“Yeah. Sit down, Al.” Gabe motioned to one of the chairs facing him. It was late morning. He hadn’t slept much the night before, thinking about the Thomas Poston murder.
About his cute little son, Tommy.
And about beautiful, sad—sexy—Holly Poston.
Mostly about Holly Poston. About grieving Holly Poston, who was absolutely off-limits.
Still, he was going to get answers. Fast. For her sake and Tommy’s, as well as his own.
He’d come into the office full of determination. He’d reviewed the file again. And again.
And now he felt as frustrated as hell.
Al settled in and leaned back. His eyes left Gabe for the first time, taking in the rest of the office.
Gabe had left a lot as it had been when his predecessor, Mal Kensington, was chief of police, but he’d added his own touches to the décor. On the wall now hung a detailed satellite map of the area, some congratulatory plaques and medals Gabe had earned while with the Sacramento Police Department and, for his amusement and the possible discomfiture of those who came to visit, a photograph of himself shaking hands with Evangeline Sevvers, mayor of Naranja Beach—and Aunt Evangeline to him.
He’d also heard that he was a heck of a lot more organized than Mal had ever been. The top of his desk was nearly empty. He was a great believer in keeping things filed for easier access when he needed them.
“What’s up?” Al was clearly growing uncomfortable at the delay. With his extra chin and nearly shaved head, he resembled a tall and skinny bulldog. But he’d proven to be much less than a bulldog on the investigation.
“Thomas Poston’s murder. You know—”
“Chief. Sharp.” Jimmy Hernandez strode into the room and sat in the chair next to Al’s.
Detective James Hernandez’s Hispanic facial features were broad and sharply geometric, his body lean and trim beneath his khaki shirt and dark slacks. No uniform for him, as a detective. And usually no suit coat, either.
He had been hired by Gabe first thing when Gabe had been hired to run the Naranja Beach P.D. Jimmy had been one of the best damn detectives Gabe had ever met when they’d worked together with the Sacramento Police Department.
He was one of the few people who knew why Gabe had really been hired for this job. He’d come along to assist Gabe—as well as to head the local detective unit.
“Glad you’re here, Jimmy. I was just beginning to tell Al that I haven’t been happy about the progress we’ve made on the Poston case.”
“Yeah?” Jimmy glared at him. They might be friends and cohorts, but Jimmy made his own opinions known. Very known.
“Yeah,” Gabe replied. His cool gaze was on Jimmy, who barely hid a grin. They both knew the criticism was leveled at Al Sharp, not the chief detective. Most likely, Al knew it, too.
Al was a patrolman as his partner Thomas had been, and not a detective. Still, because of the special circumstances of this death, Al had taken a leading role in the investigation. He’d known Thomas well. He knew a lot of the same people Thomas had known. And he, maybe more than anyone else, was motivated to solve his partner’s murder.
“I’ve consulted with Jimmy every step of the way,” Al said, “just like you told me, chief. Right, Jimmy?” He glanced over at the detective beside him.
“You tell me, Al,” Jimmy replied.
“I’ve talked to everyone you suggested,” Al said defensively, “asked the questions you insisted on, and like that.”
“I figured,” Gabe said. “And ‘like that’ is why I’m taking a bigger role in the investigation myself. Five days have passed, and we don’t even have a suspect. That’s too long. Way too long.”
Gabe rose behind his desk and leaned forward as if he were going to get right in Al’s face. The patrolman had insisted on participating in the investigation. Thomas had been his partner. His friend.
But he was going to learn that wanting was not the same as succeeding. And if he took something on while part of Gabe’s force, he’d damned well better produce.
Gabe had been attempting to be a good guy since arriving in Naranja Beach and taking over the position as police chief. He’d figured he was more likely to get the information he needed for his covert investigation if he fit in, became part of the furniture. So far that hadn’t worked.
And Jimmy hadn’t been any more successful than Gabe so far.
Gabe was about to change his strategy. Especially since he believed the two deaths could be related.
“We’re going to know who killed Poston and why within the next week, or heads are going to roll. Got it, both of you?”
Jimmy nodded, but Al’s tone was curt, his expression surly as he said, “Yeah.”
“That’s ‘yeah, sir,’ Sharp.”
“Yeah, sir.” Al stood and gave a mock salute.
“What’s your plan, Jimmy?” Gabe asked. “Al knows people around here. Who do you want him to question?”
“Concentrate on the people who heard little Tommy Poston crying on Pacific Way that morning,” Jimmy said. He remained seated, one leg crossed casually over the other as he looked up at the patrol cop. “Did he tell them anything?”
“You know the kid’s not talking.” Al’s attempt to hide his annoyance came across as a sneer he turned into a cough.
“Yes, I know,” Jimmy said. “But he might have been then, in his fear and excitement. In any event, talk to those people.”
“I have.”
“I know,” Gabe told him.
Al’s glance signaled a hint of relief, as if he believed Gabe was about to support him. Wrong.
“I read your report,” Gabe continued. “But there’s a lot that isn’t in it. Talk to them again. Did they see anything else? Hear anything besides Tommy? I want to know everything from exactly what each of them was eating for breakfast at Naranja Diner that morning when they heard Tommy scream, to how many times it made them belch. How foggy did the marine layer make the air, or could they see anything or anyone along Pacific Way? Got it?”
“Yeah—er, yeah, sir,” he amended as he met Gabe’s eye.
Only then did Gabe let the patrol cop escape his office.
“You figure he’ll get those answers?” Jimmy asked dryly.
“What do you think?”
Jimmy grinned as he stood and walked toward the door. He turned back to Gabe. “I think I’ll do some follow-up myself.”
“You got it,” Gabe said. “And while you’re at it—”
“Yeah, yeah. If I can be subtle enough, I’ll see if anyone knows anything about the other situation.” Jimmy left the office.
What next? Gabe wondered.
He decided to call Holly, and ask her…what? Something to do with the case, like… Nothing. He was merely looking for an excuse to call her this morning, fool that he was.
Forget the call.
Shaking his head, he went to the file cabinet. Extracting a folder labeled Poston, he thumbed through it.
The physical evidence was minimal and inconclusive. The murder weapon was something sharp, like a knife, but hadn’t been found at the scene. Sheldon Sperling had said a decorative letter opener, part of his artsy stock, seemed to be missing. His shop had been dusted for fingerprints, scoured for hairs and other clues, but it was open to the public. Even if everything could be identified, it still might not point to the perpetrator.
Sperling. He’d been hit on the head and didn’t remember much. But he was a person Gabe wanted to question himself, a lot more than he’d been able to at Holly’s after Poston’s funeral.
And if he just happened, in Sperling’s shop, to see some of the needlework created by Holly Poston…
He was becoming obsessed with the woman, damn it, and he’d only just met her.
No. He was obsessed with the case. She was an integral part of it. Thomas Poston’s murder was his first big challenge as the head of the N.B.P.D.—his first big official challenge. He would solve it, and quickly. And, hopefully, the unofficial assignm
ent, too.
But as soon as the Poston case was solved, he would let the others on his force play guardian angel to the Postons.
GABE DIDN’T MAKE it to Sheldon’s shop as anticipated. While driving his department-issued brown sedan along Naranja Avenue toward Pacific Way, he saw a familiar vehicle. Holly Poston’s bright red minivan was parked at a meter along the street.
Where was she? He pulled over at a yellow line—one of the perks of his job—and looked around. City Hall, where the N.B.P.D. offices were located, was a mile behind him. In this area, Naranja Avenue contained rows of low-rise stucco office buildings and a few retail shops—much less trendy than those along Pacific Way. Two blocks down was Naranja Community Hospital.
Gabe wasn’t able to guess where, around here, Holly had gone. But then he spotted her, hand in hand with Tommy, emerging from the nearest building. It contained mostly medical offices.
His insides compressed as if in a vise. Was one of them ill?
He exited his car and approached them.
Holly looked tired. Her lovely dark eyes drooped, and the dark circles beneath them had grown larger.
But somehow the sight of her spurred not only his sympathy but sexual stirrings, too. Again. The heat he felt looking at her wasn’t only from the strong California sun that beat down on the avenue on this midsummer afternoon. Not at all.
Holly was dressed in jeans and a form-fitting short-sleeved T-shirt that showed off every soft curve. Curves that just begged to be touched….
Idiot, he berated himself. Or was it pervert?
Holly watched her cute little son, who was clinging to her hand but lagging behind. He was in bright red shorts, a navy T-shirt and sandals.
“Holly?”
She looked up quickly, a startled expression on her face.
“Sorry,” Gabe said. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I was just driving by and saw your van.” He glanced behind her toward the medical building. “Is everything okay?”
“Sure,” she said, her tone a shade too bright. “We just came to see the doctor.” She knelt down beside her son and gave him a hug. But Tommy looked listless and didn’t hug back.
Gabe’s heart went out to him. To both of them.
“Tommy woke up a couple of hours after you left,” Holly continued, “and didn’t get back to sleep. He had a bad dream.”
Stooping down to their level, Gabe read between the lines. Tommy had awakened, crying, after a nightmare and had kept Holly up all night. She was frightened for him. What caring mother wouldn’t be? She had taken him to a doctor. A pediatrician or a psychologist? Poor little Tommy might need both.
“Did Tommy have a tummy ache?” Gabe asked gently, though he suspected what the answer would be.
“No.” The frantic expression in Holly’s eyes suggested that she had reached her wits’ end and didn’t know how to help her scared son. “We saw Tommy’s new doctor again, a special one who likes to talk to children and likes them to talk to her, too.”
“I hope it was a good visit,” Gabe said. But he could tell from Holly’s demeanor that it hadn’t been, that Tommy hadn’t opened up even to a specialist.
“It was a fine visit,” she said nonetheless, her voice falsely cheerful. “It was so good that we’re going back to see the doctor again next week. And maybe then Tommy will take his turn and talk, too.”
“Great. How about if I come over tonight and read Tommy another bedtime story. Would that be all right with you, sport?” Gabe held his breath. Tommy obviously had something he was keeping inside. Gabe wasn’t an expert like the doctor they’d seen. He wasn’t likely to be any more successful at extracting whatever it was from the child. But someone had to, for Tommy’s sake, as well as for the investigation. And Gabe was going to try. He’d gotten one word from the boy, at least. Maybe he could get more.
He allowed himself to breathe again when, very slowly and solemnly, the sweet-faced child nodded.
Gabe stood. “Great. You guys like pizza?”
Holly rose, too. “You don’t have to do that,” she whispered very softly, so only Gabe could hear.
“I know I don’t have to,” Gabe replied. “I want to.” The damned unsettling thing about it was that he did. He wanted to return to that pretty beach community house with its attractive furnishings. He wanted to spend more time with this very sexy woman whose only interest in him, if any, would disappear as time passed and memories of her husband faded.
Any man she became attracted to now, when her emotions were turned upside down by her loss, would be thrown out like yesterday’s pizza crusts when she began to heal.
And that wasn’t for Gabe. Not again.
But he intended to unravel the threads that had led to her husband’s death. As quickly as possible.
Almost subconsciously, his conditioning as a longtime cop kicking in, he heard the sound of someone driving too fast down this busy street. He looked up. At the same time, he heard one bleat from a siren. Good. A patrol officer was on it.
A small, white car pulled over to the side of the street into an empty space right beside where Gabe, Holly and Tommy stood, a patrol car with rotating lights hugging its rear. It was the unit assigned to Bruce Franklin and Dolph Hilo.
Gabe, and all the people on the sidewalk, watched as the two officers did all the right things: taking their time getting out of their vehicle—undoubtedly checking the plates with their onboard computer, then approaching the stopped car.
Dolph Hilo was the officer who got out on the passenger side, nearest where Gabe stood with Holly and Tommy. He smiled and saluted.
And just as at his father’s funeral, Tommy Poston began to scream.
Chapter Four
Terrified, wanting to cry herself, Holly dropped to her knees on the hard pavement and hugged her wailing son. “Tommy, honey, it’s all right,” she soothed. But her voice broke, and she knew she was lying. It wasn’t all right.
Why did Tommy scream this way? Of course it had something to do with Thomas’s death, but why this reaction? Had Tommy seen how his daddy was killed? Then why was he still alive?
Thank God he was still alive….
Holly looked up. Gabe—kind, thoughtful Gabe who had been there for her at Thomas’s funeral and last evening, too—knelt beside them. Bruce Franklin and Dolph Hilo had joined them. They had been friends of Thomas’s, fellow patrol officers, and…
And they were in uniform! Gabe was dressed in a well-tailored suit, befitting an administrator, but the other cops were in patrol uniforms—complete with navy blue military-style shirts with epaulets, badges and emblems, Sam Browne belts, matching dark trousers. Could that be it? There had been many officers in uniform at Thomas’s funeral, when Tommy had begun to shriek. Some were dressed more formally, but some looked just like this: the uniform Thomas had usually worn.
“Tommy, honey, are you upset because you see the uniforms like your daddy wore?”
He stopped screaming in her ear, took a breath. When she looked him in his red, blotchy, wet face, he stared at her. He didn’t nod, but didn’t shake his head no, either.
She looked desperately at Gabe, whose expression was both compassionate and angry, as if he would choke with his bare hands the demons tormenting her son. “Could that be it, do you think?” she asked. “Is this because he misses his father so much that every time he sees someone in uniform he gets upset?”
But how could Gabe know?
“Maybe,” he said through gritted teeth. “We’ll have to find out. But not now.” He took Tommy from her arms. He was sobbing once more, but at least he had stopped screaming. Holly was reluctant to let him go, but Gabe had known instinctively what to do with him before. Maybe he could help now, too.
“You know what?” Despite the ire Holly had seen in his face, Gabe’s voice was gentle. “I see these guys every day, and sometimes I feel like crying when they’re around, too.”
He made a quick sideways motion with his head. The patrol officers must have somehow un
derstood, for Dolph, a short, dark-haired man with a barrel chest and Asian features, said, “Yeah, he does, too, the wimp.”
Taking his cue, Bruce agreed, “That’s right.” He was a pleasant-looking African-American with a lopsided smile, a few inches taller than his partner.
Tommy stopped crying and looked up at them.
“Hey, Tommy, we don’t make you cry, do we?” Dolph continued. “We’re your pals. Chief McLaren only cries because we don’t like him.”
Tommy looked skeptically from Dolph to Gabe and back again.
“I know how to get them to like me,” Gabe said. “Let’s all go get an ice-cream cone.”
“We’re on duty, chief,” Dolph said. “You gonna excuse us?”
“Nope,” Gabe said. “You’re right. At the risk of your still not liking me, you two get back to work. I’ll just get Tommy and his mom some ice cream. That okay with you, sport?”
Tommy stared at Dolph as if he expected him to cry, then nodded at Gabe.
“Great,” Gabe said. “Let’s go.”
Only then did he look at Holly. Tommy didn’t need any sweets right now. But at least it was a few hours until dinnertime. And the treat sounded appealing to her, too.
“Okay,” she said.
They walked the few blocks to Coast Avenue, Tommy between them holding both their hands. In a short while, they reached the ice-cream shop called “Cones.” It was decorated in lively colors, and a long list of flavors was posted on the wall.
“Do you know what kind you want, Tommy?” Gabe asked.
The boy shook his head.
“You don’t really want me to read the whole list,” Gabe said with an exaggeratedly horrified look in eyes that were the shade of green the ocean became when a storm threatened.
Tommy nodded, and Gabe gave a long-suffering sigh. “You stop me when you hear the one you like, okay, sport?” And then he began to read all the flavors by singing them to the tune of the “Alphabet Song.” He had a wonderfully rich baritone voice, and he emoted the song as if he were in a musical comedy. Tommy laughed in glee. But he didn’t stop Gabe. Holly was glad. She enjoyed the song, too.
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