Blue Smoke (16 page)

“Pretty tight,” John agreed. “But it's an angle—the hiring a torch to slap at you. Maybe you ought to think of somebody you might've ticked off lately.”

“Cops are always ticking somebody off,” she muttered.

“Ain't that the truth?” He eased back, smiled when Fran brought their pizza to the table. “How's it going, sweetie?”

“It's going good.” But her hand moved over to rub at Reena's shoulder. “Now, make my baby sister put that work away and eat something.”

“See what I can do. Put it away,” John advised when Fran walked off. “You'll handle any heat that comes your way on this. Unofficially, nobody's looking at you. You've got a solid record because you earned it, and your alibi holds. Set it aside, let the system work.”

“Yeah. You know, John, I don't know if I chose my career or it chose me. Fire seems to follow me around. Sirico's, the first boy I really cared about, Hugh. Now this.”

He slid a slice of pizza onto his plate. “Fate's a mean bastard.”

For better or worse, it was done. Reena's heart was pounding, her throat bone-dry, and at the base of her belly was a little tickle that could have been panic or excitement.

She'd bought herself a house.

She stood on the white marble steps, the keys in her clammy hand. Settlement was over, the papers were signed. She had a mortgage.

And a bank loan, she thought, that stretched out so long she'd be ready for retirement when it was paid off.

Did the math, didn't you? she reminded herself. You can make this work. It was time she owned property. Oh God, she was a property owner.

And hadn't she fallen in love with this house? It was so like home. What that said about her, she wasn't entirely sure, but it had been love at first sight. Everything about it had called to her.

The location, the familiarity, even the slightly tired interior that just begged her to liven it up, her way. It even had a backyard—maybe it was narrow enough to spit from line to line, but it was an actual yard with actual grass. It even had a tree.

Which meant she'd have to mow grass and rake leaves, which meant buying a lawn mower. And a rake. But for a woman who'd lived in apartments for the last ten years, it was heady stuff.

So, here she was, moving into a three-story row, three short blocks from the house where her parents still lived.

Still in the neighborhood, she thought. And as distant as the moon.

But it was good. It was all good. Hadn't the uncles, along with her father, inspected the place top to bottom? There'd been no stopping them. Needed a little fixing up, sure. And more furniture than she could currently claim.

But that would all come.

All she had to do was put the key in the lock and walk through the door, and she'd be standing in her own house.

Instead, she turned around, sat on the steps and waited to get her breath back.

She'd taken a big bite of her savings, plus the generous lump of dough her grandparents had given her—and the rest of the grands.

Now look what I've done. Gone into debt. And didn't a house keep siphoning away money? Insurance, taxes, repairs, upkeep. She'd managed to avoid all that up till now. Those pesky details had gone from being her parents' problem to her landlords' problem.

Never hers.

Managed to avoid all that, she thought, and most every other kind of commitment. She had the job and her family, friends she'd kept from childhood.

But she was the only unmarried Hale. The only child of Gibson and Bianca Hale yet to go forth and multiply. Not enough time, that's what she told her family if they teased or pressed the matter. Haven't found the right man.

True, all true. But how many times had she retreated from—or just sidestepped—a potential relationship in the last few years?

Dating was fine, sex was good, but don't ask me to form an attachment. Xander said she thought like a man. Maybe it was true.

And maybe she'd bought this house as a kind of compensation, the way some singles or no-children couples bought a puppy.

See! I can make a commitment when I want to. I bought a house.

A house, she admitted, she couldn't seem to make herself enter now that everything was signed and sealed.

Maybe she could just turn it over. Give it a slap of paint, fix it up here and there, then resell it. There was no law that said she had to keep it for thirty years.

Thirty years. She pressed a hand to her belly. What had she done?

She was thirty-one years old, damn it. She was a cop with a decade on the job. She could walk into a stupid house without having a crisis. Besides, some portion of her family was bound to descend before much longer, and she didn't want to be caught sitting on the stairs having a neurotic attack.

She stood up, unlocked the door and walked deliberately inside.

Instantly, as if she'd popped a cork on a bottle labeled Stress, the tension drained out.

The hell with mortgages and loans and the terror of picking out paint colors. This is what she'd wanted. This big, old, high-ceilinged place with its carved trim, its hardwood floors.

Of course it was too much room for one person. She didn't care. She'd use one of the bedrooms for storage, once she had enough to store. She'd make another into an office space, another into a home gym, and keep the last spare for a guest room.

Ignoring the echoes, the emptiness, she strolled into the living room. Maybe she'd take the various offers from various relatives on hand-me-down furniture. At least for now. Put some of Mama's drawings on the walls. Make this a cozy, comfortable space.

And the smaller parlor, that was going to be her library. Then she'd need a big table for the dining room. Lots of chairs for when she had family over.

The kitchen was good, she thought as she took a tour of the first floor. It was one of the points that had cemented her decision. The previous
owners had outfitted it well with glossy black appliances that had a lot of years left in them. Lots of smooth, sand-colored counters and honey-toned cabinets. She might get around to having a few of the doors replaced with glass. Stained glass maybe, or some fancy ripply glass.

She'd enjoy cooking here. Bella was the only one of the lot who'd apparently escaped the love of making food. There were nice, generous windows over the sink and they opened up to a view of the skinny backyard.

The lilacs were blooming.
Her
lilacs were blooming. She could talk to Uncle Sal about putting in a little postage stamp patio, and pick Bella's brain about designing a small garden.

Of course it had been years since she'd planted anything other than a geranium in a windowsill pot. Years, she recalled, since she and Gina had planted tomatoes and peppers and cosmos in the yard of the group house they'd shared in college.

But it seemed to her—at least with the sweetened distance of memory—that she'd enjoyed the digging and weeding.

Probably stick with flowers this time, she decided, and keep it low-maintenance. Yes, Bella would be the one to ask what would work best.

For flowers, fashion and the right place to be seen, Bella was your girl.

She thought about heading upstairs, to tour the second floor, to mentally arrange furniture. But decided to finish off the first-level walk-through by stepping out in her backyard.

She wanted to walk on her own grass.

The yard was bordered on both sides by a chain-link fence. Her neighbor to the right had some sort of spreading bushes planted along the line. Nice touch, she mused. She'd think about something like that. It wasn't just pretty, but added an illusion of privacy.

And to the left . . .

Well, well, well, she thought. She couldn't say much about the yard, but its occupant was worth the price of a ticket.

Fortunately for her, there were no bushes to obstruct the view.

The man had his back to her, and the rear view was very promising. Mid-May temperatures hadn't dissuaded him from taking off his shirt.
But maybe whatever he was doing with the lumber and the power tools heated him up.

His jeans ran low on the hips, and the tool belt lower yet. But he managed to avoid the butt crack reveal, which racked up points. He wore a ball cap backward, which may or may not deduct points from the total score, and there seemed to be a lot of wavy black hair under the cap.

She might make a pass at him right there as he was working. She caught music from the boom box beside his sawhorses and gave him additional points for keeping it at a reasonable volume. She could barely catch Sugar Ray.

Six-two, she judged. About one-eighty of good, toned muscle. She didn't want to guess his age until she saw his face. But so far, as next-door neighbors went, he looked like a nice perk.

The realtor had mentioned the carpenter next door, in case she wanted to get any bids on work. But the realtor had failed to mention the carpenter next door had an excellent ass.

His grass was mowed, and he appeared to know what he was doing with the big, sexy tool. No rings on good, strong-looking hands. No visible tattoos or piercings.

Possibilities went up.

His house was similar to hers, though he already had that postage stamp patio in some sort of stone. No flowers—too bad on that as she considered it showed flair and responsibility to pot and tend flowers. Still, the patio looked clean and boasted a muscular barbecue grill.

If the rest of him lived up to the rear view, she might wangle her way to an invite for grilled steak.

He paused, set aside what she was pretty sure was a nail gun. The noise from the compressor shut down, and she heard Sugar Ray more clearly as Carpenter Guy reached for a big bottle of water and aimed it toward his mouth.

He stepped back from his work as he did, and she made out his profile. Good nose, strong mouth—smart enough to wear safety glasses, and cool enough to make them sexy. It looked like the face was going to live up to the rest of the package.

Early thirties, she decided. And wasn't that handy?

When he turned his head and glanced her way, she lifted a hand in what she considered a friendly, hi-new-neighbor salute.

He seemed to freeze, more like she'd aimed her weapon at him rather than a casual wave. He reached up, slowly, drew off his glasses. She couldn't make out the color of his eyes, but she felt the intensity of the stare.

The grin seemed to explode on his face. He tossed the glasses on the ground, strode straight to the fence and vaulted over.

Moved well—quick and agile. Green, she noted. His eyes were a misty green—and lit up a little too manically at the moment for comfort.

“There you are,” he said. “Son of a bitch. There you are.”

“Yeah, here I am.” She gave him a cautious smile. He smelled of sawdust and sweat—which would have been appealing if he wasn't looking at her like he was prepared to gobble her up in one bite. “Catarina Hale.” She offered her hand. “I just bought the house.”

“Catarina Hale.” He took her hand and held it, just held it with his calloused one. “Dream Girl.”

“Uh-huh.” His score plummeted. “Well, it's nice to meet you. I've got to get back inside.”

“All this time.” He continued to stare at her. “All these years. You're better than I remembered. How about that?”

“How about that?” She tugged her hand free, backed up.

“I can't believe it. You're just here. Boom. Or maybe I'm having a hallucination.”

He grabbed for her hand again, and she slapped hers on his chest. “Maybe you are. Maybe you've had a little too much sun. Better go back to your corner now, Carpenter Boy.”

“No, wait. You don't get it. You were there, then you weren't. Then the other time, and then again. And you keep getting away before I can catch up. And now you're right here, talking to me. I'm talking to you.”

“Not anymore.” Nobody had mentioned the carpenter next door was a lunatic. Shouldn't there have been full disclosure? “Go home. Lie down. Seek help.”

She turned, started back to the door.

“Wait, wait, wait.” He lunged after her.

In response she spun around, caught his arm, tipped him off balance and jerked his arm behind his back. “Don't make me arrest you, for God's sake. I haven't even moved in yet.”

“The cop. The cop.” He laughed, twisted his head around to grin at her. “I forgot they said a cop was moving in. You're a cop. That's so cool.”

“You're one second away from serious trouble.”

“And you smell really good.”

“That's it.” She pushed him up against the back wall of her house. “Spread 'em.”

“Okay, okay, hold on.” He was laughing and tapping his forehead against the wall. “If I sound like a crazy person, it's just the shock. Um, oh, shit. Don't cuff me—at least until we know each other better. College Park, May 1992. A party—crap, I don't know whose house it was. Group house, off campus. Jill, Jessie—no Jan. I think Jan somebody lived in the house.”

Reena hesitated, the cuffs still in her hand. “Keep going.”

“I saw you. I didn't know anybody. Came with a friend, and I saw you across the room. You were wearing this little pink top—your hair was longer, just past your shoulders. I like the way you're wearing it now. Sort of exploding to the jaw.”

“I'll tell my hairdresser you approve. I met you at a party in College Park?”

“No. I never got to you. The music stopped. It was a moment for me. Can I turn around?”

He didn't sound crazy—exactly. And she was intrigued. She stepped back. “Hands to yourself.”

“No problem.” He held them up, palms out, then lowered them to hook his thumbs on his tool belt. “I saw you, and I was . . . Pow.” He punched a fist to his heart. “But by the time I got across the room—place was packed—you were gone. I looked everywhere. Upstairs, outside, everywhere.”

“You saw me over ten years ago, across the room at a college party, and you remember what I was wearing?”

“It was like . . . for a minute, it was just you. Sounds weird, but there it is. Then this other time? A pal dragged me to the stupid mall on a Saturday, and I saw you up a level. Just there, and I went running around looking for the damn stairs. But by the time I got up, you'd Houdini'd again. Wow. Wow.”

He grinned like a mental patient, shoved his hat farther back on his head. “Then winter of '99? I'm stuck in traffic coming from a client's place. Got the Boss on the radio. ‘Growin' Up.' And I look over, and I see you in the car beside me. You're tapping out the beat on the wheel. You're just there. And I—”

“Oh my God. Weird Guy.”

“Sorry.”

“The weird guy who goggle-eyed me on my way to the mall.”

His grin spread again, but this time seemed more amused than manic. “That would be me. Half the time I thought I made you up. But I didn't. You're right here.”