In Full Force: Badges of Becker County

by Kathy Altman

  When Charity was a kid, she would have felt jealousy. Now she couldn’t even drum up pity. “Where’s Lucas?”

  “What do you want him for?”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  Eve shook her head at her beer. “Like I would tell you, priss.”

  “Why do you hate me?” Charity regretted the words the instant they tumbled out of her mouth, but she let them loiter in the cigarette-scented air, too curious to retract them.

  Her mother shrugged. “You always thought you were better than the rest of us.”

  “It has to be more than that.”

  “Does it?”

  Charity pulled her hands from her pockets and stood tall. “When Lucas comes home, please tell him I need to see him.”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  Charity hesitated. She really wanted to make headway, so she’d have something to tell the sheriff’s panel.

  “I said I’d tell him. You want it in writing?” Beer sloshed as Eve spread her hands. “You want I should sign some kind of contract?”

  Charity continued to stare wordlessly, even as a startled satisfaction began to take root. A signature.

  Eve gusted a sigh. “Why you think you’re any smarter than your baby brother, I’ll never know. Get off my porch, priss.”

  * * *

  Charity snatched up her phone the instant her butt hit the front seat of her Camry.

  “I don’t have anything for you yet,” Mo said when he answered. “Call him crazy, but Dix seems to believe our murder case has precedence.”

  “Forget about taking new footage. Here’s what I need instead.” She explained.

  He cursed. “Are you kidding me?”

  “If you have a better idea, let me know.”

  “Why can’t you do it?”

  “Because Judge Purl has to okay this, and I’m not his favorite person right now.”

  Mo growled in protest. “What if I promise to vote for you?”

  Charity bit back the urge to tell him it could be a moot point. “Riley Morrissey. I would never ask you to compromise your integrity like that.”

  “No, you’d rather I compromise my dignity by making me pick up dog shit.”

  “For a noble purpose. I have a strong suspicion the DNA results will crack our graffiti case. Anyway, I haven’t forgotten I owe you. I’m doing a bakery run on my way in this afternoon. What’s your dignity worth?”

  “A dozen red velvet cupcakes, the shift change of my choice, and you never tell a soul what I’m about to doo-doo for you.”

  Charity disconnected, chuckling in spite of herself.

  * * *

  She stepped into Pratt’s office two minutes before four, legs feeling graceless and heavy. Somehow she managed to keep her hands open and relaxed at her sides. No way she wanted these people to see her squirm, because on a scale of one to ten, the smug factor in the room had to be eight hundred. Standing in a grim semicircle in front of Pratt’s desk were Judge Purl, two local business owners, and County Commissioner Ruth Lyle, a short, plump woman with mustard on her cheek and glee in her eyes.

  Beside Ruth Lyle slouched Phil Smiley. Apparently the sheriff wasn’t concerned about having this go public after all.

  But an even bigger head-banger stood beside Phil. Oliver Bloom.

  Oh, hell, no.

  Glaring at Pratt, Charity tipped her head toward Bloom. “How does it make sense for him to be here?”

  “Phil’s here as a business owner, not a reporter. Nothing we discuss is for public consumption.”

  “Not him. Him.” She pointed at Bloom, who actually flashed a grin. A grin. Too bad she wasn’t carrying that umbrella he’d recommended. She could think of a place she’d like to pop it open, and it wasn’t Seattle.

  Bloom must have guessed what she was thinking because his face went slack and he promptly sat on the edge of Pratt’s desk.

  “How is it ethical to have him here?” Charity asked, striving for calm.

  “You’re hardly in a position to judge someone else’s ethics.” This came in a pompous tone from Judge Purl.

  Did he not remember he was the one who’d helped her with Matt in the first place?

  Pratt nodded in agreement. “We’re here to ask questions, not defend our process.” He passed her a thin stack of eight by tens. “Can you explain these?”

  There were four color photographs, all taken in the evening. The first showed her talking with Drew Langford on her back steps, the second ushering him inside her house, the third eating cereal with him at her kitchen table—Smiley must have finally invested in a zoom lens—and the fourth showed her lifting her tee high enough to reveal the bottom band of her bra.

  At least she’d been wearing one of her prettier ones.

  That she’d been photographed pissed her off to no end, but…wasn’t this supposed to be about her screw-up with Hank?

  She raised her head and caught Phil Smiley’s eye. He winked at her. Well, then, no need to guess who took the pictures. Charity turned her frown on Pratt, whose gaze gave nothing away as he skimmed his thumb along the edge of the small notepad he held in his hand. Zzzzu-lipp.

  “Why am I under surveillance?” she demanded.

  “We’re asking the questions,” Ruth reminded her crisply. Someone must have pointed out the mustard smear, because it was gone.

  Phil spoke up. “Someone e-mailed those to the newspaper. The message referred to you as a cougar. There were also a few X-rated comments about you keeping it in the family.”

  Oh, for God’s sake. Charity curled her fingers into her palms and squeezed hard. “Someone?”

  Phil’s shrug oozed self-righteousness. “A lot of our best leads come from anonymous sources.”

  Anonymous, my ass. How had Leon missed Smiley lurking in her back yard? Then again, she couldn’t expect the poor guy to watch the front and the back of her house at the same time.

  The sheriff motioned at the photos. “Drew Langford is a person of interest in a homicide. Why was he inside your house?”

  She stared. What the hell was going on? Surely Drew’s visit didn’t warrant this kind of attention. Why weren’t they discussing her brother’s paperwork? Pratt refused to meet her gaze, instead played his notepad like it was a musical instrument. Zzzzu-lip, zzzzu-lipp. Bloom cleared his throat. Pratt ignored him.

  Were they merely warming up before going in for the kill?

  Charity lifted her chin. “Drew Langford came to see me because he wanted to know if I was framing him for Sarah Huffman’s murder.”

  One by one the members of the “panel” turned to glance at the next person in line. It was all Charity could do not to laugh out loud when Bloom sent a disbelieving look over his left shoulder and there was no one there to receive it.

  “What did you tell him?” the sheriff asked.

  “That someone is trying to set him up, but it isn’t me.”

  Pratt tossed the notepad on his desk, his expression pained. “So you discussed the investigation.”

  “No. I answered his question. Then he left.”

  “After you fed him.”

  “He was hungry.”

  “Are you sleeping with him?” This from a wild-eyed Oliver Bloom.

  “No.” Charity gritted her teeth. “I am not. And I am beyond offended that you would suggest such a thing.”

  “Poor form, Ollie,” the judge muttered. “Poor form.”

  “She lifted her shirt.” Oliver pointed a righteous finger at the photo on top of the stack. “She exposed her belly.”

  Oh, dear Lord. “The kid had already left, and I didn’t know there was a Peeping Tom in my yard.” Enough already. “Maybe the best thing would be for me to—”

  “I think we’re done here.” Pratt plucked the photos from her hands and opened his door. “We’ll be in touch.”

  Charity blinked. “I’m not suspended?”

  “You have a killer to catch.” Judge Purl peered at her over the top of his glasses. “When you’ve
done that, we’ll talk suspension.”

  Dazedly Charity walked out of the courthouse. Somehow she’d won a stay of execution. So why wasn’t she happier about it?

  Because she damned well didn’t deserve it.

  She stood on the sidewalk, under a cherry tree adorned with bright green buds, and watched a string of cars make a beeline for the parking lot’s exit. She wouldn’t mind going home herself, but she had work to do. Mo and Dix were right. The murder investigation had to take precedence. Someone had to pay for what they’d done.

  Someone they hadn’t considered yet? Possible, though strangulation was a passionate form of murder. Most cases were personal.

  She turned and made her way back to her office, grateful for the quiet corridors. She shut her door and collapsed into her chair, leaned back, and propped her Oakleys on her desk.

  Who had the most to gain not only from Sarah’s death, but from setting up Drew? Allison may have hoped to get her boyfriend back, but that would be difficult with him in prison. Did she hate him that much for breaking up with her?

  Peyton certainly seemed to. At the funeral she couldn’t have made it any clearer that she didn’t want anything to do with her brother. Did the pact she’d made with Allison involve something a hell of a lot more sinister than ghosting?

  Her stomach rumbled, probably because her office still smelled like the burrito she’d had for breakfast. Her belly could grouch all it wanted. Food was the last thing on her mind.

  She didn’t consider Justine a suspect at all anymore. Not unless she had exceptional acting skills—she’d been clueless about how her friend had died. Kate and Hampton served as each other’s alibi, and anyway they had no reason to conspire to kill Sarah. Neither had been on the list of real estate investors Grady had provided. Yes, relationships had ended, but with nothing more at stake than teen heartbreak.

  Could Tarrant or Bloom have hired someone to do their dirty work? Someone who went out of their way to provide the police with a convenient suspect?

  Or was that convenient suspect, aka Drew Langford, guilty after all?

  Charity’s boots hit the floor and she stared down at a jagged, six-inch scratch that marred the surface of her desk.

  Drew was a smart kid. But smart enough to frame himself and make it look like someone else had done it?

  She shuddered. Dear Lord, she hoped not.

  * * *

  Much later that evening, after she’d finally dragged herself home and managed a few hours’ sleep, Charity was pulling black stretch pants up over hips that hadn’t seen any yoga action for far too long and at the same time waffling between poached eggs or cold cereal for dinner—and as usual, that which required the least effort would win out—when her phone rang. After fastening her bra and grabbing up a cardigan, she headed for the table in the hall where she’d left her cell. She bent over the screen. She didn’t recognize the calling number.

  Two seconds later, she wished she hadn’t picked up.

  “What can I do for you, Dr. West?” she asked warily.

  Roberta West didn’t mince words. “You can stay away from my son.”

  Charity sighed, and slumped back against the wall that separated the hall from the kitchen. The way the good doctor struggled with her words, it was clear she’d been drinking.

  “I’m off duty, Dr. West. If you have something you’d like to discuss, please call me tomorrow at the station.” Or not.

  “I know what you’re up to. I know the two of you went to that hole where they serve that overcooked, overpriced pig, and then according to my grandson, you all went shooting together. How cozy.” Roberta started to sniffle. “But soon Grady will go back to Seattle, and don’t think he’ll be taking you with him.” A muffled sound came from her end of the call. She blew her nose.

  Charity held the phone away from her ear and shook her head. She was starting to feel like Jane Austen’s Elizabeth Bennett squaring off against Mr. Darcy’s condescending aunt. Only her story would not enjoy the same happy ending. But like Lizzy Bennett, and despite Roberta West’s obvious unhappiness, Charity refused to give the snooty old lady the satisfaction of a guarantee.

  “This is none of your business, Dr. West,” she said firmly. “If there’s anything else you’d like to discuss, please call tomorrow during business hours.”

  Roberta was still reciting an impressive number of synonyms for slut when Charity ended the call.

  She closed her eyes, tipped her head back, and thumped it against the wall. If only she was getting half the sex everyone thought she was. She pushed away from the wall. The half that didn’t include Drew Langford, of course.

  Her cell dinged. An incoming text. She braced herself for more name calling and lifted her phone.

  Back door. Don’t shoot.

  She spun, and squinted into the darkened kitchen. A moonlit shadow stood patiently on the other side of the door. Damn, she’d never realized before how thin those curtains were. Even before she registered the sudden thrum of anticipation deep in her belly, she was already moving toward the door, faster when her bare feet hit the cold linoleum. She caught a white flash of teeth at the same moment she realized she still carried the sweater. She yanked it over her head and reached for the door.

  Wait. Wait. What was she doing? What was Grady doing? Wasn’t she in enough trouble?

  She shook her head at the door, turned her back and sent a text. Go away.

  An instant later, she received his reply. Make me.

  Okay, well, that was mature. Still her thighs had started to tremble.

  Her phone dinged again. Leon gave the all clear.

  Charity sucked in a breath. No stalkers, and no Phil Smiley—he was busy covering Keith Tarrant’s annual spring charity event. Charity knew that because Phil had asked the sheriff to send a couple of deputies to Tarrant’s house to make sure the unwashed and uninvited didn’t sneak in. The sheriff had declined, less than politely.

  Her free hand tugged at her cardigan and she glanced over her shoulder. Then there was the whole stay-away-from-my-son lecture she’d just received from Roberta.

  Make me.

  She turned and opened the door.

  Grady came in smelling of spearmint and pine, his leather jacket rustling as he shut the door behind him. He set a basket on the counter and turned in the dimness to face her.

  “I liked you better without the top.”

  She fingered a small plastic button on her sweater. “And I liked you better on the other side of that door.” But she said it without any heat. The man had come bearing food, after all. Charity wrenched her gaze away from the basket. “Why are you here?”

  “Your message. You sounded upset. I called back but you didn’t answer.”

  “I was sleeping.”

  “That explains the bed head.” Grady lifted both hands and slowly combed his fingers through her hair. For the first time ever, she regretted cutting it short.

  “Have you been crying?” he asked quietly.

  “Rough day.” She gave a disgusted grunt and backed away. “God, listen to me. A teenaged girl put herself in the hospital and I’m the one complaining.”

  “Drew talked to Kate, and she assured him Allison will be okay. Physically, anyway.”

  Charity nodded, relieved.

  Grady waited.

  She sighed. “Yes, you’re right, there’s more, okay? Not about Allison. We’re still working that, though we did check her location history. If she went out the night Sarah was killed, she didn’t take her phone with her.”

  Her stomach clutched at the thought of confessing to Dix and Mo what she’d done. “No, the trouble is I fucked up and it’s not a good feeling.”

  “You’re talking about when Drew came by?”

  “It’s bigger than that.” Charity winced at the shame that slurred her words. She turned away.

  Grady palmed her shoulders. “We all make mistakes.”

  “I don’t.” She swung back to face him, dislodging his hands.
“I can’t afford to.”

  “I’ll go, if that’s what you need.” In the dim light of the kitchen, she could see his half-grin. “I promise I won’t take the sandwiches with me. Or I could stay, eat one of the sandwiches, and save you some serious heartburn.”

  Her taste buds perked up. “Meatball?”

  “With provolone and mozzarella.” When she hesitated, he raised his palms. “Hands off, if that’s the way you want it. We’ll eat and brainstorm about the case. What do you say? Feel like a picnic?”

  “It’s dark outside.” He’d had her at provolone. Okay, really he’d had her at Don’t shoot, but he didn’t need to know that.

  He shrugged out of his jacket. “Grab a blanket and meet me on the living room floor.” He saw her expression and raised his palms again.

  They ate meatball subs and dill pickles while sitting cross-legged on a beach towel. She hadn’t thought she could eat, considering the crap day she’d had and the decisions that faced her, but she couldn’t resist a meatball sub. Twice she had to go back to the kitchen for more napkins.

  When she finally came up for air, she brandished the remains of her dill pickle spear. “This is the only vegetable I’ve had in days, not counting French fries.”

  Grady shot her a look as he packed away their trash. “I’ll give you a thousand dollars if you promise never to say that in front of my kid.”

  Instead of jumping up and announcing she had work to do, and could he please show himself out, thank you very much, she wrapped her arms around her legs and settled back against the sofa. She knew better. By inviting him to linger, she was begging for heartache, but putting off unpleasant things was so much easier than facing them.

  But it would be so nice to forget, if only for a little while, the unholy mess she’d made of her career.

  “Speaking of Matt,” she said, “what’s he up to while you’re here plying me with comfort food?”

  “Homework. He won’t be doing any more late night wandering, that’s for sure. I lectured him for an hour, then grounded him.”

  “Change the alarm codes?”

  “You bet I did.”