At least he’d had enough self-control to forgo the mexi fries.
Jackson ordered a soft taco and while they ate, they made small talk about her family.
“My father is from Cuba,” she said.
“Your mom?”
“Blonde as Marilyn Monroe,” she said. “Crazy as her too. I still love her, though.”
“You stay in touch?”
“I go back to Florida when I can afford it. My husband, he’s supportive of me visiting my family…”
“But he’d rather stay home?”
“Right.”
Tori had been the same way. She had no problem sending Brandon off to Forks for whatever family gathering his mother guilted him into attending. But she’d rarely make the trip herself.
“Mostly I miss the food, the culture,” Jackson said.
“Not much Cuban cuisine in Forks,” Brandon said.
“Or anywhere this corner of the country.” She pointed a finger at him. “One time, I asked someone if there were any Cuban restaurants in the area. You know what they told me?”
“What?”
“They said, we have Mexican. Isn’t that the same thing?”
Brandon laughed, almost choking on his bean burrito.
He took a drink of water. “I saw your application.”
She gave him an embarrassed smile. “I should have told you I applied.”
“I was happy to see it. So, you’re sure this is what you want to do?”
“Be a cop?” she asked.
“Go back full time. I mean, you talked about missing your kids—”
“Am I being interviewed right now?” she asked, the tone in her voice suddenly harder.
“No—”
“Because you can’t ask bullshit questions like that. You know that, right?”
“Like what?”
“About a woman’s family, whether she’s pregnant.”
Was she pregnant?
He waved a hand at her. “Just making conversation, Jackson. This has nothing to do with your application.”
She was right, he should know better. In fact, he shouldn’t be talking to her about the job at all.
Brandon’s phone buzzed. There was a text from Emma: There’s nothing to eat.
He replied: I left you $20. Did you see my note?
A minute later, she wrote: Sorry. LOL.
He smiled. “My daughter.”
Jackson took the last bite of her soft taco, wadded the paper wrapper into a ball and tossed it on the table. “I didn’t mean to get so pissed,” she said.
“It’s just that—people make all kinds of assumptions about women being cops. That’s bad enough, but then you have babies and everyone thinks you should retire.”
Brandon nodded in agreement, not wanting to say anything else to set her off again.
“I do have doubts,” she continued. “It’s not the same as before I had kids. Back then all I cared about was making detective. Catch the bad guys no matter what, no matter the risk. Now, with kids. I have someone else to protect. Like, what would happen if I died?”
“I get it,” Brandon said. “Things were different after we had Emma. It reminds me of that story, The Shot.”
“The what?”
“The Shot. It’s a story by Alexander Pushkin.”
“Never heard of him,” she said.
Brandon chuckled. “He’s the father of Russian literature.”
“Oh, well. I’m sure everyone knew that—except me. You sure you grew up in Forks?”
“Don’t knock my hometown. Some of the smartest people I know live there. Smarter than a lot of know-it-alls I met in Seattle.”
“So, what brought you back here?”
“My dad’s all alone now,” he said. It was more than that, but that was the pat answer he’d prepared for anyone who asked. “That, and it’s good to come back home.”
“Your brother Eli’s a big deal in the department.”
“Everyone loved Eli,” Brandon said.
“You get along with him?” She stared back at him. “I mean, it’s okay if you didn’t. I come from a big family, sisters, brothers, cousins. Always someone fighting.”
“He was my brother.” Brandon paused. “Look, it’s not that I didn’t think he was the greatest guy on earth. I did. I don’t like talking to other people about it.”
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“No. It’s fine. I’ve got to get used to it. They named the conference room after him for God’s sake. And the highway to La Push.”
“It’s a big deal when an officer dies in the line of duty,” she said.
“They never solved Eli’s murder.”
She was silent, and Brandon said, “I will find out who murdered my brother.”
Jackson’s eyebrows rose. He realized, too late, the near-murderous tone in his voice.
“You’ve been working on his case?” she asked.
“Not officially, no. But I’ve reviewed the evidence. Unofficially.”
“The less I know, the better. For now. I am just a reserve, after all.” She forced a smile, obviously trying to lighten the heaviness of the moment. “You were going to tell me about the Russian guy.”
“Right. So, Pushkin wrote this story about a young man who thinks he owns the world, can do what he wants to whoever he wants. One thing leads to another, and he challenges a man to a duel—with pistols. Back then, in Russia, it wasn’t like the Wild West here in America. The duelists took turns.”
“Damn.”
“Right? So the older gentlemen he’d challenged let the kid go first, and he misses. Now it’s the other man’s turn to take a shot. What does the kid do? Sits there, eating cherries out of his hat like he doesn’t give a damn if he dies or not. Anyway, the old man decides he’ll reserve his shot for later.”
“You can do that?”
“Hell if I know, that’s how the story goes.”
“It ends there?”
“Years pass, the kid grows up and falls in love. Is about to be married.”
“He has something to live for,” she said.
“Right. And that’s when the other man returns and demands the right to take his turn—his shot at the kid. Did I mention the old man was a sharpshooter?”
“Did the kid run away?” she asked.
“No, he took it like a man.”
“The old man killed him?”
“Missed on purpose. The point is, things are different when you have something to live for. It’s the same whether you’re a man or a woman.” He slid their trays off the table and threw the trash in the garbage.
Back in the car, Jackson said, “You asked Nolan to come up with you today first, before asking me.”
“Yep.”
“Why?”
“I’m trying to get him on track. And avoid any semblance of favoritism,” he said.
“Toward me?” she said, failing to suppress a smile.
“I’ve given you a lot of leeway, and responsibility, on this case. Nolan, not so much. No doubt he’ll have plenty to say when his buddy doesn’t get the job.”
“Well I’m still applying, whether Nolan likes it or not,” she said.
“That’s good news to my ears,” Brandon said. “But you never heard that from me.”
Their next stop was Adam’s work, the Hurricane Ridge Cafe. It was the middle of the day and except for the chic decorations and smell of espresso, the place could have been an old folk’s home. The average age of the customers had to be at lease sixty-five. Like most of the cafes in Sequim, Hurricane Ridge was a standard hang out for the older generation, a place to tell war stories or complain about the state of the world.
Retirees lounged around tables, as many women as there were men.
No one was in line.
“Can I help you?”
“Quad Americano. Twelve ounce,” Brandon said. He scanned the room for any sign of Adam. He had claimed he was a shift manager.
Brandon turned to
Jackson. “You want something? On me.”
“I’ll get my own. Thanks.”
“Suit yourself.”
They waited for their drinks at the end of the espresso bar. When the barista handed him the Americano, Brandon asked. “Is Adam in today?”
“His day off,” she said. The woman was in her mid-thirties with short black hair in a sort of bob. Brandon didn’t normally like short hair, but she was definitely attractive. Maybe it was her smile.
“Thanks,” he said, smiling back at her.
“You’re up from Forks,” she said, glancing at his uniform. “Is this about Adam’s ex-girlfriend?”
“Ex?”
She frowned. “Lauren. Too bad.”
“Yeah. Too bad.”
“Tell me, what’s your name?” Brandon asked.
“Stacy. And you?”
“Brandon.”
Brandon waited while Stacy worked the machine. Jackson had ordered a latte. The rush and gurgle of the steam made conversation impossible.
A minute later, she poured Jackson’s drink at set it on the counter.
“Adam was pretty upset by Lauren’s death?” Jackson asked, grabbing her latte.
“Well, yeah. I mean, despite what happened.”
Brandon and Jackson glanced at each other.
“I said something I shouldn’t have,” Stacy said, worry crossing her face.
“Not at all,” Brandon said. “Do me a favor. Give me your name and number.”
He handed her one of his business cards. He’d found them in the box Sue had given him his first day.
“Write it down on the back of this,” he said.
She did, and Brandon asked her. “Is Adam in trouble?”
“We’re hoping to learn everything we can about Lauren and her friends.”
“Okay.” She scribbled her number on the card and handed it back to him.
“Why did Adam and Lauren break up?” Brandon asked.
“They were always breaking up—on again, off again. But this time, I figured it was over. Adam thought she was cheating on him. You didn’t know any of this?”
“That’s why we’re asking,” Jackson said.
Stacy looked askance at Jackson. She turned her attention to Brandon.
“They were supposed to go camping,” Stacy said. “Adam decided not to go, but then at the last minute he changed his mind.”
“Why?”
“Adam tried to make things work, despite his suspicions. He’s a great guy. Too nice, if you know what I mean.”
“Why did Adam believe Lauren was cheating?”
“Something about emails on her phone.”
“He was spying on her?” Jackson asked.
“You’ll have to ask Adam…”
“Did he say who Lauren was with?”
“I don’t think he knew. Or at least he didn’t tell me.”
“He trusts you?” Brandon asked.
“I’m just one of those people…you know, everyone thinks they can share their secrets with me. It’s a gift—and a curse.”
Brandon handed her another business card. “Call me, for any reason.”
She winked at him. “I will.”
As they headed for the car, Jackson said, “She seemed nice.”
“Yep.”
“Kind of flirty, but nice. Maybe not as nice as the coroner—”
“Alright, knock it off,” he said.
“Just sayin’.”
Chapter 17
Adam lived in a one-story apartment complex a couple of miles from his work. The layout was more like a trio of four-plexes. Few buildings in Sequim reached above one story, except the old Victorians and a handful of brick structures left over from the turn of the nineteenth century.
Adam was in unit A3. Brandon gave the door three loud raps and waited.
“Chief Mattson from Forks Police.”
The door opened. Adam stood there, skinny arms and legs sticking out of a sleeveless t-shirt and a pair of baggy shorts, like he never worked out but didn’t eat much either. His blonde curls were pressed against one side of his head, as if he’d just woken up.
“You can come in,” he said, his voice raspy.
The place had an open concept, if that term could be applied to an apartment smaller than a two-car garage. The living room and kitchen were part of the same space and shared the same linoleum floor. Straight ahead down a short hallway, the bathroom door was open. The bedroom must be back there too. The room was clean. No dirty dishes, no clothes thrown haphazardly about.
Adam didn’t ask them to have a seat.
“You have a maid?” Brandon asked.
“No. Why?”
“Your place. It’s…tidier than I’d expect.”
Adam forced a chuckle. “You mean because I’m a bachelor in my early twenties? I like things neat. Organized.”
He was a control freak. Good to know.
“You live alone?” Jackson asked.
“Always have,” he said. “What’s this about? Did you find out something about Lauren?”
“We have a few questions. Like last time.”
Brandon went through the rights process with Adam again.
“How come you didn’t tell us you and Lauren broke up?”
Adam’s arm twitched, his eyes set on the front door. For a moment Brandon thought the kid might try to make a run for it. But something held him there.
“We didn’t break up.”
“But you were going to,” Brandon said.
Adam stood there silent for several seconds. They were giving him a chance to tell his side of the story, and it wouldn’t look good if Adam kept hiding the truth from them.
“It’s not the end of the world if you broke up with her,” Jackson said, her voice taking on a calmer, more soothing tone than he’d heard from her before. “But the more you talk, the better it will be for you. Do you want us to trust you, to believe what you’ve told us?”
“Yeah.”
“Then you need to tell us everything,” Jackson said.
Adam ran a hand across his cheek. It looked like he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. A sign of stress for someone as obsessively neat as Adam.
“I was going to break up with her. After the camping trip,” he paused. “Unless…”
“Unless things improved?” Brandon said.
“Yeah. I mean, we’d broken up before and got back together.”
“Why did you want to break up with Lauren?” Jackson asked.
“I…this will sound really bad.”
“You let us decide that,” Brandon said. Jackson shot him a warning glance. She clearly didn’t want Brandon stepping all over her good-cop routine.
“Trust me,” Jackson said. “You’re going to feel a lot better when this is out in the open.”
Adam sat down in one of the two wooden chairs at his kitchen table.
“Sometimes, Lauren would stay the night. One time, I looked on her cellphone. I don’t know why I did it.”
“You knew the password?”
“I’d watched her enter it a hundred times.”
“What did you find?” Brandon asked.
“Emails. From some guy. About how they’d hooked up.”
“Did you confront her about it?”
“Not at first. I mean, I didn’t want her to know I’d been looking at her phone.”
“So you stayed with her. For a while,” Brandon said.
“I tried to forget about the whole thing.”
Adam had let Lauren walk all over him. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t a murderer.
“What happened when you confronted Lauren?” Jackson asked.
“She denied everything. Said what I saw was an old email from a previous boyfriend. Before she’d met me.”
“But the dates on the emails—”
“She had an excuse for that. Said she’d forwarded them to herself.”
“Why would she do that?” Brandon said, asking the obvious question.
“I don’t know. I just wanted to move on.”
“Meaning stay with her,” Brandon said.
Adam shrugged his shoulders.
“What did you two argue about the night she disappeared?” Jackson asked.
“I already told you all. Nothing, or at least I don’t remember.”
Brandon considered Adam for a few moments. He wanted to believe the kid was telling the truth—that he was just a pushover who’d been duped by his girlfriend and whoever had killed her.
“You don’t know who the emails came from?”
“No. There wasn’t a name. Just a bunch of letters and numbers.”
“We’ve learned that Lauren hitched a ride into Forks before she died.”
“After we fell asleep?”
“Some time after midnight,” Brandon said. “You didn’t notice she was missing?”
He shook his head, no. “What the hell was she doing? Was there someone with her?”
“Another man?” Brandon asked, raising an eyebrow.
Adam backtracked. “Anyone. I mean, maybe Brooke and her went out or something.”
“She was alone. Someone dropped her off at the gas station.”
“And whoever gave her a ride back…that’s who killed her,” Adam said.
“We don’t know that,” Brandon said.
“You’re sure you didn’t see her come back?” Brandon asked.
“I didn’t.”
“You didn’t hear anything? Voices? Arguing?” Jackson asked.
“No.”
“We think she might have fell or been pushed off the sea stack near your campsite,” Brandon said. He watched Adam’s face, but it remained as vacant as before. “When she came back, she drank beer with someone, up on the rock.”
“Who?”
Crimson envy tinged his freckled cheeks, rage boiling beneath his friendly, passive demeanor. Adam might be a pushover, but like all red-blooded men, there was a breaking point.
“We don’t know,” Jackson said, using her tone to sooth him. Brandon tried not to roll his eyes. They needed Adam to break, not reveal his inner hurts. This was an investigation. Not therapy.
“You think you know who she might have been with?” Brandon asked. “Another man?”
Adam took a deep breath, stared down at his feet. “No idea.”
When he looked up again, the rage was gone, stuffed back into the dark place where Adam hid his anger from the world.
Dead by Sunrise Page 13
