Where Danger Hides Page 6

  “Any kind of job opportunities?” he asked. “Give me access to the way things work, the residents, the staff and all.”

  “Not right now. We have volunteers for meal service, but they don’t get the run of the place. Unless a special problem makes us hire out, we try to be self-sufficient.”

  “What would you farm out?”

  “Things like electrical, major plumbing—things the city insists on inspecting and having done by licensed contractors. But at the moment, everything’s working.” She paused. “I suppose I can have some kind of a problem with my computer. It’ll have to be a good one, though, because I handle all the I.T. stuff for the House. So far, they’ve never had a problem I couldn’t solve.”

  “What if I showed up after hours?”

  “No such animal. Someone’s on duty around the clock, and the office I use isn’t private. If I’m not using it, someone else probably is.”

  “I can usually bluff my way anywhere.” Grinning, he darted a glance in her direction.

  “Not always with total success, however.” Her eyes dared him to keep going.

  He dodged the challenge—this time. “Point taken. All right, what would you have me do?”

  She stared out the window. “Meet me tonight. Seven o’clock at the South Branch Library.”

  “Should I come in disguise? Is there a password? Secret handshake?”

  She glowered. God, he already loved pushing her buttons. The way her eyes sparked and her lips made a little O.

  “Sorry,” he said. “That was uncalled for.” He pulled out a business card, blank except for his cell phone number. “Here. It’ll come straight to me. Any time, day or night.”

  She shoved the card into her purse without a glance. “Seven. Library.”

  Chapter 6

  After she’d worked with six residents on basic computer skills, Miri retreated to her office where she found three messages from her sister. She grabbed the phone, leaning over the desk to punch the speed dial.

  “Hey, Sis. Welcome home. What’s up?”

  “Are you sure you fixed everything?” Nancy spoke in a low voice, as if she was afraid she’d be overheard.

  “As sure as I can be, considering. I checked what I found in Patterson’s files. Most of it was Hunter’s history. For you, Patterson’s got the bio we established years ago. As far as anyone knows, you were Nancy Chambers until you married Hunter. Rayna never existed.”

  “Do you have the file? Can I see it?”

  “No, I left it where I found it. Otherwise he might suspect something.”

  There was a brief pause before Nancy spoke again. “Of course. I’m not thinking.”

  Nancy’s concern spilled over to Miri. “Why are you so worried? Has something happened?”

  Nancy’s slow breathing meant she was regrouping. After a lengthy pause, she spoke.

  “Hunt had an interview this morning. With Mr. Patterson himself. Hunt called and said there’d been a change in plans, and we’d talk tonight. I was so afraid someone found out I’m a total nobody. Less than a nobody.”

  “Sweetie, you’re not a nobody. What you did took more guts and smarts than ten Andrew Pattersons. You’re jumping to conclusions. Relax.”

  “You think? Hunt didn’t sound excited.”

  As far as Miri knew, Hunter never sounded excited. “I don’t think. I know. Hunt will come home with good news. Maybe you should chill some champagne and be ready. I’ll bet he’ll want to celebrate.”

  “I suppose you could be right. Thanks for listening.”

  “Always. Love you.”

  Miri slid the handset back in the base and sank into her chair. Somewhere along the line, their roles had reversed, and Miri had become the strong one, as if all of Nancy’s self-confidence dried up when they’d finally begun living normal lives. Nancy loved her husband. For some reason, she lived in fear that it was too good to be true and she’d wake up one day, back on the streets.

  Miri hoped she hadn’t missed anything at Andrew Patterson’s. She thought about the files at home on her laptop—maybe she’d check them, even though she couldn’t see how anyone could have traced Nancy’s identity back to Rayna Kozwalski. Before the old memories could take over, she reminded herself of the job she had to do.

  She tapped away at the computer, making the list of names she’d discuss with Dalton tonight. Before she got very far, movement outside the window revealed people gathering for dinner. With a sigh, she got up and went to the kitchen to make sure they could handle what promised to be a busy evening.

  * * * * *

  Dalton shook out his tuxedo, going through the pockets before adding it to the pile for the cleaners. In the jacket, he found the brochure he’d slipped inside while he was talking with Grace at Patterson’s gala. He smiled at the memory. About to toss the brochure, he remembered Grace’s words, and he realized he’d been at the party to do a job and had ignored everything else—including the reason for the whole shebang.

  According to Grace, it was something unusual for a patron of the arts. Dalton sat on his couch and perused the slick pages. Emitting a low whistle, he raised his eyebrows. Why would a man whose name was synonymous with theater, music, and fine arts want to get involved with migrant farm workers?

  Dalton flipped the page, seeing photos of dirty, too-thin children picking tomatoes, then at the modern trailers, the plans for inexpensive housing in the vicinity of the fields. Of the prototypes already under construction. Very impressive. Medical care, education programs for adults and children alike.

  On the back was the inevitable pledge card, plus a list of acceptable in-kind donations. All credit cards accepted. Dalton tossed the brochure onto the table.

  His cell vibrated. “Dalton.”

  Silence. He should have checked the display. He was about to disconnect when he heard a quiet sniffle. “Hello?” he said.

  “Dalton?” Miri's voice. High pitched. Trembling. Not the feisty Miri he'd met. Which scared the hell out of him.

  “What's wrong?” He was already reaching for his keys.

  “Can you…I mean, if you're not busy…we…Elena…she's…”

  “Where are you?” He was behind the wheel.

  “The House.”

  Cursing the traffic, drumming the steering wheel at every red light, Dalton drove across town. He hadn’t even waited for Miri to explain. She called; he ran.

  He dragged his fingers through his hair. Damn. She’d burrowed into places he didn’t let people go. Not since Rachel.

  Don’t use their names. Don’t look at the faces. Never the eyes. You can’t do your job if you let it get personal.

  Years of dealing with terrorists and hostage rescue taught him that. Yet in a span of days, Miri had created a fissure in his emotional fortress.

  He thrust images of previous missions with their gunfire, explosions, and broken bodies from his mind. This was San Francisco, not some third world hellhole.

  At Galloway House, Dalton’s heart tumbled like a rodeo rider from a Brahma bull when he saw the black-and-white patrol car parked out front. A line of people stretched snake-like from around the corner.

  Searching for a parking spot, he finally found a place to leave his SUV three blocks away. He ignored the stares of the sidewalk squatters as he covered the distance to Galloway House at a dead run. At the corner, he slowed to a walk, berating himself for forgetting everything that made him an expert at his job. He channeled the adrenaline, used it to focus. Created a mental checklist. He surveyed the line of people inching into a side entrance of Galloway House. Aromas reminiscent of his school cafeteria wafted out. His brain catalogued the crowd as the shelter’s food line and moved on.

  He rounded the sidewalk to the main entrance. A bear of a cop stood, arms crossed, in the open doorway. No flashing blue lights on the police car. No ambulance or fire truck. Dalton’s breathing approached normal. As he moved to enter the building, the cop broadened his stance.

  “Food line’s around th
e corner,” the cop told him. His squinty eyes said he didn’t believe Dalton needed a meal.

  “I’m not here for dinner,” Dalton said. “I need to speak to one of the staff.”

  “Sorry. Nobody’s allowed inside. You can wait here or come back later.”

  Dalton peered over the man’s shoulder, but the reception room was deserted.

  * * * * *

  Miri slipped her cell phone into her pocket when the cop came back into the small parlor off Galloway House’s main reception area. Young, probably a rookie sent to do the grunt work. A slender man, not much taller than Miri, in contrast to his older partner who stood at the front entrance like a grizzly guarding its lair. His deep brown eyes matched the color of his skin. Tired eyes, she thought. Much older than his face.

  “Okay, ma’am,” he said. “Thanks for waiting. Can you tell me if you recognize this woman?” He handed her a photograph.

  She glanced at the picture and thrust it back into the pink-brown palm of his outstretched hand. Afraid if she met his eyes, he’d see into her past, Miri focused over his uniformed shoulder, trying to forget the image. Dead eyes, staring into nothingness.

  “Elena,” she whispered, fighting to get the words past her constricted throat. “I don’t know her last name.”

  He nodded and slipped the photo into his pocket. “That’s what two others said, but they have no information about her next-of-kin. They said you might know who to contact to claim the body.”

  Miri shuddered at the word. Body. A vacant shell, not the living, breathing person who not long ago walked out of Galloway House.

  She tugged at her ponytail. Until Dalton got here, she’d try to find out as much as she could and tell the cop as little as possible. Old habits died hard. Following her instincts was another habit she hadn’t shaken. Or why would she have called Dalton as soon as the cops arrived with questions about Elena?

  “I can’t help you, Officer.” Glad her voice was steady, she went on. “She left here a couple of months ago.”

  The cop pulled out his notebook. His demeanor was polite, yet she sensed he didn’t want to be here. Probably missing his own dinner. Or irritated that he had to deal with some homeless person instead of solving a real crime.

  “Can I get your name, please?” he asked, his voice a low monotone.

  She spelled it for him and watched him write it down. “Where did you find her?” she asked. “How did she die?”

  “She was found in an alley about ten miles from here. Appears routine—like she died of malnutrition and exposure.”

  Routine? Elena was dead. And her death was obviously a low priority for this cop. That might be a good thing. People who needed Galloway House usually preferred a cop-free atmosphere.

  “Ten miles away? What brings you here, then?” she asked.

  “She had a scrap of paper in her pocket, torn from one of your flyers.”

  “Galloway House prints thousands of those every year.”

  “Anything unusual about the way she left?” He’d already shut his notebook, as if the answer wouldn’t matter.

  Miri shook her head. “No. People leave here all the time.” But Elena was on her list of missing people. She felt the blood drain from her face as she imagined all of them dead.

  “You all right, ma’am?” The cop’s hand steadied Miri’s elbow.

  She clamped her jaw until the vertigo passed. “Fine.” She stepped back, then released the elastic from her hair and shook it out, feeling the tension ease. “Not used to seeing pictures of dead people, I guess.”

  “Not something you want to get used to,” the cop said. His tone was gentler.

  “I don’t think I can tell you anything else, Officer. Elena wasn’t with us very long, and we can’t keep tabs on everyone who comes through. She left of her own accord, and she was over eighteen.”

  Miri folded her arms across her chest. “I don’t mean to interfere with your job, but police poking around Galloway House could undo months of work with our residents. One thing we promise is a safe haven, with no questions asked.”

  He gave her a terse nod and pocketed his notebook. “I understand. This place does a lot of good. If you find out anything else about her, please call the department.” He handed her a business card.

  She stuck it in her pocket and followed him into the main reception room. He strode to the door, said something to his partner, and the two men left.

  Before they closed the door, Dalton burst past them into the room. Concern filled his face as his eyes darted from hers to the cops and back. He took three steps toward her, then came to an abrupt halt, his hands fisted at his sides. “Are you all right?”

  If he’d come one step closer, she’d have rushed into his arms. At least one of them was thinking. She inhaled and nodded.

  “What happened?” His fists unclenched.

  Miri gestured toward the hall and stepped toward her office. Dalton followed. Thankful the room was empty, Miri shut the door and sank into her chair.

  “Elena. They found her—dead.”

  “Who’s Elena?” Dalton straddled the same metal chair he’d sat in earlier.

  “A former resident. She was one of the names on the list I was going to give you tonight.”

  “And you’re afraid there are more, right?”

  Miri toyed with the ponytail elastic she’d pulled over her wrist. “The thought crossed my mind, yes.”

  “And you think there might be a connection.”

  She pressed her fingers against her eyelids and studied the swirling patterns. “People who come here are at risk. I’ve accepted that we can’t save everyone, that some will make it and some won’t. We hope the ones who aren’t making it will come back before it’s too late, but that’s not realistic. Some of them are going to die too soon.”

  “Did the cops tell you how she died?”

  She lowered her hands and met Dalton’s gaze. “They said it was probably malnutrition and exposure. But it’s not that cold.” She fished the cop’s card out of her pocket and tossed it on the desk. “They were more interested in identifying her and getting next of kin to claim the body.”

  “Unless there were signs of violence, it’s understandable,” Dalton said, his voice low and even. “People who come here—their lifestyles aren’t conducive to longevity.”

  She almost laughed at the way his drawl made what he said so homey. “You have quite the way with words, Just Dalton. Yeah, they die young, usually because of the way they’re living. But we’ve got to concentrate on what we can do to turn it around for as many as we can.”

  He lowered his eyes, then gave a noncommittal grunt.

  “Don’t make it sound so hopeless,” she said. “We’ve helped a lot of people, and we’re going to keep on helping them. Speaking of which, with all the ruckus, I’d better see what’s happening out on the line. Come on.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather I stayed here and go over the computer files?”

  “Not now. I’ll have to explain my notes. Besides, someone else will be working in here in about half an hour. What’s the matter? You above slinging a little hash?”

  She shook her head at his reluctant expression, so like the ones the kids gave when they had to do their homework before they could go out and play. He gave a deep sigh and stood.

  Miri led the way. Galloway House’s fare was a universe away from what Andrew Patterson served last Saturday, but the people lined up for a hot meal displayed none of the boredom Patterson’s guests had while they ate. Nobody here would pick at their food or abandon a half-full plate.

  Inside the kitchen, Miri gave a quick nod to the staff and volunteers. She yanked open a drawer and pulled out two navy blue aprons. She handed one to Dalton and slipped the second one over her neck. He stood barely inside the door, motionless.

  She shot him an exasperated glare. “It won’t do you much good unless you put it on.”

  * * * * *

  Dalton stood off to the side and tied the apron.
Miri moved through the space, obviously in her element. She spoke briefly to a young couple opening institutional-sized cans of fruit cocktail. Dalton couldn’t hear the words they exchanged above the clatter of empty pans being stacked beside the sink, but the woman frowned and shook her head a lot. The man patted the woman’s shoulder. She rolled her eyes and went back to pouring the diced fruit into shallow metal pans.

  Dalton stepped forward. “What can I do?”

  Eight pairs of eyes met his. He kept his gaze steady, ignoring the unease coiling in his belly, even managing a smile.

  “Everyone, this is Dalton,” Miri said. “He’s going to be helping out tonight. I know you’ll show him the ropes.”

  “What did the cops want?” a beanpole of a man asked. “We’re two people short because of them.”

  Murmurs of agreement from the rest of the group rumbled through the kitchen.

  “Oh, relax, Bill,” the fruit cocktail woman said. “This Dalton fella looks like he can pull their weight and then some.”

  An older woman gestured to the counter. “You can start by taking these pans to the dining room. Someone will show you where they go.”

  Dalton approached a large rectangular pan of something covered in cheese that smelled like his mother’s tuna casserole. Some tension left at the immediate return to happier days. He reached for the pan.

  “Careful. It’s hot,” the woman said.

  After swapping out full trays of the tuna concoction, green beans, and fruit cocktail for empties, Dalton observed the action in the kitchen. The crew had dwindled to four, and from the way they stopped talking and engrossed themselves in their work when he entered the room, he suspected they were residents. The other four, including the older woman who’d been giving him instructions, were gone. Volunteers, he surmised.

  Miri appeared with a fresh stack of sectioned disposable plates. “Can you take these out, please, Dalton?”