In Harm's Way. Lyn Stone

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      Captain Hunford was waiting in the hallway when they exited the interrogation room. Mitch had known someone had been observing through the one-way mirror. He had sensed it even while he was working.

      “Hey, Cap’n. What’re you doing down here at this hour?” The three of them walked down the hall to the bullpen. The lighting seemed eerie and uneven with the flickering of screen savers on the computers. The desks were deserted, their surfaces stacked with case files and the usual assortment of pens, coffee cups and the occasional family pictures.

      “Taylor called and filled me in when he first arrived at the scene,” Hunford said in a tired, gravelly voice. “I couldn’t get back to sleep.”

      “This is Robin Andrews,” Mitch said by way of introduction. “Wife of the victim. Ms. Andrews, Captain Hunford.”

      “Ma’am,” the captain said with a nod, his only acknowledgement of her. He looked at Mitch. “Since you’re here, I need to see you for a few minutes,” he ordered, leaving no room for delay or argument.

      Hunford was okay, maybe a little too conscious of public opinion at times, but Mitch supposed the boss had to be. The man had been on the job nearly twenty years now and obviously knew what he was doing. Judging by his expression, this was probably going to be one of those times when Mitch wouldn’t think so.

      Mitch spared a look at the woman and saw she was almost asleep on her feet. “Wait out here,” he told her after he had guided her to a chair beside one of the vacant desks. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

      He crossed the room, glanced over his shoulder to make sure she wasn’t leaving, then entered Hunford’s office and closed the door.

      Mitch briefly detailed the findings on the prints and lack of powder residue. “So, what do you think?” Mitch asked. “You hear the entire interview in there?”

      “Most of it. There’s not enough for an indictment. Not yet, anyway. I’ll read what you got from her earlier and get with Taylor on it. I was looking for you this afternoon. You’re on suspension, pending an inquiry.”

      Mitch blew out a frustrated breath and ran a hand over his face. “The review board? About yesterday,” Mitch guessed.

      “You know to expect it, Winton, any time you fire that weapon. You shot that boy in the arm and the leg. The doctors say he might have a permanent limp.”

      Mitch rolled his eyes. “He’s damned lucky he won’t have a permanent nap. He shot two people right there in the restaurant before I took him down.”

      “I know. You did what you had to do.” Hunford leaned back in his chair, his palms flattened on the desktop. He stared at them and frowned. “But his victims didn’t die. And the kid you shot—”

      “—was thirty-one years old and holding a smokin’ nine-millimeter,” Mitch finished. “I identified myself and he turned on me. When a guy’s that hyped on coke, you can’t talk him down, sir. You try, you die. I could have killed him and been justified—and you know it.”

      “Just the same, I’ll need your badge and piece. You were planning to be gone for a couple of weeks, anyway, so it’s not like you’ll miss it. Take your vacation, let the review board do their thing, and we’ll get this ironed out soon as you get back. Don’t worry, I’ll go to the mat for you. You know that.”

      Mitch nodded. It wasn’t like he had a choice here.

      He unclipped the badge from his belt and tossed it on Hunford’s desk. Then he reached under his jacket and removed his department-issue Glock. His backup pistol rested comfortingly against his ankle. With a weary sigh, he unloaded the official weapon and carefully laid it on top of the desk blotter.

      “There you go. Hey, you don’t mind if I give Taylor a little unofficial help on the Andrews homicide, do you?”

      Hunford pursed his lips and thought for a minute. “I thought you were going fishing?”

      “Hadn’t decided. I’d rather hang around, do what I can. I’m still on the payroll, right?”

      “Well, yeah. If you do lend Taylor a hand, be discreet about it. I mean, very low profile. You got that? Suspended is supposed to mean suspended.”

      “Okay. If that’s all, I’m outa here,” Mitch said, heading for the door.

      “You taking her to a hotel?” the captain asked, inclining his head toward the glass wall through which they both could see Robin.

      “No. She might have to be in town for a good while and that could get expensive. Thought maybe I’d try to find something a little more reasonable for her. Sandy’s apartment is empty.”

      Hunford raised one bushy brow. “That’d keep her handy, I guess. You think she’s a flight risk?”

      Mitch shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. I don’t mind keeping an eye on her for a while.”

      Hunford studied him for a minute. “Might not be a bad idea if you or somebody did that.” He held up his finger again. “And, Winton?”

      “Yessir?”

      “Don’t shoot anybody else if you can help it. And for goodness sake, don’t get personally involved with the suspect.”

      “You ever known me to do that kind of thing?” He hid his exasperation and left before he said something he shouldn’t.

      Don’t get personally involved with the suspect? However, the boss did have an excellent reason to issue such a warning, Mitch admitted to himself. He just hadn’t thought his interest was that obvious. Hell, he’d just been polite to her. There were no longing looks or unnecessary touching in that interview room. Nothing suggestive at all. He’d been very careful of that.

      As he approached Robin Andrews now, Mitch was struck anew by that fawnlike vulnerability wrapped in such a deceptive package of striking sophistication. He knew he was going to have to watch himself as closely as he watched her.

      The way she looked, she shouldn’t need to fear anything. The world should lay itself at her feet and wait to be walked on. But the outer package was camouflage, Mitch knew. Inside there was a young woman who needed someone to take care of her. To care about her. He could do that temporarily without going off the deep end.

      Mitch puffed out an exasperated breath, stuck his hands in his pockets and shook his head. Even knowing what he might have to face later, he still couldn’t bring himself to send her out into a strange city all alone.

      “Let’s go, Ms. Andrews,” he said, accepting the inevitable. He wouldn’t get involved, damn it. Not exactly. He’d just make sure she had a place to stay. Nobody could argue she needed that, and there was no one else who would see about it.

      “I know where there’s a furnished apartment. One bedroom with a kitchenette in an old Victorian,” he told her. “Actually, a friend of mine left me the key, and plans to be away for the next couple of months. You could sort of sublet if you’re interested. There wouldn’t be a lease or anything to fool with. Rent’s next to nothing. Much less than a hotel will be if this runs on for a week or so.”

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