In Full Force: Badges of Becker County

by Kathy Altman

  She made a fresh pot of coffee and spent the rest of the morning poring over witness statements, interviews, and evidence reports, all while coaching herself to play it cool when Dix and Mo got back. If they’d found anything, she’d know soon enough. The sheriff put a kink in her plans by announcing that as soon as the guys got back, they’d all sit down to a working lunch to discuss their way ahead—in other words, to figure out what they were going to do with Drew Langford. Pratt volunteered Charity to handle the food run.

  Usually he sweet-talked Brenda June into doing it. Apparently this time Dispatch had managed to resist his charms.

  Jerzy’s Shake Shack sat right off US 87 and attracted a fair amount of tourist business—mostly the outdoor enthusiast kind. Central Montana was flanked by mountains on one side and prairies on the other and bragged proximity not only to the Teton and Missouri rivers, but to popular national parks and forests like Glacier and Flathead. Hunters and fisherman especially appreciated the Shake Shack for its hearty fare and plain décor and Jerzy for his affable, life’s-too-short-to-rush-a-meal manner.

  But the local barbecue lovers were the restaurant’s mainstay. When the long-ago fire destroyed eighty percent of the building, and afterward the fire inspector determined the cause to be arson, the county’s residents had been first shocked, then enraged. Their fury had turned to grief when they’d learned Jerzy didn’t intend to rebuild. Charity had never seen a man so heartsick.

  Even after all this time, shame stalked her.

  In the end, the town had taken up a collection and managed to convince Jerzy to change his mind about starting over. Thus began “Shack Part Two.” Charity adored the chocolate shakes almost as much as she dreaded the stubborn memories. They weren’t all bad, though, and Jerzy did make a kick-ass barbecue sandwich.

  Which could help explain the mysterious shrinking syndrome currently plaguing her jeans and uniform pants. Between Jerzy’s barbecue and the butter-laden waffles at the Good Dog, Bad Dog Café, only her yoga pants fit like they should.

  Although the sugar-infused rainbow bits her breakfasts and dinners revolved around probably didn’t help much, either.

  Forget coffee. What she needed to give up was carbohydrates. Charity envisioned the fluffy rolls Jerzy used for his sandwiches and grimaced.

  Or not.

  She mounted the steps to the weathered-timber porch that fronted what was basically a one-story house. A stern mental talking-to did nothing to ease the automatic drag on her feet and probably never would. She tugged open the door, and a wave carrying warmth, chatter, and the thick, smoky aroma of roasted pork rolled over the threshold, beckoning her inside. Before she even reached the counter, Jerzy burst out of the kitchen, ebony face beaming. His wide smile wasn’t aimed at Charity, though. The restaurant owner headed away from her toward a table centered under the front window. She glanced at the occupants and dropped her keys. The jangling clatter as they hit the linoleum seemed especially loud.

  So much for avoiding Grady the rest of his stay. And who was that sitting across from him?

  “Grady West!” Jerzy thrust out his hand as Grady stood. “Welcome to Shack Part Two, my man. You’re sitting in the wrong place, though. This your boy?”

  Oh, dear Lord. His son. Grady’s son was in Becker County.

  Chapter Eight

  Charity strained to hear the child’s name. She’d never even asked, hadn’t let Grady talk about him. But the jabber of voices, the cash register’s beeping and a shouted “Order up!” from the kitchen drowned out Grady’s response.

  “Nice to meet you, young man.” Jerzy shook the boy’s hand, bent close, and pointed. “See that table way back in the corner? Every Friday night I served your father a mountain of French fries and a pair of chocolate shakes. Same night, same table, same girl. Way before your time, though. Turn-of-the-century type stuff.”

  Edith, the waitress, and Jerzy’s longtime girlfriend, appeared beside Grady’s table, a laden tray balanced on her hip. She whispered something.

  Jerzy whipped around, his smile beaming brighter as his gaze settled on Charity. Crap.

  “Well, speak of the angel,” he said. “Sweet Charity, here to pick up her order. C’mon over here, girl. Have you had a chance to say hello to—” The grin slipped. “Well, of course you have.”

  She couldn’t see Grady because Jerzy blocked her view. She could see the back of a sandy-blond head attached to a child’s lean body. A head that took its time swiveling her way, revealing a sun-kissed face behind a mildly curious expression. That expression turned to a scowl when the kid got a load of her uniform.

  Jerzy moved then, and she saw the way Grady stared at her. The vulnerability in his eyes reminded her of the way he’d looked the night Pratt had hauled her off to jail—part apology, part longing, part resignation.

  It had to be a reflection of their surroundings, of what this place had once meant to them. If his watchfulness had anything to do with her reaction to his kid, they were both in trouble. Kids were not her strong suit.

  Jerzy gave her a hug and held on tighter than usual. “C’mon up, angel, and get your order when you’re ready. Tell Detective Dix I didn’t get to the pecan pie today, but I packed up an extra-big slice of apple for him.”

  Dix and his notorious sweet tooth.

  “He’ll appreciate that,” she said. And he would, especially since that meant Charity wouldn’t be mooching his dessert. She’d never been able to stomach baked apples.

  When Jerzy moved away, Charity saw Grady now stood beside his son’s chair. The boy had twisted around in his seat, a French fry in one hand and a fork in the other. Ketchup dripped onto the thigh of his camouflage pants. She tried to smile, but her face remained cold and stiff.

  “Grady.” Charity poured as much neutral as she could into the word. “I’m glad you were able to make some time for Jerzy. Enjoy your lunch. I need to get back to the courthouse.”

  “Before you go, I’d like you to meet my son. Matt, this is Deputy Charity Bishop.” He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. When the kid shrugged it off, Grady’s eyes flickered. “Charity and I have known each other a long time,” he said quietly. “Say hello.”

  The boy shoved the fry into his mouth. Charity managed a nod. He didn’t have the West eyes, but he had Grady’s stubborn chin and a way of holding himself that said, take a good look, and tell me I don’t deserve to be smug.

  “Matt.” The naked word hung in the air, but what more could she say? It’s nice to meet you? It hadn’t been so far. I’ve heard a lot about you? She’d done her best not to. I hope you enjoy your stay? With his cousin under suspicion for murder? Not likely.

  The kid glared at her, and his hand fisted around his fork. “Are you the cop who put my cousin in jail?”

  * * *

  Aw, hell. The moment Matt spoke, an innate defensiveness rose within Grady, which was all kinds of screwed up because since he’d arrived in town he’d done nothing but question Charity and the way she did her job. Matt was scared, same as Grady. Same as everyone in their family. Grady knew Charity knew it, but she didn’t let on. Even as conversation around them faltered and heads ducked and gathered, she regarded Matt with serenity.

  “I am,” she said. “The sheriff and the other deputies and I are all working hard to solve this case, and when we do, your cousin may not be in jail anymore. In fact, I’m here to pick up lunch so we can work while we eat.” She started to back away. “Been to the Old Trail Museum yet?” Matt didn’t answer. She didn’t seem to care. “If you have time to explore, you should get your dad to take you there. Ask him to introduce you to the skeleton of Old Sol. He was a trapper, and you can tell how he died by looking at him. It’s pretty gruesome.”

  Matt struggled to look disinterested. He finally noticed he’d dripped ketchup on his pants and grabbed a napkin.

  “That’s a great idea.” Grady winced when the words came out sounding like he was doing a cheerleader impression. He cleared his throat. “What d
o you say, Matt?”

  No response. When Matt finally lifted his head his expression had turned sly, and he aimed that craftiness at Charity. “My dad has lots of girlfriends back in Seattle.”

  Oh, Jesus.

  The buzz around them turned into a babble. Charity shot Grady a glance, but all he could see in her hazel eyes was a grudging admiration for his son. Nothing for Grady. Not even a glimmer of jealousy.

  “Great,” Charity said brightly. “Thanks for letting me know. You two take care, now.”

  Grady caught up to her at the cash register. “I need to talk with you.”

  “This isn’t the time.” She snatched up her bags of food and a tray of shakes. “I have my hands full.” She tipped her head in Matt’s direction. “So do you.”

  He glanced over at Matt. The simmering reproach in his son’s eyes pulled at him. Grady turned to say goodbye, but Charity was gone.

  * * *

  Charity climbed out of her SUV, caught the eye of the man waiting at the courthouse door, and almost climbed right back in. Damn it, she’d been smelling barbecue and onion rings for the past ten minutes and she hadn’t had anything to eat since that chocolate chip cookie at Kate’s. She was starving, but it would be childish to continue avoiding him.

  Surely this couldn’t be any worse than running into Grady and his son at Jerzy’s. If looks could kill, that kid would have knocked her off ten times over. His own father wouldn’t have fared much better. And she would not think about whatever it was that Grady wanted to discuss.

  With a sigh, she collected the goodies from the passenger seat, nudged the door shut with her hip, and nodded at the other candidate running for sheriff of Becker County.

  “Oliver.”

  “Charity.”

  Fifty-something state-trooper-turned-gun-shop-owner Oliver Bloom strode down to the end of the sidewalk to greet her, his muscle-bound body barely contained by an outfit she realized with a start matched the one Grady’s son had been wearing. Black tee, camouflage pants, work boots. What she could see of his expression behind his shades was also identical—full-on petulance.

  Here we go.

  Oliver folded his arms and spread his legs in the classic convince-me-not-to-cuff-you stance. His hair, as black as Dix’s but with random patches of gray, gleamed in the afternoon sun. With his cleft chin and power pose, he looked like he’d stepped right out of a military recruitment poster. Or an erectile dysfunction commercial.

  He dipped his chin and peered at her over the top of his sunglasses. “How’s the campaign coming?”

  “I’ve been busy with the Sarah Huffman case. In fact, I don’t have time to talk. We’re working through lunch. Or we will be, as soon as I get this inside.”

  Oliver got to the door first, but instead of opening it, he held it shut with a resolute hand. “You don’t come to the gun range like you used to. When you are there, you’re distant. Professional.”

  Charity’s stomach started to feel greasier than the bottoms of the paper bags she cradled. “Since when is being professional a bad thing?”

  “My wife thinks there’s something going on.”

  “Between us?”

  Oliver flinched at the squeak in her voice. “Is there? Something going on?”

  “Don’t you think you’d know?”

  “What I mean is, do you still have feelings for me?”

  Oh, dear Lord. “Oliver, we had three dates. Four years ago.”

  “Yeah and it was….well, it was….”

  Oh, please don’t let him do that channeling Meg Ryan thing again—

  “…magic.”

  Charity’s arms sagged, and she had to scramble to keep half a dozen rapidly-cooling lunches from splattering all over the sidewalk. This was the candidate favored to win the Becker County’ sheriff’s election. A power-tripping, regulation-happy he-man who quoted Sleepless in Seattle in the hopes of earning a free trip to panty land.

  Then again, she had a David Cassidy comic book she couldn’t bring herself to toss, and she couldn’t sleep if she didn’t change her sheets at exactly the seven day mark. Everyone had their quirks.

  “I’ve moved beyond that,” Charity said firmly. But she couldn’t quite help the tiny catch in her voice—she was still dealing with way too much crap she hadn’t managed to move beyond.

  As she juggled the take-out bags, her fingers brushed the butt of her sidearm.

  Oliver went rigid. “Tell me you’re not…that you wouldn’t hurt yourself.”

  Her chin dropped. The motion nudged one of the paper bags open, and the smell of barbecue wafted up to remind her she was crazy hungry while he was just…crazy.

  “Where is this coming from?” Charity demanded. “Why are you suddenly convinced I’m pining for you?” Pining. She cringed at the word.

  He didn’t look happy with it, either. He yanked off his shades. “The murder investigation. I heard you’re making mistakes. It’s like you’re trying to throw the election.”

  “You think I want you to win?”

  “Do you?”

  Do onion rings taste better when they’re soggy and cold? “No. Now move or I’ll call nine-one-one.”

  “You’re still running for sheriff.”

  “I’m still running.”

  “And you’re not into me.”

  “Not even a little.”

  He jerked his sunglasses back to his face, poked himself in the eye, and turned a pained grunt into a snarl. “You will lose. So you should start looking into a transfer because we both know we can’t work together. Not with this…thing between us.”

  She took a step closer, and aimed a deliberate glance south. “The only thing between us is a hard-on you didn’t get from thinking about your wife.”

  “Yeah? At least I have someone at home who can do something about my hard-on.”

  Bull’s-eye. She sighed. “You’re an asshole, Bloom, with a bad memory and sucky timing.”

  Surprisingly, he pushed away from the door and pulled it open. “Heard about you and Grady West,” he said. He called after her as she launched herself into the dim quiet of the hallway. “Better get yourself an umbrella. It rains nine months a year in Seattle.”

  Charity delivered lunch to Drew and Justine, interrupting a half-hearted game of rummy. Afterward she slid a spinach salad onto Brenda June’s desk—remembering the extra bacon bits was her way of taking the high road—and hustled into the break room, fully expecting to be hit with a barrage of complaints and not-so-good-natured insults. What she didn’t expect was a strained silence shared by three grown men who refused to look her in the eye.

  The sheriff leaned back against the sink, arms crossed, gaze locked on the linoleum while Mo and Dix hunched over the table.

  Her arms went limp. Lunch landed on the scarred surface of the table with a rustling thwop. “What happened?” Dear Lord, please don’t let it be another murder.

  “We were just…catching up.” Pratt looked as if he wanted to say more, then tugged at his goatee hard enough to make himself wince.

  Dix tapped both sets of fingers on the table. Mo cleared his throat, and Charity frowned. Hard to imagine he could fit any more insinuation into that sound.

  She glanced from Dix to Mo and back again. “Is this about—?”

  Dix gave his head a quick shake. Not about his decision to leave, then. Her breath faltered. Had they heard about her visit from Grady last night? Pratt lifted his chin in an it-wasn’t-my-fault gesture, and her heart tumbled.

  “We heard from the commonwealth attorney with regards to Drew.” He spoke over Mo’s snort and pushed away from the sink. “She says we don’t have enough to make a case.”

  So…not about last night? Her gaze locked on Pratt. “We’re releasing Drew?”

  “You sound surprised,” Mo drawled.

  “That’s enough.” Pratt reached across the table for a grease-stained bag and started passing out containers. “Let’s eat.”

  “Enough what?” Charity passed
a scowl around the table. “Tell me.”

  “Someone left a note on our windshield when we were serving the warrant on the Wests.” Mo shoved to his feet. “I supported you. I ripped Dix a new one for not giving you the benefit of the doubt and then someone spots you in your front yard, smeared all over Grady West like sauce on a barbecue sandwich.”

  “Shit,” Dix muttered, looking down at his lunch.

  “Shit,” Charity echoed breathlessly, and slumped down onto the bench. Panic writhed in her stomach. Who would do such a thing, and why?

  “He was there last night,” Mo ranted. “And you didn’t say word one about it.”

  Ploink. Water dripped from the faucet into the sink.

  Was someone spying on her?

  She shuddered, and couldn’t bring herself to look Pratt in the eye. We didn’t do anything, she wanted to say to the others. But it wouldn’t help. Besides, if the sheriff hadn’t come along, who knows what she and Grady would have done.

  “Where’s the note?”

  Pratt pulled a folded piece of paper from his back pocket. “I made you a copy.” He tossed it across the table. “Consider yourself lucky they didn’t get a photo.”

  Charity unfolded the laser-printed page and sucked air. Anyone else see Charity Bishop and Grady West making out in her front yard last night? Someone needs to hose that bitch down.

  Oh, this was perfect.

  Carefully she re-folded the note and tucked it into her shirt pocket. With one poor choice she’d endangered everything she’d worked for—the chance to be sheriff, the respect of her colleagues, the trust of the community.

  Not to mention the sanctity of her murder investigation.

  “It was a mistake,” she finally said and raised her head, meeting head-on the disapproval coming at her from three different directions. “And I apologize if I’ve put you all in a tough position.” The words it won’t happen again dangled on the edge of her tongue, but she couldn’t bring herself to let them go.