by Susan Fox
He shrugged, then studied her. “You didn’t have anyone, did you?”
She shook her head. “Lucky Jamal,” she murmured, “to have you as a friend.”
“Anyone would have done it.”
“Sure.” She slanted him a smile. “Whatever you say, Jake.” She’d stopped eating while they were talking, but now lifted the second half of her sandwich and took a bite. “This is good. Thanks.”
“Welcome.” He sat back, keeping an ear open for the sound of an approaching vehicle and enjoying watching her. Noticing a ragged white scar on her right arm, he ran a finger down it. “What happened here?”
She glanced at it. “Sunny. When I first brought him inside. I probably should have gotten stitches but there was a bad storm and I was wary about driving to the hospital.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t toss the cat back out into the storm.”
“Like you tossed Jamal away when he let you down?” She shook her head. “I told you Sunny was abused. He was hurting, he was scared, and so he struck out. I can’t blame him.”
“You’re generous. And patient.” As he well knew.
“Well, I’ve had some experience.” She gazed down at the steering wheel. “Being damaged myself. I hurt people, let them down. Mostly I hurt Evan, but there were others. I was in so much pain myself that I didn’t care, didn’t even notice, if I hurt others.”
She turned to him, her expression serious. “You can’t imagine the relief of knowing that you actually have an illness. It doesn’t take the guilt away or make anything right, but at least you understand that you’re not really a horrible person.”
“I can’t imagine anyone ever thinking that you were.”
“You didn’t know me then,” she said flatly. “I was awful.”
He circled her wrist with his hand. “I know you now. You’re a fine person.” He was leaning over to kiss her when his keen hearing picked up the sound of an engine.
Jake was good for her ego, Brooke thought as he ducked below the dash. She watched a car park across the dirt lot, and squinted to see the make. “It’s a silver Lexus,” she told Jake.
A man climbed out and stood by the car. “Tall, maybe an inch or two taller than you, and bigger through the body. Muscular, not fat. Dark skin, good-looking.” She squinted again, to sharpen her vision. “His facial features look like a mix of black and Hispanic.”
Jake eased his head up and verified, “Yeah, that’s Jamal. You think he’s good-looking?”
She chuckled. “Almost as good-looking as you. But wow, he’s distinctive. That guy goes undercover?”
Reaching for the door handle, he said, “He’s versatile, good at disguises. We have to be, to do our kind of work.”
They both climbed out of the car, and Jamal strode over to them. He was a formidable man, she decided, but for the twinkle in his eyes when he stopped dead and studied Jake.
“Arnold Pitt,” he said softly, “as I live and breathe.” Then he gave a rich chuckle and said, “Too, too funny, man,” and whacked Jake on the back.
Jake whacked him too, with somewhat more force.
Jamal turned to Brooke. “Ms. Kincaid, I’m Jamal.”
“Brooke.” She held out her hand and he shook it. His grip was firm and she found herself liking him. She could envision him blending into a biker gang, but right now his eyes were smiling, his short curly hair was neat, and his jeans and black T-shirt were clean.
“You’re the one transformed my man?” he asked.
“I am. What do you think?”
“Think you should be workin’ for us. Did so fine a job I’d hardly know him.” He chuckled again. “Wouldn’t wanna know him.”
Jake whacked him again. “Gimme a break. I don’t want to know me either.”
Partners. Friends. Their closeness was obvious to her, yet she suspected they’d never spoken of it to each other. Spenser and Hawk, she thought, remembering Robert B. Parker’s novels. So who did that make her? Susan Silverman, Spenser’s “main squeeze”?
But Susan and Spenser’s relationship—unconventional as it was—had been founded on a deep love and it lasted for years. Her and Jake’s was based on lust and liking and would be over in a few days. The thought brought both sadness and relief. Already she knew she’d miss him, but she needed a safe, structured life. Caring for Jake would be anything but safe.
And, speaking of structure, she informed them, “I have to get back to work.” She pulled a key from her pocket. “Jamal, this opens my shed. Slip it under my back door when you’re ready to go.”
Yesterday, Jake had determined that his Harley was operable. It was a liability, though. They couldn’t afford to have anyone snoop around and find it. Jake and Jamal would drive to her place, where Jamal would collect the bike and ride it back to Vancouver. Then Jake would drive into Caribou Crossing and show up at Beauty Is You.
After he’d made a side trip to buy condoms. Hopefully, he would do that after, not before, parting ways with Jamal. Trying not to blush, she nodded to Jamal. “Good luck.”
“And you, Brooke. Our boy’ll take care of you.”
She gave him a saccharine smile. “And I’ll do my best to get him back to you in one piece. Without any more bullet holes.”
Jamal slapped his thigh and laughed. “I like you, girl.”
Girl. A forty-three-year-old grandmother. It was almost flattering.
Chapter Twelve
Brooke decided that, rather than moon over Jake, she would help out with the investigation. That afternoon, she subtly steered conversations with her clients.
Silvia Campinelli was first, with a picture of Angelina Jolie from People, and a request for the same hairstyle. Brooke learned that the woman and her young lawyer husband were living way beyond their means. She suspected, though, that their behavior had nothing to do with crime and everything to do with inexperience. They’d have their comeuppance when they missed a mortgage payment.
Her next client, Melody Sampson, was a loan manager at one of the banks. A single woman, she was career focused. In the past she’d mentioned that she hoped to transfer to a bigger branch in a larger town like Williams Lake, then ultimately to Vancouver. As Brooke stacked foils for highlights and lowlights, she asked Melody how work was going.
“Good, good,” the young woman responded briskly. “Next week I’m going to Vancouver for a training session on client development. It’s quite prestigious to be chosen.”
“Congratulations. Who chose you? Was it Mr. Cray?” Howard Cray was manager of the bank where Melody worked. Brooke had never liked him; he was a cold man and always seemed to be looking down his beaky nose at her. She was quite happy banking with the credit union.
“Yes, he attended the course himself, and thought it would be useful for me.”
“Oh? Does Mr. Cray go to many courses?”
“A couple of times a year. And there are financial-planning sessions, management meetings, and so on. He’s down in Vancouver quite a bit. Lucky man!”
Hmm. A respectable man who made lots of business trips. “I imagine Margaret and their son enjoy those trips,” she probed.
“Oh, they don’t usually go. Margaret’s caught up in her own career. I think they—” She broke off, then beckoned Brooke closer, to whisper, “They’re not very close. They lead quite separate lives. Both very career focused.” She added more loudly, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
“Not at all.” Brooke separated a few strands of hair, spread them on a piece of foil, and brushed on color.
“I just think it’s not fair to get married and have kids if you’re going to be obsessed with your work.”
“I agree. But the Crays’ son is a teenager, right? He probably doesn’t want his parents interfering in his life anyhow. Besides, I get the impression they’re pretty generous with him.” The boy always had the latest clothes and electronic gadgets, and his parents had given him an expensive car when he turned sixteen.
“You can say that again. And I s
uppose you’re right, that they’re not being bad parents. Margaret didn’t get her real estate license until Anthony was in elementary school. Before that, she was home with him.”
“They live in a really nice house, don’t they? I guess she found it for them?”
“Yes, a few years ago. It’s utterly fabulous. It could be in Architectural Digest. The Crays have the staff over every Christmas.”
“Generous.”
She sniffed. “Snobby. They only want to show off the house, furniture, art. Plus, I think it’s bank policy that the managers do some socializing with staff, so Howard makes Margaret arrange a catered party.”
“Must be nice to be rich,” Brooke murmured.
“One day I’ll have a really nice place of my own,” Melody stated confidently. “But it won’t be any house in the country.”
“No?”
“A penthouse in the city. That’s what I’ve got my heart set on. No more stench of cow and horse shit, no more roosters crowing before dawn. No shoveling snow or swatting mosquitoes.”
Brooke grinned. “You sound like my son did when he was a teenager.”
“But he ended up coming back. You won’t see me doing that.”
The bell at the door tinkled and they both turned their heads.
It was Jake. Rather, it was Arnold Pitt, with his tie perfectly knotted and the light glinting off his glasses.
Brooke wiped her hands on a towel and stepped toward him but Kate got there first. She was saying, “May I help you?” when Brooke broke in with, “Arnold? Is that you?”
He turned toward her. “Brooke? Cousin Brooke?” Then he caught her hands in his. “I’d recognize you anywhere. Same curly blond hair.”
She squeezed his hands, and then they both let go. She touched her hair self-consciously. “It gets a little help these days.”
“You work in the right place for that.”
Kate cleared her throat and he turned to her. She stuck her hand out. “I’m Kate Patterson, Brooke’s friend and coworker. She’s been so excited about you coming for a visit, Arnold.”
He shook her hand. “I’ve been quite excited myself. Brooke was my favorite relative when I was a child.”
“She says you’re an accountant in Vancouver?”
Brooke couldn’t leave Melody with half her foils done, so she stepped away, letting Jake field Kate’s questions.
“Who’s that?” Melody hissed.
“A cousin of mine. He lives in Vancouver but is thinking of moving here.”
“He’s crazy.”
Brooke saw Melody watching Jake in the mirror. “He hasn’t decided for sure,” she told her client. “It would be a big change.”
“He’s big-city cute, isn’t he? I can just see him walking down Georgia Street with his briefcase and smartphone. On his way to a power lunch with a big client.”
“I suppose. But Evan was like that when he was in Manhattan, and look how well he’s adjusted to Caribou Crossing. He’s more at home in a cowboy hat than wearing a tie.”
She finished the foils and patted Melody’s shoulder. “I’m setting the timer for fifteen minutes; then I’ll check you. Would you like another magazine? A cup of coffee or tea?”
“I’d love a coffee, thanks. Black.”
Brooke brought it to her, then rejoined Kate and Jake. “Sorry, but I was in the middle of a color job. Melody’s an up-and-comer at one of our local banks.”
Jake cocked his head. “Image is important. That’s really what you help people with, isn’t it? It’s more than just haircuts and color; it’s a look. One they choose to express their personality. Or to hide their true personality, I suppose.”
Brooke almost chuckled. As an undercover cop, he knew as much about creating an image as she did.
“Exactly,” Kate agreed. “For example, I can tell from looking at you that you’re not from Caribou Crossing. That hairstyle is terrific, but it’s urban. If you do decide to move, you’ll have to get Brooke to restyle your hair to something a little more casual. Otherwise people might be hesitant to approach you.”
“Except Melody,” Brooke said dryly. “She’s already decided you’re big-city cute, and that’s exactly what appeals to her.”
“Good heavens, cousin, are you match-making me?”
The two women laughed and Brooke marveled at how Jake managed to convey a completely different character than his own. He wasn’t overly prissy, just more formal and less macho than his real self, and it made a huge difference.
“Arnold, I sketched out a map to show you how to get to my house.” She dipped into a pocket of her smock and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “Take a look and see if it’s clear.”
She’d been tempted to write him a silly, sexy note, but had realized that curious Kate might want to take a look at the map, as she was now craning to do.
“It’s excellent,” he said, “though you didn’t need to. My car has GPS, and so does my smartphone. Accountants don’t believe in getting lost.”
Both women chuckled, and then Brooke handed him her spare key. “Make yourself at home.”
“Thank you,” Jake said. “Now I should get out of your hair, if you’ll forgive the expression.” He gazed at Brooke, and for a second she saw the real Jake behind Arnold’s glasses. He wanted to touch her. She knew it. But he didn’t think it would be in character for Arnold.
She flashed him a sudden smile and leaned forward to grip his shoulders and plant a kiss on his cheek. “It’s so good to have you here, Arnold.”
“Oh! Well, thank you, Brooke. It’s good to be here. Good to see you again.” He managed to look both pleased and flustered—a perfect Arnold reaction.
When he had gone, Kate said, “What a nice man. Has he changed much since he was a boy?”
“He was a geeky kid, and now he has more poise and polish. The glasses are new, but I guess number crunching all day is hard on the eyes. As for personality, it’s hard to tell yet. He was a sweet boy, so I hope he’s turned into a nice man.”
“He’s staying through the weekend?”
“That’s the plan. Unless we scare him off.”
Jake didn’t really expect that they’d have sex when Brooke got home from work, so he tried not to be disappointed when she dashed in saying, “Sorry, I’m running late. Give me five minutes and I’ll be ready.”
He had a feeling this wasn’t the time to join her in the shower. Still, he was awfully tempted when the water came on.
She was almost true to her word. It was no more than ten minutes until she was back downstairs, dressed in figure-hugging jeans and a greenish blue top that made her striking eyes even more intense. When she stretched up to drop a quick kiss on his lips, he smelled minty toothpaste. He couldn’t resist drawing her to him for one long, full-body hug.
“Did you get the condoms?” she whispered, her breath tickling his ear seductively.
“I’ve got my priorities straight.” It had now been almost twelve hours since he’d last seen her naked and he didn’t know how he was going to make it through the evening.
She hurried to the kitchen to retrieve the chocolate-mint layer cake she’d taken from the freezer that morning.
He followed. “How far is Evan and Jessica’s place?”
“Only five minutes’ drive.”
“Let’s compare notes before we go. Do we have time?”
She checked the bird clock on the kitchen wall. “Ten minutes. I don’t like being late. But I am curious. Did Jamal have any new information? I like him, by the way.”
“He likes you too. Let’s see. That store, Gifts of the Caribou, really was burglarized.”
“Yes, Kate told me.”
“If someone was looking for a reason to ask questions about a guy on a motorbike, faking a crime would give him one. Jamal couldn’t find anything against the owner of the store, Patel. What do you know about him?”
“His family came from India, he grew up around here, and he’s married to a woman he met in India
when he was visiting relatives. I think it was an arranged marriage, but it seems to have worked well. They’ve got three kids. Vijay has always struck me as a nice guy, polite but a little pushy. A typical salesman. His store is nice; his family is nice. I can’t see him being a criminal.”
“Any trips out of town, like to shop for inventory?”
She shook her head. “The family goes to India every couple of years to visit relatives. And Vijay has a brother who’s a doctor in Vancouver, who they visit once or twice a year. I can’t imagine him sneaking out on them and visiting a hooker, doing drug deals.” She sighed. “But that’s the point, isn’t it? The killer isn’t going to be the most likely person.”
Then she said, “Your informant, Sapphire, didn’t say anything about the bad guy’s race?”
“Anika didn’t give her any physical description. If you had to name the most likely man, who’d you say?”
“Hmm. Sergeant Miller is a self-important sexist bully. I’m almost sure Randy Sorokin, the chair of the chamber of commerce, abuses his wife. After living with Mo, I recognize the signs. But even if he’s an abuser and Miller’s a sexist pig, that’s a long stretch from prostitutes and drugs.” She paused.
“Yes?” he prompted.
“There’s Howard Cray, the manager at National Bank. His eyes spook me. He smiles, but his eyes never warm.” She told him about the conversation she’d had with Melody, one of Cray’s employees.
“Trips to Vancouver,” Jake said thoughtfully, “mainly alone. Throws money around. The manager of a Caribou Crossing bank doesn’t make the kind of money to buy an Architectural Digest type of home. And you say he and his wife and son all have BMWs?”
She nodded. “His wife sells real estate and maybe she does really well, but the economy’s been depressed for the last few years and property values are down.”
“One of them could have inherited money,” he mused. “I’ll get Jamal to see what he can find out. Cray’s a good lead, Brooke. It’s logical for Arnold to chat with a bank manager if he’s thinking about setting up a business. What about Miller and Sorokin? Any trips out of town?”
