, dodging between tables to reach the exit, she passed without noticing him. Okay, so he had a bit in common with that gaping clerk. And with the three or four other guys whose heads swiveled to watch Connie. However, they hadn’t spent yesterday replanting her flower bed while she bent over tantalizingly to inspect his work. The way she’d looked in shorts and a blouse had made him attack the soil with renewed vigor.

She vanished. When he got to his sandwich, he ate it in his car, then set out along curving Arches Avenue toward the central area of Villazon, where small apartment structures salted the mix of houses and duplexes. According to the information the chief had provided, Yolanda Rios lived on Lily Lane, a few blocks from the high school.

The only people Hale observed nearby were a couple of gardeners mowing and doing edging across the street. Before getting out of the car, he collected a few fliers concerning burglaries in the area, which he’d brought as an excuse in case he ran into Ben. The burglary suspect’s description—young and thin, trendy clothes—indicated a possible high-school student.

Since most burglaries involved dopers, that raised the possibility their guy might be none other than Ben himself. One witness had mentioned a spider tattoo on the forearm, which the chief’s son lacked, but a crafty crook might have applied a temporary one to confuse the description.

As Hale emerged, he noticed a flickering light through the curtains of the downstairs apartment on the left. Just as he put that together with the sharp scent in the air, a smoke alarm shrilled inside the building.

Fire!

First act: dial 911. As Hale conveyed the details, he remembered that the fire engines from the main station had rolled to the warehouse blaze. A delay of even a few minutes could spell the difference between life and death for occupants.

“I’m going to check if anyone’s inside,” he informed the dispatcher.

“Hang on.” A beat later, she returned to the line. “The owner just called. We told her to vacate and that you’re at the location. She doesn’t believe anyone else is home.”

“I’ll bang on doors just in case.” He’d better move fast, because a fire could rage out of control in minutes. Older structures provided plenty of fuel, including furniture that failed to meet current safety standards.

“Use caution, Detective,” the dispatcher advised. “Can you stay on the line?”

“Sorry, no.” Holding a phone would slow him. “I’ll call when I’m done.”

He was flipping the device shut when down the steps hurried Mrs. Rios, arms around a fuzzy dog, her graying hair mussed and her glasses askew. “Hale! I’m glad you happened by!”

“I have to make sure everyone’s out,” he informed her.

“Vince’s at his office. Ben left for class half an hour ago. That’s his apartment.” She indicated the flames consuming the curtains. “I saw Paula go out a while ago.” She stopped and gazed upward. “Oh, no!”

In the window directly above the burning unit appeared a boy’s face. With a shock, Hale recognized Skip. “She left him alone?”

“I’m afraid so.” Yolanda sounded as dismayed as he felt.

“Skip!” Hale yelled. “Come down!” If the boy moved fast, he could descend the stairs before the fire reached them.

The child didn’t move.

The flames were going to climb the curtains and flash over the ceiling. Once they broke through the floor or mounted the hall staircase, they’d cut off escape. Wherever the firefighters had been sent from, Hale didn’t even hear a siren yet. He couldn’t wait for them to arrive.

Fear must have frozen the boy. “I’m going in,” he told Yolanda. “Key?”

She handed him one. “This opens all the doors.”

“Thanks.” Taking a deep breath, he ran toward the entrance.




Chapter Three


The building had a straightforward layout, Hale discovered as he dashed into the main hallway: one unit on each side and stairs straight ahead. Eyes smarting and ears ringing from the smoke alarms, he raced to the second floor.

Fires spread fast. Before flames shot into the hall and blocked their escape, he had to reach Skip.

First he banged on Vince’s door in case Yolanda had been mistaken, although it was hard to imagine anyone ignoring the noise. Then he unlocked the Laytons’ apartment and, feeling no heat from the door and knob, entered.

In the living room, smoke seeped through vents and the heat from directly below made Hale sweat beneath his jacket. When he shouted the boy’s name, an acrid lungful stirred a cough.

“Help!” The plaintive cry confirmed the boy’s presence in a bedroom down the hall.

Hale ran in that direction. He stopped at the first door and went in. Obviously the master bedroom. No kid by the window.

Back in the hall, it was getting darker and hotter. Tougher to breathe, too. Hale darted into the next room, a bathroom, where he grabbed a towel, soaked it and, holding it over his nose and mouth, lunged into the hallway again.

Entering the last room, he felt a draft. Open window, blocked by a screen. Skip was huddled on the floor, a little ball of terror. He sprang up when he saw Hale and flung himself at him.

Hale transferred the towel to the boy’s face. “Hold this!” he commanded, and the boy obeyed.

Split-second decision: to retreat the way he’d come or risk a two-story drop. One of Hale’s firefighter pals had said people frequently died heading for a door when they could easily have gone through a window. The awareness that the fire lay directly beneath their path, and the memory of the smoky staircase that by now must be ten times worse, simplified the choice.

“Stand here!” He positioned the child away from the window, against the wall. Balancing on one leg, Hale smashed his heel into the screen. The bloody thing held. Why did this always look so easy on television? Grumbling, he seized a chair and swung. The jolt as it hit the frame reverberated through his elbows and shoulders, but mercifully, the screen went flying.

Skip remained in place. Calling a few words of encouragement, Hale seized the twin-size mattress and heaved it outside. When it landed, Yolanda directed a couple of male volunteers to position it as a landing cushion. The woman exuded a natural air of authority.

Hale crouched by Skip. In the light from the window, the boy’s freckles stood out in a face white with fear. Keep steady and calm, and he’ll follow suit.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Hale explained. “I’ll lower you outside as far as I can, then let you fall. Mrs. Rios is there. You’ll land on the mattress, okay?”

“Okay.” Skip clutched the towel.

“You’ll be fine.” Kids were supposed to be resilient.

Trusting blue eyes met his dark ones. “You’ll jump, too, right?”

“Absolutely.” For a fraction of a second, he felt as if he were staring into the depths of the kid’s soul. Glimpsing a whole, complicated person whose future depended utterly on him. “Ready?”

The youngster straightened. “Yeah.”

More and more of a struggle to suck in air, let alone talk. “Sit on the sill.” Hale assisted the boy into place, facing outward. “I’m going to ease you down.”

The child tensed almost to the point of rigidity. The mattress must seem far below, but if he didn’t relax, he’d be more likely to suffer injury.

“Pretend this is a game. This is a playground and you’re playing superhero, okay? You can do it!”

“Yeah. Okay, Hale.” He sounded shaky but determined.

From far off, Hale heard a siren, but the crackle of flames was much closer and the smoke reeked of whatever combustibles were feeding the blaze. They didn’t dare delay.

The boy’s weight pulled Hale forward and, with his hands occupied, he had to brace his thighs against the sill. “One, two, three.” A slow stretch as far as he could, and then, as he let go, he shouted, “Bombs away!”

An unexpected noise floated to him. Skip’s laughter.

Below, the boy hit the mattress and tumbled forward. His hands skidded off the padding onto the grass but he appeared to be unhurt. Yolanda scooped the child into her arms, fussing over him while clearing the area for Hale’s jump.

More sirens. Another minute, maybe, and they’d be here. Except Hale couldn’t hold his breath that long, and his skin was about to peel off.

Hey, this ought to be no big deal. He kept fit in the workout room at the PD and swam regularly at home. He’d pulled his share of daredevil stunts over the years, too, including skydiving.

Piece of coke. No, wait, that’s cake. Okay, so he couldn’t think straight. And he had to do this facing the building instead of face-forward in order to lower himself as far as possible. He hung there feeling gravity suck the blood out of his arms, reminded himself that if he died the department would give him a fancy funeral, and dropped.

Almost missed the mattress. Tried to bend his knees to break the fall, lost his balance and toppled over. Mercifully, his head hit the padding, but pain shot through his left ankle and the side of his body throbbed.

Now he was supposed to rise, dust himself off and demonstrate to Skip how a he-man handled danger. With aplomb. With panache.

Fierce heat radiated from the nearest window that at any moment might explode outward. And Hale couldn’t move, not even to drag his aching body out of danger.

“Somebody get me outta here!” he shouted.

A fire truck screamed to a halt on the street, boots pounded across the lawn and someone lowered a stretcher. About time you clowns showed up, Hale meant to say, but his larynx refused to cooperate.

He focused on suppressing a groan as his rescuers braced him for removal. Their precautions emphasized that he might have broken something important.

For the first time, the reality of the risk he’d run occurred to Hale. But he and Skip had both survived, and that was what counted.

CONNIE LOVED SOAP in its many shapes, colors and scents, prettily packaged, whether alone or in combination with bottles of perfume and lotion. Not only did soap make great gifts, but customers who bought it for their own use generally returned regularly for replacements.

“I shouldn’t spare the time but I’m desperate! Can’t you smell the smoke on me?” inquired one of her regulars, reporter-editor Tracy Johnson, who stopped in about four o’clock for a box of her favorite rosettes. Without waiting for an answer, she said, “I’m on deadline, and I’ll be writing my fool head off this evening, but I refuse to scrub with the powdered stuff we use at the office. It feels like sandpaper and smells like shoe polish.”

A hard-driving woman in her thirties, Tracy had few vanities. She wore practical pantsuits, tied her auburn-streaked brown hair in a ponytail and chose flat shoes over heels despite her small stature. She stopped in to Connie’s Curios mostly for the candy bars but had developed a fondness for rose-scented soap.

The reference to smoke reminded Connie of the sirens she’d heard intermittently during the afternoon. On the radio, she’d caught a mention of a warehouse blaze. “Did anyone get hurt?”

“Depends on which fire you mean.” Tracy chose a bottle of cucumber lotion. “I could use this, too. My hands are so dry they’re cracking.”

“There was more than one?”

“Two at once, can you believe that? I had to bring Roy in to help. He’s okay if I tell him who to talk to and what to ask, but he never digs beneath the surface.” The fiftysomething Roy Anderson mostly sold ads and handled layout.

“Where was the biggest fire?” Connie asked in concern.

“In a warehouse south of the Amber View housing tract.” Tracy explained that a tenant had failed to obtain permits for storing chemicals used at an off-site manufacturing plant. A substance that spilled during unloading had ignited, thanks to a carelessly discarded cigarette. Without information about the exact nature of the chemicals, the fire department had had to assume the worst. Extinguishing a potentially toxic blaze required the hazardous materials team and, of course, added to the danger for firefighters.

“Somebody’s going to pay a big fine and maybe go to jail,” Tracy concluded. “Fortunately, nobody got hurt, but the factory owner violated a bunch of laws.”

“People don’t recognize the purpose behind safety regulations until there’s a crisis, I suppose.” Connie had been astounded by the red tape necessary to open a shop. She still wasn’t convinced it had all been necessary.

“The second fire’s a more interesting case,” Tracy added. “The cause hasn’t been determined, for one thing.”

Connie glanced over as Paris Larouche, Jo Anne’s twenty-year-old daughter, arrived for her shift. While ringing up Tracy’s purchases, she inquired, “Where was the other fire?”

“At a fourplex that belongs to Yolanda Rios,” the reporter answered. “You must know her from tutoring.”

Yolanda’s fourplex, where Skip lived? A wave of fear sucked the moisture from Connie’s throat. “Was anyone injured?”

Unaware of the urgency behind the question, Tracy said vaguely, “Some idiot left a kid home alone but a cop rescued him.”

She must mean Skip, since he was the only child in the building. “Is the boy okay?”

“A few scratches. He’s been turned over to child protective services.” The reporter signed her credit slip. “I guess Detective Crandall merits another commendation.”

“Hale Crandall?” Connie asked, puzzled. “Why?”

“He got the kid out of the building.”

Connie was grateful to the man once again. This must be a record. “Is he all right?”

“I’m not sure. The paramedics carted him off to the med center,” Tracy responded. “The public information officer thinks he’ll be okay, but that could be simply an assumption.”

Anxiety swept through Connie. “Did you check on his condition?” Tell me he suffered nothing worse than a little smoke inhalation.

“The hospital refuses to comment.” Tracy must have noticed her agitation, because she added, “Is he a friend of yours? I get so caught up in reporting that I can be insensitive.”

“He’s my neighbor.” That seemed the simplest reply.

“He was awake and alert, if that means anything.”

“Thanks.” Paramedics often took people to the hospital as a precaution, Connie reflected, and summoned enough presence of mind to wish her visitor good luck with the articles.

After Tracy left, Connie discovered she was trembling. Once Saturday evening’s incident with the intruder had passed, she’d never considered that Hale might get hurt somewhere else! Now he lay in the hospital, perhaps badly burned, and he didn’t have relatives in the area. She hoped his colleagues were watching out for him. Or maybe he had a girlfriend, the Saturday-night date for whom he’d donned a suit and tie. Well, if that woman didn’t rise to the occasion and take care of her man, Connie owed him a little TLC for saving Skip’s life.

Thinking of Skip reminded her of Paula’s poor judgment in leaving the boy unattended, and now he’d been turned over to social workers. Too bad Paris wasn’t experienced enough to trust with locking up the shop, because if Connie could figure out where he was, she’d try to arrange custody now.

Seeking the most efficient way to ensure the boy’s safety, she dialed Brian Phillips, the lawyer who’d helped with the adoption attempt. After she filled him in, he promised to track the boy. “I’ve got a few contacts at the county.”

“That would be wonderful.” How distressing that Skip might have to spend the night among strangers! As for how close she’d come to losing him altogether, she couldn’t bear to think of it.

A year and a half ago, when he’d arrived at the tutoring center, he’d acted alternately clingy and rebellious. Connie’s upbringing with divorced, self-absorbed parents—her mother was only slightly warmer than her father—hadn’t prepared her to offer selfless nurturing. In fact, during her marriage, she’d resisted the notion of having children.

But with Yolanda’s aid, she’d learned to be a steady, loving guide. While Skip was in kindergarten, Connie had helped him focus on classroom activities, following directions and acquiring a familiarity with numbers and letters. Later, they’d moved into reading and arithmetic. This month, he’d finished first grade working at or above average in all areas.

Now, without her, he might get lost in the system. She had to find him.

Well, Brian was working on that now, and sternly, Connie reminded herself that she had a job to do. After turning the counter over to Paris, she went into the office and settled at the computer to update her Web site. Mostly it informed customers of special events, but direct sales of custom items and collectables had been increasing steadily.

At six o’clock, she reversed the sign on the door to read Closed. As she collected her purse, her young sales assistant twisted a strand of light-brown hair around one finger and said, “I’ve been meaning to mention that I have a few weeks off later this month before summer school starts. I’d like to put in more hours, if it’s okay.”

Connie performed a quick mental calculation. Rearranging and freshening the merchandise at each of the three venues ought to boost sales enough to cover the extra wages. “That would be fine, if you don’t mind rotating among the stores.”

“Great!” Paris beamed. “I’ll give you the exact dates tomorrow.”

“I’ll draw up a schedule with Marta and Rosa.” Her managers would appreciate the extra help.

As the two of them exited by the front door and walked to their cars parked around the side, Connie thought about Hale’s protectiveness on Saturday, and of the fact that he lay in the hospital after saving Skip. For heaven’s sake, she’d never sleep tonight for worrying about his condition. Might as well drop by the med center. If the nurses were restricting visitors, they ought to at least allow a delivery from the gift shop.

It was closed now, but the concessionaire had privileges.

HALE HAD HEARD A VARIETY of opinions about the Mesa View Medical Center. Captain Ferguson, grateful that cell phones and pagers had silenced the old public address calls for doctors, had declared it an oasis of calm following his hemorrhoid surgery. Sgt. Derek Reed, the PD’s leading babe magnet, claimed the nurses got friendlier every year, but another officer had contended they were too preoccupied with paperwork to pay attention to patients.

Hale reluctantly agreed. His ankle throbbed—a sprain, the physician had said—and one side of his body had suffered massive bruises. Instead of offering sympathy and coddling, the nurse had instructed him to press a button on his intravenous line if he needed more pain relief.

Effective and modern, but not very warm.

The presence of fire investigator Andie O’Reilly, who’d been debriefing him for the past half hour, provided a change, although she wasn’t exactly the nurturing type, either. And in his opinion—which he kept to himself—fire officials shouldn’t have flame-red hair.

Andie had arrived at the scene while the firefighters were tackling the blaze. She’d spoken briefly to Hale until the paramedics removed him, then begun interviewing Yolanda.

Her boss was supervising the chemical spill probe, Andie had explained, which left her to spend the afternoon locating and questioning the building’s tenants before catching up with Hale again. Once the fire scene cooled and the building proved structurally safe, she’d comb it for clues.

Most fires began with cooking equipment, but to Hale it appeared this one had started in the living room. Although the place must be a charred, sodden mess, analyzing the burn pattern and sifting through the debris could, he knew, reveal amazing details.

“You’re sure you didn’t observe anyone when you arrived other than Mrs. Rios and Skip Enright?” Andie asked as Hale sipped a cup of tea to settle his smoke-irritated stomach.

“Only those gardeners across the way, as I mentioned, and a few passersby who helped Yolanda,” he said. “Why?”

She didn’t answer. Since Andie had posed that particular inquiry twice before, there must be a reason.

“Hey, I was frank with you,” Hale pointed out. In answer to a query, he’d confided the real reason for his visit, to which she’d replied that Chief Lyons had already informed her about the tip regarding Ben. That upped his respect for the chief, who seemed to be bending over backward to avoid the appearance of a cover-up. “Did you talk to Ben?”

“He denies any involvement with drugs. I didn’t tell him about the rumor, by the way,” Andie added. “Based on his history, I considered it a logical line of inquiry.”

“So what’s this about someone else at the scene?” Hale pressed.

She appeared to be weighing the advantages and disadvantages of disclosure. Possibly since he’d already provided his statement and therefore wasn’t likely to be influenced, openness won.

“Mrs. Rios saw a man exit the building about twenty minutes before the fire started. Only glimpsed him from the rear.” She consulted her notes. “Male, wearing a dark suit, stocky build, about six feet tall with brown hair. Might have been a salesman, although nobody knocked on her door.”

“It wasn’t Vince Borrego?”

“Mrs. Rios described our guy as taller and heavier. Also, Mr. Borrego was at his office with a client.” Although there’d been a few earlier break-ins in the area, that suspect’s description didn’t match, either.

She switched off the tape recorder and shut her notebook. “Good thing you showed up there, Hale. Thanks to you, the kid’s fine.”

“Joel told me.” Also that Skip had been removed from Paula’s custody. And a darn good thing.

Hale hoped the DA brought child endangerment charges against the woman, who, according to Joel—on duty as watch commander—had gone out to buy baby clothes for her new grandchild. The fact that she’d been distraught about the situation softened his anger only marginally.

Rising, Andie brushed a wave of auburn hair behind one ear. The gesture might have struck him as flirtatious if not for Andie’s no-nonsense manner. “Sure you’re okay?” She cast a dubious glance at the untouched plate on his tray.

“I’d love a Twinkie,” Hale hinted, not at all subtly. “Sugar usually settles my stomach.”

“Sorry. I’m fresh out.”

A tap at the entryway announced the arrival of a large floral display with slim, stocking-clad legs. He couldn’t discern much of the newcomer’s face. But he’d have recognized his neighbor’s shapely limbs anywhere.

“Wow!” the investigator said. “That’s a fantastic arrangement. Who sent it?”

“Courtesy of the gift shop,” Connie announced from behind the flora. “These were the leftovers that wouldn’t keep another day. And you are—?”

“Andrea O’Reilly. Fire department.”

“Oh. You’re investigating.” The floral extravaganza navigated to a window ledge that already held several bouquets. “I’m Connie Simmons.” Returning, she thrust out a hand, which Andie shook.

His new guest appeared to believe that introduction sufficed to explain who she was. And so it did. “Ah,” Andie said. “You’re Joel’s ex.”

“Precisely.” Connie folded her arms, an action that emphasized the curves beneath her suit. It was startling to Hale how readily he responded even in his semidebilitated state.

“I guess dreams do come true, Detective,” Andie remarked.

Was his reaction that obvious? Hale tugged the scanty covers higher over the hospital gown. “Yeah?” Luckily, before he said anything awkward, he realized she referred to a small bag that dangled from Connie’s wrist. Imprinted with the legend Sandie’s Tea Shoppe, it yielded an aroma so sweet and appetizing it penetrated the lingering scent of smoke in his nasal passages.

“Dessert?” Hale croaked.

“I doubted the hospital came up to your culinary standards. For junk food, anyway.” She grimaced at the plate he’d been ignoring. “What on earth is that?”

“A liquid diet.” Bouillon and flavored gelatin, neither of which he’d touched. “Do I smell baked goods?” Astonishing how rapidly his appetite returned.

“Enjoy your treat, folks.” With a wave, Andie sauntered out.

Connie waited a couple of beats, then asked, “That was about the fire, correct?”

She sounded jealous. Unbelievable, yet gratifying, too. “She put me on the rack. I’m dying for sustenance.”

“I’m glad you’re not dying for real,” she admitted.

“Really? You were worried?”

“That was brave of you.” From the bag, Connie removed an array of the little snack cakes for which Sandie’s had won local fame. “I couldn’t bear it if something happened to Skip.”

“The little guy behaved like a trooper.” When Hale attempted to reach for a pastry, his body throbbed like crazy. Sinking against the pillow, he pressed a button to increase his dose of painkiller and waited for the misery to pass.

The bed dipped as Connie eased onto the mattress. When a soft hand stroked his temple, he felt like purring.

Man, what was wrong with him? Hale wondered. Another minute and he’d let her feed those pastries directly into his mouth. Must be the effect of the medication.

“Taste this. It’ll distract you.” She pressed a small portion of cake to his lips.

Vanilla. Too good to spit out. And never mind the crumbs. He suddenly decided he liked crumbs in bed. Tonight, he’d be happy to roll in crumbs. “Fantastic.”

“Try some more.” Another taste of heaven.

If the guys saw him like this, he’d be the laughingstock of the force. So what? Connie’d been worried. She’d brought him food. Which meant that maybe she found him as attractive as he found her.

It occurred to Hale that when he got home, he ought to act on the chemistry between him and his neighbor. Surely there was a statute of limitations after which a buddy’s ex-wife became available to a guy.

But right now, he felt too good to worry about that.




Chapter Four


Shortly before 11:00 a.m. on Tuesday, Connie left Jo Anne and a part-timer at the shop to go retrieve Hale, who was scheduled to be released. She didn’t usually run errands for him, but he’d earned this one.

Besides, if someone from the police station ran him home, details would get overlooked, such as whether he had the proper medical supplies or enough frozen dinners to last the next few days. Guys neglected things like that.

At the medical center, she dropped in to the gift shop. Marta Lawson, Connie’s cousin and the concession manager, greeted her warmly.

“The new puzzles are selling like crazy.” Small and vibrant, Marta indicated a display of colorful devices from Japan. They were her personal find from an Internet source. “Folks in the lobby love playing while they wait. Watching them sit for hours during surgeries makes me appreciate even more what you and Rachel went through for me.”

A decade earlier, an automobile accident had nearly claimed Marta’s life as she and Connie were driving to classes at California State University, Fullerton. Rachel, a police science student with whom they’d attended high school, had rushed from the curb and rescued her just before the vehicle burst into flames. Badly injured, Marta had spent years in rehab and still bore scars. Connie’s broken arm had quickly healed.

Since Marta’s mother had died several years earlier, Connie and Rachel had spent many hours sitting by her bedside and, later, escorting her to therapy. In the process, the three had bonded tightly.

“You’d do the same for either of us,” Connie pointed out. “In fact, if you hadn’t invited me to the tutoring center, I’d never have met Skip.” Despite her disabilities, Marta had helped Yolanda organize the center, known as Villa Corazon. A play on the name Villazon, it meant “Town of the Heart” in Spanish.

“Speaking of Skip, any word about him?” her cousin asked.

“I tried to reach my lawyer this morning, but the secretary said he’d gone out. I guess he’s in court.” Connie had also left several messages at protective services but so far had received no response.

Across the lobby, an elevator opened. A middle-aged woman in a volunteer’s pink uniform emerged, pushing Hale in a wheelchair.

“Oh, my gosh!” Connie said. “He’s worse off than I realized.” Then she remembered. “Oh, yeah, hospitals always put patients in wheelchairs before releasing them. Why, do you suppose?”

“Something to do with liability if they trip on their way out, I think.” Marta indicated the volunteer following them with a pair of crutches. “He is injured, though.”

“Sprained ankle, he mentioned.” Connie’s gaze lingered on Hale. In a sport shirt and sculpted jeans, his frame seemed too powerful to be confined. Someone had brought him fresh clothes, Connie observed, and hoped it was Joel rather than that striking red-haired fire investigator.

“I wondered when you’d quit fighting it,” Marta murmured.

“Quit fighting what?” Connie signaled to catch Hale’s attention. He must have cracked a joke, because both volunteers were chuckling.

“You’ve been staring at that man like you’re dying of thirst and he’s an oasis.” Her cousin shook her head. “Sorry, I don’t mean to pry. But when you look at him, the air sizzles.”




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