Terms Of Engagement

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“It’s solid.” Sheila Jennings had sworn out a complaint last night while Fallon had spent the night in the hospital. There was definitely something backassed about that turn of events. He hadn’t had time to look at the report this morning, since he and his partner had been called out to check on an alleged burglary. After a couple hours at the scene, the elderly home owner had discovered his coin collection had been moved by his housekeeper. “And I’m not the one who broke his nose. That was the woman who witnessed him trying to rape Sheila Jennings last night.” In short, succinct terms he relayed Lindsay’s part in the incident, ending with, “This is just a preemptive strike on Fallon’s part. He figures a complaint is going to be sworn out against him and he’s trying to keep his ass out of jail.”

Some of the tension eased from Telsom’s craggy face. “Bradford’s statement will back up Jennings’s?”

Jack halted, folding his arms across his chest. “Yes,” he said, with more certainty than he was feeling. His persuasive powers had been singularly ineffective with Lindsay last night. But surely she’d be thinking more clearly today.

“Then bring her in here and get the paperwork done. Let’s clean this up before it gets messy, Langley.” His protruding brow and deep-set eyes were even more noticeable when he was wearing a scowl. “I don’t like messes.”

“I’ll take care of it.” Jack walked out of the office, glancing at his watch. Three-ten. If he was going to get Lindsay in here for a statement today, he didn’t have much time.

When he got back to his desk and reached into his suit jacket for his cell, however, he saw he’d already missed a call from Lindsay. No message. Something inside him lightened. He knew better than to believe that she’d come to her senses and rethought her decision about the statement. More than likely she was calling to cancel their date tonight.

He pressed the redial button and held the cell to his ear, sinking into his desk chair, a sense of anticipation clenching in his gut at the thought of speaking to her again.

But the phone merely rang, and rang, and rang before switching to her voice mail.

Lindsay felt the phone vibrate in her apron pocket and thanked God she’d thought to mute it before locking the door and facing Mitch again. Because he wasn’t the same man she’d felt sorry for last night. Something had snapped inside him and he’d spiraled rapidly out of control.

Like the rest of the people inside the restaurant, her attention was glued on the scene unfolding between Mitch and Alex Gardner, who had been discovered hiding below the order counter.

“I said crawl over here, you piece of crap!”

There was a shrill ring to Mitch’s voice that had Lindsay considering him carefully. The unusual veneer of control he’d worn when he’d entered the kitchen was definitely thinning. She scanned the occupants of the restaurant, counting heads. Thirty-seven people, including the help. The customers were predominantly women, with five children and three men. And everyone wore similar expressions of dazed terror.

“Not laughing anymore, are you, funny guy?” Alex was on his knees in front of Mitch, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Mitch had the revolver pressed against the center of his forehead. “What’s the matter? This isn’t as funny as watching Bill pour juice over my head? Something’s wrong with your sense of humor, pal. This is funny as hell.”

Alex’s face crumpled. Silent tears ran down his face.

Lindsay sidled away until the hostess’s lectern was between her and the two men. Leaning against the wall, she reached one hand into the wide front pocket of her apron, in search of the still-vibrating phone. If she could just open it, Jack would be able to hear everything going on, wouldn’t he? And then maybe he could understand enough to send the help necessary to…

“Lindsay!”

Her heart stuttered to a stop in her chest, her fingers releasing the phone and slipping out of the pocket again. Mitch was staring at her, frowning. “What?” With a sense of despair she realized the cell had ceased vibrating.

“Bring me a glass of orange juice. No, bring me a whole damn pitcher. Let’s see how funny boy likes it when it’s dumped over his head.”