The Witness

by Nora Roberts

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to put my hands on you, and I’m going to need them to drive after I do. I don’t want him biting one off at the wrist.”

  “I don’t like to be touched.”

  “You like sex. A kiss is somewhere between being touched and having sex. Aren’t you curious, Abigail?”

  “A little.” She studied his face in that X-ray manner, then looked to the dog. “Ami,” she said, laying a hand lightly on Brooks’s arm. “Ami, Bert.”

  Still, she stiffened when Brooks took her hand—her gun hand.

  “Ami,” he murmured. “That one stuck with me. So let’s be friendly.”

  He laid his other hand on her cheek, eased his way in. And she watched him. That ready, steady look in her eye just hit some chord in him. He kept it light, maybe a little over the friendly line, but light and soft. Lips meeting, eyes locked.

  He pressed, just a bit more, body to body, until her hand came to his shoulder. Until it slid around to the back of his neck, up into his hair. Until her tongue teased his, and those watchful eyes went a deeper green.

  As he stepped back, he released her hand. With a shake of his head, he picked up the pie. “You know I’m going to have to come back.”

  “It’s a mistake.”

  “For who?”

  “For both of us.”

  “Different points of view, remember.” He leaned in, quick—and this time friendly—touched his lips to hers. “I’ll be coming back. See you, Bert,” he added as he walked out and to his car.

  Abigail closed the door, locked it before she heard his engine turn over. She let out a huff of breath, looked down at the dog.

  “It’s a mistake,” she repeated.

  10

  BROOKS SPENT MOST OF HIS DAY PUTTING RIGHTEOUS FEAR in a trio of preadolescent shoplifters, dealing with a traffic accident—which primarily involved preventing the two drivers from coming to blows—handling the resulting paperwork, and listening to Sid Firehawk whine when Brooks finally cited him for the blown-out muffler.

  To reward himself, he opted to make a quick run to the bakery for some fancy coffee and a snickerdoodle, but Alma stuck her head in his office. Rainbow peace signs the size of babies’ fists dangled from her ears.

  “Grover called in. There’s a dispute over at Ozark Art.”

  “What kind of dispute?”

  “He just said things were getting a little hot, and asked for you to go by.”

  “All right. I’ll walk over. I could stop at the bakery on the way back if you want anything.”

  “Get away from me, Satan.”

  “Just saying.” Brooks got up from his desk, grabbed his jacket.

  “If a chocolate macadamia cookie and a skinny latte found their way onto my desk, it wouldn’t be my fault.”

  “No one could blame you.” As Brooks headed out, he wondered why she’d put the skinny in a latte when she was having a cookie. But that was one of the female mysteries he didn’t worry himself into a headache over.

  He glanced at the sky as he walked. The temperatures refused to settle, shooting up, diving down and clashing in the middle as a welcome mat for tornados. But the sky held to a harmless faded denim.

  He crossed over to Shop Street, pleased to see the Saturday-afternoon bustle of locals and tourists. He passed the gourmet market, thought of Abigail, and walked down another block to Ozark Art.

  He didn’t see any signs of a dispute through the display window. In fact, he didn’t see Grover or a customer or anyone else. The little bell jingled as he stepped in, scanned the main showroom and its walls of paintings, the stands displaying sculptures, shelves of handblown glass and local pottery.

  The air carried the fragrance of a spring woodland from one of those reed diffusers. Grover’s work, he thought absently. The guy looked like a storybook gnome, and was a wizard with scents.

  He started back toward the storeroom and office, saw no one at the checkout counter.

  And heard the click of heels on wood.

  Sylbie, hair tumbled, eyes slumberous, slipped out of the back room.

  “Well, there you are … Chief.”

  “What’s the problem, Sylbie?”

  “I’ll tell you.” She crooked a finger, tossed her hair and her own personal scent as she opened the back-room door. “In here.”

  “Where’s Grover?”

  “He’ll be back in a few minutes. Somebody has to watch the shop.”

  Brooks felt the trapdoor creak under his feet. “Sylbie, Grover called the station, said there was a dispute that needed police involvement.”

  “There is a dispute, but there doesn’t have to be. Come on into the back, and we’ll settle it.”

  “We’ll settle it here.”

  “All right, then.” She wore a dress swirled with black and white. And then she didn’t.

  “Jesus Christ, Sylbie.”

  She laughed, again tossing her hair and perfume before she leaned against the doorjamb, naked but for a pair of high red heels that showed a peek of toenails painted the same shade.

  “You didn’t come see me the other night, Brooks. I had to drink that wine all by myself.”

  “I told you I was busy. Put your clothes back on.”

  “Now, that’s something I don’t recall you saying in the past.”

  He kept his eyes on hers, surprised and a little disconcerted that it took little effort to keep them from roaming down. “I’m saying it now. Put your dress on, Sylbie.”

  “Come on over here and make me.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” he demanded. “You talk Grover into calling the station, requesting an officer.”

  “Not just any officer, honey.” She pursed her lips in a kiss. “I wanted you.”

  “Shut up.” Temper he rarely lost strained against the leash. “If you’re not back in that dress inside ten seconds, I’m arresting you.”

  “Oh … you want to play that way.”

  “Look at me, God damn it. Am I playing?”

  His tone, his face, finally got through. Temper lit her eyes in turn as she bent down, pulled the dress back up.

  “Don’t you think for one minute you can speak to me that way.”

  “I’ll do more than speak to you if you pull something like this again. I’m the fucking chief of police, Sylbie. I’m on duty.”

  She fit the dress straps in place with two defiant snaps. “Like anything ever happens around here.”

  “I’ll tell you something that’s going to happen. I’m going to find Grover, and I’m going to fine him for calling in a false report.”

  “You will not.”

  “Believe it.”

  She took a quick step forward. “Don’t do that, Brooks. Don’t. He only did it because I asked him.”

  “Then he’ll know better next time. And so will you.”

  “Why do you act this way?” Tears sizzled through the temper. “You make it so I have to throw myself at you, and all you do is get mad. Back in high school, you couldn’t keep your hands off me.”

  “This isn’t high school. I don’t want high school.”

  “You don’t want me.”

  He knew those tears. He’d swam through rivers of them before, and they were sincere enough. “Sylbie, you’re beautiful, probably the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. You’re talented, and when you make an effort, you’re an interesting companion. But I don’t want you the way I did back then. I don’t want what we had back then.”

  “You didn’t say that a couple weeks back when you were on top of me in my bed.”

  “No, I didn’t, and I’m sorry, Sylbie.” Plenty of sorry to go around, as far as he could see. “The sex was always good with you and me, but we never did have much else going on.”

  “What do you care, as long as you get off?”

  “Honey, you ought to think better of yourself. I do.”

  “Something’s wrong with you.” Anger and embarrassment ran color hot in her face. “Y
ou ought to want me when I’m offering.”

  “If that’s all you want, you know there are plenty who’ll be willing.”

  “But not you.”

  “No, not me.” They’d come to the end of that road, he realized, and felt little more than relief. “Not anymore. Maybe we’ll like each other better without the sex. One thing I can promise you, and you better hear me. If you ever pull a stunt like this again, you’re going to see the inside of our cells down at the station.”

  Her color stayed high, but her face went stony and cold. “You’ve changed, Brooks.”

  “God, I hope so. You’d best watch the shop until Grover gets back.” He started out, glanced back. “That’s a nice dress, Sylbie. Keep it on.”

  When he stepped out, he spotted Grover—round-bodied, stoop-shouldered and balding—puffing on a Marlboro as he sat on the bench between his shop and the next.

  “Oh, hey, there, Chief.”

  “Hey, there, Grover. Come with me.”

  “Ah …”

  “There’s a fine for calling in a false report, and you’re paying it.”

  “But I—”

  “Next time a pretty woman asks you to do something stupid, think first.”

  “But she said—”

  “You take what she said up with Sylbie. I’m saying you don’t call for help unless you need help. You don’t waste my time, or the Bickford Police Department’s time. I could put you in jail for what you did.”

  Grover’s face went splotchy, pink blooming over sick white as the man got shakily to his feet. “Jail? Holy God. I just …”

  “Don’t just ever again. Fine’s two thousand dollars.”

  He was prepared to catch Grover, should he faint, and considered it a near thing. “I-I-I—”

  “I’m cutting it down to twenty-five dollars, giving you a stupidity discount. You come in by the end of the day and pay it, or it’s back up to the two thousand. Clear?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry. I just thought—”

  “No, you didn’t think. Next time you will.”

  “I’ll pay it, Grover.” Sylbie stepped out. “It’s my fault. I’ll pay the fine.”

  “I don’t care where it comes from, just pay it by five.”

  “You didn’t have to scare him so bad.” Sylbie sat on the bench, drew Grover down beside her and put her arm around his stooped shoulders. “It was my fault.”

  “No argument. Pay the fine, slate’s clean.”

  Though he’d lost his appetite for cookies, he crossed to the bakery, picked up Alma’s order. He left it on her desk, went into his office and filled out the citation.

  He puzzled over the charge, then opted for “crying wolf.” It seemed to fit, and wouldn’t embarrass anyone.

  He took it out, set it beside Alma’s latte. “Either Grover or Sylbie’s coming down to pay this citation. Don’t ask.”

  “Whenever somebody hears ‘Don’t ask,’ they’re duty-bound to.”

  “Not when somebody else just bought them a latte and a chocolate macadamia cookie.”

  Alma tapped her blue-tipped nails on the go-cup. “So this is a bribe.”

  “It could be so construed. Don’t ask, Alma.” He glanced up as Ash walked in.

  “I had to run some skateboarders off the parking lot down at the bank. Again. And I pulled Doyle Parsins over for speeding. Again. Some people never learn. You got cookies?”

  “Cookie,” Alma said. “Singular. Mine.”

  “I swung by the Little League park. Saw that little Draper kid hit a solid three-bagger. And I got me a steamer. A cookie sure would top that off.”

  Alma smiled as she took a deliberate bite, rolled her eyes in pleasure. “Mmm-mmm!”

  “That’s just mean.”

  Leaving them to it, Brooks went back in his office, shut his door. He spent some time poking at Abigail Lowery—who, he discovered, had a master’s degree in computer science, and another in security engineering, both from MIT. Pretty impressive.

  It took him a while, but he learned she worked on a freelance basis for a company called Global Network.

  He switched his focus, poked at the company.

  Privately owned, he discovered. Founded by one Cora Fiense, age thirty-three. No photo on file, not that he could find. But he scanned a couple of articles describing the small, exclusive company launched by a media-shy agoraphobic.

  The website offered no real information on the owner or the employees, but simply stated that Global offered security system analysis and design.

  He sat back, asked himself why he persisted. She hadn’t done anything, as far as he could tell. He liked her, but there was an itch, he couldn’t ignore it. One that told him if he kept scratching he’d uncover something … else.

  He toggled off when he heard the knock at his door.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m off,” Alma told him. “Calls routed to your cell. Ash is on the desk till eight, Boyd’s on the road.”

  “That works.”

  “Sylbie and Grover came in together, paid the fine.”

  “Good.”

  “I don’t know if the cookie was worth it. Anyway, you were off shift ten minutes ago. Go home.”

  “Might just. Thanks, Alma.”

  He checked his calendar, noted he had his monthly meeting with the board of selectmen on Monday—joy. And he’d need to complete his quarterly reviews and inspections by the end of the month. He could go home, get some of that done. It wasn’t like his social calendar was bursting with activity.

  His own fault, he admitted. He could go by the pub, or just make a call to one of his friends, see what was up. And he wasn’t in the mood.

  The incident with Sylbie had left him mildly depressed, irritable. And horny. And the horny portion just pissed him off.

  Because after his baffled shock and annoyance, he’d been tempted. Just a little tempted.

  Hard to blame himself for it, he thought, as he rose, wandered to the window. A man would have to be dead a year not to be tempted by a naked Sylbie.

  Now he was edgy and itchy, and up until that walk down to Ozark Art, he’d been in a pretty damn good mood. Soured now, he thought, as he’d deprived himself of quick, hot sex, fancy coffee and a cookie.

  But Sylbie was right. He had changed. He hoped he never lost his taste for quick, hot sex, but he no longer wanted the price of guilt and emptiness that came after it when it just didn’t matter a damn.

  What he needed was a distraction. Maybe he’d drive out to Mya’s, mooch some dinner, hang out with the kids. Nothing drove sex