Cold Comfort (6 page)

Riley wondered about Claire's interest, if she was for or against the bill. He'd put money on "for."

A wide doorway led to the dining room, or maybe a library, judging from all the books. He'd hardly glanced at it on his first walk-through. A desk with a file drawer on either side of the kneehole sat in front of a double window. Reaching up to close the drapes, he saw the untouched sash and figured Claire ran out of steam with her drill-and-nail technique before she got this far. He'd finish before he left.

Next to the desk lamp sat a framed photograph of a young girl in shorts, lying in the grass with her arm around an ugly mutt. He picked up the picture. Claire. She must have loved the dog. Her happy face, filled with laughter, brought a sharp reminder of Nadia, and he turned the picture facedown on the desk. How the hell did he get into this? He rolled the desk chair closer and dropped into it. He'd screwed up before, should have been there. Nadia's wide, sightless eyes would haunt him for the rest of his life. Gradually he pushed the vision away, and they morphed into Claire's cerulean eyes. He needed to get this job done and get out, focus on the desk in front of him.

A leather container held a small stack of mail. Flipping through the bills and letters, he saw one from Brent Littlejohn, an attorney. Riley slid it from the envelope and read. The lawyer wanted her to come in and sign some papers regarding her mother's death. It seemed straightforward.

Riley checked the file drawers. Locked. He felt around under the drawer for a key without success. Setting the desk lamp on the seat of a chair for better light, he flicked open a pocketknife-like gadget, selected a thin blade, and leaned in closer to the drawer. Small scratch-marks scarred the brass lock and the wood around it. Bright. New. Careless. He only noticed them when he moved the lamp. Claire told him about the bed and the cigarette smell, but with nothing missing, she wasn't certain. She didn't consider her files.

Riley opened the lock with a clean, quick twist of the blade. Anyone could have done it, so he guessed the intruder entered after dark
—
he no longer questioned the break-in. Probably used a standard pocketknife.

Flipping through the files in the top drawer, Riley wondered what secrets lay hidden in this welcoming, conventional home. Everything pertained to the wetlands and Jennings's bill. He skimmed a list of names and addresses but didn't recognize any. One folder held copies of letters she'd written, some to Elton Burley, a couple to Senator Jennings's staff. She obviously wanted to protect the wetlands, but being a minor cog in a giant wheel, she hardly presented a serious threat. So what was it?

In the back, he found two packets of photographs. The first showed marshland scenes with several pieces of earthmoving equipment in the background. The slightly fuzzy pictures probably meant a throwaway camera. The second set showed the same scene with similar equipment in different positions. The brighter sky indicated a later time of day, with a newspaper displayed in the foreground. Much sharper.

He shook his head. Nancy Drew. She'd probably taken the first pictures, then gone for help or a better camera and grabbed the newspaper to establish the date. Unfortunately, the pictures didn't show anything happening, and she'd never prove the location or that any significant violations occurred. Hell, those big oaks would be kitchen cabinets by now. He wondered if anyone knew about the pictures, maybe feared they'd show something incriminating. He'd have to ask her about Burley. And check into the developer's background.

Carefully relocking the drawers, he stood and stretched. Next, the kitchen. He thought of those magazines addressed to Claire and wondered if she cooked. His stomach groaned at the possibilities.

He opened the refrigerator.
Looking for clues, Riley?
A couple of wrapped dishes suggested leftovers. He took them both out.
Pot roast!
Without another thought, he pulled a plate from the cabinet and served himself. Shoving the plate in the microwave, he turned back to the counter. When the microwave bell sounded, he was salivating like Pavlov's dog.

This could take care of his fee for today he decided, helping himself to seconds. The last bite disappeared. If she planned on eating pot roast for the rest of the week, she...well, too bad. He rinsed the dishes and left them in the sink, then pushed back his sleeve to check his watch. Nine thirty, and he still hadn't heard anything from the lady of the house. Maybe he should go upstairs and take a look. He supposed a roll on the asphalt after her head injury hadn't helped. At least her hysteria erupted in laughter and not tears.

The door at the top of the stairs stood open a few inches. He pushed his way in and found Claire sound asleep, curled into a tight ball, partially covered by the edge of the bedspread. Cold, he figured, seeing all the blankets underneath her. "Claire?"

She didn't stir. On top of everything else she'd been through, the pain pill must have knocked her out. He pushed back the covers on one side of the bed and scooped her up. Her head rolled against his shoulder. He lowered her to the sheet on her side and started to pull the covers over her when he noticed her belt. The curve of her hips emphasized her small waist.
Forget it, Riley.
He and Miss Manners here would be about as compatible as detergent and gasoline. With his fingertips, he undid the brass buckle and slid the belt from her waist, careful to avoid contact. Her shoes lay where they'd fallen beside the bed. She'd do. If not, she'd wake up and take care of it. He tucked the blanket around her.

She lay still, her breathing even and undisturbed. He wondered what provoked the attack and search. Definitely not random. That driver in the alley intended to kill her, and it sounded like the kid scared the attacker off before he finished the other night. All things considered, she hadn't done badly
—
at least she'd held it together until she got home.

To his thinking, the stalker idea didn't fit, but he scanned the ceiling and the light fixtures. No obvious holes, nothing immediately visible that could conceal a camera. Maybe tomorrow he'd check the attic to be sure, but he didn't expect to find anything.

From the bedroom window, Riley surveyed the yard. No nearby trees, and the sun porch under the south window make access difficult. Anyone wanting in would enter downstairs.

He went back down to finish Claire's window-nailing job. What could be important enough for someone to search the house and try twice to kill her? The dolls and phone call were scare tactics. Someone took a perverted pleasure in frightening her, but the search of the file cabinet indicated purpose, that she had something
—
or the son of a bitch thought she did. Maybe documents. Her work for the wetlands seemed to be her only activity outside the shop. But what triggered this interest now? Two attacks in three days. Someone wanted her dead in a hurry.

Chapter 4

Pinned by her clothes, Claire woke and reached for the light. Pain lanced through her shoulder.
Ah, damn.
That bastard in the driveway—she wished she'd broken his kneecap. Hunger gnawed at her. Lunch was a distant memory, and she didn't count the few bites of soup at Louie's. The clock on her nightstand—on the far side of her bed—read three ten. Puzzled, she rubbed her eyes and blinked the sleep away. Her belt lay over the chair, but she still wore her clothes. Her head hurt, her shoulder ached, and she had new scrapes and bruises on top of everything else. She ached all over.

The frigid air cleared her mind and brought it all back. A voice in her head cried,
Look out!
Blinding headlights blurred her vision. A tremor ran through her. Ben Riley might be a surly so-and-so, but he'd saved her life. Oh, god. The man probably wrote her off as a hysteric and chewed out Ray at the first opportunity.

How had she come to this? What happened to her quiet life?

Forcing her protesting body upright by slow degrees, she slid her feet over the side of the bed to the cold floor, then hurried across to her closet. She yanked a long flannel nightgown from a hook and changed quickly into it. Wide-awake, she slid her feet into a pair of fuzzy slippers and grabbed her bathrobe.

Claire felt she'd been dropped into someone else's life. She lifted the worn woolen robe from the hook and pressed it to her face for a second, picturing her mother wearing it. God, how she missed her. She wished she could crawl into those comforting arms once more. Sliding her arms into the sleeves, she winced. "Damn." That shoulder probably needed exercise. She rolled it once. "Ouch."
Maybe tomorrow
.

Listening, she hesitated at the door to her room. A shiver of fear snaked up her back. What if he'd come back? Anger at her momentary weakness made her straighten. "What are you doing, Claire? Get a grip." She started down the stairs, determined not to let cowardice guide her actions.

A dark figure shot out of the living room toward the steps. Dim light from the windows glinted on something.

A gun!

Claire screamed.

The intruder charged up the steps, pushing past her. At her door, he ducked and went in low.

Claire clung to the banister, rigid with shock.

"What's wrong?" Riley emerged from her room and flipped on the hall light, exposing his indignant face. "What the hell's the matter with you? Who were you talking to?"

"What are you doing here?" Her head swam. He could be a crazed serial killer
—
she hardly knew him. She backed down a step, easing away.

"Do you talk to yourself? Sleepwalk?" He shook his head as if to clear it. "You woke me up. Who the hell were you arguing with?"

Maybe they were both crazy. She started down the remaining steps. This being pushed around was getting old fast. "I'm going to the kitchen for something to eat. This
is
my house." She stopped and turned to him. "You said you'd lock up and leave. Why didn't you?"

"I didn't think you should be alone until we get some decent locks and an alarm." He shrugged.

"I'd appreciate knowing if someone's in my house. What if I'd come out with a gun? I'd have shot you." She drew herself up and continued to the kitchen.

"You don't have one. I checked."

"What? You searched my house, my things?"

"How else would I know if you have something worth breaking in for? You don't seem to have any ideas." He followed, caught up with her in two steps. "Hold on. I'm
try
ing to help you."

"Ask me before you do anything else. I want you to find out who's behind this, not invade my life." She glanced up at him.
Oh, shit.
He'd stayed to help her. The scene in the alley surfaced. The flash of anger drained away. "Did you find anything?"

"No, nothing interesting." He leaned one elbow on the counter and briefly cut his eyes toward the refrigerator.

She spotted the dishes in the sink. The pot roast container, conspicuously clean, sat on the drain board. She faced him, her brow raised.

"Thanks for dinner."

He reminded her of a Rottweiler who'd raided the picnic basket. "You're welcome." She snickered.

"So what's funny?"

"Nothing, nothing."
You'd better get hold of yourself, girl. You're getting punchy
.
Food. Think about food
. What else did she have? Nothing except cake. She wondered if he'd found it too, glanced at the container. Of course he had. The man was a sinkhole. Resigned, she took out a carton of eggs, the single woman's best friend. "Do you want scrambled eggs? I'm having some."

"No, I'll have coffee while you eat. Want some?" He nodded toward the machine on the counter. "Where do you keep the coffee?"

"Here." She pushed a sealed container toward him and pointed to the filters. "No thanks. I prefer tea, at least in the middle of the night."

Claire dropped a pat of butter into the skillet while Riley made coffee. She cracked two eggs and dropped them into the sizzling fat. "What do you think of my security? I'm sure it's not adequate against a determined burglar, but is anything?"

He sat at the table, talking over the gurgling of the coffee pot. "The nails in the windows are a good idea, but no, you aren't going to stop anyone who really wants in."

"Is there anything reasonable I can do about it?" She laid a place mat in front of him and set a coffee mug on it. The teakettle sang, calling her back to the stove.

"A mat for a cup of coffee? Just more laundry." He shook his head. "You could get a simple alarm system that would trigger a siren. It would wake you up and alert the neighbors. It would be more effective than a silent alarm that summons the police. If the slimebag's halfway efficient, you'd be dead before they got here."

Claire almost dropped the teapot. "You do have a way with words, Mr. Riley."

"What do you think he's after, a lock of your hair? And I told you to call me Riley."

"Right. Riley." He wasn't going to pussyfoot around to spare her delicate sensibilities. She dropped a bag of mint tea in her cup and filled it with hot water, giving herself time to think.

The phone rang. She whipped around, spilling tea into her saucer. "Oh, damn, not again."

"You think it's your obscene caller? Answer. I want to hear."