Tracey V. Bateman - Suspicion Of Guilt

Denni grimaced and turned away, but Reece’s body on the step above her blocked the flight up. Even when she sent him her fiercest frown, he didn’t budge.

She drew in the subtle scent of his spicy aftershave. Understated appeal. She liked that about him. The guy had to know what he did to women—a worked-out physique and a masculinity that intimidated Denni, yet left her silently wishing he’d stay close. She eyed his muscled arms and broad chest and couldn’t help but wonder what it might feel like to be drawn close. To lose herself in a comforting embrace.

“Well?” he asked, the tension in his voice replaced by a subtle, low tone that seeped over her like a gentle rain.

She gaped, fighting the warmth creeping to her cheeks. “Well what?”

“I’m going to have to question them again. Who should I speak with first this time?”

“Oh, Reece,” she said, hearing the fatigue in her tone. She was so tired. So very, very tired. “Leave the girls alone, will you? How can you blame them for a flood?”

Her girls. Troubled, ex-foster-care kids who were too old to stay in the system, but too young to be out on their own. As a social worker, she had grown tired of seeing so many of these girls end up on public assistance, their own children placed in foster care, so she’d cleaned out her savings account, cashed in some bonds and opened a home.

Only five young women lived with her, but if her experiment panned out, she had commitments from several local churches to help buy two more homes, each housing ten girls. Monday, she was supposed to host a luncheon for the liaisons from each of these churches. How could she explain to potential sponsors that the cops suspected the residents of sabotage?

Denni glanced back at the basement, searching for escape from the confrontation that was surely to come. It was either hike down the steps and swim through the murky water or face Reece’s solid stubbornness. She sighed, knowing there was only one logical choice. She’d have to face him.

Forcing herself away from the sight of so many of her treasures soaked and more than likely ruined, she braced for the coming conflict, a tiresome, constant echo of accusation.

Deliberately, she lifted her gaze and faced sharp green eyes. Steely, knee-weakening eyes that raked over her face, commanding her to accept the possibility.

“Admit it,” he demanded.

“I admit only one thing. It looks as though someone is trying to sabotage my efforts to make a nice home for these girls.” A sigh pushed from her lungs. “What I can’t figure out is why.”

Detective Corrigan scowled. “That’s what I’m here for, and I have to tell you…”

Denni raised her hand to stop the opinion from flying out of his mouth. “What possible motive could any of them have to sabotage their own home? Where would they go?”

Leaving him to mull over that bit of reason, she scraped against his bomber jacket as she maneuvered around him and marched to the top of the stairs. He followed her into the kitchen.

“That’s the one thing I can’t put my finger on. It doesn’t make a lot of sense, but maybe the person we’re dealing with here doesn’t think along rational lines.”

“All my girls are rational,” Denni snapped.

His amusement was more than apparent in the upward curve of his lips. “Then I guess they must take after you,” he drawled.

Fighting the urge to stomp away like a five-year-old, Denni snatched up the phone and dialed the number for the electric company.

She scowled at Reece, just as a lady on the other end answered, effectively cutting off any retort. “Hello, this is Denni Mahoney at 344 Clark Street. My basement flooded. I need someone to shut off my electricity while we pump it out.”

“One moment, please.”

Denni drummed her nails along the Formica cabinet top wishing Detective Corrigan would just stop staring at her like that. “What?” she snapped, shooting him a hard glance.

“I beg your pardon?” The lady on the phone sounded mildly irritated.

“Sorry, I wasn’t talking to you.”

Corrigan smirked. Denni turned her back.

“Ma’am, I’m told all you need to do is shut off the circuits to the basement.”

Denni closed her eyes and shook her head. She pressed her fingertips to her temple. Did she look like an idiot or just sound like one over the phone? “Yeah, the problem with that advice is that my breaker box is actually in the basement, and I’m not real thrilled with the idea of getting zapped.”

“Oh.”

Yeah, Oh.

“All right. I’ll have someone come over first thing Monday morning.”

“Wait! Monday? I have water in my basement! I can’t wait until Monday.”

“Yes, ma’am. I understand that. But that’s the earliest time we have available. The last orders have already gone out for the day. And we don’t work on the weekends.”

Denni bit back a nasty reply and hung up. She smacked the counter with her palm. “What am I supposed to do until Monday with water soaking my basement?”

“Stay upstairs?” Corrigan’s attempt at humor spiked her irritation level.

She glared. “Not funny.” Besides the question was rhetorical.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Do you want to talk about all of this?”

“No.”

“Then why did you call me?”

She shrugged. Why had she called him? She’d walked down the steps this morning to do a load of laundry, discovered the flooded basement, and all she could think to do was call Reece. It made no sense to her.

“I’ll tell you why. Because you know that a creek in your basement is no accident.” He looked past her and his eyes clouded.

A feminine voice, thick with disdain, shot through the air before Denni could confirm or deny his assumption. “Oh, great. What’s he doing here?”

Denni snapped her head around at the anger in Leigh’s tone. The girl leaned jauntily against the door frame, thumbs latched in her front jeans pockets. With her short spiked hair dyed pitch-black, and sporting a lip ring and a belly shirt, the girl looked a little wild, but Denni knew the softy inside. Reece on the other hand looked like a tiger about to spring.

“So, where have you been all day?” he asked.

“None of your business.” She dismissed him with a sneer and turned to Denni. “What happened?”

“Someone left the outside faucet on.”

Leigh groaned. “Oh, great! Not again. I’ll go hook up the wet ’n’ dry vac.”

“Don’t bother. We’ll have to get it pumped out. It’s pretty deep.”

Leigh kicked at the linoleum with one socked foot. “How much is that going to cost?”

“Nothing.” Corrigan’s voice cut through the air. “I know a guy with a pump.”

As much as Denni wanted to believe in his good intentions, the offer had the distinct odor of a rat. A big fat suspicious rat with a shiny badge and knee-weakening green eyes.

“Thanks, anyway.”

“Yeah. Who needs you?” Leigh growled in his direction.

Denni couldn’t blame the girl for her animosity. Since the first mishap three months ago—a laptop computer and a pretty expensive stereo system both missing—Corrigan had made no secret of the fact that he wasn’t ruling out any of the girls as suspects. Leigh had seemed to take the brunt of his questions. A fire in the laundry room a month later had only deepened his suspicion. Especially after he’d found a lighter and cigarettes in her room. And no amount of don’t-judge-a-book-by-its-cover speeches from Denni could deter him.

“Come on,” he said. “No strings attached.”

Leigh snorted. “Yeah, right.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself, but these guys work by the hour. Who knows how long it’ll take to pump out that much water?”