High Noon (12 page)

“Phoebe! Phoebe, what happened?” The man wrenched the door open, reached down. “My God, what happened to you? Who are you?” He threw the words at Duncan like stones. “What the hell did you do to my sister?”

“Carter, stop! Stop. He didn't do a thing but help me.”

“Who hurt you? Where is he?”

People strolled along Jones—residents and tourists—and now, Phoebe noted, any number of those strollers had stopped to stare at the beat-up woman and the two men on either side of a flashy white Porsche.

“You can stop shouting on a public street like a lunatic. Let's go inside.”

“They're good questions.” Duncan came around to the passenger seat. “I'd like the answers, too. I'm Duncan. She's got a lot of tender spots. We'll need to be careful—”

“I can take care of her.”

“Carter, stop it. Do you want to add to the extremely crappy day I've had by being rude to a friend? I apologize for my ill-mannered brother, Duncan.”

“No problem.”

“Oh God, there's Miz Tiffany and that ridiculous dog heading over from the park. I can't deal with that. Carter, for the love of God, don't make me deal with that. Help me get inside.”

“Easy does it,” Duncan advised, and caught a glimpse of a woman, well past a certain age, with a blond bubble of hair, being led by a tiny, apparently hairless dog wearing a polka-dot tie. “She hasn't seen you yet. I'd be ill mannered, too, by the way, in your place,” he told Carter as they got Phoebe to the sidewalk. “Still, under any circumstances, when I bring a woman home, I take her to the door.”

Resigned to it, Phoebe allowed herself to be flanked, then all but carried up the steps. And with the overture complete, she thought, Here comes the show.

When the door opened, Essie was already on her way down the hall. “I thought I heard you shouting, Carter. I…Phoebe! Oh my God.”

She went white as paste, swayed.

“Let me go,” Phoebe murmured, then hurried forward. “Mama. I'm all right, Mama. Breathe for me. I'm all right, I'm home. Carter, go get her some water.”

“No, no.” Still ghostly pale, Essie lifted a hand to Phoebe's cheek. “Baby girl.”

“I'm all right.”

“Your face. Reuben—”

“Is dead, Mama. You know that.”

“Yes. Yes. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Oh, Phoebe. What happened? Your face, your arm. Ava!”

She'd snapped back, Phoebe noted. Still white as a sheet, but she'd snapped back.

Ava rushed out from the back of the house. And there was, for the next several minutes, a mass of confusion, voices, movement, tears. Duncan closed the front door, stood back. He'd always figured if you can't help, stay out of the way.

“All right, stop now.”

He could hear Phoebe's voice, very calm, very firm, through the melee. She repeated the same order, once, then twice. And on the third, the words snapped out—a kind of verbal slap to the face—and shocked her family into silence.

“I'll explain everything, but right now I want everybody to just
stop
talking at once. I've been banged up, which is obvious, and all this badgering isn't helping. Now—”

“Mama.”

As the verbal slap had shut down the hysteria, so did the single, quivering word stop what Duncan assumed might have been an irritated rant. Phoebe turned toward the little girl who stood holding a bright red ball.

“I'm all right, Carly. I know I don't look it, but I am. I will be. I got hurt, but I'm okay.”

“Mama.” The ball went bouncing away as Carly ran forward to grab Phoebe, to press her face against her mother's waist. From his vantage point, Duncan saw the ripple of pain, and the way it leached all color out of Phoebe's cheeks.

“Hey, sorry. I know this is a bad time, but, you know, I think Phoebe needs to lie down.” He moved forward as he spoke and simply lifted Phoebe off her feet. “Carly, maybe you could show me where your mama's bedroom is.”

“It's upstairs.”

“I can walk. Duncan, I can walk.”

“Sure, but hey, I already got you. Miz Mac Namara? They gave Phoebe some medication. I think it might be time for her to take it, if she had some water.”

“Of course, of course.”

“I'll get it.” Ava touched Essie's arm. “You go up with Phoebe. I'll get the water, and some ice. Carter, help me get some ice for Phoebe.”

“I'm going up to fix the bed. I'm going right up to get it ready.” Essie dashed up the stairs.

“Did you fall?” Carly's voice still shook as she walked up beside Duncan, with her fingers closed over the hem of the scrubs.

“That was part of it. I had a bad fall, and I had to go to the hospital. They fixed me up and let me come home. You know they don't let you go home if you're not fixed enough. Right?”

“Is your arm broken?”

“No. It's just hurt, so it's in this sling for a while so I don't bump it around.”

“How come you didn't catch her when she fell?” Carly demanded of Duncan.

“I wish I could have. I wasn't there when she fell.”

He carried Phoebe into the bedroom where Essie had already turned down the spread, fluffed the pillows. “Just lay her right on down. Thank you so much, Duncan. Phoebe, I'm sorry, I just lost my head.”

“It's all right, Mama. Everything's going to be all right.”

“Of course it is.” Though her lips quivered visibly, Essie sent Carly a big smile. “We're going to take good care of your mama, aren't we? She needs some medicine now.”

“It's in my purse. I—”

“Right here.” Duncan set it on the bed.

“You're good with details,” Phoebe commented.

“Wouldn't you like to go down and sit in the parlor, Duncan?” Essie began. “Carter, he'll fix you a drink. And…” She rubbed her fingers on her temple. “And you'll stay for dinner. You'll stay for dinner, of course.”

“That's nice of you, but I'll leave y'all to tend to Phoebe. I hope I can have a rain check.”

“You're welcome anytime. Anytime at all. I'll walk you down.”

“You stay right here.” He gave Essie's shoulder a pat before he looked down at Phoebe. “That goes for you, too.”

“I think I'm going to do just that. Duncan—”

“We'll talk later.”

As he left, Carter bounded up the stairs. Carter stopped, gripping a pair of ice bags. “Sorry about jumping on you out there.”

“Forget it. Natural.”

“Do you know who punched my sister in the face? I took enough fists in the face to know what the results look like,” he said when Duncan lifted his brows.

“I don't know who hurt her, but I'm going to find out.”

“When you do—if it's before I do—I want to know.”

“Sure.”

“Carter Mac Namara.” Carter shifted ice bags, held out a hand.

“Duncan Swift. See you around.”

Duncan let himself out, glanced up toward the bedroom window as he walked to his car. Gorgeous house, he thought, and just full of problems. He had enough experience with problems to know they came in all flavors and varieties.

Just as he knew, without question, that whatever the problems, Phoebe was the glue that held the family together.

Gift or burden? he wondered. And decided it was probably a good chunk of both.

A smart man would drive away from the gorgeous house with its variety of problems. Drive away and keep on going. That's what a smart man would do.

Then again, Duncan thought, there were times it was more interesting, and certainly more rewarding, just to be dumb.

 

He ended up at a bar. The after-work crowd wouldn't flood into Slam Dunc for nearly an hour, so despite the multiple flat screens rolling out ESPN, and the scatter of customers playing pool or air hockey, Duncan figured it was quiet enough for a meeting.

Anyway, he wanted a beer, and felt after the afternoon he'd put in, he'd earned it. He kept an eye out for Phin, and when he saw his friend come in, Duncan signaled the bar.

“Already ordered you a Corona, and some nachos.”

Phin slid into the booth. “Left me hanging today.”

“I know, I'm sorry. Couldn't be helped. What do you figure?”

Phin puffed out his cheeks. “Jake, who you also left hanging as he got there two minutes after you split, did a walk-through. He's going to work up a detailed estimate of what it'll cost you to do what you want with the building. But his eyeball opinion? You're going to have to sink minimum of one-point-five into it, over and above the cost.”

“Okay.”

Phin leaned back as the nachos slid between them and the waiter set the Corona with its slice of lime on the table. “You ever look back, wonder how we got to be sitting here talking about a million and a half dollars like it was pocket change?”

“How much did that suit cost?”

Phin grinned, picked up his beer. “Fine-looking suit, isn't it?”

“Dude, you're my fashion god. Figure two for the overhaul; let's not be pikers. Add in what I'll pay that squirrel for the property.”

“Does look like a squirrel,” Phin commented.

“Maybe he'll take some of the buy money and spring for a decent toupee. Anyhow…Got a pen?”

Phin took a Mont Blanc out of his inside jacket pocket. “Why don't you ever have a damn pen?”

“Where am I going to put it? And you always have one.” Duncan scribbled figures on a napkin.

And that said it all, Phin thought. The man might look like your average guy—the worn jeans, the untucked, rolled-up-at-the-sleeves shirt, the hair begging for a trim. He might come across to most as an extraordinarily lucky guy who happened to pick the right numbers at the right time. Appearances didn't mean dick when it came to Duncan Swift.

He'd use that borrowed pen and a napkin to figure out cost runs, overlay, buffer, outlay and potential income. He'd do it while eating nachos and drinking a beer, and by the time he was done, he'd have his projected cost and future returns figured as close to the mark as any fleet of accountants.

The man had a knack, Phin decided as he—with care—transferred some loaded nachos from platter to plate. “Where'd you take off to?”

“That's something I want to talk to you about. Or more specifically, with your lovely wife.”

“Loo's in court.”

Duncan glanced up, over, and smiled. “Not now, she's not.”

She wore a conservative blue suit that managed to showcase her mile-long legs. Her sexy curls were tamed back into a clip so that her sharp cheekbones, deep brown eyes, wide mouth were subtly framed. Her skin was the color of rich caramel.

Duncan always wondered how any judge or jury could look at that face and not give her whatever she wanted.

Duncan slid out of the booth, wrapped his arms around her and spoke into her ear just loud enough for Phin to hear. “Dump him. I'll buy you Fiji.”

She had a big, strong laugh, and let it rip. “Can I just keep him to play with when you're busy?”

“Give me back my wife.”

“Not done with her.” Taking his time with it, Duncan gave her a long, dramatic kiss. “That'll hold me. Thanks for coming, Loo.”

“Thought you were in court.”

“I was.” She sat next to Phin, nuzzled her lips to his. “Prosecution asked for a recess. I've got them on the ropes. Now, which of you handsome men is going to buy me a martini?”

“Being shaken even as we speak. One minute. Here's what we'll offer the squirrel and here's where we top off.” Duncan pushed the napkin over to Phin. “Okay?”

Phin glanced at the figures, shrugged. “It's your money.”

“Yeah. Isn't that a kick in the ass?” Duncan picked up his beer. He knew Phin and Loo would be holding hands under the table. They had the thing, the
it
, whatever that
it
was that locked people together and kept them damn happy about it.

“Y'all want something more than nachos?” Duncan asked them.

“Just that martini. As our gorgeous and brilliant offspring is spending the night with her cousin, I'm going to have this fine-looking man take me out to dinner.”

“Are you?”

“I am, but not until I've had that drink and am finished playing footsie with my lover here.” Loo winked at Duncan. “So, baby doll, what can I do for you?”

Duncan said nothing for a moment, then grinned. “Sorry, my mind went in all sorts of interesting directions.” He listened to that terrific laugh of hers again. “It's about something that happened to a friend of mine today, and my curiosity over what gets done to the guy who did it when he gets caught.”

“Criminal or civil?”

“It's pretty fucking criminal.”

Loo raised her eyebrows at the tone, then accepted the martini she was served. She took the first, slow sip. “Should this individual be charged and indicted, I take it you'd object if I or my firm represent him.”

“I can't tell you what to do, but I figured you'd know the ins and outs of what he might try to pull, legally, when they get him.”

“Not if, but when.” She broke off a minute corner of a chip. “Okay, tell me what this man allegedly did.”

“Before I tell you what he did, I'd better tell you, he's a cop.”

“Oh. Well. Shit.” Loo blew out a breath, drank again. “Tell me.”

 

Interesting. From his seat at the bar, he nursed a beer, ate some cheese fries and pretended to be interested in the reports on March Madness that dominated the near screen.

He had a perfect view of the booth where Phoebe's screw-buddy sat with the duded-up black couple. Interesting, damn interesting—and fortunate that he himself had been watching the house on Jones when the fancy car pulled up.

Phoebe hadn't been looking so good.

He had to smother a laugh he knew might draw attention his way. No sir, the redheaded bitch hadn't been looking her best.