Borrowing Trouble

by Stacy Finz

  Chapter 7

  Sloane wasn’t home when Brady got back from work. He figured she was burning the midnight oil on her case and it was just as well. Although he’d wondered if she’d want to go for a run now that the days were getting a little longer. February already, and less than two weeks until Jake and Cecilia’s wedding.

  He made himself a sandwich, grabbed a beer from the fridge, took it into the living room, and sprawled out on the sofa. His laptop sat on the coffee table and he flipped it open and went on Facebook. He had four notifications. Never a good sign.

  He took a few more fortifying slugs of his brew and clicked on the first notification. He’d been tagged in a photo. A two-year-old picture of him on the beach in Venice with his arms around psycho Sandra. She’d written, “Brady and I. In love.” She’d posted it two days ago along with three other pictures of them in various poses, though they’d never been photographed together. He hadn’t even known her when the picture was taken.

  A week ago there had been nothing, and he thought maybe she’d finally tired of him, or better yet, had been committed to a mental institution where she could get the help she needed.

  One by one he checked all the usual social media sites she loved. Twitter, Pinterest, Tumblr. On Pinterest she’d recently pinned similar romantic photos of them in various locales. At the Trevi Fountain in Rome, a café in Paris, a wine bar in Manhattan, the top of Mt. Everest, surfing in San Blas. He’d been to all those places, just not with her. The most disturbing of her postings, though, was Tumblr. She’d somehow managed to put up a looped video of them having sex. It was amazing what you could do with Photoshop these days.

  He switched to his old email account. There were dozens of emails from her—all written in the last two days. Something had obviously set her off, but who could read the mind of a madwoman? He quickly scanned through them, hoping to find something threatening so the police could finally haul her in. But they weren’t threatening, just scary as hell because she was not only demented, she was delusional.

  I was thinking that if you didn’t have to work too late at the restaurant tonight we could have crab for dinner. Or should I just come to Pig and Tangelo and we can have a drink at the bar?

  He hadn’t worked at the restaurant nor lived in LA in nine months. The last time he’d seen her, he’d told her in no uncertain terms to never darken his door again. What the hell was she talking about?

  I bought you the sweetest tie today. You can wear it when my folks take us to brunch.

  The emails just got more and more bizarre, as if Sandra lived on her own planet in a perpetual dreamworld.

  Despite knowing it was of no use, he copied the emails and sent them to the Santa Monica police detective on the case. He knew it was a waste of time. The police had already told him that there was no law against sending crazy emails unless they contained threats of physical harm. And while it was illegal to post sex videos of a person without their consent, she hadn’t identified him in the video and the police said the images were too obscured to completely make him out. Uh, could be because he never actually made a sex video with her. But she had somehow managed to Photoshop his arms into her pornographic show. Because those were definitely Brady’s one-of-a-kind tattoos. Nope, not good enough, the detective had told him, saying his best bet was to change email accounts . . . phone numbers . . . jobs . . . and eventually addresses—to the other end of the state. Welcome to the United States of America, land of the free nut-jobs.

  He switched to his other email account to make sure it hadn’t been breached. Just some spam and a note from his sister in South Carolina. She, her husband, and their little girl were his only family after his parents had died in a car crash ten years ago. They tried to talk to each other either by phone or email at least once a week. Kendall worried if he didn’t check in. Apparently Daphne had lost a tooth and Jack was taking Kendall to Myrtle Beach for Valentine’s Day. Nice.

  Brady tapped out a quick response to his sister, told her to kiss Daphne for him, signed off, and put the laptop away. Next stop was his old cell phone. He had switched services entirely. But the police had told him to keep his old number just in case psycho Sandra left a threatening phone call. Then booyah. No such luck. Just more of the same drivel about how much she loved him and all the things they were going to do together. Three messages in total. In the beginning, she’d leave so many messages that his voice mail would be full an hour after he’d cleared it. Nowadays she was like hepatitis. She could lie dormant for days, weeks, even months, and then just like that, erupt into a liver-eating disease.

  He sent the messages to a service that time-stamped and archived them so he could keep a permanent record. The police had told him to document everything, which he did. To no avail.

  He brought his plate to the sink and washed it while peering out the window. Still no sign of Sloane’s police SUV. He’d put new bulbs in the motion lights so she wouldn’t come home to a dark house. Tough case she had there. But truth be told, it seemed to put a little pep in her step. Not that she was happy that someone was dead, just the contrary. But he got the impression that she needed to feel useful. He didn’t think bear duty cut it.

  He still wondered what had happened with her in LA—whether it was a bad breakup or something traumatic that happened on the job. Maybe that close call she’d had during the hostage situation she’d told him about. Brady figured Sloane would confide in him in good time. From the refrigerator, he grabbed another beer and channel-surfed from the sofa. Nothing good on. Outside, he heard a car door slam and got up to see who was there. Sloane got out of her SUV and walked the short distance to the porch. From her sagging posture, she looked beat.

  He opened the door. “Hey, how you doin’?”

  “Tired . . . and frustrated. We didn’t find anything else.”

  “Like more bones?” Brady wasn’t exactly sure what she’d hoped for.

  “A wallet with a driver’s license would’ve been nice.” The corner of her mouth quirked up, like she knew it had been a long shot.

  It was cold outside, so he opened his door and asked her if she wanted to come in. “I could heat you up something.”

  “Uh, I’m hungry, but I really need a shower and to change. After slogging through the dirt all day, these pants are ready to stand on their own.”

  “Go clean up and I’ll make you something to eat.”

  “Oh, Brady, I don’t want to take advantage. You already brought me lunch.”

  “No big deal. This is what I do. Go, get cleaned up. Food will be waiting for you when you’re ready.” He didn’t give her a chance to argue, just shut the door and went into the kitchen to see what he could dig up.

  He had enough ingredients to throw together a baked ziti—good comfort food that wouldn’t take too long. While he boiled the water, he broke out a jar of the marinara sauce he’d canned during tomato season and grabbed a package of ground beef—McCreedy beef—from the refrigerator. Brady could hear the water going in the apartment next door and let himself imagine Sloane taking a shower. Yeah, he wouldn’t mind seeing that, which lifted his spirits somewhat. Since the Sandra ordeal, Brady hadn’t had an appetite for sex. Sure, he still thought about it like any other normal guy, but the thought of taking another woman to bed filled him with apprehension these days. You know what they say, Once bitten by a lunatic, twice shy. Maybe it was a good thing. Before Sandra, he’d gotten around. Unlike a lot of folks in the restaurant business, he’d never become involved in the drug scene. Cocaine had ruined a lot of good chefs. But he’d partaken in the after-hour parties and sex . . . and had gotten ruined by that instead.

  He heard the water shut off and hurried the ziti along. By the time Sloane knocked on the door, the dish was in the oven, baking. He yelled for her to come in and uncorked a bottle of wine. She came back into the kitchen and had on black yoga pants and a skintight athletic turtleneck. He was so busy noticing how the outfit skimmed that body of hers that he nearly missed the fact
that she was wearing her gun in the holster around her hips again.

  He pointed. “You wear that everywhere?”

  “Yep.”

  Brady might not know much about police protocol, but he’d known cops. He’d played ball with a few back in South Carolina and jogged with two vice cops in LA. He couldn’t recall any of them packing while off duty. It struck him as strange.

  “You mind if I ask why?”

  “A lot of guys on the force do. Men just have more places to hide them.”

  “You don’t feel unsafe with me, do you?”

  She jerked in surprise. “Of course not. Should I?”

  “Never,” he said, wondering if she’d had a bad experience with a date, someone who’d tried to force himself on her. Maybe that’s why she’d moved away. “The ziti should be out of the oven in another thirty minutes. Want a glass of wine?”

  “Absolutely.” She saw the bottle on the counter and poured them each one. “Thank you, Brady. You’ve probably already eaten and are doing this just for me.”

  “Nope. I just got home a little while ago.”

  “Working late, huh?”

  “Just sending a couple of emails and catching up with people. My sister’s in South Carolina. It’s hard with the time difference to talk on the phone.”

  “Do you have any other siblings?”

  “Nope. Just Kendall. My parents died ten years ago in a car accident. Kendall’s married and has a five-year-old daughter, Daphne. We’re tight, though I don’t get to see them much—just Skype.”

  “I’m sorry about your parents. That must’ve been awful.”

  “I guess it was the reason I came out West. Without them, and with Kendall having her own family, there wasn’t anything to hold me there. How about you and your family? From what you’ve said, I gather you’re not close.”

  She shook her head and swallowed her wine. “We’re very close. That’s the problem—four alpha males always trying to dictate what I do. My oldest brother, Aidan, wouldn’t even let me go to my prom without playing chauffeur so he could keep an eye on my date.”

  Brady laughed. “What about your mom?”

  “She’s great—my only ally. But I needed to get out of there before they smothered me to death.”

  He nodded and together they set the table. When Brady could, he snuck peeks at her moving around his kitchen. Sloane McBride was seriously nice to look at. He quickly tossed a salad and pulled the ziti from the oven.

  “That smells like heaven,” Sloane said, and sat while Brady served them both.

  “It’s nothing special, just fast. Were you out by the river the whole day?”

  “Pretty much. Normally, I wouldn’t eat this late, but I probably burned four thousand calories today. Wyatt Lambert helped me for a while, but it was mostly me and the sheriff’s guys.”

  “You’re looking for anything that would help identify the body?”

  “Or anything that would point to a crime.”

  “Is that what you think this is?”

  “We didn’t find anything to indicate foul play, but that doesn’t mean that the person wasn’t killed somewhere else and moved.”

  “Will the forensic people be able to determine the cause of death?” Brady asked.

  “Maybe. It depends on how degraded the skeleton is.”

  Pretty interesting stuff, Brady thought.

  Sloane took a few bites of the ziti and moaned in pleasure. “This is so good. It’s like with the BLT this afternoon. It’s just regular stuff, but somehow you manage to make it taste gourmet and amazing. Don’t take this the wrong way, Brady, but you should have your own restaurant. The Lumber Baron is wonderful, but . . .”

  “Nate Breyer owns nine luxury and boutique hotels in San Francisco and a cabin resort in Glory Junction. The Lumber Baron isn’t the only place I cook. Besides, there’s more to the quality of life than a job.” Like not having a crazy woman sneak into your home and slit your throat while you sleep. “What about you? How’s having Rhys as a boss?”

  “I’ll be honest; I was worried in the beginning. But so far I’ve got no complaints.”

  “Why were you worried?”

  She seemed hesitant but finally said, “He’s only a few years older than me, very nice-looking, and I thought he would be full of himself.”

  “Like he’d try to put the moves on you?”

  “Not necessarily, but like he’d be difficult to work for, especially if you’re a woman. But that does not appear to be the case.”

  “I can tell you this, although you never really know a person for sure: He’s dedicated to his family and openly dotes on them. He doesn’t strike me as the type who would make a pass at another woman. I think his relationship with Connie should tell you a lot. He comes on gruff with her, but there’s no question she has the upper hand. She’s always calling him on crap and you can tell he’s amused.”

  “Yeah, I kind of noticed that. I also like how he defers to Jake a lot. Someone with Jake’s experience could be very threatening to a young chief. But Rhys is always consulting with him. Did you know they all play basketball at lunch—even Connie?”

  “Nate and I sometimes join in if the inn’s not too busy. Anyone can play. You too.”

  “It’s been too hectic,” she said. “But I might when things slow down.”

  He smiled at her because she was so solemn—and pretty. For a crazy second he wondered how bad it would be if they made out for a while on the couch. Then just as quickly nixed the idea. Not because he thought she’d go scary Sandra on him, but they had a nice friendship and he didn’t want to ruin it. First, by making Sloane a sitting duck if Sandra ever found out about them. And second, by leaving.

  When things got too hot, Brady always left.

  Brady walked Sloane the three feet to her apartment again, stuck his hands in his pockets, and rocked on his feet. She got the distinct impression that he wanted to do more, but she wasn’t about to throw herself at him, even though she wanted to. He was driving her crazy with all his surreptitious sultry glances . . . and the Southern accent. Whew, that Southern accent. Just the tenor of his voice made her hot. And the way he fed her constantly . . . didn’t he know that was a freaking aphrodisiac?

  “Thanks for dinner, Brady.”

  “You’re welcome, Sloane.” He grinned, and Sloane considered going up on tiptoes and placing a small peck on his lips. Nothing overt. Just, hey. Perhaps she’d rub up against him a little, you know, by accident.

  Instead, she went inside and shut the door. She was just about to change into her pajamas when her phone vibrated with a text from Rhys. The Ponderosa had a 415. Shrugging into her warmest jacket and grabbing her badge, she ran to her vehicle, turned on the siren and flashing lights, and rocketed down Donner Road. By the time she got to the Ponderosa it was total mayhem. Bottles broken, chairs knocked down, and a frightened bartender cowering behind the bar. The cook—she thought his name was Tater—guarded the door to the kitchen with a broom. Two women and three men were going at it. Arms swinging and legs kicking. One of the men spun wildly, wielding a chair as a weapon.

  Rhys was doing his best to defuse the situation, but there were too many moving parts for him to handle it on his own. Not without shooting someone.

  He motioned for her to take the two women, who were both on the floor, clawing and tearing at each other’s hair—probably why he’d called her instead of Jake or Wyatt. One’s blouse had been ripped, exposing a good amount of flesh. The other was about to smash a plate over Ripped Blouse’s head.

  “Hold it right there,” Sloane said, drawing her weapon. The woman raised the plate a little higher. “Don’t even think about it. Slowly, put the plate down.”

  “Or what, you’ll shoot me?”

  “You really want to risk it?” It was difficult to sound authoritative in yoga pants. Sloane nudged the woman’s arm with the toe of her tennis shoe. “Put the plate down, please.”

  “Only because you said please.” The woma
n placed the plate on the floor next to her head and Sloane kicked it out of the way.

  “Roll onto your stomach, place your hands on the back of your head, and spread your legs. Please.”

  Both women complied. The other one looked the worse for wear. Besides the torn blouse, her lip was bleeding. Sloane pulled a handful of plasticuffs from her jacket pocket and restrained both women.

  “You need some of these?” she called to Rhys, who had all three men down on the floor.

  “Yeah, that would be good.” He darted a look her way to make sure she’d cuffed both her suspects. “I only brought the one pair.”

  She helped him restrain the three men and said, “One of these women needs first aid. Should I call an ambulance?”

  “I’ll take care of it when I call for a sheriff’s van,” he said. “Separate the two women, read ’em their rights, and try to find out what the hell was going on here.”

  “Okay. I just want to get a blanket from my vehicle first.” When Rhys looked at her funny she said, “One of them has a torn blouse.”

  “All right.”

  Sloane had expected him to tell her to forget it. In her experience male officers didn’t care too much about modesty, especially if it meant getting a peep show.

  “How you doing back there, Floyd?” Rhys called to the bartender.

  “Okay,” Floyd replied, and started cleaning up the broken glass. The cook also left his kitchen post and began righting tables and chairs.

  As Sloane headed to her vehicle, one of the owners—she couldn’t remember which one—met her at the door, looking panic-stricken.

  “I can go in, right?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Sloane said. “Just be careful of the glass.”

  “Great.” The owner blew out an exasperated breath.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks, but take pictures,” Sloane called over her shoulder, and got the police-issued blanket from the back of her SUV.

  Upon her return, she tucked the blanket around the woman with the ripped top, and like Rhys had requested, separated the two for questioning. Rhys had done the same with his three. A short time later, two paramedics came through the door and treated the woman with the bloody lip and checked the other four for injuries. By the time Sloane had gotten both women’s statements, a sheriff’s van had come to transport the five brawlers to the Plumas County jail in Quincy. Between the bartender, the cook, and the owner—Mariah, Rhys had called her—the place was almost back to normal.