by D. D. Ayres
It occurred to Law that within five minutes Becker had questioned his access to the state police database, his mobility, and his dog’s purpose. This was an interrogation.
“See you around.” Law swiveled his chair back into position.
Becker stood shifting his weight from foot to foot as if his boots were a size too small. “You plan on riding a desk into retirement?”
Law looked up, his expression impenetrable. “You got a better suggestion?”
“Could be.” Again, that probing look. Definitely fishing. “There’re sweet positions for a former law enforcement officer who’d rather make money than arrests.”
Law let himself show the barest hint of interest. “What would my sweet position look like?”
Becker grinned, no doubt thinking he’d sensed a nibble on his bait. “You tell me.”
Law reared back in his chair. “She’d be a double-jointed bareback rider with a pathetic need to please.”
Becker guffawed. “You get tired of this? You give me a call.”
Law continued to stare at the doorway after Becker left. This wasn’t a random visit. He’d bet his ass on that. But what, exactly, had Becker really wanted? Unless someone had noticed what he’d been up to.
Law glanced casually around the room. No one was watching him. That didn’t mean that no one was paying attention to his actions on the job.
On the face of it, his first week back here had been boring as hell. His captain was shocked when he’d volunteered to run background checks, because that was the issue over which Law had handed in his resignation. But doing those checks gave him access to what he wanted, NCIC and Accurint, crime information databases. He’d been careful to sign in to them only when information about a potential employee legitimately steered him there. Once in he’d been covertly checking the data banks, looking for any drug-related information during the past four years that involved Tice Industries.
There had been several Tice truckers arrested for drug transport while he was serving in Afghanistan. A few in Arkansas, plus one in Tennessee and one in Oklahoma. But they were independent contractors with Tice Industries, and went to jail without incriminating Tice.
What he was doing was risky. Law enforcement officers couldn’t just go on a fishing expedition through databases. They needed a warrant or probable cause. After a week of nothing he was about to throttle back for a few days, before someone noticed his intense searches. Then yesterday he’d come upon the file of Brody Rogers.
Rogers, a Tice corporate manager and related to the Tices by marriage, had been killed four years ago when his car missed a curve on a mountain road in the Ozarks north of Fayetteville. Dealer-sized amounts of coke, prescription drugs, and thirty thousand dollars in cash were found in his car.
For about three seconds Law hadn’t been able to believe his luck. It was his first solid connection to Tice, but it came with a corker of a twist. Brody Rogers’s fiancée and alleged accomplice was Jori Garrison.
“Going to lunch?”
Law’s head jerked up out of his thoughts to find a fellow trooper standing before his desk. “Hey, Franklin. No thanks. I’ve got something going on.”
The trooper nodded and moved on.
With his senses on high alert, Law reached into his pocket and pulled out the flash drive he carried everywhere. It contained only one file, labeled SOCKS. He didn’t need to read it again. He’d already memorized everything he could find about Jori Garrison, her arrest, and her subsequent trial. The newspaper accounts provided him with a good outline of events. Then he’d read and reread court documents, public record, three times. Each time he came to the same conclusion. She was probably innocent. The evidence against Jori was all circumstantial. But it was enough to convict her, without Brody Rogers there to testify on her behalf.
He exhaled in disgust. She should have been smarter than to hook up with a dirtbag like Brody. How could she have allowed herself to be conned by him?
Brody Rogers wasn’t some random guy, his conscience reminded him. Jori had been engaged to him. Conclusion: She must have been in love.
That thought, as irrelevant as it was to his life, pissed him off.
What was it she’d seen in him? Money? Prestige? Those things weren’t important to the woman he’d met three weeks ago. Or maybe Law was just seeing what he wanted to see.
But he was a cop, first, last, and always. He couldn’t afford to let his personal feelings cloud his judgment just because he wanted something to be true. He had years of experience watching and interrogating criminals of every kind. Drug dealers came in all ages and sexes, and from all ethnic and economic backgrounds. No shock that Rogers was a dealer. But Jori lacked a selfish calculating personality. Her emotions were always on her face, probably to her disadvantage. Still, she might know things that would be useful to his investigation of Tice Industries.
That was the reason, he told himself, that he’d called Warriors Wolf Pack this morning to book his week of home supervision with a trainer. He needed time with Jori to learn what she knew. It had nothing to do with the itch he’d scratched. No, that was a lie. It did have to do with sex, and everything else about her. He couldn’t not think of her.
Images of Jori still crept up on him in quiet moments. Surprisingly, the sweet moments outnumbered the nasty-girl ones. Jori taking Sam through her paces. Her slight frown as she concentrated on helping a vet understand a command. The way she fiddled with the end of her braid when she was nervous. Or the way she would sigh, so deeply, when she thought no one was watching. She was lonely, haunted, and unsure of her future. All those things had hooked into his psyche because he shared the feelings. But unlike her, he was fine with being adrift.
Other images, of her naked and sprawled on her bed, well, those just made him horny. And guilty. He’d never thought of himself as a user. But his last glimpse of her, resolute, shoulders squared against his departure, haunted him.
“Hell.” Law expelled the word softly. He needed to get laid again.
When he found time. When he made time. When he had cleared his conscience about Jori.
Meanwhile, he had a job to do and Jori had become part of it. So he’d stuff every damn feeling and impulse away and work the case.
Law mentally checked his objectives. Get Jori to talk about what had happened to her. Get her to tell him everything she could about Rogers: his habits, his friends, his lifestyle. Then let her go back home. Conscience clear.
This time he mentally bodychecked his conscience’s attempt to sidetrack him. Yeah, he’d been a real jerk. Maybe Jori attracted the type. She’d certainly gotten his attention. But no, that wasn’t fair. He couldn’t fault her for being attracted enough to take a chance with him. She’d accepted the ground rules and had played by them. The only cheat in the relationship was him. He had wanted to stay, could have stayed for days, weeks, and so he’d run.
But now he was pursuing an investigation and, as always, would go wherever that took him.
Except that, underneath all his real and important objectives, he simply wanted to see Jori again. And now he had the perfect excuse.
Law ran a palm down his pant leg to wipe away the sweat. He couldn’t believe how nervous that thought made him. Not the deep-down gut quiver he got before going on duty with Scud. This was more an out-of-my-depth sensation. He had the feeling he was going to have to protect her from himself.
Because if she gave him an inch, he was going to take the whole nine yards.
* * *
“This little gadget teaches your dog how to think and solve problems.”
Jori loaded a nugget of dog food in each of the slots at the back of the puzzle then held it up for the class of trainers to see.
“Every door opens by a different method. This one has a button. This one has a lever. Another slides.” Jori demonstrated each as she went along.
“Our dogs must be able to help a veteran who can’t reach to flip a switch or slide a bolt, or press a panic button i
f down or incapacitated. Some puzzles open easily for a quick reward. Others require repeated effort. This way your dog learns that there is a reward for persistence. By figuring out how things work, the dog gains the confidence to try new things, become self-motivated and diligent.”
One of the student-trainers, Amy, held up her hand. “I don’t know what dill-gent means.”
“It means hardworking. And careful.” Kelli, who had been observing from a distance, stepped closer to the line of women and dogs.
“Cassandra wasn’t diligent yesterday.” Amy turned to the woman next to her. “I had to clean Shiloh’s teeth for you.”
“That’s on account I got sent to the nurse.” Cassandra cupped her lower belly with a hand. “I had the cramps something awful.”
Amy smirked. “You ate two ice cream bars last night. That’s what that was.”
The other women laughed. There were no drink machines or candy or snack machines permitted at the women’s correctional center. The occasional ice cream was the sole food reward for good behavior.
“Okay. Let’s see what your dogs can do. Leanne, you and Bitsy go first.”
Jori placed the puzzle on the concrete floor then stepped back and folded her arms. Though she was supposed to be concentrating on the dog working the puzzles, her gaze kept straying to the line of women in white baggy jumpsuits waiting their turn to show what their service dogs could do. The sight was painfully familiar. Once she’d been one of them. Eager to please in a uniform that was nearly impossible to keep clean when one lived in a building with eleven other women and twelve dogs.
Occasionally the gaze of one of the women darted toward her. Those looks made her palms sweat. They were sizing her up, yet treating her with a distance made up of much more than the six months since her release. She was no longer one of them. She’d made it to the outside.
The sudden sense that she didn’t belong anywhere—never far from her thoughts—settled like an invisible blanket over her.
Though the training of inmates went on weekly, this was her first time back at the correctional center. The thought of reentering the prison had had her lying wide-eyed awake all night, feeling many things and wondering how she’d react. Yet all she had felt upon entering the facility near Newport, Arkansas, was the certainty that she was here as an instructor. That, and the relief in knowing that when the doors closed this afternoon, she would be on the outside.
That knowledge made her feel both giddy and guilty.
Jori shushed her thoughts. Today wasn’t about her. It was about offering a future to these inmates, the dogs they trained, and ultimately the veterans the dogs were destined to aid. Her petty where-do-I-belong troubles were nothing compared with that.
For the next two hours, Jori and the other instructors from Warriors Wolf Pack worked with the canine teams, evaluating the responses of the dogs and student-trainers.
The sounds of the plastic clickers used to attract the young dog’s attention to his or her trainer made it seem as if a dozen giant crickets had invaded the large space. The inmates trained young dogs, beginning at eight weeks, for eight to ten hours a day, in the basics.
The dormitory-style building within the prison grounds was erected to exclusively house those female inmates working with Warriors Wolf Pack. Metal beds were placed in two rows with a metal kennel for a dog beside each bed. They trained and slept apart from the general population, though they did share meals and work details when not training their assigned dog. It wasn’t fancy. There was no air-conditioning. Heating was used only when the temperature dropped to near freezing, as it had this early-December morning.
Jori was actually enjoying herself when the lunchtime buzzer sounded, followed by the arrival of several female corrections officers. One whom Jori recognized as Mrs. Mitchell made hard eye contact. The hair on Jori’s arms lifted. Mrs. Mitchell had been a hard-ass about rules, and a bit of a Bible-thumper. Even as she told herself the woman no longer had any control over her in any way, Jori couldn’t stop four years of institutionalized fear from flooding her.
Heart thumping like a jackhammer, she turned to her trainee. “Make certain Happy is checking in with you each time she completes a task, Cora.”
Cora nodded but didn’t make eye contact. Her chin wobbled and her shoulders rounded in self-protection. “They’re coming for Happy at the end of the week.”
Jori knew immediately what the problem was. Happy was Cora’s first dog. After four months the puppies left here to continue their socialization with puppy raiser families. “You’ll see her again.”
“I know. Only she won’t be mine when she comes back.”
That was true. Happy would be assigned a different inmate trainer when she returned. Part of WWP’s purpose was to teach inmates to serve others and stop the selfish behaviors that had landed many of them here. Still, loneliness was the Black Plague of incarceration.
“You should be proud that Happy’s learned enough to move forward. You’ve made a difference. It’s not about us. It’s about the people we serve.” Jori scotched the impulse to pat Cora’s shoulder. She was a trainee, not a friend. “Let’s get some lunch.”
Minutes later, Kelli waved Jori over to her table. “I held a seat for you.”
“Thanks.” Jori plunked her lunch tray down and sat.
“Mr. Battise just called the office to schedule his three-week check.” Kelli waggled her brows at Jori. “He asked for you.”
“You got a man?” One of the inmates who shared their table was staring eagerly at Jori.
“No.” She didn’t have a man. She’d had sex with Lauray Battise. Hot, sweaty, delicious sex that gave her a rush every time she thought about it. But Battise was gone. Not one word in three weeks. Three weeks! And now he thought he could pick up the phone and summon her?
No one at Warriors Wolf Pack had said a thing about them going off together. Not even when she came back alone. They had speculated like mad, though. She could see it in their sideways glances. But she wasn’t the kind of person who shared intimate details, the emphasis on intimate.
Heat and desire licked through Jori as she stared at her plate. Useless to try to push the memories away. She’d tried often enough. Now that he had been gone long enough for her to fully appreciate the nevermore part of their hookup, it was all she could think about when she wasn’t working.
Sex with Battise had made her wonder if she’d ever really had sex before. Oh, she’d rolled around with a few guys before Brody, hooked up body parts and thought, Yeah, this is nice. But getting it on with Battise had been—well. The earth moved.
Her thighs tightened involuntarily with an urge she had no way to satisfy at the moment. Oh no. She wasn’t going to let Battise ruin her day.
She tucked into her beans and rice, and choked. The food tasted of prison life. And just now, she couldn’t swallow that.
“You need to get you some Beano.” Jori looked over at the same inmate who was still watching her. “Them beans can bind up a body somethin’ awful.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
In the time it took to walk to her SUV with the last of her supplies, Jori started having second thoughts about agreeing to spend a week with Battise. She was just asking for heartache.
Or maybe a helluva week of mind-blowing sex.
A smile tugged her mouth as she climbed behind the wheel, but she resisted. As difficult as Battise could be at times, she hadn’t regretted for even a second what had happened between them. She just needed to dial back her expectations before she saw him again.
Yeah. Like that was going to happen. Just remembering watching him towel off after a shower, all damp and squeaky-clean naked, made her mind sweat and her body tense.
A horn sounding sharply from behind her vehicle startled Jori. She’d been so busy thinking about sex she’d put her SUV in gear and begun backing up without really looking behind her. A big brown delivery van was now taking up her full-review mirror.
Jori hopped out. “Sorry. Didn
’t see you.”
“No harm.” The woman driver looked at her invoice. “Are you Jori Garrison?” Jori nodded. “This is for you.” The woman handed over a huge box. “And I need you to sign here, please. Thanks. Have a good one,” the driver tossed back over her shoulder as she hurried away.
Jori did not need confirmation of the return address to realize who the box was from. But there it was anyway, written in her mother’s cheerful print. Nor did she need to open it to find out what was inside. Dresses for her to choose from for the reception and wedding coming up in a few days. Her mother had sent a text message telling her to expect them.
Annoyed that her mother hadn’t taken no for an answer, Jori stalked back to her SUV, jerked open a back door, and tossed the box on the seat.
“Doesn’t anyone listen to me?” She slammed the door so hard the SUV rocked.
Mee-owing in concern, Argyle poked her head up through the top of the cat carrier sitting on the floor of the passenger side to check out the source of that frustrated voice.
Jori slid behind the wheel. “Not now, Argyle.” She pushed her kitten gently back inside and checked the lock. Then she started the ignition, threw the SUV into gear, and took off as if she could outdistance her problems by driving like a bat out of hell.
* * *
“No. No. No. Not here.”
Jori thumped her palm repeatedly against the steering wheel. Her vehicle had just sputtered, choked, and then rolled to a halt on the half shoulder of a two-lane blacktop in the Boston Mountains of northwest Arkansas.
She twisted the key in the ignition. The dashboard lit up and then her gaze shifted to the gas gauge. It was mostly broken. It had two settings: half full and desert-dry empty. At the moment the little red needle lay flat on its back like a victim of a heatstroke, despite the December chill in the air.
“Crap in a can!”
She reached into the glove compartment for the notepad on which she kept her record of fill-ups. The numbers didn’t lie. She was out of gas.
Jori shook her head in self-disgust. How could she have forgotten to buy gas? Of course. She’d been too busy trying to outrun her anger over her mother’s package to think about filling up.
