Daddy Protector

“You’ve seen his place, right? Notice anything strange?”

The chief released a frustrated breath. “Ben doesn’t care to have his old man around, so Frank did me the favor of dropping by a couple of times to see if he was okay. I gather my son didn’t welcome him, but he did let him inside, and Frank saw nothing obviously amiss. So what do you say?”

Hale tried to decide what, as a towering figure of integrity, he ought to do. He decided to simply act like himself. Also, his gut told him that despite the polite phrasing, this was an assignment, not a request. “So I’m to sniff around and discover if there’s any truth to it?”

“Exactly. His landlady’s a retired teacher by the name of Yolanda Rios. She should be aware of the signs if he’s dealing.”

The kid lived in the same complex as Vince and Skip? Well, there was a coincidence. Still, in an area with a low vacancy rate, he’d heard that Yolanda preferred to rent to friends of friends, and it wasn’t much of a stretch to imagine that both Vince and Ben had found their way to her through their connections in the community.

This could be fortunate. As the chief said, a former teacher ought to recognize the signs of a drug pusher, including frequent visitors at odd hours and higher spending than the person’s income justified. Also, if Ben had resumed using, he would probably exhibit a glassy stare, mood swings and other symptoms.

“I took a history class from Mrs. Rios once. Great teacher,” Hale noted. “She has a fondness for strays, but she’d never tolerate drugs.” An interesting possibility occurred to him. “I have an idea where that tip may have originated. A guy who wouldn’t mind throwing egg on our faces.” In response to Lyons’s querying look, he explained, “Vince Borrego. He rents from Mrs. Rios, too.”

Dark red suffused the chief’s face. “Borrego’s mixed up with my son?”

Hale backpedaled. “It might be a coincidence. I can ask if Mrs. Rios has observed them together.”

You didn’t have to be psychic to read the thoughts of the man across the desk. He’d been unhappy about the ex-chief’s return to town and dismayed at the publicity that surrounded Vince’s involvement in the fatal shooting. Having his predecessor underfoot as a private investigator didn’t sit well, either. This latest revelation must feel like the last straw.

However, Lyons never acted petty or vindictive. “Don’t target Vince as the bigmouth unless someone else fingers him. I’m not on a witch hunt and, if the allegations are true, he’s simply doing his civic duty. However, I don’t consider him a reliable source, so please get your information about my son elsewhere.”

“Understood.”

Hale realized that he’d tacitly accepted the assignment. Well, the case had to be investigated and the chief had chosen him. On the plus side, if he dealt with it effectively, the chief’s goodwill might come in handy. Say, whenever Hale got around to seeking a promotion. Testing was only part of the procedure.

He collected a few items from his desk and headed outside to his unmarked department-issue car, which came equipped with a computer and other high-tech equipment. Hungrier than ever, he set course for Alessandro’s Deli.

The usual lunch crowd thronged the terrace. Inside, more diners jammed the tiny tables and lines formed at the self-service counters. Pastrami, meatballs, tomato sauce. Man, those Italians had a gift.

Hale was waiting when, from the rear, he glimpsed a blonde at the head of his line gesturing toward a display of pasta salad. The young male clerk dropped the serving spoon, apologized profusely and proceeded to stuff so much salad into a container that dribs and drabs spilled out as he forced it shut.

Typical foolish response to a pretty lady, Hale supposed. He might have reacted the same way at that age.

The clerk rang up the sale and the customer lifted her sack. When she turned, his heart did a silly skip-and-race kind of thing. Connie.

Hearts don’t race. And grown men didn’t feel a jolt of pleasure at glimpsing a woman they saw practically every day. Still, with the inviting part of her lips and that confident air, she had something special. One of these days he intended to read a book of poetry and find out what it was.

Hale felt a ping of disappointment when, dodging between tables to reach the exit, she passed without noticing him. Okay, so he had a bit in common with that gaping clerk. And with the three or four other guys whose heads swiveled to watch Connie. However, they hadn’t spent yesterday replanting her flower bed while she bent over tantalizingly to inspect his work. The way she’d looked in shorts and a blouse had made him attack the soil with renewed vigor.

She vanished. When he got to his sandwich, he ate it in his car, then set out along curving Arches Avenue toward the central area of Villazon, where small apartment structures salted the mix of houses and duplexes. According to the information the chief had provided, Yolanda Rios lived on Lily Lane, a few blocks from the high school.

The only people Hale observed nearby were a couple of gardeners mowing and doing edging across the street. Before getting out of the car, he collected a few fliers concerning burglaries in the area, which he’d brought as an excuse in case he ran into Ben. The burglary suspect’s description—young and thin, trendy clothes—indicated a possible high-school student.

Since most burglaries involved dopers, that raised the possibility their guy might be none other than Ben himself. One witness had mentioned a spider tattoo on the forearm, which the chief’s son lacked, but a crafty crook might have applied a temporary one to confuse the description.

As Hale emerged, he noticed a flickering light through the curtains of the downstairs apartment on the left. Just as he put that together with the sharp scent in the air, a smoke alarm shrilled inside the building.

Fire!

First act: dial 911. As Hale conveyed the details, he remembered that the fire engines from the main station had rolled to the warehouse blaze. A delay of even a few minutes could spell the difference between life and death for occupants.

“I’m going to check if anyone’s inside,” he informed the dispatcher.

“Hang on.” A beat later, she returned to the line. “The owner just called. We told her to vacate and that you’re at the location. She doesn’t believe anyone else is home.”

“I’ll bang on doors just in case.” He’d better move fast, because a fire could rage out of control in minutes. Older structures provided plenty of fuel, including furniture that failed to meet current safety standards.

“Use caution, Detective,” the dispatcher advised. “Can you stay on the line?”

“Sorry, no.” Holding a phone would slow him. “I’ll call when I’m done.”

He was flipping the device shut when down the steps hurried Mrs. Rios, arms around a fuzzy dog, her graying hair mussed and her glasses askew. “Hale! I’m glad you happened by!”

“I have to make sure everyone’s out,” he informed her.

“Vince’s at his office. Ben left for class half an hour ago. That’s his apartment.” She indicated the flames consuming the curtains. “I saw Paula go out a while ago.” She stopped and gazed upward. “Oh, no!”

In the window directly above the burning unit appeared a boy’s face. With a shock, Hale recognized Skip. “She left him alone?”

“I’m afraid so.” Yolanda sounded as dismayed as he felt.

“Skip!” Hale yelled. “Come down!” If the boy moved fast, he could descend the stairs before the fire reached them.

The child didn’t move.

The flames were going to climb the curtains and flash over the ceiling. Once they broke through the floor or mounted the hall staircase, they’d cut off escape. Wherever the firefighters had been sent from, Hale didn’t even hear a siren yet. He couldn’t wait for them to arrive.

Fear must have frozen the boy. “I’m going in,” he told Yolanda. “Key?”

She handed him one. “This opens all the doors.”

“Thanks.” Taking a deep breath, he ran toward the entrance.

Chapter Three

The building had a straightforward layout, Hale discovered as he dashed into the main hallway: one unit on each side and stairs straight ahead. Eyes smarting and ears ringing from the smoke alarms, he raced to the second floor.

Fires spread fast. Before flames shot into the hall and blocked their escape, he had to reach Skip.

First he banged on Vince’s door in case Yolanda had been mistaken, although it was hard to imagine anyone ignoring the noise. Then he unlocked the Laytons’ apartment and, feeling no heat from the door and knob, entered.

In the living room, smoke seeped through vents and the heat from directly below made Hale sweat beneath his jacket. When he shouted the boy’s name, an acrid lungful stirred a cough.

“Help!” The plaintive cry confirmed the boy’s presence in a bedroom down the hall.

Hale ran in that direction. He stopped at the first door and went in. Obviously the master bedroom. No kid by the window.

Back in the hall, it was getting darker and hotter. Tougher to breathe, too. Hale darted into the next room, a bathroom, where he grabbed a towel, soaked it and, holding it over his nose and mouth, lunged into the hallway again.

Entering the last room, he felt a draft. Open window, blocked by a screen. Skip was huddled on the floor, a little ball of terror. He sprang up when he saw Hale and flung himself at him.

Hale transferred the towel to the boy’s face. “Hold this!” he commanded, and the boy obeyed.

Split-second decision: to retreat the way he’d come or risk a two-story drop. One of Hale’s firefighter pals had said people frequently died heading for a door when they could easily have gone through a window. The awareness that the fire lay directly beneath their path, and the memory of the smoky staircase that by now must be ten times worse, simplified the choice.

“Stand here!” He positioned the child away from the window, against the wall. Balancing on one leg, Hale smashed his heel into the screen. The bloody thing held. Why did this always look so easy on television? Grumbling, he seized a chair and swung. The jolt as it hit the frame reverberated through his elbows and shoulders, but mercifully, the screen went flying.

Skip remained in place. Calling a few words of encouragement, Hale seized the twin-size mattress and heaved it outside. When it landed, Yolanda directed a couple of male volunteers to position it as a landing cushion. The woman exuded a natural air of authority.

Hale crouched by Skip. In the light from the window, the boy’s freckles stood out in a face white with fear. Keep steady and calm, and he’ll follow suit.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Hale explained. “I’ll lower you outside as far as I can, then let you fall. Mrs. Rios is there. You’ll land on the mattress, okay?”

“Okay.” Skip clutched the towel.

“You’ll be fine.” Kids were supposed to be resilient.

Trusting blue eyes met his dark ones. “You’ll jump, too, right?”

“Absolutely.” For a fraction of a second, he felt as if he were staring into the depths of the kid’s soul. Glimpsing a whole, complicated person whose future depended utterly on him. “Ready?”

The youngster straightened. “Yeah.”

More and more of a struggle to suck in air, let alone talk. “Sit on the sill.” Hale assisted the boy into place, facing outward. “I’m going to ease you down.”

The child tensed almost to the point of rigidity. The mattress must seem far below, but if he didn’t relax, he’d be more likely to suffer injury.

“Pretend this is a game. This is a playground and you’re playing superhero, okay? You can do it!”

“Yeah. Okay, Hale.” He sounded shaky but determined.

From far off, Hale heard a siren, but the crackle of flames was much closer and the smoke reeked of whatever combustibles were feeding the blaze. They didn’t dare delay.

The boy’s weight pulled Hale forward and, with his hands occupied, he had to brace his thighs against the sill. “One, two, three.” A slow stretch as far as he could, and then, as he let go, he shouted, “Bombs away!”

An unexpected noise floated to him. Skip’s laughter.

Below, the boy hit the mattress and tumbled forward. His hands skidded off the padding onto the grass but he appeared to be unhurt. Yolanda scooped the child into her arms, fussing over him while clearing the area for Hale’s jump.

More sirens. Another minute, maybe, and they’d be here. Except Hale couldn’t hold his breath that long, and his skin was about to peel off.

Hey, this ought to be no big deal. He kept fit in the workout room at the PD and swam regularly at home. He’d pulled his share of daredevil stunts over the years, too, including skydiving.

Piece of coke. No, wait, that’s cake. Okay, so he couldn’t think straight. And he had to do this facing the building instead of face-forward in order to lower himself as far as possible. He hung there feeling gravity suck the blood out of his arms, reminded himself that if he died the department would give him a fancy funeral, and dropped.

Almost missed the mattress. Tried to bend his knees to break the fall, lost his balance and toppled over. Mercifully, his head hit the padding, but pain shot through his left ankle and the side of his body throbbed.

Now he was supposed to rise, dust himself off and demonstrate to Skip how a he-man handled danger. With aplomb. With panache.

Fierce heat radiated from the nearest window that at any moment might explode outward. And Hale couldn’t move, not even to drag his aching body out of danger.

“Somebody get me outta here!” he shouted.

A fire truck screamed to a halt on the street, boots pounded across the lawn and someone lowered a stretcher. About time you clowns showed up, Hale meant to say, but his larynx refused to cooperate.

He focused on suppressing a groan as his rescuers braced him for removal. Their precautions emphasized that he might have broken something important.

For the first time, the reality of the risk he’d run occurred to Hale. But he and Skip had both survived, and that was what counted.

CONNIE LOVED SOAP in its many shapes, colors and scents, prettily packaged, whether alone or in combination with bottles of perfume and lotion. Not only did soap make great gifts, but customers who bought it for their own use generally returned regularly for replacements.

“I shouldn’t spare the time but I’m desperate! Can’t you smell the smoke on me?” inquired one of her regulars, reporter-editor Tracy Johnson, who stopped in about four o’clock for a box of her favorite rosettes. Without waiting for an answer, she said, “I’m on deadline, and I’ll be writing my fool head off this evening, but I refuse to scrub with the powdered stuff we use at the office. It feels like sandpaper and smells like shoe polish.”

A hard-driving woman in her thirties, Tracy had few vanities. She wore practical pantsuits, tied her auburn-streaked brown hair in a ponytail and chose flat shoes over heels despite her small stature. She stopped in to Connie’s Curios mostly for the candy bars but had developed a fondness for rose-scented soap.

The reference to smoke reminded Connie of the sirens she’d heard intermittently during the afternoon. On the radio, she’d caught a mention of a warehouse blaze. “Did anyone get hurt?”

“Depends on which fire you mean.” Tracy chose a bottle of cucumber lotion. “I could use this, too. My hands are so dry they’re cracking.”

“There was more than one?”

“Two at once, can you believe that? I had to bring Roy in to help. He’s okay if I tell him who to talk to and what to ask, but he never digs beneath the surface.” The fiftysomething Roy Anderson mostly sold ads and handled layout.

“Where was the biggest fire?” Connie asked in concern.

“In a warehouse south of the Amber View housing tract.” Tracy explained that a tenant had failed to obtain permits for storing chemicals used at an off-site manufacturing plant. A substance that spilled during unloading had ignited, thanks to a carelessly discarded cigarette. Without information about the exact nature of the chemicals, the fire department had had to assume the worst. Extinguishing a potentially toxic blaze required the hazardous materials team and, of course, added to the danger for firefighters.

“Somebody’s going to pay a big fine and maybe go to jail,” Tracy concluded. “Fortunately, nobody got hurt, but the factory owner violated a bunch of laws.”

“People don’t recognize the purpose behind safety regulations until there’s a crisis, I suppose.” Connie had been astounded by the red tape necessary to open a shop. She still wasn’t convinced it had all been necessary.

“The second fire’s a more interesting case,” Tracy added. “The cause hasn’t been determined, for one thing.”

Connie glanced over as Paris Larouche, Jo Anne’s twenty-year-old daughter, arrived for her shift. While ringing up Tracy’s purchases, she inquired, “Where was the other fire?”

“At a fourplex that belongs to Yolanda Rios,” the reporter answered. “You must know her from tutoring.”

Yolanda’s fourplex, where Skip lived? A wave of fear sucked the moisture from Connie’s throat. “Was anyone injured?”

Unaware of the urgency behind the question, Tracy said vaguely, “Some idiot left a kid home alone but a cop rescued him.”

She must mean Skip, since he was the only child in the building. “Is the boy okay?”

“A few scratches. He’s been turned over to child protective services.” The reporter signed her credit slip. “I guess Detective Crandall merits another commendation.”

“Hale Crandall?” Connie asked, puzzled. “Why?”

“He got the kid out of the building.”

Connie was grateful to the man once again. This must be a record. “Is he all right?”

“I’m not sure. The paramedics carted him off to the med center,” Tracy responded. “The public information officer thinks he’ll be okay, but that could be simply an assumption.”

Anxiety swept through Connie. “Did you check on his condition?” Tell me he suffered nothing worse than a little smoke inhalation.

“The hospital refuses to comment.” Tracy must have noticed her agitation, because she added, “Is he a friend of yours? I get so caught up in reporting that I can be insensitive.”

“He’s my neighbor.” That seemed the simplest reply.

“He was awake and alert, if that means anything.”

“Thanks.” Paramedics often took people to the hospital as a precaution, Connie reflected, and summoned enough presence of mind to wish her visitor good luck with the articles.

After Tracy left, Connie discovered she was trembling. Once Saturday evening’s incident with the intruder had passed, she’d never considered that Hale might get hurt somewhere else! Now he lay in the hospital, perhaps badly burned, and he didn’t have relatives in the area. She hoped his colleagues were watching out for him. Or maybe he had a girlfriend, the Saturday-night date for whom he’d donned a suit and tie. Well, if that woman didn’t rise to the occasion and take care of her man, Connie owed him a little TLC for saving Skip’s life.

Thinking of Skip reminded her of Paula’s poor judgment in leaving the boy unattended, and now he’d been turned over to social workers. Too bad Paris wasn’t experienced enough to trust with locking up the shop, because if Connie could figure out where he was, she’d try to arrange custody now.

Seeking the most efficient way to ensure the boy’s safety, she dialed Brian Phillips, the lawyer who’d helped with the adoption attempt. After she filled him in, he promised to track the boy. “I’ve got a few contacts at the county.”

“That would be wonderful.” How distressing that Skip might have to spend the night among strangers! As for how close she’d come to losing him altogether, she couldn’t bear to think of it.

A year and a half ago, when he’d arrived at the tutoring center, he’d acted alternately clingy and rebellious. Connie’s upbringing with divorced, self-absorbed parents—her mother was only slightly warmer than her father—hadn’t prepared her to offer selfless nurturing. In fact, during her marriage, she’d resisted the notion of having children.

But with Yolanda’s aid, she’d learned to be a steady, loving guide. While Skip was in kindergarten, Connie had helped him focus on classroom activities, following directions and acquiring a familiarity with numbers and letters. Later, they’d moved into reading and arithmetic. This month, he’d finished first grade working at or above average in all areas.

Now, without her, he might get lost in the system. She had to find him.

Well, Brian was working on that now, and sternly, Connie reminded herself that she had a job to do. After turning the counter over to Paris, she went into the office and settled at the computer to update her Web site. Mostly it informed customers of special events, but direct sales of custom items and collectables had been increasing steadily.

At six o’clock, she reversed the sign on the door to read Closed. As she collected her purse, her young sales assistant twisted a strand of light-brown hair around one finger and said, “I’ve been meaning to mention that I have a few weeks off later this month before summer school starts. I’d like to put in more hours, if it’s okay.”

Connie performed a quick mental calculation. Rearranging and freshening the merchandise at each of the three venues ought to boost sales enough to cover the extra wages. “That would be fine, if you don’t mind rotating among the stores.”

“Great!” Paris beamed. “I’ll give you the exact dates tomorrow.”

“I’ll draw up a schedule with Marta and Rosa.” Her managers would appreciate the extra help.

As the two of them exited by the front door and walked to their cars parked around the side, Connie thought about Hale’s protectiveness on Saturday, and of the fact that he lay in the hospital after saving Skip. For heaven’s sake, she’d never sleep tonight for worrying about his condition. Might as well drop by the med center. If the nurses were restricting visitors, they ought to at least allow a delivery from the gift shop.

It was closed now, but the concessionaire had privileges.

HALE HAD HEARD A VARIETY of opinions about the Mesa View Medical Center. Captain Ferguson, grateful that cell phones and pagers had silenced the old public address calls for doctors, had declared it an oasis of calm following his hemorrhoid surgery. Sgt. Derek Reed, the PD’s leading babe magnet, claimed the nurses got friendlier every year, but another officer had contended they were too preoccupied with paperwork to pay attention to patients.

Hale reluctantly agreed. His ankle throbbed—a sprain, the physician had said—and one side of his body had suffered massive bruises. Instead of offering sympathy and coddling, the nurse had instructed him to press a button on his intravenous line if he needed more pain relief.

Effective and modern, but not very warm.

The presence of fire investigator Andie O’Reilly, who’d been debriefing him for the past half hour, provided a change, although she wasn’t exactly the nurturing type, either. And in his opinion—which he kept to himself—fire officials shouldn’t have flame-red hair.

Andie had arrived at the scene while the firefighters were tackling the blaze. She’d spoken briefly to Hale until the paramedics removed him, then begun interviewing Yolanda.

Her boss was supervising the chemical spill probe, Andie had explained, which left her to spend the afternoon locating and questioning the building’s tenants before catching up with Hale again. Once the fire scene cooled and the building proved structurally safe, she’d comb it for clues.

Most fires began with cooking equipment, but to Hale it appeared this one had started in the living room. Although the place must be a charred, sodden mess, analyzing the burn pattern and sifting through the debris could, he knew, reveal amazing details.

“You’re sure you didn’t observe anyone when you arrived other than Mrs. Rios and Skip Enright?” Andie asked as Hale sipped a cup of tea to settle his smoke-irritated stomach.