Cold Comfort (4 page)

Carefully removing his arm from beneath her head, he rolled off the woman he'd just flattened. Levering himself to his feet, he said, "Okay, lady, I'll take your case."

She blinked up at him, unmoving, disoriented, her breath rising through the cold air in smoky wisps. A minute later, her expression sharpened and her gaze settled on him. "The reluctant detective, I presume."

He raised an eyebrow. "Yeah. I'm Riley. You hurt?" He held out his hand to help her up.

"No, just a little shaken. Thank you." She pushed herself to a sitting position in the bleak alley light and brushed the asphalt grit off her gloves. "Tell me," she placed a shaky hand in his, her eyes wide, "did someone actually try to run me down?"

"Yes." He pulled her to her feet, watching warily. Hysterical women ranked high on his list of things to avoid.

Wobbling a bit, Claire leaned against the side of the trash bin for support, holding her right arm tightly against her side. He gave her a minute to collect herself. The fall must have jarred her, but she hadn't complained.

More to herself than to him, she murmured, "What's happening?" and wrapped her arms around herself. He could see the tremors run through her.

"No idea," he said. "Why don't we go over to the café and talk about it while you catch your breath."

She stumbled. Shock, he thought. Thankful she hadn't fainted or burst into noisy tears, he took her arm and started toward the lighted street ahead, brushing the dirt from his jacket and jeans as he walked. Her hand rested lightly on his arm, but she didn't make a sound. In the brighter light at the end of the alley, he examined her. Large, shadowed eyes dominated a milk-pale face.

She made it to the café without collapsing.
Two points
.

"Yo, Claire!" The big man at the grill waved a spatula at her.

"Hi, Louie." She flashed a smile and nodded, dropping into the first booth.

This time Ponytail, beaming at Riley, stayed at the counter, and the man came out, carrying a tray with a stainless steel pot and a cup with a Lipton's Tea label trailing over the side. Another cup, dark with coffee, sat beside it.

He placed the tea makings in front of Claire and turned to Riley. "Can you handle any more, or do you want something else?"

"Coffee's fine."

"Thank you, Louie." Claire poured the hot water over the teabag, then wrapped her hands around the warm cup. Ripples spread across the surface of the liquid.

"Hey. You okay? Your color's not so good." The man leaned closer and checked her face.

"I'm fine." Her smile reached her eyes this time, Riley noted. "Just a long day."

Okay, she gets a point for not whining
, he conceded. Trying to be fair, he added another one for her performance in the alley.
She'd made it to four already. And no demerits. Not bad.
Christ, he sounded like his father—two points for eating your Brussels sprouts, ten demerits for leaving the lawnmower out—after cutting a yard the size of a football field. Shaking his head, he tore open a packet of sugar for her tea.

"No." She tuned in long enough to cover the tea with her hand.

Seeing her bleached face, he thought she might pass out on the floor. "Okay, but you need to eat something."

She looked up at Louie. "How about some soup? What do you have?"

"Vegetable. Made it myself."

She nodded absently, already drifting away.

"Double that." Soup sounded good. The coffee sloshed in his rumbling stomach. He waited until Louie left the table and said, "Would you like to try again? Tell me what's happened so far?"

She blinked, startled, as if he'd called her back from some faraway place. After a moment, she gave him a concise account of the events leading up to the scene in the alley, stopping only when the soup arrived. "It smells wonderful," she said.

Louie beamed and dipped his head, Pavarotti in a stained apron.

Claire swallowed a few spoonfuls of soup in silence while Riley, watching her, devoured his. She took a white pill from her purse and washed it down with the tea. She must have landed harder than he'd thought. Aloud he said, "We have to report this alley business to the police, even though there's nothing they can do. If they had any doubts about your story, I'll
—
"

"Doubts?" Her head snapped up and the unfocused stare vanished. The spoon stopped halfway to her mouth. "Why would they have doubts? Are you saying they may not believe me, but they'll accept your word?"

He knew trouble when he saw it. "No, no—only that I saw the driver deliberately try to hit you."

Despite her skeptical expression, she didn't blow up. He allowed himself to relax a little. That was another reason he didn't work with women
—
it was like walking around with your finger on a primed grenade
—
one slip and boom! He kept the other reason sealed off in the back of his mind.

Her spoon stilled abruptly in the soup, and she looked up to face him. "Did you believe me?"

He wondered how well honesty would go over and promptly lied. "Of course I did. I'm here, aren't I?"

She curved an eyebrow. "I don't know why you're here, but I'm quite sure you didn't believe me on the phone. I prefer to deal with people I can trust. Please don't lie to me, Mr. Riley."

He studied her for a moment without answering. Her expression, direct and unflinching, held none of the coy, nervous fluttering he expected. Perhaps he'd misjudged her—her delicate, old-fashioned air didn't necessarily cover a high-strung, fragile interior. She reminded him vaguely of Nanette, his ex-wife. They both had an ethereal look that made you think they should be protected. Only with Nanette, he was the one who needed protection. He blamed his edginess, his anticipation of an emotional outburst from Claire, on his past experience with Nanette.

Okay, Ray knew and liked her, and so far, she'd done nothing to merit his suspicions
—
just the opposite, he admitted. He decided to chance it. "Okay, you're right. I'll be honest. Let me start over. Call me Riley."

"All right." Her eyes crinkled at the corners. "I'm Claire." A hint of color crept into her cheeks. A marble Madonna coming to life.

"Claire." He liked the way she smiled with her eyes.
The job, Riley, just the job.
He needed to get this over with. "There's something strange here. Stalkers are usually more up close and personal. Running you down is much colder, especially since that was planned. My first thought is, someone knows something you don't—you either have or know something."

Before she could answer, he went on. "Another possibility
—
who benefits if you die? Do you have any money? Property? Maybe in the path of some development?"

"What?" She drew back from his abrupt questions. "No one would benefit, I guess. I don't have a will. I never thought about it. There's nothing except the shop and a small house."

"Do you have any family? Cousins? Aunts? Uncles?"

"No. At least, I don't think so. Just my mother and me, and she died last January. We..." Her fingers tightened visibly on the spoon. "We weren't close to my father's people. He had a brother, but I know very little about any of them."

Uh-oh. Something there.
He'd come back to it later. "So you could be in line to inherit something. Maybe have relatives who'd benefit from your death. Did your mother leave anything substantial?"

"Only the house and some insurance money. She'd been sick for a long time. There wasn't much left." Claire remained quiet for a second, focusing on the soup bowl. "I know my father's family wasn't wealthy. There must be some mistake. I can't believe anyone would want to kill me."

"Someone does." He finished his coffee and pushed the cup away. "They've tried at least once, maybe twice. They'll probably try again. I want to check your house."

She jerked her head up, her eyes wide and her mouth slightly open.

Maybe he'd been a little blunt. From robbery to murder in the roar of an engine. She needed time to adjust. Picturing the scene in the alley, he said, "One question—why did you go out the back door tonight? Do you do it often?"

"No, never. I saw movement in a doorway nearby. It made me uncomfortable, and I thought a change in routine would be good." She lowered her gaze to the table and nibbled at an unpolished fingernail. "Wrong."

He could see she felt dumb now. "Right idea, but turning the lights off and then failing to come out gave you away."

She turned that smile on him. It lighted her eyes. He shifted on the seat and looked out at the passing traffic. Riley didn't want her grateful or appreciative or anything else. He'd nail the bastard and get the hell away before he could screw up again.

"Before I waste any more of your time," she said, recalling his attention, "I think we should discuss the cost of
—
of your solving my problem."

The fright of the alley must be wearing off. She studied him as if seeing him only now. Riley kept his expression neutral, giving her time. Her blue gaze wandered over his hands, his face. Her eyebrows drew together and she pursed her lips. Wondering how he got the broken nose, he guessed.

"I don't have set fees," he said at last. "Don't worry about it. It won't be more than you can afford, I promise you." Except it involved a woman
—
worse, a lady
—
he might have enjoyed figuring out this puzzle. It was certainly different from his usual investigations. But it did involve her, and he wanted no part of it. Damn Ray.

"Not good enough. I need numbers."

He made a rapid assessment and named a ridiculously low figure. "If we can solve this thing quickly, you might get change back. If not, we'll talk about it when this is used up."

"All right. I can live with that."

He hoped so, because someone sure as hell had other ideas for her.

She extended her hand. Over the soup bowls, Riley accepted her cold hand and the trust it implied. She didn't know, but his debt to Ray already bound him more tightly than any legal document could.

He wanted to examine her house and assess its security. And figure out what warranted the break-in and the attacks.

"By the way," she said, interrupting his thoughts with a hint of a smile, "if those ornaments got broken, I'll replace them. I wouldn't want your nephew or his mother to be disappointed."

Oh.
Those
ornaments. "Not my finest hour. My work doesn't usually involve china shops
—
I felt like the proverbial bull."

"I noticed you were better in the alley."

"Yeah. Let's go. My truck's right outside. I'll drive you to your car." He figured he could solve this in two or three days, five tops, and be on his way.

He unlocked the Bronco, giving her a hand up into the cold seat. He felt the chill in her fingers through her leather glove
.
Aftershock.

They covered the two blocks to Claire's parking lot in silence, isolated by their separate thoughts. Riley pulled into a space beside her car, dousing his lights but leaving the engine running. "Give me your keys and stay here. I'll start it, and you can sit here until yours warms up," he said, holding out his hand.

She handed him the keys.

Riley got out and walked around to the Fiat.

She lowered her window and watched as he circled her car before opening the driver's door.

Squeezing into the Fiat, he knocked his knee on the dash and cursed softly before he thought to scoot the seat back. Claire laughed.

He looked up at her face, framed in the Bronco's window. Tough lady. Tougher than he'd expected, laughing an hour after someone tried to kill her. Nanette would have been a watery mess, working her way toward a Valium-induced coma. Memories he could live without.

The car started easily. He managed to climb out, then stood back while she slipped in.

After she readjusted the seat, he closed the Fiat door. Tapping the window by the lock to remind her, he said, "I'll see you at your house. Keep it a little slow. I'll hang back and see if anyone else is interested in you."

The smile died on her face.

He needed to remember she wasn't his usual client, tone it down a little. "When you get home, stay in your car. Don't get out until I tell you. If you don't see me within a couple of minutes, drive straight to the police station."

Chapter 3

Riley waited in the shadows, alert, until Claire disappeared around the corner. At least she didn't argue. No one pulled out behind her, but that didn't mean much. Everyone involved knew where she lived, and everyone but him had been inside the house. Riley put the Bronco in gear and followed her.

He caught a light, hooked a quick right, and traveled in parallel with Claire for a couple of blocks. No one seemed to notice the little Fiat, but why follow her? They could pick her off any time. Her house was the logical place. Shit. Riley stepped on the accelerator, swerved around a lumbering old Caddy, and drove quickly to a large house he'd spotted earlier
—
rented to students from William and Mary, most likely. Parked cars claimed most of the yard, and several more lined the street. The Bronco wouldn't stand out. Riley left it and ambled down the drive in long strides, then disappeared into the woods.