Cassie Miles - Undercover Protector

“I learned a lot about you.”

“Like what?”

“A lot,” he said. Once he’d gotten over his initial reticence about invading her privacy, Michael had enjoyed watching her. Annie had turned into the kind of woman he’d expected her to be. She had a healthy lifestyle and went jogging almost every morning. But she also had a taste for junk food. There was no special man in her life, and her partner on the Salem police force was happily married. Though her car radio was tuned to a classical station, she occasionally listened to and sang along with country-western songs.

“You could’ve picked up a phone and called me,” she said. “All I needed was a simple warning that I was in danger.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t think you’d believe me. I expected you to hate me after the way I left.”

“Ancient history.” But her sudden frown told him that he’d guessed correctly. He wasn’t her favorite person.

“Did you manage to uncover any useful information?” she asked. “Was it Bateman who attacked me in the parking lot?”

“I’m not sure.” He hadn’t expected the assault. Not in the rain. “After the paramedics took you to the hospital, I went looking and found Bateman at his favorite tavern in Salem. The bartender said he’d been there all night.”

“Is that a solid alibi?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, Michael, I wish you’d left this to a professional investigator. What else do you know about Bateman?”

“He had a reputation in prison as a ringleader with a lot of connections.” Like a poisonous spider in the center of his web, Bateman knew how to pull strings and get other people to do his dirty work. He was surprisingly intelligent and had a natural slyness that made him adept at playing manipulative games. “He’s a true sociopath, completely without conscience or any sense of right or wrong.”

“I’m familiar with the profile,” she said. “It explains something to me.”

“What’s that?”

“When I first encountered him on the street, he scared me. I don’t usually get rattled, but there was something about him that triggered my fears.” She hesitated. “Even though he didn’t actually threaten me, my gut instinct was warning me to be careful.”

“I don’t know how far his influence reaches, Annie. But we can’t be too cautious. That’s why I don’t want you going out alone on dates that might be a trap. It’s best if you stay away from Jake Stillwell or anybody else.”

“I’ll think about it.” She nodded toward the phone. “Go ahead and call the police. Please tell them not to use the siren. I’d prefer if Grandpa slept through the night.”

Picking her way through the dark house, she went upstairs to change clothes before the Bridgeport police officers arrived. If the gossips in town heard she’d been wearing a slinky nightie and sleeping under the same roof as an unmarried man, they’d assume the worst, even with her grandpa there as chaperone. She had no intention of being paired up with Michael Slade again.

Before returning downstairs in her jeans and baggy gray sweatshirt, she tiptoed to her grandpa’s bedroom door, intending to close it tightly. There was no need to disturb him. He needed his rest.

“Annie?” he called from the bed. “What’s going on?”

Her hand rested on the doorknob. “Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

A police siren screamed along Myrtlewood Lane.

“That doesn’t sound like nothing,” Lionel said.

She explained, “Somebody threw a brick through the window by the front door. We called 911.”

“The window with roses? Your grandma’s window?”

“I’m sorry, Grandpa.”

“Can’t be helped.” He stretched out his long scrawny arm and turned on the lamp beside the bed. With a groan he forced himself into a sitting position. “Hand me a bathrobe. I won’t have the local police thinking I’m an invalid.”

Resigned to her grandpa’s concern with his reputation, she plumped the pillows and helped him comb his hair. In spite of his emaciated body, he donned an attitude of dignity. He wasn’t about to lie back quietly and accept anybody’s pity.

And she was glad for his change in attitude. Pride was a whole lot better than depression. Fondly she patted his bony shoulder. “You’re a stubborn old buzzard, Lionel Callahan.”

“Well, I can’t rest easy while you’re still running around getting yourself into trouble.”

Neither the attack in the parking lot nor the brick through the window were her fault. However, if it made Grandpa feel better to believe she needed his protection, Annie wouldn’t disillusion him. “I guess trouble is my middle name.”

“Always has been.”

“By the way,” she said, remembering Michael’s statement that he’d come here to protect her and Lionel from possible retribution from Bateman. “Did you telephone Michael? Or was it the other way around?”

“Can’t say that I recall.” His expression was too innocent to be believed. “I was a little hazy after the stroke.”

Hazy like a fox, she thought. Grandpa had his own special reasons for wanting Michael to stay at the house. “I hope you’re not playing matchmaker.”

“Between you and Michael?” He gave her a lopsided grin. “The idea might have crossed my mind. I’m not getting any younger, Annie. I wouldn’t mind having some youngsters around the neighborhood.”

“Great-grandchildren.” She didn’t like being manipulated. “Don’t push me, Lionel.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Downstairs she confronted Police Chief Derek Engstrom himself. Though he was out of uniform, his beige trousers were sharply creased. The plaid shirt under his green Bridgeport Badgers windbreaker was starched and ironed. Engstrom was a tidy person in his early forties, and he was in good physical condition. There was only a touch of gray in his thinning brown hair. As far as she knew, he’d been living alone since his mother died. “I’m surprised to see you, Chief Engstrom. I didn’t think you’d be on duty this late.”

“I had just stopped by the station when your call came through.” He nodded to the uniformed officer. “Bobby, you remember little Annie Callahan.”

“Annie was never little.” Officer Bobby Janowski smirked as he eyeballed her from toe to head. “She always was the tallest girl at Bridgeport High.”

And Bobby had always been the most obnoxious bully. It annoyed her that he’d chosen a career in law enforcement. “Hi, Bobby.”

“Heard you’re a cop in Salem.” He hitched up his uniform trousers and stood straighter, as if trying to match her height. He was only five foot nine. “That’s a tough job for a woman.”

“I guess I’m big enough to handle the work. Now, I suggest we go outside and have a look around.”

“Agreed,” Michael said.

Engstrom squinted in his direction. His upper lip curled in a disdainful smirk. “I remember you, Michael Slade.”

Michael didn’t need to verbally respond; his body language said it all. His eyes became cold and hooded, his chin hardened, and he thrust out his chest. He was transformed into an archetypal tough guy, a hoodlum.

“You were a troublemaker in high school,” Engstrom accused. “A real punk, weren’t you? You got picked up for reckless driving and curfew violations, right?”

Still Michael said nothing.

As a fellow law-enforcement officer, Annie should have taken Engstrom’s side. But there was a dignity in Michael’s silence. He didn’t deny his past. Nor did he try to defend it.

“And drinking,” Engstrom continued with the long-ago rap sheet, “underage possession and consumption of alcohol. Or maybe that was your father.”

“That’s right,” Bobby put in. “Old man Slade was one mean son of a gun when he got drunk.”