-: Moving Violations :-


		-Moving Violations-	By Miriam Pace	Published by Awe-Struck E-Books	Copyright ©1999	ISBN: 1-928670-0-8				This book is-	For my husband, Parker Pace, who has supported me for twenty-eight years through thick and thin with laughter and love.	For my son, Jeffries Pace, who didn't mind when he spoke to me and realized I wasn't listening to him, but to the voices in my head.	For my daughter, Miriam M. Stein, who brings me such joy and a new son-in-law, Peter.	And lastly, for my mother, Miriam L. Gast, who helps me with my line edits. Without you, Mom, a lot of words would be misspelled.[Table]	Chapter One	
Jessica Savage maneuvered her motorized wheelchair through the maze of partitioned cubicles filling the cavernous office. A pile of legal briefs balanced precariously on her lap. Her wrist hurt as she held files steady with one hand while pressing the lever governing motor speed and direction of the chair with the other. A tendril of short black hair fell across her forehead. She blew upward to force it out of her eyes.	
"Here's your mail, Jess," Randall Maxfield yelled as she passed his desk. He tossed her a stack of envelopes secured in a rubber band. His elbow brushed a pile of paper that cascaded toward the floor.	
Jess caught her mail. "If you did your filing, your desk wouldn't be such a disaster area." Randall grinned.	
She motored through the door to her office. The name Jessica Savage was discreetly stenciled in one corner of the glass inset in the doorframe. She had worked hard for her law degree and harder still as a prosecuting attorney in the District Attorney's Office for Orange County, California.	
She glanced through her mail, stiffening at the sight of a long, white envelope, her name typed in capital letters on the surface. Handling the envelope by the edges, she carefully slit open the flap, and with thumb and forefinger carefully removed a single sheet of paper.	
'Bang! Bang! You're dead,' was spelled out in large letters clumsily cut from a glossy magazine. The letters, different sizes and colors, radiated menace and hostility.	
Jess' heart raced. Her breathing accelerated. A chill of terror, so intense, engulfed her till she thought she would scream. Closing her eyes against frightening images super-imposed over her vision, she took a deep breath to calm herself. Slowly, the panicked clenching in her chest eased.	
"Jess?" Randall Maxfield leaned against the doorframe, a frown on his square, bulldog shaped face. "Is that another threatening letter?"	
Jess nodded. Over the years, she'd received a number of threats, but none so horrifying as these. For the last month, the letters had appeared in the mail every few days. New threats added to old, each one a reminder that someone stalked her.	
At first, Jess had ignored the letters, but as they continued she began to fear them. Each one sent a bolt of terror through her so strong she'd come to dread the simple delivery of her mail.	
She struggled to control her voice. "I'd better call the police. Again."	
The Orange County Sheriff's Department hadn't been able to do much. After analyzing the letters, cut from popular magazines and glued on paper sold at any stationery store, the cops had shrugged. The envelope, neatly typed on a typewriter identified as an old electric Smith Corona, had no fingerprints except those smudges left by the postal department and Jess. The stalker left no clues to give Jess hope that his, or her, identity might be discovered and the reign of terror ended.	
"I just wish I knew why," Jess said.	
"We all get threats, Jess. They're part of our job description. The cops will get this jerk."	
"I hope so."	
Randall left, shouldering past a secretary with yellow legal pads clutched to her bosom.	
A man entered her office. He was tall and thin with a crooked mouth, sloping brown eyes and neatly trimmed red hair curling damply around his face as though he'd just gotten out of the shower.	
"Mrs. Savage?" Tight-fitting black jeans hugged his thighs. Jess slid the briefs to her desk. Her office was tiny. Storage boxes piled neatly in the corners made the room seem even smaller. Windows overlooked the street. One wall held bookcases, the sagging shelves stuffed with the large legal tomes constituting every lawyers' library.	
"I'm Jessica Savage," she said. "No one has called me Mrs. in a long time." Jessica's marriage had lasted five wonderful months. She'd expected the months to stretch into years and then decades. A drunk driver had ended the dream. Peter had died. Jessica had ended up in a chair.	
"Excuse me, Ms. Savage."	
"What can I do for you?" She lifted her chin. Defiance had become a part of her life. Aware of his assessing gaze and the way he frowned at her chair, she knew he wondered if she were competent. The general public seemed to think a physical handicap equaled a mental one. Jessica bristled.	
One side of his mouth tilted slightly up in a wry smile. "I'm Sergeant Will McCready of the Sheriff's Department. My friends call me Mac." He flipped open his ID for her to look at, gripping it with callused hands, the fingernails neatly trimmed.	
She glanced at the ID, reassured he was indeed who he said he was. He looked older, harder than the photo which stated his age as thirty-seven. He'd seen a lot of life since he'd last posed for a picture. She detected a haunted edge to his eyes, and a careworn, dispirited droop to his expressive mouth. Life had not been kind to Will McReady.	
Jess said, "I'm not a friend." A more detailed study of him showed a faint bulge under one arm of his jacket--a holstered handgun.	
Jess didn't like guns. She had seen the results of uncontrolled gun possession too often to have any sympathy with NRA idealistic narrow-mindedness.	
Mac laughed, low and raw like a sore throat mixed with smoker's cough. "I didn't mean to suggest you are. I hope we can be, though. Friends, that is."	
"Maybe."	
His face was cool, stoical as though trying to decide how to respond to her handicapped status.	
He settled for politeness. "May I sit down?" He glanced around for a chair.	
Jess's office was usually neat, with papers filed, and folders returned to the file drawers. Recently, the stacks had gotten out of control, occupying every available surface, especially now when she had so many cases to juggle and too many distractions. She fretted over the lack of order. Her office wasn't messy, but the extreme tidiness she craved was currently missing and the clutter made her feel claustrophobic. The government thrived on paperwork; results seemed secondary.	
"Just put those files on that table." Jess pointed at an empty spot near window. She leaned back in her chair, waiting for him to reveal his purpose.	
Jess had learned long ago to wait. Her husband had been a man who had revealed himself to her slowly, like an onion peeled layer by layer. Something about this man reminded Jess of Peter, soft-spoken and gentle--a man at odds with his profession.	
"I've been assigned your case." He settled down gingerly, stretching long legs out in front of him, hands resting lightly on the chair's arms. He flexed his fingers. He studied her as though trying to decide if he liked her.	
Jess opened a side drawer and pulled out a clear plastic bag. Gently, she dropped threatening note and envelope into the bag, sealed it, and handed it to Sergeant McCready. "Here's an addition for your collection."	
Cautiously, he accepted the bag and glanced at the letter, his frown increasing. Faint wrinkles fanned the edges of his eyes. "We've got quite a file started on this guy. I'm deeply sorry, Mrs. Savage. I know how frightened you must be feeling." His gaze flickered over her chair, the chrome chassis catching the light of the sun and reflecting it back, refracted against the walls.	
"Sometimes I'm more angry than frightened, Sergeant. What I really want is for you to catch him, or her. I sometimes think it's a woman." Jess swept her hand at the note in the evidence bag. She hated the way this unknown individual made her feel vulnerable and helpless, a Peeping Tom interfering with her life, creating invisible barriers that kept her isolated and alone.	
"That's why I'm here. The order came down from on high." He raised his eyebrows at her and looked skyward, the names of the 'powers that be' left unmentioned. "You've been given top priority. I'm assigned to you for the next week or two to see if we can figure out who's writing you these nasty notes."	
"You mean you have no idea yet," Jess said caustically. "Your people went through my files weeks ago." They'd turned her life upside down and inside out looking for clues and made a mess, too.	
Sergeant McCready flushed, then offered her a disarming smile. "You've been with the D.A.'s office for six, seven years. You've tried a lot of cases and made quite a few enemies. The Department has been following up on what they found and narrowed their leads to three possibilities."	
"Only three!" Exhausted, the adrenaline rush ended, she slumped.	
He opened a briefcase, put the evidence bag inside and drew out a manila folder. "Do you remember Alphonse Piaget?"	
Jess remembered and shuddered at the hatred the man had aimed at her when she'd successfully won a conviction.	
Sgt. McCready continued, his eyes moving over the folder's contents. "He escaped from the Men's Colony in San Luis Obispo two days ago and is still at large."	
"I've been receiving these letters for nearly a month." Jess frowned. "The prison authorities wouldn't just let him mail them from prison. Don't they monitor the inmates mail?"	
He ran his hand through his hair. "Yes they do, but Alphonse could have gotten someone else to compose the letters and mail them."	
"How did he escape?"	
"Apparently he walked right out the front door and disappeared. Prison authorities think he had someone waiting for him. He publicly threatened you in court, in front of two dozen witnesses, making him a prime suspect."	
Jess felt the blood drain from her face. "Pray tell me how did a dangerous criminal like Alphonse walk out of the front door of a maximum security prison?" Tension crawled along her spine.	
McReady slid a finger around the inside of his collar. "Prison authorities are still investigating."	
"Our tax dollars at work," Jess replied wryly.	
Alphonse Piaget had been a minor Mafia don in training who had dabbled in drugs, prostitution, and extortion. Alphonse had threatened her loudly and violently the day the guilty verdict had been announced by the jury foreman. At his sentencing, he'd screamed obscenities and vowed revenge. Jess had refused to be intimidated. She'd changed her mind since then.	
She clutched the edge of her desk remembering the way he'd fought the bailiffs to get to her.	
"Who else?" Jess rubbed her temples. The beginnings of a headache rooted itself in her brain.	
News like this, she didn't need. Could the day start over? She had a game on her computer she played in the night when tortured memories wouldn't let her sleep. The command 'restore' allowed her to restart the game from the last place she'd saved it--a useful tool in a role playing game when the adventuring characters tended to die a lot. Sometimes Jess let them die, just for the satisfaction. Only in the game, the characters were automatically resurrected, not like real life where the dead stayed dead.	
McCready consulted his file. "The second suspect is Doris DeVille. She was released from Corona's Institution for Women four months ago. Her parole officer, Carlos Moralis, says she failed to check in as per the agreement for her release."	
"I don't remember Doris DeVille." She searched her memory for a clue, a face, a case, or a personality. Nothing came to her. After a few years, the faces merged into one; their cases became distant memories that only surfaced in nightmares.	
In a flat voice, Mac said, "She killed her brother."	
Dimly, a face popped into Jess's mind. Since she'd started receiving the letters, she'd been going over her own case files. She shook her head at McCready, the familiar tug of face and name eluding her.	
"She carved a heart on her brother's chest and castrated him before finally stabbing him thirteen times in the neck, lungs and stomach." McCready gazed at her hopefully.	
"I remember now." In her mind's eye, she saw a petite woman with limp blonde hair, pale blue eyes and a smile so sweet even Jess had trouble believing Doris had committed murder. But the facts revealed told a gruesome story of years of molestation and abuse by the brother--a legacy inherited from the father after he'd abandoned the family. "And the third suspect?"	
"Terrence Liang was accused of raping a Santa Ana woman. He claimed innocence even though the woman identified him in a line-up. Even I'll admit the evidence was pretty circumstantial. We didn't have the DNA testing and other advances then that we do today in rape cases. He was pretty angry about the accusation and conviction. He, also, has ties to a San Francisco based Triad that's heavily involved in a Colombian drug cartel."	
Jess nodded. "And psychological warfare is his style. The victim almost didn't testify because of anonymous death threats to her family and herself." She remembered a hard-faced Chinese-American male who'd sat next to his attorney staring at Jess the whole time. Behind him had sat a group of dark-suited Asian men. They had looked like respectable businessmen despite the anonymity of their mirrored sunglasses. They, too, had watched Jess, their faces pointed at her, as though their shared anger would make her stumble. The evidence hadn't been that circumstantial, fibers taken from the woman's clothes had matched a jacket belonging to Liang.	
Mac tossed photos of the suspects onto the desk. "Threats that Liang used to scare the witness were similar in content to the letters you've been receiving."	
She gazed at the photos, two men and a woman. Doris DeVille looked sweet and innocent, her eyes half-closed, a dreamy smile on her lips. Except for the ID number across the bottom of the photo, she could have been posing for her high-school graduation portrait.	
Alphonse looked tired and drawn, but the arrogant smile on his lips hinted at things better left unknown. Liang looked like a slick and sleazy snake despite an expensive business suit and a half-smile on full, sensual lips.	
These then were the three--an unholy trio--one of whom may want Jess dead, or at least, terrorized out of her mind. "I hope these people don't know where I live."	
"Have you received any mail directly to your home?" Mac looked tired.	
"No."	
"Then this person," He held up the letter encased in the plastic bag, "probably doesn't know where you live ... yet." He rubbed the side of his face. "But all of them know where you work and following you home would be easy to do."	
"I can't move." Jess had spent two years remodeling her home for her particular requirements. She couldn't leave no matter how frightened she was.	
Mac shook his head. "The Department doesn't expect you to move. We do recognize your special needs." He looked pained as he spoke, as though admitting her handicapped status upset him.	
She had that effect on people. Mostly they tried to ignore her disability, acting as though she were normal. But Jess wasn't normal. A mangled spinal cord and partially paralyzed legs were the results of her encounter with the drunk driver. She should have died with Peter. Peter haunted her, a reminder of unkept promises and a derailed future.	
She thought of Peter, his ashes residing in an urn, the remains of a once, vital man, lover and friend. An acute wave of loneliness swept over her.	
Jess swiveled her chair around to stare out the window. On the street, traffic moved sluggishly. A Federal Express delivery van parked in a No Parking zone. A Santa Ana cop stood next to the van writing out a ticket while trying not to admire the trim legs of a woman walking toward the bus stop. A ragged woman pushing a shopping cart picked up an aluminum can from the gutter.	
Jess ran her hands down the outside of her thighs. Once her legs had been admired for their shapely slenderness. Now they simply looked skinny. No matter how much time she spent at physical therapy working with weights, or swimming in her pool forcing them into limited movement, she had been unable to retain the muscle structure.	
She'd never be the same again. What man would be interested enough in her to see beyond her physical limitations? Who would be willing to take a chance on a relationship that would be difficult at best? Because she had no answer to these questions, she had begun to avoid men, refusing to become involved. Even the possibility of a relationship sent her scurrying for the privacy of her home.	
A long, lonely future stretched ahead of her. She was thirty-two years old, and if the statistics could be believed, she had lived approximately two-fifths of her life. The remaining three-fifths appeared to be an endless sequence of pointless days and empty nights.	
"Why you?" She glanced at him over the crown of her shoulder. He sat neatly framed between a bookcase and a pile of storage boxes, all clearly labeled and precisely aligned.	
He shrugged. "I'm available." He offered no other explanation.	
Something in the way he looked at her, then away, prompted Jess to say, "If we're going to work together, I need a better answer than that." She turned back to her desk.	
He masked a startled look, a hint of wary vulnerability moving across his face and then vanishing. "I'm on medical leave from the Department. I can be spared. My primary assignment is to keep you safe and alive."	
"I don't need a bodyguard."	
"Maybe not, but your physical condition leaves you open to attack. And my bosses think the danger to you is real."	
Outside the office, the din of clicking keyboards, talking secretaries and law clerks, slamming drawers, and laughter reached out to her. She felt isolated from the usual merriment that lightened the grim reality of the District Attorney's office.	
Since her accident, people avoided her as though she were somehow contagious, a social pariah made offensive by the fact that the level of her eyesight went no higher than their belt buckle. She made people feel uncomfortable and guilty because they were normal.	
"Okay," Jess said with a long, drawn out breath, "If you're going to be my bodyguard, you're going to be a working one."	
For a second, he looked surprised. "You don't expect me to file, do you?" He glanced quickly around the room. "It looks too much like my own office. Though I'll admit, this is a lot neater."	
Jess laughed. "I wouldn't ask anyone to do something I couldn't do myself. I don't like clutter, but I've had other things on my mind." She rifled through a pile of files, pulling out three and flipping the top one open. "I'm a lawyer. You're a cop. What better combination?" She held the folder out to him. "I want to talk to this woman."	
He glanced over the file. "You want me to go get her?"	
"No, we'll go to her home." Jess gave Mac a sweet smile. "You can drive, can't you?"	
"There's a catch, isn't there?" He looked cautiously at her as though expecting her to bite.	
"You mean you don't know how to drive?" She gave him an innocent look. A smile tugged at her lips and for the first time in a month she felt the smallest ray of hope that he would be the person who would help her solve the identity of the stalker.	
"I know how to drive."	
Jess grinned. She led the way out of her office, skirting the cubicles. He opened the door to the hall and she skimmed through it, the motor on her chair whirring as she raced toward the elevator. Let him think what he wanted. He'd know soon enough that driving her van was not easily accomplished.	***	
When Will McCready accepted the assignment to watch over Jessica Savage, he'd known she was confined to a wheelchair. The question would be how he could keep her safe. He'd seen her around the courthouse, her lap piled with files, a tote bag and briefcase hanging from the sides of the chair.	
Having never worked with her before, several of his fellow cops had delighted in telling him she was tough, unrelenting and remorseless.Ê They warned him not to get in her way, or she would chop his legs off at the knees. He decided he would be safe as long as she stopped at the knees.	
She was as an impassioned, fiery lawyer. Especially hard on drunk drivers, pushing for maximum sentencing. Mac understood her obsession since the drunk driver who had put her in the chair and killed her husband had been given a slap on the wrist--six month's community service and time served despite the fact that the drunk driving conviction had been his fourth.	
A year later, the same man killed a little girl, running over her while she rode a tricycle on the sidewalk. Public outcry had finally put him in jail, convicted of manslaughter. Not soon enough for Jess, or her husband.	
Mac hadn't expected the sense of vulnerability, the wounded look in her eyes when she caught him studying her. Despite the chair, she was an alluring woman, and he wanted to touch her, to smooth away the lines of exhaustion that rimmed her mouth and fanned out from the corners of her eyes. Her green eyes were shrewd and intelligent and when she looked at him, he felt as though she looked directly into his soul.	
He liked the way she looked, businesslike in a plum-colored suit with a bright fuchsia blouse that added color to her pale cheeks. Black hair, cut short in an easy care style, framed her oval face, emphasizing the roguish glint in her eyes as she raced down the hall toward the elevator, glancing over her shoulder at him as though silently daring him to keep up. She was impertinent and bold, and he liked those qualities in her.	
Something stirred in him, something tender and watchful. She zigged and zagged, narrowly avoiding people, forcing them out of her way. He found himself admiring her. He had been assigned to protect her and protect her he would, but for the moment what she really needed was a cop to direct traffic.	
Outside the building, hot California air pressed in on him like a huge fist squeezing his chest. The summer was turning into a scorcher made even hotter by the ceaseless Santa Ana winds which blew in from the desert, and the long drought which left the vegetation tinder dry. His skin itched and he fought the desire to scratch.	
He shaded his eyes and saw a tower of smoke rising above the peaks of the Santa Ana Mountains to the west. The fire had been burning for days casting a pall of black smoke and hot cinders over the county. Even the air smelled singed. The hot, dry Santa Ana winds blew in his face, stirring palm fronds into elaborate dances.	
Drawing deep breaths into his lungs, he paused. Each breath hurt slightly, and he felt a tight pull across the right side of his chest where his guts were no longer in the order and positions he'd been born with. He slowed while Jess surged onward, crossing the courtyard toward the parking structure.	
A homeless man approached Mac. Mac fumbled in his pocket for the one-dollar fast food coupons he kept. He handed the man a coupon. "Get yourself a meal."	
The man pulled at a lock of stringy, greasy hair. He smelled of cheap whiskey and dirt. He gave Mac a disgusted look, crumpled up the coupon and tossed it on the ground. He shuffled away shaking his head.	
Mac sprinted after Jess, catching up with her as she ascended the ramp the led into the parking structure. She approached a van, one hand held outstretched, a remote security device tucked against her palm. She pressed a button; the car chirped twice, the security system disarmed.	
"It was stolen last year," she explained as she slid open the side door.	
The van, a three-year-old Chevy, was outfitted with an electric platform that folded out and descended to the ground. She rolled her chair onto the platform and it raised her to the floor level of the van.	
Mac opened the passenger door and looked in. "You want me to drive?" He eyed the hand controls dubiously. He now understood her teasing when she'd asked if he could drive. He grinned.	
Jess laughed. "I'll drive." She moved her chair between the driver's seat and the passenger seat, set the brakes, and removed the left armrest. She slid into the driver's seat. She hooked a hand beneath each knee and swung her legs into position beneath the steering wheel. "Don't forget your seatbelt." An impish grin spread across her face as she turned the key in the ignition.	
For a second he felt disarmed. Despite the crude male jokes about women drivers, he had long ago discovered women were better drivers than most men. They seemed more capable of judging dangerous situations on the road and avoiding them, and understanding what other drivers thought. Mac sat back, reassured at her ability, as she backed out of the parking space.	
His restful moment lasted ten seconds. Jess darted out into traffic. Mac grabbed the overhead handrail.	
Behind the wheel, Jess was as dynamic as she was in her chair. She merrily honked at cars that didn't move fast enough to suit her. She changed lanes with impunity and kept looking at him as though expecting him to say something.	
"You look a little apprehensive." Her wry laugh filled the van.	
Did this woman have a death wish? Or was this her way of coping with the tragedy of her husband's death. She had a strange look on her face as though daring other drivers to hit her.	
Mac shook his head. "I keep thinking that we're both officers of the court, and you've already broken at least a dozen traffic laws." He held on to the overhead bar, feeling as though he were in a high-speed chase and about to get bumped out the door. "How do you keep from getting tickets?"	
"I pout," she said with a gleeful grin. She braked at a red light and turned to him, her face suddenly assuming the most compelling, plaintive pout he'd ever seen. "I'm lost, Officer. Can you direct me to Pacific Coast Highway? I think I'm going in the wrong direction."	
Mac felt a awkward lurch in the area of his heart at the sight of her woeful face. He burst out laughing. "Does your act work?" He could see that it would. Jess' pretty eyes and little girl look could probably talk her out of anything. And her obvious disability would cause any number of cops to let her off with a sympathetic warning.	
The light changed to green and Jess gunned the motor. The van jumped forward. "Most of the time." She turned north onto Glassell, passing a truck, the driver glaring at her as she swerved into the other lane and then back, cutting him off.	
"Have you always driven like a maniac?" Mac waved at the truck driver to indicate no hard feelings.	
Her face changed for a second, looking haunted and weary. "Not always."	Mac fell silent. He understood the ghosts that haunted her. He had a few himself.	
North of Katella, she turned into a aging residential section of middle-class houses, clones of each other except for surface paint and yard landscaping. "What's the address?" Jess slowed to let two small school children, a boy and a girl dressed in private school uniforms, cross the street.	
Mac glanced at the file on the dashboard. "8909 Riverside."	
She braked to a stop in front of a two-story house with a bike parked on the lawn, an abandoned doll on the sidewalk, and a broken window next to the door taped over with gray fabric tape. The house had a general air of forlorn neglect amplified by peeling paint and torn screens. The lawn hadn't been mowed in weeks. Patches of grass had turned brown and a few drought resistant weeds rose high into the air.	
Mac stepped out of the van. He checked his shoulder harness, easing the pistol off a tender spot under his arm. He hadn't worn his gun in a long time and the old grooves where the shoulder harness used to fit snugly had disappeared.	
Jess shifted into her chair. She replaced the armrest and released the brakes.	
Mac wanted to help, but knew she would refuse. Her pride would never allow her to accept anyone's pity. Despite the vibrancy of her personality, he detected a dark, bitter side--a bitterness matching his own.	
"There's a step," he said as they approached the porch. Inside the front window, the drape moved. He thought he saw the shadow of a hand.	
"Do you think I can't manage one step?" Jess said in a challenging voice.	
"I didn't think...." He looked away embarrassed. A friend of his father's had lost his legs in Korea and his Japanese wife had pushed him everywhere, catering to his every need acting more like a servant than a wife.	
Jess pulled the tote bag into her lap and drew out two triangular blocks about six inches wide and ten inches on the hypotenuse. "Instant ramps." She dropped them on the ground at the edge of the steps, positioning them to match the track of each wheel and with a flashing grin motored up them backward. "Hopefully no kids will come along and steal them."	
Mac had never known such fierce independence in anyone before. His ex-wife had clung so fiercely to him that her dependency had set his teeth on edge. She'd questioned him constantly about his friends, whereabouts, habits. When he was gone, she'd complained about feeling abandoned. When he was home, she would act as though nothing he did could make up for his time away. He loved Gwen, but couldn't prevent relief when she'd asked for a divorce. The divorce had been amicable. With no children to fight over, they had managed to become better friends afterward than before. She had blamed the job. He had blamed her lack of understanding.	
Jess punched the doorbell with an insistent finger. For a moment nothing happened. Mac leaned toward the door listening, feeling someone inside, someone afraid.	
"Mrs. Santiago," Jess called in a low, carrying voice, "I saw you at the window. Please, open the door. All I want to do is talk."	
Mac glanced up and down the street. The neighborhood was quiet, the houses looking blank and empty. Bars covered the front windows of most of the houses. Several had patches of different colored paint on the clapboard fronts, an attempt to obliterate gang sign and destructive taggers who nightly scrawled their initials everywhere. He sensed silent desperation behind the facades.	
A car drove slowly past, turning on the next street. A woman opened her front door to retrieve her mail. A dog barked, and a flutter of birds settled in a eucalyptus tree.	
Jess rapped on the door. "Please, Mrs. Santiago. This will only take a moment."	
The dead bolt snapped and the door swung open slowly. A woman peeked out, the hall behind her dark and gloomy.	
"Mrs. Santiago," Jess said in a soft, patient voice. "Do you remember me? I'm Ms. Savage from the District Attorney's office."	
"I talked to you on the phone." Maria Santiago opened the door wider. Dark brown hair fell over her face, partially hiding a bruised eye.	
"This is my companion, Mr. McCready. May we come in?" She glanced at Mac, a warning in her eyes. If Mrs. Santiago knew he was a cop, she'd never let them in.	
She swung the door fully open and stepped back. Jess maneuvered over the threshold and entered the house. Mac followed.	
The interior of the house was hot and close, yet neat and tidy. The rich essence of pepper and garlic hung in the air. Maria Santiago was a petite woman wearing faded jeans beneath an oversized blouse that barely concealed the rounded curve of pregnancy. She led the way into a shabby living room and sat down on an old sofa with sun-faded fabric.	
On the wall hung a picture of Mrs. Santiago in a wedding dress, a optimistic smile on her elfin face. Next to the wedding picture was another one of her in a hospital gown holding a brand new baby in her arms. The smile was less optimistic, and shadows hovered in her pale brown eyes.	
Jess braked her chair and leaned forward hands on her knees. "You sounded frightened on the phone this morning, Mrs. Santiago. Has your husband threatened you?"	
Mrs. Santiago shook her head in a violent negative. "Emilio is a good man." Her flying hair revealed a bruise near the hair line. Mac saw another bruise on her upper arm beneath the edge of her sleeve. The unknown Emilio Santiago fueled a dull anger. No one, man or woman, should be treated like a punching bag. With all his years on the force, the cases of domestic violence had been the most tragic and affected Mac deeply. What he saw in Maria Santiago was a woman strung tight and tense like a bow string. Despite the claims of her husband's goodness, she looked like a cornered rabbit--quivery, afraid and defeated.	
"You had him arrested for hurting you." Jess' voice was soft and gentle, her face alive with sympathy. Even Mac responded to the sincerity in her face. A different Jess rose from the depths of her hard-edged exterior.	
"He promises he will not hurt me again." She looked out the window, searching the street, terror lurking in her eyes. "Emilio loves me." She looked hopeful as though saying the words would make them true. "He told me so. He promises...." Her voice broke to a whimper. "He promised."	
Mac leaned against the wall. Behind him he heard a muted giggle, and when he glanced up the stairs he saw two little girls. The oldest, maybe five, peered at him from between the stair rails. From the open door of a room, he heard the soft cry of a baby and then silence.	
Jess said softly, "He broke your jaw, Mrs. Santiago. If you don't testify telling all the things he's done to you, he'll be free to continue doing them."	
"I cannot testify against my husband. My duty as his wife forbids this. And Father Reynaldo at St. Anthony's says ... I am Emilio's wife. It is my duty to stand by him. God will change him."	
Jess' eyes narrowed and her lips thinned. She reached for Maria's hand.	
Maria stared at the floor, her face twisted with agony. Tears dripped from the corners of her eyes. "Emilio loves me. He is good to me." She swung her arm around to indicate the room. "I have a nice home. In Puerto Rico, I lived in a shack with my mama and my seven brothers and sisters. Mama says I am lucky to have a man so good to me." She tangled her hands in the hem of her blouse and repeated, "Mama says I am so lucky. Father Reynaldo says I am lucky. So I must be lucky." Her eyes pleaded with them for understanding. "Besides, where would I go?"	
Trapped in a violent marriage thousands of miles away from the support of her family, Mac knew he could do nothing even if she accepted his help. As a uniformed cop before his promotion to detective, he responded to hundreds of domestic calls similar to this one. Each one had left him aching with sympathy for each woman unable to get away from the violence.	
He never quite got over the tragedy of these women's lives. At first, he'd tried to help, but so few of them accepted help. Their confidence undermined through years of violence, they felt they deserved such treatment. After awhile, he'd quit trying, seeking a neutral distance that would allow him to go home at night and sleep.	
"Mrs. Santiago," Mac said. Maybe she would be different and accept his help. He thought of his parents and the wonderful passion they'd shared for over thirty-five years. How would his mother react in this situation? She would probably fight back with a frying pan. "Ms. Savage and I can arrange for you to get into a shelter where you'll be safe, where you'll get help and your husband won't hurt you." Or the children, he added silently. Had she given any thought to the children? Men who beat their wives frequently progressed to the children. Did she realize the danger to them?	
Maria Santiago stood, searching for a pathetic dignity. She smoothed her blouse down over her abdomen. "You must leave. If Emilio found you here, he would be angry. He promises me he will be better." She led the way to the front door and opened it. "Please. I am sorry. I must have faith. God will protect me. Fr. Reynaldo promises me this."	
With a shrug of her shoulders, Jess released the brake on her chair. She wheeled around and headed for the door, the motor whirring.	
"Mrs. Santiago," Mac said softly. She ignored him. He could understand her reluctance to trust him. He was, after all, a man. She shook her head at him, looking away, distrust in her face, in the rigid way she held her small body.	
Before leaving, Jess tried one more time to get the woman to change her mind, but Mrs. Santiago refused to listen. She covered her ears like a child, her eyes enormous pools of pain in her small face.	
Jess opened her purse and took out a gold card case the initials JS engraved on the top. She snapped the case open and wrote something on the back of her business card. She handed the business card to Mrs. Santiago. "That's my home phone number. If you change your mind about the shelter, or if you need someone to just listen, or talk to, give me a call. I usually get home from work around six-thirty."	
After guiding her chair down the blocks, she retrieved them and tucked them back into her tote bag.	
Mrs. Santiago looked closely at the card, turning it over several times. "You are very kind, Ms. Savage. Mr. McCready. I am so very sorry." She pocketed the card, then closed the door, snapping the deadbolt, barricading herself once more from the world.	
As Mac turned, an old gray Chevy blighted by rust rammed into the driveway. A man got out, his face twisted with anger. He approached Mac and Jess, fury etched in his face. The man was short and squat with a straggly beard and limp brown hair. His clothes, wrinkled and worn, looked like they'd been bought at the Salvation Army.	
"Stay away from my wife," the man shouted, weaving amidst the floating stink of bourbon and beer. He balled his hands into fists and shook them at Jess.	
"Good morning, Mr. Santiago." Jess tossed a disinterested glance at Emilio Santiago. She didn't like him, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing. She drew car keys from her tote bag.	
"Do you hear me, you bitch?" Santiago's voice rose. He rushed at Jess. Mac grabbed him, fastening his arms around the man's chest. "Stay away from my family if you know what's good for you." Emilio Santiago was small, but strong. Mac locked his hands tightly while Santiago struggled and grunted, trying to get loose.	
"Let me introduce you to my bodyguard, Mr. Santiago," Jess said. "I would be delighted to have you threaten me, or do bodily harm, because Sgt. McCready is a cop. So please, do something really foolish so I can have you arrested and put in jail again. I guarantee you the bail won't be so easily met this time."	
Santiago's face was puffed, blotched with fury and alcohol. "I don't like people interfering with my family. This is my home. I got rights. You stay away from my family, or...."	
"Or what? Have me arrested? Take a punch at me?" Jess smiled knowing she incited him. "Are you afraid you're human punching bag will escape?"	
At the next-door house, a curtain moved. A fight certainly generated interest on this little street, Jess thought wryly.	
Santiago fought against Mac's pincher squeeze. "Keep on struggling, buddy," he said, "I can haul you in for a half-dozen violations already."	
"Let him go, Mac." Jess waved Mac away. "I want to give Mr. Santiago plenty of opportunity to assault me." Mac released Santiago who stood with feet apart, looking confused.	
"Just stay away from my wife." Santiago shook a fist at Jess and then stomped up the sidewalk toward the front door, flinging himself across the threshold with such force, the screen door slammed against the brick facade with a hollow clang and bounced open again.	
"I can arrest him," Mac said, rubbing his bruised hands.	
"Forget it. He'll only take his anger out on his wife."	
"He already does that."	
Jess gave him a sad look. "But he hasn't been convicted of any crime. Don't you remember that even known criminals are innocent until proven guilty?"	
"Yeah." Mac moved his shoulders. "He's pretty strong."	
"Mrs. Santiago probably thinks so, too." Jess slid open the side door of the van and reached for the lever that lowered the platform. She glanced back at the house. Mac opened the passenger door and got in, lowering the window.	
The front door opened and Mrs. Santiago ran out, casting a fearful glance back at the door.	
"Are you all right?" Mrs. Santiago sounded panicked and unsure.	
Jess sighed. "I'm fine, Mrs. Santiago."	
"He really is a good man, Mrs. Savage." Tears tracked down her cheeks. "Don't judge him so harshly. He provides well for me and the children. He just drinks a little. Father Reynaldo says I must be more understanding, more patient." She whirled around and ran back up the walk to the house.	
Mac sighed. Understanding! Didn't the clergyman realize the danger? Probably not. They weren't trained in crisis intervention. He felt a gnawing anger at the type of man Emilio Santiago was.	
"I don't think you should have given her your home phone number," Mac said.	
Jess slid into the driver's seat. She fastened her seatbelt and rested her hands on the steering wheel. Biting her lip in a pensive gesture, she glanced back at the Santiago house. "She's a good woman, Mac, doing the best she can. She needs a sense of hope. We all need hope."	
She turned on the ignition, gunned the engine, did a U-turn in the middle of the block and took off down the street, turning back onto Glassell.	
"When we get back," Mac said, "how about driving lessons on this thing."	
"If you want."	
"I want. Now, I don't know about you, but I'm starting to feel hungry." In answer to his comment, his stomach growled.	
"What time is it?"	
He glanced at his watch. "Almost two."	
Jess nodded. "I know this great Mexican place on Katella that serves the best taco salad I've ever had."	
Mac studied her. She was so thin, he wondered if she lived on salads and otherwise socially acceptable, healthy food that he would never even try. Give him a pizza every time. "I like that little Cuban restaurant in the circle. Have you ever eaten there?"	
"Is that the one with the sidewalk dining?"	
Mac smiled. "That's the one." The restaurant advertised authentic Cuban food. He had no idea if the food was authentic, but he liked it.	
Jess nosed the van around a pokey Toyota. She ran a yellow light and in minutes she'd parked and grinned at him. "Lunch is served."	
"I'm still waiting for my stomach to catch up." Mac opened the door and descended, grateful to be back on the ground and all in one piece. This lady was full of surprises. But then again, why not? She'd already faced death and lost to it. She probably used her vehicle as a test, probing her limits, pushing against the edges of her life because the adrenaline high proved she was still alive even if half her body wasn't.	
In his own way, Mac did understand. Why else had he become a cop if not to experience that same adrenaline rush?	
He jammed his hands in his pockets. An ache began to build under his ribs. He waited for Jess to activate the security system, then he removed a chair from one of the tables for Jess and sat down on the opposite side.	
"Lunch first," he said when she eased up to the table. "Then driving lessons."	
"Are you sure you want to learn to drive my van."	
"I'm insuring I'll live long enough to celebrate my next birthday."	
She laughed and he grinned in response. Her laughter eased the tension in her face. Mac admired her face with its vivid green eyes. Silently, he vowed to keep her safe, or die trying.[Two]["../../../../../Desktop%20Folder/MV.html#Table"]	Chapter Two	
Jess lived on a quiet, residential street a few blocks from Main Street. The houses, all older bungalows, had been built in the early fifties. Most boasted large yards and detached garages. Jess and her husband had purchased the bungalow two weeks before their wedding and had moved in a month later filled with plans and dreams.	
Their plans never materialized. Jess never thought about her dreams anymore. Every time she entered her home, she could still feel the optimism that had fueled her and Peter's decision to buy this particular house over all the others they had looked at.	
After a lifetime of Navy posts, strange schools and an absentee father, Jess relished owning her own home. The bungalow gave her life a feeling of permanence and Peter Savage had given her security. No matter how large loomed the menace to her life, she wouldn't leave. This house was her last remaining tie to her husband, and her punishment for being alive while he was dead.	
She parked in the garage, locked the van and then locked the garage. A year ago, her van had been stolen. With her van gone, she'd been helpless, a feeling she'd hated. After it's recovery, she'd been extra careful, determined never to feel defenseless again. She'd fitted both the van and the garage with extra security alarms that alerted the police station after 30 seconds if she didn't punch in her private code.	
The security firm had tried to talk her into wiring her home, too, but Jess decided against it. She didn't want to live in a fortress ruled by paranoia. Possessions in her house were more easily replaced than her van which needed to be specially equipped with the wheelchair lift and hand controls.	
She guided her chair through the back yard skirting a long, narrow pool built for swimming laps. Blue water reflected the sky, looking cool and inviting. She usually began and ended each day with a swim, one of the few pleasures left to her. Using a specially designed flotation device, swimming provided her with enough exercise to keep her body toned and her legs from looking like atrophied sticks.	
Special ramps, front and back, gave her easy access to her home. She unlocked the kitchen and entered. The house was cool, the air conditioning timed to go on at 6:00 during the summer so the house would be comfortable when she arrived home.	
She placed her briefcase on a desk, tucked away in an unused storage space under the attic stairs, and headed for the master bedroom. The doorbell rang, and Jess opened the front door to find Mac standing on the porch.	
"Hi." He dropped a duffel bag on the floor. He carried a cat carrier under one arm and a backpack over the other.	
"What are you doing here?" Jess demanded, not certain if she felt glad to see him or annoyed. Everything about him shouted danger, and yet she had to admit while they'd been out visiting Mrs. Santiago, he'd made her feel safe and secure.	
"I'm your bodyguard, remember."	
"Not here, you're not." Jess tried to block him with her chair. He sidestepped her, setting the animal carrier on the floor. A loud, unhappy meow issued from the inside the cage.	
Mac glanced around the house, prowling through the living room, taking in Jess' white and blue striped furniture with a critical look that left her feeling piqued.	
"Is your house all white?" he asked. "Is it always this neat?"	
"It's blue and white," Jess replied tersely, "and I like a neat home."	
She was proud of her home, remodeled to accommodate her limited physical range and decorated in easy care fabrics. The floors were bleached birch, the slipcovers on the sofa and chair white and blue, and the curtains a pure white gauze that could be washed and hung up to dry wrinkle-free on the rods situated only halfway up the window. She'd spent most of the insurance money and half her widow's pension creating a house she could live in and easily care for without hiring professional help.	
"Then you won't mind Scooter." He unlatched the cage and a pure white, shorthaired cat exited, looking regal and aloof. The cat gazed at Jess with haughty green eyes. Mac petted her. "Her name's Scooter. And actually, she's an 'it.' I couldn't leave her home alone. She sheds a little, but her fur will blend in." He gave another disparaging glance at her furniture.	
Jess had never in her life had a pet. Her only foray into the joys of the animal kingdom had been a turtle when she'd been eight. The turtle had died after six weeks and her mother had refused to replace it. Even though Jess had hungered for an animal companion through her chaotic childhood, she'd made do with a stuffed Panda given her by a Chinese diplomat when her father had briefly visited the American embassy in Hong Kong.	
"Cats scratch." Jess eyed the animal warily.	
"Not Scooter. I found her abandoned outside my door one day about four years ago. She'd already been declawed." Mac went down the hall opening doors and glancing into the rooms. "Do you live alone?" He reached the last door at the end of the hall and tried the handle. The door was locked and Jess had no intention of opening it. She folded her arms over her chest and stared at him.	
"Yes, I live alone." Jess followed him. The cat trotted along behind her. When she stopped, the animal sniffed her feet and the wheels of her chair and then jumped gracefully into her lap. Jess stared at the cat, startled by the friendly purr and the gentle kneading of clawless paws.	
"What's in this room?" Mac jiggled the knob of a locked door.	
"Storage," Jess snapped. The cat gently butted Jess' chin with an insistent nose. Jess automatically petted the soft, smooth head. She noticed a raw patch behind one ear. The animal ducked her head when Jess tried to examine the patch. "What's wrong with Scooter's ear."	
"Ear mites." Digging into a pocket he pulled out a small, white plastic bottle which he held out to her. "Medication. She's on her second go-round; the ear mites don't have a chance." He re-pocketed the bottle. His Reeboks squeaked on the tile floor of the kitchen as he entered.	
Removing his jacket, he slung it over a chair creating an untidy, black blotch against the pristine whiteness. Patches of sweat radiated downward from beneath the shoulder harness. The pistol was a dark splotch against the beige cotton of his shirt. He flexed his shoulder muscles as he opened the back door and looked out.	
Like the inside, Jess had created an easy care yard of drought resistant ground cover plants, and lots of concrete. A lattice patio cover shaded the yard. A row of red and orange bougainvilleas, draped over a chain link fence, divided her yard from her neighbor's. A hedge of box elder hid a chain link fence at the very back of the yard. Jess and Peter had planted that hedge, and now five years later it had matured into a vibrant green screen.	
Mac stepped out onto the porch, moving with the same graceful precision as his cat. He walked around the yard, peering under bushes and staring at the street. Jess watched him turn the door handle to the garage, admiring the feline grace of his walk and chiding herself. She didn't need him here. He would disrupt the careful orderliness of her life.	
Jess' house sat on a corner, the house facing one way, the garage the intersecting street. Despite the annoyance of the extra traffic, she liked the feel of spaciousness the corner lot gave her.	
"What are you looking for?" Jess asked when Mac returned to the kitchen after prowling the perimeter of the yard. He'd looked at everything, even sniffing the air with the same intensity as his cat. Any criminal on the prowl would be well-advised to stay away from her home.	
"Just checking out the floor plan and lay of the land."	
Jess opened the refrigerator and pulled out a diet soda. "You don't really believe anyone would be so foolish as to try to kill me, do you?"	
Mac shrugged. "I don't think you can take chances with your life. Got any beer?"	
"No."	
He peered into the refrigerator and frowned, his mouth twisting in distaste. He had an expressive mouth that gave away nothing and everything. "All you have in here is healthy stuff." He held up a piece of celery and looked at it with contempt before returning it. "Don't you ever eat junk food? Good stuff like McDonald's hamburgers? Taco Bell's tacos? Steak? French fries? Spaghetti?"	
"You didn't answer my question."	
Mac sat down at the table and spread his large hands over the tablecloth. "All right, you want the facts. Alphonse Piaget repeated his threats in prison. He thinks you ruined his business, Jess, and he's not the type of man who's likely to forget."	
"I didn't ruin anything. He got caught. And his slick Beverly Hills lawyer couldn't do a thing about the conviction considering the strength of the evidence and the witnesses." A strong chill of fear moved through her. At the time of the sentencing, she'd felt a deep thrill of triumph. She'd managed to remove a dangerous man from society. Was her action now coming back to haunt her?	
"You pressed for maximum sentencing and got it." Mac drummed his fingers on the table, frowning. "In Alphonse's mind, you're the one who ruined him. He's going to try to hurt you as badly as you hurt him. I didn't say he is motivated by logic. He's ruled by emotion, and his feelings tell him that you're at fault.	
'Terrence Liang believed he was above the law. He has as strong a motive as Alphonse for threatening you. Besides vindictive and angry, he has a powerful connection to the Asian Triads in San Francisco, and they weren't too pleased either with his conviction. He also repeated his threats in prison."	
"And Doris DeVille?" Jess asked.	
"Doris is a strange one. She doesn't quite fit the mold with the others, yet she was angry at you, too. She felt she'd done what she had to do to be free of her brother and you should have understood her better. She was known to make angry remarks against you while in prison. You also insisted on psychiatric counseling and she felt nothing was wrong with her. The psychiatrist believes she transferred her aggressive anger from her brother to you."	
"Poor Doris." Jess glanced down at her legs. "As though she, or anyone else, can do more damage than this." A memory of screaming metal filled her mind. The impact still jolted her. Glass shattered. Blood covered her face and hands. Peter lay on the street torn out of the seatbelt restraints. The drunk driver of the other car walked away without a scratch. Trapped in the wreckage, she couldn't move, couldn't get to Peter. Jess pushed the memory away. She would live with the sounds of the accident for the rest of her life.	
"Any of them could kill you," Mac said gently reaching out to her, brushing her hand.	
She jerked back, imagining electric sparks arcing between them. She stared at her hand. She hadn't been attracted to any man since Peter's death.	
She'd been living a half-life for five years--half a marriage, half a woman, half a person. She tried to make up for her lack in her work, but not even her job could drive away the loneliness, the awkwardness of being incomplete in marriage and in life.	
The phone rang. Jess reached for the cordless phone she kept in a pouch hanging from the side of her chair. "Hello, Mom," she said when she activated the receiver.	
"How did you know it was me?" Her Mom, Tootsie Barklay, had a bright, sunny voice that reflected an optimistic personality and a zest for life Jess wished she could tap into.	
"You always call at seven, whether I'm home or not." Jess half-smiled. Tootsie Barklay's concern had led her to sell her house in Laguna Beach and move to Orange, buying a house two blocks away from Jess, in order to help out during her recovery. Even though Jess had learned to be independent again, her mother had a hard time accepting it. Tootsie wanted Jess to live with her. Jess refused, needing her independence and the self-respect she worked so hard to attain.	
"Did you find my casserole?" her mother said cheerfully, "I left your favorite, tuna and vegetable with shell pasta, in the refrigerator."	
"Thank you, Mom." Jess smiled. Her mother had been born over-protective. Jess frequently wished she weren't an only child. Her mother's attention was focused exclusively on her, and Jess found the thoughtfulness annoying, at times. Her father had died seventeen years ago, and Tootsie had worked hard to make up for the lack of a father during Jess' innocent teen years.	
Tootsie scolded, "Is everything all right? You sound a little edgy, dear."	
"I'm going to the bathroom." Mac stood, his chair squeaking across the floor.	
Jess nodded. "Everything's fine, Mom."	
"Did I hear a man's voice, Jess?"	
"Yes, Mom, you did."	
"How wonderful." Tootsie shouted with such exuberance, Jess held the phone away from her ear for a second to let the sound waves dissipate. "Is he nice? When can I meet him? Do you like him? Is he good-looking? Wait till I tell Gram Reston."	
"He's a pain in the ass, Mom. And don't you dare tell Gram anything." Jess loved her Grandmother Reston, who at nearly eighty years old still thought no woman was complete without a man. And she should know, she'd been married five times, twice to the same man and had fought and clawed her way to a successful career in the movies during the 30s and 40s.	
A moment's silence at the other end of the phone allowed Jess to hear Mac's dry chuckle as he closed the bathroom door.	
"Well," her mother sounded dubious, "if you don't like him, why have him over? And I'll have to tell Gram something. She called to tell me she's leaving Monterey tomorrow and will be here in a few days."	
"Mac's my babysitter, Mom." Jess didn't intend to tell her mother that, but the words fell out of her mouth unintentionally. She considered what she should say to her Grandmother. She had a few days. Gram didn't fly, or take the train, she drove everywhere, or rather her chauffeur did, in a long black limousine with all the comforts of home in the back including a sofa which became a bed, a mini-sized kitchen and a well-stocked bar. Gram could live in her limo and never miss the comforts of her Monterey mansion.	
"I don't understand, Jess." Panic and fear. "Did something happen at work today? I told you that you should have taken a nice safe job with your Uncle Samuel's firm in Cleveland. Why do you subject yourself to criminals when you could have had a nice, cushy position in corporate law?"	
Jess rushed to soothe her mother's alarm. "Don't worry, Mom. The whole thing will blow over soon."	
"But what happened?"	
"Nothing important, Mom. I'm quite safe. Mac's a cop. I'll be fine." Jess sipped her soda.	
"I can come and stay with you for a few days." Tootsie sounded hopeful. "Gram could stay in my house."	
"No, Mom. I've got to go. I'll talk to you tomorrow." Jess determinedly disconnected and switched off the phone. Mac returned to the kitchen.	
"She sounds like my kind of Mom." He opened the refrigerator again and started pulling out plastic storage containers and tossing them on the counter.	
"You listened." Jess accused.	
"The door's thin." He grinned at her as he flipped open the lids, bending over slightly to accommodate the lower counters. The cat jumped out of Jess' lap and onto the counter. Mac gently put her on the floor with a firm no and a tap on her black nose. He returned to the refrigerator and removed the tuna casserole, his lips pulled back in dismay. "What is this? It looks awful." He gave an experimental sniff under the aluminum cover. "It smells awful."	
"Mom's tuna casserole." Jess felt a swell of laughter. If her mother could have seen Mac's face, she would have been upset for a week. Tootsie wasn't the greatest cook around, but she was energetic in her approach. Tuna and pasta was one of her tamer creations. Jess had been the recipient of her mother's experimental attempts at cooking since childhood.	
Mac was definitely not impressed. He sniffed again and with a grimace, scooped a couple spoonfuls into a bowl and set the bowl on the floor for the cat. "Scooter will eat anything." In agreement, Scooter dived into the food, her tiny mouth acting like a vacuum cleaner as she sucked up the casserole, then sat back to lick her whiskers with dainty, feline gestures and a loud, satisfied purr.	
"And you?" Jess asked, too aware of his solid presence in her kitchen. He was so vibrant and alive, his masculinity a vivid counterpoint to her kitchen, which seemed so antiseptic in comparison.	
"I'll eat most anything, but not this. What do you want for dinner?" He studied the array of food on the counter. "I suppose you'll insist on something healthy." He held up a container of yogurt.	
"Anything is fine with me as long as it's not pizza."	
"But pizza·" Mac objected.	
"No pizza."	
"I'll see what I can do." Mac closed the refrigerator with a snap. He opened a cabinet and found a bottle of blush wine. "Perfect. Now go away and let me work."	
Jess stared at him. A man who cooked! Not even her husband had cooked. Peter had been raised on Burger King and McDonald's by a mother whose idea of nutrition was to open a box of macaroni and cheese and toss in leftover meat.	
Jess left Mac for her bedroom where she struggled out of her suit and into a brightly colored caftan. She brushed her hair until the black strands gleamed and with an amused grin, applied lipstick and a dab of perfume behind her ears. Maybe the perfume was too much, she thought. He wouldn't care how she smelled. Staring at herself critically in the full length mirror attached to the bathroom door, she saw a woman who looked fearful and edgy, face drawn with tension and body stiff with strain.	
Then she sat for a few minutes thinking about what to do with her Grandmother. Gram never stayed with Tootsie when in Los Angeles, but with Jess, having decided early on that Jess lived a boring life and needed to have some excitement added. Excitement gravitated to Gram. Though Jess loved her deeply, she would have to stay with Tootsie or at a hotel.[Three]["../../../../../Desktop%20Folder/MV.html#Table"]	Chapter Three	
"No pizza," Mac told the cat as he sifted through the food on the counter, returning the yogurt to the refrigerator. He had sliced carrots, a dozen eggs, a bundle of fresh spinach, a few slices of sandwich ham, cheese, tomato and a sweet onion.	
Mac McCready was a California boy, born and bred. He'd grown up in Long Beach less than a dozen blocks from the ocean and spent most of his adolescence surfing and bumming on the beach. He'd attended Cal State Long Beach majoring in social work and graduated Summa Cum Laude before applying to the prestigious Orange County Sheriff's Academy, following in the footsteps of his father, a thirty-year veteran of the San Pedro Police Department.	
Mac liked to cook. He'd been raised in a large, Italian-Irish family with both parents fighting over who controlled the kitchen. His parents finally solved their problem by remodeling the kitchen with two of everything and a line down the center dividing it. On one side of the kitchen, Mac had learned flamboyant Italian fare, on the other he'd learned how to cook like an Irishman and down his Guiness in one gulp.	
He'd grown up with wild, exuberant parents who'd blended their colorful personalities into a strong, passionate marriage that had produced five sons of which Mac was the eldest.	
He wondered what Jess' childhood had been like. Probably lonely. He'd read she'd been an only child, and if the food selection in the refrigerator was an indication, she was probably a clone of her mother, despite the guarded conversation he'd overheard.	
He glanced around the colorless kitchen. How could he create a masterpiece in such a sterile, subdued environment? He worried that Jess Savage lacked red blood cells. He searched through all the cabinets and couldn't find one decent bottle of Chianti.	
She was a little too cool for him, but he loved a challenge. He wanted to mess up this house, to add color and personality, to give it life, in the same way he wanted to awaken the passion in its owner. A passion, he sensed, subdued by too many years alone and too many years of being unable to trust. She was moody and private and he wanted to crack open her shell and let the real Jessica Savage emerge.	
Surprised at himself, he paused to look out the kitchen window at the lengthening shadows in the garden. A mockingbird sat on a tree limb. A tiger-striped cat, contemplating the bird, prowled below, tail swishing.	
Jessica Savage was like a sleeping princess, cool and remote. The only passion he'd seen in her had been at Mrs. Santiago's home. Did she save all her feeling for her job? He glanced around the white kitchen again. He understood the need to make her life simple, but being confined to a wheelchair didn't mean she had to give up on life, to pass up the chance to love, to live.	
What would his mother do? He pictured his mother, a round, solid woman with snapping black eyes and a wild tangle of black hair forming a nimbus around her face. She'd make Jess want to live again. But how? He pondered the question while he studied the food selection available to him for dinner.	
"Tomorrow, or the next day," he told the cat, "we shop and talk to Mama. Mama will know what to do." Mac knew what to do, too, but he wasn't certain that immediate seduction would work with Ms. Jessica Savage. He added more casserole to Scooter's dish.	
Scooter eyed her tuna casserole, a sprig of broccoli on one whisker. Delicately, a pink tongue reached out and scooped away the green. Mac bent over and stroked the cat's head. She arched her back and rubbed against his leg. The rumble of her purr drifted over him. Before Scooter had come into his life, he'd always thought himself a dog person. He'd had a Golden Retriever as a child, a big affectionate klutz of a dog Mac had loved with all the passion of a ten year old.	
He'd always pictured a dog in his life, but his ex-wife had disliked animals. And then Scooter had appeared at his door during a furious rain storm--wet, bedraggled and limping. He'd taken her into his heart and into his home and never once regretted it.	
He studied the collection of food a moment more, then began planning a culinary something that would tempt the antiseptic appetite of a very lovely woman.	
He settled on a quiche, assembling it quickly. While the oven heated, Mac went through the house again, memorizing the floor plan, the furniture placement.	
The layout was simple. The front door opened into a tiled foyer with the living room/kitchen on the right and the master suite on the left. Beyond the master suite was the guest bath, then a bedroom. Beyond it, stairs led to the attic bedrooms. Jess had done extensive remodeling, tearing down the walls between living room, dining room and kitchen. The original central hallway had been left intact but was only a half wall now with balustrades from chair rail height to the ceiling defining the wall, yet opening it.	
Mac paused at the locked door wondering where Jess would hide a key. He found it dangling from a cork board that attached to the side of the refrigerator with magnets. His job was to protect Jess and he needed to know what the locked room contained.	
Opening the door and flipping on the light, he found a small room with a crib, diaper table and rocking chair. A stuffed teddy bear sat in the chair, button eyes staring at him accusingly. The room was decorated in red, white and blue. A strip of wallpaper with the alphabet on it marched in a sedate line around the perimeter. Startled, realizing he'd poked into her private life, he wondered what the revelation meant.	
The stuffed bear held a red silk flower in one paw. Had Jess kept this room as a reminder of lost chances, of babies who would never be born, or as a memorial to something else? Possibly a baby newly conceived and dead along with her husband?	
He smelled her perfume before she spoke and felt ashamed to be caught prying into her secrets. He should have been more sensitive, but his duty to protect her outweighed everything even locked doors. She was turning out to be a more complex person than he'd originally thought.	
"Now that you've pried," Jess said from the doorway, her tone caustic, her eyes snapping with anger, "please close the door and relock it."	
Mac turned out the light. "Sorry," he said, disconcerted that he'd invaded her privacy. He replaced the key. He wanted to ask for an explanation, but he sensed a pain deep in the depths of her green eyes. "What's upstairs?"	
"Why not look for yourself? You seem to be an accomplished snoop."	
Mac flinched. He deserved that dig. "I apologize for my rudeness. I'm a cop and insatiable curiosity goes with my job description. Someone says 'locked room' to me and I have to have a look. I had only your welfare in mind."	
She'd turned icy and cold, refusing to look at him as she wheeled herself back into the kitchen. "Let's get a few things straight. You don't own me, or have any rights over me. I may look helpless, but I'm not. I have resources you know nothing about."	
"Do you have a handgun in the house?"	
She looked startled. "In my dresser."	
"Under the lingerie?" He grinned, having never known a woman yet who didn't keep a gun in that exact spot.	
"No," she said with a hard look, "the oil stains my underwear. It's in the top drawer in a locked case."	
"A lot of good a gun does you when it's locked up."	
"It belonged to my husband." She gave him a haughty glare. "I don't believe in having guns around."	
"Then why didn't you get rid of it?"	
Hesitation crossed her face and she looked down at her hands. "You didn't know my husband, did you?"	
Slowly a thought dawned on him. Considering her job, the only people she'd socialize with would be other lawyers, judges and probably cops. He'd never thought to find out anything about her husband. He must have been quite a guy if she still mourned him after five years. "Your husband was a cop?"	
At the briefing, Mac had simply been given Xerox copies of the threatening letters, copies of only certain portions of Jessica Savage's life, and the files of the three suspects. He did remember seeing the name, Peter Savage, Arresting Officer, somewhere but the relationship between Jess and the man had never clicked into place.	
She nodded. "Long Beach PD, Narcotics Division. In a way you could say that Alphonse Piaget was responsible for our meeting--a criminal matchmaking maven." Her mood grew sad and distant. She glanced out the window toward the garden, eyes clouded, mouth pulled into an expression of grief mixed with anger. "Peter was the arresting officer. He'd been undercover in Alphonse Piaget's organization for six months."	
Mac didn't know what to say. He was guilty not only of inappropriate behavior, but of digging up old memories that hurt her. He understood about old memories. He had a few painful ones himself. Memories he'd been trying to deal with for a long time now. He said, "I've managed to offend you in almost every aspect of your life. Have I left anything out?" He grinned trying to lighten the mood.	
Suddenly she laughed, an edge of hysteria adding a shrillness to her tone that worried him. "My mother."	
"Give me time." He returned to the kitchen, checked the oven and slid the quiche inside. "I just wanted to know the layout of the house. I didn't mean to intrude."	
"You're forgiven."	
While the quiche baked, Mac unpacked his suitcase and duffel bag in the second floor spare bedroom. He put his clothes away in the dresser and set a stack of books on the bedside table. Mac liked Westerns. He'd been introduced to them in seventh grade by his Mom who'd understood his need to escape the large rambunctious family he'd been born into.	
Mac enjoyed Luke Short and Louis L'Amour. The American West had been a time of simple values and easily identified good and evil. Mac wished the present day was as uncomplicated. He went back to the kitchen.	
The phone rang and Jess grabbed her cordless from the tote at her side. "Hello." she listened for a moment. "Hello, is anyone there? Mother, is that you?" A look of total terror moved swiftly over her face.	
"Give me that." Mac grabbed the phone, but all he got was a dial tone. "Did you hear anything?"	
Her voice wavered as she shook her head. "I heard heavy breathing and then the dial tone."	
He wanted to reassure her. "Must have been a masher." He turned off the cordless and handed it to her. He thought about Alphonse's well-run empire which had continued operating even though its leader was in jail. He would have the resources to track Jess down.	
She studied him. "You think the caller was one of the three suspects, don't you?"	
"That's hard to say." He opened cupboards searching for dishes, found white and blue ones and proceeded to set the table. He didn't know much about Alphonse Piaget, other than the fact that Alphonse was a different kind of street criminal. He had gone to the University of California Riverside majoring in business. He had come from a lower middle class family. "You better start keeping a log. I'll report it when I call in later."	
"Who do you think the caller was?" Jess' tone was flat and cold, as though she were insulted by terrorist tactics.	
"It could be anyone, or no one." Just because all the facts pointed in one direction didn't always mean a logical conclusion.	
"I don't believe in coincidences."	
"Neither do I."	
Mac went outside again to prowl around the house, looking in the neighboring yards and searching the street, memorizing the cars parked along the curb. He didn't like the corner location; the house was too accessible from too many directions. He checked the windows on the street side and found neatly trimmed bushes which offered a dozen hiding places. He flushed out a squirrel, who scolded him, and interrupted a black cat in the act of murdering a mouse.	
The cat stalked off, tail straight up, indignation in every movement. The cat's prey disappeared. A red-winged blackbird flew by and disappeared across the street.	
He felt exposed and uneasy. Jess Savage was in his care. No matter what her unknown abilities might be, she was still his responsibility, and he would never forgive himself if anything happened to her.	
When he went back inside, he locked every window and door, then checked them again, returning to the kitchen to find Jess silently staring at the floor, her face puckered with tension and her eyes shadowed and remote. He had no words to reassure her. He didn't like this new development.	
The timer on the oven went off. "Dinner is served." Hoping a diversion would distract Jess, he set the dishes on the table. The blue and white dinnerware seemed another indication of the uncomplicated life she'd attempted to build for herself contrasting with the complex person he sensed her to be.	
"It's smells great." She glanced at it, but not even the heavenly smell tempted her appetite. She spent most of the next half hour playing with her food while Mac gulped his down.[Four]["../../../../../Desktop%20Folder/MV.html#Table"]	Chapter Four	
After a restless night spent drifting in and out of sleep and staring at the ceiling, Jess woke to a pre-dawn gloom. Her room was hot and still. At night she turned off the air conditioning and opened windows to take advantage of the cool night air. But last night, she had left the window closed and locked, too nervous to open it.	
She pulled herself out of bed and into her chair. All her muscles ached with tension, and her eyes felt scratchy from lack of sleep.	
The open door to the living room showed Mac asleep on the sofa, the cat curled up on his chest and an open book on the floor. He looked peaceful after a night as restless as hers. She'd listened to him walking around and bumping into the furniture until the early hours of the morning. Intensely aware of his presence, she had charted his route in her mind and spent hours wondering about him.	
She remembered thinking about his hands and how they would feel on her skin. How.... She shied away from her next thought. Such thoughts were dangerous and she couldn't afford the luxury of indulging in them. Once this situation was resolved, Mac would leave and Jess would be alone again.	
When he finally settled down on the sofa, she heard him cry out several times in his sleep. She would have investigated, but finally fell asleep to dream oddly disturbing dreams she didn't remember upon waking, but which left her with a feeling of frenzied panic that never quite went away.	
Jess rolled into the bathroom and removed her bikini swimsuit from a hook behind the door. The suit tied at hips, neck and back. Her pool was thoroughly screened from the street. Jess could swim naked if she chose, but never did. Such daring behavior was alien to her. She secured a flotation belt around her waist, her protection against drowning.	
She kept the pool heated, using it for exercise and relaxation. The lap pool was shallow and narrow with bars along the inside perimeter just beneath the surface ready for her to grab should she overtire. She could float in the pool, swim, sit on the bottom step that ringed the sides, or just enjoy the warmth.	
Fifteen minutes later, with a yellow-orange dawn just lighting the eastern sky, Jess lowered herself into the pool, the water soothing and soft to her fevered skin. She loved swimming, stroking back and forth. She had enough mobility in her legs so that she felt she received a thorough workout.	
Tension eased as she swam, the comforting feel of the water relaxing her. Her thoughts wandered and she remembered how Mac looked as he slept, one arm thrown over his head, his body at ease and face unguarded. No pajamas, just a blanket covering him from waist to knee, his skin bare, a surgical scar puckering the area beneath his ribs. The hair on his chest was red and curly and curiously inviting. Jess' heart pounded as she sliced through the water wondering what the blanket had covered.	
When she pulled herself up over the lip and reached for a towel, she found Mac sitting in a patio chair. He watched her, a stillness in his face, his eyes moving over her slowly. She grabbed the towel, conscious of the exposed scars criss-crossing her body like spider webs. She hated for anyone to see them. When she glanced at him again, she saw none of the horror in his eyes that usually accompanied the revelation of her body. She saw nothing but a sensual invitation that left her shivering with anticipation, bringing back the memory of her dream.	
Didn't he notice the scars? She drew the towel tight about her.	
"Don't hide yourself from me, Jess," he said. "We all have scars. Some you can see, some you can't."	
Something stirred in Jess. Try as she might, she couldn't stop a fuzzy warmth from spreading through her at the way his eyes moved over her.	
"Why didn't you wake me?" Mac scolded. "This isn't a game, Jess."	
Dark crescents under his eyes told of little sleep. His cheeks looked gaunt and exhausted. She suspected she looked the same way. "I heard you walking around all night. You needed your rest."	
"I'm supposed to protect you." He stood up and stretched. "Let me do my job, Jess."	
She eased herself to her feet, bracing legs that quivered unsteadily under the strain, holding onto steel bars imbedded in the concrete, and pulling her chair toward her. He stepped forward, arms outstretched to help.	
"Don't," she said in warning. "I can manage fine. I've been doing just that for five years now." She eased herself into the chair and released the brake. She whirled around and rolled up the ramp and into the house without a backward look, angry he would even think of trying to help her even as she recognized his natural compulsion to assist.	
Her hard won independence sat uneasily on her. She understood his need to help her, but any acknowledgment of weakness left her angrier than before.	
Jess seethed with indignation. She couldn't even go swimming in her own pool. She wasn't a child forced to ask permission for the most basic of things. And she didn't need his help. Didn't want his help.	
Her shower was large enough for her to enter comfortably and easily, transfer herself to a tiled bench using chrome bars, and then push the chair just beyond the reach of the water.	
She struggled out of her suit and tossed the pieces over a hook. After showering, she dressed, reappearing for breakfast forty-five minutes later to find sullen looking eggs staring up at her. She ate without speaking, cleaning up the breakfast dishes, piling them in the dishwasher while Mac showered and shaved.	
In the living room, Jess found Mac's shirt from the day before tossed over a chair, his socks on the floor and a book under the sofa. The disarrayed cushions gave testament to his own restless night. One cushion had been flung on the floor and the blanket twisted into a lump. Scooter had settled herself on the blanket, opening one eye as Jess reached for it. Scooter leaped away with an indignant meow and sat on the floor elaborately grooming herself.	
Jess picked up, mildly irritated. Each piece of clothing looking like another inroad of urban blight. She disliked a disorderly house. While she listened to the sound of the shower, she straightened the room, folding the blanket and picking up the discarded clothes. By the time Mac came downstairs, his hair still wet and his face smooth, Jess had order restored.	
The drive to her office was also silent. Mac eased the van through traffic constantly checking the rear-view mirror and taking what Jess considered unnecessary detours.	
"What are you doing?" she asked when he'd gone around the same block three times.	
"Trying to discover if anyone is following us."	
"Why would anyone follow us?" Jess glanced behind her, annoyed at him.	
"To find out where you're going."	
"I'm going to work, something I do every day." Jess slapped the window glass in rising frustration. "And we're going to be late." She glanced at her watch. She was fifteen minutes late. Bob Ford, her boss, would be annoyed, big time.	
When they finally arrived at the complex of buildings that housed her office, the courts, and various holding areas for offenders, they found two fire trucks, an ambulance and the building personnel standing out on the sidewalk. The garage was cordoned off. Mac parked on the street.	
"What's going on?" Jess asked Bob Ford. Uniformed cops held the crowd at bay.	
Bob was a large, roly-poly man who liked loud colors and gave a person the impression that he had a used car for sale. Jess loved him. He was the best attorney she'd ever known. After a distinguished career with a top Los Angeles firm, he'd chucked everything to accept a position with the D.A.'s office. He spoke briefly with a Santa Ana cop and turned to Jess. "A bomb." he said in a terse, worried voice.	
Randall Maxfield approached. "Yes, with your name on it, Jess."	
A stab of fear penetrated. Mac touched Jess' shoulder. A ripple of tension pulsed through the crowd on the sidewalk. Two secretaries, heads together, glanced fearfully at Jess.	
"What does Randall mean?" Jess asked Bob. Mac crowded her chair, his eyes alertly scanning the crowd. Jess swallowed, trying to calm runaway emotions.	
Bob ran a hand through thinning brown hair. "This morning, one of the clerks found a box in the hall addressed to you. When she picked it up, it started ticking."	
Jess began to shake. She closed her eyes and Bob reached out and took her hand. "Everything will be all right, Jess."	
Nothing was going to be all right, Jess denied silently. She felt as though hidden eyes probed her, that the stalker gained on her while she was stuck in a chair that never went faster than three miles an hour. She struck the armrest with a fist, her nails digging into the palm.	
A man in heavy, padded clothing walked out of the building, a box held in his hands. He conferred with a uniformed cop and handed the box over to him. Then the man spoke with the fire chief who nodded and turned toward Bob.	
"We've done a complete sweep through the building, Mr. Ford," the fire chief said with a weary look back toward the building, "and haven't found anything else. Your people can start back in."	
"What was in the box?" Bob asked.	
Jess watched as the box was carefully put in the passenger side of a patrol car. Mac approached a uniformed cop, shook hands and bent his head to talk.	
The police chief said, "An ordinary, one hour kitchen timer set to start ticking the minute the box was moved. I'm having it sent over to the crime lab for printing and analysis."	
The crowd started to enter the building, the sidewalk emptying. Jess waited for Mac to finish speaking with his friend, then they joined the pilgrimage. Jess couldn't seem to shake a feeling of doom. She felt like the old cartoon character in the Sunday Funnies with a storm cloud positioned over his head. The name of the character eluded her, but the picture of the storm cloud remained.	
The office seemed strange and quiet when she wheeled herself in, Mac following. A few secretaries glared at Jess, but others gave Mac flirty, suggestive glances as they wriggled their hips. Mac ignored them, and Jess swallowed displeasure. Didn't they have better things to do? Like work.	
She slammed open the door to her office and dumped her briefcase on the desk, her fear abating somewhat at the return to normal routine. Mac automatically sat in the chair he'd occupied the day before.	
"I'd say that your letter writer is getting serious."	
"And I'm getting frightened," Jess snapped. "Don't sit down, we're not staying."	
"Jess." Bob Ford poked his head into the office. "We have to talk."	
He entered and closed the door after glancing around to see that the staff returned to work. Heads busily bent over word processors. File drawers slammed. Two law clerks at the coffee pot hastily returned to their cubicles.	
Bob turned back to Jess. "I didn't want to say this outside with everyone listening in, but I think you should take some time off. Janelle and Walter can handle your caseload."	
"Is this an order?" Jess asked.	
"Not exactly." He cast a glance back into the office. "Consider it a strong, not to be disputed, request."	
"No. Making me take time off looks like I believe in the validity of these threats. If we knuckle under to these criminals, they'll start issuing ultimatums to every person in law enforcement." Jess shook her head to emphasize her disapproval. She wasn't going to let the threat of some unknown two-bit criminal like Alphonse Piaget, Terrence Liang, or Doris DeVille run her life. They were crooks and she was an Officer of the Court.	
"And if I insist, Jess." Bob leveled a long, hard look at her. "Considering the bomb scare this morning, I have a feeling worse is yet to come. I have the safety of these people," he gestured at the outer office, "to consider."	
Bitterly, she said, "In other words, I have no choice. I take a forced vacation."	
Bob reached out for her, but she slapped his hand away. "Jess, I made this decision based on your welfare and the welfare of the people who work in this department. I know you're angry. I think my decision is for the best."	
Jess whirled away, her mouth drooping, her temper reined in to keep her from saying something she might regret. She wasn't helpless. Just because she was forced to live in a chair didn't mean she wasn't capable of taking care of herself. She hated when her friends treated her like an invalid. She deserved better from them, especially Bob who had lost a foot in Viet Nam and should understand how she felt.	
She glanced at Mac and saw him tense, balancing on the balls of his feet as though he intended to tackle her should she become violent. Did he really think she would? She stared at him. He relaxed, a small grin creeping across his lips.	
Jess didn't want a vacation, didn't want a bodyguard, and was being forced to accept both. She couldn't see herself sitting home waiting for Alphonse Piaget, Doris DeVille or Terrence Liang to find her. An idea occurred to her and she started to smile. Mac eyed her suspiciously.	
"All right, Bob," Jess acquiesced, swallowing her anger.	
Bob looked relieved. He stood up with a sigh of relief. "I knew you'd be reasonable." His look suggested she seldom was, and she resented the implication. She did her job and did it well. He'd never had any reason to complain about her performance. She had the best conviction record in the D.A.'s office.	
She quickly sorted through a pile of folders, made notations on the covers and separated them into two piles. "One for Janelle." She thumped the nearest pile. "And one for Walter. If they have any problems, they can call me at home."	
She sailed out the door with all the dignity she could muster, trying to keep tears at bay. Her job was the only thing she had in her life, and she had just been deprived of it. She glanced back to see if Mac followed. He stood in the doorway talking to Bob in a low voice. Then he turned away and walked quickly after her.	
Jess waited in the hall.	
A uniformed officer approached. "Morning, Ms. Savage." He touched the brim of his cap politely. "I have an appointment to see you this morning about Dwayne Smithers. You remember, the incest case."	
Jess looked up at him, prevented from snarling by her own innate good sense and understanding that this young man had nothing to do with her forced vacation. He looked very young, his face smooth-shaven as though he wasn't old enough to have a beard yet. He stood erectly, a soft vinyl case under his arm. "I remember, but unfortunately, I've been--shall I say--temporarily relieved of duty. You'll have to see Walter Deming, my co-worker. Tell him he'll find the file on my desk. All my notes are inside." Jess pointed at Walter and sent the young officer in the correct direction just as Mac approached.	
She started rolling toward the elevators, pushing through a group of women near the water fountain. Jess heard the word bomb and the worried looks on their faces.	
"What was all that about?" Mac blocked her way, one hand on his hip, the other palm pushed against the wall. His jacket gaped and Jess saw the handle of his gun protruding from its holster. She tried to evade him, but he grabbed her hand off the control pad, preventing her from maneuvering around him.	
"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about?" Eyebrows raised, she smiled at him.	
"Don't play innocent, Jess. I've learned something about you in twenty-four hours. You gave in entirely too easily to Ford's request. I saw the light go on in your eyes and I want to know why."	
She could see that he wouldn't budge until he'd found out. "Not here in the middle of the hall." Jess pointed at the open door of the elevator. "We'll talk in my van." She zipped around him and gained the elevator, holding the door open for him.	***	
In the van, Jess bit the cuticle of one nail as they exited the parking lot.	
"Which way do I go?" Mac looked left and right gauging traffic and searching for an opening. He found one and eased into traffic.	
"How about your office."	
He looked over his shoulder at her, eyebrows raised. "Why?"	
"Will you watch where you're going? You have the nerve to complain about my driving when you're no better." Jess tapped him on the shoulder to draw his attention to a truck that was braking while the van kept barreling along.	
"Why my office?" He glanced at her.	
"We need to start somewhere. You do have an office, don't you? We're going to need a base of operations."	
"What for?"	
Jess thought for a minute. For the first time since Mac had appeared in her office, she felt alive and in charge. "Why should I sit around and wait for my tormenter to find me. Bob gave me the incentive to go out and find him, or her."	
She saw the back of his neck redden.	
Mac shouted. "These are dangerous people."	
"Who expect me to sit home and wait meekly for them to come to me. Well, I'm not going to. Two can play the same game. Besides, I have you to protect me. You said so yourself. This is your chance to really do your job." Jess' voice rose to the same passionate pitch as Mac's. For one peculiar moment, he sounded just like Peter.	
Mac pulled the van into a restaurant parking lot, slammed on the brakes and turned around to look at Jess, his face contorted with fury. "Pardon me, but did I hear what I just heard?"	
Blithely, she ignored him studying the restaurant window. In bright red paint, "Breakfast--24 Hours" was lettered across the glass. "Did we have breakfast this morning? I don't remember."	
"Jess, this is a matter for the police. Let them handle it."	
Jess struggled for control. "You saw how little your buddies on the force are doing. They act as though I'm some sort of hysterical woman, making all this up." She took a deep breath and held it for ten seconds before expelling it.	
"My buddies, as you put it, thought enough of the threats to assign me to you."	
"You're nothing but a band-aid on the problem." She looked Mac straight in the eye, challenging him, defiance in every line of her body. "If you were me, would you wait around to be murdered by slime?"	
"I'm not ...." He gaze flickered over her chair.	
"Go on say it," Jess mocked, "crippled, confined to a wheelchair. That's what I am, Mac. I'll never be anything else."	
"You might walk again?"	
"You and my mother," In exasperation, Jess gripped his shoulder, conscious of the taut muscles beneath his jacket, of a peculiar warmth that started her pulse racing. The fabric of the jacket was rough against her skin. "I'm not going to walk again. I'm going to spend the rest of my life in this chair. No doctor is this world is capable of repairing me, Mac."	
She saw the withdrawal, the denial on his face and she looked away, saddened. She would never understand why people couldn't see her for who she was and not what she looked like, not the almost useless legs attached to her body.	
The doctor had said she was partially paralyzed. She had some movement, but not enough to walk, not ever again. She missed the ability to picnic in distant fields, to feel cold grass beneath her feet, to walk with unbridled energy anywhere she wanted without having to worry about battery packs and easily managed ramps.	
The doctor had assured her she could live a rich, full life with a husband and eventually even children. The problem wasn't what she could do, but finding someone to do these things with. She glanced at Mac.	
Sometimes she ached for the touch of a man, the feel of a man's body in her bed. She thought of Peter, his vitality, his vibrancy and zest for life. He was dead, and in many ways so was she.	
"All right," he said, "I wouldn't wait around either. We'll need a plan of attack."	
"The first thing is to look at their criminal files." Jess watched the traffic. A woman wheeled a little boy in a bright yellow stroller. Streaked with grime, a derelict studied a bush while he unzipped his pants. The young mother looked away as a streak of yellow arced into the bush.	
A silver BMW pulled into the parking lot. A handsome man in a pinstriped suit got out, locked the car door and disappeared into the restaurant.	
"I can certainly provide you with the criminal files." Mac put the van in gear and backed out of the parking slot. He turned out into traffic and headed toward the freeway.[Five]["../../../../../Desktop%20Folder/MV.html#Table"]	Chapter Five	
Mac's office, a cubicle in a corner of a busy office, looked no different from any other office except for the hookers sitting on a bench in the waiting area, a junkie talking to a vending machine, and the dozen computers and typewriters being attended to by uniform clad men and women. Jess couldn't believe the upscale beach area had as much crime as elsewhere.	
In a chair near a desk, a well-dressed young man objected to being treated like a criminal. He did not break into anyone's house and remove the jewelry spread across the desk. He had no idea how the jewelry got into his pocket. Must have fallen in. The officer at the computer registered disbelief.	
The hookers looked a better class of streetwalker. Their clothes were expensive, hair and nails perfectly groomed. Except for the deep cleavage of their tight dresses, they might have been upper class housewives meeting for lunch.	
Windows overlooked the busy street outside. Decorative palm trees swayed in the wind at the curbside. A cluster of poisonous oleander added color to a corner. The sharp tang of salt water tinged the air. A yellow pall hung over the area, courtesy of the ever-present Los Angeles basin smog mixed with black smoke from the fire in the Santa Ana mountains, still burning out of control.	
"Hey, Mac" a young woman with short brown hair and a pixie grin called. "How are ya?"	
"Great, Janey." Mac smiled politely at her.	
"How's the pain? Any better?"	
"It's under control."	
Mac guided Jess into his office, a cluttered, busy work area with papers strewn across two desks, a partially open file drawer and an 'in' basket overflowing with paperwork.	
Mac pushed a chair aside so that she could position her chair without running into the wall. He turned on the computer and waited for the monitor to light. After being so long away, he felt strange, like an outsider who no longer quite belonged to the club anymore.	
Dennis White waved at him. Mac waved back. He and Dennis had been partners for a year before Mac had been promoted to detective and Dennis had stayed in uniform.	
"Hey Mac," Holly Butterworth called as she entered the squad room. Prodded by her partner, a handcuffed man towed along behind her. The perp glared at Holly. She ignored him.	
Holly had attended the Academy with Mac and graduated second in their class. He had dated Holly for awhile after his divorce, but they hadn't struck any sparks and soon parted. He liked her. She had a keen sense of the judgment and the ability to see into the criminal mind. Her leaps of inspiration had once helped Mac solve a delicate case involving a child molester.	
Mac waved. He missed the companionship, the camaraderie of his friends since going on medical leave. Most of all he missed Loretta, his partner for four years. He and Loretta had been on a late night call. They'd stopped to investigate a suspicious gathering of teens in front of a video store when the teens had opened fire on them with semi-automatic weapons. Loretta died.	
One part of his mind told him nothing could have been done to prevent her death. The other part of his mind told him he was guilty in not being able to save her life. He still felt shattered and in pieces and wondered if he'd ever be the same again.	
Several of his fellow officers, who knew Jess in her capacity as a lawyer with the District Attorney's office, called greetings to her. Jess smiled back.	
Mac wondered at Jess. She seemed to have no close friends. And after twenty-four hours with her, he knew nothing more about her than what he'd read in Alphonse's file and heard from the underground gossip column that thrived at the Courthouse and the station. She intrigued him. He wanted to know more, but her distant manner kept him away.	
He considered ways of breaking down her reserve as he waited for his computer to finish booting and testing itself. Finally, he logged in, and typed his password.	
The desk was not strictly his alone. He shared it with another plainclothes detective, Rick Gambetti, whose 'in' basket overflowed with paperwork while the out basket was empty. Rick wasn't getting caught up with his backlog.	
Mac gained entry into the network. Jess peered over his shoulder, the subtle aroma of her perfume surrounding him. He wondered what scent she wore. The floral and spice aroma tickled his nose, intensifying a feeling he hadn't yet put a name to.	
He tried to maintain a professional distance from Jess, but his emotions betrayed him. She was sensual and delectable, and had a way of gazing at him that set his blood on fire. Like now. Not pretty in the classic sense of the word, she was still an attractive woman with her intense green eyes and flyaway black hair. Despite her thinness, she had a nicely curved body and a subtle way of flirting she didn't seem to know she had. He liked her hands. They were strong, capable hands, like his mother's hands.	
The first file flickered into life on the screen. Mac scrolled through Alphonse Piaget's rap sheet. Alphonse's official documentation started at age eighteen when he'd been arrested for dealing drugs. Considering the two-page length and the fact that Alphonse had been a known perp long before age eighteen, Mac figured his juvenile records were just as long. But the law being the law, they were sealed so as to not prejudice the future contents of Alphonse's history.	
"Where do we start?" She studied the monitor. A pad of yellow legal paper from her briefcase balanced across her lap.	
"Alphonse's mom would be a start. He's got two sisters and a dozen known confederates." Mac pointed at each section. Jess scribbled names, addresses and phone numbers, her pen scratching the surface of the paper. Even in prison, Alphonse lived a rich, varied life. He had ties to every drug dealer and hooker in the county.	
"What are you looking at?" Jess asked.	
"The computer."	
"No," She shook her head. "You keep looking at the door as though expecting someone to come in."	
Mac kept expecting Loretta Epstein to walk in and sit down in the chair and grin at him with her arrogant, uneven smile. For four years, they'd shared danger and tedium. Until Jess said something, he hadn't been aware of his expectations.	
He wanted Loretta to be alive, wanted to see her bouncy brown hair and flashing blue eyes again. The pain of her death still festered, even after four months.	
Cops developed special bonds with their partners. Loretta had been Mac's best friend. Without her, he felt as though his right arm had been amputated. His thoughts veered sharply from the dangerous, painful ground ahead. Mac turned back to the computer, paging down to the next screen, and Jess added a few more names of people Alphonse had called his business associates. Most of the addresses were blank, and those addresses noted were probably obsolete. People like those Alphonse associated with were either long dead, in prison, or moved on to greener pastures, not necessarily heavenly in content.	
"Who do you think he'll go see first?" Jess finished the addresses, snapped the notebook closed, and capped her pen. She had dark circles under her eyes.	
"Usually mom is the first contact." Mac leaned into the monitor, squinting a little. Most likely the Sheriff's Department had already talked to Mrs. P. Mac didn't mind covering ground already walked over. "Got what you need?"	
Jess nodded. Mac made notes of the list of Alphonse's business people and cleared the screen. He input the first name from Jess's list.	
"What are you doing?" Jess asked.	
"Checking to see where Alphonse's old pals are. That would narrow our list." He'd already decided to do each suspect thoroughly, beginning with Alphonse. He seemed to be the angriest over his conviction, and had the time and opportunity to plan his moves. When they'd exhausted Alphonse, they'd start with Terrence, then Doris.	
Jess tapped fingers against the leather of her briefcase. "What about people he knew in prison?"	
Mac had already thought of that. "We'll talk to the prison authorities last." He tapped the monitor. "Chances are one of these people knows where Alphonse is." Though getting them to talk, to share their knowledge, would be another story.	
Quickly, he ran through the list of names, narrowing it down to four possibles. One old friend was in a drug therapy program in El Monte. A hooker Alphonse had kept in an apartment on La Cienega was still around, but she'd moved out to gang-ridden Pomona. Mac wondered at the new level of her clientele. A third confederate of Alphonse's awaited trial at the facility in Santa Ana. Jess added those names and addresses to those she had for Alphonse's family and known confederates.	
He thought about checking in with his boss, Lt. Connell O'Brian, but decided against it. He didn't want Jess blurting out what they intended to do. The lieutenant would have a seizure the size of a volcanic eruption. Mac intended to avoid all such explosions for the time being. Let O'Brian believe Jess intended to stay at home letting Mac do his job. The boss didn't know anything about Jessica Savage and her determination to put an end to the harassment.	
"Let's get out of here." He walked out the door, faced his co-workers with as innocent a look on his face as he could muster, and tried to sidle past O'Brian's office without the man inside seeing him. O'Brian looked up and smiled, beckoning Mac inside.	
"What about the others?" Jess asked.	
"We'll come back." He worried that too much time on the computer would alert Connell to Jess' plans.	
"Don't say anything about what we plan to do," Mac said as he opened the door to Connell's office and stepped inside.	
Jess looked startled as she followed him. Mac was rewarded with a puzzled look on the lieutenant's face.	
"Well, Mac. What have you got here?" Connell O'Brian chuckled. "Showing the little lady around? Introducing her to the complexities of law enforcement?" He chuckled again, winking at Jess and grinning wickedly at Mac. "Heard you had a bomb scare over at the D.A.'s office this morning."	
"Already been taken care of, Connell. You should get a report from the Santa Ana police before the day's over."	
Lt. Connell O'Brian had been a friend to Mac for many years. They'd grown up a block away from each other, attended the same parochial school. They'd been pals for awhile when they were both rookies on the force. Career choices had sent them in different directions. Connell had chosen administration. Mac had preferred to stay on the street.	
"This is Jessica Savage, Connell." Mac gave Jess a warning smile to emphasize his whispered words of a moment before. She watched Connell as though assessing his patronizing statement, a dangerous glint in her eyes.	
"I don't consider myself 'a little lady', Lieutenant." Her voice had a tart, razor-sharp edge to it. Mac winced. "I am a lawyer. I think I understand law enforcement as well as you, if not better."	
Connell looked annoyed. In a conciliatory tone, he said, "Sorry, Ms. Savage." Connell gazed at a point just behind Jess' right ear. Mac saw her stiffen with indignation. "I didn't intend to offend you. Mac is one of my best men." Connell glanced down at the paperwork on his desk. "Got anything to report, Mac?"	
"Nothing." Mac allowed himself a wry grin. "As you can see, I have the subject under surveillance. Last night was pretty quiet. You already got my report on the phone call. We've started a log, and the phone company is alerted. Otherwise, nothing out of the ordinary."	
Connell continued to smile, a elastic spreading of lips over teeth beautifully arranged by some orthodontist. He kept looking at the wheelchair, not understanding that the woman sitting in it was separate from the appliance. He glanced away embarrassed and uneasy as though her disability might be contagious. Jess did nothing to ease his discomfort. She stared at Connell in stony silence, lips set in a hard line and eyes glittering with a 'let him suffer' message in them. Mac tried to think of a diplomatic way to defuse the situation.	
Connell waved them away. "You appear to have everything under control, Mac. Let me know if anything happens. As of right now, Alphonse and Terrence and Doris are still at large. And all are considered dangerous. If any one of them shows, we'll have backup at Ms. Savage's house in two minutes."	
"How nice of you," Jess said in a biting tone, leaning forward, her face set in rigid lines. In two minutes she could be dead. Mac put a hand on her shoulder to quiet her, but she simply glared at him. Jess continued. "I must thank you for Mac's presence in my home. He's a very efficient bodyguard."	
"He's all we could spare." Connell smiled vaguely in her direction without taking his eyes from the paper he pretended to read. "But don't worry, we're on this and will have results soon."	
The consummate politician, Mac thought wryly. Connell had his eye on big stakes these days, and Mac wished him well. Connell was probably the best for the job.	
As Jess opened her mouth, Mac grabbed the handles on the back of the chair and forcibly removed her from the room. "I'll keep in touch, Connell." He pushed Jess away before she could say anything else.	
"Don't you trust me?" Jess asked after he'd settled behind the wheel of the van and Jess sat in the passenger seat with her chair clamped in place between them.	
"Not where Connell is concerned." Mac switched on the motor. "He's an old friend."	
"I know how to act in proper social conditions. And he's a male chauvinist."	
"From the look on your face, I'd say you forgot the rules of etiquette that say, 'don't bite the hand that feeds you'." Mac made a left, heading toward the freeway. Mother Piaget lived in Garden Grove.	
"That's a proverb." Jess fumed. She glared at Mac. "I thought patronizing chauvinism went out with the eighties."	
"I'm afraid it's alive and well in Connell O'Brian. He's a good man, Jess. Don't dislike him because he was brought up to think one way and you were brought up to think another." Mac braked for a schoolgirl in a cross-walk. She smiled politely at him and he nodded, urging her to hurry so he could continue. A patrol car pulled out of a side street, pulsar lights flashing, but no siren. Mac waited until the unit was gone before continuing.	
"Where are we going?" Jess asked.	
"I want to talk to Alphonse's mom. She the most likely person to know his whereabouts."	
"Wouldn't she already have been questioned?" Jess hung onto the overhead bar.	
"I'm sure she's already been visited by the detectives." Mac stopped for a red light. An office building on the side was in the process of being repainted. Painters stood on scaffolding evenly spraying gray paint over the exterior. "But I've never known any mother who loves her criminal offspring...."	
"That's assuming she does," Jess interrupted.	
"· to be totally forthcoming to the police. She might talk to you, though. You obviously don't look like a cop." Though she did look pretty good. Mac felt a small stir inside him that had nothing to do with the way she looked, but a lot to do with the way she smelled and the way she stirred his imagination.	
Jess glanced down at her navy blue suit. "But I do look like a lawyer. Why don't we stop at my house first, so I can change into something a little less lawyerly, and a little more middle class. We do want her to trust us, don't we?"	
"Certainly enough to confide Alphonse's location. Good idea." Mac turned down a side street and headed back toward Jess's house.	***	
Mac parked the van in front. Jess operated the platform and left it on the ground so she could get back inside easily. She approached the house. Scooter sat on the front porch curled into a nervous ball.	
"Mac." Jess pointed at the cat. Scooter had been sleeping peacefully on Jess' bed when they'd left for her office. She had no way of getting outside--unless someone let her out.	
"Stay here." Mac pulled his gun out from beneath his jacket.	
He moved quickly up the front ramp, crouched next to the door and slowly reached out to open the screen. The front door swung in slowly, the hinges screeching. He slipped inside.	
Jess watched, her heart thudding so hard she could barely breath. Her palms grew moist. Her mouth went dry. She glanced up and down the street, marveling at the normalcy. Didn't anyone notice anything? What was the use of the 'Neighborhood Watch" signs if no one watched?	
She felt a mixture of apprehension and excitement move through her--apprehension over the danger, but excitement over the thrill of the chase. If anyone were in the house right now, the chase would end. And Mac would be recalled to active duty. For a second, she examined that idea and felt a touch of remorse that he'd be gone. But then her life would be back to normal and the cat would go home. How strange that he should become a part of her life so easily. She didn't want him to leave. Not yet.	
Mac walked around the corner of the house, holstering his handgun. "All clear."	
"And?" Jess rolled herself up the ramp to the front door. Mac paused long enough to scoop his cat up in his arms and soothe her until a mellow purr reached Jess' ears. She opened the door and stared in horror at the mess.	
Cushions had been tossed on the floor, a table turned on its side, a vase shattered into a thousand fragments. Lamps had been overturned; glass crunched beneath the rubber of her wheels. The mirror over the fireplace had been pulled down and broken into evil looking fragments.	
She moved through the house appalled at the wanton destruction. Mac disappeared into the kitchen, the cat draped over his arm. Hot tears filled Jess' eyes and she brushed angrily at them. She felt violated, as though she'd been raped.	
A high voice, filled with fear sounded. "What happened in here?"	
Jess turned to find her mother standing in the doorway, one hand on the knob, the other holding the screen door half open.	
Tootsie Barklay was a small, slim woman with salt and pepper hair framing a heart-shaped face. She wore a pink jogging suit. Sweat coursed downward from her armpits. Her hair hung in brown limp strands around an oval, nearly unlined face. "Jess?"	
"Come in, Mom." Jess tried to smile reassuringly at her mother, but her lips refused to obey. She wanted to throw herself in her mother's arms and cry, reverting back to childhood, hoping her Mom would solve all her problems.	
"What happened?" Tootsie's Nikes scattered glass as she entered. "Such a mess."	
"I appear to have had a burglar, Mom."	
"Nonsense. Your television and stereo are still here."	
What was left of them. The TV had been smashed almost beyond recognition, the stereo torn apart. Jess' CD collection lay scattered on the floor, the cases broken, the discs cracked in half.	
Mac walked back into the room. He held the cat carrier in one hand and the cat in the other. "Don't touch anything. Are any of your neighbors home?"	
"Anita Milner is across the street." Anita would love this, Jess thought. She was always complaining that nothing ever happened on their street. She hoped Anita was home so she could see the activity and not have to badger Jess for details later.	
"We have to wait outside," he said, "I'll go across and phone Connell."	
The three returned to the porch. Mac deposited Scooter inside the carrier, then jogged to Anita's house to make his phone call. Jess heard Anita's shrill voice. She poked her head out the door and yelled if she could help, and Jess waved her away and said she'd call later.	
The cat meowed plaintively, not stopping until Jess poked her fingers through the grill and stroked the soft fur. She felt a rough tongue moved over her finger.	
"This was an act of vandalism," Tootsie said.	
"I suspect it was, Mom." Jess rested her elbow on the armrest. A dull ache spread down her back to her legs. She wanted desperately to lay down somewhere, to rest her body, to pretend the nightmare hadn't happened. She closed her eyes and willed her mind free of tension.	
"Who would do such a thing?" Tootsie gnawed at the inside of her lip.	
"I don't know, Mom." Jess was drowning. She wanted to beat her hands against a wall, to scream and cry and carry on. Anything, so that the niggling fear didn't escalate into full-fledged terror. If she gave into terror, she'd never stop being afraid again.	
Tootsie touched Jess' shoulder, her gesture comforting.	
Mac returned. "Connell is calling the City of Orange PD and the forensics team. They'll be here in a few minutes."	
"Why?" Tootsie grabbed Mac. "Who are you?"	
Mac flipped out his badge and held it out to her. "I'm a friend of Jess'."	
"I'm Tootsie Barklay, Jess' mom." Tootsie held out her hand and shook Mac's in a gesture so normal that Jess almost broke into laughter. She could feel hysteria building. She'd never felt so defenseless and unprotected before in her whole life. Wasn't Mac supposed to protect her? How could he allow this to happen? How could he act so normal, so composed when Jess felt so defiled and violated.	
"I guessed you were her mom." Mac ran his fingers through his hair. "The police will want to question Jess. When they're done, would you take her home and put her to bed? She looks like she's in shock."	
"I'm not in shock." Jess twisted around to face him. "I'm furious. I'm enraged that anyone would break into my home and destroy my possessions. That someone has a sick mind." She abhorred the destruction of her tidy house. The only control she had in her life was over how her house looked. She needed that orderliness, that control, especially since she lacked the ability to command her own body.	
"That someone wants to scare you."	
"Who?" Tootsie asked.	
"I'll tell you later, Mom." Jess looked at her watch. One-thirty. She and Mac had only left at eight. Who had been watching her, knowing the house would be empty? Alphonse? Doris? She glanced up and down the street trying to separate the familiar from the unfamiliar. Nothing seemed changed. Wouldn't she have noticed a stranger lurking in the neighborhood? She knew every parked car on the street, and every child practically by name.	
Somewhere a dog barked. Scooter answered with a plaintive mewl and a delicate pawing at the metal grill across the front of her carrier.	
A neighbor peered from a window, a little girl on a tricycle rolled past, head swiveling to curiously eye Jess and Mac. In the distance, a siren sounded in. Seconds later, a patrol car screeched to a halt behind the van. Two uniformed officers got out, settling their hats firmly on their heads and approached Mac.	
"Hey, Mac, what's goin' on?" The man's nametag had Officer Ron Kemp engraved across it.	
His partner, a small, slim woman with blonde hair pulled severely back into a knot at the base of her neck, smiled politely at Jess and Tootsie.	
Mac said, "A break in, Ron. Possibly a burglary."	
"Any sign of forced entry?"	
"A side window." Mac led the way into the house while the woman stayed behind. Her nametag said Officer Felicia Jordan. She flipped open a notebook and politely requested Jess' and her mother's names.	
By the time Mac returned, Jess had given the details to Officer Jordan. A few minutes after that the Orange County Forensics team arrived in a van similar to Jess'.	
"Do you need Jess anymore?" Tootsie asked. "Mac told me to take her home. I just live down the street."	
"I have everything I need," Felicia said, "Go on home."	
Mac greeted the two men who exited the van. One held a camera; the other grabbed a large duffel bag from the rear of the van.	
"Come on, dear," Tootsie said softly to Jess, "you can't do anything here. You look exhausted."	
"Give Mac your address." Tears filled Jess' eyes. She rubbed them away. She hadn't cried since ... since Peter died. She wouldn't now.	
"I'll take it and give it to him," Officer Jordan said, opening her notebook again and drawing a pen from her pocket. Tootsie gave the address to the Officer.	
Jess headed wearily toward her van. Her life had gone haywire. She'd been forced to take a vacation and her home had been vandalized. Would she tempt fate by asking what possibly could happen next?	
She teetered on the edge of a precipice, swaying back and forth between anger at such wanton destruction and stubborn determination to find this person and repay him in kind.	
On the drive to her mother's house, the determination to find her tormentor increased. She needed to reclaim her life. She clenched and unclenched her hands until her wrists ached. After her mother parked the van in front of her house, Jess looked up at the brick facade and burst into tears.[Six]["../../../../../Desktop%20Folder/MV.html#Table"]	Chapter Six	
Jess' mother lived in a two-story brick house two blocks away. The house sat on a corner facing the side street. A five-foot brick wall with wrought iron sections surrounded it. Tootsie's pride was her garden, a rainbow of colors that never seemed to stop blooming no matter how severe a drought California might have.	
Tootsie's life had been a life of wealth and privilege. An only child, she'd been indulged and pampered. She could live anywhere she chose, and Jess devoutly wished her mother would move back to the exclusive, gated community in Laguna Hills she'd been living in before the accident.	
Not that Jess didn't like having her mother around; she just didn't care for her mother's idea of popping constantly into her life and trying to shield her from every little thing. Jess knew her mother meant well. She tried to be understanding, but the over-protectiveness grated on her nerves. Tootsie needed a diversion. Jess had even tried to arrange a date with Bob Ford, but Tootsie had refused to cooperate.	
Jess rolled into the living room. A massive staircase divided the house neatly down the middle, the living room on one side and the dining room and kitchen on the other. A half bath hid beneath the stairs. Floors of oak parquet gleamed, and like Jess' home, all the furniture was white except the dining room, which glowed with distinctive brown walnut. The only spots of color in the living room were the rose and white Oriental rug, two large abstract paintings, and needlepoint pillows that picked up the dominant color of the paintings.	
"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" Tootsie demanded as she entered her living room, a silver coffee service on a tray balanced in her hands. She set the tray gently on a glass coffee table and poured Jess coffee, liberally adding sugar and creamer even though Jess preferred her coffee black.	
Jess balled another tissue after dabbing her eyes and blowing her nose. With sobs under control, she began her story, relating the tale of the threats and the three felons Mac had narrowed down as suspects. Tootsie inclined her head and nodded occasionally. She never frowned, and her smiles were soft upswept curves designed not to create wrinkles. When Jess' voice broke on a sob, she calmly handed Jess another tissue.	
For a woman nearing fifty-five, Tootsie Barklay barely looked forty. Her unlined face was remarkably free of medical intervention, and her body was small, compact and trimmed to near athletic firmness. The product of good genes and a life long interest in health and nutrition had molded Tootsie into an elegant, still beautiful woman.	
"Do you think the break-in and vandalism is a part of this campaign to frighten you?" Tootsie asked.	
"I don't know, Mom. I'm sure this all related somehow. I just don't know how."	
"But why?" With a frown, Tootsie sat back and sipped her coffee.	
"I don't know why." Frustration laced her voice. "If I knew who, or why, I could stop this. I hate feeling afraid, being vulnerable."	
"Tell me about this young man, Mac?" Tootsie's eyebrows rose over her delicately slanted green eyes, the only genetic characteristic Jess had inherited from her mother.	
"He's what he said, a cop, assigned to protect me." Jess sipped her coffee and tried hard not to make a face at the unpleasant sweetness.	
"He's much too handsome to be relegated to the position of bodyguard, my dear. You need to change that." Tootsie gave a mischievous smile.	
"Mother, stop whatever your thinking. Mac is a truly nice man, but he's nothing else." Jess swallowed irritation. Her mother was either trying to wrap her in goose down, or shoving her at a man. Last year, she'd introduced Jess to a very eligible, newly created judge, who then got himself disbarred for some very illegal dealings. The year before, Tootsie had found an off-Broadway actor who had been more interested in her than Jess. The year before that, she'd found the most incredibly dull accountant who had put Jess to sleep within ten minutes.	
"Considering the severity of the situation, Jess, I insist you stay with me for awhile."	
Jess smiled. "I can't, Mom. All your bedrooms are on the second floor."	
"What's wrong with that?" Her mother looked slightly irate. "Why, when I want to protect you, you won't let me?"	
"I can't get up and down the stairs." Jess didn't add that the bathroom doors were too narrow for her chair, and even if she could get inside she couldn't maneuver enough to perform the most basic body maintenance.	
"I'm sure that delightful young man would be more than willing to carry you up and down." Tootsie's idea of motherly protection was to lock Jess into a bedroom and never let her out, shielding her from the world as though she were an invalid incapable of the most basic decisions.	
Jess refused to be an invalid, refused to give in to her limitations. "I appreciate your offer, Mom. Don't think I'm ungrateful, but practical consideration forbids me dragging you into the mess. If I stay here, you're in as much danger as I am." Besides, Jess had designed her home for her convenience; she would stay in her home and no place else. "Mac will take good care of me. Please, trust him, and me."	
"You are stubborn, just like your father." Her mother gave up with a delicate shrug that said the battle would be conducted later, possibly with an ally. Tootsie always had allies. Despite seventeen years of widowhood, she'd refused to remarry. She never lacked escorts and those men interested enough in her took her side against Jess.	
Jess put down her coffee and rolled to the front picture window, overlooking the lawn. If she craned her head at just the right angle, she could just see her house and the patrol cars parked in front. Two more had joined the first. She saw a uniformed officer talking to one of her neighbors. She settled in to wait, propping her elbow on the armrest, resting her chin in the palm of her hand. Her eyes drooped briefly and she dozed.	
Mac called an hour later asking Jess for the name of her insurance company. He asked where he could find the serial number of her husband's service revolver.	
"Is the revolver missing?" Jess cradled the phone against her neck, a chill of fear moving up and down her spine.	
"Appears to be gone. I can't find it," Mac answered.	
Jess heard a voice in the background. Mac gave a mumbled answer. Jess heard a loud thump and then a barking laugh.	
She told Mac where to look for everything in her computer, which had miraculously escaped destruction. Mac hung up, and she went back to the front picture window to continue watching the street while she waited.	
Mac didn't arrive at her mother's house until after seven in the evening, looking exhausted. He glanced around the living room searching for a place to sit his sweaty body. "So much white. I've never known two women who liked white so much," he grumbled.	
"Just sit down. Anywhere." Tootsie directed him toward a large white fluffy chair. She didn't even wince when he draped his feet over the matching hassock.	
"Is my house safe now?" Jess demanded.	
Mac nodded. "It's even clean. I talked to your insurance agent and they sent an adjuster over immediately. You'll have a check in a week. Your husband's service revolver is definitely gone. I turned the house upside down and inside out searching for it."	
"Is anything else missing?"	
"I can't tell." Mac's answer was followed by a wide yawn. "Sorry. You'll have to look. I found your inventory in your computer, but things were so thrown around, I gave up trying to figure it out. I gave the inventory to your agent anyway." He yawned again.	
"Thank you."	
"Any time," Mac replied with a tired grin.	
"The insurance company responded pretty quickly." Jess rubbed her temple where a headache threatened. "Usually I can't get them to even answer the phone."	
"For me, they came." Mac gave her a lopsided grin. "I also cleaned up as much as I could and called a cleaning service for the rest. The cleaning service will be here tomorrow." He yawned and rubbed his eyes. "All the reports have been filed and the proper authorities informed about the missing gun. Any anything else missing, you can call it in tomorrow."	
Jess didn't regret the loss of Peter's gun as much as she thought. What she worried about was the gun being in ignorant hands, or used in some criminal action. Peter would be upset over that. She didn't have much of anything of value. She wore little jewelry and what she did have was easily replaced.	
Mac rubbed his eyes. "I'm afraid most of your dishes and glassware are broken, too. The mattress on your bed is ripped, but it's sleepable. The legs are broken off two kitchen chairs. The vandal tossed a lot of pool chemicals and all the patio furniture into the pool. It may have to be drained and refilled. I found the number for your pool service, and they'll be out first thing tomorrow to assess the damage."	
"You're very efficient." Jess couldn't help but be impressed. Mac had handled everything for her, and she felt grateful for his efficient concern.	
Mac shrugged. "All in day's work. I got a locksmith to come out and change the locks this afternoon, too." He dug into his pocket and pulled out three keys. He handed them to Jess. "Front and back deadbolts and garage."	
Jess held the keys in her hand. "How could such a thing happen in the middle of the day without anyone noticing?"	
Mac said, "Your neighbors on the side and behind you are at work. Your friend, Anita, said she saw a truck parked at the house next door with a carpet cleaning logo on the side. She thought your neighbor was having her carpet cleaned. Other than that, she didn't notice anything out of the ordinary."	
"Ordinary!" Jess broke into an angry laugh, "I don't know what ordinary is anymore."	
Tootsie said, "If you don't want to go back tonight, Jess, you're both welcome to spend the night here."	
Jess half shouted, "No! I mean, no thanks, Mom."	
Her mother gave her an aggrieved look. "You don't have to be so adamant."	
"I'm sorry, Mom. But if I don't go back tonight, I won't go back, ever." Jess shuddered. Would her house ever feel safe again? She had to believe it would. How else could she go on living there? She had nowhere else to go. She would not let this stalker terrorize her out of her home. Her determination to find him increased.	
"Like getting back on a horse after having been thrown." Tootsie nodded as though she understood the wisdom of Jess' decision, but she glanced hopefully at Mac, "I worry about the danger, Mac. Do you really think she should go back tonight?"	
Mac sighed. "Jess made her decision. I think she's right. The vandal's intent was to frighten her. I don't think he'll be back."	
Tootsie frowned. "How very diplomatic of you. Since you won't stay, I insist on feeding you before you return. I've a lovely salad in the kitchen. Why don't you two have a drink while I get everything ready." She disappeared into the kitchen.	
"I suppose your mother eats like you," Mac queried, "Health food. Ugh!"	
"You needn't make it sound like a curse," Jess snapped. He looked so tired, she wanted to comfort him, to erase the lines of weariness surrounding his mouth and eyes. Yet she couldn't reach out to him, couldn't confide the fears that ate away at her peace.	
Mac pushed himself to his feet and walked to the bar. He opened the small refrigerator beneath the counter and found a beer. He offered Jess one, but she declined, preferring wine.	
"White wine, I suppose." He poured her a glass and handed it to her and sat back down with his beer clutched in his hand. "After the day I've had, I really want a thick, juicy steak and a baked potato with chives and sour cream and a...."	
Tootsie reappeared. "I think I'll have a wine, too, while dinner is cooking." She poured for herself and gave Mac a fond smile. "I suppose you're a meat and potatoes man. Don't bother to deny it; I saw the look on your face when I said salad. I'm making a steak for you. I don't have potatoes, but I do have some lovely turnips. You'll never know the difference."	
Mac smiled and thanked her nicely. Jess refilled her wine, aware of a great weariness descending on her. She'd been working on adrenaline for so long, she suddenly felt depleted. She didn't want dinner; she just wanted to go home, to curl up in her bed, the comforter over her head and Mac's secure presence in her living room. She wanted the nightmare to be over, for her life to be normal again.	
With her chair facing the front window, she stared at the gathering darkness. Porch lights went on. Cars turned into driveways. Children playing in the street were called in to dinner.	
"Now about tonight," Tootsie said brightly, "I thought I'd bring the futon down from my closet and Jess can sleep on the floor near the fireplace and Mac can have the sofa." Never willing to give up, she produced a brilliant smile that said 'defy me if you dare.'	
Jess dared. "Mother, I truly appreciate your offer, but no. And if you keep this up, I'll leave now."	
"Then nothing I say will convince you to stay." For a brief moment, Tootsie looked frightened.	
Jess touched her mother's hand reassuringly. "Thank you, but no. I'm adequately protected with Mac. No one is going to hurt me."	
"But this stalker?" Tootsie's fear showed. She held onto Jess' hand tightly. "You're my only child, Jess. What would I do if something happened to you?"	
"The vandal won't be back," Mac said, "Lt. O'Brian is going to have a patrol car cruise the house every hour. I'll be inside. Jess will be fine. I promise."	
"Who could it have been?" Tootsie asked with a glance at Jess.	
"Someone who wants to frighten Jess," Mac said.	
"Well, they succeeded," Jess replied. If she took a look at her career in the District Attorney's Office, the possibility of others having a grudge against her was highly probable. If Alphonse, Doris, and Terrence Liang didn't turn up, or proved to be innocent, where would she look next?	
The debate ended. They ate dinner, and Jess and Mac returned to her home.	
Most of the worst damage had been cleared away. The smashed stereo and TV were gone, the broken glass swept up and the pillows put back on the furniture. The house almost looked normal except for little things here and there--a missing vase, no TV, her cordless phone smashed beyond recognition, a mirror with a diagonal crack. She felt as though she'd been raped.	
"Tomorrow," Mac said, "We'll talk to Alphonse's mother."	
"Yes," she said in a lethargic voice.	
The phone rang. Jess stared at the wall unit, miraculously spared from the destruction. Hesitantly, she lifted the receiver from its cradle. "Hello."	
She heard a long pause, and then a whisper. "You can't get away from me." A click sounded, the dial tone came back on.	
Jess dropped the phone. She covered her face with her hands.	
Mac knelt on one knee, grabbed her and pulled her into his arms. "It's going to be all right, Jess."	
She buried her face against his chest. Her earlier tears returned. She sobbed against him, drowning his shirt in tears. He tucked her tight against him, his voice a rumble in his chest. "I won't let anything happen to you. I promise."	
When her tears ended, Mac washed her face with a cool cloth. "Go on to bed, Jess."	
Scooter jumped in Jess' lap and purred, rubbing against her chin. "Can I take Scooter?" Jess hugged the cat, burying her face in the soft fur, thankful for the warm body and the simple affection the animal gave to her.	
"You can take me, if you want."	
She stared at him, searching his face to see if he were serious. "I'll just take your cat. Thank you."	
"If I'm lonely, can I join you?"	
"No," she replied. Though she wanted him to. She couldn't bear the thought of being alone in her bed. The cat would have to do for company.	
Jess drifted to sleep to the sounds of Scooter's rumbling purr and Mac's footsteps. She tried not to dream and thankfully didn't.	***	
Mac spent most of the night prowling the house and yard. He looked behind every bush and under anything that could be looked under. He searched every car and eyed with suspicion any shadow appearing to move.	
When he slept, he did so sitting up in an armchair, snatching a few minutes here and there, jerking awake periodically to prowl again. He worried about Jess, about the stalker, and about the threatening letters in general. He'd grown to like Jess more than he'd originally thought. He had not expected them to ease into such a comfortable, companionable relationship.	
He didn't particularly want to sleep. When he did, old nightmares surfaced, leaving him in a cold sweat of terror. He dreamed about Loretta, bleeding to death only a few feet away from him, their blood mingling on the pavement as they lay in pools of light from their car's headlamps. He still heard the voices.	
"Are they dead?" a young girl giggled.	
Someone kicked Mac. He tried not to groan at the pain shooting through him. "Nah, they ain't dead. They's fakin'." A young man bent over Mac and held a gun to his ear. "Is you fakin', man?" Mac could only stare at the boy whose face was covered with acne and whose breath smelled of cheap whiskey. The girl couldn't seem to stop giggling. Beyond them, life slowly faded from Loretta's eyes as she lay with arms outstretched, staring at Mac, silently begging him to help her. Mac shook himself awake.	
Outside, a wind ruffled the trees. He dragged himself out of the chair and went to stare out the window. Overhead, stars like diamonds on black velvet twinkled unconcerned with the human tragedy existing below. He made a circuit of the house, inside and out, stopping briefly at Jess' bedroom door to listen to her breathing.	
Her wheelchair sat like a demented ghost next to her bed. He tried not to watch her slide in and out of it because he wanted to help her, to pick her up, saving her the effort of trying to maneuver her useless legs. He wanted to protect Jess, no matter how much she fought him.	
He empathized with Tootsie Barklay's desire to protect her daughter. Having seen Jess' scars, he understood how badly she'd suffered physically, understood her iron determination to remain independent. He admired her for that fierce independence.	
Outside, a patrol car moved slowly down the street. At the end of Jess' driveway, the driver flashed a floodlight over the house chasing away the shadows of the bushes and trees.	
A bit of glass crunched under Mac's foot. He left it, marking the spot to be cleaned up in the morning. He'd done the best he could during the afternoonÊ making Jess' house safe to live in for her. For the first time, he began to understand why she kept her house and furnishings simple and easy to care for.	
Jess stirred in her sleep, moaning. Scooter meowed, then tucked her nose back under her tail, shifting closer to Jess, as though intending to give comfort. Jess looked lost. Lines of pain etched her face, lines that would never go away. He could only wonder at the mental and physical anguish she endured daily. Each moment was a struggle for her, a struggle to continue with life, to not give up or give in.	
Mac backed out of the bedroom. Tomorrow, he thought, they would go see Alphonse's mother. Even though the Sheriff's Department had already talked to the woman, Mac hoped Jess' more subtle approach would dislodge information Mrs. Piaget wouldn't give to a uniformed officer. Mrs. Piaget had a healthy disrespect for law enforcement, similarly mirrored in her son.	
Personally, Mac didn't think Alphonse was the vandal. The letters, the phone calls and the vandalism didn't seem like his style. Alphonse prided himself on being a cool-headed businessman. Despite his crude, vulgar way, this terrorism contained a basic emotional layer that didn't exist in Alphonse Piaget's character. They had to start somewhere, and Mac found he respected Jess' need not to be a quivering, frightened victim. She needed to fight back and after tonight, Mac would help her, despite his earlier reluctance.	
He sat down, easing his legs up on an ottoman. The chronic whiteness of Jess' house bothered him. He had planned to visit his condo earlier, but had been sidetracked by the break in. He had a warm afghan that he kept at the foot of his bed for chilly nights. He missed the familiarity of his home, of the chaotic state reminiscent of his childhood.	
He drifted back to sleep, not waking again until morning.	***	
Jess rolled herself into the bathroom. Not even this room had escaped destruction. The mirror had been broken. The towels tossed in a jumble on the floor. Jess snapped open the towels, folded them and tossed them over the towel bar. She pulled off her nightgown and maneuvered her chair into the shower. The shower held a bench, which she slid across. The controls for the shower were within easy reach. She drew the curtain so her chair wouldn't get wet and turned on the water.	
She sat in the shower for several minutes letting the warm wetness course over her. Disentangling the hand held shower unit, she rinsed her back. Long after midnight, she had worried about every little sound, listened to Mac on his rounds. She had stared at the ceiling, one hand resting on Scooter's warm fur.	
How had she come to this? Pride? Ego? Jess liked her job, liked the knowledge that some dangerous people were off the streets where they could no longer harm innocent people. She'd had a part in their removal from society. So why was she a hostage to some unknown person whose threats frightened her more than she was willing to admit?	
Eventually, lulled by the even breathing of the cat curled up against her side, she slept. In her dreams, Mac made love to her, touching her intimately until her body exploded into a passion so intense she woke. She tried hard to keep Mac out of her thoughts, feeling as though she betrayed Peter. She couldn't bear the guilt. But Mac refused to disappear, and she'd spent the remainder of the night fighting long-denied yearnings.	
She rested her head against the side of the shower, imagining the water as a tranquilizing, soul-cleansing ritual. Each day began this way for her. Finally, she reached for the soap and washed thoroughly, shampooing her hair last, rinsing, and turning off the water. She reached for a towel, her feet planted firmly on the tile floor. Water gurgled as it fell down the drain.	
She eased her legs over the edge of the shower. Only then did she realize that blood flowed in a spiral toward the drain. Pain, unnoticed before, set her foot afire. She gasped as she reached for a towel wrapping it around her, trying to see the damage to her foot, but unable to manage the maneuver.	
"Mac," she called, her voice strained. No answer. "Mac," she screamed, the echo reverberating through the bathroom. She fought down panic as she waited, willing her breathing to remain even and calm.	
The door flew open and Mac entered, crouching, gun in hand, warily scanning the room. When he saw nothing, he straightened, holstered the gun, and entered. "Jess?"	
"I'm bleeding." She pointed at her foot. Blood puddled on the floor. She held the towel around her, conscious of her disheveled state, of the scars which rippled across her body like a post-nuclear holocaust.	
"Do you have a first aid kit?" he said after examining her foot. His hands were warm and gentle. He dabbed at the wound with the towel. Red stained the white surface in huge, uncoordinated blots.	
"In the medicine cabinet."	
He folded a clean, fresh towel and placed it under her throbbing foot. He opened the mirrorless cabinet and pulled out the first aid kit. "I think a piece of glass is embedded in your foot. I thought I'd gotten everything yesterday."	
"I must have stepped on it while I was in the shower." Jess glanced into the shower. Blood spattered the sides. She didn't remember stepping on anything. In the morning, her legs tended to be numb, until she'd moved around a bit before getting the blood flowing.	
Mac snapped open the first aid kit and took tweezers from it. Gently he lifted her foot and ran a finger over the wound.	
"Ow!" Jess pushed his hand away. With feeling returned, pain rolled in waves over her foot.	
"I'm sorry." Gripping her foot tight, he probed with the tweezers and finally drew a narrow sliver of mirrored glass from her foot. "Got it." he wrapped her foot in a towel and picked her up, his hands sliding under her knees and around her back.	
She struggled slightly, feeling ridiculous with the towel barely wrapped around her. She felt exposed.	
"Don't." He carried her into the bedroom, deposited her on the bed, and went back to the bathroom, returning with bandages and antiseptic.	
She rested against the pillows, draping a blanket over her. The towel didn't cover much. Surgical scars criss-crossed her spine and long jagged scars, flesh ripped into shreds, circled her left thigh and spread in a spiral down hips and stomach and around her right knee. When he'd seen them for the first time when she'd been in the pool, he'd worked hard not to let her see the shock he'd felt. He couldn't let her see it now. The horror of what she must have suffered left him aching with sympathy. He needed to prove to her the scars meant nothing.	
When her foot was dry enough, he unwrapped the towel, swabbed the wound with disinfectant and spread antibiotic over it. "I don't think a band-aid will stick." He examined the foot, carefully. "The bleeding's almost stopped. The wound isn't deep and the blood looked like a lot because it was mixing with water."	
The antibiotic stung. Mac returned to the bathroom and pushed her wheelchair out, positioning it next to the bed so she could easily get into it. He examined the foot one more time. "You're fine. I'm gong to go clean up your bathroom. Do you want anything?"	
Jess struggled to sit up. She felt light-headed and faint. The sight of the blood left her slightly nauseous. "I'll manage if you'll just get me my robe in the bathroom."	
He complied and while Jess pulled her robe around her and belted it tightly, covering her damaged body, Mac cleaned the bathroom. She listened to him whistle as he scoured the tile and rinsed it with the hand-held shower head.	
She rested against the pillows, remembering the feel of his hands on her skin, the way he'd held her foot, and his gentleness. A fire, started with his first touch, spread through her in flashes that flickered like heat lightening.	
"Are you all right, Jess," he said when he returned, "You look a little green." He sat down next to her on the bed, sliding an arm around her, caressing her back, her arm with long soothing strokes.	
Jess trembled. The flowing blood brought back the pictures of Peter dead in the street. Would the past never disappear? When would she stop mourning Peter? When would she get on with her life? Now was a good time, came the whispered answer.	
She leaned her head against his shoulder and let him comfort her. The sound of his heart beneath her ear sounded natural, familiar. She listened for several seconds before suddenly pulling away.	
"I think you'd better go, Mac." Panic rose in her. She shoved him, hands flat against his chest.	
"Jess, don't." He pulled her back into his arms, but she fought him, never forgetting he had already seen what she looked like, seen the scars crossing her body like basket weaving, seen her scrawny breasts that had once been round and full.	
"Go away." She remembered her dreams, her feelings of betrayal. Being faithful to Peter kept her alive. She couldn't give up his memory. The warmth of Peter's love, his passion, lived on in her thoughts, her dreams, her mind.	
"It's all right," Mac murmured, his lips nuzzling her ear. "You're beautiful just the way you are." He touched her tenderly, his fingers soft along her arm in a gentle caress that sent shivers of anticipation through her.	
He loosened the belt around her waist and slid gentle fingers, light feathery touches, up her chest until he held a breast cupped in his palm. Thumb and forefinger encircled the nipple.	
Jess gasped. Deep inside her, something stirred, a feeling she hadn't felt in years. The feeling grew, pulsating through her. Her breasts ached, grew heavy. She leaned into him, eyes closed, mouth open. Wanting more, wanting to feel alive again. She remembered the passionate fire and her body's response. Then she jerked back.	
"No, Jess," he whispered against her hair.	
"You don't understand." Her problems weren't so easily solved. She couldn't be what he wanted, a woman in the way he understood the word. She was flawed, her body half dead. Her life was in tatters, her future non-existent. She would never be the same again. If she was beautiful, he was blind. She succeeded in pushing him away, in pushing away the trembling desire that left her breathless and yearning.	
"I can't be what you want," she said.	
"You don't know what I want." Mac stood up, looking hurt. He started to say something, but then left, closing the bedroom door softly with a finality that brought hot tears to Jess' eyes. An hour later, dressed in dark blue trousers, white blouse and a scarf knotted about her neck, Jess emerged from her bedroom. She and Mac ate breakfast in silence. The coffee was delicious, the omelettes fluffy and firm, the bacon crisp and dry just the way she liked it. The phone rang once, but Mac answered it and announced the caller to be the pool maintenance company.	
Jess wanted to compliment Mac on his cooking, but he looked distant and withdrawn, his face impassive, as though neither one of them were quite there. Just after they finished eating, the cleaning service came.	
Mac spent a half hour giving directions to everyone while Jess waited on the porch. She couldn't deal with the mess inside. Even though Mac had cleaned, the cleaning wasn't up to her standards. She didn't feel capable of dealing with the ordinary despite the extraordinary circumstances.	
Her mind refused to forget the fire his touch roused in her. Her blouse felt tight and strained across her breasts and she couldn't seem to get her breath.	
She relived the scene in her bedroom over and over again. Attempting to do deep breathing exercises, she searched for calm. Peace eluded her. Her body tingled. She tried to tell herself her nervous system was over-stimulated because of the tension, but the memory of Mac's hands on her sent left her with a longing to be touched again and again.	
"Well, you look chipper this morning," her mother said as she bounded up the ramp. She wore a pale blue linen jacket over matching trousers. A white silk blouse gleamed beneath the jacket.	
"I do? Are you being sarcastic, Mom?"	
Tootsie paused to study Jess, her head tilted to one side. "I guess you don't look so chipper, after all."	
"I didn't sleep well."	
Tootsie glanced in the house. "I came to oversee the cleaning. Mac said you were going out today. I don't think you should leave your house unsupervised with so many strangers in it."	
"I don't think you should stay here by yourself once the cleaning crews leave." Jess said.	
"I won't. When the cleaners are finished, I'll go over to Main Place and restock your kitchen with new dishes and such. I'll arrange for the mirror to be replaced in your bathroom. Do you want me to look at TVs and stereos, too?"	
"Thanks, Mom. I'll take care of the TV and stereo. I appreciate your doing this for me."	
Tootsie bent down to kiss Jess on the cheek. "I know you're busy, sweetie. This is one of the few ways I get to show my love for you."	
"I know, Mom. Be careful. Don't let anyone into the house until you've thoroughly checked their ID. If you see anything suspicious...."	
"I know." Tootsie smiled. "Go on and take care of your business. Leave the rest to me."	
Mac walked out. He greeted Tootsie politely. Tootsie gave Jess an arched eyebrow and a questioning look, but Jess ignored her mother. She motored down the ramp toward her van. When she was strapped into the passenger side, she waved to her mother as Mac pulled away from the curb.[Seven]["../../../../../Desktop%20Folder/MV.html#Table"]	Chapter Seven	
Betsy Piaget, mother of Alphonse, lived in a run-down duplex in Garden Grove. Gang sign decorated the billboards, buildings and street signs. Jess remembered Betsy from the trial. She'd been fiftyish with pale brown hair shot with gray and nicotine stains on her teeth and fingers. When Jess had seen the woman in the halls, she'd always been standing over an ashtray, a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. She never once spoke to Jess except to object about her son's treatment in prison. The conversation had been disjointed and irrational.	
Betsy had favored polyester dresses in bright florals which hugged her body showing every roll of unsightly fat. She'd tottered each day to court in four-inch heels and carried a huge, cracked vinyl bag over one shoulder. She'd sat directly behind Jess, her eyes boring into Jess making Jess uncomfortable.	
Betsy's half of the duplex had seen better days. Paint curled along the clapboard face. The sidewalk, cracked and pitted, proved to be an obstacle even Jess' chair couldn't overcome. She waited on the sidewalk for Mac to knock at the front door. He rang the bell, knocked, looked in the window. No one answered.	
"She ain't home." A voice called out from the other side of the duplex. A girl, about seventeen, held a toddler in her arms. She walked around the fence that separated the two front yards. The young girl wore no wedding ring, had two front teeth missing, and a tattoo of a black tear under one eye. A butterfly tattoo decorated the back of one hand, a rose on the other. Stringy blond hair hung down either side of her narrow, predatory face. Ears pierced a dozen times on each side were filled with decreasing sized gold hoops.	
"Is Mrs. Piaget at work?" Jess asked.	
"Her!" The girl let out a huge, belly deep laugh. "Work! Ya got ta be kidding. She's never worked a day. Gets a check--regular. From her son, she said. Though I don't understand, with him in jail, he could send her money."	
"Do you know where Mrs. Piaget is?" Jess asked. The toddler smelled of wet diapers and sour milk. Drool slobbered over her bottom lip. The mother wiped the little face with unusual tenderness using a towel tossed over one shoulder.	
"Nah. Had some visitors yesterday mornin'. Cops. She packed up and left right after they did. Carried a half-dozen suitcases out to her car and took off." The girl put the toddler down and the little girl sat in the dirt to play. "Left all the furniture, too. Not that it's worth much."	
Mac skirted the potholes in the sidewalk. The little girl smiled up at him, preening a little and fluttering her eyes. Mac smiled politely. "Do you have any idea where Mrs. Piaget went?"	
"Ain't got the foggiest." The girl giggled as she pushed her blonde hair out of her eyes. "Snooty ole bitch. Always complaining 'cause Bruno and me ain't married even though we got a kid." She pointed at the baby with her toe. "That's Crystal. I went to natural birthin' classes and had her right here at home. Bruno helped me."	
Mac interrupted. "What kind of car did she drive?"	
"An old one." The girl sniffed. "She had a 77 black Mustang, all beat up it were, too. Put out a plume of smoke a mile long. Bruno says it should've been junked years ago."	
Jess took a business card from her purse and handed it to the girl. "If Mrs. Piaget returns, could you give me a call?"	
"Why?" The girl looked suspicious as she turned the card over and over. "Are you cops? You are, ain't ya? Bruno don't much like cops. That guy out here yesterday was real rude."	
Jess smiled. "I'm an attorney with the D.A.'s office. I just want to talk to Mrs. Piaget about her son."	
"Ain't that a hoot." The girl stuck the card in her pocket. "He's in jail and the ole bitch acts like he's some sort of prince. Always showin' me his letters. She's proud a' that son a' hers." She stared at the empty duplex. "Bruno and me ain't much, but we never been in jail, we don't do drugs, and we don't smoke or drink. Bruno's got hisself a steady job over to the motel on Katella. Right near Disneyland. We get free tickets sometimes." She bent over and picked up the baby. She kissed the baby on the cheek, smiling. The baby girl gurgled something incomprehensible.	
"Could you tell me your name?" Jess asked, flipping open a notebook, pen poised over a blank page.	
"Am I gonna get in trouble for somethin'?"	
"Just for my records." Jess coaxed.	
"It's Rainbow. Rainbow Ramsey. And Bruno is Bruno Webb."	
"Do you know if Mrs. Piaget owned her half, or rented?" Jess glanced at the abandoned half of the duplex. A hunch told her that Mother Piaget wasn't coming back.	
"Rented, same as Bruno and me. Same landlord." Rainbow began to look bored with the questions. She glanced longingly back at her house.	
Jess smiled reassuringly. "Can you give me the name, phone number and address of your landlord?"	
Rainbow shrugged. "Jerry Whistler on Crescent Circle in Anaheim." She rattled off the phone number while Jess wrote furiously.	
"Thank you, Ms. Ramsey," Mac said in a courteous tone as he headed toward the van.	
After a long, wary look that said I know you're a cop, Rainbow turned around and headed back to her small home which even Jess had to admit looked more neatly kept than Betsy's side.	
Back in the van, Mac stared at the empty duplex. "Any ideas about where she might have gone?"	
"To join her son?" Jess leaned an elbow on the edge of the window. "During the trial, I got the impression she didn't much like her son."	
"Maybe," Mac said, "but he made a lot of money and when he was working, she drove a brand new Cadillac. She may not have liked him, but he treated her pretty good."	
Mac started the van and pulled away from the curb. Jess smothered a yawn. Her sore foot throbbed. She leaned back against the headrest and closed her eyes.	
At a mini-mart, Mac phoned the landlord. When he returned to the van, he told Jess the man was out of town, but the secretary complained that Mrs. Piaget was a month behind in her rent and was surprised to know she'd skipped.	
"Sounds like she had no intention of staying in that place any longer than she had to, doesn't it?" Jess said.	
"Wonder who drove the getaway car." Mac mused as he started the van again. "What's next?" He turned onto Harbor heading for the freeway.	
"You're the cop. What would you do?"	
"Go see Alphonse's sisters."	
Jess glanced at her notebook. One sister lives in North Hollywood and the other in Corona. She didn't feel much enthusiasm in talking to them. She didn't remember them from the trial. Had they been there? No particular face came to mind. "I'm too tired today. I need a four hour nap and some food."	
"Sounds good to me."	
They returned to Jess' home and entered the living room to find her mother sitting on the sofa with the cat curled up in her lap.	
"You weren't gone long." Tootsie looked at her watch. "I was just thinking about lunch."	
"So are we," Mac said as Jess headed toward the bedroom.	
Jess closed the door on them, wanting to be alone. She liked her privacy and found Mac's constant attention wearing. Positioning her chair at the window, she gazed at her garden. Red and pink petunias bloomed in front of a row of miniature rose bushes. Neatly trimmed bushes partially shaded both. Beyond the closed door she could hear Mac and Tootsie debating in an agreeable tone about what Mac should fix for lunch.	
Jess could tell that her mother liked Mac. She had mixed feelings herself. On one hand she liked him, but on the other felt threatened by him. His gentle care of the morning while he removed the glass shard from her foot still left her uneasy and confused and yet burning at the memory of `his touch.	
She had thought the desires, the needs, he roused in her had long been dead. She'd learned to live without companionship, without sex, but Mac's presence in her home told her otherwise. She wanted to trust him, but fear of being abandoned surfaced.	
A knock on the bedroom door sounded. Jess turned to watch her mother enter.	
"Is something wrong, Jess?" Tootsie asked. She perched on the edge of the mattress looking at her daughter as though expecting a tearful confession of past transgressions.	
"Nothing's wrong, Mom." Jess had never been able to confide in her mother. Tootsie had been a great organizer: the Officers' Wives Organization, the PTA, any organization that needed organizing. Jess loved her Mom but had learned long ago to keep her thoughts to herself.	
"You seem so sad and distant, darling." Tootsie's manner invited confidences, but Jess turned back to stare out the window. "Are you thinking about Peter? He's dead, Jess. You can't go on mourning him."	
"I know Peter's dead, Mom. I don't deny that." A sob caught in her throat. Not for herself, but for the vibrant life snuffed out. Peter had made her feel so special, so deeply loved, she didn't think another man could ever replace him. Until now.	
"After your father died, I found life difficult." Tootsie looked down at her hands, her wedding rings still adorned the left one. "But I learned to go on. You have to learn that, too. You can't live alone your entire life, Jess."	
"So why didn't you remarry?"	
"I thought about it. I brought home a few men, but you always disliked them so much. So after awhile, I stopped. I needed you more than I needed them." She sounded wistful.	
One of Tootsie's dates had been a very nice man. He'd brought a bouquet of flowers for her and candy for Jess. Jess had not wanted a replacement for her father. Now, she was sorry her actions had caused her mother to remain single. Jess understood how lonely she must have been.	
"Mom, you could remarry now. I'm all grown up."	
"I don't think so. I've gotten used to being independent and responsible only for myself." Though she still looked sad and poignant.	
"My life isn't so easy to fix, Mom." Jess had refused to talk about Peter after his death. She wouldn't discuss him now. His memories were too precious to share, too wondrous to lose. She worried that by talking about him, his image would fade forever out of her mind, never to be found again. She hugged those dreams to her.	
"Mac's a good man," Tootsie said in a soft tone. "I think he likes you."	
"I'm just an assignment to him, Mom." Jess turned around to look at her mother, seeing a lovely, nicely preserved older version of what Jess would look like in twenty-five years. Her mother had aged so gracefully, Jess could only hope for the same. "Don't read any more into my association with him than is really there."	
"You need someone to care for you, Jess."	
Jess immediately went on the defensive. "I don't need anyone. Just because I need a wheelchair to get around doesn't mean I'm stupid, or helpless." Her voice rose. "Instead of trying to make me dependent on a man, why not encourage me to be independent, to manage for myself. I'm only physically limited, not mentally. I'm not incompetent."	
"I'm only thinking about your future." Tootsie stood up, her posture rigid and stiff, ready for battle. "What will you do when I'm gone?"	
"I'll keep right on the way I am now. Stop trying to smother me, Mom. Let me be free to be what I am. Stop trying to put limitations on my behavior. Stop trying to wrap me in cotton."	
"You're a cripple." Tootsie's voice was harsh and angry.	
"Only physically, not mentally." How many times over the last few years had they had this argument? When would her mother understand?	
"I only want what's best for you. And someday, some doctor is going to know what to do to fix you. And you'll be normal again." Hope sprang into her eyes.	
"Mom," Jess replied in a weary voice, "No one can fix me. I'm going to be in this chair for the rest of my life. No miracle operation or medical advance is going to effect a miracle."	
Tootsie looked tired, defeated, and a little frightened. Jess couldn't begrudge her mother her dreams. Tootsie had cherished visions of grandchildren and a comfortable life for Jess.	
A knock on the door distracted them. Mac looked in. "Sorry to interrupt, but you have a visitor, Jess."	
Tootsie marched to the door and then whirled around to face Jess. "I'm going home."	
"I'll see you later, Mom."	
Tootsie brushed past Mac with a glance that brought a slight smile to his lips. He opened his mouth as though he intended to say something, but Tootsie glared at him with such hostility he simply shook his head. Then she was gone and Jess felt deflated and alone. She turned toward the door and went out to see who her visitor was.	
Eve Carter was a long, leggy blonde with down-tilted blue eyes, an all-over tan, and a sexy smile Jess had always envied. Divorced, the mother of one rebellious son and the owner of her own computer consulting business, Eve had been Jess' neighbor for three years. She was also a woman with a problem--her son, Tim. Eve sat on the edge of a chair looking nervous, wringing her hands. She wasn't nervous enough not to notice Mac. Blue eyes alight, she gave Mac a winking come-hither look with only one message in it. Her problems were never eclipsed by her need to conquer any male who came within her sphere.	
"Hi, Eve." Jess positioned her chair in front of her neighbor, forcing Eve to look away from Mac and concentrate on Jess. "Is something wrong?" Isn't that what her mother had just asked? Jess felt a wry sense of irony. Eve would confide everything in Jess, while Jess stone-walled her mother.	
"It's Tim." Eve's voice was low and sensual. She purred like a cat, drawing out her vowels and wrapping her tongue delicately around the consonants.	
Tim Carter was fifteen and angry at his mother, his father, and the world in general. Eve gave a delicate shudder. "I went out of town yesterday, a job in Santa Barbara, and I didn't hear until this morning about your break-in. I just wanted to know if you've any idea who might have done it." She looked worried, bending forward over her knees and wrapping her arms around herself.	
The neighborhood had suffered a series of break-ins a year before which turned out to be perpetrated by Eve's son. He'd gotten involved with a crowd of high school kids who did drugs and shared easy sex with each other. Tim had needed money.	
"I don't think Tim had anything to do with the break-in," Jess reassured her.	
Mac sat down across from Eve. "Burglary wasn't the motive, Mrs. Carter."	
Eve exuded sex, but Mac seemed oblivious to the signals. He smiled encouragingly at her, and she smiled back. "Tim has a problem." Eve rolled her shoulders. She wore a tight-fitting white sheath dress that showed off her gorgeous tan to advantage. Gold earrings hung from her ears and a matching necklace dangled between the swell of her breasts.	
Jess felt sorry for Tim. He'd been torn between his parents for years. When he'd sought social acceptance, he'd unfortunately picked the wrong way to do so.	
Mac said, "What type of problem?"	
"Just a little one." Eve bit her lips and suddenly started to cry. She turned back to Jess. Mac might be desirable, but Jess was a sympathetic ear and had helped in the past. "A new crack house opened up two streets over." She dabbed at her heavily made-up eyes with a tissue. "I know Tim's been over there. He came home stoned two days ago, and I found the paraphernalia in his closet this morning. I tried to get him back to the therapy center, but he won't go."	
"Have you called the police?" Mac asked with a frown.	
Eve nodded. "The last crack house we had in the neighborhood was open for eight months before the cops took any notice. The story was always the same: not enough men, not enough money. What did I expect them to do? I called every week for three months trying to get the cops to do something. Twice they raided, but didn't find anything. My son is dying. He's killing himself, and I can't help him." Her voice ended on a bitter, self-recriminatory note.	
Jess forbore to point out that Tim would find a way to feed his habit no matter what. He had to want to help himself. A crack house two streets over wouldn't change him. The presence of easy drugs in the neighborhood invited crime, endangering the residents. The neighborhood was a mixture of age groups, the elderly being the easiest victims for the wandering groups of crack addicts.	
Eve turned the strength of her gaze on Mac. "Can't you do something? You're a cop. The department will listen to you."	
"I'll call it in," Mac said and Eve deflated, the aura of unbridled sex suddenly gone, leaving her looking empty and flat.	
Eve sighed. "Thank you." She stood up and bent over Jess, kissing her on the cheek. "You're a real pal." She bent closer to Jess' ear and whispered. "When you're through with the hunk, toss him in my direction. Puleeease." She patted Jess' shoulder. "Thank you. I'll see myself out."	
Mac jumped to his feet and followed Eve.	
"She's quite a woman," he said when he returned after seeing Eve out and locking the door.	
"You disappointed her."	
"Didn't rise to the bait? Not my type."	
Jess took a deep breath realizing she'd been worried Eve was exactly his type and glad to know she was wrong. Still, she felt guilty because she'd refused his advances. "She's all right, but a bit of an airhead at times. Tim's a nice kid, but he's mixed up, and Eve doesn't help him any with her persistent barrage of sexual innuendo. She's constantly in the act of seduction and has a line of boyfriends a mile long to prove it."	
Mac shrugged. He disappeared into the kitchen, announcing that he had lunch ready. Jess followed, feeling dispirited. Eve always had the effect on her.	***	
While Jess rested in her bedroom, Mac stretched out on the sofa, book in hand. Prepared to relax, he surprised himself and dozed off to sleep. He dreamed he and Jess made love in the pool. That she wrapped her long legs around him while he teased her into flaming arousal. He could hear the sound of the water slapping against the sides. He could smell her perfume.	
He woke. A fine sheen of sweat covered him, accompanied by a need to cool off. The dream of the pool remained vivid in his mind. He checked on Jess. She slept. The cat snored gently on the pillow next to her. For a few minutes, she'd be all right. He locked the windows and the front door and then changed into his swimming trunks.	
Ordinarily, Mac preferred jogging. He lived in Huntington Beach, two blocks from the ocean and used the beach for exercise. Exercise dulled the painful memories in his mind and kept him from going mad on those nights when he couldn't sleep.	
The lap pool was shallow, but still deep enough for him to do an energetic crawl. Back and forth he swam, working his body in order to tire out his mind. He couldn't afford dreams about Jess Savage; she would never let him into her life. He admired her prickly independence, but to admit her needs frightened her.	
When he pulled himself out an hour later, Jess sat on the apron surrounding the pool waiting for him.	
She handed him his towel. "Have a nice swim?"	
The shadows had lengthened into late afternoon. A brisk wind cooled the air. Mac wrapped the towel around him and slid his feet into plastic slippers. "I like swimming. Used to surf a lot when I was a kid."	
Jess chuckled. "I hung out on the beach the few times my Dad was stationed here."	
"Where was he stationed?" Mac sat down on a patio chair, rubbing his hair dry, waiting for her revelations.	
"The weapons center at Seal Beach. We lived in Naples."	
"Ritzy area for a Naval officer."	
"Mom inherited a lot of money. Her Dad was a big name in the silent film era. We got to live in some nice places, and I always had enough allowance to do the things I really wanted to do."	
Mac wanted to keep her talking. He'd learned so little about her that he hungered for anything she had to say about herself. But she suddenly fell silent, lost in her memories. The cordless phone in her tote bag rang and she answered it, then handed it to Mac. "For you."	
"McCready here."	
"This is Ed Westheimer, Mac. I briefed you on the situation with Jessica Savage." Ed was a no-nonsense type of man with a Marine buzz haircut, piercing blue eyes and an abrupt manner inherited from twenty years in the military police.	
"Evening, Lieutenant Westheimer. How goes the investigation on Alphonse Piaget?"	
Mac heard a long, exhausted sigh. "Not well," Ed said. "We've talked to as many people as we can find who had any involvement with Alphonse, and no one is talking. I've put the word out on the streets, and we have a three county APB, but no sightings."	
"What about his sisters?" Mac asked.	
"No time to talk to them, yet. I've got two deputies out with work related injuries and another two out with the flu. Tell me what's happening with you and Ms. Savage."	
Mac gave a concise report about the break-in and vandalism. He added that Mrs. Piaget had skipped out and was nowhere to be found. "I thought I might poke around a little. Any objections?"	
"No problem. Just keep the counselor safe, Mac, and let me know what you find out," Ed said, "We're doing the best we can. I'll keep you posted." He hung up. Mac handed the phone back to Jess.	
"Lt. Westheimer says no developments." Mac stood and stretched. His muscles felt tingly and alive after the laps. "I think I'm going to have a shower, and then, I want to go take a look at the crack house your friend alerted us to. Call your Mom and ask her to come over for a hour, or so."	
Jess followed him into the house. When he emerged from his bedroom, he found her dressed in loose gray trousers and a dark blue blouse with a blue print scarf knotted around her throat.	
"I'm going, too," Jess announced with a set look in her face.	
Mac shook his head. "Not wise."	
"This is my neighborhood, Mac. What happens here affects all of us, and especially me."	
Mac frowned. "Your van is hardly the unobtrusive type of vehicle I would use on a surveillance."	
"You're not going without me." Jess remained firm on her decision, her face tilted up and her mouth set in a straight, stubborn line. "The address of the crack house is near my mom's. My van is known to park there. No one will think anything of it."	
"I don't want you in danger."	
"I won't be in danger." Jess dimpled at him. "You'll be around to protect me."	***	
Mac braked the van and put it in park. He set the emergency brake and sat back to observe the crack house. Jess sat in the passenger seat, a thermos of coffee on the dashboard in front of her.	
"How long will we be here?" Jess asked.	
"As long as it takes." Mac flipped open a notebook and wrote down the address.	
The alleged crack house was a two-story, brick house with a neatly manicured lawn, two poplar shade trees and a flowerbed of pink, purple and white vinca. The house looked like any other middle class house with its front windows gleaming and fresh white paint on the rain gutters.	
A blue Corvette pulled up in front of the house, and a man in a three piece, Armani suit and a felt fedora hat got out. Mac noted the license plate number and wrote a brief description of the man. Instead of approaching the front door, the man walked up the driveway and disappeared around the back of the house. He reappeared a few minutes later, entered his Corvette and roared away.	
"Hardly the run of the mill Santa Ana teen," Jess remarked when the Corvette was gone, replaced by a dark blue VW bug with polished chrome highlights and red fringe in the back window.	
"The dealer caters to the neighborhood, Jess." Mac wrote down license plate numbers and descriptions of the buyers. Occasionally he asked Jess if she recognized anyone.	
Jess said no. "I've lived here for five years, Mac. I hardly know my neighbors, except for Eve and Anita. I only know Eve because she installed my home computer."	
A group of teens wearing designer jeans and t-shirts advertising various South Coast Plaza stores sauntered down the block, pausing in front of the house. Mac took careful note of the teens.	
One of the boys separated from the group, trotting up the driveway. Two girls giggled shrilly. One of the boys held a girl by the hand, moving close every few minutes to kiss her, his fingers sliding down her back in a provocative caress.	
Inside the house next door, a light went on, and an older model Colt hatchback pulled into the driveway. Other cars drove down the street, turning into different driveways, the owners arriving home. A grade school boy on a skateboard approached the crack house. One of the older teens tried to stop the boy, but he evaded the teen's out-stretched arms and sped up the street to a one-story bungalow with a Toyota parked in the driveway.	
The teens left, replaced by others. One lone boy about fifteen sauntered up the street, hands in the pockets of his khaki combat jacket.	
"That's Tim Carter," Jess said softly, leaning forward frowning.	
Tim looked young and vulnerable. He wore his blond hair slicked straight back from a round face not yet sharpened into adult maturity. He stopped in front of the house, balancing on the balls of his feet, jumpy and nervous. After reaching deep down in his pocket and pulling something out, he proceeded up the driveway.	
"You want to get him?" Mac asked.	
"And do what? Arrest him for possession?" Jess gripped the dashboard tightly, her knuckles white with strain. "He'll get nothing more than a slap on the wrist from some judge. What he needs is a good counselor willing to help him admit he needs help."	
"How about just a friendly warning?" Mac hated seeing the kid addicts. If they didn't die early, they drifted into adult addiction and major criminal activities to support their enormous habits.	
"Tim is long beyond the friendly warning stage." Jess felt a surge of grief for Tim and Eve. "Eve is upset enough."	
Tim returned to the street. He sauntered away, eyes darting left and right, and his hands stuffed in his pockets as though he hoarded something precious.	
"What made you decide on law enforcement for a career?" Jess asked during a lull in the activity.	
"Runs in the family. My Dad is a thirty-year veteran out of Long Beach, and his Dad worked Hollywood back in the thirties, forties and early fifties. My two younger brothers are cops, too."	
"A family affair?" Jess chuckled.	
"Something like that."	
Other kids came and went. A handful of cars from upper class Volvos and BMWs to average family cars like Chevys and Fords moved up and down the street. Mac concentrated on the alleged crack house detailing every action.	
The sun set. The street was lit with overhead mercury vapor lamps casting yellow halos on the sidewalks and streets. The crack house looked perfectly normal except for the groups of teens and adults who came and went with timed regularity.	
"Almost as though they have appointments," Jess said after another hour of observation.	
Drugs were big business. After years of busting drug dealers, Mac didn't doubt that they worked on an appointment schedule like any big business executive.	
A brand-new, white Cadillac with pretentious gold trim purred down the street and turned into the driveway of the crack house. Mac caught sight of a woman, but couldn't see clearly enough in the growing dusk to get a description. The Cadillac disappeared up the driveway and made no re-appearance.	
"Must live there," he murmured.	
An hour later, he decided to return to Jess' home. She nodded agreement with a weary movement of her head.	
Mac started the van and drove the two blocks back to her home. While he locked up the van and the garage, Jess went into the house. When he came in, he found her just hanging up the phone.	
"That was St. Joseph's Hospital," she said as she whirled around to face him. "Mrs. Santiago asked them to call. We have to go immediately."	
"Mrs. Santiago! Is something wrong?"	
"I don't know," Jess replied. "She was in surgery when I called."	
"Then let's go." Mac said.	
Jess grabbed her purse and led the way back to the garage.[Eight]["../../../../../Desktop%20Folder/MV.html#Table"]	Chapter Eight	
The St. Joseph's Hospital in Orange always seemed to be in the state of flux. Either the administration was building new parking structures, or they remodeled office space. Because land was at a premium, the buildings had no place to go but up.	
The handicapped parking in front of the entrance was filled.	
"I'll go in the parking structure," Mac said, stopping at the main entrance to let Jess off.	
She descended on the ramp, annoying a driver who honked. Inside the foyer, Jess inquired at the desk for Mrs. Santiago. A pleasant lady wearing a pink jacket and permed gray hair gave the room number after consulting a box filled with pink index cards. On the floor, Jess approached the nurse's station. People passed up and down the main corridor chattering in lowered voices. A nurse held a microphone to her lips announcing that visiting hours would end at 9 o'clock.	
"Ms. Savage, Mrs. Santiago has been asking for you." The nurse wore a nametag with the name Patty Banks engraved on the slick surface. She looked harried and tired. "And Dr. Javaheri wishes to speak with you. I'll page him now. Won't you wait in the lounge?" Nurse Banks pointed down the hall while she slid patient charts attached to silver clipboards into slots behind the desk.	
Jess hated hospitals. The smells, the hushed atmosphere, and the wheezing equipment brought back vivid memories of her post-accident days and long struggle to recover. A young woman in a brightly colored robe moved slowly down the hall with a nurse following pushing an IV unit.	
Low voices spilled into the hall from the open doors. Somewhere a baby cried. Jess passed the nursery and felt a familiar pain stab through her. She passed on, eyes averted, unable to look at the tiny babies wrapped in their colorful blankets.	
In the lounge, a man with snow-white hair and drooping jowls hunched over in a wheelchair. He gave Jess a bleary-eyed glance, his eyes taking in the control pad of her chair. "Nifty wheels you got there, Miss." He gave her a surprisingly boyish grin and a naughty wink.	
"Thank you," Jess said.	
"Came to visit my new grandson." He chuckled. "He's quite a baby. His ma's gonna have a great time chasing after him."	
Mac walked inside and sat down. "Do you know that in all those handicapped parking slots, only three cars actually had placards posted entitling them to park there."	
"Welcome to the real world, Mac," Jess said. "I battle that situation all the time."	
A small, delicate looking man entered the room. He wore a three-piece gray suit, and a stark white turban. "Ms. Savage?" His voice was a soft, gentle singsong. "I am Dr. Javaheri. Mrs. Santiago's obstetrician." He held out a slender hand with nails buffed to a high shine. "Sir." He turned to the old man. "If you please." He gestured at the door.	
The old man winked at Jess again, then turned his wheels toward the hallway.	
Mac grinned. "You made a conquest."	
Jess ignored Mac. She turned to the Doctor. "How is Mrs. Santiago?"	
"She will recover." His expression was guarded.	
"Can you tell me what's wrong?"	
Dr. Javaheri sat down on a chair, balanced on the edge, and looked grave. "Mrs. Santiago's husband brought her in about four hours ago. She was in labor and bleeding. Mr. Santiago claims that she is very clumsy and fell down the stairs."	
Jess said, "From the look on your face, I don't think you believed him."	
Dr. Javaheri shook his head in a slow, measured motion. "I do not believe Mrs. Santiago would be so awkward. I believe her husband hurt her. Though such an accusation is not for me to say. I did what I could, but the baby was dead. Mrs. Santiago has a broken arm."	
Mac leaned back in his chair. "Can you detail her injuries for me, sir?"	
"As I said, her arm is broken. Her face and upper chest are severely contused. She is also sore in the abdomen. I believe her husband may have repeatedly punched her."	
Mac frowned. "Is there any evidence that might lead you to believe that the husband's alleged actions may have contributed to the infant's death?"	
The doctor splayed his hands over his knees, looking troubled. "I cannot say. I am only guessing at the situation from the pattern of her injuries. She has been here before with similar injuries."	
Jess felt a strange grief fill her. "Where is her husband now?"	
"He left immediately after he brought her. He had to go to work. I tried to get Mrs. Santiago to report this attack to the police, but she will not. She simply asked for you. I wish to ask you if you can make her change her mind about her husband. This man is very cruel and dangerous, I think."	
Jess sighed. "I'll do what I can, but I don't think she'll change her mind." Burning anger surged through her. Why would Mrs. Santiago shield her husband after this latest episode? She owed him no loyalty.	
Dr. Javaheri shrugged. "She is in 511B. She waits for you." He stood up and looked sadly at Jess. "Mrs. Santiago is a very nice woman. I feel badly for her."	
"You're a kind man." Jess reached out to him, and he took her hand a moment, smiling faintly, then left.	
"Do you think she'll change her mind?" Mac asked as they walked down the hall toward Maria Santiago's room.	
"I don't know. She won't admit to herself her husband's violence is endangering her and her children."	
Maria Santiago looked very small and pale as she lay in bed staring up at the ceiling. An IV hung from an post over her head, connected by a transparent tube to a machine which regulated the solution dripping into her veins.	
"Mrs. Santiago." Jess positioned herself as close to the bed as she could. "Maria."	
Maria smiled, a wan stretching of her lips. "You came. Thank you for coming. I did not know who to call." The left side of her face was black, the eye partially swollen shut. Her left arm, encased in a cast, lay across a pillow. She reached out to Jess and Jess took her hand. The pale fingers clamped loosely about hers.	
"Mrs. Santiago," Mac began, but Jess turned to him, finger over her lips. She shook her head, and he stepped back to lean against the wall.	
In a gentle voice, Jess said, "Won't you tell me what happened, Maria?"	
Maria Santiago's eyes pleaded with Jess. "I fell down the stairs. I tripped over Gertruda's skate. You must not believe Emilio responsible." The look in her eyes told Jess Maria Santiago desperately wanted to believe the tale herself.	
"I don't believe you fell down the stairs." Jess tightened her grip on the other woman's hand. "Please, let me help you. I can get a police officer to fill out a warrant for Emilio's arrest."	
"No." She thrashed wildly. "Emilio is a good man. He loves me." Huge tears filled her eyes, spilling over and coursing down her pale cheeks. "He really does love me."	
Mac stepped forward. "Your baby is dead, Mrs. Santiago."	
She began to cry harder, sobs wracking her frail body. Jess found a box of tissue and handed it to her. Awkwardly, Maria wiped her eyes.	
"Please, Maria," Jess said, "if you won't sign a complaint, at least allow me to find you a place where you and your children will be safe."	
"Yes," Mrs. Santiago said with a sobbing gulp, "I would like that. Some time away from Emilio will be good. Maybe if I am gone, he will understand he cannot ... cannot ... do what he does."	
"Where are your children?" Jess asked.	
"My neighbor. She is a good woman."	
A nurse, dressed in crisp white pants and blue smock, knocked on the door. "Visiting hours are over in fifteen minutes."	
"Maria," Jess said, "I'll check back with you tomorrow and let you know where you'll be going."	
Mrs. Santiago looked away. "Thank you." She closed her eyes and sighed. Jess patted her shoulder and turned her chair toward the door.	
Jess and Mac left the hospital, crossing over to the parking lot filled with the mass exodus of cars. Emilio Santiago arrived, squealing tires and exhaust fumes following him. He parked a few places down from the van and got out, swaggering. As he approached, whiskey fumes preceded him. He glared at Jess, the hate and anger in his eyes making her shiver.	
"Now there's someone who really hates you," Mac commented as he unlocked the van.	
Emilio stood at the stairwell staring back at Jess.	
"Why not," Jess replied, "I tried to put him in jail, break up his 'loving' family and urged his wife to testify against him. He has every reason to dislike me."	
"That look on his face goes beyond dislike."	
Jess glanced back toward the stairway, but Emilio was gone. The parking structure was three stories with long ramps leading to each. Mercury vapor lights lit each level. In a small kiosk, a guard nodded politely at Mac, before waving a car through the gate.	
"I know a woman's shelter in Long Beach," Mac said, "The director owes me favor. We might be able to get her in there."	
Jess nodded as the van platform descended. "What kind of favor?" A car honked and sped by, braking suddenly as another car appeared on a ramp.	
"Just a favor." Mac smiled as he watched the traffic in the garage, alert for cars screeching around blind corners.	
"I have a list of shelters in my office. If your friend won't take her, we'll try the others until we find one that will." Jess wheeled her chair onto the platform. Mac hit the lever and the lift rose to the level of the van. Jess slid over into the passenger seat while Mac closed the side door with a heavy thud. He walked around the van and slid into the driver's seat.	
He started the engine. "Do you think there's any evidence to prosecute the man for the death of the baby?"	
"Not without Mrs. Santiago's testimony." Jess bit the skin inside her cheek. She wanted to scream at Mrs. Santiago, to shake her until she understood her danger and her foolishness. Emilio could easily kill her.	
"What do you think we should do?" Mac backed out of the parking slot. The garage was nearly empty.	
Jess ran her fingers through her hair. She ached all over. "Get her into the shelter where she can receive counseling. Maybe she'll change her mind when she realizes she doesn't have to suffer like this, that other people are available to help." Jess leaned her head back against the head rest. She massaged her temples. A headache clouded her vision with such clamping force she felt ill. "I don't have much hope for her. If she does decide on a divorce, she'll have nothing. She has no skills. She'll probably end up on welfare living in some horrible apartment with drug deals going down in the halls and hookers walking the streets."	
"Don't you think anything is better that being beaten up?"	
"I suppose, but the cost would be the destruction of her family and the loss of what little security she has now."	
"Or being dead." Mac said.	
"That, too."	
For all her loyalty to her husband, Maria seemed blind to the risk on her own life. Jess knew only too well how such violence could escalate into something more serious, something that could end in tragedy.	
The next morning, Jess and Mac drove to Long Beach to the St. Margaret's Shelter for Battered Women. Sister Mary Katherine Moore, of the Order of St. Francis, was a small, petite woman with dynamic blue eyes, ruffled gray hair and a powerhouse manner that left Jess feeling tired. She wore a plain black skirt, white blouse with Peter Pan collar, sensible black shoes and no veil. Her face was ageless.	
"Mac," Sr. Mary Katherine cried, throwing her arms around Mac and hugging him with tremendous force.	
Mac grinned and kissed the nun on the forehead. "Sister Mary Kate, you never change." Mac introduced Jess and the nun gave Jess an assessing look. "How's everything?"	
"The same--no money, no room and not enough of everything." Sr. Mary Kate twirled around and led the way to her office. "How's my favorite, all-star pupil."	
"Doing okay."	
She gave him a searching look. "What's going on, Mac? You never visit unless it's important."	
St. Margaret's Shelter for Battered Women consisted of an old brick hotel a few blocks away from the downtown area of Long Beach. All three floors had been converted into living quarters for women in need of temporary shelter. The lobby was a bright, cheerful room with black and white tile polished to a high gloss, mismatched tables and chairs and a long hallway that led into the bowels of the building. A young woman sat in an easy chair, knitting. At her feet, a little girl played contentedly with a stuffed rabbit.	
Every effort had been made to make the shelter cheerful. Jess passed open doors with living quarters decorated in bright red, white and blue drapes, matching bedspreads and overstuffed chairs. They passed a large community room with a group of women sitting in a circle while children played on the floor. Subtle signs of wear showed in the worn fabrics, walls scrubbed so often and thoroughly the paint beneath began to bleed through.	
Sr. Mary Katherine's office was large and roomy, with a scarred desk, a table, a crucifix hanging on the wall, and high-backed chairs in clashing fabrics. The window overlooked an alley heaped with trash. A man slept behind a Dumpster, his feet sticking out, revealing holes in the soles of his shoes.	
Sr. Mary Kate sat in a chair that squeaked. "So, Mac, tell me what brings you here?" She folded her hands into a steeple and smiled encouragingly. Around her neck, steel rimmed glasses hung on a gray cord.	
Mac leaned forward. "Jess, here, is with the District Attorney's office, and she's handling a case involving a Mrs. Maria Santiago who currently is in the hospital after a suspect situation with her husband. Mrs. Santiago and her children are badly in need of shelter."	
Sr. Mary Kate looked wise and sad. "Has she admitted her husband has beaten her?"	
Jess shook her head. "She claims to have fallen down the stairs, but she's willing to go into a group home. We're hoping you'll find room for her."	
Sr. Mary Kate sighed. "We do what we can, but ... I don't have the room, or the money, to take on another family. I am sorry, but I would need a hundred shelters like this and they wouldn't be enough for the troubles of this world."	
"Not even as a favor?" Mac asked hopefully with a side-glance at Jess.	
Sr. Mary Kate shook her head. "I am packed to the roof right now. I have whole families doubling up, four and five to a room, the children sleeping on the floor. My counselors are so overworked they need 40 hour days." She sighed. "If I could, I'd take Mrs. Santiago, I would. I know how desperate she must be feeling." She opened the side drawer of her desk and drew out an address book, slipping it open. "Let me call around and see what I can find. We have a sister shelter in San Bernardino, and a vacancy may exist there. I'll call and see what I can do. Is there a number I can reach you at, Mac?"	
Mac gave Jess' phone number. Jess tried to keep her disappointment under control. She wanted Maria Santiago to have a chance at a normal life, to understand that not all men were like her husband. Without the help Sister Mary Kate and her generosity could provide, Mrs. Santiago would never break free of the cycle of abuse. Her children were doomed to repeat the cycle.	
Jess had never intended to be a crusader, but she often found herself unable to step back and view each case with the stoic detachment required. When she'd first started practicing law, she'd had lofty ideas about righting the wrongs of the world. But seven years of practice told her the world would never be repaired. Too many things were broken. Too many women like Maria would never get help because of too few resources and not enough interest.	
"I'm so very, very sorry," Sr. Mary Kate said softly as she stood up.	
Jess turned her chair. "You've been very kind. Thank you anyway. I know how overburdened the system is. I do appreciate your help." The motor on her chair whirred as she exited the room, Mac and Sr. Mary Kate following at a slower pace.	***	
Back in the van, Mac struggled with himself, unable to speak, knowing how much faith Jess had put in him. He hated disappointing her and felt somehow he hadn't tried hard enough to make Sr. Mary Kate understand. Maybe she did understand. Mac had the feeling his old eighth grade teacher knew he wanted to do this not so much for Mrs. Santiago, but for Jess.	
Sr. Mary Kate had taught at St. Boniface's Grade School in Long Beach. Even then she'd been perky and alive, showing him how much fun learning could be, urging him on, supporting his desire and thirst for knowledge. They'd kept in contact over the years. He felt he owed her as much in shaping his character as his parents.	
"If Sr. Mary Kate had the room...." his voice trailed away.	
Jess wouldn't look at him; her voice was oddly muffled. "We can stop by my office and get that list of shelters I have. Maria is going to be in the hospital for a few more days. By the time she's released, we might find someone able to take her and her children."	
Mac started the van. In the meantime, the problem of Alphonse Piaget wouldn't go away. "Let's head up to Hollywood and talk to Alphonse's sister. Maybe she knows something she didn't tell the Sheriff's detectives."	
The freeway was crowded due to construction which closed two lanes and forced the lines of cars to squeeze into one lane. The van crawled along at a fitful fifteen miles an hour until they passed the Caltrans construction area. Orange cones interspersed between men waving orange flags, surrounded the zone. Mac tapped the steering wheel with impatient fingers.	
Californians were teased for their reliance on the automobile, but the truth was a decent public transportation system didn't exist. The Los Angeles basin sprawled over three huge counties and no one could agree on what type of public transportation would best benefit the individual cities. So Angelenos were forced to depend on their cars and paid for the privilege with overcrowded freeway systems, non-stop exhaust which caused respiratory problems and smog. And while the air conditioner on Jess' van filtered the air, Mac still felt a growing congestion in his chest as they approached the downtown area sprawled beneath its helmet of yellow haze.	
As a boy, Mac had spent many memorable hours prowling Hollywood Boulevard and the Central Hollywood District hoping for a glimpse of his favorite TV stars. He'd waited endlessly outside the doors of Paramount Studios, Columbia Studios when they were still on Gower Street, and attended as many ceremonies for the Hollywood Walk of Fame as he could. He'd watched many of his favorite entertainment figures get their stars, and he'd delighted in his proximity to them.	
As Mac and Jess drove slowly down Hollywood Boulevard, Mac couldn't help but compare the run down condition of the area to the golden memories of his youth. Every shop had bars across its windows. Gang sign and graffiti decorated brick walls. Weeds grew up through cracks in the sidewalk. Flies buzzed over discarded litter.	
"I had some of the best times of my life here," he said as he searched for the address of Alphonse's sister and told Jess about his childhood hangouts.	
"A star-watcher? You?" Jess gave him an incredulous look.	
Mac felt a flush of embarrassment creep up his cheeks. "I actually had dreams of being in the business, but I never quite had the drive to do so. Or the talent."	
"How do you know? Did you try?"	
"Not very hard."	
Jess consulted her notebook and suddenly pointed. "There, the shop across the street."	
"I did some amateur productions in college. I discovered I was a terrible actor." Mac followed the line of Jess' gesture. The shop was on the corner of Hollywood and Las Palmas. The front window was boarded up, the door securely locked. "Looks like Alphonse's sister has moved."	
"Let's stop anyway, maybe the neighbors know something."	
Mac found a parking spot on a side street, bordered by houses that looked like miniature fortresses with wrought iron fences surrounding the properties, solid looking bars on windows and doors, and prominently displayed decals advertising the alarm system of choice for each house. "Nice neighborhood, isn't it?" A blast of hot, humid air filled the van when he opened the door.	
"I wouldn't want to live here." Jess said with a glance around as she slid into her chair and struggled a moment to replace the armrest.	
Mac waited on the sidewalk while Jess descended from the platform. A couple of teenage boys in black leather jackets whistled at Jess, but stopped when Mac glared at them. They passed on, one looking back and leering. The others giggled amongst themselves.	
"Don't waste your time trying to show them you're more powerful than they are," Jess said as she drew even with Mac. "They'll grow up someday. Nasty looks from you won't speed the process."	
Mac chuckled. They approached the boarded up shop. On one side, a bookstore invited customers with a chummy sign that said Star Power. Still photos of the who's who of the current entertainment world lined the edges of the window. A line of books rested on a shelf at the bottom.	
Mac held the door open for Jess. A blast of cold air hit him. Jess whirred into the shop, the motor on her chair sounding rough and choppy. She bumped over the threshold and Mac followed.	
A young girl with black lipstick, nail polish and matching clothes smiled at they entered. "May I help you?" Her voice had a sensual purr that put Mac on his guard. He wondered how old she was, sixteen if that.	
"Is the owner here?" Mac asked.	
She jerked her thumb at the back of the store.	
The inside of the store was a collection of movie books, stars' biographies, and bins filled with still photos neatly labeled with the stars names. A separate bin was identified as holding personally autographed photos.	
Mac went toward the rear of the store.	
"I'm going to have to wait here," Jess said, indicating the too narrow aisles.	
"I'll bring the owner out here." Mac ran his hands over the shelves of books. He saw one he'd like to have, but a quick glance at the price of the autographed first edition of Lucille Ball's biography was definitely out of his price range.	
The owner turned out to be a large, heavyset woman wearing a tentlike muumuu of yellow and orange. "Can I help you?" She looked up from the tallying of receipts spread across a old desk of badly peeling oak veneer.	
"Are you the owner," Mac flashed his ID. She studied it for a second, her face suddenly distant and wary.	
"What do you want?" she asked, leaning back in a slatted captain's chair that creaked and shifted.	
"I'm Detective McCready of the Orange County Sheriff's Department. I'd like to ask you a few questions about your neighbor, Ms. Timothea Gorton. Could you come out in front so my partner can hear?"	
The woman frowned. "Who is Timothea Gorton?" The woman levered herself out of the chair and followed Mac toward the front of the store where Jess waited.	
"The woman next door."	
Jess held a book in her hands. She snapped it closed as Mac and the woman approached. A pall of dust rose around her. She returned the book to a shelf and looked at the owner.	
"Is this your partner?" The woman barked with amused laughter. "I never knowed a cop in a wheelchair afore."	
Jess smiled politely. She handed her business card to the owner. "I'm Jessica Savage of the Orange Country District Attorney's office. And you are?"	
"Missy Zayre. I own this dump." She pointed at the girl behind the counter with her chin. "That's my daughter, Shula."	
Shula gave Mac a hard smile and caressed her upper lip with her tongue. Mac looked away. Her blatant sexuality in front of her mother gave him a pretty good idea what the girl did after hours. He doubted this shop made enough to support them both.	
"The woman next door, Timothea Gorton...." Jess prompted.	
Missy Zayre shook her head. "I don't know no Timothea Gorton. The woman next door's name was Madame Celeste. She did palm reading, tea readings, you name it. She moved down to Melrose. Said she'd attract better clientele. Melrose is trendy right now." Missy snorted. "She don't know nothin' about reading the future." She nodded at her daughter. "Shula knows more about the Tarot than Madame Celeste."	
"I don't suppose you have her new address."	
"Nah! What would I want to keep it for?" Missy rested her hands on her round hips. "That woman annoyed the hell out of me. Havin' people over at all hours, day and night. Me and Shula live upstairs and the racket that went on next door." Missy grunted, turned toward the back of the store indicating the interview was over.	
Shula simpered at Mac. He walked to the front door and held it open for Jess. She rumbled out, frowning and glancing down at the motor beneath the chair.	
"Do they have a listing for Fortune Tellers in the phone book?" She nodded at a row of battered looking phone booths across the street.	
"I'll go see." Mac sprinted across the street only to find the first book holder empty. The second booth contained half a phone book, and the third had one so battered he couldn't find the index. He looked under the heading Palm Reader and was referred to Spiritual Consultants. He chuckled as he opened the book to that section and found three full pages of Spiritual Consultants. Los Angeles was definitely in need of guidance.	
"Two possibles. Neither one is Madame Celeste," he said as he climbed into the van.	
"Maybe she changed her name." Jess fastened her seatbelt.	
"Or she skipped town one jump ahead of the Bunco Squad."	
Mac pulled out of the parking space and headed for Melrose.	
Melrose Street was the trendy new area even though most of the stores had been around for thirty years or more. Rows of antique shops jostled elbows with trendy fashion boutiques and restaurants sporting facades done in art deco revival. Crowds of people moved up and down the street. Jess spotted one of the names Mac had given her. He found a spot to park on a side street with houses locked and barred like cloisters. Two young men, one surfer blond and the other dark, watched as Mac parked the van and then hurried around to help Jess with the platform.	
Patches of grass struggled to grow between pieces of litter. The sidewalk was uneven, with large slabs of concrete broken upward by spiraling tree roots. Mac had to help Jess around these areas. She mumbled and he grinned. The chair motor began to sound more uneven.	
"Sounds like you're due for an overhaul." Mac meant his comment to sound funny, but the worried look on Jess' face drained his sense of humor. What would she do if her chair broke down? She had a non-motorized one in her bedroom, but they were far away from her home.	
The woman in Lady Lucy's Fortunes and Tarot was seventy years old, short and squat with a sharply angled face that gave her a look like a fairy-tale witch. She wore a dozen gold necklaces and a swirling patchwork skirt below a pink peasant blouse. She glared at them when Mac apologized and they left.	
"Not her," Mac said. He stopped in front of a sidewalk vendor and bought two sodas. "Hungry?" he asked Jess.	
"Not particularly." Jess popped open the can and took a long, restorative sip.	
"Whatsa matta, lady?" the Oriental food vendor said with a glare, "my food no good?" He waved a long tined fork at the array of hot-dogs in the steamer.	
Jess simply smiled. "I'm not hungry, yet."	
Mac pushed her away as he studied the street. The second Spiritual Consultant was only a block away from Lady Lucy's Fortunes and Tarot. A couple of hookers stood on the street corner, smiling saucily at him. Across the street, their pimp sat in a pink Cadillac convertible lazily smoking a fat cigar. Mac hurried Jess away.	
The second storefront fortuneteller sported a muted approach for the clientele. A sign in the front window measured less than a foot long and five inches high, a discreet announcement listing the services offered by the world-famous medium, Mrs. Timothea Olivier, who'd studied with the best European seers and spiritualists and whose accuracy was unrivaled by any other American seer.	
"I think we've found her," Jess said pointing at the name. The window was clean and heavily draped giving no hint to what waited inside. Mac opened the door and Jess entered.	
The interior of the shop was dark, but clean. Heavy burgundy drapes hung over the store front windows cutting the light. A circular table with a lace cloth tossed over it and flanked by two chairs dominated the center of the room.	
Fragrant incense filled the room with choking thickness. A cat, with long ginger hair and a tail curled around his nose, slept on a ledge along one wall. Mac reached out to pet the cat, running his fingers through the silken fur. The animal purred, a rumbling rasp deep in its throat.	
A beaded curtain jangled and a tall, slender woman entered. She stood a full six feet tall with hair as red as Mac's own. Too red, he decided, to be natural. He estimated her age to be about thirty-five. Her Grecian gown of pure white silk fit snugly under magnificent breasts. A matching white turban crowned her head, adding height and giving her an advantage over her customers she knew how to use. Like John Wayne, she made herself as tall as she possibly could.	
"Good afternoon," she said in a deep, full-throated voice. "May I help you?" She held a deck of Tarot cards in red-tipped fingers. High heels clicked on the tile floor.	
"Are you Timothea Gorton?" Mac asked, feeling somewhat daunted by the heavy atmosphere. Something portentous and foreboding hung in the air. He half expected the woman to start talking in ambiguous prophesies like the oracles of Greek and Roman times. He wondered if Jess felt anything, too, but Jess had approached the table, staring at the woman with a fixed expression on her face.	
"I was Timothea Gorton in a previous existence, a previous time. I am Madame Olivier now." She sat down at the table and reached out for Jess' hand. She frowned, a fine network of wrinkles erupting at the outer edges of her eyes. She wore heavy eye make-up, gold liner below arched purple tint. Tiny bits of glitter added theatrical intensity to her face. "You are a woman of dark moods, my dear. You worry too much about others taking away your freedom. No one can make you do anything you don't want. You've had great tragedy in your life. Concentrate on allowing yourself the privilege to be yourself. Open your heart. Love awaits."	
Jess tried to pull her hand away, but Timothea held on tightly. "Don't be afraid of your future. I see great accomplishments from you. You search for someone. A man." Her voice grew deeper, more knowing. A sly curving smile moved across her lips. "Someone to love? Who will love you?" Timothea looked up, her lips curved softly upward. Her gaze flickered in Mac's direction. "You must learn to accept what you are given."	
Jess managed to pull her hand away. She looked uncomfortable, her eyes shifting warily from Mac to the woman.	
Mac showed the woman his ID. "I'm Sergeant McCready of the Sheriff's Department in Orange County." He sensed a deep animal magnetism about this woman. She seemed somehow more real than reality despite the peculiarity of her clothing and her choice of profession. He could feel the force of her personality and came close to believing her words.	
"You are out of your jurisdiction, Sergeant." Her voice changed from friendly mentor willing to open a door into the future to a cold and flat tone. "I have nothing to say to you."	
"We're looking for your brother," Jess said, handing her business card over to Timothea. The other woman took the card and studied it carefully.	
"Ah, yes, my poor little brother, Alphonse." She laughed showing straight, even teeth. "As I told the others yesterday morning, I do not know my brother's whereabouts. I do not want to know. I would be perfectly happy if the little snake fell off the edge of a pier and drowned in the ocean. Which is a better ending to life than he deserves."	
"You and your brother aren't close." Mac couldn't resist the question, a touch of deviltry invading his voice.	
Timothea Olivier gave him an annoyed glance. "I do not condone drugs. Life is difficult enough without adding to your problems with uncontrolled addictions."	
Jess smothered a smile. "We would appreciate any help you could give us."	
"No." Timothea rose in a graceful movement, the Grecian gown billowing about her as though a puff of wind circulated around the room. "Please leave. We have nothing to discuss."	
"Do you know where your mother is?" Jess said in an insistent voice.	
Timothea paused at the door, a beaded strand clicked against the frame. Her face twisted with dislike. "That harpy. I haven't seen or heard from her since Alphonse went to prison. She had the gall, the absolute impertinence to ask me for money for that reptile's defense. As though he weren't raking in a thousand dollars a day with his nasty little business." Her voice rose as she spoke.	
"How much do you make in a day?" Mac asked softly.	
She appeared startled, her expressive face wide-eyed and alive. "I may not be in a profession viewed as a highly desirable yuppie job, but I do not deal drugs. I do not break the law. Both of you may leave now, before I call the department with the proper jurisdiction and have you arrested as trespassers." She whirled around and disappeared behind the beaded curtain.	
In the background, Mac thought he heard a man's rumbling voice, but decided not pursue it. He'd checked Madame Timothea through the crime computer and she had never been arrested. So presumably she wasn't breaking any laws, except the laws of credibility.	
"Let's go," Jess said, turning her chair toward the door.	
Mac followed her. A baby cried from the back of the store and he heard Timothea's soft voice soothing it. She hadn't seemed like the motherly type, he thought, as he closed the door behind him.	
Out on the street, a blast of hot air left him gasping. He glanced up at the brilliant blue sky. Not a cloud in sight. The air felt humid as though rainstorms gathered just beyond the horizon and were dumping their rain there instead of on the parched city which needed rain so badly.	
Jess headed back toward the van. Her wheelchair, sputtered, and stopped. She glanced up at Mac and he looked at her. She looked suddenly frightened and insecure.	
"I'll push you back." Mac grasped the handles and rolled her back down the street. "I don't suppose the trouble is the battery?"	
"No, the battery packs a five hour charge, and that's usually enough to get me through the whole day." Jess looked worried.	
Mac would have liked to reassure her, but he had no mechanical bones in his body. He took his cars to the dealer for service and had a friend who hooked up his electronic equipment for him.	
They turned the street where Jess' van was parked. The two men on the bench watched them, their eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses. Mac gave them a wary glance. The younger man nodded at Mac and stood up to stretch. As they passed, the men fell into step behind Mac.	
Mac felt the barrel of a gun push against his spine. He stopped, standing still. Jess twisted around to look at him.	
"Money," said the raspy voice, "Everything ya got, buddy."	
Mac slowly turned. The blond man held an old .38 Special with a ridge of rust on the tip of the barrel. Mac's first thought was Jess and his duty to protect her. His second wondered where the man had gotten the gun and did it work? He understood the neighborhood residents' need to bar themselves in their homes.	
Adrenaline flowed. Smooth coldness slid through him as he smiled at the man. The blond appeared disconcerted. The gun wavered as he glanced at his companion.	
Mac's eyes never moved from the blond man.	
"Do you want the cripple to get hurt?" the dark haired man said. He reached for Jess' purse. She pushed his hand away, angrily.	
"No," Mac said and jumped forward into the blond man's arms. The gun crushed between them, Mac wrestled him for it, veering the barrel toward a tree.	
Jess shrieked angrily. She swung her purse at the thief, but he grabbed it, breaking the strap and ran.	
The blond tried to follow, but Mac refused to let go. The blond snapped the trigger, but the gun didn't go off. He pushed. Mac fell backward, dragging the blond with him. The blond scrambled to his feet. Mac kicked his legs out from under him, and he fell forward with a groan, the pistol flying into a patch of brown grass.	
Before the blond could get back up, Mac jammed one knee into the small of his back, handcuffed one hand and attached the other cuff to a wrought iron fence. Conscious of a range of aches inside his chest, Mac jumped to his feet. He felt muscles pull as he struggled to breathe. After a quick glance up and down the street, determining that the other man had disappeared, Mac turned to Jess. He held his side waiting for the sharp pain under his ribs to disappear.	
"Are you all right?" Jess asked.	
"Yea, I'm fine." He checked for injuries. Nothing seemed to be out of place that hadn't already been rearranged.	
The blond handcuffed to the fence sat up and glared at Mac. "Hey, buddy. Let me loose and I'll forget all about this."	
Mac reached into his pocket and flashed his badge at the blond. "I don't think so."	
"You're not hurt?" Jess persisted.	
"Only my pride." Mac said.	
"You didn't have to be so damn heroic." Jess brushed dirt from the back of his legs. She looked shaken, her face white and strained. Her fingers trembled slightly as she brushed the dirt.	
"I wasn't. I had no intention of turning over my paycheck, which is in my wallet, to those punks." Mac stretched, his chest felt better with his arms over his head. "Do you know how hard it is to get a replacement from the county?"	
Jess laughed shakily. "You would have to sign so many requests they would fill a bank vault."	
The moment he'd seen those two, he should have known they were up to no good, but his months of leave had left him with slowed reflexes and a body filled with aches and pains he'd have for the remainder of his life.	
He opened the side of the van and looked inside. He found a section of newspaper. Carefully, using the tip of his pen, he pushed the pistol onto the sheet of newspaper and carefully wrapped it up. He handed the wrapped pistol to Jess.	
"How are you doing?" he asked Jess. Adrenalin continued to surge through him as he turned the wheelchair toward the van. He balanced on the balls of his feet and felt more alive at the moment than he had in months.	
"I'll be all right. First, my home is vandalized, trashed beyond recognition, and now a robbery--all in one week. I thought I could face anything and survive. I'm beginning to have doubts." She closed her eyes and took deep breaths.	
"Come on, buddy," the blond whined. "Just let me loose."	
"No deal." Mac growled. He parked Jess next to the sliding door and unlocked it. He glanced up and down the sidewalk at the houses, but saw no one. People didn't want to be involved. He didn't blame them. Witnessing any type of crime jeopardized their own safety.	
"I didn't have anything in my purse. I only carry a little bit of cash and no credit cards, and my driver's license is in the tote bag with my check book." She pulled the lever that lowered the platform.	
Mac opened the passenger door. "I'm going to lift you into the seat and then board your chair."	
He reached for her, and she allowed him to scoop her into his arms, her body resting against him. He could feel her tension.	
Muscles protesting, he shifted her to the front seat, marveling at how light she was. He saw the flutter of a pulse in her neck, aware of the soft feel of her body and the curve of a firm breast against his chest. At the same time, he wondered how to let her know she was still an attractive, desirable woman despite her handicap. He closed his eyes and breathed in her scent, a subtle perfume that promised silver moonlight and slow dancing.	
"You can let go now," Jess said, her voice muffled as she slid into the seat. She fumbled for the seat belt.	
"Right." Mac felt foolish for having held on so long. The feel of her against him remained in his mind long after she'd closed the door and locked it.	
The blond thief continued to whine. He tugged experimentally at the handcuffs, but a steel-eyed look from Mac stopped him from further experimentation.	
Mac loaded the chair and then said, "I see a phone across the street; I'm going to call in the robbery." Mac locked the van. "Stay inside and don't open the door for anyone but me. If the other punk returns, scream your head off. I'll hear you."	
Jess opened the window. "Hurry."	
"I won't be long."	
Mac trotted across the street, aware he was out of breath when he finally reached the phone. Time to do something about that, he thought as he dropped coins into the slot and dialed 911.[Nine]["../../../../../Desktop%20Folder/MV.html#Table"]	Chapter Nine	
Jess realized Mac wasn't taking her directly home when they passed the freeway exit she normally used.	
"Where are we going?" she asked. Rigidly, she sat in the passenger seat, hands clasped tightly, refusing to allow Mac to see how disturbed and angry she was over the robbery. She felt trapped by unseen walls steadily closing in on her. She hated being a victim. She wanted to lash out, but had no direction.	
"Long Beach," Mac replied, his eyes steady on the road. At three o'clock the freeway was already packed with commuters. Cars lined up at the entrance ramps, their flow regulated by light meters flashing green to signal freeway access.	
"What's in Long Beach?" Jess watched the traffic. She attempted to keep her mind from dwelling on the robbery, but her thoughts kept returning to the two men and the way they'd looked at her, seeing her as a perfect victim. Ordinarily, she dealt with the criminal element within the relative safety of the courtroom with bailiffs around to maintain control.	
"The Queen Mary and the Spruce Goose." Mac glanced sideways at her, a hint of mischief in his eyes. "Howard Hughes fascinated me when I was a kid."	
"The Spruce Goose isn't there anymore. It was moved to some museum up north." She and Peter had honeymooned on the Queen Mary in a luxurious stateroom overlooking the bay. The night-lights of Long Beach had lit the sky like tiny pin-point diamonds.	
For three nights, they had toured the grand old luxury liner, exploring every inch of her majestic splendor. They'd eaten in the restaurants, bought frivolous gifts in the boutiques, and walked the deck for hours, hand in hand. Their honeymoon had been the beginning of what should have been a wondrous marriage. Jess had not been so happy before, or since. She yearned for those days, and for Peter's companionship. She smiled, a wistful curve of her lips.	
"What are you thinking about?" Mac asked.	
"Just remembering some things."	
"About Long Beach?"	
"Yes." Jess watched a brand new, bright red Porsche shoot past them. A moment later a siren sounded. The California Highway Patrol speeded after the Porsche. Peter had dreamed of owning a Porsche, but the practical side of his nature told him such a possession was beyond his modest salary. Instead he'd replaced his dream with a house, and the idea of starting a family, ensuring the next generation of Savages.	
Mac exited the freeway, turning down a side street toward the ocean. On a modest street of fifty year old, two-story houses, he parked the van. He pointed at a crisply painted white house with a white picket fence surrounding the front yard planted with grass and profusely booming rose bushes. "I grew up in that house."	
A white Ford Escort was parked on the driveway next to a large Buick sedan. Two little boys played ball in the next yard. When Mac opened the driver's door and stepped out, the older of the two boys waved frantically at him, hopped the fence and ran across the street.	
"Uncle Will," the boy cried, jumping into his arms and hugging Mac.	
"Hey there, Danny-boy." Mac hugged the boy, his face alight with affection. "How's life treatin' ya, kid?"	
"Great, Uncle Will."	
Jess watched. She felt a strong tug of pain, the emotional residue of a miscarriage that happened so long ago she'd thought the ache gone.	
"Who's in the car?" Danny peered inside and smiled at Jess, revealing two front teeth missing. "I'm Danny." He held a grubby hand out to her.	
"I'm Jess." Solemnly, she shook his hand.	
Danny turned toward Mac, "Wait till I tell Gram you brought a girlfriend home." He raced back across the street.	
"Watch for cars, Danny," Mac warned. He slammed the car door and locked it. Then walked around the van to open up the passenger door for Jess. "I'll have to carry you; your chair wouldn't make it up the steps even if the motor still worked."	
The house was surrounded by a covered porch lifted from the ground by a dozen steps. Scarlet rose bushes flanked the stairs. A salmon colored bougainvillea trailed up one support post. Bright pink petunias nodded sleepily along the edges of the sidewalks.	
"Just so long as you don't drop me," Jess warned.	
"Trust me."	
Trust him! He made her heart pound, her pulses race and skin grow hot. Trust him! She should be running as far away as she could get. She couldn't trust him. Not ever!	
Mac gently helped her slide out of the seat and then he wrapped his arms tightly about her and scooped her up. "How much do you weigh?	
"None of your business," Jess said in a half-amused tone, "If you can't get across the street, just say so. I can yell for help. I have a pretty good set of lungs. I'm sure a few able bodied men will come to your assistance."	
"Actually, I was just figuring out the possibilities of getting up the stairs." He knocked the door closed with his elbow and started across the street. He pretended to stagger, and Jess grabbed tightly to his neck. "Sorry, you don't have to choke me. I was only teasing."	
"I don't need that type of joking. Did you check for cars?" Jess grinned. His arms around her were warm bands of security.	
Jess closed her eyes and leaned her head against his shoulder. She breathed deeply of his strong spicy aftershave with a faint undertone of soap. She wanted to stay in his arms forever, savoring his scent, his warmth, wanting to trust him, to put aside her fears.	
He swung her one way and looked down the street with an exaggerated squint of his eyes, and then swung her back and stared intently in the other direction and stepped off the curb	
Danny ran ahead, opening the gate. He stood in the shadow of a magnolia tree abloom with bright, saucer-shaped, purple-pink flowers that exuded a strong, sweetish scent. A younger boy joined him, thumb in his mouth, a sprinkling of freckles across his cheeks adding a delightful charm to his chubby cheeks.	
"Hello, Uncle Will," he lisped. He looked barely three years old and had vibrant red hair that stood up around his face in sweaty spikes.	
"Hey there, Terry. Open up the front door for me, please."	
"Why doesn't the lady walk up herself?" Danny asked.	
Jess tightened her grip on Mac's neck. She'd forgotten how direct children could be. "My legs don't work."	
"Oh. Okay." He turned and scrambled up the steps, his short arms barely able to reach the banister.	
Mac followed, moving more slowly. Jess could hear his strained breathing and realized his face had turned red from exertion. "Mac, are you all right?"	
He shook his head and made his labored way up the stairs. Before Terry could open the screen door, the door was flung open to reveal a tall, solid looking woman, her black hair threaded with gray. She stood in the doorway, wiping her hands on a white apron covering a red tunic, black pants and white Reeboks.	
With hands resting on broad hips, she studied Mac as he crossed the porch. "You carry your lady friend across the threshold. Does this mean you have gotten married and not told me, William?"	
Little Terry grabbed a corner of the woman's apron. "Her legs are broke, Gram."	
"Hi, Mama." Mac shifted Jess slightly. "Find me an empty chair, quick."	
The woman brushed the little boy out of her way and led Mac into the house. Jess smelled the delicious aroma of freshly baked bread mixed with garlic and onion.	
"In here, William," Mrs. McCready led the way into what seemed like a room filled to overflowing with overstuffed furniture, a dozen children and several men and women chattering in loud voices.	
The strongest impression Jess had about the living room was flowers everywhere. The furniture was thirtyish in style with bright floral slipcovers. Floral embroidered pillows hugged the armrests. Dozens of photographs, lithographs and prints of flowers graced the walls. Porcelain flowers in a hundred different hues decorated the shelf under the bay window overlooking the porch.	
"Here's Will.Ê We were just talking about you." A man jumped to his feet. He had sandy red hair and freckles. His bright blue eyes twinkled. He looked enough like Mac to be a brother.	
"Hi, Kevin," Mac answered. Mrs. McCready brushed a pile of newspapers off a dark blue recliner and Mac gratefully lowered Jess into it. "Sorry, Jess." He stood back and took long, deep breaths while he held his side. His face slowly returned to normal. "You're heavier than you look."	
"You're not as strong as you look." Jess retorted.	
"Wow!" Kevin said with a barking laugh. "You finally found one who can talk back."	
Mrs. McCready frowned, then grinned. "Introduce me to your lady friend, William," she ordered in a resonant voice. Her dark eyes moved over Jess curiously.	
"Jessica Savage, this is my mother, Mrs. Rena McCready. Mama, meet Jess Savage. She's an attorney with the D.A.'s office, and I'm helping her out for a few days on special assignment."	
Rena McCready held out her hand to Jess, and Jess took it. The fingers were large and square--capable hands for a capable woman. Jess tried to smile, but her lips felt stiff and for some peculiar reason, she suddenly felt like crying.	
"So your legs are broken," Rena said, one hand balanced on an ample hip. "How do you break your legs?"	
"Automobile accident a few years ago." Jess laced her fingers together to stop their trembling. "I'm partially paralyzed."	
Mac said, "We also have a broken wheelchair. I thought Dad might try tinkering with it to see what's wrong."	
What Jess had thought to be a dozen children turned into a baby in a stroller, a little girl about two with sun blonde hair, and Terry and Danny. The adults consisted of a man with a bushy head of grey hair still tinged with red, a younger man with the same color red hair who sat next to a pale blonde woman with too much lipstick, another man with black hair who absently pushed the stroller back and forth while a tall, slim woman stood at the window.	
The others were introduced to Jess. The two young men were Mac's brothers, Neal and Kevin. The women were their wives, Dora--the blonde--and Eleanor who leaned over to pick up the baby, which had begun to cry. Eleanor and Kevin were the parents of the four children. Neal and Dora appeared to be childless.	
"How nice of Will to bring you to our home," Flynn McCready, Mac's father, said in a gentle voice with a touch of an Irish lilt. He ran a hand through his thatch of greying hair and exchanged glances with his wife, Rena. "I'll go and get my toolbox, Will." He folded the newspaper he'd been reading, setting it neatly on the carpet and left the room, hitching suspenders up over his shoulders.	
The two women assessed Jess critically, their eyes moving slowly over her. Dora frowned, glancing at Mac with a jealous, guarded expression in her eyes. Her husband, Neal, smiled.	
"Welcome," Eleanor said with a warm smile. She sat down cradling the baby in her arms. "Do you want a beer, or something? Kathryn, don't lean against the lady's legs."	
The little girl leaned against Jess' knees.	
"A diet soda would be fine," Jess answered. "And she's fine." Jess awkwardly touched the little girl's hand. She smiled, her pudgy cheeks creasing into deep, man-slaughtering dimples. Jess felt a jolt of longing and grief knife through her with such pounding force, she felt weak and breathless.	
Rena clapped her hands. "I do not allow diet anything in my house. You will have wine, a robust red wine to thicken your blood and put a little color in your cheeks." And she walked out of the room, her Reeboks squeaking on the wood floor.	
"We shouldn't have just dropped in on you like this." Jess said nervously. What was wrong with her? She could face a jury, a judge and an audience, but felt tongue-tied and uncertain faced with Mac's family. His mother had a formidable look about her that usually brought out aggressive qualities in Jess when faced with the same type of witness.	
Mac rested his hand briefly on her shoulder. "We were robbed earlier today and Jess is still a little shaken up."	
"Robbed!" Neal said, "How could such a thing happen and you a cop?"	
"I had Jess to consider," Mac tossed an annoyed glance at his brother. "I thought we'd come here and let Mama fuss over her."	
"Good choice, Will," Kevin said, clapping Mac on the back with his open hand. Kevin turned to Jess, "Don't let everyone scare you. Mama adores company and Pop loves to fix things."	
Jess felt overwhelmed. How many siblings did Mac have?	
She glanced around the room, half expecting more people to pop in and join the crowd. As she scanned the room, she noticed that the floral motif had a logic to it, with similar types of flowers grouped together though the colors were still mixed. Roses held the center of attention in an old claw-footed cabinet with etched glass doors. Daisies and daffodils shared space on a shelf in the bay window between a live plumeria and a square side table with a Tiffany style lamp on it.	
Obviously Mrs. McCready liked flowers. Even though the decor was fussy and overpowering, Jess found herself relaxing. She closed her eyes and could almost smell the mingled fragrances of fresh blossoms.	
Mrs. McCready returned. She handed Jess a glass of blood red wine. "Go on, drink it. You will like this. The taste is full and rich and the aroma," she pursed her lips, "is sweet."	
Jess accepted the glass gingerly. The garnet color of the wine reminded her of blood. Obediently she sipped from the glass and was rewarded with a wine more mellow than she thought it could be. "It's very nice."	
"I thought you would like it," and Mrs. McCready winked at her son. She nudged Mac with her elbow. "I like your young woman." She stood back eyeing Jess curiously. "You look like someone, maybe I know." She frowned.	
Mac blushed. Jess stared at him open-mouthed in surprise.	
"She's more like my boss, Mama," he said.	
Rena only grinned and left. Mac's father returned and Mac, his dad and two brothers went out to Jess' van, leaving Jess alone with the their wives and the baby.	
"Have you known Mac long?" Dora asked with a coy, knowing arch of her brows and an insinuating smile. She rolled her shoulder as though to point out the heaviness of her breasts in contrast to her tiny waist. Long, scarlet-tipped fingernails tapped pensively at her lower lip.	
"A few days." Jess didn't like Dora McCready. She had no particular reason to base her dislike on, but the feeling persisted. She seldom disliked anyone just a few minutes after meeting.	
"Dora, behave," Eleanor said in a sharp voice. "Ms. Savage is a guest." The baby began to cry. Eleanor McCready casually opened her shirt, unfastened her bra and offered a red swollen nipple to the baby. "I hope breast-feeding doesn't offend you."	
Jess was more startled than offended. She didn't know anyone who fed their baby this way. Even her mother had used bottles. "Don't worry about me. I consort with murderers and drug dealers most of the time. I don't think much of anything can offend me."	
Eleanor gave a sweet smile. She pulled a folded flannel blanket from the diaper bag and modestly draped it over her.	
"If nothing offends you," Dora said in an ultra sweet voice. "Then will you tell me if you and Mac are lovers?" She leaned forward, her breasts rolling like weighted melons.	
A pointed look at Jess' legs left her with the feeling that Dora McReady had an intimate knowledge of Mac's preferences. The thought depressed Jess.	
"Dora McCready," Rena boomed from the doorway, "You mind your manners, Missy. Ms. Savage is a guest in my house, and I will tolerate no disrespect."	
Rena walked determinedly into the room, her lips pursed with tight disapproval. Dora looked away, her features sulky and pouting. Rena pushed on old cane-backed wheelchair in front of her. "This belonged to my father." She carried a polishing rag in one hand and ran the cloth over the frame of the chair even though it already shone. As she polished, her face took on a nostalgic glow. She pushed the chair close to Jess. "Can you get into it?"	
"Need any help, Ms. Savage?" Dora asked in a patronizing tone reminding Jess of a particularly obnoxious Public Defender she had faced in court several times over the last few years. The woman had attempted to give Jess invalid status and used the tactic in court to undermine Jess' prosecution until Jess had proven that she was not mentally impaired, only physically, and had neatly turned the tables making the P.D. look silly.	
Jess eyed the chair. "I can manage quite well, thank you. I'm much stronger than I look." She figured out the angle she needed and positioned the chair so that she could slide over the arm and onto the cane seat with a minimum amount of discomfort.	
The chair was stiff and uncomfortable, but it gave her mobility. "Thank you, Mrs. McCready." She meant every word. She tested the mobility of the wheels surprised at the smooth, oiled action.	
"Come into the kitchen with me." Rena turned on her heel and headed toward the back of the house without once turning to look and see if Jess followed. No one crossed Rena McCready. Meekly, Jess followed, the rubber wheels of the cane-backed chair making sucking sounds on the wood floor.	
The layout of the house was simple, consisting of the living room, dining room and kitchen on one side of a centrally located hall, and a study next to a master bedroom on the other. Stairs between the bedroom and study spiraled upward to the second floor where Jess assumed more bedrooms existed. The walls of the hall were lined with hundreds of pictures. She caught a glimpse of Mac looking thin and reedy with a clarinet in one hand and a baseball glove in the other. She saw him in a tuxedo with a tiny blonde dressed in a long purple evening gown hanging onto his arm.	
A dated wedding picture showed a very young Rena and Flynn McCready in fiftyish type wedding garb standing on the steps of a church surrounded by a dozen attendants. Jess paused to look at the picture trying to find the older Rena in the younger and saw only a face unformed, the personality still hidden.	
"I was sixteen," Rena said in a soft voice. "Flynn was 24 when we married."	
Jess glanced up at Rena who stood behind her staring at the picture, her face filled with emotion.	
"Did your parents object to you marrying so young?" Jess asked.	
Rena smiled, "My Papa died in Korea, and my Mama was happy to be rid of me. I was the third of eleven children she had to support. I never once regretted my decision to marry Flynn."	
"Did you ever regret marrying so young and missing out of so much of your high school years?"	
Rena laughed, a full, hearty laugh. "I've been married to Flynn for nearly forty years, and I've never regretted a day of it. I've given him five healthy sons, and now we enjoy our grandchildren." Rena fixed a stern eye on Jess. "You should have children. You are made for children; you have good hips. I see how the little one, Kathryn, acted toward you, drawn to you."	
A stab of pain shot through Jess clouding her vision. "I doubt that I'll ever marry."	
"You will, someday." Rena turned back toward the kitchen, her sneakers squeaking on the highly polished wood floor.	
The house was cool, one end of the central hall facing the ocean and acting as a funnel for crisp ocean breezes. The kitchen ran along the back part of the house from side to side and was a wonder of architectural engineering. Despite the small size, the room had two of everything and looked as though a line down the center divided it in half with an Italian side and an Irish side.	
"Flynn and I like to cook," Rena said as she expertly flipped open an oven. A rope of garlic hung to one side of the oven, a pungent smell issuing from it. Onions braided together added to the sharp smells. Rena removed a casserole dish and set it on an island. A rapturous smell rose from the dish.	
Jess' mouth watered with anticipation. She and her mother had never been much for cooking; they'd always preferred tossed salads and bakery rolls. Tootsie had grown up with a full staff of servants to do her bidding and after her marriage, she'd had her own servants. Jess had never been interested in kitchen work.	
"You must forgive an old woman's curiosity," Rena said as she hung her oven gloves from a hook on the side of the island, "but I cannot help but notice my William is in love with you."	
Jess parked the chair and set the brake. The old wheelchair moved like an antique car, large and cumbersome, and hard to handle on the curves, yet with a certain smoothness. She gave Rena a startled look. "You're mistaken. We've only known each other a couple of days. I believe you're filling in blanks that don't exist."	
"I only knew Flynn a day." She looked inward at the long ago memory. "I'm a mother, Ms. Savage." Rena gave Jess an indulgent smile. "I notice things like that."	
"I'm afraid your radar isn't working this time," Jess said. The idea of Mac being in love with her was fantastically unrealistic. She couldn't even entertain the thought. Though something deep inside her hungered for Rena's statement to be true.	
Men only saw her inoperative legs and wondered if sex were an actual possibility and how would such an act be done. "Besides what would a man like Mac want with me?" Mac was vibrant and vital. He would want a real woman, not a pale imitation.	
Jess wouldn't allow herself the luxury of desiring Mac. Since the accident, her emotions had been fragile and easily injured. She couldn't risk being hurt. Emotional recovery took too long for her. Though Mac had been gentle with her, gentleness didn't equal love.	
"I think my son is a good judge of people." Rena gave Jess a quizzical look and a half-smile.	
"I have nothing to offer a man like Mac." Jess couldn't quite keep the longing out of her voice. She thought Mac would be the type to want a woman who would cook him home-style meals and provide him with children. The children part made Jess smile, but the home cooked meals were out of the question. She simply hated to cook.	
Rena waved a spoon at Jess. "You are just like all the young women of your generation. Marriage is more than the physical act of sex--it is companionship and love and friendship. You are a fool if you think you have so little offer. You have a good mind and an independent spirit. Any man would be lucky to have you." She dipped a spoon in a bowl and held the spoon out to Jess. "Taste this and tell me what you think."	
After a tentative nibble, Jess smiled. "The taste is all right, but I don't know what the sauce is."	
Rena shrugged. "Just a little white sauce with crab fresh from the fish market. I added a touch of basil and...." She rattled off a list of ingredients Jess had never heard before.	
Rena opened a cabinet and drew out a box of crackers. She set each cracker on a tray and ladled the sauce over it, adding a dash of paprika for color and a tiny sliver of sweet onion. She paused and looked directly at Jess. "Don't underestimate my son, Ms. Savage. He's a fine man and willing to accept the responsibilities his choice would entail." She turned back to the tray. After she arranged the crab sauce on the crackers, she glanced up at Jess again, her face puzzled. "I feel like I know you. Do I know you? Why do you look so familiar."	
Jess knew she'd have to explain. "I look like my grandmother." She often met people who'd grown up in the thirties and forties spending Saturday afternoons at the movie theaters. They'd stare at her because she knew she looked exactly like her Grandmother. "My Gram is named Elizabeth Reston."	
Rena's puzzlement grew.	
Jess continued, "Her studio name was Betty York."	
Rena clapped her hands and laughed. "Do you mean, Betty York of Midnight in Rome and Champagne on the Queen Mary."	
Jess nodded. Gram would be delighted to know she had another fan.	
Rena grinned. "I've seen all her movies."	
"Gram will be pleased."	
"Will be? You mean she still lives." Rena looked transported. "And now I've met her granddaughter. My, my. Mac always did have good taste in women."	
"Don't let Mom turn you into a guinea pig." Mac walked into the room, wiping his hands on a cotton rag. A smear of grease stained one side of his nose and the tips of his fingers.	
Jess turned toward him eagerly. "My chair?"	
"Dad is still working on it. I came in to get some beers." He opened the refrigerator on his father's side of the kitchen and pulled out four bottles of Guiness. "Don't worry about your chair, Dad can fix anything." He disappeared down the hall, Jess gazing after himÊ An unfamiliar lurch in the region of her chest at the sight of him reminded her of his gentleness when he'd doctored her foot and of his capable hands warm on her skin.	
Then she shook her head, denying her thoughts, a touch of worry settling in her mind like a heavy restaurant meal where she felt compelled to eat everything on her plate. What would she do if Mr. McCready couldn't fix her chair?	
She depended on her chair for her very existence. She had another, non-motorized chair, but didn't like it as well, finding it hard to maneuver while trying to hang onto her briefcase, tote bag, purse and files. The streamlined chair had no handles for her to hang things from.	
"Please." Rena put a comforting hand on Jess' shoulder. "Do not worry. My Flynn is very good at fixing mechanical things. All his life he fixes this and that."	
Jess tried to smile, but her lips refused to obey.	
The windows opened to the ocean breeze and outside, the shadows grew long. Jess could hear Mac's niece and nephew argue over who got the swing and who pushed. A ship's horn sounded from the direction of the harbor. Somewhere a police siren reverberated. The pleasant aromas from the kitchen lulled Jess into a lethargic peacefulness. She forgot the robbery on Melrose and the threatening letters, the vandalism and the bomb. She forgot the threat of the crack house two blocks from her home.	
She sipped her wine, the strong taste sliding down her throat leaving her floating on ethereal clouds that billowed and surged like a perfect wave at Newport Beach.	
Dora entered the kitchen moving with the grace of a sinuous, discontented cat. She gave Jess a sidelong glance that was anything, but friendly.	
Rena ordered, "Get the children in and wash them."	
"That's Eleanor's job. She's their mother," Dora whined.	
"Eleanor is busy with the baby." Rena gave Dora a no-nonsense glare and Dora slunk away, shoulders hunched and face averted. Rena shook her head. "I do not understand why my Neal would marry such a silly, shallow woman."	
"She's very pretty," Jess said.	
Rena shook her head. "Beauty fades and then what do a man and woman have. If you base a marriage on looks, the marriage achieves no depth. And Dora has no depth. I feel I should apologize for her, but I won't. She is just a child and someday she will grow up and discover life is not to be ordered at her whim and whimsy."	
"I wouldn't expect you to apologize for her."	
Rena opened the oven again and pulled out a baking tray with potatoes cut in half on it. Cheddar cheese bubbled down the sides of the potatoes, their meat heaped high into fluffy white clouds. An aroma so heavenly rose from the potatoes that Jess found herself staring at them, her stomach growling with a hunger she seldom felt.	***	
Mac sat on the lawn, cross-legged, sipping his beer. In the street, Kevin played ball with Danny. Neal stood on the curb watching, a hungry look on his face. He tilted his head back and drank deeply of his beer.	
Neal had been drinking a lot lately and Mac, like the rest of the family, worried about him. A glance at the house showed Dora standing in the front window watching. She half-raised her hand at Mac's gaze and shifted one shoulder in a provocative gesture.	
Mac couldn't understand why Neal had married Dora. He wanted children and she didn't. In so many ways, she was still a child herself, petulant and rebellious. Mac didn't think their marriage had much of a chance. Not with Dora laying traps for Mac indicating she believed she'd married the wrong brother.	
"How are you feeling, William?" Flynn McReady asked. He sat on the lawn surrounded by wheelchair pieces, the motor spread out in front of him. He cleaned a ring with his finger.	
"I'm doing fine, Dad," Mac responded.	
"I mean really feeling," Flynn insisted. "Do you still have pain?"	
Mac studied his father, seeing a man in his late sixties, going gray and getting old. As a child, Mac could remember being tossed high into the air by this man who'd towered over him and been larger than life. As an adult, Mac stood three inches above his father who now seemed to have shrunk.	
"The pain comes and goes, and I'm steadily improving, but sometimes I think a lot about Loretta." Mac felt a twisting of torment inside him. His mind flashed and he saw Loretta dead, her hair spilled around her face, her skin chalk-white, her chest still. "I'm dealing with it."	
"Tony was here yesterday."	
Tony, Loretta's husband, was big bluff man. He and Mac had attended the academy together. After Mac and Loretta had been teamed as partners, Tony had begged for an introduction that eventually ended in marriage. Mac had spent many happy hours with them, good-naturedly letting Loretta pair him up with single women in an effort to help him get over his divorce.	
"Tony," Flynn continued, "says you haven't been to visit him in a long time. He misses you." Flynn fitted a round something onto a shaft and moved it up and down.	
"I'll go see Tony. Soon." Mac had been avoiding Tony. Their shared memories of Loretta were too painful to confront. Mac didn't think he had the strength. And yet he missed Tony. He missed Loretta and her earthy laugh and her common sense. He wondered what Loretta would think of Jess. She probably would approve. In some ways, Loretta and Jess were alike in their determination, independence, and idealistic desire to create a better world.	
Flynn sipped his beer. "Tony has something for you."	
"What?"	
Flynn shrugged. "I don't know. Why don't you find out."	
Mac mumbled a few words about visiting Tony, but in his heart, he knew he wouldn't. Not yet. He couldn't face the reminders of Loretta, or the fact that somehow, he'd let her down by not protecting her as he should have.	
"Tell me about Ms. Savage," Flynn said. "She seems a nice enough woman. How does she come to be in a wheelchair?"	
"Car accident." Mac wondered how she had faced her grief over her husband's death. Had she railed against fate? Or accepted it? "She's a nice person. A little too cool for me, though." Her house seemed like such an accurate barometer to her feelings. Mac still wanted to mess up her house, stain all the whiteness with color and life.	
"I don't know about that," Flynn chuckled, "I think passion seethes just below the surface of that woman's skin. You just haven't found the right way to get her to reveal herself."	
"I'm her bodyguard, Dad, not her lover." By being her bodyguard, maybe he could keep her safe. Safe in a way he'd been unable to keep Loretta. A different pain washed over him. He wanted to go back in time and save Loretta, but couldn't. Maybe, just maybe, some of his torment would ease if he kept Jess alive. He rationalized he was just doing his job. Deep down inside he needed to atone for Loretta's death.	
Flynn threw back his head and let out a hearty laugh. "You mean there's a difference?" Danny and Kevin paused in their play to look at Flynn.	
Mac wondered if he should be embarrassed. His father had an earthy understanding of life that seemed to have bypassed Mac. Mac lived for his ideals; Flynn lived to love. Rena was the only woman he'd ever loved. After forty years, Flynn couldn't keep his hands off his wife. Mac could remember returning home late during his recovery, a time when he'd needed extra care and had come home for it, to find his parents half naked on the living room couch, looking as guilty sixteen year old kids caught sampling something forbidden.	
He wanted that kind of marriage, full of life and vitality, love and laughter. He'd thought he'd had it with his wife, but Gwen had wanted something else.	
"What about her wheelchair?" Mac said, desperate to change the subject. He didn't want his family to think he was intimate with Jess. He'd never been one to bring his girlfriends around for family inspection, and wondered why he'd brought Jess.	
"It's fine, the gears and contacts just needed a good, old-fashioned cleaning and proper lubrication." Flynn wiped his hands on a rag and started fitting the pieces of the motor back together. "She'll be operational again in no time." Flynn slapped Mac on the back.	
Mac felt a muscle pull and tried not to wince. He rubbed his side and Flynn's face changed to sympathetic empathy. "I'm proud of you, Mac," he said in a quiet voice. "If you decide that police work is no longer for you, don't hesitate to move on. I'll still be proud."	
Mac had become a cop because of his Dad. But he couldn't admit to anyone, not yet anyway, that he felt like he'd lost his nerve, lost the edge that had made him a good cop. He'd been wrestling for weeks over the decision to quit, to take the medical disability offered and do something else with his life. He'd accepted the assignment to guard Jess as a test and worried he wouldn't be able to protect her when the time came. He'd freeze, be useless, and she'd die.	
Mac shoved himself to his feet. "I'll tell Jess you're almost done." He touched the chassis of the chair. "She's pretty lost without this." He tried to put himself into Jess' shoes, to understand how she felt being chained to this chair day after day for the rest of her life. He understood in part. During his time in the hospital, he'd been helpless, hating his dependence on other. Is that how Jess felt?	
Jess seemed to handle her disability well. Or did she? She seemed a little too accepting, a little too tamed. He thought about her sterile, white house and his desire to make it looked lived in. "Mama is probably ready to serve dinner."	
Mac went into the house, draining his beer as he moved up the steps to the shade of the porch. Just inside the screen door, Dora leaned against the jamb, her skimpy top tight against her full breasts.	
"Is she enough woman for you, Mac?" she whispered as Mac entered, her perfume a jolting of musk across his senses. She touched his arm, her fingers hot and slightly damp.	
"None of your business, Dora." He stalked back toward the kitchen leaving her open-mouthed with surprise.[Ten]["../../../../../Desktop%20Folder/MV.html#Table"]	Chapter Ten	
Dinner consisted of a chaotic blending of children and adults surrounding a huge table in a cramped dining room filled with a dozen chairs, two china cabinets and a long wood buffet with enough food piled on to feed an army.	
Jess sat at the end of the table, Mac on her right. The cane-backed chair was uncomfortable, but Flynn assured her the chair would be reassembled after dinner and would work just as well if not better than before.	
Eleanor McCready fixed plates of food for her children. The baby lay in a stroller in the corner of the room, asleep despite the noise. Kevin McCready helped his wife settle their children at the table and get started eating.	
Dora poured coffee into mugs, and Neal watched her, his eyes hooded and guarded. Every time Dora approached Mac, she gave him a small smile and brushed against him as though using the smallness of the room as an excuse for intimate contact.	
Flynn entered the room every few minutes carrying more bowls piled high, the steaming contents adding an intense savory smell to the air. Jess sniffed experimentally, eyeing the heaping platters of food wondering how she could eat enough to satisfy Rena, and yet not overeat. She ran a finger around the inside of her waistband judging her discomfort level. After this meal, she'd be eating salads for the next two weeks.	
"You're so slim, Jess," cooed Dora as she sat down next to Mac, "however do you manage to not gain weight when you have to live in a wheelchair all day long?" She ran a hand down her arm as though to bring attention to her own, lush curves.	
Jess chuckled. If people only knew how much exercise she needed just to offset the small amount of food she did allow herself, they would be surprised.	
"She doesn't eat anything but healthy stuff like alfalfa sprouts, Dora." Mac answered for Jess with a gentle glance in her direction.	
"How boring." Dora pouted. Her arm brushed against Mac and he pulled away, bumping into Jess. Jess dropped her fork. Mac retrieved it, his warm fingers touching her's briefly. He smiled at her and Jess found herself smiling back. She blushed suddenly, remembering his firm hands on her waist as he lifted her up and into his arms. Jess suddenly felt like a teenager again, her long hours of trying to establish a cool, professional attitude forgotten.	
Rena sat down in regal majesty at the other end of the table, Flynn at on her right. She clapped her hands. Conversation died. All faces turned toward hers, waiting expectantly. "Mac," Rena boomed, "you will say the prayer."	
Everyone bowed their heads, Rena and Flynn crossing themselves revealing their Catholic background. Jess watched fascinated at the display of piety. Her parents had never been religious. Though she attended Bible school and various churches, she had never seen such religious devotion before. Even Mac's face turned serious as he bowed his head over his steepled hands. He said a short prayer and crossed himself. Jess wondered if he went to church. He must, he seemed so at ease with the prayer.	
The bustle of conversation began again along with the passing of plates. The meal was a blend of rich, yeasty breads, pasta dishes and a plain Irish stew. A mountain of salad greens was devoured along with freshly made dressings. Jess filled her plate with modest amounts of food despite Rena and Flynn's urging to take more. Mac ate as though he hadn't seen food in a week. Yet she'd watched him eat his way through her refrigerator.	
Dora picked at her food, settling for bread liberally doused with melting butter. Her curves would go to fat one day, Jess thought and then she'd be some sort of fading sex siren with nothing to rely on to bolster her bland personality.	
"Tell us about your job, Jess," Rena demanded.	
"I prosecute criminals," Jess said, not wanting to go into gory detail. Most people found her job fascinating. She found it hard, demanding work.	
"And put them behind bars where they belong," Neal said with a salute.	
Jess frowned slightly. "I'm not sure that I totally agree. I believe criminals should be rehabilitated, educated and taught to value decency and honesty. But I also recognize such a task to be beyond the abilities of our society."	
"Even for drunk drivers?" Neal said, a challenge in his voice.	
Jess winced. She knew she'd garnered the reputation of being hard on drunk drivers, pressing for maximum sentencing. But she often felt as though she were caught in a contradiction. Alcoholism was a disease. She wanted to feel compassion for people caught in their own addiction, but the fact remained, they endangered lives through their diminished capacity and this understanding hardened her.	
"Neal," Mac said softly, "Jess is our guest. I don't think we need to rake her over the coals because her job and her ideals collide occasionally."	
Jess gave Mac a questioning look.	
Dora plopped her fork down on her plate. "Well, I feel it's a damn shame that you're so beautiful and stuck in that awful chair." She had a faint pleased look on her face as she glanced around the table.	
Bristling, Jess said, "You mean I should have been born ugly, too, so you can feel superior." She lifted her chin aggressively, daring Dora to say anything more.	
Silence settled over the table. Rena looked oddly satisfied and Mac's father began to grin. He exchanged glances with his wife and she nodded slightly. Kevin laughed. Dora turned red, a blush that began at her neck and worked its mottled way up to her hairline. She opened her mouth, but no sound emerged.	
Neal slapped the table with his palm and chortled. "Hoisted on your own petard, eh, Dora. Nice going, Jess. Dora deserved that putdown."	
Mac chuckled. Jess felt remorse over humiliating Dora, but she rankled every time people made such comments as though she should suddenly turn sub-human because she no longer fit the social norm.	
Dora seemed to shrink, refusing to speak for the remainder of the meal taking solace in more liberally buttered bread. When they'd finished, Mac helped clear the table, and Jess went outside to view the repair job on her chair.	***	
Mac rinsed the dishes while Rena loaded the dishwasher. He noticed more gray in her hair than last time.	
"How's Dad, Mama?" Mac asked.	
"He's fine," she grumbled. "He's always fine." She closed the door to the dishwasher and started it, the looked around the kitchen smiling in satisfaction. Every surface gleamed with cleanliness.	
She pulled two stools over to the snack bar and patted one of them for Mac and sat on the other. "Okay," she said, "are you going to tell me what bothers you. You only help clean the kitchen when you want to talk to me. Is it your pretty girl that you guard, or something else?"	
Mac sat on the stool. "You always could read me like a book." He chuckled. During his childhood, she had known when something bothered or worried him. Her sixth sense, her own personal detection unit, worked so well he could never keep a secret.	
"I'm your mother, Cara Mia." Rena touched his arm, her caress a carry over from childhood. "Now tell me your problems."	
"Not exactly problems, Mama." Mac leaned his elbows on the counter while he tried to frame into words the feelings he had developed for Jess. "It's Jess."	
Rena nodded. "So tell me what you fear about her."	
"Not fear." He took Rena's hand in his and held it. Her skin was rough, the nails dry and chipped. "I need to know how to reach her, make her come alive, make her understand what I feel for her is real, something we could build a lifetime on."	
"Tell me about her injury."	
Mac told his mother what he knew about the accident, about Jess' husband, her life, the sterile look of her house.	
"I'm not a psychiatrist, William. What advice can I give you?" She caressed his cheek, her eyes tender with love. "I think you already know that you must be patient. What she fears is more than just involvement; it's losing her independence. An independence won over great obstacles. She fears being seen as less than a desirable woman. You must show her that you love and desire her no matter what her physical disability is."	
"What I really want to do is mess up her house."	
Rena laughed. "Love is hard work, William."	
"Someone's got to do it." Mac slid down from the stool and kissed his mother on the cheek. He hugged her and she returned the hug.	
Flynn walked into the kitchen, rubbing grease off his fingers. "The chair is fixed, William. And your Ms. Jessica is ready to go home. I think she is very tired, boyo. I suggest you two get on your way."	
"Thanks, Dad."	
In the gathering dusk of approaching night, the whole family followed Jess and Mac out to the street. Kevin carried Jess down the front steps and set her in the chair. She activated the motor and whirled around looking ecstatic. She tossed Mac a look and he found himself smiling broadly.	
Jess said good-bye.	
"Come back and visit--soon," Rena urged.	
"Thank you," Jess called as she rolled across the street, "for everything."	
Mac kissed his mother's cheek and hugged his Dad. He turned toward the van.	
Jess opened the side door and activated the lift, her hand upraised. Mac heard the pop of a pistol. In the next second, a hole exploded in the aluminum fabric of the van just above Jess' hand. She screamed, staring at her hand.	
More gunfire erupted. Mac sprinted across the street.	
"Everyone down," Flynn yelled.	
The baby cried. Terry whimpered. Dora began to screech. Neal shoved her down on the grass.	
Mac grabbed Jess out of the chair and fell to the asphalt using his body as a cushion for her. Hot, burning pain knifed through him as she landed heavily on his chest. He rolled her under the van and scrambled in after her.	
Stillness. He heard her sobbing breath and reached out to touch her hand. She felt clammy.	
More gunfire sounded followed by the acrid smell of gunpowder. He stared up and down the darkening street searching every bush, every house, wishing the street lamps would go on.	
Kevin crawled toward the house. Neal kept the women and children on the ground. Flynn held Rena tightly. In the distance, Mac heard a siren. Out of the corner of his vision, he saw a bush sway and a shadow move.	
"Are you all right?" He said to Jess.	
Anger filled her voice. "First I'm robbed, and now this. When will this end?"	
"Stay here." He scrambled out from under the van, reaching for his pistol just as Kevin emerged from the house, his own Smith and Wesson in hand. He nodded at Mac.	
Mac pointed the direction of the shadow. He zigzagged across the street. Kevin covered him until he found shelter behind a car. He stared at the spot and saw nothing. Ten yards beyond, he saw the shadow again, slipping through the back yard of a neighboring house.	
Mac signaled Kevin who nodded. He rounded the corner of a house, jumped a fence to land in soft earth and took off after the shadow. He could barely make out the distant outline of a man heading toward the alley.	
Before Mac could clamber over the next fence, he heard the sound of a motor starting up and a blur of white. He dashed toward the alley. Wheels crunched on gravel. A white van roared down the alley and was gone before Mac got a clear view of it.	
Kevin caught up with him. They trotted down the alley, pausing to investigate hidden areas between garages until Mac found the spot where the van had parked. He raced further down the alley and stared up the street. Far down, he saw the white van turn into traffic and disappear.	
He holstered the pistol and leaned against a telephone pole, his insides hurting so badly he could barely take a breath. Kevin knelt over the spot where the van had been parked.	
"See anything?" Mac asked.	
Kevin shook his head. "This area is all gravel, not even a tire mark or footprint. Just depressions in that bit of grass."	
"The van was a Mazda MPV, late model. I didn't get a clear view of the license plate."	
"Me either. Though I think I saw some lettering on the door." Kevin straightened. "Are you all right?"	
"Just a little residual pain."	
"Looks more than just a little to me. Who was this bastard after? You? Jess?"	
"Jess." With dragging footsteps, Mac started back down the alley. Every few feet, he paused to breathe, trying to capture air between the pulsing, pounding pain. In his mind, he kept seeing Loretta. He groaned.	
Kevin grabbed him. "Lean on me." With one arm around Mac's waist, Kevin helped him back to the house.	
Two patrol cars were parked in front of the house. A crowd of neighbors stood on the sidewalk.	
"Jess?" Mac queried his father who spoke with the officers.	
"Mama took her inside. She's fine."	
Between gasps, Mac told the officers about the white Mazda MPV, no license number. Sitting on the bottom step of the porch, Mac tried to answer questions.	***	
When Mac first realized he was in love with his ex-wife, they had been sitting on a bench eating hot dogs and watching roller skaters skirt pedestrians on the Venice Beach boardwalk. She had spilled mustard all over her fingers and he watched her lick them. The word love had popped into his head. While he tried the word on for size, he knew he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. The marriage may not have worked out, but Mac never forgot that moment of revelation and how his love for her had felt.	
He knew he loved Jess Savage when he'd seen the bullet pop a hole into the side of the van. The actual revelation didn't come until he walked into his parents' bedroom and saw Jess calmly examining a hand-crocheted bedspread his mother proudly showed her.	
The two women, Jess in the cane-backed chair and his mother on the corner of the bed, bent over the intricate design. His mother explained how long the crocheting had taken and why she had chosen this particular pattern--interlocking circles reminiscent of wedding ring quilts.	
Jessica looked at him and he felt love flood through him, filling all the empty places in his soul.	
"Mama." He bent over and kissed his mother's cheek. During the shooting she'd remained calm and helped direct everyone afterward. "Thanks, Mama."	
She touched his cheek, a loving caress, and left.	
"Can we go home now? We've been robbed, shot at and basically abused by the criminal element. I'm exhausted. You look like the walking dead." Jess, too, had remained calm. Too calm. Mac worried an explosion was imminent. He saw outrage lurking in the back of her eyes.	
"He must have followed us here, Jess," Mac said, "I feel like I owe you an apology. I let down my guard thinking you were safe here. I won't make that mistake again."	
"I don't fault you. I did feel safe here. Who in their right mind could try to kill me with four cops as witnesses?"	
"Maybe we should assume this person is not in his right mind."	
She gnawed the inside of her cheek. "I just wish I knew who and why. The 'why' really bothers me."	
"Me, too." The situation was changing, escalating from letters to more potentially dangerous bullets. Now more than ever, Mac had to keep Jess safe. Love did that to a man.	
He resisted the impulse to grab her and pull her close. Instead, he suggested they say good-bye to his family again and get on their way.	
Mac found himself restless and uneasy as he drove away. Dinner sat heavy in his stomach. Jess dozed, her head resting at the head rest. The adrenaline began to dissipate. Instead of heading toward the freeway, Mac turned toward the beach.	
"Where are we going?" Jess asked drowsily. In her lap she held a basket filled with food given her by Rena.	
"The beach." As a child, Mac had always gone to the beach when he'd been troubled. Growing up as the oldest of five boys, he often felt over-burdened with the responsibility of being their big brother.	
"I like the beach." Jess said.	
Mac drove along Pacific Coast Highway until he reached a beach parking lot. A lifeguard tower rose over the sand, a beacon of safety for unwary swimmers. He parked facing the ocean. A full moon hung over the water, reflected off the restless waves.	
Surf pounded at the sandy beach. Seagulls whirled and dipped, their cries echoing over the sound of the waves. A brown pelican waddled across the sand following a thread of silver moonlight. An albatross picked at garbage from an overturned trash container.	
Mac lowered the windows to let in the tangy taste of salt and rotting fish. "I used to spend all summer at this beach," he told Jess.	
Jess regarded him drowsily. She breathed deeply of the ocean, her chest rising and falling like the fragile feathered breast of a bird.	
His voice grew low and musing. "My friends and I would ride our bikes down here and wade through the surf, or search for sea shells, eventually learning to surf. Most of the area was pretty empty, no condos, no mini-malls to draw the tourists. Just us, the sky and the birds."	
Jess smiled at him. "I learned to surf further south at Newport Beach. I had a boyfriend who was crazy about the ocean. In order to be with him I learned to surf, too. I had a great summer." Her face took on a dreamy look as she stared back into her past.	
The sound of the ocean washed over him, a rhythmic roar that soothed him and eased his worries. He had been thinking about Loretta, off and on all day. He thought he had been learning to deal with his grief, but fresh memories washed over him.	
He had loved his partner in a way he had never loved his wife. He knew that the time to heal his grief had come. He had to let go, to get beyond the horror of her death. "Loretta and I used to come here, have coffee at night and watch the sunset."	
"Loretta!" Jess raised an eyebrow at him.	
"My partner, Loretta Bingham." He searched for the pain her name always roused in him and was surprised to find the edges dulled a little bit. He tried to picture her, but his mind kept sliding away from the image as though she stood just out of reach.	
"Were you lovers?" Jess asked.	
"Her husband might have objected. I introduced them. Was best man at their wedding." He wanted Jess to know all about Loretta, but the words wouldn't come. He wanted to share Loretta's generosity, her earthy humor, her practical jokes. The time she'd glued his coffee cup to his desk because he drank to much and she worried all the caffeine would harm him.	
Three seagulls fought over a discarded hotdog. A young woman jogged past a crumbling sand castle. A group of teens sat in a circle around a driftwood fire, the sound of their laughter rising over the loud waves hitting the sand.	
"Peter liked the ocean," Jess said. "He proposed to me on the beach. I'd forgotten my sunscreen and burned my back. And he was trying to soothe the burn with some aloe vera lotion when he suddenly asked me to marry him."	
Mac heard the tears in her voice. The two of them were walking wounded, bound to the memories of dead people.	
"I met him once." Mac said trying to soothe away her hurt.	
"I loved him once." Jess said in a tired voice, "I want to go home."	
Mac backed the van out and headed back toward the freeway.	***	
One of the largest RVs Jess had ever seen was parked in front of her house when she and Mac turned onto the street. Inside her house, every light blazed--patches of yellow against the growing night.	
The RV was the size of a bus, painted black with a purple and pink stripe along the sides and the legend Wanderer across the back. Antenna rose from the roof framing an air conditioner and luggage rack.	
"Who could that be?" Mac asked as he parked on the street next to the house.	
Jess chuckled. "My grandmother." Jess had forgotten her mother's hysterical message of several days before. "Though the van is new. Usually she comes in her limo." Chauffeured by faithful old Davis who had suffered through her many failed marriages, and listened to the litany of complaints Gram delighted in.	
Mac gave her a long, appraising look. "Nice family you have."	
"Actually, I think Gram is really neat." Gram had been a very successful actress in the thirties, forties and early fifties. She'd starred in nearly a hundred films, been the toast of radio before TV and made the transition from star to second banana with unusual graciousness.	
Mac rolled back the side door, and Jess guided her chair onto the platform. The motor complained as the lift descended, hitting the ground with a small bump.	
Jess turned toward the house, aware of a man leaning against the side of the RV. A match flared. The glowing end of a cigarette lit his face. He was young and lean and definitely not Davis.	
"Where's Davis?' Jess asked the man. He shifted his position and pointed toward the house.	
Jess felt a moment's relief, At least Davis was still around. He'd swung her up on his shoulders when she'd been a child and helped amuse her during her frequent vacations to Monterey to stay with Gram. She'd loved her summers with Gram.	
Before Jess reached the front door, the door swung open and her grandmother, Elizabeth Reston, aka Betty York, stepped out onto the porch, her arms wide. She was a petite woman who favored jeans and white cotton shirts. And despite the fact that she was nearly eighty years old, she barely looked fifty and her figure was slim and trim enough for her to pass for a woman in her thirties. Her youthfulness was due as much to good genes as to a few discreet appointments with a plastic surgeon. Despite her age, she wasn't devoid of vanity, especially after a lifetime of depending on her looks for a paycheck.	
"Jessica," Gram cried, swooping toward Jess. Behind her a shadow darkened the doorway. Jess recognized Davis, a little more stooped, a little more gray, but looking very dapper in jeans and plaid shirt. "Where have you been? It's nearly midnight. I didn't now whether to be frantic with worry, or not."	
"I forgot you were arriving today, Gram. Hello, Davis."	
"Miss Jess," he said with a smile.	
Elizabeth Reston kissed Jess on the cheek. "Your mother didn't know where you were, and she told me this terrible tale about you being stalked by some deranged killer who made a mess of your house and sends you terrible letters. Is this true?"	
"Not completely, Gram." Jess returned Gram's kiss with a tight hug. She noted how thin Gram's shoulders felt. The onset of age couldn't be totally reconstructed to give the illusion of youth.	
Tootsie Barklay followed Davis out onto the porch. Tootsie looked haggard. Her hair hung limp around her face and she wore no makeup. Jess' mother had never gotten along well with her mother. Growing up in luxury and privilege had given Tootsie a reverse snobbism. Gram had correctly interpreted her rebellion and ignored it with a blase attitude that left Tootsie locked in her old ideals just for the sake of annoying her mother to Gram's everlasting amusement.	
"Mac and I had dinner with his parents," Jess explained.	
"Mac," Gram turned toward Mac her sharp eyes, appraising and measuring.	
Mac shifted back and forth, smiling tentatively.	
Tootsie stepped forward. "I thought Mac was your bodyguard, Jess?"	
"Even bodyguards have families, Mom." Jess said. She glanced back at the van. "Where's your limo?"	
Gram's limo had been her second home, completely equipped with all the comforts of home: pull-out bed, TV, bar, and anything else she could think of to make a car trip easy to endure. She hated airplanes. If she couldn't drive to her destination, she took a train. If she couldn't take a train, she took an ocean liner. In her youth, Gram had traveled around the world.	
"I traded it in." Gram gazed fondly at the new RV.	
"Davis," Jess said, "how do you feel about that?"	
Davis had been Gram's chauffeur for nearly forty years. Jess could not remember him ever wanting to do anything else except drive Gram around.	
"I thought it was time I retired, Miss Jess." A twinkle in brightened his blue eyes.	
Gram slid her arm around his and smiled at Jess. "I can't have my husband driving me around like a common chauffeur, now can I?" She looked terribly pleased as though she'd just successfully overthrown an unstable South American government.	
"Married?" Laughter bubbled up in Jess. "Married? How wonderful!" She reached out to Gram and pulled her back for another tight hug. She shook hands solemnly with Davis before reaching up and bringing him close for a kiss on the cheek. She couldn't think of anyone she liked more as a grandfather. He had already been filling that role for years.	
Jess glanced at her mother, seeing a pained look on Tootsie's face that seemed to ask when would Gram grow up. Jess felt a moment of sadness for her mother who seemed unable to enjoy life, happiness eluding her. Jess squeezed her mother's hand, trying to convey the message everything was all right. Gram had probably made the first wisest choice of husband in her whole life.	
"I think we should go inside," Tootsie gave an elaborate shudder. "Jess will take a cold." The air had cooled enough to need a sweater.	
"Stop smothering her, Tootsie," Gram said in a sharp tone, though she rubbed her arms and turned back toward the house. Davis followed, and Jess maneuvered her chair through the door into the house. The red light on the message machine beeped. A package sat on the floor near the phone. Someone had neatly stacked the mail on a table, the largest envelopes on the bottom.	
"This was waiting for you by the door when we arrived," Gram said, picking up the package and handing it to Jess. "I brought your mail in, too." She indicated the pile on the table. Mac went to the message machine and listened to the messages. The first one was for him from Sister Mary Katherine Moore of St. Margaret's Shelter for Women. "I found a place for your Mrs. Santiago in a shelter in San Bernardino," she said in clear dulcet tones, "She's being released tomorrow from the hospital and a van will pick her up, take her to get her children, and then to San Bernardino. I thought you should know, Mac. Call me when you get a chance."	
"Who is Mrs. Santiago?' Tootsie asked.	
"A woman in need of help," Jess replied with a smile for Mac, delighted for Mrs. Santiago's good luck in finding shelter from her husband. Jess tore into the package wondering who had sent her something and what it was. The box made a small rustling sound from deep inside.	
Jess opened the flaps to styrofoam packaging. She shifted through the styrofoam popcorn until she found an envelope. The moment she touched it, foreboding overcame her. She glanced at Mac who listened to the next message on the phone. Her mother had gone into the living room with Gram and Davis. Davis poured drinks from the bar. Tootsie plumped up sofa pillows and picked up Mac's shoes. Mac's cat sniffed at Gram's ankles.	
Jess felt isolated, surrounded by a pool of normality while her own life careened out of control. She pulled the envelope out and stared at it. Holding it carefully by the edge, she slid a fingernail along the flap, tearing it open and then gingerly pulled out a piece of paper.	
I'm watching you, Jessica Savage. Next time, I won't miss. The letters were mismatched, cut from magazines and newspaper headlines and glued to the paper. Jess heard a rushing sound in her ears. She stared frantically at Mac, her vision narrowing as though she stared down a long tunnel, then darkness descended.	***	
Mac caught her as she fell forward, hands limp, eyes rolled back. The box in her lap thumped to the floor, a letter went flying. Tootsie screamed. Davis, arms outstretched, ran forward to help.	
Mac slid his arms around Jess, shifting her up and carrying her to the sofa. She felt light and fragile, like a chrysalis just before it hatched.	
"What's wrong?" Elizabeth Reston demanded as she jumped to her feet. She gestured for Mac to lay Jess on the sofa.	
Jess lay limp and pale, her face white against the cap of stark black hair. Mac gently arranged her on the sofa. He felt a peculiar tug at his heart as he brushed her hair back from her face. Her skin felt cold.	
While Elizabeth and Tootsie tended to Jess, Mac carefully upended the box. Styrofoam packaging littered the floor, crunching beneath Mac's feet. Scooter found a piece and batted it across the floor. With one corner, he picked up the letter and frowned. He deposited the letter in the box and reached for the phone to dial Connell O'Brian and have someone pick up the letter and take it to forensics.	
When Mac returned to the living room, Jess drew ragged breaths into her lungs. She looked as though she might faint again. Her cheeks looked hollow and drawn.	
"Did you read the letter?" Tension ringed her mouth.	
"I just called Connell. He's sending an officer over to pick it up and take it to the lab." He glanced at Elizabeth. "Did either you or your husband touch the box?"	
"I picked it up," Elizabeth said, "and put it near the phone for Jess."	
"You'll have to go down to the station tomorrow and be fingerprinted." Mac knelt down on the floor next to Jess. He took her hand in his. Overwhelming tenderness touched him. "I promise you, Jess, I won't let anything happen to you." He smiled and waited for an answering smile from her. Instead she continued to look haunted. He wanted to make her feel safe, protected. "Trust me."	
She covered her face with her hands. Tootsie pushed him out of the way and sat down, drawing Jess against her, patting her, murmuring the soothing sounds that only a mother can give.	
Mac felt a steel grip on his arm. He found Elizabeth Reston, holding on, her face grim and angry. "I want to talk to you," she said, dragging him toward the front door, the strength in her hands belying her age.	
Rolling mist from the ocean twined down the street, long tendrils of dampness curling around the houses and cars. A dog barked in the distance. A single car drove slowly down the street.	
"What's going on?" Elizabeth sat down on a glider, Davis next to her. They waited, faces upraised, eyes hard on Mac. "I demand you tell us."	
Mac sat down on a slatted porch chair, the wood pressing into his back. He felt a momentary shift of something inside him, a brief stab of pain and then he relaxed. Slowly, he told Elizabeth about the stalker, the unknown person who seemed to want to harm Jess by frightening her with notes, phone calls, and the vandalized house. As he talked the street lamps flickered brightly casting irregular shadows across Elizabeth's sculpted face.	
"Do you have a suspect?" Davis put an arm around Elizabeth. She leaned into the embrace, her face turned to him, mouth soft and eyes clouded with love.	
For a moment, Mac stared at them, feeling lonely and isolated. He wished Jess would look at him like that--half love, half passion, half damn the world.	
Mac told them about Terrence Liang, Alphonse Piaget, Doris DeVille, and the angry threats against Jess. He explained how each's whereabouts were currently unknown.	
Elizabeth nodded at the conclusion of his story. "And how do you intend to keep my granddaughter from being murdered in her bed?"	
"By staying with her, guarding her, keeping her as safe as I can and being alert to anything out of the ordinary." Even to Mac, his comment sounded weak and superficial in view of the fact that he'd almost allowed her to be killed already. He had to protect her, felt compelled to do so. How else could he make restitution for Loretta's death. Maybe then, just maybe, he'd be free of her ghost, of the guilt. He'd better do a better job than he'd done so far.	
Elizabeth nodded. Darkness hid her age and she suddenly looked desirable and youthful. Mac had seen her in several movies. His mother was a big fan. When this was all over, would she give an autograph?	
"What can Davis and I do to help?" Elizabeth set the glider moving back and forth with her toe.	
"I don't think...."	
"Mac," Tootsie said from the doorway. "Telephone."	
Mac stood. "Excuse me." His footsteps sounded overloud in the growing stillness of the night. Next door, a car pulled into the driveway. The car door slammed, and Jess' neighbor, Eve Carter stood on the drive, her voice raised in shrill anger as her son, Tim, slammed the passenger side door, his body radiating sullen anger.	
Tootsie handed Mac the phone and went back into the living room. Jess sat on the couch, head bent, shoulders slumped.	
"McCready, here."	
"Mac," Connell O'Brian said. "Get your ass over to Main Place. They got a body for you to take a look at." He hung up without any further comment. Mac stood holding the dead phone.[Eleven]["../../../../../Desktop%20Folder/MV.html#Table"]	Chapter Eleven	
Main Place was an upscale mall that had recently finished a massive renovation in an effort to update itself and draw a higher class of patron. The mall boasted some of the finest chains stores in California, for people who had money.	
Mac drove the perimeter of the dark, silent mall. The parking structures were empty except for a few cars parked near one entrance, attesting to a few late night workers. Red pulsing lights drew him to a cinder block wall with a row of trash Dumpsters behind it. He parked his car and got out. The night air had turned cool and slightly breezy. A couple of curious gulls parked themselves on a ledge and watched the scene below.	
"Hay, Mac!" Peale Sinclair called. "Over here." And he waved at Mac.	
Yellow tape--the words "Caution: Police Line, Do Not Cross" printed on it--was wrapped around orange pylons cordoning off a portion of the street and a Dumpster.	
Two patrol cars were parked to one side. A uniformed officer spoke to a young woman in high heels. He wrote furiously in his notebook. She gestured with out-flung hands that trembled nervously. A plainclothes detective walked the perimeter of the area, a camera in one hand. Occasionally he squatted on his heels to snap pictures. Another plainclothes detective set up lights to flood the area so the officers could work the scene. In the background, generators whirred, a soothing sound compared to the staccato harshness of conversation and the nervous voice of the woman.	
In the center of the cordoned area lay a body. Coagulated blood colored the pavement beneath the head. Arms and feet were bound with black tape. Flies buzzed the body. The face was turned away from Mac.	
"Glad you could come, Mac." Peale held out a hand and Mac shook it.	
Peale Sinclair was a large, heavyset man, prematurely balding and gray. His mother had been fond of Norman Vincent Peale, hence Peale's first name. Why his mother couldn't have settled on Norman or Vincent had been a fact Peale lamented whenever someone made jokes about his name.	
"What ya got, Peale," Mac said, glancing at the body. The man on the ground was dressed in a grey silk suit, black socks and very expensive shoes. He wore a Rolex watch and a thick gold bracelet. He lay curled on one side facing the Dumpster, hands tied behind him, knees near his chest as though he'd been kneeling at the fatal moment.	
"Take a look, Mac. And don't step in the puddles."	
Mac moved slowly toward the body. The corpse had coarse black hair, the cut good enough to survive the bullet, which had entered behind his ear. Even with the death grimace still on his face, Mac recognized Terrence Liang.	
"Is that who you think it is?" Peale said as Mac walked back toward the yellow tape barrier.	
"It's Terrence Liang." Mac ran his fingers through his hair.	
"Heard you were lookin' for him." Peale glanced over his shoulder at the woman still being interviewed. Another patrol car arrived, no lights flashing. The door slammed, and a uniformed officer approached the detective taking pictures. Click, flash, whir. Terrence Liang would be forever immortalized in his death pose.	
"Thanks, Peale. When was he found?"	
The evidence team arrived in a dark station wagon, followed by the coroner.	
Peale consulted his notes. "The woman back there," he jerked his thumb at the woman still being interviewed, "name of Anne South, found him at 9:55."	
Mac glanced at his watch. Nearly midnight.	
Peale continued, "She's the store manager for Simply Sinful, a candy shop here. Stayed late tonight to work on the books. She always parks at the very back of the parking lot and walks to the mall. Says she likes the exercise. Has no idea how long Terry-boy might have been here. This area is pretty isolated, and he wasn't here at noon when she arrived for work. And even though the mall was busy today, most people don't like parking back in here because there's no shade and the walk is too far. Especially on hot days like today."	
Mac nodded. "So what do you think, Peale?"	
Peale chuckled. "I think Terry-boy pissed off some very powerful people."	
He reached into his pocket and drew out a small see-through plastic bag. Inside was a square piece of paper with a sign crudely drawn on it. Mac squinted. Peale enlightened him. "This is the sign for the Sons of the Yellow Blossom Triad, making this," Peale gestured at the corpse, "an execution." Peale chuckled again, "Like I said, he really pissed off the wrong people." He pocketed the plastic bag, head shaking and walked toward the coroner.	
Mac followed. The coroner pulled latex gloves over his hands and examined the body. He stood, opened a notebook and wrote something in it.	
Mac asked, "How long do you think he's been dead?"	
The coroner looked at him. "No way to tell." He shook his head. "Rigor mortis is fully engaged. That takes anywhere from two to six hours after death and another two to six hours to fully engage the body. The body temp is inconclusive because of the heat. So you're looking at a possibility of death occurring any time within the frame of six to twelve hours. And from the contusions and battered condition of the body, I'd say he took a beating beforehand. Why do you need to know?"	
"I need to know if he was alive around eight o'clock tonight." The shooting had occurred at 8:04 exactly. Liang had been long dead. Which also meant he probably hadn't delivered the box, which Mac estimated had been delivered sometime between 9:00 am when Jess and Mac had left the house and 1:00 pm when Jess' Grandmother had arrived.	
"I doubt he was alive at eight. If the time is important, I can give you a better estimate later, Detective," the coroner said, "after I check the stomach contents, take tissue samples, etc. I'll let you know what I find."	
"Thanks." Mac wandered back toward his car. He leaned against the fender watching the team do its work. Liang could have paid someone to deliver the box and shoot at Jess. Mac yawned, needing sleep.	
Terrence Liang had probably been the most vicious of the three suspects he'd settled on, threatening letters weren't exactly his style, though psychological terror was. Mac never discounted anything.	
Liang had been a suspected killer, and he'd raped a woman then had his friends intimidate her with a series of sadistic threats. Jess' letters, for all the implied threat, lacked the sadism Mac knew Liang enjoyed. Mac had included Liang on the list of suspects simply because his whereabouts could not be confirmed.	
He got into his car, worrying, wondering what he would tell Jess.	***	
Davis had gone to bed, retreating to the RV. The chauffeur sat in the kitchen having agreed to keep watch until Mac returned. Jess' Gram, who'd been sitting earlier, now prowled the room, looking like a magnificent cat--untamed, wild and proud. Scooter followed her, meowing plaintively each time Gram stopped, rubbing against her leg, demanding to be petted.	
While Mac had been gone, Jess had filled her grandmother in on the happenings in her life, even in Eve Carter's life. A friendship had evolved between them over the last few years. The three of them often stayed up late drinking white wine and eating cheese with crackers. They had told jokes, compared men and done a great deal of laughing at nonsense.	
Until she'd arrived, Jess had forgotten how much she enjoyed having her grandmother around. Elizabeth Reston had a levelheaded view of life her own daughter, Tootsie, seemed to lack.	
"You've got a great, gorgeous hunk of man in your house, Jess." Gram stared at the window. "What are you going to do with him? Don't tell me you intend to let him continue sleeping in the guest bedroom alone. That man has too many hungry hormones to be happy sleeping by himself when you're just a room away."	
Jess blushed. She did that a lot when her grandmother was around. "Actually, he sleeps on the sofa, Gram."	
"The sofa," Gram said with a snort. "You let him sleep on the sofa? You're not my granddaughter. If I was thirty years younger, girl, I'd snap him up."	
Stiffly, Jess replied, "Gram, I have some practical considerations to think about before indulging myself with a man."	
"Practical." Gram gave her a look of amusement. "You sit in a wheelchair. Your legs don't work as well as you'd like. Okay, so you can't wrap them around him. You can still feel, you can still have sensations, orgasms. Sex isn't a dirty word, something you ignore, just because you need to change your position slightly. And you're not as fragile as your mother would like to believe."	
"Mother should have been born a 150 years ago. She'd make a proper Victorian." Jess regretted the words the moment they slipped out, before she gave any thought to them.	
Elizabeth laughed. "I always did think that myself."	
"I have special needs, Gram." Jess willed her grandmother to understand.	
Elizabeth brushed aside Jess' words with a wave of her hand. "That doesn't mean you're dead from the waist down, my girl. You still have appetites. Hell! I still have appetites. You don't think that Davis and I go to bed just to hold hands, do you?" Elizabeth shook her head in dismay. "I may be nearly 80, but I look pretty damn good for my age." She grinned at Jess. "I remember Pierre. He was my gardener. He knew a few positions that would knock your socks off. I should have taken notes for you." She winked at Jess.	
Jess stared at her grandmother. "Gram, you...."	
Elizabeth reached out and patted Jess on the cheek. "I was only teasing, dear. You're much too serious, Jessica. I can't understand where you get it. You're grandfather was the life of the party. Till the day he died, in bed with a woman 55 years younger, he never stopped laughing. And your father ... he had a streak of life in him. He understood how to have fun, how to tell a joke. I think you'd better marry this Mac fellow. He's got a wicked grin, Jessica. Very wicked. You need a little corruption in your life. That's why your mother married your dad. You don't think she married him just to get away from me, do you?"	
Jess heard Mac's car pull into the driveway. She turned away from her grandmother in relief, rolling herself into the kitchen, passing the chauffeur as he munched an apple and read the newspaper. He nodded at Jess, then got up and left.	
Jess positioned her chair by the door watching the yard.	
"Peter's been dead for five years, Jess," Elizabeth Reston said in a soft voice. "Don't waste your life mourning him. I think you've been given a chance to start again. Don't waste it." She whirled around and left before Jess could answer.	
"Terrence Liang is dead." Mac entered the kitchen, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He filled her in with the happenings at the mall. "I hope this place was quiet tonight."	
"The uniformed officer sent by your Lieutenant picked up the box and note." Jess eyes felt gritty, like sandpaper turned around and rubbing against her eyes. She tried not to yawn, but it escaped anyway.	
"You didn't have to wait up for me, Jess." After rinsing the glass, he took off his jacket and draped it over the back of a kitchen chair. For a few seconds, he rotated his arms as though trying to ease an ache in his shoulders and back.	
"I couldn't sleep. Gram waited with me." She followed him into the living room where his bed was made up on the sofa.	
"Go to bed, Jess. We'll talk in the morning."	
"Do you think Liang was the one?" Jess asked from her bedroom door. Out the window she could see her grandmother's RV. A light lit the area behind the driver's seat, then went off. "He couldn't have been the shooter, he was already dead. But he could have hired someone. People like Liang don't do their own dirty work." Mac slipped his shoulder harness off and then unbuttoned his shirt.	
He yawned, tossed the shirt over a chair followed by his jeans, and lay down on the sofa dressed in his underwear, dragging the blanket over him. "We'll know if nothing else shows up." He turned out the light and was snoring by the time Jess closed her bedroom door.	***	
Late in the night, Mac heard a sound. He lay on the sofa, eyes open, ears straining to pierce the silence. He rolled to his feet and stood, surveying the room. After pulling on his jeans, he slowly worked his way from window to window studying the street, wondering what woke him.	
Gun in hand, he moved toward the kitchen, walking out on the porch and staring at the yard, the houses next door. Everything seemed peaceful and quiet. Nothing moved. A faint ocean breeze cooled the air rustling the leaves of the eucalyptus behind the garage. Overhead, stars lit the clear sky. Far to the east, he saw the faint glow of the fire in the Santa Ana Mountains, still out of control after a week.	
He checked the sides of the house, saw nothing. Back inside, he paused to listen. Again, he heard a faint sound, a muffled something which seemed to come from inside the house. Down the hall, he paused at the Jess' bedroom, seeing it empty. The door to the nursery stood open. Jess sat inside, the chrome chassis of her chair gleaming dully from the brightness of a small night light plugged into the wall. A silken nightgown clung to her.	
"Jess?" Mac moved into the room, relieved to know she was all right.	
She turned her head away from him, but not before he saw the track of tears glittering on her cheeks. She rubbed her hands over her face. "What do you want?" Her voice held anger and something else Mac couldn't identify.	
He touched her. She jumped and edged away. "Tell me what's wrong, Jess." He knelt down next to her resting one hand on hers. "Didn't anyone ever tell you that a problem told is a problem shared." He ran his fingers up the inside of her wrist. She looked at him, her eyes dark shadows over the prominent line of her cheekbones. "My grandmother told me I was wasting my life mourning Peter."	
"It's not Peter you mourn, is it?" Mac silently willed her, pleaded with her to tell him. He knew about pain, understood loss. They could help each other.	
Jess took a deep breath. "I was pregnant. We hadn't said anything yet. When Peter found out, he went out and bought all this ..." She gestured at the crib and the matching bureau. "He painted the walls and I put up the wallpaper border. He brought home the stuffed bear and set it in the crib and stood back and smiled. I can still see the look on his face, the tenderness in his eyes, the knowledge that he was going to be a father. I wanted his baby so much. And for awhile, the doctors thought I might even keep it, but·"	
"But," Mac coaxed.	
"I miscarried about three weeks after the accident. I buried Peter, then I buried my baby daughter." She began to sob. The pain, the grief of dealing with her double loss left her vulnerable. Mac ached with grief for her. He had seen the look she'd given his newest niece, the hunger in her face.	
"Let me take you back to bed, Jess." He stood and grasped the handles, easing her chair through the door and down the hall. In her bedroom, he slid her feet off the foot supports and reached for her.	
"I don't need you to help me," Jess said in a sharp voice. "I can help myself."	
Mac picked her up and swung her onto the bed. "Needing assistance once in a awhile isn't a curse, Jess. You're human just like the rest of us."	
"Go away." She burst into a louder fit of sobs, hitting him with her fist.	
He lay down on the bed next to her and drew her tenderly into his arms, stroking her face tenderly, pulling her head against his chest. She smelled faintly of a floral perfume he didn't recognize. Her hair felt like silk, her skin like satin. He moved a hand down her back; her nightgown had ridden up exposing one hip. He touched her there, resisting the urge to explore further beneath the slippery folds of the gown to touch her more intimately, aware of her fear, aware of her longing.	
"Jess." He caressed the softness of her face. He kissed her, tasting the salt of her tears.	
Her breath was sweet. He held his breath, savoring the feel of her next to him, of her mouth against his. She molded her body to his, her mouth eager, her tongue teasing his. Delicate finger touches moved along his chest pausing at the ridged scar under his arm, brushing the area, then moving on.	
She tickled him. She tormented him. She pushed him away with a wild scream, "No."	
Mac fell back staring at her.	
She drew herself into a huddle. "Go away, please," she pleaded. "I can't. I just can't."	
He touched her hair and she jerked away. "I won't hurt you, Jess."	
"I know you won't." Her voice was muffled, indistinct. "But I need to be alone, Mac."	
Slowly, he slipped off the bed, removed his gun from the night table, and went back to the living room, leaving the door ajar. Jess was silent behind him. He imagined her fighting her tears, her demons, and longed to continue holding her, to soothe away her fears.	
He sat on the sofa, aware of the arousal that continued to inflame him. So this is what loving Jess felt like--pain, anxiety, fear. Loving his ex-wife had not been quite like this. She had been a comfortable release, but he'd never ached to hold her, never volunteered to battle her monsters.	
What do I do, Loretta? he asked his dead partner. How often had he taken his problems to her? First, the problems with his marriage, then the stress of the divorce, then the women who'd trooped through his life in a line. She'd listened, allowing him to talk, to reach his own solutions. Wait, came a faint, nebulous answer that seemed to dance on the edge of his consciousness. Just wait.	
He watched the darkness fade to dawn. Only then did he lean back and close his eyes, drifting off into a light, restless sleep.	***	
In the morning, after checking Jess and seeing she still slept, the marks of tears dried on her cheeks, Mac showered and dressed. Outside, he knocked on the door to the RV. The street was already awake, people leaving for work.	
The air was cool and still, the sky clear. The sun had not yet risen, yet the sky was filled with the promise of heavy heat yet to come.	
The chauffeur, rumpled in cotton pajamas answered the door, yawning, brown hair standing on end, eyes unfocused. "Do you know what time it is?" He looked at his watch. "Six o'clock. Nobody wakes up at six o'clock."	
"I need to talk to Mrs. Davis."	
"I'll see if she's...."	
Elizabeth Reston Davis walked toward the door. "That's okay, Buddy. Go on back to sleep." She wore a velour robe, red and black, with a monogram on the pocket. "Come in, Mac."	
The interior of the RV was the most luxurious he'd ever seen. A small living room with a two-seat sofa upholstered in cream leather was flanked by two matching chairs. A Persian runner in deep burgundy and blue decorated the floor. The wall was a rich walnut paneling, and not the imitation type sold at the Do-It-Yourself hardware stores.	
"Sit down," Elizabeth Reston Davis said. She walked into a tiny kitchenette and started the coffee maker.	
Beyond the living room, down a narrow hall, Mac could see a closed door. He couldn't help but wonder what the bedroom at the rear looked like. The rich, vibrant colors of the RV told him that Mrs. Davis didn't share her daughter and granddaughter's obsession with white. He sat down next to the window so he could watch the street and the area on the sides of the house.	
She returned with a mug of coffee and a plate of donuts which she set on a small table next to Mac. "What can I do for you at this hour of the morning." she said with a slight smile.	
"I have to go to Los Angeles, Mrs. Davis." He bit into a donut, his favorite rich and gooey type with the maple icing. "I thought of something last night. I need to check it out and I don't want Jess with me when I do. Could you stay in the house with Jess? Don't leave her alone no matter what she says. She had a bad night."	
"Please, call me Elizabeth. Mrs. Davis is so formal. Of course, I'll stay. Davis and I will get dressed immediately and go inside. What kind of bad night did she have?"	
Mac hesitated, wondering what he should tell her, but the look on her face showed nothing but concern for Jess. "I found her in the nursery bedroom around three this morning."	
Elizabeth nodded, her face grave. She reached out and rested her fingers on his. "The loss of the baby was very hard on Jess. If the baby had gone to term, she would have had a part of Peter to keep with her, to remind her of him. But the baby died and now she keeps that dratted bedroom as some sort of shrine to them both. If I had the courage, I'd burn that house down and make her come back to Monterey with me. But I can't do that."	
"I don't think a fire is going to solve Jess' problems."	
"Maybe not a real fire, but the kind of fire a man starts in a woman. Do you think you could solve them?" She gave him an impish, knowing grin. "Do you think you could start that fire in her? Make her come alive again."	
Mac found himself blushing. He didn't realize eighty-year-old women thought of things like that. His own maternal grandmother had been widowed young and spent her retirement years knitting lace doilies for her home. Even though she had raised a large family, she had seemed untouched, remote from the idea that sex existed.	
"Mrs. Davis ... Elizabeth...." He found himself wanting to share his troubles with her, wanting her to know about his feelings for her granddaughter, but he couldn't. Not yet.	
She patted his knee. "That's okay, Mac. I do understand. My granddaughter is a very complicated woman."	
He gulped down his coffee and stood up. "I'll wait for you at the house."	
"We'll be there in about a half hour." She saw him to the door and stood watching as he walked back to the house. He did a quick check of the perimeter, the adjoining yards and noted the cars parked on the street, knowing he searched for a white van with some lettering on the side. He wished he'd gotten a clearer view of the lettering, the license plate number.	
Inside, Scooter meowed, twining around his legs. He checked on Jess again and found her still asleep, her body nearly motionless, her chest barely moving. Her hands plucked at the sheet and she groaned in her sleep, then sighed. Scooter jumped on the bed, sniffed at Jess' face. Jess automatically reached out and stroked the cat.	
He wanted to curl up next to her on the bed and rouse her sleeping body to the passion he sensed lay hidden. How could he waken her? Once started on this path, how did he make love to her?	
She stirred in her sleep. Scooter nuzzled her neck. Mac suppressed a yawn. He went into the kitchen and made more coffee, needing all the caffeine he could manage. Five hours of sleep wasn't enough. He poured cereal into a bowl and ate it without milk. The donut would never keep him till lunch.	
When Jess' grandmother and her husband entered, he gave them his pager number in case they needed him in a hurry. Then he went out to the side of the house and got into his car.	
After driving Jess' van for four days, his car felt strange, cramped and small. The motor lacked the smooth purr of the van. The bucket seats were no longer comfortable and for a second he couldn't remember how to use the accelerator. Then he was driving down the street and heading toward the freeway.	***	
Jess woke to the sound of her alarm. She lay in bed for a long time staring at the ceiling, listening to Scooter's contented purr. She touched the cat's silken neck, and the animal opened her eyes, yawned and stood to stretch.	
"I heard your alarm," her grandmother said from the doorway. She held a tray with a cup of coffee on it and the morning paper tucked under the napkin.	
"Come in, Gram." Jess pushed herself up by her elbows, and while her grandmother set the tray over her knees, Jess pushed pillows behind her back until she was sitting upright. "Where's Mac?"	
Gram chuckled. "He got Davis and me up at the crack of dawn, told us to come sit with you, he had an errand to do. He left and we came in to eat breakfast. He said to let you sleep, you had a bad night."	
Jess sipped the coffee. Her grandmother's idea of coffee consisted of exotic blends with names like cinnamon orange twist, or hazelnut vanilla. Jess liked her coffee plain and unadorned. She wasn't certain what the taste was she sipped, but it created a soothing languor.	
"Did he say where he was going?"	
Gram shook her head. "Nothing. He said he'd be back in a couple hours."	
Jess finished the coffee. The back of her neck ached. "I have an appointment with my physical therapist this morning. I can't miss it. I already missed on Tuesday."	
"No worry, we'll take you over in the RV."	
Jess laughed at her grandmother. "Thanks, but no thanks, I'd rather take my van. Assuming Mac didn't take it this morning." Having grown used to having him around, she felt strange knowing he had gone somewhere without her. A moment's loneliness for him surged, crested, and disappeared.	
"He took his car. I'll have Buddy accompany you. He doesn't have much in the way of brains, but he's got a great right hook if you get into trouble."	
"Thanks, Gram. But I don't think I'll need your driver. Why don't you go over and visit with Mom?"	
"Mac said you weren't to be left alone. I know what the inside of your van looks like. There's no place for Davis and I to sit. I'll send Buddy and then stay here. If Tootsie wants to, she can come here."	
After her grandmother left, taking the tray, Jess showered and dressed in old sweat shorts and white tee shirt. She found the mentally dim Buddy standing outside the garage waiting for her. He sat in stolid silence during the drive to the therapist, not even blinking when Jess accelerated through a yellow light which turned red when she was halfway through the intersection.	
Disappointed she couldn't scare him with her driving, she slowed and pulled into the parking lot of the medical center. She parked in the handicapped spot and glanced up to see a white mini-van pull in behind her. She stared at the van. She'd noticed it earlier.	
She descended from the side of the van, eyeing the other one curiously. No one got out of the other van, and the windows were tinted just enough she couldn't see in. She felt a small tremor of fear. Mac had told her to be aware of being followed and the one time he wasn't with her, she suspects she was.	
"You want me to wait here or come inside?" Buddy said, the first words out of his mouth since he'd gotten into the van.	
"I'd like you to come inside with me." Jess' voice rose. He gave her a raised eyebrow look.	
"Is something wrong, Miss Jessica?" he asked as he preceded her up the ramp and into the medical center.	
"I don't know." She gave one last look at the white mini-van before sliding through the mechanical doors and into the plush interior of the medical center.[Twelve]["../../../../../Desktop%20Folder/MV.html#Table"]	Chapter Twelve	
Laurie Weldon was a tall, skinny girl with skin the color of fresh cream mixed with just a little coffee and hair styled in tiny rows of braids decorated with beads at the ends. She clicked when she walked. She'd seen the style in a movie and liked it. She wore cut off jeans showing her legs to great advantage and a plain red camp shirt with the long sleeves rolled up to show arms more muscular than most women ever developed.	
Laurie also chewed gum. She smacked and clacked and chewed and stuck the wad in her cheek when Jess rolled into her office.	
The office was small and Spartan consisting of a reception desk, a row of vinyl covered chair and a door leading into the main therapy room.	
"Hey, Jess." Laurie glanced at a clock on the wall, "I was beginning to worry you'd be a no show again today." She gave Buddy a once over and grinned at him.	
"I forgot on Tuesday, Laurie," Jess said. "By the time I remembered, it was too late to call." Jess had started thinking of Tuesday as bomb scare day. She hadn't remembered Laurie until after midnight in those vague moments before drifting to sleep.	
Buddy sank down into a chair to wait, crossing his arms over his chest and staring straight ahead at the wall with no response to Laurie's suggestive come hither look.	
"He's the stoic type." Jess followed Laurie into the therapy room.	
The main room held a row of stationary bicycles along one wall and a row of cushioned tables on the opposite. In between were parallel bars and a variety of appliances used to rehabilitate broken bodies. A door led a row of private rooms and the Jacuzzi.	
Jess tried to swim daily, but the exercise didn't help in keeping some muscles toned. Laurie did that. She had a special exercise routine she helped Jess through twice a week, fifty-two weeks year. And when Jess was done, Laurie gave her a complete massage.	
After completing her exercises, Jess lay on the massage table, wrapped in a towel. Laurie massaged her neck and spine.	
"You want to talk about it?" Laurie asked as she squeezed and flexed Jess' stiff shoulder muscles.	
"Talk about what?"	
"Talk about what's bothering you." Laurie grinned. "Come on, Jess. In the five years that I've known you, you've told me things you'd never tell your Mom."	
"Only because you listen."	
"I'm listening now." Laurie moved slowly down Jess' back, kneading tense muscles, easing away aches Jess didn't even know she had. "You're so tense I can barely dig my fingers into your muscles. So what is it? A man? A bad case? What?"	
Jess sighed. She closed her eyes and gave herself over to the massage. "A man," she finally said, thinking of Mac, of his tenderness.	
"It's about time, Jess. I've been wondering when you'd find one. Girl, you're not made for the celibate life. Your husband's been dead five years. Do you like this guy?"	
Jess bit the inside of her lip. Did she like Mac? Boy, did she. She dreamed about him when her mind should be on other things. Her body ached to be touched by him.	
"So what's the problem?" Laurie found a knot under Jess' shoulder and kneaded it until it loosened.	
"What happens if he wants to ... make love to me? What if it hurts? What if I can't ...." Jess craned her neck to see Laurie. There, she'd voiced her fear. She'd finally admitted to herself that having sex with a man, with Mac, frightened her.	
Laurie stopped, amazement flooding her face. Her mouth fell open. "You let him make love to you. For heavens sake, Jess. The doctor talked to you. You can have normal sex with a man. You're not dead below the waist, girl. So all your parts don't work too good. So what? We all have problems. Just tell this guy what you want and have at it." Laurie went back to massaging Jess' shoulder muscles. "You're not going to hurt yourself. If you feel any discomfort, try a different position. There's no reason for you not to have an orgasm."	
Jess relaxed beneath Laurie's pummeling massage. She thought of Mac and the look on his face when she'd pushed him away. She had hurt him by her refusal. What would he think now when she issued an open invitation? She wanted him in her bed. She wanted to be brought back to life again. She wanted him to do it.	
Jess drifted, lulled into a light sleep by Laurie's rhythmic moves.	***	
Mac sat in a conference room, a plain room painted institutional beige and furnished with a battered table and three mismatched chairs. Across from Mac sat Johnny Watts, a thick-bodied man with the bloated face and belly of a confirmed beer drinker.	
"Me and Pete were partners for three years," Johnny said. He lit a cigarette, tossing the match in a metal ashtray. The conference room reeked of stale smoke.	
"You got along all right?" Mac asked. He'd come to the Long Beach PD in an effort to find someone who'd known Pate Savage and found Johnny sitting behind a desk with his feet propped up on an open file drawer openly flirting with a female officer who ignored him with casual disdain.	
"We did okay." Johnny took a long drag on his cigarette. "That is until the future Mrs. Savage came along." His sounded disgruntled and slightly peevish.	
"You didn't like Jessica," Mac coaxed aware of an unpleasant undercurrent to Johnny's tone.	
Johnny shrugged. "She was okay. A bit too much of a goody-two-shoes if you get my meaning."	
"I'm not sure I do." Mac couldn't believe this man was talking about the same hard-edged attorney he'd been guarding for the last five days. Jessica! A goody-two-shoes!	
Johnny stared at the wall just to the right of Mac's ear, not quite meeting his eyes. Mac recognized the strategy. He'd used it time and again himself to unsettle suspects, pretending they weren't there, weren't real people worthy of direct eye contact.	
"Well." Johnny put his hands on the table and stared at his fingernails. The tips of the fingers on his right hand were stained brown with nicotine. "He couldn't spend a night out with boys anymore. Had to ask her permission." Johnny sneered. "Then he stopped drinking. Boy, could Pete drink. He didn't just cut back, but stopped all at once. Said Jessica didn't approve. She didn't like guns. She didn't like Pete doin' all sorts of things. He couldn't even go fishin' with me anymore."	
"Are you married?" Mac asked curiously.	
"You bet I am." Johnny grinned showing teeth stained as brown as his fingertips. "And my wife don't give me no grief about staying out all night with the guys, neither." He winked at Mac. "If you know what I mean."	
Mac felt sick. He knew exactly what Johnny meant. A picture of Mrs. Santiago superimposed itself over Johnny. He remembered the look on Jess' face when Mrs. Santiago refused to press charges against her husband.	
Mac took a deep breath. "Jessica Savage is being stalked by someone, or possibly even someones, unknown."	
Johnny shrugged, no interest in his face. Though he seemed suddenly tense.	
Mac explained about the bomb scare, the threatening letters, and the vandalism.	
"So what do you want with me?" Johnny sat back in the chair. He hooked his hands behind his head and looked relieved as though the line of conversation had veered safely away from territory he didn't want to discuss.	
"I've checked through Jessica's background and found a few enemies, people capable of the threats, but then I got to thinking maybe the situation is related to Peter, too. Could you tell me what he was working on just before he died?"	
Johnny braced himself against the chair. "Let me see now. We weren't doing nothing big. We'd just finished investigating a report of a local drug dealer offering little kids smack at one of the grade schools in return for sexual favors. If you get my meaning." Johnny winked at Mac.	
Mac was starting to weary of Johnny Watts. The man was a pompous ass and Mac hated pompous asses. The Sheriff's Department and local police agencies had been suffering from poor image problems and the Johnny Watts of the world didn't help. "Anything else?"	
"A couple other investigations. Nothing big, though. I'd say whoever is terrorizing Jessica Savage really has it in for her--real good." Johnny looked delighted at the thought.	
"And you don't think it's related to anything you and Peter Savage were investigating at the time of his death?"	
Again a sense of tension emanated from Johnny. What wasn't he telling Mac?	
"Nah. I can't think of anything. If you want, I can go through the old records and get you some names. But I doubt we'll find anything." Johnny stood up, hitched his belt over his belly and started for the door, swaggering. "I'm sorry about Jessica's problems." He didn't look sorry. He looked happy. "But she is a lawyer. She must have made a parcel of enemies just being who she is."	
"Maybe," Mac replied. "Maybe not. I'd appreciate it if you get me those names."	
"No problem." Johnny left, the door swinging wide to reveal the sight and sounds of the office beyond.	
Mac followed Johnny out of the conference room. He glanced around the squad room. He recognized only two faces, men he'd met over the years. Who else had known Peter Savage?	
"McCready," came a steel-edged voice.	
A barrel-shaped man bore down on him, leading with an aggressive chin. He had a square face, frizzy gray hair and merry blue eyes. He looked like a freight train gone astray, nosing his way along the side of the room, people shifting rapidly out of his way.	
"Lt. Cable." Mac held his hand out to the other man and they shook hands.	
"Come into my office." Cable turned around and headed back the way he'd come, Mac the caboose to his engine.	
Harper T. Cable lowered his solid bulk down into a chair behind a desk piled high with file folders, an overflowing in and out basket, and a picture of him and his family--the requisite wife and two kids. "You've been talking to Johnny Watts."	
Mac nodded. He sat in the only other chair in the room, a straight-backed, steel chair upholstered with dead green vinyl. The chair was very uncomfortable. Mac would hate to be sitting in this chair when Harper Cable was mad enough to chew nails and spit them out at unlucky subordinates.	
"What can I do for you, Lieutenant?" Mac asked warily. Lt. Harper Cable had a reputation in the county for being a very tough, yet fair man. The men and women who worked for him admired him. And the people in his department had one of the best conviction records in the county, due to his dogged persistence they be well trained in all aspects of law enforcement. He instructed them in his methods of investigation. Methods currently being adopted by other agencies because of their excellence.	
"What were you talking to Watts about?" Cable said in a direct, no-nonsense manner.	
"I'm investigating a situation involving Jessica Savage."	
Cable nodded. "I heard about the stalker. Are you thinking that maybe the stalker is related to Peter, rather than her?"	
"That was the thought I'd had. But Johnny said no. He and Peter weren't into anything heavy, or dangerous at the time of Peter's death."	
Cable's frown was a threatening down turn of the lines of his face--a formidable, intimidating look. "Johnny said that, huh?"	
Even Mac felt alarm rise in him. "Basically, yes."	
Cable leaned back in his chair. The chair squeaked as he swiveled to one side to stare at Johnny. "Peter got a tip about two days before he died concerning a freighter just entering the harbor and allegedly carrying a huge cargo of contraband drugs due to be off-loaded the same night Peter died."	
Mac leaned forward. Whatever Johnny had been keeping secret was about to be revealed. "So what happened?"	
Cable pressed his lips together tightly for a moment before he spoke again. "Nothing. Johnny insisted Pete was the only one with the information--the name of the freighter, the dock, warehouse storage. The cargo was unloaded and distributed before we'd even had a hint it was in the harbor."	
"Johnny didn't know anything about it?"	
"That's what he claims. And I can't prove otherwise."	
Mac understood. After five years Cable suspected something wrong and Johnny Watts wasn't high on his list for effective police work.	
"We suspected for a long time that the accident may have been a murder attempt," Cable finally said after another troubled look at Johnny. "We couldn't prove anything. The guy who hit them got a judicial slap on the wrist."	
Mac thought for a moment. "Ramming someone is a pretty haphazard way to arrange a hit. How could the driver of the other car know where they would be, when and that Peter Savage would die?"	
"Who knows? All we have is a witness who swore two men got out of the other car. One guy left the scene and was never found. I tried to talk to Jessica Savage about it, but her memories of the incident were too vague."	
"That's a pretty complicated conspiracy, Lt. Cable."	
"Yeh! But we're cops and we've seen everything." Again, Cable gazed out the window toward Johnny Watts. "Everything."	
"Does Jessica Savage know about any of this?"	
Cable steepled his hands and stared at Johnny over the crest of his fingers. "We didn't say anything to her. She had enough problems trying to adjust to being a widow and learning to live with her injury. But now ...."	
"Do you still think the accident was murder?"	
Cable spread his hands out in an 'I don't know' gesture. "I had investigators on the case for over six months and they never came up with anything to support my feeling. But...."	
Mac totally understood the intangible significance behind the word 'But....' He'd experienced that same gut feeling a time or two himself. Just because no evidence surfaced to support Cable's feeling, didn't mean he was wrong. And the fact he suspected one of his own officers of somehow being involved, left him in a tenuous and awkward position.	
Mac stood and held out his hand to shake Cable's. "Thanks for telling me, Lieutenant."	
"I'm going to have all the files sent over to you. I already have Records searching them down. You should have them in about two, maybe three days."	
"Thanks, Lt. Cable. I appreciate your candor."	
The phone rang on Cable's desk; he picked it up and held the receiver for a few seconds, still looking at Mac. "Peter Savage was one of the best cops I had. He and Jessica ... well ... I remember them at their wedding. I thought at the time they were crazy in love with each other, truly committed to making their marriage work. They had that certain something that told me they were winners. I've never told her how sorry I was about Peter's death." He put the receiver to his ear.	
"I'm sure she knew." Mac turned and left.	
The squad room was noisy. A pretty brunette officer sat on a desk talking into a phone. A clerk bent over a computer keyboard. Over one desk, the fluorescent light fixture flickered unevenly. Outside the wail of a siren pierced through the office noise.	
Johnny nodded at Mac as he passed by the other man's desk. Then he was out the door in the hall and going down the stairs toward the front doors.	
Outside the air was hot. A pall of yellow smoke hovered over the city. With tags jingling, a dog trotted down the sidewalk. A woman jogged, and Mac wondered if jogging was a smart thing to do on a hot day like this.	
He unlocked his car and got in. For a few seconds, he stared at the passing traffic, his thoughts wandering. He'd acted solely on a hunch. The fact that the hunch didn't work out didn't bother him at all. He still had other leads to follow.	
Since Davis and Elizabeth were keeping Jess company, Mac decided to go shopping. He didn't think he could stomach another container of yogurt. He needed something more substantial to eat. After starting his car, he edged it into traffic and headed to his favorite grocery store in Newport Beach which just happened to be a block from his home. While he was in the area, he decided to stop at his condo and get some fresh clothes and his favorite pair of old sneakers.	
After he completed his errands, he struggled into traffic on the Long Beach Freeway and exited in Orange. He turned down the street Jess lived on and braked to a stop in front. The RV was gone and Jess' neighbor, Eve, sat on the front porch, rocking back and forth and crying.	***	
The white van was still parked in the lot when Jess and Buddy emerged from air-conditioned coolness to the summer heat. Jess felt her muscles tense erasing the last hour of relaxation and peace.	
"Is something wrong, Miss Jessica?" Buddy asked as they approached her van.	
"Do you see that white mini-van about seven places to the right from my van? Don't be obvious in the way you look."	
"I see it." He unlocked the side door and started the lift down toward the ground.	
"I think that van's following us."	
Buddy gave the van a second look, his face creasing into a frown. "Get in. I'll drive."	
"You can't drive." Jess protested.	
"Just get in." His looked told her wouldn't win no matter how long, or loudly, she argued with him. "Don't worry, I can drive anything."	
"In a second." Jess wheeled around and headed toward the van, anger building. Buddy followed. She'd had enough of feeling scared, feeling sorry for herself. She refused to be a victim.	
She rolled as fast as her chair would go. As she approached the white van, it suddenly backed up, wheels squealing, narrowly missing the parked car behind it. Jess caught a blurred glimpse of a face that seemed vaguely familiar.	
In seconds, the van was gone, turning into traffic. "I didn't get the license number.	
"I did." Buddy said. "Come on, let's see if we can follow it." He loaded Jess as quickly as he could and then climbed into the driver's seat. After a quick glance at the hand controls, Buddy started the car and backed out of the parking space. The van jumped forward and practically soared out into traffic. Jess hung tightly onto the overhead bar.	
"I think I see it up ahead." With a squeal of tires and a sudden turn, Buddy changed lanes. Distantly, Jess thought she saw a blur of white.	
"I used to be a race car driver," Buddy explained as he darted in and around cars, the speedometer creeping up.	
"I'm impressed." Jess grinned at him.	
Someone honked. Buddy grinned. He came alive behind the wheel, the sleepy look in his eyes gone. He swung back and forth until a siren suddenly pierced the air, and he looked startled.	
"Pull over," Jess ordered, disappointed.	
Buddy looked petulant, but did as she said. They jerked to a stop and waited as the patrol car parked behind them. While they waited for the officer to check the license plates, Jess searched for the registration and told Buddy to get his driver's license out. She added her driver's license.	
The officer got out of her car, slipped her hat over black hair, and walked toward the van, approaching from the passenger side. Jess rolled down the window and handed the woman the driver's licenses and registration.	
"You were going forty-five in a thirty-five mile an hour zone." The woman squinted at the licenses.	
Jess smiled politely. "We didn't realize officer. My friend here is trying to learn to drive my van and I thought he'd finally gotten the hang of it."	
The officer glanced into the van, her eyes lingering on the hand controls. "Then consider this a warning, Ms. Savage. Mr. Kowalsky, have you figured out the complexities of this vehicle, yet?"	
"Yes, ma'am," Buddy replied in the same polite tone Jess used.	
"Then I'll let you go." Suddenly the officer smiled, showing perfectly even teeth. She backed away from the van and returned to her patrol car.	
Jess sighed with relief.	
"Let's go home, Buddy."	
Buddy eased the van away from the curb and headed back toward Jess' home.	***	
"Timmy's been arrested," Eve wailed. Her face was blotchy, and she forgot to be sexy as she clung to Mac's arm. "Please won't you help me?"	
The RV pulled up to the curb and parked. Davis and Elizabeth jumped out. Mac waited for Jess, but she didn't follow and he frowned. "Where's Jess." he half yelled.	
Elizabeth looked surprised at him. "She's at her physical therapy session. She has one every Tuesday and Friday. She'll be home soon."	
"Is she alone?" Fear crawled along Mac's spine. He'd told them to stay with her. How could they so casually let her go off on her own considering the danger of the situation?	
Davis stepped forward. "Buddy's with her. She'll be fine. Buddy is an ex-race car driver and he knows some self-defense. He'll take good care of Jess."	
"What about Timmy?" Eve wailed, dragging at Mac's sleeve.	
Jess' van turned the corner and parked behind the RV. Buddy jumped out of the driver's door and hurried around. The lift descended, Jess sitting tense, her face tight.	
"Jess, what's wrong?' Mac asked as he reached her. He brushed a curl of black hair out of her eyes. She stared at him, unnerved and not quite trembling.	
"We were followed to my session by a white van," she said, grimly. "I think it may have been the same one as yesterday."	
Mac looked at Buddy who nodded. He reached into his pocket and drew out a battered piece of paper with some numbers on it. "Here's the license plate number. I don't know about the last two numbers. Couldn't see them clearly, they had mud all over 'em." Buddy handed the paper to Mac. "But the van was a white Mazda mini-van, a 93, I think. They all kind of look alike."	
"Did you notice green lettering on the door panel?" Mac smiled at Buddy who returned the smile somewhat shyly. Eve stamped her foot in frustration.	
"No, green lettering." Suddenly, Buddy looked very young and more than a little relieved to be turning Jess back over to Mac.	
"Did the van follow you back here?" Mac asked.	
"No," Buddy said, "Miss Jessica got mad and tried to see inside it and it just took off. We tried to follow ...."	
Jess nudged Buddy's ankle with the foot support of her chair.	
"... and narrowly missed getting a ticket for speeding," Jess said with a slight chuckle. She glanced at Buddy, who began to laugh.	
"You shouldn't have tried to follow the van, Jess. We already know he's got a gun." Mac said.	
Jess shrugged. "I was safe with Buddy."	
Eve grabbed Mac. "What about Timmy?" she screamed.	
"What about him?" Jess looked curiously at Eve.	
"He's been arrested." Eve broke into another flood of tears.	
Elizabeth put an arm around Eve and led her toward the house. "Tell me about what happened, Eve," Elizabeth said softly.	
Davis and Jess followed. Buddy went to the RV and climbed inside. Mac unloaded the groceries he'd bought, making a second trip back to his car to get the extra clothes and faithful old sneakers. He dropped the sneakers in the living room along with his duffel bag. Scooter greeted him loudly, looking put out when he ignored her.	
While Eve sobbed her story to sympathetic ears, Mac put the food away. Jess watched him, an unreadable expression on her face. She glanced back and forth between Eve and Mac.	
"What should I do?" Eve cried after she related the tale of being called at work and then coming home to find Mac and Jess gone.	
"I'll call the station." Mac lifted the receiver of the wall phone and dialed the City of Orange Police Department. After talking to several people, he hung up the phone, his face grave. "I think you'd better contact a lawyer, Eve. Tim not only robbed an old woman, but beat her up when she didn't have enough money to satisfy him."	
Eve screamed again. She covered her face with her hands and rocked back and forth. "It's that damn crack house."	
Jess handed her a tissue box. Mac felt terrible. He would have liked to offer an easy solution, but nothing came to mind.	
"I know someone to call." Jess rummaged through her tote bag and pulled out her address book. She flipped through the pages.	
"What crack house?" Elizabeth asked curiously.	
"Two blocks over," Eve replied. "Timmy was doing fine until it opened. I begged the police to close it down. But they couldn't be bothered."	
Mac forbore to point out that Timmy would have found what he wanted no matter where the crack house was located.	
"How do the police close such a thing down?" Elizabeth asked curiously.	
"Surveillance," Mac answered without thinking, "Keeping an eye on the place, descriptions of who visits it, license plate numbers, infiltration. For a private citizen, the best thing they can do is just stay away."	
The phone rang. Jess answered it and then handed the receiver to Mac. "It's your friend, Sister Mary Kate."	
"Sister, what can I do for you."	
Sister Mary Kate sounded weary and frustrated. "I thought you'd like to know that Mrs. Santiago didn't go into the shelter in San Bernardino."	
"What happened?" Mac closed his eyes.	
"Sister Ann Joseph drove all the way in from San Bernardino to pick Mrs. Santiago up this morning and discovered she'd already checked out. Her husband took her home."	
After all the work they'd done for Maria Santiago, and she just went back to her husband. "Thank you for all your work, Sister."	
"I'm afraid that is often the case, Mac." The slight edge of bitterness to Sister Mary Kate's voice told Mac she often saw women like Mrs. Santiago refuse offers of help. "Mrs. Santiago fears the world more than she fears her husband. Don't let Jess think that this is her fault, that she didn't do enough to convince Mrs. Santiago of the danger. You both showed admirable concern for her. But she's made her decision."	
Mac hung up the phone and told Jess what had happened. Jess looked stricken. He could do nothing but brush his fingers along the line of her hair where it circled her ear. "You tried, Jess."	
"I didn't do enough."	
"You did everything humanly possible."	
"I should go see her. See if she understands her decision." 	
"No, Jess. You can't help her anymore."	
Jess turned her face away. He wanted to put his arms around her and comfort her, but wouldn't with Eve watching them so avidly. Not that he cared what Eve thought, but because Jess was a private person who guarded her emotions. Elizabeth smiled and nodded her head slightly.	
"Come on, Jess, we need to go see Connell to give him this license number."	
The presence of the white van told Mac one thing. Terrence Liang's death now totally eliminated him as a suspect. He couldn't possibly have been driving the van today. Not unless he were a vampire.[Thirteen]["../../../../../Desktop%20Folder/MV.html#Table"]	Chapter Thirteen	
"Here's the preliminary coroner's report on Terrence Liang," Connell said when Mac and Jess arrived at his office.	
Mac took it and read quickly through the document. "According to the coroner, Terrence died between 8:00 AM and 10:00 AM yesterday. A partially digested breakfast of bacon, eggs, toast and orange juice supports that conclusion." Mac turned to look at Jess.	
Jess simply looked defeated. She rubbed her face and slouched in her chair looking worn. Strain had added new lines to her face.	
Connell turned to Jess. "Ms. Savage, could you wait outside, please? I need to talk to Mac here."	
Jess looked surprised. She nodded and left.	
Connell rose, closed the door and turned to Mac. "You have to wrap it up, Mac. I need you back on duty by Monday. You have two more days to figure out what's going on, and then you're off the case."	
"You can't do that, Connell." A hollow feeling settled in the pit of Mac's stomach. He looked out the glass window set in the door. "The danger to Jess is very real."	
Jess talked to one of the other officers. The officer laughed. Jess smiled. She looked vulnerable. Mac couldn't just drop the investigation. He had a responsibility to protect her. He couldn't let her die, not the way Loretta died.	
Pain knifed through him. He couldn't, wouldn't abandon her. They were close to something important. He could feel it.	
"I can, Mac, and I am. You have till Sunday night." Connell sat back down at his desk. "I'm too short handed right now. I need you here, not chasing after Ms. Savage's ghosts."	
"A bomb scare, threatening letters, vandalism, and a shooting can hardly be qualified as 'ghosts', Connell. You can't ignore the fact that someone intends to harm her."	
Connell shrugged. "On Monday, everything goes back to Special Investigations. Let them handle this, Mac. I need you back here."	
"Jess could die. I can't let that happen."	
Connell simply sighed. He indicated that Mac's time was up, and Mac left, signaling Jess, who followed him out of the station.	
"What did Connell say?" She asked when they were back in the van.	
"He's scheduling me for active duty on Monday. We haven't made enough progress to justify keeping the investigation going. Special Investigations gets everything we've found, and they'll take over from here."	
A look of fear twisted her face. "My home has been vandalized. I've been terrorized and shot at. Doesn't that prove anything?"	
"I'm sorry, Jess." Mac put the van in gear. "Connell said he'd get the registration information to us later today."	
The drive home was silent. Jess stared out the window. What could she do now? Would Bob Ford let her come back to work? Maybe she should quit her job and find another one. She could sell her house, relocate to a place where no one knew her. Go to Cleveland and work for her father's brother--a dull man with a dull practice who had no inclination to change. Such a move would mean leaving behind her friends and her mother and most of all admitting defeat.	
Back at the house, Mac puttered about the kitchen while Jess put on her bikini swimsuit and sat in the pool. The overhead sun, hot and unrelenting, beat down on her. Gram and Davis were gone, the RV's absence leaving a huge empty spot in front of her house. Even Eve had left. And when Jess called her Mom, she got the answering machine.	
The water relaxed her. She leaned against the side of the pool, her head resting on her arm. She heard a splash next to her. Mac, in his swim trunks, eased into the water.	
"It's a bit hot," he said.	
"I like it hot."	
Suddenly he held his arms wide and Jess slid into them, resting her head against his chest, the red hair tickling her lips. She felt safe in his arms. Surprised at her response, she touched him, her finger tips skimming over his chest. His skin was warm. His chest hairs tickled slightly.	
"Mac," she whispered, "I'm scared."	
He ran a hand down her back. "I know. Don't worry, Jess. I'm not going to let anything happen to you. I promise. And I always keep my promises."	
His fingers brushed over her skin, tender and caressing. Little fires erupted at each place he touched. She clung to him. He kneaded the muscles across her shoulder blades, working at the knots of tension until she thought she'd melt.	
He kissed her, his lips first brushing softly over hers and then pressing harder until her lips parted and their breath mingled. "I love your mouth," he said, "You have such a beautiful mouth." He kissed her again, his hands moving away from her shoulders to the back of her neck, stroking the sensitive skin tenderly. His kiss deepened. He pressed her tightly to him.	
His tongue flickered across her bottom lip, tasting tentatively, then sucking at it. The pool water lapped around them, warm and sensuous.	
Mac untied the bra strings and the little band of fabric fell away. He tossed it behind him. He pressed her into him, rubbing against her until her nipples grew hard and her breasts swelled. One hand moved down over her abdomen and slid beneath the bikini pants. Flames sparked.	
She gasped, a strangled sigh of frustration as she slid her fingers down the sides of his chest, lingering on the surgical scar. "How did this happen?"	
"Legacy of a misjudgment." He made no effort to elaborate, concentrating on kissing her, on rousing her.	
She wanted to be closer. She wanted ... she slid her fingers around the waistband of his swim trunks.	
Burning heat spread through her, warm and exciting and frightening. Longing erupted, filling her, seeping into the lonely places in her soul.	
So long, she thought. So long. Peter's dead. Don't stop. Don't.... She arched her back.	
She ran her fingers through the soft, curling red hair of his chest. "Is your beard red?" she asked.	
Mac stopped caressing her. He pulled back slightly and stared at her. "My beard?" He looked puzzled.	
Jess dimpled, her head tilted to one side. "Is your beard red?"	
"No, it's almost black with just a little bit of gray. Why do you ask?"	
"I like men with beards." She didn't add that Peter had had one, a lush brown beard, neatly trimmed close to his skin, a soft brown with one gray patch under his mouth giving him an ever-so-dashing look.	
He grinned and pulled her back into his arms. His fingertips brushed the delicate skin beneath her breast. "I love you, Jess," he murmured against her cheek. "I need you, Jess."	
Sensation built until she thought she would explode. His fingers tormented her, sliding over her skin, touching her most intimate, secret places. She wanted him to stop. She wanted him to continue. She wanted to be spread under him, to feel him inside her. She slid her hand inside his swim trunks. The skin was soft and warm and alive, responding to her touch.	
The back door slammed. "Hello," Elizabeth called, waving as she walked down the ramp.	
Jess pulled away, reaching frantically for her bra, hiding behind Mac while she struggled into the fabric with trembling hands.	
"Did I interrupt something, darlings." Elizabeth perched over the edge of the pool, smiling broadly, looking like a mischievous sprite. "I'm sorry, Jess. I just came back to tell you that Davis and I are spending the afternoon with some friends, but we'll be back for dinner." She chuckled, turned around and headed back for the house. "Carry on, Children," she said with a wicked laugh before disappearing into the house again.	
Jess was mortified that her own grandmother should catch her half naked in the pool, in broad daylight, with a man.	
Mac laughed at her. He caught her up in his arms and planted a passionate kiss on her lips. "Shall we 'carry on' as your grandmother suggested?"	
"Maybe we should go in the house. This is an exposed area. Aren't there laws governing public displays of lewdness?"	
He chuckled, and looked around. Eve's house was screened by towering bushes; the box hedge in the back would also keep out prying eyes. The fence on the other side was fully hidden by vines that twined in and out of the links, providing 'peeping Tom' proof security.	
"I think we're pretty secure here." He slipped his fingers under the strings of her bra.	
The phone rang. Mac groaned. Water sluiced off him as he stood and reached for the tote bag containing the portable phone.	
"Hello," he said.	
"Sergeant McCready." The voice at the other end had a nasal twang and slight accent.	
"McCready here." Mac glanced down at Jessica. She smiled up at him, looking highly desirable and mysteriously alluring with her bra half off, one breast exposed, and her legs enticingly open with such wanton invitation he almost forget to listen.	
"My name is Arturo Martinez, I'm with the Riverside Police Department. We picked up a Doris DeVille this morning and discovered she was in violation of parole and that you have an APB out on her. I thought I'd give you a call and let you know we're holding her at the county jail here."	
Mac covered the mouthpiece and said to Jess, "Doris DeVille has been arrested."	
Jess went very still.	
Into the phone, Mac said, "We'll be there in about 90 minutes. Thanks for calling, Officer Martinez."	
"No problem. Just doing my civic duty, Sergeant."	***	
The drive to Riverside was long--the freeways packed with early Friday traffic, people anxious to get away for the weekend to someplace cooler.	
Mac found a place to park outside the holding jail. Inside, he turned over his gun and holster to a desk officer and arranged to interview Doris in a conference room.	
The conference room was bare and small except for a table and five wobbly chairs. Stale air circulated. Bars secured a small window through which hot sun streamed, heating the room beyond the ability of the whirring air conditioner to handle.	
Jess parked her chair in the shadow of the wall out of the heat issuing from the window. Mac sat in a chair. The door opened, and Doris DeVille, accompanied by a lean, athletic matron entered.	
Doris DeVille was small, barely five foot two, with under-developed breasts and narrow hips. Even though she was nearly thirty years old, she looked barely eighteen. Wispy blonde hair, shoulder length, framed an oval face. Pale blue eyes stared every place but at Jess and Mac. Regulation prison garb, green, with R C stamped on the back, looked too big for her tiny frame, giving the impression of a little girl playing grownup in adult clothes. She shuffled over to a chair and sat down.	
"Hello, Doris," Jess said in a low voice.	
Doris stared down at her hands. Hair, falling over her face, screened her eyes.	
Mac didn't think this young woman was capable of anything. She looked like a lost, bewildered child.	
"Do you remember me, Doris?" Jess asked.	
The matron leaned against a wall, hands clasped loosely in front of her.	
Doris nodded without looking up. "I remember you, Miss Savage." Her voice was high and childish and tiny, yet emotionless.	
Again, Mac doubted her ability to do anything more than squeak like a frightened mouse. She had the chronic posture of a victim, shoulders hunched and head low. She wrapped her arms around herself and rocked back and forth.	
"Doris, things have been happening lately." Jess motioned for Mac to open his briefcase. She took the copies of the letters sent to her, looked at the top one, and handed it to Doris. "I've been receiving letters from someone. I thought you might be able to help me."	
Doris seemed to look at the letter. She turned it upside down and looked at it again. "I didn't send you no letters, Ms. Savage." She set the copy down on the table. Her hands were small and square with the fingernails bitten down to the quick, and raw sores along the edge of each cuticle.	
Jess handed her another one. Again she turned the letter around, upside down, and right again and set it on the table. Mac found himself frowning, leaning forward to see her face. She kept her face hidden by her hair.	
Jess handed her a copy of the last letter, received only five days ago. Mac thought, a whole five days and they'd come no further than this.	
Doris turned the letter around, upside down and set it on the table with the others.	
"I didn't send you no letters, Ms. Savage." she repeated, her voice polite, monotonous, totally without emotion.	
Mac was beginning to wonder if she were mentally impaired. He'd read her file and knew she'd suffered terrible abuse at the hands of her father and brother. Had the early beatings caused brain damage? He wished she'd look up so he could see her face. Her arrest photos had given no hint to the person behind the vacant look.	
"Do you know who might have sent me these letters?" Jess asked.	
Doris swung her head back and forth, her hair swaying. "I don't know nothing, Ms. Savage."	
That childish voice began to grate on Mac's nerves. He wanted to pull Jess out of the room, certain they were wasting their time. Then Doris looked up and Mac saw hatred--raw, stark hatred in her eyes. So strong was the malice, he almost took a step back. Suddenly, he wasn't so certain Doris was incapable of the acts.	
"Can you give me a good reason why I should believe you?" Jess reached out for the letters and handed them back to Mac.	
"I don't have a reason, Ms. Savage." The hatred in her eyes didn't diminish. She looked almost triumphant. Then she looked down again, the curtain of her hair screening her face from view.	
"Doris," Mac said. Doris shrank from the sound of his voice. She seemed to curl up inside herself, drawing her knees up to her chest.	
Jess put her hand out, shaking her head at Mac. She looked at the matron, who nodded at the signal and gently took Doris by the arm and led her away.	
"Doris isn't the one." Jess finger-drummed the table.	
"Did you see her eyes? I didn't think she was capable of anything until I saw her eyes."	
Jess wheeled herself out the door. "Not Doris."	
At the entrance, Mac retrieved his gun. He started out the front doors when the matron came hurrying toward them.	
"Ms. Savage," the matron said. She hesitated. "I helped the arresting officer process Doris. I thought you should know ... I don't think she can read or write. Watching her made me think she's probably dyslexic."	
"You're sure of that?" Mac asked as he slid his shoulder harness on and holstered his gun. He drew his jacket on to hide the gun.	
"Yes. My son is dyslexic. I know the symptoms."	
"Thank you," Jess replied.	
"We're back to square one," Jess said when they returned to the van.	
Mac sat in the driver's seat, thinking. "We're really back to suspect no. 1, Alphonse. Corona is on our way back to Orange County. Let's stop and pay his other sister a visit. The address is in my briefcase."	
Bridget Adler lived in an expensive, custom home perched on a hill overlooking the city of Corona. The home had leaded glass windows, a fancy brick facade, and wrought iron fencing that completely encircled the property.	
Mac and Jess let themselves in the front gate. Jess brought out her mini-ramps to get up the front stoop.	
Mac rang the doorbell, impressed with the house and the neighborhood. The whole street was testament to the exclusivity wealth and privilege bestowed. Not one sign of graffiti marred the perfect brick walls. The streets were free of litter.	
"May I help you?" A woman opened the front door and stood in the shadow of the lintel. Cool air emanated from the interior.	
"I'm looking for Bridget Adler." Mac half expected to be sent around to the back to the servant's entrance.	
"Who are you?" She was about thirty with fine-textured, silver-blonde hair and dark brown eyes. Her clothes, trendy yet tasteful, had an expensive boutique look.	
Mac showed her his identification. "I'm Sergeant McCready of the Orange County Sheriff's Department and this is Ms. Jessica Savage from the D.A.'s office. May we speak with Bridget Adler?"	
The woman stood back and motioned them inside. Mac turned to help Jess ease her chair over the threshold.	
"You're a long way from Orange County, Sergeant." she said as she led the way into the coolness of the house.	
"Yes, I know," Mac replied.	
The floor was gray marble, the walls a textured wallpaper. Oriental rugs were scattered about. The woman, a perfect complement to the house, was beautiful with the porcelain skin and flawless face that could have made her a movie star. Slim, average height, she was radiant with diamonds. Blue silk trousers clung to slender legs. A white silk blouse and paisley scarf thrown carelessly over one shoulder indicated a life of rare privilege.	
"I'm Bridget Adler. Please come in." She lead the way through an arched doorway into a room that Mac had only seen between the covers of Architectural Digest.	
The furniture was expensive. The Oriental carpets had the look of hand-knotted imports, thick and dense. Original artwork decorated the walls.	
"Please, sit down. How may I help you?" Bridget Adler sat down on a yellow sofa that exactly matched the yellow in the carpet design. She crossed her legs at the knees and leaned forward to open a gold box with a design on the top, extracted a long brown cigarette, lit it, and sat back before exhaling.	
"Have you seen, or spoken to your brother, Alphonse lately?" Mac asked. A glance at Jess told him, she would allow him to handle this interview. She sat back in her chair and surveyed the room with detached curiosity.	
"No," Bridget Adler replied without preamble.	
"You've had no contact with him at all?" Mac asked, slightly incredulous. Unlike her older sister, she seemed perfectly composed and totally uninterested. A little too uninterested.	
"I've had no contact with him."	
"You do know he escaped from jail?" Jess said.	
Bridget studied Jess for a second. "I knew he escaped. He knows better than to come here." She inhaled and exhaled smoke before answering. "I do not care for my brother's choice of occupation."	
"Have you heard from your mother lately?"	
"No." Bridget looked bored.	
"Your mother has disappeared also." Mac watched her smoke in apparent ease.	
Bridge shrugged. "My mother does as she pleases."	
"You have a lovely house." Jess turned to study an exquisite vase on a table. "What does your husband do?"	
"My husband is a financial adviser. I'm an interior decorator." For a second, her pride in her home broke through her cool detachment.	
"But your mother lived in a pretty run down duplex in Garden Grove." Jess eyed a painting on the wall.	
Again, Bridget Adler shrugged. "My mother does as she pleases. And one of the things she pleases to do is to allow the world to think she's a desperately poor woman."	
"And she's not?" Mac said.	
"My mother has always been well cared for." Bridget put out her cigarette in a cut-crystal ashtray and stood up. "Is there anything else? I have an appointment." She lifted her eyebrows at them and glanced at the hall.	
Jess dug through her purse and found a business card. She hesitated a moment, then wrote her home phone on the back. She didn't like giving it out again, but felt the situation required that Bridget Adler get in touch with her directly.	
Presenting the card to Bridget, she said, "If you hear from your brother, or your mother, will you call me and let me know? This is important."	
Bridget took the card, looked at it with a total lack of interest, and dropped it in the ashtray. "If you insist." She walked toward the doorway and into the hall.	***	
"She's lying." Jess watched the garage door to the side of Bridget's house open. Bridget came out driving a brand new silver-blue Mercedes with designer license plates-DECOR. The wrought iron gate across the driveway slid open. The open garage door revealed a garage as neat and clean as the house.	
"I know." Mac watched the Mercedes glide down the street and turn out of the development. "Wonder where she's going?"	
"Follow her." Jess didn't know what she'd expected from Bridget Adler, but she did suspect a heart as larcenous as her brother's.	
Bridget Adler led them toward the freeway, but turned off into a strip mall shopping center. She parked in front of a shop clearly marked Bridget's Decorating Den. After a few minutes, a Volvo parked next to the Mercedes, and a well-dressed, older woman got out and went into the shop.	
"I guess she really did have an appointment," Jess said in disappointment.	
Mac laughed. "Let's go home. I promised your Grandmother hearty Italian fare for dinner, and I need to get started."	
"I've never met a man before who really knew how to cook." Jess grinned at him.	
"That's just one of my talents." He leered at her and reached over to caress her cheek.	
She closed her eyes, smiling at the feather-light caress and the promise of more to come.	
When they returned to her home, they found the insurance adjuster standing on the back porch looking hesitant. "Ms. Savage," he said in relief. "I was afraid I'd miss you again. I was just checking to make sure no one was home. I wanted to give you this list of damages to your home to look over and sign. Please send it back, I've enclosed a stamped envelope." He handed her an envelope.	
"Thank you," she replied.	
He walked quickly down the ramp, skirted the pool and went out the side gate to enter a black Ford sedan parked at the curb.	
She opened the front door and Mac followed her in. The interior of her home was dark and cool. The air conditioning hummed gently in the background.	
She had been trying not to think about the damage to her home. Though she missed her TV and stereo, the thought of replacing everything had her paralyzed. Even though her sofa cushions had been turned over to hide the rips, the effort of contacting someone to recover them had simply not been done.	
Mac went into the kitchen and Jess followed. Her mother had graciously re-supplied the cabinets with eating utensils and dishes. Jess was grateful her Mom had done so saving her the trouble.	
Jess hated to shop. Stores were cramped and small. Salespeople complained because her chair blocked aisles, preventing others from looking at merchandise. Jess had gotten into the habit over the years of ordering necessary items--from kitchen supplies to bedding--from catalogues. She'd hired a personal shopper who chose her clothes according to her tastes, brought them to her home for Jess to try on and took back anything Jess didn't like.	
The phone rang. The tote bag with the cordless, hung from a hook behind the kitchen door. She hung it up when leaving and collected it on her return. She pulled the phone out of the tote bag and activated it.	
"Hello."	
Silence greeted her. Fear slowly grew until she thought it would choke her.	
"Hello. Is anyone there?"	
More silence. Mac took the phone from her nerveless fingers.	
"Hello," he said. He turned off the phone and handed it back to her. She dropped it into the bag. What would she do when Mac was gone? How would she survive?	
"Jess." Mac knelt down next to her and put his arms around her. "It's okay, Jess."	
"What am I going to do when you leave?" She searched for tissue in her tote bag. Tears dripped down her cheeks, and Jess was amazed at them. She hated herself when she cried. After Peter had died, she'd vowed she would never cry again. Tears were humiliating.	
"I'm not leaving, Jess." Mac said. He dried her cheeks, his touch comforting. "We're going to do what it takes to stop this harassment."	
She leaned into his chest, listening to the resonant thudding of his heart. For a few seconds she felt relieved, then the terrors came crowding back until her throat closed and she couldn't breathe.	
"Calm down, Jess. Take deep breaths. Everything will be fine." Mac massaged the back of her neck.	
The phone rang again. Jess froze. Mac took it out of the tote and turned it on. "Hello." This his face relaxed. "Hi! Beagle. What have you got for me?" He sat back on his heels listening.	
Jess watched his face, the play of light and shadow across his features, and thought how dear he'd become to her. When had she fallen in love with him? With Peter, she'd known she had loved him immediately, But with Mac, love had tiptoed into her heart when she wasn't looking. Startled, she turned the thought over and over, examining her feelings, knowing the truth of what she felt.	
"Thanks, Beagle. I appreciate your calling and letting me know." Mac turned off the phone. He had met Beagle at a crime scene. Beagle, a forensic pathologist, had developed a fascination for the psychology of crime scenes and for years had been at every one he could manage. His interest had resulted in a series of articles for various journals. Mac had tried to read one once, but the scientific language had put him to sleep.	
"Beagle," Jess asked with a grin.	
"His real name is Tom. We call him Beagle because he has dogged way of sniffing out information. He's with forensics and called to let us know he found a hair in the envelope of the Monday letter."	
Jess tensed. "And?"	
"He needs the hair bulb for a positive ID and DNA fingerprinting, but he could determine that the hair came from the head of an adult male, possibly Hispanic. And not much else."	
"In mysteries on TV and in books, a piece of hair gives much more information."	
"Come on, Jess, you know better than that."	
"Wishful thinking, I guess." She ran her hands through her hair. "That certainly rules out Doris DeVille, and Terrence Liang. I don't know about Alphonse Piaget."	
Mac simply shook his head. "Hair isn't conclusive evidence. Only a possible form of identification. Alphonse is still in the game."	
Depression settled over her. She turned her chair toward her bedroom. "I need to think, Mac." she said when he followed her. She closed the door and went to sit in front of the window staring out at the bushes screening her house from Eve's.[Fourteen]["../../../../../Desktop%20Folder/MV.html#Table"]	Chapter Fourteen	
With Jess locked away in her bedroom, Mac checked the perimeter of the house and the street. He saw nothing suspicious. No white mini-van was parked on either of the intersecting streets.	
He checked Eve's house. No one was home. Across the street, Jess' friend, Anita opened the door to check her mailbox and waved. He went back into the house. Jess' door was still closed, a silent barrier. He wondered what she was doing. He also wondered where her grandparents had gone.	
He picked up a sweatshirt belonging to him, folded it and set it on a table. Jess had done her best to keep her house neat and tidy, but so many people coming and going and made the task almost impossible. He understood her need for control over this little thing even though her neatness bordered on the compulsive. He could live with it. Maybe she'd eventually learn to relax a little.	
In the kitchen, he started fixing dinner. He'd given the menu a lot of thought. While his father had taught him to make soda bread, Irish stew, haggerty and Irish coffee. His mother had given him the keys to Italian cooking. Frequently his meals were a combination of both.	
For tonight he'd decided on a simple antipasto platter of cantaloupe wedges wrapped in prosciutto, celery stuffed with Gorgonzola cheese, and mozzarella sticks. The main course would be Scaloppine De Vitello--one of his mother's favorite veal dishes--and Zucchini Fritte. For desert, strawberries marinated in fresh orange juice.	
As a boy, his mother had laughingly told him that the way to a woman's heart was to create a feast she couldn't resist. Mac intended to do just that. He had candles and wine, good food and, hopefully, sparkling conversation. First he'd win over Elizabeth, then Tootsie and hopefully Jess.	
The wine, a full-bodied Bardolino, sat on the kitchen table with an Asti Spumante chilling for desert. He sliced cantaloupe, whistling as he worked. He was always happiest in the kitchen. His ex-wife had complained that he'd made her fat and he'd laughed. He didn't need a woman to be anorexic to be desirable.	
The RV pulled up to the side of the house and parked. Elizabeth and her husband got out laughing. Arm in arm, they strolled along the side of the house toward the front door and walked in.	
"Something smells wonderful," Elizabeth said, sniffing the air.	
"Dinner," Mac replied.	
Elizabeth dimpled at him, flirting outrageously. For a second, he caught a glimpse of what Jess would look like in forty years, and Mac knew he wanted to be there to watch her gracefully grow old. He returned the smile. For the moment, the problems of the last week receded and he dreamed of a golden future spread in front of him. A future encompassing a life with Jess. He loved her. All he had to do now was convince her she loved him.	
Mac arranged the antipasto platter and put clear wrap over it.	
The phone rang and Mac answered hoping the caller was Connell with the information on the white mini-van. The caller was Eve.	
"I'm at the jail. My car's broken down," she said, "Can you or Jess pick me up, please?"	
Mac told her he would and took down the address, annoyed she hadn't been Connell. Connell had promised the info for this afternoon.	
"Go. Help Eve. We'll be fine." Davis said. He looked dapper in an open collared white shirt and an old fashioned driving cap pulled low over his forehead. All he needed were goggles to look like the turn of the century racecar driver, Barney Oldfield.	
"I won't be gone long. Eve is just down at the jail on City Drive." Mac finished seasoning the veal and set it aside with plastic wrap covering it. The dish took five minutes to assemble and cook. The zucchini took only seconds.	
Actually, he would have preferred to send Elizabeth and Davis to pick up Eve, but Elizabeth seemed disinclined to volunteer. She sat down at the kitchen table, opened her purse and took out a deck of cards. Davis drew a chair next to her as she shuffled and dealt a hand of gin rummy.	
Mac grinned as he walked out the door toward his car.	***	
Jess heard Mac leave. She could leave her bedroom now. When she emerged, she found her Grandmother and Davis playing gin rummy.	
"Where did Mac go?" Jess asked as she retrieved a diet Coke from the refrigerator. She wondered what Mac was cooking. He was an enthusiastic cook. He'd used almost every pan he could find and then haphazardly piled them in the sink. She opened the dishwasher and started to fill it.	
"Eve's car broke down," Gram said, "Mac went to rescue her. I'm glad you came out of your room, Jess. You can't hide there forever."	
"I wasn't hiding, Gram."	
"Yes, you were." She gazed at cards, frowning. "If you want my advice, dear, I'd stop moping. Peter's dead and Mac is very much alive. I saw the two of you in the pool. It's time you started thinking about him and thinking about filling this house up with babies. You can still have babies. You told me once, not long after the accident, that you could."	
Davis fingered the brim of his peculiar cap as he studied his cards. "Gin."	
And her grandmother sputtered indignantly, "You haven't even drawn a card yet. Are you cheating?" She peered at him. He chuckled.	
After loading the dishwasher, Jess went into the living room. The room was a mess. What had happened to the neat, simple elegance of a week ago? She saw the sweatshirt neatly folded on the table, amused to notice he'd missed a pair of socks and a shirt. His briefcase leaned against the wall. Under a table lay a pair of disreputable looking sneakers. A jacket had been tossed carelessly over the back of the sofa.	
Scooter lay curled up on a pillow, her tail warming her nose. Though the blanket Mac used at night was folded, the folds were uneven.	
How had he managed to disrupt her home so easily? She'd hardly noticed the mess when they'd returned earlier. Looking at it now, she felt compelled to put the room back to its original chronic neatness, but didn't. Instead, she felt joyful, relaxed. Mac had slid into her life and made himself a fixture. She would have to learn to live with his mess.	
Jess directed her chair to the picture window to watch the street. Heat waves rose from the asphalt, shimmering and distorting the houses across from her. A few cars turned onto the street. One parked across at Anita's house and her husband got out, smoothing his crumpled shirt as he walked up the front walkway. Anita opened the front door and held her arms open wide. He walked into them, nuzzled her neck, and kissed her.	
After a few minutes, she realized she was tired of looking out windows: the window of the van, the window in the conference room where they questioned Doris, Connell O'Brian's window, her bedroom window, this window, the window to her heart.	
A car parked on the side of the house. Three men got out. Two went toward the front. The other towards the back. Jess watched for a moment, incuriously. A few minutes later the doorbell rang.	
Jess started toward the door, but before she could answer it, the door flew open and two men dashed inside, guns drawn. At the same time, the back door slammed, her grandmother squeaked, and Davis demanded that someone identify himself.	
Jess stared at the two men. "You can put your guns away," she said, trying to keep her rising fear in check. They watched her saying nothing. "I'm hardly a threat, am I?"	
One of the men gestured toward the kitchen. Jess turned her chair and headed toward it, all the while conscious of the men and the deadly weapons she hated. In the kitchen, she found two more men waving guns at her grandmother and Davis. The second man was Alphonse Piaget.	
"Good evening, Jessica," Alphonse said with a wide grin, his voice polite.	
Her name, on his lips, was an abomination. The way he rolled the syllables made her feel dirty.	
Shocked, Jess couldn't think how to respond. Mac was gone. He'd promised to protect her. Why couldn't Eve's car break down some other time? She was going to die. Why now? She and Mac had just found each other. She loved him. She had a chance at a future and now she would be dead.	
Like a tableau, the scene spread out in front of Jess. Her grandmother sat at the kitchen table, one hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with fear. Davis was half out of his chair, frozen in place by the barrel of the gun pointed at him. Alphonse idly examined the bottle of Bardolino sitting on the table.	
The idea they were all in very real danger penetrated the fog of Jess' shocked mind. She faced death and found she was angry. "What do you want, Alphonse?" she asked in a level voice, though it sounded more like a squeak to her.	
"I understand you wanted to see me, Jessica." Alphonse Piaget was a medium tall man with a slim build, dark brown hair streaked with red highlights, and pale blue eyes that froze her. He wore beige trousers, a dark brown silk shirt open nearly to the waist, and half a dozen gold chains around his neck. A sports jacket, draped around his shoulders looked like a cape. A white Panama hat partially shielded his face.	
He looked like a reject from the conspicuous Seventies. Didn't he know the world had moved into the subtlety of yuppiedom? Or was this just an act like his palm reading sister on Melrose or the ultra chic, interior design sister in Corona?	
"How did you know I'm looking for you?" Jess asked. "How did you find me?"	
"I have a very loyal sister, Jessica. She contacted me as soon as you left her home this afternoon. I had one of my people track down your address, since you so obligingly left her your phone number. Have you ever heard of reverse phone directories. They're by number rather than name. Finding you was a piece of cake." He snapped his fingers, grinning.	
"I wanted to see you. I didn't want you breaking into my house and frightening my family." Jess snapped refusing to be intimidated. Dangerous, yes. A felon, yes. But he was on her ground, and she had the upper hand even if he didn't know it. At least she thought she did. She bit the inside of her lip nervously.	
"Couldn't be helped." Alphonse turned to one of the other men and murmured something. One man took Davis and led him away toward the living room. One of the other men looked curiously at the wine bottle, lifted the opening to his nose, and sniffed. Then he grinned and turned around to search in the under counter cabinets for a wine glass, which he found behind the first door, filled it and handed the glass to Alphonse.	
Jess had to admire the efficiency of her mother. Every shelf was filled with all the things a modern kitchen needed. Only about half of which Jess needed.	
"What kind of kitchen is this," Alphonse said looking around, "I've never seen one with no cabinets over the counter."	
"How do you expect me to reach things over my head?" Jess asked. She could see the logic behind her kitchen design. Alphonse was a college graduate, why couldn't he?	
Alphonse simply shrugged, losing interest. "Looks like you're preparing dinner." Alphonse lifted the clear wrap over the veal and bent to sniff. The scent of herbs filled the room. "Sorry to interrupt, Jessica."	
"I don't believe that." Jess worked hard at keeping her terror under control. Her throat went dry. She would dearly love a sip of wine. "I should think you delight in frightening a woman in a wheel chair, an old man and an old woman. Though admittedly the calculated slaughter of children is more your style." She resisted glancing at the clock over the stove. How long Mac had been gone? She didn't want him returning too soon. Alphonse would kill him, too. She couldn't let that happen.	
For all her boastful comments on the first day she'd met him, Jess knew too well she was technically helpless. Though she had a can of mace in her purse, her purse was in the bedroom, and she didn't think mace would stop four men long enough for her to phone for help.	
"You always did have a big mouth, Jessica. I run a business. You understand the laws of supply and demand. They demand and I supply."	
"Stop calling me Jessica."	
Alphonse grinned revealing crooked teeth. "You and I are going to have a little chat." He twirled the garnet colored liquid around the bowl of the glass. Then he sipped it, his eyebrows going up in surprise. "This is very good. Shark, get Jessica a glass and then take the old broad into the other room and tie her up with the old goat. Jessica and I got business."	
Jess accepted the wine reluctantly. Alphonse wandered around the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator, he looked at the marinating veal. He reminded Jess of a menacing tiger, pacing back and forth between the walls of its cage at the zoo. Dangerous, but contained. What did he want? Why didn't he just kill her? Was this another aspect of terrorism like the letters and the phone calls, designed to frighten her so much she'd beg. Jess kept a tight rein on her galloping fear. Get it over with, she silently pleaded, before Mac returns so he doesn't get killed, too.	
"Since we're going to talk business," Jess said, "have one of your men bring the briefcase out of the living room. I have something I want to show you."	
The briefcase materialized. Alphonse opened it and rummaged around carefully first before turning it over to Jess.	
She took out the copies of the letters and handed them to him. "I've been receiving these threatening letters, and since you were known to issue threats against me, you were one of my first choices as suspect."	
Alphonse flipped through the letters. He read each one carefully with the grave demeanor of a businessman studying a contract. The picture was spoiled by the horrible clothes he wore. Jess wondered if he'd seen the movie Saturday Night Fever and decided to model himself after the star, John Travolta. Jess hoped not; that would be an insult to the movie.	
"I'm flattered you thought of me." He sipped his wine and smiled at the taste. "But let me assure you that I had nothing to do with sending these letters."	
"And I'm supposed to believe that?"	
Alphonse shrugged. "Believe what you want." He sat down and propped his feet up on the table as he went through the rest of the file folders in the briefcase. He finished his glass of wine and poured another one.	
Jess' worry for Mac increased. Fear rose in growing waves. Dark spots whirled in front of her eyes before she managed to get control of herself. Mac was a cop. He'd see the strange car parked on the side of the house and take precautions. Wouldn't he?	
And what about Gram and Davis? Were they okay? From the angle of her chair, Jess couldn't see into the living room.	
"I'd like to check on my grandmother and her husband." Jess said.	
Alphonse waved a hand toward the living room, which Jess interpreted as permission to do as she pleased. What she found was her Gram and Davis playing poker with the three companions. Even though they were technically tied to the chair they sat in, their hands were free. Gram played with fierce determination. Davis played more casually, his eyes flickering around the table, watchful and alert.	
Jess returned to the kitchen. Alphonse thoughtfully returned the files to the briefcase.	
"I didn't send these letters." He closed the briefcase with a snap.	
"What about your mother? Would she send them for you?" Jess asked, remembering the missing Mrs. Piaget and wondering where she was.	
"Ma wouldn't do this, either. She doesn't do anything unless I tell her."	
"Admirable trait in a mother." Jess remembered Tootsie would be showing up soon for dinner. She'd be walking into a dangerous situation. Jess suddenly grew frantic. She closed her eyes, unwilling to watch while Alphonse raised his gun and shot her.	
"What are you doing?" he asked.	
She opened her eyes. "Are you going to kill me now?"	
Alphonse looked startled, then tense. "You mean like in murder?"	
Jess broke into a nervous sweat. "You are a criminal, Alphonse."	
Alphonse struggled to his feet looking outraged. "Hey, I may deal a bit and run a few girls along Hollywood Boulevard, but I never--I swear to you on my father's grave--ordered a hit or done one myself."	
"Honor among thieves." Hysteria edged upward in her throat. 	
He held up his hand like a Boy Scout. "I swear to you, I never committed a murder. Drug dealing, prostitution, those are different. I go to jail for a few years and I'm out. But murder, I'm in for life. I'm not stupid, Jessica."	
The incredibility of the situation almost sent Jess into raucous laughter. She couldn't believe he didn't see the relationship between drugs and death. "But you threatened me in court. In jail. Other people heard you."	
The back door flew open with a loud crack against the wall. Mac entered, crouching, gun pointed at Alphonse. Two uniformed cops followed him, guns drawn. Jess heard the front door bang open, too. Hysteria bordered on madness. Somehow she'd fallen down the rabbit hole.	
Alphonse was so surprised, he stared, frozen in place.	
"You're under arrest, Alphonse." Mac reached for Alphonse's gun and gently eased it away from the man's reach.	
One cop reached for handcuffs. In the living room, Jess heard the signs of a struggle, a shriek, then quiet.	
Buddy walked into the kitchen, looking supremely pleased with himself. "I finally got to use all the karate I studied last year." He laughed and chopped at the air.	
Jess turned to Mac and held her arms out to him. He wrapped his arms around her. Eyes closed, content to finally feel secure, she whispered, "I love you, Mac."	
He kissed her.	***	
Jess and Mac returned from the police station at midnight. Alphonse Piaget and his cohorts had been duly arrested, questioned further about the threats to Jess. He continued to deny involvement in the vandalism, bomb scare and shooting.	
Eventually he was taken to the holding facility on City Drive to await pick up by the sheriff from San Luis Obispo, where he would continue his sentence with time added for his escape. His mother had driven the getaway car. The police were still looking for her.	
Jess was so tired she could barely keep her head erect. She let Mac take her into her bedroom, undress her with gentle hands, and put her to bed. A short time later, she felt him crawl in next to her and take her in his arms. She fell asleep, her head resting against his shoulder and his arm draped across her breasts.	
Early morning sun slanted across the floor. Jess woke aware of a warm body next to her. She opened her eyes to find Mac, head resting on the palm of his hand, braced on his elbow, studying at her.	
"Good morning." He touched her face, fingers moving lightly across the contours of her cheeks, lips, chin, nose. He kissed her, his lips warm on hers.	
Jess wound her arms around his neck and pulled him to her. "You saved my life. I never properly thanked you last night."	
"Want to do it now?" Sliding his arms around her, he drew her close. His breath was warm and sweet on her cheek.	
Jess realized she was naked and so was he. She blushed. He ran his hands down the length of her body, exploring the uneven texture of her skin, following the line of one scar that ended just below her pelvic bone.	
"Jess," he whispered huskily, "tell me what to do so I don't hurt you."	
"What you're doing now doesn't hurt," she teased.	
"But ...."	
"I've been given excellent advice to do what comes naturally and if one position is uncomfortable, try another one. Let's experiment." She kissed the end of his nose. "Several people have told me I may be partially paralyzed from the waist down, but I'm not dead."	
Jess gave herself up to the sensation of being loved and of loving. Sweet pleasure filled her. The sound of her ragged breathing joined his. He held himself over her, moving forward tentatively, easing between her inert legs. She laughed. As her body spasmed with pleasure, Jess realized Gram, Laurie, her mother were all quite correct. She wasn't the least bit dead from the waist down.	***	
Connell O'Brian called at ten o'clock. Jess lay with Mac's leg tossed over hers, his head on her shoulder.	
"Yes, Connell," Mac said, his voice raw with passion and still a little drowsy.	
"Are you still sleeping?" Connell barked into the phone. "Time to get up. You have some legwork to do and only thirty-six hours left to do it in."	
"And that means?" Mac disentangled himself from Jess. She lay on the bed, her body completely bared to him. He traced the webbing of scars across her stomach resisting the urge to move into more enticing territory.	
"I got the info on the white Mazda MPV. You want it, or are you too busy to bother."	
Jess sighed, eyes half-closed. Mac grabbed a paper off a pad on the nightstand and took a pencil from the drawer. "I'm ready, Connell."	
"The van is registered to Fisher Carpet Cleaning and Restoration, 17001 Main Street, Tustin. The owner is a man named Keith Fisher." Connell proceeded to give two phone numbers, Mac working furiously to keep up, then hung up the phone.	
"Carpet Cleaning," Jess mused while Mac searched for his clothes. "Didn't Anita says something about a white van with a carpet cleaning logo on the side the day I was vandalized."	
Mac stopped searching for his clothes and walked out to the living room to get his briefcase. When he returned, he sat on the edge of the mattress, case open, searching through his notes. He found what he wanted and read through it silently. Over the edge of the pad, he watched Jess still lying on the bed looking exceptionally wanton and desirable. He wanted to forget about the van and return to thoughts of seduction, but the ticking time clock got him jump-started.	
He leaned over her and brushed his lips against her breast, "I would love to spend the day in bed showing you how much I love you, but we only have until tomorrow night to put this whole matter to rest. I'm going upstairs to shower and find clean clothes."	
"I thought maybe you'd enjoy taking a shower with me." She gave him a coy glance. "I have an extra large shower."	
He weighed the possibilities, deciding the upstairs shower was the safer one. "Hurry up and get dressed."	
Mac showered and found clean clothes. Scooter had made a nest of his underwear. He simply shook out the cat hair.	
While Jess got ready, he made a quick breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast. When she entered the kitchen, he paused in his cooking to decide what was different about her. Her face looked fuller somehow, more sultry. Her hair, fluffed up around her face, accentuated a come-hither look that seemed so at odds with the woman he'd first met only six days ago.	
He bent to kiss her on the lips and then put her breakfast on the table. "We've got work to do." He had a hard time not tearing her clothes off, but Elizabeth Reston entering the kitchen managed to keep his desire under control.	
"Good morning, all." Elizabeth sat at the table and looked sharply at Mac and her granddaughter. "My, don't we look pleased with ourselves this morning. Like the cat that got the canary."	
Jess just laughed. She didn't bother to enlighten her grandmother. Mac could see that Elizabeth fully understood and approved.	
"What are your plans for today, Elizabeth?" Mac asked.	
"Oh, nothing much. Just stuff," she said, her eyes moving evasively away from his. "I just wanted to tell you Davis and I are taking you out to dinner tonight. Our treat. We have reservations at the Fish Market on Balboa Island at six-thirty. See you later." Elizabeth waved and was gone. A few seconds later, Mac heard the RV rev up and leave.	
Mac locked up the house while Jess unlocked the garage. In minutes, they were on their way to Tustin to see Keith Fisher.[Fifteen]["../../../../../Desktop%20Folder/MV.html#Table"]	Chapter Fifteen	
They sat in the van for several minutes watching Fisher's Carpet Cleaning and Restoration. The neighborhood was one of the new industrial areas booming alongside the El Toro Air Force base. Residential developers were reluctant to build because of the 24 hour a day plane noise. Rows of buildings with stucco fronts painted pale pink decorated with maroon and green stripes along the roofline had begun a resurgence of the art deco style.	
Fisher's Carpet Cleaning and Restoration had the look of a generic carpet cleaning supply store. Through the front window, Mac could see rows of narrow shelves, barely wide enough for bottles of cleaning supplies and specialized appliances for cleaning.	
Mac held the door open for Jess since it was on a specialized hinge automatically closing after a customer entered. She eased her chair down the main row.	
Behind a long counter at the back of the room, Jess saw a young woman, long brown hair hanging down her back, talking on the phone. She wore a thin blouse, bright red, showing the contour lines of her bra underneath. A gold chain holding a silver cross dangled between the peaks of her breasts. She smiled at Mac's approach, giving him a saucy look.	
Mac wandered around the showroom. He noticed several empty shelves. One shelf, stocked with the wrong bottle of cleaning fluid, clearly advertised something else. The girl's voice had a nasal twang. When she hung up, she slammed the receiver down.	
"Can I help you?" she demanded. She moved out from behind the counter to reveal a short black, leather skirt, black hose and bright red platform shoes of a style popular during the Second World War, the sixties, and now again in the nineties. What goes around comes around, Mac thought.	
"We're looking for Mr. Fisher." Mac located Jess as the far end of the store reading the back of a bottle. She looked up at his signal and approached the counter.	
"Mr. Fisher ain't in. He don't come in Saturdays." She smiled pleasantly at Mac.	
Jess said, "We spoke with Mr. Fisher about 20 minutes ago. He was in then. Since he's expecting us, how could he disappear so quickly?"	
The girl looked confused. "I'll check. Maybe he came in while I wasn't looking."	
"I'm sure that's easy to do," Jess replied.	
The girl blushed.	
She disappeared around the counter and through a door leading to the rear of the shop.	
"Jess, take a look at the typewriter. I'll bet Beagle can match the type from that machine to the type on the envelopes." Mac pointed at an old Smith Corona portable. He peeked around the edge of the counter and saw large signs with magnetized backs. Green lettering on the front advertised the cleaning company. That explained why the van had green lettering on the door one time and not the next. Removable signs.	
He showed Jess the signs and she nodded.	
The girl returned, silently gesturing at the door.	
"I'm afraid Mr. Fisher will have to come out here," Mac said seeing immediately that Jess's chair wouldn't fit through the door frame. "Would you ask him, please, so my partner doesn't miss out on our conversation."	
The girl shrugged and disappeared back through the door. A few seconds later she reappeared, followed by a short, portly man with a balding head of black hair, suspenders holding up his trousers and a lax belly that fell over the waistband like a sack of dying potatoes.	
"Mr. Fisher." Mac extended his hand. The other man took it. His grip was limp and damp, his fingers flaccid.	
"Yes, you must be Sergeant McCready and Mrs. Savage. I've been expecting you." He had a high, wispy voice, strident and breathless. He studied Jess, then looked quickly away.	
Jess returned the smile. "I'm from the D.A.'s office, Mr. Fisher. One of your van's, a white Mazda MPV was seen at the seen of an accident. We're checking up on it."	
Mr. Fisher looked puzzled. "I can't imagine one of my people leaving the scene. I've instructed all my employees to always obey the law." Mr. Fisher sweated. Large circles of perspiration stained his underarms. He wiped beads of sweat from his forehead with a huge, snowy white handkerchief. "I believe in cooperating with the law at all times."	
"Mr. Fisher," Mac prompted gently, trying to return the man's attention to the fact that the van was seen.	
"Yes. Yes. I understand. I only have one white MPV. It's my personal van. Most of my people drive trucks, but when I need extras in the field I use the MPV."	
"And who would drive it?"	
"Anybody might. But Emilio has been driving it lately."	
"Emilio?" Mac said. His eyes locked with Jess'. A shock ran through him.	
"Yes, Emilio Santiago. He was one of my cleaners."	
Mac felt as though he'd been punched. Emilio Santiago. Jess looked alternately afraid, triumphant, and slightly puzzled. "Can you tell me where Mr. Santiago is right now?" Jess coaxed.	
"I haven't the faintest idea," Mr. Fisher replied. "I fired the bum this morning when he came in. He was drunk ... again. Last week he insulted two customers. I'm a small operation, not like some with a fleet of one hundred or more trucks. I can't afford to insult the customers. Most of my business is repeat. So I let him go." Fisher looked disgusted. "I know we all got our vices, but I've been plenty patient with Emilio. I just got so I couldn't take him anymore. If you give me a sec, I'll look up his home address."	
"There's no need, Mr. Fisher. Thank you." Mac held the front door open for Jess. The chair bumped over the threshold.	
"Emilio Santiago." Jess rubbed her temples. "I don't understand."	
"You don't have to understand." Mac activated the lift. "No one ever said this whole thing had to be logical."	
An accident blocked their re-entry onto the freeway. A sense of urgency pulled at Mac. While they waited for traffic to move, Jess clasped her hands together tightly, mouth set with a line of tension so tight her lips thinned.	
She looked over at him and tried to smile. "Jess, everything is going to be fine."	
"I should have known," Jess replied. "Emilio is capable of such anger, of such threats. Why didn't I guess earlier?"	
"Because we didn't have enough evidence to point us in the right direction."	
She hit her thigh, radiating frustration. "Why don't these people hurry up?"	
He reached out and touched her. "We'll get there." Suddenly she fell back against the seat, the tension draining out of her. He thought he saw fear in her eyes, but the look was gone before he had time to confirm his suspicion.	
She stared out the window at the CHP cops directing cars around the accident. Free of the delay, they drove up the entrance ramp to the freeway.	
"Before we get to their house," Jess said in a muted tone, "I want to thank you for last night." A slight smile crossed her lips. "And this morning." She glanced at him, an almost wicked look in her eyes. "You're a special man, Mac. I appreciate everything you've done for me."	
"You say that as though you expect me to be packed and gone within the hour." He chuckled.	
"I'd understand if you did." She couldn't look at him, afraid of what she'd find. "You're not going to have an average relationship with me, Mac. I'm never going to walk again. I'm never going to be totally, physically whole. I'm not going to ...." Her voice cracked. "I require some very specialized equipment just to get around. I can't move out of my house. Refitting another one would be much too expensive."	
Mac pulled off at the next exit and found a gas station. He parked and turned to look at Jess. "Enough of this self-pity, Jess. You think I don't know what life is going to be like with you. I don't think things will be much different than the way they've been this last week." He touched her hair and her face. Her skin was soft beneath his fingers. "I'll do the cooking, and you'll gripe at me for my clothes being all over the furniture. Aside from that, I think we make a pretty good team.	
"I believe in lifetime commitments, Jessica Savage. I'm not going to let you get away so easily. If you think I can make a mess of your home in a week, wait until we've been married a lifetime. Life isn't always neat and tidy, Jessica. People fall in love, sometimes they fight, and sometimes they go to bed angry, but each dawn brings a new beginning. My parents taught me that. And I'm going to teach you."	
She looked incredibly beautiful even with her nose starting to look red and her eyes going puffy. "I love you, Mac."	
He grinned. "I love you so much I'm seriously considering kidnapping you to Las Vegas for a quickie wedding."	
"Conducted by an Elvis impersonator? All my life I've wanted that." Jess laughed. "But I don't think so. My Grandmother would never forgive you."	
"At the risk of having my arms broken by that chauffeur of theirs, I think I'd better invite them and your mother and my parents and anybody else you want to have at our wedding."	
"Is this a proposal?" She smiled happily at him.	
"Damn right." He handed her a tissue and she wiped her eyes.	
"I think we'd better get going. We can't start our life together until we deal with Emilio."	
"Not until I call for backup." Mac hopped out of the van and approached a row of public phones.	
Jess watched him go. She wiped her eyes with a tissue, blew her nose and tried to remember Emilio Santiago had been the cause of her fear and terror for the last month.	
She supposed in a way she should thank Emilio. He'd brought Mac into her life, the same way Alphonse Piaget had given her Peter. She hadn't been so happy, so secure, so at peace with herself for a long time. She felt absolutely certain Mac wouldn't desert her when the going got rough. And with her, tough times would probably be an frequent occurrence.	
She loved him. If she could sing, she would sing out her love. Instead she smiled as he hung up the phone and headed back to the van. Good-bye, Peter. You'll always have a place in my heart, but Mac is alive and you're not. I'll never forget you. I'm sorry about the baby. But she's with you and I know you'll take good care of her.	
Mac opened the door and slid into the driver's seat. "Connell is calling the local guys. Everyone will meet us at Emilio's house. Let's go arrest him. He's going to be doing some time in the county jail."	
"Assuming we can prove he's the one."	
"I don't think we'll have any problems." Mac headed back toward the freeway.	
"Mac," Jess said, a frightening thought occurring to her, "If Emilio is responsible for the vandalizing of my house, he probably took Peter's service revolver. Hurry up, Mac."	
The ride to the Santiago's house was long, traffic unusually heavy for Saturday. Jess bit the cuticle around the edge of her thumb. Mac looked grim.	
Finally, they turned down the street and screeched to a halt in front of the tired Santiago house.	
Emilio Santiago stood out on the front lawn. Blood dripped steadily down his arm. He swayed, screaming and cursing. On the front stoop, Maria pointed a gun at him. Instinctively, Jess knew the gun was Peter's and she had to stop Maria from using it. Maria looked frightened. The barrel wavered back and forth.	
"Put that down, you bitch," Emilio screamed.	
Mac swung out of the van. Jess transferred herself from the passenger seat to her chair. As she turned, Mac slid open the side door, then ran toward Maria, holding his hands up, calling to her. "Maria, put the gun down."	
"She shot me. Make her stop," Blood sprayed as Emilio swung around and screamed at Mac. "Make the bitch stop."	
Panicked, Jess fumbled with the switch for the lift. The descent seemed like hours. When she hit the ground, her chair jumped forward.	
"Maria," Jess cried, "Don't make this worse."	
Maria stared at her husband. Tears tracked down her face, a face black with new bruises. She held the gun straight out from her body, level with her shoulder. Her other arm hung at an odd angle against her side. She shifted. The gun wavered.	
"You won't shoot," her husband said with an arrogant snicker. "You ain't got the guts, Maria."	
"Maria." Mac approached lightly, his hands held out in front of him. "Put the gun down."	
Maria said nothing. Her gaze swept over Jess. No recognition showed. The gun steadied.	
Emilio laughed, an angry bitter shriek. "You're stupid, Maria. I should have left you in Puerto Rico living in that shack. I give you a better life and this is how you repay me?"	
"Maria," Jess approached cautiously. "Please, Maria. Who will take care of your children if you go to jail? You will go to jail if you kill him. Don't do this foolish thing."	
Maria closed her eyes, opened them and squeezed the trigger. The gun exploded. Emilio jerked, sprawling backward on the lawn, blood seeping from his chest. He looked surprised as he stared at the sky.	
"Maria," Jess' voice cracked nervously. The gun swung to her. Fear so thick clogged her throat. She could barely speak. "Maria, put the gun down before you do more harm."	
Silently, on cat feet, Mac approached Maria from the side. Just as he approached, arms outstretched to tackle her, she tossed the gun in the bushes and covered her face with her hand.	
Jess felt sick. Spots swam in front of her eyes. On the lawn, Emilio groaned. In the distance, sirens blared. Seconds later, two patrol cars turned down the street, pulsing lights flashing blue and red.	
Maria sank to her knees, then sat back on her heels. High keening erupted from her as she rocked back and forth. Inside the house, a child screamed.	
Jess reached Maria. She took the other woman's hand in hers. "Maria," she said softly.	
Maria looked at Jess. Madness hovered in the depths of her brown eyes. For one second,Ê sanity seemed to come to the surface, then Maria crumpled sideways in a faint.	***	
The Santiago house drew a large crowd of neighbors who hovered on the opposite sidewalk staring. Even the neighborhood children seemed abnormally subdued. Patrol cars and an ambulance were parked in front. Two ambulance attendants and a crowd of cops milled on the lawn.	
Jess watched from the safety the sidewalk trying to keep out of the way. The ambulance attendants gently lifted Emilio onto a gurney and wheeled him toward the waiting ambulance. In the back of one patrol car, Maria sat, her face averted, hunched forward slightly to ease the pressure on her handcuffed wrists.	
Jess felt deep pity for the woman. Maybe the tragedy could have been averted if she had accepted Sr. Mary Kate's invitation to go to San Bernardino for shelter and counseling. But then again, maybe not.	
Mac approached. He wore his badge on the pocket of his light jacket. Others wore windbreakers with the words 'POLICE' stenciled on the back.	
"Emilio's going to be all right," Mac said. "From the position of the entrance and exit wounds, Maria appears to have missed vital areas."	
"I wanted to ask him why," Jess said.	
"Emilio was an angry man, Jess. If not you, than someone else. You encouraged Maria to oppose him, question his authority. Your influence over Maria threatened his security."	
"I want to talk to Maria."	
"Leave it for later. Right now is not the time."	
Reluctantly, Jess agreed. She allowed Mac to guide her back to her van. As she drove away, Maria looked up. Tears streaked her face.	
Mac slowed the van. Jess opened the window. "I'll see you soon, Maria. Don't give up hope."	
Maria gave a tremulous smile and looked away again.	***	
"I'm quitting," Jess announced. She wheeled herself into Bob Ford's office.	
Bob sat back and stared at her. "You're kidding."	
"You should know after working with me for so many years, that I never kid." Downstairs in front of the building in the No Parking Zone, Mac waited for her in the van. She wondered if he were getting a ticket right now.	
"I don't believe you, "Bob said, "You love this job." Outside Bob's office, noise tapered off as people looked up from their desks listening curiously. "You can't do this to me. This weekend alone, I have five new cases to be prosecuted including one woman who tried to kill her husband."	
"I can't work here any more. People change, Bob. The time has come for me to move on." Jess struggled to maintain a serious demeanor. The look on Bob's face was priceless, but then he hadn't lived through the last week of her life. She felt an affinity for him. He'd lived through Viet Nam.	
"What are you going to do for a living?" He looked confused.	
"First off, I'm getting married." A chuckle erupted from Jess. She swallowed the next one.	
"Married!" Bob's mouth fell open.	
"Yes," Jess said firmly. "Married. In three weeks. At my house. You're invited, if you want to come. I did consider letting my husband support me, but I decided such a thought was unfair of me. So I called a friend and got a new job. I start right after the honeymoon."	
Bob shook his head. "I don't think I'm hearing this right. You're getting married. And found a new job. What new job?"	
Jess felt so happy, so right. Mac did something for her that her job had never done. He made her feel whole. She loved him so much, her insides hurt. She hugged that hurt to herself, because it proved she was alive after all.	
"I'm going to work in the Public Defenders office, beginning four weeks from today."	
Bob looked thunderstruck. He stared at her, working his lips as though trying to say something, but unable to find the correct words.	
She turned her chair and sailed out into the main office. "See you in court."	
"Jess, you can't do this to me." Bob yelled as she moved through the main office. He stood in the doorway. "You're supposed to be on my side."	
"Not any more."	
"No," Bob held his head with his hands. "No. No. My best lawyer defects. Someone find my Alka Seltzer. I'm never going to win another case in court." One hand dramatically placed over his heart, he stumbled back inside and slammed the door.	***	
"Did you tell him?" Mac asked as Jess approached. He leaned against the side of the van. Jess looked very pleased with herself.	
"I told him." The wheels of her chair slid over the edge of the platform. Mac flipped the switch and she rose to the level of the van. Inside she slid into the passenger seat and fastened her seat belt.	
"How did he take your announcement?" He started the van and pulled out into traffic. He'd been a little reticent about Jess taking a job with the P.D.'s office, but she wanted it.	
"Not too well." She laughed and couldn't seem to stop.	
Mac joined in, marveling that this woman would soon be his wife. And she would soon be working for Maria Santiago. Later in the day at the bail hearing, Jess would appear. Not as Maria's lawyer, but as her friend. Emilio wasn't going to die, but Maria would have to face assault charges.	
They turned down her street. The RV was gone, Elizabeth Reston and Tootsie on a dozen errands associated with the planning of the wedding. For the next three weeks they would have no peace. Tootsie and Elizabeth were determined to marry Jess off in style. Mac couldn't begrudge them their wishes, especially after they joined forces with his own mother who added her own dynamic personality to the other two. They became The Three Musketeers practically overnight.	
A strange car was parked in front of Jess' house. Mac parked behind it. Someone sat on the front porch, the porch swing moving back and forth slowly.	
Mac got out and approached the house. The shadowed figure stood and waited. Behind him, Mac heard the lift motor.	
"Mac," the person on the porch said, "Your Dad said I could find you here." Tony Bingham stepped forward into the sunlight, hand extended. "How ya doin', Mac? Long time, no see, pal."	
Memories of Loretta flooded through Mac's mind. He waited for the pain and the grief, but nothing surfaced except a mild sense of loss and sympathy for Tony who would have to find his own way through the grief Mac could still see on his ravaged face. "Hello, Tony. I'm glad to see you."	
Mac heard Jess on the ramp, the chair motor a little loud and grinding when it shouldn't. His Dad would be back tomorrow to take another look at the motor. Today, he and Davis were out fishing on the ocean with a day charter.	
Mac introduced Jess. Tony smiled at her. He was a tall, lean man who'd suffered all his life from a superficial likeness to Abraham Lincoln. He once tried to grow a beard, but the likeness only intensified. Tony had kept hoping the natural result of aging would diminish the likeness, but grief had done it for him. His face was deeply scored with pain. The death of his wife had not been easy.	
Jess went into the house after issuing an offer for coffee, which Tony accepted. Mac hoped he didn't expect much. Jess' first attempt at coffee just about killed him over breakfast. She tried to show she wasn't totally helpless in the kitchen. He'd laughed and told her, he'd cook, especially during the important occasions in their life.	
"I hear you took a medical retirement." Tony sat down, the swing moving back and forth to the rhythm of his legs.	
"I've lost my taste for being a cop." Mac perched on the porch railing. "I put my condo up For Sale yesterday and in three weeks, Jess and I are getting married. I want you to be my best man."	
"You bet." Tony gave a tired smile. "Have you given any thought to what you'll be doing?"	
"I'm going to work for the Public Defender's office as a special investigator. After all, investigating is what I do."	
Inside, Mac saw Jess go through the living room and stop to fold his shirt. He'd meant to clean up after himself this morning, but events had conspired against him.	
He did put away his sneakers. He figured that was a start. He put them in Jess' closet right next to her long row of shoes. He'd discovered she loved shoes. The only problem being she never wore them out. So she kept adding shoes and finally built a closet just for them. His battered old sneakers had looked odd next to her pristine shoes, but he found he liked the look. Another reminder for Jess that not everything in life was perfect.	
"I brought you something." Tony reached down for a large manila envelope. He handed the envelope to Mac. "I think Loretta would want you to have it."	
Mac accepted the envelope reluctantly, unwilling to look inside. But Tony watched him and finally Mac opened the flap and pulled out a photograph.	
The photograph was an 8x10 blowup of Mac and Loretta. She looked happy with her arms around his neck. He held her tight, a foolish grin on his face. Tony had taken the picture at the annual Police Association Picnic. In the background, he saw a picnic table and the plumed tail of Loretta's collie, Wonderdog. "Thanks, Tony. I appreciate it."	
Tony stood. He started down the ramp.	
"Tony," Mac said, "I'm sorry about Loretta. I loved her, too. And I'm sorry I haven't been to see you."	
Tony paused, turned and reached out to hug Mac. Wordlessly, he walked down the ramp and got into his car. He waved as he drove off.	
Mac continued to sit on the railing staring at the picture. Loretta would have loved Jess. He wished she were here right now so he could show Jess off. He'd have given anything to be the one to die so Loretta could live. But then he wouldn't have found Jess.	
"Mac," Jess asked from the doorway, "Your friend left? What's going on?"	
Mac went inside. He leaned over her hugging her tightly. "I was just saying goodbye to an old friend."	
Jess arms slid around him. "I know, Mac," she murmured, "I know how difficult saying good-bye can be."	
He kissed her, his lips covering hers with purposeful intensity. Then he started shoving her toward the bedroom.	
"It's the middle of the day, Mac."	
"I know." He gave her a wicked grin and closed the bedroom door after her and locked it. "But it's grandmother proof." He picked her up from the chair and walked toward the bed.	
THE END
------------------------------------
This document was converted by AportisDoc Converter(tm) from Aportis Technologies Corp.
Visit www.aportis.com for eBook readers, free eBooks and conversion tools.