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“It’s Kelly. I’ve got information.”
Finally! He leaned a hip against an old windowsill and watched as Randi, glasses perched on the end of her nose, looked up from his laptop. “News?”
He nodded. “Go on,” he said into the phone and listened as Matt McCafferty’s wife began to explain.
“I think I’ve located the vehicle that forced Randi off the road in Glacier Park. A maroon Ford truck, a few years old, had some dents banged out of it in a chop shop in Idaho. All under-the-table stuff. Got the lead from a disgruntled employee who swears the chop shop owner owes him back wages.”
Striker’s jaw hardened. “Let me guess. The truck was registered to Sam Donahue.”
“Close. Actually was once owned by Marv Bates, or, precisely, a girlfriend of his.”
“Have you located Bates?”
Randi visibly stiffened. She set aside the laptop and crossed the few feet separating them. “We’re working on it. I’ve got the police involved. My old boss, Espinoza, is doing what he can.” Roberto Espinoza was a senior detective who was working on Randi’s case. Kelly Dillinger had once worked for him, but turned in her badge about the time she married Matt McCafferty. “But so far, we haven’t been able to locate Mr. Bates.”
“He had an alibi.”
“Yeah,” Kelly said. “Airtight. Good ol’ boys Sam Donahue and Charlie Caldwell swore they were all over at Marv’s house when Randi was forced off the road. Charlie’s girlfriend at the time, Trina Spencer, verified the story, but now Charlie and Trina have split, so we’re looking for her. Maybe she’ll change her tune now that Charlie’s no longer the love of her life and the truck she owned has been linked to the crime. We’re talking to the employees of the chop shop. I figure it’s just a matter of time before one of ’em cracks.”
“Good. It’s a start.”
“Finally,” Kelly agreed. “I’ll keep working on it.”
“Want to talk to Randi?”
“Absolutely.” Striker handed the phone to Randi and listened to her end of the conversation as she asked about what Kelly had discovered, then turned the conversation to her family. A few minutes later, she hung up.
“This is the break you’ve been waiting for,” she said, and he heard the hope in her voice.
God, he hated to burst her bubble. “It’s a start, Randi. Time will tell if it pans out, but yeah, it’s something.”
He only hoped it was enough.
“Why don’t you turn in.” He unrolled a sleeping bag, placing it between the baby’s makeshift crib and the fire.
“Where will you be?”
“Here.” He shoved a chair close to the door.
She eyed the old wingback. “Aren’t you going to sleep?”
“Maybe doze.”
“You’re still afraid,” she charged.
“Not afraid. Just vigilant.”
She shook her head, unaware that the fire’s glow brought out the red streaks in her hair. Sighing, she started working off one boot with the toe of another. “I really can’t believe this is my life.” The first boot came off, followed quickly by the second. Plopping down on the sleeping bag, she sat cross-legged and stared at the fire. “I just wanted to write a book, you know. Show my dad, my boss, even my brothers that I was capable of doing something really newsworthy. My family thought I was nuts when I went into journalism in college—my dad in particular. He couldn’t see any use in it. Not for his daughter, anyway. And then I landed the job with the paper in Seattle and it became a joke. Advice to single people. My brothers thought it was just a lot of fluff, even when the column took off and was syndicated.” She glanced at Striker. “You know my brothers. They’re pretty much straight-shooter, feet-on-the-ground types. I don’t think Matt or Slade or Thorne would ever be ones to write in for advice on their love lives.”
Kurt laughed.
“Nor you, I suppose?”
He arched an eyebrow in her direction. “Not likely.”
“And the articles I did for magazines under R. J. McKay, it was all woman stuff, too. So the book—” she looked up at the ceiling as if she could find an answer in the cobwebby beams and rafters “—it was an attempt to legitimatize my career. Unfortunately Dad died before it was finished and then all the trouble started.” She rubbed her knees and cocked her head. Her locket slipped over the collar of her shirt and he noticed it winking in the firelight. His mouth turned dry at the sight of her slim throat and the curve of her neck where it met her shoulder. A tightening in his groin forced him to look away.
“Maybe the trouble’s about to end.”
“That would be heaven,” she said. “You know, I always liked living on the edge, being a part of the action, whatever it was, never set my roots down too deep.”
“A true McCafferty.”
She chuckled. “I suppose. But now, with the baby and after everything that happened, I just want some peace of mind. I want my life in the city back.”
“And the book?”
Her smile grew slowly. “Oh, I’m still going to write it,” she vowed, and he noticed a determined edge to her voice, a steely resolve hidden in her grin. “Bedtime?”
The question sounded innocent, but it still created an image of their lovemaking. “Whenever you want.”
“And you’re just going to play security guard by the door.”
“Yep.” He nodded. “Get some sleep.”
“Not until you tell me what it is that makes you tick,” she said. “Come on, I told you all about my dreams of being a journalist and how my family practically laughed in my face. You know all about the men I’ve dated in recent history and I’ve also told you about my book and how I got involved with a man who was still married and might be trying to kill me. Whatever you’re hiding can’t be that bad.”
“Why do you think I’m hiding something?”
“We all have secrets, Striker. What’s yours?”
That I’m falling for you, he thought, then clamped his mind shut. No way. No how. His involvement with Randi McCafferty had to remain professional. No matter what. “I was married,” he said, and felt that old raw pain cutting through him.
“What happened?”
He hesitated. This was a subject he rarely bridged, never brought up on his own. “She divorced me.”
“Because of your work?”
“No.” He glanced at her baby sleeping so soundly in his blankets, remembered the rush of seeing his own child for the first time, remembered the smell of her, the wonder of caring too much for one little beguiling person.
“Another woman?” she asked, and he saw the wariness in the set of her jaw.
“No. That would have been easier,” he admitted. “Cleaner.”
“Then, what happened? Don’t give me any of that ‘we grew away from each other’ or ‘we drifted apart.’ I have readers who write me by the dozens and they all say the same thing.”
“What happened between me and my ex-wife can’t be cured by advice in your column,” he said more bitterly than he’d planned.
“I didn’t mean to imply that it could.” She was a little angry. He could feel it.
“Good.”
“So what happened, Striker?”
His jaw worked.
“Can’t talk about it?” She rolled her eyes. “After I explained about Sam Donahue? That I was sleeping with him and he was still married. How do you think I feel, not seeing the signs, not reading the clues. Geez, whatever it is can’t be that humiliating!”
“We had a daughter,” he said, his voice seeming to come from outside his body. “Her name was Heather.” His throat tightened with the memories. “I used to take her with me on the boat and she loved it. My wife didn’t like it, was afraid of the water. But I insisted it would be safe. And it was. Until…” His chest felt as if the weight of the sea was upon it. Randi didn’t say a word but she’d blanched, her skin suddenly pale, as if she knew what was to come. Striker closed his eyes, but still he could see that day, the storm coming in on the horizon, remember the way the engine had stalled. “Until the last time. Heather and I went boating. The engine had cut out and I was busy fiddling with it when she fell overboard. Somehow her life jacket slipped off. It was a fluke, but still… I dived in after her but she’d struck her head. Took in too much water.” He blinked hard. “It was too late. I couldn’t save her.” Pain wracked through his soul.
Randi didn’t move. Just stared at him.
“My wife blamed me,” he said, leaning against the door. “The divorce was just a formality.”
Ten
Dear God, how she’d misjudged him! “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, wondering how anyone survived losing a child.
“It’s not your fault.”
“And it wasn’t yours. It was an accident,” she said then saw recrimination darken his gaze.
“So I told myself. But if I hadn’t insisted upon taking her…” He scowled. “Look, it happened. Over five years ago. No reason to bring it up now.”
Randi’s heart split. For all of his denials, the pain was fresh in him. “Do you have a picture?”
“What?”
“Of your daughter?”
When he hesitated, she crawled out of the sleeping bag. “I’d like to see.”
“This isn’t a good idea.”
“Not the first,” she said as she crossed the room. Reluctantly he reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet and flipped it open. Randi’s throat closed as she took the battered leather and gazed at the plastic-encased photograph of a darling little girl. Blond pigtails framed a cherubic face that seemed primed for the camera’s eye. Under apple cheeks, her tiny grin showed off perfect little baby teeth. “She’s beautiful.”
“Yes.” He nodded, his lips thin and tight. “She was.”
“I apologize if I said anything insensitive before. I didn’t know.”
“I don’t talk about it much.”
“Maybe you should.”
“Don’t think so.” He took the wallet from her fingers and snapped it shut.
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