“Mr. Scott, I want to help Wilson if I can,” she said. “Is there any way you could put me in touch with him? I’d like to hear his side of the story.
There was a long silence.
“I don’t know,” he said finally. “I’ll talk to Wilson, see what he thinks. It’s not up to me, Miss McClain. He’s got to make up his own mind.”
“I understand,” Harper said. “But time is very important. If I can help him, I’ll need to talk to him soon. Please let him know that.”
When they’d hung up, Harper walked across the kitchen to pour herself a cup of coffee.
She looked out the tall windows into the back garden. It was another brutally sunny day.
The back garden needed tending—the grass was getting high. She should let Billy know.
Her neighbor’s bougainvillea poured flowers over the fence in a vivid magenta cascade.
She was staring at the yard and thinking about Wilson when something shifted in the shadows.
Leaning forward, Harper squinted, shielding her eyes from the bright sun. She could have sworn she saw someone standing very still at the corner of the house next door.
It didn’t look like Mrs. Watson, the old lady who lived there with her little dog. This person looked much taller and thinner. A man, she thought. But she couldn’t quite make out his features from here—he was at the very fringe of her sight line.
Before she could get a good look, her phone began to ring.
Instinctively, she glanced at it.
When she looked back, the shadow had gone.
Her phone rang insistently. She ran across the kitchen to grab it, pushing the answer button without looking at the screen.
“McClain,” she said, hurrying back to the window.
“Harper.” Luke’s familiar voice stopped her in her tracks. He hadn’t called in so long.
She forgot all about the shadow.
“Luke?” She hated how hopeful she sounded. “What’s up?”
“Can we meet? I need to talk to you about Wilson Shepherd.”
* * *
It was after midnight when Harper drove to the Library that night.
She and Luke had agreed to meet after work—both their shifts ended at the same time.
After hanging up the phone, Harper had torn through her closet looking for something to wear. Finally, in a panic, she called Bonnie for advice. What do you wear to meet your ex-boyfriend—the one you never got over—to talk about a murder you’re both investigating?
In the end, they’d chosen a sleeveless black top that made the most of her figure and her fair coloring. Instead of running out of the office when her work was done, she’d gone to the ladies’ room and taken her time, brushing the frizz out of her auburn hair, and (for once) paying attention to her makeup.
It must have worked, because Junior, the bar’s amiable, three-hundred-pound bouncer, nearly popped his uneven teeth when he saw her.
“Marry me, Harper McClain,” he pleaded. “I know I can make you happy.”
“I’m married to my job, Junior,” she told him, breezily.
“Someday you’ll see what a catch I am,” he said.
Ignoring that, Harper gestured at the oddly empty bar behind him. “How’s it going?”
“Well, let’s just say it’s a good thing you’re here.” His amiable face grew serious. “It’s too quiet.”
“Things are that bad?” she asked, surprised.
“Terrible.” As she headed inside, he lowered himself onto the stool propped against the doorjamb. “This keeps up, they won’t need me anymore.”
In the bar, Johnny Cash was singing from the jukebox and nobody was dancing.
Harper glanced around in dismay. It was Saturday night—the place should be packed. Most of the tables were empty.
Bonnie waved at her from behind the bar.
“You look devastating,” she said, as she walked up. “I knew I was right about that outfit.”
Without asking what she wanted, she slid a bottle of cold Beck’s across the bar.
Catching it, Harper gestured at the mostly empty bar.
“Where is everyone?”
Bonnie’s smile faded.
“I guess nobody wants to hang out at the death bar. Who would think art students could be so picky?”
Harper scanned the thin crowd of bearded hipsters, aspiring musicians, and artists for any sign of Luke.
“Is he here?” Bonnie asked, guessing what she was doing. “I’ve been keeping an eye out but nobody I’ve seen looks like a hot detective.”
“No.”
Harper tried to look like she wasn’t worried, although her insides were spinning.
“He’ll get here.”
“This is so romantic.” Bonnie sighed.
“It’s work,” Harper reminded her. “He only wants to talk about a case.”
“Sure he does.”
Bonnie didn’t sound convinced. Leaning her elbows on the scarred wood of the bar, she looked at her sympathetically.
“How’re you doing? Are you ready for this?”
“Honestly, it’s not a big deal,” Harper insisted. “We’re only going to talk. It’s not like I want to get back together with him. I just need his help.”
“I know, babe.” Bonnie’s expression said she didn’t believe a word.
“I’m serious…” Harper began to defend herself, but Bonnie was looking at something over her shoulder.
“Don’t look now”—she tilted her chin at the door—“a super-hot cowboy just walked into my bar, and we don’t get many of those in here.”
Harper turned to see Luke striding across the concrete floor. In jeans, boots, and a white button-down shirt, he was as out of place in the arty bar as a cocktail at a prayer breakfast.
Her heart stuttered.
When he reached her, his face was carefully blank.
“I can’t believe this place,” he murmured quietly, by way of hello. “I’ve never felt more like a cop.”
“I like it,” she insisted. “I’m very into books.”
He shot her an amused look.
Bonnie watched them with undisguised fascination. If Harper didn’t introduce them soon, she’d explode.
“Luke, this is my friend Bonnie. Bonnie, this is Luke Walker.”
Luke held out his hand, politely. “I think we met the other day.”
Beaming at him, Bonnie reached across the bar.
“I’ve heard so much about you,” she said. “I didn’t realize you were Harper’s Luke.”
His smile didn’t flicker.
“Can I get you a drink?” Bonnie gestured at the bottles behind her.
Luke glanced at Harper’s beer.
“I’ll have one of those,” he said, pulling his wallet from his back pocket.
“You got it.” Bonnie pulled two from the fridge.
“Oh, by the way,” she said, setting the bottle on the counter and reaching for the opener, “if you two want to talk privately, there’s no one in the poetry room.”
Luke’s eyebrows rose a little higher.
“The poetry room?” he said, as Harper led him across the bar a few minutes later.
“There are three side rooms,” she explained, pointing out the arched doorways that edged the main bar. “Poetry, prose, and pool.”
Exuding quiet condemnation, Luke followed her into a narrow room dimly lit by a few battered lamps.
The walls were black. Phrases of poetry were painted in white on them—the words surrounded them.
The lights were dim in here. It was, as Bonnie knew perfectly, also known as the make-out room.
Three fake-leather sofas had been arranged around a low table. Harper dropped onto one and stretched out, propping her feet on the coffee table as she took a swig of beer.
Luke’s gaze slipped across her legs, clad in snug-fitting black leggings.
“You look good, Harper,” he said.
It took all she had to keep her expression steady.
>
“Thanks,” she said. “You, too.”
It was true. His deep blue eyes were clear. The summer sun had given his straight, brown hair a golden sheen. The shadows that had underscored his eyes during the days when he worked undercover had gone.
Sitting on the sofa across from her, he set his beer on the sticky table.
Harper watched his every move hungrily. She’d dreamed of this moment so many times. Now that it was happening, she didn’t know what to say.
“How’s work?” she asked. “You and Blazer tried to kill each other yet?”
The lieutenant and Luke had a long, contentious history. Luke had once left the detective squad solely to get away from him.
“Not yet,” he said, dryly. “Blazer seems to be trying to put the past behind him. Now that Smith’s gone he wants to be a real boss.” He gave a slight shrug. “We’re grown-ups after all, apparently.”
He hadn’t shaved. A faint shadow of whiskers dusted his jaw. Harper knew how they would feel against her skin, and now she had to get that memory out of her head as quickly as possible.
“You said you wanted to talk about Wilson Shepherd?”
“Yeah.” He studied her face. “You don’t think he did it, do you?”
“I wouldn’t say I don’t think he did it,” she said, after a beat. “But I doubt it.”
“Me, too.” He leaned forward, resting his hands between his knees. “I wasn’t sure at the start. He sure as hell looked guilty the night we took him in. I thought it was a done deal.”
“But then?”
“Then the gun didn’t match. And the motive was fishy.” He turned his hands over. “And he doesn’t fit the type at all. Looks to me like they were thinking of breaking up. He wasn’t happy about it. But they weren’t fighting. He hadn’t threatened her, as far as we can tell. Basically, my warning lights started flashing. It doesn’t feel right.”
“Breakups are strong motives all on their own,” she reminded him. “Nice-guy killers are a thing.”
“I know that. But if it was him, he planned it in pure isolation. Telling no one. Sending her no emails or threatening texts. Fooling her father completely.”
“Not likely,” Harper agreed. “But not impossible if he’s smart.”
“Yeah.” He sighed. “He is smart. But I’m not feeling it.”
He tilted the bottle over in his hands, examining the label as if it held the answers he sought.
It had been a long time since he was this candid with her about a case. Something was definitely bothering him.
“What does Daltrey think?”
“She thinks it’s usually the boyfriend, why should this one be different?” He glanced up at her. “But she knows it’s not right. She’s a good detective. She can feel this, too.”
In the other room, Johnny Cash segued to Nine Inch Nails. But the volume was muffled in here.
“Okay.” She straightened. “Let’s do this. If it’s not Shepherd, who do we have? Fitz?”
When she said the Library owner’s name, she lowered her voice. She knew he wasn’t in tonight—Bonnie had assured her he wouldn’t be—but it felt wrong talking about him in his own bar.
Luke looked doubtful.
“Maybe,” he said. “That case a few years ago was a young woman very much like Naomi, and his behavior was worrying. She was scared of him.”
“He wasn’t ever charged,” Harper pointed out.
“She dropped the charges,” he told her. “But she got an injunction.”
“He never violated it?” Harper guessed.
Luke shook his head.
“Bonnie said his wife left him that year, and he was drinking too much,” she pointed out. “Could have been an aberration.”
“He still drinks too much, far as I can tell,” Luke said, lifting his own beer.
“But murder?” Harper didn’t disguise her doubt. “Naomi never said a word about Fitz bothering her. Bonnie never saw anything. And, I mean…” She gestured back at the bar. “You’ve seen Bonnie. She’s sex on a plate. Fitz never messes with her.”
“I hear you. But that could just mean he doesn’t go for blondes.”
“But it’s unlikely,” she said, repeating the word he’d used earlier about Shepherd. “And anyway. You’ve got no evidence.”
He smiled, conceding the point, and tilted his empty bottle at her.
“Your round.”
Taking his bottle, Harper grabbed her wallet and walked from the room conscious he was watching her.
This whole night was confusing. Was this his way of saying he forgave her? Or was he really worried about the case?
He was impossible to read. His time spent working undercover had made him permanently enigmatic.
When she approached the bar, Bonnie hurried over to her.
“How’s it going?” she hissed, as if Luke might hear them from the other room.
“Fine,” Harper said. “Weird as hell. But fine.”
She handed the empty bottles to Bonnie, who got two more out of the refrigerator without asking.
“Weird, how?” she asked, popping the tops.
“Weird in that he’s acting like everything’s normal.” Harper glanced over her shoulder. “And nothing’s been normal for a long time.”
She handed Bonnie a ten-dollar bill and leaned against the bar.
“It’s confusing.”
“Well, I say go with it.” Bonnie opened the register, busying herself with the money. “Maybe he’s finally seeing what he lost.”
“Maybe.” All of Harper’s doubts were in that word.
“Anyway, I’ve got to say he’s the cutest cop I’ve ever seen.” Bonnie handed her the change.
“Me, too.” Harper gave her a melancholy smile. “But, I broke him last year and I don’t know how to fix him.”
“He looks fine to me,” Bonnie called, as she walked away.
When Harper walked back into the poetry room, Luke was looking at his phone. Hearing her approach, he closed the screen and shoved it into his pocket, taking the beer she held out to him.
“Thanks,” he said.
“Now,” Harper said, sitting back down. “Let’s talk about Peyton Anderson.”
Luke looked amused. “You really want to go there?”
“Yes, I do.”
“You’re actually going to push this theory that Randall Anderson’s favorite boy shot a bartender to death on River Street?” he scoffed. “You know how crazy that sounds, right?”
“It’s only crazy if you don’t look closely.” Setting her beer down, she warmed to her theory. “One.” She raised her index finger. “They knew each other. They became friends at law school. Two. They fell out, no one knows over what. And, three. She was very angry at him and reported him to her law school, according to her father.”
“That’s a motive for him to unfriend her on Facebook. Not kill her,” he said.
It galled her that he had a point.
“Well, if we both think it isn’t Wilson, and I’ve got no evidence that it’s Anderson, and you’ve got no evidence it was Fitz—where are we?”
He gave a bemused chuckle.
“I have no idea.” He took a drink, his smile fading. “Honestly? I can’t help feeling we’re missing something. Something she didn’t even tell her father. Something important. And I don’t know what the hell it is.”
Their eyes met.
“Damn,” Luke said, out of nowhere. “I’ve missed this.”
Harper’s heart seemed to stop.
“Me, too,” she said.
His phone buzzed insistently, shattering the moment.
“Excuse me.” He gave her an apologetic look as he pulled it from his pocket. “I need to check this.”
“Don’t worry.” She waved her bottle. “Check away.”
He bent over his phone, his face serious. After typing a quick response to whatever the message was, he put it away and picked up his beer, taking a long drink.
“I’m sorry—I�
��ve got to go,” he said, after a second. “I promised someone I’d meet them, and I’m late.”
“Oh, of course. I understand.” She tried not to show her disappointment.
“Tell you what,” he told her. “I’ll take another look at the Anderson kid. See if I can find anything. We gave him a basic look but his alibi was rock solid and he’s got no priors. We know he had some sort of thing with the victim, but it didn’t work when we put it all together.”
“Let me know what you find?” she said, adding, “Off the record, obviously.”
“Obviously.” Rising from the sofa he turned to her. “Walk me out?”
They headed into the main bar. Harper avoided looking at Bonnie.
“I’m sorry about this,” Luke said. “I wouldn’t go at all except, it turns out I promised, and then forgot I promised.” He shot her a smile. “You know how I am when I’m working.”
She waved that away. “Don’t apologize. I get it.”
Harper waited to speak again until they were out in the muggy night air. For a change, there wasn’t a crowd of smokers clustered around the door. The street was empty.
Luke stopped by a dark blue sports car.
Harper wasn’t sure how to say good-bye. Were they friends again now? Colleagues?
“It’s been nice talking with you,” she said, after a second. “It’s been a long time.”
“Too long,” he said.
She couldn’t read his eyes in the shadows, but she felt something in the air between them. A kind of electricity.
“I wish we had longer,” he said. “There are some things I wanted to say to you…”
In Harper’s pocket, her phone began to buzz, and his voice trailed off.
“Jesus,” she said, not reaching for it. “What is going on tonight?”
Luke smiled, his teeth a flash of white in the dark.
“We’ll talk another time,” he said. “You better take that.”
He unlocked his car and opened the front door. In the pale blue light that poured out, his eyes glittered.
She thought he seemed as reluctant to leave as she was. Finally, he turned away.
“Well, I better hit the road.” He climbed into the front seat. “See you.”
“See you,” she replied.
Her phone vibrated angrily as he started the engine. Turning away, she pulled it from her pocket and glanced at the screen.
A Beautiful Corpse--A Harper McClain Mystery Page 11