The Marine Next Door (5 page)

The view was over and gone within another second, and Sergeant Maggie rolled to safety on the floor above him. John eased a tight breath out between his lips. Something dormant inside him had unexpectantly awakened. Was it just the fact that he hadn’t touched a woman for two years? Hugs with his sister and handshakes with doctors and therapists hadn’t zinged through him and thrown him off-kilter like this. And prickly redheads had never been his type.

He supposed he should be pleased to discover that life-threatening injuries and months of recovery hadn’t destroyed the baser urges heating his blood right now. But he was just beginning to get comfortable with being closed-off and antisocial. Just a few minutes ago, working his way up to normal civility had been a stretch. And now he was wondering if that whole sexual lightning bolt had been a fluke or if he was going to have to curb his natural instincts to maintain a “just friends” relationship with his new neighbor.

Busy sorting through his observations and emotions, and putting them away in various mental compartments, he was startled to see the long, freckled arm poking back into the elevator. “Come on,” Sergeant Maggie ordered. “Your turn.”

Her tone was much more authoritative and coplike coming from the free air of the seventh floor than it had been in the tight confines of the elevator. Intriguing. Maybe he ought to latch onto that chilly timbre instead of remembering how she’d filled up his hands if he wanted to keep a polite distance from her.

He chinned himself up on the edge of the outside door track, then reached for her hand. With a surprisingly firm grip, she gave him the extra momentum he needed to hoist himself out onto the floor. Allowing himself a moment to catch his breath, John rolled onto his back. “Thanks, Sarge…”

But the prickly redhead was already slipping her son’s backpack onto his slim shoulders and urging him to their front door. Nope, he didn’t need to worry about hormones going on alert, being confused about social expectations of him or trying to be casual friends at all. Sergeant Maggie’s quick retreat spoke volumes about how the two of them were going to get along.

Still lying on the rug, John realized that a nearby door was propped open and someone with black hair and glasses was peeking out at him. He obliquely wondered if the short, shapeless person was a man or a woman, but there was no mistaking the unblinking curiosity. “Elevator isn’t working,” he explained. “Welcome to the neighborhood, right?”

The door snapped shut and John laughed at the irony of his worrying about being the antisocial one here on the seventh floor. He sat upright and pushed to his feet. He picked up his boxes from the stalled elevator opening and headed for his apartment. “Yeah, this is one hell of a homecoming, John.”

“Excuse me?” the redhead asked.

John shrugged off the polite query. “Nothing, Sarge. Nice to meet you.”

Her hesitation spoke volumes. “Nice to meet you, too.”

“Hey, Mom. Look.”

Great. They were right next door to each other. This could be awkward if the woman preferred him to keep his distance. John shifted his boxes and scooted around mother and son as the boy plucked down a folded piece of white paper that had been tacked to their door.

“Let me see that.” Maggie snatched the note from the curious boy’s fingers and unfolded it while John fished his keys out of the front pocket of his jeans. “That son of a… This isn’t happening. Not now.”

“Sarge?”

They both stopped with their keys turned in the locks of their respective doors. The instinctive urge to ask if something was wrong died on John’s lips when he saw the color bleed from her cheeks. She stared at the words scribbled on that paper as though hypnotized. Whatever was in that note scared her just as much as the stalled elevator had. Something was definitely wrong.

Not your business, John.
She wanted nothing to do with him, her kid asked too many questions and he wasn’t looking to make new friends, right?

“Mom?” Travis’s fingers touched his mother’s arm. “Is it from—?”

“Go inside.”

“But—”

“Go.” She snapped out of her fixated shock and whisked his cap off his head to press a kiss there before reaching over him to open the door. “There’s a snack in the fridge to hold you until dinner.”

But Travis, his expression looking oddly mature for one so young, seemed reluctant to leave her. “I was just joking about that movie, Mom. I didn’t think you were really going to get cut in half.”

John nudged open his own door, giving them some privacy while his neighbor summoned a smile for her son. “I know, sweetie. I know. Wait for me to go through the mail and check the answering machine, though, okay? Now go.”

John’s muscles were weary with the exertion of the move and their great escape from the elevator as he set the boxes on the carpet. Yet when he turned to close the door, everything in him tensed with guarded apprehension.
She
was there, standing in the open door frame, the note wadded in her left hand while her right hovered near the gun on her hip again.

The warm smile she’d given her son had vanished. “Did you see anyone out here?” she asked. “A man who might have left this note?”

“No.” He was vaguely irritated that she seemed to be sizing him up again. Yeah, those green eyes had noticed the fake leg. They swept over the scars. He bristled under her scrutiny. Did she suspect him of tacking the paper to her door? “What’s it say?”

“Is this your first trip up from the garage?”

He took a step toward her. This was
his
apartment after all.
She
was the uninvited guest. “My sixth or seventh. What’s in the note?”

She braced her feet in an overtly defensive stance and he stopped. What the hell?

John backed up a step and her words came spilling out. “Was there anyone on the elevator with you during any of those trips? Maybe you saw someone in the parking garage you didn’t recognize? Was there anyone messing with the wires or controls on that elevator? Or flowers—did you see anyone trying to deliver flowers?” She glanced around at the closed doors behind her. “Sometimes the florist will deliver them to someone else if I’m not at home.”

“I didn’t see anyone tampering with anything, I don’t know anybody here. And I sure as hell didn’t get any flowers.”

“Did you see a guy with a shaved head and tattoos?”

“I’ve only met the super, Joe Standage.” And the older man wasn’t the shaved-head type.

“His hair used to be black. Sometimes he dyes it.”

“Joe does?”

“No, my…” Her freckled skin suddenly flooded with heat. Was she embarrassed by her ranting? Intimidated by his unapologetic scrutiny? Alarmed to suddenly realize
she
was the intruder here?

“Is this how you welcome all your new neighbors, Sergeant—” he dropped his gaze to the name badge on her chest pocket, pulled taut by the Kevlar she wore beneath her uniform “—Wheeler? Blow hot, blow cold? Make nice and then freak out? We haven’t even been properly introduced.”

Whatever this woman’s secrets were, she wasn’t telling. Instead of answering his accusation, she stuffed the note into her uniform slacks pocket. Then she huffed up in all her warrior Amazon glory, tipping her chin as her skin cooled to peachy dots over alabaster. “I’m Maggie Wheeler. Travis is my son.”

“John Murdock.”

“Are you military or KCFD?” She eyed the Corps logo on his T-shirt and the jarhead cut that he wore whether he was overseas with his Reserve unit or home in Kansas City, working for the fire department.

“Both. USMC, retired. For about a week now. Moving back to town after my last tour and some rehab. Firefighting is the job I’m coming back to after serving my stint in the Corps.” He made another stab at moving closer. “Sarge, um, Maggie…are you okay?”

Her eyes widened as though the question had startled her. Or maybe it was his advance. Before she answered, she retreated into the hallway. “Of course I’m okay. Thank you for serving our country—
Captain
Murdock, was it?”

“Just John now.”

She nodded. “I apologize for Travis being so nosy. He’s going through a phase where he’s completely nuts about baseball and firefighters and…everything. And he’s never been shy about speaking his mind.” She barely paused for a breath. “I’m sorry I freaked out on the elevator. And the note. It’s just that I… Like I said, it was a rough day. Well, you don’t need to know that. Welcome to The Corsican, John.”

Yep, that sounded sincere.

By the time John reached the door, Maggie Wheeler’s was closing. He heard not one, not two, but three separate locks sliding into place.

Something about that message, or the person who’d left it, had his neighbor spooked even more than getting stranded on the elevator had. Even though she wore a gun and a vest and sergeant’s stripes, indicating she was no rookie when it came to law enforcement, the woman was spooked.

John narrowed his gaze and looked up and down the hallway. Beyond the super checking him in this morning, and the curious person from the apartment down the hall who hadn’t spoken, he hadn’t seen a single soul out here all day long. A familiar niggle of unease crept along the back of his neck like when he’d sensed a sniper’s rifle focused on him up in the Afghan mountains.

He shook off the hyperawareness and retreated into his apartment. Afghanistan was seven thousand miles away. His years of service were done and he was reporting back to KCFD Station 23 this week to start his new job as an arson investigator assigned to the ladder company with whom he’d once fought fires.

He had plenty on his plate right now to deal with. Leggy redheads and curious kids and somebody else’s bad news weren’t his concern tonight.

John locked the door behind him and leaned back against it, sweeping his gaze across the beige apartment decorated in wrapped furniture and sealed boxes.

So this was where he was going to live now.

It beat the cot and caves and blood he’d left in the Middle East. It beat the VA hospital and physical therapy units where he’d learned how to walk again.

But with nothing but bare walls and the paranoid lady cop next door, the jury was out on whether he’d call this new place home.

Chapter Three

“I know it’s an imposition, but it would be a huge help. Thank you, Coach Hernandez. Yes, I know. Thank you,
Michael,
” Maggie corrected at his insistence. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

Maggie locked her double-cab pickup and hurried after the other woman and two men striding through the sliding glass doors into St. Luke’s Hospital. She’d been working the task force for nearly a week now, and this was the first time she’d been invited to leave the precinct office. If chauffeuring the members of the team was the only way she could get out and do some field work, then a chauffeur she’d be.

“I should be able to pick up Travis after practice this evening. With my new assignment at KCPD, my hours aren’t as structured as they used to be, and I just can’t get away today to pick him up after school and get him to Little League. But I’ll be there by the time you’re done.”

With an apologetic frown, Maggie nodded to the reception desk volunteer who was pointing to the sign requesting cell phone usage be limited to the lobby and outdoor areas of the hospital. But Michael Hernandez was saying something about his son having Webelo Scouts after practice and that his late wife used to take care of all the transportation stuff anyway, and would Maggie and Travis want to go out to dinner with him and his son afterward? Maggie wasn’t finding any polite way to break in to end the conversation with the man she’d asked the favor from.

Seeing Nick Fensom’s beefy hand holding the elevator doors open, and withering under the glare from the volunteer, she opted to simply interrupt and wrap up the personal call she’d had to make. “I’ve got work to do, Coach,” she apologized, carefully avoiding using his first name and encouraging anything that might be construed as a personal interest in him. “But I’ll call the school to let them know Travis can leave with you. No, I’m quite sure about dinner. I appreciate your help, though. Thanks.”

Worried that she’d kept the other task force members waiting, Maggie snapped her phone shut and darted through the open doors to an empty corner of the elevator. As the doors closed, she tried not to make too much of the feeling of déjà vu that skittered along her spine. Was it just last week that she’d gotten stuck on an elevator with her new neighbor, John Murdock? She’d been just as nervous about sharing the tight space with the imposing former marine as she was about joining other members on her first victim interview.

Joe Standage’s assertion that he didn’t know what the heck was going on in his building, and that he’d have to wait for an expert to help him repair the elevator before it went back into service, was hardly reassuring. Maggie and Travis had gotten into the habit of taking the stairs down to the parking garage anyway, so it wasn’t that much of a hardship to use them coming back up, as well. And even though dinner conversations with her son, and her own dreams at night, had centered around the possibility of crashing elevators and being trapped on one with a monster far less interested in helping them escape than John Murdock had been, Maggie refused to let her fears keep her from doing her job today.

For the trade-off of a free ride this morning, she’d get the chance to observe some of KCPD’s best in action. Maggie figured she’d learn more about how to conduct an investigation in one morning by watching the real thing than she’d learned in an entire semester of her interrogation tactics class.

But as the elevator moved upward, it wasn’t the anticipation of doing actual field work that had her heart pounding in her ears. Irrational as it might be, sharing an elevator with a man was always a challenge for her. Getting stuck on one was a real nightmare. Perhaps if she’d chosen to take the stairs ten years ago instead of allowing herself to get cornered in the elevator by her enraged husband, she might have gotten away. She might have been spared the attack that had forever changed her life.

She was justified in her aversion to sharing tight spaces with someone bigger and stronger than she was. Even compared to her, standing six feet tall with her work shoes on, John Murdock was an imposing man. Maggie’s gaze flickered to the red-haired detective in the tailored suit and tie. Spencer Montgomery was tall, but John Murdock was taller. She looked to the shorter, stockier detective in the black leather jacket. Nick Fensom was broad across the shoulders and muscular, but John was bigger. Not even the artificial leg and obvious limp could lessen the intimidation factor of the unsmiling Goliath who’d moved in next door.