Here Comes Trouble

Acknowledgments

This book was the ultimate labor of love for me, and multiple people contributed to its completion. To my husband for his untiring support and uncanny ability to get my butt in gear. I love you more than anyone. To the two best parents a girl could have: thank you for your uplifting enthusiasm. To my sister for always being ready to battle in my honor. To my editor extraordinaire, Cyn: You came to my rescue when I was down to the wire.

Thank you Kristyn for believing in me and always telling me what I needed to hear.

And thank you to Dara for giving me another beautiful cover.

Table of Contents

Copyright

Acknowledgments

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

About the Author

One

The second Lacy Taylor opened her front door, she knew the two men standing outside weren’t members of the Publisher’s Clearinghouse Prize Patrol. She watched enough
FBI Files
to know a federal agent when she saw one. Remarkably bland, dark suits, crisp white shirts and cheap ties could only be an ensemble put together by an officer of the government.

Lacy stood with her hand on the door, not bothering to invite them in for drinks. They probably wouldn’t accept, anyway.

“Miss Lacy Taylor?

He called her Miss. How polite.

The taller man who addressed her, roughly the size of Santa Claus with thick sandy hair, looked at her with amber-colored eyes and a bored expression.

The other man, whose skin was as dark as the coffee beans she’d ground up that morning, also looked at her with a bland expression. Was that something they were taught in FBI school, or wherever these two exciting gentlemen were from?

“Yeah, I’m Lacy,” she answered after holding them in suspense long enough. They were the type of men who didn’t appreciate being held in suspense.

The larger man who’d been so patiently awaiting her answer pulled a black wallet-looking thing from inside his suit coat. “I’m Detective Whistler and this,” he said with a jerk of his head at the shorter, wiry man, “is my partner, Detective Parks.”

Detective Whistler held his impressive-looking identification in front of her face. This was the part where she checked it out to make sure he was who he said he was. To appease him she leaned forward and read the ID. Yep, according to the miniscule piece of paper he was indeed Detective Paul Whistler from the St. Helena Police Department. But then again, what did she know about government IDs? She could be staring at a forgery and not even know.

Detective Parks also held out his ID, like the good little partner he was.

Detective Jon Parks, St. Helena Police Department
.

“You two are an awfully long way from St. Helena.” Okay, so it wasn’t the most cheerful way to greet two men who’d traveled so far to see little ol’ her. Call her suspicious but no good could come of two police officers knocking on her door.

“Do you mind if we come in, Miss Taylor? We have a few questions to ask you.”

So Detective Parks really did have a voice. The deep timbre, like Darth Vader’s, didn’t match his thin, lanky frame at all. Maybe that’s why he waited so long to speak: shock factor.

“Questions about what?” she asked instead of inviting them in. Sweat, that had nothing to do with the lack of air conditioning in her ancient house beaded on her upper lip, started to trickle down her back and the nape of her neck. A warm breeze ruffled the thick, overgrown trees in the front yard. The sudden burst of air didn’t help. In fact, it only made her feel more sweltering.

She waited for them to hit her with the words she knew were coming.

“We’re looking for Dennis Taylor. Your father.”

I just knew it!

Lacy never referred to him as
father
. That was a term a man had to earn. Someone who showed more devotion to his cheap whiskey and the hard cement floor of a jail cell was a man who definitely hadn’t earned that name. The mention of him still played hell with her emotions. The emptiness his absence had created inside her had yet to be filled. For years Lacy had searched for a way to fill it, but had lost hope. But she didn’t tell them that. They didn’t need to know the sordid details of her depressing childhood.

“He’s wanted for questioning in a series of robberies. We have reason to believe he may be in this area,” Detective Parks continued in his deep, Darth Vader voice.

Robberies? It seemed good old Dennis had not progressed past petty thefts.

Lacy shifted from one bare foot to the other. The wooden floor felt slick beneath her sweaty feet. “What makes you think he’d be here?” Honestly, Dennis could not be so dumb to think she’d give him the time of day.

Detective Whistler withdrew a handkerchief from his back pocket and blotted his forehead. “Well, for one thing, an eyewitness spotted him about a mile from here.”

“And the other thing?”

“
You’re
here, Miss Taylor.”

Lacy shifted her attention back to Detective Parks. She had to guess him to be in his early fifties, only because there were strands of light grey at his temples. He could be greying pre-maturely. Constantly chasing after criminals would be taxing on anyone. His receding hairline made his forehead look abnormally large, but the rest of his face was handsome enough – if she was into men with facial hair, which she wasn’t. His moustache was neat and trim, almost pencil thin. What was the point in having a moustache if it could barely be seen?

“I’m not on speaking terms with Dennis. I haven’t seen him in almost five years.” Lacy had filed that day away in the part of her brain called, “Never Think About Again.” Showing up at your daughter’s place of employment with broken handcuffs attached to one wrist and demanding money was not a good way to get back in her good graces. She remembered reading somewhere that he’d been arrested–yet again–shortly after she sent him away empty-handed. That was the last time she’d heard anything about him. Five years later she assumed he would still be rotting in jail with the rest of society’s losers.

“Really?” Detective Whistler and his partner exchanged curious glances. She couldn’t fault them for being skeptical. She resisted the urge to stomp her feet like a child and demand they believe her.

“Did you know this is listed as his home address?” asked Detective Whistler.

 
Lacy, not surprised by Dennis’ idiocy, resisted the urge to sigh. “I’m sure it is,” she said with great patience. “But, like I said, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen him. Last I heard, he’d been arrested.” Her hair brushed along her back when she shook her head. “That’s all I can tell you.” When the men exchanged yet another doubtful glance she reiterated, “Look, I would love nothing more than for Dennis to slip into a dark hole somewhere and never emerge again. I don’t know where he is.”

The muscles in Detective Park’s narrow jaw clenched as he pulled a business card out of a shiny silver card-holder. “Here’s our card. It has both of our cell numbers on it. If you hear anything or if he contacts you in anyway, call either of us immediately. Doesn’t matter what time.”

Oh, she would definitely do that. For nothing more than to see the look on Dennis’ face at being ratted out by his own daughter.

Lacy took the plain white card with their information printed on it basic black letters.

“Thank you,” was all she could think to say.

Detective Whistler gave a nod of his large, round head. “Have a nice day.”

The two of them walked down the cracked walkway to their unsurprisingly boring black sedan, got in then drove away.

Lacy stared down the street long after the detectives had disappeared. So Dennis had returned to his old haunts, had he? She hoped to hell he didn’t think he’d find help here. Except maybe help back to jail.

She shut the door on the heat outside and walked through her even hotter house. Middle of summer was such an inconvenient time for a broken air conditioner, especially since she couldn’t afford to fix the stupid thing.

Boris, her late grandpa Ray’s beloved English Mastiff, lay snoring on the threadbare area rug in the living room. The dummy hadn’t even flinched when the doorbell rang.

“Some watchdog you are.”

His response was nothing more than another loud snore and a twitch of his back leg. Boris was a very twitchy sleeper.

Ray had purchased the Mastiff as a pup about eight years ago and affectionately named him after the old famous actor Boris Karloff. Boris wasn’t too bright and refused to sleep on the bed Lacy purchased for him.

She took the hair-tie out of her jeans-short’s pockets and pulled her hair into a ponytail. Hell, she couldn’t even afford a haircut. Waitressing, although fun, didn’t exactly afford her the lap of luxury.

That was another thing she’d inherited from Ray: a mountain of debt.

****

Something licked Chase’s face. Something with a very small, warm, prickly tongue. It moved from his chin up to his nose. Unless a stray animal had somehow meandered into his house during the night, Chase would say he was in someone else’s room.

He opened one bleary eye and was greeted by blinding sunlight.

Son of a bitch
.

The bright, cheery light pierced his skull like a thousand nails hammering into his brain. The pressure made every part of his head throb. He recognized the symptoms for what they were: signs of a hangover.

Now, if he could figure out where the hell he was, all would be right with the world.

The thing licking his face moved to his ear. Chase lifted his arm, which felt like it was made of lead, and swatted the creature away. His hand came in contact with coarse fur and a deep growling meow sounded in his ear. His brain just about pounded through his skull. He groaned and rolled over onto his stomach.

Maybe Garfield had a shotgun and could put Chase out of his misery. The arms of sleep wrapped around him once again, but retreated when a soft, warm, bare leg rubbed along his.

Okay, definitely not his bed.

What the hell was going on?

Dark, curly hair came into fuzzy view when Chase managed to open both his eyes. He thought he recognized her, but…no. Who did he know with dark, curly hair? Hell, he knew a dozen women who fit that description.