Undercover Protector

Bracing his gun in both hands, Michael listened for betraying noises. A cough. A creaking floorboard.

From overhead, on the second floor, he heard the alarming shuffle of someone moving around. Damn it! The crash had come from the front of the house. Most likely the intruder would go upstairs first—to the bedrooms where Annie and her grandpa slept.

If he’d failed her again…Michael hurried toward the staircase. Flattened against a wall in the hallway, he saw the front entry. Two etched-glass windows, twelve inches wide and three feet tall, bordered the carved oak door, which was still closed and apparently locked. The window on the right side of the door, nearest the handle, had been broken. Porchlight shone through the jagged shards still clinging to the frame. On the floor lay a good chunk of brick and more shattered glinting glass.

“Annie!” he called out. “Annie, are you all right?”

He waited. Seconds dragged into an eternity of apprehension as he imagined Bateman standing over her, threatening her, touching her with his filthy hands. Michael prepared himself to charge up the stairs.

Finally he heard her clear voice from the landing. “We’re okay.”

Thank God! “Stay up there.”

She peeked over the railing. A small cry escaped her. “They broke Grandma’s roses.”

“What?”

“Those decorative windows were one of my grandma’s last projects. Grandpa is going to be really furious when he finds out that—”

“Annie! Listen to me! Go into Lionel’s room and lock the door.”

“I’m the professional here,” she responded. “We need to secure the first floor and the basement, and two sets of eyes are better than one. You need backup.”

She was correct of course. But her security intelligence bothered him. He didn’t like to think of sweet beautiful Annie in danger. Being careful not to silhouette himself in front of the two windows flanking the front door, Michael ducked down and approached the front-porch light switch. From a crouched position he looked up the staircase.

Annie stepped down from the second-floor landing. Her sleeveless pink satin gown fell past her knees, outlining every graceful curve of her long lean body. Her sleek blond hair splayed out on her shoulders. In her left hand she held a black police-issue nightstick. In her right hand—in spite of the splint—she aimed a can of pepper spray.

The incongruous combination of sexy, slithering satin and dangerous weapons was appropriate for her. She was half “Come hither,” half “Touch me and I’ll kill you.”

“What are you waiting for?” she whispered. “Turn off the light.”

He flipped the switch, and shadows consumed the foyer.

In her white running shoes, she darted across the glassstrewn floor and crouched beside him. “There’s nobody upstairs, and Grandpa is still snoring. His nighttime medication is heavy-duty stuff.”

He gave a brief nod.

“I guess we should assume this isn’t an act of random vandalism. It was Bateman. But why?”

“He wanted to get inside,” Michael said. “After he broke the window, he could reach inside and open the door.”

“But there are a lot more subtle ways to break into this house. We’re not exactly Fort Knox.” She looked up at the shattered window and frowned. “I don’t understand this. He didn’t have to ruin Grandma’s roses.”

“Maybe he did it to lure us to the front of the house,” Michael said.

“For what purpose?”

“A sniper. That’s why I’m crawling around on the floor. I don’t want to stand up and be a target.”

“Or a distraction,” she said. “He might have broken the front window as a distraction so he could come in through the back. Or through the root cellar.”

“Or he might have just wanted to scare you.”

“Well, that didn’t work. I’m a whole lot more fired up than frightened. What a creep! I’ll never find another window to match the one that’s broken.”

“We should secure the downstairs,” he said.

“Right.” She glanced at his Smith and Wesson. “Is that standard equipment for captains on fishing vessels?”

“It’s handier than a harpoon.”

Her gaze lifted. In the faint reflection of moonlight through the windows, she stared straight into his eyes, and he knew she was looking for answers, trying to penetrate secrets he had no intention of revealing to her. He’d never been completely honest with her. Not eleven years ago. And not now. There were some things she didn’t need to know. Couldn’t know.

He returned her scrutiny. Though Michael was trained to notice signs of tension and deception, he was distracted by the sweet shush of her breathing and the clean fragrance of her fresh-washed hair. If he tangled his fingers in that straight blond mane, he knew the texture would be as fine as silk.

In her eyes, he glimpsed a brief reflection of his own desire. He was suddenly aware of her maturity and the adult passions that burned within her. But there was also a warning. She didn’t trust him.

“Michael,” she said, “how well did you know Bateman? Were you friends?”

“Briefly. He was older than me. I thought he was cool. But that was a long time ago.”

“Eleven years ago. I haven’t forgotten.”

Nor had he. Every detail of what had happened was tattooed indelibly in his brain. It was a grotesque picture, his private hell, colored in rage, regret and shame. Bateman had destroyed everything that was good in his life.

“Michael, tell me.”

This wasn’t a peppy little bedtime story with a happy ending. He didn’t want to share the details with Annie. Eleven years ago he’d been unable to face her, and it wasn’t any easier tonight.

Michael looked away, but he could still feel her gaze weighing on him. If he told her everything, her curiosity might turn to disgust. Brusquely he repeated, “We need to secure the downstairs.”

“I’ll go first,” she said. “You back me up.”

“I should be in the lead. You don’t even have your gun.”

“My injured wrist isn’t strong enough to hold it, much less aim with any accuracy. But don’t worry about me. I can handle myself.”

That hadn’t been the case in the parking lot outside her apartment. She’d been surprised and easily incapacitated by the assailant with the baseball bat.

Michael knew he hadn’t reacted fast enough to protect her in that situation. Every time he saw the adjustable cast on her arm, he felt guilty. Her injury was his fault. “Listen to me, Annie. I don’t want you to get hurt again.”

“You just don’t want me to be in control,” she said. “Just like when we were kids. But things are different now. I’m in charge.”

When she headed toward the front parlor, his only option was to follow. Muttering to himself about headstrong women, Michael took the backup position.

She moved cautiously, never stepping directly into the light, protecting her back, allowing her eyes to scan her surroundings before she proceeded. Though her nightstick and pepper spray were absurd weapons, she brandished them with confidence. It was obvious she’d done this kind of search before. She was a cop—cool under pressure, efficient, one hundred percent professional.

“I’m impressed,” he said.

“By what?”

“You really know how to do this—when to stay low and when to move fast. You’re good.”

“I’m not a rookie, Michael. This is my job.” They’d reached the guest bedroom. “Um, why don’t you button up that shirt. It’s chilly.”

His gaze focused on the V-neckline of her satin gown, which showed a hint of cleavage. Her nipples peaked against the satin fabric. “Are you cold?”

“Just—button up and let’s get this over with.”

Annie turned away from him. She felt the heat rising in her cheeks and was glad for the semidarkness that hid her embarrassed blush. Her body temperature had begun to elevate when she’d crouched beside him in the foyer and he’d stared into her eyes with such intensity. Now she was flaming hot, and she wished he’d button that shirt. The quick glimpses of his crisp black chest hair and darkly tanned flesh were driving her crazy.

She faced the uncomfortable fact that he aroused her. Oh my, this was so different from when she’d known him before and had been too inexperienced to understand her own sexuality. Eleven years ago, her attraction to him had been like a dreamy fantasy, a girl’s imaginings of what it would be like to make love. When she looked at him now, her dreams were x-rated.

It was wrong for her to want him. Why had he come back after eleven years? There was more to Michael’s presence than the mere intrusion of an unwanted houseguest. He might also be a threat. He had been at her apartment the night she was attacked. Now, she discovered, he was in possession of a handgun. She felt sure that his presence in her grandpa’s house had far more significance than a simple urge to help out in a crisis.

She left him in the bedroom and went into the kitchen, where she took two flashlights from a drawer near the back laundry room. She checked them both. Only one was working. “I’ll take this and go into the cellar alone. I know my way around well enough that I won’t have to turn on the lights.”

“Wrong,” he said. “I’ll go into the cellar alone. I have the gun.”

“It’s a mess down there. You’ll never find anything.”

“At least I can protect myself. What are you going to do if there’s an armed intruder?”

She pantomimed whacking him with the flashlight and held the pepper spray up to his face.

Gently he caught hold of her wrist above the splint. His fingers encircled her arm. His grasp electrified her. Though he was careful not to hold too tightly, she could feel his hot steely strength.

“Annie, I’m sorry about this. About all of this.”

“What do you mean? What—”

“Stay here.” He yanked the handle of the cellar door and pulled it open. “I’ll be right back.”

He was halfway down the stairs before she could object, and it was just as well she didn’t attempt to speak coherently. Her brain seemed muddied, drowning her common sense. Every fiber of her body was pleasantly numbed. With one touch Michael had turned her into a trembling blob of vanilla pudding.

This had to stop! She sank into a straight-back chair and rested both hands flat on the kitchen table. Moonlight shone through the upper half of the windows between the gingham café curtains and the matching valance. Crickets chirped outside the windows. If she stepped outside, Annie would be gently bathed in starlight. If she stepped outside with Michael, if he took her in his arms…

The fingers of her left hand curled into a fist and she lightly pounded the oak tabletop. Why couldn’t she control her emotions? She shouldn’t care about him. When he ran away and left her, he’d branded himself a liar, someone who couldn’t be trusted. Michael wasn’t her lover or her boyfriend. If anything, he was a suspect.

When he emerged from the basement, his white shirt was streaked with grime. “Nothing down there,” he said. “The door leading to the outside was still barred shut.”

She remained seated, struggling to gather her senses. She had to find out why he had been at her apartment. “I don’t think we should search outside by ourselves. We should follow proper procedures.”

“Right,” he said. “We’ll call 911.”

“Why don’t you use your cell phone?” She rose and approached him so she could see his reaction in the dim light. “I know you have one.”

“Do you?”

“You used it four nights ago, remember? In the parking lot outside my apartment building.”

His dark-eyed gaze betrayed a total lack of emotion—a characteristic typical of a born liar. Calmly he asked, “How long have you known?”

“Why were you there, Michael?”

“I promise to explain.” He went to the wall phone in the kitchen and picked up the receiver. “First I’ll call the police station.”

“No,” she said. Her voice sounded firm in spite of the fluttering of her heart. She really wanted to believe in him, wanted him to offer a rational excuse. “I need an answer, an honest answer. If you’re going to stay here, there can’t be any more lies.”

“Lies? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“A long time ago you promised you’d never leave me. Then you were gone. You betrayed me.” And it still hurt. “Now, after eleven years, you come back in the middle of another strange situation. You weren’t a good Samaritan, just a stranger passing by. You were in my parking lot for a reason. What was it?”

A stillness fell between them, separating them. The gentle sounds of night—the crickets and the groans of the old house settling on its foundation—seemed deafening. Annie could almost hear the seconds ticking, widening the gulf that divided her from Michael. If he lied to her now, she could never trust him again.

“I was following you,” he admitted.

He’d been watching her, and she hadn’t even known. Annie felt violated and strangely excited at the same time. “Why?”

“Off and on, I’d been tailing you for almost a couple of weeks—ever since Bateman got out on parole. I knew he had a vendetta against your grandfather. Since Lionel was relatively safe in the hospital, I decided I’d better keep an eye on you.”

“The standard procedure in such a situation is to follow the suspect—not the victim.”

He raised one eyebrow and a slow grin curved his lips. “I figured it’d be more fun to watch you.”

“Jeez, Michael. You sound like a weirdo stalker.”

“I learned a lot about you.”

“Like what?”

“A lot,” he said. Once he’d gotten over his initial reticence about invading her privacy, Michael had enjoyed watching her. Annie had turned into the kind of woman he’d expected her to be. She had a healthy lifestyle and went jogging almost every morning. But she also had a taste for junk food. There was no special man in her life, and her partner on the Salem police force was happily married. Though her car radio was tuned to a classical station, she occasionally listened to and sang along with country-western songs.

“You could’ve picked up a phone and called me,” she said. “All I needed was a simple warning that I was in danger.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t think you’d believe me. I expected you to hate me after the way I left.”

“Ancient history.” But her sudden frown told him that he’d guessed correctly. He wasn’t her favorite person.

“Did you manage to uncover any useful information?” she asked. “Was it Bateman who attacked me in the parking lot?”

“I’m not sure.” He hadn’t expected the assault. Not in the rain. “After the paramedics took you to the hospital, I went looking and found Bateman at his favorite tavern in Salem. The bartender said he’d been there all night.”

“Is that a solid alibi?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, Michael, I wish you’d left this to a professional investigator. What else do you know about Bateman?”

“He had a reputation in prison as a ringleader with a lot of connections.” Like a poisonous spider in the center of his web, Bateman knew how to pull strings and get other people to do his dirty work. He was surprisingly intelligent and had a natural slyness that made him adept at playing manipulative games. “He’s a true sociopath, completely without conscience or any sense of right or wrong.”

“I’m familiar with the profile,” she said. “It explains something to me.”

“What’s that?”

“When I first encountered him on the street, he scared me. I don’t usually get rattled, but there was something about him that triggered my fears.” She hesitated. “Even though he didn’t actually threaten me, my gut instinct was warning me to be careful.”

“I don’t know how far his influence reaches, Annie. But we can’t be too cautious. That’s why I don’t want you going out alone on dates that might be a trap. It’s best if you stay away from Jake Stillwell or anybody else.”

“I’ll think about it.” She nodded toward the phone. “Go ahead and call the police. Please tell them not to use the siren. I’d prefer if Grandpa slept through the night.”

Picking her way through the dark house, she went upstairs to change clothes before the Bridgeport police officers arrived. If the gossips in town heard she’d been wearing a slinky nightie and sleeping under the same roof as an unmarried man, they’d assume the worst, even with her grandpa there as chaperone. She had no intention of being paired up with Michael Slade again.

Before returning downstairs in her jeans and baggy gray sweatshirt, she tiptoed to her grandpa’s bedroom door, intending to close it tightly. There was no need to disturb him. He needed his rest.

“Annie?” he called from the bed. “What’s going on?”

Her hand rested on the doorknob. “Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

A police siren screamed along Myrtlewood Lane.

“That doesn’t sound like nothing,” Lionel said.

She explained, “Somebody threw a brick through the window by the front door. We called 911.”

“The window with roses? Your grandma’s window?”

“I’m sorry, Grandpa.”

“Can’t be helped.” He stretched out his long scrawny arm and turned on the lamp beside the bed. With a groan he forced himself into a sitting position. “Hand me a bathrobe. I won’t have the local police thinking I’m an invalid.”

Resigned to her grandpa’s concern with his reputation, she plumped the pillows and helped him comb his hair. In spite of his emaciated body, he donned an attitude of dignity. He wasn’t about to lie back quietly and accept anybody’s pity.

And she was glad for his change in attitude. Pride was a whole lot better than depression. Fondly she patted his bony shoulder. “You’re a stubborn old buzzard, Lionel Callahan.”

“Well, I can’t rest easy while you’re still running around getting yourself into trouble.”

Neither the attack in the parking lot nor the brick through the window were her fault. However, if it made Grandpa feel better to believe she needed his protection, Annie wouldn’t disillusion him. “I guess trouble is my middle name.”

“Always has been.”

“By the way,” she said, remembering Michael’s statement that he’d come here to protect her and Lionel from possible retribution from Bateman. “Did you telephone Michael? Or was it the other way around?”

“Can’t say that I recall.” His expression was too innocent to be believed. “I was a little hazy after the stroke.”

Hazy like a fox, she thought. Grandpa had his own special reasons for wanting Michael to stay at the house. “I hope you’re not playing matchmaker.”

“Between you and Michael?” He gave her a lopsided grin. “The idea might have crossed my mind. I’m not getting any younger, Annie. I wouldn’t mind having some youngsters around the neighborhood.”

“Great-grandchildren.” She didn’t like being manipulated. “Don’t push me, Lionel.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Downstairs she confronted Police Chief Derek Engstrom himself. Though he was out of uniform, his beige trousers were sharply creased. The plaid shirt under his green Bridgeport Badgers windbreaker was starched and ironed. Engstrom was a tidy person in his early forties, and he was in good physical condition. There was only a touch of gray in his thinning brown hair. As far as she knew, he’d been living alone since his mother died. “I’m surprised to see you, Chief Engstrom. I didn’t think you’d be on duty this late.”

“I had just stopped by the station when your call came through.” He nodded to the uniformed officer. “Bobby, you remember little Annie Callahan.”

“Annie was never little.” Officer Bobby Janowski smirked as he eyeballed her from toe to head. “She always was the tallest girl at Bridgeport High.”

And Bobby had always been the most obnoxious bully. It annoyed her that he’d chosen a career in law enforcement. “Hi, Bobby.”

“Heard you’re a cop in Salem.” He hitched up his uniform trousers and stood straighter, as if trying to match her height. He was only five foot nine. “That’s a tough job for a woman.”

“I guess I’m big enough to handle the work. Now, I suggest we go outside and have a look around.”

“Agreed,” Michael said.

Engstrom squinted in his direction. His upper lip curled in a disdainful smirk. “I remember you, Michael Slade.”

Michael didn’t need to verbally respond; his body language said it all. His eyes became cold and hooded, his chin hardened, and he thrust out his chest. He was transformed into an archetypal tough guy, a hoodlum.

“You were a troublemaker in high school,” Engstrom accused. “A real punk, weren’t you? You got picked up for reckless driving and curfew violations, right?”

Still Michael said nothing.

As a fellow law-enforcement officer, Annie should have taken Engstrom’s side. But there was a dignity in Michael’s silence. He didn’t deny his past. Nor did he try to defend it.

“And drinking,” Engstrom continued with the long-ago rap sheet, “underage possession and consumption of alcohol. Or maybe that was your father.”

“That’s right,” Bobby put in. “Old man Slade was one mean son of a gun when he got drunk.”

Annie couldn’t stand it any longer. “Chief Engstrom, we have a problem here. An act of vandalism.”

But Engstrom was on a roll. He put himself right into Michael’s face. “I’m surprised to see Michael Slade in one piece. With the way he started out, I would’ve thought he’d be dead or in jail by the time he was twenty-five.”

“Disappointed?” Michael asked.

“You only had one thing going for you, Slade. You were the finest wide receiver who ever played for Bridgeport Badgers. I still remember that game against the Cougars.” Engstrom stepped back to pantomime throwing a football. “Jake Stillwell was quarterback. You caught four touch-down passes. Stillwell to Slade. It was a thing of beauty.”

This little trot down memory lane annoyed Annie even more than Engstrom’s former hostility. “If you don’t mind, Chief, we should check the yard for—”

“It’s okay, Annie,” he said condescendingly. “We’re here now, and we’ll protect you. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”

Her muscles tensed with the effort of holding back a frustrated scream. “You can’t imagine how that makes me feel.”

“Besides, if anyone was outside, they probably left when we pulled up.”

“There might be clues,” she said. “Like footprints. Or a cigarette butt. Maybe a chewing-gum wrapper. Something.”

“We won’t find anything in the dark,” Engstrom said. “With the shadows a flashlight casts, we might miss important evidence, might accidentally destroy something.”

“Hey!” came Lionel’s shout from upstairs. “Is that Derek Engstrom?”

“Yes, sir,” Engstrom called back. “Come upstairs with me, Bobby. Let’s see how Lionel is doing.”

“Wait!” Annie pointed to the chunk of brick on the floor. “This is a big fat piece of evidence. Aren’t you going to do anything about it? Take it back to the station and check for fingerprints?”

“Why don’t you put that brick in a grocery bag for me,” Engstrom said. “We’ll grab it on our way out.”

Stunned by their complete lack of professionalism, Annie glared at the retreating backsides of the Bridgeport police as they ascended the stairs. To Michael she said, “I don’t believe this. If I treated a crime scene this way, I’d be booted off the force.”

“We’re in Bridgeport,” he reminded her. “The idiots are running things.”

Though she wanted to speak up for her hometown, the police chief’s behavior was indefensible. “Why does Engstrom have it in for you?”

He shrugged. “In his narrow mind, I’ll always be Michael Slade, teenage troublemaker.”

“And a damn good wide receiver.”

“My only saving grace,” he said. “I could hang on to Jake Stillwell’s wobbly passes.”

She stared down at the piece of brick. “I guess I should go to the kitchen and get a bag for this. It’s probably too porous for decent fingerprints, but you never know.”

“I’ll wait here,” Michael said.

Facing Engstrom had awakened bad memories of his small-town identity as a bad boy. The bitter ache still lingered. No matter where he went or what he did, when he came here, he was still a punk. He couldn’t change that. He was still the son of an abusive drunk who couldn’t hang on to his job at the lumber mill and then deserted the family for good.