Trail Of Danger

“So what really happened to you? You can tell me. I won’t breathe a word.”

Frustration took over. Her voice rose, then cracked. “I don’t know! I can’t remember.”

As she took a shaky breath there was a knock at the open door and a man in a dark blue uniform entered the room. No, not a man, the man. She might not recall anything else from her ordeal but she’d never forget Reed Branson. Or his dog.

He smiled, dark eyes twinkling. “Good to see you awake and recovering.”

“Yeah. I’m pretty happy about that, too.” Abigail mirrored his expression. “They tell me there’s no brain damage but they won’t let me go home.”

Approaching her bed, he pulled up a chair and sat. “Do you know where you live?”

“Of course I do. I have an apartment in Brighton Beach.”

He held up his hands, palms out. “Okay, okay. Just asking. What else have you managed to remember since I found you?”

“Not a lot.” Abigail sobered. “I was just telling my new friend here that it’s a blank.”

“I heard part of that before I came in.”

“You were eavesdropping?”

“Not exactly. You’d be surprised how often we overhear a lot more than people are willing to disclose officially. I’m not the enemy, Ms. Jones. We really are sworn to protect and serve.”

Sighing, she nodded at him. “Well, at least you know I’m not holding back. I’d give almost anything to remember what made me walk over to Coney Island at night. I’m usually more cautious. Any big city like ours will rise up and bite you if you’re not careful, I don’t care whether you’re a native or not.” Studying his face, she noticed a small scar on his chin and wondered if he’d gotten that in the line of duty. Rather than spoil his looks it gave him a rugged edge.

“Will you be all right when you do go home? I mean, do you live in a secure building?”

“Why?” She inhaled sharply when she fully grasped his implication. “You don’t think anybody will come after me there, do you?”

“Probably not. I wish I knew more about the guys who were manhandling you tonight, though.”

“So do I.” Mulling over her predicament, she added, “I can only hope I’ll recognize them soon enough to protect myself if I see them again.”

“Tell you what,” Reed said. “I’ll go look your place over on my own time if the department doesn’t send another officer to do it. How’s that sound?”

Abigail frowned at him. “Why are you being so nice to me? You don’t even know me.”

“I’m not real sure,” he admitted with a grin. “Maybe because my being in the right place at exactly the right time to rescue you seems like such an odd coincidence. Plus, I had Jessie with me. She did all the tracking. I just followed her lead. That strikes me as providential, if you get my drift.”

“Why did you say were you down on the boardwalk?”

“Jessie and I were sent to follow up a tip on a missing K-9 that means a lot to the department, to my unit. Snapper is a highly trained German shepherd who used to be the chief’s partner.”

The flash of grief she saw pass over Reed’s face took Abigail by surprise. She could understand missing a dog as if you’d lost a friend, but the officer’s emotions seemed stronger than that. She had to ask. “What happened?”

When Reed swallowed hard and said, “Chief Jordan Jameson was murdered by a person or persons unknown. Snapper was his K-9 and has been missing since,” her stomach knotted. He wasn’t merely looking for a lost dog, he was searching for a cop killer. That made all her troubles pale in comparison.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks. Me, too.”

Before Abigail could decide what to say next, the handsome K-9 officer got to his feet. “You take care. I’ll get your address off your file, then speak to your super and make sure your apartment is safe before you’re discharged. I promise.”

He wheeled and was gone before she had time to decide to stop him. Pride urged her to object to having her privacy violated but good sense intervened. There was nothing secret in her life, nothing that anyone could hold against her.

Except my childhood, she added. Those records had been expunged but she hadn’t hidden her past when she’d applied for the job at A Fresh Start. If anybody could understand street kids, it was her. Success proved it.

The image of a pretty blonde teen popped into her mind. Kiera Underhill was one of her toughest cases, a girl with a chip on her shoulder the size of Lady Liberty’s torch.

Abigail shivered despite the warm room. Thoughts of Kiera were unduly disturbing for some reason. A sense of foreboding had settled over her like winter fog, yet the harder she tried to access her locked mind, the more blank it became.

She scooted down in the bed and pulled a sheet over her head, blotting out the world the way she had as a little girl.

Irony brought unshed tears. If she was going to forget something traumatic and painful, why couldn’t it be her childhood?

* * *

It had been several days since Reed had visited Abigail in the hospital. Why was he having so much trouble getting the pretty redhead out of his thoughts? They had no actual connection other than their accidental meeting at Luna Park, unless you counted the city’s problem with homeless kids and Abigail’s job assisting them. He’d had more than one difficult encounter with young teens along the boardwalk and in nearby neighborhoods like hers. Many were victims who put on a show of being capable and happy while hiding their true situation. They found safety in numbers, yes, but get one of them alone and you could often glimpse the fear lurking behind a facade of bravado and arrogance.

When he tried to phone Abigail at home and got no answer, he left messages, which she apparently ignored. Checking with her place of employment didn’t help either. She’d been put on medical leave.

Consequently, he decided to visit in person, parked as close as he could, about three blocks west, and walked over with Jessie. Reed let her sniff along the narrow sidewalk because she wasn’t on duty. Street-side trees that had once enhanced the old neighborhood crowded the four-and five-story brick apartment buildings as if in a battle for dominance. Eddies of sand and trash waited against the curbs for city trucks to sweep away.

After reaching Abigail’s building, he found her name on the tenant list and pushed the worn brass intercom button. “Ms. Jones? It’s Reed Branson.” There was no answer, no buzz to unlock the front door. He tried again, speaking more slowly and identifying himself as a K-9 officer. The result was the same.

Not good. Even off-duty he needed to watch his professional image, so he hesitated before randomly pushing other buttons. A tenant leaving solved his problem. Reed grabbed the edge of the exterior door before it could close behind the other man, nodded pleasantly and slipped inside with Jessie.

Reed chose to take the stairs to the third floor rather than chance riding an elevator that was probably older than his grandfather. The halls were swept clean, which was a plus, but the ancient building exuded an aura of age and use. Cooking odors seeped into the hallways, reminding him of the street fairs he’d attended around the city.

His knock on Abigail’s door was not demanding—until he got no response.

He called to her. “Ms. Jones? Abigail? It’s Reed Branson. And Jessie. Are you all right?”

Still no answer. He knocked again. Louder. Called out to her. “Abigail?”

Frustration made him want to force his way in but what if she simply wasn’t home? A quick trip back downstairs and he was knocking at the superintendent’s door.

An apartment dweller across the hall stuck her graying head out of her own apartment and gave him a scathing look. “Hush. You’re spoiling my show. I was about to find out if Reginald really murdered his half brother.”

It took Reed the space of several heartbeats to realize she was referring to the plot of a daytime soap opera. “Sorry. But I can’t get the tenant in 312 to come to the door and I’m worried. Do you know if she’s gone out?”

“Not likely. She would have said. Does she know you?”

“Yes.” Since he was in civilian clothes he flashed his badge wallet. “Officer Reed Branson. I was the one who helped her when she ran into trouble a couple of nights ago.”

“Well, in that case, thank you.” She stepped out. “I’m Olga Petrovski.” A ring of keys jingled in her hand as she locked her door behind her. “That poor girl’s a basket case and nobody seems to care. She’s turning into a worse hermit than she was before. Doesn’t even have a cat for company. Can you imagine?” The woman led the way up the stairs, surprising Reed with her ease of movement in broken-down shoes that looked as if they were about to fall off.

“You have keys? I thought Mr. Rosenbaum was the super.”