by Susan Fox
As they walked to the car, Jake said, “What was Dave talking about?”
“I guess he thought you were enjoying Caribou Crossing.”
“You don’t figure he’s on to us?”
“We were perfectly circumspect.”
Well, they’d tried to be. But they had exchanged a few whispers and maybe a couple of personal glances. He opened the car door for Brooke. “Let’s go home, where we can be perfectly uncircumspect. My fingers are itching to pop those snaps on your shirt.”
The next morning, after spending an hour on the phone with Jamal getting an information update, Jake headed into town. When he walked into the small, plainly furnished RCMP detachment, he was Arnold at his most circumspect in suit, tie, and glasses.
Karen MacLean was working at a computer and came to greet him. A corporal like Jake, she was one rank below Miller.
The detachment, according to the staff list Jamal had provided, was made up of Miller, MacLean and another corporal, and a half dozen constables.
After exchanging greetings with MacLean, Jake said, “Is Sergeant Miller in?”
She narrowed her eyes and tilted her head. “You don’t trust what I had to say about the crime rate here?”
“It’s not that. I’d like to meet the man who’s in charge of the community’s safety.”
“Polite answer.” She called over her shoulder, “Hey, Sarge, someone here to see you.”
Jake had, of course, seen Miller before, from Brooke’s bedroom window. Now he got a closer view. Brooke had called the man a redneck, and he could see why. He was as far overweight as a man could get without failing his physical, his face showed the broken veins of a drinker, and his handshake went past firm to trying to make a point. As Arnold conceded the contest, Jake took pleasure in knowing he could, in mere seconds, have the man writhing on the floor in agony.
“I met Mr. Pitt at the fund-raiser on Friday night,” MacLean said. “He’s thinking about moving to Caribou Crossing and opening an accounting practice.”
She’d left out the most important bit of his cover story, so he added it. “My cousin, Brooke Kincaid, told me an accountant had just left town.”
Miller smirked. “You’re Brooke’s cousin?”
Jake understood immediately that this man had condemned Brooke long ago and didn’t believe in second chances. No such thing as an open mind here.
Jake wanted to punch him out. The reaction was instinctive and pure. He breathed in slowly, quelling it.
Karen MacLean made a small movement and he glanced at her, reading in her eyes that she understood exactly what was going on. Now he saw why she hadn’t mentioned Brooke’s name.
He liked MacLean.
Jake breathed out again, slowly. “I’m tired of gang wars, drug trafficking, hookers on the street. I hear Caribou Crossing doesn’t have those kinds of problems?”
Miller gave a snort and turned to MacLean. “When’s the last gang war we had?”
She gave a small, polite smile. “Only gang we’ve ever had trouble with was the bikers Death Row, a few years back. The sergeant discouraged them from visiting.”
Death Row was almost as famous as Hell’s Angels—and known to be heavily involved in the drug trade. Jake knew it was hard to discourage The Row. He figured either the bikers had decided the town had little to offer, or Miller was selling to them down in Vancouver.
“And what about violent crimes, drugs, prostitution?” Jake asked.
“Let me show you our stats,” Miller said. He took Jake to his office, where he located a file on his computer and turned the monitor so Jake could see. “We compile statistics and present them at meetings of the town council and chamber of commerce.”
Jake studied the graph and had to admit the statistics were impressive. Especially when it came to drug offenses. “You don’t have a problem with drugs?”
“Oh, shoot!” Miller glanced at his watch. “Glad you reminded me. I have to head out. I’m giving a talk at the high school.” He ushered Jake out of his office.
“Is that how you deter drug use among teenagers?”
“We have numerous initiatives. A zero-tolerance policy. I make that very clear to students, once or twice each year.”
They were walking past MacLean’s desk and Jake noticed her studying both of them, a frown on her face. After shaking Miller’s hand again and leaving the detachment, Jake puzzled over just what that frown might have meant.
He was frowning himself, dissatisfied with the outcome of this visit. He had a lot of unanswered questions, and it would be difficult to find an excuse for another visit with Miller. So far, he’d learned nothing against the man. He might dislike the sergeant intensely, but the man’s crime stats were good and it said a lot for him that he went to the schools to speak to students. Of course, it might just be part of his cover—discouraging drug use in public while in fact he was growing BC Bud out in the hills.
Jake popped into Beauty Is You to see if Brooke had time for lunch, and caught both her and Kate leafing through beauty magazines. “Mondays tend to be slow,” Kate said. “How about letting Brooke give you a Caribou Crossing haircut?”
He thought of how good Brooke’s hands had felt on his scalp the last time. She massaged when she shampooed. It was a real turn-on. He was tempted. But the slicker Vancouver style was part of his Arnold image so he said, “While I trust Brooke implicitly, my stylist in Vancouver would throw a fit if I let someone else touch my hair. Besides, I came by to see if anyone is interested in lunch.”
They both took him up on his offer.
He liked the sandwich shop the women took him to. Named Big & Small, it offered a variety of sandwiches, wraps, and salads—everything available in full- and half-sized servings. The women chose half-sized salads and half-sized wraps, while he went for a full salad and the day’s special, grilled chicken and mushrooms on focaccia bread. The meals cost half what they would in Vancouver, and his tasted great.
Though he’d have preferred to have Brooke to himself, he enjoyed Kate’s company. She had the same commonsense approach as her niece Jessica, and a wicked sense of humor that provided him with some insights into various townspeople. It was also clear that she was very fond of Brooke. Fonder than Brooke let herself realize.
Couldn’t the damned woman give herself some credit? Or was she nervous about letting herself have friends? About making commitments, taking responsibility.
When they walked outside after lunch, Brooke pointed across the street. “Arnold, I don’t know if you’ve been in that store yet, but I think you’d find it interesting. Vijay Patel has a great collection of arts and crafts as well as tourist items. You might pick yourself up a Caribou Crossing T-shirt.” Eyes twinkling, she said, “Or a bolo tie.”
“Uh-huh,” he said dryly. “I’m more interested in the arts and crafts.” He’d already met Patel at the fund-raiser, but it wouldn’t hurt to check out the store—plus he’d like to get something for Brooke, to thank her for . . . everything.
Inside, Patel was occupied with a couple of tourists doing souvenir shopping, so Jake browsed on his own. The place was too cluttered for his taste but it carried a good selection. As well as the to-be-expected cowboy- and gold-mining-themed souvenirs, tees with the Caribou Crossing logo, and miniature caribou, there was elegant silver and gold jewelry by local First Nations artists, corn-husk and dried-apple dolls, and patterned silk scarves that looked as if they’d come from India.
A few minutes later, Patel bustled toward him. “So sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Pitt. I am honored to have you visit my shop.”
“I’d like to buy a gift for my cousin, to thank her for her hospitality.”
“Ah, yes. What do you think Ms. Kincaid would like? And, if I may make a delicate inquiry, do you have a price range in mind?”
“I’m not so worried about price. I want something she’ll really enjoy.” He’d noticed she had a couple of paintings of flowers on her walls, so he headed to the display of watercolors. “She likes flow
ers.”
“Here you see the work of two local painters, both women. One, as you can see, is more traditional in her representations, and the other more abstract. I do not know Ms. Kincaid well, so I am not in a good position to judge.”
Jake was drawn to an abstract of a country garden overflowing with summer blooms in shades of peach and pink. The colors reminded him of Brooke’s lingerie. “This one.”
“An excellent choice.”
Jake bit back a smile, guessing that Patel would have said the same thing no matter which item he chose.
While the man wrapped the painting and Jake paid the bill in cash—avoiding using a fake debit card, even though the transaction would have gone through—they chatted. Jake left the store feeling pretty confident Patel was no drug dealer.
He hid the painting in the trunk of his Lexus, then wandered the streets of Caribou Crossing, popping into the various businesses and chatting with salesclerks and proprietors. The more he saw of this town, the more he could see why Brooke stayed here.
And yet Anika’s killer was from Caribou Crossing.
Chapter Eighteen
Deciding to do a little surveillance, Jake drove to the town’s one high school. After cruising the neighborhood, he chose a parking spot on a quiet side street, with a view of the front door.
As kids flowed out he saw the usual stuff: girls in groups giggling; boys in groups horsing around; girls and boys holding hands; kids on their own trying to look like they didn’t care they had no friends. Some of the kids could’ve been in Vancouver and others exhibited the more typical Caribou Crossing Western style.
Three boys came out, and Jake’s attention focused on them. They were a little on the grungy side but not particularly different from many of the other kids, yet there was that indefinable something about them that to Jake said pothead.
They piled into a beat-up old Camaro and when they hit the main street Jake was behind them, a couple of cars back. He kept them in sight as they turned this way and that, and finally onto the highway.
He hung back as they drove several miles north. When they exited at a road marked by a Greenbrier Nursery sign, his pulse quickened. Maybe they lived out this way but his gut told him they were up to something. Like a drug buy.
Letting them get a good lead, he turned onto Greenbrier Road. It was narrow, twisty, and went into the woods. Another big sign, with landscaping around it, marked the nursery. He checked the parking lot. Six vehicles; no Camaro.
He continued down the road, creeping now with his eyes peeled and window down, glad for the Lexus’s near-silent engine. When metal glinted through the trees ahead, he pulled over and slid out of the car, easing the door shut so it didn’t make a sound. Using the trees along the road for cover, he snuck forward.
The road dead-ended and two vehicles were parked in the turnaround: the Camaro and a black truck with a tinted-window canopy and big tires. Bingo! It was the same truck that had been parked at the grow op.
He crept closer. The three boys were talking to a man: roughly midtwenties, nondescript, about five feet ten, 160 pounds, slim but not very fit. He wore jeans, a gray plaid shirt, and a green baseball cap. The kind of man you could see a dozen times and still not remember. Unless you were a cop, and trained to observe every detail.
It was a drug deal, no question. The three boys passed over some bills and the nondescript man handed over a couple of bags. Jake squinted. Pot in the large bag, and something else in a small baggie, but he couldn’t identify it before one of the boys pocketed it. Crack? E? Crystal meth? Heroin? There were so many possibilities.
He snuck back to his car, quietly backed down the road, then turned and drove to the nursery parking lot. He turned his car to face the road, engine idling. When the black truck came past, he’d follow it. He had the plate number on the Camaro; he could always find the boys again. It was the dealer he was really after.
“What are you doing?” The female voice spoke through his open window and he jumped, hitting his head on the roof of the car.
It was Corporal MacLean. She stood back from the car, her hand resting on the Smith & Wesson at her hip. “Engine off and out of the car, Mr. Pitt. Hands in sight at all times. And no fast moves.”
He obeyed her to the letter, wondering where the hell she’d come from. He glanced around the parking lot, noting that there was a new car, one that might well be an unmarked police vehicle.
“What’s the problem?” he asked. “I was thinking about getting Brooke a plant for her garden and someone recommended this place.”
“Someone at the high school?”
“Uh . . . What do you mean?”
She rolled her eyes. “Can it. I’ve been behind you all the way.”
Shit. He’d picked up a tail and not realized because he’d never even considered the possibility. Hell of a cop he was.
A middle-aged couple came out of the nursery, accompanied by an attendant pushing a wheelbarrow full of plants and gardening supplies. The three of them glanced in Jake and MacLean’s direction, then busied themselves loading up the back of a red truck.
Jake studied the corporal’s face. She was definitely on guard but she looked excited and curious. God knew what she thought he was. Pedophile? Drug dealer?
It wasn’t like he had a lot of options, so he made a quick judgment call. “My name is Jake Brannon. Corporal Brannon. RCMP U/C, from headquarters in Vancouver. I’m here investigating a murder committed by a drug dealer.”
Her mouth fell open. Then she closed it again. “Go over to my car. Walk slowly, keep your hands in sight.”
“Wait, there’s a truck parked down that road. The guy’s dealing drugs. I need to follow it.”
“It’s you I’m interested in right now. You do a pretty good job of tailing, Mr. Pitt-Brannon, but you don’t watch your own butt very well.”
He scowled. “Where did you pick me up?”
“At the school. Saw you drive up and park. After all your talk about drugs and the schools, I got suspicious. When you peeled out I followed you.”
“Look, can we climb into one of our cars? I don’t want those guys coming down the road and seeing us, with you in uniform.”
She studied him through narrowed eyes. “Go to my car. I’ll check you out.”
He strode toward her car. “Don’t use your radio, and don’t call Miller.”
The couple in the red truck drove past, heads craned curiously.
“Notice you can identify an unmarked,” MacLean commented. “Now let’s see if you remember the position.”
He leaned against the car and spread his legs.
She searched him thoroughly and went through his wallet. “Arnold Pitt.”
“It’s my cover. My sergeant at headquarters put it together for me.”
“We’ll see. Get in the passenger seat.”
As he climbed in, the Camaro came back down the road. “Those are the kids who bought drugs,” he said. “A black truck’ll be coming. He’s the seller.”
MacLean got into the driver’s seat, keeping one hand close to her firearm.
The two of them watched the road in silence, and sure enough the truck drove past. She nodded slowly. “Okay, I know who that is.”
“Who?”
She ignored him and opened her cell phone with her free hand. She’d listened to him, wasn’t using the police radio.
“Who are you calling?”
“HQ in Vancouver.”
Not Miller. Did that mean she had her own suspicions about her boss? “My sergeant’s name is Estevez.”
She spoke into the phone. “Give me Inspector Morrissey.” He shrugged. Fine, let her do it her way. Points to her that she knew Kathleen Morrissey. He had a lot of respect for the inspector.
“You folks got a member called Brannon?” she asked. “Jake Brannon? Says he’s a corporal.”
She listened, then said, “Uh-huh. Describe him.” Listening, her mouth quirked into a grin. “Guess he’s had a haircut recently.
Traded the leather for a suit and tie.” She handed the phone to Jake. “Say hello and see if she identifies you.”
“Hey, inspector. You can check with Estevez. He’ll tell you what I’m doing here.”
“I’ll do that. Hang on.”
“Before you go, I take it you know MacLean?”
“You’re checking me out?” Corporal MacLean hissed.
He nodded, then listened as Morrissey gave a strong recommendation. He handed the cell back to MacLean. “She’s checking with my sergeant. She’ll get back to you.”
They waited in silence for several minutes; then MacLean said into the phone, “Okay.” She laughed and closed the phone. “She wants a photo of you in a suit and tie.” Then her expression went serious. “What’s this about?”
“Drugs and murder.” He watched her face. “Maybe a corrupt cop.”
Her eyes didn’t flicker.
“You were at the school this afternoon too,” he pointed out. “You’ve been thinking about what Robin said. You went to see if you could pick up on any signs of drug dealing, even though that’s stuff Miller handles personally. And you didn’t phone him to check me out. You suspect him of being involved.”
“He’s my sergeant,” she said slowly.
“You don’t want to say anything against him because you don’t have evidence. So I’ll tell you a story, and then we’ll see where we stand. But not here. People shouldn’t see us together.”
She gnawed on her lower lip. “Yeah, okay. We’ll meet somewhere.”
“Brooke’s house.”
“You shouldn’t have brought Brooke Kincaid into this.”
“It’s a long story. When does your shift end?”
“I’m on my own time now. I signed out the unmarked overnight.”
“Good, but we don’t want anyone seeing it at Brooke’s. I’ll follow you to your place, you park it and grab some civvies, then sneak into my car. I’ll bring you back later tonight.”
She reflected. “Fair enough.”
He nodded. “I can trust you on this, right, corporal? It’s not just me, it’s Brooke’s life we’re talking about.”
