The Promise He Made Her (14 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“I
T
WOULDN
'
T
BE
a crime if you were, you know.” Chantel was putting the clothes she'd washed and folded in the small duffel she'd carried in from her car.

Sam would be home soon.

Well, home to him. Not to Bloom. To Bloom he'd be back soon. She made certain the distinction was clear in her mind.

On the couch with Lucy beside her, Bloom sipped from the glass of wine she'd poured at dinner. Why she craved the extra relaxation that night in particular she had no idea. But she would rather use a glass of wine as a sleep aid than take anything. After spending six months recovering from what Ken had done to her, she was not going down that road again.

“What wouldn't be a crime?” she asked, starting to feel lethargic enough to face being shut in the bedroom for the rest of the night. And maybe even fall asleep within an hour, instead of sitting up in Sam's bed, against his pillows, listening to him move around in his home.

“If you and Sam—how'd you put it?—if your nightgown and his underwear had contact.”

The image obliterated any relaxation she'd gained. Sexual desire, hot and undeniable, flared in her lower region. Bloom didn't move.

“Of course it would be wrong,” she said aloud, when the alarming sensation didn't immediately subside.

She'd put voice to intention and then it would happen.

“Not really,” Chantel told her. “Being a cop isn't like being a doctor or lawyer. We don't have clients. Or, if you want to look at it that way, everyone, including our spouses, our children, even our parents, are our clients. We are sworn to protect all citizens.”

Yes. Fine. But...

“I can't believe they tell you in the academy that it's okay to get involved with a victim.”

No! Why was she even entertaining the conversation? It was a moot point.

“I met Colin while working undercover. Did you know that?”

“No.”

She'd known that Chantel had been pretty much solely responsible for exposing a corrupt police commissioner. And that she'd been promoted soon afterward.

“I was posing as his girlfriend.” The woman perched on the arm of the couch.

Bloom was enormously interested. Because she was coming to care for Chantel like a friend. No other reason. “And you fell in love with him?” She had to admit, the idea was romantic.

If a bit over the top.

“Not willingly,” Chantel told her. And then shrugged. “As an officer of the law we're sworn to protect the community. We're given a lot of discretion, to determine what needs further investigation, what doesn't. Who to pursue, who not to pursue. A lot of what we do...we have to make split-second decisions that can cost us our lives. You learn to listen to your gut...”

She had Bloom's full attention.

“It's all about integrity,” Chantel said. “If you take advantage of someone for personal gain...you shouldn't be wearing the badge.”

She'd never counseled a cop, but could see where doing so would be interesting. And rewarding...

“We're human beings,” Chantel said. “And we're encouraged to interact socially with those we protect. It builds a sense of trust that allows us to do our jobs to the best of our ability.”

The woman's passion for her job was commendable. Bloom felt lucky to have her on her case.

Lucy inched, one paw at a time, closer to Sam's workmate. Chantel ran a hand along the dog's head and down her back as she said, “It works the other way, too.”

Bloom missed Lucy's warmth.

“We're expected to act with utmost decorum even when we're off duty. But, bottom line, we're human and allowed to have sex just like anyone else.”

Sipping her wine, Bloom kept her thoughts on Chantel. Of what she knew about her. And wanted to know about her and Colin falling in love...

“So, it's like I said, if there
was
something going on between you and Sam...it'd be okay.”

Her hands felt a little unsteady so she set down her wineglass. “There isn't.”

Shrugging again, Chantel continued to pet Lucy. “If you say so.”

Bloom liked the woman, but she was really starting to make her tense.

“Why are you so convinced that something's going on between us?” she asked, taking care to monitor her behavior, as always.

She just had to find out what Chantel was thinking so she could help her see where she'd gone astray.

“I'm paid to be observant.” The dry remark wasn't an answer.

Not one Bloom could work with, anyway. “I don't understand.”

“I haven't worked with Sam, but I know him from afar. I know his reputation. I know how he works his cases. And...every single guy at the station is asking me what's going on.”

Blood sped through her veins. Probably because the wine had thinned it. That's why she felt like every nerve ending was on edge.

“What?” Her throat got tight so she took another sip of wine.

“I know, right?” the woman said. “But I'm not kidding. Sam's not himself on this one.”

“They think he's screwing up?” The horror of such a possibility made her cold. And hot.

“No. You're perfectly safe. Believe me. His dedication to you, to this case...it's personal, is all,” Chantel said, her voice softening. “He's always been great. He's one of the most decorated, respected detectives on the force. But with this case...it's like he's Superman or something. He doesn't quit. Not for a second. Not even long enough to get a beer after work.”

“He normally does that?”

“At least once a week.”

Her first thought was to talk to him about that. To tell him he didn't have to give up his beer nights to babysit her. And then she realized that she wasn't keeping him from his beer. He had all evening to go drink beer if he wanted to. Chantel had the evening shift.

“There's nothing between us,” she said now. And was afraid the words didn't carry the conviction she wanted them to.

“So you don't... I mean... You seem to... You don't like him? Even a little bit?”

“Of course I like him. He's a nice guy. A great guy.”

“But it's no more than that?”

She was a woman who'd promised herself to look deep. To always be honest. In control of her own life. “He saved me.” She didn't know what kind of answer that was, but it was what she came up with.

Chantel was watching her. And looking far too observant.

“In the past,” Bloom explained. “If it wasn't for Sam...I would never have testified. I'd never have been free of the man who has a diabolical need to control me. I might never even have seen that it was going on.”

“So that's it. You don't feel anything personal for him.”

She didn't want to. She knew that for sure. “I'm living in his home. It's natural that I'd be curious.”

Was that why she couldn't sleep at night until she heard him shut his bedroom door and give Lucy a “bed” command?

“Well, just know that he's a good guy,” Chantel said.

“I do know that.” And that had nothing to do with nightgowns. Or... No. She was not going to think of the underwear.

She'd put it back in the washer. And run it through a cycle. So he'd find it as he left it. And if he knew she'd done laundry?

Well...

“Some of the unmarried guys...they talk, of course. Our group is largely male and we're tight. They...you know...it's not unheard of for them to pick up girls. Have a good time. Talk about hot chicks, that kind of thing.”

She watched TV now and then. Got the picture. And didn't think any less of Sam...

“He's not one of them.”

Bloom wasn't sorry to hear that, either. But didn't take it personally.

“Word is he took his divorce pretty hard.”

She knew Sam was divorced. From that conversation in the past when she'd asked him if he'd ever been married.

And if he was still hankering after his ex-wife, that was all the more reason she was glad she wasn't hankering after him.

Now more than ever she had to remain completely aware that her feelings were...a case of transference. Mixed with a bit of hero worship. A victim experiencing a measure of infatuation for her protector. Period.

“He'd kill me for saying this. But Sam...he's decent. Probably the greatest cop I've ever known. And he's...different with you.”

“Whatever you tell me is in total confidence.” She heard her words even as her inner voice screamed,
No!
“I'm a psychiatrist, remember. I'm used to keeping my own counsel.”

The way Chantel was studying her told her she should have said she didn't want to know what she'd been about to say. That Chantel should keep her own counsel on this one.

She wanted to tell Chantel to drop the subject right then and there. She took a sip of wine. And listened as Chantel said, “From what I hear, he took his divorce so hard that he doesn't take dating lightly because of the guilt.”

That got her. “The guilt?” Had his wife died? No, wait. They'd divorced. But...

“He loved the job more than he loved her,” Chantel said. “He's determined not to hurt another woman that way.”

She'd known his job came first. The reminder was critical.

Everything inside Bloom shut down.

Kenneth's driving force had been his professional reputation. The admiration and respect he had in his field. It was his identity, and she'd gotten in the way of that.

“I understand,” she said, when she could. She took her wineglass to the kitchen, dumped it out and put it in the dishwasher.

“I don't think you do.” Chantel was close behind her.

Bloom hadn't heard her approach.

“With you, it's like...his guard's down. I don't know. I just... You're a special woman, Bloom. What you've been through...the way you've helped yourself, and how you help others. Sam...he's like that, too. Anyway...I just wanted you to know. If something was going on between you two, I'm happy for you. And here...if you need to talk.”

Bloom looked at her. Wanting to say something. Coming up with nothing.

Grabbing her keys from the table, Chantel said, “He'll be here any minute. I'll wait outside.”

Bloom wanted to call the woman back. Chantel had never left the house before Sam got home. And Bloom figured she thought she'd said too much. She didn't want Chantel to feel uncomfortable.

She didn't want there to be anything between her and Sam.

She didn't want Kenneth—or anyone—after her.

Saying good-night to Lucy, Bloom headed to the room she was borrowing, telling herself that one out of three was better than none.

At least there was nothing between her and Sam.

And to prove it, she'd be asleep before she heard him say, “Bed.”

She almost succeeded.

 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

O
N
T
UESDAY
ONE
of the beat cops who was carrying around their female guard impersonator photo checked in to say he'd had a positive hit. A woman at a local convenience store recognized the suspect.

“Was she there last Friday?” Sam asked, instantly alert as he took down the address.

“No.”

“No?”

“It was Wednesday of last week,” the man said.

“She was sure.”

“Positive, sir. She was off Thursday and Friday. And remembers it was Wednesday because that's Powerball day and she bought a ticket, saying she hoped it brought her luck. The woman remembered her because of the uniform. She wore it with the bottom button undone, just like in the picture.

“The clerk remembered hoping her luck would help keep her safe on the job, rather than wasting it on the lottery. She was afraid I was asking about her because something bad had happened.”

“You assured her otherwise?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good work, MacMillon,” he said, and hung up.

He paid the woman a visit himself when he went out to grab a sandwich and learned exactly what his officer had.

Obviously the woman who'd posed as a guard was local.

Question was, was she really a guard? Or was the uniform just part of her attempt to get at Bloom? Bigger question—who'd hired her?

Back at the station, he started searching private security companies in the area. Phoning them this time instead of relying on the Santa Raquel Police Department's extensive databases.

He faxed the picture. He emailed it. He worked all evening, quitting only with enough time to get home before Chantel was off.

He left no stone unturned.

And ended up with nothing.

* * *

T
UESDAY
MELDED
INTO
W
EDNESDAY
. Sam worked a missing person's case Wednesday morning at the request of the captain. A three-year-old child not from the area had been at the beach with his family and disappeared.

As it turned out the boy had just wandered off and was found asleep under a bench leaning up against a closed hot dog shack a quarter of a mile up from where his parents had last seen him.

By noon, Sam was back looking at computer screens. There were some similarities in names. A couple of times when Freelander had been at a restaurant and receipts showed that another man had also been there.

Looking at other places Freelander had also been, he found no evidence of the other man. But he drove to LA Wednesday afternoon to show him Freelander's picture, ask if he knew him. And to show around the photo of the female guard impersonator. All to no avail.

He was fifteen minutes from his exit when Chantel called.

“You're going to want to pick her up from work,” his coworker said without preamble. No names mentioned. He had twenty or so minutes to get there.

Turning on the bubble inside his unmarked car, he sped up.

“Okay. Why?”

“She just called. She was served today.”

Shit.

“She tell you how the order read?”

“Only that it was a show cause hearing set for a week from today.”

“Here or in LA?”

“Here. The decree was issued here as this is where Bloom was living at the time of the divorce. And it's still her current address.”

Her address was with him. Bloom wasn't fighting by herself anymore.

Her address was still her home. As evidenced by the number of times he, or one of the guys, had collected her mail for her. She was with him temporarily.

And Sam had best not forget that fact. Not for a second. He exited the freeway at fifteen miles over the speed limit.

“Still no other contact from Freelander? He hasn't texted again?”

“Nope.”

“I'm almost there,” he said, vowing silently that he would be focused only on the case, not the victim, from there on out.

* * *

B
LOOM
WAS
SURPRISED
to see Sam waiting for her after work. She'd been picturing her and Chantel at home with a glass of wine. Time to deal with the day's event.

Instead, the man who was still keeping her up until he settled in for the night was there, at the bottom of the steps, as she walked out the door.

“Where's Chantel?”

“Colin's home tonight.”

Then Bloom was glad the detective had called for backup.

“I thought we'd drop off one car and then head out for something to eat.” He surprised her further.

“Just you and me? Going out?” When she said it like that it sounded like...more than she'd intended.

But the idea sounded good. Really good.

“I figured I'd drive and you could drown your sorrows,” he said, as plain-voiced as if they were discussing which guard was on duty down below.

“She told you.”

Bloom wasn't surprised. The detectives kept in constant report with each other when it came to Bloom. She'd expect as much.

“Yes.”

She was glad. She'd wanted him to know. And hadn't wanted to talk about it. Chantel had saved her the trouble.

“Dinner out sounds great,” she said as they split to get in their respective cars. She was always in the lead these days, with a detective behind her.

Protecting her back.

Something she was trying desperately not to get used to.

* * *

T
HE
PUB
HE
took her to was no place like anyplace she'd ever been before. There were a few scarred dark wooden tables, a long bar and pool tables.

The place was filled with people who obviously knew Sam. Many of them nodded when he came in. As they made their way past the bar and a couple of “Nice to see you here, sirs,” a group of two guys and a woman stood and let Sam and Bloom have their table.

“I didn't even know a place like this existed in Santa Raquel,” she said. She hadn't seen a name out front.

“It's private. Law enforcement and their families and guests only. Run by a couple of retired cops.”

So this was where he came for that beer he'd been skipping lately? “Won't they think it odd, you coming here with me?”

Wouldn't it start gossip he'd neither want nor need?

Sam passed her the menu—a single laminated sheet.

“Most everyone here knows who you are,” he said. “A good many of them have been passing around the photo of the fake guard. They're curious. This way they know who they're watching out for without making a big deal about it.”

She supposed he made sense. Kind of. While she was a bit uncomfortable, as though she was on stage under lights, she also felt...welcome. And safe.

And that was when she figured out what he was doing.

“You want me to know that Ken's not just going up against me. That I'm not fighting him alone this time.”

He motioned for the waitress. Nodded at someone behind her. He didn't look at Bloom, nor did he reply.

* * *

“H
E
FILED
A
motion to vacate the decree. The hearing is his chance to show cause to do so. It's also my chance to present my side to the judge. To convince him that there is no just cause for vacating.”

Sam heard every word she said, in spite of the raucous laughter and uninhibited conversation going on around them. He generally liked the noise, the feeling of letting go of the responsibility of watching out for others for a few hours with others who understood. And were doing the same.

Off-duty cops weren't in public when they gathered together in that loud and sometimes smoky room at night. They could let go. Be themselves.

Until one of them brought someone who was not part of the brotherhood in to have dinner.

The room was loud. It was nothing compared to what it usually was at nine o'clock at night.

Not that anyone seemed to be complaining. More than the drinking, the letting loose, they had each other's backs...

“Did you hear me?” She'd raised her voice a notch. He nodded.

He filed a motion to vacate the decree. The hearing is his chance to show cause to do so. It's also my chance to present my side to the judge. To convince him that there is no just cause for vacating
, she'd said.

He felt like he'd read her lips. Like he could hear her even when she was silent.

Impatient for the beer he'd ordered, and the wine she probably needed, he looked around for Bots, the woman who'd moved from the commissary kitchen at the station when Thornton and Wager had retired and opened the place.

He'd recommended the pulled pork. She'd ordered hers without the bun. And with coleslaw. His was coming fully dressed with fries.

Bloom's hands left the table. He could tell the way her shoulders and body had moved that she was sitting on them. Or at least on her fingertips.

He'd brought her there to make her feel safe and cared for. Not uncomfortable.

He just didn't know what to do to make the court hearing go her way. He wasn't a lawyer.

“You need to hire an attorney,” he said, his words following his thoughts. And then realized how dumb that sounded. She had a divorce attorney.

“I've already talked to her.”

Of course she had.

He was beginning to feel like a junior officer trying to play with the big boys.

“She said that it would help if you came with me. If you testified.”

He liked the sound of that.

Finally, Bots arrived with their drinks. The soul of discretion, she delivered them with only an under-the-brow look at his companion and an “enjoy” before leaving them alone.

“Kenneth can't be tried in criminal court, but we can present any evidence we have separate and apart from the prosecutor's office in a civil case.” Bloom was frowning.

Her testimony had won the criminal case. That and the medical expert's testimony. He'd come up short.

And the expert witness record had been expunged.

Even if they wanted to, there was no way to get such a testimony now, two years later. No time, either.

They could show her medical records...

“Without you it would be just my word against his. In divorce court where women accuse men of horrible things every day. And he's quite convincing...”

“So are you.” His gaze was maybe a little too direct, but the point was critical.

She nodded.

“I'll be there, Bloom. You know that. I'll do anything I can.”

He wanted to take her hand.

And reached for his beer instead.

* * *

T
HEY
'
D
TAKEN
HIS
SUV and Bloom would have liked to close her eyes on the way home. To fall asleep out there in no-man's-land, on the move with Sam. She sat up, watching the sleepy streets of a town she loved, not wanting to miss a second of his company.

But only because he was one of the few people in her life who knew what was going on. She hadn't told her friends in LA. A couple of them had been wives of Kenneth's friends, too. And the others...sorority sisters...she wasn't going to drag them into this mess.

Lila knew. And the people at The Lemonade Stand. Because she'd missed her weekly session there—she went as a survivor, not a counselor—and had opted not to put out her guard detail for an hour she could afford to miss.

And people at work knew. Because there was a guard in the building.

She supposed anyone who read the news carefully and figured out dates or looked up records might know. Banyon's cases had been thrown out. It wasn't impossible to figure out which cases those were.

No one had called her about it and none of her clients had mentioned it, thankfully. “You never talk about yourself,” she said as he made a turn and took the long way home, driving along the coast road rather than through town.

“I'm the detective on your case. Nothing else to tell.” His voice had changed. She detected a note of...defensiveness?

Because of his divorce? Because, due to his guilt, it was a sore spot with him?

Always the counselor, she wanted to know. To help.

You want to help because you care about him.

She did not appreciate the interruption. And was sure that for once her inner voice had it all wrong.

And, anyway, of course she cared. She cared about all of her patients. Only difference was...Sam wasn't her patient.