by Julia Harper
“Yes,” Turner replied. “Oh, and the gas.” She gestured out the window at the Chevy pulled up to a pump.
Mullet swiveled his head to look. “Whoa. That your ride?”
“Um, yes.”
“Cool pickup.” He waved the saltines over the counter scanner. It beeped.
“Thanks.”
“That a ’66 or a ’67?” He swiped a bottle of water and nothing happened.
“A ’68, actually.” Turner clasped her hands together to keep from grabbing the bottle of water from him and doing it herself. The boy was carefully smoothing the label now and trying to reswipe it. That never seemed to work, in her experience.
“Yeah? My grampa had a pickup like that.” The bottle still wouldn’t scan. He held it in his hand and gestured with it. “Only it was a Ford, and it was a ’75 and it was black. But you know, other than that, it was real close to yours.” He looked at her for a comment.
Turner smiled encouragingly. “Really? I wonder if you should manually enter the price?”
“What?”
She nodded to his hands. “On the bottle of water?”
“Oh. Yeah. Right.” Mullet knit his brow and typed numbers into the cash register with one finger. He glanced at the total and laughed. “That’s gotta be off. It says fifty-nine oh nine!”
Turner half smiled. Her life was slowly wasting away in this gas station.
“I mean, fifty dollars for a bottle of water?” Mullet laughed again, revealing a mouthful of fillings. “Can you believe it? I better void this out.”
Oh, no. Voiding always took forever. Turner squeezed her eyes shut.
“Are you all right?”
She opened her eyes to see the boy staring at her with concern. He still had the bottle of water in his hand. She smiled. “Fine.”
Her smile must’ve not been as friendly as she thought. He blinked and jerked his head back, then began working on the cash register.
Ten minutes later, Turner walked into the blinding bright sunshine. Squeaky was sitting in the truck with his head resting on the passenger-side windowsill. He lifted his head and grinned when he saw her, long pink tongue hanging from his mouth.
“Hi, baby,” Turner crooned as she got in the truck.
She pushed his muzzle away from the paper sack Mullet had given her and put the pickup in gear, slowly rolling it to the parking spaces at the side of the gas station.
She opened the bag and reached in for the hot dog. “Look what I got you.”
Squeaky took the hot dog delicately between his jaws and gulped twice. The hot dog disappeared, bun and all. He looked at her and wagged his tail.
“It’s a good thing I got the crackers, too,” Turner muttered.
She poured water into Squeaky’s red bowl and got out her last jar of pickled herring. She’d already consumed the apples and the can of Vienna Sausages she’d packed Saturday night. She opened the jar and thought about the phone conversation she’d had with John this morning. How he’d talked about Mexican food. Fond as she was of pickled herring, after three days of it and not much else, she’d welcome Mexican with open arms. Even refried beans, possibly her least favorite food in the world, would be a change of pace at least. The next time she talked to John, she’d tell him—
Turner brought herself up short. What was she thinking? She couldn’t talk to John again—he was trying to arrest her. Despite the knowing words he’d murmured to her over the cell in his sexy, deep voice, the man wanted to put her in prison. The mere thought of him should send chills of fear down her back. Instead, the thought of John gave her chills of another sort altogether. She’d never actually touched the man, and yet the sound of his voice was beginning to provoke a Pavlovian response in her. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was his persistence that she found so seductive. She knew, somewhere deep inside herself, that once John had decided on a course he didn’t waver from it, no matter the barriers. If John decided on her, he’d not walk away. Such determination, such strength was dangerously attractive. It had been a long, long time since she’d leaned on anyone, let alone a man. It was disconcerting to find that she had a weak spot—that John was her weak spot.
Turner wrinkled her nose at her herring. She was too old for this adolescent stuff, anyway. She’d hit thirty over a year ago, for goodness’ sake. Her love life had always been white-bread boring—not that she’d had much of one in the last four years. She dated safe, nice guys. The shy ones with bald spots and a love of books. She’d never played games like this one. And she’d never been attracted to dangerous men. Men who were out to get her—literally. Maybe this was some kind of kinky S and M thing in her psyche making a belated, post-thirty appearance. It figured it would be now, and with the FBI agent who wanted to arrest her, of all people.
She shook her head at herself and realized that Squeaky was staring at her herring. His eyes were intent, following her fork from the jar to her mouth. A thread of drool had started at the corner of his jowl.
“Want some?” She held out a piece of fish.
Stupid question. The dog snapped it up and appeared to enjoy it, even with the vinegar. Of course, that might have been because he hadn’t taken the time to chew the herring. She fed the rest of the jar of pickled herring to Squeaky and then wiped her hands. Time to get back to business and stop mooning over Special Agent MacKinnon. She’d already spent too much time at this gas station. Better get this over with before a state trooper saw her. She got out her cell and hit the speed dial for a number she’d programmed in a while back but hadn’t used before. Squeaky licked up cracker crumbs from the seat while she listened to the ring tone.
The other end picked up. “Office of the Federal Prosecutor. How may I direct your call?”
Turner cleared her throat. “Victoria Weidner, please.”
“Just a moment.” The line clicked several times, and then another ring tone started.
Turner glanced at her watch. It was a little before one o’clock. Darn. She hadn’t thought to check the time before she called. Maybe Victoria was at lunch—
“Victoria Weidner.” Her voice was the same as it had been fifteen years ago.
“Hi,” Turner began and then didn’t know quite what to say. Where to start?
“Yes?” Victoria asked impatiently.
She took a deep breath. “My name is Turner Hastings. I live in Winosha. I don’t know if you remember me. We were in the same class at Lincoln High School in Winosha nearly—”
“Turner.” Victoria’s tone was suddenly sharper, clearer. “Yes. I remember you. We were in sophomore chemistry together with Mrs. Knutson. What can I do for you?”
“I’d like you to help me look into embezzling at the First Wisconsin Bank of Winosha.”
There was a hesitation at the other end. When Victoria’s voice came again it was carefully neutral. “Wasn’t that what Russell Turner was accused of?”
“Yes. He was accused, but he never went to trial.” Turner kept her own voice steady with an effort. “Had he gone to trial, I don’t believe he would’ve been convicted.”
“I was sorry to hear of your uncle’s death,” Victoria said coolly. “But even if he were innocent, there’s nothing I can do for you now. Since the case never went to court, the Office of the Federal Prosecutor—”
“I don’t need your help with Uncle Rusty’s case,” Turner raised her voice to interrupt. “I want you to investigate a current case of embezzlement.”
“What do you mean?”
“Uncle Rusty thought that Calvin Hyman was the one embezzling from the First Wisconsin Bank four years ago. I think he still is.”
There was a short silence. Then, “Do you have any evidence of embezzlement?”
“No.” Turner inhaled. “Not yet. But I hope to have some soon.”
“What kind of evidence, exactly?”
“Uncle Rusty thought that Calvin must keep a separate set of books somewhere. I hope to find them.”
“ Hope to? You didn’t find them in his
safe deposit box?”
Turner caught her breath. Silly. She should’ve expected that Victoria would know about the robbery. “No.”
“Then I don’t want to know how you plan on getting them.” Victoria laughed huskily on the other end. “Look, Turner, why don’t you go to the sheriff with this—”
“No. I don’t trust anyone local.” She closed her eyes and marshalled her arguments. “Sheriff Clemmons was the one who took Calvin’s word four years ago. Calvin Hyman is Winosha’s mayor. Why would anyone local believe me over him?”
“Fine.” The other woman sighed over the phone. “Then what do you want me to do?”
“I want to meet with you in the next few days. To discuss this and to show you the evidence.”
“Okay.” Victoria sounded like she was humoring her, but Turner didn’t care as long as the other woman listened to her. “How about tomorrow?”
“That’s too soon. I may not have the evidence by then.” Turner frowned. “Can I see you Friday?”
“Nope. Sorry. I’m going out of town for a conference this weekend.” There was the sound of flipping pages on the other end. “Wednesday or Thursday are the only days I have open this week.”
“Can I get back to you?” She hadn’t expected to set up an actual time to meet during this call. Now she felt flustered and off balance.
“Fair enough. Do you want to tell me where you are now?”
Turner glanced out the window. Mullet was outside the Kwik Trip now, smoking a cigarette. He studied the Chevy as he blew a stream of smoke from his lips. She frowned uneasily. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
“Just a thought,” Victoria said smoothly.
But Turner’s attention was on the convenience-store attendant. As she watched him, Mullet tossed his cigarette aside rather cavalierly, considering he was standing at a gas station. He looked up and his eyes met hers, and then he quickly glanced away.
Her pulse accelerated.
Chapter Twenty-one
J ohn was trying to unwrap a greasy taco one-handed when his cell rang. He cursed and grabbed for the phone on his belt. The Crown Victoria swerved and the taco spewed ground meat, shredded cheese, lettuce, and taco sauce down the front of his jacket and white shirt. Served him right for trying to eat and drive at the same time.
John sighed and punched the Answer button on his cell. “MacKinnon.”
On the other end a woman gasped.
He smiled. “Turner?” He’d talked to her only a couple of hours ago, but maybe she’d worked up the courage—
“John MacKinnon?”
The smile died on his face. It’d been three years and her voice had matured, but he’d recognize it for the rest of his life. No matter how many years had passed.
“Rachel.”
There was silence from the other end.
He frowned as the implication of her call sunk in. The last time he’d talked to his daughter, she’d said she never wanted to see him again, and he figured she’d meant it. “What’s going on? Are you okay? Is your mother okay?”
She sighed with adolescent exasperation. “Of course everything is okay, John.”
He winced at the pointed use of his first name. If their relationship was better, he’d insist on Dad, or at least Father. But he’d given up the right to be called Dad when he’d let Amy’s second husband adopt Rachel. “Why did you call?”
“Can’t I call just to talk?”
“Yes. Yes, of course you can call me just to talk.” John signaled to pull over to the side of the road. He needed all his attention for this conversation.
“Well, so . . .” She paused.
He grabbed a paper napkin from the bag of tacos and tried to repair his shirt and jacket. “So. How’s school?”
“It hasn’t started yet.”
Oh, yeah. John winced again. “Ah.”
“We moved.” Her voice had lowered. “Did you know that?”
“Yes.” His tie had a big grease stain on it. He gave up, wadded the napkin into a ball, and threw it back in the bag. “Your mom gave me your new address.”
“You still talk to her?”
“Now and then.” Actually, he was the one who did most of the communicating. If it were up to Amy, the contact would’ve died a long time ago. “Mostly about you.” Only about you.
“Oh.”
“Do you like your new house?” He stared out at the dry grass beside the road. Further up the shoulder the trees started, dry, as well. The whole area was ripe for a forest fire.
“Yeah.” She cleared her throat.
He pulled out his wallet and flipped to the photo of Rachel. It was a school photo Amy had mailed him over a year ago after much pressure. Rachel smiled widely at the camera, her straw-blond hair hanging over her shoulders. Her cheeks had thinned since childhood, but they were still full. Three years ago she’d called them chipmunk cheeks and hated them. He’d thought them cute. But then, he was biased. He was her father.
“I want to ask you about Mom,” she said in his ear.
That brought his attention back to the conversation. “What?”
“I want to know why you guys broke up.”
“Hasn’t your mom told you?” he asked cautiously. Surely Amy hadn’t missed the opportunity to defame him.
“She says it was all your fault. That you were never home.”
“That’s about right.” More or less.
“So you just got tired of Mom? Of us?”
“Divorce is never that simple. You know that, Rachel.”
She was silent for a moment. Then she burst out, “Did you have an affair?”
“No.” Where had she gotten that idea?
“There wasn’t another woman? Some chick? You never cheated on Mom?” Her voice was high with suspicion.
“No,” John said. “Look, I don’t know what Amy has been telling you—”
“She doesn’t tell me anything. That’s the problem.”
He stared at the photo a moment, rubbing his thumb over the corner. He hadn’t seen her in the flesh in three years. “What do you want from me, sweetheart?”
“I want the truth. I want to know why you and Mom divorced.”
“Rachel, look. There’s never any one reason for a divorce. Bottom line, your mother and I felt that we’d be better apart.”
“So you just got rid of me?”
“No!” He grimaced. He noticed that she’d dropped the and Mom in her equation. She must have been feeling abandoned somehow. He glanced at the highway. Turner was out there somewhere in her light blue Chevy, and he needed to find her. Rachel couldn’t have picked a worse time to call if she’d tried. “No. I wanted to stay in your life. It was you who—”
“If you wanted to stay in my life, you would’ve stayed married to Mom.”
“That didn’t happen.” Good Lord, she was stubborn. He took a deep breath. “I like talking to you, Rachel. Can’t we find another subject to—”
“No. I want to know about the divorce. There’s no other reason for me to talk to you.”
Well, she certainly knew where to hit him to hurt the most. “Don’t you think we should have this discussion with your mother present?”
“She’d just stonewall.”
With good reason. John ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to—”
“I’ll hang up.”
Christ. “Look, I’d love to see you. I’m working on a case right now, but why don’t I fly out to see you when—”
“I told you, we don’t have anything else to talk about.”
“Rachel—”
But a click in his ear told him she’d hung up.
“Shit!” Something close to panic flooded his chest. Rachel had finally—finally!—reached out to him. He couldn’t let her go like that. John fumbled with the buttons on the cell phone, trying to bring up the last number called, when suddenly the phone went off in his hand. Wild relief swept through him.
“Hello!”
�
��We’ve got a lead on Hastings,” Torelli said.
John blinked and brought his focus back to the job even as his hope drained away.
Torelli paused on the other end of the phone. “Mac?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m here.” He’d have to call Rachel back later. He started the Crown Vic. “Where is she?”
“A service-station attendant reported a pale blue ’68 Chevy at the Kwik Trip in Rice Lake.”
He’d passed Rice Lake about three miles back. Damn. He thought she’d be ahead of him by now. “East or west of the exit?” He glanced over his shoulder to check the traffic. A line of semis was coming up, but there was a sizable break after that.
“East.”
“Okay, I’m on it.” John swung into the highway, cutting across both lanes and doing a wide U-turn.
“Should I call in state troopers?”
“No!” The speedometer needle climbed to seventy and kept going. “I don’t want anyone else there.”
“Your call.” Torelli’s voice was disapproving.
“Damn right it’s my call,” John snapped. “No one else. That’s an order.”
“Fine.” Torelli hung up.
John glanced at the cell long enough to find out that Rachel had called from Amy’s home phone, and then he flung the cell on the passenger seat. His daughter might think that she had the final word, but she was wrong. She’d given him an opening after three long years, and he’d be damned if he’d let it go. As soon as he could, he was reestablishing the connection.
Right now, though, he had to pay attention to his driving.
John glanced at the dash. He was doing over ninety now. He needed to get to Turner and stop this nonsense before she was hurt. And he couldn’t trust Torelli not to go over his head again and call in outside law enforcement. Cops who didn’t know Turner and might think she was dangerous. Cops who might shoot first and ask questions later. That was a recipe for disaster if ever there was one.
The Rice Lake exit came up fast on his right. John hit it, barely slowing as the Crown Vic barreled up the off-ramp. He glanced to his left at the top, didn’t see anyone coming, and turned right without stopping.
The Kwik Trip was on the left up ahead, two lines of gas pumps with a red-roofed convenience store behind. Two cars were at the pumps: a maroon sedan and a navy minivan. He could see the light blue Chevy parked to the side of the convenience store. But a line of cars streamed past in the opposite lane; he couldn’t turn.