Brenda Harlen - One Man's Family

But no matter how attractive Scott Logan was—and he was, undoubtedly, very attractive—there were toomany other things going on in her life to even contemplate a relationship. And right now, she needed to pack up more of her clothes and personal effects to take to her brother’s house.

She felt a pang of sadness as she stepped into her apartment and looked around. It wasn’t spacious or fancy, but it had been her home for the past three years. She’d moved in when she’d started her job at the fertility clinic linked to the Children’s Connection, taking over the lease from another nurse who was getting married because it was an easy—albeit intended temporary—solution to her housing dilemma.

She’d stayed because she’d genuinely liked the neighborhood and her neighbors. There were the Walkertons, a young couple with a four-month-old baby; the Racines—Harriet and Abe—who’d been married almost sixty years and, if Myrtle Grossman was to be believed, fighting all of that time; Marissa Alonzo, a single mother who juggled three jobs to support her three children; Ronald Tedeschi, an engineering student at PSU; and Ingrid Stavros, her seventy-year-old landlady who baked cookies for every tenant on his or her birthday.

Alicia ignored the tightness in her throat as she shoved the last of her clothes into her duffel bag. She’d been living at her brother’s house since his arrest, taking care of his children, and though she loved Joey and Lia more than anything, she really missed the eclectic group of tenants who had somehow become her extended family. And she missed her home—her private haven that was comfortable and familiar and entirely her own.

As she zipped up the bag, she pushed her petty regrets aside. She had no right to complain about giving up her home when her brother had lost everything.

Besides, if Scott Logan was as good as his reputation, she wouldn’t be gone for long.

He can’t find evidence that isn’t there, Jordan had warned her. But if there’s anything the cops missed, he’ll uncover it.

Alicia was counting on that. More importantly, Lia and Joey were counting on it.

Thinking of her niece and nephew, she hefted the stuffed bag onto her shoulder and headed back outside to her car. She waved to Myrtle Grossman across the street as she tried to recall if she’d taken anything out of the freezer for dinner that night. Steak, she remembered now. She’d planned to make a stir-fry—one of her nephew’s favorites and one of the few ways she knew to get him to eat vegetables.

She had her key in hand to unlock the trunk when she noticed something written in the dust on the back window. One of the neighborhood kids—probably Marissa’s eldest son, she guessed, although she’d never actually caught him in the act—seemed to think it was funny to write WASH ME on her vehicle when it was obvious that Alicia had neglected to do so.

But this time the message said: BACK OFF.

She felt a chill skate over her skin despite the late afternoon sun beating down on her.

It wasn’t just the words that were different, it was the style of lettering. Bigger and bolder.

Or was she wrong?

She’d been uneasy since Joe had gone to prison, jolting at noises in the night, jumping at shadows. She was overreacting, letting her imagination get away from her, envisioning dangers where there were none. No doubt this was another example of the same thing.

The message probably wasn’t even intended for her, but for the driver of whatever vehicle might find itself behind her on the road. And the logic of this reasoning soothed her skittish nerves.

Until she noticed the slashed tires.

Scott arrived at Alicia’s apartment complex less than fifteen minutes after her call.

He recognized Detective Mel Rucynski from his years on the force and greeted his former colleague with a firm handshake.

“What are you doing here?” Rucynski asked.

“Alicia called me.”

“Alicia, huh?” Rucynski lifted his thick black eye-brows. “Well, your taste in women has definitely improved in the past couple of years.”

The cop’s suggestive tone made Scott realize he’d slipped in referring to Alicia by her first name, as he’d slipped throughout the day whenever thoughts of her came to mind. And although those thoughts had been anything but professional, focusing on her as a woman rather than a client—a woman with dark sparkling eyes, wide full lips, and temptingly round curves that he wanted to feel pressed against him—he didn’t want Rucynski to get the wrong idea about his relationship with Alicia.

“Actually, Miss Juarez is a client,” he said, reminding himself as well as Rucynski of that fact.

“A client, huh?” the cop asked doubtfully. “Well, if she has enough money to call you out to investigate a juvenile prank, she should have enough money to move out of this neighborhood.”

“What kind of prank?” Scott asked, ignoring the dig about his fees. A lot of his former colleagues assumed he’d made the jump to the private sector to fatten his wallet. And while he did take home a heftier paycheck now, it wasn’t money that had motivated the switch.

“Slashed tires.” Rucynski gestured to the parking lot behind him.

Scott looked over his former colleague’s shoulder and saw an ancient red Jetta in one of the few occupied slots. “Slashed tires” was something of an understatement, he thought, noting that the vehicle was actually resting on its rims because the tires had been so completely decimated.

“Looks like an unusually violent prank,” he noted.

Rucynski shrugged. “Some kids are carrying around a lot of anger.”

He nodded. It was an act of vandalism, possibly—probably—random, and yet there was something about it that bothered him.

“What did you tell Al—Miss Juarez?”

“The truth—that this neighborhood isn’t exactly upscale, and the fact that she’s lived here for three years without incident is only proof that she was due for some trouble.”

“What about the words on the back windshield?”

“By her own admission, the neighborhood kids sometimes leave messages in the dust on her car.”

Scott nodded, but he wasn’t convinced.

Not that he blamed Rucynski for looking for an easy answer. He’d responded to too many of these same types of incidents when he’d been in uniform, and usually the simplest explanation was the right one. But he’d also learned to trust his instincts, and his instincts were warning him that this might not be as straightforward as Rucynski wanted it to be.

“Is that going to be the conclusion of your report?”

“We’ll ask around, see if any of the neighbors saw anyone or anything suspicious. But at this point, yeah, I can’t see that it will play out any other way.

“I know that won’t satisfy your…” Rucynski paused deliberately “…uh, client, but the truth isn’t always what we want it to be.”

Which was exactly the same point Scott had tried to make when he’d talked to Alicia about investigating her brother’s case earlier, and he anticipated that she’d still be as resistant to it as she’d been then.

She responded immediately to his knock, and he saw that she’d changed out of the scrubs she’d been wearing earlier that day and into a pair of softly faded jeans and a simple scoop-neck T-shirt. Her hair was still in a braid, but her feet were now bare and her toenails, he noted with surprise, were painted blue and decorated with tiny white and yellow daisies.

Obviously there were layers to the woman he hadn’t suspected, layers that he was curious to explore.

“What did Rucynski tell you?” she asked without preamble.

“Probably the same thing he told you—that it looks like a juvenile prank.”

She folded her arms across her chest and paced across the threadbare carpet. There was an old—possibly even antique—couch against one wall, decorated with colorful pillows in various geometric shapes. Beside it was a newer-looking wing chair and ottoman. The coffee table looked sturdy, if scarred, and held a neat stack of magazines. Facing the couch was an ultra-modern entertainment unit of glass and aluminum that housed a small TV and modest stereo system, along with stacks of CDs and DVDs.

It was…eclectic, he decided. And yet somehow warm and appealing—like Alicia herself.

He turned his attention back to the woman who was still pacing.

The protective instincts that had sent him racing across town in response to her phone call rose up again and urged him to go to her, to wrap her in his arms and promise to take care of her. But he managed to resist the impulse, recognizing that holding her wouldn’t just be inappropriate but potentially disastrous for his peace of mind. After only one meeting with the woman, he’d already found himself daydreaming about her. God help him if he touched her and found she was as soft and warm as he imagined her to be.

No, there could be no personal contact. He needed to remember that she was a client, off-limits, and to keep his distance. But that was tougher than he wanted to admit when she had her arms wrapped around her middle to disguise the fact that she was trembling.

“I can understand why this has shaken you—”

She turned abruptly to face him. “I’m not afraid of whoever slashed my tires.”

He frowned. Whoever had done that number on her car had been wielding a dangerous instrument. Hell, he was scared just thinking about the possibility that Alicia might have interrupted the culprit in the middle of his task and had the weapon used against her.

“I’m just furious that the cops think they can brush me off with statistics about the incidence of crime in this neighborhood.” She resumed her pacing, taking less than a dozen steps to move from one end of the room to the other, then pivoting on her heel to change direction.

“Rucynski assumed it was a prank at first glance and decided there was no need to dig any further.” She turned again, her eyes fairly sparking with fury as her gaze met his. “If those are the kind of cops who investigated my brother’s case, no wonder he’s in prison.”

He stepped into her path, forcing her to either stop or run into him. “Did you call me to complain about the apparent ineptitude of the police, or was there another reason?”

She huffed out a frustrated breath. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just hate being spoken down to, and Rucynski did everything but pat my head.”

“He isn’t the most diplomatic cop I’ve ever known, but his instincts are usually good.”

“Well, I don’t believe for a minute that this was a random act of vandalism.”

“What do you think it was?”

“A threat—to stop me from looking into the charges against Joe. Think about it,” she said. “My car getting trashed the same day I hired you is just too coincidental.”

“You really believe there’s a connection?”

“It’s the only explanation that makes any sense,” she insisted.

“Did you tell anyone about our meeting this morning?” he asked.

She shook her head. “After I left your office, I went straight to work, and I’ve never talked to anyone there about my brother’s situation.”

“Was there anyone who knew about your plan to meet with me?”

“Just Jordan. And your secretary.”

And it was unlikely that either Jordan or Caroline would have shared that information with someone who could be responsible for the damage done to Alicia’s vehicle. Which, if this wasn’t a random act, forced him to consider another possibility—that Alicia had been followed.