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Persistence of Dreams

Excerpt
Samhain Publishing, Ltd
Fall/Winter 2008

 

                                                Prologue

 

 

     He stood in the doorway--a tall man in a suit and tie with a hopeful expression on his face. Several women stopped eating or talking to look him over, but his attention was focused on one woman, sitting by herself.

     Lucky woman, they thought, as the man made his way to her table.

     The lucky woman's eyes met his. And the man knew he'd lost.

     The temptation to turn around and walk out was overwhelming, but after a brief hesitation, he made his way to the table where Kathy was sitting and slid onto the seat across from her.

     Her lips moved in a tentative smile of welcome, but her eyes were solemn. A solemnity in direct contrast to the gaiety of freckles dusted across her nose and the bright copper of her hair.

     "Charles. Thank you so much for coming. And thank you for the flowers. They're gorgeous."

     "I just wanted to set the record straight." That he was in love with her, even if she wasn't in love with him.

     And clearly she wasn't, even though she didn't say the I'm so sorry that hovered delicately along the edges of what she was saying.

     He had done the right thing, hadn't he? But then, once he'd discovered that Kathy loved someone she was estranged from, he'd had only two choices--stick it out and hope for the best, or cut his losses. Except, given the someone had turned out to be his best friend, he'd had one other option. The option he'd

chosen and now regretted.

     Kathy lowered her gaze. "Alan came to see me."

     "I know. He called me."

     "You're good friends, aren't you."

     "The best."

     She picked up a knife and began fiddling with it. "Then you must have known Meg."

     Surprising how much it still hurt to be reminded of Meg, but she'd been his friend as well as Alan's wife. "She was his whole world. When he lost her..."

     Kathy sat silently, waiting no doubt for him to continue, but he was finished.

     "How...d‑do you know how she died?"

     No way was he going to be the one to answer that question. "You're taking a hell of a chance, Kathy Jamison."

     "I don't understand."

     Her eyes, wide and guileless, tipped him into agony. "You'll always be second best with Alan. He doesn't have a free heart. But I do."

     Seeing the shock on her face, he realized he'd done an awful thing. But he wasn't sorry, not if it gave him another chance with her.

     She laid a hand on his arm. "I am so sorry. It seems I don't have a free heart either."

     Flinching from her touch, he struggled to summon the cool persona that stood him in such good stead with juries. "If wishes were horses, beggars would ride, wouldn't they." He stopped, to pull in a breath to expand a chest and throat that were tight with pain. Then he forced the rest of the words out while he was still capable of speaking. "Thank you, for meeting with me. For not leaving me hanging."

     "You're a good man, Charles Larimore. Any woman in her right mind would find it so easy to love you."

     "Just my luck, you aren't in your right mind." He maintained the light tone and even appended a smile, but it was one of the most difficult things he'd ever done. He picked up her hand and rubbed his thumb gently across her palm. The knowledge it was the last time he would touch her almost did him in.

     Looking troubled, she met his gaze. "What about you and Alan?"

     "We'll be fine. Might take awhile." Not that he believed it. "You know, I'm really not very hungry all of a sudden." He released her hand and stood. "You and Alan...just be happy, okay?" Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked quickly, blindly, out of the restaurant.

     The whole thing was his own damn fault. After all, he was the one who'd helped Kathy and Alan reconcile.

     And lost them both.

    

                                                  Chapter One

 

     Luz made it through the funeral in the daze that had descended on her with her step‑aunt's phone call. Her parents dead. In an auto accident. So abruptly and inconceivably that she still didn't totally believe it. Except some part of her must be beginning to accept, because the world had turned dark and frightening.

     She longed to lock herself in her room, huddle under the covers and give in to the grief that had wrapped around her so tightly she wondered why she was still able to move.

     When she responded to the words of condolence, her voice sounded odd, as if her words were coming from a deep, hollow place. People hugged her, and their tears wet her cheeks, but she refused to cry.

     The only thing forcing a normality she no longer believed in were her brother and sister. Marisol, only six, had some inkling, although she still didn't really understand she was never going to see Mami and Papi again, but Carlito, still an infant, had no idea what had happened. He still gurgled and smiled when she picked him up.

     She made sure he was fed and dry, washed and clothed, hugged and cooed back at, surprised she could manage it.

     For Marisol and Carlito's sake, she pretended everything was going to be okay, and she was beginning to hope that might eventually be true when her step‑uncle, Martin Blair, stopped by the house two days after the funeral.

     With him was a woman with a barracuda smile who wore a tailored suit and carried a designer briefcase. The two settled themselves in the living room.

     "We have arrangements to make, Luz," Martin said.

     Arrangements? Like they had to make for the funeral? But Martin hadn't even asked her opinion, or she would have told him Mami disliked the hymn "On Eagles' Wings" intensely.

     "What arrangements?" Dammit, couldn't she manage two words without them wobbling?

     "Ms. Ross from Children's Services is here to explain where Carlito and Marisol will be living."

     "I don't know what you're talking about. They're going to live here with me."

     "Now, Luz, you know that just isn't possible."

     No, she didn't know that. Spots danced in front of her eyes, and her voice continued to betray her. "Why not? They're my brother and sister. And this is our home."

     Ross and Martin's faces wavered, and the edges of Luz's vision darkened. She'd begun to float, when a sharp pressure on her arm and a push on the back of her neck jerked her back to earth.

     "Here, keep your head down. Now, take a deep breath." The tucked and tailored Ms. Ross pushed on her neck with more efficiency than sympathy.

     Luz kept her head down, and gradually the ringing in her ears subsided to be replaced by Martin's voice.

     "...parents' names, of course, but the bank owns a big piece of it." He sighed, still trying for sympathy no doubt. "I hate to have to be the one to tell you this, Luz, but there's no money."

     Blinking, she sat up and pushed Ms. Ross away. "What do you mean there's no money?"

     "Sweetheart, I know this is a lot to take in all at once so soon after losing your parents. But I'm the executor, and I've already accessed all the bank accounts. There's very little in them. And lots of debts. The funeral alone wiped out--"

     "No!" Luz didn't believe it. Some people lived on every penny, but not Mami and Papi. Especially not Papi, who had arrived in Scottsbluff with Luz and nothing else. Besides, when they'd discussed where she would go to college, Papi had told her his business was doing well, as was Mami's practice. They could afford to send her to Colorado College. Even if she hadn't won the scholarship, he said they'd be able to swing it.

     "We'll talk about all that later," Martin said. "What we need to talk about right now are Carlito and Marisol."

     "Yes," Ms. Ross added, after Martin nudged her with a look. "We'll try to find them a foster home together, of course, but there are no guarantees."

     "Foster home?"

     "Of course, dear," Ms. Ross said. "Since you'll be away at school, you won't have to go into foster care yourself. But I know Judge Smale very well, and he would never grant custody for two young children to an underage sibling."

     Underage? She was nineteen, dammit. Old enough to get married, have her own children.

     Judge Smale had to be an idiot.

     She sat with her mouth hanging open as the significance of what they were saying sank in. No money, which she found impossible to believe. And even more impossible, they planned to take Marisol and Carlito away from her and make them live with strangers. She wanted to howl, but she was too stunned.

     "So. We need to set a time for me to pick the children up. I'd like them to be ready tomorrow morning. You'll pack their things, of course."

     The gall, the insensitivity, the idiocy, the evil. Luz ran out of labels for the outrage she felt. Martin was formidable, and she suspected this Ms. Ross was no pushover either. Highly unlikely she'd be able to change either of their minds.

     The only option then was to pretend to go along with it.

     She dabbed at her eyes. "Tomorrow morning would be awfully difficult." The tears were ones of rage, not sorrow, but she doubted either Martin or Ms. Ross could tell the difference. "I promised Marisol I'd take her riding tomorrow. This has been so hard on all of us." She continued to mop up tears, her brain going into overdrive as she tried to read how they were responding.

     "I can have them ready for you Thursday. Please. I'd like this last chance, to, to--" A sob that was totally genuine cut off her words. Through the tears, she tried to gauge how her request was being viewed. Her step‑uncle appeared annoyed, but Ms. Ross was attempting a compassionate look. A definite stretch.

     "I'll compromise with you," Ms. Ross said with a quick glance at Martin. "You can go for your ride in the morning. I'll pick the children up at two."

     Would Martin buy a quick capitulation, or would he be suspicious?

     He looked irritably at his watch, and Luz decided she didn't need to lay it on any thicker. He'd bought her cooperation act, likely because he found it impossible to believe she would cross him.

     As soon as Martin and Ms. Ross were gone, Luz put Carlito down for a nap. She came back to the living room and was surprised to find Marisol asleep on the couch. She hoped Marisol hadn't overheard, or if she had, that she hadn't understood what Ms. Ross's visit was about.

     While Marisol and Carlito slept, Luz went methodically through the house collecting items and moving them into the trunk of her mother's car. First were the photo albums, but she also took linens, towels, kitchen supplies, a cooler filled with food, all of Marisol and Carlito's clothes and Carlito's stroller and high chair. She ran the dirty clothes through the laundry and added them to the growing pile of things in the trunk, all the activity giving her some relief from the rage and fear Martin had left behind.

     As she packed, she thought about where they'd go and what they'd do for money. Then she remembered that Papi kept cash in the bottom drawer of his dresser, something she'd discovered while playing dress‑up years ago.

     With a sigh of relief, she found the black wallet had $320 in it. It wouldn't take them far, but it would get them out of Scottsbluff and give her time to plan.

     She also pocketed the credit card she found with the money, then she gathered together Mami's jewelry and went through Papi's desk. Among her finds were the title to Mami's car, Marisol and Carlito's birth certificates, and her own birth certificate and citizenship papers. Running out of time, she piled the remaining files into a couple of boxes.

     By the time Carlito and Marisol woke up, she had the car packed. She played quietly with the children until dinnertime, and after dinner, she bathed them and got them dressed in their nightclothes. By then, exhausted, she curled up with Marisol in their parents' bed and managed to doze until midnight. The alarm woke her, and she drank a cup of instant coffee and forced herself to eat a sandwich.

     Carlito didn't awaken when she carried him to the car, and Marisol awoke only briefly. She backed down the driveway, heart thudding, and drove a block before turning on her lights. The gas tank was half‑full, so she went to the nearest station and filled it, charging it to the credit card.

     She was removing the nozzle from the gas tank when a car pulled in behind her. Her nerves stuttered, but the driver, a tired‑looking woman in a waitress uniform, barely glanced at her. Sighing with relief, Luz got back in the car, and then with a burst of inspiration drove to the nearest cash machine and put the credit card in. As a pin, she entered the date Papi and Mami got married. The number worked, but the machine gave her only two hundred dollars. Still, it was a welcome addition to her tiny stash.

     She left town, heading southwest, toward Denver. Maybe this was the wrong thing to do--running away. But she could see no other choice. She had to get away from Scottsbluff where Martin was in control.

     The glow from the lights of Scottsbluff snuffed out behind her, and in the dark, reaction set in. All the fear and uncertainty she'd ignored since this afternoon began spinning inside her, making her nauseated. Not wanting to pull over and stop, she lowered the window. The cool night wind dried her tears and gradually the nausea abated.

     It was still dark when they arrived in Denver. Technically, she supposed, she was now a kidnapper, and since she'd crossed state lines, not only Martin but the Nebraska police and the Feds would likely be looking for her.

     She pushed the thought and the terror it brought with it away, focusing instead on the immediate--calming Marisol when she awoke to find herself in a place she didn't recognize, stopping to feed Carlito and change his diaper, searching for an inconspicuous place to have breakfast.

 

                                                                                   *

    

     She found an inexpensive motel on the outskirts of Denver, and they stayed there until she sold the car. The silver Lexus was bought by a young executive who was thrilled with his bargain and not inclined to ask many questions.

     With the money she got for the car, she had a cushion, but it wasn't going to last long. The steady outflow for rent and food was depleting her resources at a frightening pace.

     She moved to a dingy residential hotel near a library and bus line and went to the library every day to read the newspapers. After they'd been in Denver two months, she found the ad for the Draper Arms. Wanted: Married couple to live‑in and manage twenty‑unit apartment building. In return for rent, said couple would be responsible for minor repairs, the cleaning and painting of units prior to rental, the maintenance of the laundry room, etc.

     She took Marisol and Carlito with her to the interview, both to give weight to her claim to be one‑half of a married couple, but also because she had no choice.

     The elderly man interviewing her smiled with genuine pleasure at both children. "My, my. Seems you've got yourself a handful there." He stuck out a finger for Carlito to grab.

     "Oh. Yes. But actually, you see, Marisol will start school as soon as we get settled, and Carlito is such a darling. He's really no trouble. And I'm a very good manager." She snapped her mouth shut, trying to clamp down on the nerves that were making her prattle.

     "I'm quite certain you are, my dear. But an old building like this, it always seems like the toilets overflow in the middle of the night."

     "I'm a very light sleeper. Well, with a baby, I have to be."

     "And sometimes it takes a bit of muscle. Getting too old for that part myself. That's why I thought maybe a resident manager would be good. I'm hoping to find a handyman type."

     Luz's heart sank. She didn't want to lie, but it seemed she had no choice. "Oh, the kids' dad is really strong. He'd have come with me today, but he's away on business. He'll help with any heavy lifting, of course. As far as repairs, though, I'm better at that than he is. I worked in my family's landscaping business for years so I learned to do all kinds of things. Plumbing, electricity, small engines, painting. Well, you name it. And I'll be available on‑site practically all the time." Stop it, Luz. You sound desperate. You don't want to sound desperate. It just makes people suspicious.

     She shifted Carlito, who was happily sucking on his fist, and smiled at the old man with what she hoped looked like confidence.

     He frowned, looking back at her. The silence stretched until she was afraid she was going to start nattering again. Then he started to nod. "You seem a determined young woman. I like that. And your kids are well‑behaved. Neat. Clean." He continued to nod.

     She kept her mouth shut and crossed her fingers.

     "Okay. I'm willing to give this a trial. Apartment 4D is empty, so you can move in today if you like. It's a two‑bedroom. Nothing fancy, you understand."

     She sighed with relief. She didn't know what she would have done if he'd insisted on references.

      

                                                                      Chapter Two

 

     Charles jammed on the brakes and peered through the windshield at the flashing lights illuminating a chaos of fire trucks, gushing water, emergency workers and onlookers. The center of all the activity?  The blackened front of his apartment building.

     He stared at the frantic scene, feeling detached, as if he'd turned the wrong corner into someone else's nightmare. But, no, that was his apartment, and the flow of water was aimed directly through what was left of his windows.

     He tried to summon a feeling other than a vast weariness. Couldn't, because compared to the loss of Kathy and Alan, this new loss was merely one more difficulty he'd have to find time to deal with. He rolled his shoulders against a flare of anger and frustration. It wasn't fair, dammit.

     Nobody promised you fair.

     Yeah. And didn't he know that.

     The fire smell seeped into the car, sharp and acrid, making his nose twitch and his eyes water. With quick resolution, he backed into a nearby driveway to turn around, then drove until he located a parking place two blocks away. He jogged back to his block and made his way toward the uniformed officer apparently in charge of crowd control, although the crowd didn't need much controlling. They were huddled well back from the fire line, their haphazard dress--robes, coats, and footwear without socks--labeling them tenants rather than gawkers.

     A cameraman pushed by Charles, jockeying for a shot, and following him was a reporter from the Denver television station that claimed to always be first on the scene. Truth in

advertising it seemed. The reporter thrust a microphone at the policeman. "Officer, can you describe for our viewers what's happening here?"

     The officer leaned away. "It's a fire."

     The reporter pushed in closer. "Is anyone trapped?"

     "Do I look frigging psychic to you?"

     The reporter jerked the microphone away and turned to scan the crowd. Charles, who was acquainted with the reporter and had, on occasion, been irked by the man's lack of attention to the issue of personal space, felt briefly like applauding.

     The reporter zeroed in on a gray‑haired woman who was watching the fire with a look of eager delight, and Charles walked over to the officer. "Nice camera work."

     "We aim to serve."

     "Charles Larimore. Deputy District Attorney." He extended his hand. "I live there."

     "Lived, you mean." The words, as brusque as the handshake, held a touch of commiseration.

     "Did everyone get out?"

     "Far as we know. The lady who called it in did a real good job spreading the word." The officer pointed at a woman Charles had encountered occasionally while picking up his mail. "We're waiting for a list from the landlord. Already got the info on those evacuated from the building. I better get you added. Charles Larimore, you said? Which apartment?"

     "Three‑fourteen."

     The officer thumbed his radio and reported Charles's information.

     "Do you know where the fire started?"

     "Had to be the north corner area. That's where the flames were when we got here."

     His apartment or damn close to it. And did that mean he was somehow responsible? But no way he could be. He hadn't used the stove this morning, and for sure he hadn't left a candle burning, which he'd read somewhere was a major cause of house fires.

     He made his way over to speak to his neighbors. The ones from the apartments on his floor were all there, his next‑door neighbor clutching a huge gray cat. Pets were not permitted in the building, and the tenants, mostly middle‑aged, had no children. No pets and no kids, two of the major reasons he'd chosen to live there. An additional blessing at a time like this, not having to worry a child or an animal might be trapped. Although, seeing the woman with her cat, it appeared the no‑pets rule wasn't necessarily the given he'd thought it was.

     The cat scrabbled against the woman's arm and with a loud yowl freed itself. Charles made a quick grab, ending up with a handful of fur and a grip on the cat's tail. The animal snarled and snapped as he shifted to hook a finger in the back of its collar.

     "Oh, my. Oh, thank you." The woman bent over to soothe the cat, which continued trying to scratch and bite him, all the while yowling loudly. He fished out his handkerchief, tied it to the collar and handed the end to the woman.

     She smiled. "Oh, how clever of you. That should work a treat. Now Fluffy, you're fine. This young man just saved your life, you know."

     Charles didn't much care for cats, especially ones with loud, complaining voices, but it would have been cruel not to stop the animal from running away. And the pleasure on the woman's face as she once again cradled the animal was a welcome bright spot in the midst of all the destruction.

     The background whoosh of rushing water changed to a higher pitch and then ceased altogether as the hydrant was cranked shut. The firemen began to mop up with brisk efficiency, and he knew nothing more would be gained from standing around. No way was anyone getting into the building until the fire was investigated, and that wouldn't be tonight.

     A Red Cross team arrived, and Charles returned to his car. He picked cat hair off his sleeve and then sat drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, struggling to hold back a flood of emotion. A mixture of grief at all his losses and anger that he was being forced into even more changes he didn't want to make.

     With an effort, he focused on the question of where to spend the night. If this had happened a month ago, it would have been easy. He'd have stayed with Alan. But that was no longer an option.

     He shook off the image his mind insisted on presenting him: Kathy, in Alan's arms.

     Nope. Not going there. A place to stay for the night was all he needed to be thinking about right now.

     Okay, okay. Only ten‑thirty. Not too late to drop in on another friend for the night. Except it would require rehashing the reason he needed a place to stay, something he didn't feel like doing.

     A hotel then. Downtown was convenient but expensive, and clearly, he needed to conserve. He had renter's insurance, but this was still going to cost big time. If the destruction of his apartment was as complete as it appeared, all he had left were his car, what he was wearing, and the suit and five shirts he'd dropped off at the dry cleaners this morning.

     With quick decision, he drove to the nearby Walgreens and bought the essentials, then he turned north on Colorado Boulevard and drove until he found an inexpensive motel with a vacancy sign lit.

 

                                                           *

 

     The preliminary investigation of the fire at Charles's apartment building was complete. The finding: fire of suspicious origin. Charles, still stuck in a motel and struggling to cope with the fallout of losing nearly everything he owned, felt a flash of anger as he read the report. Whoever set the fire deserved to have everything he or she owned burned to a crisp and then turned into water‑logged charcoal.

     He put a realtor to work looking for a place in the same neighborhood, something furnished and ready for immediate occupancy.

     "I don't think this is going to work," he said as the realtor shoved a pair of children's skates out of the way with her foot and got out a key.

     "I agree it's not the most fashionable address." She opened the door and stepped aside so he could enter. "But you did say you wanted a place convenient to downtown. The only other furnished units I have are in Littleton and Westminster."

     With a sigh of resignation, he entered and toured the small apartment. It was drab but adequate, and it would do as a temporary measure, with the emphasis on temporary. Besides, the price was right. And until his insurance claim was settled, it sounded like it was the best he was going to be able to do. Reluctantly, he signed a six‑month lease.

 

                                                                                   *

 

     "Mister, can you help?" The small boy held out a shoe to Charles. A shoe that obviously belonged to the toddler who sat on the floor outside his door, kicking her feet in glee, her remaining shoe close to flying off.

     Sighing, he stooped and accepted the tiny jogging shoe, maneuvered it onto the chubby foot and tied the lace. Then he settled the other shoe in place and retied that lace. "Does your mom know you're out here?"

     The older child, now mute, chewed his finger and stared at Charles.

     "Well, you need to let her know where you are."

     Still no response.

     Charles went into his apartment, but he left the door open to keep an eye on the two. In a minute, a woman spoke to them. From the tenor of her comments, it was obvious she was the mother, and they were absent without leave. He checked and found the two had been retrieved. Relieved, he shut his door.

 

                                                                                   *

 

     Drip. Drip. Drip‑drip‑drip.

     Charles glared at the kitchen faucet. If it would just find a steady rhythm and stick with it, he could ignore it. It was the sudden riffs that kept snagging his attention.

     He turned back to the papers littering the tabletop--a list he was preparing for the insurance company of everything he'd owned at the time of the fire. He was finding it surprisingly difficult, in spite of his ability to remember details.

     Items kept floating into his mind, trailing regrets that distracted him--like the T‑shirts from his Ironman competitions. They were all in pretty ratty shape, but they were what he'd worn when he went jogging, as a reminder of what he was capable of when he put his mind to it. He hadn't competed for five years, and these days, he'd have a hard time finishing a half Ironman, which made the shirts irreplaceable. Not something he could easily attach a price to for the insurance company.

     And it was no easier to attach a dollar figure to the contents of the small clay bowl he'd bought in Santa Fe. He'd kept it by his bed to hold the stones he picked up each time he managed to get out of the city to ride or run in the mountains. It was a way of keeping track, he supposed. They were nothing special, simply ordinary bits of gravel he'd found on the trails, but they'd meant something to him.

     Sometimes he'd held the bowl in his hands, feeling the smoothness the potter had worked into the clay. And if it had been a particularly difficult week, he would pour the stones into his hand and remember the pull of muscle and sinew, the labor of lungs and heart they represented.

     There had been no stones added since he met Kathy.

     He pushed the thought away and gathered his notes into a pile for later. The dripping sound followed him into the bedroom. Six months began to seem like a very long time, but he was going to need every bit of it to get ready to move, given that so far he'd accomplished zip.

     A good thing he didn't have to repair the faucet himself, or it would still be dripping when he moved.

 

                                                                                   *

 

     Charles opened his front door at the end of another long day to find the lights on. As he stepped in, a metallic clank and a muffled exclamation issued from the kitchen, where he found a backside sticking out from under his sink.

     Not a burglar, but the elusive manager repairing the drippy faucet. The backside wiggled, obviously in a struggle with a wrench. With another angry mutter, he?--she?--backed out from under the cupboard, stood and bent over a book open on the counter.

     Okay, he was going with a she.

     Tall and rail‑thin, the woman had a disheveled dark brown ponytail and was wearing retro clothing, although retro without charm: too‑large jeans gathered at her waist by a belt and a plus‑size T‑shirt blousing over the belt.

     She bent back through the opening, and he moved closer to look at the book she'd consulted. It was an illustrated manual of repairs.

     He stepped back, wincing at the sudden screech of metal, expecting a geyser of water. Instead, the woman popped up again and turned on the faucet.

     After the air in the line cleared and water flowed, she shut off the faucet and stood for a time, apparently waiting to see if it dripped. She didn't yet realize he was there, and he was unsure how to let her know without startling her, something he didn't want to do since she still held the wrench.

     He settled on knocking gently against the door frame and clearing his throat. She whirled around, treating him to a front view every bit as unattractive as the back. The T‑shirt sported several stains, the origin of which he had no intention of thinking about, and she had a streak of grime on her cheek and more streaks on her hands. Her only attractive feature? A whimsical look enhanced by narrow, rectangular eyeglasses that were slightly canted.

     "Good evening, and you are?" he said.

     "What, you were expecting Martha Stewart?"

     At the irritation in her tone, the impression of whimsy faded.  She met his gaze, her eyes dark with weariness.

     He liked her voice though. A pleasant contralto with the slight lilt of an accent he couldn't quite place, and none of the little‑girl squeak some women seemed unable or unwilling to give up.

     "She's blonde, isn't she?"

     The woman, girl really, sniffed and glared at him, and he regretted his attempt at humor.

     "Mrs. Blair, I presume," he added.

     "Ms."

     "I expected you to take care of this during the day." He made a question of it with his expression.

     She shrugged and rubbed her face on the sleeve of her shirt. "Sorry." She didn't look sorry. "I do as much of the maintenance as I can after the kids go to bed."

     Kids. In the plural. But that "Ms." indicated there was probably no husband. Something he'd begun to suspect, since he'd yet to hear a male voice as he stumbled over the toys and tots outside his door. What he did hear when he arrived home early enough was child noise. A mix of giggles, door‑bangings, and high‑pitched little voices calling up and down the stairwell, accompanied now and then by the outraged howl of an infant.

     So, how many children did she have? He suspected three, although it sometimes sounded like twice that.

     "Why not have your husband do the repairs?" he said, remembering the realtor's sales pitch, that the other advantage of this building besides its being furnished was it had a married couple as resident managers.

     She bent over to add the pipe wrench to the carryall of tools lying on the floor. "Maybe he has the mechanical aptitude of a brick."

     Her answer was perfectly couched to be ambiguous. In court, it was the sort of ambiguity he would hone in on until he obtained a more definitive answer. But in this situation, what was the point?

     Ms. Blair picked up the book and toolbox, which made her list to one side. "It should be okay. Let me know if it isn't."

     From the set look on her face, he decided he'd best not try to be gallant. He moved to let her pass, and as the apartment door closed behind her, he sighed.

     He really needed to find another apartment.

    

                                                                     Chapter Three

 

     Madre de Dios. Luz leaned back against the door to her apartment. So that was the mysterious Mr. Larimore. Marisol had seen him, but she hadn't, and she'd ignored Marisol's excited descriptions--that he was muy bonito. Mari tended to easy enthusiasms.

     But this time Marisol had, if anything, understated the case. That had to be one of the most beautiful men she had encountered outside of the movies. Athletic and fit‑looking, but lean rather than muscle‑bound. Hair a multi‑toned gold her college roommate would have killed for. And that face. No question it must turn heads, especially feminine ones.

     The wire‑rim eyeglasses were the only thing saving him from unpleasant perfection. That and the weariness in those blue‑gray eyes.

     Or maybe they were gray‑blue. She shook her head, trying to overcome the tremor of unease Charles Larimore's inspection had set off in the pit of her stomach.

     So how long had he watched her? Her face heated at the thought. Glancing at her shirt, she noticed for the first time the olive and tan stains--peas and applesauce from Carlito's supper, or perhaps chicken and broccoli from his lunch. He'd smeared as much on her as he'd eaten.

     She left the toolbox by the door and tiptoed into the bedroom to check on the children. The sight of herself in the full‑length mirror stopped her in the doorway. The mirror

distorted her image, and with only the night‑light burning, that distorted image was indistinct. But the light was strong enough to show her why Charles Larimore had had such an odd look on

his face when she'd turned around.

     Sin duda! And to think she used to pride herself on her appearance. Added proof, not that any was needed, of how far she'd left her former life behind.

     Now, she barely remembered what it had been like to have time to linger over choosing what to wear, how to fix her hair, or what color to paint her fingernails.

     She blew the hair out of her eyes, continuing to stare at her reflection. The jeans had too much good wear in them to discard, although to fill them out, she needed back every one of the fifteen pounds she'd lost. Mami would fuss at how skinny she was.

     Mami. No es justo.

     A sob started its inevitable roll from the pit of her stomach to her throat. She clamped her lips shut and hugged herself to hold it in. She couldn't give in to tears, not when she was tired. So tired, she'd even told the new tenant she was Ms. not Mrs. Blair.

     Besides, if she began crying it might wake Marisol and Carlito, and if they saw her crying, they'd start. It was just that today had been a really bad one. Three toddlers in addition to Carlito, and the visit to Marisol's school on top. It had pushed the new tenant and his faucet repair near the end of the list.

     And she wasn't finished yet. She needed to do a load of laundry and clean the kitchen floor, which was inevitably sticky by the end of the day. Then maybe she could spend a few minutes on herself.

     She stared back at the shadowy image and pushed at her hair. It needed a trim and conditioner, but she didn't dare spend money on anything she didn't absolutely have to have.

     The new tenant didn't look like he had any money problems. His tie and charcoal suit didn't come from a discount outlet, if she was any judge. And he drove a Porsche. It was old, but still, it was a Porsche. Ciertamente, not the typical Droopy Arms resident. Well, that was what Marisol called it.

     So how had Charles Larimore ended up here? Maybe he wasn't as well‑off as he seemed. Not that it mattered as long as he paid his rent on time.

     She sighed. Break over. There was laundry to do and the kitchen floor wasn't going to clean itself, although tomorrow she'd have to start over with the same round.

     She squared her shoulders. Luz Cristina, moping is not mopping. Get on with it, chica.

 

                                                                                   *

 

     Charles, on his way to court, recognized the quick tip tap of heels behind him. He slowed his pace to let Joanna Casey de Maldonado catch up.

     "Hey, Shorty." Joanna pulled alongside and grinned up at him. "Heard you were wrapping today. Thought I'd sit in. See if I can pick up any pointers."

     When Joanna first joined the DA's office, she'd amused him with her irreverent humor. After he witnessed her solid performance in court, respect and friendship followed. And when she made it obvious she considered him her mentor, he'd responded by taking her under his wing, a place where Joanna, at five foot nothing, fit perfectly.

     "Save your time. Doubt this will be one of my best efforts."

     She grabbed his arm to stop him, giving him a sharp look, which rapidly turned quizzical as her gaze traveled from the top of his head down, taking inventory. "Haven't I seen you wear that tie a lot lately?"

     "Yep.  Every day."

     "Qué pasa?" Since marrying Eduardo Maldonado, she had begun peppering her speech with Spanish.

     "I've got a few minutes. Buy you a cup of coffee?"

     "Tea. And it looks like you could use the sympathy."

     Yeah, he could. But it wasn't something he was in the habit of admitting. They went across the street to the coffee shop, snagged a table, and he told her about the fire.

     Joanna patted his arm and made sympathetic noises. "Maybe you should request a continuance." She blew on her tea.

     He shook his head. "I need to finish up so I can get started shopping." He'd been putting it off, but when co‑workers started noticing that he was wearing the same tie day after day, it was time.

     "What do you have coming up?" Joanna asked.

     "Mahoney and Merrit look like they'll plead out, but Griffin's going to trial, week after next." Griffin was accused of molesting his fifteen‑year‑old daughter.

     Joanna nibbled on a soda cracker. "How's that shaping up?"

     "He claims the girl is lying, trying to get back at him for making her help around the house. I'm going to bury him." It was the type of case he'd become a prosecutor for.

     Joanna bit her lip. "Poor kid. What will happen to her?"

     Her tone was more musing than questioning. Besides, she knew the answer. The girl would go into foster care, and unless she was one of the lucky ones, she might never get over it.

     "Sometimes..." Joanna looked away, crumpling the wrapper from her crackers and blinking rapidly. "I hate this job. Or maybe I hate that it's needed." She glanced at him. "Don't you?"

     Her emotion reminded him of the impotent anger he felt when a case like Griffin didn't go well. He pushed the thought away, and spoke in a careless tone. "Yeah, it can suck, but it sure beats working for a living." To soften it he patted her arm. "It helps not to think about it too much."

     "That work for you?"

     "Yeah." Sometimes it was the only thing that did work.

 

                                                                                   *

 

     On quick breaks between court appearances and appointments, Charles had managed to do most of the errands associated with his move, but he had one notification left to take care of.

     He dialed, then sighed in guilty relief when he got his mother's answering machine. Whenever they talked directly, he and his mother were like two acquaintances who'd run into each other and, after exhausting their store of small talk, were now desperately searching for a way to terminate the encounter.

     "Mom, I'm calling to let you know I moved--"

     "Oh. Charles. I'm here." The phone banged. "Sorry. I just came in. You were saying?"

     Damn. Two minutes earlier he would have missed her. "I moved. I just wanted to give you my new address."

     "Oh. Of course. Let me get a pen." She set the phone down, and he heard the sounds of her opening a drawer and shuffling through its contents.

     "Okay. Go ahead."

     He recited the new address.

     "Is everything all right?" She spoke in the slightly breathy way she had whether she'd been rushing around or not.

     "Yes. Fine. And you?" He didn't plan to mention the fire. It would only lead to a series of questions accompanied by expressions of false concern.

     "I'm good."

     Like him, she never shared what was really happening in her life.

     "I...ah...I'm taking a course," she said. "At Pueblo State. I thought I'd try it out. See if I like it."

     "Hey, that's great. I'm sure you will."

     "Well, I know how busy you are. But thank you for calling."

     "Sure. Good luck with the class."

     He hung up feeling the familiar edginess that accompanied any conversation with his mother. Hell, he talked to dozens of people every day, in court and out, from the highly educated to the barely literate, and he managed all those interactions without one atom of the angst generated by a two‑minute exchange with his mother.

 

                                                                                   *

 

     "Larimore, Casey, I hope you two don't have any plans you can't change." Lou Spinell, Chief District Attorney for Denver County, ignoring, or forgetting, Joanna's recent marriage and name change, rubbed his hands in obvious delight. "You both hit grand slams on your last cases. Showed you're ready for the big time. I want you on Maxwell. Larimore, you're lead chair."

     "The man or the woman?"

     "Both."

     All right!

     It was a horrific case, but he along with everyone else had been angling for it since the story broke. The Maxwells were foster parents of a four‑year‑old autistic boy whose body had been found buried under a sandbox in their backyard. Before that discovery, the mother had faked a seizure at the playground in City Park. An ambulance was called, and when she "recovered" consciousness, she claimed her foster child had been with her. A search ensued, but no trace of the boy had been found until the focus shifted from the park and environs to the Maxwells' residence.

     The case had triggered a massive investigation into the foster care system, and the trials would be high profile. Unlikely, given public sentiment, that plea bargains would be in the offing.

     His cup of tea precisely and Joanna's, too. He glanced over expecting to find her looking eager. Instead she looked uncomfortable. What the hell?

     "I...that is, I need to clear out some things," Joanna said. "Before...b‑but I am flattered you would trust m‑me--that is, us with this." Her words stuttered to a stop.

     Charles, not understanding her reluctance, but knowing how Spinell would react, jumped in. "We both need time to clear our schedules, put ourselves in the picture on this. Make sure we're set to give it our best shot." He winced inwardly at the clichés rolling from his mouth, but that was the most efficient way to communicate with Spinell. "I have a case coming to trial tomorrow, and Joanna and I need to go over the prelims on the Maxwells. Then we can meet, make sure we're all on the same page."

     Spinell rubbed his chin, a sometimes ominous sign.

     "Why don't we plan on...is Monday okay with everyone?" Charles looked from Joanna to Spinell.

     Spinell, with a thoughtful look, nodded, and Charles stood and got Joanna out of there.

     "You want to tell me what that was all about?" he said as they waited for the elevator.

     "I don't know if I can do it."

     "What?" She had to do it. You didn't turn down a plum like this and live to talk about it.

     "It's about a kid, Larimore. I don't do kids."

     "Since when?"

     "Since, now. Since I'm going to have one."

     "You're pregnant?"

     "What, you're not telling me it didn't cross your mind? Me always nibbling on soda crackers?"

     Well, of course it had. He'd just hoped he was wrong. He didn't want someone as bright and talented as Joanna short‑changing her career. "I thought you were on some weird diet."

     She shook her head. "Men."

     The elevator door opened, and half‑a‑dozen people stood staring at them. He took Joanna's arm and walked her away from the elevator, to an alcove where they had some privacy.

     "Look, I know why Spinell's put the two of us on this."

     She sighed. "Yeah, me, too. Female defendant, female defense attorney. He doesn't want to screw up with the jury on the gender angle."

     "I was going to say, he did it because we're a good team."

     "Yeah, there is that. I'm sorry to let you down."

     "You're not letting me down. You're taking the case. You want me to tell you why?"

     "I'm not taking it."

     From the expression on her face, he knew how far he'd get if he told her she was committing career suicide. But there were always less obvious approaches. "That little boy. Davey. When he was alive, nobody stood up for him. Someone at these trials needs to be his voice. To make sure he's heard. It can make a difference, Jo. You know it. You also know you're the best one to do it."

     "Not fair, Larimore, using an emotional argument on a pregnant woman. It's like using a Glock to kill a gnat."

     He flipped a hand back and forth. "Whatever works."

     She worried her lip between her teeth. "What if I lose it in court?"

     He knew he'd won, and he breathed a sigh of relief. "What if? Say, isn't it about time for some more soda crackers? You look a little peaked."

     "I'll get you for this, Larimore."

     It worried him that she didn't smile, even a little, as she said that. But she'd be fine. She just needed to stop thinking and get started on the case.

 

                                                                                   *

 

     The first time Charles went downstairs to do laundry at the Draper Arms, he found both washers full of clean, wet clothes. Annoyed, he turned to leave when a notice caught his eye:

     If washers have completed their cycles, clothes may be removed and placed in the blue hampers. L. Blair, Mgr.

     So the woman might look like a train wreck but at least she had some common sense. He quickly transferred one load, mostly baby things, from the nearest washer to a hamper and started his own wash. When he returned a half‑hour later, he found Ms. Blair emptying the contents of the blue hamper into a dryer.

     Her appearance had improved considerably since he encountered her under his kitchen sink. Tonight, her face was clean, her glasses on straight and her ponytail smooth, although she still wore the baggy jeans. Her shirt also still had splotches on it, but it did fit better, verifying his first impression--she was as flat as a boy.

     "I hope you don't mind." He pointed at the clothes. "I took those out."

     "Of course not." She nodded at the notice. "I put that up. Mrs. Bayley sometimes does a load and leaves it for a day or so. She doesn't mean to. She just forgets."

     He pulled his things from the washer, remembering the hatted and gloved elderly woman he'd encountered last Sunday, fussing with her key. He'd helped her open her door. Was she Mrs. Bayley?

     "So what does the L stand for?"

     She glanced at him before pushing in the coin and twisting the start button on the dryer. "Luz."

     "I want to thank you. For fixing the faucet."

     "That's what I'm here for." She put the blue hamper back under the table. When he turned around, he found her gone.

     Her appearance may have improved, marginally, but her personality was still the pits.

 

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