His Partner's Wife

“True enough.” He rubbed the back of his neck.

“I’m groping here, Natalie.”

She nodded, understanding. It was a form of brainstorming, like sessions they had at the paper.

“What will you do next?” she asked.

“Talk to Floyd’s friends or relatives. I’m heading for Tacoma this morning to tell his parents about his death and find out whether they knew a damn thing about what he was up to. Hell, maybe he wrote them letters about how he intended to rifle Det. Stuart Reed’s house when he was released. And, oh, yeah, his buddy Bill Doe wanted to help. We should be so lucky.”

She nodded.

“Then we’ll wait for fingerprint ID,” he continued. “Take a harder look at your house.” His tone changed, his eyes softened. “I’m sorry, Natalie. We need to see if we can find something Floyd might have been looking for.”

“I understand.” Strangely, the idea of him searching her possessions wasn’t all that disturbing. She had always found him a comfortable man.

If she had been more self-conscious around him yesterday and today, it was hardly surprising. Their roles had shifted; his job required him to consider even her as a suspect.

And somehow here in John’s home, she was discovering tensions she hadn’t known existed. He clearly harbored some resentment concerning his mother, for example. His protectiveness toward his children had seemed both natural and misplaced—except that she didn’t know why he was still angry at his mother. Once she would have said she could ask him anything, but the guard he’d snapped into place when she asked made her realize their friendship had been more superficial than she’d realized. There was so much about the inner man she didn’t know. And so much about herself she had never told him, including a biggie, considering he had been Stuart’s friend first. He had assumed her marriage was completely happy, Natalie knew, and she had never disabused him.

She came back to the present to realize that he was looking at her strangely. Had she been staring? Had he said something?

Rushing into speech to fill what must have been a peculiar silence, she argued, “But mightn’t the murderer have taken whatever it was?”

He grimaced. “Unfortunately, that’s a possibility, too. But what the hell could it have been?” Now he sounded frustrated. “You’ve surely looked through the records Stuart left. The files in the desk seemed orderly and totally uninteresting to anyone else. None of the boxes in the closet had been ripped open. Your place wasn’t ransacked. Had anything been disturbed that you noticed?”

“No.” She pressed her lips together. “It was strange, wasn’t it? The house seemed so normal. Untouched. Only, there was this dead man upstairs. It would almost have been easier if the house had been tossed. You know?”

“Violence should spread ripples,” he said unexpectedly.

She blinked. “Yes. Exactly.”

“I need to be on my way.” He didn’t move. “What are your plans today?”

“I hadn’t thought yet.” She hesitated. “I could watch your kids if that would free your mom to go home.”

His dark brows drew together. “I’m not going to use you. You’re a guest.”

Puzzled by the edge in his voice, Natalie said, “It’s nice of you to have me here, John, but it won’t hurt me to help out a little.”

“You always want to pay your way, don’t you?”

“Is that so bad?” she asked quietly.

He got to his feet and looked down at her. “Just this once,” he said, almost harshly, “do me a favor. Accept my help without baby-sitting my kids, bringing me cookies or knitting me a sweater. Okay?”

“I don’t—”

“Yeah. You do.” He reached out, touched her cheek, the most fleeting of contacts but enough like a caress to steal her breath. “Friends don’t have to be repaid.”

She found herself nodding dumbly. “Yes. Okay.”

“Do something self-indulgent today. Get a massage. Go to a movie. Hey, go back to bed.”

“I’m going horseback riding.” She hadn’t known she’d decided.

His quick, warm smile erased the harshness on a face made more angular by lack of sleep. “Good girl. Sounds like the right medicine. You probably don’t get enough chances.”

“I go two or three times a week.”

The one gift from Stuart that she truly loved was Foxfire, the bloodred Arabian stallion she kept stabled at a ranch just outside of town. He was probably too much of a handful for her. He wasn’t mean, but he danced and twisted and fussed over the smallest leaf blowing across the path. Despite his value, she’d considered having him gelded, but everyone who saw him thought she should put him up for stud. She’d pried out of Stuart the fact that he’d paid an outrageous twenty-five thousand dollars for the horse, and she was told she could maybe charge five hundred for each live birth. But to do that, she’d have to move him to a different farm where workers knew how to handle breeding, and she guessed if he was being regularly bred, with his blood fired up he might be even harder to handle. Since she did so love riding her elegant Arabian, it seemed more bother than it would be worth. She didn’t really need the money. Except that it made sense, of course, to geld him if she wasn’t going to breed him.

“You should come with me someday,” she suggested impulsively. “Have you ever ridden?”

“I seem to remember a pony ride at the Woodland Park Zoo when I was five.” He shook his head. “No, thanks.”

“Coward.”

A smile in his blue eyes, John said, “Haven’t you heard that discretion is the better part of valor?”

“That from a man who risks his life day in and day out.”

“We all choose our poison.”

“I’m sure we could rent a placid horse that wouldn’t break out of a walk,” Natalie coaxed.

“Maddie and Evan could go, too.”

He groaned. “Maybe. And don’t you dare go behind my back and prime them.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she promised, crossing her fingers in her pocket.

“I’ve got to get out of here.” In passing her, he gripped her shoulder briefly. “Go ride. Then take a nap. I’ll try to be home for dinner.”

By the time she followed him out of the office, he had already disappeared toward the front of the house. She heard his voice, then the slam of the front door.

“Drive carefully,” she murmured.

THE WOMAN WITH SOFT, flyaway gray hair gazed at him with bewilderment and the beginnings of horrified understanding. “Ronnie is dead?”

This was the moment John hated most. There was no kind way to tell parents that they would have to bury the son or daughter who was supposed to long outlive them. Ronald Floyd might have been a scumbag, but he was still their son, a baby born in hope.

“I’m afraid so,” he said gently.

He stood on the front porch of the small frame house in south Tacoma, his vision of Marvella Floyd obscured by a screen door. She had briefly opened it, but when he told her why he had come, it had slipped out of her nerveless hand and snapped shut between them.

Now she clutched at the door frame, bewilderment still predominating. “But…what happened? Was it a car accident?” Hope made her sound eager. She wanted it to have been a tragic accident, the kind that could have happened to anyone. “He’d gone straight, you know. He said so. And even in his bad days, he never hurt anybody, not Ronnie.”

No, he just helped hook the youth of America on a relentlessly addictive white powder that replaced jobs, family, loved ones as the very reason for existence. And, oh, yeah, damaged hearts, destroyed nasal passages, and was generally a fun party favor.

“When you deal drugs, you’re coming in contact with some brutal people.” Understatement. “Ma’am, may I come in?”

“What?” She stared at him with dazed eyes. “Oh. Yes. Of course. I’m sorry.” She backed slowly inside the living room of the small frame house, leaving him to open the screen door and follow. When he did, she looked over her shoulder with apparent confusion, as if she’d forgotten where she was or who ought to be here.

“Is your husband home?” John asked. When she swayed, he reached for her elbow, expecting her to crumple.

Her worn brow crinkled. “I don’t know where he is.” She raised a voice that quavered. “Ralph!” Both she and John listened to the silence. “He was here a minute ago,” she fretted, completely focused on her husband’s absence rather than her son’s death. Denial was something John knew well. “Ralph?” she called again.

“Could he have stepped outside?”

“Oh!” Relief infused her voice. “I think he did. Tomorrow is garbage day, you know. That’s it. He was taking the garbage out, he said.”

“Why don’t you sit down,” he suggested, steering her to the couch. “Let me get your husband.”

“Oh, but…” She tried to rise again. “The kitchen is such a mess! We haven’t cleaned up from breakfast yet.”

“Don’t worry.” He smiled reassurance. “I’m a single father. You should see mine.”

She sat again but quivered with worry as he cut through the old-fashioned kitchen to the back door. It swung open before he reached it. A heavyset, balding man entered, mind on other things until he saw John and came to an abrupt stop.

“I’m Detective McLean,” John said, holding out his shield. “Port Dare P.D. Your wife let me in. Sorry to startle you.”

Worry settled on him, stooping his shoulders. “It’s Ronnie again, isn’t it?”

“I’m afraid your son has been killed, Mr. Floyd.”

He caught the implication immediately. “How?”

John told him.

Mr. Floyd shook his head. “His mother has always believed every word that boy said, but the last time he was here I knew he was going right back to the low road. That was Ronnie—always spoiled. If he could get it for nothing, that’s what he wanted.”

What child didn’t? John thought. Wasn’t it a parent’s job to teach the virtues of hard work and charity?

“He was our only boy. We have two girls. Good girls. They both have families now. One works for the county assessor’s office. I don’t know, maybe we’re the ones who spoiled Ronnie. But that boy. He was in trouble with the law by the time he was twelve. Shoplifting. It’s just been one thing after the other.”

“Ralph?” From the living room came his wife’s shaky voice. “Ralph, are you talking to that policeman?”

Moving wearily, feet shuffling, Ralph Floyd passed John and went to his wife. He sat beside her on the couch, patting her restless hands on her lap, and they both gazed with deep sadness and anxiety at John, who sat in an armchair facing them.

He explained again how Ronald Floyd had died. “I’m hoping you can tell me something that might help find his killer,” he said. “Can you give me names of friends? Was he working? Do you have his address?”

They did have that. His father gave the names of some friends from high school but shook his head when pressed for others. “He’d mention people in prison—Joe or Buzz Saw or some such nonsense, but I have no idea whether they’re still locked up or not. He wouldn’t have brought a cell mate home. He knew better than that.”

“Job?”

“Ronnie was working at a marina,” Mrs. Floyd said timidly. “He was good with boats, you know.”

Her husband nodded. “He always liked boats. He did say he had a job. I think he was taking out those whale-watching trips.”

John made a note.

“Was he angry about his arrest? Did he ever mention the officer who arrested him?”

Both shook their heads. “He said somebody had set him up, but a couple of years ago he mentioned that the fellow was dead. Said he would have liked to have punched his nose, and he guessed he wouldn’t get the chance now.”

“Did he give a name?”

They didn’t remember if he had. Pretty obviously, they didn’t know this son who mystified them. To his credit, he’d stayed in touch, but it came down to a few letters and phone calls a year, and one fleeting visit when he got out of the pen. The job was likely a fantasy. John only hoped the address wasn’t.

He promised to call them once he’d checked out the apartment, and to send any effects. They’d be in touch about the body, he told them.

“You’ll let us know?” Mr. Floyd asked at least three times. “When you find out why someone killed him?”

“I’ll keep you informed as the investigation progresses,” he agreed. After offering his regrets again, he left the couple standing on their front porch, their body language expressing the inertia, disbelief and grief he so vividly remembered his mother showing when his father was gunned down. But, because the Floyds knew in their hearts that their son had brought on his own end, they wouldn’t find relief in anger as John’s mother had.

As he crossed a sparkling blue neck of Puget Sound on the high span of the Tacoma Narrows Bridge, John brooded about the visit. Forget the easy answers. Ronald Floyd had not spent his years in the clink planning how he could wreak revenge on Officer Stuart Reed.

On the other hand, he had left Monroe and gone right back to Port Dare. Less than a month later, he was killed in Natalie Reed’s house, which wasn’t tossed. There had to be a reason he was there, and a reason he died.

But what the hell was it?

And how safe was Natalie while they hunted for hard answers?

CHAPTER FOUR

ONE HOOF PAWED and the stallion’s wiry tail snapped viciously across Natalie’s face as she checked the girth. Cross-tied in the barn aisle, Foxfire had been in one of his twitchier moods from the minute she’d slung the saddle blanket across his back.

When she led him outside to the mounting block, however, he followed like a lamb and stood obligingly still for her to swing her leg over his back.

“You’re setting me up, aren’t you?” she muttered. Taking a deep breath, she sprang.

He might have caught her by surprise if he’d been just a tiny bit less docile. As it was, she was forewarned. The wretched animal bucked before her butt even hit the saddle.

She grabbed at the horn and her dignity, slapping his neck with her reins as she inelegantly shoved her toes into the stirrups. All the while he whirled and tossed his head and shivered his skin.

Pam Reynolds, the stable owner, shook her head as she watched. A once-pretty woman with a weathered face and a grip as callused and strong as a construction worker’s, she leaned against the white board fence, hands shoved into the pockets of the down vest she wore over dusty jeans and a denim shirt.

“That horse is going to come back without you one of these days.”

Natalie gave the stallion one more reproving whack on the neck. “Probably,” she admitted.

Pam continued critically, “That horse was not bred for trail riding.”

The stallion flattened his ears and hunched his back.

“No,” Natalie agreed, forcing him to tuck his chin and go into reverse.

He scrambled back so quickly he sank onto his haunches, then danced in place.

“I’d advise you to sell him.”

“I know you would.”

Pam’s grin gave her the look of an aging elf. “Of course, then I’d have to snap him up and risk my own life and limb, so maybe it’s just as well you keep him.”

Natalie laughed. “You know, you’re welcome to ride him anytime.”

The stable owner shook her head. “The damn horse is worth too much. I don’t want him breaking a leg on my watch.”

Foxfire spun in a circle.

Ruefully feeling as if she’d be seeing a chiropractor for whiplash, Natalie said over her shoulder, “I wouldn’t sue you. I’d know he had it coming.”

“You better get before he decides not to wait for you.” Pam jerked her head toward the gate. “But do stick to the trail so someone can find your body if you break your neck.”

Wincing at the idea of a body, even her own, sprawled on the mist-dampened ground, Natalie simply nodded. “I’ll be good.” She eased the reins and sat back only a minute amount, feeling the horse’s eagerness as he bounded forward. “Hey, guy,” she murmured, “this isn’t a race.”

He didn’t want to trot and, to punish her, managed a stiff gait that jarred her teeth as if she were driving a road that was wall-to-wall potholes.

Nonetheless, she held him to it, and as they left the gates of the ranch behind, Foxfire’s ears flicked forward and the ride smoothed. At best, Arabians had a bouncy trot, showy in the ring but not comfortable. They had been bred for endurance, for traveling all day in the arid desert without rest or water.

Once the trail intersected the broader one used by horsemen, runners and bicyclists, Natalie let the stallion stretch into an easy lope. The gray mist clung to treetops and hid the mountains from her, beading on long, autumn-gold grasses in the fields that sloped toward the Strait of Juan de Fuca. Foxfire’s hooves thudded on the damp earth in a rhythm, a mantra. The cool, moist air cleansed her; the power gathered beneath her gave Natalie an intoxicating sense of control and invincibility.

Illusory, of course, she was reminded when a small bird exploded from the underbrush to chase a hawk above, and the stallion shied, shaking his head and kicking his heels, twisting beneath her in momentary rebellion. She loosed the reins, urged him with tightened legs to go faster and, in his eagerness, he forgot his pique. The adrenaline rush made Natalie feel gloriously alive.

Best of all, she couldn’t afford for even a second to let her mind wander, to picture the body in the study, to wonder when she could go home or if she wanted to. The chestnut stallion demanded that every grain of her attention be on him. She needed to read his every quivering signal and search the glistening Oregon grape and brown fronds of ferns beneath hemlock and cedar for any creature or oddity that might spook him. Her body had to flow with his. Too much tension, and the next time he leaped sideways she’d be flat on her back on the trail, hard packed despite today’s mist, breath knocked out of her.

Oh, yes, her difficult horse and a damp day and the deserted trail had been exactly what she needed.

IT’S 11:02 p.m., do you know where your daddy is?

Weary to the bone, John pulled into the detached one-car garage off the alley and headed for the back door. The kids would be long since asleep, he hoped. Hell, even his mother rarely stayed up past ten. Natalie, he didn’t know about. Wondering heightened his senses slightly as he inserted the key in the lock. He didn’t hear voices, real or canned from the TV, and from the street he’d seen no light on in the living room.

He tried to be home for meals and to tuck his children into bed at night. Their mother’s diagnosis of multiple sclerosis was tough enough for them, since it meant losing her as a part of their daily lives, having to visit her in a place where illness couldn’t be forgotten and they were reduced to awkward kisses on her cheek and polite responses to her questions about school and friends. They needed to be able to count on Daddy.

But his job wasn’t nine-to-five, not in the first throes of an investigation. Some of the lowlifes he’d needed to talk to didn’t come out from under their rocks until after dark. He was lucky to be home this early.

His mother’s sporty Chevrolet was parked to one side of the driveway. Even as irritated as he’d been at her this morning, John was grateful that his kids had her and their uncles, that he wasn’t their only close family. But he was damned if he’d let her use chilly judgments and icy disapproval to hammer his son into the avenging angel she’d wanted her own sons to be. Hell, wasn’t that what they were, cleansing the streets of the devil’s spawn?

The house was quiet when he stepped in, one light left on in the kitchen, a note taped to the microwave. He crossed quietly. Even Natalie must be asleep.

Tidy block print read, “Leftover casserole in the refrigerator. Heat for five minutes. I don’t want to find it uneaten in the morning.”

He gave a rusty laugh. That was his mother all over. Caring but stern.

He should be hungry and wasn’t, but he obediently took out the plastic container, noted that it was one his mother made with cashews and Chinese noodles that he liked, and stuck it in the microwave. Five minutes.

Listening to the hum, he thought how idiotic it was at his age to have fleeting, wistful memories of the mother she’d been Before Dad Died. He always thought of it that way, in capital letters. She had changed in one horrific day, bewildering and terrifying her three boys. Instead of progressing through all the stages of grief, emerging at the end as the mother they knew, she’d seemed to get stuck part way, consumed by anger she still carried. More of an optimist then, he’d actually hoped, back when Debbie was pregnant, that in starting over with grandchildren his mother too could begin again. Better than Hugh and Connor, he remembered her as a woman who had patiently bandaged skinned knees and run breathlessly down the sidewalk holding up two-wheelers, and not cared if paint happily slapped onto butcher paper dripped off the edges onto the kitchen floor or table-top. Those memories of laughter and tenderness and easy hugs were fading these days.

But he was still lucky she was here for Maddie and Evan. They loved her, as much as she would allow.

Trouble was, he could foresee her getting harder and harder on Evan. Opening the refrigerator again to look for something to drink, John scowled. He’d been old enough when his father died to have some inner defenses. His brothers, especially Hugh, hadn’t been. His mother had messed with Hugh’s psyche but good, and he couldn’t let her do the same to Evan. He didn’t want to hurt her by cutting her off from the kids, but the day was coming when he’d have to find alternative baby-sitting—and either a tactful explanation of why he had made the change, or the guts to be blunt.

“Is something spoiling in there?”

He jerked and dropped the milk carton. Milk sloshed at his feet. Swearing, he bent to pick it up.

Natalie stayed in the doorway, eyes huge, dark curly hair tousled over her shoulders. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No, no.” He grabbed a glass from the cupboard and poured the milk before it could all leak out the bottom.

“Do you have a pitcher you could put that in?” She came shyly into the kitchen.

“Uh, yeah. Somewhere.” He left the milk carton in the sink and banged cupboard doors until he found a plastic pitcher. He salvaged a pint or so, enough for breakfast cereal, anyway.

Natalie had taken paper towels and was mopping up the mess on the floor.

“I can do that,” he said, frowning again as he looked down at the top of her head and realized she wore a robe. She had probably been in bed when she heard him come in.

“It was my fault.” She didn’t even glance up.

“Besides, the microwave beeped. I think your dinner must be ready.”

John hesitated for a moment, then opted for the casserole. What was he going to do, hand-wrestle Natalie for a soggy paper towel?

“Come sit with me?” he asked.

Now she did look up, that same unexpected shyness in her dark eyes. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather be alone?”

“Positive.” He hooked a stool at the tiled breakfast bar with one foot and pulled it out. “Are you hungry?”

“Heavens, no! Your mother made me eat every bite at dinner.”

He gave the same rueful chuckle. “That’s my mom.”

Natalie wiped the floor again with a damp, soapy towel and then tossed it into the garbage under the sink. Straightening, she hesitated, pulled her robe more snugly around herself and then came to the bar.

John pushed a second stool out. “Join me.”

“I couldn’t sleep.” She scooted her rump onto the stool, keeping both hands on her robe so that it didn’t gape above or below the belt.

Of course, nothing was so calculated to make him wonder what she wore under it. He hastily turned his attention to his dinner. Damn it, he did not want to have sexual fantasies, however fleeting, about Natalie Reed.

“Did you nap this afternoon?” Maybe not a smart question, as it made him picture that curly hair spread on her pillow, her cheeks flushed like Maddie’s on the rare occasions when she would still lie down during the daytime.