Deadly Pursuit (11 page)

As Daryl's truck disappeared from view, Nicole took a slow, deep breath.

He was gone.

Forever, she hoped.

But if he showed up again, she'd follow through on her threat—and she had a feeling he knew that.

Good thing he hadn't been privy to her shaky legs, though. Or the thunderous pounding of her heart. Or the tremors in her fingers that she'd disguised by keeping a tight grip on her purse.

“Mom?”

Swiveling toward the car, she saw that Kyle had cracked his window two inches. Some of the color had drained from his cheeks, and he was clutching her phone as if poised to tap in the three numbers that would summon help.

With one more glance toward the apartment complex entrance, Nicole pasted on a smile and returned to the car.

“You can open the door now, Kyle. And hand me my keys, okay? I want to get the groceries out of the trunk.”

He passed them through the window, along with her phone. As she fitted the key into the trunk lock, he scrambled out of the car, toting his backpack, and joined her.

“Are you ready for that spaghetti?”

He studied her in solemn silence. Then responded with a question of his own. “Who was that man, Mom?”

She opened the trunk and snagged the three bags. “Someone I used to know.”

“He looked mean.”

No kidding.

“Well, he wasn't a very nice person a long time ago. But he told me he's going to try and be better.”

“Is that why he brought that stuff?” He pointed to the scattered flowers and smashed package.

“Yes.” She closed the trunk and urged him toward the front door.

“Was it for us?”

“Yes.”

“How come he threw it on the ground?”

Nicole debated how to answer—and how to deal with the situation—as Kyle trotted along beside her. Daryl had always had a problem controlling his temper, and the sudden eruption of anger in his eyes when she'd held her ground told her he hadn't conquered it while he was in prison. Yet if he was truly trying to build a new life, raising an alarm with the authorities now could derail his efforts.

At the same time, she needed to be ready if he showed up again. As did Kyle.

“Mom? How come he threw it on the ground?” Kyle repeated the question as they climbed the two steps that led to her tiny porch.

She fitted her key in the front door and ushered Kyle in. With one more backward glance, she set the locks and started toward the back of the small two-bedroom apartment. “Come with me to the kitchen while I put away the groceries, and we'll talk about it.”

He followed, maintaining a tight grip on his backpack, his eyes worried. More worried than a seven-year-old's should be. He had no specific memories of Daryl, which she considered a blessing. Nor did he remember his year in foster care. But their time apart had had a profound impact on both of them.

For her, it had been a wake-up call: get her act together or lose the child she'd tried so hard to protect and loved with an intensity she'd never known was possible. For Kyle, their separation had been equally traumatic, leaving him with insecurities that made him clingy at times. Even now, three years after they'd been reunited, he had occasional nightmares. Only after she tucked him close beside her and soothed him with comforting words or songs would he fall back asleep.

Putting him on alert without exacerbating any of his latent fears was going to be tricky.

Nicole set the bags on the counter that separated the galley kitchen from the combination living/dining room and prayed for guidance. “You want a cookie and some milk while we talk?”

His mouth dropped open. “Before dinner?”

“On second thought—I guess not.” She grinned at him, took his hand, and led him toward the sofa she'd bought six months ago with money she'd saved specifically for the furnishings that graced the small living room of their home. The home she'd created.

She patted the cushion beside her, then pulled him close as he sat, tucking him into the crook of her arm while she searched for the right words.

“I knew that man a long time ago, honey. When you were really little. He wasn't a very nice person back then, but I didn't know that at first because he was nice to me in the beginning. He fooled me.”

“Like Billy did with me?”

His manipulative classmate. Excellent analogy. The kid never had returned the video game he'd borrowed from Kyle. Her son's favorite.

“Yes. Just like Billy. That man was only nice until he got what he wanted. He also did some bad things and went to jail. Now he's out. He was hoping we could be friends again, but I told him he should make some new friends now.”

“He looked mad.”

“He was. That's why he threw those things on the ground.” She brushed the fine brown hair on Kyle's forehead to one side. “I told him I didn't want to be his friend anymore and that he shouldn't come back again. I don't think he will, but I want you to promise you'll tell me right away if you ever see him again. And never, ever talk to him. Okay?”

“Do you think he might try to hurt us?”

A tremor of fear threaded through his question, and she had to wrestle her sudden anger—and hate—into submission. After four years of hard work getting their life in order, she didn't intend to let Daryl disrupt it again. Nor would she go back to living in fear.

But she wasn't as certain about
his
plans. That's why she intended to watch their backs and stick very close to her son for the next few weeks.

“I think he's smarter than that, honey.” She hoped. “He knows if he does anything bad, he'll have to go back to jail, and I'm sure he doesn't want to do that. I don't think you or I will ever see him again. But in case you do, you know what to do, right?”

“Uh-huh. Tell you right away.”

“You got it. Now, let's get to that spaghetti.” She lightened her tone and summoned up a smile. “And maybe we'll go to DQ for dessert. Do you think you could handle an Oreo brownie earthquake?”

The mention of his favorite treat, reserved for special occasions, wiped most of the tension from his features.

“That would be cool!”

“I thought you might like that.” Nicole gave him one more squeeze and rose. “Why don't you start your homework while I make the spaghetti? If you get it all done now, we might even have time for a video after our trip to DQ.”

“Wow!” He popped up and jogged over to retrieve his backpack. “This is almost like my birthday!”

Nicole unpacked the groceries as Kyle tugged his math homework out of his backpack and began doing sums. Already he seemed to have put the earlier incident behind him.

But as she pulled out a pot and filled it with water for the spaghetti noodles, her unease didn't dissipate one iota. It was possible Daryl was sincere about wanting to stay clean and straighten out his life. People could change in four years. She had.

Yet doubt niggled at her mind. She'd gotten some bad vibes today.

And she knew that for the foreseeable future, she'd be looking over her shoulder.

A lot.

Alison pulled a box of oatmeal off the shelf at Schnucks, then checked the items in her cart against her grocery list. The only thing left to add was dog food.

As she traversed the store, she kept an eye out for Erik. He was often on duty when she did her Tuesday after-work shopping. Since hearing Mitch's story last night about the young man's distress, she'd been anxious to reassure him she wasn't angry. But she must have missed him.

No surprise, considering she'd worked later than usual, thanks to the Callahan case. The babysitting neighbor, Bev Parisi, still hadn't turned up—at her apartment or at the restaurant where she worked as a waitress—and Stan Orton was sticking to his claim that the mother often left the children at home unattended at night and on weekends. Unfortunately, Ellen had been unable to come up with anyone who could corroborate her story.

But logic told Alison that a woman who had reliable daycare arrangements in place with a reputable provider during work hours wasn't likely to leave her children unattended at other times. If she had to run out to get a leaky radiator checked, as she'd done on the night in question, she'd take them along. Unless her neighbor had offered to watch them, as Ellen maintained.

According to the young mother, the thirtysomething woman down the hall had moved in about two months ago. They'd met while collecting their mail and chatted whenever they ran into each other. At some point, the neighbor had offered to watch the children if Ellen was ever in a bind. Ellen had never taken her up on that—until last week.

Now Bev seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth.

As Alison grabbed a bag of Bert's favorite dog food, hefted it into the cart, and did a U-turn toward the checkout line, her phone began to ring. Digging through her purse, she smiled at the familiar number when her fingers closed over the phone.

“Hi, Mitch.”

“You know my number by sight?” He sounded pleased.

“I memorized it when I was getting those suspicious calls, in case I needed to reach you quickly.” She let a beat of silence pass. “But I don't intend to forget it.”

He chuckled. “That's nice to know. I tried calling your house first, by the way.”

She eased the cart into line and circled around to the front of it, setting a plastic divider on the conveyer belt. “I worked late. I'm at the grocery store as we speak.”

“Burning the midnight oil on the Callahan case?”

“It's not quite midnight, but it feels like it.” She began unloading her groceries, easing her weight off her injured leg, which had begun to throb. Not unexpected, in light of all the hours she'd spent on her feet today.

“Any progress?”

“Not yet.”

“You'll get there. That family's lucky to have you on its side.”

“I hope so.” She tucked the phone against her shoulder, freeing her hands to hoist the bag of dog food to the conveyer.

“I know so.”

The warmth in his voice sent a little trill along her nerve endings, but she hid her reaction under a teasing tone. “And to what do I owe the honor of this call?”

“I was hoping you might be interested in a Ted Drewes run. But if you're not even home yet, another night might be better.”

A quick glance at her watch confirmed it was close to seven. Much as she'd love to spend an hour in his company, he was right. “To be honest, it would. I haven't had dinner yet, and I need to let Bert out and feed him too. Plus, I have to prep for a hearing tomorrow morning.”

“Sounds like you have a busy evening ahead.”

“Too busy.”

“I'd offer to come over if I thought there was anything I could do to help.”

She resisted the temptation to succumb to his hint, knowing his presence would be more distracting than helpful. “I appreciate the thought. Give me a rain check again, okay?”

“No problem.”

As she tugged her cart forward, she caught sight of Erik several lanes away. He was bagging in his usual slow, methodical way, totally focused on his task.

“Hey . . . I just spotted Erik. I was hoping he'd be here tonight. I want to make sure he knows I'm not upset.”

As her secret admirer deposited a filled bag in the customer's cart, she caught his eye and waved. Instead of responding with his usual open smile, however, he dipped his head and went back to work.

She lowered her hand. “He's ignoring me.”

“The house manager said she was going to talk to him. Maybe he thinks he's not supposed to communicate with you at all.”

“That's the impression I'm getting. I need to fix this.”

“I'll let you go. Why don't I call you in a day or two? Or you can call me if you get any more suspicious packages.”

“I'm hoping that's behind us.”

“Me too. Good luck with Erik.”

“Thanks.”

As Alison ran her credit card through the machine, she kept tabs on Erik. No question about it. He was avoiding eye contact. She didn't want to undermine whatever the house manager had told him, but neither did she want him to think he could never talk to her again.

Without wasting time putting her credit card or sales slip away, she pushed her cart toward the door, a route that would take her past Erik. He was finishing up with his customer, and there was no one else in line. That should give them a minute or two to exchange a few words.

When she drew close, he ducked his head again and angled away, playing with the name badge on his shirt.

“Hi, Erik.”

He didn't face her. “Hi.”

Moving into his line of sight, she dropped her voice. “I'm not mad at you, you know.”

He risked a peek at her. “That detective guy named Mitch . . . he said you were scared. I didn't mean . . . to scare you.”

“I know that. It's okay.”

“Ms. Walker told me not . . . to call you anymore. Or give you presents.”

“She's right about that, but talking in the store is fine. I look forward to our chats whenever I come in. I hope we can still be friends.”

His earnest gaze sought hers. “I hope so too.” He gestured to her cart. “Do you want me to push that out for you?”

“I think I can do it tonight. But thank you.” She set her shoulder purse in the basket and pulled out her wallet, intending to put away her credit card. But it slipped from her fingers, scattering plastic cards, her driver's license, photos, and change on the ground.

She surveyed the mess in dismay and eased herself to the ground. “I can't believe I did that.”

Erik got down on his hands and knees, collecting the scattered contents alongside her. “I drop stuff all the time too. It's okay. I'll help you find everything.”

As she rounded up the change, Erik dug out the family picture from her mom's birthday party that had wedged itself under a rack of candy. He also located her credit card among the plastic bags waiting to be filled.

With a wince, she pulled herself to her feet, using the edge of the counter for leverage. Her leg hadn't appreciated the unexpected exercise, but at least the incident had restored the easy give-and-take of her previous relationship with her favorite bagger.

Tossing the jumbled mess back in her purse to be sorted through later, Alison smiled at Erik. “Thanks. I don't think I would have found everything without you.”

He beamed. “I like to help.”

“I know. And I appreciate that.” The checker had begun scanning another customer's items, and she started toward the door. “I'll see you next week, okay?”

“Okay. Bye, Alison.” With a wave, he reached for the first item lumbering down the conveyer belt and went back to work.

Heading for her car, Alison found herself limping for the first time in weeks. Barring any unexpected occurrences, a long, hot bath was fast edging out dinner as her top priority once she got home.

As she loaded her groceries into the trunk, she kept her promise to Jake and surveyed the parking lot. Knowing how absorbed she could get in a case—to the point of being oblivious to her surroundings—he'd called last night to remind her to remain alert in public. She'd assured him she'd pay more attention until the black-roses/bingo-card incident was no longer a concern.

But all seemed quiet. Just the usual after-work crowd intent on wrapping up shopping chores after a long day.

Alison finished stowing her purchases, closed the trunk, and slid into the driver's seat. One button locked all the doors. Now that she was secure, she could focus on the Callahan case.

She backed out of the parking spot, her mind shifting gears to her meeting with Ellen today, and the woman's tearful visit to her children under Alison's supervision. She'd assured Ellen she was doing everything she could to validate her story, but there were no guarantees. The courts put the welfare of the children first, and until the judge was convinced Ellen was a fit mother, there would be no reunion. A statement from Bev Parisi about the incident that had precipitated the separation would help a lot. But if the woman was a user, as the evidence suggested, Alison knew she'd lay low. At least for a while.

Once again, she was reminded of the similarity between Ellen's situation and that of Nicole Larson four years ago. That young mother had been up to her neck in problems too. A child of the foster system herself, she'd been living with a drug dealer and working two jobs while trying to raise a child whose father had disappeared from her life.

Although the judge hadn't been convinced she'd be able to turn her life around, Nicole's determination to reclaim her son had impressed Alison. That's why she'd gone above and beyond to help her. And it had paid off, when the two had been reunited a year later.

She had a feeling her efforts would pay off in Ellen's case too. Preferably far sooner than a year. But the woman had a tough road ahead.

And in light of Ellen's thorny problems, a bouquet of dead roses and a bingo card didn't seem to merit a whole lot of worry.

“I don't know, Chuck.” Daryl pulled a third beer from the fridge and popped the tab. “We could get caught.”

“Not if we're careful.” He held up a small jar of white powder and shook it. “You sure you don't want some? Gettin' close to the end of this batch.”

Daryl took a swig of beer and eyed the meth. After his encounter with Nicole earlier tonight, he could use a rush—and beer wasn't cutting it.

“Come on, man.” Chuck sidled closer and held the jar a few inches from his face. “Plenty here for both of us. It'll be like the old days.”

Except the old days had led him to jail.

Daryl pushed the man's hand aside and took another chug of his beer. “Not tonight.”

“Your loss.” Chuck opened a drawer and pulled out his rig.

“When did you start slamming, anyway?”

“Two, three years ago. It's the only way to go, man.” Chuck took a spoon out of the drawer and shook a small bump into the bowl. He added some tap water and mixed it with the cap of the syringe. “So getting back to your favorite social worker. I'm telling you, we can pull this off. If you want to hit her where it hurts, this is your ticket.”

He did want to hurt her.

He just didn't like blood.

But he wasn't about to admit that to Chuck.

“We'd have to check the place out better. We weren't there long the night we dropped off the flowers.” Daryl took another swig of beer.

“Yeah. We can be like private eyes. Do some surveillance.” Chuck drew the meth water into the syringe. Sitting, he pulled off a shoe and sock. Daryl turned away as Chuck injected the stuff between his toes, where the prick mark would be hidden.

He'd never liked needles either.

“Bring it on, baby.”

As Chuck spoke, Daryl looked back. The other man's eyes were half closed, pleasure smoothing out the lines in his face.

“You want to go over there tomorrow?” Daryl took a long swallow of his beer. It tasted flat.

“Yeah. Sounds like a plan. Give me a minute and we can talk about it some more.”

Not likely. Once the rush passed, Chuck would be bouncing off the walls. He wouldn't be of any use for hours.

“Let's wait until tomorrow. I'm beat.” Daryl took a final gulp of his beer and tossed the can in the trash.

“Whatever, man.”

Heading down the hall, Daryl thought about Chuck's idea. The guy knew how to go for the jugular, no question about it. Whether he had the stomach to follow his host's lead, however, was another question.

As he crossed the threshold into the bedroom and flipped on the light, a roach scuttled under the futon. Disgust churned his stomach as he surveyed the filthy, dismal surroundings. He didn't want to live the rest of his life like this. But what choice did he have? He'd never had a break, not once in his entire twenty-nine years—other than the day he'd crossed paths with Nicole. He'd told her earlier that she owed him, that he'd done her a favor. In truth, though, he was the one who'd gotten the most out of that deal.