Trophies (16 page)

"Just checking. Then someone broke in and
tried to search this place, but you ran him off. Then someone
bagged you, but you ran
him
off, then he did his best to run
you
over.
" He paused and sipped. "And even then you
still
didn't—"

"Oh, stuff it."

Sherlock's big goofy presence even then
brought out the playful and freewheeling side of me. Normally I
wouldn't mind that; as Caren had demonstrated, a laugh was good for
the soul and mine needed all the help it could get. But in front of
Patricia, the bantering felt off. It seemed there were chunks of my
personality, as well as my training and inclinations, that I hadn't
permitted her to see. She hadn't known I was a thief and she hadn't
before seen me as Puck, and the frown she repeatedly aimed my way
made her opinion thereof perfectly clear.

Sherlock sipped again, then waved the
sloshing mug in my direction. "So what's with the arm?"

Doctor Caren had bullied me into wearing a
sling on the left, injured side, which was stitched up like a quilt
where the assailant's cosh had split flesh across the top of the
shoulder joint. I'd meant to remove the sling prior to Sherlock's
arrival for this very reason, but misjudged the timing. Now I'd
have to put up with his comments thereon and silently I vowed
vengeance.

"Lacerations and bruising." I knew that
wouldn't fly even as I said it.

His eyes narrowed.

"Surface stuff," I added, not that it would
help.

Sherlock tipped his chair back, stretching
until the holster's bulge below his left arm was obvious beneath
his fatigue shirt, which closed at the top with Velcro to permit
quick draws, although the button-front look remained as a sort of
urban camouflage. He paused in that position, leaning over the back
of the chair and staring at the ceiling as if he'd find patience
there. I knew what was coming and hoped one of the pots fell on
him.

"Lemme guess. No hospital either?"

"Caren is a doctor, you know."

He shot me a look. With his body at that
angle, it seemed even more lopsided than normal.

"I am so sorry I rang you. Why don't I call
the airline and—"

"Ohh-h, no, buddy boy." He laughed and sat
back upright, reaching for his mug. "There ain't no way I'm gonna
go to that camp now, not after I've told Wings Cadal to take over.
I'm gonna have to give him weeks to calm down in any case because
my life is worth more than that, at least to me."

Hah. I actually scored against him. "What
training topic is so horrible it's got you running for cover?"

He grimaced, finished his coffee, took the
mug to the sink, and rinsed it before stowing it in the dishwasher.
Civilized he might not be but at least he was housebroken. "First
things first. Are you going to fall apart or have you been hurt
worse in training?"

Patricia gaped at him and this time his scars
had nothing to do with it.

There were all sorts of possible responses to
that one, but Patty's expectant stare made them stick in my throat.
Besides, the ibuprofen was working. "Something like that. Are you
going to answer my question?"

"Nope. Let's pay Boston's finest a courtesy
call. Ma'am, would you phone and let the detective know we're
coming? Robbie, what did you say his name was?"

The image of Brother Perfect strobed across
my retinas like something I never wanted to see again. "I can't
remember. Something odd."

Halfway to the telephone, Patricia paused and
gave me a disbelieving stare. "Stover Wingate," she said, as if the
name should mean something to me.

I refrained from staring back. I didn't have
a clue what that name was supposed to mean and didn't want to give
her any excuse to tell me. Besides, our mutual pretending was
working, too, and we were getting along fine, at least on the
surface. For now, I was content to leave it that way.

Caren returned just before we left and of
course she took Sherlock's ravaged appearance with a welcoming
smile and not even a blink. She volunteered to stand guard over the
house again. As Patty steadfastly refused to even touch the 9mm or
any other weapon and was therefore useless in such a role, Sherlock
and I talked her into coming with us. She offered to chauffeur, but
Sherlock had rented a Camaro and vetoed her. I didn't argue; with
rearview mirrors, Sherlock could detect a tail within seconds.

"What airline did you fly on?" I took off the
sling once we were in the car and out of Caren's sight.

"Air Force cargo." He started the engine,
listened to it for a moment, then shifted gear. "Why?"

"I just wondered how you got that bulge in
your armpit past civilian airport security, that's all. Someday
you're going to learn to carry something smaller than a Colt
.45."

I didn't hear a sound from Patricia in the
back seat.

"Yeah. Right. That's what Air Force cargo
flights are for, aren't they? To take me wherever I need to go with
whatever armament I want to carry? So let's discuss the
aeronautical abilities of swine."

He braked, paused, then stared at me with
hooded eyes. His cobra stare, we called it, a measuring and
calculating stare guaranteed to hypnotize his prey, feathered or
no. It even worked on those of us who were hardened to it. At that
moment, it told me his difficult questions hadn't yet been
asked.

"Is that nine millimeter the only weapon you
have with you?"

I blinked. That question certainly wasn't
difficult. I wondered when he'd get around to asking those.

"The others are still in the gun case back at
my condo."

"You didn't even bring a spare mag?"

I glared at him. "This hasn't exactly been a
good time for me, you know. And why won't you discuss the training
camp?"

His stare didn't waver. In silence, he
finally reversed out of the drive, around Caren's Volvo and
Patricia's Taurus, and took us into the city. Events, personified
by Sherlock, seemed to be sweeping me along, but because it was
him, it didn't bother me much. Not that I'd ever tell him that.

At the new station, Sherlock showed off his
military ID and his Texas license to carry, checking his heavy
artillery at the door. When he pulled that massive old Gold Cup
M1911A1 from his shoulder holster, Patty's eyes reached soup-plate
proportions. The policeman behind the desk didn't seem much
happier.

In the elevator going up, Sherlock laughed.
"Did you see the look on his face? Does he think all Texans are
gun-totin' outlaws, or what?"

Patty stood on the far side of the elevator
and the stiffness of her expression made it clear she didn't
consider the car large enough. "All the evidence does tend to
confirm that theory."

His smile didn't budge. Granted, he'd
withstood tougher challenges than my favorite mouse and displayed
the scars to prove it. "And here I thought we were getting along
fine."

Brother Perfect, a/k/a Detective Stover
Wingate, waited for us outside his office, arms folded across his
muscled chest. Today he wore tan Dockers and a natural-color linen
shirt with button-down collar that looked too expensive to grace a
cop's torso. His soft leather shoes also seemed pricey. Had he
married money? Did he moonlight at something besides security guard
shifts? Were his credit cards maxed out? I doubted that last,
though. Wingate seemed too self-possessed to fall into the compound
interest trap.

Of course, it was entirely possible he'd come
into his money the same way I was coming into mine: by inheriting
it.

"Detective Wingate." I didn't reach for his
hand; I didn't want to give him the opportunity of making me look
silly. Why I didn't trust him, the way I normally trust anyone who
doesn't immediately aim a gun at me, to this day I don't know.
Perhaps it was because of the niggling thought in the back of my
mind that I'd seen him somewhere before, and from some insane
notion that anyone in any memory of mine couldn't possibly be
trusted.

He didn't reach, either. Nor did he smile.
"Captain Ellandun."

"You remember my cousin, Patricia."

"I do indeed." He smiled.

"And this is my commanding officer, Colonel
Robert Holmes."

Sherlock reached. And smiled. Wingate took a
good look at Sherlock's face, crisscrossed with thin wispy scars
across cheeks and forehead, framed at diagonal corners, top right
and bottom left, with deep puckered ones, and clasped his hand.
Good decision: Sherlock was not a man to irritate for silly
reasons, neither before he got those scars nor after.

Perhaps I'd seen too many bad movies of
police headquarters crammed full of dowdy cops and government
furniture. But Wingate, with his expensive clothing and elegant
voice, certainly didn't fit that image and neither did his office.
Instead of the expected metal desk and grey filing cabinets,
everything was oak, complete to the pen stand and lamp on the
pristine desk. Two of the internal walls weren't half-glass, and
they sported oak-framed art posters for
Aida
and
Don
Giovanni
as performed this season by the Boston Opera, which
I'd seen with Patricia. The effect was soothing, as if we visited
just any office and not one belonging to a police detective, and I
wondered how many suspects Wingate lulled into a false sense of
security and then caught off guard.
Mental note — be
careful.

Two sleek oak chairs, softened by navy blue
cushions on arms as well as backs and seats, waited before the
desk. Sherlock and I stood aside for Patricia, then faced off
momentarily over the second one. But he stood back immediately and
graced the doorjamb instead, until Wingate fetched a folding metal
chair from the outer room.

I understood Sherlock's unspoken message: she
was my aunt; now that he had me here, this was my problem. He
intended to fade into the woodwork — plenty of that available — and
let me handle it.

Thanks, boss.

Wingate settled into the rolling chair behind
his desk, also blue leather and oak. He gave me a moment to touch
the cushion on my own chair — yes, it was leather, too — before
folding his hands. He still wasn't smiling. "Captain Ellandun, it's
good to see you. What can I do for you?"

"Well." Great beginning, just great; what was
there about this man that put me on edge? Besides his perfection,
of course? But I didn't let myself consider that. Instead, I ran a
hand through my hair and launched on the story of yesterday,
beginning with the intruder in the early morning and ending with
the call to Sherlock last night. Without effort, I found myself
skipping over the parts the police might not like, such as our
fruitless search of the house.

On my second sentence, Wingate yanked open
his desk drawer and hauled out a light blue legal pad. Before my
third was complete, he had his pen out of its stand and was
scribbling like mad. He neither interrupted nor asked questions,
just let me talk until I ran out of steam, then added a few lines
of his own to the bottom and slammed the pen down atop the pad.

"Why didn't you call yesterday morning when
this first started?"

He would ask. I shrugged and fought down
rising combativeness. I wore fatigues to match Sherlock's, with
combat boots that were at least presentable; perhaps my clothing
affected me. When one has PTSD and a brain that does strange things
at odd moments, one tends to wonder what causes any notion crossing
that brain.

"I generally want to solve my own problems."
That sounded lame, even to me, even while I said it. "I often
forget there's such a thing as a chain of command that should be
followed."

Wingate stared at me, glanced past me to the
metal chair inhabited by my personal chain of command, the one I'd
just admitted ringing for assistance, then back to me. I felt heat
rise in my face.

Beside me, Patricia shifted. I shot her a
glance — anything to prevent locking eyes with Wingate and
escalating the tension — and received an unhappy shock.

She wasn't looking at me. She watched him.
With bright and hooded eyes.

I followed her gaze and imagined Wingate as
she saw him: perfectly styled wavy hair, clear brown eyes, warm
skin tone, lyric voice, elegant taste—

—and Patricia watching him.

Hell. I was sitting there growing jealous of
the police detective investigating my aunt's murder. Oh, I wanted a
drink, no matter how early it was.

This had to stop. "Look, I'm sorry. I should
have rung you. I didn't. But I'm here now. What do we do?"

He punched a button on his phone. "Margot,
come get this, please." He turned back to me and I wondered if he
felt the flying pheromones, too. "I'll have this typed up while
you're here, then you can read and sign it for the record. I'd like
a look at that house."

Margot, a trim blonde with hair just long
enough to be considered female and a muscular body packed into a
street cop's uniform, took the notes, glanced through them, and
left again without a word.

"Where the Suburban tried to run me over, you
mean?" I asked.

"Well, that, too." He produced another light
blue pad and scribbled as he talked. "We found some fiber samples
in Edith Hunter's car that don't belong there, but until we can
compare them with the rugs and such in her home—"

"Of course," I said. "You know, she drove me
around a lot."

"Then I'd like to collect samples from your
home, as well." He glanced up from the pad, straight into
Patricia's waiting, slightly dreamy gaze. "How about you, ma'am?
Did she chauffeur you, as well?"

"Oh, no," she said, a trifle too sweetly.
"Unlike some people in this family, I actually learned to drive.
Besides, I live — lived with her."

"You lived with Edith Hunter?"

"She was approaching sixty." Patricia's
saccharine vanished. "And widowed."