By Your Side (22 page)

“Thanks. I’d like
 
—” Fletcher suddenly braked the Jeep four houses down from hers. He hunched forward, staring into the shadows between the streetlights. “See that car?”

“Where?”

“There, across the street. With the running lights
 
—no headlights?”

“Yeah.” The foolish foreboding came back. “Why?”

“Recognize it?” Fletcher inched the car forward, his gaze never leaving the vehicle across from them. “Older-model dark sedan
 
—Buick, looks like. Have you seen it before?”

“No. I mean, I don’t think so. Not that I remember.” Macy’s words escaped in a confused stagger. “Why? Do you think there’s something wrong with
 
—?”

“Wait.” Fletcher stiffened, reached for the window button as the sedan’s headlights came on. “You have your house key?”

“Yes. But what’s going on?”

Fletcher stuck his head out the window, craning his neck. “I need to check the guy out. I don’t like the way this feels.” He unfastened his seat belt and reached down to touch his holster.

Macy’s breath sucked inward.

“He’s pulling away,” Fletcher told her, stepping on the gas. “Be ready to get out. I’ll drive to your porch. You’re safe. Go straight into the house, lock the door.” He roared up her driveway, hit the brakes. “Go, Macy!”

She threw off her seat belt and jumped from the car. Once she hit the porch, she turned to look over her shoulder
 
—as Fletcher whipped the Jeep around, tires squealing in pursuit.

“I’
M SORRY,”
Fletcher told her, settling onto the couch. “I got caught up with things and lost track of time.” He noticed she’d changed her clothes, the dress replaced by those pants she’d worn at Yosemite and a sort of thin, lacy pink sweater and flip-flops. Her hair was pulled into a loose knot. “Am I keeping you up?”

“No. It’s fine.” Macy sat beside him, drew one long leg up. “I wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway after all that happened with that car.” She tried for a casual shrug. Didn’t pull it off very well. “I mean, I wasn’t sure where you’d gone or what was happening.”

“I’m sorry,” Fletcher repeated, recognizing the look in her eyes. Worry, even fear maybe. Though she’d try to hide that like a champ; he was sure of it. He should have come back here sooner. “I wish I hadn’t put you through that. But
I can’t promise it won’t happen again. It’s that whole thing we talked about earlier
 
—bad guys not taking a day off. And cops needing to be prepared.”

“Like ER nurses. There’s a CPR face shield and a pocket mask in my glove compartment. Somewhere under an avalanche of energy bars and hair bands.” Macy met Fletcher’s gaze. “Was it him, the shooter?”

“We don’t know yet.” Fletcher knew he could only say so much, though she was obviously worried. For good reason. “The fact that he took off like a bat out of
 
—folks don’t do that for no reason. The headlights off. No bulb on the rear license plate. I got close enough to hit the plate with my headlights and got a partial. And I snapped a couple of decent pics with my phone. Then I lost him in traffic when I was calling it in to the comm center.” He frowned. “But it’s something to work on. The car fits the general description. And this location . . .” Fletcher stopped himself.

“My neighborhood.” The pink sweater sagged to expose a bare shoulder as Macy hugged her arms across herself. “My bank . . .” She glanced toward the door. “It’s all in his target area. Should I be expecting detectives again?”

“No. Not tonight,” Fletcher said gently. “I told them I’d be here. But I’m sure your neighbors are fielding some questions right about now.”

“What do
you
think? Do you think it was him?”

“I think it’s very possible. The description and partial plate information went out to all units.” He couldn’t tell her that the FBI had expressed keen interest in his photos, especially the one that seemed to show a defect in the Buick’s trunk
 
—a round hole. More than large enough for a
rifle barrel. When the media got ahold of that, there would be immediate and endless comparisons to the 2003 West Virginia shootings. “We’ll know more soon. I really don’t have anything more than that, Macy.”

She was quiet for a moment, arms still hugged across her sweater. When she finally spoke, it was barely over a whisper. “Where the car was parked . . . did they find oil?”

“Yes.”

It took her a few minutes to put together the coffee she’d promised earlier, and meanwhile she heard Fletcher occupying himself with Dood. Macy had banished the dog to a bedroom after arriving home, for fear he’d wake Sally. She didn’t want him to go completely bonkers, barking again like he had when she was getting dressed for dinner. Long before Elliot showed up.

Was the shooter out there then?
Her stomach shuddered. And then there was the oil. That puddle at the church across from the bank, then at the hospital . . . and here now, on her street. It could still all be coincidence. But it was far too close for comfort. And explained the nagging and dark sense of foreboding plaguing her for days.

Stop it.

Macy poured the richly scented coffee into her roommate’s
Seriously?
mug, grabbed her own cup of green tea, and carried them toward the living room, reminding herself of what Fletcher said: they didn’t know if the car tonight belonged to the shooter. It was possible, but not certain. There was no reason for her to be paranoid. Prior
to Fletcher’s action-movie stunt, she’d had a great evening and anticipated a far different ending. More along the lines of quiet conversation and a little more hand-holding. All of which might still be possible. Even with detectives grilling her neighbors.

And the fact that her very good-looking date . . . just set a gun holster on the coffee table?

“I hope you don’t mind,” Fletcher told her, moving the weapon aside so she could put the cups down. “This couch sort of sinks.”

“Not a problem,” Macy managed, despite a rising laugh.

“What’s funny?”

“This.” She shook her head. “Me, with you.”

“Meaning?”

“Police officers were part of my early education.” She dunked her tea bag a few times, decided the story was more entertaining than pitiful. “When I was six
 
—that last year with my mother
 
—we spent a lot of time sleeping in our car.” Macy saw Fletcher wince. “It wasn’t so bad. It was a big gas-guzzler, had a working radio, and was roomy. We didn’t have a lot of stuff. Mom . . . she knew how to make any situation feel like a Disneyland commercial. And a life lesson. The cops were part of acting improv.”

“Acting?” He regarded her over the coffee mug.

“That’s right. Mom taught me the drill when it came to dealing with law enforcement. She always said, ‘If you need your life saved, trust them with that, Macy. But with anything else, you have to remember the cops are all about doing their jobs
 
—upholding the law. So if we find ourselves a teeny bit on the other side of that line, we need to put
on our show faces.’” Macy sighed as a high-gloss magazine image of her mother came to mind. Spectacularly Nordic.

Fletcher met her gaze, waiting.

“If we were sleeping in the car and a cop rapped on the window or shone his flashlight, it was my cue. I talked first. I did it exactly the way Mom coached me
 
—two scenarios. First, if the officer was kind-looking, I’d roll down the window, sit up straight
 
—” Macy pulled her shoulders back
 
—“smile, and say, ‘We’re moving to Grandma’s house in Tiburon. I brought my clothes and all my toys . . .’ But if the officer was grouchy-looking, I’d clutch my little hands to my chest, make my eyes as wide as I could, and say, ‘My uncle Bob is a policeman too. In Wyoming. He catches the bad guys and makes sure all the children are safe.’”

“And that worked?”

“Like a charm.” Macy knew she should stop there. But Fletcher’s trustworthy eyes lured her on. “I remember we had a blue plastic bucket in the trunk that was for a bathroom when we didn’t have access to one. And a white one for water. To wash the car with,” she explained, recalling her mother’s counsel:
“A dirty car is a huge clue that people are living in it.”
She shrugged, making herself smile. “I was a pretty good actor. And car washer. If your Jeep ever needs
 
—”

“Hey.” Fletcher took hold of her hand. “You don’t have to pretend with me. Having to live like that must have been awful. How . . . ? Did you say your mother died in a fire?”

“An apartment fire.” Fletcher’s fingers tightened around hers, gentle, warm. “We were living in the car and I’d been sick, I guess. Mom left me sleeping in the backseat one night while she ran into a convenience store. They said she
stole some Tylenol. The clerk called the police. They called Child Protective Services.” Macy shook her head. “The ‘moving to Grandma’s in Tiburon’ doesn’t fly with those folks, I guess.”

“They took you into protective custody?”

“Emergency foster care. Mom said it was only for a few days; she’d met some nice people who had a place.” Fletcher’s arm slid around her shoulders. He probably thought she was going to cry. “They think it started with the curtains. A candle maybe . . .”

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “It’s not something you ever really get over.”

Macy met his gaze, certain he was thinking of his sister. Then a smile began to tease his lips.

“So
 
—” his fingertips brushed her hair
 
—“you couldn’t imagine yourself with a cop?”

“Never,” she admitted, relaxing against him a bit. She wondered about the statute of limitations on breaking and entering, stealing door hardware. “I never thought it was possible. Not like this.”

“And this, us . . .” Fletcher’s eyes held hers. “You’re good with it?”

“I think, yes. Maybe.” Her pulse danced as his lips touched her forehead.

“Only ‘maybe’?”

Her chuckle was breathless. “Considering that you knocked me to the ground the first time we met, you all but threw me out of your car tonight, and
 
—” She stopped as his big hands cradled her face.

“I think . . . I’m very good with the idea of us, Macy
Wynn.” That small hint of an accent stretched his words. “You’re an amazing woman. Smart and gutsy, generous . . . and beautiful. From that stripe in your hair right down to your pinto bean tattoo.”

She started to laugh, but his lips had found the corner of her mouth.

“You are special, Macy,” he told her, drawing back a little to look in her eyes again. “You should believe that. Ballet or not, regardless of where you came from
 
—because of that probably. I’ve never known anyone like you.”

Macy blinked, determined not to cry as she wove her arms around Fletcher’s neck. “Well . . .” She smiled, an achy-good sensation making her dizzy. “Since you put it that way, Deputy . . .”

Fletcher’s lips met hers, lightly at first, then more completely as he wrapped her in his arms. Warm, secure. Macy’s eager response stirred the kiss to deepen, until she wasn’t sure she could still breathe, but . . . it was worth the risk. He’d buried his hands in her hair, leaned over her enough that she slid back against the sofa arm, not at all confident the timeworn piece of furniture could tolerate the weight of two people at one end without tipping or
 
—

“Grr
 
—oooo
f
!”

The Dood leaped to his feet and began trotting down the hallway, toenails clicking on the wood floor. Music erupted from somewhere in that direction.

“Sally . . . ,” Macy breathed, rising to a more upright angle on the couch. She glanced at the wall clock. “Her shift starts at eleven and
 
—” She laughed as Fletcher’s handsome features morphed into an adolescent pout.

“Great.” He shook his head. “If it’s not a kid stalking marmots, it’s a night nurse. I’m batting zero.”

“Hardly.” Macy’s skin warmed as he lifted her hand to his lips. “But . . .” She glanced in the direction of what sounded like the shower starting up. “You don’t want to talk to Sally until she’s had at least three cups of coffee. She’s half the reason I own bear repellent. And if she spots a gun on the furniture . . .”

“Got it.” He reached for his holster. “Maybe I’ll give the sergeant a call, see if they’ve found anything out yet.”

Macy’s stomach tensed. “You don’t think he’d come back here tonight?”

He studied her face. “You’re worried?”

“I’m not. I’m just
 
—”

“Acting.” Fletcher finished fastening his holster, met Macy’s gaze. “I see it in your eyes. You’re worried.”

“Maybe a little. But I’ll move Dood’s bed to the living room and . . .”

“No need. I’ve got it covered.” Fletcher reached out and traced his fingers along her cheek. “Your own surveillance detail. All night.”

“Uh, I appreciate that, but
 
—” her face warmed
 
—“you can’t stay here, Fletcher. We have a house rule about men. And I really can’t, wouldn’t . . .”

“Whoa.” Fletcher caught her hand. “Hold on. Take a breath. I wasn’t suggesting I’d be sleeping here
 
—even on your couch.” He laughed. “I’m sorry, but that look on your face . . . What I meant was that one of the graveyard units will do some drive-bys. Keep an eye on this street and your house.”

She stared at him, embarrassed and touched too. “You arranged for that?”

“Sure.” He stood, reaching out a hand to help her up. “I made a call while you were in there getting the coffee.”

“Because it’s really more dangerous than you’ve said?”

“Because . . .” Fletcher drew Macy into his arms. “I want you to be able to sleep. I don’t want you to worry.” He hugged her close. “And because I care a lot about you.”

Macy closed her eyes, feeling the solid warmth of his back beneath her palms. And a strange and sort of wonderful sense of safety she hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

Down the hallway, Sally grumbled something to Dood about offensive dog breath. And that no one better have eaten the last bagel.

“I should leave,” Fletcher told Macy, leaning away. “Before you pull out the bear spray and I get caught in the cross fire.” He bent low, gave her a last, lingering kiss. “Mmm. Sure worth risking it, though.”

“Thank you,” Macy whispered, realizing that her knees were trying their best to tremble. Her kickboxing coach would have her dropping down for twenty push-ups. “For dinner . . . and for everything.”

“I’ll call you in the morning,” Fletcher promised. “My buddy’s name is Jason Gormley. This is his patrol area anyway, but he’ll make some extra passes down the street. Till about seven in the morning. He’ll slow down when he passes your house, take a good look around. Maybe shine a light in the shrubbery. You’re okay with that?”