Julie Miller - One Good Man

She raised her head and offered him a fake smile. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time. I don’t know where Uncle Jimmy gets his ideas. But tell him I appreciate his concern.”

Mitch knew a goodbye when he heard one. This had turned into one hell of an evening. His skull throbbed with a headache. He’d ticked off an ungrateful woman who had every right to sue him. And he had a growing list of questions that no one wanted to answer.

It would have required a better man to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “It’s been real fun getting to know you, too, Ms. Maynard. I’ll be sure to pass your regards along to Uncle Jimmy.”

In the clear light, he easily spotted his badge on the carpet. He picked it up and clipped it to his pocket. He retrieved his gun from beneath a side table and snapped it into his holster. As he straightened, something else caught his attention.

A brown stick protruded from beneath the corner of a black leather sofa. Is that what she’d hit him with?

Keeping his back to her, Mitch used his foot to slide the piece of wood into view. A cane?

His preformed image of Cassandra Maynard, pampered society princess whose elite circle of friends included the commissioner of police, shifted a notch. He’d driven into this ritzy Plaza neighborhood expecting to find people living the lifestyle his late wife had struggled so ruthlessly to attain.

After the commissioner’s phone call, Mitch had fully expected to find Ms. Maynard preened and poised on her perch high above the mortals like himself who had to work for a living. She’d lie about whatever trouble had prompted the intrusion on private family business, and then politely send him on his way.

She had the lie part down pat, and she sounded eager to be rid of him. But this wounded woman in the jeans and gray sweatshirt seemed more brittle than icy. And the disdain in her voice didn’t match the terror in her eyes.

He glanced at the cane again. Richly polished walnut inlaid with a ring of brass at the handle, the item itself bespoke wealth. But a cane was a cane, a symbol of injury or handicap in one so young and apparently athletic as Ms. Maynard. Maybe she’d had surgery, or injured herself in training.

His lean years growing up in a decaying neighborhood north of downtown Kansas City had taught him to recognize some basic tricks of survival. Attacking before the enemy could identify your weakness was a classic.

Uptown or down, Mitch recognized vulnerability.

“So why would Commissioner Reed think anything was wrong here?” He nudged the cane out of sight with his toe, allowing her the security of hiding the extent of her disability from him.

He turned, catching the startled expression on her face before she quickly replaced it with that stoic mask. “I don’t know. I’m surprised he didn’t call me himself.”

“He probably figured you’d lie and say everything was all right so he wouldn’t worry.”

She shrugged. “Everything is all right. Other than you breaking down the door.”

He stepped toward her. “Something scared the hell out of you tonight.”

“You did.”

“No. Before I showed up, something wasn’t right.” He advanced farther, and enjoyed the transient satisfaction of seeing her mask slip a little.

Even at the cusp of winter, the mansions in this oldmonied neighborhood had an unlived-in perfection about them. Lawns were manicured, homes and fences were decorated for the holidays and welcoming lights blazed from crystal-clear windows and porches.

But not the Maynard estate. The imposing structure was half-hidden behind a high granite wall and black wrought-iron gate. Inside that barrier, ancient oaks lined the driveway, casting shadows across the yard that even twin porch lights couldn’t illuminate. One wing of the house was closed off. The interior had been dark. The items he’d stumbled over in the hallway and in this room were arranged in pristine, untouched perfection.

So who kept the princess locked in the tower?

Fairy tales had never topped Mitch’s reading list, but he couldn’t think of a better analogy. Where was the family the commissioner had asked him to check on? He’d bet his next paycheck that she lived alone in this overbuilt monstrosity.

“Are you married, Ms. Maynard? Live with a boyfriend or fiancé?”

He interpreted the sharp, humorless sound that passed as her laugh for a no.

“What about your parents?”

“I’m twenty-eight years old, Mr. Taylor. I don’t live with Mommy and Daddy anymore.”

Touché. So he wasn’t the only one who resorted to sarcasm under pressure.

“Where are they?” He took another step.

“Now that they’ve retired, they spend their winters in a warmer climate.” Not much of an answer, so he switched tactics.

“Why did you attack me?” He reached her desk.

“I thought you were an intruder.” She squared her shoulders. “Most visitors ring the buzzer at the gatehouse before I send them on their way.”

He ignored the obvious hint. He braced his hands on the desktop and leaned toward her. “I said I was a cop.”

She tilted her chin upward. “I don’t care if—”

Garbled voices from the front of the house interrupted their standoff. By the time he spun around, two uniformed patrolmen had entered the room, positioning themselves with guns drawn and pointed straight at him.

“Hold it right there,” one of the officers commanded.

Mitch calmly raised his hands. He heard a strangled gasp behind him, a soft, barely audible sound of despair. He glanced back at Casey. If possible, her fine porcelain skin had blanched even further.

Guns? Cops? Or men in general?

Something about the blue-suits, something about him, terrified her. Not because she thought he was breaking in. Not because she valued her privacy.

Him.

The discovery hit Mitch in the gut with all the force of her cane smacking his face. She was afraid of him. And fighting like a regal hellcat to prove she wasn’t.

Ungrateful though she might be for his help, the need to protect surged through him. Despite her proud and prickly demeanor, she looked too weak to deal with more unexpected visitors. And rule number one in his self-written code of ethics was to always defend the underdog.

So Mitch took up the banner for her. He pointed to his badge and identified his rank.

“Captain?” The officer who had spoken earlier couldn’t hide his embarrassment. Once they’d both holstered their weapons, Mitch dropped his hands and moved toward them. He had no desire to chew their butts for the honest mistake. They’d simply been doing their job. Answering a call with promptness and authority.

“I’ve got everything under control here. I’m guessing it was a false alarm.” The best way to salvage a man’s pride was to give him something worthwhile to do. “It wouldn’t hurt to check the grounds, though, see if anybody’s been snooping around. And find something to patch the front door with.”

“Yes, sir.”

With curt nods, they exited the room. Mitch turned around in the doorway and studied Casey. She’d closed her eyes and was breathing deeply. She seemed small and out of place in the huge dimensions of the room. He could see now it was a library, lined on three walls with recessed bookshelves. The row of windows on the fourth wall overlooked a dead garden. Her desk stood like an island in the center of the room, covered with neat stacks of paperwork, a computer system, a fax machine and a telephone.

He wondered if she lived in this lonely sanctuary by choice, or if someone had tucked her away and forgotten her there.

“What are you staring at?” Casey’s pointed question intruded on his thoughts. The prickly princess was back in place, and Mitch couldn’t help smiling.