by Kathy Altman
* * *
Grady paced the airless waiting room, resisting the urge to make a break for the chilly sunshine. The moment he stepped outside they’d come looking for him, and no way would he miss his chance to see Justine. Make sure she was okay. Let her know he cared.
He was tired of straining to hear the muffled voices beyond reception and of ignoring the static of the police radio and the thunk of metal catching metal as doors opened or closed.
Two days, two relatives in custody. Hell, if he had to come back tomorrow, would there be a third?
A sudden wave of weariness had him leaning back against the nearest wall. He shoved his hands in his pockets and closed his eyes. Besides sweat and antiseptic and stale nicotine and…muffins?...he smelled coffee and wanted to beg a cup, if only to give his hands something to do. If he sucked down any more caffeine, though, he wouldn’t sleep for a week. Everyone else in the family was in the same shape. They’d sat up all night with Owen Quinn, speculating, strategizing, arguing. Even his parents had stuck to coffee, realizing they wouldn’t get any rest before starting their rounds at the hospital.
His dad had looked worse than ever but refused to go to bed.
Grady grimaced as he thought about Peyton. She had to be upset he’d left her behind. Her grandparents’ ranting had dragged her out of bed and she’d begged to be part of the discussion. He’d refused, not wanting her to hear what his less-than-tactful parents might say about Drew’s relationship with Sarah. Luckily Quinn had backed him up, and Peyton had stomped out of the room. Hours later, when Grady had gone upstairs to shower and change, he’d found her asleep at the top of the steps and swore when he realized how much she must have heard. He’d carried her to bed and asked his mother to call the school with an excuse.
Maybe he should buy flowers on the way home. Something with a lot of pink.
A door clicked open and Grady jerked away from the wall. Charity hovered in the doorway, her expression carefully neutral. Half a dozen strides and he stood in front of her, alarm crowding the air from his lungs.
“Your sister would like to see you. If you’ll follow me?”
He hung back, as pissed at Charity as his niece was sure to be at him. “This is the way it’s going to be? Pretending we’re nothing more than casual acquaintances?”
Her gaze skimmed his suit. “Who’s pretending?”
Grady watched the frost creep into her hazel eyes and gave a sharp exhale that was almost a laugh. She was, he realized. She was pretending there wasn’t anything left between them. When he could still clearly picture her snuggling into his letterman jacket on the bleachers beside him, laughing against his neck as flakes of snow swirled around them; scrunching her face and shoving a palm across their table at the diner as he tried to coax her into taking a bite of his black bean soup; squeezing her own sweat-slick breasts with trembling hands as breathless moans ripped from her throat while she rode his cock.
Deputy Bishop cleared her throat, splayed all eight fingers over the stiff polished leather of her belt and swung impatiently toward the door. But not soon enough to hide the place on her neck where her pulse punched at her skin.
Grady allowed himself a small smile. No matter the reason, no matter that it didn’t, couldn’t, change anything, the ache in his chest loosened its grip.
Chapter Five
Charity turned back around in time to catch his smile. “I don’t find anything funny about this,” she said stiffly.
The dispatcher slid into view, like the sun peeping out from behind a cloud. “You’ll have to excuse her,” Brenda June said, earrings swinging a cheerful rhythm. “She’s had a rough day.” She patted Charity’s shoulder. “I heard about Clarabelle. You have my deepest sympathy.”
Grady sobered. “Who’s Clarabelle?”
“Never mind.”
Brenda June shook her head at him, signaling either none of your business or nothing to worry about. He barely knew the woman but was fairly certain she meant the latter.
“You want me to call Muscoe’s?” the dispatcher asked Charity.
“Mo already did.”
“J.T. Muscoe’s still working on cars?” Grady squinted at Charity. “Wait, you named your car Clarabelle?”
“So what?” Scorn twisted Charity’s lips as she glanced downward. “You named your—”
“Christ, Charity.”
“I was going to say soccer balls.”
Brenda June perched her chin on Charity’s shoulder, crimson lips curved, gaze avid. “You named your balls?”
A tall, skinny dude in navy uniform pants and a black leather jacket came up behind the dispatcher, shaking his head as he dropped a stack of papers on the counter. Grady gave him a shrug as if to say, Women. What can you do? Brenda June never looked around, her gaze locked on Grady. When the other guy walked away, he was still shaking his head.
“So, what’d you name them?” Brenda June demanded.
Charity shifted her scowl to Grady. “Do you want to see your sister, or do you want to stand here trading juvenile jokes with our dispatcher?”
“I want to see her.”
Hell. Grady turned in the doorway.
His father strode into the room, jaw slanted at his usual I-dare-you-to-defy-me angle. Abruptly Charity straightened and swung toward him, nearly catching Brenda June’s nose with the back of her head.
“Dr. West,” Charity said crisply. “I’ll tell Mrs. Langford you’re here.”
“I’ll tell her myself.”
“I need you to wait until I’ve checked with your daughter. Please sit down.”
Right on cue, his father’s already flushed face turned even redder. “You were ready to take him back.” He never looked at Grady, just jerked a thumb in his direction. “Take me instead.”
Charity nodded coolly. “I will. As soon as she okays it.” She glanced at Grady. “You ready?”
“I’m her father, dammit!”
“For God’s sake, Dad, take it easy. Grab a seat.”
His father shook off Grady’s grip. “Is Clarkson here?”
“Yes, Sheriff Pratt is in his office,” Charity said.
“Then I’ll see him.”
Charity nodded once. “I’ll tell him you’re here.”
Grady would have laughed out loud if he wasn’t afraid it would kick his father’s blood pressure straight into the stratosphere.
Hampton West’s eyes collapsed into condescending slits. “You’re not doing yourself any favors here, Charity Bishop.”
And that’s when Grady heard the quaver in his father’s voice. His dad was scared out of his mind.
“Deputy Bishop. And what I’m doing, Dr. West, is my job.”
“Dad.” Grady grabbed his father’s arm again and this time refused to let go. “I’ll tell her you’re here. I’ll make it quick. You want to help her? Show her we’re going to be fine, no matter what.”
After a few tense moments, the muscles under Grady’s hand went soft. Resentment, followed by resignation, chased the fury from his father’s face.
Grady guided him to the nearest chair. “I’ll be right back.”
As he turned, he met Charity’s gaze. The rueful tilt to her mouth seemed to ask, why did we both get stuck with assholes for parents?
Then she did an about-face and headed for wherever they were holding Justine. Grady hung behind to sneak a word with the dispatcher.
“Who’s Mo?” he asked quietly.
“Tell me what you named your balls.”
Grady watched Charity, the view as enticing from the back as it was from the front. He sighed. “Jake and Elwood.”
She blinked. “The Blues Brothers?” She clapped a hand over her mouth.
“Made sense at the time.”
“What’d you name the star attraction, the Bluesmobile?” She flashed a grin. “With a sense of humor like that, you might actually have a chance. But can you wow her in the sack?”
He gritted his teeth. “Want to tell me about Mo?”
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“Deputy Riley Morrissey. The brother Charity should have had.” She winked and stepped aside. “Head on back, handsome.”
* * *
Dix had done some juggling with their visitors. They only had two interview rooms, and with Justine in one and Drew in the other, the detective had been forced to stash Scott Langford in the office shared by the regulators. Charity delivered Grady to Justine and Hampton West’s message to the sheriff, verified he’d talked to the prosecuting attorney and they could release Justine, then joined Dix outside the interview room where Drew and his lawyer waited.
“Ready to tackle Scott Langford?” she asked.
“He’s not going to make it easy for us.”
“Easy? Where’s the fun in that?” She opened the door to the interview room, interrupting Quinn as he discussed the arraignment process with Drew.
A process she hoped they’d never see.
“Mr. Quinn? A moment, please?”
Quinn stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind him. The man couldn’t have gotten much more sleep than she had yet still looked as fresh and crisp as if he’d just finished getting ready for his day.
“We’re not charging Justine,” she told him. The naked relief that flickered in his eyes triggered a burn at the back of her own. Going soft, Deputy Bishop? She cleared her throat and motioned with her chin at the door behind him. “I can give you two more minutes with Drew, then we’ll need you to sit in on Scott Langford’s interview.”
“I’ll be right with you.”
When she turned, she saw that Dix was watching her with an unsettling intensity. “One Langford down, one to go?” he drawled.
“You don’t want the kid to be guilty, either.”
“No. Then again, I’m not personally vested.”
The fact that she couldn’t deny it pissed her off, big time. “Bite me, Ironmaker,” she said sourly.
“Deputy Bishop!”
Sheriff Pratt’s deep voice vibrated with disapproval. Crap. She set her shoulders and turned and met the equally disapproving gaze of Grady’s father. At this rate she wouldn’t have to worry about campaigning for sheriff, because she’d no longer be working for the department.
“Dr. West would like to see his daughter,” Pratt snapped.
“She’s in two,” Charity said meekly.
Justine had agreed to see her father. Reluctantly, but she had agreed.
The sheriff pointed the way and Dr. West disappeared into the room. Charity caught a glimpse of Grady holding his sister’s hand and she couldn’t help thinking of the night before, when he’d seemed so reluctant to let hers go.
“Talked to Scott Langford yet?” Pratt folded his arms across his chest and glowered at her over the top of his black-rimmed glasses. His bald head gleamed under the fluorescent lights. Hampton West had made the sheriff sweat and now Pratt was paying it forward.
Charity did her best to shake off the sentiment and keep her expression a snark-free zone. “We’re headed that way now.”
“Then I suggest you get to it. And may I also suggest you watch your language when you’re in uniform?”
What he meant was, when a bigwig like Hampton West was around to hear it. Dix opened his mouth to comment.
Pratt held up a hand. “I don’t care who says it’s okay. Respect the badge and it’ll respect you.”
A prickling heat surged into Charity’s cheeks. “Yes, sir.”
“Heard anything from Deputy Morrissey?”
“Not yet,” she said.
“Come see me when you’re done.” Pratt stomped off.
Dix gave a low whistle. “Keep that up, and even your own mentor won’t vote for you for sheriff.”
Instead of laughing, she went still. “Is that it, Dix? The election? Is that what’s bothering you?”
The disgust in his expression was answer enough. “We talked about this. Why can’t you accept that I do not want to be sheriff?”
“I’ve seen the way you eye his badge. Or is it his manly chest you’re—”
“Bite me, Bishop.”
* * *
Scott Langford was an avid outdoorsman with perpetually sun-reddened skin and a heavily creased neck. His eyes were shadowed, but the belligerent set of his jaw and the way his gaze raked Charity when she walked into the office—he practically fell out of his chair checking out her ass—made it easy to skimp on the pity. He made it even easier by refusing to provide an alibi when Dix asked where he’d been between the hours of eight and midnight. Charity reminded him they were trying to not only solve his girlfriend’s homicide, but clear his son of the crime. Didn’t matter. He wouldn’t say where he’d been or who he’d been with, though his sly expression made Charity suspect his alibi was of the female persuasion.
His reluctance to name his companion was eerily reminiscent of Kate’s, but Charity hoped to hell that was coincidental. Kate and Justine were close—surely Kate wouldn’t have slept with her best friend’s ex.
Charity hustled Scott Langford out of the building only to learn she needn’t have worried—Justine had already been released and was on her way home with her father and her brother. Good. Perfect. She found Quinn and let him know his client—one of them, anyway—had left. The combination of gratification and disappointment on his face looked too damned familiar. He went to sit with Drew while Charity fled to the break room, desperate for a caffeine fix before her mystery meeting with the sheriff.
Three interviews and only nine-thirty. No wonder she was hungry. With mug in one hand, Pop-Tart in the other, and murder file tucked up against her armpit, she headed for Pratt’s office. He wasn’t in. She perched on the edge of a chair, resisted the urge to slouch down and close her eyes, and tried not to regret missing out on one last glimpse of Grady.
Even as she acknowledged those last five words sounded like the title of a crappy-ass country song, she wondered why she’d want to torture herself, why she’d want to add to the agitated hours she’d already spent in bed remembering the heated stroke of his hands, the relentless play of his fingers, the needy rasp of his breathing, the exquisite glide of his cock—
When she spotted movement outside the window, Charity fanned herself with the frosted Pop-Tart and craned her neck. Pratt paced along the sidewalk, phone pressed to his ear. Okay, well, she might as well do something constructive while she waited. She set her coffee and pastry on the bookshelf beside her, flipped open the murder file, and began to read.
Minutes later, Pratt barged into his office and Charity surged to her feet. He held her gaze as he rounded his desk, blindly picked up a stack of case folders, and let them slap back down. The man liked to make noise when he was mad.
She was in the mood to make a little noise of her own, but she knew better than to show her ass when Clarkson Pratt had a bug up his.
“At least you didn’t make me chase you down,” he grumbled, and reached for the stapler.
Charity frowned. “What do you mean chase me down? Where would I go?”
“Nowhere.” Chucka, chucka. Staples dropped to his desk as his hand flexed. “Nowhere is exactly where you’re going if you don’t start getting results. I had fifteen voicemail messages from Hampton West when I got up this morning.” Chucka, chucka, chucka. “Fifteen. You think the Wests don’t trust you now? Wait’ll they decide you’re making eyes at their son again. You want to win this election? You need to stay away from your ex.”
Charity dropped the folder on her chair and stepped closer. “There is so much wrong with what you just said, I don’t even know where to begin. What exactly did Dr. West say when he was in here?”
Chucka, chucka.
She slapped her hands down on his desk and leaned in. His eyes widened, and he thrust the stapler up out of reach, like a kid with a toy he didn’t want taken away. Somehow she resisted the urge to slap the damned thing out of his hand.
“Screw the election,” she gritted. “How about we solve the case so we can give Sarah Huffman the justice
she deserves? And by the way, the Wests are never going to trust me, and they’re never going to vote for me. No one on their social calendar will vote for me. Hell, no one who works at the hospital will vote for me. I’m okay with that. What I’m not okay with is your implication that I’m less interested in doing my job than I am in doing Grady West.”
“Watch it, Deputy. I am your superior.”
“You’re also grumpier than a horny teenage boy with two broken wrists.” Brenda June elbowed her way into the office, carrying the top of a cardboard box that doubled as a tray. “Coffee, fruit, blueberry muffins, cream cheese.” She set the food down on his desk and thrust out a handful of napkins. “Eat. We’ll all feel better.”
The sheriff set aside the stapler. “Coffee will do.”
After an indignant Brenda June flounced out of the room, Pratt yanked off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You think the kid did it?”
With a shake of her head, Charity straightened. “If he killed her, it was because she ended their affair and it made him angry or desperate. He’s neither. He’s sad that she’s dead and upset about finding the body, but what disturbs him most is what Allison Young might do when she finds out they were involved.”
The sheriff sat back and clamped his arms across his chest. “So who looks good for it?”
“You tell me.” Charity plucked a muffin from the tray on his desk. “We’re missing a little something called evidence. My instinct is to concentrate on the Wests and Scott Langford. When you talked to Hampton West, did he offer any alibis?”
“He was working late at the hospital. Not unusual, according to the staff who corroborated his story. Roberta was home helping her granddaughter with her homework, and Justine was at Sweeney’s, recovering from a bad day at the office.”
Charity paused in the act of peeling the paper from her muffin. “She works from home.”
“She’s a freelance bookkeeper with her parents as her biggest clients.”
“Point taken.” She moved the folder off the chair and sat. “We also need to question Sarah’s coworkers, see if there are any jealous lovers or disgruntled clients lurking in the background. I hope to get a better picture when I talk to her parents. Dix is processing the townhouse now.”