The Witness

by Nora Roberts

  Brooks stood very still, turned only his head. “No muss, no fuss.”

  And triple locks, a riot bar, secured windows, top-grade alarm system.

  Who the hell was Abigail Lowery, and what—or whom—was she afraid of?

  She came back down, a document in hand, gave it to him.

  “A Glock 19? That’s a serious gun.”

  “All guns are serious.”

  “You’re not wrong.” He handed the license back to her, looked into her eyes. “And you’re not wrong that you don’t know me. I can give you the name of my former captain in Little Rock. I was on the police force there for ten years before I moved back home. I’m a good cop, Abigail. If you tell me what kind of trouble you’re in, I’ll try to help you.”

  Chief Gleason wasn’t the only one with skills, she reminded herself. Her gaze and her voice remained absolutely steady and level. “I’m not in trouble. I’m just living my life. I have work to do, and I’m sure you have work to do. I’d like you to leave now.”

  “All right. If you change your mind.” He took out a card, set it on a table by the front door. “My cell number’s on it, too. If you want help, you just call.”

  “I don’t need help.”

  “You’ve got a riot bar and three top-grade locks on your front door, security bars on your windows, and a better alarm system than my bank. I don’t think all that’s to keep the dog from getting out.”

  He opened the front door, turned back to look at her. “Do you like puzzles?”

  “Yes, but I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

  “I like them, too. See you around, Bert.” He shut the door.

  Abigail stepped over, locked it, then, closing her eyes, knelt on the floor and pressed her face to the dog’s strong neck.

  8

  BOYD FITZWATER, GRIZZLE-HAIRED AND PAUNCHY, MANNED the desk. He stopped chicken-pecking at the computer keyboard when Brooks walked by.

  “Missy Crew came around. Like you’d expect, last night’s black eye was an accident. She got creative this time. Said she tripped on the rug and Ty tried to catch her.”

  “She fell into his fist?”

  “That’s just what she said. And him being a little drunk, he miscalculated when he tried to catch her.”

  “And the neighbor calling us in because she ran out of the house half-naked and screaming?”

  “That?” With a tight smile, Boyd shook his head. “She saw a mouse, and not the one on her eye. Overreacted, and the neighbor shouldn’t have bothered us. And before you ask, the reason she said Ty socked her last night is she was all confused. Because technically he did, but only trying to save her from a fall.”

  “You let him go?”

  “Couldn’t much do otherwise.”

  “No, but this crap is going to stop. The next call we get on them, I want whoever’s on duty to call me. I want to handle it.”

  “You’re welcome to it. I tried, Brooks. Even had Alma talk to her, figuring she might listen to another woman.”

  “Well, she didn’t.” Alma Slope walked in from the break room. Her fingernails were painted electric blue today and matched the chunky beads around her neck. Her frizzy mop of guinea-gold hair had been clamped back with a blue silk flower.

  She took a swig of the coffee in her hand, left a clear imprint of bold red lipstick on the rim. Pale green eyes, the only thing pale about Alma, peered out behind glasses with cat’s-eye frames studded with rhinestones.

  Her face, with its network of fine lines, registered annoyance as she fisted a hand on the hip of her faded Levis.

  Alma admitted to sixty, but as she’d admitted to sixty before Brooks had left for Little Rock, he couldn’t begin to guess the real age of his dispatcher.

  He wasn’t sure Alma knew anymore.

  “I took her in the break room, sat her down and talked to her like a Dutch uncle, whatever the hell that means. She started crying, so I thought I was getting somewhere. But she said how she loved Tybal, and he only gets mean when he’s drinking. And here’s the kicker. How it’s all going to be all right if she can just get pregnant.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “She says she’s trying real hard. Once they have a baby, Ty’s going to settle right down.”

  “I want the call when it comes,” Brooks repeated. “Thanks for trying, Alma. You can take the patrol, Boyd. I’ve got some paperwork to see to.”

  “I’ll get on it.”

  “You want some coffee, Chief?” Alma asked him.

  “Wouldn’t mind it.”

  “I’ll get it for you. Nothing much to do. It’s quiet today.”

  “May it continue.”

  He went into his office, booted up his computer, picked up the ancient Slinky on his desk. Walking to the window, he moved his hands up and down to set the coils whispering. He liked the sound of it, found it soothing, like an old blanket or bare feet in warm grass.

  He considered himself—and was considered by those who knew him—to be an even-tempered sort of man. Some would say a little on the low side of temper. So it surprised him just how much the incident with Abigail Lowery had pissed him off.

  Take the dog. A beautiful son of a bitch, but there’d been no doubt if he’d made the wrong move, or she’d just had a fucking whim, that beautiful son of a bitch would have sunk his teeth into him.

  Brooks didn’t mind unsettled situations, because he liked to settle them, find the answer or solution. Do the job, make the peace. But he damn well didn’t like being at such a slippery disadvantage against an armed woman and her big-ass guard dog.

  No laws broken, he thought. Not one. And yet.

  Some people were unfriendly by nature. He’d never understood the type, but he knew them, had dealt with them. It was more than that with this woman. A whole basketful of more.

  He’d found her a strange and interesting mix of nerves and confidence, straightforward and secretive. Northern accent, he considered. Still shy of thirty, if he was any judge, and—barring Alma—he generally was.

  On the slim side, but there was a coiled spring in there. Pretty, though she’d worn no makeup, and her clothes had been simple. Good boots, well broken in. No jewelry, no nail polish, no bright colors.

  Don’t look at me—that’s what she was saying, in his opinion. Don’t notice me.

  “What’s got you worked up?” Alma stepped in, set his coffee on his desk. “You’ve got your toy going,” she added when he turned.

  “Just thinking.”

  “Anything to do with the woman who bought the old Skeeter place?”

  “Are you doing psychic readings these days?”

  “I leave that to my girl.”

  “How’s Caliope doing?” Alma’s daughter read tarot, palms and auras—and was one of his mother’s tight circle of friends.

  “She worked an engagement party the other night. Picked up three more bookings out of it.”

  “Good for her.”

  “It’s a living. I heard you had what passes for a conversation with the Lowery girl over at the gourmet place.”

  “She ain’t no chatterbox.” He sat, picked up his coffee, put his boots on the desk. An invitation for Alma to sit. “What do you know?”

  “Not much, which bugs the hell out of me. What I got out of Dean McQueen, as he handled the property sale, is she contacted him by e-mail. Saw the sale online, asked some questions, thanked him politely. Few days later, she e-mailed again with an offer. Wasn’t the asking price, but Dean told me it was a little above what he hoped he’d get, and she offered a cash deal.”

  “Cash.”

  “That’s right. On the barrelhead. The Skeeters jumped on it. Well, you know Dean, he’s a salesman, and he likes to talk it up. He says he couldn’t get much more out of her than yes and no. She wired the earnest money from a bank in Kansas City. Drove in with that dog of hers for the settlement, pulling a U-Haul trailer. Signed the papers, handed over the cashier’s check, from a bank in Fairbanks, Alaska, this time. Dean wa
nts to take her to lunch to celebrate, but she shuts that down. Wants to take her to the property, walk her through and shut down again. She takes the papers, the keys, thanks everyone and that’s that.”

  “It’s a puzzle,” Brooks murmured.

  “People who say live and let live? They’re not doing a lot of living, as far as I’m concerned.” She got up as the radio in the dispatch area squawked. “It’d be interesting to find out what her deal is.”

  “It would,” Brooks agreed. As Alma went out to answer the radio, his phone rang. “Bickford Police Department, Chief Gleason.” For now, he put Abigail Lowery on his back burner.

  He handled the paperwork, the phone calls, took a turn at foot patrol, where he listened to the owner of a pottery shop complain about the owner of the neighboring candle shop once again blocking his delivery entrance with his car.

  And once again talked to the offender.

  He picked up a ham-and-cheese panini, and while taking a late lunch at his desk, started puzzle solving.

  He ran her tags, crunched into the chips he’d gotten with the sandwich. He read her date of birth, noted that she was twenty-eight, so he’d been on the mark there. Her license carried no restrictions. She was an organ donor with a clean driving record.

  He accessed the database and ran her criminal.

  No criminal record.

  That should be enough, he told himself. She was, according to the data, a law-abiding citizen without so much as a single speeding ticket.

  But …

  Out of curiosity, he Googled her. He got several hits on the name, but none of them were his Abigail Lowery.

  Caught up now, he continued to dig. He had her name, address, tag number, driver’s license data. Since he knew she had a license to carry, he started with gun registration.

  As the data came up, he sat back.

  “Now, that’s an arsenal,” he murmured.

  In addition to the Glock 19, she had licenses for a Glock 36, one for a Glock 26, a nine-millimeter Beretta, a long-range Sig, a nine-millimeter Colt Defender and a Smith & Wesson 1911, and a pair of Walther P22s.

  Just what did the woman need with that many handguns? He was a cop, for God’s sake, and other than his service weapon, he had only two others.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Hey, Brooks.”

  The bombshell blonde stood kind of posed in his doorway. Sylbie’s hair fell in gleaming waves over the shoulders of a white lace shirt loosely belted over jeans that were a thin coat of paint over long legs. She had eyes that reminded him of a tiger, tawny and just a little feral.

  In high school he’d wanted her more than his next breath. And when he’d had her, his life had been a seesaw of bliss and misery.

  Automatically, he toggled over to screen saver. “How you doing, Sylbie?”

  “Oh, I’m just fine. I’ve been working since dawn, so I’m giving myself a little break.” She glided into the room on those long legs, perched on the corner of his desk in a provocative cloud of fragrance. “I thought I’d just drop in and see you, and see if you wanted to get together tonight.”

  “I’ve got a lot going on here.”

  “If the chief of police can’t take the night off, who can?”

  “The law’s ever vigilant.”

  She laughed, tossed that glorious mane of hair. “Come on, Brooks. I thought I’d pick up a nice bottle of wine.” She leaned in. “And you can take advantage of me.”

  It didn’t make him feel manly, but he had to admit the few times they’d gotten together since he’d come home, he’d felt like the one being taken advantage of.

  Not that he’d minded at the time. But afterward …

  “That’s a nice invitation, Sylbie, but I’ve got to work tonight.”

  “Come on by after.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You’re hurting my feelings.”

  “I don’t want to do that.” But neither did he want to get caught up again. They’d come a long way since high school, when she’d captured his heart, then demolished it—and were a lot closer to her two divorces.

  “If you want to play hard to get,” she began, sliding off the desk.

  “I’m not playing.” She would have slithered right into his lap if he hadn’t pushed to his feet. “Look, Sylbie.”

  As he was facing the door, he saw Abigail step into the opening, saw her immediate jolt of embarrassment.

  “Ms. Lowery,” he said, before she could back away.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt. I’ll come back.”

  “No, that’s fine. I’ll talk to you later, Sylbie.”

  “I’m buying that wine,” she murmured, shot him her slow smile. She turned, angled her head as she studied Abigail.

  “You’re that woman who lives out at the Skeeter place.”

  “Yes.”

  “Everybody wonders what in the world you do out there all by yourself.”

  “They shouldn’t.”

  “People have a curiosity. That’s a natural thing. I’m Sylbie MacKenna.”

  “One of the local potters. You do very good work. I bought one of your bowls.” Abigail looked at Brooks again. “I can speak to you later, Chief Gleason.”

  “You’re here now. Sylbie’s got to get on.”

  “So official. He didn’t used to be.” She gave Abigail a knowing smile. “I’ll see you later, Brooks.”

  “She’s very attractive,” Abigail commented.

  “Always has been.”

  “I’m sorry I interrupted. The woman, your …”

  “Dispatcher?”

  “Yes. She said I should just come back.”

  “That’s fine. Have a seat.”

  “May I close the door?”

  “Sure.”

  After she’d done so, and taken a seat in his visitor’s chair, silence ran for several beats.

  “Something on your mind?” he asked her.

  “Yes. I realize I mishandled our … business this morning. In the market, and when you came to my house. I wasn’t prepared.”

  “Do you have to prepare to have a conversation?”

  “I’m not a social person, so I don’t have many conversations, particularly with people I don’t know. In the market, I felt uncomfortable with your interest in what I was buying.”

  “My interest in what you were buying was a ploy for conversation.”

  “Yes.”

  Everything about her was cool, he thought, and still. He considered how she served as polar opposite to Sylbie, who always ran hot, always seemed to be moving.

  “We’re a small town, Abigail. A small resort town, full of New Agers and old hippies, second-generation hippies, artists. We’re friendly.”

  “I’m not. I’m sorry if that’s rude, but it’s fact. I’m not a friendly person, and I moved here for the quiet, the solitude. When