Ring Of Deception

Ring Of Deception Sandra Marton Uncover the scandals and secrets in this reissue of Sandra Marton’s reader-favorite story! His most prized jewel . . . Hard-edged, intimidating detective Luke Sloan is working undercover on a jewel theft when he meets fiery Abby Douglas. Her distracting beauty and sharp tongue initially put her on his list of suspects, until Luke realizes Abby needs his protection. As they work together, Luke wonders if his original instinct was right—Abby’s sensuous curves and intoxicating allure threaten to cut through his cold, cynical facade. As the desire simmering between them reaches the boiling point, Luke realizes he might be the person Abby needs to be protected from . . . A Forrester Square novel. Originally published in 2003. Ring of Deception Sandra Marton www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) CONTENTS Cover (#uc976c3ee-ceb9-5d3c-aeec-be4312079f1c) Back Cover Text (#ufbbba276-657e-5df4-ab26-08d0463c69e7) Title Page (#ucd312100-d734-5f77-af04-ae1f15adcc4b) CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_5085c05d-ecdf-5a77-90f6-96ce550c102e) CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_5ba0e2df-9947-54e4-81b3-7afd208b1d1e) CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_e0b25542-0c53-5b14-8128-640633d41709) CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_42217195-e725-5860-93ad-c2a61c11d340) 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) EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo) Copyright (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER ONE (#ub5940618-9c13-5a52-99fd-8b7e901a411b) THE ALARM ON LUKE SLOAN’S clock radio went off at 6:00 a.m. Luke rolled over on his belly, reached out and slapped it to silence with a perfect aim born of familiarity. Five minutes later, the alarm screamed again. This time, he let it ring long enough for the unholy shrieking to pierce his sleep-fogged brain. Then he opened one eye, reached out and flipped the switch from Alarm to Radio. “Cloudy this morning . . . ” a voice said with effusive good cheer, “with showers this afternoon and evening. Heavier cloudbursts possible overnight and tomorrow . . . ” Luke grunted. Rain and more rain. What a surprise. The guy doing the weather sounded as if he’d just discovered he was living in Seattle. Rolling onto his back, he stacked his hands beneath his head as the weatherman finally shut up and an old Doors tune came on. Jim Morrison still wanted somebody to light his fire. Luke listened for a couple of minutes, then decided the only thing that would get his fire lit was a pair of extra-strength aspirin. He sat up, silenced the radio and headed for the bathroom. His head hurt, his mouth was dry and his sinuses felt like they’d been stuffed with quick-hardening cement. It would have been nice to blame it all on last night’s celebratory stop at the Nine-Thirty-One Tavern with Dan, but he couldn’t. Dan had ordered a beer; Luke had ordered a shot of rock and rye. “Cold coming on,” he’d said when Dan looked at him as if he’d just sprouted horns. “Ah.” Dan had nodded as he scooped up a handful of peanuts and popped a couple in his mouth. “I was wondering why you looked like day-old crap.” “Thank you,” Luke replied. “I really needed to hear that.” “Why don’t you come home with me? Molly made chicken soup yesterday. A couple of bowls, you’ll feel like a new man.” “Thanks, but I think what I need is a good night’s sleep.” Lacey, a stacked brunette barmaid with a way of looking at Luke as if he had a big red S on his chest, leaned over the bar. “How about coming home with me? I’ll open a can of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle. It’s not homemade, but there are other things I can do to make you feel like a new man.” “Oh, to be thirty-five and single again,” Dan joked. Luke had grinned and exchanged the expected male-female banter with Lacey, but he’d gone home without either Lacey or a cup of Molly’s soup. He loved Molly like a sister. As for Lacey . . . a man would have to be blind not to see that she was a stunner. But if he went home with Dan, Molly would ply him with soup while she talked up her latest “find,” a single woman who was, she’d assure him, everything he wanted in a woman. And if he went home with Lacey, he’d just complicate his life. She’d ply him with the lush pleasures of her body, and afterward, she’d expect . . . what? Maybe just a smile. Then again, based on the looks she’d been tossing at him lately, maybe more than that. More was the last thing Luke wanted. As the saying went, he’d been there, done that—done it legally, moreover, marriage license, chapel and all—and it hadn’t worked. So he was, as Dan had pointed out, thirty-five and single. He liked it that way. Besides, he wasn’t the kind of guy who could do a one-night stand with a woman who wanted more, and then keep seeing her day after day, which was how it would go with Lacey. Nine-Thirty-One was a hangout for the precinct detectives, so he’d had to pass—if reluctantly—on Lacey’s generous offer. Luke flushed the toilet, went to the bathroom cabinet and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Hell, what a mess. His green eyes were red-rimmed, his nose was pink, and the light stubble on his jaw made his high cheekbones stand out in stark relief. Forget a pair of aspirin. Four was more like it. He dumped the tablets into his mouth, turned on the faucet, cupped his hand under the water and gulped some down. Then he shucked off his white boxers, stepped into the shower and turned the water as hot as he could stand it. Hands flat against the tile, head bowed so the water could beat down on the nape of his neck, Luke gave himself up to the heat and the steam. Steam wasn’t chicken soup. Nor was it an old-fashioned sweat lodge, the kind he’d tried years ago while visiting an Oglala Sioux cousin in North Dakota. But after a few minutes, between the aspirin and the warmth, he began to feel better. Naked, just a towel wrapped around his hips, he walked into the kitchen of his condo, took a container of orange juice from the refrigerator and lifted it to his lips. One thing about living alone, you could do stuff like that. Back in his bedroom, he pulled on a pair of running shorts, ancient Nikes and a faded T-shirt emblazoned with a Thunderbird clasping a whale in its talons. Then he pulled his long black hair back from his face and caught it at the base of his neck with a narrow length of rawhide. The rain had slowed to a drizzle. Not that it mattered. Luke ran in all kinds of weather. Besides, he thought wryly, a run in the rain would either cure his cold or give him pneumonia . . . and at least there was a cure for that. An hour later, he came puffing back into his apartment, soaked to the skin but feeling closer to human. The light on his answering machine was blinking. Luke hit the play button. The message was probably from Molly, calling to scold him for not coming home with Dan for a cup of her homemade penicillin last night. But it wasn’t Molly, it was the captain’s clerk, calling to tell him that Lieutenant McDowell wanted to see him at 8:00 a.m. and would that be convenient? Convenient? Luke shot the answering machine a look that some of the suspects he’d questioned during the past four years, ever since he’d made detective, would have recognized. The lieutenant or the clerk must be having a good laugh—except that nobody had ever seen either of them smile, much less laugh. Maybe he’d heard the message wrong. He toed off his Nikes, tugged his soaked T-shirt over his head and stripped off his shorts. The phone rang just as he reached toward the play button. “Sloan.” “Molly wants to know how you’re feeling.” Luke smiled, tucked the phone between his ear and his shoulder and headed for the bathroom. “Better than yesterday, and curious about today.” “Why? What’s up?” “I just got a message from the captain’s clerk. The lieutenant wants to see me when I get in.” “And?” “And . . . I don’t know anything more than that.” Luke hesitated. “Dan? You think maybe the lieutenant developed a sense of humor?” “See, I knew you should have come home with me last night. You need Molly’s soup, Luke. You must be running a fever.” “You could be right. Either I’m hallucinating, or the message on my machine says I should see him at eight . . . if it’s convenient.” “If it’s . . . ?” Dan gave a gusty sigh. “Man, you’re in deeper do-do than usual. What’d you do to piss him off this time?” Luke grinned. “Nothing more than usual. Why?” “Well, last time I know of he used the word convenient was maybe three, four years ago. Right before you got made. He asked Rutledge if it was convenient for him to stop by his office at six one evening. You ever know Rutledge? Tall, mustache—looked like John Q. Public’s idea of a detective.” “Yeah, I heard about him. The guy who couldn’t have found an elephant in a phone booth with a sack of peanuts in his pocket.” “That’s the one.” “So? What happened?” “McDowell told Rutledge he was putting him on a special detail.” Luke opened the shower stall door, turned on the water, then closed the door again. “Which was?” “Which was, handing him over to that TV anchor with the hairpiece for a PR stint. Well, he wasn’t an anchor then, but you know who I mean—the guy who can’t walk by a mirror without kissing his reflection. After a week, even Rutledge was going nuts.” Luke sat down on the closed commode. “In other words,” he said slowly, “‘convenient’ is a polite way of saying ‘smile and grab your ankles, pal. You’re about to get screwed.” “Yeah,” Dan said mournfully, “and not by a babe like that lady last night. What? No, Molly. Honey, I was just—of course not. Would I even notice another woman when I can come home to you? Molly. Baby . . . ” Luke chuckled. “See you in an hour.” He put down the phone, stepped into the shower and turned the water on full force. Dan tended to look at the down side of things. Rutledge had always been an ass; he’d deserved an assignment that paired him with another ass. But Luke knew he was—well, without being too immodest, he was good. He cleared most of his cases and he had an impressive arrest record. During his five years in uniform, he’d taken down more than his fair share of the lowlifes he encountered. Once he’d been made a detective, he’d busted burglars, pornographers, a child kidnapper and a killer. Turning his face up to the spray, he let the warm water do its job. No way would the lieutenant waste him on some idiotic PR thing. No way whatsoever. * * * BY EIGHT-FIFTEEN, LUKE KNEW he was right. The lieutenant didn’t want to waste him in an idiotic PR thing. He wanted to use him in something worse. He hadn’t said so. Not yet, but Luke could feel it coming. First there’d been a handshake and congratulations about yesterday’s collar. He and Dan had put in two months working on a dozen cases of home-invasion robberies and finally caught the vicious SOB who’d been busting into the homes of the elderly, stealing whatever he could, and beating up the frail victims just for kicks. “Good job, Sloan,” McDowell said, to start their meeting. Then he motioned Luke to a chair and made what was supposed to be some meaningful small talk along with lots of serious eye contact. The lieutenant, like most of the bosses, had taken a management seminar on how to encourage subordinates to feel like part of the team. The looking-deep-into-the-eyes thing was one of the techniques. Luke knew that because he’d leafed through a syllabus he’d found lying around. Lieutenant McDowell wasn’t particularly good at the deep eye contact. He’d come to the department from the mayor’s office, and if he had something to tell you, he had a tendency to yell and get red in the face. That he wasn’t even raising his voice, but was doing this by the syllabus, made Luke nervous. Then he offered Luke a cup of coffee. Starbucks, by the taste of it, and one thousand percent better than the sludge they brewed in the squad room. “Cream?” the lieutenant asked, and that was when Luke knew that whatever came next would not be pleasant. “No,” Luke said politely, “I’m fine.” “Sound a little husky, Sloan. Got a cold?” “I do, yeah.” “My wife swears by horehound drops. Might want to try some.” A polite invitation, coffee, an offer to add cream to that coffee, and now some fatherly advice. No, this was not good. “I’ll do that,” Luke said, and waited. McDowell sat back in his chair and tented his fingers under his chin. “Well,” he said, “you must be wondering why I called you in today.” Luke said nothing. Back when he was a marine, he’d learned the drill. Keep your mouth shut and wait. You’d find out what was going on sooner or later. That worked in a cop’s world, too. McDowell cleared his throat, rose from his desk and walked to a wall map of Seattle. He stabbed a finger at the northwestern section of the city and raised an eyebrow at Luke. “Some very expensive real estate up here,” he said. Luke muffled a sneeze. “Uh-huh.” “I guess you’ve heard about the robberies in the area the last few months.” Now they were getting down to it. Luke began to relax. Maybe he’d misjudged things. Maybe McDowell was the victim of another management seminar, this one on issuing summonses to his office that didn’t sound like summonses. “I heard something about a cat burglar doing his thing.” “At first. But our perp’s gone from playing it cool and careful to strong-arm tactics. Comes in when he knows somebody’s home, frightens them half to death, roughs them up if they don’t move fast enough.” “Sounds like a real nice guy.” “Uh-huh. His taste is good, too. He takes only what they call estate jewelry, meaning it’s old and expensive.” “What more do we know?” “Well, we had a report of one of the missing pieces possibly turning up on the market.” “Possibly?” “Yeah. And not in your usual kind of market, Sloan. This wasn’t a pawnshop.” “What was it, then?” The lieutenant sat down behind his desk. “Ever hear of the Emerald City Jewelry Exchange?” “Sure. Big place, expensive by the looks of it. On a street over in Belltown.” Luke cocked his head. “Wait a minute. Are you saying somebody at Emerald City is fencing stolen jewelry?” The lieutenant allowed himself a quick smile. “I’m not saying a thing. Not yet.” “But?” “But a lady called last week, all upset. Said she’d just come from there and swore she spotted a necklace that was the duplicate of one stolen from her. It was lying in a corner of a display case.” “And?” “Let’s put it this way. The lady in question is ninety-three, wears a hearing aid in each ear and glasses thick as Coke bottles. During the original interview, she told the detective who took the squeal that she’s being pestered by aliens from outer space who talk to her through her Persian cat.” Luke grinned. “Uh-huh.” “The detective paid her another visit, chatted with a maid who said the old girl’s okay most of the time but, well, every now and then she has a little trouble with reality.” “Not the world’s most reliable complainant,” Luke said with a nod. “On the other hand, the maid was with her that day. She says when the old woman gasped and pointed at the corner of the case, she looked, too, and she thinks maybe it really was the necklace.” “Maybe?” McDowell shrugged. “‘Maybe’s’ about it.” “Did they say anything to anybody in the store?” “No, not a word. They went straight outside and phoned us.” “So, what we’ve got is an old lady with a screw loose, and a maid who thinks maybe she saw something . . . and maybe she didn’t.” “Exactly. That’s why we have to move carefully on this.” “I assume somebody checked the display case in the store.” “Sure. The detective went in, she took a look, didn’t see a thing.” “And she interviewed the people who work at the exchange?” McDowell shifted uncomfortably in his swivel chair. “The place is owned by Julian Black. Name ring any bells? No? Well, Black’s at the top of the food chain. Good-looking guy, rich, supposed to be as honest as George Washington . . . and he’s active in civic affairs.” Luke folded his arms. “You mean, he knows all the right people.” “You say that like it’s an obscenity, Sloan, but that’s how things work. Black’s on a first-name basis with the governor, he served on the mayor’s recent ad hoc arts commission, and I’d be a fool to drag this department into a swamp until I know how deep the mud’s going to get.” “Simply interviewing his clerks wouldn’t be . . . ” “It would,” McDowell said firmly. “Seattle’s best families buy their toys at Emerald City. The last thing people like that want is cops swarming over the place, giving it a bad name.” “Yeah. Okay. I can see that.” “I thought you would. That’s why you’re going to set up a surveillance.” Luke nodded. He hated doing surveillance. It was almost as dull as watching grass grow, but that was where he’d figured this was going. “Okay.” “You’ll have a camcorder so you can get tape of anything that looks interesting.” “Where am I doing this? In a van on the street or is there a parking lot?” For the first time since their meeting had started, McDowell looked uncomfortable. “We’ve arranged for you to set up the camera and equipment across the street, at a place where you can have an unimpeded view of the exchange, where you can hang around for hours and nobody will figure you for a cop.” Luke frowned, thought about the street the exchange was on, and came up with what he assumed was the place he’d be setting up shop. “I’ve got it. That caf;aae—what’s it called? Caffeine something.” He snapped his fingers. “Caffeine Hy’s. Yeah, I guess that’ll work.” He grinned as he began to rise from his chair. “Although I’ll probably swear off coffee by the time I—” “Not the coffee shop.” “No?” Luke sank into the seat again. “Maybe I’m thinking of the wrong street.” “You’ve got the right street, Sloan, just the wrong spot for the stakeout.” McDowell picked up a pencil and tapped it on the edge of his desk. “You’re going into the Forrester Square Day Care Center.” Luke blinked. “What?” “I said, we’re setting you up in—” “A day care center?” “Right.” “Day care for what?” Luke said slowly. “Dogs? Cats? Canaries?” “Very funny.” McDowell’s voice was flat. “Kids. Babies through kindergarten. You’re going to be a teacher’s aide.” Luke stared at the lieutenant. He thought about what he knew about kids, which was exactly zero. He thought about what he wanted to know about kids, which was even less than that. “Is this a joke?” “The center is directly across from the exchange. It has a window in a fairly quiet location that looks out on the street.” McDowell tugged a file toward him, opened it and quickly scanned the top page. “There are three owners—Hannah Richards, Alexandra Webber and Katherine Kinard. Our people have spoken with them—well, more specifically, with the Kinard woman and her attorney. She’s agreed to cooperate.” “Lieutenant, whoever came up with this plan is crazy. Excuse me, sir, for being blunt, but setting up a surveillance in a day care center, asking me to deal with babies is—” “I came up with it,” McDowell said, his eyes riveted to Luke’s. “And I’m not asking you, Sloan. I’m telling you.” “I don’t know the first thing about kids.” “You’ll learn.” “I don’t like kids.” “Ever spent any time around them?” “No!” “Well, that’s why you think you don’t like them. You’re a quick study, Sloan. Just pay attention to what Ms. Kinard tells you, you’ll be fine.” “Lieutenant,” Luke said desperately, “a female detective would—” “The place is open Mondays through Fridays, so you won’t be able to use it for surveillance of the jewelry exchange on Saturdays. Dan Shayne will take Saturdays. He’ll set up in a van on the street. Other times, he’ll do whatever legwork, paper stuff you might need.” “Lieutenant. Really, a woman would—” “Here’s what little we have on the Emerald City Jewelry Exchange, its employees and Julian Black.” McDowell got to his feet and held out the folder, indicating the meeting was over. Luke stared at him for two or three seconds. Then he stood up, too. “Susan. Susan Wu,” he said desperately. “She’s one hell of a good detective, she has grandchildren, she likes kids.” “An excellent choice.” Luke let out his breath. “Well, then, sir . . . ” “Unfortunately, Wu is in the hospital with appendicitis.” McDowell shoved the folder at Luke and fixed him with the sort of look he remembered from his days in the corps. “Anything else, Detective Sloan?” Luke had taken on men twice his size, fought battles he’d never expected to win, but he wasn’t a fool. There was no way to win a war with McDowell unless he wanted to find himself in uniform again. “No, sir,” he said, took the folder and went to meet his fate. * * * AN HOUR LATER, LUKE SAT in a chair, staring at a woman seated behind the business side of a desk so neat and uncluttered it made him nervous. Katherine Kinard wasn’t making him nervous, however. What she was doing was pissing him off. From the look on her face when he’d walked into her office and introduced himself as the detective who’d be working undercover at her day care center, he might as well have been Ivan the Terrible. “You?” she’d said, her eyes round with shock. “You’re the undercover police officer? But my attorney—Daniel Adler—said you’d be . . . He spoke with someone in your department, and they promised him you’d be a woman.” Luke lifted one dark eyebrow. “Trust me, Ms. Kinard. I’m not.” “He said you’d be middle-aged and motherly, someone the children would love.” “Believe me, I’m no happier about this than you are.” “What do you know about children, Officer—Officer . . . ?” “Detective. Detective Luke Sloan. I don’t know a damned thing about them.” “We don’t curse at Forrester Square Day Care, Detective.” “I’ll bet you don’t.” Luke glared at his supposed new employer. She glared back. “Look, I told you, I’m no happier than you are, but—” Katherine held up her hand, reached for the phone and punched a speed-dial button. “One moment, please, Detective. No, don’t bother getting up. I’m going to call Mr. Adler and see what he . . . Daniel? Yes, it’s Katherine. I’m fine, thank you. Look, Daniel . . . ” She rolled her eyes. “That’s great. Yes, it is difficult to get tickets for . . . Alexandra is fine, too, thank you. Yes. Much better. She’s even starting to talk about moving out of my place and getting an apartment of her own. Right. I do see that as a good sign.” Luke tried not to listen, but it was impossible. Besides, he wasn’t hearing anything he didn’t already know. The “Alexandra” Katherine Kinard was talking about was undoubtedly Alexandra Webber. McDowell had told him Forrester Square Day Care was run by three women: Alexandra Webber, Hannah Richards and the woman sitting at her desk, who was doing her best to get rid of him. He could only hope she managed to pull it off. Luke rose to his feet. The Kinard woman looked up inquiringly. “Take your time,” Luke said politely. “I’ll just stroll around your office and try to get a feel for what the place is like.” It took less than ten seconds to decide that what the place was like was the inside of a loony bin after the art therapist finished a session with the inmates. Luke stood, transfixed, before a sheet of paper tacked to a beaverboard wall. The paper was covered with swirls and stripes of red, yellow and blue and was only one of what looked like a hundred similar sheets of paper. Slowly, he walked the length of the wall. What were all these brushstrokes supposed to represent? That thing had to be a tree. And a dog . . . well, no. He’d never seen a blue dog with six legs. That had to be a house. A man, a woman, a child. And a bird in the sky . . . or was it an airplane? Hell, he thought, and walked toward the window that looked out onto the Emerald City Jewelry Exchange, directly across the street. The floor space all around him was crowded with stacks of books and boxes. The lady needed a good carpenter. Some shelves, some cabinets and cupboards— “Detective?” Luke swung around. Katherine Kinard was staring at him and trying to smile. She was a nice-looking woman, not his type at all, but he’d kiss her smack on the lips if it turned out she and her lawyer had enough clout to get him taken the hell out of here. “Well, Detective, it looks as if you’re going to be working here for a while.” Luke groaned. Kinard looked startled, and then she laughed. “My feelings, exactly. Understand, it’s nothing personal.” “The same here, Ms. Kinard.” “Please, call me Katherine. If you’re going to be an aide here—” “I have to admit, I was pulling for you and your attorney.” Katherine sighed. “Seems they really did have a female detective lined up, but she came down with—” “Appendicitis. I know.” “Mr. Adler called your lieutenant while I was on the phone.” She pushed back her chair. “I guess we’ll just have to make the best of it. I’ve already had my partners, Hannah and Alexandra, relocate upstairs for as long as you’re here.” She waved a hand at the two vacated desks in the room. “They share this office with me, but we decided you’d be able to work better with fewer people around. They’ll be in and out from time to time, of course. Now, we thought that you could work with one of our teachers and a group of about ten children, and—What’s the matter?” “I have a job to do, Katherine. I don’t know how much they told you . . . .” “They told me nothing whatsoever. Police business, they said. That was it.” She cocked her head. “I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me more?” “Sorry. All I can say is that my work here involves steady surveillance. I can’t possibly do what I’m here to do and work with ten kids at the same time.” “Well, then, Detective, I don’t know—” “Call me Luke. Nobody here must know I’m a cop.” “Yes, but you just said—” “I have an idea,” Luke said slowly. He jerked his head toward the window. “Were you planning on turning that area into something particular?” “You mean, something instead of a disaster zone?” Katherine sighed. “Someday, when I have the time and the money, we’ll put in shelves and—” “And cabinets and cupboards.” Luke nodded. An idea was slowly coming together in his mind. If he brought in some tools, some wood . . . “How’d you like that stuff built right now?” “I’m afraid I don’t understand.” “I wasn’t always a cop. There was a time I was pretty handy with a hammer and saw. Suppose I come in as a handyman instead of a teacher’s aide? That way, I can keep my attention where it’s supposed to be—and you won’t have to worry about me scaring the kiddies out of their skin.” “Oh, I wasn’t . . . ” Katherine smiled. “Okay. Maybe I was a little concerned. And I have to admit, your idea makes sense, but how long will your assignment here last? Will it be long enough to complete shelves and cabinets?” Luke grinned. “Sounds like a plan, huh?” “It does—but what if you can’t finish the job?” “If I can’t, you’ll have to hire a real carpenter to do the rest of the work. Look, Katherine, I know this is an imposition, but we’re both stuck with it.” Katherine nodded. “You’re right, Detective—Luke, I mean. Just remember, please, that children are in and out of my office all the time. Parents, too, so if you’d try to, um, to, uh—” She licked her lips. “You’re so big. The kids might find that overwhelming. And if you’d, uh, if you’d smile more often, and watch your language . . . ” “I’ll be charming, I’ll clean up my language, and if I can find a way to shrink from six foot two to two foot six, I’ll do it,” Luke said without a smile. “All right?” “I’m not trying to be inhospitable, Detective—” “Luke,” Luke said again. “And I’m not trying to be unpleasant. I just think we’re both going to have to make accommodations for a situation neither of us likes very much.” Katherine Kinard nodded glumly. “I guess you’re right.” She forced a smile; he could almost see the wheels grinding as she searched for a couple of friendly words. “That cold of yours,” she finally said, “you might want to try vitamin C.” Advice from Dan. From a barmaid. From the lieutenant, and now from Katherine Kinard. What he really needed was somebody to jump out and say, Surprise! This is all just a bad dream. But it wasn’t, and he let his polite smile fade a couple of minutes later as he headed for the main door and tried not to sneeze, not to acknowledge the headache that had returned, big time, not to step on any of the munchkins zipping around. He’d head home, change his clothes and pick up his old carpentry tools. Then he’d stop by the squad room and sign out a camcorder plus some other stuff he’d need, and hope to hell he caught somebody fencing jewels at Emerald City in record— The door swung open just as he reached for it. Next thing he knew, he was doing the two-step, trying to avoid walking through a woman and a little kid, but he ended up bumping into the woman, anyway. “Isn’t he s’posed to say he’s sorry?” the kid said, looking up at her mother. Luke gritted his teeth. Great. Now he was getting lessons in etiquette from a preschooler. “Sorry,” he growled, but the kid was no fool. “He doesn’t sound very sorry, Mommy.” The kid’s mother hauled her back against her legs. “Emily,” she said quickly, “hush!” Luke looked at the woman. She was a hazel-eyed brunette, maybe five six, five seven. No more his type than Katherine Kinard was, but he had to admit she was pretty. In fact, maybe she was his type. Maybe under normal circumstances he’d have given the woman a slow, appraising look and an even slower smile. He wasn’t interested in playing around close to the job, but he wasn’t dead, either. When he saw a good-looking woman, he was interested. But his mood was foul and both the kid and her mother were looking at him as if he might morph into a monster who ate children for breakfast. Why disappoint them? “Emily didn’t mean—” “Save it,” he growled. “And maybe you ought to teach the kid not to talk to strangers.” The brunette gasped, the little girl’s mouth began to tremble, and Luke headed for his car feeling pretty much as if he’d just kicked a puppy. It was a bad feeling for a man who’d never kicked anything except a bad guy who’d been trying to kick him. Still, he’d given the woman good advice . . . . Who was he kidding? Luke got into his car, pulled away from the curb and told himself he was going to have to improve his attitude, or both he and Forrester Square Day Care were in for a really miserable time. CHAPTER TWO (#ub5940618-9c13-5a52-99fd-8b7e901a411b) ABBY DOUGLAS STARED AFTER the man. Even from the back, he looked as rough as he’d sounded. Tall. Big shoulders. Long black hair caught at the nape of his neck. And a way of walking that said he owned the world and everything in it. Maybe you should teach your kid not to talk to strangers. She had taught that to Emily, drummed it into her head over and over. Her little girl knew that litany better than most four-year-olds. She had to, because there was always the chance that Frank, or someone hired by Frank, might be out there trying to find her. Trying to find the both of them. If a stranger comes up to you, she’d told Emily, walk away. Don’t answer any questions. Don’t listen to stories about daddies wanting to find their little girls, or strangers wanting help finding lost puppies. And if somebody tries to touch you, run, run, run. But that wasn’t what had happened. The man hadn’t sought Emily out. He hadn’t even spoken to her, not until he overheard her childish comment. Still, the incident had shaken Abby. She’d thought she was long past that rush of terror, the thump in her chest, the suffocating panic that came of suddenly being confronted by a glowering man who was physically intimidating . . . . Who really hadn’t done anything but react to a child’s innocently made comment. “Mommy?” The man hadn’t showed interest in her or in Emily. He was just an unpleasant stranger and he didn’t have a damned thing to do with her ex-husband. All true, but logic didn’t matter. One snarl, one growl, and all the old fears came right to the surface. Damn it, Abby thought angrily, could she still fall apart that easily? “Mom?” A little hand tugged on her skirt. Abby blinked, looked down into her daughter’s upturned face and saw the telltale glimmer of tears on her lashes. “Oh, honey!” She bent down, clasped her child’s shoulders and dropped a gentle kiss on her forehead. “Don’t be upset, Em. That man was just—” “He yelled at you.” “No. He wasn’t exactly yelling, baby. He was just . . . ” “Daddy used to yell.” Emily’s voice quavered. “I ‘member.” Abby’s heart turned over. How could her little girl remember that? She’d left Frank when her baby was two . . . but children sometimes stored up things subconsciously. A social worker had mentioned that at the shelter back in Eugene. Katherine Kinard had said something similar during a parents’ coffee klatch. A worried-looking father had mentioned that his son had had a bad experience in day care when he was only a couple of years old, and that he still remembered it. That happened, Katherine had said calmly. Children’s memories went back further than many people thought. What mattered was letting a child admit bad things had happened, and then helping the child leave those things behind. Abby nodded. “Yes,” she admitted gently, “he did. Sometimes people yell when they’re angry at each other.” Emily’s face scrunched up in serious thought. “Sam says his daddy never yells.” Abby smiled. Sam was in Emily’s play group. “That’s good. People shouldn’t yell.” “Was that man angry at me?” “Well, he didn’t like what you said, Em.” “But I was right. He should have said he was sorry.” “Yes, but . . . Maybe he got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.” “Or maybe it was ‘cause he has a cold.” Smiling, Abby smoothed the frown line from between her daughter’s eyes. “You think so?” “Yup. His nose was all red, like Lily’s when she got sick. She had to drink lots an’ lots of orange juice an’ she didn’t come to day care for a whole week. Remember?” “I remember.” Abby hesitated. “Em. Do you remember what I said about talking to strangers?” “Uh-huh. And not helping anybody look for their little girl or their puppy.” Emily’s expression was solemn. As she had so many times during the last two years, Abby wondered where to draw the line between keeping her baby safe from the man who’d fathered her, and letting her enjoy the innocence of childhood. “Yes. That’s right.” Emily tucked a finger into her mouth. “I didn’t talk to that man, Mommy.” “You did, baby.” Her daughter shook her head so emphatically that her braids flew around her face. “I talked to you.” One point to the four-year-old, Abby thought. She sighed and rose to her feet. “Right. Technically, anyway.” “What’s technically mean?” Abby smiled. “It means you’re right and I’m wrong.” Emily’s light brown eyebrows rose in confusion and Abby gave another deep sigh. “Okay, how about this? You shouldn’t say things about other people so they can hear them.” “Yesterday, you said Lily’s new dress was pretty. You said it to me, but Lily was right there. She could hear you.” Two points for the four year old, Abby thought, and grinned. “Right again. How’s this? You shouldn’t say things that aren’t nice. Got that?” “Yes.” Emily wrinkled her freckled nose. “You should whisper them.” Abby began to laugh. One thing she’d learned since fleeing Oregon and her ex was that no matter how rough things seemed, her baby could always brighten her day. “I give up.” Abby retied the blue bow around one of Emily’s braids. “Go on. Have fun, drink all your milk at lunchtime, and I’ll be back for you after work.” “Okay, Mommy.” Mother and daughter exchanged hugs just as the door swung open again. A blond woman and a little girl who looked enough like Emily to be her sister stepped inside. “Lily!” “Emily!” The children fell on each other as if they’d been parted for years instead of overnight, exclaiming happily at braids identically tied with blue ribbons, at blue jeans, blue sneakers and blue T-shirts. “See, Mommy?” Emily said happily. “Lily wore blue everything, same as me.” “Was there ever a doubt?” Faith Marshall, Lily’s mother, smiled at Abby. “‘Today we’re wearing blue,’ my daughter announced this morning.” Faith shook her head. “You think maybe we’ve got twins who were mysteriously separated at birth?” Abby chuckled. “Sometimes it seems like we do.” She bent down, gave Emily another quick hug. “Now, scoot. Otherwise, you’ll miss morning storytime!” The little girls kissed their mothers and skipped off, hand in hand. Abby turned to Faith and smiled. “They’re quite a pair.” Faith grinned. “Two peas in a pod.” “I was going to call you and see if Lily can come over tomorrow and spend the night. I promised Emily we’d bake chocolate chip cookies.” “You’re off tomorrow?” “That’s the other thing I was going to tell you. I’m off Saturdays from now on.” Faith grinned. “Will miracles never cease?” “My manager called me in and gave me the news just yesterday. I’d asked for that when I first began working at Emerald City, but Mr. Black—my boss—said it was impossible.” “What changed?” Abby shrugged. “Who knows? My manager simply said she’s decided to work Saturdays.” She grinned. “Mine not to reason why—” “Yours just to reap the trickle-down benefits. The guys on top always get what they want.” “In this case, that’s fine with me. I’d much rather have a normal weekend—and you won’t have to watch Em for me Saturdays anymore.” “Lily and I will miss her.” “Just remember, you can still leave Lily with me anytime you have a freelance job nights or weekends.” Faith smiled. “Trust me, Abby. I won’t forget.” “So, how about it? Want to bring Lily by tomorrow?” “Sure. What time’s good?” “One, two, whatever works for you.” “Fine.” Faith pushed open the front door and she and Abby trotted down the steps to the gate in the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the day care center. “You have time for coffee?” Abby shook her head. “Sorry. I’m almost late as it is.” She looked across Sandringham Drive at the big windows of the Emerald City Jewelry Exchange. “My boss is probably already wondering where in heck I am.” Faith nodded. “Another time, then.” “Absolutely,” Abby said, and wondered if the word sounded as false as it felt. “See you tomorrow.” “Sure. See you then.” The women exchanged smiles. Then Abby checked for traffic and ran across the street. Their daughters had grown close, and she and Faith Marshall had quickly discovered that exchanging occasional baby-sitting duties was a lot less expensive—and a lot more reassuring—than paying strangers to watch their children for them. Still, the women hadn’t moved beyond a superficial friendship. It wasn’t Faith’s doing, it was Abby’s. Of necessity, she’d settled for something less. There was too much risk in getting involved with people. When you’d run away from a man who’d sworn never to let you go, you never really knew who you could trust. Abby stopped before the Emerald City door and tapped lightly on the glass. Bill, the security guard, smiled, opened the lock and let her in. “‘Morning, Abby. Lovely day.” “‘Morning, Bill. Yes, it is,” she agreed as she hurried up the main aisle of the exchange. It was a couple of minutes before ten and all the counters—fine watches, gold and platinum jewelry, gemstones, sterling and china—were staffed and ready for customers. Well, all except hers. She sold estate jewelry at a counter right up front in one of the big windows that looked out on the street. She wasn’t late. Not really, she thought, and glanced up at the loft. Yes, her boss was there, tall and distinguished-looking, his hands clasped behind his back. He smiled pleasantly. Abby jerked her gaze down. Mr. Black had never given her a hard time about being a few minutes late. She’d explained she was a single mother, that she had to drop her daughter off at the day care center every day, and he’d been wonderfully understanding. But sometimes he looked at her in a way that made her feel . . . uncomfortable. Silly, she knew. It was just that any man looking at her made her feel uncomfortable, whether they were polite like Mr. Black or surly like the stranger at the day care center. Frank had taught her enough about men to make her more than cautious. As far as she was concerned, she didn’t want a man anywhere near her, ever again. To that end, Abby had made certain rules for herself and Emily when she left Eugene, though “left” wasn’t exactly the right way to put it. What she’d done was just grab Emily and run as if the devil was on her heels, with only one suitcase crammed with clothes and baby things, and the last of the money she’d inherited from her parents in her purse—money Frank hadn’t been able to get his hands on. At two, Emily had thought their flight was a great adventure. “We goin’, Mommy?” she’d kept asking. “Yes,” Abby had answered, “we’re going somewhere special.” That was better than the truth, which was that she’d had no idea where they were going until they got there. At first, she’d fled to a shelter, then to Portland, because it was familiar. But Frank found her there, and when she ran next, it was to San Francisco, where she’d figured on the security quotient of being swallowed up by a big city. Wrong. San Francisco was too big. Too expensive. Within a week, she’d abandoned it for Seattle. The city was large enough to get lost in, small enough to make her feel comfortable. She’d loved the waterfront on sight, and when the clouds parted and she saw Mount Rainier shouldering up against the sky, she felt as if she’d come home. Abby opened the door to the back room and went to her locker. She’d been in the city a year now and she still loved it. She’d found an apartment in a converted Victorian house in a nice neighborhood. The apartment was tiny, but how much space did she and Em need? Plus, it included a small porch and use of a handkerchief-size yard. The rent deposit had taken a big bite out of her remaining funds and she’d gone searching for a job right away. Who’d have imagined she’d luck out and find one like this so quickly? Abby put her purse on the bench that ran the length of the lockers. The door swung open and Bettina Carlton strolled in. Bettina had handled the estate jewelry counter before Abby. Now she was Emerald City’s manager. As always, she looked elegant. Cool and ladylike. “Good morning, Abby.” “Hi, Bettina. I know I’m late, but—” “Not yet,” Bettina said pleasantly. “The front door’s still locked.” She opened her locker, took out a nail file and worked carefully at one perfectly manicured nail. “We’ll be short one clerk today, Abby. Phil’s out with a cold, so I’ll have to relieve you a bit later than usual for lunch.” Abby closed her locker. Looking at Bettina always made her want to check her hair for flyaway strands, her panty hose for runs. “No problem.” Bettina gave the nail one last brush with the file. “Is one-thirty okay?” “Fine.” “Great. I have a private client coming in at noon.” Bettina put the file away and looked at Abby. “I noticed you’re doing well.” “Sales have been good,” Abby said. “Better than good.” Bettina paused. “That’s one of the primary reasons for the scheduling change we implemented.” She smiled. “Sort of a bonus for you. I know you have a little girl. Emily, isn’t it?” “Yes, that’s right.” “I recalled that you’d originally asked for Saturdays off, so when I had the chance to juggle things a little . . . ” “It was very kind of you, Bettina.” “Oh, I’m not any kind of saint, I assure you. I like working Saturdays. You know, lots of customers in and out. Gives me the chance to keep up my sales skills.” Abby nodded. In truth, Bettina’s sales skills were incredible. She still handled private customers, the rich and the eccentric. They would occasionally come in and demand to deal with Bettina and nobody else. Someday, Abby hoped to be just as invaluable to the store. Her job, this job, was important to her. She’d been lucky to find it, especially since she didn’t have any real work skills. But she was good with people and she knew a little bit about fine jewelry, thanks to the few pieces her mother had owned—pieces she still cherished and knew she’d never sell, no matter what. Estate jewelry, it was called now. Maybe that was why the ad for a clerk at the Emerald City Jewelry Exchange had leaped at her from the classifieds. The bell announcing the start of the day pealed politely. Abby smiled at Bettina, who was smoothing back her hair. Then she took a breath, as she always did before manning her counter, stepped out of the back room and made her way up the aisle to the front of the store. Look busy, Mr. Black always reminded his clerks, even if you’re not. Taking a cloth and a bottle of Windex from behind the counter, Abby sprayed the glass tops of the cabinets and wiped them clean. Mr. Black walked by, nodded at her and smiled pleasantly. Frank had never smiled pleasantly. Only in the beginning, when she was naive, when she was just weeks past her eighteenth birthday and her parents’ death had turned her world upside down. Back then, Frank had seemed wonderful. Not that her ignorance had lasted long. A year into the marriage, he’d begun losing his temper with her, demanding to know how she spent every minute of her day. Two years into it, he’d hit her for the first time. Afterward, he’d begged her forgiveness, sworn he’d never hurt her again . . . . But he had. She’d called the police, they’d taken him away, and when they let him out of jail the next day, Frank had wrapped her in his arms and wept. He adored her, he’d said, and she’d wanted to believe him, so she’d taken him back. By the time he hit her again, she was twenty-two. His rage terrified her, and she waited until he left for work, then began to pack her things. She was going to leave him . . . but she was overtaken by a wave of nausea, and she began to bleed. Somehow, she’d managed to call 911. Am ambulance took her to the hospital; a doctor who kept asking her questions about her blackened eye told her she was pregnant. When she told Frank, he fell on his knees, kissed her still-flat belly, and swore the news had changed him forever. How could she leave him then? For a while, it seemed as if he’d spoken the truth, though sometimes she could tell he was bottling his anger inside him. It finally exploded on Emily’s second birthday when Em spilled her milk. Frank spoke sharply to the baby and slapped her hand. Em began to cry and Abby rushed to comfort her. “Let her be,” Frank yelled, and when she didn’t obey, he went for her. “No,” she remembered screaming, “not in front of the baby.” Frank dragged her out of the room and beat her, and that was when Abby knew she had to leave—before he turned his attention to their daughter. It took months to squirrel away enough money to make her escape, and she’d tried not to think about how she’d support Emily and herself after that. She had no skills—she’d been in her first semester of college when her parents died, and her grades slumped to Ds and Fs. With Frank’s encouragement, she’d dropped out. “You don’t need a degree, Abigail,” he’d said. “I’ll take care of you. You’ll always belong to me.” He’d reminded her of those words the night their divorce became final. You’ll always belong to me, he’d said, and turned the statement into a promise with his fists. That was when she’d known he was right, and she’d packed up, dressed Em, hustled her into the car and fled Oregon for good. And all the time, all of it, she’d been sure if she’d turned around, she would see Frank coming after her. Abby put the cloth and window cleaner away. As she bent down, she caught a glimpse of herself in one of the oval mirrors that were arranged along the countertops throughout the store. What she saw was a woman who’d come a long way since she’d been foolish enough to fall for Frank Caldwell’s promises. She stood up straight. Her ex would hardly recognize her. Oh, he’d probably be able to look past the shorter hair, artfully applied makeup and sophisticated clothes—clothes she bought in a consignment shop in the city’s upscale Queen Anne Hill area—and find the girl he’d once known, but he’d never recognize her independence, her determination to make something of her life. He’d surely not recognize her conviction that she’d never go back to him or the kind of life she’d been forced to lead as his wife. And if she sometimes awoke in a sweaty panic in the middle of the night, or felt her heart climb into her throat because a man looked at her the way the man at the day care center had, if she overreacted just because an oversize jerk with cold eyes, a turned-down mouth and a surly disposition snarled . . . well, time was on her side. Someday, she’d get beyond all of that. She’d learn not to let silly things spook her so she wouldn’t feel she was jumping at shadows, the way she did now. The door to the street opened and the soft scent of rain drifted to Abby’s nostrils as a white-haired matron stepped inside the shop. Abby smiled pleasantly as the woman approached her counter. “Good morning, Mrs. Halpern. How nice to see you again.” The older woman’s face relaxed in a smile. “Ms. Douglas. How have you been?” “Very well, thank you. Is there something I can help you with this morning?” Mrs. Halpern sank her teeth gently into her bottom lip. “Well,” she said, with the sort of coy smile that still looked good on her despite her years, “there might just be, yes. Our anniversary’s coming up and my husband wants to buy me a little gift.” “That’s lovely,” Abby said. “Did you have something special in mind?” “As a matter of fact, I do. I was in last month, remember? And you showed me a charming little diamond and ruby pin . . . .” “Of course.” Abby unlocked a case, drew out the correct tray and reached for the pin. A movement, a flash of color caught her eye. She straightened, turned her face to the window and saw the front door to the day care open. One of the teachers came down the steps, followed by six children, all holding hands so that they made a twelve-legged caterpillar. Abby smiled. Emily was one of the children in that chain. They appeared to be headed for the front yard. The rain had stopped, and the sun had peeped out. The kids were probably going to play outside for a little while. Another movement. Another flash of color. Abby caught her breath. A man, his back to her, was trotting across the street toward the children. He was big. Six one, six two. His long black hair was tied at the nape of his neck, and he was wearing jeans and a leather jacket this time, not a suit, but she recognized him in an instant. The ruby and diamond pin fell from her hand and landed on top of the display case. Abby scooted around the edge of the counter and flung open the door. “Ms. Douglas?” she heard her customer say, and the guard called her name, but Abby didn’t stop. She was already flying toward Emily, her heart solidly lodged in her throat. CHAPTER THREE (#ub5940618-9c13-5a52-99fd-8b7e901a411b) ABBY DARTED THROUGH A HOLE in the traffic, ignoring the blare of a horn. Still, she wasn’t moving quickly enough to catch the man. He had a head start, and his longer stride ate up the distance at a startling rate. The teacher paused at the foot of the steps and said something to the children. Abby could see them moving into a neat little two-abreast line; Emily and Lily clasped hands and grinned at each other. “Emily,” Abby shouted, just as the man reached the gate and opened the latch. “Emily,” Abby yelled again, and all the children looked toward her. Emily’s face split in a joyful grin and Abby knew her daughter had spotted her. “Mommy?” she said happily, and in that instant Abby realized she’d made an awful mistake. Emily suddenly let go of Lily’s hand and started running toward the gate, moving away from the relative safety of the teacher and the group of children. “No! Em, stay where you are—” Too late. The man swung the gate aside and stepped into the yard. Emily ran straight into him. She staggered and he caught hold of her, lifted her off the ground . . . . Abby shouted, ran the last few feet and deliberately barreled into him as hard as she could. It was like hitting a stone wall and bouncing off. “Put her down!” The man swung around, still holding Emily, and looked at Abby as if she were crazy. “What’s the matter?” he said. She stepped in close, her breath ratcheting in her lungs, the adrenaline pumping through her blood so hard that she could feel the surge of it in her muscles. The man towered over her, just as he had this morning. This morning, she thought bitterly. What had he been doing then? Sizing up the situation? She had to tilt her head back to make eye contact. “Damn you, put her down!” “Mommy?” Emily said, and began to cry. “Put . . . my . . . daughter . . . down!” Abby demanded, punctuating each word with a fist to his shoulder. Baffled, Luke lowered the little girl to her feet, then watched as she flung herself at her mother and clasped her skirt. It was the same pair, the kid and the brunette from this morning. The woman had looked cool then, almost icy. Now her face was flushed. Strands of hair had escaped from the combs that held it back from her temples and curled against her cheeks. She was glaring at him; the kid was sobbing . . . . What in hell had he done to deserve this? “Take it easy, lady,” he said. “Take it easy? Take it easy? You try to—to steal my little girl—” “Whoa! What are you talking about?” “I saw you try to take her.” Luke took a step back. “Listen, lady, I don’t know what your problem is, but I didn’t—” “I saw the whole thing. You—you—” She caught her breath and shoved the child behind her. “But you won’t get away with it.” Luke blinked. Backpacking through the Wonder Mountain Wilderness one time, he’d come face-to-face with a black bear and her cubs. The look in the bear’s eyes had been the same as the look in the brunette’s. Hurt my baby, the look said, and I’ll rip you apart. A four-hundred-pound bear was a tough adversary, but even though the woman facing him probably didn’t weigh much more than a quarter of that, he knew he’d rather face the bear. The bear had seen him as a threat to her cubs. The woman saw him the same way, though he’d be damned if he knew why. Still, he tried to see the situation from her viewpoint. Luke held up his hands, palms out, and tried for the tone he’d learned on the streets his first months on the job, the one meant to convince a nut coming at you with murder in his eye that you weren’t the enemy. “Easy,” he said quietly. “I don’t know what you think is happening here, but just calm down, okay?” Calming down didn’t seem to be on the agenda, not for the fire-breathing brunette or the kid, who began to wail. Luke heard another couple of little sobs from behind him, which caught the interest of some of the passersby, enough so they stopped to join the growing cluster of gawkers. Just what he needed, Luke thought in disgust, and shot a glance over his shoulder. The teacher had gathered the children in front of her. The sobs were coming from a little boy whose face had gone so pale his freckles stood out, and a little girl whose braids were tied up with blue ribbon, same as the kid hanging on to the brunette. All of them, teacher, kids, the boy with the freckles and the girl with the braids, were staring at him as if he’d just dropped in from the one hundred and fiftieth remake of Friday the 13th. Great. Just great. No doubt about it, this was definitely the textbook approach to blending quietly and unobtrusively into the background. Who’d have believed it? He was here to find out who was fencing jewels in the Emerald City Jewelry Exchange. Instead, he was being accused of child molestation or kidnapping or who knew what by a woman who was clearly a certifiable psycho. Cops had to deal with crazies as part of their job, but until now, the crazies he’d dealt with all had that otherworldly shine in their eyes. The only thing shining in this woman’s eyes was fury. Nine years of on-the-job experience dealing with people who were in direct contact with talking dogs and creatures from the planet Mongo kicked in fast. “Listen,” he said, as calmly as he could manage, “I can understand your concern.” The woman snorted in disbelief. “Honest, I can. But I think you’re making a mistake here.” “You saw Emily this morning.” “Emily,” he said, trying for a smile. “Is that her—” “Don’t give me that innocent routine! You saw Emily this morning!” “Well, yes,” he said, working at keeping it together, “I guess I did, but—” “And then you watched the center, saw my baby come out the door, ran over and—and grabbed her!” “That’s not what happened. Your little girl ran into me. I didn’t want her to fall down, so—” “Marilyn,” the woman said, her eyes never leaving his, “take the children inside and dial 911.” Luke almost groaned. That was all he needed to make things perfect. A patrol car showing up. Odds were that whoever caught the call would recognize him. And even if he got lucky and they didn’t blow his cover, he’d never live it down. Detective Luke Sloan couldn’t handle a good-looking brunette who stood no higher than his chest without making a bunch of kids cry their hearts out . . . Jesus. He knew how stuff like that went. Cops would be talking about it every time somebody mentioned his name, just the way he and Dan had talked about Rutledge this morning. “No,” he said quickly, “don’t do that, Marilyn.” He took a breath, forced a smile. “Look, I can understand your concern, Mrs . . . .” “Don’t you try and placate me!” “I’m simply saying I understand why you might be upset. In today’s world . . . ” He shot a look at the kid. She was peeking out from behind her mother, hanging on to her skirt and looking as if she expected him to bare a set of fangs any second. “What I’m telling you,” he said carefully, wanting to avoid specifics because he still didn’t really know what was going on, “is that whatever you think I was doing, I wasn’t.” The brunette’s mouth thinned. And why wouldn’t it? If a suspect made that kind of statement to him, he’d guarantee the guy was guilty. “I mean, I don’t know what you think was going on here, but—” He paused. “Actually, now that I think about it, I do know what you think was going on, but I assure you—” “You were taking my little girl,” the woman said. Her voice quavered. “That’s what was going on here.” “No,” Luke said again, even more adamantly. “Try listening, okay? I just told you, I was coming through the gate, your kid ran into me, and—” “I was running toward my mommy,” the kid said defiantly. “Not you.” “Okay. Fine. She was heading for you and I was in the way, and instead of letting her run into me, I picked her up and—” “That isn’t what happened.” “Yes, it is,” Luke replied, his tone no longer quite so conciliatory. “It’s exactly what happened. And if you don’t stop making wild accusations, I’ll—” What? Blow his cover all by himself? “Is there a problem here?” Luke looked around. Thank God. Katherine Kinard was coming down the steps. “Yes,” the brunette said. “This man—” “—is a bad man,” the little girl said, her mouth trembling. Puppy-kicking time again, Luke thought in disgust, except this time, he wasn’t to blame. “Okay,” he said through his teeth, “that’s it.” He took a step toward Katherine. As if on signal, the teacher and the kids with her stepped back. “Ms. Kinard, something happened here. This little girl ran into me, and . . . ” He shook his head. The Kinard woman looked as puzzled as he felt. “The kid’s mother saw me pick up her daughter instead of letting her fall down, and now she has me pegged as everything but a serial killer.” “For all I know, you’re that, too.” “Ms. Kinard,” Luke said, ignoring the brunette, “will you please tell her who I am?” He saw the quick puzzlement in Katherine Kinard’s eyes and silently cursed himself for being a fool. “That I’m the carpenter you hired yesterday,” he added quickly, “and I’m going to be working here for a while.” “He’s the what?” the woman said, her voice racing up the scale in disbelief. “Katherine? Does this man work here?” “He does, yes.” The day care director smiled at Luke’s accuser but still managed to pin him with a glare that said he was an idiot to have gotten himself into this situation. Hell, he already knew that. “This is Luke Sloan,” Katherine continued dutifully. “He’s a carpenter, putting in some shelves and cabinets in my office.” “No!” “Yes,” Luke said coldly. “Disappointed?” “Then, why did he try to grab my daughter?” “What’s wrong with you, lady? Haven’t you been listening to a thing I said? I was coming to work, your kid slammed into me, and . . . damn it, I don’t believe this!” “Ooh,” a small voice behind him whispered, “the bad man said a bad word!” There was a heartbeat of silence. Then Katherine turned a beaming smile on the teacher. “Marilyn,” she said briskly, “isn’t it time for juice break?” “Is it?” Marilyn stared blankly, and then she shook herself. “Oh. Oh, yes, of course, Katherine. It’s time for juice break! Kids,” she said, smiling brightly, “let’s go in and have our juice.” The kids didn’t move. Why would they? Luke thought glumly. They were as transfixed by the scene as the still-gawking crowd beyond the gate. “Tell you what. How about cookies with your juice, as a special treat?” The little boy who’d been whimpering leaned toward the girl with braids and whispered in her ear. The girl nodded. “No juice,” she said firmly. “We want ice cream.” Luke laughed. He couldn’t help it, though all it won him was a withering look from the brunette. “Ice cream,” Katherine repeated happily, as if the child had just spoken words that held the wisdom of the ages. “That’s a wonderful idea, Lily. Marilyn? Ice cream for everybody.” That did it. The teacher went up the steps and opened the door, and the children trooped obediently inside. Then Katherine slid her arm gently around Abby’s shoulders. “Abby,” she said softly, “I can understand your fear.” “You can?” Abby’s pulse rate went into high gear. “Certainly.” Katherine gave her a quick squeeze. “All these awful kidnapping cases in the papers lately . . . Nobody could blame you for worrying about Emily, but I promise you, she’s safe here.” Abby looked from Katherine to the stranger. He was a carpenter. That’s all he was, just a man headed for work. He’d turned up twice in one day, and she’d written a story that had nothing to do with reality. Letting that happen was like letting Frank still control her. She bent down, cupped Emily’s face and smiled. “Go on inside, baby. You don’t want to miss that ice cream.” Katherine held out her hand. “Emily?” Emily shook her head. “I want to stay with my mommy.” Abby’s throat tightened. She’d frightened her little girl. That was the last thing she wanted to do, ever. “Em honey, everything’s fine now. You go with Katherine.” “But the bad man . . . ” “Listen, kid.” Luke squatted down until he and the girl were nose to nose. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the brunette jerk forward, but Katherine Kinard caught her by the arm and stopped her. The only one who didn’t move was the kid. He had to give her credit. She figured him for some kind of scum, but she wasn’t going to budge an inch. “Don’t call me ‘kid,’” she told him. “My name is Emily.” “Emily. That’s a really pretty name.” She gave him a look that said flattery, if she’d known what it meant, wasn’t going to work. Luke couldn’t blame her. This was hardly a good scene for a child to endure. “Emily,” he said in the same tone he’d have used with an adult, “I’m not a bad man.” “My mommy said you were.” “Your mommy made a mistake. Think about what happened from start to finish. You and the others came out of the day care center. You went down the steps and—” “And,” Emily said, her face puckered in thought, “I heard my mommy call me. An’ I looked up and saw her. An’ I ran to the gate, but you was there first an’ I ran into you, an’ you said ‘Whoa, kid,’ like I was a horse instead of a girl, an’ I bounced off your legs an’ I kinda started to fall, an’ you grabbed me to keep me from falling, an’ then my mommy started yelling.” As the kid paused for breath, Luke rose to his feet. “I rest my case,” he said smugly, and folded his arms across his chest. “But you didn’t say sorry to us this morning,” Emily added. “This morning?” Katherine echoed, frowning. “Yes,” said Abby. “We met this—this gentleman as we were coming into the center.” Luke heard the twist Emily’s mother put on the word “gentleman,” but decided to let it pass and respond only to the child. “You’re right,” he told her. “I guess I wasn’t very nice. I was in a bad mood and I took it out on you. I apologize.” “Mommy said you got up on the wrong side of the bed, but I said it was ‘cause you got a bad cold.” “You noticed that, huh?” Luke asked with a grin. The child nodded. “You were sneezing. And your nose was all red, like it is now.” “Well, that’s all true, Em. I have a cold and I was grumpy this morning.” He bent toward her and tapped his finger lightly against her nose. “And I said a bad word a couple of minutes ago, but that’s it. None of that makes me a bad guy.” Emily rubbed the tip of one sneakered foot against the other and regarded him with sober interest. “What’s a carpenter?” The non sequitur almost threw him. Then he remembered that Katherine Kinard had just explained what he was. What he was pretending to be. “A carpenter’s a person who makes things out of wood.” “Like boats? I saw a man make a boat on TV. The Discovery channel.” Luke smiled. “That must have been cool. Nope, I don’t make boats. I build houses.” It wasn’t a complete lie; he had done just that a long time ago, on the reservation. “And I build things that go inside houses, like shelves and cabinets.” “Can you make toy chests?” “Emily!” The little girl looked at her mother. “I need a toy chest, Mommy. You said so. And you said you couldn’t find one to buy that didn’t look like it was made out of garbage.” “Emily,” the brunette said again, and blushed. She’d blushed this morning, too, Luke recalled. It was a nice thing to see in a woman. As far as he knew, women didn’t blush much anymore. “I’d be happy to make you a toy chest someday, Emily.” Luke shot a quick look at the brunette. “Your mom and I can discuss it.” “We cannot,” Abby said quickly. “I mean, thank you for the offer, Mr.—” “Sloan. Luke Sloan.” He held out his hand. She looked at it. For a couple of seconds, he thought she was just going to let it go at that, but then she held out her hand, too. His fingers closed around hers, swallowing them up. “Abigail,” she said, with what he knew was reluctance. “Abigail Douglas.” “Abigail. Nice to meet you.” He smiled. She hesitated, then offered a smile in return. It wasn’t a real smile, but it pleased him. Not because she was a good-looking woman, but because he didn’t need the mother of one of the kids at Forrester Square watching his every move just to make sure he wasn’t some kind of pervert up to no good . . . . Although he supposed some might say the “no good” part could be construed as accurate, considering he was lying about who he was and why he was here. “My mommy’s name is Abby,” the little girl said helpfully. “Nobody calls her Abigail.” “Well,” Katherine said, clearing her throat, “why don’t we all go inside?” Suddenly Abby thought of how she’d run out of the jewelry shop, dropping the pin on the counter, leaving the case unlocked, leaving Mrs. Halpern standing there in confusion . . . . “I really can’t,” she said. “I mean, I don’t . . . ” “Please, Mommy?” She looked down at Emily. The child’s cheeks were flushed. Her daughter had spent a bad few minutes, and it was her fault. For the past two years, she’d lived in fear of Frank coming after them or sending someone else to do the job. Despite that, despite her lectures to Em about not talking to strangers, she’d never frightened the girl. Now she had, and for no reason. Luke Sloan was just a carpenter. He was harmless. She looked around. Luke was making eye contact with the couple of people still standing outside the wrought iron fence, watching the scene and waiting for the action to start again. “It’s all over, folks. Move it.” He spoke softly, but it was enough. He was big. Leanly muscled. Powerful-looking. People scurried away. Harmless, Abby thought again. She’d thought Frank was harmless, too. “Mommy?” She looked down into Emily’s pleading face. “Come inside, Mom, just for a minute.” Abby nodded. “Just for a minute,” she said, taking her daughter’s hand. They all went into the center and made small talk about nothing in particular for a few minutes. Then one of the teachers called out to Katherine, who made her apologies and went to talk with the woman. Emily gave Abby a big hug and a smacking kiss, and ran off to join her play group. Abby watched her go. Her little girl was going to eat ice cream. She was going to eat crow. She’d had one faint hope—that Luke Sloan would wander off once they were alone. He had work to do, after all. But he didn’t move. He stood there, motionless, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, his eyes fixed on her. “So,” he said, “we all squared away?” Abby nodded. “Yes.” He took his hands out of his pockets and folded his arms over his chest. “You’re sure?” Abby nodded again. “Yes.” He was waiting. She knew the reason, knew she had to get it over with. “I guess—I guess I owe you an apology. I’m sorry.” “Excuse me?” “I said . . . ” Abby lifted her chin. “You heard me, Mr. Sloan.” He had. He’d also heard the way she’d delivered that apology. What was it with this woman? Better still, what was it with him? Last night, a babe with twice her looks had practically thrown herself into his lap. This one had taken a tenth of a second to decide he was little better than something she might see floating belly-up in the bay. So what? Why should it bother him? As long as she wasn’t going to point her finger at him and scream loud enough to call attention to him whenever their paths crossed, what did it matter? Luke gave a sigh, relaxed a little and tucked his hands back into his pockets. “You’re right, Mrs. Douglas. You apologized already. I should have accepted it the first time. It’s just . . . Here’s the thing, Mrs. Douglas—” “Ms.” “Sorry?” “I said, it’s Ms., not Mrs.” “Ah.” He nodded, wondering what that meant, whether she was divorced, widowed, had never been married . . . . He wondered, too, why it should matter to him. “About what happened here . . . ” “I already said—” “I know. I just want you to understand why I reacted so strongly. I’d never hurt a kid. Never. If you only understood how—” How cops feel about the kind of man you thought I was, he wanted to say. How we wish we could take the law into our own hands when we arrest the bastards who get their kicks out of hurting women and children . . . “I come from a big family,” he said, knowing that would have to suffice. “I have lots of cousins, a couple of them probably just about Emily’s age. So when you thought . . . ” “I’m sorry,” Abby said, and he could tell that she really meant it this time. “It’s just that it’s such a crazy world . . . .” “Sure. I understand.” Luke smiled. “Okay, then. Now we really are squared away.” Abby smiled, too. “Yes. We are.” She was the one who held out her hand this time. “Goodbye, Mr. Sloan.” Once again, Luke’s fingers closed around hers. “Luke.” “Luke.” “Goodbye, Abby.” She tugged lightly on her hand. He let go of it and she turned quickly, went through the door and was gone. Luke stared after her. Then he smiled, pursed his lips and whistled softly as he made his way to Katherine’s office, where his good mood vanished in an instant. “Mr. Sloan,” Katherine said in a voice that was enough to freeze him in his tracks. “Luke,” he offered as she stepped past him and slammed the door shut. “Detective Sloan,” she said with deliberate emphasis, “if you think you can come to Forrester Square and disrupt everything—” “Hold on.” Luke held up his hands. “I didn’t disrupt anything. That woman—Abby Douglas . . . ” “Yes?” He’d been going to say Abby had overreacted, but how could he know how a mother would feel if she thought her child was in danger? He’d been on the police end of a couple of child-missing cases, and as hard as such things were on cops, they had to be twice as tough on parents. “It was a screwup,” he said. “Nobody’s fault, just one of those things that happen. Trust me, Katherine. You don’t want the kids upset, and I don’t want to call attention to myself. Okay?” “This is exactly why I said I’d only cooperate if they sent me a female officer.” “Yeah,” Luke said, straight-faced, “but could she build you shelves that will make you drool?” Katherine stared at him. Then her lips twitched. “They’d better.” “They will, I promise.” He took the leather bag he carried from his shoulder and walked to the back of the office. “As a point of information, is the Douglas woman widowed, divorced, what?” “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.” “It’s a cop thing,” Luke said casually. “Filling in all the blanks, you know? Okay.” His tone turned brisk. “I understand there’s a vacant apartment on the third floor.” “Yes. My brother lived up there, but now that he’s married, he moved to a house. Eventually the day care will be taking over the space.” “Good.” Luke zipped open the bag and took out a small black object. “I left my carpentry tools in my SUV. I’ll go get them in a little while. Meanwhile, I’m going to set this up.” “What is it?” “A camcorder. I’ll put it in one of the third-floor windows.” “A camcorder? I thought you were here to do surveillance.” “I am, but the camera can do it nonstop, and if something—somebody—interesting goes into the jewelry exchange, we’ll have a record we can view.” “And you’ll still be here, in my office?” Luke glanced up and smiled. “Yeah. Sorry about that.” “No, that’s okay.” Katherine sighed. “Although, to be honest—” “To be honest, the sooner I’m gone, the better. I agree. We’re just lucky that this window, this building, gives me such a perfect—” “A perfect what?” “Huh?” Luke turned toward Katherine. “A perfect view of the jewelry exchange,” he said, but what he’d just had a perfect view of was Abby Douglas, standing inside the exchange, behind the counter nearest the window. CHAPTER FOUR (#ub5940618-9c13-5a52-99fd-8b7e901a411b) BY THE END OF THE DAY, Luke was starting to wonder how he was going to survive this assignment. Between the day care director’s active disapproval of him setting up his equipment in her office, the kids trooping in and out of the room, and a noise level that approached that of a hen-house under attack by a weasel, he felt the kind of headache coming on that would rival any he’d ever experienced after some of the bachelor parties he’d attended. “Don’t you ever close your door?” he’d said to Katherine Kinard. “No,” she’d replied. End of discussion. He’d looked up a dozen times and found munchkins wandering through, though now that Kinard had hurried off to a meeting, the kids didn’t come all the way into the office. They crowded into the doorway instead, staring at him as if he was some exotic species of animal. He knew it was because he was a male in female territory. The teachers, the aides, everybody who worked here was a woman. Still, he had to fight back the god-awful desire to look at the kids and yell “Boo.” He didn’t do it. He’d learned his lesson about frightening small children this morning. Instead, he endured. It was like being in the Gulf with the corps and finding yourself in enemy territory. Usually, police surveillances were the dullest things on earth. Just you, a camera, maybe a tape recorder, if you’d planted a bug, and whatever it was you were watching. A cop’s life consisted of ninety-nine percent boredom and one percent mind-numbing terror, where you hoped your training and instincts would be enough for you to survive. It was never the bang-bang, shoot-’em-up existence like you saw on TV, the one where the good guys solve the crime and save the heroine in the last three minutes, but at least it had some variety—except when you were doing surveillance. On the other hand, working undercover was a high. You put on clothes to suit the character you were playing, got caught up in another kind of life, dealt with people who thought you were one of them when you weren’t. Luke had always liked that part of his job, and he was good at it. Pretending to be a druggie, to be a dealer, even to be a gun for hire—he’d played that role, too—could be dangerous as hell. That was probably why it was so much fun. But this? Sitting around, pretending to be a carpenter . . . This was Dullsville. What could possibly come of it? That was what he’d thought, anyway. Except it turned out there might be another way to get information about the jewelry exchange, and that other way’s name was Abby Douglas. Maybe she knew something. Maybe she knew more than Luke wanted to think about, which was crazy, because what was Abby Douglas to him? Nothing. Well, okay, a good-looking woman, but the world was full of good-looking women. It was just that this one had a little girl who adored her, and a look in her eyes that said something, or somebody, had once given her a bad time. Luke sighed, took the container of coffee he’d bought next door at Caffeine Hy’s, sat down in a chair beside the window that looked out at the exchange, and stretched out his long legs. The coffee had cooled down some, but it was still hot, strong and good. He smiled, remembering the look on the face of the kid behind the counter when he’d stepped up to place his order. “One coffee to go,” he’d said, “extra large, black.” The kid had shifted a wad of gum from one side of her mouth to the other as she stood behind the cash register, fingers poised over the keys. “And?” “And . . . that’s it.” “You don’t want a latte?” “No.” “Whipped cream?” “No.” “Shaved chocolate?” “No,” he’d said again, politely. “Just the coffee, black, extra large.” “How about today’s special? Caf;aae Kava Java Lava Mocha?” “No,” he’d repeated, and he’d damn near felt every eye in the place settle on him. Dan often teased him about his preference in coffee. He said Luke could wind up being banished from the city if he kept ignoring all the exotic brews served up in Seattle’s coffee bars and insisted on sticking to plain old high-test. His ex had laughed about it, too. “You’re so predictable, Luke,” Janine had said, and he’d smiled and replied, well, so was she, because she always ordered Caf;aae Killa Vanilla Something-or-Other . . . Luke’s jaw tightened. That predictability had marked the end of his marriage. Stopping at home one night to pick up some notes on a case, he’d found two take-out coffees on the kitchen table, one sending up the scent of vanilla, the other with a milky froth floating on top. He’d known right then what he’d only suspected for weeks. He’d headed straight for the bedroom, heard the sounds before he pushed the door all the way open . . . . And what in hell was he doing, sitting here and thinking back to something that had been dead and gone for three years? Luke drank some of his coffee. He had too much time on his hands, that was the problem. He’d go nuts if this detail lasted more than a few days. Okay. He’d think about something else. Something pleasant, like what would he do once this surveillance ended? He had time coming to him. Lots of it. Maybe he’d go somewhere. Drive to Oregon, go up the coast. Or take a couple of weeks, head for his cabin at Neah Bay, do some of the fix-up work he’d started last year about this time. Neah Bay. He’d run from the place as soon as he was old enough, first into the marines, then into working construction here in the city while he took the test for the Seattle PD. Now he wasn’t quite sure why he’d run so far or so fast. He’d gone back to the rez only a few times during those first years, but he returned to it more and more often lately, even though there was nobody to draw him there anymore. His aunts, his uncles, the extended family that had raised him were all gone. Even his cousins had moved away. Still, he went back. There was something about the beauty of the place, the cool green of the forest, the thunder of the ocean on the rocks, the piercing blue of the sky, that drew him. A tribal elder had once told him that no matter how you tried to deny it, ancestral memories beat forever in your blood . . . even if that blood was half white. Or maybe it was because, sometimes, just being where he’d grown up could evoke memories of his mother, how it had been when he was a little kid and she was alive. She’d been a good mother. Warm. Loving. Devoted. He was sure she’d have defended him from harm, real or imagined, every bit as fiercely as the Douglas woman had defended her kid this morning. Abby Douglas was some piece of work. No question about it, she’d have taken him apart if she’d had to. Well, not really, but she’d have tried. Luke drank down the last of his coffee. Was it fear of the predators who seemed to roam the streets of towns and cities, preying on the innocent, that had made Abby come at him as she had? That kind of fear was valid. It was a new, terrible reality in American life, but somehow he had the feeling there’d been more behind Abby’s reaction than a concern that he was a child molester. He thought again about that look he’d seen in her eyes, the set to her mouth that suggested she’d been expecting trouble to come looking for her and the kid, and that she’d been expecting it for quite a while. Sure, he had nothing to base that observation on, but he’d been a cop for too long to discount intuition, a sort of sixth sense you developed after a few years on the job. His told him there was more to the Douglas woman’s response than met the eye. He’d have to check it out. He’d have to check out Abby Douglas, anyway, now that he knew she worked in the Emerald City Jewelry Exchange. Damn. Luke sat up straight, aimed the empty cup at the trash can near Katherine Kinard’s desk, then smiled when he sank the basket, stopped smiling when he remembered the director’s words as she’d watched him setting up his stuff. “I can’t believe I’m letting you spy on people,” she’d said with all the righteous indignation of a civilian who wanted safe streets but didn’t want to know how cops kept them that way. What would Abby Douglas think if she knew he was a cop? Would she look on him as a necessary evil, the way Kinard had? Or would she see him as a sexy knight standing between her and all that was bad in the world. Lots of women did. He shut his eyes and thought about their first meeting. This morning, he’d imagined she wasn’t his type. How could he have thought that? She was definitely his type. Curvy. Fiery. She smelled good, too. He’d noticed when she’d come at him like a tiger. She smelled of sunshine. In a city like Seattle, that was one very appealing scent. If things were different, if he wasn’t here to do a job, if she was just a woman he’d met somewhere . . . Except, she wasn’t. Luke sat up straight, opened his eyes and put them to better use by leaning forward and peering through the lens of the miniature camera, a tiny marvel of silicone chips hidden inside what looked like a perfectly normal box of nails he’d stood in just the right place on the windowsill . . . “Whatcha doin’?” Luke jerked his head back so fast he slammed it on the window frame. A little boy stood in the doorway, one finger jammed up his nose. How many kids were in this building? Fifty? A hundred? A million, easy, and every last one of them seemed determined to find his or her way in here. “I’m working,” Luke said shortly, and reached for a tape measure. “Are you Katherine’s husband?” Luke shot the kid a look. “No.” “Are you her boyfriend?” “No.” “Are you Emily’s daddy?” “Am I . . . No, I’m not. Why would you think I was?” “‘Cause she’s tellin’ everybody you’re big and brave and smart.” Luke gave a weary sigh. “Don’t you have a place you’re supposed to be, kid? Isn’t it juice time, or milk time, or bathroom time?” At first, he’d been more polite to the wanderers who drifted in to see him. They asked questions like, where were the apples? The chalk? The Scaredy Cat Scooby-Doo doll—whatever in God’s name that was. His answers had ranged from “What?” to “I don’t know,” and back again. After a while, he’d stopped answering at all. Maybe if he pretended the munchkins weren’t there, they wouldn’t be. It was a clever idea, but it hadn’t worked. This kid was living proof of that. Luke flashed him another look. “Did you ever hear of a handkerchief?” The kid yanked his finger from his nose, checked it for signs of life, then hid his hand behind his back. “Emily thinks you’re nice, but I don’t.” Well, at least he’d made a good impression on somebody. “I’d be nicer if you took a tissue from that box on Ms. Kinard’s desk and used it.” The boy shuffled his feet. Then, to Luke’s surprise, he edged over to the desk and plucked what looked like most of the tissues from the box. “Her name’s Katherine.” The kid wiped his finger on the tissues, dug around in his nose a little, then dropped the mass of paper in the trash. “Emily says you’re a carpenter.” “She’s right.” Luke measured the wall, marked off a couple of spots. “That’s what I am.” “Whatcha doin’?” “Working,” Luke said irritably. “I just told you . . . ” He paused. Was that a different munchkin voice? He looked around and saw that it was. The first kid had been joined by another. This one had a smear of jelly on his chin and wore pants that sagged in the seat. “Yuck,” the nose-picker said, and took off. Yuck? Luke frowned. Surely a case of the pot calling the kettle black . . . except the new kid shuffled forward, and Luke’s nostrils crinkled as he caught a whiff of something. He had the sudden unhappy feeling he knew the reason those pants were so saggy. “I gotta go potty.” “Right.” Luke stood up. “Well, that’s not my problem. Where’s your teacher?” “I gotta go now,” the boy said, and jiggled from one foot to the other. Luke muttered something. He put down his tape measure, grabbed the kid’s hand and marched him out of the office. “Hello,” he called to the world in general. “Luke?” Katherine Kinard came quickly toward him. “What are you doing?” “Looking for help. This kid—” “The children are not your responsibility.” “Damned right, they aren’t.” “Your language . . . ” “Maybe you want to discuss my language later. Or would you rather do it now, while this kid poops all over your floor?” Katherine’s eyes widened. “Joshua,” she said, “do you have to go to the bathroom?” “Uh-uh. Not anymore.” Luke laughed. He couldn’t help it. Katherine gave him a baleful look and held out her hand. “Come with me, Joshua. I’ll take you to the toilet and then we’ll find your play group.” “‘Kay.” “Mr. Sloan, wait in my office for me, please.” The “please” changed nothing. The words were an order. Luke thought of telling the director what she could do with her orders, but he knew that would be a mistake. He needed her cooperation for however long he was going to be here. So he kept his mouth shut, strolled back to the office and settled a hip against the desk. The lady wanted to talk? Fine. So did he. By the time she returned minutes later, he was more than ready. “Ms. Kinard.” “Mr. Sloan.” Katherine closed the door, clearly a sign she meant business. “Mr. Sloan, this isn’t going to work.” Luke nodded. “Agreed.” “I cannot have children streaming in here all day.” “And I,” Luke said, folding his arms over his chest, “am not here to play nursemaid to a bunch of toddlers.” “They’re not all toddlers, Mr. Sloan, and the very last thing I wish you to do is play nursemaid.” “Amen to that.” “Good.” Katherine let out a breath and gave him a polite smile. “We agree, then.” “We do.” “I’m sorry this didn’t work out, Mr. Sloan . . . Luke. Shall I inform your lieutenant, or will you?” “Inform him of what?” “Why, that you won’t be doing your surveillance from our center anymore.” Luke’s smile was tight. “I’m not leaving.” “But you just said—” “I said that I couldn’t do my job and play nursemaid.” “Yes, but in that case—” “Make up some rules. Tell the kids your office is off-limits until I finish here.” “I’m afraid that’s impossible. As you said, this is my office.” “And this is a police matter,” Luke said coolly. “I can’t get anything done with kids hanging on my neck.” He paused. “And when I get around to using tools—” “Tools?” “Tools, Katherine. Saws. Hammers. The things I’ll need to do the job right. As far as everyone else knows, I’m a carpenter, remember? I’m going to be building those shelves, and I don’t think you’ll want rug rats underfoot when I do.” Katherine stared at Luke. Then she sighed and sank into her chair. “I’m not going to get rid of you that easily, am I?” “You’re not going to get rid of me at all. Go on. Call your attorney. He’ll tell you I’m here to stay.” Katherine nodded. The truth was, she’d already spoken with Daniel again and he’d told her the same thing. Nobody would give her much information on what was happening across the street, but it seemed to be important. The detective was right. They’d need some rules. Katherine picked up a pencil, tapped it against her lower lip. “Rule number one. Kids can come in during breaks.” “Meaning?” “Meaning, morning juice, lunch, afternoon snack, late-day snack . . . ” Luke ran a hand along the back of his neck. “Goddamn it, Katherine . . . ” “No bad language.” “Sorry. Look, with all those scheduled breaks, kids will be in and out all the time.” “I’m not going to change the way we run this place, Luke. Besides, I thought it was important to keep things looking as normal as possible. Isn’t that why you’re representing yourself as something you’re not?” He scowled. That was an accurate description of undercover work, but Luke didn’t much like hearing it defined that way. There was something, well, unpleasant in knowing you were deliberately misleading people. People like Abby Douglas—unless she was somehow involved in the fencing operation. His scowl deepened. Katherine mistook it as an indication he was going to argue and forged ahead. “And when those break times occur, you will, of course, not use any dangerous tools.” “Fine.” “I think it might be a good idea, too, if you spoke to the children in the events room. Explained what a carpenter is, what a carpenter does . . . show them some of your tools, that sort of thing.” “Talk to them? But I don’t know the first thing about kids.” “They don’t know the first thing about carpenters, either. Or what it’s like to have a man in the center all day. We’re an all-female staff, in case you hadn’t noticed.” “I noticed,” Luke said dryly. “I’ll be honest. Nothing personal, but the sooner you’re done here—” “I agree.” Luke cleared his throat. “And you can help speed me on my way.” Katherine leaned back in her chair and tossed her pencil on the desk. “Just tell me how.” “Doing surveillance is kind of like doing a giant jigsaw puzzle. At first, all you see are the pieces. Then, gradually—with luck and time and a little bit of skill—the pieces begin to come together.” It sounded fascinating, but Katherine wasn’t foolish enough to let him know that. “And?” “Well, you know that I’m watching the jewelry exchange across the street.” “Yes,” she said politely. “But I don’t know why. And that’s another thing. Being asked for cooperation without being told why is irritating.” “I’m sure it is,” Luke said, just as politely, “but that’s standard procedure. What I’d like to do is get as much help as I can in finishing this case so that I can make both of us happy and disappear.” Katherine winced. Good. Luke would have laid odds that she was a polite woman by nature. She was willing to stand up to him, but letting him see her as inhospitable took some doing. He’d counted on that. “Detective Sloan . . . Luke. Honestly, I’m not trying to be difficult.” “I appreciate that, Katherine.” “It’s just that, well, the parents, my staff—these people all trust me. I hate dragging them into a police operation without them knowing I’m doing it.” “You aren’t dragging them into anything.” Luke waited a beat. “I’m sure that virtually all the people you deal with will never need to know what I’m doing.” “Well, that’s good, because . . . Virtually all?” Katherine narrowed her eyes. “Why the qualifier, Detective?” “I can’t guarantee anything, that’s why. Anything is possible.” “I really don’t follow this. My understanding was that this surveillance had nothing to do with us, that your department only wanted my cooperation because of the location of Forrester Square Day Care to the Emerald City Jewelry Exchange.” “That’s basically correct.” Katherine threw up her hands. “Another qualifier! Surely you don’t suspect someone here of being connected to whatever is going on across the street?” She paused and gave an uncomfortable laugh. “Just listen to me! I’m talking in riddles like you.” “Here’s the point, Katherine. You can help me make this entire procedure move more quickly.” “How?” “Well, if I knew something about the people who work here . . . ” He paused. “Or about the people who send their kids here, it would be a big help.” Katherine looked puzzled, but only for a couple of seconds. Luke could tell the minute she figured out what he meant. “No.” “Katherine . . . ” “You think one of our parents or teachers is involved in something criminal.” “I didn’t say that.” “You didn’t have to. The answer is still the same. No.” With a sigh, Luke eased away from the desk and tucked his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “All I want is a quick look through your files.” Untrue. He’d need more than a quick look, considering that he didn’t know what he was looking for, exactly, but then, he hadn’t expected to glimpse a parent from Forrester Square working inside the Emerald City Jewelry Exchange, either. “Absolutely not.” “Katherine,” Luke said pleasantly, “I can subpoena those records if I have to.” “I don’t think so,” she said, just as pleasantly. “But if you think you can do it, by all means, Detective, go for it.” Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/sandra-marton-2/ring-of-deception/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.