Loe raamatut: «Daddy Protector»

Chapter One

Hale Crandall really ought to put on some clothes. He looked fantastic without them, though, in Connie’s opinion.

Sweat spread a bronze sheen across his rugged chest and face, from which exertion had stripped the customary know-it-all grin. A fierce, driving leap…breath coming hard…intensity turning his brown eyes to near-black…

Then he missed the softball, stumbled across the grass from his yard and plowed headfirst into the pansies and marigolds in Connie’s flower bed. As she drove up, her amusement mutated into annoyance at her havoc-wreaking neighbor.

Muttering under her breath, she pulled her maroon sedan into the driveway and stomped on the brake. She yanked the door handle too hard, resulting in a chipped fingernail. Well, great! Not exactly Hale’s fault, but she felt even more irked at him, anyway.

As she marched along the sidewalk—no sense ruining her strappy high heels or her lawn by taking the shortest route—she ignored the group of boys, assorted ages and states of griminess, who’d stopped playing to check on their ringleader. Why weren’t they spending a Saturday in June doing something useful, like studying? Although Connie didn’t have any children, she volunteered to tutor kids struggling in school, and knew how many of them blew off their assignments.

She stopped a few feet away from her neighbor. “Look at this mess! I hope you plan to replant those flowers.” She barely refrained from adding a well-deserved, “You idiot!”

A dirt-smeared Hale pushed himself onto the grass and retrieved a clot of nasturtiums from atop his thick, dark hair. “Yes, ma’am,” he replied with his customary sardonic edge.

With his taste for high jinks, she thought he might plant stink-weeds. “When you’re buying the plants, be sure to get the same colors and varieties,” she said. “It’s the least you can do.”

Rising, Hale dusted himself off. “I’ll have my butler make a note.” One of the boys giggled.

“Don’t get smart with me!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

As he turned away, Connie tried not to stare at his well-muscled bare back. Sure, Hale Crandall was one fine specimen of masculinity. Unfortunately, in her book, that too often meant thickheaded and irresponsible.

The problem was his resemblance to her ex-husband, Joel, Hale’s best friend and fellow cop at the Villazon, California, Police Department. Together, the two overgrown adolescents had contributed to the breakup of her marriage. The only thing she’d snagged from the wreckage had been a pitiful monthly alimony check and this house—right next to Hale’s.

“Hey, guys. Game’s over!” As he headed for the porch, Hale waggled one hand at his followers, who dispersed reluctantly.

Connie retrieved her purse from the car. She had only an hour to grab an early dinner before returning to the gift shop she owned, since she’d agreed to let Jo Anne Larouche, her clerk, leave at five for personal reasons.

Her mother would have scolded Connie for being too soft on an employee. But in her opinion, treating workers well kept them loyal. And she was willing to work long hours if that’s what success required.

From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a straggler trailing into Hale’s house, a wiry little boy with blond hair. Darned if he didn’t bear a strong resemblance to Skip Enright, the six-year-old she tutored at the town’s homework center. Co-founded by a retired teacher and by a close friend of Connie’s, the after-school-and-weekend operation used volunteers to help kids master reading and math.

Just before the boy disappeared indoors, a cobalt gleam flashed from the heels of his running shoes. She’d bought Skip a pair exactly like those to celebrate his successful completion of first grade. Not only were they expensive, but she’d found them during a buying trip to L.A. That left no doubt in her mind about his identity.

Between the boy’s independent spirit and his foster mother’s preoccupation with the pending birth of a grandchild, he roamed far too freely around town. Anxious to provide sorely lacking supervision, Connie had brought Skip home several afternoons with the permission of his foster mother. If he’d wandered this way in search of her today, then she’d better retrieve him and drive him home.

To avoid any more contact with her neighbor than necessary, she took out her cell phone and dialed Hale’s number. Once he learned about the little intruder, he’d likely send the kid straight out.

A machine picked up. Why didn’t the man answer? And he refused to provide the number of his cell. Probably he didn’t care to listen to her complain whenever he threw one of his loud parties, Connie admitted, but still…

She glared at his ranch-style home. Even under the best of circumstances, she disliked setting foot inside it. Too many uncomfortable memories from when her husband used to hang out there. Come to think of it, there were no best circumstances.

Marching along the walkway, she tried to ignore the weeds peeping through the cracks and the brown fronds dangling from an overgrown bird-of-paradise plant. At the top of the steps, she pressed the bell twice, waited and then knocked loudly. Zilch.

Being ignored had never stopped her before when she had a bone of contention with her neighbor, and it wouldn’t prevent her now from collecting the boy to whom she’d grown so attached.

Turning the knob, she went in, hit by the lingering smell of cigarette and cigar smoke. Although Hale didn’t indulge, his guests obviously did.

A billiards table dominated the living room amid mismatched chairs and a couch. On the walls, motorcycle posters reinforced the pool-hall theme. A crumpled potato chip bag lay in one corner.

She passed a den dominated by a vast TV screen and videogame system, and reached the kitchen. Skip was perched at the kitchen counter munching what appeared to be cheese puffs. Above him, doorless cabinets revealed a tooth-rotting supply of cookies and chips. Simply allowing a youngster in this kitchen ought to count as child abuse!

Hale, his head in the kitchen sink as he sprayed water over his upper body, either didn’t notice the boy or didn’t mind. Averting her eyes from the masculine figure, Connie addressed Skip. “Hi, fella. What brings you here?”

The boy grinned. “Cool place, huh?”

“If you say so.” Despite the possible damage to her suit from his soiled clothing, she gave him a hug.

The half-naked host switched off the water, grabbed a frayed towel from the counter and rubbed his hair as he swung around. Moisture beaded on bare flesh…as if Connie cared!

Only a slight hesitation betrayed his reaction on spotting her. “Aha. The princess braves the ogre’s lair.”

“Are you aware that this little boy followed you inside?” she demanded.

“I may be stupid but I’m not blind.” He seemed to take pride in ducking the issue.

Irked, Connie continued, “Didn’t it occur to you to find out where he belongs?”

The towel draped across his bare shoulders, Hale regarded her with feigned innocence. “Hey, he’s a guy. Why can’t he just hang out?” He tossed a handful of cheese puffs one by one into the air and caught them in his mouth. Missed one, picked it up and ate it anyway.

“Hale…”

“Okay, okay,” he said. “A lady named Paula was trying to drop him off at your place. I said he could stay here ’til you showed up.”

That would be Paula Layton, Skip’s foster mother. Apparently she hadn’t bothered to call. “She left him with a complete stranger?” That was scary. Just because someone lived next door didn’t make him trustworthy.

“She saw my picture in the paper last year when I got a commendation.” Hale had been honored for recognizing an L.A. robbery suspect at the supermarket. He’d quietly called for backup and trailed the man outside to collar him without endangering shoppers. “What can I say? I stick in some people’s minds.”

“Like a piece of chewing gum on their shoe,” Connie mocked. Of course, she’d been impressed by Hale’s actions, too, but admitting as much would only give him an advantage in their ongoing game of one-upmanship.

Skip seemed to find her remark funny. His laughter bubbled up, wonderfully free and open. He retained a warm spirit, despite a history of neglect that included removal from his birth home after neighbors repeatedly called social services about his lack of supervision. He’d been returned to his parents briefly, until their arrest for selling drugs. Eventually they’d agreed to relinquish custody.

“The kid’s been here about an hour,” Hale added. “This Paula person said her daughter was in labor and she had to rush off to the hospital. She wasn’t sure but he might have to stay overnight.”

“She might have phoned!” Connie wondered what the woman would have done with Skip if Hale hadn’t been available. “I understand her desire to be at the hospital, but she could have made babysitting arrangements. Her daughter’s full-term, so this hardly comes as a surprise.”

The real problem wasn’t today’s drop-off but Paula’s increasing inattentiveness to her ward. With a grandchild on the way, the woman seemed to have lost the motivation that had inspired her to begin foster parenting in the first place.

As his foster mom became emotionally detached, Connie became more attached to Skip. Maybe he’d awakened her long-dormant maternal instincts. Maybe his personality, combined with the approach of her thirtieth birthday, had done the trick, but regardless of the reason, she’d grown to love him. And from there, an impulse to provide him with a home had developed into a powerful longing.

Foster parents had priority in an adoption. However, in response to Connie’s inquiry, Paula, whose married daughter had then just announced her pregnancy, had conceded that she might be willing to give him up. To learn whether she’d be allowed to adopt as a single parent, Connie had consulted a lawyer. He’d explained that school-age children were hard to place compared to infants and toddlers, and someone like her who’d already formed a connection with Skip ought to encounter no problems.

She’d applied to adopt and undergone the required home study. Then, to her disappointment, Paula had changed her mind. Her grandchild-to-be was a girl, and her husband liked having a boy around. Yet however sincere Mr. Layton’s interest, the trucker spent weeks at a stretch on the road.

Still, Paula’s lackadaisical style hadn’t quite crossed the gap into negligence, and her opposition would doom any attempt to gain permanent custody. Since Connie couldn’t afford a legal battle and wasn’t sure she’d win, anyway, she simply did her best to provide support.

“Okay if I take you to the store with me for a couple of hours?” she asked Skip. She maintained a stash of toys to occupy customers’ children.

“Sure!”

Connie removed the snack bag and rolled it shut. “Let’s eat at my place. Frozen dinners okay?” She hoped he liked fish or chicken. Those were all she’d stocked.

“Cool!”

Hale tugged an old T-shirt over his head. Clinging to his damp torso, it revealed almost as much as it hid. “I’d offer to watch him myself if I didn’t have plans for the evening.”

“You’ve done plenty already.” The boy needed stability and order. The less contact he had with this man, the better, in Connie’s opinion. “Thanks for filling in.”

“No problem.” He flashed a teasing smile. “I’ll stop by a garden center tomorrow and pick out your posies. Nothing I enjoy more than spending a Sunday afternoon digging in the dirt, getting back to my ancestral roots as a farmer.”

Under the circumstances, Connie decided not to comment on the greater likelihood that he’d descended from some notorious scoundrel. “I’d appreciate it.”

She shepherded Skip out of the house, her mind racing. There was barely time to call Paula and explain that they’d be at the shop—as if the woman gave the boy a second thought!—and to heat the dinners.

As she opened her door, she recalled Hale’s mention of plans for the evening. Those probably involved one of the women she occasionally glimpsed on his property or whose voices drifted over the wall from the swimming pool. His female interests always appeared to have great fun, but as far as Connie could tell, none of them lasted long.

Well, the man’s love life didn’t concern her. The two of them moved in entirely different spheres, and she meant to keep it that way. No matter how terrific he looked without his shirt.

HALE FISHED OUT another handful of cheese puffs. The party at the captain’s place didn’t start for an hour and he was hungry. Perhaps he should have insinuated his way over to Connie’s for one of those frozen dinners.

Bad idea. He grimaced at the memory of plunging into her flower bed. Why couldn’t she be satisfied with just grass? As for her house, a man couldn’t swing his arms without upending half a dozen china or glass doodads.

Noticing cheese crud on his T-shirt, Hale stared down in displeasure. Oh, well, he had to change into fancy duds in a few minutes, anyway, to mingle with the upper crust at the gathering.

Villazon’s relatively new police chief, Willard Lyons, encouraged his brass and detectives to hobnob with the town’s leaders. In view of the police department’s image problems—there’d been a couple of scandals—tonight’s cocktail party hosted by Captain Frank Ferguson counted more as public relations than as entertainment.

Much better to spend the evening tossing back beers with a few buddies, or even better…Wait! Wait! Hale tried to short-circuit the scenario that sprang to mind. No use. In his king-size bed lounged Connie Simmons, blond hair spread across the pillow and luscious breasts threatening to burst from beneath the sheets. Lips parted, waiting breathlessly for him to peel away the covers.

A cheese puff slipped through his fingers, this time straight to the floor, which already cried out for sweeping. Hale stared downward, still tantalized by his vision.

He couldn’t fathom why his fantasies never quite revealed Connie’s nudity, since he’d been drawn to her ever since his buddy Joel had introduced the sensual beauty seven or eight years ago. Instead of being an only child, why couldn’t he have sisters who brought home friends like that? If he’d gotten to her first, well, no guarantees about anything long-term, but for sure he’d have satisfied his curiosity.

Grumbling under his breath, Hale went on a hunt for the vacuum cleaner. Must have loaned it to somebody. Unable to find a broom, either, he got down on his hands and knees and used his hands to scrape the kitchen detritus into a pile, which he then pushed onto a spatula.

The activity must have restored function to his rational side, because he recognized at last why he couldn’t bring himself to picture Connie’s tantalizing hidden body parts. Because it would be like cheating on my pal.

He and Joel had survived a lot together, including virtual outcast status two years ago when Joel was forced to testify against a lieutenant and the department’s then-chief, Vince Borrego, about their misconduct. The stress had made Joel touchy, for which Connie, still married to Joel, perversely blamed Hale. Easier than accepting the fact that she hadn’t stood by her husband when he needed her.

That might be another reason Hale didn’t allow his daydreams to get too…intimate. Even under the best of conditions, serving on a police force took a heavy toll on relationships. Why waste the effort on a woman who’d already demonstrated an inability to stay the course?

Except that, in the matter of Hale’s taste in women, she fit like a key in a door. The door to the bedroom.

He stuffed the empty bag into the trash, then sauntered toward the hall, stopping to pluck a couple of darts off the sofa and stick them into the dartboard. In the master bedroom, Hale drew the curtains on the side facing Connie’s house. The fact that his window lay directly opposite hers forced them both to be extra careful about privacy.

He’d ordered the heaviest drapes he could find. Black velvet, to match the black satin sheets. Hale took pride in having coordinated at least part of his decor, not that Connie would ever witness it.

Rinsing off in the kitchen hadn’t satisfied him, so he showered, shaved, dashed on cologne and wrestled with a shirt, suit and tie. Might as well get a bit more use out of the outfit he’d bought last month for Officer Rachel Byers’s wedding.

Rachel was one of Connie’s closest friends, as well as a buddy of Hale’s. She’d married the town’s new pediatrician, Dr. Russ McKenzie, at the Villazon Community Church. Big affair, with the entire police department invited, and a blast afterward at the Villa Inn. Weddings were great fun, as long as they were someone else’s.

Hale was striding toward the garage when he spotted Skip’s small duffel bag atop the washing machine. He’d forgotten setting it there after the boy arrived.

A peek inside revealed pajamas printed with cartoon characters. A toothbrush and a couple of toys were tucked underneath. A safe bet the kid would go to bed before Hale made it home.

Returning this stuff meant confronting the dragon lady once more. With a shrug, he let himself out through the garage and spared a longing glance at the motorcycle and all-terrain vehicle he hadn’t had a chance to ride in ages.

At the next house, Connie’s maroon sedan was gone. A wisp of memory flashed through his mind as he stared at the empty driveway: her blond hair caught in the breeze as she zoomed up and parked the red convertible she used to drive. Joel, tuning his car in the garage, had ignored his wife’s struggle with sacks of groceries. Marriage did that to a guy, Hale supposed. Turned him blind, deaf and really, really dumb.

Which was kind of how he felt, standing on the porch ringing the bell when he knew nobody would answer. He supposed he could drop the duffel on her rear porch with a note. But Connie’s Curios was on the way to Frank’s house, and besides, Skip might want his toys.

A visit to the gift shop. Since he’d never set foot inside, this ought to prove interesting.

Hale tooled through the neighborhood past fallen lavender blooms that mirrored the cloudlike shapes of jacaranda trees. A short distance beyond the residential area, a strip mall featured a discount furniture store, a supermarket, the storefront office of the weekly Villazon Voice, and at the corner of the intersection with Arches Avenue, Connie’s Curios. Its red-and-white exterior framed a lacy window display bearing the banner “Welcome June Brides.”

In the parking area, the thin sprinkling of cars gave the place an isolated air. On a weekend, the small office building around the corner and behind the gift store didn’t generate much traffic, either.

Connie should rethink her policy of staying open ’til seven on Fridays and Saturdays. That was only an hour later than usual, but it felt late.

As a cop, Hale knew that Villazon, situated on the eastern rim of Los Angeles County adjacent to Orange County, had a low crime rate. But no telling who might wander into Connie’s Curios looking for a till full of cash.

Joel had disagreed with his wife’s decision to go into business, Hale recalled. She’d insisted she had the right, since she was investing half of an inheritance from her grandparents in it, but he’d have preferred to buy a vacation cabin. If her safety had been a concern, though, Joel hadn’t mentioned it. Since he’d already blown the other half of her inheritance on a bad investment entered into without Connie’s agreement, Joel had reluctantly backed down.

Hale stepped inside to the accompaniment of chimes. The swirl of pinks, reds and lavenders and the array of frilly merchandise made him feel dizzy. Who on earth bought this many greeting cards, stuffed animals, china bells and figurines, mugs, T-shirts, pens, magnets, clocks, key chains, puzzles, scrapbooks and candles? Not to mention comic books, animal characters and action figures.

Still, a fellow could go for the bins of wrapped candies and racks of Swiss and Italian chocolate bars. Might be worth springing for one, except he’d probably arrive at the captain’s house with a smear of chocolate on his tie.

From behind the counter, Connie regarded him frostily. “Something I can do for you, Detective?”

Sure, lots of things. But none of them in public. “Thought you might have some use for this.” Hale swung the duffel onto the counter, dislodging a catalog showing gift baskets. “It belongs to Skip. Where is the little guy?”

She indicated a children’s nook where, ensconced in a beanbag chair, the boy was absorbed in watching a shiny red TV set. “He got tired of helping me count change.”

Hale whistled. “I didn’t expect a store like this to carry electronics.”

“We offer specialty items tailored for kids. Grandparents get a kick out of them. We have gadgets for adults, as well.” Connie appeared to warm to her subject.

“Where do you find stuff like that?” Since the items she stocked bore little resemblance to the products in ordinary stores, Hale supposed she must have special sources.

“Catalogs, sales reps, the Internet and specialty trade shows in Anaheim and L.A.” Both convention centers lay within a forty-five-minute drive.

So far, no customers had entered, and he’d observed none when he arrived. “You earn a living at this?”

Although her forehead puckered, Connie didn’t fling a retort. “There’s a thin margin of profit, but yes. I’m always bringing in new merchandise, so people drop by frequently, and we have regular customers who collect specialty items. Also, I coordinate with party and wedding planners, arrange craft classes and maintain gift registries. Plus, we do about forty percent of our business in November and December.”

“You carry the same stuff at your other stores?” Connie owned the concession at the hospital and a boutique in the town’s funky shopping mart, In a Pickle, which occupied the site of a former pickling plant.

“Each one is unique.” She spoke with uncharacteristic patience. “I encourage my managers to imprint their personality and cater to their clientele. So you’ll find a lot of food items and Latin American imports at the Pickle, and flowers, books and magazines at the medical center.”

Hale had run out of questions. Wanted to keep her talking, though. Maybe he felt a little protective, seeing her here alone on a Saturday evening. And the cozy scents of cinnamon and peppermint hinted at a childhood he barely remembered. Also, he wasn’t too keen on the dull evening ahead.

“So are you planning any more—” Hale halted at a peculiar scraping noise from the back of the store.

Connie shifted uneasily. “Sounds like someone’s in the storage room. Or it could be an animal, I suppose. A cat might have sneaked in from the alley.”

Hale kept his voice low. “How about an employee?”

A headshake. “Jo Anne left a while ago.” Her fists tightened atop the counter. “We had a break-in attempt from the alley a few nights ago after hours. The alarm scared off whoever it was.”

He reached into his jacket for the holstered gun he always carried. “You leave the back unlocked during working hours?”

“No, but Jo Anne put out the trash. Maybe she forgot to lock up.”

“Who else has a key?”

“Just Jo Anne.” She gave a little cough before continuing. “She wouldn’t enter that way without letting me know.” She shot a glance at Skip, who remained fixed on the TV screen.

Through the glass front, the parking lot appeared as sparsely occupied as when Hale had arrived. No sign of trouble there.

“I’ll check it out.” He pointed the gun’s barrel toward the floor. “Might be a rodent or some merchandise falling over.”

“Let’s hope…” Connie halted at another noise from the storeroom. It sounded to Hale like the scuff of a shoe.

“Call 911,” he ordered tensely. “Stay low behind the counter, out of the line of fire. Leave Skip where he is.” There was no time. Someone might burst out at any second.

Connie reached for the phone. No hysterics or nonsense. Hale appreciated that.

Raising the gun, he approached the rear door at an angle, kicked it open, shouted, “Police! Come out with your hands up!” and braced for action.