Licensed for Trouble

by Susan May Warren

Which probably accounted for why she was swimming her flank steak through the mushroom sauce, replaying Max’s reaction to Jinx’s proclamation. She’d called Jeremy and left a message, asking him to send Max’s picture to his contacts in the military.

  “That’s some pretty good legwork,” Boone said, finishing off the last bite of his salmon.

  “See, I am a private investigator.”

  “Oh, I’ve never doubted your ability to uncover the truth.” Boone smiled over his glass. “Just the wisdom of it.” He set down his glass. “Which reminds me . . .” He reached into his suit coat and pulled out an envelope. Set it on the table.

  “What’s this?” PJ reached for the envelope. It contained two sheets of paper.

  “One is a copy of the police report on the night Max washed up onshore. I’ll sum it up for you.” Boone signaled to the waiter. “The Kellogg hobo found Max Smith around midnight four years ago in October. He was floating in the water, and the hobo pulled him ashore. The report lists the statement and Max’s injuries.”

  “I can’t believe the Kellogg hobo is still around. He’s been homeless in Kellogg since . . . well, since we were kids. But I did see him recently—he actually gave me a handkerchief a couple months ago.” The night Connie had thrown her out on the street, to be exact.

  “His name’s Murph, by the way. At least, that’s what he calls himself. He’s still homeless, although believe me, efforts have been made to get him into a shelter. He always seems to bounce out—as if he doesn’t want the help. Then he disappears for a while, only to pop up again after a couple months. I think he must make a circuit around the lake. The good news is that I saw him not long ago, camped out under the Maximilian Bay Bridge, not far from where he pulled Max out of the water.”

  “Maybe I could talk to him, see what he remembers.”

  Boone winced. “I’m not sure that’s the best idea. Besides, what is he going to remember?”

  “I don’t know—but shouldn’t I follow up every lead?”

  The waiter came over, and Boone gestured to PJ’s plate. “Her dinner is cold—can you reheat it?”

  The waiter picked it up. “Right away, sir.” He took it away as PJ tried to catch up.

  “How’d you know my steak was cold?”

  Boone shot her an I-know-you; don’t-be-stupid look. “The only thing you eat cold is pizza. And you’ve been pushing your food around your plate for a half hour. What are you thinking about?”

  “Max. And Joy Kellogg. And a guy named Hugh. And this strange locket Max found.”

  “Who’s Hugh?”

  “I don’t know. His name was on the back of a picture in the locket.”

  Boone wiped his mouth. “Which brings me to the next page.” He reached over and tugged out the bottom sheet. “I wrote up a little summary of the police report on Joy.”

  PJ stared at his hand-scrawled summary. “You did this for me?”

  “The case files belong to the Kellogg police. And although the file is cold, it’s still open. I can’t take it out of the station. I only took Max’s because he’s given his tacit permission.”

  PJ tried to scan the page, but Boone curled his hand over the top, folding it. “Here’s the gist—Joy Kellogg was trouble. She ran away from home when she was a teenager, and when she returned, she had a baby girl with her. Then, suddenly, she married Clay—you know, his father owned the sailboat place? Things weren’t always pretty between Clay and Joy. According to the maid’s account, they fought a lot and especially the night she went missing. Apparently Joy and Clay got into a ringer, and she stormed out of the house. They found her the next morning, facedown in the pond. Clay was at home all night—he has an alibi, verified by the maid. And there was no real sign of foul play. It could have been an accident—”

  “I thought you said she was murdered?”

  “Rumors around the station. But nothing was ever proven. So?” He lifted a shoulder.

  PJ put the summary in the envelope just as her plate of food returned. She dug into it. “I want to go talk to the hobo after dinner. Do you think we can find him?”

  Boone pressed his lips together. “Peej—we need to talk.”

  Her appetite left her, despite the sizzling steak. Now he would ask her to reconsider their breakup, and he’d do it by smiling softly, that tease in his blue eyes that could make her brain turn to mush. And if he took her hand while he did it, ran his thumb over the top if it, then she just might say—

  “I met someone.”

  She stilled, her fork unmoving in her grip. He gave her a grim smile. “She works for the paper, someone I’ve been friends with for a while. We saw each other again at the Harvest Festival, and . . . well, I just wanted you to know before . . .” He swallowed. “Before you saw us around town or something.”

  Which she easily read as a thinly veiled reference to the fact that he’d walked straight in on her and Jeremy in a lip-lock. The thought of Boone pulling another woman into his arms . . .

  Yes, she’d definitely lost her appetite. She set down her fork, put her hands in her lap. Breathed. Smiled.

  “Oh. That’s. Nice.” That wasn’t really her voice, was it? She sounded pitiful. She tried again. “I . . . I’m happy for you.”

  She should just give up now. But Boone was buying it—or at least acting like it—because he sighed, something like relief washing over his face. “I’m glad. I wanted us to be friends, but I wasn’t sure how, and I think this is a good place to begin. Like a fresh start for both of us. You with . . . Jeremy, and me with Lindy.”

  Lindy? As in Lindy the photographer? Perfect.

  She forced a smile through her teeth, trying oh so hard to unclench them. Connie’s words came back to her. So maybe this was what it looked like to be friends with Boone. She’d just breathe through it. “Yes . . . good for us. Or you. I’m not exactly with Jeremy.”

  He leaned forward. “Really? Is everything okay?” His move didn’t seem proprietary as much as something, indeed, a friend might say to another friend. Like two mature adults.

  Her eyes burned. She was so not talking to her ex-flame about her confusing non–love life with the mysterious Jeremy Kane, when she right now had the overwhelming urge to grab his hand, force him to race with her out to his Mustang, and head for the border.

  And what was that? Leftover pride? The remains of their affection?

  She took a breath as she stared at her food.

  “PJ, are you really okay?”

  She closed her eyes. Oh, please, please, she didn’t want to cry. She broke up with Boone for good reasons, like the fact that he couldn’t see the woman she wanted to become, or that they had both vastly changed since high school. But . . .

  She got up, feeling a little woozy.

  “PJ?”

  “I need some air.” She pasted something that might have been a smile on her face, strode through the restaurant, and pushed straight out into the cool night. The rich fragrance of fall, the stirring of the wind in the trees trickling leaves at her feet and sweeping the waves onto the shore—it all jolted her, and she gulped in a breath. Another.

  But she needed more than air. She needed her brain clear, her heart free.

  A fresh start.

  But—and the truth lunged at her, took hold even as she stalked out to the beach—she didn’t want one. She did like being Nothing but Trouble, the girl for whom Boone had pined ten years. She wanted him to carry a torch for her. She loved the thought of falling effortlessly back into his arms.

  Perhaps she wasn’t quite ready to give up trouble.

  As if reading her mind, Boone came up behind her and slipped his hands onto her shoulders. “You sure you’re okay?”

  She couldn’t help it; she leaned back against him, and his arms went around her shoulders, holding her tight, his chin balanced on the top of her head. He breathed with her a long moment.

  She waited for him to say the words—It doesn’t have to be this way; we could get back together. But he didn’t
. And she didn’t know if she should be grateful or hurt.

  Hooking her hands onto his strong arms, she sighed hard. “I’m sorry, Boone. I know you always thought of us together. I did too. I don’t know why it doesn’t work now.”

  He loosened his arms. “Me neither. But I’ve had a lot of time to think since we broke up, and I think you’re right. I always saw myself as the guy who got PJ into trouble. I’m not sure I’d know how to be anything else.”

  The guy who got PJ into trouble. So he had his own haunting voice, his own brand from the past. PJ nodded. “Me neither.”

  “Maybe it’s time we both figured that out.”

  PJ took his hand and stood beside him. He clutched hers as they watched the sunset dip finally into the horizon, leaving only the milky sheen of the emerging moon upon the waters.

  “As a start . . . could you be my bodyguard while we go and talk to the Kellogg hobo?” Please, Boone, don’t pull away.

  He didn’t. And when she looked at him, she was surprised to see a smile.

  “I think I could do that.”

  * * *

  “How does someone become homeless?” PJ let Boone take her hand as they walked through the short, October-crisp grass that edged the beach around the Maximilian Bay Bridge. They’d passed the mushroom house on the way, and from this vantage point, nearly across the bay, it appeared forlorn and miserable, its dark eyes peering out over the water.

  “A lot of homeless people are mentally ill. And the ones who aren’t . . . well, maybe they’re victims of a moment in time when everything collapsed,” Boone answered.

  “But where are their people? the ones they’re supposed to turn to? What happened to them?”

  “What happened to yours? I recall that up until two days ago, you were living on a sofa. Or worse, in your car.”

  “I had people. But I had pride, too.”

  “I think that might be a bigger part of the equation for a lot of people. No one likes to admit they’re beat.”

  “You should know, by the way, there was no camping out in the car. Although the Vic has come in handy.”

  “I’m glad you have another Bug. I can’t wrap my mind around my PJ in a cop car.”

  My PJ. The words lingered in the sounds of the night.

  “I guess I’m going to have to get used to not saying that.”

  She swallowed past the clog in her throat. “I can’t wait to get it back from Sammy and give the Vic back to Boris. I love the car, especially the moonroof, although it’s a bit sticky. Sammy’s working on it, as well as replacing the air filter. It feels as though every time I drive down the road, another part dies.”

  “What do you expect from an old Bug?”

  “Vintage, Boone. Vintage.”

  “Speaking of vintage, how is Gabby the dancing queen?” Boone sounded a smidge too enthusiastic at the change in topic.

  “She’s thinking about moving into an apartment for the elderly—although don’t get any fast ideas. It’s not assisted living. They hold Saturday night dances.”

  Boone had met PJ’s elderly former neighbor, dancer, and B-movie actress during her stint as Dally Morrison. A neighbor who had saved PJ’s life with her quick thinking and savvy acting.

  “She’ll be the belle of the ball, no doubt, entertaining them with her monologues.”

  The moon had risen into a perfect circle, a spotlight that limed down upon them, marking a beam through the grassy park toward the beach. The scent of smoke tinged the air, and next to Boone, she, too, wasn’t immune to the fingers of time reaching out to pull her back. “Do you remember the time the hobo found us on Kellogg Beach?” She looked at Boone, recognized memory in his eyes.

  “Yes.” He cleared his throat. “That was, uh . . . probably the best thing.”

  “Scared me to death, though.”

  “You nearly jumped through the windshield when he rapped on the window. He just wanted a couple bucks.”

  “I think you gave him everything in your wallet.”

  “I was seventeen. He scared me, too.”

  “I remember his bike and his tangled beard. He had sad eyes; I remember that, too.”

  “He’s never caused trouble, never been arrested. Or rather, we’ve chosen not to arrest him. He seems like a man who’s decided to live outside the system, more than anything.” Boone pulled her toward the bridge and pointed to a girl’s bike, four plastic bags tied to the basket, leaning against the wall of the bridge. Under it, a campfire flickered.

  Boone put PJ slightly behind him. She let him.

  “Hello?” he called, and she recognized his cop’s voice.

  A form sat near the fire, and the man looked up as they approached. Years lined his face, embedded in his matted beard, his shoulder-length tangles. He wore a gray stocking cap and a knee-length Army jacket, grimy at the cuffs. A wary recognition sparked in his eyes when he saw Boone, and he climbed to his feet. “Officer—”

  “It’s okay. We just came to ask a few questions.” Boone still had a firm grip on PJ, even as the hobo ran his gaze over her as if not recognizing her.

  “What can I do for you?” he finally said.

  “You remember the night you pulled a man from the lake? four years ago?”

  The hobo narrowed his eyes at him and finally, slowly, nodded.

  “Can you tell us more about that?”

  He seemed to consider them for a long moment. “I pulled him out from down by the lifeguard stand. He was floating there.” He turned to point. His voice emerged low, gravelly, as if not often exercised. “I figure he’d been in the water only a short bit, because it was cold out—he would have died if I hadn’t seen him. He was naked as a newborn baby when I yanked him out of the drink.”

  “Do you remember anyone driving by, maybe throwing him in?” Boone asked, pulling PJ along behind the hobo’s trail.

  He shook his head. “I was asleep. Although I do wonder what woke me up. I always thought it was another nightmare, but maybe I heard something.”

  “Like what?”

  He turned and stared, as if seeing beyond them into the past. “122mm rockets. You don’t forget the sound of them coming in.”

  “Like gunshots?”

  “Like . . . a scream.” He took a breath, fear in his eyes.

  PJ stared at the gnarled man. 122mm rockets. The kind a soldier might remember. She tried to peel back time, to see him as a soldier, eyes staring at the sky as artillery pounded him. Tried to hear the whistle of death in his ears and feel the explosions that shook him to his bones.

  No wonder he just wanted to be left alone.

  “Is there anything else you can remember from that night, Mr. . . . uh . . .” PJ looked at him, hoping he’d fill in his name.

  “Murph. And no, there’s nothing else.”

  Boone still had a hold of her hand.

  “Thank you for your help, Murph.”

  Murph’s gaze fixed on PJ, now looking at her as if he recognized her. He took a step closer, his hand moving from his side as if he meant to take her hand. “PJ?” His voice sounded young suddenly, seasoned with an unfamiliar hope.

  PJ froze.

  Boone put his hand out, a barrier.

  “How do you know me?”

  But Murph only continued to stare at her, tilting his head to one side. “I didn’t mean it, you know. I . . .” His face clouded, his eyes darkening. “I didn’t mean it!”

  “I think we’re done here.”

  PJ put a hand on his arm. “He knows me.”

  “He doesn’t know you,” Boone said softly, his eyes on Murph. “Look at him.”

  Indeed, Murph clutched his chest, backing away from her, almost afraid. “I didn’t mean it.” His voice broke, and he turned, stumbling toward the beach.

  “Boone—go after him!”

  “Let’s just back away. He’ll be fine.”

  “He’s upset.”

  “He’s mentally ill, PJ. He’s seeing something that isn’t there.”

&nb
sp; “It might be a memory. What if he’s talking about the PJ from the past—what if he knew her?”

  “What PJ?”

  “The one—the one in my mother’s yearbook.”

  Boone stared at her. “What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t know. . . . I found this entry from a PJ in my mother’s college yearbook.”

  “How would he know someone from Wheaton?”

  “My father’s from Kellogg. Maybe he knew her.”

  Boone had hooked one arm around her waist now. “I’m taking you back to the restaurant. I’ll radio in a cruiser to swing by and check on him.”

  PJ had no words, watching as Murph collapsed to the sand and covered his face with his hand. She thought his shoulders might be shaking.

  Her eyes filled and she whisked the irrational tears away.

  Boone drew her in close as they walked to the car. He drove PJ back to the restaurant in silence.

  “What do you think was wrong with him?” she asked as they pulled up.

  Boone lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know. Memory? Regret? Maybe he’s caught inside his own grief, unable to move forward. That happens sometimes—people get so tied up in the past, they can’t see the future or even the present. They only see what they did or who they were, and it paralyzes them. They can’t break free.”

  Can’t break free. Was that what Boone was doing with her? breaking free?

  Which meant what—that she was his prison?

  “The screaming could have been tires, brakes on the pavement.”

  PJ found her voice, hating that it shook a little. She probably put too much tease into it. “See, you’re curious, too.”

  “I’m a detective; I’m supposed to be.”

  “Maybe that’s what got us into so much trouble. The combined forces of curiosity.”

  Boone glanced at her, a smile on his face that resembled affection more than chagrin. “That’s one theory.”

  PJ held out her hand. “Good night, Boone. Thanks for dinner.”

  Boone took it and, probably out of habit, ran his thumb over the top. “Take care of yourself, PJ.”

  She wasn’t sure why the door closing on the Mustang, the sight of him disappearing into the night, left a pinging sound in her heart.