Detective on the Hunt

by Marilyn Pappano

  He took the back way out of the strip mall, passing a Chinese restaurant and a hot dog place, then turned back onto Main Street southbound. In a couple of minutes, he was parking in the restaurant’s lot. The dining room was warm and smelled of beef and onions and French fries and the best ketchup in the world, and she breathed in deeply, appreciating every happy, sweet, treat-with-Granddad bit of it.

  When they placed their orders at the counter, she swiped with her card before Quint got his out of his wallet. “Expense account,” she explained.

  His gaze narrowed. “Your department must have a bigger budget than ours.”

  “The lawyer’s expense account.” She wouldn’t abuse it—she was meticulously documenting every penny she spent—but buying lunch for an officer who’d been pulled away from his regular duties to help her was definitely a legitimate expense.

  They got their pop, then chose a table by the plate glass window on the side where they’d parked. Sitting across from each other, they were able to keep an eye on each other, the other customers, the employees and the pickup outside. Cops like expanded horizons.

  When she sat on the hard bench, the papers in her hip pocket crackled. Shifting her weight, she pulled them out. “These are the notes Morwenna and Lois did for me.” She smoothed them on the tabletop and scanned over them.

  Morwenna had listed a few dozen names, half of them only first or last, with additional data when she had it. Tanya West—works at Starbucks on Taft. Landon Jonas—mechanic at the garage on First. Lily Ransom—day shift at the local ER.

  “Anything interesting there?” she asked, sliding the page to Quint.

  He scanned it as quickly as she had. “I know some of these kids’ parents or grandparents. Tanya is a friend of Lia’s. Giggly, goofy, doesn’t have any ambition. Jonas does the routine service on department vehicles. My own truck, too. He’s okay, except that he’s got a motorcycle that goes really fast and a need to prove it occasionally. He’s got a string of tickets for that, but nothing else.”

  Another long conversational piece from him. She was reminded of a conversation with her aunt, the mystery author. Jada had hefted a dictionary and said, “My entire book is in here. I just have to pull it out one word at a time.” Was more than twenty words at once a sign that Quint was warming up to her?

  “I was first in my academy class in pursuit driving,” she said, “but motorcycles make me scream like a girl. Way too exposed. All the protective gear in the world can’t really protect you. Give me a four-thousand-pound cage wrapped around me any day.”

  She took his grunt as agreement before turning her attention to Lois’s list. It was shorter but had more commentary. Like Quint, she knew most of the kids’ parents and had filled in ages, vehicles and job information. She dedicated an entire paragraph to one Alexander Benson: oldest of three kids, twenty-six, arrests for bar fights, possession, reckless driving, driving under the influence of drugs and alcohol, harboring a fugitive—his sister—and three counts of assaulting a police officer. All three times, he’d gotten between a relative and the cops trying to arrest said relative. Where Maura and Mel went, he followed.

  He went by the nickname of Zander, and he was definitely, according to Lois, the boy our mothers warned us about. Bad boys. Every town had them, and every good girl managed to meet them.

  “Do you know Zander Benson?” Then, remembering his comment, she teased, “Or should I ask if you know his parents?”

  His gaze narrowed again, almost as if from habit. “Yeah, I went to school with his dad. Hank had better things to do than spend every day in school, so he went to class when it suited him. He was a senior when I started my sophomore year, and he was still a senior when I started my senior year. He did manage to graduate that time. Marisa was sitting in the audience, holding Zander and pregnant with number two.”

  That image could have been inspiring. She loved underdog stories, people who never gave up until they achieved their goal. After three senior years, Hank had graduated, but had it really been an accomplishment, or had the school given him the diploma so they could be done with him? If his son was anything to judge by, probably the latter.

  “I’m guessing marriage and fatherhood didn’t turn Hank into father of the year material.” Though her cynical cop side snorted at the idea, she believed it was possible. Hank could have learned his lesson about the value of education and staying out of trouble. He almost surely would have wanted better for his kids. It happened. Sometimes. On occasion. And Zander and his sister might have simply rebelled.

  “Nah, Hank’s still the overgrown idiot he was back then, and Zander’s just like him. Too lazy to work, likes his drugs and his booze, rude and surly and looking for someone to take it out on.”

  JJ rolled one corner of the paper tightly, smoothed it, then rolled it again. “So Maura’s best friend is rude, obnoxious and disrespectful, and her other friend is rude, surly and finds trouble everywhere he goes. Not that Maura didn’t have obnoxious and surly friends at home, but they came from money. They were just like her.”

  “You mean they were her own kind.”

  That sounded ugly and made her nose scrunch and her mouth wrinkle. “I don’t mean they were better because they were rich. God knows, that’s not a plus for most of them. Just...they all had money, so none of them took advantage. One day it was Maura blowing five grand on a party, but the next time someone else stepped up. They took their turns.”

  “But none of these people—” he gestured toward the lists “—have money, which would explain why $100,000 a month is no longer adequate for her expenses. Friendship doesn’t come cheap.”

  A pang twinged around her heart. Was that what Maura had sunk to? Buying friends? She was a pretty girl. She’d been taught perfect manners, all the social graces. She would be as comfortable at a White House state dinner as a regular person was at McDonald’s. She was smarter than average, had an enviable prep school education and all the potential in the world. And yet grief and sorrow had led her to a spot where she had to pay big bucks for the barest of friendships.

  “My dad used to joke that he and Mom had me so my sisters would have someone else to torment, but now they’re my best friends. They drove me crazy—still do on occasion—but they also stood by me, no matter what. If Maura had had a brother or sister to lean on, to grieve with and recover with, maybe...” Maybe that brother or sister would have been her rock. Or maybe he or she would be floundering with her, dragging her even farther down.

  The woman who’d taken their order delivered their meals on two orange trays, and despite her momentary sadness, JJ’s mouth instantly started watering. She smiled her thanks, picked up her burger and took the first groan-inducing bite. Oh, ten years between Whataburgers was entirely too long. She couldn’t let that happen again.

  “How many sisters do you have?”

  The sweet-spicy scent of ketchup tickled her nose as Quint tore open a half dozen packets, sliding them to the space between their trays to share. Before her time, there’d been a fuss in the public schools about whether ketchup constituted a vegetable. Though she was well aware of the nutritional value of kale, brussels sprouts and such things, she would have given ketchup two enthusiastic thumbs up.

  “Two.” She swallowed, then grabbed a couple of hot, salty fries, coated them in ketchup and ate them. “Kylie and Elle. Kylie’s a firefighter, Elle’s a roofing contractor and they each have two little girls.”

  For a second, she thought he might smile. The lines around his eyes and mouth eased, and everything about him seemed just a tad easier. But the second passed, and the smile didn’t form. “I take it your mom taught you that you can be anything you want if you put your mind to it.”

  “She did. It sort of backfired with me, though. I missed the part about being a cop and a mother. I just wanted the cop part. Even though she’s got four grandkids already, she acts like life won’t b
e complete if she doesn’t also have a little JJ to spoil.”

  This time the corner of his mouth quirked. “My mom’s got eight, and she still thinks I need to contribute my share.”

  “You’re not married?” Sheesh, it felt good to talk about something less depressing and irritating than Maura Evans and her current issues, and what could be more normal than discussing parents and kids?

  He shook his head, then broke eye contact, taking extra care dipping fries into ketchup. He didn’t look down quickly enough, though, to hide the hurt that shadowed his eyes. He’d had his heart broken and still wasn’t over it. Was that what Miss Georgie had wanted to talk to him about? Why Lia had been surprised to see him and quick to suggest a hookup to JJ?

  Her first thought was what kind of woman walked away from a man who looked like Quint. Her second was less shallow. Looks meant nothing when it came to a person’s character. The sexiest, most gorgeous man she’d even seen was one she’d arrested her first year on the job—a fugitive from California on a murder warrant. It had been a really grisly murder, too.

  And Kylie’s firefighter husband was really buff but could easily pass for a Kewpie doll. He was almost bald, what little hair he had was thin, wispy and colorless, and his nose was two times bigger than his face could accommodate. It was a face only a mother could love, he teased. But when he looked at his wife or his kids, the sweet, intense love that filled his entire expression made every female in the room swoon.

  “Do you like kids?” she asked, thinking back on how he’d acted with Lia or, more importantly, how his niece had acted with him. She clearly adored her uncle, which said a lot for him.

  “They’re fine.” He paused before adding, “I like them best when they’re old enough to be charged as adults.”

  The response was unexpected. It startled her into a snort, then she caught herself, then she laughed out loud. Quint Foster could be funny.

  Who ever would have suspected it?

  * * *

  The sky was dark with scud when they headed back to the station. Quint liked a good snow once every year or two, but Oklahoma almost always got sleet first. Those days were among the rare times everyone in the department worked traffic, including Sam. They didn’t write many tickets, but they helped get dozens of stuck cars moving again and investigated a lot of accidents. Cedar Creek had a shortage of street-clearing equipment and a surplus of people who thought they could drive in hazardous conditions.

  When he radioed in that he was back in service, JJ gave him a look. “Baker 201, huh? You seem such a cozy bunch that I imagined you using your names instead of call signs. What’s Sam’s?”

  “Adam 101. The detectives are David 301, 302, etc., and patrol officers are divided into east and west districts, so they’re Edward 401 and so on or William 501.” He kept his gaze on the street, his fingers gripping the steering wheel just a little tighter. Would she notice that he was in patrol but had a different call prefix? Would she wonder why he had an identifier all his own? His call sign was the only thing left of his crashed-and-burned career as assistant chief. He’d suggested changing it, but Sam had said no. Everyone knew him as Baker 201. Changing it would just be a hassle.

  And keeping it reminded Quint every day of how he’d screwed up.

  Before she could give it any thought, he changed the subject. “What are your plans?”

  “Check in with the lawyer. Find out if Mel might be a relative. Interview Maura’s neighbors. Get whatever financial records I can.” She shifted her gaze outside. “Pray it doesn’t snow.” Without missing a beat, she went on. “It’s going to snow, isn’t it?”

  “Probably.”

  “I checked the forecasts before I came. Sixties and sunny for the next week.”

  “Forecasts lie.” He turned into the parking lot. “If it snows, don’t drive anywhere. You’ll just be one more accident we have to work.”

  She sat straighter, somehow scowling down at her nose at him, indignance radiating from her. “I’ll have you know...” Then she softened. “I’ve never driven on snow in my life. Please, God, I never will.”

  Soft was a good look for her.

  He parked near her car, giving her the shortest distance to travel between the vehicles. After shifting into Reverse, he rested his hands on the wheel and gazed ahead, watching a piece of newspaper float and twirl on the wind. A sudden gust swept it four feet into the air, then it drifted down to snag on a light pole for just a moment before flying away again.

  The paper’s journey was a good semblance of his life since Linny died. All his life, he had been grounded, secure, but only two words from the surgeon had cut him loose. He’d tumbled like a leaf on a raging river, thrown every way but free. Lately, the river had calmed. There wasn’t so much battering, but he still couldn’t get his feet back under him.

  I’m sorry. Words Quint had said a million time and had rarely meant. He had a whole vocabulary of phrases like that. It’ll be okay. Things happen for a reason. I know how you feel. With all due respect...

  He tasted the sourness stirring in his stomach as he realized JJ was looking at him expectantly. Had she said something? He turned his head to meet her gaze, his eyebrow arching in silent question.

  “I said thanks for your time.” She left it at that, but her smile suggested what she left unsaid. Though it wasn’t your choice.

  “Not a problem.” Another of those annoying phrases. When had people stopped saying, You’re welcome? He couldn’t recall.

  She dug out her car keys and used the remote to unlock the Challenger before she opened the truck door. He watched her slide to the ground, a fluid movement of heavy brown coat and snug-fitting denim. When she moved to close the door, he hastily spoke.

  “If you have any trouble with the neighbors...”

  Now why had he gone and said that? He was done. He’d followed Sam’s orders—had gone beyond them by going shopping and having lunch with her. Why give her even the faintest idea that he might be willing to do it again?

  But he couldn’t take back the words, and when that naughty-little-girl grin lit up her face, he wasn’t sure he wanted to. “I’ll call.”

  She closed the door hard and disappeared into her car. Quint waited until he heard the rumble of the sports car’s engine, then backed up and drove slowly out of the parking lot. He made a right turn, took the next left and drove aimlessly through one of the town’s older neighborhoods. The streets ran stick straight, the blocks exactly the same length, the corner signs giving names like Oak, Elm and Maple. The lots were smallish, as were the houses, and three entire blocks were taken up by churches.

  His parents’ neighborhood was a lot like this one, slightly newer with slightly bigger houses. They’d sold their house to his brother Paul and resettled on five acres outside town. His mother had always loved gardening, and there she had room to grow big. It was one of the interests she and Linny had had in common. They’d planned and planted and weeded and harvested the acres together. With all the work there, Linny had never gotten around to planting even one flower at the house she and Quint had shared.

  The house where he lived alone.

  Grimly, he set his jaw. He was tired, and an ache was starting behind his eyes, probably from all the human contact he’d had today. Generally, he got by with minimal interaction—with Sam, his fellow officers, the people he wrote tickets to or took reports from—and generally, if anyone showed concern, he ignored it or brushed it off.

  It was hard to ignore Sam fobbing off their visiting detective on him. Or Georgie squeezing his hands with pity shadowing her gaze. Or Lia, so surprised to see him and, there at the end, pulling his hand from where he’d rubbed at the ache, all too aware at her young age of what he’d been thinking.

  Talking to people was hard. Being with them was harder. At first, being alone had been the only way to survive, wrapping up inside himself, pushing e
veryone away. Silence and solitude had become comfortable. It would have been easier to get through the day if he didn’t have to pretend interest in anything else, if he didn’t have to uphold his end of a conversation, if he didn’t have to acknowledge the sorrow, the worry and the compassion.

  In the beginning, his family and friends had understood that. Everyone grieved differently, his mother had said. Just give him time, Sam had said. After six or eight months, they’d started trying to nudge him back into a normal life. He had responsibilities, his father had reminded him. He was still alive, Ben had told him.

  More meaningless platitudes. This was his normal life now. Him. Alone. The one person he’d loved best gone forever. He hadn’t tried to explain it. He hadn’t cared whether anyone understood. He’d just plodded on, one miserable, lonely, bitter day at a time. It had become routine, being alone, and after a while, everyone had gone back to leaving him that way.

  He doubted JJ Logan had ever left anyone alone in her life.

  As if that brief thought of her was some sort of signal, his cell phone rang. He glanced at the screen, saw Sam’s name and answered without the smallest hint of disappointment. Really, truly, he hadn’t thought it might be JJ. Hadn’t wanted it to be.

  “Since your shift’s almost over, why don’t you come by the office and fill me in? I’m sure Georgie sent good wishes and warm hugs to all of us down here at thug central.”

  “More like sneers and head thumps all around.” Quint glanced at the clock on the dash, surprised to see the time was 2:46 p.m. He always returned to the station at three, finished whatever reports he had to do and got out by three thirty. Spending half the day babysitting JJ had at least made the day go faster. “I’ll be in soon.”

  One of the nice things about Cedar Creek was that with lights and siren, he could travel the farthest distance in the city in a matter of minutes. Without running code, it took only a few extra moments to get back to the station. The wind buffeted him as he crossed the parking lot, several times gusting hard enough to make him stagger a few steps before catching himself. Rodgers and Hammerstein had famously written about the wind sweeping down the plain, and it did. Sometimes. There were also times when it thundered, howled and raged. Its iciness cut through his clothes and would have stolen his hat if he didn’t have one hand clamped to it.