The entryway was as he’d left it, filled with soggy, smelly clothes and puddles of water. He hurried down the steps and along the sidewalk until he was under the window that glowed faintly above his head.
Examining the snow proved pointless. It was sludge at best. There was no hope of discerning a footprint and peering up and down the street, he could see no moving form at all. Mac stared at the distance between himself and the window and gauged how hard it would be for someone to toss a brick through the window. Not that hard.
But why? Without wings or a ladder, no one could use the broken window to get inside. Once again, he scanned the street. Zip.
That left intimidation as a motive and it didn’t take much of an intuitive leap to figure out who might want to intimidate him.
So far, the police harassment had been relatively minor. Parking tickets. Speeding tickets. Hang-up calls. Citations for breaking archaic laws like the size of lettering on his office sign and the potted plant he’d left on a step. But today, he’d testified in court on behalf of a bum accused of shoplifting. Mac knew the poor guy was innocent; he’d been in the store, he’d seen the rich kid who originally took the camera in question and then shoved it into the bum’s hands when it appeared he was going to be caught. It was Mac’s testimony that had swayed the jury to dismiss the charges.
This time, his testimony had counted. A year before, he’d been the only cop to speak out against three officers whose use of excessive force had led to the unnecessary death of an addict.
Bottom line: If not to intimidate, what was the purpose of breaking the window?
It couldn’t have anything to do with Grace. It was just coincidence that she was sleeping in that room. If it wasn’t coincidence, then that would mean someone who knew something about her knew she was here. And cared that she was here.
He walked back inside and down the hall. He found Grace sitting on the side of the bed, staring at the shattered glass, shivering in her robe thanks to the cold air now streaming through the broken window. The thought that the broken window had anything to do with her seemed ludicrous.
“What happened?” she said.
“Nothing to worry about,” he snapped, guessing she wouldn’t question anything too closely and, sure enough, he was right. She rubbed her eyes and closed them again.
“We need to get you back to bed,” he said, his voice brusque to cover the tender feeling he could sense stealing over his heart.
She nodded without opening her eyes.
Stepping around the glass, he leaned down and hoisted her over his shoulder.
She screeched, “Put me down!”
In that heated demand, the woman whose rounded bottom currently rested atop his shoulder and whose head was now upside down facing his back, had packed more passion than he’d so far heard from her and it reassured him. “Can’t have you cutting your feet,” he said as he carried her out of the room and deposited her on the sofa.
She tugged on the robe, the first sign of modesty he’d witnessed, and that, too, reassured him. As she grumbled, he found pillows and blankets in the hall closet. By the time he had made her a new bed and tucked her into it, she was asleep again.
For a while, he stood in the open bedroom doorway, ignoring the ice cold air. He stared at the brick. Should he report the incident to the police? Wouldn’t the jerk who threw it love that! There was no way the brick sported fingerprints. Better to swallow the cost of replacing the window himself than give Chief Barry the satisfaction of knowing he’d rattled Mac’s cage.
This was proof, however, that as the months passed and the election neared, the stakes would grow higher.
It was also proof that the only job he’d ever wanted—to be a cop, to make a difference—was lost to him.
The only niggling worry was Grace. If someone had tracked her to his apartment, then she was being watched.
Was she in some kind of danger?
Impossible to speculate on that when he possessed so little information. Reason said no one wanted her, no one had tracked her.
He swept up the mess, closed the bedroom door and sat back down at the desk. Behind him, on the sofa, Grace slept soundly.
SHE AWOKE when the phone rang. She could hear the rumble of a man’s voice. For one blissful moment, she snuggled in the cocoon of warm blankets and thought to herself how nice it was to be warm when the world all around was cold.
Cold?
Grace sat up abruptly. Mac appeared in the kitchen doorway, two coffee mugs gripped in his hands.
“Morning,” he said, handing her one. “How do you feel?”
She’d noticed how big he was the night before. This morning, she added attractive to her observation. He’d changed into jeans and a black cotton shirt, which he wore like a second skin. His dark hair, damp from the shower, fell boyishly over his forehead. The expression in his eyes was cautious. He probably wondered if she was going to flake out on him again, if she needed a hit of some illegal substance or a drink.
The only thing she craved was the caffeine she’d just introduced into her bloodstream via the excellent coffee. She said, “I feel okay.”
“Did you remember anything about yourself?” His face now reflected how anxious he was to hear the right response. Unfortunately, she couldn’t give it to him and she shook her head. The enormity of her situation flooded back. She still had no idea who she was.
For a while there, she’d thought that at least she would be able to think clearly today; the veil of exhaustion seemed to have lifted with the coming of the morning sun. But now, the old confusion was back and she felt tears welling in her eyes. She bent her head to hide them.
Mac moved away as though to give her space. “My wife was about your size,” he said, gesturing at the desktop where he’d placed a modest stack of clothes.
“Won’t she mind—”
“She’s in New Jersey and she isn’t my wife anymore, so no, she won’t mind if you use her castoffs. I’ll go scramble some eggs while you use the bathroom.”
“Wait.”
He paused for a second while she fought to find the right words. It was no use; she hadn’t the slightest idea what they might be. A plea for him not to abandon her even though she could sense he was dying to get her out of his hair? What argument could she make? The logical place for her would be a hospital but the thought of going to see a doctor terrified her. Why?
She said, “Who was on the phone?” fully aware that it wasn’t any of her business.
“Sister Theresa,” he said curtly. “Before that, a friend of mine. Before that, the building super who wanted to know why one of my windows is broken. Now go get dressed. We’ll talk after breakfast.”
Balancing the clothes and the coffee mug, she made her way down the hall into the bathroom. She could feel a draft of cold air blowing from beneath the closed bedroom door as she passed, and the night’s adventure came back to her.
A
