Heart of the Night (49 page)

He had an odd premonition as he reached for the phone, even hesitated a minute, wondering whether he should just let it ring. But that would be harder than answering. “Hello?”

“I'm sorry I hung up,” the woman said softly, quickly. “I shouldn't be calling, but I have to talk to someone, and the rest of the world is asleep.”

Jared didn't pretend not to connect this call with the last. “How did you get my number?”

“By accident,” she said in the same fragile but hurried way. “No, that's wrong. I meant to get it. It wasn't hard. With a little ingenuity, most things aren't hard to get. It's knowing what to do with them that's hard.”

“You knew what to do with my number,” Jared reminded her.

“But I lost my nerve and hung up.”

“And now you've called back.” He didn't want to ask her name lest she hang up again. She was clearly upset about something. He felt an odd responsibility to draw her out. “Do you live here in Providence?”

She paused, letting a moment pass before asking, “Are you really as calm in real life as you sound on the air?”

“This is real life. What you hear is what you get.”

“I wish I could get it,” she said wistfully, and more slowly now. She'd apparently realized that she wouldn't lose her nerve, which, Jared assumed, was why she'd been rushing out her words. “I could use a little of that peace.”

“Have things been rough for you lately?”

“Lately? God, yes. But it's not only lately. Things have been rough all my life.”

“Want to tell me about it?” Jared surprised himself by asking. He wondered what he was letting himself in for, but wouldn't have taken back the question. He wanted to know who she was and where she'd gotten his number. For that, he was going to have to establish rapport with her.

She hesitated for a long time before saying, “I can't.”

“And you won't tell me your name?” When she said nothing, he asked, “What will you tell me?”

She hesitated again, then, sounding confused, even distracted, asked, “Have you ever been in a situation where you planned something out and thought you had everything right, and then things backfired?”

Jared thought of his marriage to Elise. “I've had that happen.”

There was a minute's pause, then a surprised, “You have?”

“Yes. Is that what's happened to you?”

She answered his question with another. “How did you handle yours?”

“I took a good look at where I was vis-à-vis where I wanted to be. In my case, I'd been mistaken about that goal. Before I could do anything, I had to decide where I was going.”

“Did you?” She made a noise. “That was a dumb question. Of course, you did. You're there now.”

“Almost,” Jared said, thinking of Savannah.

“Almost? Do you think you'll make it all the way?”

“I don't know. I think so, but there aren't many sure bets in life.”

“I know,” she said sadly. “I used to think there were. I was wrong.”

“Are you married?” She didn't answer. “How old are you?” At times she sounded eighteen, at other times fifty. She vacillated between the vulnerability of youth and the disillusionment of middle age.

She wasn't telling her age, either. So he took a different tack.

“Things can't be as bad as you think. Maybe it's the night. Problems always look worse when you're tired. Have you slept?” It was nearly three in the morning. His system was used to it; his schedule accommodated it. But he was in the minority.

“I slept a little.”

“Why don't you try for a little more?”

“I want to, but when I lie down and close my eyes, I start thinking about everything that's gone wrong, and I realize that things could get even worse, and I don't know what to do!”

The fine thread of desperation that Jared had heard in her voice seemed to swell with her cry. “Shhhh,” he soothed. “You'll work things out.”

“I can't.”

“Sure, you can.”

“You don't understand. I've done some awful things!”

Jared was beginning to feel like a confessor, and he was increasingly uncomfortable with the role. This was no random prank caller, but a woman with serious problems. Unfortunately, he was neither a priest nor a psychiatrist. He wasn't sure quite how to handle her.

“I wish I knew your name,” he murmured half to himself, but she heard.

“It doesn't matter,” she said, suddenly more subdued. “Just talk to me.”

“What should I say?”

“Tell me to stay calm. Tell me to keep my wits. Tell me that panicking won't do any good.”

“It won't.”

“I know. But what will? Nothing's gone as I planned. I'm scared.”

Jared didn't doubt it for a minute, but he felt helpless. “I want to help, but I can't do that unless you tell me more. I need to know who you are.”

His plea was met by silence.

“Or
where
you are.”

Silence still.

“Are you at home?” He paused. “At a friend's?”

Nothing.

“Then tell me more about your problem. I'm probably not the person you should be speaking with. If you give me a better idea of what's wrong, I'll direct you to someone who
can
help.”

“You don't understand,” she said defeatedly.

“I'm trying to.
Help
me.”

His plea seemed to echo over the line. The silence that replaced it was final.

“You've hung up again, haven't you?” he murmured into the phone. When there was no answer, he replaced the receiver.

He didn't budge until it was time to identify the station again, and as soon as he'd done that, he went back to thinking about the call. He had to decide whether to do anything about it, and, if so, what. More immediately, he had to decide what to say if she called again.

But the remainder of the night passed uneventfully, and when he joined Savannah in bed shortly after six, it wasn't a mystery woman's call that was on his mind. It was Georgia, as always.

C
HAPTER
20

Susan had always liked the month of May. She thought of it as a time of emergence, a time when things were fresh and new, when the worn, tired face of winter yielded to spring's rebirth. Most immediately, that meant putting furs and wools and downs into storage and coming out in the open with the brightest and best of the coutures' new look.

At least, that was what spring had meant to her in the past. This year was different. Though her wardrobe was as smashing as ever, she found little excitement in showing it off.

Sam was forever on her mind.

When they were together, life was positively beautiful. At those times, she didn't need expensive new clothes to give her a kick. She dressed more casually than she ever had, sometimes preferring a slacks outfit that she'd bought two years before, or a soft pair of jeans and a sexy silk blouse. Other than the planning that went hand in hand with wanting to turn him on, she rarely thought of clothes when she was with him. Nor did she think of alcohol. He kept her busy. They talked about everything, they read and they shopped for the few pieces of furniture he decided to buy. They grilled dinner on the deck and they made love.

Then he went to work and everything changed. Those were the times when she returned to Newport. Bored and lonely without him, she was looking to fill her time. But she was increasingly impatient with those of her crowd whom she saw, and increasingly disinterested, all of which brought her thoughts right back to Sam.

She felt in limbo, suspended between two very different worlds. Much as she loved Sam, she didn't know where their relationship was going. Any way she looked at it, they were from opposite sides of the track. While she liked having money and the things it could buy, Sam refused to take a cent from her. She wasn't sure she could moderate herself to fit his standard of living.

Yet thought of a future in Newport, with more of the same for the rest of her life, depressed her.

She wanted to talk with Savannah, but between Jared and work, Savannah was preoccupied. And anyway, Savannah was on her black list. She had everything—a job, a love, the kind of attention that Susan craved. Perhaps it was just as well Savannah was busy.

The only other person who'd met Sam and might understand her dilemma was Megan. Each time Susan called, though, Megan had other plans, and while she sensed that such plans were fictitious, she couldn't push the issue. Megan was worried about the upcoming trial. By comparison, Susan's problems seemed petty.

So she was left without an outlet. Frustrated that Sam wasn't with her, wanting to escape the uncertainty of their relationship, even wanting to defy him in her way, she drank. She usually did it in Newport, where she'd have more time to sleep it off before he found her, but there were times when she settled into Sam's new leather easy chair with a bowl of ice, a glass, and a bottle of Chivas Regal.

That was just what she did on a night in the middle of May when Sam went undercover to get information on a call-girl ring that was allegedly putting more than one Brown coed through school. Susan didn't like the case. She didn't like the idea that Sam would be mixing with coeds any more than she liked the idea that the suspected mastermind of the ring was a local politician with reputed ties to the mob. Most of all, though, she didn't like the fact that she was alone.

She wasn't drunk, just slightly dazed, when the phone rang. It was barely ten. Somewhere through the mist in her brain came the thought that it might be Sam. She nearly got up. Then she realized that if her words were slurred, he'd know just what she was doing and be disappointed in her. It was one thing to defy him, another to disappoint him. She didn't want to do the latter. Besides, her legs were too heavy to move.

Propping the glass on her lips, she waited through the second, third, and fourth rings until the answering machine went on, then smiled lazily at the sound of her own sexy voice.

“Hi. You've reached the right number at the wrong time. If you'd care to leave your name and number, the good lieutenant will get back to you as soon as he can. Ciao.”

The beep sounded. Seconds later, a gravelly voice said, “This is Captain Divine from the Butler Police Department. We have an emergency situation here. I have to talk with Sam Craig as soon as possible.” He gave the number, then hung up.

Susan stayed where she was. Captain Divine. Cute. Some yo-yo was having a good time.

She started to tip the glass to her lips, then righted it. Leaning forward carefully to compensate for any lessening of her coordination, she set it on the floor by the bottle. Then she sank back in the chair and thought about the call.

It was probably a joke. Captain Divine had to be a comic strip character.

Still, for a comic strip character, he'd sounded grim. And where was Butler?

Pushing herself from the chair, she maneuvered her way to the answering machine, pressed the replay button, and listened to the message again. There was a strange feel to the call. She wasn't sure whether, in her predrunkenness, she was imagining it, or whether it was simply strong enough to penetrate that same semidrunkenness.

Fumbling for the nearby pad and pencil, she listened to the call again. This time she jotted down the number the man had given. There was an area code, but it wasn't one she recognized, not that she was up for recognizing much. And as for Butler, it didn't ring any bells at all.

Much as she wanted to put the message aside, return to the large, leather easy chair and finish her drink, she couldn't. Something inside told her that the call wasn't a prank.

Grasping the telephone, she contemplated putting through a call to Sam. She couldn't reach him directly, she knew, but she could relay a message through the department. Even they might have trouble; when Sam went undercover, there was often no way to reach him until he resurfaced. She assumed that if it were a dire emergency, contact could be made. Somehow. If it were a dire emergency.

The problem was that she didn't know what kind of an emergency the grim Captain Divine had in mind.

That could be remedied, she decided. But first, she had to be able to think more clearly. To that end, she ran the water in the sink until it was steaming hot, dumped two generous spoonfuls of instant coffee into a cup, filled the cup with the water, and drank it down. While she was waiting for the caffeine to take hold, she went out to the deck and let the chilly night air do its share. Within ten minutes, she felt that while she wasn't as sharp as she might have been, she could safely carry on a conversation without embarrassing either herself or Sam.

Returning to the phone, she punched out the number on the pad. Indeed, it got her through to the Butler Police Department, but to an Officer Sackett.

“Captain Divine, please,” she said. “I'm calling on behalf of Sam Craig.” She was immediately put through to the man who had called nearly twenty minutes before. “My name is Susan Gardner,” she told him. “I'm a close friend of Lieutenant Craig's. Your message came through, but Sam is on duty. I don't know exactly when he'll be able to return your call. If there's a real emergency, I could try to have someone from the department contact him.”

“I think you should do that,” the man responded. He sounded as grim as he had before, and this time Susan couldn't blame her muzziness. She was growing more sober by the minute.

“Can I ask what this is about?”

“There's been an accident. Several members of Mr. Craig's family were involved.”

“Oh no,” Susan breathed. Her heart was beginning to pound. “If you're calling Sam, it must be bad.”

“I think he should get out here as soon as possible.”

Susan didn't ask where here was. Sam's family lived in western Pennsylvania; she assumed Butler was in that area. “I'll call the department,” she said. “Sam will call you as soon as we reach him.”