The Past Came Hunting (9 page)

Chapter Ten

The next morning, Joe attacked the buzzing clock with his fist, then draped an arm over his eyes. It couldn’t be six already. What a night. He needed to contact the Commander, the coroner, Public Relations, Internal Affairs, the list went on. Per policy he’d placed Sam Ortega on paid administrative leave pending investigation.

This wasn’t the first time he’d had to suspend one of his officers. Still, one never knew what to say to a distraught cop for doing his job. “Your shield and your gun,” might’ve been police procedure, but to Joe it sounded a lot like “you’re guilty, now prove your innocence.”

He planted his bare feet on the cold wood floor and buried his face in his hands, feeling a headache behind his eyes and a jaw in desperate need of a shave. Later. He had the morning off. With any luck he could spend it comatose after dropping Matt off at school.

Matt.

Joe groaned. The kid had spent the night at the neighbor’s. Hell. Joe tugged on jeans, grabbed the flannel shirt he’d strung over the bedpost and went into the can to do his business.

Ten minutes later, hands in his pockets, he stood freezing his ass off at Melanie’s front door. Hopefully, she was asleep and the boys were ready. Seeing her in that window last night had had a strange effect on him. She’d never admit it, but he’d bet a month’s paycheck she’d waited up for him. Joe wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

Noting he could see his breath, he rang the bell. The approaching holidays, while joyous for many, were a time of despair for others, and arguably one of the most dangerous seasons for law enforcement. He’d been focused on last night’s tragedy when the door opened.

“You didn’t get the message.”

At Melanie’s soft statement of fact, he turned. She stood in the doorway, dressed like she hadn’t lost a minute of sleep. As he examined her from head to toe, he suspected she’d chosen the high heels, the simple black skirt and camisole to show professionalism. On her the look fell flat. What her ensemble needed was another body, preferably one without his neighbor’s spectacular figure.

“What message?” he asked.

Extending her arm, she held the door wide. He strode in, catching a whiff of perfume.

“You’re staring,” she said, as she closed the door.

“You look good,” he replied.

“I left a message on your machine saying that I would take the boys this morning so you could sleep in.”

Joe closed his eyes. He could’ve really used that information, along with a few additional hours in bed to escape last night. “I didn’t check. People usually leave messages on my cell.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

“Not your fault.” He glanced toward the kitchen. “Is that coffee I smell?”

“Yes.” She didn’t move. After a moment, she sighed. “Come with me. I’ll get you a cup.”

In spite of her reluctant hospitality, he followed her into a spotless kitchen. The curtains were open, and sunshine permeated the room. Unlike his kitchen, hers was warm and inviting. Walking toward the table, he chose a spot nearest the window. With warmth radiating his back, his mood lifted―until he spied the front page of
The Gazette.

Before Melanie placed the aromatic brew in front of him, Joe grabbed the paper and read the headline,
Police shoot and kill father of five year old
, plastered on the page.

What could he say? Sensationalism sold newspapers, and, technically, the words were correct. But why did editors have to word it so that cop-haters fed off it?

Tensing with resentment, uninvited memories of the eight-hour standoff that had ended in tragedy flooded his brain. A methamphetamine dealer had taken his kid hostage. Joe and a CBI negotiator had failed to convince the man to give himself up and let the boy go. When the situation turned deadly, SWAT team member and marksman Sam Ortega took the shot. The dealer died, the child lived and Hazmat moved in to do the impossible cleanup job when a meth lab was involved.

Joe tossed the rag away from him.

Melanie set Joe’s coffee before him and withdrew to the kitchen sink. “Is that where you were last night?”

He nodded.

“Your job is awful, Joe.”

“My job is necessary, Melanie.”

“And there’s people you can talk to if―”

“If it comes to that,” he replied.

She looked at him, he looked at her, and that’s all they had to say to each other. Joe drained the coffee, wishing she’d offer him another. She didn’t.

He wanted to thank her for waiting up last night, but suspected if he mentioned it, she’d deny it had anything to do with him, and their tenuous truce would shatter. He rose. “Thanks for the coffee.” Then because he couldn’t resist, he added, “You really do look nice.”

Somewhere between the living room and kitchen, she’d slipped on a blazer, probably to counter his prying eyes. “I’m working the display area and I’ll be in front of customers today,” she said, glancing anywhere but at him.

Lucky customers, Joe thought. “I appreciate you looking after Matt. It was one less worry on my mind. Are you going to the game tonight?”

She met his gaze, and, suddenly, the stoic Melanie Norris wasn’t so stoic.

“You are going, right?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Get there early. We’re playing Palmer. They’re number one in the city. The parking will be insane.”

She nodded, but as she strode to the table and picked up his cup, he detected the tremor.

Ah, hell. The game. She was nervous about going. An inner voice warned,
Don’t do it, Crandall
. Even so, he found himself saying, “You could go with me.”

She placed the cup in the sink and whirled in his direction, obviously floored at the idea. “Excuse me?”

Her reaction made him grin. “I said you could go with me. People do it all the time. A few have even survived.” That comment earned him a ghost of a smile. He decided to try for an all-out chuckle. “I’ll provide references if you like.”

It worked. She laughed. Still, she didn’t accept or decline. She walked him to the door.

“If I decide to take you up on your very obliging offer,” she asked, opening it, “what time would we leave?”

He lifted a brow. “Six-thirty.”

“All right. I’ll be ready.”

As Joe jogged down the steps he started to count. Exactly how much time did he have before she changed her mind?

“Joe?”

Three seconds. That had to be a record. He pivoted.

“About tonight?” Melanie bent over the railing twining her fingers. “You might want to have those references ready.”

At precisely six-thirty,
Joe rang the bell. Up until then Mel had been pacing. What was she, crazy? Why hadn’t she picked up the phone and cancelled. The only reason she hadn’t was of her overwhelming desire not to fight the crowd or go to a strange place alone.

She counted to ten before opening the door, then as she did, caught her breath.

She should have cancelled, damn it. Joe looked amazing, dressed in a brown leather jacket, T-shirt and jeans. This morning’s bristles were gone, and so too were the bags under his eyes. And whatever cologne he had on, she could’ve basked in it in all night.

Wondering how bad it would look to come down with a last-minute migraine, she wiped a clammy palm on her jeans.

“Ready?” he asked.

Hardly. Her feet felt like they were encased in cement. Her fear of Joe Crandall existed on so many levels she couldn’t begin to sort them all out. And yet, he must never know. To do so would place her at a complete disadvantage. “Sorry. I thought I was supposed to come to your place.”

“Then you’re late.”

Ignoring his chronic need to one-up her, she grabbed her purse and locked the front door. Joe placed a hand at the small of her back and guided her down the steps.

Okay. Why was he being nice?

Worse, why did she like it?

Keenly aware of him, and the strength he possessed, Mel’s mind drifted back to the night of her arrest. He’d thrown her to the ground as though she weighed no more than a sack of potatoes. That memory did nothing to improve her mood, and she flinched.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” she said. But she wasn’t. If they lived next door to each other for the next hundred years, it would boil down to how they met.

Nearing their property line, she stopped. A newer model Ford Mustang sat in his drive. She caught his gaze. “Yours?”

“At least until Matt starts driving. I thought you might prefer riding in something other than the City’s finest.”

Her discomfort rose to a new level. He was obviously focused on the past, too. They rode in silence, arriving as he’d predicted, to a parking lot jammed to capacity. They didn’t talk on their way to the gym, and even their footsteps echoed with tension.

Inside an auditorium three times the size of Cañon City’s, Joe appeared to know everyone, while Mel endured their stares like a micro-organism under glass.

Tonight, Coronado faced its 5A rival, the Palmer Terrors. The team was full of athletic, scholarship-bound kids, who made three-point shots, free-throws and lay ups look easy. Joe had said they were number one in the city, and suddenly Mel hoped Luke wouldn’t play. His ankle wasn’t a hundred percent and this wasn’t the time to test it.

Coronado took the floor, the band played
Hit Me with your Best Shot
, and the home crowd went wild.

“Melanie,” Joe yelled to be heard over the commotion. “Meet Noah Washington. His son Chet’s our leading scorer.”

Nervousness forgotten, a genuine smile overtook her. She shook the man’s hand. “I’m so happy to meet you,” she hollered. “My son idolizes your son, Mr. Washington. I hear Duke’s recruiting Chet.”

Noah grinned. “And it’s going straight to my boy’s head, Miz Norris. From what I hear, your boy’s the real deal, too. We were sure sorry to learn about his daddy.”

A lump formed in Mel’s throat. No one in Colorado Springs had known Carl, and it was easy to forget he’d existed. She thanked the man, then focused on Joe. He too wore a sympathetic look. She’d never seen this side of him, and a protective voice inside her whispered,
Careful, Mel, guard up
.

Midway down the aisle, a group shouted from the stands. Joe’s warm breath tickled her ear as he motioned. “Up there.”

With every second, her hesitation grew. He had been nice enough to provide transportation. Surely that was as far as the invitation extended. Fortunately, Coach Hood’s girlfriend Connie waved and pointed to the empty space beside her. Relieved, Mel climbed the bleachers and sat next to Connie, while Joe sat in front of Mel, next to a bald spectator Joe appeared to know well.

She happily chatted with Connie, and all seemed resolved, until during the national anthem, a striking blonde made her way up the stands. Mel remembered the woman from tryouts, mainly because compared to the rest of the moms with boys on the team, the blonde stood out like a model for Victoria’s Secret.

Every male head in the vicinity followed her progress, including Joe’s. The model-mom obviously worked out and was proud of her body. With a coat draped over her arm, in December no less, she wore a low cut top over tight-fitting capris.

Mel tried not to stare or feel overly self-conscious, but it was a battle not won. Particularly when the removal of her own GOR-TEX jacket left her sitting in plain denim and jeans.

“Her name’s Lydia Ryerson,” Connie said close to Mel’s ear. “On her third husband, I think. Rumor has it, Lydia’s nominated Joe as number four.” Connie stiffened and sat back. “Look out. Here she comes.”

And she did. Choosing the spot next to Joe. As people shuffled to make room for Lydia, an absurd bout of jealousy hit Mel squarely between the eyes. Her face went hot, and although she did her best to ignore them, with Luke and Matt sitting the bench, and Connie talking with a group behind her, Mel found it hard not to hone in on the couple’s conversation.

“Was my cooking that bad?” Lydia asked. “I wondered why you hadn’t called.”

Joe appeared absorbed in the game. “No, it was great. I’ve been busy, that’s all.”

“I know. I’ve been watching the news. You poor man. If there’s anything I can do for you... or Matt.” The little hussy placed a manicured hand on Joe’s upper thigh.

Mel jerked her head toward the game. Chet Washington fouled. The crowd groaned. Palmer went to the free-throw line.

Joe took off his jacket, bumping Mel’s knee in the process. Annoyed that she could possibly care who touched whom, she moved closer to Connie who busily chewed her thumbnail.

The game progressed and Mel did her best to ignore the pair until Lydia cried, “Joe! Oh my God. That scar? Where’d you get it?”

The blood drained from Mel’s face. If only she could fall through the bleachers. She set her gaze on the cop’s rolled-up sleeve and the damage she’d inflicted fifteen years before. The puckered flesh of Joe’s forearm stood out like an angry snake on his otherwise perfect skin.

Whatever he said to Lydia, he did so quietly.

Lydia, however, was nowhere discreet. “Well, if that happened during an arrest, I’d like to see the other guy,” unaware the
other guy
sat close enough to count the roots of her bleached-blond head. “I bet he didn’t walk straight for weeks.”