by Rachel Grant
“In order for Jack to get his permit from the Corps of Engineers, I need to follow up on research Jason’s mother started in the 1970s. It’s a long story.”
A Volkswagen Beetle pulled up in front of the house and a moment later, the driver walked up the front sidewalk, carrying her pizza.
“Hey, Chief,” the pizza boy said.
Libby dug around in her purse, looking for her wallet. Her fingers brushed against the unfamiliar shape of the Taser she’d purchased earlier in the day. The gun dealer had convinced her to buy a Taser to avoid the five-day waiting period required for handgun purchases. She found her wallet and looked up to see the police chief handing the delivery boy cash.
“You decide between Wazzu or U-Dub yet, Tommy?”
Tommy handed Mark the pizza. “I’m going to the University of Washington.”
“Good pick,” Mark said. “That’s where I earned my master’s degree.” He waved off the change Tommy offered him. “Keep it. You’ll need it.”
“Thanks, Chief.” The boy returned to his car.
They stood on the porch in silence.
Mark took a deep breath. “Smells like pepperoni. My favorite.” He slowly smiled.
The warmth in his eyes and cocksure smile triggered a flutter in her belly, proving her body was a complete traitor. “You wouldn’t like it. There’s pineapple on it, too.”
His grin deepened. “I love pineapple.”
The silence lengthened as she held his gaze and battled her body’s betrayal. She finally accepted defeat. “Would you like some pizza?”
His eyes lit with humor. “Thought you’d never ask.”
She shook her head, laughed and then led him inside. He followed her into the dining room, carrying the pizza. She went to the kitchen to fetch plates, napkins, and drinks. They sat opposite each other at one end of the long, formal table.
“So why does Jason Caruthers need to talk to you about his mother?”
Due to his suspicions, she wanted to make one thing clear from the start. “When Jason invited me to dinner, I wasn’t sure if he was looking for a date, but I’m not in a position to say no to a source of information.” Between bites, she brought him up to date on the project. He asked questions but his demeanor had changed. He seemed to have come over to make amends.
“Tell me why you didn’t mention Aaron Brady the night your truck was stolen.”
“I didn’t think of him at first.” She could see his skepticism. “Really. When my truck turned up missing, I just thought it’d been stolen. When it was returned, I figured that whoever took it decided it was a pain in the ass to drive—which it is—it wasn’t until you pointed out the cold engine that it started to seem like something else. But stealing my truck wasn’t Aaron’s modus operandi, so I didn’t think of him until after you walked away.”
He sipped his lemonade and studied her, but without the open distrust, his gaze was no longer unnerving. “Why didn’t you tell me about Aaron yesterday when I asked who you suspected?”
She frowned. That had been her one mistake. “The truth? You’re a cop. I was afraid to tell you about Aaron. I didn’t think you’d listen.” She paused and then added, “And I’m an idiot.”
He nodded.
She suppressed a smile and gave him an amused glare. “You don’t have to agree so quickly.”
His lips curved in a diminished version of his devastating smile. “Okay, how ’bout we downgrade to ‘foolish?’”
“Fair enough.” She leaned back and studied him. What would Simone think of him? She could guess easily enough—he’s hot, but more than that, focused. Confident. Appealing.
Mark took another slice of pizza. “Do you have any colleagues who are incompetent? Or even negligent?”
His question was a jarring contrast to the adjectives she’d been thinking. “What?”
“Are all archaeologists perfect at their job?”
“Hardly. We have our share of incompetence.”
“Who should I base my opinion of your entire profession on? You, or the incompetent ones?”
His meaning was more than clear. “I didn’t give you a chance, did I?”
“No, you didn’t.”
“I’m sorry.”
He smiled. “And I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions yesterday.”
Warmth spread through her. After the way he’d questioned her last night, she would never have guessed the initial attraction could return with such force, but here she was in the full throes of fluttery anticipation, something she hadn’t experienced in a long time.
She may as well ask the question that had nagged her since she noticed the paint stains on his jeans when he helped change her tire. “Why did you answer my 9-1-1 call yesterday? The way you were dressed—you weren’t on duty.”
“I was closer than the patrol car and didn’t want you to be out there alone.”
She stared at him in silence, the air thickening as it entered her lungs. She knew her weaknesses all too well. She was a sucker for men with a protective streak, probably because her father hadn’t been around much during her adolescence. Simple attraction ballooned into full-blown desire.
Talk about foolish.
Mark Colby sat across from her wearing an expression that hinted at a similar interest, reminding her that on her second date with Aaron she’d made a stupid self-conscious joke about her lack of father figure making cops appealing. Her words had been a feeble attempt to convince herself to be attracted to him, but it had backfired, and later Aaron used those words against her.
Now she had to wonder, did Mark know about that? He could be testing her, to determine if she were a groupie.
The doorbell rang, an excuse to escape the moment, the attraction, and the suspicion. She jumped up, seizing the opportunity. After rounding the bend from the dining room to the living room, she saw Jason Caruthers through the door and came to a dead stop.
Mark walked into her. He placed his hands on her hips to steady them both, triggering yet another foolish flutter. His fingers clenched as he said, “Jason,” and then he released her.
What had she done to deserve this karma? Couldn’t things go smoothly for ten minutes? She faced him. “We didn’t have plans.”
His eyes were intent but unreadable. “Then you should find out why he’s here.”
She opened the door. Jason glanced at Mark and then leaned toward her. She stiffened as he kissed her cheek. They barely knew each other and he kisses her hello in front of the suspicious police chief?
“You okay?” he whispered.
“Just dandy,” she said, barely succeeding at keeping sarcasm from her voice.
He stepped into the room and stood protectively close to her. “Sorry to drop in unannounced, but I found the boxes containing my mother’s research materials. I hope I haven’t come at a bad time?” He studied Mark warily.
Jason’s protective manner made sense; he was, after all, a defense attorney, and yesterday the police chief had rattled her to the degree she’d cancelled their dinner plans.
On her other side stood Mark, equally wary, gauging every nuance of her interaction with Jason. “Mark came by to ask me some questions about what happened yesterday.”
“What did happen yesterday?” Jason asked.
“I had a scare at the site, that’s all.”
Mark placed a hand on her shoulder in a gesture that wasn’t the least bit comforting.
Jason’s gaze fixed on Mark’s hand. “A scare? Is this something Jack should know about?”
Mark squeezed her shoulder in an intimate manner. “We’re handling the situation. If we need your assistance, we’ll let you and your father know.”
Tension arced between the two men. She stepped away, disengaging her shoulder and trying to remove herself from the crossfire.
“Are you done questioning her?” Jason asked Mark, as if she wasn’t part of the conversation.
Mark walked to the sofa. “Have a seat. We shouldn’t be too much longer.”
Annoyed, Libby said, “I think we’re done.”
“Great.” Jason ignored Mark’s offer to sit on what was, in fact, his own couch. “I’ve got a dozen boxes in my car. You can help unload them, unless you need to leave because you’re on duty?”
“No. Today’s my day off.” Mark crossed back to Libby’s side.
Jason took his turn placing a protective hand on her shoulder, but did Mark one better and went for the opposite shoulder, so his arm draped behind her back. “Then your dedication to Libby’s case is commendable.”
Christ. She was coveted territory in a pissing contest.
Mark shrugged. “Just another public servant doing my job.”
“I knew we could count on you to get the job done. That’s why I recommended you to the hiring committee.”
Mark grinned. “You have uncommonly good judgment—for a defense lawyer.”
“Someone needs to keep the police honest.”
The testosterone level in the room had reached choking levels. “Why don’t you two start unloading those boxes?” Libby said.
“Sure. After that, we can talk about my mother’s research.”
She was done with both men. All men. Perhaps even the human species in general. “We can talk before we meet with your aunt and uncles tomorrow.”
“Great,” he said, with the satisfaction of a ballplayer who knows he’s about to score. “It’s a date. I’ll pick you up at noon and take you to lunch.”
There was no way out. “That would be lovely,” she said and turned to Mark. “Are we done?”
“With everything but the pizza.” He turned to Jason. “Let’s unload those boxes, so Libby and I can finish our dinner.”
She shouldn’t have underestimated Mark’s ability to get the last word. But both men had underestimated her. The two full staircases between the ground floor and the attic would put all that extra testosterone to work. “The boxes need to go up to the attic. I’ll make sure there’s room, while you two start unloading.” She walked toward the long, steep staircase and hoped the boxes were very, very heavy.
THE COP BAR HADN’T CHANGED in three years. The pool tables in the back still had a long line of people waiting their turn, and the dart boards on the side were still a focal point where patrons played Cricket for pitchers of beer and bragging rights. The jukebox played an old Jimmy Buffet tune, and a group of young men, arms linked around each other’s shoulders, sang along, loud and off-key.
Simone had seen the same scene a hundred times before; the singers just kept getting younger. She smoothed her skintight dress as she walked by and headed to the bar. The quartet paid their regards to her breasts as she passed.
She’d get this over with so she could go home and finish packing up the study. Her days as a resident of Seattle were almost over. But first, she had to find out where Aaron was and if he could be stalking Libby again.
During the early days before the restraining order was in place, to help Libby’s case Simone had made a point of finding out what Aaron’s favorite hangouts were. Unknown to Libby, Simone had spent many nights in this bar asking questions and trying to find other women who might have suffered from Aaron’s obsessive attentions.
It wasn’t easy. Petite with long blonde hair and endowed with a pair of double-Ds, some women hated her on sight. But false modesty wasn’t her style. She dressed to please herself, and if that got her more than her fair share of male attention, so be it. Over time, information on Aaron trickled in, including third-hand knowledge of a woman Aaron had harassed before he fixated on Libby. Simone had been trying to convince the woman to come forward when Libby’s restraining order was granted.
Now that the order had expired, Simone feared that Aaron had turned his attention back to the one woman who’d stood up to him and refused to tolerate his stalking.
She worked her way toward the bar, passing a woman too drunk to be holding a sharp implement as she threw a dart. It hit the Budweiser lamp above the board. The woman laughed uproariously and then flopped down in a nearby chair and took a swig of a beer too pale to have flavor.
Simone sat on an empty barstool and waved to the bartender, surprised to see a familiar face from three years ago.
“Hello, gorgeous. Haven’t seen you here in ages,” he said.
“Redhook ESB, please,” she said, waving a bill. “I’m looking for someone. Perhaps you can tell me if he’s here.”
The man next to her leaned close. “I’m right here, baby. Look no further.”
Simone rolled her eyes. Why didn’t the lines ever change? She shook her head. “Sorry, but it’s not you. I’m looking for a cop. Aaron Brady.”
“I’m a cop, too. A better cop than he is.”
She didn’t doubt that for a moment. But then, Aaron set the bar low. The bartender gave her the beer, but the cop next to her paid for it. She would miss the city. The few times she’d gone out in Coho, she’d had to buy her own drinks. “Thanks,” she said. “Simone Atherton.” She held out her hand.
He shook it and said, “Mike Ford.”
She addressed both Mike and the bartender. “Is Aaron here tonight?”
“Haven’t seen him,” Mike said.
“Me neither. He usually comes by if he’s off-duty,” the bartender said.
She looked at Mike. “Has Aaron been around much lately?”
“Why are you so interested in Aaron?”
“You friends with him?” she asked.
His shrug was indifferent. “Not particularly.”
She guessed this was the truth. “Neither am I. I just need to know where he is.”
“So you won’t be there?”
“Something like that.”
“I can tell you where he’s not.” He paused. “At my place.”
“Nice try.”
“Won’t work?”
“’Fraid not.”
Two men joined them; one of them slapped Mike on the back and begged for an introduction. She opened her mouth to give her name.
“Simone Atherton. What the fuck are you doing here?”
There he was, surly and in the flesh, Aaron Brady. The noise decreased as nearby patrons paused to listen. “I can be wherever I want. There’s no court order restricting my activities.”
The look on his face made her happy she’d dressed to flirt tonight because it had already gained her at least one friendly cop, and she’d need someone to escort her to her car later.
“Last I checked, there wasn’t one on me, either. You can tell your bitch-friend that, too.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Just a fact.”
“Have you been in Seattle the last few days, Aaron?”
“None of your damn business.”
“Why are you afraid to answer? Been somewhere you shouldn’t be?”
“There is no shouldn’t about it. The restraining order is history. Now I’ll tell you the same thing I told the hick cop in Coho. Your friend is a fucking psycho.” He turned and left.
Simone faced Mike. “Well, I think that went well, don’t you?”
Another man approached. “Ms. Atherton.” He flashed a badge. “Bobby Johnson, detective with the Seattle PD. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
CHAPTER SIX
AT NOON ON SUNDAY, LIBBY WATCHED from the bay window of the Shelby house as Jason Caruthers parked his gold Lexus in a no-parking zone. Last night the chief of police hadn’t said a word as he helped Jason unload boxes from that very same illegal parking spot. But then, you can do almost anything when you own the town.
She stepped out on the front porch to greet Jason, who looked like a girlhood fantasy come true. His mocha eyes were set off by dark brows and thick unruly brown hair that captured and held the mid-day sun. He was good-looking in a GQ sort of way that Libby had never been fond of—too pretty, too smart, too privileged. She expected him to have a healthy ego and was wary of him for that, among other reasons. He dressed professionally, including a tailored sui
t that probably cost more than her entire wardrobe. She’d opted for a fitted skirt and jacket with low-heeled shoes—nothing low-cut or remotely alluring, caution being her rule for dealing with Jason.
He once again kissed her hello. She wished she could accept it as a simple gesture of friendship but the kiss put her on edge. “I made reservations for us at the restaurant in the Thorpe Hotel,” he said.
“Great. I love that old building.”
“Let’s walk,” he said.
The entire historic district of Coho was still owned by Thorpe Long & Lumber—and therefore, Jason himself. First occupied by white settlers in the early 1850s, by the mid-1870s Coho was a thriving mill town. Now Coho was a pristine example of a late-nineteenth century community. Developed before mass-production of the automobile, one of the things Libby loved about the place was in the historic district, everyone walked everywhere, rain or shine.
Today the weather was shine—a perfect Pacific Northwest summer day. They neared the general store, where people stepped out onto the wide front porch, bags of groceries in hand. Residents going about their normal, everyday lives, the only difference from a hundred years ago being that back then, the store would have been closed on Sunday. Shoppers waved to Jason, who waved back.
Farther up the road, they passed the Masonic Hall, followed by the mill-owned church, where children raced through the arched doorway as services let out. These families were counting on Jack to build the Cultural Center to provide jobs and tourists for the depressed economy, a reminder of what was riding on that permit.
At the end of a beautifully maintained driveway lined with madrona trees stood the waterfront hotel. A stately old building, it was the jewel in the crown of TL&L’s holdings. The bustle of activity inside surprised her after the tranquil walk through town. A group of tourists gathered for a walking tour of the historic district, their guide an elderly mill worker Libby was scheduled to interview later in the week.
The hostess fawned over Jason as she led them to a booth in the back of the restaurant. A half-dozen stunning Tiffany-style chandeliers decorated the room with warm, colorful light. Ceiling-to-floor wooden partitions elaborately carved more than a hundred years before by a master of the craft separated the booths. The hotel and restaurant were the most upscale establishment in town. That the gorgeously maintained building was in tiny Coho remained a marvel to Libby.