Nowhere to Hide (23 page)

Staring at the three sets of numbers from Jeffrey’s field guide didn’t help. Safe deposit boxes? But why three? Then again, why not? Jeffrey’s bank would still be open. Back to the phone.

Jeffrey’s numbers bore no resemblance to anything at that bank. Would Jeffrey have more than one bank account? Colleen hadn’t found anything else in her quick look at his mail. Without a way into Jeffrey’s files, he was spinning his wheels. Gravely was off limits until Monday. The forensics team wasn’t finished with Townsend’s truck.

Nothing much but his phone list until Schaeffer called. Graham could feel his ears throbbing already. Before he started, he logged into his e-mail to see if Colleen had answered. Nothing. He remembered her, frightened and vulnerable. He tried her number. Busy. He went back to the list, found the next number, and dialed.

Colleen stood inside her apartment, hands on her hips. Maybe if she got rid of all the traces of Harrigan, she could think clearly. She took a quick tour of her apartment. He hadn’t left a mess. The kitchen was spotless and even the bathroom didn’t look like he’d been there. Still, she scrubbed the tub, scoured the sink, and put clean sheets on the bed, smoothing down the spread. Harrigan might cook to free his mind. She cleaned.

Her mom had tried to raise a princess when she’d finally had a daughter. It had lasted until Colleen was three or four. She had vague recollections of frilly dresses and shiny patent leather shoes, soon abandoned in favor of hand-me-downs from her brothers. She’d tagged along everywhere they went, begging to be included in all their games, and eventually had broken their resistance, even if it meant doing their chores in return. She smiled as she remembered being about eleven and finding those magazines under Patrick’s bed. She’d brought them to her dad. Pat had stopped asking her to clean his room after that.

The ringing phone snapped her back. Harrigan? Not now. She checked caller ID. Tracy. Right. Calling for the blow-by-blow. “I can’t talk now. You caught me at a bad time.”

“
Sister, you don’t sound good. Did something bad happen? Did Deputy Blue Eyes hurt you?”

“
No. No, he’s great. It’s just—complicated.”

“
Can I help?”

Maybe she could. Colleen’s stomach fluttered as she tried to sort her thoughts. “You’ve had relationships, right? You understand guys and sex. I mean, they’re thinking about sex all the time, right?”

“
Well, I wouldn’t say all the time. More like ninety per cent of the time.” Tracy laughed. “The other ten percent, they’re having it.”

Colleen closed her eyes. “I was brought up Catholic. You know, sex is reserved for marriage, a woman’s duty to her husband, yada yada yada. I lost my virginity in about five minutes when I was fifteen and that was the end of it.”

“
You haven’t—?”

“
No, I haven’t. Let me finish.” She felt like she was stripping herself bare, but forced herself to go on. “How do you know if it’s the real thing, or just sex?”

“
Shit, that’s the question of the century. Give me a second.” Tracy was silent for a while. “You know what it’s like when you really have to pee? And then you finally get to go and it’s such a relief. But it’s over. You feel fine and don’t think about peeing again. That’s what it’s like when it’s just sex. But if, when it’s done, you get the release, but it doesn’t seem over and you keep thinking of him, wanting him, then it’s more than sex.”

Telling Tracy she’d talk more later, Colleen went back to her cleaning. Did she want Harrigan—Graham—or didn’t she?

And later, when she opened her e-mail program and saw Harrigan’s address in her inbox, her heart skipped. Was he hiding behind the safety of an impersonal message? Easier to make pancakes than dump her face to face. She could imagine the message.
It’s been fun, but I need someone who doesn’t freak out at fireworks
.

Holding her breath, she clicked the e-mail open. She read it. Reread it. What did it mean? How should she respond?
Thanks, but can’t you come up with something original? Why let Yeats do your talking? Can’t think of anything to say on your own?
 

She had to stop trying to second guess everything. Graham Harrigan was a warm, thoughtful man who managed to understand her needs better than she did. What if they’d had sex last night? How would she be feeling now? Even more confused. And probably full of regrets. Unless he was the right one.

If so, maybe it was time to do something about her issues. Maybe she’d finally visit the website she’d bookmarked. The one the police counselor had told her about, “Dealing with Trauma.” She’d never clicked past the entry page. Talking helped. Randy had said so, the counselor had said so, and Harrigan had said so. She’d never been able to talk. But impersonal messages under anonymous screen names should be easier. No worrying about her voice cracking, about not crying.

She gathered her resolve and clicked onto the Trauma message boards. There were questions from other women. Answers that gave support. Drumming up more courage than when she’d faced the kid with the gun, she clicked into the message window and introduced herself. Admitted she had a problem. When she hit send, it was as if someone had removed the weight of a dinosaur from her shoulders.

*****

At one o’clock, Graham yawned and leaned back in his chair, trying to work the kinks out of his neck and back. Colleen’s too-short couch wasn’t much for comfort, but being near her was worth the aches and pains piled on top of a lousy night’s sleep. He worked on his third cup of coffee in half as many hours as he waited for Schaeffer’s call.

He’d crossed another dozen names off his list. Crystal Shores, according to call number ninety-two, was supposed to be a complete community. Time-shares, golf, tennis, condos, and exclusive single family homes. Close to beaches, the Space Center and the wildlife preserve, it was designed to appeal to tourists and locals alike, with a push toward retirees.

He went over his notes. Call number fifty-three had said he’d known Jeffrey to be an avid birder. He’d spoken to him at the cocktail party about how convenient the site would be to local migration routes and breeding areas, as well as the typical beach sites. Well, Graham already knew Jeffrey liked birds. Stood to reason he’d hustle something where people could be close to the preserve. Jeffrey might even have planned to buy in for himself.

He rubbed his eyes and checked his e-mail again. No response from Colleen. Crap. He’d probably blown it.

She hadn’t really wanted sex last night. She would have hated herself—and him—this morning. He tried her phone again. No answer. No voice mail, no answering machine. She didn’t answer her cell either. He was starting to worry. What if she’d had another attack?

When the phone rang, he almost hit the ceiling. He reached for the handset, taking a breath to keep from shouting. At first he heard nothing but restaurant sounds—glasses, silverware, and lots of children laughing. Then Schaeffer’s voice came on the line.

“
I’ve talked to Judge Meadows. He thought the connection was slim, and strongly suggested you wait until you’ve got more. Maybe more evidence from the truck or the body will come in.”

“
But—”

“
But nothing, Harrigan. The law is pretty clear. The Gainesville folks working on the other end are a much better bet. They’ve got the body. They can poke their fingers into a lot of pies we can’t get close to. Once they connect—if they connect—Townsend to Gravely, you should be able to work things out with them.”

“
Peterson said the same thing. But what about the possibility of foul play? That Jeffrey could be hiding because he killed Townsend?”

“
Get something linking Jeffrey to Townsend first. Call Gainesville, tell them your theories, and let them get started. Until then, why don’t you take your weekend?”

“
I was hoping to get at least a preliminary report from the ME on Townsend, but it doesn’t look too promising.”

“
Lots of waiting in this job, Harrigan. Get used to it. Peterson show you how to file?”

“
Yeah. On paper, the black and white gets gray real fast, doesn’t it?”

“
That it does.”

Maybe he would take his weekend after all. But first, he prepared his report for Schaeffer. Once he made sure he’d clicked “Save,” he gathered his papers and stuffed them into his case. He got to the lobby as Jerry Clarke entered. In full dress Motors garb. Probably doing motorcade or escort duty.

“
Brown-nosing, Harrigan? Coming in on Saturday? Give it up.”

Graham wasn’t sure what annoyed him more, the sneer or the swagger. “I work the case, not the clock.”

“
You’ll be back in your cute green uniform soon enough. You wait.”

Graham angled past him, out the door, and tramped to his car. And what the hell was Clarke doing at Central Ops? Motors worked out of thirty-third street.

Colleen sat at her kitchen counter, sipping from a bottle of water and staring at her computer. Her workout after visiting the trauma board had released some more tension, her body felt loose and limber, but somewhere along the line she’d started thinking about Graham Harrigan again, and now she couldn’t control the renewed screaming in her head. She felt like one of those Saturday morning cartoons, where the angel and the devil vied for Bugs Bunny’s attention.

Go to him.
Don’t let him near you.
You’re moving too fast.
He’s worth letting in.

She read the poem Graham had sent one more time. Did he have them lined up in his computer ready to send to women he dated? So what if he did? He’d bothered to send it, hadn’t he?

Answer him. Don’t be rude
.

Shit. She typed “Thanks,” hit send, and shut down the computer.

Traffic at Doris’ had died down. The box of brownies sat, untouched, by the sink. How much worse could an afternoon with Doris be than one sitting here alone and confused? She opened the box and arranged them on a platter, holding back a couple for herself. Even on a platter, they still looked store bought, and she wondered if Graham made brownies.

Chocolate offering in hand, filing cabinet keys in pocket, Colleen marched up the driveway to the house, practicing her friendliest smile. Doris, neatly put together and fresh-looking, answered the doorbell in a yellow and green floral print dress. Her green tote sat on a table by the door.

“
Hi,” Colleen said. “I brought you some brownies.”

“
Well, I can see that for myself, dear. Come in, but only for a few minutes. The girls and I are going to a matinee and then to dinner. Golden Corral has a great early-bird special for seniors.”

“
You can save these for dessert, I guess.”

“
We might do that.” Doris took the platter and headed for the kitchen. Colleen followed her into the house and waited on the couch in the living room. When Doris came back, she was licking her thumb and forefinger.

Colleen gave Doris what she hoped was a concerned smile. “Are you recovered? Have you found out anything about the break-in?”

“
I’m fine, and nobody’s called me to say anything. Bad enough they have to fingerprint all my friends like common criminals. How embarrassing.”

“
It’s standard procedure. That way, they can compare the prints and know which ones have a legitimate reason for being here.”

“
Don’t talk down to me, young lady. I’m well aware of why they did it. It was still an indignity.”

“
I didn’t mean it that way. I’m sorry.” Colleen pulled back. Doris was sharp as a tack today. There would be no sneaking anything around her this trip.

“
I don’t remember anyone breaking in,” Doris continued. “The patio door was open, so the cops think it’s a big deal. I don’t always lock that door, you know.”

“
I’m glad to see you’re fine. Can you tell me about the pills? Did someone force you to take too many?”

Doris bristled. “It was an accident. A plain old accident. I had a doctor’s appointment. Makes me nervous, so I took a Valium. She says it’s okay.”

“
She?”

“
Dr. Young. But I was still nervous and I couldn’t remember if I took one, so I guess I took another one.”

Or two, Colleen thought. Still, it didn’t sound the least bit out of character for Doris. She heard a car door slam and footsteps approach. Doris stood and walked toward the door.

“
Sorry, but I’ll have to be leaving now,” Doris said and picked up her tote. “Thanks for the brownies.” She held the door open. Three women, all about the same age as Doris, stood at the entryway. One handed some envelopes to Doris.

“
The mailman just left. Thought I’d save you a trip,” she said.

Doris set the mail on a table by the door. “Elizabeth, Louise, Jane, this is Colleen McDonald. She lives in the guest house. She was nice enough to bring some brownies in return for some gossip about Wednesday’s excitement.” Doris gave Colleen a sardonic smile.

Colleen felt a rising blush. “Nice to meet you.”

She revised her evaluation. Tacks had nothing on Doris today. Razor sharp. Samurai sword sharp. She watched the women pile into the now-familiar green Chevy and drive away.

At her apartment, the mail carrier had left five cartons at her entry. Once she dragged them inside, she slit open the first box. When she pulled back the cardboard, a package, wrapped in pink paper, perched on top of her things.

She smiled in spite of herself. Mom would have added something, especially after Colleen had insisted on no teary goodbyes. She ripped the wrapping and inhaled the scent of home. Without opening the round tin inside the box, she knew it would be full of her mom’s cinnamon cookies. And, under the tin, wrapped in tissue, were three scented cinnamon candles. She read the note.