Wednesday, December 21
Garrett’s hands ran over his face as he sat in the unmarked car. The medical examiner estimated Jane Doe’s age to be between sixteen and twenty. Too young to die.
This was a grim occupation. His aim when transferring to homicide was to ensure that all deaths were avenged, though that didn’t always happen. The cold case file box by his desk served as proof.
The job didn’t end when his shift did, either.
He brought it home with him, replaying it as he drove to his house, at the dinner table, and while watching TV or reading.
He rehashed it over his first beer and through all his subsequent drinks.
The worst part was that it followed him to bed and dared to invade his peaceful rest. Garrett didn’t dream much, but last night’s dream was a whopper.
He was back at Cooper’s cabin. The victim lay on the same old, ripped sofa as when he first entered the deserted, rundown place.
The deceased don’t move on their own in real life.
So Garrett experienced the shock of his life; the female in his nightmare did!
Dear God, transference had taken place. The lifeless body, white as death, with her arm dangling off the edge of the moldy sofa, wasn’t his Jane Doe but the woman from the Lakeside Inn.
That mind-blowing, nauseating head trip blew him away.
Why was he dreaming about her? Dead, no less.
If that wasn’t already bizarre enough, Garrett jumped up, got dressed, and went to church.
He went to church! He hadn’t set foot there in over ten years.
Here he was at 4 a.m., lighting a candle, kneeling, and praying.
Praying! Was it for her or for himself? Who the hell knew?
Ed thought he was losing it over Carolyn; he thought he was just plain losing it.
What did he learn from that clandestine visit? Did he experience a revelation? Only that the jury was still out on the guy upstairs, and that hot wax melted.
Hours later, he needed a liquid “refreshment,” but not the kind that came in a can with a straw. Forced to settle for second-best, he slammed the car door and climbed the concrete steps to his usual takeout joint.
He encountered a bustling hub of activity, with last-minute holiday shoppers fortifying themselves at the diner. While waiting for his to-go coffee at the back counter, he eyed a mouthwatering display of donuts, cakes, and pastries. He debated.
Someone calling his name ended his dilemma, a minor miracle amid the boisterous chatter and laughter.
The woman from his nocturnal journey to hell, the one who drove him to church before dawn, stood before him, knocking the wind out of him.
Thankfully, she was very much alive, though her red eyes showed she’d been crying.
Caught between his disturbing, hellish dream and the present, Garrett took a few seconds to regain his composure, though not all of it. This is freaking surreal.
“I didn’t expect to see you here, Miss.” Especially since the last time he saw her, she had flat-lined!
“You either, Detective. I was leaving when I spotted you,” she said, too quietly for this noisy environment. “I want to thank you for your concern last night.”
Taking her in, she looked tired and pale, undoubtedly from lack of sleep after her ordeal (the restaurant assault, not from premature death). Just the same, she carried herself with elegance and, in her designer clothes, appeared more suited to the pace of the capital than to this small town.
A child howled among the hungry eaters and busy servers.
“Thank you, but that isn’t necessary. It’s my job,” Garrett said.
She twisted the strap on her handbag. “I really appreciated it, since I interrupted your meal.”
This little pixie may have approached him, but her shy demeanor and soft voice weren’t a match for the circus atmosphere. Another child screeched, triggering a wailing domino effect from other small but far-from-quiet mouths. Trumpeting elephants were the only thing missing, he grumbled to himself.
Overwhelmed and drowned out by the chaotic scene, Garrett took her by the arm and led her to an unlit dining room at the back—an oasis amid the chaos and the perfect spot for a private conversation and a quiet dinner for two. What is he thinking?
“That’s better.” He blinked to clear his head and rubbed the back of his neck. “I assume you knew the man you were with last night?”
The woman abandoned the shoulder strap of her purse and began to wring her hands tightly. So tightly that he wanted to say, “Here, take my hands and break my fingers instead.”
“He’s my boyfriend. I was trying to break up with him.”
Mr. Macho Man’s modus operandi didn’t include rejection. Those types think they’re God’s gift to women. This little woman disagreed. Good for her. She’s too refined for a brute like him.
“He didn’t take it well,” Garrett said. Aside from “Give me his address; I want to beat the shit out of him,” what else could he say?
“No, not at all,” she muttered, her shoulders slumping.
Garrett found it hard to concentrate, not because of the background noise. The petite, sexy woman in tight jeans and a clingy sweater was the problem.
“Do you want to file assault charges?” he asked, valiantly trying to focus.
Appearing sensual never crossed her mind as she jerked, upsetting her wild “bedroom hair,” no longer tucked behind one ear.
“Oh, no … I never want to see him again, Detective.”
As a patrolman, Garrett heard this response multiple times, often with disastrous results—just as in his dream. Perspiration pooled around his collar.
“But will he try to see you again?”
His question grabbed her attention. Her eyebrow twitched as she cringed. “I … hope not!”
Garrett may have long since forgotten his craving for caffeine and donuts, but he recalled the flickering candle in the sanctuary as he struggled to maintain a law-enforcement mindset.
“Do you live by yourself or with family?” he asked.
“Alone.”
Ed, the mind reader—not only was she single, but she also had no live-in partner, bozo or otherwise. Garrett’s feet inched a little closer to her, a distance that conceivably wouldn’t stop his unexpected sexual inclinations toward this woman.
“Do you own a dog?”
“No, a cat,” she replied, biting her lip. Full lips, he found very inviting.
The sound of plates breaking jolted him out of his sensual reverie, but it didn’t leave him with any warm, fuzzy feelings.
“Do you own any handguns or shotguns, licensed or unlicensed?” Garrett grilled.
The space between them widened as she hastily stepped backward. “Certainly not!” she squealed.
Even if the cat was ornery, this adolescent-sized female couldn’t defend herself against her muscular boyfriend, who clung to their relationship.
Garrett’s steps, bridging the gap between them, were as quick as his tongue. “Are you sure you don’t want to file charges?”
Tears pooled in her eyes, and, looking as distraught as she had last night, she whimpered, “Detective, you’re frightening me.”
A runaway teardrop halted his off-putting, clumsy manner. He obviously didn’t think on his feet well, whether as a potential date or as a detective around women. Especially hot ones.
Drawing in a breath, Garrett inhaled a seductive whiff of her perfume. He must extinguish a lot of blazes, including the blazing mess he created. Besides traumatizing her, he risked suspension for brutalizing a domestic violence victim.
“I’m sorry. That wasn’t my intention, Miss,” Garrett said soothingly. He kept—Please forgive me. I’m a first-class ass around women—to himself.
“Now that I’ve unnecessarily upset you, here’s what I’ll do, Miss. I’ll come by your house for a few nights to check on you.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
More interested in this woman’s well-being than saving his dubious career, he said, “Officially, I don’t. I feel obligated since I’ve done more damage than good.”
Garrett reached into his blazer pocket and took out a pad and a pen to record her personal information.
“I should have introduced myself. I’m Angelica Whitely.” She rattled off her address and phone number.
Relieved to have found a workable solution to his ineptness, he sighed. “Okay, Ms. Whitely. I’ll come by around eight tonight. I’ll be in a blue pickup truck.”
Her eyes brightened, and her body noticeably relaxed. “Detective, you can call me Angelica,” she said.
He couldn’t help but notice that those bright eyes were beautiful, large brown eyes. Eyes that might be considered too big for such a little wisp of a girl with small, doll-like features. Yet they looked perfect nonetheless.
“And Angelica, you can call me Garrett.”
“Thank you so much, Garrett. I’ll be looking for you then.” For a moment, she almost smiled. Almost.
He watched her squeeze through the lobby crowd. His instincts, which had sucked lately, told him that Angelica Whitely possessed an air of fragility and needed protection.
Garrett regretted his hard-core interrogation tactics, which caused her undue stress. His skills when interacting with women demanded refinement. He had the finesse of a charging rhino.
Then it hit him as he dropped his pad and pen into his pocket. Contrary to his first impression, Angelica was quite cute. Garrett decided a visit to the optometrist was long overdue.
* * *
Angelica’s day was no better than last night. When she returned home from the Greenery Eatery, after icing the bruise on her arm (that’s 2 for Matt, 0 for her), her to-do list had grown by leaps and bounds. It wasn’t work-related.
“But will he try to see you again?”
She never, in a million years, imagined Matt showing up at her house again.
Angelica assumed the red wine on his face was a rather emphatic sign of how she felt about him.
It communicated more than her words. (Which no man listens to or even takes seriously.) The detective gave her a rude awakening about the possibility of Matt coming back. Holy crap!
After shedding her jacket, she went from window to window, checking that each was locked.
Everything was fine until she reached the one in the guest bedroom.
She had to pull the daybed out of the way to get to that window.
Not an easy task for a lightweight woman.
Daisy, who had been sleeping on the bed, thought it was time to play.
“Do you own a dog?”
What Detective Fitzpatricks meant was whether she had a pit bull or a K-9 dog that would tear an uninvited visitor to shreds.
No, she owned a cat that was headbutting her thigh, wanting to be petted.
Regardless, it was a good thing she went to all this trouble; that window was unlocked.
It took some force and a bit of bearing down on her teeth to turn the ten-times-painted-over lock.
After moving the bed back, she fell onto it, exhausted.
Angelica may have needed rest, but her brain remained in overdrive.
“Do you live by yourself?”
Not counting her fur baby, for sure. If Garrett had asked her that question in the spring, the answer would have been different.
Or should it be reworded? Do you live with someone you don’t want to live with?
Someone who isn’t getting the message? Someone who’s been living in the past too long?
Someone who has more of a memory problem than she does?
Setting those ruminations aside, would she like to live with someone? Some days, yes. Other days, no. It’s complicated.
But the question that frightened Angelica most was: “Do you own any handguns or shotguns?” Did Garrett think she was a sitting duck, about to be assaulted or worse? Okay, she was small, but … A shiver ran through her.
After resting her tired body but not her whirling thoughts, she got up and went back to her desk. Daisy stayed behind. The concept of work didn’t appeal to the cat.
Before she put her hand to the grindstone, Angelica pulled out his business card.
Garrett J. Fitzpatricks, Homicide Detective.
What was she doing with a homicide detective?
Was that an omen? She suddenly didn’t feel very secure.
She shook her head and taped his business card to the base of her landline.
Just in case. Can a woman living alone be too cautious or too prepared?
Unlike in the city, a landline was essential when towering trees and a mountain range served as a buffer between her home and the cell signal. All right, they only blocked her cell phone reception on days with an “S” in them, maybe even a “D.”
She spent the remainder of the day doodling rather than sketching. While her frozen dinner took a tour of the world in the microwave, she poured herself a glass of wine.
Then she heard the crunch of a vehicle traveling up her gravel driveway. Angelica tensed. Who now? She glanced at the clock, then peeked through the kitchen window. A blue pickup was approaching her cabin. Relief coursed through her, and her shoulders relaxed.
She opened the front door and gave the detective a thumbs-up. He flashed his headlights twice. All was well—for the moment. Angelica closed the door and deadbolted it. Until today, she had never used that lock.
As the microwave dinged, she headed to the kitchen. At least one man kept his word. Or, if given a chance, will Garrett break it like the others?