last time?” he repeated. The question bordered on a demand.
She tried to smile and only partially succeeded. The knots in her stomach were stealing all her available air. “Is that your interrogation voice?” she asked him, trying to divert his attention. “Because if it is, it’s pretty scary.”
“Damn it, Doc, what last time?” And then he drew his own conclusion. “Someone been harassing you?”
Bingo. From her reaction, he’d say he’d hit the nail right on the head. It was there, in her eyes.
He could see it happening. Patience Cavanaugh was more than passingly pretty. She was vibrant and outgoing on top of that. But in this upside-down world, someone could mistake her friendly manner for something else, feel perhaps that she was being friendly beyond the call and go on to misinterpret her behavior as a sign of interest.
She blew out a breath and looked away. “Not lately,” she told him evasively.
Get a grip, Patience. It’s just a flower, not a scorpion. She laughed to herself. Right now, she would have preferred the scorpion. She knew how to deal with that.
Obsession—if that’s what this was boiling down to—was something beyond her range. No, no, it wasn’t obsession, it was just a man who was too obtuse to understand that she just wasn’t interested. There was no reason to believe she’d wind up like Katie. Katie Alder, that had been her name. The dead girl. This would go away just like the last time, she promised herself.
Brady had no intention of letting this slide. “But previously?”
Best defense was a strong offense, wasn’t that what Uncle Andrew always told them? With a toss of her head, she fixed her best, most confident smile to her lips.
“Really, Coltrane, there’s no reason to get all official on me.” She thought of their interaction over these past twenty-five months. “Although, I guess when you get down to it, that’s all you ever are, isn’t it? Official.”
“This isn’t about me, Doc, it’s about you.”
She squared her shoulders, deliberately avoiding looking at the flower he still held. “Right. And since it’s about me, I’ll handle it.”
He raised a brow, pinning her with a look. “You weren’t handling it a minute ago.”
No, that had been an aberration. One she wasn’t about to allow to happen again. She was stronger than that. “I’m better now.”
He made a leap, bridging the gap from here to there and filling in the missing pieces. It wasn’t hard. He’d handled more than one stalker case before he’d found a place for himself in narcotics. “You ever report it?”
She looked at Brady warily. She’d always sensed he was sharp, maybe even intuitive, but she didn’t want to learn she was right at her own expense. “Report what?” she asked vaguely.
“The stalker.”
Patience raised her chin defiantly. “What stalker?”
“The one who was after you,” he snapped tersely. Nothing irked him more than people who wouldn’t take help that was offered. Like his mother who had refused to walk away from his father. “Look,” Brady began more evenly this time, “nobody turns that shade of white when they see a stupid rose left on their doorstep unless there’s something else going on. Now if you don’t want to talk to me, fine, but you’ve got a boatload of police personnel in your life. Talk to one of them.”
Because she was a Cavanaugh, even though she considered herself the mildest one of the group, she inherently resented being dictated to. “How do you know I haven’t?”
He looked at her knowingly. “Just because I don’t get along with people doesn’t mean I can’t read them.” Brady gave her a look just before he turned to leave. “Have it your way. Looks like I’m not the only one who isn’t communicative.”
It was as if he’d read her mind.
Patience blew out another breath, irritated. Relenting. The man was right, she supposed. And it was better to say something to him than to Patrick or the others. Especially Patrick. She knew without asking that the law took on a whole different hue when someone her older brother cared about was being threatened.
“His name’s Walter,” she finally said, addressing her words to the back of Brady’s head.
Stopping just short of the door, Brady turned around. He stood waiting, not saying a word.
Okay, Patience thought, she might as well tell him a little more. “Walter Payne,” she elaborated. “I saved his cockatiel and he was grateful. Very grateful. He was also kind of lonely,” she added after a moment. “I tried to encourage him to go out, to get out of his shell.” She’d even gone so far as to suggest arranging a blind date for him. But although eager to please her, Walter hadn’t followed up on her suggestion. “Maybe I was too successful.”
“So he started harassing you?” He had his answer as soon as he saw the woman pale.
Harassment and stalking were such ugly words. She told herself that it was more like enduring a schoolboy crush from a forty-five-year-old man. She couldn’t handle it any other way. “He brought me flowers, said it was from Mitzi.”
“Mitzi?”
“His cockatiel. At first it was just one, like that.” She nodded at the rose. “And then it was a bouquet. There was candy and a few poems, as well.” Those had followed in quick succession. Crowding her. “I just thought he was being overly grateful. The cockatiel meant a great deal to him.”
Brady tried to read between the lines to pick up on what the veterinarian wasn’t saying. “You told him to stop?”
“In a way,” she allowed. “I said that it wasn’t really proper, that I couldn’t accept gifts for doing my job.”
Why did he have to drag the words out of her? he wondered impatiently. “And?”
Patience shrugged, blocking the edgy frustration that pushed its way forward. “He kept leaving them anyway.”
He knew that these things almost always escalated unless there was forceful police intervention. “What made him finally stop?”
“I put out a formal photograph of my family in dress blues. Made sure he saw it.” Patience nodded at the far wall.
There, hung in prominent display was a group photograph he’d seen more than once on his visits to her office. He looked at it with fresh eyes. The last time he’d seen that much blue was at a patrolman’s funeral. He had to say it was impressive.
Patience allowed a small smile to surface. “I guess that put the fear of God into him. Or at least the fear of the Cavanaughs.” Her smile widened a little. “Walter hasn’t sent a poem or a single flower in the last six months. And he hasn’t been by.”
Brady looked down at the rose. King eyed it, as well. “Until now.”
She nodded, suppressing a sigh. “Until now,” she echoed.
If
