by Kathy Altman
Didn’t mean he should have listened.
“What happened? What she’d say?” Brenda June peered around his shoulder at her cell, as if the text of the conversation might appear on the screen.
Grady handed back her zebra-striped phone. “She doesn’t want my help. Even if she did, Pratt wouldn’t let her have it.”
“He might after last night.”
“Last night only made things worse.” The guilt on her face clued him in. Something cold and slithery crawled into his gut. “Did something happen after I left?”
“Someone was lurking in her backyard. She wasn’t able to make an ID.”
Dammit, he knew he shouldn’t have left. “Any guesses?”
“She suspects whoever vandalized her car came back for an encore performance.” With a bony hand, the dispatcher patted his arm. “Stop kicking yourself. The sheriff was there, and he didn’t notice anything, either. Besides, Charity can take care of herself.”
The thought that someone could have been hiding in the bushes while he and Charity were getting hot and heavy bugged the hell out of him. It was bad enough they’d had Pratt as an audience. If word got out, and she lost the election because Grady was thinking with his dick, he’d never forgive himself. And chances were she wouldn’t, either.
Which meant what? Keeping his hands to himself? Or making damned sure they didn’t have an audience the next time things got complicated?
A hotter-than-hellfire fantasy was over before it started when a door banged shut and a pair of high heels clattered along the hallway. Justine hurried into the waiting room, cheeks flushed from the cold, hair bouncing on her shoulders, jacket and skirt slightly askew. She paused to dump her purse in the nearest chair then marched up to Grady and punched him in the bicep.
“Thanks a whole hell of a lot for taking off without me.”
He rubbed his arm, grateful she smelled of toothpaste rather than booze. “We had a late night. I figured you needed your sleep.”
“I need to see my son.”
Brenda June backed toward the door leading to her domain. “I’ll come get you when he’s finished his breakfast. Shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes.”
Grady thanked Brenda June, but Justine remained silent, arms wrapped around her waist. He put an arm around her, and his heart squeezed. She’d been steadily losing weight since the divorce, and her suit jacket bunched where she hugged herself.
His cell rang, and after a startled moment, he pulled away from his sister and fumbled in his jacket pocket. “It’s Matt.” He excused himself and lifted the phone to his ear. “Hey, bud. What’s up?”
“Not much.”
Grady couldn’t help a grin as he heard Matt’s usual pained tones at having to offer up even those two words. “You get my text last night?”
Matt sighed heavily. “The one this morning, too.”
Grady let go of his smile when he glanced at the clock on the wall. “You’re calling from school?” That didn’t bode well. His son wasn’t one for casual conversation. Or hell, any kind of conversation at all.
“I didn’t go today,” Matt said.
“You’re sick?” Grady asked, and Justine moved closer, forehead creased with concern.
“Nope.”
Grady blew out a breath. This was getting him nowhere fast. “Put your mom on, buddy.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“She’s not here.”
Dammit. Valerie had promised she’d never leave Matt alone in the condo. “Where is she?”
“Seattle.”
Grady stilled. That hadn’t sounded like sarcasm. He closed his eyes and reminded himself to breathe. “You say that,” he said carefully, “as if you’re not in Seattle.”
“I’m not. I’m at the airport.”
“Which airport?”
“Which one did you fly into?” Matt’s tone was one big duh.
“You’re at Great Falls? Here in Montana?”
“Yep.”
Son of a bitch. “Does your mom know where you are?”
“She put me on the plane.”
Grady’s fingers tightened on the phone. Of course she did. If Matt were running away, he sure as hell wouldn’t run to his father.
What the hell had Valerie been thinking? She must have put the kid on a six a.m. flight. Alone. And those six little words, She put me on the plane, had carried a shitload of uncertainty.
Worry clutched at Grady’s gut. There was no excuse for making their kid travel across two states on his own. Anger spurted. The horror on Justine’s face reinforced his rage, but he’d have to deal with his ex-wife later.
“Wait for me by baggage claim,” Grady said grimly into the phone. “No wandering, buddy, okay?”
“I’m still on the plane. They said they have to hold me at the gate ’til someone comes to get me. Mom told them you would.”
Grady did his best to swallow the savage from his voice. “I’m on my way.”
* * *
Keith Tarrant may not have earned the right to use the letters MD after his name, but he was seriously loaded, which did earn him the right to build a house on Pill Hill. Two doors down from the West mansion, as a matter of fact. The Tudor style home, complete with steep, ski-lodge rooflines and dark wood timbers crisscrossing cream-colored stucco had always been Charity’s favorite in Becker County. She finally had an excuse to see the inside. Considering the circumstances, she couldn’t have cared less.
Her Oakley assault boots carried her up a flagstone walk hugged by neat beds of mulch sprouting uniform rows of monkey grass. Nothing but green and brown. Seriously, would a little color kill the guy? Then again, the green seemed appropriate. Charity had never met Tarrant, but she knew his reputation. Apparently his ethics were inversely proportional to the amount of money he’d raked in over the years.
In other words, he was a rich asshole.
Sarah’s former employer answered the door wearing Homer Simpson pajamas and a severe case of bedhead. Okay, not what she’d expected. She’d have apologized for waking him if he hadn’t been cradling a half-empty glass of orange juice against his chest. From somewhere behind him came the muted sounds of a television show with an exceptionally cheesy laugh track.
“Mr. Tarrant? I’m Deputy Sheriff Charity Bishop.”
His gaze lowered to her badge. And lingered in the general area.
Screw any kind of apology.
“I know who you are,” he said. “I’m not talking without my lawyer present.”
Charity did her best to keep her smile from turning feral. Though he’d have to actually look at her face to see it. “I’m not here to arrest you, Mr. Tarrant. I’m hoping you’ll agree to answer a few questions about Sarah Huffman. May I come in?”
Instead of answering, he tipped back his head and chugged his juice. When he wiped his mouth with the back of his free hand and let loose a burp, Charity suspected he’d dosed himself with more than vitamin C. Grieving the loss of a star employee? Or a lover?
“I understood you already had a suspect in custody,” Tarrant muttered.
“Who told you that?”
“I can’t help you.” He pushed at the door.
Charity talked quickly. “You do realize that if we find out you knew something pertinent to the case and refused to share it, you could be charged with obstructing a peace officer? Would you really rather spend six months in the county jail than answer a few questions?”
“Threats, Deputy?” Tarrant asked softly, all trace of sleepiness stripped from his voice. “Sure that’s the way to go?”
He met her eyes then, and she saw his were colder than the tippy-toppiest peak of the Bitterroot Mountain range. She shifted position in an attempt to disguise a shudder, but the shine in his eyes told her she’d failed.
“I need help recreating Sarah’s day,” Charity told him, in as neutral a tone as she could manage. “Can you tell me if she had any appointments?”
“We’re do
ne here,” he said.
“How about you and Sarah? Were you done?” Ignoring the rapidly shrinking space between the door and the frame, she added, “By the way, who is your lawyer, Mr. Tarrant?”
A pause. His head reappeared in the doorway, speculation glimmering in his eyes. “Owen Quinn.”
What a surprise. Owen Quinn, lawyer for the loaded.
“I see.” Charity glanced to her left, at the extravagant landscaping two doors down. “The Wests let you onto Pill Hill so what they say goes, is that it?”
She didn’t get the rise she’d hoped for. Instead she got a flicker of what looked like sympathy in his eyes.
“Money talks, Deputy.” He shrugged. “Not our fault you’ll never learn the language.”
Charity was still crafting her brilliant comeback when he shut the door in her face.
* * *
The drive to the airport was a blur—a blur that by all rights should have earned Grady a speeding ticket and maybe even an obscene gesture or two—but it still took too damned long to get there. Matt had said he wouldn’t be waiting alone, but Grady knew his kid. He was contrary enough to try ditching his escort.
Once inside the airport, Grady didn’t collect any one-finger salutes, but he did get a lot of half-curious, half-exasperated looks as he rushed through the hallways, dodging tourists, glass-encased grizzlies, water fountains, ATMs, and sculpted buffalo. He fidgeted as he waited in line at the ticket counter for the boarding pass that would get him through security. The agent gave him the stink-eye, but Grady didn’t bother offering excuses. He snatched up the boarding pass and hauled ass.
Matt stood next to the check-in counter, both hands in his pockets, right shoulder sagging beneath the weight of a black duffel bag. The instant Grady spotted him, his heart crawled back down out of his throat, and wet relief burned the backs of his eyes. When Matt’s gaze landed on Grady, his left shoulder went lax, matching the downward slope of his right. At the same time the corners of his mouth went up, if only for an instant. The kid even managed a nod, though it was as rigid as the sand-colored bristles of the military cut he’d insisted on at the beginning of the school year. A side effect of too many hours playing Call of Duty, Grady suspected.
Matt’s hug was equally stiff. For once Grady didn’t mind. His son was safe.
“Sorry about all this, buddy.” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the typical airport soundtrack—the excited babble of travelers lining up for access to the Jetway, the mechanical mumbling of the loudspeaker, the low-pitched thrum of baggage wheels on linoleum. “I don’t know what your mom was thinking.” He winced. He knew better than to play the blame game. He tried again. “I would have been here if I’d known you were coming.”
“No, you wouldn’t. ’Cause when she called to let you know, you’d have talked her out of sending me. You want to keep an eye on me, but at the same time you don’t want me to have any fun.” He pushed his shoulders back. “And stop calling me buddy. My name is Matt. I’m not in diapers anymore.”
Right.
“I didn’t want to stay with Mrs. K.,” Matt burst out. “She’s always cooking cabbage and her apartment reeks. She only lets me use my laptop for like, fifteen minutes the entire day. And since I miss Grandma and Grandpa and Drew and Peyton and Aunt Justine, I told Mom she should send me here.”
No surprise that Matt mentioned missing everyone but his father. Grady took a moment to mourn the loss of the little boy who’d once followed him from room to room. “Why were you going to stay with Mrs. K.?” he asked carefully, when what he really wanted to know was What the hell was wrong with your mother that she couldn’t look after you for one lousy week?
“Puddly wanted to take Mom on a trip. Wherever they went they don’t allow…” He hesitated, then finished with “…anyone under eighteen.”
Grady knew better than to free his smile. Maybe he should stop thinking of Matt as a kid, too. Could that be part of their problem? He gave a silent snort. As if being blamed for the divorce wasn’t problem enough.
Grady stepped out of the way of a baggage cart. “Any idea where your mom and Pud—uh, Preston went?”
Matt shook his head. No surprise there. Grady was done wishing his ex would value their son more than she valued her privacy.
Grady gestured toward the duffel bag. “That all you got?”
A curt nod. Matt was adjusting the strap when he peered up at Grady. “Didn’t she tell you about the trip? Or were you just testing me?”
“Why would I test you?”
“To see if I was telling the truth.”
“I didn’t think I needed to worry about that with you.”
Matt paused then muttered, “You don’t.”
Hallelujah. Finally Grady had managed to say the right thing. “I didn’t get to talk to her. Her phone went right to voicemail. I’ll catch her later.” He knew she was deliberately putting him off, hoping time would defuse his anger. Screw that. He was fucking furious, and not two hours or two days or even two goddamned months would ease the temper pounding through his veins.
Grady guided Matt down the escalator and toward the nearest set of doors. “It’s not that I don’t want you here. But what about school? And soccer?”
“I don’t mind missing school. And they won’t kick me off the team. They need me.”
“You’ll mind when you have to spend your entire summer trapped behind that same desk you’re trying so hard to avoid.”
“Seriously? I just got here and you’re already trying to get rid of me?”
They stopped at the crosswalk between the airport and the parking structure, and Grady shook his head. “Nice try, hambone. You’ve got exams coming up. You know you can’t miss those.”
“You’re right, I can’t. Not even a little.”
Grady chuckled. Traffic cleared, and they joined the throng bustling across the pavement.
“I haven’t hung with Drew since Christmas. Think he’ll be as excited to see me as I am to see him?”
Grady grabbed at the back of his neck. He didn’t look forward to explaining where Matt’s cousin was and why. “You bet,” he managed. “Everyone is. What you have to understand is that they’re all going through a stressful time right now. They’re bound to be a little...distracted.”
“Distracted I can handle. Distracted I’m used to.”
Grady forced a blank expression, even as a familiar frustration burned in his chest. “I’m sorry, were you saying something?”
Matt rolled his eyes.
Grady gave him a light punch to the shoulder. “Listen. It is important to keep in touch with family. It’s also important to stay in school and the truth is, this isn’t a good time for you to be here.”
“So why did we bother to leave the frickin’ airport if you’re gonna turn around and put me right back on a plane?”
Grady waited until they were alone in the elevator before answering. “Let’s get one thing straight. I’m not sending you back alone. Your mother has more confidence in the airlines than I do.” He didn’t miss the relief in his son’s eyes and bit back the acid taste of resentment. “Let’s try a compromise. How about you stay one week?”
“Then what?”
“Then if I’m not ready to leave, I’ll take you back to Seattle myself.”
“Mom won’t like that.”
“What if I give your coach a call? See if you can stay with him until I get back, in case your mom’s not available? You enjoyed hanging with his family that time I had to go to Boston, right?”
The elevator dinged, and the doors dragged open. Matt stepped off the curb and turned and walked backward, steered in the right direction by the jab of Grady’s chin.
“I don’t want to go back,” Matt said. “I want to stay here.”
“I just said—”
“I mean I want to stay.”
“Matt. We’re not moving to Montana.”
“I didn’t mean both of us.”
Jesus. A hot, tingl
ing pain radiated outward from Grady’s chest; was this what a heart attack felt like? He didn’t stop, didn’t even slow as he scanned the faded yellow numbers at the bottom of each parking space. When he spotted the rental car, he fumbled for his keys and pressed the unlock button on the fob. A pair of beeps echoed in the chilly gloom.
Grady cleared his throat and pressed another button to open the trunk. “How about we talk about this over breakfast? I know a great place for waffles. And hot chocolate. You know, the kind piled high with whipped cream?” For God’s sake, he sounded like he was talking to a three-year-old. Judging by the disgust on Matt’s face, he was thinking the same thing.
“Whatever.” Matt tossed his duffel bag into the trunk and stomped toward the front passenger door.
Exactly. Grady would do whatever it took to make sure his son never knew what it felt like to come in a distant fourth behind money, meds, and social dominion.
Whatever.
* * *
Charity arrived at the courthouse midmorning to find Grady gone and Brenda June conveniently away from her desk, no doubt so Charity wouldn’t have a chance to scold her about letting Grady use her cell phone.
You can run, Dispatch, but you can’t hide.
According to the in-out board, Dix and Mo were at the West house executing the search warrant. Charity heard voices in one of the interview rooms, knocked, and opened the door to find Justine talking earnestly with her son. When their heads swung around, Drew looked exhausted, Justine downright hostile. The offer of coffee and soda didn’t win Charity any points. The mention of Brenda June’s cheesecake didn’t help either, though Charity suspected that may have had more to do with the banana fudge flavor than the fact that she was the one who offered it.
Next she went on a reluctant search for the sheriff. When she found him, he repeated the lecture Mo had given her the night before. He also threatened her with a pay cut if she didn’t get her motion sensors fixed, then hugged her lungs flat before chasing her out of his office.
Pratt didn’t have to remind her to be careful. Every day on the force was a day of taking risks, but coming across that creep in her own back yard had freaked her out almost as much as it had pissed her off. What she needed was a distraction.