Night Shift Page 9

  She wanted to be relieved. Cilla leaned back as Althea drove her home and wondered why she couldn’t accept this step as a step forward. They had traced the call. Didn’t that mean they would know where he lived? They would have a name, and they would put a face, a person, together with that name.

  She would go and see him. She would make herself do that. She would look at that face, into those eyes, and try to find a link between him and whatever she had done in the past to incite that kind of hate.

  Then she would try to live with it.

  She spotted Boyd’s car at the curb in front of her house. He stood on the walk, his coat unbuttoned. Though the calendar claimed it was spring, the night was cold enough for her to see his breath. But not his eyes.

  Cilla took a firm grip on the door handle, pushed it open. He waited as she moved up the walk toward him.

  “Let’s go inside.”

  “I want to know.” She saw his eyes now and understood. “You didn’t get him.”

  “No.” He glanced toward his partner. Althea saw the frustration held under grim control.

  “What happened?”

  “It was a phone booth a couple miles from the station. No prints. He’d wiped it clean.”

  Struggling to hold on for a few more minutes, Cilla nodded. “So we’re no closer.”

  “Yes, we are.” He took her hand to warm it in his. “He made his first mistake. He’ll make another.”

  Weary, she looked over her shoulder. Was it just her overworked nerves, or was he out there somewhere, in the shadows, close enough to see? Near enough to hear?

  “Come on, let me take you inside. You’re cold.”

  “I’m all right.” She couldn’t let him come with her. She needed to let go, and for that she needed privacy. “I don’t want to talk about any of this tonight. I just want to go to bed. Althea, thanks for the ride, and everything else.” She walked quickly to the front door and let herself inside.

  “She just needs to work this out,” Althea said, placing a hand on his arm.

  He wanted to swear, to smash something with his hands. Instead, he stared at the closed door. “She doesn’t want to let me help her.”

  “No, she doesn’t.” She watched the light switch on upstairs. “Want me to call for a uniform to stake out the house?”

  “No, I’ll hang around.”

  “You’re off duty, Fletcher.”

  “Right. We can consider this personal.”

  “Want some company?”

  He shook his head. “No. You need some sleep.”

  Althea hesitated, then let out a quiet sigh. “You take the first shift. I sleep better in a car than a bed, anyway.”

  ***

  There was a light frost that glittered like glass on the lawn. Cilla sighed as she studied it through her bedroom window. In Georgia the azaleas would be blooming. It had been years, more years than she could remember, since she had yearned for home. In that chill Colorado morning she wondered if she had made a mistake traveling more than halfway across the country and leaving all those places, all those memories of her childhood, behind.

  Letting the curtain fall again, she stepped back. She had more to think about than an April frost. She had also seen Boyd’s car, still parked at the curb.

  Thinking of him, she took more time and more care dressing than was her habit. Not for a moment had she changed her mind about it being unwise to become involved with him. But it seemed it was a mistake she’d already made. The wisdom to face up to her mistakes was something she’d learned very early.

  She smoothed her plum-colored cashmere sweater over her hips. It had been a Christmas present from Deborah, and it was certainly more stylish, with its high neck and its generous sleeves, than most of the clothes Cilla chose for herself. She wore it over snug black leggings and on impulse struggled with a pair of star-shaped earrings in glossy silver.

  He was spread comfortably over her couch, the newspaper open, a mug of coffee steaming in his hand. His shirt was carelessly unbuttoned to the middle of his chest and wrinkled from being worn all night. His jacket was tossed over the back of the couch, but he still wore his shoulder holster.

  She had never known anyone who could melt into his surroundings so easily. At the moment he looked as though he spent every morning of his life in that spot, in her spot, lazily perusing the sports page and drinking a second cup of coffee.

  He looked up at her. Though he didn’t smile, his utter relaxation was soothing. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning.” Feeling awkward, she crossed to him. She wasn’t certain whether she should begin with an apology or an explanation.

  “Deborah let me in.”

  She nodded, then immediately wished she’d worn trousers with pockets. There was nothing to do with her hands but link them together. “You’ve been here all night.”

  “Just part of the service.”

  “You slept in your car.”

  He tilted his head. Her tone was very close to an accusation. “It wasn’t the first time.”

  “I’m sorry.” On a long, shaky breath, she sat on the coffee table across from him. Their knees bumped. He found it a friendly gesture. One of the friendliest she’d made with him. “I should have let you inside. I should have known you would stay. I guess I was—”

  “Upset.” He passed her his coffee. “You were entitled, Cilla.”

  “Yeah.” She sipped, wincing a bit at the added sugar. “I guess I’d talked myself into believing that you were going to catch him last night. It even—it’s weird, but it even unnerved me a bit thinking about finally seeing him, finally knowing the whole story. Then, when we got here and you told me … I couldn’t talk about it. I just couldn’t.”

  “It’s okay.”

  Her laugh was only a little strained. “Do you have to be so nice to me?”

  “Probably not.” Reaching out, he touched her cheek. “Would you feel better if I yelled at you?”

  “Maybe.” Unable to resist, she lifted a hand to his. “I have an easier time fighting than I do being reasonable.”

  “I’ve noticed. Have you ever considered taking a day, just to relax?”

  “Not really.”

  “How about today?”

  “I was going to catch up with my paperwork. And I have to call a plumber. We’ve got a leak under the sink.” She let her hand fall to her knees, where it moved restlessly. “It’s my turn to do the laundry. Tonight I’m spinning records at this class reunion downtown. Bob and Jim are splitting my shift.”

  “I heard.”

  “These reunion things … they can get pretty wild.” She was groping, feeling more foolish by the minute. He’d taken the empty cup and set it aside, and was now holding both of her hands lightly in his. “They can be a lot of fun, though. Maybe you’d like to come and … hang around.”

  “Are you asking me to come and … hang around, like on a date?”

  “I’ll be working,” she began, then subsided. She was getting in deep. “Yes. Sort of.”

  “Okay. Can I sort of pick you up?”

  “By 7,” she said. “I have to be there early enough to set up.”

  “Let’s make it 6, then. We can have some dinner first.”

  “I …” Deeper and deeper. “All right. Boyd, I have to tell you something.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I still don’t want to get involved. Not seriously.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “You’re completely wrong for me.”

  “That’s just one more thing we disagree on.” He held her still when she started to rise. “Don’t pace, Cilla. Just take a couple of deep breaths.”

  “I think it’s important we understand up front how far this can go, and what limitations there are.”

  “Are we going to have a romance, Cilla, or a business arrangement?”

  He smiled. She frowned.

  “I don’t think we should call it a romance.”

  “Why not?”

&nbs
p; “Because it’s … Because a romance has implications.”

  He struggled against another smile. She wouldn’t appreciate the fact that she amused him. “What kind of implications?” Slowly, watching her, he brought her hand to his lips.

  “Just …” His mouth brushed over her knuckles, and then, when her fingers went limp, he turned her palm up to press a kiss to its center.

  “Just?” he prompted.

  “Implications. Boyd—” She shivered when his teeth grazed over her wrist.

  “Is that all you wanted to tell me?”

  “No. Can you stop that?”

  “If I really put my mind to it.”

  She found that her own lips had curved. “Well, put your mind to it. I can’t think.”

  “Dangerous words.” But he stopped nibbling.

  “I’m trying to be serious.”

  “So am I.” Once again he stopped her from rising. “Try that deep breath.”

  “Right.” She did, then plunged on. “Last night, when I lay down in the dark, I was afraid. I kept hearing him, hearing that voice, everything he’d said to me. Over and over. I knew I couldn’t think of it. If I did, I’d go crazy. So I thought of you.” She paused, waiting for the courage to go on. “And when I thought of you, it blocked out everything else. And I wasn’t afraid.”

  His fingers tightened on hers. Her eyes were steady, but he saw that her lips trembled once before she pressed them together. She was waiting, he knew. To see what he would do, what he would say. She couldn’t have known, couldn’t have had any idea, that at that moment, at that one instant of time, he teetered off the edge he’d been walking and tumbled into love with her.

  And if he told her that, he thought as he felt the shock of the emotions vibrate through him, she would never believe it. Some women had to be shown, convinced, not merely told. Cilla was one of them.

  Slowly he rose, drawing her up with him. He gathered her close, cradling her head on his shoulder, wrapping his arms around her. He could feel her shiver of relief as he kept the embrace quiet and undemanding.

  It was just what she needed. How was it he seemed always to know? To be held, only held, without words, without promises. To feel the solid warmth of his body against her, the firm grip of his hands, the steady beat of his heart.

  “Boyd?”

  “Yeah.” He turned his head just enough to kiss her hair.

  “Maybe I don’t mind you being nice to me after all.”

  “We’ll give it a trial run.”

  She thought she might as well go all the way with it. “And maybe I’ve missed having you around.”

  It was his turn to take a deep breath and steady himself. “Listen.” He slid his hands up to her shoulders. “I’ve got some calls to make. After, why don’t I take a look at that leak?”

  She smiled. “I can look at it, Slick. What I want is to have it fixed.”

  He leaned forward and bit her lower lip. “Just get me a wrench.”

  ***

  Two hours later, Cilla had her monthly finances spread out over the secondhand oak desk in the den that doubled as her office. There were two dollars and fifty-three cents lost somewhere in her checkbook, an amount she was determined to find before she paid the neat stack of bills to her right.

  Her sense of order was something she’d taught herself, something she’d clung to during the lean years, the unhappy years, the stormy years. If amid any crisis she could maintain this small island of normalcy, however bland, she believed she would survive.

  “Ah!” She found the error, pounced on it. Making the correction, she scrupulously ran her figures again. Satisfied, she filed away her bank statement, then began writing checks, starting with the mortgage.

  Even that gave her an enormous sense of accomplishment. It wasn’t rent, it was equity. It was hers. The house was the first thing she had ever owned other than the clothes on her back and the occasional secondhand car.

  She’d never been poor, but she had learned, growing up in a family where the income was a combination of a cop’s salary and the lean monthly earnings of a public defender, to count pennies carefully. She’d grown up in a rented house, and she’d never known the luxury of riding in a new car. College wouldn’t have been impossible, but because of the strain it would have added to her parents’ income at a time when their marriage was rocky, Cilla had decided to bypass her education in favor of a job.

  She didn’t regret it often. She resented it only a little, at odd times. But her ability to subsidize Deborah’s partial scholarship made her look back to the time when she had made the decision. It had been the right one.

  Now they were slowly creeping their way up. The house wasn’t simply an acquisition, it was a statement. Family, home, roots. Every month, when she paid the mortgage, she was grateful she’d been given the chance.

  “Cilla?”

  “What? Oh.” She spotted Boyd in the doorway. She started to speak again, then focused. He still had the wrench she’d given him. His hair was mussed and damp. Both his shirt and his slacks were streaked with wet. He’d rolled his sleeves up to the elbows. Water glistened on his forearms. “Oh,” she said again, and choked on a laugh.

  “I fixed it.” His eyes narrowed as he watched her struggle to maintain her dignity. “Problem?”

  “No. No, not a thing.” She cleared her throat. “So, you fixed it.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  She had to bite down on her lip. She recognized a frazzled male ego when she heard it. “That’s what you said, all right. And since you’ve just saved me a bundle, the least I can do is fix you lunch. What do you think about peanut butter and jelly?”

  “That it belongs in a plastic lunch box with Spider-Man on the outside.”

  “Well, I’ve got to tell you, Slick, it’s the best thing I cook.” Forgetting the bills, she rose. “It’s either that or a can of tuna fish.” She ran a fingertip down his shirt experimentally. “Did you know you’re all wet?”

  He held up one grimy hand, thought about it, then went with the impulse and rubbed it all over her face. “Yeah.”

  She laughed, surprising him. Seducing him. He’d heard that laugh before, over the radio, but not once since he’d met her. It was as low and rich and arousing as black silk.

  “Come on, Fletcher, we’ll throw that shirt in the wash while you eat your sandwich.”

  “In a minute.” He kept his hand cupped on her chin, pulling her to him with that subtle pressure alone. When his mouth met hers, her lips were still curved. This time, she didn’t stiffen, she didn’t protest. With a sigh of acceptance, she opened for him, allowing herself to absorb the taste of his mouth, the alluring dance of his tongue over hers.

  There was a warmth here that she had forgotten to hope for. The warmth of being with someone who understood her. And cared, she realized as his fingers skimmed over her cheek. Cared, despite her flaws.

  “I guess you were right,” she murmured.

  “Damn right. About what?”

  She took a chance, an enormous one for her, and brushed at the hair on his forehead. “It is too late.”

  “Cilla.” He brought his hands to her shoulders again, battling back a clawing need, a ragged desire. “Come upstairs with me. I want to be with you.”

  His words sent the passion leaping. He could see the fire of it glow in her eyes before she closed them and shook her head. “Give me some time. I’m not playing games here, Boyd, but the ground’s pretty shaky and I need to think it through.” On a steadying breath, she opened her eyes, and nearly smiled. “You’re absolutely everything I swore I’d never fall for.”

  He brought his hands down to hers and gripped. “Talk to me.”

  “Not now.” But she laced her fingers with his. It was a sign of union that was rare for her. “I’m not ready to dig it all up right now. I’d just like to spend a few hours here like real people. If the phone rings, I’m not going to answer it. If someone comes to the door, I’m going to wait until they go a
way again. All I want to do is fix you a sandwich and wash your shirt. Okay?”

  “Sure.” He pressed a kiss to her brow. “It’s the best offer I’ve had in years.”

  Chapter 7

  There was a wall of noise—the backbeat, the bass, the wail of a guitar riff. There were spinning lights, undulating bodies, the clamor of feet. Cilla set the tone with her midnight voice and stood back to enjoy the results. The ballroom was alive with sound—laughter, music, voices raised in spurts of conversation. Cilla had her finger on the controls. She didn’t know any of the faces, but it was her party.

  Boyd sipped a club soda and politely avoided a none-too-subtle invitation from a six-foot blonde in a skimpy blue dress. He didn’t consider this a trial. He’d spent a large portion of his career watching people, and he’d never gotten bored with it.

  It was a hell of a party, and he wouldn’t have minded a turn on the dance floor. But he preferred keeping his eye on Cilla. There were worse ways to spend the evening.

  She presided over a long table at the front of the ballroom, her records stacked, her amps turned up high. She glittered. Her silver-sequined jacket and black stovepipe pants were a whole new look in tuxedos. Her hair was full and loose, and when she turned her head the silver stars at her ears glistened.

  She’d already lured dozens of couples onto the dance floor, and they were bopping and swaying elbow to elbow. Others crowded around the edges in groups or loitered at the banquet tables, lingering over drinks and conversation.

  The music was loud, hot and fast. He’d already learned that was how she liked it best. As far as he could tell, the class of ’75 was having the time of their lives. From all appearances, Cilla was too.

  She was joking with a few members of the graduating class, most of them male. More than a few of them had imbibed freely at the cash bar. But she was handling herself, Boyd noted. Smooth as silk.

  He didn’t particularly like it when a man with a lineman’s chest put a beefy arm around her and squeezed. But Cilla shook her head. Whatever brush-off she used, she sent the guy off with a smile on his face.

  “There’s more where that came from, boys and girls. Let’s take you back, all the way back to prom night, 1975.” She cued up the Eagles’ “One of These Nights,” then skimmed the crowd for Boyd.

  When she spotted him, she smiled. Fully, so that even with the room between them he could see her eyes glow. He wondered if he could manage to get her to look at him like that when they didn’t have five hundred people between them. He had to grin when she put a hand to her throat and mimed desperate thirst.

  Lord, he looked wonderful, Cilla thought as she watched him turn toward the bar. Strange, she would have thought a smoke gray jacket would look too conservative on a man for her tastes. On him, it worked. So well, she mused with a wry smile, that half the female portion of the class of ’75 had their eye on him.

  Tough luck, ladies, she thought. He’s mine. At least for tonight.

  A little surprised by where her thoughts had landed, she shook herself back and chose a slip from the pile of requests next to the turntable. A nostalgic crowd, she decided, and plucked another fifteen-year-old hit from her stack.

  She liked working parties, watching people dance and flirt and gossip. The reunion committee had done a top-notch job on this one. Red and white streamers dripped from the ceiling, competing with a hundred matching balloons. The dance floor glittered from the light of a revolving mirror ball. When the music or the mood called for it, she could flick a switch on a strobe light and give them a touch of seventies psychedelia.

  Mixed with the scents of perfume and cologne was the fragrance of the fresh flowers that adorned each table.

  “This is for Rick and Sue, those high school sweeties who’ve been married for twelve years. And they said it was only puppy love. We’re ‘Rockin’ All Over The