Dana Mentink - Dangerous Tidings

She turned to Brent. He was tall, a good six feet, with broad shoulders and the required military short haircut. Dark eyes, thick brows, an old bruise healing on his forehead. “Thank you, for what you did.”

He shrugged. “No problem.”

She quirked an eyebrow. “Why are you here?”

Marco huffed. “That’s what I was trying to get out of him.”

The police arrived then, sirens blaring. Three officers raced in, hands on their guns.

Marco filled them in.

The tallest one, a uniformed woman, introduced herself as Officer Huffington. Donna knew her even before the introduction. She’d been the one to show up in the hospital after her father was pronounced dead. Professional, unemotional. Donna felt anything but. Huffington listened intently to the three as they related the story as best they could.

“Now do you see what I’ve been saying? Someone was after my father. He came here trying to scare me.” And it worked , she said to herself. Her knees were still shaking, palms ice-cold.

“We’ll investigate, I can assure you, Ms. Gallagher, but what would his motive be, this guy?”

“To stop me from investigating.”

“Investigating what?”

Brent edged forward. “I’d like to hear that, too.”

Officer Huffington gave him the once-over. “So I guess this is the part when you tell me why you happened to be here at eleven thirty on a rainy night.”

Marco grunted as a paramedic cleansed the wound.

Brent’s eyes darkened, all traces of a smile gone. “I found the address to this business at my sister’s apartment. I haven’t heard from her recently. I was worried. I came here.”

“Who is your sister?” Officer Huffington said.

Brent pointed to the name on the file sitting on the conference table.

“Pauline Mitchell. Seems like Bruce Gallagher was looking into something for my sister.” He looked squarely at Donna. “I’d like to know what that was.”

THREE

After a volley of questions and answers, Officer Huffington moved to speak with her officers. Brent wanted to talk to Donna, but Marco fielded most of the questions in a maddeningly brusque manner. Brent realized that Marco was trying to get rid of him. Reasonable. It was going on 12:30 a.m. The man was obviously family to Donna, and the woman had just been through a violent attack on the heels of losing Bruce Gallagher. He was sorry to have to press, but the roaring of his instincts would not be quieted now.

“My sister is missing,” he stated again calmly. “She obviously went to see Bruce Gallagher on some private matter.” Too private to tell her brother. He swallowed the guilt. “I want to know what it was about.”

Donna looked him over, pale but resolute. “Mr. Mitchell, I know your sister. I’m a vet. She brought her dog, Radar, in to see me a month and a half ago, but I don’t know what she discussed with my father. I remember chatting with her that Dad was an investigator, but I had no idea she was his client.”

“What’s in the file?”

She jerked her head toward the manila folder still sitting on the conference table. “Nothing, really. Just some names.”

“What names?”

Officer Huffington rejoined the conversation. “What makes you think your sister is missing, Mr. Mitchell?”

“Haven’t heard from her for three weeks.”

“Is that unusual?”

He rolled a shoulder as a new wave of guilt hit. “No, but I’ve left messages that she hasn’t returned.”

Donna nodded. “I’ve repeatedly called to check on Radar, her dog, and she didn’t return those calls, either.”

“Any discussion about her taking a trip?”

Brent shook his head. “Not that I know of.”

“Actually,” Donna said, “when she brought Radar in, she mentioned a trip to Carmel.”

Brent sighed inwardly. Of course she hadn’t told him. He’d never made the time to listen. She did not take priority above his coast guard duties. Be the hero to everyone but your own sister, Brent.

“Okay,” Huffington said. “Give me Pauline’s address and I’ll send someone over to look at her place after our search for this guy is concluded.”

Brent provided the address.

She looked at Donna. “And I’ll need a copy of what’s in your father’s file.”

Donna went to the copier in the corner. He noticed she was careful to screen his view. She was protecting some sort of information because she didn’t trust him. Gratitude for his catapult through her window went only so far. He suspected the Gallaghers and company were a tight-knit clan.

Fine. He’d get the information he needed one way or another, and he wasn’t about to wait until the cops made time to search Pauline’s home. The Mitchells could be tight-knit, too, just the two of them. “All right. I’ll be going, then, if you don’t need anything further.”

“Got your info,” Huffington said, looking up from her discussion with another officer.

Donna followed him to the front door, looking as though she was puzzling through something.

“Thank you,” she blurted. “I appreciate what you did for me.”

He stepped onto the porch, a patter of raindrops falling around him. “No problem. Is there a reason you don’t want me to know what’s in that folder?”

The lighting didn’t allow him to see it, but he had the sense her face flushed a rosy red.

“There’s not much, I told you.”

“But there’s something, and I think I have the right to know. She’s my sister.”

“And I think I have the right not to tell you. You’re a stranger and he’s...” She swallowed, a little gulp. “He was my father.”

The vulnerability in that little gulp was the only thing that kept him from pressing. It spoke of irretrievable loss, a phenomenon with which he was familiar. He thought again of his fiancée, Carrie, gentle, trusting and the woman he had been unable to save. Focus, Brent. He would check out his sister’s place again first. Then if he needed to push Donna Gallagher, he’d do it. He extended his hand, grasping her uninjured fingers, still cold to the touch, between his palms. She squeezed back for a moment before pulling away.

“Good night, Donna,” he said.

He felt her eyes follow him as he walked out into the rain.

* * *

Donna’s sisters arrived in short order. Younger sister Angela wrapped her in a smothering embrace. She was a good four inches taller than Donna’s five-six. Donna was so grateful that Angela had been given leave from her job as navy chaplain to minister to her own family after her father’s death.

Angela sat Donna down at the table and listened in that quiet way of hers. Her silence had only intensified since her return from Afghanistan. Their oldest sister, Candace, arrived halfway through the story, her mass of dark curly hair mussed and windblown. Candace’s mothering instinct kicked in.

“You should go to the hospital,” she said to Marco, with a frown of concern. She touched his cheek with her hand. Donna saw a flicker of tenderness flash in Marco’s eyes. She wondered why Candace never seemed to see it.

He ducked his head. “Aww, I’m all right.”

“Try letting someone help you for a change. Let me see how well they bandaged the wound.” Candace inspected, grudgingly agreeing that the paramedic’s work was passable.

“I thought you were catching a flight today, Marco,” Angela said.

“I am. Red-eye.”

It was a difficult time. Marco was flying to Georgia for the funeral of a woman he’d loved since he was a teen and probably always would, even though she’d died of a drug overdose. And this following on the heels of the memorial service for Bruce, the man who’d been his best friend.

Candace sighed and gave him a hug. He reached one big hand around her as if to gather her closer but didn’t.