Reckless

by Selena Montgomery

  “Clever.”

  Luke didn’t mention where he heard it. “Cynical, but true.”

  “I’ll get right on it.” Cheryl opened the door to the office, only to bump into a man standing at the door. “Chief Graves,” she said politely.

  Michael Graves had the wiry frame of a boxer and the instincts of a bulldog. Scruffy black hair refused to be sculpted by mousses and gels, preferring instead to lie limply at his nape. He reminded Luke of a used-car salesman or a tent-revival preacher, complete with D-list actor looks and caricatured charm. Only his eyes showed the shrewd calculation Luke had glimpsed on occasion. The pale blue scanned Luke’s office, as though committing the dimensions to memory.

  Recognizing the look, Luke stood. “Come on in, Chief. Thanks, Cheryl.” From behind his back, Cheryl poked out her tongue, nearly startling a laugh from Luke. Covering his chuckle with a cough, he came around the desk to shake his colleague’s hand. “Can I offer you something? I’ve got Coke and water.”

  “A Coke would be nice. It’s hot as Hades outside.” Each word entertained an added syllable, broadened vowels, and an undertone of false bonhomie that set Luke’s teeth on edge.

  “What brings you to my neck of the woods, Chief?” Luke asked as he retrieved a can from the refrigerator that squatted behind his desk. He filched a bottle of water for himself, wishing for something stronger. Visits from the police chief rarely left him in good spirits. He had no reason to hope today would prove different.

  Ignoring the question, Graves picked a tissue from the box on Luke’s desk and methodically wiped at the metal can. When satisfied, he levered the tab open and then broke off the metal ring. “Started collecting this as a child,” he explained. “Have thousands of them now.”

  Luke silently mimicked the rest of the familiar gambit. Coke oughta put me in a commercial instead of that there polar bear.

  “Coke oughta put me in their commercials instead of that there polar bear,” Graves concluded with a hearty laugh.

  On cue, Luke replied, “Should send them a letter. Maybe they’re in the market for a new pitchman.”

  “Couldn’t go into showbiz. Would take me away from the people I’m sworn to protect.”

  “Hollywood’s loss, then.” Luke reclined in his chair and took a swig of water. And waited. Like the story of collecting the metal rings from cans, he’d played this game with Graves before. Usually, his eagerness to remove the man from his office prompted him to speak first. But Graves’s eyes glittered with an intentionality that warned Luke to wait.

  Seconds ticked by as they slowly drank, Graves making a detailed study of the pile of paper on the desktop. Luke knew the instant the avaricious gaze honed in on the Griffin file. And he was prepared when Graves reached out casually to touch the folder. With an effortless swipe, he pushed the folder beneath another stack of papers and rested his forearm across the pile.

  A flicker of annoyance marred the affable expression. “Don’t want to share, Sheriff?”

  “I’m happy to answer questions, Chief, but we’ve got some sensitive information in there that’s not ready for public release.”

  “I’m not the public. I’m a fellow law enforcement officer who’s afraid there’s a killer running loose on the streets of Hallden. City streets.” Aggravated, indignant, he stabbed a finger in the raft of papers strewn across the desk. “Clay Griffin was as much a resident of the city of Hallden as he was a county resident.”

  “Which fails to explain why you routinely ordered your cops to dump him in the county’s section of the park when he got high.”

  “I did no such thing,” Graves protested, almost convincing himself. “If some of my men made errors in judgment, all I can do is try to correct them. I’m here to offer you the resources of the Hallden Police Department, Sheriff. With three dead bodies on your sheets, I feel confident that we can help alleviate what must be overwhelming work for you.”

  Luke allowed himself a private smile at the unexpected generosity and wondered silently what Graves was after. The man had never had an unselfish impulse in his life.

  Yet, despite his reservations about Graves, the police chief had a point. The murders had added exponentially to their plates, and his staff was pretty green when it came to murder investigations. The police department received the lion’s share of resources, despite their smaller size. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to bring Graves into his confidence.

  “Griffin was stabbed in the leg. I’m working up a list of suspects. Mind giving me your thoughts?”

  Graves smiled patronizingly. “I’d assume it was obvious, Sheriff. A crime of passion killed Griffin. A vicious stab wound sounds like an act of revenge.”

  Luke couldn’t disagree. “Which raises the question of Clay’s enemies. A rival doesn’t make sense. The killer left nearly $3,000 in merchandise untouched. A drug dealer would have taken the electronics and anything else he could lay his hands on.”

  “True, true. Any girlfriends that we know about? An argument perhaps?”

  “Neighbors didn’t report any screams and there was no sign of a struggle,” admitted Luke. The theory had several holes, that one included. “Crimes of passion usually exhibit more violence than a precise wound that kills the victim almost instantly.”

  “Passion can be cold, my boy.” Graves shifted his attention to the file that peaked out from beneath Luke’s elbow. “If I could take a look at the autopsy—”

  Luke saw a hint of calculation in his cold blue eyes, heard impatience in the request. Graves had an interest in the autopsy that went beyond professional courtesy. Mild caution bloomed into full-scale resistance. Standing, he tucked the file deeper in the stack. “I appreciate the offer and the advice, Chief. We’ll have a better handle on everything by next week.” He came around the desk and ushered Graves to the door. With a twist, he released the latch. “I’ll be in touch. Have—”

  “Good morning, Sheriff.” Kell sat perched on the low bench that held guests awaiting an audience.

  Luke surveyed her greedily. Today’s skirt was a deep crimson, halted at mid-thigh, revealing glorious legs that crossed at the knee. A slim white shirt buttoned after a substantial dip that had him hard and aching. Absorbing the reaction, he swallowed once. “Welcome back, Counselor.”

  Across the room, Curly took dedicated interest in some activity on his desk and refused to look up, despite a disguised snort of laughter.

  “Kell Jameson?” Graves hesitated for a second, then stepped forward and lifted her hand. The move grazed her knee, as he intended, confirming by touch that the silken legs were indeed bare. “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Chief of Police Michael Graves.”

  “Yes, I remember,” she returned smoothly as she gained her feet, moving them out of reach. “I believe you once referred to me and my friends as harlots in training. How do you do?”

  Annoyed color swept beneath the pasty complexion. “I’m certain I wouldn’t say that about such a lovely young woman. Perhaps you have me confused with someone else.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “And if you’d permit me to escort you to dinner, I could convince you.”

  Kell glanced at the gold band that gleamed dully on his finger. “Will your wife be joining us?”

  Abruptly aware of their audience, Graves recovered swiftly. “Absolutely. Dinner would be at our house, of course. My Susanne is a fantastic cook. Best in the city, they say.”

  “They” being a community of one, if it was the same Susanne Graves Kell recalled. At community functions, Susanne had the unfortunate reputation of being the last to sell her packed lunches at a charity event. “I’m here for a short time, but I appreciate the offer.”

  Twice rebuffed, Graves mumbled a farewell and hurried from the department. Luke repressed a smirk until the door cleared. He turned and escorted Kell into his office. Before he closed the door, he called out, “Curly, I’m going to need you to stay on duty for an extra hour tonight. Thanks.”

  Kell prec
eded him into the office, laughing. “Don’t punish him on my account,” she requested as she took the seat vacated by Graves. “I asked him not to warn you when I saw who was inside. You looked like you were having so much fun with the chief.”

  “Man’s a barrel of laughs.” Luke propped a hip on the edge of his desk. His jeans-clad legs lightly caged hers. “Back so soon?”

  Better prepared this time, Kell launched into the cover story she’d concocted on her way into town. “Mrs. Faraday has decided to draft her will. That’s why I came last week. We didn’t have a chance to finish, so I made a second trip. Given her responsibilities, we’re trying to be very careful.”

  Luke had to admire the lie. “So Eliza decided to change her will again?”

  “Update it.” Kell corrected smoothly. Even if he saw through the story, he couldn’t disprove it. And the copy of the autopsy she’d received from her friend in the coroner’s office meant she didn’t have time to waste on a more elaborate story. “She’s decided to add a codicil. Fairly routine, but I told her I’d help.”

  “That’s kind of you,” Luke said in clear disbelief.

  He didn’t have to believe her, Kell reminded herself. She simply had to keep him from zeroing in on Eliza until she’d figured out what really happened to Clay. Which wouldn’t be easy, given her opposition. Her research on Luke revealed a twice-decorated cop with an uncanny ability to solve murders. During his tenure on homicide detail in Chicago, he had the second highest case-closure rate in the city. Good enough to be promoted to captain before he turned thirty-five. The file ended with a bust gone wrong, but the details were sketchy. The next year, he’d left Chicago behind for Hallden. A model cop with the skills of Sherlock Holmes right here in Hallden.

  She’d known the instant she saw the analysis of the knives that, eventually, he’d circle around to Eliza. Kell simply had to get to her and the truth faster.

  CHAPTER 11

  “It’s good to see you again, Kell.”

  “You too.” She imagined herself prepared to see him again, to hear the rasp of sound that raced nerves into her belly. Two simple kisses twisted her in knots she had yet to untangle. Worse, she kept imagining what might be if she didn’t have so many secrets to keep, Eliza’s and her own. But the autopsy report lying in her briefcase held devastating possibilities that ruined any others. Kell pushed nerves aside and asked politely, “How have you been?”

  “Good. You?”

  Her mouth widened in a wistful smile. “I’ve been remembering Hervé’s soupe de crouset.” Unwillingly, though, her eyes flickered down to his mouth, recalling what had followed.

  Luke gripped the edge of the desk when his hands yearned to touch. “I’ve been thinking about it too.” He cleared his throat. “Excellent soup.”

  Kell’s tongue darted out to moisten suddenly parched lips. “Best I’ve ever had. But too much of anything that good can be dangerous.”

  “You’re not the type to shy away from danger, are you, Kell?” he challenged, his gaze fixed on her mouth.

  “I only take calculated risks. Ones where I know I’ll probably win.”

  He shifted his eyes to meet hers. “And you think you might lose?”

  “I don’t intend to find out,” she warned.

  “So you’re here on business only. To update Eliza’s will.”

  “That’s the main reason, but I thought I might take a mini-vacation,” she explained. “With the Brodie trial, it’s been nearly impossible to avoid the cameras. Last weekend was the first time I’ve been able to relax in years.” Which was true, Kell admitted. Despite the turmoil of return, she’d found a calm here that eluded her in Atlanta. It disturbed her that Luke played a prominent role in her respite. “I had some time coming, so I thought I’d head back and do a little bit of legal work between naps. Get reacquainted with old friends.”

  And new ones like Chef Montague, whom she hoped had a set of ceramic zirconia knives and an airtight alibi. She didn’t want him to take the blame, but every person with access to the knives created reasonable doubt for Eliza. “I have quite a bit to catch up on.”

  With a smile that belied the speculative gleam he directed at Kell, Luke offered graciously, “Then, hopefully, I’ll see you around.”

  Given the report they both possessed, Kell was sure it would be sooner than he expected.

  Kell made a stop at the Center, then drove out to Hervé’s. The half hour she’d taken had been spent reviewing her strategy and giving Luke time to make his next move. Like her, he’d know that a ceramic knife would belong to very few of Hallden’s denizens. Chef Montague was the most likely person to own a set, and if he had one, it would muddy the investigation considerably. And nicely. Kell parked behind the restaurant, but she hadn’t noticed Luke’s truck in front. Disappointed, she crunched up the gravel path leading to the kitchen.

  At a little past noon, she placed the odds of finding Chef Montague in the kitchen low, but she had to start somewhere. While she rapped at the door, she admired the restaurant in the sunny daylight. The single-level facility apparently belonged to a renovated home. Tucked away on the proper side of the Grove, the aged brick and high windows gave the space a comfortable air that suited its owner.

  “Mademoiselle Jameson, you have returned,” he greeted, bussing her hand with a Gallic kiss that seemed entirely appropriate. “I have a number of visitors for so early in my day.”

  He quickly ushered her inside. Luke sat at a sous chef’s workstation where he tucked into a bowl of a creamy concoction with gusto. “Sheriff, we have another guest for lunch,” Hervé announced delightedly.

  Luke looked up and saw Kell standing beside the shorter chef. “We have to stop meeting this way,” he greeted coolly.

  Kell watched his eyes glitter with annoyance, delighted by the response. Biting back a self-satisfied smirk, she joined him at the station. “I thought I’d ask Hervé if he’d be willing to share his recipe for the tartine we had as an appetizer at dinner.” To toy with Luke, she filched his spoon and helped herself to a taste of soup. “Give me the recipe for this soup as well, and I’ll be your lawyer for life,” she promised.

  Luke plucked his spoon from her fingers. “Get your own.”

  “Yes, yes. Please sit, eat.” Hervé gallantly helped her onto a stool. “Unfortunately, I cannot part with my recipes,” he explained regretfully. As he spoke, he crossed to the stove. He ladled soup into a bowl and removed a tray containing the tartines. He plated them with fluid, effortless motions while he spoke. “I do not share my recipes with anyone. Otherwise, I would have competition and I am too lazy and too old a man to fight.”

  Kell accepted the offered plate gratefully. Her stomach grumbled in welcome, reminding her that she’d failed to eat breakfast or lunch in her eagerness to get to Hallden. She bit into the pastry and savored the combination of walnut and goat cheese. “These are divine.”

  “My grandmother gave me the recipe as she lay upon her bed.”

  “I’m sorry,” she consoled. “When did she pass away?”

  Hervé blinked once, then grinned in comprehension. “No, not her deathbed. Her daybed where she lies in Montreal and watches her soap operas.”

  “Are you sure you will give the recipe to no one?” she coaxed, chuckling.

  He shrugged, a flush of color sweeping his cheeks. “Perhaps one person. Madam Eliza, but only because she has the soul of a gourmand.”

  Alert, Kell sampled her soup. “Only Eliza? You don’t think anyone else in Hallden loves food as much as she?”

  Grudgingly, Hervé amended, “Of different culinary tastes, perhaps. Mr. Welker does demonstrate a flair for the grilling of food. And while her diner does not rival my restaurant, Azzie Preston is not a moron with food. She is possessed of a keen palate that has withstood the heresy of frying every morsel she serves.”

  Smiling consolingly, Kell urged, “Any of them have the technical skills to match your own?”

  “Certainly, not. I am a master c
hef. They are,” he huffed in disdain, “cooks. I have told my staff many times that one must marry artistry with aptitude.”

  “Hervé, will you show me that fancy knife set you are always bragging about to Gavin?” Luke asked.

  The chef preened as he strode over to his workstation. An array of knives of varying lengths had been arranged for ease of access. Luke followed him, counting the number of knives and eyeballing their length. Several measured eight inches, few longer, most shorter. “I’m thinking about buying my father a set for his birthday. How many come in a traditional chef’s collection?”

  “Twelve.” He removed a narrow, triangular knife with a long blade. “Ah, my Sabatier. These are the finest knives made, despite what the Germans would have you believe. Thiers-Issard has produced these gems for more than one hundred fifty years. Works of art, they are. Gavin tries to convince me to purchase from the Japanese with their new technology. Knives are made of good carbon steel, not fragile ceramic,” he scoffed. “I tell Gavin to stay away from my knives, unless he wishes to test them from the inside.”

  Kell winced, as much at the image as the elimination of Hervé as a suspect. She shot a sidelong glance at Luke to gauge his reaction. For his part, Luke watched Hervé’s demonstration of proper chopping technique, his eyes following the movements carefully. Rather than mild amusement at the older man’s enthusiasm, Luke showed only genuine interest. When the chef brandished a six-inch blade and a sharpening rod, he moved to a safe distance, but maintained rapt attention.

  “You try,” Hervé demanded.

  Luke accepted the blade and sharpener gingerly. He stroked the blade against the rod, sending sparks into the air.

  “This is not a duel,” Hervé corrected. “It is a dance. The blade requires the harshness of the rod, but should not be damaged. Bring them together quickly but gently. Merely a kiss. Do not force contact. Encourage it and they will do the work for you.”