by Terry Odell
The kids exhibited mortification instead of belligerence, and Cole breathed a sigh of relief. He had no desire to have to confront Vance Ebersold with his son’s behavior, although he’d definitely mention it to Chief Laughlin. Politics was his domain.
In Chief Laughlin’s office, after Cole presented his reasoning, there was a long, uncomfortable silence while the chief drummed his fingertips on his desk. Cole waited, his mouth dry.
Was he going to get the reputation of a cop who ignored the letter of the law? Although Cole had long passed his rookie status, he was still the newest hire, and therefore, the low man on the totem pole.
The chief stopped his drumming and met Cole’s gaze. “What would you have done had it not been the son of a member of the town council? Or happened ten minutes before end of shift?”
Cole straightened to full attention. “Given identical circumstances, the same thing, Sir. I believe our job is to keep Pine Hills safe, and to make our citizens feel we’re all working toward the same end. Showing them we understand there are gray areas, in my opinion, promotes a better attitude toward cops. As for it being right before end of shift, that had no bearing on my decision. We work until the job is done, Sir.”
Chief Laughlin gave an approving nod. “Since Randall had no priors, I’ll have a quiet word with Vance, let him know that we’re willing to cut some slack for first-time offenders, even ridiculously stupid ones. Randall did not get a Mulligan because of who his father is. I’m confident there will be consequences of a parental nature. Good job. File your reports and have a good evening.”
“Thank you, Sir.” Cole pivoted and headed for his desk to write up the incident. Given there was no arrest, the information would be kept in a separate database. That way, if Randall Ebersold became a repeat offender, the officer who picked him up would be aware of his prior indiscretions, but nothing would go beyond Pine Hills.
Once it was filed, he changed into his civvies and headed for his apartment to get ready for dinner with Morgan. It was closing in on five. Had all the utilities been dealt with? She hadn’t called or texted. He took that to mean she’d agreed to dinner.
Cole took a quick shower, shaved, and put on black denims and a sweater. He still hadn’t decided where they should eat. Two Wagon Wheel dinners in a row would definitely lead to intensified questions from his colleagues, questions he had no desire to answer. Not when he didn’t know the answers himself.
What could he learn about Morgan? Something that might give him ideas of where to go for dinner, or other bits of her life that could be conversation starters. Facebook wouldn’t work. Because of his job, Cole kept away from social media, so he didn’t have any accounts. Better to dig further into her uncle, which would be just as effective in opening conversations.
His laptop hadn’t finished booting when his phone buzzed a text. Morgan.
Ready now. I’ll be in the lobby.
He replied with a thumbs up.
As for conversations, asking what the lawyer had told her and how the utilities hookups had gone should be plenty to get things moving.
He grabbed a jacket and headed for the Castle.
When he entered the lobby, Morgan jumped up from a chair by the fire, a wary expression on her face.
Chapter 8
MORGAN SLUNG HER PURSE over her shoulder and moved toward Cole. How would he take what she was going to ask him? The worst he could say was no, which would leave her right where she was now. Miserable.
No, the worst would be if he thought she was overstepping—as in light years—the boundaries of friendship and thought she was using him and broke off their relationship—okay, burgeoning friendship—that hadn’t even begun.
“Should we go to the Wagon Wheel again?” she asked. “Or Sadie’s? I had breakfast there this morning, and their dinner menu looked decent.”
“You like Mexican?” Cole asked. “There’s a cantina in Jefferson, not far from here. Nothing fancy, but the food is good.”
Mexican wasn’t on Morgan’s top five culinary preferences, but she didn’t dislike the option. She’d had plenty of good meals when she was touring Mexico. “Sure. Sounds fine.”
Cole didn’t seem to mind that she wasn’t interested in making small talk conversation. How to broach her problem continued to whirl through her mind. They arrived at the small building with its flashing neon Cantina sign. Cole parked in one of the few vacant slots in the lot.
He jumped out, rounded the car, and although she’d already opened her door, his gesture sent a quick thrill through her. His hand at the small of her back as they strode to the entrance intensified the warm feeling.
How you feel has nothing to do with what you want to ask him.
When Cole opened the door, the aromas of spices and grilling meat had her mouth watering. Strains of mariachi music played in the background. Not in her top five types of music. Still, it established the atmosphere and was quiet enough to be unobtrusive.
The hostess led them to a table toward the rear of the crowded dining room. Cole pulled out a chair for Morgan. She gave him a polite thank you and took her seat.
A server who introduced himself as Sebastian set a bowl of tortilla chips—hot and aromatic—along with two kinds of salsa on the table. “Can I start you with something from the bar?”
“A margarita,” Morgan said. “No salt.”
Cole smiled. Was he glad she wasn’t mulling over drink choices the way she had last night?
“I’ll have the same, with salt. And an order of guacamole, please.” He picked up the menu. “I can recommend the fajitas. The camarones are amazing—if you like shrimp. I’ve never had a bad meal here.”
She perused the menu as she munched on chips. Sebastian brought their drinks and prepared their guacamole at the table, then took their orders. The margarita glasses rivaled the size of a goldfish bowl.
Morgan gazed at Cole, who seemed to be waiting for her to take a drink. She lifted her glass and took a healthy sip. This place didn’t skimp on the tequila, that was for sure. Liquid courage.
Cole followed suit, then scooped guacamole onto a tortilla chip. “Any trouble with the utilities?”
“None. Everyone was on the early end of the window. I think Mr. Hathaway—he’s the lawyer—has clout. The place will need carbon monoxide detectors, and the smoke alarms will have to be replaced. So will the furnace and water heater, eventually.” She set down her glass and tried the guac. Excellent.
“Shouldn’t need too much heat this time of year,” he said. “Might have to dress warmer for a bit, that’s all.”
“I’m new. I’ll take your word for it.”
“You don’t seem ... happy about it.”
She fortified herself with another sip of margarita. “The lawyer went over everything with me, page by page. Not having smoke or carbon monoxide detectors won’t suffice as a reason I can’t live there, as long as I get them installed right away.”
“I’m not seeing a big downside.”
“Let’s say I’m not a roughing it kind of person. Living in that house the way it is now is practically camping. Throw in renovations and repairs, and it’ll be a nightmare.”
“You said the lawyer didn’t give you a choice.”
“There’s one possible loophole. I’m not sure it’s entirely ... aboveboard.”
“Are you sure you should be telling me?” he asked. “I’m a cop, remember. Sworn to uphold the law.”
Morgan rolled her eyes. “I didn’t say it was illegal. At least I’m not sure it is.”
She didn’t want to pull Cole into the middle of this. She’d figure out a way to live in the house. As Mr. Hathaway had said, people did it all the time. Just because she wasn’t one of those people didn’t mean she couldn’t learn to adapt. For Austin.
“Never mind,” she said. “I’m sure I can get a microwave and a coffee maker. I was never much of a cook anyway.” All those years on the road, living in hotels, eating room service or restaurant food. Even when t
hey’d stayed in upscale suites with kitchens, her parents didn’t use them for more than basics.
Sebastian returned with their meals, and Morgan busied herself assembling her shrimp fajitas. Cole had ordered a combination plate, and was cutting into an enchilada. Could she—should she—ask him to help?
“Are these homemade tortillas?” she asked instead.
He paused, his enchilada-loaded fork halfway to his mouth. “They are. They make everything in house here.”
Keep the conversation going while she decided how to deal with her problem. Toss the ball his way. “What was your day like?” she asked. “What kinds of things does a cop do in Pine Hills?”
“Most of the time, it’s being visible. Today was a teacher planning day, so we made sure the kids weren’t taking advantage of the time off to get into mischief. Traffic violations, serving papers, checking neighborhoods—nothing too exciting.”
He ducked his head and tackled his chile relleno. Was he blushing? Had something exciting happened? Dare she ask?
Probably not. Cops weren’t allowed to violate people’s privacy.
Morgan assembled a second fajita. The seasoning on the shrimp was divine. Heat, but not eye-watering, nose-running heat. Complex layers of flavors. Mexican food had just leapfrogged into her top five.
“Did you find out anything about my uncle? Or the graffiti?” she asked.
He forked up another bite. Chewed. Swallowed. Wiped his mouth. “Nothing particularly interesting. Nothing you don’t already know, I’m sure.”
“At this point, I’m more interested in knowing more about Uncle Bob than worrying about whether someone killed someone. Like you said, the odds are very, very slim that someone would show up now.”
“What about the lawyer? He must have known your uncle. Didn’t you ask him?”
EVEN HIS LIMITED TIME as a cop had honed Cole’s people-reading skills enough to know something was bothering Morgan. Too quiet on the drive over, changing the subject when he’d asked questions. Avoiding his eyes. Paying more attention to her food than the conversation.
Okay, the food was good, but still...
He repeated his question. She dunked another chip in the guacamole. Washed it down with her margarita. Would she open up if he ordered her another?
Not his call, and the margaritas here were supersized and potent.
She sighed. “Of course I asked. They had a couple of face-to-face meetings to set up the trust. After that, everything ran on auto pilot. Property taxes were paid, rents were collected. They never communicated. Maybe if they had, Mr. Hathaway would have noticed Uncle Bob’s decline. All that mattered was that there was money in the account to cover expenses.”
“What about the money?” Cole asked. “Given your uncle was in finance, wouldn’t he have arranged for someone to manage his accounts?”
“Wait,” she said. “Uncle Bob was in finance? Doing what?”
“I thought you knew,” Cole said. “He was a financial advisor at a Salem firm for thirty years. I’m sure he set everything up to see him through his final days and dealt with the legalities of turning the house over to you. Do you get more than the house?”
Morgan seemed to consider that over another sip of margarita. A hint of a spark flashed in her eyes. “There’s a fund, yes, but I’m not allowed to know how much. They haven’t given me my remodeling budget yet. Mr. Hathaway said I should have enough to make the house livable.”
She ran her forefinger over the lip of the glass. “I don’t think there’s anything specific as to what livable means, whether it’s just everything functions up to code or meets my standards for comfort.”
She took another sip of her margarita. “I’m planning on the latter, so it’ll be a ... challenge ... to live in the house while all the work is being done.”
“I’m sure you’ll do fine.”
Her skeptical gaze said she wasn’t sure.
“The less I do,” she went on, “the less of this unknown fund I’ll use for the house, and the more there will be left over.”
“Which you’d end up wanting to use to make the house meet your comfort standards anyway.”
Morgan lifted her glass, stared at it, then put it down. “Mr. Hathaway is dealing with what needs to be done now that Uncle Bob is dead. I’ll turn everything over to my financial advisor, assuming there’s enough left after I live in the damn house for a damn year.”
What the—? She had a financial advisor? Cole had a checking account and a savings account, both with embarrassingly low balances. Student loans he’d be paying off for years. Certainly nothing to invest, definitely not enough to warrant hiring a financial advisor. Another layer of Morgan Tate for him to uncover.
If she had money—with a capital M—she was out of his league. As a small-town cop, his income was barely enough to make ends meet.
Cole took a closer look at Morgan. Her green sweater had felt ultra-soft under his hand. Cashmere? Was her bead necklace ordinary costume jewelry? Or were the beads jade? That pendant hanging from the strand of beads? Diamonds or cubic zirconia? He checked the earrings peeking out from her curls. They were small, tasteful, but he had a strong hunch they were diamonds. As in real diamonds.
Her slacks hugged her curves. He was no expert on women’s clothing, but they looked—expensive. Even her tote was probably genuine leather.
“I like your necklace,” he said. He could be dead wrong about its value.
She fingered the beads. “Thanks. I got it in Hong Kong. Except for the pendant. That came later.”
“You were in Hong Kong?”
Her latte-colored cheeks darkened. A shoulder hiked, almost imperceptibly. “With my parents. I was ... fourteen, I think.”
He felt self-conscious in his black denims and simple cotton cable-knit sweater over a button-down shirt. One college weekend in Tijuana was the extent of his international travel. She was definitely way out of his league.
“Another margarita?” he asked, finishing his.
“No, thanks. I’m not even done with this one, and I’ve got a not-so-subtle buzz going on.”
Since he was driving, a second drink wasn’t appropriate for him, either.
Their server came by to clear their plates and asked if they’d like to see the dessert menu.
“Nothing for me,” Morgan said. “I’m stuffed. The shrimp was delicious.”
The server beamed. “I’ll let Chef know. What about you, sir?”
Cole declined dessert and asked for coffee.
Morgan passed on the offered coffee, motioning to her margarita, which was three-quarters gone. She took a healthy swig, downing half the remaining contents, then caught his gaze for a moment before she concentrated on stirring her drink.
“Can I ask you something?” she said.
Here it came. At last. He hoped. “Of course.”
“Is there a way you, or anyone higher up the chain of command, could tell Mr. Hathaway that Uncle Bob’s house is part of an ongoing police investigation and it’s not safe for me to live there?” The words spilled out as if the dam holding them back had crumbled.
Despite what Kovak had said this morning, Cole didn’t think there was cause to justify declaring the house off limits. Even if there was, a crime scene team would be able to process the place and release it in what? A matter of hours at most.
When Morgan’s fawn eyes implored his, his insides turned to a quivering blob of jelly. “I don’t have the authority, but I can ask.”
“Really?” The light in her eyes glistened. “You will?”
“I wouldn’t get my hopes up,” he said.
The server set Cole’s coffee in front of him, along with a small tray holding a cream pitcher and a container of sweeteners. Cole added a packet of sugar—the real stuff—and drizzled in cream, stirring and watching the coffee lighten to his preferred shade.
“There’s a chance?” Morgan’s voice carried a brightness he hadn’t heard all evening.
He couldn’t lie
, but he didn’t want to be the one to send her hopes crashing. “Slim.”
“Slim’s better than none. When can you find out? If I live there, I’d be contaminating a potential crime scene, right?” She finished the last of her margarita.
“Hang on.” He stirred his coffee in lazy circles, stalling to organize his thoughts. “I’m off til Saturday, but I’ll stop by the station tomorrow and run it by my boss.”
“Thanks. I’ll let Mr. Hathaway know that I’m not moving in until I hear more from you.”
Cole figured it would be about two minutes after he posed the question to Kovak, but he wasn’t going to mention it.
She toyed with her napkin. “After that, if you don’t have other plans for tomorrow, I wondered if you might want to come with me to Uncle Bob’s care center.”
Half an hour ago, he’d have jumped at the chance. Now, considering they existed in different social strata, he wasn’t so sure.
His answer jumped from his mouth before his brain could follow up on the thought. “Sure, what time?”
“Is eight too early?”
“Not at all.” His laundry could wait.
“Great,” she said. “It’ll be good to have another set of eyes and ears. You might know better questions to ask, or things to look for.”
Of course. She wanted him for his cop training.
Chapter 9
THE START OF A HEADACHE nagged behind Morgan’s eyes. Rubbing her temples, she said, “I hate to call the evening short, but it’s been a stressful day. I think that mega-margarita is telling me I overindulged.” She noted Cole had finished his coffee. “Do you mind if we leave?”
He didn’t speak, merely waved Sebastian over and requested the check.
She stood, grabbed her purse. “Don’t forget. Tonight’s my turn. I’m going to use the ladies’ room. Be right back.”