02_The Hero Next Door Read online

  Within fifteen minutes J.C. had met the dispatcher on duty—who also served as telephone operator and receptionist. She was ensconced behind a window that looked into the small lobby. The first floor housed the sergeant’s office, interview rooms, a five-cell lockup and a juvenile holding cell; upstairs was home to the department’s four detectives, a briefing room and a few other staff offices.

  At the end of the tour, Burke ushered J.C. into his office. The chief’s desk stood in front of the room’s single window and faced the door, a credenza on the right and a bookcase on the left. Cream-colored walls brightened the space.

  “Quite an improvement over your digs in Chicago.” J.C. grinned as he inspected the room.

  “No kidding. I not only have walls, I have a window.”

  “Yeah.” J.C. strolled over to peruse the view of nearby businesses. “And if you get hungry for sushi, it’s just steps away.”

  “Hey, don’t knock it. There’s more to life than greasy burgers and stale donuts. So how’s the cottage?”

  “It’s perfect. Thanks for recommending it. How do you know the Shaws?”

  “From church. It’s a nice little congregation. You’d be welcome to join us.”

  “I’ll probably take you up on that. I need to find a place to worship while I’m here.”

  Burke gestured toward the chairs to the left of the door. “Now that you’ve seen the station, any questions?”

  “Not yet.”

  “How about if I ask a few, then?” Burke closed the door. J.C. had assumed this was coming. To his credit, Burke hadn’t pushed for information when he’d offered him the temporary summer position. But now that J.C. was here, he wasn’t surprised Burke wanted more details. Besides, they’d been friends for more than ten years. His interest would be both professional and personal.

  Taking one of the chairs, J.C. leaned forward. His breakfast congealed into a cold lump in the pit of his stomach, and he kept his gaze fixed on his clasped hands. “What do you want to know?”

  “Relax, J.C.” Burke sat and crossed an ankle over a knee. “This isn’t an interrogation. It’s one friend lending an ear to another. And just so you know, I called Dennis and Ben. After I offered you the job.”

  J.C. jerked his head up. Dennis had been the office supervisor and Ben his street supervisor during his nine-month deep-cover assignment. They knew the details of that fateful night as well as anyone.

  “If you talked to them, you know what happened.”

  “I’d like to hear your side of it.”

  Rising abruptly, J.C. shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and strode back to the window. There were lots of people on the street now. Laughing, smiling, chatting. Everyone seemed to be having a good time.

  He turned his back on them.

  “It was in the report. I’m sure Dennis would give you a copy.”

  “I’d rather hear it from you.”

  J.C. fisted his hands in his pockets. “And I’d rather not talk about it.”

  The chief pursed his lips. “I’m going to assume the required counseling didn’t help a whole lot.”

  J.C. snorted in disgust. “She didn’t have a clue about the stresses of undercover work. The isolation. The no-man’s-land existence, pretending to belong one place but cut off from the place you do belong. The strain of putting your life on hold to bring about justice. And that’s when things are going well.” He took a deep breath and let it out as his shoulders slumped. “But after all that effort, all that sacrifice, to watch two of your buddies take bullets because you made a mistake…” His voice turned to gravel, and he gripped the back of Burke’s desk chair.

  “According to everything I heard, it wasn’t your fault.”

  “I slipped up somewhere. If I hadn’t, Jack and Scott would still be alive. We walked into an ambush, Burke.”

  “I heard you came pretty close to getting taken out yourself.” J.C. averted his head. “There are days I wish I had been.” A fresh wave of anguish swept over him, and a muscle in his jaw clenched. “Or that it had been me instead of them. They each left a wife and young children. No one would have missed me.”

  In the ensuing silence, J.C.’s words echoed in his mind. If he was in Burke’s shoes, he’d be having serious second thoughts about now. No chief wanted a troubled cop on the force. Traumatized people didn’t think clearly. They were distracted and emotional, and they often overreacted—or underreacted—to stressful situations. In law enforcement, that could be deadly.

  Steeling himself, J.C. faced the older man. Although he didn’t detect any doubt, cops were good at hiding their feelings.

  “Did I just shoot myself in the foot?”

  Burke cocked his head. “Should I be worried?”

  “No. I’ll admit I haven’t resolved all my issues. But I’m working on them. That’s why I asked for an extended leave. I knew I needed some time to regroup in a different environment. Since I started as a beat cop, it felt right to go back to those roots. And after all my years undercover, I know how to compartmentalize. I can promise you I won’t let what happened in Chicago compromise my performance here.”

  As Burke regarded him, J.C. held his breath. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if he was sent packing. But in the twenty-four hours he’d been on Nantucket, he’d sensed that this place held the key to a lot of the questions he’d been unable to answer in Chicago. And he didn’t want to leave.

  “Okay, J.C.” Burke stood. “I wouldn’t touch most guys in your situation with a ten-foot pole. What you’ve been through can mess with a person’s mind. But I’ve seen you in a lot of tough situations, and you’ve always been steady under pressure. From what I’ve heard and observed, I don’t have any reason to think that’s changed.” He held out his hand. “Welcome to the Nantucket PD.”

  As J.C. returned Burke’s solid clasp, he forced his stiff shoulders to relax. And sent a silent plea to the Lord to stick close.

  Because while he was confident his training would kick in should he find himself in a volatile situation, he was counting on the summer being quiet relative to the Chicago crime scene. None of the lawbreaking he was likely to encounter here—petty theft, traffic violations, even drug issues—should involve altercations where lives hung in the balance.

  And that was good. He didn’t want any more baggage.

  What he did want was a quiet, uncomplicated summer that gave him plenty of opportunity to sit on a beach and do some serious thinking about the rest of his life.

  The muffled rattling sounded suspicious.

  J.C. slowed his pace as he approached the gate leading to the garden beside The Devon Rose. Since his breakfast with Burke, he’d spent the day exploring the town, including an all-important visit to the grocery store. He was ready to call it a night. But he wasn’t wired to ignore odd sounds, and this one fell into that category.

  Juggling his bags of groceries, he listened. It sounded as if a metal object was being shaken.

  In Chicago, following that kind of rattle into a dark alley often led him to a homeless person rooting through a Dumpster or trash can. But as near as he could tell, homeless people were rare on Nantucket.

  Thieves were another story. Due to the private backyards, which were often hidden from the street by lush vegetation or privet hedges, burglars could pull off robberies without detection. According to Burke, that was one of the biggest problems in the quiet season, when many vacation homes were vacant.

  This wasn’t the quiet season, however. Nor did The Devon Rose appear to be vacant. Light from an upper window spilled into the deepening dusk.

  Another subtle rattle sounded, and a light was flipped on on the lower level of the house. Heather must have heard the sound, too, and was going out to investigate.

  Not a good plan if an intruder was nearby.

  A shot of adrenaline sharpened his reflexes, and J.C. set his bags on the sidewalk. Unlike the entrance to Edith’s backyard—a rose-covered arbor with a three-foot-high picket gate—Hea
ther had gone the privacy route. Her gate, framed by a tall privet hedge, was six feet high and solid wood. The U-shaped latch, however, provided easy access.

  Stepping to one side of the gate, J.C. lifted the latch. To his relief, it moved noiselessly. He opened the gate enough to slip through, shutting it behind him as he melted into the shadows of a nearby bush.

  Any other time, J.C. would have admired the precise, geometric pattern of Heather’s formal boxwood garden, with its ornate birdbath and beds of colorful flowers that reflected a well-planned symmetry. Instead, he focused on the back of the house, where he expected her to emerge any second—and perhaps step into a dangerous situation.

  He heard the door open at the same time the rattling resumed. Both sounds came from the rear. Sprinting down the brick path that bordered her side garden, he crouched at the back corner of the house and stole a look at the porch.

  As he’d feared, Heather was standing in clear sight, the porch light spotlighting her.

  Providing a perfect target.

  Another rattle. Now he could pinpoint the source. It was coming from behind a privet hedge at the back of her property.

  Pulling his off-duty snub-nosed .38 revolver from its concealed holster on his belt, he stepped forward as Heather descended the two steps from the porch. She gasped at his sudden appearance, but when he put a finger to his lips and motioned her to join him, she followed his instructions in silence. Taking her arm, he drew her into the shadows beside the house.

  As he pressed her against the siding, shielding her body from the rear of the yard, he spoke near her ear. “I was walking by and heard a noise in the back.”

  “So did I. That’s why I came out.”

  Her whispered breath was warm on his neck, and a faint, pleasing…distracting…floral scent filled his nostrils. “It would have been safer to call the police.”

  She blinked up at him in the dusky light. “This isn’t Chicago. Nantucket is safe. And you scared me to death.” She flicked a quick look at his hand. “Is that a gun?”

  “Yes. And crime happens everywhere.”

  “Not in my backyard. The noise we heard is probably feral cats. They’re a big problem on the island. I caught them rooting through my trash a few days ago. The cans are inside a wooden box with a heavy lid, but it’s not shutting quite right. I think one of the cats must have squeezed in again. Chester’s going to fix it one of these days.”

  Heat crept up the back of J.C.’s neck. If Heather’s assumption was correct, he’d pulled his gun on a cat.

  Not the most auspicious beginning for his Nantucket law enforcement interlude.

  But he’d come this far. He might as well follow through. “I’ll check it out, just to be on the safe side. Wait here.”

  Without giving her a chance to respond, J.C. worked his way to the hedge in back. A quick look around the side confirmed her theory. Two cats had their noses stuck under the slightly opened lid of the trash bin, while a rustling sound came from inside.

  At the same time he saw them, the cats got wind of his presence. With amazing speed and agility, the two outside the bin leaped to the ground, bounded toward the privet hedge and dove through. The third scrambled out and followed his friends.

  Holstering his gun, J.C. tried to tamp down his embarrassment. Accustomed as he was to finding danger around every corner, the relative safety of Nantucket was obviously going to take some getting used to.

  Heather was leaning against one of the back porch posts when he emerged, arms folded across her chest. “I heard them scrambling over the wood. I assumed it was safe to come out.”

  “Sorry to raise an unnecessary alarm. It was an instinctive reaction.”

  “You must travel in rough circles.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I appreciate the thought, anyway.”

  Amusement glinted in the depths of her eyes, and J.C. had a feeling she’d have a good chuckle about this later. He could only hope she’d keep the incident to herself. If she told Edith, he suspected half the island would hear about the feral felines’ caper within twenty-four hours. Burke had told him his landlord was well-connected and a better source of Nantucket news than the newspapers.

  But he’d worry about that later. At the moment, he was too busy enjoying the view. Backlit by the lantern beside the door, Heather’s shoulder-length hair hung soft and full, free of restraint, the gold highlights shimmering. The light also silhouetted her willowy frame, which was accentuated by jeans and a soft tank top. Gone were the classy pearls and silk that had made her seem so inaccessible.

  He had to remind himself to breathe.

  Yet if yesterday he’d felt outclassed in her presence, tonight he found a different reason to keep his distance.

  Heather Anderson had never been tainted by exposure to violence. In her world, cats were the biggest predators.

  He, on the other hand, had spent his career dealing with the lowlifes of Chicago. And he’d been doing it for so long, he didn’t even know how to behave around a woman who was untouched by the raw side of life.

  She tucked her hair behind her ear and shifted from one foot to the other. “Well…thanks again.”

  “No problem.”

  Turning, she disappeared through the door. Thirty seconds later, the downstairs light was extinguished.

  As J.C. retraced his steps to the gate, an odd heaviness settled in his chest. One that had nothing to do with the burden of guilt he’d been carrying for the past month. This was related to a woman with hazel eyes.

  Though he knew little about her, J.C. sensed that Heather was a kind, decent, caring person. The sort of woman who would add warmth and sunlight and joy to a man’s life.

  But not to his.

  As appealing as she was, as tempted as he might be to explore the magnetic pull he felt in her presence, in three months he’d be returning to Chicago. Working the grittiest cases. Dealing with sources in the worst parts of town. Putting his life on the line every single day. And if no one he’d yet dated had had the stomach for that risk long-term, there was no way a woman like Heather would.

  Besides, her life was here. His was in Chicago. End of story.

  Pushing through the gate, J.C.’s spirits took another nose dive. His plastic grocery bags had been ripped apart, the package of deli ham meant to provide lunches for the next week decimated.

  And it didn’t take a detective to figure out what had happened.

  While the feral cats he’d chased off had been scavenging behind the house, their friends had had a picnic on his lunch meat.

  As he bent to salvage what he could, he took one last look at the lighted upstairs window in the back of The Devon Rose. A silhouette moved past the closed shade, and J.C. was struck by the symbolism. Heather was there, in the shadows. Close, but out of reach.

  Just like the redemption and forgiveness he yearned for.

  He was working hard to find the latter. And in time, with prayer, he trusted he would succeed.

  In terms of connecting with Heather, however, he was far less optimistic.

  But it shouldn’t matter, he reminded himself, tossing a frozen dinner into one of the bags as he stood. He hadn’t come to Nantucket for romance. He should just accept that the attractive tearoom owner was off-limits and do his best to put her out of his mind.

  Except that wasn’t going to be easy when he could see her lighted window every night from the doorway of his cottage.

  Chapter Four

  A ray of sun teased Heather awake, and with a contented sigh she turned on her side and bunched her pillow under her head. No way was she getting up yet. Monday was her day to sleep late and lounge around. And after the past busy week, she deserved a few hours of leisure.

  At least there’d been no unexpected customers this Saturday or Sunday, as there had been last weekend. In fact, she hadn’t had even a glimpse of Justin—J.C., she reminded herself—since the cat incident his second day on the island.

  Edith kept her informed of his acti
vities, however. So Heather was aware he’d rented a bike. Aware he’d been using his off-hours to explore the island. Aware he’d begun attending church with the Shaws.

  But most of all, she was simply aware. Of him.

  And that scared her.

  Flopping onto her back, she turned her head to observe the new green leaves of her prized October Glory maple tree as they fluttered against a cloudless deep-blue sky. A gentle breeze wafted through her open window, and she inhaled the fresh, salty scent of the Nantucket morning, trying to relax.

  That wasn’t going to happen today, however, she acknowledged. Thanks to the arrival of a certain Chicago cop who’d managed to disrupt her peace of mind.

  With an irritated huff, Heather threw back the covers and padded over to push the lace curtain aside and lower the sash against the slight morning chill. Most of the little guest cottage tucked among the hydrangea bushes at the back of Edith’s property was hidden from her view, though she could catch a glimpse of the front door and roof if she tried. Which she did, despite a warning voice that told her to turn away. And to her dismay, that quick peek was enough to quicken her pulse.

  Not good.

  How in the world could she be so attracted to a man she’d spoken to for less than five minutes?

  Yet she couldn’t deny the almost-palpable chemistry—on her side, anyway. She’d felt it in the foyer of The Devon Rose, when J.C. had taken her hand in his strong grip and looked at her with those intense dark eyes. And she’d felt it again when he’d pulled her into the shadows by the house the night of the cat invasion. A whisper away, she’d inhaled his rugged aftershave. Felt the warmth of his hand seep into her arm and radiate through her body. Sensed that with this man protecting her, she’d be safe from any threat.

  Except the one he himself represented.

  That was what scared her.

  Because J.C. wasn’t for her. The Anderson women’s bad judgment about men aside, the Chicago detective was here only for the summer. Besides, she’d learned an important lesson from her mother’s experience—and from the histories she’d read about the independent Nantucket women of the past who’d run the town while the men were away on long whaling trips: take control of your own destiny. Never give anyone jurisdiction over your life—materially or emotionally.