Chapter 10

Ten

AS THE FAINT RING OF THE DOORBELL penetrated her restless slumber, Dara forced her eyelids open. Peered at her watch.

Eight fifteen.

Who would come calling at this hour on a Sunday morning?

Whoever it was, Chad could deal with them. He was up already, if the faint aroma of coffee wafting through the cracks in the closed bedroom door was any indication. While he'd abandoned their sleep-late Sunday morning ritual now that he was spending his nights on the couch, this was one small luxury she wasn't giving up. Even if sleep had been elusive since the Robertson murder.

She burrowed back into the pillow. She could spare another half hour under the covers before she had to get ready for the second service at church.

Ten seconds later, the doorbell rang again.

Heaving a sigh, she pushed herself to a sitting position, shoved her hair back, and groped for her robe at the foot of the bed. Apparently Chad intended to ignore the summons, perhaps assuming it was another pushy reporter. But the harassment from the press had tapered off over the past week, so that didn't seem likely.

The bell pealed again as she trudged down the hall.

"All right already." She muttered the comment as she passed the kitchen doorway and scanned the room.

No sign of Chad.

Nor was he in the living room. The couch had been reconfigured from a makeshift bed back to its usual role.

Huh.

Where could he be?

She continued to the front door, pausing by the peephole to squint through the fish-eye lens.

A clean-cut, respectable-looking stranger stood on the other side.

As he leaned forward to press the bell again, she scuttled back. Bit her lip.

The guy was persistent. And he didn't show any signs of leaving until someone responded.

Better answer and find out what he wanted.

She moved back to the door and pulled it open a couple of inches, leaving the chain on the lock.

The man smiled. "Ms. Allen?"

"Yes."

After giving her robe a quick once-over through the meager crack, he pulled out a small holder, flipped it open, and aimed it her direction. "Sorry to wake you. Detective Jack Tucker, St. Louis County Police. Is your husband home?"

Pulse skittering, Dara flicked a glance at the street behind the man.

The parking spot Chad had claimed last night in front of their apartment was empty.

Why?

"No. I'm sorry. He's, uh, not here."

"Do you know when he'll be back?"

How could she, when she didn't even know he'd left or where he'd gone?

"No."

"Do you mind if I wait for him inside?"

Yes, she did. But how could she say no without adding to any suspicions this detective already harbored about her husband?

"I guess that would be okay." She closed the door and slid the chain free of the lock, her brain shifting into high gear. She had to warn Chad. Give him a chance to prepare for the unpleasant surprise waiting for him in their living room.

"Thanks." The detective entered as she eased back to give him access.

"Um ... why don't you have a seat?" She motioned toward the couch in the tiny living room. "Would you like a cup of coffee?" That would give her an excuse to retreat to the kitchen, grab her cell from the charger on the counter, and escape to the bedroom to call Chad.

"No, thank you. I stopped for a caffeine fix on my drive here." Flashing her another smile, he claimed a seat on the sofa.

"I think I'll get a cup for myself and change. I, uh, like to sleep in on Sunday. That's why I'm wearing this." She plucked at the edge of her robe.

"No problem."

"I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Don't hurry on my account." He propped an ankle on a knee, his casual posture suggesting this was a friendly visit.

But it wasn't.

Something else had happened to implicate Chad in the Robertson murder.

Something bad.

She knew that as surely as she knew her husband had secrets he hadn't shared with her since this nightmare began.

He'd have to share them now, though. Didn't matter what he told this detective. He couldn't pretend to her anymore that everything was fine. She wouldn't let him. She was done waiting for him to initiate a conversation on the subject.

Dara slipped into the kitchen, snatched her phone out of the charger, and slid it in her pocket. Coffee was a low priority compared to calling Chad, but she filled a mug anyway before escaping to the hall.

Just as she reached the bedroom door, the front knob rattled.

Chad was home!

She spun around and sped back to the living room.

The detective stood and faced the door as her husband pushed through. "Good morning, Mr. Allen."

Chad reared back as if he'd been struck, panic spiking in his eyes.

"The detective arrived a f-few minutes ago, Chad." Dara took a step forward as she tried to keep breathing in a room that suddenly felt airless and claustrophobic.

Their visitor's demeanor remained calm and impassive. "I have a few more questions for you, Mr. Allen."

"I told you everything I know the day of the murder." He fisted his hands at his sides.

"I'm here today to talk about a more recent development. The stolen jewelry you gave your friend Pop."

Her husband's face lost several shades of color, and he groped for the edge of the open door.

Dara's stomach coiled into a knot. "Chad? What's going on?"

"I don't know." He closed the door.

"Who's Pop?"

Chad didn't answer her question—but the detective did.

"He's a street person, Ms. Allen. A Vietnam vet whose real name is Henry Finn. Your husband met him at Al's Diner this morning."

Dara looked at her husband. "Is that true?"

"Yes." He responded to her, then refocused on the detective. "But I never gave him any jewelry."

"I have the bracelet he tried to pawn." Detective Tucker maintained a conversational tone. "It belonged to the victim's wife. He said it came from you."

"I didn't steal it—and I didn't give it to Pop."

"What's your relationship with him?" Their uninvited visitor pulled out a notebook.

Chad's Adam's apple bobbed. "You mind if we sit?"

"Not at all." The detective reclaimed his chair.

"Dara, do you ... do you want to join us?" Chad twisted toward her.

She looked at the man she'd married, felt the almost-palpable fear radiating from him, and heard the real questions he was asking.

Did she believe in him? Trust him? Was she willing to stand beside him through whatever ordeal lay ahead? Or was she going to assume the worst and turn her back on him when he needed her most, as so many other people in his life had?

Dara drew a shaky breath.

Maybe she was being foolish. Her father would think so. But she'd lived with this man for nine months. Loved him with her whole heart. Learned about the demons that had plagued him, about all he'd overcome to start a new life. Knew him better than she'd known many people who'd been part of her world far longer. And her intuition said that whatever trouble he was in wasn't of his making.

Slowly she walked over to him and placed her hand in his.

He clung to her fingers, the gratitude in his eyes tightening her throat as he tugged her down beside him and drew her close.

The detective positioned his pen over the notebook. "Tell me about Pop."

Chad let out a slow exhale. "He saved my life on the street. Literally. It's a rough place, and early on I was out of my element. He stepped into an altercation that could have left me dead. Everyone on the street knew and respected him, and the other guy backed off. After that, Pop sort of adopted me. Taught me the ropes. Helped me survive. I owe him a debt I can never repay."

"Except with stolen jewelry."

"No!" Chad's posture stiffened. "Like I said, I don't know anything about that."

"He said it came from you."

"He told me that this morning." Chad's grip on her fingers tightened, and Dara squeezed his in return. "I assume you had a tail on him. That's how you found me."

"Yes."

"I don't know who passed that jewelry on to him. All I can tell you is it wasn't me."

"Why would someone pretend it was?"

"Maybe the real murderer wants to throw suspicion on Chad." Dara leaned forward. No one had asked her to participate in this conversation, but she couldn't remain mute while someone insinuated that her husband had committed a vile crime.

Chad nodded. "That's my take too. Who better to pin a murder rap on, right? A former homeless person who was on the premises the day of the crime." He scrubbed a hand down his face, dejection radiating from him. "The perfect fall guy."

The detective didn't weigh in on that comment. "How often do you visit Pop?"

"Every couple of weeks."

Dara stared at Chad.

That was news too.

His gaze swung toward her. "I have to keep tabs on him, Dara. I usually run down on my lunch hour and give him a few bucks outside the soup kitchen where he eats. Or I stop by the encampment on the river after work. The last two Sundays, I've taken him to Al's early for a decent breakfast. I never told you any of this because I didn't want you to worry about me being in a dicey area of town."

Dicey area of town.

Could that be where he'd gotten the bruise on his upper arm? The one he'd tried to hide from her?

Tempted as she was to ask that question, she clamped her lips together. Voicing it in the presence of law enforcement wouldn't do her husband any favors.

The detective tapped his pen against his notebook. Regarded them both for a moment. Rose. "That's all I need for today. I may be back in touch as the case progresses."

She and Chad stood too.

"I'll show you out." Dara walked over to the door in silence, closing it behind the detective after he exited. Then she turned and faced her husband. If he wanted her trust from this stage forward, he had to be honest. Stop keeping secrets. "How did you get the bruise on your arm?"

He blinked—but didn't respond.

"I heard you tossing on the couch one night and came in to check on you." She positioned herself behind the side chair the detective had occupied, wrapped her fingers around the top of the back, and held her breath.

A mix of indecision and fear flared in Chad's eyes, but in the end he answered her question. "The morning of the Robertson murder, I went down to the encampment early. Someone must have seen me slip Pop a few dollars, because while I was walking back to my car, a guy jumped me. I guess he assumed I had more cash on hand. I managed to fight him off, but I fell on the concrete. I would have told you about it, except the timing with the murder stunk. I was afraid you might think I got injured in a fight with the dead guy."

The very possibility that had crossed her mind.

But there was no point in admitting that to Chad. Not if she believed his story.

And she did.

The police, however, would be less likely to accept his explanation. So keeping the bruise secret was smart.

As for the fact that he'd been jumped, if it had happened once, it could happen again.

That was almost as scary as his circumstantial implication in the murder.

She came out from behind the chair and walked over to him. Wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her head on his chest. "I know you care about this man, Chad, but you could have been killed that day. Isn't there a safer way to keep in touch with him?"

"I gave him a throwaway phone today. That will let me set up future meetings at the diner instead of looking for him at the encampment or soup kitchen. I'll be careful, Dara. But I can't cut him off."

"Couldn't you convince him to leave that life behind, like you did?"

"I've tried, but it's the only world he's known for too many years." He buried his face in her hair. "I'm sorry I've shut you out. But I was afraid you'd ..." His voice rasped, and he swallowed. "I don't want to lose you, Dara. These past months with you have been the happiest of my life. They've felt so much like a dream that I keep expecting to wake up and discover that everything's fallen apart, like it always has."

"That was then, Chad. This is now. You've turned a corner. We'll get through this together as long as you keep talking to me. And loving me."

"I'll always love you. No matter what." He squeezed her tight.

She squeezed back.

But that "no matter what" caveat didn't leave her feeling warm and fuzzy. Nor had he promised to keep talking to her.

Was there more he hadn't told her?

Possibly.

Yet wrapped in his embrace, it was hard to nurture doubts. In his strong arms, she felt safe and hopeful and encouraged.

Whether that mood would last remained to be seen. The detective may have left for today, but until the Robertson case was solved, Chad would remain in his sights. And unless the police identified the person who'd passed that bracelet on to Pop, supposedly on her husband's behalf, a former street person who'd been working at the scene of the murder would stay at the top of their prime suspect list.

Which didn't bode well for her and Chad or their future together, despite her reassurance moments ago.