Without Malice (The Without Series Book 1) (8 page)

Chapter 21

After a moment’s hesitation, Frankie decided to text Walt Steiner rather than risk a phone call.

Hi! Long time, no see. Lunch tomorrow? Off campus?

The response came right back.
You bet, baby girl. See you soon.

She’d have to risk just one more shift at the clinic, she told herself, so that she could prod Walt for information. She tried to convince herself one more day wouldn’t matter, but shivered as if a rigid wind had blown down her back.

By the end of her work day, Frankie felt calmer. The parking lot was empty except for staff cars. She beeped her remote to open her Toyota’s door, her right arm weighted down with the heavy satchel where she’d stuffed both Henry Fader’s and Cole Hansen’s files, as well as the flash drive with her secret data.

As she reached for the handle with her left hand, a thick muscled arm wrapped itself around her throat, almost pulling her off her feet. She stumbled, dropped the satchel, and tried to claw with both hands at the vice-like grip threatening to suffocate her.

The hyoid bone in the adult neck, unlike an infant’s, is ossified and not so easy to break, but she suspected the man choking her was fully capable of throttling her to death. She panicked, forgetting every trick of self-defense she’d ever learned, everything her father had taught her in her early teens when he was her best friend.

I’m going to die, right here, right now, she thought, unless I do something. She relaxed and dropped her purse from her shoulder, slumping back against a thick, solid wall of chest. Her attacker was tall, beefy, and very strong. She stood no chance against his superior height and weight.

Her languid body must’ve boosted the man’s confidence, or perhaps he’d never intended to kill her at all. He bent his mouth to her temple, fetid smoker’s breath making her queasy as he growled low in her ear.

“Best you learn a lesson, bitch. Quit sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong. I’m letting you go, now, but if you even fuckin’ make a squeak, I’ll snap your pretty neck.” He loosened his hold. “Nod if you understand.”

Shaking like a wet puppy, Frankie jerked her head in assent.

He stepped back from her. “Don’t turn around,” he instructed. “Wait five minutes and then go home. This is your only warning.”

Dead silence reigned in the prison parking lot. How had no one seen the man assault her? Where were all the employees who got off shift when she did?

None, she thought, with a tremor of renewed panic. The correctional officers didn’t work the same kinds of shifts as the medical staff, and the nurses staggered their hours so at least two medical personnel were on call at all times.

The night was cold and she’d forgotten her coat. Her mind raced with adrenaline-fueled indecision.
How long was five minutes?
An eternity had passed since the man released her. Was he gone now?

Her legs shook so much she thought she’d lose her balance and sink to the ground. She had to remain steady until she find safety in her car.

Her keys! Where were her keys?

She ventured a glance down at her feet. The car keys lay right beside her shoes and next to them lay the briefcase. It looked intact. Her assailant hadn’t thought to rifle through the bag. The files were safe.

Her mind started to clear.

That meant he didn’t know how much Frankie had figured out about the deaths of the
Norteño
gang member and Henry Fader, and Cole Hansen’s debriefing. Her attacker didn’t know about the coded message on the note Cole had passed her.

Long minutes later she retrieved her items, opened the car door, and sank onto the comfortable seat of her old familiar Toyota, slamming the locks on the doors. She’d parked in a remote area of the lot out of sight of the tower guards with their rifles and binoculars. She’d always felt safe here, surrounded with officers and guns, men who were trained to secure the prison.

Now she didn’t know who she could trust. Her assailant was either a civilian or a correctional officer. It wasn’t easy to loiter in the parking lot without detection.

Who was so concerned about what Frankie knew?

Not Walt, she thought frantically.
Please not Walt Steiner.

Whoever was threatening her, clearly she was no longer safe at Pelican Bay.

Twenty minutes later at her remote house in Crescent City, Frankie slumped limply against the front door. Henry Fader’s medical file had scared her, but the attack in the parking lot had been terrifying. Her first thought was flight.

She needed to take personal leave and contacted the assistant warden immediately. She was sorry for such late notification, she claimed, but her aunt had just been diagnosed with stage four Hodgkin’s lymphoma. After giving a vivid, if false, account of the aunt’s prognosis, she was granted time off, a week, possibly longer.

Three hours after her shift had ended, she was packed and on the road to Bigler County, where Cole Hansen had been paroled to. Ironically, Rosedale was where she’d gone to high school. If she found Cole Hansen – hopefully alive – she might get some answers about the bizarre note he’d bequeathed her. And why she was in danger.

She didn’t dare return to the prison.

Chapter 22

The parole office was empty after hours. Cruz was finishing up on paperwork at his desk when a knock diverted his attention. He glanced up to see a woman standing in the open doorway, her hand lifted to knock again.

Damn, he’d thought the front door was locked.

“Are you lost?” he asked.

He took in her clean but worn jeans and plain jacket tossed over a white shirt. He wondered if she was one of his. She looked the part, clothes rumpled and hair dishelved, but her face didn’t have the uncertainty of someone who’d just gotten out of jail or lived on the street very long.

He tried again, clearing his throat. “Can I help you?” He glanced pointedly from the leather-strapped watch on his wrist to the mound of paperwork on his desk.

The woman suddenly turned, as if in a daze, to examine the empty lounge behind her.

Damn, he was always a sucker for a damsel in distress.

Frowning, she looked troubled, as if she didn’t know how she’d gotten here. “I’m looking for someone.”

Cruz eyed the loose hair and worn Doc Martens. She was tall for a woman, slender beneath the loose-fitted jacket incongruously wrapped with a cheerful scarf around the neck.

“A parolee, or – ” she continued, “or someone in charge?”

He saw now that she clutched a set of car keys in the hand that dangled at her side. Not a parolee, then. They never had cars, at least not ones they actually owned.

She held herself formally, like a school teacher trying to detect a lie on a student’s face. Cruz refrained from squirming under her stern look by rising and sweeping a negligent hand at the molded plastic chair in front of his desk.

He wondered idly what she meant by “someone in charge.”

“I guess I’ll do as well as anyone.” He half rose and extended his hand across the desk, but she’d already sat down, looking around her in mild interest. Feeling awkward, he stumbled over his words as he sat down. “I’m Santiago Cruz, one of the parole officers for Bigler County.”

The woman perched on the edge of the chair, her fingers twined on her lap, her eyes downward, the tiny frown between her eyebrows telling him she was struggling with words. He noticed the pallor of her face, the dark smudges beneath her eyes.

Cruz held back a smile. He’d never had a drop-dead gorgeous woman come looking for a parolee before. Her dark shiny hair swirled around her face, tiny threads of gold and copper glinting through the dark curls.

“It’s always good to start at the beginning,” he offered. “Who’s the parolee you’re looking for?”

She raised her eyes and met his steadily across the desk, revealing striking gray eyes fringed with thick, short black lashes. Under her scrutiny, he glanced down at the folder in front of him, tapped it to indicate he had something important to attend to.

Those arresting eyes followed his fingers as if the monotonous tap-tapping hypnotized her. “Cole Hansen. He was just paroled from Pelican Bay. Do you know him?”

Cruz swiveled to the gray filing cabinet behind his desk and extracted a file. He angled the folder so she couldn’t see the contents and recognized the photo immediately. Cole Hansen, the beaten-down man who’d just registered with him this morning. He closed the file and looked directly at her.

“I might know him,” he said, “but I’d have to understand what business you have with him.” He shrugged with a small lift of his shoulders. “Confidentiality issues.” He smiled, curious about why a woman like her would want to find a man like Cole Hansen.

She returned his smile with a wide, bright one of her own as if to acknowledge that he had her there. “I ... knew Cole at the prison,” she began tentatively. “He gave me a message, but, uh, was discharged before I could talk to him.” She leaned urgently across the desk. “I just want to make sure he’s all right.”

Cruz shook his head. “Why wouldn’t he be? He hasn’t been on parole long enough to get into trouble.” He lifted his eyebrows in question. “Unless you know something I don’t.”

She frowned again, the tiny line marring the smooth beauty of her skin. “No, probably not. It’s just that ... well, everything happened so fast, and then he was gone.” She examined her blunt fingernails at the end of sturdy well-formed hands. “Do you have an address – or a phone number for him?” A pleading note entered her voice. “Please, I really need to find him.”

Cruz opened the folder again, knowing the answer already. Cole Hansen was going to be living on the street, which didn’t bode well for any kind of successful rehabilitation. He shook his head. “Sorry. He checked in, but doesn’t have an address yet.”

He took another careful look at her, knowing the answer before he asked it. “Are you a relative?”

She sighed in resignation and rose, reaching for a card in her jacket pocket. “No, I’m not. I’m just a – a friend. If you hear from him, will you contact me?”

She handed over a business card, with a hand-written cell phone number on the back, and turned toward the door. The front of the card bore the state seal, and the information, “Frankie Jones, MD, Pelican Bay State Prison, Crescent City, California.

Cruz suddenly remembered Hansen’s words about “the doc.”

What the hell?             

When he looked up again, however, Dr. Frankie Jones had already gone.

Chapter 23

Frankie sat in her car outside the Rosedale Police Station, weighing her options. The parking lot was brightly lighted and in a relatively new part of the city, a
safe
part of town. Across the street were recently-built condominiums. A quarter mile away, upper-middle-class homes that were constructed about fifteen years ago, looked attractive and pricey.

Lifting her hands off the steering wheel, she realized she’d been clutching it so hard that indentation marks showed on her palms.

What should she do?
Go in and file a complaint – or drive the long, unwelcome trip back to Crescent City? She’d have to return home sooner or later for her belongings, and now it seemed safer there, even so close to the prison, than in Rosedale.

If she entered the police station, what kind of complaint could she file? Without evidence the police would laugh her out of the precinct. She
had
no evidence, just a shadowy, creepy, gut instinct that someone was following her.

Had been
following her since her visit to the parole officer earlier today. What was his name, something-or-other Cruz? She’d driven circuitously around the city, trying to determine if someone was actually tailing her.

Her first clue to being stalked was the car, distinctive because of its non-monochromatic paint job. As if someone had begun the task with a bright metallic red and finished up with a dull gray – or stopped painting altogether. The car’s muffler was noisy and distinctive.

She’d caught a good look at the two men inside the car. She’d been around felons long enough to recognize them easily. From their look, they were gang bangers, which explained the noisy muffler and incomplete paint job.

After a few more twists and turns, she’d pulled into a Walmart parking lot and idled her Toyota’s engine. She didn’t see the car. Ten minutes later, she pulled out of the lot and into a McDonald’s drive through. When she arrived at her motel, however, she spied the same car driving past on Vernon Street.

Damn!
She unsuccessfully tried to convince herself she was being paranoid, but her practical mind wasn’t buying it.

Instead of returning to the motel, she’d gathered her things and checked out by phone. She’d driven to the police station, eating her dinner while sitting indecisively behind the wheel. She could think of only one sensible, safe thing to do if she didn’t go into the precinct and file a claim.

“Walt,” she said when he picked up his phone. “It’s Frankie.”

“Hey, why a no-show on the lunch date?” he joked, his voice sounding tinny over the connection.

She paused and took a sip of soda. “I had a problem. Sorry, but I had to go to – ”

“What’s wrong?” He interrupted her, hearing the fear and uncertainty in her voice.

She blew out a heavy breath of frustration. “Nothing. I just couldn’t make lunch.”

“What’s wrong?” Walt repeated, harsher this time. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

Frankie looked around at the police parking lot, nearly empty of cars. “Maybe,” she ventured. “I had to drive to – ”

“Not on the phone,” Walt interrupted again. “Get to a
safe house.
You know what I mean,” he emphasized assuredly. His voice sounded calm and steady, and her nerves settled. “A safe house. I’ll come to you,” he promised.

The connection went dead.

Twenty minutes later Frankie pulled into the driveway of her old house on Bridgeford Avenue in Rosedale. The security pad code on the garage door still worked and she drove inside, parking her Toyota beside the old family car, a 1983 Impala, a classic now, she supposed. The door from the garage into the laundry room was unlocked, same as always.

The house had the musty scent of unused linen and stale air. Even though she had a cleaning service come twice a month, and a lawn service weekly, she couldn’t believe vandals or teenagers hadn’t broken in to camp out or party in the abandoned house. Or that her aunt hadn’t tried to sell it for the equity. But, no, it looked much like it had the fateful night of her Homecoming Dance over a dozen years ago.

Rummaging through her bag, she found sweats and a tee shirt to change into. She made up a bed on the couch. She couldn’t stand sleeping in either her old bedroom or her parents’ room. Opening a package of Top Ramen she’d brought with her, she settled into a family room arm chair, worrying what to do next.

She wouldn’t sit helplessly and wait for Walt to swoop in and save her. Again. She would stay here tonight and tomorrow she’d go back to see that parole officer – the Cruz guy. Insist that he give her information about Cole Hansen. Or help her find him.

That was his job, wasn’t it?

Cole had answers to her questions. All the trouble had started with him.

Going back to Crescent City without knowing what the note he’d given her meant, or why he’d given it to her, was an admission of defeat. He considered himself in danger. Had he involved her in the same danger just by passing her the indecipherable note?

And what in hell did it all mean?