Loe raamatut: «One Good Man»

Chapter One

What a hell of a day.

Mitch pushed the door buzzer on the Gothic fortress of a house north of the Plaza and waited. He hated sucking up to the commissioner like this. But when the man in charge of his next promotion called and asked for a personal favor, Mitch was hardly in a position to refuse.

A house check was so routine, he normally would have assigned it to a uniformed patrol. He’d have passed it on to his staff sergeant for her to assign it to a uniformed patrol. He’d even offered to send two of his best detectives in his stead. But Commissioner Reed had insisted on privacy.

Mitch pocketed the electronic gate key the commissioner had given him to get onto the estate grounds, and wondered just what kind of fool’s errand he’d been sent on. His boss had been closemouthed to the extent that Mitch knew very few details about what he was even checking for. “It’s an old family friend,” he’d said. “Just see if there’s any trouble.”

Trouble? Like what? A break-in? Vandalism? A lunatic relative running around naked and embarrassing the family?

Why the hush-hush discretion?

If he was honest with himself, Mitch didn’t really mind doing such a favor. He missed having regular contact with the people who really needed the police’s help, instead of spending most of his hours talking to the press or running the administrative end of Kansas City’s Fourth Precinct.

But not this kind of house. Not these kind of people.

The commissioner didn’t know what he was asking of him.

Mitch checked his watch and then smoothed his leather gloves back into place. It was 6:00 p.m. Surely no one went to bed this early anymore. Maybe the gray November air had driven the residents to the far wing of the house, where they nestled in front of a fireplace, sipping cognac to chase away the chill of the evening.

He punched the doorbell again, laying on the buzzer for an impolite length of time. They could damn well send the servants to answer the door, the tips of his ears were feeling the bite of Missouri’s damp winter.

“This has to be a wild-goose chase,” he muttered to himself, ready to climb back into his Jeep Grand Cherokee and phone Reed on his private line to report no one at home. This was probably some test of his loyalty before the new assistant commissioner was named in January.

Well, Mitch Taylor didn’t play games. If he got the job because he was the best qualified, then fine, he deserved it. But if the selection would be based on politics, he didn’t have a prayer.

Schmooze or you lose, the commissioner had once advised him. If that was the case, Mitch was bound to lose.

His annoying second-guessing was cut short by the crackle of static from a hidden intercom panel. “Yes?”

Mitch looked up toward the source of the raspy voice and located the speaker and camera recessed behind the carved walnut paneling lining the front door. He stepped back, reached inside his coat and pulled his badge from his belt. Holding the identification beside his face, he looked up at the camera.

“I’m Captain Mitch Taylor, KCPD. I’d like to ask you a few questions, ma’am, and, if possible, check the premises for you. We got an anonymous call that there was some trouble here.”

Following orders, he left out the commissioner’s name and treated this like a routine investigation of a reported disturbance. Then, confident that the ID and his authoritative voice would reassure the woman this visit was simply standard procedure, he clipped the badge onto the breast pocket of his coat and waited to be let in.

“There’s no trouble here.” The woman responded too quickly and too breathlessly for him to believe her.

Ah, hell, if Reed had sent him out on a domestic-violence call without any backup…

Mitch reached inside his coat and unsnapped the holster beneath his blazer. His guard-dog hackles went up at the possibility of facing a cop’s most dreaded call, but he forced his voice to remain calm and even pitched.

“Ma’am, if you could just come to the door, I’d like to speak to you face-to-face.”

Before the intercom went silent, he heard a flurry of activity. Mitch’s initial suspicions flared a notch. He adjusted his tie, never blinking his gaze from the doorknob. Then, through the double blockade of the front door and storm door, he heard the distinctive sound of a solid object crashing to the floor, followed by a stifled yelp.

His hand stilled on the knot of his tie.

“Ma’am?” he called. “Ma’am, are you all right?”

Nothing but dead silence answered him. Rusty warning signals that had kept him alive when he worked on the streets labored into overdrive. A spot at the nape of his neck tingled with awareness whenever he sensed something was wrong. Right now, the skin above his collar tickled like crazy.

He unholstered his Glock 9 mm pistol from beneath his suit jacket.

“Ma’am?”

Nothing.

Damn. This was supposed to be routine. A polite introduction, sorry to disturb you and good-night. Some routine. More like a shot in the dark. He’d wake the commissioner tonight and find out exactly what kind of wild ride he’d been sent on.

But first, he had to protect that woman.

“I’m coming in,” he announced.

Mitch flipped his gun around, clutched the barrel and hammered at the glass in the locked storm door. When it shattered, he reached inside and opened it. The wooden door inside was locked, as well. Taking two steps back, he released the safety, aimed his weapon and fired two rounds into the locking mechanism.

The wood splintered around the knob, and the door loosened from its frame. Leaning his shoulder against it, he braced his legs and pushed. The door swung open and he stumbled inside.

The lights in the house immediately flashed on, and a loud, repetitive alarm blared to life. The woman screamed from the back of the house, yelling a warning over the din.

“Routine, hell!” he muttered under his breath.

He rolled to the wall and straightened himself against the ceiling-high paneling. The security lights he’d tripped had a strobe effect on his vision, blinding him more than the utter darkness of the place had.

Mitch relied on his sense of touch to get his bearings. He slid along the paneling until he found a set of double French doors. Locked. He peered in through the glass and saw shrouded objects each time the lights blinked on. A closed-off wing of the house.

A few steps farther his foot hit an abutment. He lifted his foot and found another level. Stairs. With narrowed eyes, he made out a grand staircase leading up to a second-floor landing.

But the cry had come from the main floor.

Moving around the stairs to the opposite side, Mitch trailed his right hand along the paneling. His fingers curled into a recess in the wall and touched something hard, cold and smooth. When the lights flashed on, he jumped back from the face staring at him.

He slammed his gun between both hands and stepped out to defend himself. The lights flashed on again and he swore.

He’d bumped into some sort of damn shrine filled with trophies, framed medals and photos. With one slow, steadying breath, he regained his equilibrium. The woman’s face staring back at him belonged to a framed, glossy photograph. He’d been spooked by a picture of a coltish young redhead waving a bouquet of flowers in one hand and gripping a medal in the other.

Pushing aside his curiosity, Mitch closed his eyes to listen for any telltale movements in the house. Except for the deafening blare of the alarm, the place was quiet. Too quiet.

Holding his gun up in his left hand, he crept farther into the interior of the house.

The next recess he came to was an open doorway. Catching his breath and thinking a prayer for no more false alarms to increase his blood pressure, he cautiously stepped around and peered inside.

The lights flashed on long enough for him to see an object hurtling through the air toward him. He was plunged into darkness a split second before it whacked him across the face.

His string of curses was brief and to the point. The blow hadn’t been hard enough to do serious damage, but his nose and skull throbbed with the impact.

“Police! Put down your weapon!” He recited the line by rote, feeling the rising rush of adrenaline crowding out his more rational thoughts.

Mitch reached out blindly and was rewarded with another blow to his wrist, this time solid enough to knock the gun from his grasp.

“Son of a…”

When the lights flashed off again, Mitch was ready. He glimpsed the grayish afterimage of his attacker and lunged in that direction.

With all the finesse of a linebacker sacking the quarterback, he rammed his assailant, pinned his arms and took him down, landing the perp flat on his back with Mitch on top. A strangled “oof” grunted between them made him hope he’d knocked the wind out of the guy.

But in seconds, his enemy recovered. One leg coiled beneath him. He guessed the intended direction and rolled, flipping the smaller, wiry man onto his stomach. Mitch snatched a flailing elbow and pinned the twisting body to the floor with his knee.

The other elbow connected with his chin, and Mitch’s temper kicked in. “There are laws against assaulting a cop.”

He clamped down on the dangerous arm and pulled it behind the attacker’s back, shifting his knee to the base of his adversary’s spine.

The perp screamed, a husky, high-pitched sound of pain.

“Oh, God! Don’t hurt me,” wheezed the voice.

No.

Mitch froze above his pinned opponent.

The lights flashed on, and he caught a glimpse of a long braid the color of golden cider sprinkled with cinnamon.

The image vanished with the lights.

But the memory didn’t.

Mitch moved his knee, suspecting the truth, but needing to see it with his own eyes. He tugged on one of the arms to roll the body over and look at the face. When he reached for the opposite shoulder to anchor his attacker in place in case he was mistaken, Mitch’s hand brushed against something pillowy and soft.

A woman’s breast.

“Ma’am?”

The lights flashed on again, giving Mitch a glimpse of the woman’s pale, terror-stricken face. Wild, smoky gray eyes glared at him with flash-fire intensity.

The impression was fleeting, distracting. Vanishing when the light did. Too late, he realized he’d underestimated her. Something swift and solid with four hard knots slammed into his left temple. Bright spots swam before his eyes in counterpoint to the blinking security lights.

Mitch caught her fist when she swung at him a second time. He swallowed her hand in his grasp and stretched her arm up over her head. The action flattened his body on top of hers, reaffirming his discovery that this was no intruder, but the person he’d been sent to check on.

The girl in the photograph.

Very much a woman now.

“Dammit, lady! I said I’m a cop. I’m not here to hurt you.”

She writhed beneath him, her fear or fury so intense that Mitch didn’t dare let go. If she harnessed the adrenaline pumping through her, she could knock him out cold.

While the dizziness behind his eyes abated, he protected himself by trapping her beneath him until her energy was spent. Mitch cursed the unprofessional torture to which he’d subjected himself. The woman’s firm breasts pushed against his chest, leaving the imprint of graceful curves through the layers of clothing between them.

And her hips—full, wide, womanly—cradled the lower half of his torso. Rocking against him in her struggle. Teasing him. Taunting him with an awareness of needs he had buried long ago.

Damn, he was a sorry, lustful excuse for a man to find his body so tempted by the struggles of a frightened woman he was trying to subdue.

He pinned her for over a minute before her thrashing ceased abruptly. She lay perfectly still for a second, then groaned, deep in her throat. Her face contorted in the next flash of light, and Mitch watched her grit her teeth and squeeze her eyes shut. Darkness returned, hiding her expression, but he felt the muscles in her arms and body clench to the point that she started shaking.

“You’re hurting me.” Her husky voice caught and rasped into a sob. “Please don’t hurt me.”

Mitch scrambled off her and rocked back on his heels, berating himself for botching this “routine” visit beyond excuse. “I’m sorry.”

His apology fell on deaf ears. She rolled onto her side and curled into a fetal position, hauling in deep gulps of air that racked her body.

He reached for her arm. She tried to pull away from his touch, but her muscles wouldn’t respond. Mortified to know he had truly hurt her, Mitch obliged her by letting go. “I was only defending myself. I haven’t been in a brawl like this since I made detective. You don’t know your own strength.”

He thought that might elicit a laugh, break the tension, but she didn’t even look at him.

“I didn’t call the cops,” she whispered between breaths. “Why are you here?”

In the shadows of his jumbled vision, he watched her prop herself up to a sitting position, then scoot away on her bottom until she leaned up against a desk. She dug her fingers into her right thigh and kneaded her leg through her jeans.

Mitch curled his fingers into his palms, squelching the urge to help her. He had inflicted whatever pain she was suffering. He doubted she’d appreciate any attempt to touch her again, no matter how altruistic his intentions.

Instead, he called upon his years of experience. This woman was a victim. Of his own carelessness, if nothing else. She might be frightened or confused. He gave her the space she needed to feel safe again, backing away even farther. He lowered his voice to its gentlest pitch and spoke quietly. “Are you Cassandra Maynard?”

The commissioner had only supplied a name and address.

“I don’t remember your name.” Her clipped response sounded like an accusation.

He refused the bait and stayed calm. “Mitch Taylor.”

Automatically, he reached for his breast pocket. He patted the empty space where the brass shield should be and glanced around quickly. Unable to see well for any distance, he apologized. “I lost my ID in our little tumble.”

Her gaze filled with the same intensity she had trained on him earlier. “A badge doesn’t prove anything.”

Her chest rose with a huge sigh before she sagged back against the sturdy oak desk. Physical distress seemed to finally be conquering her indomitable will. “I’m Casey Maynard.”

Flattening one palm against the rug, she pushed herself upright and gingerly adjusted to a more comfortable position. Mitch wondered if the tight white lines bracketing the corners of her mouth were a trick of the illumination or a grimace of pain.

“Do I need to call an ambulance?” he asked.

“No. It’ll pass.” She breathed in deeply through her nose and released the air gently across the generous curve of her bottom lip.

Hell. What was wrong with him? He was here as a cop, not a blind date, but he seemed to be going out of his way to notice her striking features, from the unusual shade of her French-braided hair to the delicate bone structure of her cheeks and pointed chin. Though delicate seemed an odd impression since she had almost bested him in their fight.

“Why did you attack me?” he asked, forcing himself away from unprofessional concerns. “Who did you think I was?”

Casey shook her head. “I get to ask questions first. How the hell did you get up to the house? What do you want?”

The whole evening took on a surreal quality. Lights flashed on and off at regular intervals. An alarm blared in the background. They sat on a patterned Persian rug. The victim questioned the cop.

Mitch needed his world back in order. He stood up and straightened his clothes, taking his time before answering her. “Police Commissioner James Reed called me this evening and asked me to check on your family and the house. He gave me his key to bypass the security gate. He said he was watching the property for a friend. He thought there might be some trouble.”

“Uncle Jimmy always was a worrywart.”

Uncle Jimmy?

Casey twisted her body, grabbed the top of the desk and hauled herself to her feet. Bracing her weight against the solid oak top, she hobbled around the desk. Her full mouth narrowed into a grim line with each step. Had she dislocated something? Twisted her knee?

In two steps, Mitch was at her side, cupping her elbow and waist and taking her weight into his hands.

She stiffened when he pulled her against his side. “Don’t.”

He’d never met such a stubborn woman. Mitch tightened his grip, but his voice was gentle. “I’m going to help you, no matter what, so shut up.”

She didn’t exactly relax, but some of the tension eased from her. She inclined her head toward the swivel chair overturned on its side behind the desk. “I just need to sit down.”

Though she continued to favor her right leg, he noticed how she carried her shoulders and chin with grace and determination. Mitch righted the chair and steadied it when she turned to sit. The crown of her hair brushed along his jaw, and the faint scent of vanilla filled his senses.

She might pretend to be one tough cookie, but her ladylike femininity was hard to hide.

“That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

If he expected to be rewarded with a smile or thank-you, he was destined for disappointment. She twisted the chair away from him and pulled out a sliding keyboard tray. The computer monitor on her desk blinked on, and she pulled up a series of screen commands. She selected one with her mouse, then clicked.

The lights in the house flooded on, and stayed on. Just as abruptly, the alarm stopped.

“There’s no problem here, Captain.”

She raised her head and offered him a fake smile. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time. I don’t know where Uncle Jimmy gets his ideas. But tell him I appreciate his concern.”

Mitch knew a goodbye when he heard one. This had turned into one hell of an evening. His skull throbbed with a headache. He’d ticked off an ungrateful woman who had every right to sue him. And he had a growing list of questions that no one wanted to answer.

It would have required a better man to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “It’s been real fun getting to know you, too, Ms. Maynard. I’ll be sure to pass your regards along to Uncle Jimmy.”

In the clear light, he easily spotted his badge on the carpet. He picked it up and clipped it to his pocket. He retrieved his gun from beneath a side table and snapped it into his holster. As he straightened, something else caught his attention.

A brown stick protruded from beneath the corner of a black leather sofa. Is that what she’d hit him with?

Keeping his back to her, Mitch used his foot to slide the piece of wood into view. A cane?

His preformed image of Cassandra Maynard, pampered society princess whose elite circle of friends included the commissioner of police, shifted a notch. He’d driven into this ritzy Plaza neighborhood expecting to find people living the lifestyle his late wife had struggled so ruthlessly to attain.

After the commissioner’s phone call, Mitch had fully expected to find Ms. Maynard preened and poised on her perch high above the mortals like himself who had to work for a living. She’d lie about whatever trouble had prompted the intrusion on private family business, and then politely send him on his way.

She had the lie part down pat, and she sounded eager to be rid of him. But this wounded woman in the jeans and gray sweatshirt seemed more brittle than icy. And the disdain in her voice didn’t match the terror in her eyes.

He glanced at the cane again. Richly polished walnut inlaid with a ring of brass at the handle, the item itself bespoke wealth. But a cane was a cane, a symbol of injury or handicap in one so young and apparently athletic as Ms. Maynard. Maybe she’d had surgery, or injured herself in training.

His lean years growing up in a decaying neighborhood north of downtown Kansas City had taught him to recognize some basic tricks of survival. Attacking before the enemy could identify your weakness was a classic.

Uptown or down, Mitch recognized vulnerability.

“So why would Commissioner Reed think anything was wrong here?” He nudged the cane out of sight with his toe, allowing her the security of hiding the extent of her disability from him.

He turned, catching the startled expression on her face before she quickly replaced it with that stoic mask. “I don’t know. I’m surprised he didn’t call me himself.”

“He probably figured you’d lie and say everything was all right so he wouldn’t worry.”

She shrugged. “Everything is all right. Other than you breaking down the door.”

He stepped toward her. “Something scared the hell out of you tonight.”

“You did.”

“No. Before I showed up, something wasn’t right.” He advanced farther, and enjoyed the transient satisfaction of seeing her mask slip a little.

Even at the cusp of winter, the mansions in this oldmonied neighborhood had an unlived-in perfection about them. Lawns were manicured, homes and fences were decorated for the holidays and welcoming lights blazed from crystal-clear windows and porches.

But not the Maynard estate. The imposing structure was half-hidden behind a high granite wall and black wrought-iron gate. Inside that barrier, ancient oaks lined the driveway, casting shadows across the yard that even twin porch lights couldn’t illuminate. One wing of the house was closed off. The interior had been dark. The items he’d stumbled over in the hallway and in this room were arranged in pristine, untouched perfection.

So who kept the princess locked in the tower?

Fairy tales had never topped Mitch’s reading list, but he couldn’t think of a better analogy. Where was the family the commissioner had asked him to check on? He’d bet his next paycheck that she lived alone in this overbuilt monstrosity.

“Are you married, Ms. Maynard? Live with a boyfriend or fiancé?”

He interpreted the sharp, humorless sound that passed as her laugh for a no.

“What about your parents?”

“I’m twenty-eight years old, Mr. Taylor. I don’t live with Mommy and Daddy anymore.”

Touché. So he wasn’t the only one who resorted to sarcasm under pressure.

“Where are they?” He took another step.

“Now that they’ve retired, they spend their winters in a warmer climate.” Not much of an answer, so he switched tactics.

“Why did you attack me?” He reached her desk.

“I thought you were an intruder.” She squared her shoulders. “Most visitors ring the buzzer at the gatehouse before I send them on their way.”

He ignored the obvious hint. He braced his hands on the desktop and leaned toward her. “I said I was a cop.”

She tilted her chin upward. “I don’t care if—”

Garbled voices from the front of the house interrupted their standoff. By the time he spun around, two uniformed patrolmen had entered the room, positioning themselves with guns drawn and pointed straight at him.

“Hold it right there,” one of the officers commanded.

Mitch calmly raised his hands. He heard a strangled gasp behind him, a soft, barely audible sound of despair. He glanced back at Casey. If possible, her fine porcelain skin had blanched even further.

Guns? Cops? Or men in general?

Something about the blue-suits, something about him, terrified her. Not because she thought he was breaking in. Not because she valued her privacy.

Him.

The discovery hit Mitch in the gut with all the force of her cane smacking his face. She was afraid of him. And fighting like a regal hellcat to prove she wasn’t.