Her Special Charm Page 5

  Santini looked like a man whose hot air-balloon had been shot down before it ever had a chance to begin its journey. It was clear that he was hoping to experience a little vicarious thrill. “Well, at least you know that much.”

  James pulled his jacket off the back of his chair, but didn’t bother putting it on. The two men walked toward the doorway leading out of the squad room. “Meaning?”

  Santini moved fast to keep up. “Meaning you don’t know a good deal when you see one.”

  It wasn’t a “good deal” he saw when he looked at Constance Beaulieu, it was trouble. Trouble with a capital T. He got enough of that on the job. “Maybe I don’t want ‘a good deal.’”

  Santini halted just outside the squad room, looking at James as if he’d never seen him before. He lowered his voice as he asked, “Munro, you’re not…?”

  James gave him a dark look. “No,” he said firmly, “I’m not.”

  “Because it’s okay if you are.” Santini shrugged his wide shoulders. “It’s just going to take me some time to get used to, that’s all.”

  James went to the stairwell, throwing open the fire door. He preferred taking the stairs to waiting for an elevator. It was faster. “The only thing I am is a man who’s getting really close to strangling his partner. And at this point, I don’t think any jury’s going to convict me.”

  Santini followed him down. An huge sigh escaped his lips as he made it down three flights and then to the underground level behind James.

  Holding the outer door open for him, James found his tolerance in short supply. “What?”

  “Nothing.” They made their way through the underground parking structure to where James had left the car. “Just sometimes I wonder what God was thinking, wasting all those looks on a guy who doesn’t know what to do with them.”

  Reaching the car, James got in behind the driver’s seat. The enclosed area felt stuffy. It didn’t improve his mood.

  “I know what to do with them.” He jammed the key into the ignition and turned it. The engine hummed to life. “I wash them, I clothe them, and I get them over to a crime scene.” He glanced over his shoulder to see if the way was clear. It was, but he still didn’t back out. Instead, he gave Santini a warning look. “And if you don’t drop this, we’re going to have our own crime scene right here, right now. Except that you’re not going to be in any shape to investigate. Now am I making myself clear?”

  “Yeah.”

  Santini sounded more like a sulky child than a grade-A police detective, but he would take what he could get.

  “Good. Now let’s see if anyone around Playa del Rio saw or heard anything yesterday that might be useful.”

  For once, his partner didn’t hold out much hope. “Everybody’s going to have a terminal case of deafness,” Santini predicted.

  James slanted a final look at his partner before he pulled out of the parking structure and onto the street. “They don’t know how lucky they are.”

  It was the usual dance. The robbers had been quick, efficient and seemed to know exactly when to strike—when the register was fullest. After questioning dozens of employees, customers and people who lived and worked in the general vicinity of all five of the restaurants that had been hit in the last five months, they were still coming up empty. There were no leads, no clues.

  In the winter, that kind of thing didn’t irritate him nearly as much as it did in the summer. Humidity always shrank his temper down to almost nonexistent, like a wool sweater thrown into the dryer set on hot.

  The only good thing was that, confronted with the details of the case, Santini had finally stopped yammering about the woman who had come to claim her necklace.

  Cameo, he mentally corrected himself. She’d called it a cameo. Him, he didn’t know the difference between a cameo and a camcorder. Things like that were Santini’s department. His partner had a keen eye when it came to possessions while James had the nose for something being out of kilter. For overlooked details and things that didn’t quite add up unless you tried using a different kind of math.

  But not this time.

  Leaving his car parked in the facility where he rented a monthly space, James crossed the street to get to his apartment. Heat rose almost like steam from the sidewalk, a testimony to the rain that had fallen earlier for a short duration. Not enough to cool, just enough to add to the stickiness of the night.

  For the moment, the case had him stumped and he hated that. Hated feeling at a loss. There had to be something they were missing, some speck of a clue that by itself meant nothing but, in the proper light, made all the difference in the world.

  The robberies were obviously the work of the same people. So far, though, he hadn’t been able to find the connection. The restaurant employees were different at each location. No one was related to anyone else. They ordered their meats and produce from different suppliers, used different employment agencies. Nothing was the same.

  Yet something had to be. The robberies just didn’t have a random feel to them.

  He tried to console himself by thinking that there would be a slipup. There always was. Someone got greedy, someone got sloppy. And when they did, he’d be there to catch them. It was as far into optimism as he ever allowed himself to venture.

  Glancing at the number that registered above the elevator doors, he saw that the car was almost on the top floor. He didn’t have the patience to stand here waiting for it. Muttering a curse under his breath, he took the stairs.

  The back of his shirt dripped with perspiration by the time he reached the third floor. After letting himself into his apartment, James dropped his keys on the small table next to the door. He deposited his weapon in a more secure place. On top of the single bookcase that stood with its back not quite flush against the wall. The floor was uneven. Located near the subway, the apartments in the building all showed the signs of wear that came from having several trains an hour rumble by not too far from its foundations.

  James stripped his damp shirt and dropped it on the recliner, which was all but buried beneath a week’s worth of shirts.

  He was going to have to break down and do his laundry soon, he thought. Or come to terms with smelling ripe. The idea didn’t please him.

  Stanley had come to life the instant James had put his key in the door. He could hear the dog’s nails clicking on the hardwood floors as the animal hurried over to greet him. With a laugh, he fondly ran his hands over the dog’s back. “So, how’s it going, Stanley? Catch any burglars today?” The dog cocked his head and looked at him. “Yeah, me neither.”

  He walked over to the corner to check out the dog’s water dish. There was still a little water left. He poured it out and put in a fresh supply.

  The air within his apartment was a great deal cooler than outside. He’d left his air-conditioning unit on while he was gone during the day. There was no reason for both of them to suffer from the heat.

  Moving over to the refrigerator, he found his every step shadowed. Stanley was shifting from foot to foot, obviously in the mood for some companionship. Dogs got bored, too, James mused. Especially intelligent ones like Stanley.

  “You look better than I do,” he commented. The dog barked as if in agreement. He swore that Stanley understood every word he uttered. “Tell you what, let me just recharge a little and I’ll take you out on a walk. Although I warn you, once you stick your nose out there, you’re going to want to come right back on the double.” He fixed the German shepherd with a look. “You have to promise me, no sniff fest tonight. I’ve had enough heat today to last me a month.”

  They were outside in less than ten minutes. Despite the promise he’d tried to extract from Stanley, the dog apparently had other ideas. Every blade of weed grass that poked its head through the cracks of cement, every available place where another dog might have relieved himself, Stanley had to investigate. Not once, but twice, sniffing as if he were pulling the entire scent into his system, to file away and draw upon during those boring hou
rs when he had the run of the apartment and the songs on the radio his master left on for him didn’t interest him.

  James stretched his patience to the limit. He knew that aside from the morning run, this was Stanley’s only time to exercise his inquisitive mind.

  But the humidity remained higher than the temperature and he was melting. It didn’t exactly put him in the best of moods. After what seemed like an endless half an hour of indulgence, he turned the dog around and made his way back to his apartment.

  Sometime between when they had left and returned, the elevator in his building had decided to give up the ghost. Again. That made three times in less than a month. Not a very good record, James thought darkly as he and Stanley took the stairs up to his third-floor apartment.

  The stairwell seemed even more airless now than it had before, although he could have sworn there was a trace of something sweet in the atmosphere. It vaguely reminded him of the woman who’d come for her cameo.

  Constance.

  What a strange name, he mused.

  Reaching the third floor, both master and dog paused on the other side of the fire door to draw in oxygen. Stanley was panting in Morse code and loudly at that.

  “C’mon, I’ll get you some water. You’ll cool down,” James promised, fishing through his pockets as he looked for his keys.

  Had his attention not been focused so intently on his pet, he would have been alerted the second he stepped out onto the floor. There was what amounted to a one-second delay. The scent caught his attention before his eyes actually focused on the fact that there was someone standing in front of his door.

  That light, honeysuckle scent that Santini had dragged into his lungs this afternoon in the same manner that Stanley took in the scent of other dogs.

  The scent from the stairwell, he realized.

  She was here.

  Invading his space again.

  He felt his spine stiffening, his body and mind on high alert. “What are you doing here?” The question was all but barked out.

  She wore the same short white skirt, the same clingy light blue tank top she’d worn to the precinct. But this time, her suit jacket was slung over one arm, a casualty of the ever-increasing humidity.

  He became aware that another tantalizing aroma was vying for space with her perfume, but this one had to do with food. Stanley came alive beside him the second he caught whiff of it, whimpering as if he’d been starved for the last five days.

  Her eyes lit up the moment she saw him, like a Christmas tree. “Canceling out my debt.”

  What was with the woman—did she have some kind of attention-deficit disorder? “I already told you, you don’t owe me anything.”

  The expression on her heart-shaped face told him she thought differently. “Just because you think the sky’s pink and say as much doesn’t make it so.”

  He liked things plain and simple, not wrapped up in rhetoric and similes. “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “That I owe you dinner—at the very least.” Since he was making no move to open his apartment door, she amended her plans. She was nothing if not flexible—for the right person. “We can have it out here if you like. Like a picnic.”

  Whatever allure a picnic might have contained died with the boy he’d once been. He had no desire to go on one now, especially not in his own lobby. Frowning, he took the key to his apartment and opened the door.

  Glancing behind him, he saw that Stanley was giving the woman the once-over, sniffing her the way he did everything new that crossed his path.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he told her, although he had to admit, she certainly didn’t look as if she were afraid. If anything, she looked as if she were enjoying the animal’s attention.

  Constance laughed in response. “I’m not. I love dogs.” Juggling the padded carrier she was holding, she managed to pet Stanley’s head.

  James grunted, taking the thermal container from her. As his unwanted guest walked into the apartment, he became acutely aware of the fact that most of the clothing he owned was on rumpled display in the living room.

  Putting the dark red thermal carrier down on the kitchen counter, he moved back into the living room and scooped up the pile of clothes covering one portion of the sofa, clearing off a space for her to sit, should she be so inclined. He dumped the clothes onto the recliner. They flowed over the side.

  “I wasn’t expecting company,” he grumbled under his breath.

  Constance made no effort to disguise her amusement as she glanced around. The place looked like a hurricane had gone through it—and was threatening a return match at any moment.

  “Apparently.” She glanced back at him. “I guess you’re one of those people who likes to have everything within easy reach.”

  “Something like that,” he mumbled under his breath. He never had anyone over, even though Santini had hinted several times for an invitation. With only Stanley for company, he had no reason to go out of his way to clean when he didn’t feel like it. He didn’t like being invaded and he could feel his irritation growing rapidly. “Look, how did you know where to find me?”

  It wasn’t as if his address was a matter of public record. He wasn’t listed anywhere outside of a few official forms filed with the department, which was the way he liked it.

  “I grew up calling the police chief Uncle Bob. He’s not really my uncle,” she explained, not wanting to mislead him, “but he was a close personal friend of my parents. I don’t know what my mother would have done if he hadn’t stepped in after my father died.” She smiled at him as if she were talking to an old friend. “Contrary to some beliefs, not every Southern lady is actually an iron butterfly in disguise. Mama always needed someone to lean on. Uncle Bob had broad shoulders.”

  There was only one part of this narrative that interested him. As far as he knew, Robert Wheeler didn’t come into the precinct anymore. “He’s retired.”

  “Not from life.” Besides, the man was living proof of the old saying, once a cop, always a cop. He still took an active interest in some of the larger cases, as well as fronting public relations for the department. “He still has friends in the department. I told him that you had found Mama’s cameo.”

  She’d actually called him, asking the former chief of police if he could find out where James Munro lived since she sensed that a repeat appearance at the precinct would only embarrass James.

  “He knew how much that piece meant to my mother and that I wouldn’t rest until I found a way to show you how grateful I was that you took the time to put that ad in.” Her eyes seemed to shine as she relayed her story. “A lot of people would have just pocketed it.”

  He noticed that she was still wearing the cameo. The black ribbon accented her slender neck. He found it difficult to look away. For his own safety, he figured he had better find a way. “Yeah, well, I’m not a lot of people.”

  “No, just one really nice man.”

  He was about to deny having anything to do with the word nice when it suddenly occurred to him that Stanley wasn’t growling. The dog was his animal equivalent, taking to no one, tolerating the people around him at best—as long as they didn’t invade his space.

  But Stanley’s space had very clearly been invaded, same as his, and instead of barking or growling, his faithful guard dog was delicately sniffing her legs and damn if the dog wasn’t presenting his head to her to be petted again.

  It was positively spooky. He looked at her. “You some kind of gypsy?”

  She laughed. “No, just an animal lover.” Forgoing, for the moment, dividing up the dinner she’d brought, Constance knelt down, unmindful of the fact that any contact with a German shepherd in the summer guaranteed her her own fur coat. “You’re a handsome one, you are.”

  Stanley looked as if he were eating up every word. And wanted more. He curled into her hand, indicating that he wanted to be petted some more.

  Still on her knees, she glanced over toward James. “I’m sorry, I forgot you
had a dog, otherwise I would have brought more. But I’d be happy to share my meal with him.”

  James began to move over toward her to take her hand and help her up, but she effortlessly gained her feet before he could reach her. Just as well, he thought. The less physical contact, the better. Not to mention the fact that he didn’t even want to know how she’d learned he had a pet.

  A couple of steps had her out of the living room and in the kitchen. The clutter here wasn’t any less than in the other room. There were dishes on the counter, dishes in the sink.

  “Where do you keep your plates?”

  He frowned, coming up behind her. “You’re looking at them.”

  Which meant that he had no clean ones, she thought. “No problem.” Before he could say anything to stop her, she was opening the cabinet beneath the sink and looking in. She found an almost empty bottle of dishwashing liquid and held it aloft like a prize. “I can just wash off three plates and we’re set to go.”

  “Look, lady—”

  The water was already running into the sink and she was squirting what was left in the detergent bottle into the steady stream.

  “Constance,” she corrected amiably. “Connie if you like.”

  What he would have liked right now was to find a way to get this woman, who was making herself more at home here than he ever had, out of his apartment.

  He was also beginning to feel that the odds of that happening in the next few minutes were pretty much against him.

  Chapter Five

  James leaned back against the counter, watching the one-woman invasion army as she quickly washed the glasses and dishes needed for the dinner she’d brought. Inexplicably, she’d made herself at home and seemed comfortable, not only within the space she had commandeered but around him as well.

  Which was more than he could say. He didn’t feel comfortable around her at all. But then, he had no real frame of reference to fall back on, no successful relationship to look to. His own relationship had certainly been no winner.

  Growing up, he’d watched his parents argue constantly, belittling and emotionally abandoning each other at every opportunity. Try as he might, he couldn’t recall a single kind word being spoken between his parents. Maybe there had been, but by then he’d done his best to shut out all the words. To shut out his parents. Silence was preferable to hoping for something better.