Where Danger Hides Page 5

  “I respect their wishes for anonymity as well. I would never betray a client’s confidence. But you have to give me names, or I’ve got nothing to work with.”

  She glared at him. “I told you, I can’t. I have the same obligations. You said you were good at your job. Are you saying you can’t handle it?”

  “I’m saying I can’t make bricks without straw.” He leaned across the table. “I need full names. Pictures. Social Security numbers. Places of employment.”

  “And I can’t provide them.”

  “Can’t, or won’t?”

  Dalton didn’t buy it anymore. She’d proven herself clever, conniving, and a damn good actress. He moved back to his original premise. Blackie put her up to this to keep him occupied. Time to call her bluff. He buried his irritation and brought out a grin, along with as much Texas as he could muster.

  “I said I was good, darlin’, but I’m no miracle worker. Finding people who don’t exist? I reckon not.” He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair.

  Miri’s mouth hung open. “I’m sorry? You’re dropping the case?”

  “Sugar, there is no case. I don’t know what you and Blackie cooked up, but you can march right back in there and tell him I’m not going to fall for it. I don’t need to spend God knows how long chasing a flock of wild geese when there are people who really need Blackthorne’s help.”

  “I’m sorry to have wasted your valuable time.” She pushed her coffee cup to the center of the table and stood. Flinging her purse over her shoulder, she marched to the door. Before leaving, she faced him. “I’m sure there’s a lost dog or a cat out there you’ll be able to find. A case more suited to your talents . . . Ambrose.”

  Chapter 5

  Miri sat behind the communal desk in the small back office at Galloway House and reviewed the computer files of the past six months. Although they kept names confidential, outside donations depended upon proof that Galloway House helped people, so they maintained detailed records.

  She considered Dalton’s questions. So what if he wouldn’t help. She knew the ins and outs around here better than he did, and help from a jerk who didn’t want to be there would be worse than no help at all.

  Armed with a notepad and pen, she browsed case histories. Twenty-seven residents had left in the last six months. Twelve thrived in new jobs. Galloway House’s placement service kept in touch with employers, but Miri received more satisfaction when one of the “graduates” called, or dropped a note—or even an e-mail—giving encouragement to other residents, proving the work everyone did here had a genuine payoff. She started to cross those names off her list, then changed her mind. Couldn’t hurt to make sure they were still around. She remembered seeing eight more as regulars in the food lines.

  “Miss Miri?”

  At Will’s tremulous voice, Miri glanced up in concern. The eight-year-old had arrived less than two weeks ago, along with his mother, Jillian. For the first three days, he’d stayed in his room or clung to his mother’s side, but lately he’d shown budding signs of a cheerful extrovert. A mischief maker, even. Was he here to confess some mishap? She gave him a broad smile.

  “Hi, Will. Do you want to talk about something?”

  “Someone’s crying.” He ducked his head and scuffed his tattered sneakers on the floor.

  “Who? Is it your mom?”

  “Uh-uh.” A vigorous headshake sent his blond curls bouncing. “In the kitchen.” He bolted from the room.

  Miri abandoned her efforts and dashed to the kitchen of the old Victorian mansion. Inside the spacious interior, fully modernized to meet the demands of feeding a hundred or more people a day, Miri inhaled the heady aroma of garlic and onions. Samantha, a frail teenager who’d come to the House a year ago, chopped an onion, tears streaming down her face.

  Miri chuckled. “Will said someone was crying in the kitchen. I guess he’s never chopped onions.”

  Samantha wiped her eyes with a towel and gave Miri a friendly smile.

  “Wanna help peel potatoes?” Samantha said. “Luisa left, you know, so I’m flying solo until three. Except for Suzie, and she’s not quite ready yet.”

  Miri wandered over to the playpen set up in a corner. She crouched down to peek at ten-month-old Suzie, Samantha’s daughter, who stacked colored plastic blocks, then knocked them over and giggled. Although Galloway House boasted a full day-care center and nursery, Miri knew Samantha needed to keep her baby close.

  “Hey, kiddo. Not up for potato peeling, are you?”

  Suzie giggled again and threw a block out of the mesh pen. Miri retrieved it, then grabbed an apple from a bowl on the counter and took a bite. She fell in beside Samantha. “I know about Luisa. Did she say anything to you?”

  Samantha shrugged. “Total surprise. I mean, like she was taking computer classes and all. Wanted a better than minimum wage job.” She scraped the chopped vegetables onto a platter and started working on the carrots.

  Miri set her apple aside and grabbed a potato. “What are we making?”

  “Chicken soup. Tomorrow’s lunch for the residents.”

  Miri wielded a peeler, seeing how long she could make the strip of skin before it broke, remembering the way she and Nancy played that game to take their mind off the chore when they were kids. “She talk about family? Problems? Anything?”

  Samantha shrugged. “No different from anyone else who comes here. I think someone was pounding on her, but she wasn’t, like, you know, scared he’d come back—you can usually tell. Jumping at every noise, freaking at shadows.”

  Miri nodded. Samantha would know, having been in a similar situation when she’d shown up at Galloway house, pregnant, with a battered face and broken arm. “I remember. I think her ex is back East, with another woman. He’s not likely to come after her.”

  Samantha gave another shrug. “She seemed happy, but you never know. I mean, people who end up here—well, we’re not all that together, are we?”

  Miri put down her potato and gave Samantha a big hug. “You’re plenty together, Sammi—and you keep cooking like this, we’re going to lose you to some fancy restaurant.”

  Samantha’s eyes shone. “You think?”

  “I know. Wish I could stay and help, but I’ve got work to do. I’ll round up a volunteer or two for you.”

  Miri listened to the sizzle as Samantha tipped the onions and garlic into a huge soup pot. She took a deep breath of the aromatic vegetables and savored it on the way to the front room. She hadn’t gone five paces before Keisha’s gravelly voice bounced down the hall.

  “You can’t go back there. You take yourself a seat, and I’ll have someone come talk to you, but you’ve gotta wait in this room.”

  Miri could picture Keisha, her curly black hair with the spiky strands of gray coiling up like springs, her hands on ample hips, herding whoever tried to get past her onto one of the overstuffed sofas. Obviously whoever waited was an adult because Keisha never used that tone with kids. Probably male, too. Miri lengthened her stride. She’d handle the intake form or direct whoever was waiting to the right person.

  She rounded the corner and stepped into the brightly lit room, once a formal parlor.

  “Hello, Keisha. Can I help out?”

  Keisha’s smile revealed a couple of missing teeth. Miri remembered how long it had taken her to smile at all.

  “Yes, you can. This man here says he wants shelter, but he says he gotta talk to you personally. I called but you didn’t answer, and he didn’t want to set down like he’s supposed to. I told him he can’t go back without you coming to get him first. There’s papers to fill out. Those are the rules.” Arms crossed over her chest, she jerked her head and glowered in a “so there” gesture, then went back to her seat behind the front counter.

  Miri turned to face the visitor. He slouched at the window, his back to her. Tall, broad, wearing a knit watch cap and a wool pea coat over well-worn jeans. Even so, he lacked the posture of someone seeking assistance. She knew exactly what she
’d hear when she said, “Hello. I’m Miri Chambers. May I help you?”

  * * * * *

  At the underlying mockery in Miri’s voice, Dalton clenched his fists in his coat pocket. He forced a polite smile, more for the woman Miri had called Keisha than anything else. “I’m kind of down on my luck, and thought I could find help here. One of my buddies told me about this place.”

  Miri strode behind the counter and stood beside Keisha. “I see.” She put her hand on the woman’s shoulder. “You did the right thing, Keisha. I’ll see what this gentleman wants. We’ll be in the back office.” She opened a drawer and removed a clipboard. “Meanwhile, can you find someone to fill in for Luisa in the kitchen?”

  “Will do.” Keisha consulted some papers, slowly running her finger across the pages, like someone new to reading.

  When Miri walked away clutching the clipboard to her chest, Dalton followed.

  Floorboards creaked beneath his feet. Cooking aromas tickled his nostrils. They permeated the walls, layer upon layer, like coats of paint on an old building. A sense of unease replaced the hunger that gnawed at him on the drive over. Old memories niggled, visions of Rachel, and he pushed them away. He was here on assignment. His past didn’t play a part in it.

  At the end of a narrow hallway, Miri twisted a faceted glass doorknob and pushed open the door. She crossed to an old wooden desk and sat in a metal desk chair. He stood in the doorway, taking in the space. File cabinets—one wood, two unmatched metal. A set of steel shelves held rows of three-ring binders, assorted books, and a couple of unidentifiable ceramic creations, apparently crafted by young children.

  She straightened a stack of papers on her desk. “I’m afraid our digs aren’t quite as fancy as what you’re used to. We have to mix and match with whatever donations we get.”

  He stepped inside. “Eclectic, to say the least, but I like it. Shows you’re more interested in the product than the packaging.”

  She gave him a narrow-eyed glare. “Okay, Just Dalton. Tell me why you’re really here. I don’t think you’ve become homeless in the last few hours. I don’t need help from someone who’s only going through the motions.”

  “No, I came to apologize. I was wrong to dismiss you the way I did.”

  She squinted at him. “Mr. Blackthorne have anything to do with this attitude adjustment?”

  He pulled the folding metal chair from beside the desk, flipped it around, and straddled it. “Why I’m here isn’t the issue. You’ve got a problem. So do I. The sooner I solve yours, the sooner I can get back to what I should be doing. Some people are gone and it’s worrying you. Tell me why.”

  Miri glanced around the room. “I think maybe we should discuss this somewhere else.”

  “You want this confidential?”

  She nodded. “I don’t know what’s going on, but on the off chance someone here has something to do with it, I’d rather not be overheard.”

  “Have you had lunch? I’m starved.”

  “I seem to have missed it myself.” She hesitated, giving a surreptitious glance toward her purse. “Dutch, okay?”

  He recognized pride in her eyes. He’d checked his wallet earlier and she hadn’t touched his cash when she’d lifted it. Somehow, he knew paying her own way was important to her. Taking her to Alberto’s would be out of the question. “That’s fine.”

  She picked up the phone and explained to someone she’d be gone for about an hour. “Let’s go. There’s a decent café a couple of blocks away.”

  He got up and put the chair where he’d found it. “If you’re concerned, it might be smarter to get out of the neighborhood.” Where he’d be more comfortable.

  “I’m not sure—I can’t be gone too long.”

  “We won’t be,” Dalton said.

  She pulled her parka off a hook, and he followed her out a back exit.

  “My car’s on the next block,” he said.

  She moved at a rapid clip. Ten yards away, he clicked the remote to unlock the Navigator’s doors. Ignoring him, Miri yanked the passenger door open and hoisted herself in.

  Before they’d gone three blocks, Dalton noticed his white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel. One at a time, he flexed his hands.

  “I’m not the enemy, Miri. I told you I’d help and I don’t go back on my word.”

  “I’m fine,” she said, although her narrowed lips belied her remark. “Let’s get on with it.”

  “Good. You think something has happened to your missing people? That they haven’t gone on with their lives elsewhere?”

  “I do. I’m not perfect, but I’ve got good instincts. Something’s fishy when I’m wrong this many times in a few months.”

  “So, either your instincts are off—”

  “Which they are not.”

  Stopped for a light, he stared at the red signal. Did she believe what she did because she couldn’t accept reality? That not all the people who took refuge at places like Galloway House turned their lives around? Did she take personal responsibility? Thoughts of Rachel gnawed at his gut again. The light changed to green and he hit the accelerator harder than necessary. For now, he’d accept Miri’s hunches. “Or something’s keeping them from coming back.”

  “Which is what I told Mr. Blackthorne this morning, and you know what happened then.”

  He sighed. “I’d rather we forget that, okay?”

  “Okay.” She turned toward her window.

  He watched her concern as they drove into the upscale neighborhoods and took an almost perverse delight in her worried expression as he mentioned some of the nicer restaurants in the vicinity. Hell, considering what she’d done, she deserved to sweat. But only a little, he decided. Fifteen minutes later, they sat on a park bench munching hot dogs from a street vendor. After she devoured two hot dogs, he debated telling her about the dab of mustard in the corner of her mouth, but then her tongue found it, which moved him into male discomfort territory.

  He fished in his pocket for a butterscotch. “Dessert?”

  She smiled and accepted it, barely making contact with his hand. “Thanks.”

  She unwrapped the candy, and he couldn’t take his eyes off the way her lips moved as she sucked on it. He collected their trash and took his time wandering to the nearest trash can. When he returned, he seated himself on the far end of the bench and crossed an ankle over his thigh. “All right. Common denominators. Have you found any?”

  She smirked. “There’s the obvious. Everyone who comes to Galloway House has one thing in common—they’re in some sort of trouble.”

  “Sometimes it’s better to work backward. Take your most recent disappearance, then see if anyone else who’s missing has something in common.”

  Miri chewed her lip. Damn, he wished he had his tablet and pen so he could focus on something else.

  “That would be Luisa,” she said.

  “Which isn’t her name, is it?”

  “It’s the one she gave when she showed up. Whether it’s the one her mother gave her is none of my concern.”

  “I got it. I’m on your side. Tell me what you can about Luisa.”

  Miri studied her hands. Dalton noted her long, slender fingers and clear-polished nails. How clever those hands had been in his pockets Saturday night. And how warm they’d been while she’d danced with him. He cursed silently. Miri was inching him into terrain he vowed never to visit again. And he’d known her for how long? Not even a day, really. No. He’d follow Blackthorne’s orders, find out what happened to her missing people and get back in the field where he belonged.

  “She’s Hispanic, about five-three, twenty-one years old. She was underweight, malnourished when she arrived, but she bounced back quickly. Literate in Spanish, about third-grade level in English, but she can communicate well in both languages.”

  “That’s a start. What skills did she have? What were her reasons for coming to Galloway House?”

  Miri leaned forward, her eyes brighter. Her scent stronger, too. He definitely wa
nted a notepad—anything—to put in his lap.

  “Her skills were of the domestic variety. She worked in the kitchen a lot, helped with laundry, but she was taking a basic computer class. She arrived with no money—her boyfriend packed up and moved out one day—and I know she wanted to get a decent job. She has family in—I don’t remember. We don’t record that kind of data. I think it’s somewhere in South America, but I can’t be sure. She talked about bringing them here.”

  “Any chance she decided to go back to them instead?”

  Miri shook her head. “No way. She didn’t have the money for that.” She slipped her parka sleeve up and checked her watch. “I have to get back. I have a computer class to teach in half an hour.”

  Dalton stood and reached his hand to help Miri up. As expected, she refused it, which was probably a good thing, considering his state. She walked the edge of the path, her purse slung over her shoulder, holding it with both hands. Totally avoiding any chance of body contact. Another good thing.

  In his car, she huddled near the door, although she did rotate her body enough to face him. Navigating through traffic demanded his attention, and he couldn’t spare more than an occasional glance her way.

  “If you have time,” he said, “why don’t you make a chart with all the basic characteristics you can think of—like we were talking about for Luisa—and then plug all your other mystery people in and see if anything matches.”

  “Good idea. I didn’t have time to go through enough of the files today. I got as far as eliminating the ones I know are fine.”

  “What if I come in as a resident? I can poke around a little, ask some discrete questions.”

  She made a quick snorting sound. “You’re too hale and hearty for our typical resident. I’m afraid you’d never blend in.”

  Dalton stifled a laugh. Blending in was his specialty. But in this case, she made a valid point. Although the few people he’d seen working when he’d arrived at Galloway House appeared hale and hearty enough, he figured they hadn’t shown up that way.