Daddy Protector. Jacqueline Diamond

Skip was in kindergarten, Connie had helped him focus on classroom activities, following directions and acquiring a familiarity with numbers and letters. Later, they’d moved into reading and arithmetic. This month, he’d finished first grade working at or above average in all areas.

      Now, without her, he might get lost in the system. She had to find him.

      Well, Brian was working on that now, and sternly, Connie reminded herself that she had a job to do. After turning the counter over to Paris, she went into the office and settled at the computer to update her Web site. Mostly it informed customers of special events, but direct sales of custom items and collectables had been increasing steadily.

      At six o’clock, she reversed the sign on the door to read Closed. As she collected her purse, her young sales assistant twisted a strand of light-brown hair around one finger and said, “I’ve been meaning to mention that I have a few weeks off later this month before summer school starts. I’d like to put in more hours, if it’s okay.”

      Connie performed a quick mental calculation. Rearranging and freshening the merchandise at each of the three venues ought to boost sales enough to cover the extra wages. “That would be fine, if you don’t mind rotating among the stores.”

      “Great!” Paris beamed. “I’ll give you the exact dates tomorrow.”

      “I’ll draw up a schedule with Marta and Rosa.” Her managers would appreciate the extra help.

      As the two of them exited by the front door and walked to their cars parked around the side, Connie thought about Hale’s protectiveness on Saturday, and of the fact that he lay in the hospital after saving Skip. For heaven’s sake, she’d never sleep tonight for worrying about his condition. Might as well drop by the med center. If the nurses were restricting visitors, they ought to at least allow a delivery from the gift shop.

      It was closed now, but the concessionaire had privileges.

      HALE HAD HEARD A VARIETY of opinions about the Mesa View Medical Center. Captain Ferguson, grateful that cell phones and pagers had silenced the old public address calls for doctors, had declared it an oasis of calm following his hemorrhoid surgery. Sgt. Derek Reed, the PD’s leading babe magnet, claimed the nurses got friendlier every year, but another officer had contended they were too preoccupied with paperwork to pay attention to patients.

      Hale reluctantly agreed. His ankle throbbed—a sprain, the physician had said—and one side of his body had suffered massive bruises. Instead of offering sympathy and coddling, the nurse had instructed him to press a button on his intravenous line if he needed more pain relief.

      Effective and modern, but not very warm.

      The presence of fire investigator Andie O’Reilly, who’d been debriefing him for the past half hour, provided a change, although she wasn’t exactly the nurturing type, either. And in his opinion—which he kept to himself—fire officials shouldn’t have flame-red hair.

      Andie had arrived at the scene while the firefighters were tackling the blaze. She’d spoken briefly to Hale until the paramedics removed him, then begun interviewing Yolanda.

      Her boss was supervising the chemical spill probe, Andie had explained, which left her to spend the afternoon locating and questioning the building’s tenants before catching up with Hale again. Once the fire scene cooled and the building proved structurally safe, she’d comb it for clues.

      Most fires began with cooking equipment, but to Hale it appeared this one had started in the living room. Although the place must be a charred, sodden mess, analyzing the burn pattern and sifting through the debris could, he knew, reveal amazing details.

      “You’re sure you didn’t observe anyone when you arrived other than Mrs. Rios and Skip Enright?” Andie asked as Hale sipped a cup of tea to settle his smoke-irritated stomach.

      “Only those gardeners across the way, as I mentioned, and a few passersby who helped Yolanda,” he said. “Why?”

      She didn’t answer. Since Andie had posed that particular inquiry twice before, there must be a reason.

      “Hey, I was frank with you,” Hale pointed out. In answer to a query, he’d confided the real reason for his visit, to which she’d replied that Chief Lyons had already informed her about the tip regarding Ben. That upped his respect for the chief, who seemed to be bending over backward to avoid the appearance of a cover-up. “Did you talk to Ben?”

      “He denies any involvement with drugs. I didn’t tell him about the rumor, by the way,” Andie added. “Based on his history, I considered it a logical line of inquiry.”

      “So what’s this about someone else at the scene?” Hale pressed.

      She appeared to be weighing the advantages and disadvantages of disclosure. Possibly since he’d already provided his statement and therefore wasn’t likely to be influenced, openness won.

      “Mrs. Rios saw a man exit the building about twenty minutes before the fire started. Only glimpsed him from the rear.” She consulted her notes. “Male, wearing a dark suit, stocky build, about six feet tall with brown hair. Might have been a salesman, although nobody knocked on her door.”

      “It wasn’t Vince Borrego?”

      “Mrs. Rios described our guy as taller and heavier. Also, Mr. Borrego was at his office with a client.” Although there’d been a few earlier break-ins in the area, that suspect’s description didn’t match, either.

      She switched off the tape recorder and shut her notebook. “Good thing you showed up there, Hale. Thanks to you, the kid’s fine.”

      “Joel told me.” Also that Skip had been removed from Paula’s custody. And a darn good thing.

      Hale hoped the DA brought child endangerment charges against the woman, who, according to Joel—on duty as watch commander—had gone out to buy baby clothes for her new grandchild. The fact that she’d been distraught about the situation softened his anger only marginally.

      Rising, Andie brushed a wave of auburn hair behind one ear. The gesture might have struck him as flirtatious if not for Andie’s no-nonsense manner. “Sure you’re okay?” She cast a dubious glance at the untouched plate on his tray.

      “I’d love a Twinkie,” Hale hinted, not at all subtly. “Sugar usually settles my stomach.”

      “Sorry. I’m fresh out.”

      A tap at the entryway announced the arrival of a large floral display with slim, stocking-clad legs. He couldn’t discern much of the newcomer’s face. But he’d have recognized his neighbor’s shapely limbs anywhere.

      “Wow!” the investigator said. “That’s a fantastic arrangement. Who sent it?”

      “Courtesy of the gift shop,” Connie announced from behind the flora. “These were the leftovers that wouldn’t keep another day. And you are—?”

      “Andrea O’Reilly. Fire department.”

      “Oh. You’re investigating.” The floral extravaganza navigated to a window ledge that already held several bouquets. “I’m Connie Simmons.” Returning, she thrust out a hand, which Andie shook.

      His new guest appeared to believe that introduction sufficed to explain who she was. And so it did. “Ah,” Andie said. “You’re Joel’s ex.”

      “Precisely.” Connie folded her arms, an action that emphasized the curves beneath her suit. It was startling to Hale how readily he responded even in his semidebilitated state.

      “I guess dreams do come true, Detective,” Andie remarked.

      Was his reaction that obvious? Hale tugged the scanty covers higher over the hospital gown. “Yeah?” Luckily, before he said anything awkward, he realized she referred to a small bag that dangled from Connie’s wrist. Imprinted with the legend Sandie’s Tea Shoppe, it yielded an aroma so sweet and appetizing it penetrated the lingering scent of smoke in his nasal passages.