Deception

by Lisa Clark O'Neill

  “Hell, she’s packed in there like a sardine,” Kathleen murmured. “She definitely had a little help getting down there.”

  Josh spotlighted the fractures with his pen. “And chances are she wasn’t alive when it happened. It will be the ME’s call, of course, but if I were to guess I’d have to say our girl succumbed to blunt force trauma. Looks to me like somebody beat the hell out of her.”

  Kathleen made a noise of disgust, just as Mac loomed large behind them.

  “Farris is here,” he grunted, indicating the woman from the medical examiner’s office.

  “Good.” Josh clicked off his light as he stood. His thigh ached and he cursed the weather. “Let’s get this girl out of here.”

  SAM sighed, rubbing the small of her back with a weary hand as she waited for Luke, the bartender, to fill her order. From the other end of the bar he gave her a give me a minute motion with his chin, obviously caught up in talking football with one of the regulars. Sam saw some bills change hands as the guy accepted his beer from Luke, and she knew he wasn’t paying for his beverage. The Roadhouse probably did a much bigger business under the table and in the back room than it ever showed on its tax returns. She wondered again how much Donnie had been involved, and whether or not it had anything to do with his bullet wound. From what she’d seen things were pretty small-time, no more than a few mostly-friendly bets among some regulars. But whenever money was involved, particularly gambling money, tempers had a way of getting out of control.

  She’d debated with herself since she’d realized what was going on, if she should say something to the police. But she had no idea if it related to Donnie’s case, and either way the bar would be shut down in a heartbeat if it looked like they were fronting illegal gambling, however harmless. And then where would she and Donnie be? What would happen to his insurance policy if the group that owned The Roadhouse suddenly stopped paying his premiums? She could get another job, sure, but even with all the recent changes in healthcare policy there would likely be no way to get coverage for her brother after the fact.

  So she kept her mouth shut, and her eyes open.

  Just when she thought that she might have to go behind the bar and fill the order herself, the door to the back hall opened and a familiar figure walked through. Spotting her, Dane Wilcox strolled over, a million dollar smile stretching his tanned face, windblown and handsome in his casually rumpled polo. He’d no doubt been out on Daddy’s yacht.

  “Samantha,” he moved in close and brushed a thumb down her cheek. “You look troubled, sweetheart. Anything I can do to help?”

  Sam fought the urge to recoil. Dane wasn’t a bad guy, just spoiled and completely full of himself. But when you were born with the whole drawer of silver in your mouth she guessed it was hard not to think you were special. Dane’s father and a group of partners owned The Roadhouse, along with half the city, or so it seemed, and for some reason Dane liked to hang out at this dump and pretend he was a real working businessman. It was a joke, because he came and went as he pleased, but in the grand scheme of things he was more of a minor nuisance than actual problem.

  “Maybe you could remind Luke to do his job,” she said, only half joking. She had a table of hard drinking construction workers who weren’t going to be happy if they didn’t get their beer. She glanced behind her and sure enough the man with the thick beard and creepy snake tattoo glared like he wanted to eat her instead of the beer nuts. Apparently their work had been called off for the rest of the afternoon and they were determined to spend the unexpected time off getting plastered. Lucky her.

  Dane followed the direction of her gaze and frowned. “Somebody giving you trouble?” His voice was suddenly quiet and deadly serious.

  Sam blinked, surprised by the undertone, but then shook her head and offered a tight smile. “Nothing I can’t handle. But I do need a refill on some beer.”

  “Of course.” Dane nodded and lifted a hinged section of the wooden bar so that he could take care of the order himself. “What do you need?” His dark blue eyes studied her earnestly.

  “Three Budweisers and a Miller, draft.” She watched him as he started to fill the pilsners. About six inches taller than her own height, trim and muscular, with waving blond hair and aristocratic features, Dane looked like he should be presiding over a boardroom or a courtroom instead of pulling drafts in a sleazy bar. No doubt his father was grooming his only son to take over the reins of his vast empire one day, but from what Sam had seen Dane was more adept at avoiding anything that seemed like work than at running any sort of actual business. In his late twenties, he still acted like a consummate playboy, although she guessed he had decades yet to get his act together. Alan Wilcox – Dane’s father – was only a little past the mid-century mark and still healthy as a horse.

  And she couldn’t feel too snarky toward Dane, because he’d had the decency to not only visit her brother in the hospital after his accident, but also offered Sam this job when it looked like she’d be sticking around. So maybe his the world is my oyster attitude got on her nerves from time to time, but all in all she guessed he was okay.

  Dane finished the Miller and went to work on the Buds. “This is your fourth double shift in the past five days,” he pointed out mildly, sliding a full pilsner onto her tray. “I only had you scheduled for two.”

  Sam eyed him steadily, wondering why he’d even mentioned it. She hadn’t realized he paid any attention to the schedule. “Sherry asked me to pick up a couple of her shifts.” So that she could do a job for Prime Time – the agency she’d stripped for – which paid better than the measly tips she earned here. But that was beside the point. She hoped Dane wasn’t looking to fire Sherry; she was one of the few female friends Sam had made. Most women made assumptions based on her figure, and were either too threatened or judgmental to give her a chance. “I hope that’s not a problem.”

  Dane glanced up as he filled the last glass. “As long as the shifts are covered, I could care less who’s working them, but…” he hesitated, which was totally out of character. It seemed like he usually spoke first and thought later. “You’ve been working yourself into the ground, Sam. For the past three months, you’ve done nothing but bust your ass here and then sit by Donnie’s bedside. It’s not healthy, all this work and no play. It’s making you dull, sweets.”

  Sam felt her brow wing up. His tone had been playful, but his eyes were serious. “And this is your concern… why?”

  “Donnie’s a friend of mine,” he said, looking… dear God, was he actually hurt? “And I kind of thought that you and I were friends now, too.” He sat the final Budweiser on her tray. “I don’t like the shadows under your eyes, Sam. And I know Donnie wouldn’t like them either.”

  She blinked, having gone temporarily speechless. Foam slid down the pilsners and pooled on the tray when Dane pushed it toward her along the bar. She glanced at it, then back at his Ivy League face.

  Was it possible this man was deeper than a thimble?

  Another man sitting a ways down the bar cleared his throat, and Sam looked over to see if he was listening. She didn’t like airing her laundry in public, but he appeared to be consumed with his beer. He’d been nursing it like a baby with a bottle for a while now, probably caught up in his own problems. “I… uh, appreciate the concern, Dane, but I’m fine. Really.” Sure she was tired, but that wasn’t exactly a BFD when compared to what Donnie was going through. And besides, she’d been tired before.

  And worse.

  Dane crossed his arms across his chest, clearly not convinced. “Oh yeah? And when was the last time you did something for fun? Saw a movie? Went on a date?”

  “Because I meet so many nice men here at work?” The sudden, loud assertion from the tattooed man at her table that he and his companions weren’t gettin’ any younger illustrated Sam’s droll statement. “I’ll be there in a second,” she called over her shoulder before returning her attention to Dane.

  “Exactly my point.” He stabbed the a
ir with an imperious finger and sent the impatient patrons a glare. Which was kind of comical, considering he looked like he’d just stepped off a yacht. Which he probably had. And they looked like they ate nails for breakfast. “You should take a little time off now and then, Samantha, so that you don’t burn out. You won’t be doing Donnie any good if you land yourself in the hospital. Where would you be, then?” He moved in close and lowered his voice. “Why don’t you give yourself a break tonight? Go… I don’t know, drive out to the beach and take a walk or something. Treat yourself to a nice dinner. Have a drink.”

  “I, uh…” A small laugh escaped her. This was just so outrageously… unusual. “I have a commitment for tonight. Not at the hospital,” she said quickly, when his lips pressed into a frown. “I actually have this…thing to go to.”

  The frown deepened. “Another bachelor party?” he asked in an unpleasant tone.

  Sam blinked again, feeling like she’d fallen down the rabbit hole. How the hell did he know she’d started stripping? And why the hell did he care? “Well, not that it’s any of your business,” a fact she emphasized with a stern glare, “but no, and I’m not sure I’ll be doing that again.”

  “Good.” He nodded approval. “So what are you doing tonight?”

  What was with the third degree? Didn’t he have some money to count or something? “If you must know, I’ve started doing some volunteer work.” Helping man the crisis hotline for the local Family Violence Center, but she saw no reason for him to know that. Which her continued glare must have gotten across, because he backed off and lifted his hands.

  “None of my business, I know.” Then he stuffed his hands into his pockets. “I know what you think of me, Sam, and most of it’s probably deserved. I am spoiled.” He gave her a charming, rueful smile. The man did charming really well. “But I liked… like your brother, a lot, and the truth is I like you, too. So, you know, don’t get all freaked out and bite my hand when I attempt to extend it in friendship.”

  Surprised, chastened, Sam slipped her own hand beneath the full tray, uncomfortable under Dane’s stare. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of him. “I…” Damn, what could she say? “I appreciate it.” At least that was honest. And it wouldn’t be if she tried to back away from the spoiled comment. She had thought the man was a prep-school calendar boy, and not in a good way.

  Then, before the vibe got any weirder or her customers any more angry, Sam took her adult beverages and got to work.

  THE rain was coming down in buckets by the time Josh made it back to the station. He’d been so off-kilter and brain-weary after keeping himself awake all night that he hadn’t had the foresight to snag an umbrella. As a result, his wool blazer – which he’d been holding like a shield over his head – now smelled like a wet farm animal. And if the eau de sheep weren’t bad enough, there were water spots all over his silk tie. At least he wasn’t stuck out in the elements, supervising a crime scene, like Kathleen and Mac. And what a friggin’ mess that had been. When the sky opened up it sent water rushing through the pipe which held their victim, causing them to have to call on a couple of the construction workers and their handy dandy hacksaws before they lost more evidence. He was really glad he wasn’t acting as a primary on this case, because it already had SNAFU written all over it. Decomposing bodies were never fun to deal with, but when they’d been shoved down a drainage pipe at a busy construction site – not to mention recovered during a torrential downpour – you might as well kiss your trace evidence goodbye.

  Farris, the ME’s assistant on the job, had done the best she could at the scene, confirming that the remains were that of a female Caucasian, approximately five feet three inches. Other than that, they’d have to await the results of the autopsy for specific age range and other potential identifying characteristics, not to mention cause of death. The autopsy would most likely be completed in a day or two, but Farris had already made noises about bringing in a forensic anthropologist, given the near skeletal state of the remains. Phil Thomas – the anthro they utilized as a consultant – was out of town for the next few days, so it would probably be a while before Josh got a chance to work up a reconstruction of the victim’s face. Provided, of course, they didn’t somehow identify her before then.

  He stopped short when he spotted the burly blond man hulking impatiently near his desk. Then one corner of his mouth tugged into a smile. Shaking the excess water off his coat before folding it over his arm, he strolled up behind the man and pitched his voice low. “Looking for someone?”

  The guy jumped, as Josh had known he would.

  Chuckling, Josh draped the jacket over the back of his chair and eyed his friend. Chris Sullivan was a bundle of contradictions, even more so than Josh himself. At six three, two hundred thirty the guy was only a little smaller than Mac, a veritable mountain of a man, solid and powerfully built, but in disposition he leaned more toward the skinny, nose-dripping, eyeglass-wearing computer nerd he’d been as a kid – the target of every playground bully. Josh had saved his butt from a royal kicking back when they’d been about eight, earning a black eye for his trouble, and Chris had never forgotten it. And now that they worked for the same police department – Josh doing what he did and Chris the resident guru of all things technical – they’d picked up their childhood friendship where it had drifted off during the intervening years.

  “Sorry,” Josh lied. It was fun to mess with Chris. But the guy had come through for him yesterday, so he schooled his face to show appropriate remorse. He lowered himself into his seat and motioned for Chris to borrow the chair from Kathleen’s desk. He did, dwarfing the department-issue black swivel. “Did you happen to get a chance to make the side trip I asked you about?”

  Chris rolled his pale eyes – lasik surgery had eliminated the glasses – shuddering dramatically. “I stopped by that… establishment, like you asked – not the top of my list for fun places to hang on my lunch hour. Although why you couldn’t have done it yourself is beyond me.”

  “I was at a crime scene,” Josh reminded him.

  Chris huffed and Josh stifled a laugh. On the surface, Chris would fit in at a place like The Roadhouse a lot better than he would, but God knew appearances were deceiving. “So…” he prodded his old friend.

  “So your girlfriend was there. All safe and sound. No worries.” One of his eyebrows lifted. “You know, I didn’t question you yesterday when you got all hell-bent on digging into her business, but what’s with all this stalker crap? Is there some reason you couldn’t just ask her about her brother? Or the terms of her lease? Or call her at work and discuss her plans for the night?”

  “So you found out her plans for the night?”

  When Chris’s lips pursed with displeasure, Josh picked up one of his sketch pencils and started doodling on his blotter. “It’s a long story,” he admitted. “Let’s just say that I seem to have scared her off… somehow… a long time ago, and I’ll be damned if I’ll do it again. So I’m… maneuvering her very carefully.”

  “By stalking her?”

  Josh frowned and dropped the pencil. Then scowled when he realized he’d started to sketch Sam. Good God, he was totally pathetic. “I’m not stalking her.” He wasn’t. “She just seems to be in a situation that makes me uncomfortable, and I want to help her out without coming on too strong.” He ignored Chris’s second raised eyebrow, which had flown up to keep company with the first. “Sam is…” God, how to put this? “She’s wary. And she has every right to be so. She’s had some serious shit thrown at her in her life, and it messed with her self-esteem.” He thought about her going back to school, and felt that familiar swell of pride. That was one hurdle she’d managed to climb over. “And she’s outwardly pretty damn tough. But underneath all that is this sweet, cautious woman, who’s vulnerable in ways you can’t imagine. Because despite all the ugly stuff she’s been through, she still tries to give people the benefit of the doubt. And she’s –”

  “Stacked?” Chris offered when Josh c
ouldn’t seem to find the right word.

  “Beautiful,” Josh corrected with a whole lot of indignation. Despite the fact that he knew Chris had been kidding. “She’s beautiful, inside and out. Although, as you so politely noted, most men don’t get past the thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-six to even begin to see what else she has to offer. And all that makes her a target. And despite the fact that she can take care of herself,” he almost smiled, thinking about her walking through that parking lot last night. “I just don’t think that she should have to do it alone. So I’m maneuvering her,” not stalking, “into a place where she’s able to… share the burden.” He cleared his throat and retrieved the pencil, twirling it between his fingers. “It’s what I’d do for any of my friends.”

  He looked at Chris, who just stared back.

  “So should I get fitted for my tux now? Because sometimes it takes a while to find shoes in my size.”

  Josh gave up, laughing. “Am I that pathetically transparent?”

  “Like wax paper. No, more like Saran Wrap. It’s what I’d do for any of my friends.” He did a piss-poor imitation of Josh’s voice. “And you actually expected me to buy that? We spent hours yesterday, digging all the dirt we could find, and I don’t recall that ever happening before. Taking a punch for a friend, sure. I can testify to that myself. But you’ve never asked me to hack anything before.”

  “You said you were keeping it all above board.” Worry snapped Josh’s brows together. “Nobody said anything about hacking.”

  Chris leaned back in Kathleen’s chair, causing the springs to scream in protest. “Gotcha.”

  Josh licked his finger to score the imaginary point. “So are you gonna tell me what you found out, or do I have to scare it out of you?”

  “You’re just pissy because I finally made you sweat.”

  “Yeah, well I’ve been making you sweat for years. One moment of panic is nothing compared to the truckload of wet pants you’ve amassed.”

  “You do realize that I outweigh you by about sixty pounds.”