where he lived. That was a closely kept secret, since he had made a few enemies during his time on the force. He had sent quite a few guys up the proverbial river who might paddle back down to find him after theyâd served time.
Mitch was sure no one had trailed them to the neighborhood this morning. He had been alert to a possible tail after what had happened at Dylanâs.
This suspension of his was coming at the worst possible time. Mitch needed to be on the Andrews case officially, where he could get things done without first having to run everything by Kick.
Going to bat for Robin against his own partner could produce some serious questions about Mitchâs abilities as a detective.
For his sake, as well as her own, Robin Andrews had better be totally innocent and heâd better be able to prove it. This new development was another solid indication that she was. Somebody had stolen her computer and her suitcase.
Unless Kick was right and she hadnât brought either with her in the first place. Was she going a roundabout route to convince him someone else had been in that apartment besides her and the dead man?
Â
Robin awoke, looked around the unfamiliar room and then squinted at her watch. It was afternoon, close to four oâclock. She felt as if someone had beaten her with a very large stick.
She got up, straightened her clothing the best she could and found the bathroom. Straight out of Country Homes, she thought. Ruffles and roses. Wine red and dark green on cream. Vanilla potpourri emanated from a small porcelain flower on the shelf below the mirror. Her reflection made her groan.
The makeup was history. Her hair was lank and in need of shampoo. The syrupy breakfast sheâd ingested after the confrontation at Dylanâs Diner had made her feel queasy and she wasnât hungry now. She figured she might as well do as Mitch Winton advised and make herself at home, at least temporarily. There didnât seem to be anything else to do since he hadnât returned.
After a long, relaxing bubble bath, she dried off, combed her wet hair into place and put back on her wrinkled clothing.
She was searching for her shoes when she heard the squeak of the doorknob as someone outside turned it. Again it turned slowly but firmly in both directions. The door was locked. It must be Mitch.
She padded to the door. There was no peephole to look through. âYes? Who is it?â
Again the doorknob turned, sharply back and forth, this time without stealth. The door shook with the violent attempts to open it.
âI have a gun,â she cried as loudly and menacingly as she could, quickly scouting the living room for anything she could use to defend herself. âAnd I will shoot!â There. She had sounded determined. Forceful.
Silence. Then the wooden stairs creaked twice.
Robin waited, ear to the door, listening, but heard nothingfurther. No closing of doors, no hurried footsteps, no sound of a car engine outside. Just the silence peculiar to a quiet neighborhood with all the children at school and their parents away at work.
She dashed to the phone on the table beside the rear window to call the police. No dial tone. It was dead. Had the cop who lived here had the phone disconnected before she left?
Robin huddled in the corner, the dead receiver clutched to her chest. Her heart pounded so loudly she doubted she could hear anyone breaking through the door with an ax.
If she were at home, there would be a solid steel door, not that lovely six-panel one, hung in a century-old door frame. The whole thing would probably collapse inward with one good body slam.
At her own apartment, this scare would never have happened. Building security was so efficient, whoever tried to get inside would never have made it to the elevator.
âStupid!â she thought suddenly, replacing the receiver. That incident at the diner had made her paranoid.
Some friend had probably come to see the woman
Mitch was sure no one had trailed them to the neighborhood this morning. He had been alert to a possible tail after what had happened at Dylanâs.
This suspension of his was coming at the worst possible time. Mitch needed to be on the Andrews case officially, where he could get things done without first having to run everything by Kick.
Going to bat for Robin against his own partner could produce some serious questions about Mitchâs abilities as a detective.
For his sake, as well as her own, Robin Andrews had better be totally innocent and heâd better be able to prove it. This new development was another solid indication that she was. Somebody had stolen her computer and her suitcase.
Unless Kick was right and she hadnât brought either with her in the first place. Was she going a roundabout route to convince him someone else had been in that apartment besides her and the dead man?
Â
Robin awoke, looked around the unfamiliar room and then squinted at her watch. It was afternoon, close to four oâclock. She felt as if someone had beaten her with a very large stick.
She got up, straightened her clothing the best she could and found the bathroom. Straight out of Country Homes, she thought. Ruffles and roses. Wine red and dark green on cream. Vanilla potpourri emanated from a small porcelain flower on the shelf below the mirror. Her reflection made her groan.
The makeup was history. Her hair was lank and in need of shampoo. The syrupy breakfast sheâd ingested after the confrontation at Dylanâs Diner had made her feel queasy and she wasnât hungry now. She figured she might as well do as Mitch Winton advised and make herself at home, at least temporarily. There didnât seem to be anything else to do since he hadnât returned.
After a long, relaxing bubble bath, she dried off, combed her wet hair into place and put back on her wrinkled clothing.
She was searching for her shoes when she heard the squeak of the doorknob as someone outside turned it. Again it turned slowly but firmly in both directions. The door was locked. It must be Mitch.
She padded to the door. There was no peephole to look through. âYes? Who is it?â
Again the doorknob turned, sharply back and forth, this time without stealth. The door shook with the violent attempts to open it.
âI have a gun,â she cried as loudly and menacingly as she could, quickly scouting the living room for anything she could use to defend herself. âAnd I will shoot!â There. She had sounded determined. Forceful.
Silence. Then the wooden stairs creaked twice.
Robin waited, ear to the door, listening, but heard nothingfurther. No closing of doors, no hurried footsteps, no sound of a car engine outside. Just the silence peculiar to a quiet neighborhood with all the children at school and their parents away at work.
She dashed to the phone on the table beside the rear window to call the police. No dial tone. It was dead. Had the cop who lived here had the phone disconnected before she left?
Robin huddled in the corner, the dead receiver clutched to her chest. Her heart pounded so loudly she doubted she could hear anyone breaking through the door with an ax.
If she were at home, there would be a solid steel door, not that lovely six-panel one, hung in a century-old door frame. The whole thing would probably collapse inward with one good body slam.
At her own apartment, this scare would never have happened. Building security was so efficient, whoever tried to get inside would never have made it to the elevator.
âStupid!â she thought suddenly, replacing the receiver. That incident at the diner had made her paranoid.
Some friend had probably come to see the woman
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