Liar, Liar

by Winter Austin

  The real question should be, how much longer could she hold out with her job in the agency before her need to protect Quinn and Kurt overwhelmed her? The unfinished business with Ripley or not, if there was one point that had been driven home to her as a foster kid, family was all that mattered. When you had it, you never let go.

  Never.

  Chapter Eight

  Another night with less than desirable sleeping conditions left Shane twice as sore and stiff as he’d been the previous day. To be fair, he wasn’t about to make one of his deputies pull overnight duty watching the prisoner. He’d put Roslin in jail, which made him responsible for her. At least he was spared the plague of memories. Instead of reliving those very short, sweet years with Cheyenne, he kept thinking about a raven-haired powerhouse with the wit of Will Rogers. He barely knew Liza Bartholomew, and yet she’d managed to find a way to consume him.

  With an old-man groan, he eased himself upright and scooted around to sit on the edge of the dented sofa cushion. While more comfortable than the hardwood floor the night before, the sofa had too many miles on it. Time to consider a replacement if he kept this up.

  Scrubbing both hands along his face, his callouses grating against the scruff, he grimaced at the taste of dragon’s breath. That was something he didn’t wish on anyone. Hoisting his body off the offending sofa, Shane staggered in his socks into the tiny bathroom, did his business, and gave his hands a good cleaning. He peered at his reflection in the black-spotted mirror. That was one ugly mug staring back.

  Sniff test results concluded that he stank worse than his breath tasted. A quick rinse off in the locker room was in order before his underlings showed up for work. Grabbing a toothbrush and a small tube of paste, he headed for a file cabinet behind his desk. He pulled open the drawer and snagged a clean uniform set from the two he kept there at all times.

  Tiptoeing across the hall, he deposited his stuff in the locker room, then snuck down to the holding cells to check on his prisoner. Roslin was draped over the cot, lightly snoring. She hadn’t made a peep since passing out. It would be interesting to see what came next with this woman.

  The power shower wasn’t enough to melt away the aches and pains, but it cleansed the stench. The scruff would have given any commanding officer a coronary, but there was nothing to be done about it. Shane had forgotten to replace his razor. Bad breath vanquished, he was ready for round two with Roslin, and more encounters with Liza.

  Time to get the coffee going. As he scooped the grounds into the filter, his nose tickled with the scent of lemon and blueberry. Starting the machine, he thumbed open the cabinet above the pot and grinned. Eureka! Murdoch had left the rest of her mother’s coffee cake. Breakfast was saved.

  Dishing out a large square on a paper plate for himself and a moderate-sized one on another, he tucked the sealed glass baking dish back inside the cabinet. Once the pot had filled enough, he stole two cups’ worth then left the maker to finish its job and carried his mug along with one Styrofoam cup and plate down the hall. As he entered the holding cell area, a disheveled Roslin, gaping at the bars, greeted him.

  “What’s going on?” she demanded.

  “What’s going on, Ms. Avery, is you got mind-numbingly drunk and high on something, then proceeded to set fire to your home. After which, you decided to threaten a sworn officer of the law with a loaded weapon.”

  Her eyes were perilously close to popping out of her sockets. “I did what?”

  “See, that’s the funny thing about substance abuse—it can wipe your memory.”

  She plastered her hands to her face. “Oh, no, no, no, no.”

  Shane tapped his mug against a bar. Roslin peeked at him between the flesh and bone prison of her own making.

  “How’s about you come get some food and coffee in you. When my female deputy gets in, she’ll see to you getting cleaned up.”

  Rising on wobbly legs, she teetered over to the door and accepted the cup and plate. “I don’t get a fork?”

  “Less dangerous to let you eat it with your fingers.” Shane raised his mug. “The coffee is dark, should knock that hangover right out of the park.” He turned to leave.

  “Sheriff?”

  He looked over his shoulder.

  Roslin glanced down at her breakfast, then at him. “I get my one phone call, right?”

  “Your lawyer contacted the county attorney last night. They’ll be in this morning, and we’ll sort this all out.”

  Seemingly satisfied with that answer, she wandered back to her cot, sipping the coffee. Shane resumed his path back to his office but was waylaid by a resounding knock on the front door.

  His stride shortened as the woman on the other side of the glass doors cocked her head to the side. A stray lock slipped free of the ponytail and laid against her cheek. Liza wore a different pair of jeans and a cream-colored shirt under a black jacket, with the same knee-high boots. One corner of her mouth tipped up as she held aloft a large, white paper bag and pointed at it. A bag that was all too familiar to him. She’d gone to Betsy Lamar’s diner.

  Sweet home Alabama.

  He pushed open the door. “You’re here early.” What a great greeting.

  Liza slipped past him, a light lavender scent tickling his senses. “I remembered that great diner Boyce took me to every morning we were here, and I decided I had to have some of Betsy’s pancakes and bacon. I thought you’d like something.” She stopped and turned. “I had a feeling you were camping out here while Roslin was in holding.”

  “What if I wasn’t?”

  She whisked the freed lock back from her face. “Oh, you were here.” She tapped her cheek. “You need a shave, Sheriff.” With a wink, she spun and flounced through the second set of doors into the building.

  Flounced. The woman had actually flounced, like a flirting twenty-year-old. What the hell?

  Shane proceeded with caution. It was one thing to entertain the idea of being interested in her. But if she started showing interest back and actually acted on it, what was he going to do? This was not territory he wanted to explore. Not on his life.

  Liza bypassed the bullpen and paused at the coffee station to pour herself a cup. Shane approached her like he would a spooked filly, stopping within inches of her. He could still catch the scent of her shampoo, or lotion, or whatever the hell she put on, and it was creating weird little tightening sensations in his chest. He’d never expected to like something so . . . girly. Cheyenne had preferred this spicy number that had made him imagine—and eventually acting on—how he’d drive her wild. To this day, given the right conditions, he could still smell her perfume. But this floral scent Liza wore was sweet, innocent, the complete opposite of the woman standing before him.

  She turned, the mug pressed to her full lips as she gently blew on her coffee. An electrical charge zinged through his body and zapped portions of his brain long dark and dead.

  “So, where do you want to eat this?”

  Jolting, he sucked in a breath. One of her eyebrows lifted.

  Smooth, Hamilton. He gulped a mouthful of coffee. The shock to his system doused the sudden desire. He nodded at his office. “In there.”

  She headed to his office, and against his will, his eyes drifted lower, wanting another glimpse of what he saw yesterday, but he stopped at the small of her back.

  What the hell are you doing, man? This is a federal agent. She’s not here for you to stare at her ass and lust over her. Get your damn head out of the gutter and focus.

  Yet shouldn’t he be happy that his cold heart was finding a reason to beat again? No. No, he’d made a promise over Cheyenne’s grave that he’d never love another. His heart and soul died that rainy night on the side of a road. His job and his county were the only things that deserved his devotion, like his country had before.

  Refilling his mug, he snagged his plate with coffee cake and joined Liza in the office. She’d set out a large square container on his desk, a fork neatly placed on the cover, and then
sat in the chair opposite him, her box open. The spicy aroma of sausage filled the room.

  “That doesn’t smell like bacon to me.” He sat in his chair.

  “I said I was craving bacon, but I decided I wanted sausage after I ordered you the biscuits and gravy.”

  His mouth salivated at those words. Damn, he hadn’t eaten Betsy’s sausage gravy and biscuits in a dog’s year. He flipped the lid open and was blasted with the heavenly warmth of butter and spices. “You did good, Bartholomew.”

  “You seem like a simple man who enjoys the simple things in life, like a heavy morning meal with coffee.”

  Chuckling, he dug in. They ate in silence.

  On occasion, Shane let his gaze drift her way to soak in the odd sight of a woman sitting across from him. Well, sure, he had two female deputies, but they came in to discuss duties and patrol routes with him. Liza wasn’t his deputy, wasn’t talking about work-related topics, and looked like she was right at home with her Styrofoam container balanced on her crossed legs, finishing her stack of pancakes and sausage links. With her focus absorbed on her meal, he let his gaze linger, taking in the curves and details of her frame.

  She had a feminine quality that belied her tough exterior. Minus the makeup she’d worn yesterday, her face looked fresh and emphasized her cheekbones. Shane itched to smooth his thumbs over them. The ponytail didn’t hide the fact that her hair was losing its sleekness. If she let it down, would it be a soft wave or coil? Damn, he wanted to know, to run his fingers through the locks. And that mouth . . .

  “So, I was reviewing what we learned yesterday.”

  His brain slammed to a halt like a bronc throwing its rider into a wall. Shane dragged his attention off of her lips. She eyed him with a suspicious uplift of one eyebrow.

  Shit! Nothing like getting caught gawking. Clearing his throat, he tried to hide his embarrassment behind a stilted cough.

  “Uh, yeah, and what’s that?” Why couldn’t shop talk wait another thirty minutes or so?

  Closing the lid on her empty container, Liza set it on the floor next to a satchel he hadn’t noticed her carrying when she came in. “Well . . . ” She flipped the flap over and pulled out a handful of manila folders, one with a red, arrow sticker flagging it. “I spent some time last night re-reading everything I had on my Mr. Ripley, and there’s one thing that sticks out.” She rose from her chair and placed the folders in front of him. “The fire.”

  Shane pushed his partially eaten breakfast aside and, with his gaze on her, pulled the files closer. “The fire was Roslin’s doing.”

  “What if he told her to do it? What if, in the event something happened to him, he instructed her to burn it to the ground?”

  His roughened fingers played with the red sticker. “The question would be, why would he insist on a fire?”

  “Because he’s done it before.” When she grasped the flagged file, her fingers touched his, and a buzz of energy surged through his veins. She stilled, as if she’d felt it too, then slowly pulled the file from the stack. “Read this,” she said breathlessly.

  Ignoring the sensations coursing through his system, he took the folder out of the stack and opened it. The scene photos slammed into him. His hands thunked on the desktop.

  “He killed?”

  Her grim features said it all.

  “What the hell, Bartholomew? From the way you talked yesterday, he was nothing more than a rogue thief who loved the thrill of stealing money and making the FBI look like a pack of fools. Not a killer.”

  “It’s not 100 percent certain he’s the one who did it, because it was so outside the realm of his MO. The one thing linking him to those victims and that fire was the victims themselves. They were the only people I could find who actually had the guts to see him behind bars. Were they ashamed of letting him scam them? Yes, but they weren’t going to roll over and play dead.” Liza flopped into her chair. “And I repaid their bravery by letting him get a hold of them and burn them alive.” She turned green at that statement.

  Breakfast roiled in his gut. Unbidden images of burning vehicles and the screams of men as they burned inside popped into his head. Shane jolted out of the memory. This was not war, and he was not in Iraq. It had been a long time since he’d even thought of his time there; no need to start again.

  “Okay, so let’s examine this from our standpoint. I got a call from the fire marshal last night. There were no bodies in the remains of the Avery home. So, you can ease your mind on that matter. From what he could tell in the dark, she’d used an accelerant, probably gas or diesel fuel, to get it going.”

  “What about the propane?”

  “By all appearances, nothing was turned on that would leave valves open. And we can thank God for that, because if she had used the LP to burn the home, we wouldn’t be here.”

  Liza’s features slackened. Whatever tension she’d kept pent up was now slipping from her body.

  “However, she burned whatever evidence I would have needed to close the book on Ripley’s life and scams. Do you think it’s possible he kept something at the school?”

  “Hard to say. We can go look after Roslin is out of my hair.”

  Uh-oh, here it came. That perturbed expression could only be disastrous for him.

  “Excuse me, how is it that Roslin will be ‘out of your hair’?”

  “Her lawyer has done an exceptional job of convincing the county attorney and our esteemed judge to grant bail. All of that is probably being finalized”—he checked his clock: 7:23—“at this moment.”

  “Who is her lawyer to have that kind of pull?”

  Shane closed the file on the warehouse fire and pushed his creaky body out of the chair. “A very formidable woman named Pamela Frost.” Skirting around his desk, he headed for the door. “If you want a chance to talk with Roslin before she shows up, now is your chance.”

  Liza vaulted from her chair.

  “How are you so sure the lawyer will be here soon?”

  “Did you know her husband ran against me in the election?”

  “Boyce mentioned it, said the guy lost by a hair.”

  Shane nodded, grabbing another cup of coffee for his prisoner. “I didn’t put much effort into my re-election—probably should have done better about that—but the only reason Donovan Frost managed to get so close was because of his wife. She’s got the fortitude of a politician but no desire to play the field on her own. Likes her job stirring up trouble in the courts, thank you very much.”

  Liza made a sound in her throat that was akin to a grunt. “Maybe she should face off against my supervisor.”

  “Maybe . . . ” Shane froze in place as Murdoch rounded the corner, a well put together brunette in a tan pantsuit with a mint-green blouse and heels tagging along behind her. This just got a whole lot more complicated.

  “Sheriff Hamilton, I hope you’re not planning to have a conversation with my client in my absence.”

  “Not one bit, Ms. Frost,” he fibbed.

  Liza’s head bobbed down and then up, no doubt sizing up the woman before her. Liza’s features relaxed as though she was bored, like she found Pamela lacking.

  “Sir, I tried—” Murdoch was cut off when the dispatch line pealed out. “I’ve got it.”

  “I’d like my client released. The judge has accepted the county attorney’s and my agreement. Bond was set and paid.”

  “That was fast,” Liza muttered.

  Pamela’s cool, assessing gaze flicked to the agent and remained there. “And you are?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Uh, sir,” Murdoch waved.

  Shane held up his “give me a minute” finger. “Ms. Frost, we’ll gladly release her. But I need to ask her a few things before she leaves.”

  “That won’t be possible.”

  “I do have the right to question her about the reason she set fire to her home.”

  Pamela crossed her arms and those eyes turned venomous. “Like I said, that won’t be po
ssible.”

  “Sheriff.”

  He held up his finger, which every deputy should know by now was code for “give me another minute.” “Only if she says it’s not. As of right now, with her sober and lucid, I believe I have the right to ask. And you have the obligation to sit in the room to advise her.”

  “That was not the agreement the county attorney and I came to. Mrs. Avery is to be released immediately, and questioning will be reserved for a later time as she will have been given proper time to grieve for her deceased husband.”

  “Pamela, the woman had ample time to ‘grieve,’ which brings me to my other problem. I need to question her further on the night of her husband’s death.”

  “Is she a suspect in his death?”

  Shane gave the uptight lawyer his own cool and assessing look. If she thought for one minute he was about to blurt out any information she could use to circumvent his investigation, she had another think coming.

  “Sheriff!”

  “What, Murdoch?” His attention snapped to his perturbed deputy.

  “We have a problem.”

  Chapter Nine

  “I drove by it twice a day, the last few days.”

  The woman next to Shane stared down at the lumpy, black plastic in the ditch. The tips of her brown shoes were damp from the three inches of water pooled in the dip. Her hand trembled as she lifted it to cup the back of her neck. She should be at work. She should be sitting behind a desk working at a computer, answering the phone, not standing here on the side of the road.

  She shuddered. “It bothered me that it was just lying there. Who leaves a huge wad of black plastic sitting in a ditch?”

  She wasn’t familiar to Shane—she lived in one county and drove through McIntire to get to work in another—but she had to be aware of how folks in rural Iowa were used to seeing debris in ditches.

  Carefully navigating the ditch’s slope, Shane put himself between her riveted gaze and the makeshift body bag. “Why did you decide to stop this morning and check it out?”