“What exactly do you expect to find?” Honey asked.
“You heard about the Wishes for Kids fundraiser?” Camilla figured the lady knew about it. Everyone did, probably in this neighborhood more than anywhere else.
“Sure. Brandy Gilligan’s husband hits me up for donations every year.”
They told Mrs. Freeman about the situation. She’d been out of the country on business when the theft happened and returned just three nights ago, so the police hadn’t questioned her. But her security camera scanned the entire street continuously, and it was high definition. Jackpot!
Camilla bit her lip. They’d either find Veldon Twiss’s noose or his walking papers in this footage.
In no time they found the segment where the BMW tore out of Brandy’s driveway and down the street. Now they just had to back it up a few minutes to see whether anything telling led up to it—if Veldon showed up in his Robin Hood costume to loot the wealthy of Sherwood Forest.
“Stop. Who is that?” Camilla pointed at the screen. “Does that guy live around here?” The footage showed a quick scan of a man walking a dog on the sidewalk near the claustrophobic house.
“Emphatically not.”
“How can you tell?” Zane asked. He scrolled it back and let them watch the pedestrian again. In the snippet they saw the guy more clearly, chugging along in jogging shorts and sneakers. Guys that overweight should be required to wear shirts. Totally.
“Because I’d notice a guy like that.”
Unfortunately, the guy’s face had been turned toward the claustrophobic house for sale.
“Don’t men walk their dogs shirtless around here?” He had a Mexican Hairless on a leash.
“Not without some serious back waxing first.” In stark contrast with his dog, the pedestrian had need of some manscaping. He was furrier than the bears lying in wait to attack her at Horsethief Basin. “But it’s not that. If he lived here, I’d notice, and remember.”
The guy continued down the street, and the camera kept him in view for a full minute. He paused in front of Brandy’s house, looked both ways, and then ducked into her carport. Next they saw the Wishes for Kids prize tear out of the driveway with the Mexican Hairless’s head out the window. The video was so good they could see its tongue hanging out.
“The dog walker stole the Beemer!” Camilla slapped her thigh.
“We got him! Veldon Twiss, the twisted jerk, is going down!”
“Uh, that wasn’t Veldon Twiss.” Camilla elbowed Zane, shushing him. He shouldn’t be naming the suspect in front of Honey Freeman, anyway. Bad form, man.
“Sure it was. And we got him cold. Watch. Roll it back, would you, Honey?” Zane said her name with that charm that had charmed Camilla. Something zinged inside her. Jealousy? No. She couldn’t be jealous of his charm. He was the jerk who deceived her. A very, very good looking jerk who came to work in her office just to get to know her, but a jerk nonetheless. “See? Veldon Twiss. And he’s wearing the shoes. We’ve got him.”
Sure enough, the style of shoes fit the footprint the sheriff’s office had identified. But it didn’t mean Veldon was the Robin Hood of the situation. “Does Veldon have a dog? Did anyone say anything about that?”
“Nothing. It wouldn’t matter. Watch him and his big, hairy self. There he goes.” The footage showed him peeling out in the road. Well, he would’ve been peeling out if there had been gravel, but it was concrete. The nice kind. This was a seriously upscale neighborhood.
But something didn’t sit right. “Sorry to ask you this again, Mrs. Freeman, but can we see it all from the point the dog walker comes into view?”
She rewound it, and then it came clear. “Stop. See that?” Camilla pointed at the screen. “At first I thought it was some kind of distortion. But—look. His head doesn’t quite come up to the arch of the broken real estate sign.”
“That’s what I meant when I said I’d notice a guy like that.” Honey cleared her throat.
Just then, Camilla realized why Honey Freeman was being so delicate. Zane supplied the politically incorrect term, much to everyone’s discomfort. “It’s a midget. A fat, hairy one.”
Yeah, if you were someone who wore a cashmere sweater dress around the house, you’d probably notice a fat, hairy midget—excuse Zane’s terminology—had moved into your neighborhood.
“I think they prefer the term ‘little people,’ Zane.” Camilla said this softly. “But more important—how tall is Veldon Twiss? Have you seen the guy?”
Zane got really quiet. Camilla knew the answer, but Zane said it. “Now that you mention it, I remember the description. He’s six foot four. And weighs a hundred and fifty pounds. And he’s got alopecia.”
“What’s alopecia?” Honey whispered, since Zane and Camilla were whispering.
“Hair loss. He’s not just bald, he’s shiny bald.”
“Right. Well, then, friends, you’ve got the wrong man.”
Honey was right. And a million pounds of worry weight floated off Camilla’s shoulders. All the concerns that had itched in her mind about the possibility of prosecuting Veldon Twiss on such thin evidence—lifted. It was going to be fine. Relief expanded her soul! She wouldn’t have to endure the dark night of the soul, the wrenching decision-making, the eyes-downcast shuffle into Falcon’s office where she tendered her resignation on points of integrity. None of Sheldon patting her on the back and giving her encouraging smiles, no drowning her sorrows by burrowing into the piles of laundry on her bed and eating gelato straight from the carton for two weeks straight.
No—all of that awful, looming nastiness had disappeared in a single viewing of Honey’s security footage, bless her over-processed hair and heart.
But a glance at Zane told her something else could still go sideways in this whole high-profile, career-making case.
Zane frowned and shoved his hands in his pockets.
“Aw, man. You all right?” Camilla tried to keep the triumph out of her voice. Gloating was so unbecoming. But she watched him again, and she knew it was more than the loss that was bothering him. “What’s wrong? Even if it’s not Veldon Twiss, we can get our man. The guy who stole from sick kids? He’s still going down. How many overweight, hirsute little people can there be in town?”
“He prefers the term midget.”
“What? Why—” Confusion rattled Camilla.
Zane stared at the floor. “That’s just it. I know this guy.”
He knew the culprit? It sounded like it was a personal thing. Camilla wanted to protest, but Zane was already dialing the police, giving them an address and a reason to get the warrant.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Culpable
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Camilla followed fast on Zane’s heels out to his car. “You know the guy? What, is he from your dark days? Your bad boy years? Because Falcon, from day one, warned me about those.” Of course at the time she hadn’t known Falcon meant Zane as the ne’er do well son of his fraternity brother.
“Oh, yeah?” Zane spun around. “Just what did he say about those? That my dad made me join the Army? That my dad never listened to a single reason why I did what I did?”
Whoa. She stopped, almost bumping into him where he’d planted himself. Why did Camilla suddenly feel like she’d just opened a can of rotting worms? Yikes.
“Because this guy, your fat, hairy midget, used to be a buddy of mine. It’s true. The Beemer Bandit—excuse me, Bimmer Bandit in my hoity-toity talk, as you say—goes by the name of Dutch Swede. And he is the biggest pain in my neck I ever met. I hate to say that about someone who never got a good start in life, but it’s true.” He kicked at an invisible rock on the concrete and headed back to where his car was parked at Brandy’s house.
“Stop. Just stop a minute, Zane.” Camilla reached out her hand and rested it on his shoulder. He stopped walking, and his shoulders fell. “Explain.” She squeezed his arm, and he turned around to face her. She asked again. “Start from the beginning.”
Zane’s chin pushed upward, making him frown. His eyes squinted. Clearly, he was thinking. Would he tell her? And if he did, how much of it should she believe? It’d only been three days since she’d ridden the Zane Roller Coaster and been thrown from it into the brambles. Maybe she shouldn’t press him for details now. But she had to know. The case might depend on it.
The promotion might depend on it.
But more, the free life of a possibly innocent man may depend on it.
After a heavy sigh, he looked back up at her. “Fine. I can tell you everything about it. But you can’t hold my past against me. Any of it.”
She just nodded, and he walked her over to the front lawn of the empty claustrophobia house where a porch swing hung creaking and unused. He sat on it and motioned for her to sit beside him. A cold breeze ruffled her hair with the scent of both iron-fresh chrysanthemums from the nearby garden and Zane’s cologne. That stuff always discombobulated her. She’d better ignore it and notice only the flowers’ smell.
Her feet dangled, so she pulled them up to sit cross-legged. It was a good thing, because it created a little distance between them. Necessary distance. Except where her knee touched his thigh. This swing—it wasn’t quite wide enough.
“Dutch Swede?” His last name wasn’t too different from hers, Sweeten.
“Dutch Swede. Stupid idiot.”
“Let’s not start with name calling. Let’s start with facts.”
“Right.” Zane leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his chin on his folded hands. “If I’d been a better Boy Scout, I wouldn’t have had this problem. They have that law, you know. Chaste, true, benevolent. I’ve never had a problem with those.”
Camilla perked up at the word chaste—and the fact he’d never had a problem with being so. A bird fluttered in her heart telling her this mattered and she should remember it. But she didn’t speak. She just let him spill his feelings.
“Loyalty. That was my problem.” He began rocking his heels back and forth, which moved the swing with a loud creak of its new, tangy smelling redwood. “Loyalty to the wrong person.”
“To Dutch Swede?”
“Exactly.”
The story went on. Zane and Dutch had been on hikes and outings. They’d earned some merit badges and other stuff. They weren’t close, but they were guys, and they joked around and stuff. Then one time, Dutch showed up late, sweating and puffing, and Zane who was late, too, caught him outside and asked what was wrong. Dutch was running from someone, and Zane had to promise some things to keep Dutch safe.
“That was my mistake. I made the promise. Never should have made it. But then I kept it. Which was another thing I never should have done. I’ve learned a lot since then.”
It turned out Dutch got mixed up with the wrong people and made some bad decisions, made a guy named Pitbull furious, and didn’t have money to pay him back for some illegal substances. Pitbull later showed up, Zane tried to defend Dutch, took a few hits, and then they all met up with the cops and spent some time in juvenile detention.
“I had the advantage of a family who cared enough to yank me out, send me away. Even though it was into the Army, it got me gone. Dutch didn’t. He stuck around, got in more trouble, and it looks like he’s been living the dream all the way to grand theft auto—stealing from sick kids.”
“Nice.”
“Not nice.” Zane leaned back, frowning. “I guess what bugs me is I did everything I could for that guy, you know? To help him out, make him part of the group, to be the first person the guy could count on. And he turns around and kicks me in the teeth.” He shrugged.
“I guess he could have told the cops you weren’t involved. Or told your dad.”
“He could have.”
“I bet it was weird for you to see him on that video.”
“Wish I hadn’t. Before now, I’d pretty much buried all that. But it’s funny, seeing it now? I’d kind of dreaded what my past would feel like if I ever had to face it again.”
“And?”
“And…I didn’t need to. All that anger. It’s gone.” He turned toward her and flashed a smile.
“What do you feel now?” Camilla tossed the question out, like a hat into a ring, and then she realized how it opened both her and Zane up for a discussion she might not be ready for. Like he might take it the wrong way, thinking she was asking about his feelings toward her. She’d better clarify. “I mean, toward Dutch. And stuff.” It was out, that second phrase, before she could stop it. And then her eyes met his. And suddenly, that surge of electricity that had arced between the two of them a couple of days ago crackled to life again. She didn’t dare move even so much as an eyelash or breathe. He, however, blinked—multiple times. He stared at her face, his eyes jumping between her left and right eye. It took him a moment to answer, but he finally did, and it came out breathy.
“Toward Dutch, pity, I guess. Toward ‘stuff?’” He leaned in and reached his arm around Camilla. He smelled so good, and she couldn’t help looking down at his lips, as her own mouth tingled, traitor that it was. “Toward stuff?” He breathed closer to her. She could almost taste his cinnamon breath. Her soul seemed to waft forth out of her chest a little bit, reaching for him, yearning. She couldn’t stop it. He did this to her, made her feel lonely when she didn’t have him. “Toward stuff, I feel like it’s time for a second try.”
She bit both her lips, and bated her breath. All she could do was nod.
And then he was kissing her. A lot. And she entwined her arms around his neck and pulled him toward her. The swing creaked and shook. They weren’t on solid ground, and she knew it. She couldn’t do this—not to him.
She broke off the kiss, pulling away. He leaned toward her, still keeping her upper arm in his grasp as if to say don’t go. But she must. It wasn’t fair, not believing what she believed.
“You—are you okay?” He’d already accelerated his breathing. “I do something wrong?”
Did he do something wrong, she corrected, and no. He didn’t. She shook her head. Saying what she feared—it would sound completely like she’d jumped the gun. But not saying it was also wrong because it led him to believe there could be a future between them. That’s the path he set his foot on when he kissed her that way, and when he moved more toward the things he’d confessed the other day. Especially about what beautiful children they’d have.
He was at her side in no time, his arms encircling her. He pressed his hands to her back, pulled her to him. Then he threw his head back and groaned. “Oh, geez. If this is about the deputy position, that’s all irrelevant, you know.”
It wasn’t about that. “It’s not—”
“Because, well, it’s not just that when Veldon Twiss walks neither of us is on his prosecution anymore. And it’s not that because when this office goes to prosecute Dutch Swede, I’ll have to refuse to be on the case due to personal reasons.”
Good point. Zane would be out of the running, if Falcon’s deal still stood. Who knows what Falcon will dish out next? Still, she couldn’t tell him what this was really about. For one thing, it would be a total replay of her college years, where every guy she dated and got close to, when they got close enough, she’d tip her hand. And that hand always spelled Desperation with a capital D. And then they’d bolt. Burns Pilsington had bolted. Three other guys before Burns had, too, one each year of her college studies. It taught her the lesson—finally, after four total rejections.
Huh. Slow learner.
But the thing she learned was she wasn’t good enough to be someone’s wife. She was good enough to be a girlfriend, but not to take home. Not to be the lifelong love of all a man’s days. And certainly too crazy to be considered a possibility for the mother of some man’s children.
And she learned that lesson well.
Plus, to quit hoping.
Because it might be possible for someone else, but it wasn’t going to be possible for her.
So, after all, Lydia was right: Camilla didn’t hope. She
couldn’t let herself. It hurt much, much too much.
Zane had kept her in his arms, and it surprised her when she looked down and saw the sleeve of his shirt, near his magnificent bicep, had soaked. She hadn’t known the tears had fallen. Tears of loss. Bereft. She’d allowed herself to acknowledge her utter lack, and it triggered the flood. He must have felt it—maybe a breeze alerted them both—because he glanced down at it. And then he pulled away a bit and lifted Camilla’s chin to inspect her face.
“You’re crying?” He clutched her to him. And she wept silently against his chest. “Camilla. I am so sorry. I don’t know how to apologize enough for what I’ve done. For what I haven’t done.” He rubbed her back, and she pressed her arms around his back, hanging onto her own wrist to keep a firm grip around him for this last time before she had to let him loose forever, even as he begged her forgiveness. “I wanted to clarify things right away—but you bolted. I didn’t have a chance. It sounded like I’d lied.”
“Lied?” It caught her so off-guard that she temporarily forgot the real reason for her grief. “And what do you mean, ‘for what you’ve done,’ and ‘for what you haven’t done?’”
“Look.” The swing gave a mighty creak as he shifted his weight and rubbed the back of his neck. “I want to be able to say I did some kind of noble thing, so you’ll put me up on a pedestal—to say I marched into Falcon’s office and shoved that dangling carrot of a promotion right in his face.”
“But you can’t?” Camilla’s voice came out in a thin thread.
“No, I can’t. Because no matter what you’ve been thinking—”
“Did you mislead me?” Emotions swirled in her like a lake in a storm, churning up mud and debris.
“Technically? I guess so. Even though I wanted to every day, these last couple of weeks I didn’t correct your misunderstanding, and that’s tantamount to lying. I never should have let you go on believing Falcon hired me with the agreement to give me the promotion—or you.”
Attractive Nuisance (Legally in Love Book 1) Page 14