Dead Reckoning (17 page)

Except for Frank Matrone, evidently.

For the span of three heartbeats, Kate debated whether or not to enter or turn around and walk away. But because she wanted to get this done, she pushed open the door. “Hello? Frank? Are you home? It’s Kate Megason.”

The door opened to a comfortable living room with hardwood floors and a tattered Navajo print rug. A brown leather sofa and matching chair were grouped in front of a sandstone hearth. The battered old coffee table was made of dark wood and piled with what looked like bills and magazines. Against the far wall, a large-screen television hulked, its smooth face dark. From the stereo George Strait belted out “Desperately.”

A pillow and comforter lay on the floor in front of the television. A tall ficus tree stood near the window. A decent oil reproduction hung on the wall above the sofa. No sign of Frank . . .

“Hello? Is anyone home?”

Vaguely concerned, Kate crossed to the dining area where a glass-top table and four chairs sat beneath a slowly revolving ceiling fan. Beyond, she could see into a galley-style kitchen. The light above the stove was on. A bonsai squatted in the window above the sink. Old appliances. Overripe bananas in a glass bowl on the bar.

Kate spun at the sound of the guttural male voice behind her. Shock vibrated through her at the sight of Frank. Pale and haggard and glassy-eyed, he looked nothing like the man she’d spent much of the last week with. He was standing less than three feet away. His right hand was on the back of the leather chair, and he was leaning heavily, as if using it for support. He was wearing only drawstring pants that rode low on lean hips.

Her face heated as her eyes flicked over him. She got the impression of taut male flesh, a thatch of dark hair on a wide chest, and a belly as flat and hard as West Texas limestone.

She blinked at him, stunned and ridiculously embarrassed. “Frank? Are you all right?”

It was a stupid question considering he could barely stand upright. But while Kate knew something was wrong, she didn’t know what. She sure as hell didn’t know how to help him.

“Gittel . . . for God’s sake . . .” His voice was rough and so low Kate could barely make out what he was saying.

“It’s Kate,” she said tentatively, aware that her heart had begun to pound.

“Knew . . . you’d come . . . back.” He took a faltering step toward her, his face going taut as if he were in pain.

The initial jab of uneasiness went through her like a mild electrical shock, and for the first time it struck her that he was intoxicated. That he thought she was someone else. And that this was the kind of situation that could get out of control quickly if not handled properly.

Even though he’d once been a cop and was still a certified peace officer licensed to carry a gun, she knew none of those things were a guarantee that he wouldn’t cross a line. She found herself wondering if Frank Matrone had a dark side. If she was about to get a glimpse of it.

“Frank, it’s Kate.

He blinked at her.“Kate?”

“Look, you’re obviously not . . . feeling well, so I’m just going to . . . leave. This was probably a bad idea, anyway. Is there someone I can call for you?”

“Just . . . you . . .” He let go of the back of the chair and stepped toward her.

“Maybe you should sit down.”

“Don’t . . . wanna . . .” He staggered slightly as he moved toward her. “C’mere . . .”

“You’re drunk.”

“Just g’ting . . . warmed up.”

She tried to get out of his way, but for all his staggering around, his reflexes were quick, and the next thing she knew his hands were on her shoulders, holding her in place. Uneasiness swirled through her, but Kate quickly realized that despite his obvious state of intoxication, his touch was gentle, almost reverent, and she let him lean on her for a moment.

“Matrone, you are
so
going to regret this,” she said beneath her breath.

“Already . . . do,” he slurred.

She made eye contact with him. The power of his gaze riveted her in place, and for an instant, Kate couldn’t look away, couldn’t move. A slow thread of awareness rippled through her when his eyes moved slowly down her body. Then his gaze fastened to hers. And within the depths of his eyes, she caught a glimpse of the man inside, and it stunned her.

His eyes reflected a disturbing mix of raw emotions that scraped at her heart like a rasp. She saw grief in its most fundamental form. The kind of sorrow that could shatter a heart. A soul that had been scarred to its core. And all she could do was stand there and wonder what terrible things had happened to him to make him hurt so profoundly.

Shaking off thoughts she didn’t want to have, Kate slid his hands from her shoulders. “Let’s get you to bed so you can sleep this off, then I’m going to leave.”

“Gittel . . .”

The next thing she knew his fingers were wrapped around her upper arms, and he was pushing her backward. Kate yelped when her spine made contact with the wall. “Matrone, you are about to make a very big mistake.”

“No . . . m’stake,” he slurred and raised his hand to cup her face.

“Cut it out,” she snapped and tried to duck to the right.

He prevented her escape by locking her in with his arms. “Don’t leave me.”

Kate knew what would happen next. It was like watching a tornado barrel toward an unsuspecting town, knowing the result would be disastrous, helpless to prevent it. Anger kicked through her when he leaned close and made an awkward attempt to kiss her. A clever turn of the head and his lips grazed her cheek. Pulling away, he looked at her as if to ask,
How did that happen?

“Don’t try that again,” she said and gave him a hard shove.

Without warning his legs buckled. He reached out to break his fall, but didn’t succeed and his knees hit the floor with a hollow
thunk!

She hadn’t intended to push him down, just get him away from her. “Frank . . . damn it.”

“S’ry . . .”

She was standing with her back against the wall. He was on his knees in front of her. She felt herself go rigid when he leaned forward and put his arms around her hips.

“Gittel,” he whispered and laid his head against her.

Kate didn’t like any of what was happening. But looking down at this strong, shuttered man, she suddenly knew he wasn’t a threat. And in some small corner of her mind, she knew his need to touch her had more to do with grief than lust.

For several uncomfortable seconds, she stood there, not sure what to do. Then, exasperated as much with herself as she was with him, she pried his arms from around her and wriggled away.

“Yo, Matrone! Whassup, man?”

Kate looked toward the door to see a Hispanic man standing just inside the front door, staring at them as if he wasn’t sure if he’d walked in on something he shouldn’t have or something that needed to be stopped.

“Who are you?” Kate asked.

“I live next door.” The man’s eyes flicked to Frank. “Everything okay here?”

“Fine,” she said. “I just—”

Frank chose that moment to reach for the buttons on her jacket. Grasping his wrists, Kate shoved his hands away and stepped back. “Do you think you could help me get him into the bedroom?”

The man’s eyebrows went up. “Whatever you say.”

Realizing he’d misinterpreted her words, she sighed. “Before he passes out.”

“Gotcha.” He crossed to them.

The man was short, but substantial in build. He was wearing a pair of blue jeans with a white muscle shirt. Intricate tattoos decorated his biceps. A gold chain hung from his neck, the attached religious medallion gleaming on his chest.

Kate watched him move in behind Frank. “Up and at ’em, Romeo.” Grasping Frank beneath his arms, he proceeded to drag him toward the bedroom.

“Does he always drink like this?” Kate followed him into the bedroom. It was dark, but the light from the hall gave her the impression of a large room, heavy furniture. A king-sized bed, unmade. A dumbbell set in the corner. Some type of wispy palm near the window. She’d never imagined Frank with a green thumb.

“He don’t drink.” The man grunted as he hefted Frank onto the bed.

Kate turned on the light, then gave him a look that hopefully relayed she hadn’t been born yesterday. In the back of her mind she wondered if the two men were drinking buddies. Fellow enablers deep into denial. “He’s definitely under the influence.”

“Painkillers.” The man motioned toward two prescription bottles on the night table.

She picked up one of the bottles and read the label. OxyContin, a powerful narcotic painkiller. The other was a muscle relaxant. “Why does he take these drugs?”

“He got hurt overseas.”

“Pain pills shouldn’t do
that
to him.”

“He hurt too much.” The man touched his chest. “Inside, you know? He take too many.”

“You’ve seen him like this before?” Kate asked.

“Sometimes. You know. When it’s bad. He don’t sleep. Waits too long to take the pills.” He mimicked drinking. “Drink with them, too.”

Pills and alcohol. Kate almost couldn’t believe it. Almost. But prescription drug abuse would explain his erratic attendance. Disappointment was surprisingly strong. All she could do was shake her head.

As if realizing he’d said too much, the man took one last look at Frank and started toward the door. “He have some problems, you know?”

Kate took one more look at Frank. He was lying on his back with one arm thrown over his forehead, the other hung over the side of the bed. His eyes were closed.

Realizing she was staring, that she didn’t want to be alone with him in his bedroom, she turned and walked into the living room. The man was standing at the door with his hands on his hips.

“Alcohol and drugs are a dangerous combination,” she said.

“Look, lady, Frank’s a good man. Smart, too. He know what he’s doing.”

“It looks like it,” she said dryly.

“So, are you two . . .” He did the Groucho Marx thing with his eyebrows.

“Of course not,” Kate said quickly. Then, remembering what the scene must have looked like when the other man walked in, added, “He thought I was someone else.”

“The woman who die.”

Kate looked at him in shock. “What?”

“In Jerusalem. He was there, you know. Had him a woman, too. But she was killed.”

Kate stared at him in shock. Remembering the way Frank had looked at her, Kate felt a quiver of compassion. “I didn’t know.”

“He don’t talk about it. Like things private, you know?”

For the first time, Frank’s excursion into drugs and alcohol made some sort of sense.

The man stuck out his finger and twirled it next to his head, the sign for crazy. “Made him a little nuts, you know?”

It was then that Kate realized she was in a position she did not want to be in. “Look, he’s been drinking. He’s probably been taking pills. He shouldn’t be left alone.”

“He don’t need no baby-sitter.”

Some friend you are,
she thought. “What if he gets into trouble during the night? What if he overdoses?”

“Lady, I got three kids next door.” He started toward the door.

“You can’t just leave him like this.”

The man didn’t stop. Didn’t even look over his shoulder.

Panic sent her after him. “Does he have a family member I can call to stay with him?”

The man stopped at the door and turned to her. “I think he have a sister in Amarillo.”

“Like that’s going to help.” Kate looked at her watch. Almost seven o’clock. “I have work to do.”

“He’ll be fine,” the man said.

But while Kate did not want to spend the rest of the evening playing nursemaid to an intoxicated Frank Matrone, her conscience would not let her walk away. If he got into trouble during the night, if something happened to him, and she’d been in a position to help and hadn’t, she’d never be able to live with herself.

“I’ll let him know you were concerned,” she said.

“I appreciate that.” The man opened the door.

“What’s your name?” Kate called out.

“Jesus.” He backed through the door and disappeared into the night.

ELEVEN

SATURDAY, JANUARY 28, 7:04 A. M.

Frank was no stranger to the unpleasant aftereffects of overindulgence. But the son of a bitch inside his head hammering his brain with the baseball bat was taking things a little too far this morning.

Rolling onto his side, he opened one eye and stared at the alarm clock a full minute before his brain was able to translate the numbers into something meaningful. For an instant he considered going back to sleep and blowing off whatever he’d had planned for the day—not that he remembered what day it was. But he’d already lost at least one day this week. He didn’t think his surly boss would tolerate another.

A moan ground in his throat when he sat upright. Dizziness swirled when he swung his feet over the side of the bed and set them on the floor. Nausea churned in his gut, but it wasn’t bad enough to send him stumbling to the toilet. That was probably a good thing since he wasn’t sure he could make it anyway.

The good news was his leg wasn’t hurting. At some point during the night, the mangled nerves that ran from ankle to hip had calmed. The cramps had left his muscles sore, but the pain was gone. Definitely something to be thankful for.

The thought of coffee got him through the door. In the hall he staggered, hit his hip on the jamb, and walked unsteadily into the kitchen. He hit the lights, winced at the sudden brightness, and flicked them quickly off. At the counter he began the ritual of making coffee. Water in the reservoir. Grounds in the filter. Once the coffee was brewing, he went to the bathroom to brush his teeth and splash water on his face.

So far, so good. Frank Matrone had survived the night. Five minutes and he was still standing. No pain. No pills. The day was definitely looking up.