Infamous: (A Bad Boy Romantic Suspense)

by Noir, Mila

  She suddenly wished Grams was still around, although it was something that wasn’t often far from her thoughts. She missed her practical advice and tough but kind insistence that Taylor take no crap and do what was right. Just being back in Sweethollow was making it difficult to figure out what was right. It seemed like everywhere she looked she met a dead end, or some kind of corruption she couldn’t possibly prove enough about to get past the fact checkers.

  Her next stop was the police station, something she was really not looking forward to. It was full of guys from high school she never wanted to see again and their friends. Sure, the Saints might be mostly gone, but their friends weren’t. They were like some tumorous growth that has roots spread out all over town.

  In her head, she heard Grams chuckle. “Ovary up, my love. Don’t let ’em see you sweat, and when you show them up for the idiots they are, do it with the sweetest smile on your face.” That had been her advice when Taylor had been terrified to make a speech at graduation, after winning a scholarship for writing after accelerating her studies to get out early. That had been her Hell Year and she’d just wanted to pick up her diploma and avoid any public gathering. Everyone had taken to calling her “Blueberry” at school and she was terrified someone would start chanting it during the speech. But Grams had insisted, and she’d been right as usual.

  She’d walked up onto that stage with her head high, even after everything that had happened on prom night. She’d given her speech and hadn’t stumbled on a single word. No one had clapped, but then she hadn’t expected them to. Especially since her speech was all about the trappings of small-mindedness in small towns.

  Anton had tried to talk to her after, finding her at her car. She’d looked at him with disgust and driven off, looking back just once to see him standing alone in the parking lot, a cigarette dangling from his hand, smoke curling around him. And she’d a felt a twinge of pity, even then. Even after everything.

  All roads seemed to lead back to him, at least where her mind was concerned. It was annoying. She needed to concentrate on her story. She needed to focus on Sweethollow, the legend, find something damning about these deaths, and get the hell out. Preferably right after her date with Quinn, so she could put all this behind her again. Memory lane had so far been pretty much the worst.

  She was taking a pretty big gamble, trying to talk to an actual officer. Sure, the Saints had been awful to Nate in high school, too, but cops tended to close ranks. It made sense; you had to trust your fellow officers with your life. It was just unfortunate that these particular guys weren’t worth it. Taylor had a hard time believing any of them had changed much in ten years. They weren’t the types. And she couldn’t really think of a worse occupation for bullies with inflated senses of entitlement than police officer. The law should be respected, the police should be decent, honest, and tough but fair. Most were, she knew. But the Saints who’d gone into it? They were exactly the kind of guys who could ruin all the good things their badges stood for.

  The precinct building was small. There couldn’t be more than thirty active officers in Sweethollow. It wasn’t a big town in either size or population, but this time of year, things could get rowdy, so sometimes there were state police around as well. It seemed to be a pretty quiet morning, although there was definitely an air of tension as Taylor walked in and inquired at the main desk. It seemed like there had more than one drunk and disorderly the night before, but there were also a lot of officers on phones, speaking quietly. And the captain seemed to be having some kind of meeting in his office. Taylor could see his face, grim and drawn, from across the room.

  “Business?” the clerk asked, in a tone so bored and distracted it was almost robotic. He didn’t even look up at Taylor.

  “I have an appointment with Detective Powell. Is he—”

  “Three desks down on the right,” the clerk said, then answered a phone in the same flat voice. At least it wasn’t personal.

  She made her way down the line of officers, most of them seeming as distracted as the clerk. Except for Powell. She could already see him busy at his computer, going over notes or working an angle. It made her smile a little, reminding her of the quiet, nerdy, focused boy he’d been in school.

  The years hadn’t been kind or unkind to him, it seemed. His hair was thinning, but not much, just making his dark forehead higher and more intelligent looking. He had wrinkles around his mouth and on that same high forehead. Probably from actually being dedicated to his work. From what she’d been able to find out, he also had the precinct’s lowest arrest-to-conviction ratio and very few complaints. He had no citations on his record, and a few phone calls confirmed that he was respected by everyone in the community as one of the few fair cops. He still lived in the same neighborhood, was amicably divorced with two kids, didn’t drink or smoke, and seemed almost too good to be true.

  The only blemish Taylor could find was that he’d recently been reprimanded for pushing back on several of the cases closed by de Marco and suggesting they were not what they seemed. This hadn’t made him very popular with some of the other officers, although the captain seemed to value him. He just wasn’t great at playing politics. He hadn’t been especially great at it in school, either.

  In school he’d had thick glasses, but now he wore some very sharp-looking silver rims. He was rubbing the bridge of his nose and checking the time when Taylor stopped at his desk. He looked up at her with a raised brow.

  “Hi, I’m—” she started.

  “Taylor Harlow. It’s been a while,” he said, sitting back and picking up his coffee cup.

  “I’m surprised you recognize me. Although it does seem to be going around,” she said, sitting down.

  “Oh, you haven’t changed that much. Just sort of…grew up, I guess,” he said with a grin.

  “That’s kind of you. Other people would say I’ve…transformed,” she said, shaking her head. She’d been so sure she looked nothing like her old self when she came to town; now she felt like she should check and make sure the braces hadn’t resurfaced.

  “Well, those people are not very observant and not worth your time.”

  “Good point.”

  “It’s been a decade since you left. Up to enjoy the festival in some kind of masochistic quest?” he asked. She had a feeling he knew she was a writer. And probably guessed she wasn’t in town for the ambience.

  “Not exactly. It’s not a coincidence I’m up here during it, but I’m looking into the deaths of some folks you and I both knew. And the peculiar way people tend to die around this time of year around here,” she said, deciding to just be blunt. Something about his eyes told her that it would be better to be direct than try some sneaky journalist tactics.

  He looked at her for a moment quietly, holding his coffee cup utterly still. Then he seemed to reach some kind of conclusion.

  “They do, don’t they? Such a lot of accidents. One could argue it’s something to do with Halloween and people being careless or indulgent…but I don’t think either of us believe that,” he said, sipping.

  “I had similar thoughts. I did some digging, too. Seems like a lot of files go missing around here, too,” she said, eyeing him carefully. She had to be careful. Although she felt like she could trust him, she couldn’t be sure. Not yet.

  “Yes. Just like heads,” he said casually.

  “What do you mean?” she asked, leaning in. He came closer, looking down, twisting his cup.

  “How much do you know?” he asked quietly, looking around casually.

  “Enough that there seems to be a pattern. A very troubling one. A pattern that suddenly changed ten years ago when those girls we grew up with were found. And then it all stopped. Until very recently. And it seems like someone, or several someones, might be going to a lot of trouble to cover something up. As much as I really hated those guys, something about this isn’t right. And I think it’s going to end up with more people hurt,” she said, finally voicing what had been eating at her si
nce she had gotten there.

  “You know a lot, then. More than most,” Powell said. “You need to be very, very, very careful from now on. I don’t know how many other people in town know who you are or what you do, but it could get dangerous if the wrong ones found out.”

  “Like Nick?” she asked.

  “Something like that. Nothing that happened that night, to those guys, tracks. None of it. I have my suspicions, but—”

  “You’ve been told not to touch it. I heard.”

  “You’ve heard a lot in a just two days.”

  “How did you know how long I’ve been in town?” she asked, genuinely surprised.

  “It’s not every day a pretty woman stops at the inn and books a room for a week. Not when she has a house she could be staying in. People talk,” he said.

  “Damn,” she said. She thought she’d been so careful. Showing up all citified had drawn more attention than she liked.

  “Have you seen Quinn?” Powell asked.

  “Yes,” she said. Powell knew what had happened that night. Everyone did. One of the reasons she’d sought him out was that he’d never called her Blueberry like everyone else and had once asked, in his quiet way, if she was okay. It might not seem like much, but it had made a difference to Taylor.

  “That must have been…awkward,” he offered.

  “I don’t really want to talk about it,” she said.

  “You know he’s been a suspect from the first, right?” he asked.

  “Yes. But you know it’s bullshit,” she said.

  “I do. Quinn’s a lot of things, as you well know. And not my favorite person in town. But he’s not a killer. Some others around here, though, would be happy to see him go down for this.” He sipped.

  “Is the coffee any good here?” she asked, sitting back.

  “Awful. Burnt, several days old, with some instant mixed in,” he said, grinning.

  “Then I think we should go somewhere else, get a nice fresh pot, and compare notes,” Taylor suggested.

  “Off the record?” he asked.

  “Absolutely,” she said.

  “Let’s go.”

  ***

  When Taylor got back to her car, she’d been distracted by everything Powell had said to her. He’d revealed as much by what he hadn’t told her as what he had. She wasn’t entirely sure what to do with the information she now had; it wasn’t enough to prove anything, especially since it was off the record, but it definitely pointed to what she’d already suspected about at least the initial “accidents.” He’d also made some allusions to the deaths back in high school. They’d jogged something in Taylor’s memory but she couldn’t grab it. She hadn’t known either of the girls or the boy. But something kept nagging her, the way it nagged Powell that people still wouldn’t talk about de Marco.

  Although Powell was respected, liked, and even trusted in town, there were some things people still kept close and he knew it.

  She’d gotten into her car and had trouble getting it to start. She assumed it was because it was getting colder and it was a rental, after all. But then it started making a strange sound, and when she pumped the brakes, they acted very oddly. She managed to stop, but it felt too difficult. She thumbed her phone on to check for the nearest gas station or repair shop. When she saw which one it was, she almost considered not going. But car trouble was nothing to mess around with.

  She pulled into Quinn’s parking lot, hoping he wasn’t there and she’d be able to avoid him. No such luck. As the car began its creaky braking, she saw the man himself come out.

  He was sweaty, just wearing a tee and jeans stained with dirt and car whatevers. Living in NYC, she hadn’t had to worry about car issues before. It might be clichéd, but the subway or walking had always been her mode of transport. Hopefully the car was just being a little difficult and it wasn’t anything serious.

  She was trying very hard not to notice how good Anton looked. It had only been a day but she’d forgotten how beautiful he was. Rugged but still pretty, soft lips and dark brows. That gorgeous hair. And in this element he was particularly…manly. All muscles and strength, and the kind of dirty that made you wonder about other, dirtier things he might do.

  Taylor sighed and got herself ready to get out of the car. Best to get it over with.

  After some banter, Anton and his team took the car in while she sat in the waiting room. She checked her email, which had like fifty messages from her editor asking for updates. She closed it, not ready to give her what info she had yet. So she went over her notes from talking to Powell.

  What she mostly had from him were leads to check out so she could hopefully get the info without having to rely on “anonymous police sources,” which would put him in an awkward spot. She didn’t want that. He’d been kind to tell her anything. Especially about the Coulson “accident” and his suspicions about the role of the Saints, de Marco in particular.

  Between Powell and the former librarian, it was looking a lot like the Saints had deliberately covered up whatever it was that had happened to a couple who had only moved to Sweethollow a few months before. Which meant they were definitely involved. It made no sense to cover up anything about it otherwise, just like it was odd that most of the information about her classmates who had died years ago had been scrubbed. Since the Coulsons had apparently died in a car accident, Taylor had a feeling she knew or could make a pretty good guess about what had happened. But was there any proof to be found?

  And what did that have to do with so many of the Saints getting killed now? Did someone else know? Who? And why would they want to punish them? Sure, a lot of people in Sweethollow had been victimized by the Saints at some point. But enough to hurt them? Enough to commit murder? Especially murders that included beheadings?

  She was lost in thought when she heard Anton clear his throat.

  “Taylor?”

  “What?”

  “You need to see this,” he said. Something in his voice made her look up. Anton’s face was hard, frowning, almost angry looking.

  “Great, that bad, huh? Well, it’s a rental. As long as they don’t blame me for whatever they didn’t get fixed before, they’ll have to take care of it,” she said. He shook his head.

  “That’s not it.”

  “Um, okay. What is it, then?” She didn’t like how cryptic he was being.

  “You have to come and look for yourself,” he said and walked away, back rigid. She followed, feeling like there was some unnecessary drama going on she didn’t understand. She saw the hood of her car was up and she came over and looked in. Then she stared.

  “Those wires…that’s…just something the rental company messed up. Right?” she said hopefully. Anton turned to her, his men looking concerned. His eyes were dark, his face was set in that hard, frowning, mask.

  “No. Someone did this. And they messed with your brakes, too. It’s a good thing they did a shit job,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “Wait, wait. That doesn’t make sense. Why would someone—?”

  “Fuck with your car? Nearly sever your brake lines? Do some seriously fucked-up things to your engine? I don’t know. But whoever it was could have killed you,” he said, hands in fists.

  “But no one knows I’m here. Except you and Mrs. Keeper and Officer Powell. I haven’t even been back to Grams’,” she said. Then she recalled what Powell had said, how he known for two days she was there.

  “Someone knows. Someone with an incredibly nasty turn of mind. I don’t know what the fuck you’re working on, but you should stop. Now. And get the hell out of here,” he said angrily, turning on her.

  “What? No way. It’s just a fluff piece about the festival!” Taylor said, not sure why she was lying.

  “Don’t be stupid. This isn’t someone playing a joke like egging your car. This person wanted you dead. They just fucked up because they messed with some of the wrong wires. So you caught on too fast. You can’t stay here,” he said. Taylor’s face was flushed. She was scar
ed and angry, and she didn’t like Quinn trying to tell her what to do.

  “I can handle myself,” she ground out.

  “Yeah, I’m sure a city girl like you has pepper spray for the fucking creeps, but you can’t defend yourself from someone who would do this. They’re sneaky,” he said.

  “All the more reason to stay. Find out who it is. Something really bad is going on here, Anton. I think you know that,” she said, standing her ground.

  “Maybe. But if this is just some festival story, why bother? Unless it’s really about something else,” he said. His shop guys had all quietly left, and it was just the two of them in the garage now, facing off like two alpha dogs.

  “That’s none of your concern. If you want out of dinner on Friday so badly, just say so,” she said.

  “What the fuck are you talking about? I’m worried about you!” he said, face flushing.

  “I think you’re just afraid to have to face me. Whatever the car thing is about, I’ll be fine. I’ll walk around town,” she said.

  “You have got to be the most stubborn, idiotic, contentious woman I have ever met,” Anton said. She smiled, a little meanly.

  “Big vocab words for you, Anton. You taken to reading actual books these days?” she asked.

  “Fuck you,” he said.

  “Ah, there’s the Anton I know! Maybe we should call off Friday.” Taylor laughed. He walked towards her, but she stood her ground. He wasn’t going to intimidate her. He wasn’t his father, even if he didn’t know it. She wasn’t afraid of him.

  “Now you’re just trying to back out. Afraid you might find your version of ‘bad’ Anton Quinn, Ruiner of Lives, won’t hold up after ten years?” he asked.

  “Not really. The only thing I’m afraid of is your enormous ego,” she said, voice shaking a little.