In This Town

by Beth Andrews

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Sullivan said wearily, “that’s hardly necessary. Look at her—” She waved a hand in her sister’s direction. “Does she really look violent?”

  “Don’t let the angel face fool you,” York told Walker. “If she ever gets her hands on a crowbar, you’d better watch out.”

  “Not helping,” Nora Sullivan said as she dug into her purse. She pulled out a cell phone.

  “What are you doing?” Captain Sullivan asked.

  Nora pressed a button, held the phone to her ear. “Calling Uncle Kenny. You need legal representation in order to fight these charges.” She met Walker’s eyes, lifted her chin. “These bogus, inflammatory charges.”

  That’s right. She was an attorney, worked for her uncle who had, at one point, been the county’s D.A. Tangled web and all that. Christ but this investigation was going to be a pain in his ass.

  But at least he wouldn’t be bored.

  “It’s an investigation,” Captain Sullivan said, taking the phone from her sister and shutting it off. “And Ross and I are scheduled to meet with an attorney from the union this afternoon.” She touched the blonde’s arm. “Don’t worry. It’ll all work out.”

  “You’re in trouble,” Nora said, her voice thick.

  Walker hoped she didn’t let loose with the waterworks. Crying was one of the many ways women manipulated men. Growing up, his sisters often used tears to get what they wanted from their father and, later, him.

  It was Walker’s own damn fault such a low-down, rotten, dirty trick still managed to work on him.

  Captain Sullivan shook her head. “The truth will come out. Isn’t that what you always say?”

  The blonde glanced over her shoulder at York, who tugged her back to her seat.

  But not before Walker noticed how Nora blanched, the color leaking out of her face.

  Seemed Tori Mott wasn’t the only Sullivan woman with secrets.

  “Is that why you dragged me away from work?” Mrs. Mott asked. “So you could tell us you’re getting your hand slapped?”

  “It’s more than a hand slap,” the blonde said heatedly. “This is serious, Tori.”

  “Ah, but Tori’s never serious,” Captain Sullivan said. “Isn’t that right?”

  Mrs. Mott studied her nails. “Why should I be? You’re serious enough for both of us.”

  “We asked you here,” Taylor said, obviously having dealt with these three enough times to know when to intervene before things got out of hand, “because the toxicology reports on Dale York came back.”

  Mrs. Mott frowned. “It’s been what…two months? The autopsy was done the day after he died.”

  Taylor stood and rounded his desk, handing the report Walker had given him earlier to Nora. “Toxicology reports take anywhere from six to eight weeks to complete.”

  “His heart gave out,” Mrs. Mott said. “It was fitting, though I’d sort of hoped he would suffer more before kicking it. Either way, it was no big loss to humanity.” She glanced at York, her mouth a thin line. “No offense.”

  York flicked his green gaze at her. There was no love lost between them, that was for sure. Something to take into account.

  Nora held the report out, her hand trembling. “This can’t be right.”

  Taylor sat on the edge of his immaculate desk. “It’s right. The coroner was wrong. A heart attack wasn’t what killed Dale.”

  “So what did?” the younger York asked.

  “Cyanide.”

  “Cyanide?” Mrs. Mott repeated, snatching the report from Nora. “That makes no sense.”

  Walker crossed his arms, wished he could take off his suit jacket, loosen his tie. “It makes perfect sense. Mr. York was poisoned. Besides being here to look into the issues regarding the chief and assistant chief, I’m also in charge of Mr. York’s murder case.”

  Letting that sink in, Walker let his gaze shift from one person to the next. “And I can’t help but wonder if the person who killed him is in this room.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  FEAR TURNED TORI’S blood to ice, tightened her throat. Through the roaring in her head she could barely make out Layne’s gruff—and no doubt, pithy—reaction to the detective’s words. Nora’s indignant cry. Bertrand’s rumbling response. Then they were all talking, Layne letting Bertrand know he couldn’t intimidate them, Nora threatening legal action, Griffin trying to calm Nora down. But it was all muted, as if Tori heard it through a filter. Only one thought filled her head, demanded her full attention.

  Someone had murdered Dale.

  The nightmare that had started at the beginning of summer when Ross’s niece drunkenly stumbled upon their mother’s remains wasn’t over. It was getting worse. With the news of the true cause of Dale’s death, talk about Tori’s family would only grow. Once again, the Sullivans would be the subject of rumors and speculation. Of suspicions and doubts.

  She could handle it, she assured herself, as could Layne—hadn’t they endured it their entire lives? But Nora didn’t deserve to have her name dragged through the mud. And Brandon…God…her son was only twelve. Still so much a child despite a recent growth spurt and a bad attitude that rivaled any teenager’s. He shouldn’t have to be subjected to the nasty gossip, the whispered innuendos. She had to protect him. Had to get him out of Mystic Point.

  The back of her neck prickled with unease and she raised her eyes to the man towering over her, his gaze discerning, his mouth unsmiling. Dale had been killed and this man—an outsider who knew nothing of them, of what they’d been through—wanted to pin the blame on one of them.

  Anger, denial, flowed through her, caused the mask she wore as easily as a second skin to slip. Only for a moment, but she must’ve given her true thoughts away because in his eyes, she saw a flicker of triumph. As if he’d somehow won their silent battle of wills.

  She smirked. Had the satisfaction of seeing his expression darken.

  No one beat her at her own game.

  “So someone killed Dale,” she said, her tone loud enough to get everyone’s attention. She tossed the paper onto Ross’s desk, fluffed her bangs with her fingers. “It’s not like his death is a big loss to society.”

  “Tori,” Nora warned, watching Detective Bertrand nervously, her hand gripping Griffin’s.

  “What? I’m not going to sit here and pretend to grieve over a bastard like Dale York.”

  She resented the implication that she should act as if she was anything less than thrilled that he no longer walked the earth. That she should feel guilty.

  Bertrand pulled a small notebook out of his suit pocket. “Mrs. Mott, are you saying you’re happy Dale York is dead?”

  “Don’t answer that,” Nora and Layne both ordered quickly.

  They had her back. Always. Just as she had theirs.

  Instead of feeling trapped by the bond between her and her sisters as she usually did, Tori felt…relieved. Their sisterly ties were tenuous at best, but they held strong when it mattered.

  Tori sent Bertrand a look from underneath her lashes, one she’d perfected at the age of twelve when she’d realized her looks would take her a hell of a lot further than her brains ever could. “I’m sorry, Detective, but I’m afraid my legal counsel has advised me against answering that question.”

  His lips thinned. Obviously he hadn’t liked her remark. Not her problem. Despite what most guys seemed to hope, she hadn’t been put on this earth for the sole reason of making men happy. Oh, she knew what they wanted from her. For her to lie on her back and make their little hearts flutter.

  They could just keep wanting.

  Because while she had no qualms about using their desire for her, their attraction to her against them if it suited her purpose, she didn’t sleep around. Never had.

  But that hadn’t stopped the rumors in high school from circulating. Hadn’t stopped men from hitting on her, from trying to charm her into their beds even when she’d worn another man’s ring.

  He didn’t seem the least bit a
ffected by her charms. But she’d felt the heat arc between them when their eyes had first met. He wasn’t as immune to her as he’d like her to believe.

  As for her, well, sure she’d felt a slight…zing…upon first seeing him. She was only human after all and he was tall, broad-shouldered and blond, his handsome face sharply planed, his bottom lip thicker than the top.

  Then again, she felt the same zing when she saw a picture of a shirtless David Beckham so she wasn’t about to take any reaction to the detective’s good looks seriously.

  “I’d like to ask you all some questions regarding your whereabouts the night Dale York died,” Bertrand said.

  “None of us are answering any questions without legal counsel present,” Nora said, standing and staring down the enigmatic detective as if she could put a chink in his armor with just the force of her will.

  God bless her little sister’s confidence but Tori could’ve told her not to bother. Someone like Bertrand couldn’t be intimidated. No, if a woman wanted to get underneath the detective’s steely exterior, shake that air of superiority he wore as easily as his dark, expensive-looking suit, she had to be clever. Manipulative.

  She had to be willing to use her body, her looks, to get what she wanted. Like their mother. Like Tori.

  “That’s fine,” Bertrand told Nora as if he expected no less than them all dragging attorneys in here before saying another word. “I’d like to set up times to speak with you all—individually.”

  “Divide and conquer, eh?” Tori asked.

  He slid an unreadable glance her way.

  “My secretary can set up interview times,” Ross said, straightening.

  “Griffin has to get back to work,” Nora blurted, her fingers twisting together.

  Griffin, in the act of getting to his feet, stilled. “I do?”

  She nodded slowly, her eyes on his. “Yes. You do. You have that car coming in at ten for that thing. Remember?”

  Griffin may be sex on a stick, but he wasn’t dumb. Then again, a blind person could see what Nora was pulling. “Right,” Griffin said. “The car with the thing. Important customer.”

  “Yes,” Nora said in a rush. “Very important.” She blinked innocently at Bertrand—no one did innocent like Nora. “Do you think Griffin could set up his interview time first?”

  Before Bertrand could call her on her bullshit, Ross stepped in. “After we’ve set up Mr. York’s interview, I’ll show you to the office you can use while you’re here,” he told Bertrand.

  The detective looked ready to argue but Griffin was already walking away. They all watched him leave and Ross crossed to the door, stopped and sent Bertrand a raised brow look.

  Bertrand nodded stiffly at Tori and her sisters. He had to be pissed, but he gave nothing away, kept his expression clear, his movements easy as he joined Ross.

  She wrapped her arms around herself, chewed on her lower lip thoughtfully as she watched his back. A man who could hide his emotions so well was dangerous. Best to keep that in mind.

  “What the hell was that about?” Layne asked Nora after the door closed behind the cops.

  “I wanted to talk to you both alone.”

  “Next time,” Tori said, “just hold up a sign saying Trying to Get Rid of You! It would’ve been more subtle.”

  “It worked, didn’t it?” Nora turned to Layne. “Okay, no bull, no sugarcoating, just give us the truth, the unequivocal truth. How bad is it?”

  Layne swallowed and wiped her palms down the front of her uniform. “It’s bad. But nothing I can’t handle,” she added quickly.

  Tori’s stomach dropped. Layne was worried. Scared. Neither of which Tori was used to seeing on her sister’s face. Couldn’t say she liked seeing them now.

  “How bad is ‘bad’?” she asked, not sure she wanted to know.

  “Ross and I are suspended,” she said, as if forcing the words out.

  “What?” Nora slapped her hands onto her hips, her cheeks flush with anger. “The mayor suspended you? What is he thinking?”

  Layne took the band from around her hair and slid it onto her wrist, then combed her fingers through the long strands, her movements jerky and agitated. “He’s thinking there are questions that need to be answered. Charges of wrongdoing that need to be investigated.”

  Tori shook her head. “But you didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Layne always played by the rules. Plus she’d never do anything to jeopardize the career she loved so much.

  “Neither one of us did anything wrong.” Layne smoothed her hair back, wrapped the band around it again before letting her arms drop to her sides. “But it doesn’t look good,” she admitted flatly as if she didn’t care her entire life was blowing up in front of her. Tori knew better. “It looks like Ross and I used our positions to cover up facts about Dale’s death—even though we didn’t know he was murdered until an hour ago.”

  “Why bring in someone?” Tori asked. “Why not let another officer from Mystic Point investigate Dale’s murder? Someone from the county to look into the accusations against you and Ross?”

  Layne shook her head but it was Nora who answered. “Too big a risk of an investigator from the county having a connection to someone here. Plus, it’s no secret Jack Pomeroy and Uncle Kenny are good friends. Pomeroy even worked under Ken when he was D.A.”

  “It’s better this way,” Layne said, somehow sounding as if she really meant it. “There will be no questions about the validity of the investigation when our names are cleared.”

  Okay, Tori could understand that. But it didn’t mean she had to be happy that Bertrand was going to be around for a while, dredging up the past when she’d finally thought they could all move forward.

  “What can we do to help?” Tori asked.

  Gratitude entered Layne’s hazel eyes, softened her expression. “Just cooperate with Bertrand. Tell the truth.”

  “I don’t trust him,” Nora said, her arms crossed, her shoulders hunched. “You heard what he said. He thinks one of us killed Dale.”

  “It’s his job to suspect everyone.” Layne’s soothing tone couldn’t disguise the apprehension beneath her words. “But we have nothing to hide so we have nothing to worry about.”

  “Well, we may have nothing to hide,” Tori said, “but what about Griffin?”

  Nora whirled on her. “Don’t. Start.”

  “Griffin was with Nora the night Dale died,” Layne pointed out, all logical and coplike. “But Tori’s right, he’s going to be looked at,” she told Nora. “We’re all going to be looked at—even Ross because of his relationship with me. We all had motive for wanting Dale dead.”

  Nora went white. Swayed. Tori held her arm, ready to catch her in case she passed out. “Hey, you okay? Honey, you don’t look so good. Sit down.”

  Nora shook her off, stumbled a few feet away. Her eyes were wide and bleak, her lips trembling. “No. Thanks, I’m fine, I’m just… It’s all…crazy. I just…I have to go.”

  “What?” Tori watched, her mouth open, as Nora grabbed her purse and jacket.

  Layne reached out to their younger sister. “Nora—”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, backing away from them both, her purse clutched to her chest. “I’m really sorry.”

  Nora slipped out of the room, closing the door softly behind her.

  Tori turned to Layne. “We need to hold an intervention. Your place or mine?”

  “An intervention for what?”

  “To get Nora to tell us what’s going on with her. She’s obviously keeping something from us.”

  “I know, but she’ll come to us when she’s ready.”

  Tori wasn’t so sure. What if they lost her? “You don’t think whatever it is it has anything to do with Dale’s death. Do you?”

  “Of course not. And that’s just what Bertrand wants. Us doubting each other, turning against each other.”

  “You cops are a sneaky breed, you know that?”

  “Look, I don’t know much about B
ertrand but if he works for the A.G.’s office, it means he’s good. Really good. We have to be careful.” She searched Tori’s eyes. “We have to be able to trust each other and count on each other no matter what happens. We have to stick together. It’s the only way we’ll get through this.”

  Like they’d done when their mom disappeared and so many other times. No matter the differences between them, her love for her sisters, her commitment to them, was a blessing. And a burden. And she couldn’t break free.

  “No matter what,” Tori repeated, squeezing Layne’s hand. “Together.”

  * * *

  WALKER’S GAZE SWEPT the Ludlow Street Café’s dining room as he headed toward a booth in the back. Busy place. Busier than he would’ve thought given that it was midafternoon on a Tuesday. Then again, his quick research told him it did a brisk business, one that increased during the summer months when tourists came in droves to the small town.

  Sliding into the booth so that he faced the door, he noted the other two visible exits before he turned his coffee cup over. He inspected it and, finding no lipstick smudges, set it on the saucer and waited.

  He tapped his fingers against the top of the table. Searched the room again. Rolled his shoulders back and finally gave in and took off his suit coat and laid it on the seat next to him. Christ, but he hated waiting. Much preferred doing to sitting, though so far today he’d done a hell of a lot of the latter.

  But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be patient when need be. It took time to gather evidence, to sift through facts and unearth the truth. That’s what he’d done for the past four hours. Read reports—thoroughly, patiently—anything and everything that had to do with Valerie Sullivan’s disappearance and Dale York’s background. Dale’s criminal record alone had taken up almost an hour of Walker’s time, encompassing the years from when Dale legally became an adult until he, too, disappeared from Mystic Point eighteen years ago.

  Now it was time to move this investigation into the opening stages.