In Full Force: Badges of Becker County

by Kathy Altman

  “You let me know the instant the sheriff gets here,” he continued, and pointed the bottle at Charity, not realizing he’d already removed the cap. Soda splashed onto the floor. “You understand me?”

  Enough already. “What I don’t think you understand, Dr. West, is that I can have you—all of you—barred from the courthouse. Now if you think that’s in Justine’s best interests then by all means, continue to make an ass of yourself.”

  A snort sounded on the other side of the glass. Grady’s mother gasped in outrage while his father pushed his soda into Grady’s hands and grabbed for his phone.

  How many blistering messages had Hampton West already left for Sheriff Pratt? Charity bit back a sigh and turned to Grady. “Justine contacted you. We need to talk.”

  * * *

  Ignoring his parents’ protests, Grady followed Charity to a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY, where she held up a badge to the camera in the corner above their heads. A buzzer sounded, and she gestured him through. A chair squealed and groaned as a dipstick-skinny woman, sporting a buzz cut, crimson lip color, and a bright-orange, oversized sweater, swiveled away from an array of monitors to watch them pass. She aimed an exaggerated wink at Grady, and he walked right into Charity.

  His hands shot up and out and his fingers closed around her upper arms. She still smelled like honeysuckle. The scent, coupled with the supple warmth beneath his palms, kicked off an erotic carnival of memories. His breathing went shallow, and every muscle in his body tightened.

  Judging by the stone-faced glare Charity aimed over her shoulder, her memories were not as agreeable. He dropped his hands in the same instant she shrugged free of his grip.

  “Sorry about that.” And he was. Because he really wanted to touch her again, which meant he was forgetting the reason he was here in the first place.

  Justine? The sister you flew six hundred miles to rescue?

  A few long strides caught him up again to Charity, who’d stopped outside a room at the end of the hall. Table, two chairs, a whiteboard bearing the smudged streaks of a permanent marker. He motioned with his jaw at the room next to it.

  “Justine in there?”

  Charity nodded.

  “She all right?”

  “Physically she’s fine. Hungover, but fine.”

  “Can I talk to her?”

  “Not yet.”

  Right. Not until he’d provided his version of the phone calls. He raised a hand and squeezed the back of his neck. “Who died?”

  Charity shoved her hands into her pockets. “A local real estate agent. She’d been in town less than five years. And she didn’t die, she was murdered.”

  Her voice caught on the word “die.” Typical Charity Bishop. Harsh words, marshmallow heart. He gave her a moment by surveying the space, looking from the dispatcher’s station with its semicircle of monitors to the battered file cabinets and glassed-in bulletin boards lining the wall he faced. To his left, the hallway ended in a wide metal door sandwiched between a water fountain and a tall, wall-mounted lockbox. The lower half of the door was riddled with scratches, dents, and scuffmarks. Had to be the entrance to the holding cells.

  Where they’d be holding Justine, once they’d finished grilling her?

  He jerked back to Charity. “Used to be Sheriff Pratt and one deputy.”

  “We have three deputies now.” Static blurted from her radio and she slapped a hand to her shoulder to dial it down. Impatience had already replaced distress. “We all work the day shift and pull nights when we need to. The posse fills in when we’re shorthanded.”

  “And you have a dispatcher.”

  “Two, actually.” She gestured behind him, at the desk manned by the woman who’d winked at him. “Brenda June and her sister Trudy. Night and day.”

  “As in shifts, or personalities?”

  “As in both.”

  He braced his arms across his chest and leaned a shoulder against the wall. “You seem to be in your element here.”

  “You seem to be surprised.” She paused. “But that wasn’t a compliment, was it?”

  “It wasn’t an insult.”

  “I’m a checkmark on a list. I get it.” Yanking her hands free of her pockets, she swung toward the wall space between the interview rooms and plucked a dark blue folder free of a plastic holder attached to the wall. She kept her head bent as she flipped through the pages. “You’re reassuring yourself that Justine’s in good hands. Don’t worry, she is. We’re a great team. We’ll make sure justice is done.”

  “Spoken like a true politician.”

  She stiffened, then surprised him by making a face. “At least you didn’t say comic book hero.”

  “Not hero. Heroine. Like Wonder Woman. Big hair, big—”

  “Let’s leave my hair out of this.” She was frowning as she flapped the folder at the interview room, but he hadn’t missed that telltale twitch to her lips. “Have a seat,” she said.

  “I was going to say ‘crime fighting opportunities.’”

  “I’m sure you were. Deputy Morrissey will be right with you.”

  “I thought you had questions.”

  “We do.” She hugged the folder to her chest. “A deputy will be in to ask them.”

  “You’re a deputy.”

  Another third party snort. They both turned. A flash of orange and a grinding squeal was followed by a thump and a low-pitched curse as the dispatcher Brenda June tried—and failed—to hide the fact that she’d been eavesdropping. Charity clenched her teeth.

  Grady straightened away from the wall. “What if I have questions?”

  “When you’re the one wearing the uniform, you can ask all the questions you want.”

  He eyed her patch-happy shirt, tucked into a pair of pants sporting a gold stripe down the seam. She filled out both oh-so-nicely. And he was an ass for noticing. “You really think my sister’s capable of murder?”

  “I already explained—”

  “That she’s a witness. Right. So why treat me like I inherited some kind of killing gene?”

  For one glimmering instant the detachment disappeared from her eyes. It happened so fast Grady didn’t have time to decide what had taken its place. Frustration? Sadness? Regret?

  She took a deliberate step back. “I have a job to do. The sooner you let me get back to it, the sooner we’ll all have some answers.”

  “There’s nothing you can tell me. Nothing at all?”

  Charity’s eyes narrowed. “You expect me to compromise the investigation why? Because once upon a time I wore your letterman jacket? Because you dropped everything and hustled out here from Seattle? Or because your last name is West?”

  Grady inhaled. She was right. He was out of line. But he needed to know what the hell was going on. “How about because we’re friends.”

  “We were friends once. Now we’re barely acquaintances.”

  She jerked her chin at the room behind him, and this time Grady took the hint. His mother was right; they needed to get his sister back home. No doubt she was exhausted, and more than a little freaked out. He scraped a chair out from under the table and sat down to wait.

  Half an hour later he was back in the lobby with two teed-off parents and a headache the size of Yellowstone National Park.

  Justine had called him twice. Each time he’d assumed she was calling from the sheriff’s office, but it turned out that first call had been made from the crime scene. The police wanted to know why. So did Grady, but they wouldn’t let him see his sister.

  The relief he’d welcomed half an hour earlier had gathered into a cold ball of dread, weighing heavy in his gut, chilling him from the inside out. When Charity returned to the lobby, Grady stood, but no one else stirred. His mother had long since passed out on his father’s shoulder. Not that his father would have gotten up, anyway.

  Grady eyed the rigid line of Charity’s shoulders, and his fingers fisted inside his pants pockets. Whatever she had to say, it wouldn’t be good.

&
nbsp; She aimed her words at his tie. “You can all go home now,” she said quietly. “We won’t be releasing Mrs. Langford this morning.”

  His father blasted up out of his chair and his mother fell forward, ready to somersault onto the floor. Both Grady and Charity lunged forward, but Charity got there first. His mother woke, sputtering and slapping at Charity’s hands. Grady wedged himself in between the two women while his father picked up the nearest chair and slammed it back down with a rattling crash.

  “Give me one good reason! One good reason for keeping my daughter here!”

  “For God’s sake, Dad.”

  “Calm down, Dr. West.”

  “Calm down! Calm down? You tell me why I can’t take my daughter home, and you tell me now.”

  Charity widened her stance and emptied her expression. “You can’t take her home because she just confessed to the murder of Sarah Huffman.”

  * * *

  If Charity didn’t have a confessed killer to question, Dixon and Mo waiting for her in the break room, and a boob-high pile of paperwork to finish, she’d strip naked and crouch in the corner of the shower and sob while the water ran from hot to cold, cliché be damned.

  But she didn’t have the time, and the department didn’t have a shower. Well, unless she counted the one in lockup.

  Not.

  Tears prodded the backs of her eyes. With the heels of her hands, she prodded right back. This time yesterday, Sarah Huffman had been alive and well.

  Hell, five hours ago, she’d been alive and well. Someone had choked the life out of her and left her lying in a parking lot. Had she had any inkling at all of the danger she’d been in?

  Charity stood in front of the bathroom mirror, chin to chest, eyes clenched shut. She shoved at the mental image of Sarah Huffman’s body, only to have it replaced by Grady West’s face.

  Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap. She didn’t need this. Didn’t need him. Didn’t need the mocking tilt of his mouth or the dark blue tease of his eyes or the loose, lean length of him she’d once upon a time spent hours and hours wandering, like an idle tourist without a map.

  She pictured his mouth again and willed away a shudder. What she was feeling had nothing to do with Grady West. It was her. Her and her undersexed body craving the sensations they’d once shared. The sweaty, honest, boneless-as-a-marathon-runner-at-the-finish-line kind of sex they’d always enjoyed.

  And that was with the teenaged Grady. What would sex be like with the all-grown-up-and-in-his-hunky-prime version?

  The bathroom door opened and the dispatcher sidled in, checking over her shoulder all the while, as if one of the guys might sneak a peek.

  Charity slapped the faucet on. “I’m not naked in here, Brenda June.”

  “Course not.” Brenda June set the latch. “I just didn’t want anyone to see you blubbering.”

  The soap clattered into the sink. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I grew up in Becker County, blondie. I remember. You and Grady West were the talk of the town—the soccer-playing valedictorian with all the money and manners hooking up with the brash blonde with more looks than pedigree. Now, years later, he’s back and, well—who could blame you for feeling nostalgic?”

  Charity grunted. Nostalgic. That was one way to put it. She yanked a paper towel free of the dispenser.

  “And then you’re forced to arrest his sister? For murder? No wonder you’re hiding out in here. I say, go ahead and wallow.”

  “I’m not hiding or wallowing, Dispatch, I’m washing my hands. Yes, I regret having to arrest Justine. More than that, I regret that Sarah Huffman is dead. As for the rest of it, how pathetic do you think I am? Seriously, I have better things to do with my time than pine for a married man.”

  “Pine?” Brenda June shoved the sleeves of her pumpkin-colored sweater up past her skinny elbows. When she dropped her arms, the fabric coasted right back down again. “First of all, babycakes, I don’t think anyone uses that word any more. Second of all, I don’t know who your snitch is, but you might want to rethink their Christmas bonus. Grady West is divorced.”

  “Divorced?” Charity turned away from the mirror.

  Divorced. Smugness wriggled its way in first. Guess I’m not so easy to replace, after all. Seconds later shame struck, hot and stinging, like her soul had been spanked. Charity thought of the child, of what he or she must have been through. She balled up the paper towel and flung it at the trash can. “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Has been, for a couple of years.” Brenda June took Charity’s place at the sink and leaned toward her reflection. She checked her teeth and ran her palm over her hair. “So. That whole arson thing. Is that why you two broke up?” At Charity’s gasp of disbelief, she shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a history buff.”

  My ass. “What are you up to, Brenda June?”

  The dispatcher moved to the door and paused, thin fingers resting on the tarnished brass knob. “Just wondering if you remember why you two called it quits. ’Cause maybe things have changed.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “You wish I hadn’t told you about the divorce, right? ’Cause it’s easier when there’s no decision to make.”

  “Cut the crap, Brenda June. I’m not looking for romance, and even if I were, it wouldn’t be with him.” Charity plucked the plastic air freshener thingie off the window sill, saw it was empty, and dropped it into the trash. She dusted her palms and frowned at Brenda June. “Does the phrase ‘conflict of interest’ mean anything to you?” That was only the tippy-top of a crap-load of reasons she and Grady would never manage a sequel, even supposing she wanted one, which she didn’t.

  She may as well have been talking to the bathroom sink.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t notice the absence of a ring,” Brenda June said idly. “You being an investigator, and all.”

  “I wasn’t looking. I have bigger things on my mind, and I’m not eighteen anymore. Besides, what are you, his pimp? The man has a life in Seattle. He’s not sticking around.”

  “He might if you ask him to.”

  Oh, for—“One more word and I’ll tell the sheriff we need to set up a coffee mess in the lobby. For the dispatchers to manage.” She leaned over the sink and washed her hands again.

  Brenda June refused to be drowned out. “You do that, and I’ll... I’ll tell Mo you think he’s hot.”

  Charity shrugged. “Mo believes every woman thinks he’s hot. But the second you do that, I’ll tell the sheriff you think he’s hot.”

  The color in Brenda June’s cheeks rivaled the color on her mouth. “You wouldn’t.” At Charity’s raised eyebrows, the other woman fumbled with the doorknob. “Fine.” She was halfway through the door when she turned back and stretched her bright mouth into a smile. “But surely while Grady is here you two could manage to be friends.” The door rattled shut behind her.

  How about because we’re friends? Grady’s words echoed in the tiny space.

  Charity clicked her tongue against her teeth and scowled in the mirror. She and Grady had about as much chance of being friends as the camera-toting Phil Smiley had of acing sensitivity training.

  Justine’s indictment wouldn’t change how the West family felt about Charity, and neither would an acquittal. Up until Justine’s arrest, the Wests had regarded the Bishops with disgust and disdain. Recent events made it obvious those feelings had graduated to out-and-out loathing. Good thing Charity didn’t give a damn what any of them thought.

  Except she did, because she had an election to win.

  In the mirror flashed the image of Grady’s face and the grim disappointment she’d put there.

  Good thing he didn’t get a vote.

  * * *

  “What do you mean, she didn’t do it?” Charity frowned at Detective Dixon Ironmaker, who scooped another forkful of banana fudge cheesecake into his mouth. “She confessed!”

  Dix chewed and swallowed. “Yet could not tell us how she did it. Or why. We asked f
or details and she asked for a lawyer.”

  Mo trapped his tie with one hand and used the other to snag another slab of cheesecake. “She can’t remember the details because she was drunk off her ass.”

  “If she was drunk off her ass, how’d she manage to overpower a woman four inches taller and thirty pounds heavier?” Dix asked.

  Mo licked his fingers and shrugged. “So they were both drunk.”

  “I don’t think so.” Dix shook his head.

  Charity pushed her cheesecake away and tipped forward, bracing her arms on the table. “Based on what?”

  Dix reached for his coffee mug. “She’s a smart woman. Why kill someone, stay to call nine-one-one, then pretend to have found the body?”

  “Happens all the time.” Charity slapped the table and swung her legs over the bench seat. “A criminal with more pride than sense finds a way to be part of the investigation, either to find out how much we know or to revel in not getting caught.”

  “Or…” Mo drew out the word. “She did it because she was drunk off her ass.”

  Dix looked at Mo. “When can we expect the ME’s report?”

  “The man said by lunch tomorrow.”

  Brenda June appeared in the break room doorway, lips as red as the cherry halves she’d pressed into the top of the cheesecake. She passed around a frown. “Shouldn’t at least two of you be on your way home to bed?”

  When Mo let that go without making an X-rated suggestion, Charity knew he was still thinking about Sarah Huffman. She ignored Brenda June and started clearing the table. No way she was calling it quits before everyone else. Besides, she wanted to go home about as much as she wanted to wander back to lockup and kiss her brother and his buddy good night. She had plenty to keep her busy here. Once she left the building, she wouldn’t be able to stop from thinking about Grady West, what they once had together, and how he’d ruined it by setting her up.

  No. That wasn’t fair. They would never have made it as a couple anyway. He’d just accelerated the process.

  Like gas on a fire.

  “Listen, blondie.” Brenda June scowled at the untouched wedge on Charity’s plate. “Do you have any idea what goes into making one of my cheesecakes?”