The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 4

by Nora Roberts

  Like a fashionable suit, the Southern-woman polite slipped onto Phoebe. It generally served her well. “I don’t know if I’d rather the latter until I have a better idea what conversation you’d like to have.”

  “Regarding statements and accusations made against you by Officer Arnold Meeks.”

  “Arnold Meeks is no longer a police officer, as you well know.”

  “He was when he made the statements and accusations, as you well know. I hope you’re recovering from your injuries.”

  “I am, thank you. Lieutenant Blackman, if we’re going to be having this informal conversation, would you like some coffee?”

  “No, thanks. I’m fine. Prior to the attack on your person, you suspended Officer Arnold Meeks?”

  “I did.”

  “And your reasons for taking this step?”

  “Are outlined, perfectly clearly, in the file.” She plastered a cooperative smile on her face. “Do you need a copy?”

  “I have one.”

  Hard-ass, Phoebe thought, but kept the smile as she tipped her head. “Well then.”

  “Officer Meeks disputed your reasons for his suspension.”

  Phoebe leaned back, dropped the smile, sharpened her tone. “We both know he attacked me, that he lay in wait and assaulted me. We both know a deal was cut. And I suspect we both know Arnold Meeks has some significant problems with authority—particularly when it’s female authority—anger management and control. Why are you pushing this?”

  Blackman’s dark eyes stayed pinned on hers. “He made serious accusations against you and the captain of this division.”

  Her temper wanted to leap and bite. And that, Phoebe knew, would only add fuel to a fire that needed to be stamped out quickly. “Yes, he did. He made some of them right here in this office, to my face.”

  “You have a personal relationship with Captain David Mc Vee, do you not?”

  “I certainly do. I have a personal and platonic relationship with the captain, whom I’ve known and respected for more than twenty years. If you’ve looked into this matter, into me, then you know the circumstances of how I came to know Captain Mc Vee.”

  “You left the FBI to work in his division.”

  “I did, for a variety of reasons. None of which are unseemly or against departmental regulations. I’ve worked in this division for nearly seven years, without a single mark on my record. I believe my reputation and certainly the captain’s are above reproach. Certainly from accusations made by a disgraced police officer whose answer to being disciplined was to beat the hell out of me.”

  Blackman puffed out his cheeks, the first sign Phoebe had seen that he felt anything at all. “I understand you’d find this conversation, the need for it, distasteful, Lieutenant.”

  “Distasteful? Lieutenant Blackman, as a police officer and as a woman, I find theneed for this conversation deplorable.”

  “So noted. The officer in question also contends that you made inappropriate sexual advances to him, and used your authority over him to intimidate in a sexual context.”

  “So I’ve heard.” And enough, Phoebe thought, was damn well enough. “I never made sexual advances ofany kind toward Arnold Meeks. You can take his word or you can take mine. I wonder how much pressure the ‘officer in question’s’ father and/or grandfather might be putting on IAB to pursue this matter.”

  “Complaints were filed against you, and Captain Mc Vee.”

  “You ought to consider the source of those complaints. You ought to consider the fact that Captain Mc Vee has served this department and this city for more than twenty-five years, and doesn’t deserve even the hint of a smear on his record by the pointing finger of a son of a bitch like Arnold Meeks.”

  “Lieutenant—”

  “I’m not finished. I want you to put that in your report of this conversation. I want you to put in your report that in my professional and personal opinion, Arnold Meeks is a lying son of a bitch who’s trying to cover his disgraceful and criminal behavior by damaging the reputation of a good man, and a good cop.”

  She shoved to her feet. “Now I want you out of my office. I have work to do. If you want another conversation with me, it will be a formal one, and my delegate will be present.”

  “Up to you.”

  “Yes, it certainly is. Good afternoon, Lieutenant Blackman.”

  It took Phoebe only about forty-five seconds to admit she was just too pissed, too insulted to sit there doing paperwork. Even the pretense of doing paperwork wasn’t possible.

  She grabbed her purse, strode out of the office, through the speculative, and sympathetic, glances of the squad. “Lost time,” she said to the new PAA. “I’ll be an hour.”

  She had to walk. She knew herself and understood air and exercise were two vital components to cooling herself off. She walked fast, before she said or did anything she’d regret later, straight out of the building. Out of the cop, she thought to herself.

  She could have chosen an easier career. Psychology, psychiatry. Hadn’t she considered both? But no, through all the years, all the schooling, all the choices, she’d kept circling back to this.

  She knew it had given her mother more than anyone’s share of sleepless nights. God knew it wasn’t the best choice for a single mother with a child who needed her. It hadn’t been the smart choice, really. She had a family to support, and could have done so with more style charging for fifty-minute hours instead of putting in countless nights on the job.

  And for what? Forwhat? To be accused by a man who brutalized her? To be questioned by her own over those accusations before the last bruises had completely faded?

  She’d swallowed what in her heart was no more than a slap on the wrist of the man who’d used his fists on her. She’d accepted the politics of it, the face-saving, and to be honest had some small seed of relief inside her that she wouldn’t be called on to sit in court and replay what he had done to her.

  But this? She didn’t know if she could swallow this.

  And where were her choices now? Phoebe asked herself as she turned into the relative cool of Chippewa Square. She could give the department the finger, walk away. And toss away a dozen years of training and work—good work, she reminded herself.

  She could demand a full and formal investigation, and blast the ugliness into the air for those who enjoyed such things to snatch at like ribbons on balloons. Or she could remember that sometimes pride was less important than doing what had to be done.

  She dropped down on a bench—the one Forrest Gump had sat on, waiting for a bus.

  “Box of chocolates, my ass,” she muttered.

  But she was calmer. It was good, she decided, that she’d said what she wanted to say to that rat-bastard Blackman when she hadn’t been calm. Good that she’d stood up, showed him she wouldn’t let herself be walked over by IAB, by politics, by any old-boy network or variation thereof.

  Let him poke and prod around. She had nothing to hide.

  She’d go back to work, because that’s what she did. And really, it wasn’t just the only choice she had. It was what she wanted.

  But for the next five minutes, she was going to sit here—just like Forrest—and watch the world go by. As screwed up as it was, it was still her world.

  Phoebe glanced over as a woman sat on the bench beside her, then did a quick double take. A sassy white sun hat shaded the gorgeous curling auburn hair. Delicate, just ripened peach tinted the wide, expressive mouth. The long legs were set off in a filmy white sundress and given some jazz with the strappy high-heeled sandals.

  Hollywood often came to Savannah, and still it wasn’t a usual thing to have Julia Roberts cozy up on a park bench alongside you. Especially when Julia had a prominent Adam’s apple and really big hands.

  “I hope you don’t mind me joining you.” The voice was lazy, liquid Savannah, and on the contralto end of the scale. “These shoes are just killing me.”

  “Not at all. Fabulous shoes, by the way.”

  “W
hy, thank you so much!” The four-inch heels lifted, turned side to side, and showed off peach-tipped toes. “Saw them at Jezebel’s, and I couldn’t resist them. I know better than to go in that place, as I have such a weakness. But there they were, right in the window, and I couldn’t live without them.”

  Phoebe had to smile, and think of Carly. Her daughter would understand the sentiment perfectly.

  “But they arenot made for walking more than five steps. I’m not her.” Phoebe’s companion tipped down fashionable sunglasses. “Lots of people mistake us, as Julia and I share certain qualities.”

  “You certainly do.”

  “And she is a married lady with those adorable children. While I am still on the market.” With a wink, the woman extended her hand. “Marvella Starr.”

  “Phoebe Mac Namara.”

  “I do believe I’ve seen you around here, Phoebe—that gorgeous hair of yours. I take a turn around the park most every day. It’s near the police station, you know.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “I do love a man in uniform. And the mounted unit, they patrol the park. A man in uniform on a horse.” On a lusty sigh, Marvella leaned back, waved a hand over her heart. “I am helpless. I work at Chez Vous. You ever been to Chez Vous, honey?”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Oh, you should come on by some night, catch the show. Being in the theater, I do tend to sleep in most days, but I like to stroll on through the park in the afternoon, get my policeman fix.” She dug into her peach-toned hobo bag, took out a lemon drop. “Candy?”

  “Thanks.”

  Companionably, they sucked on lemon drops, and Phoebe felt better than she had all day.

  “You live around here, too?” Marvella asked.

  “No, actually, I work around here. At the police station. I’m a cop.”

  “Now you shut up!” Marvella poked her in the arm. “Is that the truth? I want to see your gun.”

  Amused, Phoebe folded back her jacket to expose the weapon and badge on her hip. And had Marvella whistling in delight.

  “Pretty thing like you, I’d never have guessed it. But I guess we both know how appearances are deceiving—and it’s what’s inside the cover that counts.”

  “Yes, we both know that.”

  “You know any men in uniform who might be interested in a date with a woman of my particular style?”

  “If they aren’t it’s their loss.”

  “Aren’t you the sweet one!”

  “If I come across any, I’ll send them over to Chez Vous. I bet you can take it from there.”

  “Oh, that’s a solid truth, Phoebe. That’s a solid truth.”

  While she sat, he took pictures. It was such a bonus! He’d never expected to see her walking along, into the square, out again. But here she was, eyes shaded by sunglasses. He wished he could see them. But it was still a bonus. He’d only been scouting around, and lo and behold, here came Phoebe.

  Walking fast—fast as a Yankee—legs striding, hips swinging. Hot under the collar, he was sure of it. And the idea of her anger, her upset, gave him a nice little thrill.

  He wondered if she’d liked the little present he’d left for her. It was too bad, really too bad, he hadn’t been able to stick around, to wait, to position himself to see how she reacted when she found the dead rat.

  Still, they were going to have time, plenty of time to get to know each other again. To see each other. Eye to eye.

  He didn’t know what the hell she and the queer were blabbing on about, but the interlude gave him time for more pictures. And with her running her mouth, she wasn’t going to make him.

  When she rose, walked away, he blew a kiss at her back.

  “See you soon, sweetheart.”

  Dave waited until it was nearly the end of shift to summon her. He was on the phone when she stepped into his office, and he held up a finger. “That was my take, yes. I appreciate it. I’ll get back to you.”

  He hung up, swiveled a little right, a little left as he studied Phoebe’s face. “This’ll only take a minute. You probably want to get home.”

  “Monday night’s homework session is often a study of temper and despair. By Friday, we have the hang of it again, only to fall victim to the tradition of two days of vacation. Is there a problem, Captain?”

  “I know IAB’s spoken with you.”

  “Yes.”

  “And I know you’re pissed off.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s not going to go anywhere, Phoebe. It’s got nowhere to go. But the Meekses have friends in the department, and at City Hall. It’s important to them to save face to some extent.”

  “While your face and mine take the punch,” she tossed back.

  “I’m sorry that insult’s been added to injury. I expect you’ll handle it.”

  “I considered flipping them the bird and going into business as a therapist. Maybe marriage counseling.” She watched his lips quirk. “But considering my own track record in that area, I rejected it and mused on the more entertaining notion of going to a voodoo practitioner and buying a curse. I’m still weighing the pros and cons of that.”

  “Let me know which way you decide. It’s smoke, Phoebe. You know that.”

  “Smoke can leave stains and smears. And it kills. Haven’t you been paying attention to the surgeon general?”

  “Sergeant Meeks pulled some strings. He’s got his son a job as a security guard. That’s a hard comedown for a man like Arnie. It’s a hard comedown for his father to see what I have no doubt he considered his legacy broken into very ugly bits. He’s getting some of his own back.”

  He swiveled again when she said nothing. “As long as you hold your line, he won’t even get that. Go on home, put this away. It’s bad enough you’re about to face the multiplication tables or the hell of long division.”

  No point in argument or debate, she thought, especially since he was right. All she had to do was hold the line. “Monday is, invariably, vocabulary. Carly has such a damn good one it annoys her to be told what words to learn. What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to finish up here, go home and have a beer with my Hungry-Man dinner.”

  “Come on to dinner. You—” She stopped, felt both temper and grief rise up when she saw the expression on his face. “Is that how it has to be? Because of this insulting stupidity? We can’t be friends now?”

  “Of course we’re friends. Nothing changes that, and nothing ever could. But it’s best, for the moment, that I stick with my Hungry-Man. Let the smoke clear, Phoebe. When it does, I promise you it’s not going to leave a stain on either of us.”

  “I’m thinking more seriously about finding that voodoo queen.”

  He smiled at her, in that calm, patient way she loved, she depended on. “We do good work here. We’re going to keep right on doing it. And speaking of that, you did good work at the college today.”

  “It was bogus. Report was the coed had barricaded herself in the dorm with a knife, a rifle and a bottle of pills. When I talked her out, what she had was manicure scissors, an unloaded twenty-two and a bottle of goddamn Tums.”

  “It could have been a loaded gun, a bowie knife and a bottle of barbs. You know that. You talked her out, that’s what counts. Go on home.”

  Some days, she thought as she walked out to her car, it felt like it counted more than others.

  It was odd, wasn’t it, Ava decided, for the man her friend was seeing—was in fact having dinner with that very night—to ask to see her?

  She wasn’t sure why she’d agreed to meet him. Maybe it was curiosity, or manners, or that easy charm of his. Likely all of that, she admitted as she walked to Whitaker Street.

  She’d decided not to drive. Parking could be such a nightmare, and besides, you couldn’t window-shop in a car, could you? Or not safely in any case.

  And she did love to window-shop. Between her and Essie, she supposed they’d completely corrupted Carly.

  Anyway, it wasn’t all that
far. And Savannah was just gorgeous in April.

  She loved Savannah. She loved Mac Namara House—and deep in the core, it had been home more than anywhere else. Of course, she’d loved her pretty little house in West Chatham. Picture-perfect life, or so she’d thought. With a successful husband, a delightful little boy. Even the requisite golden retriever.

  But there’d been nothing perfect about it, and what a hard blow that had been. Serial adultery wasn’t pretty—especially for the blind wife who’d missed all the signals, all the signs until they slapped hard into her face.

  So it had been back to Mac Namara House. Minus the husband and the dog. She did miss the dog, she thought with some amusement. And she was grateful she’d had a place to go, a place where her son could thrive, where she could be useful.

  And if she still wished, occasionally, that the cheating bastard would die in some fiery car wreck, she’d mellowed considerably from the days she’d actively prayed for him to be decapitated by a runaway train.

  That was progress.

  She was lost in her own thoughts and nearly walked right by the house.

  “Hey! Ava!”

  She stopped, glanced over, and there was Duncan coming down the steps of some poor old house left to ruin.

  Talk about window-shopping, she thought with pure female appreciation. It was hardly a wonder Phoebe was taking a lot of looks at this particular piece of merchandise. Rangy build, tousled hair, killer smile.

  Though she hadn’t proven herself the best judge of men, she was betting this one lived up to his packaging.

  “Sorry. I was daydreaming. Oh my. Is this the place you bought? The place you told Essie about?”

  “Yeah.” He looked back at it as a man might a beloved old aunt. “She needs some help.”

  “Yes, she certainly does.”

  Boards blinded half the windows while the front veranda sagged like an old pair of jowls. The paint—what was left of it—curled off the wood in a sickly yellow.

  “You have your work cut out for you,” she commented.

  “That’s half the fun. And I kind of wanted to talk to you about that.”

  “About what?”