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urned out that Crown Victorias weren’t really made for transporting Great Danes. Sure, the dog could fit in the back seat
if he were actually lying down. But Squeaky spent most of his time in the car standing half-crouched in the back seat. The
dog alternated between staring out the front windshield at Highway 51 as he whined softly under his breath and anxiously panting
down John’s neck, occasionally dripping drool.
“You’re a real pantywaist,” John said to the dog, glad nobody could see him talking to a dog. “You rode with Turner in a truck.
What’s so bad about a sedan?”
Squeaky whined and licked John’s ear.
He winced and brushed at his ear. “And no ear licking. Guys don’t do ear licking. Not with other guys, anyway. You’ve been
hanging out with a woman too long.”
He could hear Squeaky moving restlessly around in the back seat, despite the small space. Maybe he needed to pee. The dog
whined again, fetid breath blowing on the side of John’s cheek.
“Okay, okay. I’m pulling over.”
The dog must’ve sensed that they were stopping, because he barked, which nearly deafened John’s right ear. He slowed, turned
in to a historical-marker rest stop, and got out of the car. Squeaky maneuvered between the front seats and bounded out the
driver’s-side door. He hustled over to the historical marker and peed on it.
John sighed and leaned against the Crown Vic. He’d spent several lost hours with the local cops at Hyman’s cabin, wrangling
red tape and paperwork. At any point he could’ve turned Squeaky in and notified Hyman that his dog had been found. But he
just couldn’t bring himself to do it. The dog felt like Turner’s, even if Hyman had the legal right to the animal.
Now Squeaky was running in widening circles, nose to the ground.
What the hell was he going to do with a hot Great Dane? This was not going to look good on his annual evaluation. Although,
if Turner had to steal a dog, she’d picked a nice breed. At least she hadn’t gone for one of those little yapping things.
Squeaky was a fine dog with a handsome square head and a deep chest. A man’s dog, despite the awful name she’d given him.
The cell rattled on his belt. He unclipped it and checked the number, hoping, but didn’t recognize it. “MacKinnon.”
“Can you talk now?” a peeved teenaged voice asked him.
A wide grin spread across John’s face. “Sure, sweetheart. What do you want to talk about?” He was just so damn relieved that
his daughter had called back.
“You and Mom.”
He closed his eyes as his heart sank. This again. “Have you asked your mom since we last talked?”
“Yes.” Rachel sounded really frustrated, as if she were at the end of some rope. “Mom won’t talk to me. She just goes on and
on about how you were never there, that you’d leave us during dinner to go out on a case and how she hated that.”
“Well, so maybe that’s your answer,” John said. “Hard to have a relationship when someone’s gone all the time. And she’s right.
Early in my career I did have to leave at the drop of a hat. Still do, matter of fact.”
“And that’s it, huh? You and Mom broke up because you missed a few suppers? What were they—Mom’s special tuna surprise? Yeah,
I can see where that’d really get her panties in a twist.” Nobody could be as sarcastic as a sixteen-year-old girl.
John winced. “Rachel—”
“Oh, come on,
John.
What’s the big secret? Are you gay? Were you out at a boy bar when you should’ve been home with the wifey and kid? Were you—”
“Rachel, that’s enough,” he snapped.
There was silence from the other end. And then a tiny sob.
Oh, God.
What the hell was he supposed to say to this daughter he hadn’t even seen in three years? What did she want from him?
He took a steadying breath. “No, I’m not gay. And no, I wasn’t hanging around in bars or picking up one-night stands of either
sex when I was married to your mother.”
“Then—”
“I think you owe me an answer, as well. Why are you so interested in this now?”
“What do you mean?” she burst out, all adolescent self-righteousness. “Don’t I have a right to know about my parents’ marriage?
Don’t I have a right to know why my father abandoned me?”
He’d give her high points for verbal histrionics, but he wasn’t going to let her yank him around emotionally this time. “I’m
not your father anymore.”
There was a gasp on the other end.
John ignored it and continued deliberately, “Not legally. That was your decision, not mine. You chose to cut me out of your
life three years ago when Dennis formally adopted you.”
“So now you don’t even—”
“Rachel,” he stopped her. “Try to see around that great big chip you have on your shoulder for a moment. I love you. I always
have and I always will. But I’m not a punching bag you can flail at any time you get the urge.”
Panting breaths from the other end. At least she hadn’t hung up on him. Yet.
“Now,” John said quietly. “Are you having some kind of problem with Dennis?”
Dennis had been the guy Amy had left him for. True, it was kind of hard for John to see him in a neutral light, but he had
thought the guy was okay. For an adulterous asshole, that is. Otherwise he never would have agreed to let the jerk adopt his
only child.
“No!”
“He hasn’t hit you—”
“No!”
“Or touched you in an uncomfortable way?”
“That’s so disgusting! Accusing Dennis of molesting me is really low. No wonder Mom left you. Your mind is just full of sewage.
God, I can’t believe—”
“Yeah, yeah,” John cut her off. “But if you were being abused, you’d want me to ask, wouldn’t you?”
There was a short, furious silence. “He isn’t hurting me.”
Squeaky had disappeared into the cattails in the ditch next to the rest stop. John could see only the reeds moving and a splash
now and then. The dog was probably going to be a muddy mess when he came out.
He sighed. “Then why this sudden curiosity about me, Rachel? You told me three years ago that if you never saw me again in
your life it would be fine with you.”
“I did not!”
“I have it engraved on my brain, sweetheart.” And he did. He could still see her furious little face, twisted with hatred,
mouthing those terrible words. Words that had made him bleed internally, somewhere in his gut. Internal wounds were so hard
to stanch. Sometimes he thought he still bled.
“I can change my mind, can’t I?” The words were muttered in a sullen tone, but they were like birdsong to his ear. “I just
want to know what happened with you and Mom—”
He started laughing. He couldn’t help it.
“What’s so funny?” Oh, the teenage indignation.
“Sorry. It just struck me how tenacious you are.” A trait she’d probably gotten from him, but he wasn’t going to say that.
“It’s a good quality in an FBI agent.”
“Oh, like I’d ever want to become an FBI agent. You all are the Gestapo of the government. I’ve read about how you spied on
Martin Luther King Jr. in the sixties—”
“Now, now,” John said mildly. “That wasn’t me personally. Besides, I was still in diapers when that happened.”
“Even so—”
“You know, one of the first rules of interrogation is to get on the subject’s good side.”
Rachel was silent a moment, presumably mulling that one over. John watched Squeaky emerge from the cattails. Yup, he was covered
to the withers in slime. The dog looked deliriously happy.
“What about good cop/bad cop?” Rachel asked.
“Can’t be both when you’re interrogating alone, can you?” John replied cheerfully. “Sure, you can try roughing up the subject,
but studies have shown that more information is obtained more quickly when the questioner acts like the suspect’s buddy.”
“Huh.”
John grinned. “So. What about that boyfriend?”
“I don’t have one.” The words were grudging, but John would take them anyway.
He crossed one leg over the other at the ankles and settled his butt more comfortably against the Crown Vic. “Why not?”
“They’re all such turds in this new neighborhood. It’s like if you don’t give head on the first date, they don’t want to be
bothered with you.”
Good God almighty. He’d faced down gunfire from strung-out gang members with much less fear than he felt now. It was a wonder
his hair wasn’t standing on end. But he’d asked for this.
“That must be difficult,” he replied cautiously.
“Yeah, well, not really. I’ve got better things to do than stroke the ego of some little perv.”
“That’s good to hear.”
Understatement.
“Are you still in track?”
“Yeah. We’ve started practice.”
“Good.” He could picture her flying down the track, her blond hair streaming behind her. He had a sudden ache near his heart.
“So is that enough?”
He frowned. “Is what enough?”
Heavy sigh. “Did I butter you up enough? Are you going to tell me now why you and Mom broke up?”
“Rachel, we’ve been over this—”
“And you haven’t told me!”
He inhaled deeply to get his voice under control. “Ask your mother. If she wants to talk about it, I’ll be happy to—”
“I’ve already told you, she won’t talk.”
“Well, maybe there’s a reason for that.” John swore under his breath. He hadn’t meant to say that.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not talking about this with you.”
“Fine.” She sounded close to tears. “Then there’s no point in continuing this conversation, is there?”
“Rachel—”
But she’d already hung up on him. Again.
“Shit!” He tossed the cell into the car, not caring if it hit the seat or not.
Squeaky took that as a sign he should bound up and jump on him, muddy paws and all.
“Down, goddamnit!” John shoved the beast away, nearly toppling him to his back.
The dog cowered, tail between his legs. Oh, wonderful. Now he was an animal abuser.
John sank to his haunches and put his head in his hands. Jesus, what next? Rachel wouldn’t listen to him. She was charging
toward a revelation about her mother that she wasn’t ready to handle. And he didn’t know how to stop her. She was just pigheaded
enough that she’d keep pushing and pushing until she found out the ugly truth. His daughter had already discarded one parent.
What would she do when she found out her mother wasn’t nearly as saintly as she believed? And Turner, the other female in
his life, was just as stubborn in her own way. Determined to bring Calvin Hyman down come hell, high water, or hit men, all
on her own. She was so isolated that she had no one to help her, no one to fall back on. She didn’t even trust him, and that
hurt worst of all.
Hot, smelly breath blew against his face, and a tongue swiped his ear.
“What did I tell you about guys and ear licking?” John muttered to the big dog.
Squeaky grinned and wagged his tail. Apparently all was forgiven, or at least forgotten by his tiny canine brain. Too bad
it wasn’t that easy with the women in John’s life. He sighed and stood. He still had to get to Madison today so he could be
there at the meet tomorrow between Turner and Victoria Weidner. He opened the Crown Vic’s front door and let Squeaky in and
then climbed in himself, starting the car and easing into the traffic on 51.
He had a sense of helplessness. Some guy with a rifle was trying to kill Turner, and he didn’t even know where she was, wouldn’t
see her until tomorrow. And what if the killer found her first? There wasn’t a damn thing he could do to save her while riding
around in a dark sedan with a Great Dane in the back seat. She’d effectively tied his hands by not letting him close. At least
Squeaky had finally settled in. John couldn’t see his head in the rearview mirror, so he must’ve found some place to put it.
They were nearing Portage now, the last town before Madison, and he supposed he should pull off to get some belated lunch,
or—he glanced at the dash clock—early supper. He signaled to exit the highway. On the right of the Portage off-ramp was a
McDonald’s, but he wasn’t sure he could stomach a Big Mac right now. He drove further into town past a strip mall and into
a mess of construction. It looked like they were repaving the whole road at once. The air was full of dust and the roar of
heavy machinery. Shit. John slowed, looking for a way out. Up ahead was a sign advertising ALICE’S KITCHEN, and he headed
for that. On the left was a mom-and-pop motel in garish pink. He glanced at it as he crawled by.
A light blue Chevy pickup was pulling into the parking lot.
He’d almost missed it; his mind was so busy. As it was, he nearly ran down an orange-vested construction worker. Adrenaline
jolted into his veins. He had to get back there. He’d bet his next paycheck that Chevy was a ’68.
O
h, dear, it was tempting. Turner sat in her pickup and stared at the little motel on the outskirts of Portage.
Portage was a small town just north of Madison, off Highway 51. She could easily make Madison today, but then she’d have to
find a place to spend the night where the baby blue Chevy wouldn’t be seen. Somebody was bound to be looking for her in Madison.
She didn’t entirely trust Victoria not to have alerted some authority of their meeting.
Which was maybe why the motel was looking so tempting. There were ten pink bungalows, each trimmed in either peppermint green
or white. Beside the motel office—also pink—was a white wishing well planted with purple petunias. Red-hatted gnomes sat on
the edge of the well, fishing. The place was adorable verging on tacky, but it wasn’t the decor that made her mouth water.
It was the marquee sign out front proclaiming, ALL NEW BATHS. A bath. She nearly moaned. Or a shower. She wasn’t picky, so
long as it was wet. And clean. She hadn’t had a real bath since Saturday, and today was Wednesday, so that made . . . Good
grief! Four days without a bath. The very thought made her body itch all over.
Her cell rang loudly beside her, and she ducked reflexively before grabbing it off the seat and answering.
“Hello?”
“At least you’re not in jail yet,” a voice said irritably from the other end.
“Brad? Is that you?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Who else would be calling you, Ms. America’s Most Wanted?”
“Um . . .”
Fortunately, Brad wasn’t waiting for her reply. “Are you still wandering around Wisconsin?”
Turner looked at the little motel outside her truck window. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
Brad sighed loudly in her ear. “Look, when you get done with this early midlife crisis, I was wondering if you might want
to come visit me.”
“Visit you?”
“Yeah. Hop a plane, eat three peanuts, and get off in California, where I’ll be waiting at the airport. Visit me.”
Turner raised her eyebrows. Brad had never invited her out to see him. She didn’t even know if he lived in a condo or a house
or what. “I—”
“It wouldn’t have to be for long.” Brad spoke quickly, as if he were nervous she might hang up on him. “And you don’t have
to answer right away. You know, think about it a bit while you’re breaking into safes or whatever you desperadoes do in your
spare time.”
She couldn’t think of anything right now besides bringing Calvin down. Although how she was going to do that without any evidence
. . . She dragged her mind back to Brad and the conversation. “Thank you. I will.”
“Good. Fine.”
There was an awkward little pause.
Turner cleared her throat. “What, exactly, brought on this urge to see me?”
“Well, you know . . .” Brad trailed off.
“No, I don’t know,” she said gently. “Tell me.”
“I’ve been thinking.” He cleared his throat. “After I called you yesterday. That, you know, we haven’t seen too much of each
other lately, and, um, maybe we should. See each other, I mean. Get to know each other again. After all, you’re my only living
relative.”
“I guess we could try.”
“Yeah.” Brad sounded relieved. “Just, you know, try it for a while. No pressure.”
“Okay.”
“Great. And try not to get in too much trouble, please, Turner?”
Her face twisted. She couldn’t really make that promise, but Brad sounded so worried. “Okay.”
He said good-bye, and she went back to staring at the motel. Would it really make a good impression on Victoria if she had
to argue her case all grungy? Hard to claim that you were in your right mind when you stank—and Turner had the sneaking feeling
that she did indeed stink. That decided it. She hopped down from the pickup and went in the pink office.
Ten minutes later, she emerged with a key on a ping-pong paddle. Painted pink. Apparently, they’d had problems in the past
here with people absent-mindedly walking off with the room keys. Something that was almost impossible when the key was attached
to a pink ping-pong paddle. Turner got in the pickup and drove it the short distance to her bungalow parking spot. Fortunately,
the parking lot for the cottages was in back. The pickup wouldn’t be easily seen from the road. She jumped down from the truck
and went around to the passenger side to lug out her suitcase. Inside the bungalow, she shut and locked the door and let the
suitcase drop at her feet. The room was already cool. The air conditioning must’ve been running all day.
She tiptoed to the bathroom and squeezed her eyes shut before looking. If she’d just spent fifty dollars on a room with a
yucky shower stall . . . But no. Turner grinned. The bathroom was, as advertised, fully refurbished. In pink, true, but everything
was shiny and very, very clean. Complimentary herbal shampoo, conditioner, and body lotion stood on the sink.
Humming happily to herself, she stripped naked and turned the shower on full blast. She twisted the knobs to hot and stepped
in. Ahhh. Nothing was as wonderful as getting clean after being filthy. She washed her hair twice and scrubbed a washcloth
all over her body like a loofah. When she finally stepped out, her skin tingled. Turner dried herself and then wrapped a towel
around her head. She wiped a spot clean in the mirror and applied all of the complimentary body lotion in the eensy little
bottle. She took the towel off and almost laughed when she saw her short hair sticking up. She’d forgotten her hairbrush in
the suitcase sitting in the outer room. Smiling, she ran her fingers through her hair and opened the bathroom door.
And stopped dead because she had almost run down Squeaky. The dog was whining and wagging his whole body, he was so glad to
see her. But that wasn’t what sent the thrill down her spine.
John was lying on the bed, propped against the headboard. His blue eyes were calm and watching her, it seemed, without expression.
On the bedside table beside him was a gun in a holster. He’d taken off his jacket, as well, and rolled up his white shirtsleeves,
but otherwise he was fully dressed and looked totally at ease.
Except for the handcuffs that stretched his arms above his head.