Cold Comfort (3 page)

"She did. The cops can't do anything and PIs are too expensive. Come on, Riley."

"If she can't afford them, she sure as hell can't afford me."

"You don't need money."

"That's not the point. I'm through. No more." Silence. Riley waited, preparing himself for Ray's next argument.

"She's a good lady. My sister Mary works in her store, but there's more. They're friends. I like Claire. Don't want to see her hurt, by anybody." He paused and then said, "I'm asking you, Riley."

Ray's hole card. If he'd use it, the woman meant a great deal to him. Riley traced a finger over the scar next to his heart, then wiped his hand over his face. He couldn't refuse. "You'd better tell me what you know. I didn't get much information."

"That means you didn't want much. She's kind of reserved
—
a little old-fashioned. You snarl at her?" Ray snorted. "Put her off, most likely."

"If you want me to help her, tell me what's going on
—
someone
might
be following her? Someone
tried
to attack her? She sounded like a flake."

"No way, man. According to Mary, she got off light last night. Neighbors scared the guy off. Didn't finish whatever he set out to do
—
most likely why she said 'tried.' But the cops think he waited for her."

Most likely some pissed off lover. Riley figured he could deal with it in a few days. "Where's 'there'?"

"Her driveway, when she got home from work last night."

"So it wasn't the usual shopping center mugging. She didn't tell me."

"Like you gave her a chance
—
I've met pit bulls easier to talk to than you."

"Yeah, yeah. That's it?"

"No, it gets uglier." Grumbling, Ray gave him the story. "You ought to see Claire yourself. It wouldn't be hard duty."

Riley hung up and stroked the cat's head, rubbing the glossy gray fur while he considered the call. The doll bothered him. It smacked of sadism. The specter of a girl's face flitted through his mind's eye before he could suppress it. Would he ever forget? He pinched the bridge of his nose and focused on Claire Spencer to shut out the memory.

"Let's see what we can get from here, Spike." Keying in a password, Riley restored the program on his computer. He considered what little he'd learned. A pleasant voice, but her words came through clenched teeth—obviously not pleased with their phone conversation. He started with Google, then moved to the restricted-access databases.

An hour later, distracted by his rumbling stomach, he printed out the material he'd gathered and, studying the single sheet, shuffled into the kitchen area to reheat yesterday's canned stew. Damn, but he hated cooking.

An image of a small café came to mind. He checked the Christmas shop location on his fact sheet. The café should be close. Maybe he'd eat there tomorrow, see what Mistletoe and its owner looked like.

Damn it all, he'd sworn never to work with another woman. He fingered the scar. When he finished this job, he was moving to Tahiti—with no forwarding address.

* * *

After a sleepless night and a wasted morning, Riley drove into Williamsburg and found Claire's street. Her house, a small Dutch colonial, fit the settled, middle-class neighborhood. The shrubs around it grew too high, but overall the white clapboard structure seemed neat and well cared for, conventional, right down to the Christmas greenery on the door. Clearly crime-scene material.

Her house backed up to a large, wooded area. It extended a block or so to a small park where people walked dogs and jogged, making her house accessible to anyone who wanted to stay hidden. Not good.

Leaving the neighborhood, he skirted the tourist area and cut over to Richmond toward her shop.

When he turned off the main street
,
three children bundled in coats and scarves chattering excitedly in front of a store window, pointing and gesturing toward the interior, caught his attention. Mistletoe.

He squeezed the Bronco into a parking space, locked it, and strolled across to the shop. Through the window, he saw hundreds of tiny white lights peeking through the greenery festooned from the ceiling. The warm glow of a village peopled with moving figures showed between the branches of a fir tree, and a little skater twirled on a glass lake. He could see why the kids were fascinated. The scene came straight from a fairy tale. Magic.
Geez
. Just his kind of case. He'd go in, take a quick look, and get out. For Ray, he'd check out the situation, but he wasn't committing to anything.

Sugar and spice and everything nice.
The old nursery rhyme came back to him as he entered the shop and inhaled the tang of fresh evergreens mingled with...cinnamon? It could have been worse
—
at least some of the trees were real. He sniffed again.
Apple cider?
Drawn by the scent, he followed his nose.

The aisles meandered through the store like paths in a forest—nothing square or aligned. He recognized Mary, a tall, elegant woman in a loose, African-patterned dress, from several years ago. She stood chatting with a young couple beside an electric train display. He stayed out of her line of sight, hiding behind a tree decorated with ribbons and dead flowers. "Dried" was probably the politically correct description he decided, stifling a sneeze.

Riley worked his way toward the rear of the shop until, over the lilting strains of "Greensleeves," he heard a woman say, "You can have a cup of cider if you sit quietly and listen to the story."

He recognized Claire's voice from the phone. Peering around a six-foot-tall gingerbread house, he saw several children, all clutching small paper cups, sitting on a rug in front of a cozy fake fireplace. When she pressed a button on an old tape player, starting "The Night before Christmas," the children sat spellbound.

Through the branches of a tree, he studied her. Wavy, nut-brown hair in a loose knot on top of her head, almost a Gibson girl style, emphasized her gentle, somewhat old-fashioned look. The knot listed to the left and a few strands hung loose. Must be a bad day—that he could understand. The woman fit the voice. If this represented Claire Spencer's life, maybe she'd magnified a common robbery into an attack by a stalker to add a little excitement. She could have done the doll too, just to jack up the stakes.

He didn't expect to like her, and he was damn sure she wouldn't like him.

Then one kid pushed another, and a shoving match began. The ladylike Miss Spencer surprised him with the no-nonsense tone of a nun. "Boys! Sit down and behave. You know the rules." She turned toward Riley and smiled. "Two strikes and you're out."

Busted.
He nodded and turned away, pretending to examine the contents of a basket.

"May I help you find something?" She appeared at his elbow, wearing a solemn expression.

"Uh, yes. I'm trying to find something for my nephew." He looked down at her. Clear ivory skin with a hint of pink in her cheeks, eyes like a bright October sky. Although she wasn't classically beautiful, her coloring would have made Botticelli weep. If he were a portrait painter....

"Interesting choice," she said.

In the subdued lighting he couldn't be sure, but he thought those cerulean eyes held a twinkle. He glanced down to see his "choice," a basket of pearly pink ornaments.
Super sleuth strikes again.
"I'll take three of these
—
for his mother. She likes pink."

After paying for the useless stuff, he made a hasty retreat. Safely outside in the cold, he checked his watch. Five twenty. Time enough for coffee after a quick tour to check the rear access to Mistletoe. Resigned, he reminded himself he owed Ray. He would do it for Ray.

* * *

Inside, Claire's gaze followed the man until his long strides took him beyond her view. She shook her head. He didn't belong in her shop. She should have stayed away and called Mary. He could have been her attacker. But somehow she didn't believe it. Was she being too trusting? With Claire's penchant for strays, Mary would think so.
At least she hadn't fallen for the man's story.
Nephew, my foot
.

She really wanted another look herself. His presence drew her. She'd felt him watching her from the moment she started the story for the children. A quick glance from the corner of her eye revealed a big man with short, dark hair, partially hidden by a slab of gingerbread. Hardly her usual shopper. It wasn't his appearance
—
she found
his somewhat rough features attractive if not traditionally handsome. No, something about his manner, a sort of watchfulness, didn't fit with her typical customers. His dark eyes seemed to absorb his surroundings. She couldn't be sure of the color, deep blue or brown, but definitely focused on her. Smiling, Claire shook her head
—
those silly ornaments he'd grabbed when she spoke to him. By now, he'd probably tossed them in the nearest trashcan. So what was he doing here?

"Merry Christmas to all...and to all a good night!"

The story ended, interrupting her thoughts, and she turned back to the children, putting him out of her mind. For now.

* * *

Riley hunched his shoulders against the cold and blew warm breath onto his hands as he walked down the alley to check Mistletoe's back entrance. Traffic noises faded. Only the muted sound of his steps and the whistling wind disturbed the silence. The old buildings adjoined, creating a solid wall of dark brick, broken by doors and downspouts. Rusting Dumpsters and oversized trash bins lined the cracked concrete throughway, leaving scant room for a garbage truck. A few stray bits of paper tumbled past. He counted the unmarked doors until he reached hers. Standard steel with a Schlage lock. Typical.

In the parking lot in the next block, he spotted the red Fiat. He shook his head
—
he guessed it had a few years on Claire. How did she come to own such a car?

Dark closed rapidly, and the wind picked up, cutting through his jeans and leather jacket. Damn Ray. Riley would give the woman the rest of the day, stick around and keep an eye out. While he waited for closing time, he'd see what the café offered.

He snagged a
USA Today
and slid into an empty booth by the window. A big guy with an even bigger apron-covered belly seemed to be keeping an eye on things. Before Riley settled on the red vinyl seat, a teenager with a bouncing ponytail arrived with coffee. He asked for lemon meringue pie. "Be generous," he told her. In less than two minutes, the kid returned with utensils and a huge slice. Good service.

Idly watching Mistletoe's storefront while he ate, he reviewed what he knew about Claire. Hell, she'd probably been nominated for the good citizen award. He wondered how badly she'd been hurt. The assault didn't fit with a stalker, and a planned robbery seemed unlikely. Nothing suggested the kind of affluence or behavior someone would track her down and jump her in her own driveway for. And why the doll?

He finished off the pie. A little sweet but okay—like Claire.

Surely she would leave soon. Riley blew an exasperated breath, reminded himself Ray cared about her.

A movement caught his attention. Appearing out of the shadows cast by the streetlights, a shapeless figure in a dark overcoat jaywalked toward Claire's side of the street. With a hat pulled low over his forehead and a scarf wound high around his neck, Riley couldn't make out his features. The bulky shape stopped in the doorway of a loan company already closed for the day, two doors from Mistletoe.

Riley tensed. Maybe the guy was taking a break from the wind, but something made Riley doubt it. He continued to watch, barely noticing when Ponytail topped off his cup again.

A figure, unrecognizable through the reflection, came to the door of the Christmas shop. The lights in the shop went out, emphasizing the faint glow of a lighted cigarette as it sailed into the street from the dark loan office. A minute later, the man stepped out and strode toward the end of the block.

Damn! She's going out the back.

Riley yanked a ten from his wallet and jammed it under the edge of the saucer. He grabbed his jacket and ran.

The other man disappeared around the far corner of the block. Riley ran for the near corner. He stopped at a brick wall flanking the alleyway and peered around the edge into the passage.

Standing in a circle of light from a bare bulb over Mistletoe's rear door, Claire Spencer twisted the key in the lock, then dropped it into her bag. She turned in Riley's direction, moving fast. Headlights appeared at the far end of the alley. Claire stepped from behind a Dumpster. With a roar of the engine, the car leapt forward.

"Look out! Behind you!" Riley sprinted toward her.

She glanced over her shoulder into the headlights of the speeding car. To Riley's eyes, her silhouetted figure appeared to rotate in slow motion against a backdrop of blinding light. He ran harder.

Three more yards.

He grabbed her in a flying tackle an instant before the car reached them. His momentum carried them out of the car's path and between a pair of overflowing trash bins. Twisting as they went down, he took the brunt of the fall and landed rolling, cradling her head against his chest. The car skidded around the corner, tires squealing. He didn't see the license plate but figured the guy stole it anyway.
Bastard.