Deadly Aim (31 page)

“A detective,” Callen corrected.

“Whatever.” Anna waved her hand.

“I know who he is.” Angel frowned. “But what are you two doing here? Cooking. Together.”

“I think I can explain.” Callen pulled a chair out for Angel and guided her to it. “As I said, I came to see you.”

“He brought food, Angel. Wasn’t that nice?”

Angel rubbed her eyes. “Wait. I’m having some kind of weird dream, aren’t I?”

“No dream.” Callen leaned down and whispered, “If it was, your mother wouldn’t be here.”

Her stomach fluttered.
From hunger
, she told herself.

Yeah, right. Who am I kidding
?

She jerked away, ignoring the teasing look on his face. “Why did you bring food? And Ma, why are you here?”

“I brought groceries.”

“Why? Do I look malnourished?”

“Honey, I know how you are when you’re worried. You don’t eat. You don’t take care of yourself.”

Angel gave up and let her mother do what she did best—feed her. But once she’d dished up plates for Angel and Callen and set them on the place mats she’d put on the dining room table, Anna said her good-byes. “I have to get back to the hospital. Your father will be waiting.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to eat with us?” Angel’s tone was almost pleading. She couldn’t explain it, but the thought of being alone with Callen Riley was scarier than catering a dinner at the country club—well, almost. He seemed different than before, more relaxed and less reserved.

“I’m taking some with me to share with your father.”

Callen opened his arms for a hug. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Delaney.” He kissed her cheek and in Italian said,
“Buon giorno
.”

She waved her hand. “Call me Anna. Soon you’ll have to come to my house for dinner. I have a real kitchen. With fresh herbs from my garden.”

“Fresh herbs! My dear lady, you have stolen my heart.” He looked genuinely pleased. “Cooking with you again would be a pleasure.”

“Come Monday night.” Anna grinned, her voice high with excitement. Angel hadn’t seen her mother so animated since Christmas. “We’ll have a welcome home dinner for Frank.”

Callen glanced in Angel’s direction as he walked her mother to the door. “It’s a date.”

“Ciao
!” Anna called to them as she closed the door.

“You really won her over,” Angel said when Callen returned and sat down at the table.

“Your mom is fantastic. She’s everything...” He stopped. His smile melted into a scowl and without another word, he attacked the pasta like a man on a mission.

Angel wanted to ask him what had upset him, but she doubted he’d welcome her intrusion. No doubt about it, Callen Riley was a complicated man. A man she wanted to know better. A man she didn’t want to know at all.

She tried to focus on her dinner, long golden strands of pasta covered with a rich, red sauce and topped with a sprinkling of freshly grated Parmesan. Her mother would never use anything but fresh Parmesan. The thick sauce was a mixture of tomatoes, onion, garlic, ground beef, sliced olives, mushrooms, and a blend of basil, oregano, cilantro, and other spices.

Angel picked up two strands of spaghetti with her fork and twisted them around and around, then scooped up more sauce. Once in her mouth the flavors exploded. “Mmm.” She closed her eyes. “Mmm, this is so good.”

Callen didn’t respond. She opened her eyes to find him studying her again. She set her fork down. “Why do you do that?”

“What?”

“Look at me like that.”

His mouth curved in a warm smile. “I like looking at you.”

“Well, don’t.” His gaze disturbed her, frightened her, sent shivers through her. Under his scrutiny she felt exposed, guilty, afraid of what he might find if he looked too closely.

He obliged, turning his attention back to his food.

She finished chewing a piece of garlic bread and took a sip of water. “Um, I thought you had to be in Portland today.”

“I did.” He reached for his napkin. “Needed to pick up my computer equipment and visit my sister and her family.”

Angel leaned forward. “Tell me about them.”

Callen complied, giving her a brief synopsis of his family—sister, Kathleen, her husband, Stan, and their two girls. When he finished, they sat in silence for a while. He stared into the glowing gas fireplace and seemed a million miles away. He hadn’t mentioned his parents, and Angel thought it better not to ask.

“I realized something today,” Angel said, breaking the silence. She told him about her visit to the cannery with Eric. “I want to go back.”

He shook his head. “Not you. I’ll go in and take another look around.”

Angel started to argue but thought better of it. “Did you get my message about the obscene caller? I think it was Ray Broadman.”

“It’ll be tough to prove that. Too bad you didn’t get a tape.” He picked up their empty plates and took them to the sink. “Want dessert?”

“No. I’m stuffed.” She hadn’t meant to eat it all, but she had. Every delectable bite.

“Coffee?”

She nodded. She should’ve been the one offering him coffee. Instead she watched him move around her kitchen like a pro. “You really cook, don’t you? I mean, all that with my mother wasn’t an act.”

“Cooking is a hobby.”

“The sauce was wonderful.”

“A joint effort.”

“You and my mother... I’m amazed. She doesn’t like to share her kitchen.”

He grinned. “Maybe she’s never found someone to share her enthusiasm for food.”

“Huh. And you do. You actually
enjoy
cooking.”

“Yeah. I didn’t at first, though. But then it was either make it myself or go hungry.” He glanced over at her. “My mother deserted Kath and me when I was twelve. Left us with an alcoholic father.”

“I’m sorry.”

“We adjusted. After a while I got to where I enjoyed cooking—even took some classes in college. I’ll have to show you my collection of cookbooks someday.”

“I don’t cook.”

He chuckled. “No kidding.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Some people cook, some don’t. Your mother told me you don’t have a domestic bone in your body.” He set two cups and saucers on the counter and poured the coffee.

Angel bristled. “She said that?”

“She told me a lot of things about you.” Instead of handing one to her, he took both to the coffee table in front of the sofa.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you that it’s rude to talk about somebody behind their back?”

He sat down on the sofa and rested an ankle across his knee. “Your mother likes to talk about you. Only good stuff, I promise. And I enjoyed listening.”

She crossed the room and picked up her cup, then sat in the chair farthest away from him. His presence took up too much space in the room—and in her heart. Besides, hadn’t Rachael said he was still grieving?

She watched him for a long moment as he picked up the glass globe and examined it, his long fingers moving over the smooth glass as if he’d done it before. She had an inkling then. “It was you, wasn’t it?” She got to her feet and waved an arm around the room. “You did this—the furniture, the cupboards.”

Callen didn’t deny it. “You don’t like it?”

Angel wasn’t certain how she felt about it—thankful, yes, but at the same time annoyed. She doubted he could afford to furnish her entire apartment any more than she could. “I love it, but you
shouldn’t have done this. How did you get in? Where did you get the money? I mean, I may not have much, but I’m not a charity case.”

“It wasn’t just me, Angel. Granted, it was my idea, but everyone in the Sunset Cove P.D. and the sheriff’s department chipped in. Other officers around did too. I just put it all together, bought it, and had Brandy and a couple of the guys come in and help me set everything up.”

Tears formed in her eyes. “Oh.” She sat back down, embarrassed at her tirade. “Why didn’t anyone tell me? I should write thank-you notes.”

“We wanted to surprise you. I suppose you could just write a note to each of the P.D.s—Lincoln City and Newport, and to the county sheriff’s department. That would about do it.” Callen set the glass globe down and placed an arm across the back of the sofa.

“And to you.” Angel looked around the room. “Thank you.” The words seemed insignificant and conveyed so little of what she really felt. She wanted to cross the room and settle down beside him, feel his arms slide around her.

Not a good idea
. Angel blinked away the image and picked up her coffee. “Before dinner, you... um... said you came to see me. Have you learned anything more about Dixon’s death?”

“I didn’t come here to talk about Dixon.”

“What then?”

“You. I want to know more about the shooting you were involved in.”

“I told you everything.”

“Right, but I have some questions.” Callen leaned back, resting his feet on the coffee table. “You said you were on the stairs and less than six feet from the boy when you fired.”

“Right. I shot him in the shoulder. I remember.”

“The medical examiner tells me that two of the shots went in at a lower angle and from farther out.”

“Which proves I didn’t kill him.” Angel set her cup down. “Rachael told me about the report.”

“It proves someone shot him from different angles, once at close range, less than six feet, and twice at probably more than ten feet.
That could’ve been done by the same person. Which brings us back to the missing evidence.”

Angel bounced to her feet and began pacing. “We’ve been over this ground before. I didn’t take it. I don’t know who did. Despite Joe’s faulty memory, I didn’t have a key. The only thing that makes sense to me is that whoever fired those last two bullets didn’t want anyone to know that he—or she—was there.”

“Would you like to walk?”

“What?” Callen had a knack for throwing her off balance, and he was doing it again.

“Walking is good for clearing the head and working off a heavy meal.”

“It’s raining.”

“So?”

“Yeah.” Angel smiled. “While we walk, you can fill me in on Dixon.”

Callen pulled on the Aran sweater he’d shed earlier and slipped on an olive-drab rain jacket. Angel put on a sweatshirt and her oversized rain gear. Once outside, she led the way over the rocks and onto the shoreline. It was dark, but lights from the apartment and nearby hotels gave them adequate visibility.

Callen held out his hand to help her over the driftwood.

“Thanks. Now, tell me about Dixon.”

“Can we talk about something else? I’m off duty.”

“Like what?”

“Us.”

He was still holding her hand, and Angel didn’t think it should feel quite so comfortable or make her feel so safe. She pulled her hand away. “There is no us.”

“That’s what I keep telling myself, but when I’m with you...” He brushed rainwater from his hair. “I can’t stop thinking about you. I’m losing my perspective.” He tipped his head back. “I even like your mother.”

Angel couldn’t help but laugh. She liked him too, but would it be wise to tell him that? “I’m—I have a boyfriend.”

“I know. Brandon. Do you love him?”

She didn’t respond. How could she? She didn’t love Brandon except as a friend, but she wasn’t ready to give him up. She closed her eyes for a moment, wishing things were different, wishing she could trust Callen.

He stopped and turned her to face him. “There’s something going on between us, Angel. I can’t explain it, and I’m not even sure I want to. I just know it’s there. I don’t want to lose it.”

Angel didn’t either.

“We’re both in a tough place right now.” He traced her jawline with his finger. “We have some important issues to work out.”

Like my guilt or innocence
? She reached up and wrapped her arms around him and rested her head on his chest where his jacket hung open. His arms went around her, and he laid his cheek on her head.

But he was right; this wasn’t the time for either of them to pursue a romantic relationship. She stepped back and took his hand again, then began walking back to the apartment. “Then what do you suggest we do about ‘us’?”

“Well, we can be acquaintances.” He squeezed her hand.

“Meaning?”

“I can help your mom cook dinner for you, get to know you and your family. And you can get to know me...”

“I can handle that.”

They walked a while in silence. “So tell me about Dixon,” she finally asked again.

“Not so fast. Since you’re on leave, you’re only going to get what’s been released to the press.”

“That’s not fair. I was there. I found the body and—”

“Rules are rules.”

“Do you always play by the rules?”

“When I can.”

It was too dark to see his face now. She missed reading his expressive eyes. “Then tell me what you can.”

“Someone slashed his throat with a steak knife.”

“I knew that.”

“There were no signs of a struggle.”

“Do you think he was surprised by the attack or that he knew his killer?”

“Could’ve been either—or both. He’d been knocked down or had fallen. The killer slashed him when he was on the ground.”

Angel sighed. “I guess that blows the theory about the killer being a man.”

“And there were samples of your hair on his jacket.”

“Of course there were. I fell on him.” She looked up. “What about Broadman?”

“So far we have no evidence connecting Broadman to the crime, except that he was there earlier. Like I mentioned before, he was seen leaving the resort within minutes of the time he and Dixon left the lounge.”

“How much time would he need to follow Dixon into the shadows, trip him, and slice his throat?” Angel was grasping at straws, and she knew it. As Callen had already told her, Broadman had no reason to kill Dixon.

“Not a lot,” Callen replied, “but more time than he had.”

“He could’ve driven out of the parking lot and parked on the street and come back,” Angel suggested. She wasn’t being logical in pressing her case against Broadman, but she was angry with him and wanted some kind of retribution.

“He could have, but why would he do that? You don’t kill your benefactor.”