Protecting The Single Mom

But she’d been married to Le Grande.

If Le Grande went to her and needed help, would she do it?

As usual when new information on a case came to light, it posed a myriad of new questions. Trent knew exactly what to do.

Investigate.

Following Richard’s advice, Trent would keep this new info quiet. There were too many leaks in any organization. “The chief at home tonight?”

“Should be. You need him?”

“Nah. Just curious. I didn’t finish my report.”

“Slacker,” Ned joked.

“I’m going out for a sandwich. You want anything?” Trent took out his car keys.

“No, but thanks,” Ned replied as another call came in.

Trent decided to call the chief from his car and fill him in about Cate.

He exited the station and went to his unmarked car. As he climbed in, he had the eerie feeling that Le Grande was close. Trent had looked the man straight in the face. It was the blink of an eye, but they’d exchanged that look—the one between foes—the hunter and the prey. In Le Grande’s case, his look communicated the steely belief that he, Le Grande, was the hunter and Trent was the prey.

He’s here. He never left, Trent thought as he turned the key. The engine roared. He smiled. Two years ago, Trent had bought a high-performance Mercedes-Benz engine at a Chicago junkyard. Being an amateur wrencher, he installed the engine into his unmarked car—at his own expense. He’d had some help from Kenny at Indian Lake Service Garage, but he’d gotten the job done. When the day came that he was in pursuit of a drug dealer in a Porsche, Trent would be well-equipped for the task.

Trent patted his shoulder holster as was his habit every time he left the station. He’d cleaned his gun and filled the magazine at the station after the shoot-out. If, by any chance, he came up against Le Grande, Trent didn’t want to be short. He checked to make sure his cell phone was on, the dispatch radio was tuned into the station and he checked to make certain he had a full tank of gas.

Still, he felt very unprepared.

* * *

TRENT HAD PUNCHED Cate’s address into his GPS. He drove up the street and parked three houses away. There were few cars on the street. The houses were all bungalow types, Craftsman style, built in the 1930s and well maintained. They were over a third of a mile from Indian Lake, and the residents took great pride in ownership. The hedges were clipped, the weeds pulled and late-summer flowers and lush potato vines filled planters and window boxes. It was the kind of area Trent would have liked to live—if a normal life could ever be his.

He turned off his lights and got out. It was dark, with only a quarter moon. Good night for intruders. It was the kind of night that someone like Le Grande would prefer to skulk around an ex-wife’s house. Or, if Cate was a willing participant in Le Grande’s schemes, an evening the neighbors probably wouldn’t notice him coming or going.

The lights in Cate’s house were on. She was up. Probably the kid, too.

Trent turned to the right and saw the drive led to the detached single-car garage. Her car.

If the car was gone, then he had to find out if she was part of Le Grande’s gang or if he’d threatened her. Trent was walking a fine line by coming here tonight.

Protocol stated he should knock on the door and conduct a proper investigation. Regulations demanded he show his badge, offer his card.

But protocol didn’t consider that Le Grande could be hiding in that garage at this very minute, armed with his 9 mm gun. Ready to blow Trent away and think nothing of it.

Trent crept closer, taking out his gun. He picked up sounds—the scurry of a small animal over the garden mulch; the chirping of a cricket near the garage door. He felt the breeze as it slipped around the house, chilling the night.

A night-light burned in a socket near the entry door. Not only was it a smart idea so she could easily see to lock and unlock the door, but it also illuminated the car.

“Not here,” he whispered to himself and instantly spun toward the house. “But are you closer? Inside?”

Trent stuck his gun in his holster. No need to get anxious. Still, he needed to make sure his instincts were simply being overly alert before going to the front door to announce himself.

He moved toward the back porch, checking the boxwood hedges for any signs of footprints, lost items. Anything Le Grande might have dropped in his haste.

* * *

CATE HAD JUST finished the story for Danny.

“Mom, can I have some water?” Danny asked.

“Sure, pumpkin. I’ll be right back.”

In the kitchen, she took a glass from the upper cabinet next to the kitchen window. She glanced into the yard as she turned on the tap, thinking that she needed to plant more daffodil bulbs. Maybe those Casa Blanca lily bulbs she’d seen in the catalog.

Suddenly, a man’s face was framed by her kitchen window.

She dropped the glass in the sink, and the sound of shattering glass and her scream stung the air.

The man put his palms against the windowpane. He shook his head.

“Mom!” Danny shot into the kitchen carrying his baseball bat. “What is it? I’m here!”

Cate felt as if she’d been socked in the chest. She couldn’t breathe. She was light-headed. She was dying.

She held on to the edge of the sink with one hand and pointed toward the window. “You go away! Get out of here or I’m calling the police. Right now! Go away!” she screamed at the figure on her porch, unsure of the man’s identity. She was so terrified, she could be seeing things.

The man stepped back and disappeared into the darkness. Cate sucked in a breath, holding her hand over her heart. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening, could it?

Then she heard Danny talking. He held her cell phone to his ear. “Hello, 911? Help!”

Cate looked out the window, but the man was gone. Suddenly, the front doorbell rang.

Danny stared at the phone. “Wow. That was fast!” He raced into the living room.

“Don’t open that door!” Cate shouted anxiously as she rushed up behind Danny and shoved him behind her. “You don’t know who it is. What if it’s him?”

“The bad guy?” Danny asked, wide-eyed.

“Absolutely.” She peered through the peephole. He didn’t look like a bad guy. He was dressed in a sport jacket, white shirt and tie. His hair was dark, groomed and he was handsome. But there was no mistaking it. It was the Peeping Tom.

“Go away!” she shouted through the door. “We’ve called the police.”

“Ma’am, I know. I am the police.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Here’s my badge. My name is Trent Davis. I’m very sorry to have frightened you.”