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This time it was Merry and Kerry who snickered.
Sam’s face flushed. “Okay, yeah, we’ll figure it out. Daniel, keep me updated.”
The detective nodded. He would do his job—interview everyone at the park, walk the creek on both banks looking for tracks, check out all the cars in the lot and so forth. The creek was deep enough in the center that a person could swim all the way past the city limits in both directions, which gave him probably six miles of shore to tramp over, walk into a neighborhood, into the woods, into a house or get into a car and vanish.
Damn it, just thinking about it made Sam less than hopeful.
It was tough for Sam to let Mila walk to the car with her stiff, battered, the-water-monster-almost-killed-me gait. Her wrist was the most obvious injury, but the way she cradled her arm against her suggested she might have strained some muscles or tendons while fighting her way free.
But she didn’t ask for help until they reached his truck and she was faced with climbing into the high seat. He gave her a boost and fastened her seat belt, then gave Jessica a hand up into the rear seat.
Gramma looked her age for the first time since Sam had met her. The idea of someone hurting Mila had shaken her to her core. She was so much the mama bear, and she wanted to put the fear of God into the bastard.
“Are you okay to drive?”
She held out her hand and watched it tremble. “No. Charles is going to meet us over there. I’ll get what I need, lock up the Bug and go to the hospital with him. He and his friends will deliver it to me later.” She clasped Sam’s hand. “What do you know about him, Chief?”
“Charles is a good man. Owned an insurance business just down the block from you. His wife died about ten years ago. They didn’t have any children.”
Jessica smiled, at least a little intrigued, and patted Sam’s hand again.
It was a quiet drive, five blocks to get from the west side lot to the east side. Charles Brinkley was already there, collecting towels, sandals and a string bag with clothing from the grass. After securing the Bug, Jessica and Charles, in his Cadillac, followed Sam and Mila to the hospital.
There in the parking lot, Jessica helped Mila into the shorts she’d worn over her swimsuit. Instead of her shirt, she wrapped their own beach towels, still warm from the sun, around Mila. Satisfied that she’d done all she could, Jessica took a step back. “You walk with her, Sam, in case her knees buckle or something.”
“My knees aren’t going to buckle,” Mila said with an effort at a reassuring smile. Jessica wasn’t swayed. Sam wasn’t, either. Even Charles didn’t fall for it.
Sam took hold of her right arm and started across the street with her. She seemed so fragile. Not because she was skimpily dressed. Not because she’d been attacked. Because the sad, quiet tones of her voice kept echoing in his head. I wasn’t thinking about being a witness. I just wanted to survive. The tones of a woman who, at least once, almost hadn’t survived.
* * *
In less than the two hours Detective Harper had predicted, Mila was snuggled onto the couch in Gramma’s living room. She’d wanted to go to her own house, Sam to his, so they’d compromised on Jessica’s. Besides the main entrance, there was only one other door into the building, one that led from the tenants’ parking out back. Only one person was needed to watch both doors and the stairs and elevator. Unless Mila’s would-be killer could scale walls or fly, there was no way he could reach her there.
Gramma pressed a glass of iced coffee into her good hand. “Take a good long drink of that, sweetie, and you’ll feel better. Then we’ll see about getting you into the shower.”
A shower sounded heavenly. She was pretty sure she’d brought home little bits of algae, slime and maybe even some minnows from the creek. Her eyes were still red, her nose smelled of muck and damp, and her mouth—
She gladly took a big drink of coffee and cream to dispel the taste in her mouth and almost spit it right back out. After swallowing, she grimaced and coughed. “What kind of cream is in this?”
“Just the usual,” Gramma said innocently.
It amused Mila that Sam already knew better than to trust Gramma’s innocent face. He took the glass from her, sniffed it and said, “That’s Irish cream. A little heavy on the whiskey, isn’t it, Jessica?”
