In Harm's Way (3 page)

Mitch briefly detailed the findings on the prints and lack of powder residue. “So, what do you think?” Mitch asked. “You hear the entire interview in there?”

“Most of it. There's not enough for an indictment. Not yet, anyway. I'll read what you got from her earlier and get with Taylor on it. I was looking for you this afternoon. You're on suspension, pending an inquiry.”

Mitch blew out a frustrated breath and ran a hand over his face. “The review board? About yesterday,” Mitch guessed.

“You know to expect it, Winton, any time you fire that weapon. You shot that boy in the arm and the leg. The doctors say he might have a permanent limp.”

Mitch rolled his eyes. “He's damned lucky he won't have a permanent
nap.
He shot two people right there in the restaurant before I took him down.”

“I know. You did what you had to do.” Hunford leaned back in his chair, his palms flattened on the desktop. He stared at them and frowned. “But his victims didn't die. And the kid you shot—”

“—was thirty-one years old and holding a smokin' nine-millimeter,” Mitch finished. “I identified myself and he turned
on me. When a guy's that hyped on coke, you can't talk him down, sir. You try, you die. I could have killed him and been justified—and you know it.”

“Just the same, I'll need your badge and piece. You were planning to be gone for a couple of weeks, anyway, so it's not like you'll miss it. Take your vacation, let the review board do their thing, and we'll get this ironed out soon as you get back. Don't worry, I'll go to the mat for you. You know that.”

Mitch nodded. It wasn't like he had a choice here.

He unclipped the badge from his belt and tossed it on Hunford's desk. Then he reached under his jacket and removed his department-issue Glock. His backup pistol rested comfortingly against his ankle. With a weary sigh, he unloaded the official weapon and carefully laid it on top of the desk blotter.

“There you go. Hey, you don't mind if I give Taylor a little unofficial help on the Andrews homicide, do you?”

Hunford pursed his lips and thought for a minute. “I thought you were going fishing?”

“Hadn't decided. I'd rather hang around, do what I can. I'm still on the payroll, right?”

“Well, yeah. If you do lend Taylor a hand, be discreet about it. I mean,
very
low profile. You got that? Suspended is supposed to
mean
suspended.”

“Okay. If that's all, I'm outa here,” Mitch said, heading for the door.

“You taking her to a hotel?” the captain asked, inclining his head toward the glass wall through which they both could see Robin.

“No. She might have to be in town for a good while and that could get expensive. Thought maybe I'd try to find something a little more reasonable for her. Sandy's apartment is empty.”

Hunford raised one bushy brow. “That'd keep her handy, I guess. You think she's a flight risk?”

Mitch shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. I don't mind keeping an eye on her for a while.”

Hunford studied him for a minute. “Might not be a bad idea if you or somebody did that.” He held up his finger again. “And, Winton?”

“Yessir?”

“Don't shoot anybody else if you can help it. And for goodness sake, don't get personally involved with the suspect.”

“You ever known me to do that kind of thing?” He hid his exasperation and left before he said something he shouldn't.

Don't get personally involved with the suspect? However, the boss did have an excellent reason to issue such a warning, Mitch admitted to himself. He just hadn't thought his interest was that obvious. Hell, he'd just been polite to her. There were no longing looks or unnecessary touching in that interview room. Nothing suggestive at all. He'd been very careful of that.

As he approached Robin Andrews now, Mitch was struck anew by that fawnlike vulnerability wrapped in such a deceptive package of striking sophistication. He knew he was going to have to watch himself as closely as he watched her.

The way she looked, she shouldn't need to fear anything. The world should lay itself at her feet and wait to be walked on. But the outer package was camouflage, Mitch knew. Inside there was a young woman who needed someone to take care of her. To care about her. He could do that temporarily without going off the deep end.

Mitch puffed out an exasperated breath, stuck his hands in his pockets and shook his head. Even knowing what he might have to face later, he still couldn't bring himself to send her out into a strange city all alone.

“Let's go, Ms. Andrews,” he said, accepting the inevitable. He wouldn't get involved, damn it. Not exactly. He'd just make sure she had a place to stay. Nobody could argue she needed that, and there was no one else who would see about it.

“I know where there's a furnished apartment. One bedroom with a kitchenette in an old Victorian,” he told her. “Actually, a friend of mine left me the key, and plans to be away for the next couple of months. You could sort of sublet if you're interested. There wouldn't be a lease or anything to fool with. Rent's next to nothing. Much less than a hotel will be if this runs on for a week or so.”

It would be considerably longer than a week, almost surely, but he didn't have the heart to tell her that now.

“No, thank you. I would prefer a hotel. The expense is no problem,” she said.

Mitch smiled. “I'd feel better knowing you were in a safe place. The Captain said I should make sure you were okay until we catch the shooter.”

She still looked doubtful.

“Come on, it's a nice apartment. Cozy. How 'bout it?”

“All right, thank you. That would be fine,” she murmured. “Does this mean you believe me when I say I had nothing to do with James's death?”

“It means that after I complete the report and hand it over, I'm off the case. Detective Taylor, that young sergeant you met earlier, will be in charge. Right now, I'm just trying to get you settled.”

She got up and adjusted the strap of her expensive leather handbag over her shoulder. “I don't know how to thank you, Detective Winton.”

“Don't mention it,” he answered with a fatalistic shrug. “And you might as well call me Mitch if we're going to be neighbors.”

“Neighbors?” she repeated with a look of concern.

“That's right,” he confirmed. He opened the door for her, and they walked side by side through the parking area to his old brown Bronco.

The rigid set of her shoulders slackened, and she sighed with relief when she saw they were not returning to the unmarked car he'd used to bring her there. He opened the front passenger door and she got in. Thought she was home free, he guessed, and wished to God it were true.

No, he was not behaving professionally by wishing that, but figured he had better be fully aware of it so that he could act accordingly. He was attracted to her, felt protective toward her and, consequently, had the overwhelming urge to prove her innocence. His objectivity, if he'd ever had any with regard to her, was completely shot to hell.

Traffic was almost nonexistent in the wee hours. Mitch automatically kept a check on their surroundings and the rearview mirror. The habit was so ingrained it was annoying sometimes. Most of the time he did it without even thinking.

“Nashville looks like a nice city judging by the little I've seen of it,” she said softly. “I've never been here before.”

Mitch glanced over, taking in her profile. She was wearing a small, sad smile, probably thinking about her husband and what he'd told her about the town. She needed distracting. “You stated your occupation is graphic designer. What exactly do you do design?”

“Web pages for businesses,” she answered. “I've always been fascinated with computers.”

“Sounds like a perfect job for you, then,” he said, wishing he knew more about computers so he could discuss them intelligently. “I know how to log on at work and access the info I need, that's about it. You know, I actually had you pegged as a model?”

“I used to be, but I outgrew it.” From her curt answer, Mitch concluded she definitely didn't want to elaborate.

“Thanks for trying to take my mind off…things,” she said. “You're very kind for a stranger.”

“‘I have always depended on the kindness of strangers,'” he quoted. “Blanche DuBois,
Streetcar Named Desire.
”

“Oh, come on,” she said, with a surprised little laugh. “She was such a wimp!”

“I didn't mean to imply that about you. What you said just reminded me of the phrase. You like old movies?”

“Sometimes. Books are better.”

“I guess,” he said, bringing that particular conversation to a dead end. He rarely had time to read, other than for additional training or information. He liked to, but if he couldn't sit down with a book and finish it in one sitting, he didn't pick one up.

“So,” he said, broaching another subject as he turned onto the loop and snaked his way around the city, “I guess New Yorkers keep to a much faster pace than we do down here.”

“Evidently,” she said dryly without elaborating.

Mitch smiled. “Never rush when we can take our time. Never run unless somebody's chasing us.”

He heard a short laugh of surprise, then a soft little “Sorry. I did sound condescending, didn't I?”

“No problem. Being underestimated works mostly to our advantage. Mine, anyway.”

“I'll certainly keep that in mind,” she said, but without any asperity.

Mitch hadn't meant it as a warning. Or had he? Was he subconsciously trying to prepare her for the fact that he wouldn't cut her any slack if she was lying about killing Andrews? This second-guessing himself was driving him nuts.

“Will you be all right?” he asked, shoving his self-analy
sis to the back burner. “Financially, I mean. What about your work?”

“I can function just as well from here, assuming I can have my laptop back.”

“Back? Where is it?”

“It's at James's apartment. So is my suitcase,” she said.

Mitch bumped the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. “I should have thought about that. We can go for your things first.”

He moved into the lane to take the next exit, intending to reverse their direction. “They're probably finished checking them out.”

“Wait!” she said, reaching out, almost touching his arm. Then she drew back. “Could…could we not go back there just now?”

He understood. “Sure. I'll call and have one of the guys bring them to you or I'll go pick them up.”

“Thank you.”

The ensuing silence extended and became uncomfortable. He was usually a pretty good conversationalist, but for the life of him, Mitch couldn't think of anything else to talk about that didn't involve discussing some aspect of the murder. He had nothing at all in common with a woman like Robin Andrews.

Instinctively he knew she was going to hate the apartment. He could imagine her world, envision her living in monochromatic, uncluttered splendor in some New York high-rise. Where he was going to put her, she'd think she had landed on another planet, or at least in a former century. But it was the best he could do for her under the circumstances. She would just have to get used to it.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, figuring he couldn't go wrong applying the lowest common denominator. Everybody needed food.

She considered for a minute. “I could probably eat, yes. Fruit or something light.”

“How do you feel about waffles?”

“Ambivalent,” she said, sounding resigned.

Mitch sighed. Damned if he was going shopping all over town for yogurt, fresh fruit or whatever this time of night. She could eat what he ate or go hungry.

“Waffles it is, then,” he said.

He had a feeling Robin Andrews was going to have trouble adapting outside her natural habitat. All the more reason to get the Andrews case solved as soon as possible and send her back to New York where she belonged.

R
obin slid into a booth at the diner. Detective Winton— Mitch, since he had insisted on first names—took the side facing the door. She remembered reading once that gunfighters of the Old West had done that.

He smiled when he handed her a plastic-coated menu and held the pleasant expression as he looked up at the waitress. “Hey, Mabel. How's it goin'?”

The heavyset blond with frizzy hair grinned back and popped her gum. “Great. Y'all want coffee?” She wrinkled her nose at Robin and said with mock confidentiality, “This rascal's on my list. He ain't been in here for weeks. You musta been keepin' him real busy lately.”

Mitch cleared his throat to regain the waitress's attention. “Just bring us the coffee, Mabel. Got any of that country ham I like?”

“You betcha.” The waitress thumbed a page off the top of her order pad, scribbled, paused and asked, “Your usual with it?”

“Yes, ma'am. You want eggs with yours?” He raised a brow at Robin.

She declined and placed the menu on the table. “No eggs, no ham. Just a waffle. And a glass of water.”

Mabel laughed and winked. “You ain't gotta watch that figure, hon. Bet he'll watch it for you.” She scooped up the menus and wriggled off behind the bar. Robin winced at the way Mabel screamed the order through the opening to the kitchen in back. So all Southern belles weren't soft spoken.

“The cook's a little hard of hearing,” Mitch explained. He clasped his hands on the table next to the rolled-up napkin that held his flatware. “I guess this place is out of the ordinary for you, huh?”

It seemed to amuse him, bringing her to a restaurant like this. Robin was determined not to react the way he obviously expected. She had eaten in worse places, though not often.

Dylan's Diner looked like a fifties diner that hadn't been refurbished since its creation. More antique than retro. A bar ran the length of the place, its chrome stools topped with mottled red leather cushions. Old photos of Elvis, Dolly, and others she didn't recognize dotted the walls in a haphazard arrangement. An old-fashioned jukebox stood at the far end of the room in front of the rest rooms.

The booths were in fairly good shape. Blinds covered the windows that began at table level and nearly reached the ceiling. Thankfully they were closed, so Robin didn't have to see the neighborhood outside. It had looked rather seedy driving through it.

“Sorry, but there aren't too many eating places open this time of the morning, at least not on the way to where we're
going. Dylan's plays host to the night crawlers in this area.” He shrugged. “I'm one of 'em when I pull night duty.”

“This is fine,” Robin said, gingerly unwinding her fork, spoon and a serrated steak knife from their paper wrapping and arranging them in a proper place setting. The utensils appeared to be clean, she noted with relief. “I'm really not that choosy.”

“Good sport, aren't you?” He shrugged out of his windbreaker and laid it in the corner of the booth. “Beaner is a fair cook. The food's good here, trust me.”

Robin sighed. He kept saying that.
Trust me.
If he only knew how impossible that was, that she would put her trust in any man. Or any one else, for that matter. It was good that he didn't seem to expect an avowal of it. Maybe it was only a figure of speech with him.

“How far is it to this apartment you mentioned?” she asked, wondering if she would be required to stay in this particular area with its unkempt houses interspersed with run-down storefronts.

He didn't answer her. His full attention was suddenly riveted on the entrance. Robin had heard the door open and close, felt the draft.

She started to look over her shoulder and see who had come in when Mitch grasped her hands, squeezed and whispered. “Trouble! Lie down, Robin. Sideways in the seat and slide under the table. Do it
now!
” He shoved her hands off the table sending her flatware clattering to the floor. She followed.

Robin didn't even think about protesting. She did exactly as ordered, curling herself around the sturdy chrome pedestal. Mitch was grappling with his ankle which was mere inches from her face. He pulled a gun from a small holster strapped to his leg.

Oh, God, it was a robbery! That had been her first thought
when he warned her to duck out of sight, and she'd been right. All those years in New York and never a bit of trouble, and now… She heard Mabel scream and scooted as near the wall as she could.

“Drop it, cop, or I'll blow her away,” said a deep voice.

A clunk sounded on top of the table above Robin.

“Move back,” the voice shouted. “To the back of the room.”

Robin watched Mitch's legs and feet as he slowly backed out of her limited line of vision.

Desperate for something to defend herself, Robin searched the floor for the steak knife, but couldn't find it. She grasped the fork. Her breath rushed in and out between clenched teeth and she felt sick.

When a head appeared wearing a ski mask, Robin yelped. A large and rather dirty hand reached under the table, attempting to grab her foot, the closest part of her to the aisle. He was cursing, saying something, but the words wouldn't register. In terror that he would drag her out before she could stop him, Robin struck. She stabbed the fork into his hand. The tines disappeared into hairy flesh and the resulting roar was deafening.

All hell broke loose, and she couldn't see a thing but the blur of tangled legs. Mitch Winton had attacked. That much was obvious.

Robin twisted around, feeling beneath her for the knife. She couldn't simply wait to see what happened. That robber could kill Mitch and drag her from beneath the table and…

She thought she heard sirens above the grunts and curses and the smack of fists against flesh. Several shots rang out and glass broke. Tires screeched outside, blue light bounced around the room like a strobe.
The police!
Thank God! She heard the thunder of footsteps, cursing, doors slamming.

“It's safe. You can come out now.” Mitch was crouching on the floor beside the booth, peering at her.

Robin wriggled around the table support and grasped the hand he offered to help her out. “Are…are they gone?” she asked, scanning the diner as they stood.

“They ran out the back.” He took the steak knife from her, placed it on the table, then picked up his pistol. Bracing his right foot on the booth seat, he replaced the gun in its holster and snapped the flap.

“Shouldn't you…go after them or something?”

He shook his head and indicated she should sit down. Her legs were so shaky, she nearly fell. “The cops are pursuing. Excuse me a minute.”

Robin watched as Mitch went over to the bar and leaned over it. “You okay down there, Mabel?”

“That bastard shot my winder,” she complained, her voice rising as she got up off the floor. Her hair was a worse mess than before, and there was coffee all over the front of her white shirt and red nylon apron. “Broke my coffeepot, too.” Then her gaze jerked toward Robin. “Y'all didn't get hurt, did ya?”

“No, we're fine. That silent alarm works pretty good,” Mitch commented. “Quick thinking, Mabel. You're a peach.”

“Thank you for tellin' me I needed the thing.” She brushed herself off with a towel and smiled over the counter at Mitch, then at Robin. There were tears in her eyes, and she sniffed. “Y'all will have to wait a little bit until I get another carafe out of the back and get some more coffee goin'.”

“Don't worry about the order,” Mitch told her gently. “You look a little shaky. Why don't you just relax and catch your breath.”

“Don't leave!” whined Mabel, reaching out toward Mitch with a trembling hand. “Don't go now.”

Mitch took it and smiled at her. “I won't go yet, Mabel. But you go on and take a break, huh? Powder your nose and fix your hair. I'll be here when you get back.”

She nodded and sidled down the back of the bar, around it and toward the door marked Ladies.

Robin knew how poor Mabel felt. Right now she wanted Mitch Winton and his gun as close by as they could get. He seemed to know that and came over to join her in the booth.

“You're a scrapper. I wouldn't have guessed it.” His chuckle was warm, approving. “Surprised the hell out of him, plowing that fork through his hand. Glad you were on my side.”

Robin stared at him, not sure whether she was upset at his apparent calm or reassured by it. She glanced at the door. “They might come back.”

He laughed outright at that, then grimaced, grasping his side.

“You're hurt!” Robin cried, sliding out of the booth.

“No, no, sit back down. I took a kick to the ribs. Nothing serious. Either those guys really were as big as they looked or I'm gettin' soft in my old age.”

“They could have shot you!” she cried. “What did you mean rushing them that way?”

He sighed and leaned back, his fingers still exploring the site of his injury. “You made him so mad with that fork, I was afraid he would shoot you if I didn't move on him right then. They heard the siren and split before I could do much.”

Robin raked her hair back behind her ears, shook her head and gave a deflated sigh. “James's death and now a robbery. What next?”

He leaned forward over the table and peered into her eyes. “Robin, he went straight for you. Once he had threatened Mabel, he never even looked at her again. His buddy was standing lookout at the door. Neither one asked for the contents of the register. Never demanded my wallet. They knew I was a cop, knew my name, but I've never seen them before. I think they knew who you are, too. It was your purse they were after. Didn't you hear him?”

“No, I wasn't really listening.” Robin frowned down at the thin strap that lay securely around her neck and across her body, the leather rectangle resting against her hip. “My purse? But why? Do I look rich?”

Mitch smiled. “As a matter of fact you do, but I don't think it was your money he was after. It was something else. What do you have in there?”

She lifted the purse onto the table and opened it. “Powder, lipstick.” Robin listed the items as she emptied the contents piece by piece. “Credit cards, address book, a bit of cash, James's CD, a small brush, old theater ticket stubs and,” she said, plunking down a little spray can, “pepper spray.” She frowned and scoffed. “I should have remembered that. I completely forgot I had it. All I could think about was locating the knife.”

Mitch picked up the spray container and turned it around several times, then shot her a questioning look. “Somehow, I don't believe this was what he was looking for, do you?”

She surveyed the pile of stuff. “The CD, you think? What could anyone possibly want with that?”

“Your husband wanted it badly enough to have you bring it all the way from New York instead of mailing it.”

“Maybe you're right,” she admitted, meeting his gaze. She shoved it toward him. “You take it. Keep it.”

“No,” he said, returning it to her. “Hang on to it until we can have a look at what's on it.”

Mabel returned from the ladies' room, obviously relieved that Mitch was still around. “Be just a minute,” she said, pushing through the door to the kitchen. “I'll get that coffee carafe.”

Robin exhaled and rested her forehead on her hand. “Could we leave, please?”

“No, not yet. We still have to eat, and I don't think Mabel's
up to winging it with only ol' Beaner in the back for company. We'd better hang around until Bill and Eddie come back or send word that they caught the bad boys.”

Robin resigned herself. “Somehow I always thought of Nashville as a rather tranquil city full of musicians.”

He laughed. “If that were the case, I'd be playing backup guitar and bemoaning the fact that I can't sing.”

“You can't sing?” she asked, eager for any diversion.

“Well, I
can,
but you wouldn't want to hear it. Trust me.”

There it was again. Maybe it
was
only a figure of speech, his saying that so often. If someone was after James's disk and was willing to go after it with guns, she knew she had to trust someone. Mitch Winton certainly seemed the likeliest candidate in town.

 

Dawn was about to break when they were finally able to leave the diner. Mitch kept stealing glances at Robin, wondering when she would crash. She seemed to have gotten her second wind by the time Bill and Eddie had come back to interview them about the supposed robbery. The poor girl must have had it up to her ears with cops by this time.

She had separated the miniblinds with one finger and was looking out the window now, probably marveling at how hospitable Nashville and its occupants had been to her since her arrival.

“Why didn't you tell the officers your theory about the disk?” she asked, breaking the silence.

He turned onto the off-ramp leading to his neighborhood. “Because it's only that. A theory. Besides, they would have wanted to take it with them, see what was on it.” He smiled. “I thought we might do that.”

She remained quiet then, so he turned on the radio. “Fiddle with the stations there and see what you can find,” he sug
gested, really wanting to see what she would settle on. Her taste in music might tell him a little more about her. Was she really as highbrow as she looked, or was there a closet blues fan inside that slick exterior?

She parked it on the local news, listening intently. When the newscast was over and no mention was made of her husband's murder, she clicked the radio off. A small frown marred her almost perfect features.

They were almost perfect, but not quite. Mitch had noted, a little belatedly, that her chin was a shade too prominent, gave her an almost haughty look. Her nose would have been cuter, would have made her more appealing and approachable, if it had tilted up just slightly, but it was straight as a die. Too aristocratic. Looked as if it had been straightened on purpose.