“The worst that’s going to happen is that she won’t find anything,” David said. “And if she does, she earns a few steps up the ladder for doing a great job and keeping us all safe.”
David wasn’t predisposed to worry about Sam like he and Pierce were.
And put the way David had said it, Sam’s obsession didn’t sound so…wrongheaded. Or threatening.
His shot to her about her dad had been cheap.
Which meant he owed her an apology.
Dammit.
8
Friday nights in Fort County during the fall were extra busy. Anyone would think the high school football players were professionals, given the number of fans who turned out for the games. There were more adults than kids.
The county, and Chandler city police, ran extra patrols from August through late October, mostly on the lookout for potential DUIs. There’d been two separate fatalities from one small-township K-to-twelve school the previous year. Three weeks apart. Both sixteen-year-olds. Both under the influence.
But alcohol hadn’t been their drug of choice.
Toxicology reports had come back with dangerous levels of methamphetamine in both cases.
Tonight was the season opener and Chandler’s team was playing at home. Sam wasn’t disappointed to draw her alma mater for patrol duty. Besides her regular shift duties, she could keep an eye out for Maggie Winston.
In full uniform, her long brown hair up in its customary bun, Sam stayed well behind the bleachers as she avidly watched the scene for illegal activity.
At an event like this, she might expect fights, underage drinking or drug use and, God forbid, rape. Two rapes had been reported in the county last football season. One by a teacher. The other a date rape.
In both cases the accused had pled out. Sam hated that part of the law. She and her fellow officers risked their lives to get crud off the streets and then the judicial system, to save time and money, gave the offenders reduced or suspended sentences in lieu of a costly trial.
Kicking at a rock with the edge of her black steel-toed boot, Sam watched out of the corner of her eye as a couple of teenagers—one male, one female, approximately sixteen years of age—slipped under the home team bleachers. Necking sessions weren’t illegal.
And she wasn’t a voyeur.
But something about the way they were feeling each other up caught her attention. The male put his hand in the pocket of her navy hoodie, and the female put hers in the back pocket of his jeans. When their free hands remained at their sides, Sam started moving closer.
The students were lip-locked and didn’t notice her approach.
Sam barely heard the roar of the crowd. The world consisted of three people. Her. And the two teens she was watching. There…
The male withdrew his hand from the female’s pocket and Sam caught the sheen of plastic before it was masked by the navy fabric.
The couple parted and Sam moved in, hoping, even as she did so, that she was wrong. That the worst that would happen was that these two kids were going to be embarrassed at being caught feeling each other up.
“Hold it.” She planted herself directly in the path of the young man, who was turning to leave.
“What?” He was freckle faced—not shaving yet—with short dark hair that looked as if it had been cut at home with a bowl for a guide. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he added when he saw her uniform, his gaze landing on the gun at her waist. “Did we do something wrong?”
“That’s what I’m here to find out.” Sam flipped her radio to Send so that Chuck, the only other officer covering the game, could hear everything that transpired. “What were you two doing under here?”
The girl, blonde, blue eyed, stood silently. Now that Sam had a closer look, she saw that the kid was much younger, maybe twelve.
“We were…you know… I just kissed her. Is that, you know, against the law or something?” The young man’s voice resonated with fear.
“What’s your name?” Sam asked.
“Shane Hamacher.”
Sam looked at the girl. “And you?”
“Nicole. Nicole Hatch.”
“Are you MaryLee Hatch’s daughter?” Sam had gone to school with MaryLee’s younger sister. And, like the rest of the county, had been saddened when MaryLee’s husband had been killed in a motorcycle crash in the middle of a poker run—a planned event where motorcyclists have to stop at five to seven predetermined points along a ride, collecting cards at each one. The rider with the best poker hand at the end of the ride wins a prize. Sometimes cash.
In Hatch’s case, they’d been riding for charity—the Fort County sheriff’s office.
“Yes, ma’am,” Nicole said. It was one of the shakiest answers Sam had ever heard.
“What’s that in your pocket, Nicole?”
The girl reached for the left pocket of her hoodie, pulling it inside out. “Nothing.”
“Not that pocket, the other one.”
Sam was looking at the girl, but didn’t miss a beat as Shane Hamacher made a break. With a quick side step, she stood solid as he bumped into her. Hard.
“Hold it right there,” she told him, ready to grab his arm if he attempted to flee a second time.
Tears streamed down Nicole’s face but she didn’t move, didn’t say a word, as Sam reached into her pocket and pulled out a plastic sandwich bag containing about a gram of little white crystals that resembled a cross between quartz and crushed ice. Methamphetamine.
“How much money did she just put in your back pocket, Shane?”
“I don’t have any money. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never seen that stuff before.” The boy leaned in for a closer look at the bag in Sam’s hand. “What is it?”
“He knows what it is.” Nicole was a smart girl—refusing to cover for her dealer. “He charged me a hundred dollars for it.”
“Show me what’s in your back pocket, Shane.”
The boy could have made things difficult. He could have resisted. Instead, he pulled out five twenties.
And Sam, using her radio to call Chuck over for backup as she pulled out her handcuffs, saw him already approaching, his face grim.
It was sometime after three by the time she finally finished her shift and made it home.
She hadn’t seen Maggie Winston all night.
Chandler, Ohio
Saturday, September 4, 2010
I’d been so busy Thursday, I hadn’t gotten around to calling Samantha to tell her to stop any further surveillance of Maggie Winston. I tried phoning her twice on Friday, leaving messages that hadn’t been returned.
Which gave me the perfect excuse to stop by her place after Deb and I returned Saturday morning from skating part of the seventy-two-mile trail that crossed southern Ohio. After dropping Deb off, I didn’t bother going home to shower and change.
Sam had seen a lot worse than a thirty-three-year old in bike pants, a T-shirt and a wrinkled black hoodie. She’d seen me dripping with sweat after basketball games. And once I got home, I was staying put. I had a book to read for book club and I was going to get it done this time without staying up half the night before the meeting. Besides, Camy had been alone far too much this week and I’d promised not to leave her except for the skate.
The promise and a eucalyptus treat I’d presented as I’d walked out the door seemed to appease my four-pound princess enough to have her grudgingly climb up on her bed to wait for me.
She wouldn’t be so accommodating if I went home and then left again. Worse, she’d be sad and hurt and she didn’t deserve that.
Camy didn’t know it yet, but I wasn’t going out that night. And even better, she was going to have company. A psychology doctoral candidate I was mentoring was coming over.
Sam didn’t answer my first knock. I stood on the solid-wood white front porch, admiring the white wicker furniture and colorful flowers and whimsical wind chimes. How did the woman manage to save the world and make a beautiful home for herself at the
same time? The contrast between the work Sam did and her house came as no surprise to me.
There were two Sams. The great, but hardened, cop. And the sensitive woman locked inside who was allowed to come out occasionally.
She answered my second knock.
“Kelly? What’s wrong?” Sam’s long hair was mussed around her face. She wore flannel pants, a white tank top and nothing else.
“Did I wake you?” I’d never have knocked twice if I’d known she was sleeping. I thought she’d seen my car and was avoiding me—thinking that I’d come by to nag her into a session. Not that I blamed her. I was going to nag her.
“Yeah,” Sam yawned. “My night rotation is on Friday.”
“You work days.”
“With the cutbacks, we each take one night a week.”
“Hey, I’m really sorry, Sam,” I said, backing up. “Go back to sleep. Now.” Damn. The woman comes to me suffering from job stress-induced insomnia and I go and wake her up.
“It’s okay.” She came outside barefoot, in spite of the chilliness in the air. “I’m due up in half an hour, anyway. I promised Ben Chase I’d watch his kid play soccer. What’s up?”
Ben Chase. One of her fellow officers.
“You want to put some coffee on?” I asked, still feeling badly. “I can wait.”
“You want some?”
“No. I don’t drink the stuff. Diet cola’s my caffeine addiction.”
“Wish I had some to offer you, but…”
I shrugged. “I have one in the car. I’ll get it.”
“Then if you don’t mind, I need my first cup of coffee before I can think.”
Sam moved around her kitchen like a professional barista. Three different machines sat on the counters. She poured ground beans in one of them, then scooped, poured and frothed.
I sat on a stool at the island counter and watched in amazement.
She turned, steaming cup to her lips, and caught me staring at her. She grinned.
“You know I like my coffee.”
“Looks like you have some of your brother’s genes, after all.”
“My mom insisted that we both spend time in the kitchen with her. I needed the coffee just to stay awake through the ordeal.” Sam slid up onto the stool next to me. Despite her grumbling, I suspected my friend was an excellent cook.
“You sleeping any better?” I asked her.
“Some.” And then, since I wouldn’t let her escape my gaze, she said, “Not really.”
“You ready for some help?”
“Are you finally going to refer my prescription?” She sounded less than hopeful.
“No, but even if you won’t come talk to me, I’m going to advise you to cut back on the coffee. That stuff won’t be fazed by a hapless sleeping pill.” Silence ensued.
“I’ve been ordered to call you off,” I said.
“Off what? By who?” She hadn’t lowered the cup from her lips. Just held it there, nursing it.
“Maggie Winston’s mother, Lori. She doesn’t want you watching her house, her daughter or probably even this town, based on her vehemence.” I told Sam about the unexpected turn the call had taken Thursday morning.
“Since I’m not on any official order to keep Maggie under surveillance, I can hardly be called off, can I?”
She hadn’t disappointed me. “No, but you have the areas you’re assigned to and—”
“I’m obligated, by moral code, to patrol any part of this county that I think might need protecting.”
I didn’t ask if that was police moral code or Samantha Jones moral code. Didn’t make much difference.
“I might be overreacting here, Sam,” I admitted. “Unfortunately, there are probably dozens of fourteen-year-olds on the verge of having sex and you can’t watch out for all of them.”
“No, but if Maggie comes to you and tells you that she’s had sex with an older man, instead of just thinking about it, then what?”
“Then I report it to the authorities. I have to. You know that.”
“The authorities. That’s me.”
“Yes.”
“So you can call me in after the child’s been hurt, but it’s somehow wrong for you to do so when there’s still time to avert disaster?” The deputy rose, whipped up another cup of joe for herself.
“Well, obviously I don’t think so.” I raised my voice to be heard over the machine. “I called you, didn’t I? I just want to be clear here, and—”
“You’re clear. We’re clear. It’s all clear.”
The irony of the situation was no more lost on her than it was on me. Because after Maggie was the victim of a pedophile, I’d be called in officially, too. Or some other psychologist would be.
“I just want to know what the mother is hiding,” Sam said, coming back to join me. Her eyes were more alert. “She wants you to invade her kid’s brain, her confidences, but the second you start looking outside your office, the dogs are called off.”
“I know. It bothered me, too. You’d think she’d be overjoyed—or relieved, at least—to think that Maggie has a free bodyguard.”
“Albeit a part-time one.”
“Right.”
“When do you see Maggie again?” Sam pulled a foot up to the rung of the stool, resting her cup on her bent knee.
“I don’t. Unless she calls or stops by.”
“Let me know if she does.”
“Of course. And you’re going to keep watching her?”
“I think I’ll step things up a bit. See what the mother’s so desperate to hide.”
I was glad to hear that. Overjoyed. And relieved.
“I’d best get going,” I said, standing, diet cola in hand. “Camy’s waiting.”
“You need to get a life, my friend,” Sam said, not budging as she smiled at me. “It’s a beautiful Saturday morning and you’re rushing home to a dog. Furthermore, you think your dog is aware that you’re on your way home. She has no concept of time.”
Sam was wrong about that. “Camy’s a princess, not a dog. Just ask her. And princesses have schedules.”
“Seriously,” Sam said, pinning me with that look she had. “It’s been, what, two years since you’ve had a date?”
“Six months. I went to that dinner in Columbus, remember?” It had been a professional thing, but I hadn’t gone solo as I usually did.
“With some guy old enough to be your dad and you haven’t seen him since.”
“We didn’t have a lot in common.” He was a professor at the university where I mentored.
“Let me set something up with you and Chuck,” Sam said, repeating an offer I’d heard before.
“I don’t want to date a cop.” Too much danger. Too much risk. And Sam couldn’t argue with that one. It was why she was still single.
“You’re thirty-three years old and have never had a long-term serious relationship,” Sam said, as if I didn’t know. “People are going to start thinking you’re gay.”
“They are not.” I laughed at the absurdity. And then said, “I’m not.” Just in case.
“I know you’re not. Sheila Grant would have had you by now if you were.”
“Sheila is happily taken.”
“Which brings us back to you.” Sam sobered. “I worry about you, Kel. You’re hardly ever alone, but you’re always alone.”
“I don’t feel alone,” I told her. “A woman doesn’t need a man to be complete, Sam. I thought you, of all people, understood that.”
“I do. It’s just…at least I’ve got Kyle. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”
I was horrified when Sam’s eyes filled with tears. Samantha Jones didn’t cry. Ever. It was like a rule or something.
“What’s going on? Has Kyle found someone else?” It was inevitable. They all knew that he wanted a wife. A family. Always had. Even in high school, when most of them were raring to leave town and see the real world, Kyle had been the odd one out, wanting nothing more than to get married and stay on his farm fore
ver.
Samantha shook her head. “It’s stupid. I’m just tired and overreacting.”
“To what?”
She looked straight at me. “Did you know that Kyle slept with someone else the weekend we broke up after I signed up to go to the academy?”
I was stunned. “No way,” I said, falling back against the couch. “Kyle? Who was it?”
“At least I’m not the only one who didn’t know about it.” Sam’s voice was bitter. I didn’t like the tone coming from her. Wasn’t used to it.
“Who was it?” I asked again. “Kyle never wanted anyone but you. Everyone knows that.”
“Yeah, well, he had someone. A prostitute. Though I don’t think she was one then. Supposedly she got pregnant.”
“Supposedly?”
“That part’s just rumor.”
“Then that’s all it is,” I said. “Come on, Sam. If he’d gotten a woman pregnant, he’d have a child in his life. You know Kyle.”
“Do I?”
Sam looked like a lost vulnerable kid—nothing like the Sam Jones I’d known since grade school.
9
Sam stopped by Sunday night. Zodiac greeted her outside, but Kyle waited in the house for her.
“Where’s Grandpa?” she asked, standing in the doorway of the kitchen.
“In bed.”
“Is he asleep?”
“I’m not sure. I pulled up the bars about ten minutes ago.” He’d had to resort to a hospital bed six months earlier because his grandfather kept trying to get out of bed in the night. The old man’s knees gave out on him more times than not these days and he’d taken a couple of potentially serious falls.
“Mind if I check?”
Kyle motioned toward the bedroom directly off the kitchen—his grandfather’s room for as long as he could remember—then followed Sam.
“Hey, Grandpa!”
“Suzy, my girl. Come, come.” His grandfather patted the side of the bed and Sam settled beside him, taking his wrinkled hand in both of hers.
Zodiac lay on the floor at her feet.
Suzy. Kyle’s mother. A woman who’d died so long ago he couldn’t even remember her.
“You’re a good girl,” Grandpa said, his toothless grin, so rare these days, big and broad. “My boy, he needs you.” The old man looked at Kyle.
The Second Lie Page 8