Liar, Liar

by Winter Austin

  Removing his Resistol, Shane scratched the top of his head. Good God Almighty, these details were not what he was expecting. Shifting to sit on the tailgate, he resettled the hat on his dome.

  “What are your thoughts?” he asked Liza.

  “About what?”

  “Why Avery was killed.”

  With a sigh, she hopped onto the tailgate next to him. Gripping the edge, she let her legs swing back and forth. She was acting like they were pals and had known each other forever rather than a short period of time. Shane wanted to keep this professional. But she was sure making this damn hard.

  “I think whoever killed Avery knew about this affair and possibly learned about his embezzling. With the marks on his body, his killer might have been exacting revenge for either of the infractions or was torturing the truth out of him.”

  “Do you think it has a connection to Donovan Frost?”

  “By the nature of his death and what you told me about the similarities with both men, it could be. Which,” she looked at him, “is why I need to talk with Roslin. Did you have any luck in that department?”

  “Not yet. Pamela isn’t answering her phone, and her receptionist has no idea where her boss went. I sent Murdoch out to the Frosts’ home. If Pamela is there, I’m to be notified immediately.”

  “That means I’m at a stalemate. Best I can do is research the new developments and check out what the sender behind this message wants.”

  “You do realize you’re not going to make your SAC’s deadline now.”

  Her face scrunched in a cute version of sheer pain. “Oh joy. She’s going to blow a blood vessel.”

  “I’d call her now.”

  With a shake of her head, Liza pulled out her phone. Then hopping down, she headed for her car. Her body was like a country road, winding and scenic, making the driver want to go slow and enjoy the view. And did he ever relish the view. She could walk away from him any time.

  What am I doing? Every time she was near him, he turned into a horn-dog. Liza Bartholomew deserved respect and professionalism. Not the lustful stare of a man who was sixteen years celibate. Thumping his thigh, he slipped off the tailgate and let her have her privacy while he packed away the supplies.

  With a glance over his shoulder to check on her—she was gesturing as if punctuating her words—he entered the building, leaving the door propped open for Liza. After putting the supplies back in the metal cabinet, he headed for the bullpen. Jennings was tapping away at one computer, while another appeared to be downloading something.

  The kid seemed to be bursting with more energy as of late than he had in the months since he was shot in the knee. And the particular appendage didn’t seem to bother him like before. Was his deputy finally taking a turn for the better?

  “What are you doing?”

  Jennings’s gaze darted up to Shane then back to his screens. “Agent Bartholomew’s warrant came through.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the fax machine. “I was given another copy via email.” He pointed at the printer next.

  “Then what are you downloading?”

  “A big-ass file I was told in not-so-friendly terms not to look at and give to Agent Bartholomew.”

  The back door banged close, and a few seconds later Liza breezed into the bullpen. “My warrant’s here?”

  Both Shane and Jennings pointed at the fax machine. She headed for the contraption that Shane loathed as a necessary evil.

  “I’ve got . . . 10 percent left on a file that’s downloading for you, too,” Jennings told her.

  Liza snatched the stack of sheets from the fax and rerouted to Jennings’s computer bank. “Who’s the file from?”

  “Your boss.”

  She nodded. “Good.”

  “What did Montrose say?” Shane asked.

  Liza tilted her head up. “I have to follow the trail. She’s extended my stay indefinitely.”

  A rush of excitement, like the first time he’d straddled his first bronc, filled him. Yet, she didn’t seem as elated to have more time. Shouldn’t that be a good thing? To not have her supervisor breathing down her neck to get back?

  “What’s on the file?”

  Her phone buzzed. “Something I asked Montrose to send me.” She pulled out her iPhone, checked the screen, and sighed. “I need to take this. Mind if I borrow your office?”

  “Go ahead.”

  She slipped inside, closing the door in her wake.

  “She didn’t give you a straight answer,” Jennings said, his fingers still flying over the keyboard.

  “FBI.” Like that was the final answer. “What are you typing?”

  “Code.”

  “For what?”

  A wry smile curled up the edge of Jennings’s mouth. “You’ll see.”

  Grunting, Shane left his deputy for the coffee machine. The sludge in the bottom of the pot smelled charred. Emptying the glop in the sink, he rinsed out the pot. Should he start a fresh round of coffee or actually drink something caffeine-free? Maybe Con was right. Shane was getting too old for his bad habits.

  “What do you expect me to do?” Liza’s voice came through the door.

  He stilled, straining to hear. A twinge plucked at his morals for eavesdropping, but the timbre in her voice wasn’t one he’d heard her use with her SAC.

  “Kurt, this is my job. Damn it. I shouldn’t have to argue with you over this every time we talk.”

  Kurt?

  “Your first priority should always be Quinn.”

  This was beyond wrong. Shane shoved the empty pot back on the cold burner and backtracked away from his office. Whoever Kurt and Quinn were, they were obviously important to Liza, and private. Why else would she shut the door? And Shane had trampled all over his number one rule: don’t be a nosy prick.

  Absorbed in his work, Jennings didn’t glance up as Shane passed the dispatch station and headed for Cassy’s desk. He was about to sit down when the phone rang. Without missing a beat, Jennings answered.

  “Sheriff’s department, how can I help you?”

  Sinking into Cassy’s comfortable seat, Shane’s bones could have melted from the luxury. This was a nice chair. He should get one, too.

  “Sir, it’s Murdoch.”

  “Patch her through to Hunt’s desk.” Shane rocked forward as Cassy’s phone rang once. “What do you have for me, Murdoch?”

  “Pamela Frost isn’t here, sir. I’ve waited for an hour, and she hasn’t shown up. I called her office again, and Emily still hasn’t seen her. Do you want me to check the places she might go?”

  The dispatch phone rang again.

  “No. Return to the station. We’re going to have to give Pamela some time to process what happened to her husband.”

  “Might be easier to just go to Roslin herself.”

  “Sheriff,” Jennings interrupted, “there’s another call for you.”

  “Hang on, Murdoch.” He cupped the receiver. “Who is it?”

  “Uh, it’s Roslin Avery, sir.”

  The office door opened at that moment, and Liza exited. She hesitated near the dispatch station and looked at Shane expectantly.

  He gave Jennings the signal to hold. “Murdoch, I’ve got Roslin on the line. Head back to the station.”

  “Copy.”

  Shane hit the cancel button. “Patch her through.”

  Liza inched closer to Cassy’s desk. “Speaker,” she whispered.

  He obliged as the sound of a radio came through the connection. “Roslin, it’s Sheriff Hamilton.”

  “Oh, Sheriff, uh . . . hi.”

  “Is there something I can help you with?” he asked.

  “I don’t know if I should be calling you. I’m at a loss, actually.”

  Liza’s features scrunched.

  “Roslin, I’m here to help, even if there’s been a problem between us.”

  An upbeat song pulsed on in the background. “I guess it would be okay,” she said, hesitantly. The music faded. “Sheriff, I can’t seem
to find my lawyer.”

  Join the crowd, lady. “Have you tried her office?”

  “Everywhere. The gal that works there for her said she hasn’t seen her boss in a long time. And she couldn’t tell me why Ms. Frost is gone.”

  So, Emily didn’t divulge Pamela’s tragedy. Good for the Okie.

  “Sheriff, is something wrong with Ms. Frost?”

  “Why do you think I would know?”

  That remark earned a grin from Liza. Damn, he liked it when she smiled like that. He had to make her do it again.

  “Because, you’re the sheriff. You know everything.”

  Liza rubbed the tip of her brown nose and rolled her eyes. Shane had to swallow down a chuckle. The woman’s humor knew no bounds.

  “Now, Roslin, I wouldn’t say I know everything.”

  “Well, do you know where my lawyer is or not?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Tell her, Liza mouthed.

  “I’m afraid that Pamela has been given some tragic news and is probably trying to process through it. She just needs some time alone.”

  “Oh.”

  Liza picked up a pen and paper and scribbled out something. She turned the page for him to see.

  ASK HER TO COME IN.

  “Roslin, would you mind coming in to the department to have a chat?”

  “A chat about what?”

  “There’s . . . someone here who wants to ask you questions about Gene. It has nothing to do with what I arrested you over.”

  “I don’t know, Sheriff. I don’t think Ms. Frost would like me doing that.”

  “It’s your decision. If you wanted to do it, your lawyer would have to comply.”

  “Would I have to have my lawyer there with me?”

  “That’s up to you.”

  Silence deadened the connection. Shane wouldn’t push Roslin; this had to be of her own choosing. But watching Liza pinch and twist her full lips, while her whole body vibrated, was an interesting study in the woman’s anxiety idiosyncrasies.

  “I guess I could come in and talk to this person. But can I do it in the morning? I kinda need to find some place to stay.”

  Liza’s head bobbed hard.

  “That would be fine. Just give us a call when you’re coming in.”

  “Okay. If you hear from Ms. Frost, would you tell her I’m needing to talk to her?”

  “Can do, Roslin.”

  After the expected conventional partings, Shane set the phone on the cradle.

  “That was easier than I expected,” Liza said.

  “Until Pamela learns what she’s doing. She’ll have to allow Roslin to do what she wants.”

  “Agent Bartholomew,” Jennings cut in, “the file is done.”

  “Good. Do you have an empty flash drive?”

  Jennings dug around in a drawer, producing the drive. He did whatever it was his magical fingers could perform and gave the file to Liza. She smiled her thanks and tucked the little yellow stick into her coat pocket.

  “Now that I’ve got my warrant, I can get into those school accounts.”

  “Are you sure his embezzling activities will show up in the accounts?”

  “If the information the principal already gave me doesn’t mesh with what the school has accounted for, it most certainly will.”

  She had the most memorizing eyes. He couldn’t think of any time he’d seen anyone with that shade of dark brown, and Shane had traveled the whole country and most of the Arab countries. He would know.

  The creak of a chair startled him out of his trance.

  “Agent Bartholomew, Deputy Nash can handle the warrant. Your SAC actually authorized anyone in the department to assist you with it,” Jennings said. His sharp gaze drifted to Shane. “You two should prepare for that meeting tonight.”

  “What’s to prepare? I show up and wait for the . . . Wait a minute. How do you know about that? And what do you mean, you two?”

  A sly expression passed over the deputy’s face. “Your conversation carried through the back door. Nobody could miss it.” Meaning, he was eavesdropping and away from his station. “Ma’am, you’re not familiar with Eider and our county. It’s best that the sheriff go with you. But you two walk into Riker’s dressed like that, they’ll kick you out.”

  “Why would they do that?” Shane demanded of his deputy.

  “No offense, sir, but those millennials don’t want oldies in that club. You need to look less authoritative if you want to get through the doors.”

  “Makes sense,” Liza said. “My only problem is, I don’t have ‘less authoritative’ clothing with me.”

  “That would be a problem Joles can fix. She’d know just where to go to get you the right look. And, Sheriff, you need to look more retro cowboy, not ass-broke-poor cowboy.”

  Shane glared at his smart-ass deputy. Sometimes having the most intelligent people surrounding you was more of a headache than a help.

  “Define retro cowboy.”

  That cocky grin plastered on Jennings’s youthful face always worked in getting what he wanted—out of trouble. “Try the ’90s. Or maybe a little more Luke Bryan.”

  “I’m not wearing skin-tight jeans just to appease some twenty-year-old girl into letting me in a bar.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Shane caught the little twitch on Liza’s part at the mention of skin-tight jeans. His body warmed. It had been a long time—a real long time—since he made a woman turn into a sexually quivering mass, but he damn sure didn’t forget what it looked like. And Liza’s flushed face and rapid breathing was indication enough of her wayward thoughts. Damn it! She was making it hard for him to focus.

  “Do what you want, sir,” Jennings’s voice ripped through Shane’s head, “but I’m warning you, you want into Riker’s, you’re going to have to look the part.”

  So be it, but Shane drew the line at tight jeans. He had something that would work to appease the so-called dress code of the less authoritative. One thing was certain: there was no way in hell he was going to let Liza do this meeting alone. Independent woman and a trained FBI agent she might be, but no one went anywhere alone without backup in his county. His deputies had paid a price for trying to fly solo. There was a killer on the loose, and Shane wasn’t about to let him or her get a crack at any law enforcement officer.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Liza, with Jolie Murdoch’s help, found what she hoped was the ideal outfit to gain her access to Riker’s Club. If she were home, or even in Iowa City, she would have paired the hip-hugging white capris and buttery yellow blouse with flashy yellow heels, but she was in Podunkville, and her choices were limited to strappy sandals. Not that either type of shoe left her with the option to give chase to any human being who chose to escape her.

  That was why she would take the good sheriff with her. She pulled into his driveway—Siri was finally working out her kinks—and parked beside a battered, brown Ford truck. After checking her iPhone—no new messages from Kurt—she exited her car and wandered along the gravel drive toward the house.

  Kurt was angry—to the stratosphere angry—with her over the extension on her stay in Eider. There wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. He would just have to get over it and find other means to have Quinn taken care of while he was gone. Why then was her heart hurting over the thought of someone else being around Quinn? Someone who didn’t know all of his quirks and patterns.

  No, stop it! You can’t be Kurt’s savior every time he can’t get his shit together.

  This wasn’t about Kurt. It would always be about Quinn. Maybe she should put in a call to the therapist’s office and see if he could recommend a caretaker for a day or so. Okay, three, tops.

  “You look like you’ve got a thousand-pound bull stomping around in your head.”

  Jerked out of her brooding, Liza took a quick assessment of her surroundings; she was standing on the porch and getting an eyeful of the man before her.

  Someone find me a fan.

  S
hane leaned on the doorframe, one jean-clad leg crossed over the other, his arms crossed in front of his chest. His curls were damp and looked finger tossed. He wore a white T-shirt that was snug in all the right places. And was that a silver chain peeking out from under the collar of his shirt? Good Lord, he’s barefoot.

  Liza stiffened her hand before it shot out to touch the contours of those bulging biceps. This was not a man looking at the wrong side of fifty. No, this was one fine wine, and Liza wanted a sample. Swallowing, she found her voice. “Uh, you’re not ready.”

  Nice one, Liza. What a comeback.

  A corner of his mouth tilted up. “We’ve got some time. There’s no rush.” He stepped back, allowing her access to his home. “Come on in.”

  Slipping through the gap, her skin prickled at the kiss of heat from his body. The scent of cedar and patchouli overwhelmed her with the desire to stop and lean her cheek to his and breathe him in. Get a grip, Liza. But his sanctuary, too, carried his distinct scent and leather.

  The clap of the screen door sent a shiver down her back. Her body tingled with awareness as he approached. For a second she closed her eyes, waiting for the press of lips to the back of her neck. He hovered behind her, and then she felt him move around her. She opened her eyes and met his as he passed.

  “Want anything to drink?”

  “A beer would taste good.”

  He frowned. “Sorry, I don’t have any.”

  “Wine?” Her hand flashed up, and she shook it. “Never mind, you don’t look like someone who would have wine.”

  “Actually, I don’t have any alcohol.”

  “None?”

  “I don’t drink.”

  “At all?”

  He shook his head. “You know, I might have a few cans of Dr. Pepper.”

  Liza blinked, letting her mind catch up. How was it that a man like Shane Hamilton, the epitome of a cowboy, did not drink? “A Dr. Pepper would be fine.”

  With a nod, he padded down the hall to a door on the right then disappeared.

  Liza wandered to the first doorway on her left and discovered a quaint living room. This was where the smell of leather originated. A well-loved brown recliner/rocker was angled to get a great view out of the two lone windows and the TV—the only new thing in the whole room. A red-brown and white cowhide rug covered the middle of the floor. And flush to the wall stood a lamp made of deer antlers. Under that sat a loveseat with a brown and white cowhide pattern. Liza ran her fingers over the armrest; it was leather as well. Weird.