Explosive Secrets. Valerie Hansen

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СКАЧАТЬ smile spread. “See? There’s nothing wrong with your thinking. That’s a very sensible suggestion.”

      “Yup. That’s me. All brains.”

      “Don’t put yourself down,” he said with a scowl. “I don’t know very many people who could cope with the stresses you’ve faced, and do as well as you are.”

      Her expression was one of astonishment when she glanced up and murmured, “Thanks.”

      “No thanks necessary. It’s the truth.”

      “Well, thanks, anyway. It’s nice to get a compliment that has nothing to do with my looks—or my cooking.”

      He was pleased to see her blush slightly, and hear her soft chuckle in spite of the trying situation. The woman was a survivor. That inner strength would stand her in good stead in the coming months, particularly if she failed to find a new job.

      Climbing the stairs, Jackson noted that Titan seemed reluctant. That figured. The halls still smelled of smoke and undoubtedly of the chemicals used to formulate the explosive. Plus, the dog would remember this place as being the one that had originally frightened him.

      “Let me go to your door first,” Jackson said.

      Wide-eyed, she stared at him. “You don’t think...?”

      “No. I don’t think there’s another bomb. It never hurts to be careful, though. Let Titan and me do what we’re trained for. It’ll only take a second.”

      “Okay,” Nicki replied, smiling slightly. “But if I see anybody trying to deliver more flowers, I may shove him back down the stairs first and ask questions later.”

      Jackson could tell she was trying to find humor in spite of her fear so he played along. “You probably won’t have to. The department has been grilling every florist in town as if they’re hiding Public Enemy Number One behind the bouquets in their coolers. After that, I doubt any of them would accept an order for delivery to this address.”

      “Good to hear.” She rolled her eyes. “Did you figure out where those exploding flowers came from?”

      “Not yet. There wasn’t much left to go on and no record of a cash-and-carry sale.” He held up his hand like a traffic cop. “Wait there. We’ll only be a minute.”

      He approached the ruined apartment. There was a plain, white envelope bordered in duct tape stuck to the outside of the door.

      On the front was printed #210. That was all.

      Donning latex gloves, he carefully pried the tape loose and opened the envelope, fully expecting another threat.

      Instead, he found an eviction notice.

      * * *

      Nicki watched the K-9 officer from afar. She could see that he’d discovered something on her door, but until he motioned her to come closer, she had no idea what it might be.

      He handed the paper to her. Immediate incredulity was followed closely by a teary blurring of her vision. She was being thrown out. She’d been a good tenant until recently. Didn’t the past count for anything?

      “I’m sorry,” Jackson said.

      What could she say? The notice spelled out several plausible reasons for her eviction, besides the bombing. She sighed and shook her head. “It’s okay.”

      “You were behind in your rent?”

      “It’s a long story,” Nicki told him. “I guess I can understand why this mess might be the last straw. I just wish I still had a job and references so I’d have a better chance of getting another place to live.”

      “First things first,” he said matter-of-factly. “I have permission for you to pick up your clothes and some personal items as long as you confine yourself to the bedroom and bath, in case the crime scene techs want to go over the living room again. Then we’ll find you temporary quarters somewhere. Maybe at one of the motels downtown.”

      “I can’t afford to do that,” Nicki said, feeling utterly defeated.

      “Let me handle the details. The department has an agreement with several businesses to temporarily house crime or disaster victims. Your situation qualifies. Don’t worry about the cost.”

      “Temporarily?”

      “One day at a time,” he said solemnly.

      She had to smile. “How about an hour at a time? I don’t think I can handle another day like this one has been. Not all at once.”

      * * *

      “She didn’t even own a suitcase, so she threw her clothes and stuff into pillowcases. I placed her in the motel closest to downtown, that way she can walk to the store or to church if she wants,” Jackson reported to Captain McNeal. “Arnie’s delivering her car to her there.”

      Slade stared into space for a few moments, his blue eyes narrowing, before he replied, “It’s stretching the rules to include her in that relief program.”

      “Yeah...I know. But I couldn’t figure what else to do with her. She really seems clueless about her cousin’s criminal activities, but she may be in danger just the same. I had her program my private number into her cell phone, too, in case she needs it.”

      Opening a file folder on his desk, Slade scanned the loose pages. “The Johnson woman is thirty-four. She’s hardly naive. She has to know more than she’s admitting.”

      “What do you want me to do next? As long as she’s out of a job, all we can do is keep an eye on the motel, in case she has visitors, and monitor her calls.”

      “How’s your uncle Harold these days?”

      Jackson’s eyebrow arched. “He’s fine. Why?”

      “Just wondering. Last time you mentioned him, he was carping about having to do all the cooking while you were on duty, wasn’t he?”

      “Oh, hey. Hold your horses, Captain. Harold and I make out fine by ourselves. We don’t need a cook. If I was in the market for help I’d hire a cowpuncher to manage my livestock—not that I run many head.”

      Slade’s gaze narrowed. “I’ve been giving this situation a lot of thought. I definitely think you need kitchen help. Matter of fact, I know just the person. She’s a pro and she needs a job. Plus, if she was at the ranch with Harold all day, he could help us keep an eye on her when you’re working. What could be better?”

      “Anything but that,” Jackson grumbled. “My uncle thinks he missed his calling when he became a sheriff’s deputy instead of a stand-up comic. Now that he’s retired, he drives me crazy with his stale jokes. Ms. Johnson would never put up with him on a daily basis. I barely manage.”

      “I’ll talk to Harold myself, tell him to cool it and give him the idea that it’s an unofficial assignment. He’ll love it. Once a cop, always a cop. You know that.”

      Jackson wasn’t convinced that the captain’s СКАЧАТЬ