As Taylor dropped into one of the empty chairs, Soldier covered the phone with his palm. “Go take a leak or something while I finish with this.”
Since Taylor didn’t feel nature’s call, he decided to stay put and simply stare out one of the two bay windows that allowed massive amounts of natural light into the room.
The Port Henry PD was a brick building that had begun life as a cannery. Built on Water Street about midway into town, it boasted views of both the docks and the busy downtown. Out across the bay, past Heyworth Island, mile-high clouds feathered over the blue horizon, while sailboats skimmed across the windswept surface of the water. On the nearly empty sidewalks, tourists casually made their way down the street looking for antiques and souvenirs, while hungry gulls hovered over the nearby shoreline like stringless puppets.
“But, honey,” Soldier cajoled as he shot Taylor a get-lost look. Taylor smirked and made himself more comfy.
“You look beautiful,” his brother insisted to the phone. “Well you don’t remind me of a Macy’s Thanksgiving balloon. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. No, your feet are just as cute as ever, and in no way resemble overgrown marshmallows. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. No, you don’t waddle like a duck and even if you did . . . Uh-huh. Uh-huh . . .”
Taylor bit down on his tongue and diverted his gaze to his fingernails. He felt his brother’s eyes on him, a silent warning he’d better keep his trap shut or suffer the consequences.
“Tell you what,” Soldier coaxed gently. “I’ll be home in about an hour. We can go out for a late lunch. I hear there’s a special at Ilsa’s. All you can eat sauerkraut and ice cream. God, no, not together . . . oh. Okay, yeah, together, I suppose, if that’s what you, uh, really want.”
She said something, and Soldier’s features softened. His blue eyes—so like Taylor’s own—gleamed with emotion as he spoke to his wife.
“Hey, it’s okay. No, you’re not being overly emotional. Just a few more weeks to go. You’re doing great.”
That Soldier loved his wife, Taylor thought as he watched his brother, was like saying the Earth went around the sun, or that kittens were soft, or that rain on the roof was romantic. Common knowledge, no-brainers, givens. In fact, they were so in love, it came close to making Taylor sick. And might have if he wasn’t so happy for them. It almost hurt to watch them, sometimes, especially since his own marriage had been such a complete failure.
But the brother he’d admired and even idolized since they were kids had become a caring and devoted husband, and was about to become a terrific dad, just like their own had been. How cool was that. Life was coming full circle, like the seasons, and in the quiet moments of the night when he woke up in his bed alone, or when he stood in front of a fresh canvas trying to capture some universal truth in broad strokes or delicate patterns, he sometimes wished that circle included him. Maybe things would’ve been different. Maybe Paula would have settled down. Maybe if he’d given her a baby . . .
Soldier nodded and nodded and tried to end the call, but Betsy must’ve really been worked up.
“Okay, honey,” he soothed. “I’ll see you in an hour. Yeah. You know I do. Yes, I do.” He flicked a glance at Taylor, then turned his head away. Hunched over the phone, he murmured, “I love you, too. Take care of our baby.”
He folded the phone closed, set it on his desk, and stared daggers at Taylor.
“That was the most painful thing I have ever witnessed,” Taylor drawled. “I’d put you out of your misery, but I left my gun in the car.”
“Shut up,” Soldier grumbled. “She’s . . . hormonal, that’s all.” Rolling his eyes, he said, “You think PMS is bad? Pregnancy is like they have it for nine solid months.”
“My heart’s breakin’ for you, pal.” Taylor sighed. “Pretty wife, kid on the way. Life’s tough.”
Soldier beamed and leaned forward over the table, his eyes eager and shining. “We don’t know for sure, but Betsy thinks it’s a girl.” He rubbed his knuckles against his jaw. “Shit. I don’t know anything about little girls. What if I drop her or something? They’re so tiny when they’re born, you know?”
Taylor laughed. “Just nerves, Dad. You’re not going to drop her.”
Soldier nodded thoughtfully, then burst out, “And what about college? Do you think she’ll want to go to the UW, or maybe—”
“Jackson!” Taylor choked. “She won’t be born for almost a month. Cut the kid some slack. Let her slobber and burp for a while before you send her off to college.”
Soldier shook his head and relaxed back into his chair. “Sorry. I can handle a perp with a knife without breaking a sweat, but the thought of holding a baby, my baby . . .”
“Yeah,” Taylor said without looking at his brother. “I hear ya.”
He stood and walked toward the window that faced the sea. His hands on his hips, he said, “I met Mortimer yesterday, up close and personal.”
Soldier became suddenly alert. “How? Why?”
“I was there when they got back from their weekend trip. They’d had a fight and Sadie broke off their engagement. She thinks he’s doing something, but she doesn’t know what.” Running his fingers through his hair, he said, “For their own safety, I want to bring Claire and her aunt in on this sooner rather than later.”
Soldier opened the bottom drawer of the file cabinet behind him and pulled out a cellophane bag. From the mini fridge, he grabbed a plastic container of salsa. Tearing open the bag, he reached in, grabbed a large chip, scooped up about a quart of salsa, and stuffed the whole thing in his mouth. Cheeks bulging, he turned the open bag toward Taylor. “Chrp?”
Food. Great. He was starving. Reaching into the bag, Taylor grabbed a handful of triangular tortilla pieces.
Soldier swallowed, then took a swig of water. “We’ve only been on this case a couple of days. We still don’t know if Mortimer is the brains, or if he’s just a willing dupe.” Another chip, another glop.
“Having met him,” Taylor said, scooping salsa onto a chip the size of Arizona and bringing the dripping mess to his lips, “I vote for dupe.” Shoving the heavily laden chip into his mouth, he mumbled, “Wrr drn’t rven knrr ff arr whrstle-blwrr rs trlling thr trrth.”
Soldier stared at him. “We don’t even know if our whistle-blower is telling us the truth?”
Taylor nodded and crunched. “Tht’s whrt er sdd.”
“Well, if she was, then there’s a lot at stake. I agree. Talk to them. Maybe the aunt has seen something.” Then, “How do you think Claire’s going to feel when she finds out we’ve had the farm under surveillance?”
“Ptthd,” Taylor said past the chip in his mouth. He swallowed, then sucked a blob of salsa from his thumb. “But her being pissed at me has sort of become a tradition between us.”
Cellophane rustled noisily as Soldier crammed the bag into the drawer. “You talked to Bobby Aranca yet?”
Taylor nodded and turned back to the window. Out across the water, white sails bobbed and tipped in the wind like paper boats on a pond.
“Sadie’s truck offered up no viable evidence. Some dents. Scrapes of black paint. The lab’s analyzing it now. The officer on the scene made a few notes, but it was too dark for him to get much. By the time I got there yesterday, the turnout had been compromised.”
“You find anything at the farm?” Soldier scribbled away on a notepad.
“I checked the perimeter of the property. No tire tread, no shoe prints. He either beamed directly into the kitchen from the mother ship, or he obliterated his tracks. The only prints in the kitchen were Claire’s and Sadie’s.”
“You said you found a light-colored hair.”
Taylor nodded. “Not Claire’s. Not Sadie’s.”
Soldier rolled the water bottle between his palms. The thin plastic made a popping sound. “Since Mort was with Sadie, he couldn’t have run Claire off the road, but he could have hired it done.”
“Except for an apparent lack of motive, that’s got my vote. There’s a connection,” he said. “The
re’s gotta be.”
“What about Mort’s partner?”
“Could’ve been.” Taylor sighed. “If we only knew who the partner is and where they’re actually performing the harvesting. Maybe Sadie’s seen something. Any description, no matter how vague, will give us a hell of a lot more than we have now.”
Soldier nodded. “Go for it.” A moment later, he crossed his arms over his chest and sent a meaningful look toward Taylor. “Now that that’s taken care of, you want to tell me what’s bugging you?”
“I’ve told you all I know in terms of the ongoing investigation.”
Soldier flattened his mouth. “C’mon. Out with it.”
“This may come as a major shock, big brother,” Taylor said, “but I stopped telling you everything when I was ten.”
“And here I thought we had no secrets between us.”
“Yeah, well,” he muttered. “Okay. Actually, I do have a little . . . thing I wanted to discuss with you.”
“I don’t want to discuss your little thing.”
“You’re a frigging comedian,” Taylor said dryly. “You want to cut me some slack here, or what?” Then, thinking better of it, he said, “Ah, hell. It’s Claire. She’s having dinner tonight with some hotshot doctor.”
“Do you care?”
“No,” he scoffed. “Hell no. She’s way too stuffy for me. Pushy, arrogant . . . always has to have the last word . . . always has to be right.”
Soldier’s eyes narrowed as though he was trying to remember something. “Sounds vaguely familiar. I think I know somebody like that.”
Taylor’s mouth flattened as he glared at his brother.
Solider picked up his pen and clicked it. “So, you two really are finished, huh.”
Taylor remembered her hasty exit eight months ago, the unreturned phone calls. It hadn’t taken him long to figure he was getting the brush-off.
“Yeah, we’re finished,” he said to Soldier, and left it at that. “I want to run a background check on this Adam Thursby.” He scribbled the name on his brother’s notepad. “I think that’s how you spell it.”
Soldier looked at the paper. “I think ‘dickhead’ has two Ds.”
“Yuk, yuk. Just run it, will you?”
“Is this just because Claire’s having dinner with him?”
“Absolutely not,” Taylor scoffed. “That would be childish.” As he headed for the door, he said, “Anyway, she says he’s not her boyfriend. They’re just acquaintances. It’s just dinner. Everybody’s gotta eat.”
Soldier scribbled some more notes, then let his pen plop onto the desk. A slow grin spread over his face. “Well, she’s right about one thing.”
“What’s that?”
His smile widened. “Everybody’s gotta eat.”
Chapter 9
Detonate
What Deton did at dinner.
Claire reminded herself—for the umpteenth time—that intense sexual attraction had nothing to do with long-term compatibility. But, oh, the short-term benefits could sure cure what ailed you.
As she brushed her hair and applied blusher and lipstick, she thought about how simple it would be to slide into a physical relationship with Taylor. She’d tried to convince herself—and him—that the night they’d spent together had simply been sex, but in reality, it had been the closest thing to contentment she’d known since her parents had died. And it had terrified her.
Dammit, she thought as she tossed the brush onto the dressing table. Why did he have to be a cop? Why a cop?
In the mirror’s reflection, she stared into her own eyes. Did she see truth there, or only excuses? What did he see when he looked into her eyes? Confusion? Determination? Fear?
Dammit, she should never have slept with him. But, oh, how she had wanted him that night. Him. Not just sex, but him, Taylor McKennitt with his blue eyes and broad shoulders, his charming grin, smart-ass comebacks. He could be a royal pain, but when she was with him, every nerve tingled as though she were standing on a live wire. All her senses became aware of him at once. She could taste him on her lips, simply by catching his scent. She could feel his fingers on her skin, just by the look in his eyes, or hear the thrum of his heart by touching his hand.
Sleeping with him again, being that intimate, would mean betraying her parents’ memory, and Zach as well, and opening herself to more pain. Loving him physically could only lead to loving him emotionally, and she knew it.
Once had been enough, and she’d spent the last eight months trying to get her stubborn heart to move on . . .
Shifting her thoughts, she shoved Taylor aside with a mental nudge of her hip, and ushered Adam into her mind.
Walking to the closet, she tugged her ivory silk dress off its hanger. Sleeveless, scoop-neck, slim skirt, the dress was perfect for a summer evening. As she zipped it up, she stepped into her matching heels. Choosing a simple gold bracelet, she struggled to single-handedly fasten the clasp on her left wrist.
Now for the best part of getting dressed—choosing which pair of earrings to wear. The gold dangles were cool and classy, and they moved when she walked, almost brushing her shoulders. Elegant, sophisticated, just right for a platonic dinner with the Olympic Peninsula’s handsomest soon-to-be-licensed orthopedic surgeon.
Abruptly, an image of the Northwest’s handsomest detective edged its way into her mind, drop-kicking poor Adam right off a cliff.
She tapped her foot. How like Taylor, even in her imagination, to be so arrogant.
As she neared thirty-five, she was coming more and more to the conclusion she’d like to find a great guy and get married.
What if that guy was Taylor? What if . . .
An image of her mother’s face at Dad’s funeral stung her brain. A year later, another funeral. Mom’s. And a few years after that, Zach coming out of surgery, torn to pieces, barely hanging on to life. The memories pressed themselves into Claire’s skull like a doubled fist.
Bad luck, they’d said. Father and son, both cops. Such bad luck.
You make your own luck, Claire thought. Some places just aren’t safe to go.
She blinked at her image in the mirror as her dour thoughts were interrupted by the screech of a bird. Then Aunt Sadie’s soothing voice drifted up the stairs and through Claire’s open door, grounding her once more in reality. Over Sadie’s words, Hitch squawked again.
“. . . farm . . . had a farm . . .”
“What did you have, Hitch?” Aunt Sadie asked. “Tell me what you had.”
“. . . had a farm in . . . Africa,” Hitch muttered in parrot monotone. “. . . a farm in . . . Africa.”
“Good boy, Hitch,” Aunt Sadie praised. Then, louder, “Claire, dear?”
Aunt Sadie’s sweet voice trilled up the stairs like musical notes carried on the wings of a butterfly.
“Yes?” she answered, switching off her bathroom light.
“Your Dr. Thursby is here.”
As soon as Aunt Sadie spoke those words, Claire felt herself react.
Not mine. Not interested. Nice guy, but that’s all.
Well, at least her truthful inner voice was still working.
“I’ll be right down,” she called, making a grab for her handbag.
With a silent vow to enjoy herself this evening, she closed her bedroom door and pasted a polite smile on her lips.
Adam was waiting at the foot of the stairs, leaning against the banister.
“You look great,” he said, appreciation glowing in his eyes. “Claire—”
“. . . excuse me while I whip this out . . .”
Adam jerked his head around to glare at the parrot sitting on the newel post behind him. Hitch glared back, tilted his head, and muttered softly, “. . . be afraid . . . be very afraid . . .”
“And . . . cut!” Aunt Sadie laughed. “My, aren’t you inventive tonight, Hitch.”
As Claire came down the staircase, Sadie urged Hitch onto her forearm. Smiling at Adam, she said, “I’ll just take him with me into the
kitchen.”
“. . . whip this out . . .”
“That’ll do, Hitch.”
“. . . whip this out . . .”
“Shut up, Hitch.”
The bird muttered something about badges and not needing any, as Sadie retreated through the door and into the kitchen.
When they’d gone, Adam returned his attention to Claire, letting his gaze move from the tips of her shoes to the crown of her head.
“To tell you the truth,” he said, “that bird took the words right out of my mouth.”
“Adam!” She felt her cheeks heat.
He arched a brow. “Do all your patients fall in love with you, Doc?”
Claire’s breath snagged on a dry spot in her throat, and her step faltered.
Do all your patients fall in love with you, Doc?
Taylor had said those words to her the day they’d met. He’d been injured; he was her patient. And later, when he’d recovered, he’d been fun and flirty and charming . . .
Stop it! For God’s sake, she was going to dinner with Adam Thursby. She had to get Taylor off her mind, had to quit measuring every man she met against Taylor McKennitt. Really, girl. Get a grip!
She brushed past Adam to retrieve her coat from the closet in the foyer. Without a word, he took it from her fingers and helped her slip into it. The blue silk lining felt cool against her bare arms. When his hands lingered a little too long on her shoulders, she stepped away and turned, giving him a big smile.
“Ready,” she said on an exhaled breath.
Adam looked down at her, his brow furrowed in concentration.
“You have a beep on your nose.”
“A what?” She lifted her hand to her face, but he circled her wrist with his long fingers, stopping her.
“A beep. Here,” he said. “I’ll get it.”
With his thumb and forefinger, he lightly pinched her nose and said, “Beep.” Then he laughed, leaned down, and kissed her.
As kisses went, it was a nice one. A gentle tugging on her lips, sweet, inoffensive, nonthreatening.
Sighs Matter Page 9
