“You’re real close to an assault charge here, Keith,” the cop admonished with massive understatement.
Tom marveled at them, caretaking that fucker Angland.
Cops. Buds to the bitter end. He reached back into the shop, swept up the bawling kid, and hugging her before him as a shield, stepped toward Keith. Tingling. It was jazz. He was improvising. He loved it. “Lock him up, he’s a wife beater…”
A moment passed during which Keith made signs he had stopped resisting. “I’ll take Keith back in the house,” the cop said. “You talk to this one.”
Keith muttered but jerked his head in agreement. The cop eased back on the arm and Keith stood up and swatted rusty, frozen pine needles off his overcoat. He turned and walked back to the house with the cop.
The baby stopped crying. Little eyes cranked saucer huge, bulging up at Tom.
Tom grimaced and held the kid at arm’s length. Damn bugged-out eyes annoyed him, so he turned the kid to face away. Kid was a little too cute. His own kids at this age had faces like cold macaroni and cheese. Like Caren. Like Keith.
Even the ex-husband, the Marlboro Man. All of them. They were all somebody.
And this snotty little kid would grow up to be like them.
Should drop-kick the little brat into the lake.
Broker snatched his child back and hugged her close to keep her warm.
Tom held out his hand. “I’m Tom James with the-”
“I know who you are,” snapped Broker. “Where’s Caren?”
Tom appraised Broker at close range. Midforties, 180
pounds packed long and tight into a six-foot frame. His spare face was a study in edges. His black eyebrows grew in a bushy line across his brow and lent a lupine intensity to his gray-green eyes. And hard. Not health club hard or even street hard. Harder than that-working outside in all THE BIG LAW/109
weather hard. And still acting like a cop, because he had that barely concealed cop expression, the physical smirk he and all his cop buddies reserved for civilians and especially for reporters:
The wind reared off the lake, and Broker, who wasn’t wearing a coat, instinctively stepped into the shop. Tom followed him, cleared his throat and said, “I just wanted that moron to know I’m not afraid of him.”
Broker’s gaze did a slow burn over Tom’s face. With his free hand he reached out and thumped Tom on the chest.
“Where’s Caren? Why’d she drive all the way up here with you?”
Tom shook his head. “Uh-uh. Not till he’s gone.”
“How is she? Is she acting strange?” Broker demanded.
“She’s strung out. Who wouldn’t be…”
Broker reached in his pocket and pulled out a plastic bottle with a pharmacy label. He thrust it at Tom. “Keith says she went off these all at once. Which is dangerous. So quit dicking around and
Giving orders. Tom grimaced, hating the authority implicit in the man. He took the pill bottle and turned it in his fingers.
It explained a lot. He jerked his head toward the house.
“What about Angland?”
“That’s the county sheriff in there with him. He’ll escort Keith to the county line and send him home to cool off.”
“You’re going to let him go?”
Broker’s squint was like a beagle sniffing. “Does Caren want to charge him?”
“She…” Tom couldn’t say it. He had come to deliver a message, and now he couldn’t. All he saw, thought, felt, was: the Money. And he liked it, Keith being on the loose…
“She what?” Broker took a step closer. Razor-slit eyes, real skeptical. “What kind of trouble is Keith in? That would send a reporter on a field trip?”
Tom fought for control of his features. “How long will Angland be here?” he muttered.
“That’s up to the sheriff.”
“Okay. I’ll call back, and if he’s gone, I’ll tell you where she is.”
“Who made you stage manager. And who said you could leave,” said Broker. Dead flat voice. Arrogant cop’s eyes.
The baby was still staring at Tom with those X-ray eyes.
Baby cop’s eyes. She squirmed, trying to twist from Broker’s arms, trying to get down. Eyes getting bigger and bigger.
That’s when Tom saw the object of her struggle. A hundred-dollar bill lay on the floor an inch behind Broker’s right boot.
“C’mon, we’re going inside for a little talk,” said Broker turning, moving to the door. Tom dropped to one knee and scooped up the bill. Eyes darting, he checked the floor. Clean.
Rising up, he came level with the damn kid, looking over her father’s shoulder. Saw him take it but she couldn’t do anything about it.
Now the damn kid’s face was beet red, swollen; she was holding her breath. Going out the door, Tom and Broker sensed it at the same time. She was
“Kit!” shouted Broker. Scary fast-this whole other set of scary reflexes kicked in-he hurled her belly-down into his left hand and smacked her hard on the back with his right.
At the third hit, she gasped, coughed and expelled a wad of drool-wadded paper onto the floor.
“What the hell?” Hugging his gasping daughter, Broker stooped. Poked at the expectorated mess. Picked it up.
Tom walked stiffly past him in a controlled panic. All he could think was: have to get out of here. Jesus, right there, Ben Franklin’s smiling face oozed in Broker’s fingers.
The baby, her airway clear, screamed.
Broker, perplexed, concerned for the child, hugging her, shot out his free hand and spun Tom around by the shoulder.
“How the hell did she get this?” he demanded, brandishing the wad of chewed paper. It fell away as Broker’s hand hooked at Tom’s collar.
Tom tried to sidestep. Broker blocked him. Tom tried to run, but Broker closed the distance, tightened his grip on Tom’s collar. Slam. Tom’s back hit the side of the workshop.
He met the suspicion in Broker’s eyes honestly, with a look of trapped hatred. He had the distinct impression it was a face that Broker had seen before.
Guilty of something.
“What’s going on?” Broker demanded; fast eyes, fast study.
His strong hand twisted on the collar, shutting off wind.
The baby screamed. Tom wanted to scream. Then somebody yelled, a hoarse male voice, furniture tipped over; trouble, inside the house. Broker released his grip and turned.
“Don’t move,” he ordered. But he had started to jog toward the sounds of struggle in his home. The second Broker’s back was turned, Tom ran for the car as fast as he could.
21
Broker had to let James go. All hell was breaking loose in his house. Running, hugging Kit, half thinking: Choking.
Really shook him. She was still panting, gagging, trying to catch her breath. The protective instinct fired afterburners more powerful than adrenaline. It was…
Just powerful. So powerful he…
