by Lisa Childs
Chapter Five
LINDSEY TUCKED a cocktail napkin in her jeans pocket. With a cocky smile on her face she sauntered to her table and slid into the booth across from Dylan.
He didn’t raise his eyes from the beer cradled in his hands. “Done yet?” His harsh tone brought an edge to the question.
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t know?” He raised his deep blue eyes, and she glimpsed a fraction of the rage they’d held when he’d pummeled the bag in the basement. “What?”
“You’re an un conscionable flirt!” The blue eyes flashed.
Lindsey allowed her cocky smile to slip into a grimace of outrage, but her heart was light. He was jealous! Dylan Matthews was jealous over her! If only he had shown that much interest when she was sixteen.
“Don’t act outraged.” He snorted. “You know it. You enjoy it. You just charmed the bar tender out of his phone number. You don’t think he’s given it to every single and not-so-single woman who entered this bar tonight?”
Lindsey widened her eyes in feigned innocence. “You think?”
Dylan snorted again. “Jimmy was a bar tender, remember? He slept with every woman who entered Good Times Tavern.”
Lindsey nodded. “And some who didn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. Jimmy’s dead. Why talk about his con quests?”
“Not you?” Now the outrage was his and obviously not feigned.
“Heck, no.” Back then she’d only wanted Dylan. “It’s nothing. Rumors. You know how accurate those are.”
“Rumors are what killed him. People told Steve Mars that Jimmy was sleeping with his fiancée. Jimmy wouldn’t have done that,” Dylan maintained. Desperation and denial darkened his blue eyes.
“That rumor might have been wrong. There were others.”
Dylan shook his head. “Rumors…”
Lindsey nodded and wisely withheld her argument. “Doesn’t matter now. That was a long time ago.” But she suspected it wasn’t to Dylan. “I wonder what happened to his family.”
“They moved away, too?” Dylan’s eyes brimmed with pain.
“Yeah, shortly after you did. His fiancée left town before you. Then Steve’s parents and his sister. They were adopted, you know, from Arborview when it was still the home for unwed mothers. Sarah is his sister’s name. She was in my class.” With a trembling hand she picked up her wine glass and swirled around the dark red liquid.
Dylan narrowed his eyes. “What?”
“I’m rambling.” She sighed. When Chet Oliver’s murder was solved, she had another story to investigate. And she hadn’t even planned on staying in town.
“You were thinking about your mother, about what she said.” His gaze was intent on her face. “That you could have a brother.”
She shivered. “I don’t know what to think. I’m going to investigate it as I would any other story.”
Dylan nodded. “You’ll find out the truth. You’re a good reporter, Ms. Warner.”
“If I was a good reporter, I’d have asked you about something long before now.”
He raised a brow and picked up his mug of beer. Only a few bubbles rose to the surface, having already gone flat while she’d talked to the bar tender. “About?”
She twirled her wine glass again and stared into the red liquid, vividly remembering the puckered flesh across the tight muscles of his well-developed abdomen. Instead of asking the question she’d intended, she blurted out, “How did you get that scar?”
Dylan sighed. “I trusted someone I shouldn’t have.”
Lindsey’s stomach tightened. She reached for his hand that lay on the table, covering it with hers. “A woman?” She’d trusted someone she shouldn’t have. She’d believed his lies, worn his ring.
Dylan ran his fingers over the condensation on his beer mug. His chuckle echoed bitterly. “Not a woman. A reporter, one who asked too many questions.”
She flinched. “A reporter? And you were hurt?”
“I thought he was a friend. My cover was blown by his Narcotics exposé.” He sighed. “It was time to get out, anyway.”
“Time to come home?”
He laughed. “I’m not so sure about that. I probably should have come back sooner. Doesn’t matter how much time passes, this town never forgets.”
She nodded. “Is it okay if I ask more questions?”
His mouth twisted into a wry smile. “You’re not going to blow my cover, Lindsey. But I still don’t consider you safe.”
“Safe?” She laughed. “I should hope not.” She twirled her wine glass. “But that wasn’t what I wanted to ask you.”
He nodded. “Your dad mentioned what Chet Oliver was saying in the diner the day he died?”
“My dad?” Lindsey wrinkled her forehead. “What about my dad?”
“He was there, in the diner, when Chet came in and talked to the sheriff.”
“Chet said he had something for you from Steve Mars.” Her dad had never mentioned it. “Dad must have for got ten.”
“He’s a reporter. I didn’t think your type forgot anything.”
No, Lindsey never did, and she suspected her father didn’t, either. Just one more secret he’d kept from her. “It doesn’t matter where I heard it. So what was it, and why didn’t you tell me about it before now?”
Dylan shrugged. “I wish I knew what it was. If he had anything, I couldn’t find it.”
“You really don’t want my help.” Lindsey struggled to control her frustration but knew it had seeped into her voice.
Dylan’s gaze dropped to the beer in his hand. “I never said that.”
“But you don’t trust me.” She should have insisted on interviewing Quade alone.
He ran a finger around the rim of the mug. “How could something from a man who died ten years ago have anything to do with Chet Oliver’s murder? Chet had whatever it was for ten years—”
“But maybe nobody knew until that day in the diner,” Lindsey cut in.
Dylan shook his head. “Could a man keep a secret in this town?”
She nodded. “Apparently this man had no problem keeping secrets—letting sleeping dogs lie, as it were.”
Dylan blew out an agitated breath. “I wish he’d given me some clue what it was, so I’d know if it was a motive for murder. Without it…”
Her heart plum meted. “My mother has the most compel ling motive.”
“Nobody’s blaming your mother, Lindsey. We’re looking at all the suspects.” He slid his fingertips over her knuckles. “In a letter I received before I left Detroit, Chet said he had something for me. He knew I was coming back and intended to give it to me then. But he never got the chance.”
Dylan’s frustration was etched in the furrows in his brow. He had questions about his brother’s death. He wanted to know what Jimmy had done to drive his best friend to murder. Perhaps the only man who could have given him some answers had been murdered. Why?
Un com fort able with their discussion, Lindsey wriggled the cocktail napkin from her pocket and slid it over to him.
“His address, and you’re giving it to me?” Dylan toyed with the edge of the paper. “Hutchins’s address.”
“He doesn’t receive visitors at home.” His voice dripped sarcasm.
“Yeah, that bothered me, too. Since we’re still in Traverse City, we might as well poke around some more. It would be a waste to come all this way and not interview Hutchins, too.” Lindsey quirked her eyebrows at Dylan.
He shook his head. “You’re re lent less. He’s not going to let you in, Lindsey. He doesn’t talk to reporters.” He pushed the napkin toward her.
Lindsey slid her hands off the table. “He’ll talk to you.” And hope fully, Dylan would let her tag along.
Dylan ran a hand over his plaid shirt. “No uniform. He won’t.”
“That lawsuit threat didn’t spook you?” She’d always considered Dylan invincible, fearless. She had to rememb
er that image wasn’t real, just a girlish fantasy.
A smile tipped up a corner of his mouth. “You’re not going along on my police inter views.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Have you done any? You didn’t ask Quade any questions.”
“Not in front of a reporter.”
“Talk to Hutchins. You might get more with an ‘unofficial’ inter view.” And she might get some of what Dylan learned out of him.
He laughed. “You don’t give up.”
“I’m a reporter.”
His hand slid over his stomach. “I’m not likely to forget.”
She’d never get his trust. Her heart slowed despite the scent of victory. And without his trust, there would be no future for them. With a trembling hand she reached for her wine glass. What was she thinking? She’d given up on futures. Day by Day was her motto now. “Okay.”
The victory. “You’ll talk to him now.”
He reached for the napkin. “On our way home. If he doesn’t want to talk without a lawyer, it’ll wait.”
She summoned some enthusiasm, reaching for her leather bag. His fingers closed over hers. “Your pad stays in the truck. With you.”
WHAT HAD HE LET HER talk him into? Before he stepped through the door that had be grudgingly opened with the show of his badge, he glanced back at his SUV, which he’d parked behind a white Lincoln. Fog swirled around it, but he glimpsed Lindsey’s shiny curls, her head bent over her notepad.
When he was through, she was going to grill him. He turned to follow the uniformed maid down the marble hallway. She opened French doors and stepped back.
Dylan walked into an enormous library. Leather-bound books lined the walls inter spersed with some sculptures of varying sizes and materials. Power scented the air, its odor overwhelming.
Dylan had smelled it before in the homes of kingpin drug dealers. His nostrils flared, and the short hairs on the back of his neck rose. “Deputy Matthews.”
Dylan turned toward the windows and the desk before it. No light shined on the polished surface. The only lamp burned from a library table on the other side of the room.
In the gathering darkness, Dylan peered at the man of indeterminate age. Silver strands threaded through his dark hair. Did any lines mar his face? “Mr. Hutchins.”
“I believe Mr. Quade informed you that I don’t accept visitors in my home. And that was some time ago, at a decent hour.” The man glared.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hutchins. Chet Oliver’s death has deeply shaken the residents of Winter Falls. If you can help us at all, it would be greatly appreciated.” Dylan forced himself not to gag over the placating words when he really wanted to demand answers.
That was the downside to small-town police work, the politics. Yet, he hadn’t found the situation any better in the anonymity of the big city.
Hutchins cleared his throat. “I doubt I’ll be able to help you. Quade told you the situation. He met with Oliver at my request. They were working on alternative sites for the mall development. We were willing to compromise, as was Mr. Oliver. This small project is irrelevant to Hutchins Enterprises.”
“There’s money involved. If you don’t build the mall, you’ll lose some.” He glanced around the library again, at the Oriental rug covering the polished floor, at the Impressionist painting hiding what was probably a wall safe.
Hutchins shrugged. “The option on the land isn’t sizable. The owner only receives a large payment if the property is rezoned. Quade is a real estate lawyer. He advises me on such matters, so we don’t lose much money if the town opposes a development.”
Dylan nodded and picked up a figurine from the sofa table. The porcelain was cold but smooth. Like Lindsey’s skin.
“I’ve checked you and Quade out.”
Hutchins waited in silence.
He set the figure down. “I’ve heard some interesting things.”
“I could say the same of you, Deputy.”
Dylan winced and wished the town believed in him. By solving this murder, he hoped to prove that he was an honorable lawman.
“Opposition to your past developments has always changed their minds. Your original proposals pass. So who’s compromising, Mr. Hutchins, if you always get what you want?”
The older man laughed. “I’m very persuasive, Deputy. Is that a crime?”
Dylan rubbed his chin. “Being persuasive? No, but murder is.”
“Are you implying I killed Mr. Oliver?” Anger vibrated in his deep voice. “No.”
“Has anyone who’s opposed me in the past been murdered?”
Dylan shrugged. “A couple vanished.”
The older man laughed again. “With big checks and a determination to keep it out of the clutches of the IRS. That’s their crime, not mine.”
“So you just throw money at people to get your way?”
“Money talks.” Hutchins picked up a pa per weight from his desk, a Fabergé egg. Wrinkles and age marks lined his hands.
“So you could pay people to influence other people?” Dylan stepped closer to the desk, trying to get a good look at the man’s face.
“Hire muscle, if you will?” His laugh rang out. “That’s ridiculous.”
“I’ve seen it done, Mr. Hutchins.” And had the scars to prove it, some emotional as well as the physical.
His head bobbed. “That’s right. You’ve been away from Winter Falls for a while. Quade told me.”
“Quade. He’s a strange man for you to hire.”
“A real estate lawyer? He’s the ideal man for me to hire.”
“He was unemployable for a while. No one would take a chance on him. He must be grateful to you for giving him a job.” And something about Quade’s dark eyes bothered Dylan. They held secrets.
The thin shoulders in the cashmere sweater shrugged. “I trust him. Is there anyone you trust, Deputy?”
The sheriff. No one else. Not even Lindsey. Dylan nodded. “One person.”
“Quade’s my one person. He’s a thinker, not a fighter.” The old man laughed again. “He’s not my hired muscle. I pay people for what I want. I pay for the land. Now, if the land owner influences the opposition to my project… Well, that’s something I can’t be held ac countable for.”
Dylan grappled for a maneuver, then decided on the truth. “I’m working on who you’ve optioned this land from. The estate doesn’t publicly list the beneficiary because the property is in a trust. I have the district attorney working on a subpoena.”
The wrinkled hands steepled together on the polished desktop. “You want to know?”
“Do you know?” Dylan’s pulse quickened. The trustee had the most to lose if Chet Oliver’s opposition stopped the mall.
A smile spread across the old man’s face, a flash of white in the shadows. “Quade’s working on it, too. This trustee is quite determined to remain anonymous. Wonder why.”
Noise erupted in the hall. “Dylan!” Lindsey’s voice rang out in urgency.
Dylan threw open the French doors and stopped dead. Lindsey grasped the silk sleeve of another woman’s blouse. “Look, Dylan!”
“What are you doing?” He should have hand cuffed her.
“It’s her. Sarah Mars.”
“I’m Sarah Hutchins. Let go of me!” Hatred flashed in her gray eyes when she swung her gaze to Dylan.
“She just came in….” Lindsey let go of the woman and stepped back.
“Mommy!” A young boy bounded down the stairs and into the marble foyer. His golden hair glinted under the chandelier. “I’m glad you’re home.”
Dylan’s stomach pitched, and his knees started to shake. He turned to Lindsey. “The other rumors…About her, Steve’s sister.”
Lindsey’s cold fingers slid over his hand. “Some rumors are true, then.”
The albums had been destroyed in the fire, but Dylan remembered photos of himself and Jimmy at that age—nine going on ten. All arms and legs and tousled blond hair.
“You’re wrong!” Sarah’s face flood
ed with mottled red. “I know what you’re thinking, and you’re wrong.” She grabbed her son and tugged him into the library with her.
“Sarah.” Robert Hutchins sighed, defeated. He flipped on the lamp near his desk, light washing over his face and the cane propped against his chair.
“Sarah, why not tell me?” Dylan reached out to touch the boy, but Sarah stepped between them. Through his mind flashed a memory of a woman in Detroit stepping in front of her child, taking a bullet for a drug deal gone bad. That child had lacked the innocence of Jimmy’s son, but his mother had loved him enough to sacrifice her life for his. He suspected the same was true of Sarah Hutchins.
The boy slipped from her grasp and vaulted around the desk to Robert Hutchins.
Sarah hissed under her breath. “After what you did to my brother, you think I’d let you near my son? Leave. Now.”
“Steve did that to himself.” But somehow he should have pre vented it. Familiar guilt washed over him.
“Liar. All you Matthewses are no good. Your brother took advantage of my teenage crush on him. He used me.” Her eyes flashed again, hatred blazing at him. “My son is a Hutchins.”
The boy skipped back to his mother. “I’m Jeremy Hutchins.” He held out a hand to Dylan.
Before Sarah could intervene, Dylan took the thin hand. “Deputy Dylan Matthews, Jeremy. Pleased to meet you.” His voice cracked.
“A cop? A real cop? Do you have a gun and everything? Did you bring your car here? Can I work the siren? I want to be a cop, too. I have a badge and everything.” The questions had been fired without a breath.
Dylan had fired those same questions at Sheriff Buck when he’d been Jeremy’s age. “I didn’t bring the car or the gun today. I have my badge, though.”
Sarah trembled. “Jeremy, you’re supposed to be in bed.”
“I want to see his badge. He’s a real cop.” The boy raised his chin in defiance.
Dylan flipped out his wallet and pulled the badge from it. “Usually it’s on my uniform, but I’m off duty now.”
The boy ran his finger over the shiny metal. “You have a number and everything. I’m going to have a real one, too, someday. Aren’t I, Dad?”