Night Shift (12 page)

Undoubtedly what had happened between them—or what had almost happened between them—hadn’t really meant that much to him. That was all for the best. She would get over it. Whatever it was. The last thing she needed in her life was a cop with a lazy smile who came from a moneyed background.

She wished to God she could go five minutes without thinking about him.

While Cilla juggled turntables, Althea worked a crossword puzzle. She had always been able to sit for hours at a time in contented silence as long as she could exercise her mind. Cilla O’Roarke, she mused, was a different matter. The woman hadn’t mastered the fine art of relaxation. Althea filled the squares with her neat, precise printing and thought that Boyd was just the man to teach her how it was done.

Right now, Cilla was bursting to talk. Not to ask questions, Althea thought. She hadn’t missed the quick disappointment on Cilla’s face when Boyd hadn’t been the one to drive her to the station for her night shift.

She’s dying to ask me where he is and what he’s doing, Althea thought as she filled in the next
word. But she doesn’t want me to think it matters.

It wasn’t possible for her not to smile to herself. Boyd had been pretty closemouthed himself lately. Althea knew he had run a more detailed check on Cilla’s background and that he had found answers that disturbed him. Personally, she thought. Whatever he had discovered had nothing to do with the case or he would have shared it with his partner.

But, no matter how close they were, their privacy was deeply respected. She didn’t question him. If and when he wanted to talk it through, she would be there for him. As he would be there for her.

It was too bad, she decided, that when sexual tension reared its head, men and women lost that easy camaraderie.

Abruptly Cilla pushed away from the console. “I’m going to get some coffee. Do you want some?”

“Doesn’t Nick usually bring some in?”

“He’s got the night off.”

“Why don’t I get it?”

“No.” Restlessness seemed to vibrate from her. “I’ve got nearly seven minutes before the tape ends. I want to stretch my legs.”

“All right.”

Cilla walked to the lounge. Billy had already been there, she noted. The floor gleamed, and the coffee mugs were washed and stacked. There was the lingering scent of the pine cleaner he always used so lavishly.

She poured two cups and as an afterthought stuck one leftover and rapidly hardening pastry in her pocket.

With a cup in each hand, she turned. In the doorway she saw the shadow of a man. And the silver gleam of a knife. With a scream, she sent the mugs flying. Crockery smashed and shattered.

“Miss O’Roarke?” Billy took a hesitant step into the light.

“Oh, God.” She pressed the heel of one hand to her chest as if to force out the air trapped there. “Billy. I thought you were gone.”

“I—” He stumbled back against the door when Althea came flying down the hallway, her weapon drawn. In an automatic response, he threw his hands up. “Don’t shoot. Don’t. I didn’t do nothing.”

“It’s my fault,” Cilla said quickly. She stepped over to put a reassuring hand on Billy’s arm. “I didn’t know anyone was here, and I turned around—” She covered her face with her hands. “I’m sorry,” she managed, dropping them again. “I overreacted. I didn’t know Billy was still in the station.”

“Mr. Harrison had a lunch meeting in his office.” He spoke quickly, his eyes darting from Althea to Cilla. “I was just getting to it.” He swallowed audibly. “Lots of—lots of knives and forks left over.”

Cilla stared at the handful of flatware he held and felt like a fool. “I’m sorry, Billy. I must have scared you to death. And I’ve made a mess of your floor.”

“That’s okay.” He grinned at her, relaxing slowly as Althea holstered her weapon. “I’ll clean it right up. Good show tonight, Miss O’Roarke.” He tapped the headphones that he’d slid around his neck. “You going to play any fifties stuff? You know I like that the best.”

“Sure.” Fighting nausea, she made herself smile. “I’ll pick something out just for you.”

He beamed at her. “You’ll say my name on the air?”

“You bet. I’ve got to get back.”

She hurried back to the booth, grateful that Althea was giving her a few moments alone. Things were getting pretty bad when she started jumping at middle-aged maintenance men holding dinner knives.

The best way to get through the nerves was to work, she told herself. Keeping her moves precise,
she began to set up for what she called the “power hour” between 11 and midnight.

When Althea came back, bearing coffee, Cilla was inviting her audience to stay tuned for more music. “We’ve got ten hits in a row coming up. This first one’s for my pal Billy. We’re going back, way back, all the way back to 1958. It ain’t Dennis Quaid. It’s the real, the original, the awesome Jerry Lee Lewis with ‘Great Balls of Fire.’”

After pulling off her headphones, she gave Althea a wan smile. “I really am sorry.”

“In your place I probably would have gone through the roof.” Althea offered her a fresh mug. “Been a lousy couple of weeks, huh?”

“The lousiest.”

“We’re going to get him, Cilla.”

“I’m hanging on to that.” She chose another record, took her time cuing it up. “What made you become a cop?”

“I guess I wanted to be good at something. This was it.”

“Do you have a husband?”

“No.” Althea wasn’t sure where the questions were leading. “A lot of men are put off when a woman carries a gun.” She hesitated, then decided to take the plunge. “You might have gotten the impression that there’s something between Boyd and me.”

“It’s hard not to.” Cilla lifted a hand for silence, then opened the mike to link the next song. “You two seem well suited.”

As if considering it, Althea sat and sipped at her coffee. “You know, I wouldn’t have figured you for the type to fall into the clichéd, sexist mind-set that says that if a man and woman work together they must be playing together.”

“I didn’t.” Outraged, Cilla all but came out of her chair. At Althea’s bland smile, she subsided. “I did,” she admitted. Then her lips curved. “Kind of. I guess you’ve had to handle that tired line quite a bit.”

“No more than you, I imagine.” She gestured, both hands palms out, at the confines of the studio. “An attractive woman in what some conceive of as a man’s job.”

Even that small patch of common ground helped her to relax. “There was a jock in Richmond who figured I was dying to, ah … spin on his turntable.”

Understanding and amusement brightened Althea’s eyes. “How’d you handle it?”

“During my show I announced that he was hard up for dates and anyone interested should call the station during his shift.” She grinned, remembering. “It cooled him off.” She turned to her mike to plug the upcoming request line. After an update on the weather, a time check and an intro for the next record, she slipped her headphones off again. “I guess Boyd wouldn’t be as easily discouraged.”

“Not on your life. He’s stubborn. He likes to call it patience, but it’s plain mule-headed stubbornness. He can be like a damn bulldog.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“He’s a nice man, Cilla, one of the best. If you’re really not interested, you should make it clear up front. Boyd’s stubborn, but he’s not obnoxious.”

“I don’t want to be interested,” Cilla murmured. “There’s a difference.”

“Like night and day. Listen, if the question’s too personal, tell me to shut up.”

A smile tugged at Cilla’s mouth. “You don’t have to tell me that twice.”

“Okay. Why don’t you want to be interested?”

Cilla chose a compact disc, then backed it up with two 45s. “He’s a cop.”

“So if he was an insurance salesman you’d want to be interested?”

“Yes. No.” She let out a huff of breath. Sometimes it was best to be honest. “It would be easier. Then there’s the fact that I made a mess of the one serious relationship I’ve had.”

“All by yourself?”

“Mostly.” She sent out the cut from the CD. “I’m more comfortable concentrating on my life, and Deborah’s. My work and her future.”

“You’re not the type that would be happy for long with comfortable.”

“Maybe not.” She stared down at the phone. “But I’d settle for it right now.”

So she was running scared, Althea thought as she watched Cilla work. Who wouldn’t be? It had to be terrifying to be hounded and threatened by some faceless, nameless man. Yet she was handling it, Althea thought, better than she was handling Boyd and her feelings about him.

She had them, buckets of them. Apparently she just didn’t know what to do with them.

Althea kept her silence as the calls began to come in. Cilla was afraid of the phone, afraid of what might be on the other end. But she answered, call after call, moving through them with what sounded like effortless style. If Althea hadn’t been in the studio, watching the strain tighten Cilla’s face, she would have been totally fooled.

She gave them their music and a few moments of her time. If her hand was unsteady, her finger still pushed the illuminated button.

Boyd had entered her life to protect it, not threaten it. Yet she was afraid of him. With a sigh, Althea wondered why it was that women’s lives could be so completely turned upside down by the presence of a man.

If she ever fell in love herself—which so far she’d had the good sense to avoid—she would simply find a way to call the shots.

The tone of Cilla’s voice had her snapping back. Recognizing the fear, sympathizing with it, Althea rose to massage her rigid shoulders.

“Keep him talking,” she whispered. “Keep him on as long as you can.”

Cilla blocked out what he said. She’d found it helped her keep sane if she ignored the vicious threats, the blood-chilling promises. Instead she kept her eye on the elapsed-time clock, grimly pleased when she saw that the one-minute mark had passed and he was still on the line.

She questioned him, forcing herself to keep her voice calm and even. He liked it best when she lost control, she knew. He would keep threatening until she began to beg. Then he would cut her off, satisfied that he had broken her again.

Tonight she struggled not to hear, just to watch the seconds tick away.

“I haven’t hurt you,” she said. “You know I haven’t done anything to you.”

“To him.” He hissed the words. “He’s dead, and it’s because of you.”

“Who did I hurt? If you’d tell me his name, I—”

“I want you to remember. I want you to say his name before I kill you.”

She shut her eyes and tried to fill her head with sound as he described exactly how he intended to kill her.

“He must have been very important to you. You must have loved him.”

“He was everything to me. All I had. He was so young. He had his whole life. But you hurt him. You betrayed him. An eye for an eye. Your life for his. Soon. Very soon.”

When he cut her off, she turned quickly to send out the next record. She would backsell it, Cilla told herself. Her voice would be strong again afterward. Ignoring the other blinking lights, she pulled out a cigarette.

“They got a trace.” Althea replaced the receiver, then moved over to put a hand on Cilla’s shoulder.
“They got a trace. You did a hell of a job tonight, Cilla.”

“Yeah.” She closed her eyes. Now all she had to do was get through the next hour and ten minutes. “Will they catch him?”

“We’ll know soon. This is the first real break we’ve had. Just hang on to that.”

***

She wanted to be relieved. Cilla leaned back as Althea drove her home and wondered why she couldn’t accept this step as a step forward. They had traced the call. Didn’t that mean they would know where he lived? They would have a name, and they would put a face, a person, together with that name.

She would go and see him. She would make herself do that. She would look at that face, into those eyes, and try to find a link between him and whatever she had done in the past to incite that kind of hate.

Then she would try to live with it.

She spotted Boyd’s car at the curb in front of her house. He stood on the walk, his coat unbuttoned. Though the calendar claimed it was spring, the night was cold enough for her to see his breath. But not his eyes.

Cilla took a firm grip on the door handle, pushed it open. He waited as she moved up the walk toward him.

“Let’s go inside.”

“I want to know.” She saw his eyes now and understood. “You didn’t get him.”

“No.” He glanced toward his partner. Althea saw the frustration held under grim control.

“What happened?”

“It was a phone booth a couple miles from the station. No prints. He’d wiped it clean.”

Struggling to hold on for a few more minutes, Cilla nodded. “So we’re no closer.”

“Yes, we are.” He took her hand to warm it in his. “He made his first mistake. He’ll make another.”

Weary, she looked over her shoulder. Was it just her overworked nerves, or was he out there somewhere, in the shadows, close enough to see? Near enough to hear?

“Come on, let me take you inside. You’re cold.”

“I’m all right.” She couldn’t let him come with her. She needed to let go, and for that she needed privacy. “I don’t want to talk about any of this tonight. I just want to go to bed. Althea, thanks for the ride, and everything else.” She walked quickly to the front door and let herself inside.

“She just needs to work this out,” Althea said, placing a hand on his arm.

He wanted to swear, to smash something with his hands. Instead, he stared at the closed door. “She doesn’t want to let me help her.”

“No, she doesn’t.” She watched the light switch on upstairs. “Want me to call for a uniform to stake out the house?”

“No, I’ll hang around.”

“You’re off duty, Fletcher.”

“Right. We can consider this personal.”

“Want some company?”

He shook his head. “No. You need some sleep.”

Althea hesitated, then let out a quiet sigh. “You take the first shift. I sleep better in a car than a bed, anyway.”

***

There was a light frost that glittered like glass on the lawn. Cilla sighed as she studied it through her bedroom window. In Georgia the azaleas would be blooming. It had been years, more years than she could remember, since she had yearned for home. In that chill Colorado morning she wondered if she had made a mistake traveling more than halfway across the country and leaving all those places, all those memories of her childhood, behind.