In Harm's Way

Going to bat for Robin against his own partner could produce some serious questions about Mitch’s abilities as a detective.

For his sake, as well as her own, Robin Andrews had better be totally innocent and he’d better be able to prove it. This new development was another solid indication that she was. Somebody had stolen her computer and her suitcase.

Unless Kick was right and she hadn’t brought either with her in the first place. Was she going a roundabout route to convince him someone else had been in that apartment besides her and the dead man?

Robin awoke, looked around the unfamiliar room and then squinted at her watch. It was afternoon, close to four o’clock. She felt as if someone had beaten her with a very large stick.

She got up, straightened her clothing the best she could and found the bathroom. Straight out of Country Homes, she thought. Ruffles and roses. Wine red and dark green on cream. Vanilla potpourri emanated from a small porcelain flower on the shelf below the mirror. Her reflection made her groan.

The makeup was history. Her hair was lank and in need of shampoo. The syrupy breakfast she’d ingested after the confrontation at Dylan’s Diner had made her feel queasy and she wasn’t hungry now. She figured she might as well do as Mitch Winton advised and make herself at home, at least temporarily. There didn’t seem to be anything else to do since he hadn’t returned.

After a long, relaxing bubble bath, she dried off, combed her wet hair into place and put back on her wrinkled clothing.

She was searching for her shoes when she heard the squeak of the doorknob as someone outside turned it. Again it turned slowly but firmly in both directions. The door was locked. It must be Mitch.

She padded to the door. There was no peephole to look through. “Yes? Who is it?”

Again the doorknob turned, sharply back and forth, this time without stealth. The door shook with the violent attempts to open it.

“I have a gun,” she cried as loudly and menacingly as she could, quickly scouting the living room for anything she could use to defend herself. “And I will shoot!” There. She had sounded determined. Forceful.

Silence. Then the wooden stairs creaked twice.

Robin waited, ear to the door, listening, but heard nothing further. No closing of doors, no hurried footsteps, no sound of a car engine outside. Just the silence peculiar to a quiet neighborhood with all the children at school and their parents away at work.

She dashed to the phone on the table beside the rear window to call the police. No dial tone. It was dead. Had the cop who lived here had the phone disconnected before she left?

Robin huddled in the corner, the dead receiver clutched to her chest. Her heart pounded so loudly she doubted she could hear anyone breaking through the door with an ax.

If she were at home, there would be a solid steel door, not that lovely six-panel one, hung in a century-old door frame. The whole thing would probably collapse inward with one good body slam.

At her own apartment, this scare would never have happened. Building security was so efficient, whoever tried to get inside would never have made it to the elevator.

“Stupid!” she thought suddenly, replacing the receiver. That incident at the diner had made her paranoid.

Some friend had probably come to see the woman who normally lived here, that was all. When Robin had answered instead, they became concerned someone was in here who shouldn’t be. Now they had gone to notify the police that a stranger with a gun was in Sandra Cunningham’s apartment. Yes, that made sense. That was it. That was what she would do. She looked at the phone again, knowing she was grasping at straws.

“It’s broad daylight,” Robin reminded herself. “And this is Nashville, not New York. The crime rate here must be low.” But it wasn’t exactly that, now was it? James had been murdered in his own home just last evening. And two men had burst into the diner in a robbery attempt.

No matter how much she scoffed at herself or tried to explain away the visitor, Robin could not dismiss her fear. Someone had tried to enter the apartment without knocking first. And she was alone and unarmed. What if they came back, bringing some means to get through the door?

What were they after? Was it those same men from last night, perhaps after James’s disk?

Then she heard footsteps on the stairs again. This time whoever it was did not care whether she heard him! Terror mounted. She rushed through the bedroom and into the bathroom. Hurriedly she closed the door and realized there was no lock on it. “Oh, no!” she moaned.

Recalling Mitch’s order to get under the table when they were accosted in the diner, Robin knew she had to find a place to hide. She yanked open the large double cabinet beneath the sink and crawled inside. God, she was too large for this! She wound her body around the pipes, wedged half underneath them, and drew up her knees so the doors would shut. It was a much tighter fit than beneath that table in the booth last night. Plus, she had nothing at all to use for a weapon now. Not even a can of hair spray.

She held her breath, trying not to gasp so loudly that she would give away her location. Her only hope was that the intruder would believe she had left the apartment.

Even inside the cabinet with the bathroom door shut, she heard the footsteps on the hardwood floors, then muffled cursing, coming closer.

Her lungs were bursting, but she dared not take a breath or she would scream her head off. The bathroom door swung open with the loud, prolonged squeak she remembered from earlier, like a sound effect from an old horror film.

Robin froze, squeezed her eyes shut and moved only her lips in silent entreaty, “Please, please, please, please…”

Both cabinet doors flew wide, and she felt the instant rush of cool air on her face and legs.

“What the hell?” A deep voice thundered.

Hell. With two sweet syllables. Robin unclenched her eyes, sucked in a deep breath and began to laugh.

It took considerably longer to get out of her hiding place than it had to wedge herself in. By the time she managed to crawl out, her hysteria had subsided.

She sat there on the fluffy throw rug trying to catch her breath. Mitch was kneeling beside her, brushing dust bunnies off her arms and shoulders. “Was that you before?” she demanded. “Did you try the door earlier?”

His hands stilled and his intense blue gaze fastened on her at close range. Robin’s heartbeat accelerated dangerously. “No, I just got here. Tell me what happened.”

She did, including her panicked response and how foolish she felt about it now.

He simply listened but didn’t comment. When Robin had finished, he stood and offered her his hand to get up. While they were walking through the bedroom to the living room, he asked, “When you entered Andrews’s apartment last night, did you close the door behind you?”

“No.” She was certain she hadn’t. “I saw James the moment I entered. I set down my bag and computer—dropped them, I think—and ran straight to him.”

“Didn’t you worry that the one who attacked him might still have been there?” he asked.

She lowered herself to the sofa and leaned back. He sat near her, turned sideways, facing her, intent on her answer.

Robin thought back. “No, that didn’t even occur to me. At first I didn’t realize what had happened. He was lying there and I saw the blood. So much of it.” She shuddered. “I thought he had fallen and hit his head.”

“Go on,” he encouraged her. “I know this seems repetitive, but it’s very important, Robin. This time I want to hear not only what actually happened, but tell me your feelings. What ran through your mind?”