Deadly Pursuit (9 page)

Pulling away the green paper, Mitch set the bingo card on top of the stems and held the bouquet out for Erik to examine.

The young man took one look and recoiled. “Those are dead. And ugly.”

“Yes, they are.”

“And that card is . . . scary.”

“Did you send these to Alison, Erik?” Mitch kept his tone conversational.

“No! That might scare her!”

His aghast expression, and the sincerity in his eyes, convinced Mitch that Erik was telling the truth.

Leading him to a conclusion Cole clearly shared, based on the furrows denting the other man's brow.

Two different people had targeted Alison for attention.

Erik's innocent contact had been well-intentioned, if unsettling.

But the dead, black roses and ominous bingo card weren't innocent. Nor well-intentioned.

A flicker of fear flamed to life in the pit of his stomach.

“Is Alison mad at me?”

At Erik's distressed question, Mitch redirected his attention to the young man sitting across from him. Handing the bouquet back to Cole, he tried for a reassuring tone. “No, Erik. She's not mad.”

“Are you sure?”

He thought about Alison's offer to come over, and the concern that had softened her words. There was no chance she'd press charges after hearing the details about her secret admirer's actions. “Yes, I'm sure. But from now on, just talk to her at the store, okay? That way she won't be scared.”

“Okay.”

Mitch rose. After assuring Erik she'd be right back, Dorothy followed him to the foyer.

“I'm sorry about this, gentlemen.” She pitched her voice low. “I'll have a discussion with Erik tonight about appropriate ways to express affection. He's been quite bereft since his mother's death, and I can see how he'd latch on to friendly overtures—and misinterpret them. Please let me know if there are any further calls.”

“We will. Thanks for your cooperation.” Mitch turned to Cole. “Ready?”

“Yes.”

They didn't speak again until they were in Cole's car, retracing their route to the quick shop so Mitch could retrieve his own vehicle.

“I'm more worried now than I was before.”

At Cole's terse comment, Mitch looked over. The man had a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, and the set of his jaw was grim. If Alison thought her brothers had hovered before, she was about to find out what real hovering was.

And her brothers weren't the only ones who were going to be sticking close.

“Yeah. This puts a whole different spin on the situation.”

“We need to talk to Alison. Probe harder. She must have ticked somebody off, despite her claims to the contrary.”

“Why don't you let me see what I can find out?”

Cole shot him a narrow-eyed look. “Why you?”

“It might help preserve family harmony. I've gotten the impression she thinks you and Jake are a tad overprotective.” It was a logical suggestion, if not entirely altruistic.

His colleague considered the offer, then let out a disgruntled sigh. “Okay. You have a point. But I want to know what she says. Tonight.”

“You got it.”

Cole pulled up beside Mitch's car. “I'm going to make another call to patrol. I want more drive-bys.”

“Good idea.” Mitch opened the door. “I'll talk to you later.”

Once behind the wheel of his own car, Mitch checked on Cole across the parking lot. The other man was already on the phone. Beefing up patrols.

The sooner the better.

Because even though it was possible the dead roses were a onetime, random prank left by a bunch of drunk teenagers out for a night of fun, Mitch's gut told him someone was targeting Alison specifically. And unlike Erik, he was trying to scare her.

An image of the skull and crossbones on the bingo card flashed through his mind. Followed by a niggling sense that the perpetrator was planning to inflict a lot more than fear on Alison.

Unfortunately, safeguarding her from that kind of nebulous threat wouldn't be easy.

No matter how hard he or her two protective brothers tried.

“So whaddya gonna do, man?”

Irritated by the question, Daryl Barnes spared Chuck Warren no more than a quick, impatient glance as he paced in the dilapidated mobile home. There might not be any bars on the windows, nor armed guards at the door, but he felt trapped just the same. As if the walls were closing in on him and there was no escape. It was the same way he'd felt during his four long years in the maximum security prison in Potosi.

He hated it now as much as he'd hated it then.

“I don't know.”

Chuck leaned back in an upholstered chair that looked as if it had been salvaged from someone's street-side garbage pile. Stuffing oozed through the rips in the stained fabric as he took a swig from his beer can. “You can stay here as long as you need to, man. Unless I get lucky some night. Then I might ask you to take a hike for a little while.” His leering grin revealed several discolored, rotting teeth.

Pausing beside the battered TV set, Daryl looked over at Chuck. The years hadn't been kind to his onetime business partner, who looked fifty instead of thirty. His clothes hung on his gaunt frame, his hair had thinned, and his face sported what appeared to be a bad case of acne.

Thanks to meth.

Chuck wasn't just sampling anymore. He was using heavily—and had been for a long time. Daryl had known that the instant he'd laid eyes on him, when Chuck had come to pick him up from the homeless shelter where he'd spent his first two nights of freedom while trying to track down his old buddy. He'd seen the classic signs of long-term addiction often enough in their customers to recognize them at a glance, and they turned his stomach. That's why he'd vowed never to let his own sampling get out of hand. A line now and then, that's all he'd ever done. Snorted, never injected.

Years ago, Chuck had kidded him about his delivery preference. Most people smoked—Chuck included. But the whole notion of putting toxic vapors into his lungs had freaked him out.

Now, from all indications, his onetime collaborator was way past smoking. He was slamming. Pumping the stuff right into his veins. Often. And Daryl didn't want to go down that road. Nor risk more time behind bars. If he'd had any other option, he wouldn't be here now. But he'd had no place else to go.

A rush of anger swept over him, and he clenched his fists at his sides. If Nicole had taken him in, given him another chance, he wouldn't have had to seek out his old partner in crime. But no. When he'd looked her up in the phone book and called after his release, she'd made it clear he wasn't welcome in her life—or her home. Even though he'd given her and her snot-nosed brat a place to live when he'd found her wandering the streets five years ago.

And who was to blame for her change of heart?

Goody two-shoes Alison Taylor.

His anger erupted into a white-hot blaze, and he slammed his fist against the cracked Formica counter. A piece splintered off, leaving a rough, dangerous edge.

“Hey! Chill, man.” Chuck sat up straighter, his restless energy fueling Daryl's own edginess. “I'm just kidding. I owe you for keeping your mouth shut when the cops busted you. Otherwise, I'd have ended up in the slammer too. You can stay here anytime. Listen, you sure you don't want a line? It would make you feel better.”

“No.”

The other man jiggled his foot and scratched a sore on his arm. “Have it your way.” He stood and headed for the fridge.

Daryl caught a rancid whiff as his host brushed past, and he took a step back. This was not how he'd envisioned his first few days of freedom.

Chuck rummaged through the collection of cans, selected one, and popped the top. He chugged several long swallows. Gave a small burp. “So whaddya think that social worker thought of our little present?”

Some of Daryl's anger ebbed as he considered the prank they'd cooked up between them, after he'd told Chuck how Nicole had credited Alison Taylor for helping her get a new start.

“I hope it scared her so bad she's afraid to go to the bathroom by herself.”

Chuck cackled. “Yeah. The bingo card was a nice touch, if I do say so myself.”

Edging past Chuck, Daryl took out a beer for himself. He hadn't been all that keen on the idea at first, but he was glad they'd done it. The thought of scaring Alison Taylor, of turning her world upside down, was sweet.

“You have an evil streak, you know that?” He popped the top, the whoosh of the carbonation sharpening his thirst.

“Don't I, though?” Chuck grinned and took another long swallow. “And I got more ideas, if you want to hear them. We can make her life real miserable. Might be fun.”

As Daryl weighed the can of beer in his hand, he suddenly had the weirdest feeling. Almost like he was standing on the edge of a high cliff, and one move in the wrong direction would send him plummeting into the dark abyss below, while one move in the right direction would lead him to safety.

That was kind of how he'd felt as a kid, playing chicken on the railroad tracks. You were supposed to jump in front of the train, wait until the very last second, then jump aside and run for cover as the grinding brakes shrieked, metal on metal, sparks flying. He'd always broken out in a cold sweat as the train bore down on him. Hoping he'd make it to safety.

The same thing he was hoping for now.

He was tired of messing up his life.

Tired of proving his old man right.

Daryl took a swig of the cheap brew, trying to chase the bitter taste from his mouth. It wasn't as if Michael Barnes had had room to point fingers. Last time he'd seen him, the day he'd left home forever at fifteen, his father had been passed out on the couch, an empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the floor, oblivious to the squalls of the hungry toddler in the dirty playpen in the corner. Daryl remembered tossing his half sister a piece of bread before he left and whispering, “Good luck, kid.”

He could use some luck himself now. Some guidance. Someone to tell him how to avoid the abyss. How to elude the train barreling down on him. But even if he didn't have any clear direction, he did know one thing.

Hanging around with Chuck wasn't the right step.

He slugged down the rest of the beer, crushed the fragile aluminum in his fingers, and tossed the can into the overflowing bag of garbage next to the sink.

“You know, I think I'm gonna pay Nicole a visit. Calling was a bad idea. I should have talked to her in person.”

His host swigged his beer again. “You think she'll change her mind?”

“It can't hurt to try.” He'd always been able to sweet-talk—or threaten—her into compliance. And she'd have a lot harder time saying no in person.

Chuck finished off his beer and tossed his can as well. “Guess not. Nicole always was a looker. It'd be a shame to lose her.” He jiggled the change in his pocket and wiped the sleeve of his T-shirt across his forehead. “Hot night. Think I'll take a little walk. Maybe find me a chick of my own. Don't wait up.” With a grin, he crossed to the front door, opened it, and clattered down the steps.

Through the window, Daryl watched a flash of lightning slash across the sky near the horizon, followed by a low, ominous rumble of distant thunder. Then he turned away from the emaciated figure disappearing into the deepening dusk and surveyed the rented dump Chuck called home. This wasn't where he'd expected to end up six years ago, when his drinking buddy had filled his head with grandiose dreams.

Dreams that had turned into a nightmare.

Shoving his hands in the pockets of his prison-issue pants, Daryl remembered the pitch as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. He and Chuck had struck up an acquaintance at a bar they'd both frequented in between their string of odd jobs. Chuck had been older and more street savvy. The kind of guy who understood how unfair the world could be. Who wanted more out of life—and had a plan to get it.

He knew how to make meth, Chuck had confided. And he knew of a secluded spot in Jefferson County, off the radar screen of cops, where they could set up a lab. He already had a network of people lined up who'd smurf pseudoephedrine for them in return for enough meth to feed their addiction. They could sell the remainder of the cook. Plus, he had a connection that would supply them with Mexican meth. Big profits there, Chuck had promised. They'd be living on easy street soon.

Daryl had fallen for the plan hook, line, and sinker.

But a dumpy trailer and four years in the joint was far from easy street.

He kicked the edge of the lopsided, lumpy sofa, creating a faint cloud of dust. Like most things that sounded too good to be true, Chuck's get-rich-quick scheme hadn't lived up to its promise.

Leaving him once more a victim of circumstances.

The abyss yawned at his feet again, sending a cold chill through him. He was on the edge, and he knew it. Desperation and despair could nudge a man into that precarious position. Force him to do things he didn't want to do.

But right now he was clean. There was still a chance he could dig himself out of the hole that was his life. All he needed was someone to believe in him. Encourage him. Trust him.

Someone like Nicole.

He'd come to that conclusion in Potosi, as he sat in his cell day after day with nothing else to think about.

The truth of it was, he needed her more than she'd ever needed him. The very woman he'd once rescued from the streets now held the key to his future. To his salvation.

Go figure.

His stomach growled, and he ambled back to the refrigerator. Rummaging through the beer cans, he came up empty except for a moldy pack of American cheese. Looked like it was peanut butter crackers again for dinner. Chuck had a drawerful of those. He grabbed two, ripped off the cellophane, and took a bite.

That was another thing he'd liked about Nicole. She'd fed him well.

Plus, as Chuck had noted, she was a looker. That was the reason he'd noticed her in the first place. The reason he'd been willing to take her kid, once she made it clear they were a package deal. And it had turned out okay. She'd worked hard, holding down two jobs. For the first time in his life, he'd eaten decent meals. Lived in a clean apartment. Experienced affection. It had been a sweet deal all around. The best life he'd ever known.

Until Alison Taylor had poked her nose in and destroyed it all.

Another surge of anger swept over him, but he tamped it down. He couldn't let his temper get out of hand. Not this time. He could end up shooting himself in the foot. Besides, if he could convince Nicole to take him back, why worry about the social worker? There'd be no need for revenge if life was good.

Tomorrow he'd pay Nicole a visit in that nice new place of hers. He and Chuck had driven by to check it out before they'd dropped off Alison Taylor's present, so he knew exactly where she lived. He'd even take a toy for the kid, if Chuck would loan him a few bucks. Maybe pick up some flowers for Nicole. She'd like that. There'd always been a salvaged flower of some kind stuck in a bud vase from Goodwill at their old place.

Once more, a rumble of thunder sounded in the distance, and a light rain began to fall. Chuck would be back soon. There were only a couple of other trailers along this stretch of road, tucked back in the woods, and he doubted his former partner was going to find a welcome reception in any of them.

Let alone romance.

After picking a path along the littered hall that led to the bedroom, Daryl pulled back the grimy blanket on the futon that had been his bed for the past few nights. If the gods were kind, this would be the last night he'd have to spend in a meth den.

He stretched out, doing his best to ignore the stench that permeated the trailer as he reviewed his plan. He was only going to have one more shot at this, and he needed to do it right.

Because his fate was in Nicole's hands.

When the knock sounded on her door a little before nine, Alison set down her knitting, gently toed a sleeping Bert off her foot, and stood. It was either Cole or Mitch.

Much as she loved her brother, she hoped it was Mitch.

Peeking through the peephole, she smiled. St. Louis County's newest detective stood on her threshold.

As she swung the door open, Mitch smiled back. “Sorry to come by so late. But I wanted to give you a firsthand account of what happened with Erik.”

“Come in.” She swept her arm toward the living room. “Would you like me to make you some coffee?”

“No, thanks. But I could use a soda.”

He remained in the living room while she retrieved the drink from the kitchen. Bert stayed behind, and when she returned, she found Mitch sitting on the couch, scratching her pup's belly. Bert's eyes were half closed, his expression blissful.

She handed the soda to Mitch and sat in the wing chair she'd occupied earlier.

“What are you working on?” Mitch gestured to the mass of fluffy pink yarn peeking out of the knitting bag beside her chair.

“A baby blanket. I've been making them for years for the preemie ward at one of the local hospitals.”