Love To The Rescue (2 page)

“Hello, Ms. Gibson.” The officer smiled but quickly returned to his business-like demeanor. “Could you come inside now, Ms. MacArthur? We really have to determine if anything was taken.”

Just then, a third police car pulled up in front of the house, and the female officer emerged from the front passenger door. The male who climbed her fence sat in the back seat, glaring at her. His hate-filled expression chilled Amy to the core and she turned away.

“Is he the person who climbed over your fence and knocked you down?” asked Constable Robertson.

For a brief moment, Amy considered lying. The little punk had frightened the daylights out of her with his threats. Since then, she’d composed herself and realized no delinquent teenager would control her mind or her life with his intimidation tactics. “Yes, that’s the guy.” Amy defiantly glared back at the thief while she spoke.

“She just identified him!” called Robertson to his colleague.

The female officer nodded, bent down and spoke to the driver, and then closed the passenger door. The police car pulled away from the curb and headed down the street.

She just identified him!
Constable Robertson’s words sent a chill down Amy’s spine. Oh crap. What had she done? The burglar threatened to return some night if she identified him. Would he actually do it? Amy reached for Leslie’s hand, mouthed a silent ‘thank you for coming’.

“Ms. MacArthur, this is Constable Sally Wilson.” Constable Robertson nodded toward the approaching female cop. The rest of the introductions were made and acknowledged while Amy and Leslie followed the police officers into the house.

“Ho...ly...cow…” Leslie stepped into the living room. “What a mess!”

“I know. This is what I discovered when I walked in the door.” Amy clasped her friend’s hand a little tighter.

Everyone wandered through the living room into the adjoining family room. Amy noticed most of her prized book collection had been pulled off the long row of built-in oak bookcases. The contents of the entertainment center cupboards—dozens of magazines, CDs, DVDS and video games—had been emptied into a pile on the hardwood floor. The flat screen TV, Wii gaming system and DVD player stood untouched, but several cushions sat askew on the twin sofas angled toward the TV. Two upholstered chairs had been upended onto the rectangular Oriental rug.

“Thank goodness you weren’t at home when the guy did this. You could have been hurt or worse.” Leslie squeezed Amy’s hand.

Amy felt herself pale as she recalled the hate-filled expression in the suspect’s eyes.

“It’ll be okay,” encouraged Leslie.

“It looks like a tornado touched down. My beautiful home...” Amy fought back tears as she met Constable Wilson’s eyes. “My late husband used an inheritance from his grandparents for the down payment on this house, the year he set up his oilfield consulting firm. Allan loved the house and the yard so much. I’m just thankful he’s not here to see this.” She brushed a tear off her cheek.

Upon Allan’s death, the insurance paid the mortgage and the home had become hers. Coupled with his life insurance and other assets he’d willed to her, she would never want for anything. Except him. But she’d almost resigned herself to the idea of moving on with her life, although such thoughts frightened the daylights out of her.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Ms. MacArthur. Did your husband pass recently?” asked Wilson.

Amy heard the compassion in the other woman’s voice. “Killed by a drunk driver, two years ago this September. Thank you for asking.”

“Do you notice anything missing?” asked Constable Robertson.

“Everything is tossed around or turned over, but I haven’t noticed anything gone.” A strand of blonde hair had escaped from her ponytail, and Amy brushed it off her face and tucked it behind her ear. More tears threatened to fall as she gazed around the room, surveying the disaster.

“Let’s check the dining room and kitchen,” suggested Leslie, patting Amy’s hand.

“Okay.”

The second they entered the formal dining room, Amy gasped. An ornamental gray stone from the backyard’s raised flowerbed lay in the middle of the dark-stained hardwood floor. Scattered piles of broken glass from the gaping hole that had been one of the glass deck doors crunched beneath their shoes. Amy cringed, spotting the damage the razor-edged shards were doing to the floor.

“That explains how the little punk got in here,” she spat through clenched teeth. “How dare he invade my home like this?”

Her eyes riveted to her great grandmother’s mahogany table. Thankfully, it appeared unharmed. “When I paid my Avon lady last night, I left my change—about thirty dollars—sitting on the table there.”

“Okay. The suspect must have snuck into the backyard, peeked in the window, spotted the money, and decided to break in,” deduced Constable Robertson. “He probably figured if the security alarm sounded, he’d have plenty of time to grab the cash and disappear before we arrived. Anything else?”

Amy trailed her hand along the cherished antique table on her way toward the kitchen. The second set of sliding glass deck doors off the kitchen remained intact, but almost every oak cupboard door stood ajar. Drawers hung open or lay on the cork floor. She glanced around the room. “From what I can see, everything has been rummaged through, the same as the living room and family room, as if he was searching for something.”

Amy poked her head into the small room off the kitchen that served as an office. “I’m a writer, and I carry my computer with me everywhere along with my ereader.” She held up the oversized leather purse, just realizing now that the wide strap was still hooked over her shoulder. “He searched my filing cabinet, rifled through the papers on my desk, and tossed things every which way. Even the Murphy bed I’ve seldom used has been pulled down.”

Amy noticed the female officer exchange a look with Constable Robertson.

Sally Wilson met Amy’s eyes. “We should check upstairs, too.”

“Ms. Gibson, please stay here and answer a few questions.” Constable Robertson’s tone indicated it was an order and not a suggestion.

Amy glanced over her shoulder at Leslie and shrugged before heading down the hallway toward the curved staircase leading to the upstairs bedrooms. “What was that about?” she asked, meeting the female officer’s eyes.

“Sometimes a single woman’s home is targeted by…”

“A pervert,” whispered Amy, finally catching on. Fearful that she might discover lingerie missing from her dresser, she climbed the stairs to the second floor with lead-weighted feet. At least there’d be a female officer looking over her shoulder when she examined her underwear drawers.

Amy walked directly to her bedroom and approached her dresser. She took a deep breath. She grabbed an ornamental metal handle in each hand, eased open the top drawer, and peeked inside. Her bras and panties lay in neat piles, folded just like she’d left them on laundry day.

“Is anything missing?” Officer Wilson stepped closer.

Amy shook her head and checked the other drawers that contained nightgowns, camisoles, slips, pantyhose. “Nothing has been touched,” she confirmed aloud, breathless with relief.

“Good. I didn’t expect so, but you never know. We should check out the entire top floor.”

The officer stood by and observed while Amy checked the master bedroom walk-in closet and peeked inside the rest of her bureau drawers. Thankfully, she’d made the bed this morning and tidied the bathroom after her shower. Habits ingrained by her mother, a meticulous housekeeper for most of her life. Until the tragedy struck. Amy shook off the bad memories; she wouldn’t go there now.

“Nothing appears to be disturbed or missing.” Amy met Officer Wilson’s eyes. “Perhaps the intruder heard me pull into the driveway and fled before making it upstairs,” she speculated.

“Certainly could be the case.” Sally Wilson nodded in agreement. “Check the medicine cabinets. Do you have any prescription drugs he may have helped himself to?”

“There’s nothing he’d want, unless he can get high on multi-vitamins and birth control pills.” Amy remembered she’d shared the fact she was a widow. “Debilitating cramps,” she added.

“Been there.” Sally smiled, understanding. “It’s highly unlikely anything is missing then.”

After they inspected the other three bedrooms and the bathrooms including both medicine cabinets and discovered nothing amiss, Amy and Sally returned to the kitchen where Constable Robertson was talking with Leslie.

“Maybe the kid targeted the wrong house?” suggested Constable Robertson, exchanging glances with Wilson.

“What do you mean?” asked Leslie, wrapping a supportive arm around Amy’s waist.

“There was a known drug house on the next street over, same house number.”

“A drug house in
this
neighborhood. You’ve got to be joking,” blurted Amy.

“No joke. We shut the drug house down a week ago, but maybe all the riffraff on the street haven’t gotten the word yet. The punk we just arrested certainly hadn’t.” Constable Robertson shrugged. “Or he just broke in when he spotted the cash on the dining room table and turned your place upside down looking for more money or drugs.”

“Does that mean this won’t happen again?” Amy felt herself pale.

The intruder’s menacing words rang in her ears:
You tell the cops you can identify me, I’ll be back some night when you’re home alone.
Amy’s heartbeat quickened. She was home alone
every
night. Obviously, the kid hadn’t been observing her house for any length of time, or he would know she lived alone. He just assumed more than one person would inhabit such a large house.

Should she confide in the officers? Tell them about the kid’s threats? Or was the little thief just trying to frighten her with empty words? The police arrested him and hauled him away. Surely, he’d remain incarcerated. Unless the judge released him on bail or into parental custody? Oh God, if he was released, what was stopping him from delivering on his threat?

Not. One. Damn. Thing.

Chapter 2

Constable Robertson met her eyes. “Could this happen again? Anything’s possible. I’m sorry I can’t give you positive reassurance that this was a one-time incident.”

“The guy threatened to return some night when I was home alone if I identified him.” Amy felt her legs wobble. She slipped away from Leslie’s arm and slid onto a kitchen chair before her knees buckled.

Robertson frowned. Amy wondered if she’d done the right thing, blurting out her admission.

“He’d be a fool if he did. Besides, the guy was high, might not even remember where he was or what he said when he comes down. I wouldn’t be overly concerned, but keep an eye open and call 9-1-1 if you see anything suspicious or anyone resembling him lurking about.”

“Just remember to set your security alarm,” added Constable Wilson. “If you don’t need me, I’ll check the backyard in case the thief left something behind.”

“Good idea. Let me know if you find something.”

Wilson disappeared out the back door.

“Amy, I’m going to call the salon and see if they need anything.” Leslie patted her friend’s shoulder.

“Okay, Les. And if they need you, then go. I’m okay.” Amy smiled weakly.

“Yeah, right. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Leslie dug her cell phone out of her handbag and headed toward the living room.

Constable Robertson pulled a notebook out of his pocket and clicked the end of his ballpoint pen. “I require some information for my report.”

Amy took a minute to breathe again. She shifted in her seat, pulled her shoulders back, and faced the police officer seated across from her at the kitchen table. Thankfully, he hadn’t asked her to fill in the witness statement he set on the table. Her hands were shaking so badly she couldn’t have held a pen. She took another deep breath.

While he flipped through the pages of his notebook, she studied him for the first time aware of him as a man, not just a cop. Dark brown hair, clean shaven, he appeared to be in his mid-twenties, probably a year or two younger than her twenty-eight years. He sounded quite professional, seasoned, experienced, in charge, however. Perhaps he just looked younger than his actual age. Gorgeous. Handsome. Gorgeously handsome, she decided.

“Ms. MacArthur?”

Amy mentally shook herself, realized he was staring at her.

“Huh?” She immediately felt her face redden. She wrote hundred thousand word novels for a living and ‘huh’ was the best she could come up with?

“What time did you leave your house this morning?” His deep voice totally mesmerized her and even lent a degree of comfort.

“About six thirty, although the dentist office isn’t too far away. My appointment wasn’t until seven, but I was concerned about rush hour traffic.” Her heart skipped a beat, and she momentarily lost herself in his dark brown eyes that watched her as she spoke.

“Okay.” He bent over his book, recording her answer she assumed. She noticed his stylish haircut, imagined running her fingers through those silky-looking strands of...

“Ms. MacArthur?”

Dang it! She’d done it again. He must have asked another question.

“Yes?”

“Are you okay?” He slid forward on the chair. When he leaned closer in anticipation of her response, a whiff of his cologne teased her nose. She inhaled deeply, savoring the woodsy rainforest scent. God, he smelled good enough to eat.

“Can I get you a glass of water or something?”

She waited a few moments longer, waited for him to elaborate. She imagined a variety of things he could get her, do for her, do to her, starting with kissing her right now. Reluctantly, she shook her head. “Nothing, thank you. I’m fine.”

His expression almost indicated disappointment. Or was she imagining it?

“Just relax. You mentioned you were a writer. What do you write, Ms. MacArthur?” He tilted his head.

Amy wondered if he was truly interested in her career choice or if he hoped to calm her down by temporarily distracting her. She was equally distracted by him and the stressful situation. “I’m a romance writer, romantic suspense. I doubt you’ve read any of my work. I’m currently working on a series that I’ll set in a ski town, maybe Banff or Lake Louise. I haven’t come up with a name for it yet.”