signed her name on the bottom.
Christa laid the pen down. “Is that all?”
“No.” Tyler’s voice came from behind her. “Now you have to pick him out of a lineup.”
She offered an apologetic smile as she rose to her feet. “Sorry, I would have known that if it wasn’t happening to me.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Tyler slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Who’s baby-sitting? Dad?” She nodded. “You know, he makes a much nicer grandfather than he did a father.”
Christa laughed. “Sometimes these things take time. Dad’s a late bloomer.” A stern disciplinarian, her father had turned into a pushover with Robin.
“Almost finished?” Tyler asked the burly man at the next desk.
In response, the detective took out a pen and handed it to Malcolm. “Just needs a signature.”
But Malcolm was in no hurry to sign. Instead, he slowly read through the words the older man had typed on the form.
Tyler laid a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder. “We’ll wait for you in the hall.” The question was silent, evident in the set of the wide shoulders. “We’re going to need your ID, as well—separately,” Tyler explained.
Malcolm only nodded in response. Tyler ushered Christa into the hall.
“So, how did it go?”
“Pretty painless. Detective Harold’s nice—just like you said.”
“Nothing but the best for my baby sister.”
Christa looked toward the glass encompassed squad room. Malcolm was signing the bottom of the form. “Do your baby sister a favor?”
He knew better than to say yes right away. “What?”
“Can you get me some information on him?”
Tyler didn’t have to ask who “him” was. It was against the rules to give out information on the forms, but some rules could be bent on occasion, and this seemed a harmless enough infraction.
“Why?”
“I have a feeling I know him, or of him, from somewhere.” She saw the skepticism in Tyler’s eyes. He probably thought she had other reasons for asking. Maybe she did.
Christa had never been the type to drift through life, Tyler knew. She had to be an active player and turn everyone around her into one, as well. “Isn’t it enough that he was there at the right place at the right time?”
She shook her head. “It’s because he was that I want to know.” She looked toward Malcolm thoughtfully. “There’s something bothering him.”
Tyler frowned. As if she didn’t have enough problems to deal with as an out-of-work single mother with a small daughter to raise and a deadbeat ex-husband who would never make any child-support payments. “There’s something bothering all of us, Christa.”
“I know, but-”
Humoring her, he kissed the top of her head. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do,” he promised.
She grinned up at him. “I never doubted it for a minute.”
It was past four o’clock when Malcolm finally walked out of the police station. As he hurried down the stone stairs that led to the parking lot, he noted that the lot had thinned out considerably. There was only a smattering of cars left. Business at the police station had to be slacking off, he mused.
Walking toward the black sports car, he became aware of the grating, whining noise. It was a sound he was more than passingly familiar with. Metal on metal, sparking nothing but aggravation as it prophesied a stranded motorist.
Malcolm automatically glanced in the direction the noise was originating from.
He might have known.
It was coming from her van.
His initial impulse was to ignore the sound, and her, and just keep walking. That would have been the sensible thing to do.
Malcolm got as far as the driver’s side of his own car before he finally turned around. The grinding noise put his teeth on edge as she tried to turn the ignition on again. He couldn’t just drive away and leave her like this. In a vague way, it was tantamount to a fireman ignoring a fire alarm or a policeman ignoring a cry for help.
He’d thought that she would be gone by the time he was finished at the station. Her brother and another policeman had led Christa in first to look at the men in the line up. It had taken her all of one minute to pick out the man who had car-jacked her van.
It had taken him a little less than three minutes to make the same choice. Malcolm had deliberately taken his time after that, hoping she’d be gone when he walked out of the station.
Obviously, he hadn’t taken enough time.
She was going to kill that thing if she didn’t stop. By his count, she’d tried to start the van six times since he’d left the building.
“C’mon, c’mon, start,” Christa chanted under her breath. The mantra wasn’t working. The engine refused to turn over.
She turned the key again just before he reached her. The window on her side was open, and he heard her mumbling something under her breath, but he couldn’t make it out. The grinding noise drowned it out.
“You’ll flood the engine.”
Christa started, her head jerking up at the sound of someone at her elbow. When she saw it was Malcolm, she relaxed, but not before the exasperated sigh escaped her lips.
“Right about now, I’d like to drown the engine.”
Malcolm nodded. It had been a long time since a car’s problems had baffled him, but he could relate to the helplessness she had to be experiencing.
It was the way he had felt about life when he had found himself alive in the hospital bed. Alive when Gloria and Sally were gone.
Christa threw up her hands in surrender. She’d been trying to start the van for the past ten minutes. Taking every curve life had to throw at her, Christa prided herself on being levelheaded and calm. Today, however, her nerves were very close to the surface.
She looked at him. “Any suggestions?”
In reply, Malcolm circled the front of her van and placed his hands on the hood. Then, as she watched, mystified, he pushed down on it, hard. She felt the vehicle begin to bounce up and down like a small sailboat caught in a storm at sea.
He wasn’t behaving like any mechanic she knew. Christa stuck her head out the window. “What are you doing?”
Malcolm
