by Irene Hannon
If only life in general could be that predictable.
After unlocking the car, he slid behind the wheel, put the key in the ignition—and frowned. What was with the envelope stuck under his windshield wiper? If someone wanted to talk to him, all they had to do was pick up the phone, knock on his door, or drop into his office.
He was not in the mood for games this morning.
Temper spiking, he opened the door, stood, and grabbed the envelope. There was no name on it, but the missive was obviously meant for him.
Once back in the driver’s seat, he ripped open the flap, extracted a single sheet of paper, and skimmed the brief, typed message.
I saw you scuba diving on the Lewis property in the middle of the night. I doubt it was official business. I also saw you poking around my “office.” Plus, you parked in my reserved spot. So let’s make a deal. You ignore what you saw, I’ll ignore what I saw. If you don’t . . . I have photos—and video. The moon was bright. Lucky—for me, anyway.
Roger’s lungs locked, and a wave of nausea rolled through him.
The meth cooker had witnessed his late-night visit to the Lewis place—and was blackmailing him to ensure his operation didn’t get shut down.
Breathe, Burnett. Think!
He tried to follow that advice, but his brain was stuck in neutral.
One minute passed.
Two.
Three.
At last he sucked in a lungful of air, ran a shaky hand through his hair, and faced the truth.
He’d been busted—and whoever was running that meth lab held all the cards. If he had pictures and video—and given today’s cell phone capabilities, that was a very real possibility—there was no credible explanation for a midnight dive on Dana Lewis’s property. This guy could have been smart enough to pan up and take footage of her cabin, too, to identify the location.
If the blackmailer was also a user—another very real possibility—this was a powder keg. Meth could make people volatile, anxious, paranoid, moody, violent. In other words, he might be dealing with a loose cannon. The note had sounded rational, but that could be misleading.
So what was he supposed to do? Ignoring a crime happening right under his nose went against everything he believed.
And keeping Len White’s letter a secret while you try to find stolen gold to use for your own illegal purposes doesn’t?
An ache began to pound in his temple, and he lifted a shaky hand to massage it.
This was spinning out of control, tangling him in a sticky web and shrinking his options.
If he pulled back on his search, took the appropriate action with Len White’s letter, and shut down the meth lab, the guy could produce the photos and video he claimed to have. No matter how murky they were, a competent lab would be able to brighten up the images, identify him. And how would he explain his midnight excursion? There was no rational reason for him to be diving in the dark in a lake on private property.
Besides . . . he needed that gold. Needed to get Leah the care her trust fund would have paid for if he hadn’t lost every dime of it in that can’t-miss speculative investment an old college buddy had told him about. A scheme that had gone belly-up twenty-four months later.
Leah, bless her soul, had never held that mistake against him. In fact, she’d tried to console him afterward. He could still hear her sweet voice after he delivered the bad news.
“It’s okay, Rog. Your job provides us with a steady income, our house is paid for, and we’re debt-free. Best of all, we have each other. That’s the most important thing. It’s love, not money, that makes life worth living.”
She’d been right—and he’d allowed himself to be soothed by her words and her forgiveness.
But love wasn’t going to pay the bill at Woodside Gardens.
He needed that gold.
Meaning he was once again going to have to compromise his principles—and let a meth lab remain in business.
Roger refolded the note. Slid it back in the envelope. Tried to control the tremble in his hands as he put the patrol car in gear. All his life, he’d been repulsed by civil servants who violated public trust, who circumvented legalities, who broke their vows to enforce—and abide by—laws they’d sworn to protect.
Now he was one of them.
A criminal.
His gut churned, and a sour taste filled his mouth as the offensive word echoed in his mind.
But like it or not, the label was accurate.
He’d just have to find a way to live with it—and make sure he didn’t get caught.
6
Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes! Let me give you a big hug.”
As the greeting boomed across the Walleye Café, the stocky bleached-blonde waitress Finn had noticed on his first visit came flying across the room, beaming a smile at Dana. She pulled the younger woman into an enthusiastic embrace and held tight, mashing in part of a bouffant hairstyle long out of fashion.
Just as he began to wonder if the waitress was cutting off Dana’s air supply, she released her, the teased do instantly popping back into shape.
Dana’s answering smile lit up her face, animating it with a radiance that vaulted her from pretty to stunning in a heartbeat.
Finn tried not to stare.
“It’s wonderful to see you too, Hazel.”
“I heard you were in town and kept wondering when you’d stop in. How are those eyes doing, anyway? Marv told me you were having some issues.” Hands on her padded hips, the blonde inspected Dana.
“Improving—but not enough yet to drive. I’m cabin-bound unless I have a chauffeur, like today.” Dana shifted toward him.
Picking up the cue, Finn moved forward and held out his hand as Dana introduced them.
“Very nice to meet you.” Hazel gave his arm a vigorous pump. “You were in here the other day, weren’t you? At the counter. Let me think . . .” She pursed her lips as she scrutinized him. “Apple pie and coffee, right?”
“I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be. I’ve been waitressing since you were in diapers. Besides, we don’t get many handsome strangers in here. You kinda stood out.” She gave him a nudge with her elbow, along with a good-natured grin. “I’ll say this—you know how to pick your chauffeurs, Dana. How’d you find a Hollywood hunk like this out here in the boonies?”
Dana looked like she wanted to sink through the floor. “He’s . . . uh . . . staying in Mark Busch’s cabin.”
“Neighbor, huh. Some people have all the luck. I’ve got the town crank on one side and an empty lot full of weeds on the other. What can you do?” She stepped back and gave Dana a thorough perusal. “My, but you’ve grown into a beauty. I remember when you used to come in here with Leo, all gangly arms and legs.” Her demeanor softened. “I sure was sorry to hear about his passing. He was a fine man.”
“Yes, he was.” Dana’s voice choked.
Hazel patted her shoulder and motioned them toward the dining area. “You two find yourselves a spot and I’ll be over to take your order in a few minutes. I can recommend the Denver omelet if you have a hearty appetite. We use free-range eggs, and the ham is cured here in Washington County, a few miles down the road.”
“You sold me.” Finn rested his hand in the small of Dana’s back and guided her out of the way as the door opened behind him to admit another diner. “But we’re in no rush to order.” Or he wasn’t, anyway. Dana no doubt had work waiting for her . . . yet she didn’t correct him.
He followed her across the room, weaving in and out of tables, toward a booth for two in the far corner. Once she was seated, he slid in opposite her.
“This was where Pops and I always sat if it was available.” She ran her fingers over the scarred wooden surface. “It’s out of the line of traffic but lets you keep tabs on who’s coming and going.”
“Did you two come here often?”
“Two or three times a week after Mags died. When she was alive, we usually ate at the cabin. But the thre
e of us always managed to get in here once a week for pie. Hazel’s been a fixture at the Walleye for as long as I can remember.”
“I got that feeling. Need a menu?” He indicated the holder on the wall.
“Nope. Hazel’s never steered me wrong. I’m going with the omelet—and a cinnamon roll.” Her lips curved as she surveyed the homey restaurant. “This place brings back a lot of happy memories. I’ve been wanting to stop in, but without wheels, I’ve been cabin-bound.”
“Speaking of that—how did you get here?” Finn unwrapped his silverware and spread the paper napkin on his lap.
“After I flew in from New York, I spent two weeks in St. Louis, at Pops’s house. The couple next door offered to drive me down. They were his neighbors for forty years.”
“How long have you been here?”
“A little over a month.”
“And today is the first time you’ve ventured out?” He didn’t try to disguise his surprise.
“Yours is the first chariot to come along.”
At the glint of humor in her irises, he hitched up one side of his mouth. “For the record, it’s at your disposal.”
“I appreciate that . . . but I’m content at the cabin.”
“Forever?”
She hesitated. “For now, anyway.”
Before he could pursue that topic, Hazel hustled over, order pad in hand. “Have you two decided?”
Finn looked at Dana, and she gestured for him to order. “Two of the omelets you recommended and two cinnamon rolls.”
“Coffee?” She continued to scribble on her pad.
“For me. Tea for the lady.”
“Lipton okay?”
“Fine.” Dana extracted her own silverware from the napkin, her expression poignant. “It’s nice to know some things never change. This place is exactly the same as I remember.”
“Oh, we’ve done an update or two.” Hazel tucked the order pad in the pocket of her apron. “A few new trophy fish on the walls, chairs with cushions for the tables, different lighting fixtures. But the biggest change . . . we have Wi-Fi.”
“No kidding.” Dana surveyed the patrons, who were all focused on their food or the newspaper. “Anyone use it?”
“Teenagers, mostly. We’ve become quite the hangout for the afterschool crowd, since there’s no Starbucks for miles. Now let me get these orders in to Chuck or you’ll be having your breakfast during the lunch rush.”
“Would you give him my best?”
“Happy to.”
As the woman hurried off, Dana folded her hands on the table. “Chuck’s been the cook here for years.”
“A diner with minimal turnover. Unusual.”
“Not around here. There aren’t a lot of jobs close by. People tend to stick with the ones they have.”
“Speaking of jobs . . . you’re fortunate to have one that allows you to work wherever you want.”
“I agree. My work is very portable.”
“But how do you function here, without internet or email?”
“Phone conversations can replace email—and UPS delivers manuscripts and flash drives anywhere.”
“You don’t get cabin fever?”
“Not yet—though I would like to do some hiking around the place. That’s on my agenda once my vision improves a bit more.”
“If you don’t want to wait that long, I’d be happy to go with you.”
She sent him a speculative look. “Thanks. I’ll think about that.”
Not the answer he’d hoped for . . . but at least she hadn’t said no.
The bell on the front door jingled, and Dana glanced over as Hazel delivered their beverages. Squinted.
“Hazel . . . is that Chief Burnett?”
The waitress angled sideways. Sighed. “Yes.”
“Is he okay? He was never heavy, but . . . wow. He’s lost a ton of weight.”
“Yep—and no matter how much food Lynette, his office manager, or I shove at him, he keeps getting skinnier.” She leaned down and dropped her volume. “That man’s had a passel of tribulations in the past ten years. You knew about his son, right?”
“No. What happened?”
“Got killed over in the Middle East. He was a marine.”
Shock flattened Dana’s features. “I had no idea.”
“The chief never talked about it much—but it took a toll on him and Leah. A few years after that, she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. He kept her at home as long as he could, but after she got away from the caretaker he hired and was found walking down the street in her underwear, he had to put her in one of those homes. A fine place—Woodside Gardens—over in Potosi. First class all the way . . . but it’s been real hard on him emotionally.”
Finn watched the man slide onto a stool at the counter. “Not to mention financially, I expect. The tab for those kinds of places can be off the charts.”
“That’s one worry he doesn’t have, thank the Lord.” Hazel swiped at a stray crumb on the table. “Leah’s parents left her a sizeable trust fund and a safe-deposit box chock-full of goodies, according to town scuttlebutt. Her father was some honcho at a big company in KC.”
“I didn’t realize she came from wealth.” Dana took a sip of her water.
“She never flaunted her money. Nicest woman you’d ever want to meet, and she and Roger always lived a modest life. Still, he hit the jackpot the day he pulled her over for speeding back when he was a street cop in KC. Not only did he find the love of his life, he never had to worry about money again. Sad to see such a happy marriage come to this end.”
“I might stop by and say hello before he leaves.” Sympathy softened Dana’s eyes.
“He’d like that. Your granddad and Roger spent many an hour fishing on that lake at your place. Now I better go see what I can offer from the menu to tempt his taste buds.”
Dana watched her hurry over, shaking her head. “You never know what life is going to—”
A loud crash from the kitchen cut her off.
Every muscle in Finn’s body went rigid, and he half rose. His hand jerked, sending coffee spewing toward Dana. She yelped as it seared her forearm.
Her cry of pain yanked him back to the present as Hazel came rushing over, dishcloth in hand.
“Oh, goodness. I’m sorry about that noise.” She sopped up the spreading puddle of dark liquid. “I don’t know what’s gotten into Chuck these days. Banging pots, spilling half the profits on the floor.” She homed in on Dana’s arm. “You need some ice. Let me grab some from the kitchen.” She took off again.
As Dana studied him, heat surged up Finn’s neck. Based on her expression, he’d overreacted—big-time.
Just like he had in the base cafeteria.
Maybe he hadn’t made as much progress as he’d thought.
“Sorry about this.” He rested his fingertips lightly on her red skin. The injury wasn’t bad, and it would heal in a few days—but it shouldn’t have happened.
“I’m fine. I’ve gotten worse burns making popcorn. That kind of crash could startle anyone.”
Not true. No one else in the café had reacted as he had . . . including the woman across from him.
Hazel returned with some ice in a plastic bag, plus a new mug of coffee for him. “You sure you’re all right, honey?” She touched Dana’s shoulder.
“Fine.” She balanced the ice on the burn and offered them both a reassuring smile. “It will take more than a splash of coffee to kill my appetite for that omelet and cinnamon roll.”
“They’ll be up soon. You wave at me if you need anything else before then.”
Quiet fell between them as Hazel departed, and Finn tried to come up with some lighthearted remark that would dispel the tension lingering in the air.
But Dana spoke first, her comment carefully phrased. “I imagine a combat injury—or just living in a combat zone—can leave scars of many kinds.”
She was giving him an opening to explain his reaction to the dropped pot.
Taking
a slow sip from his mug, he did a discreet sweep of the café. Other than the police chief gabbing with Hazel at the far end of the counter and a guy with his nose in the newspaper at a table by the window on the other side of the room, the place had cleared out. They had privacy.
But he needed one other ingredient before he could open the can of worms that had upended his life.
Courage.
And his was shaky when it came to revealing the demons that haunted him.
However . . . if he dug deep and managed to summon up enough nerve to share his story, might she open up to him too?
Possibly—but was it worth the risk?
Yet what did he have to lose? Dana Lewis didn’t strike him as the type who would violate confidences even if she didn’t reciprocate by sharing some of her own.
“That’s true. Scars linger.” In his peripheral vision, he saw Hazel pick up their orders from the window and head their direction. “But our food’s on the way, and I don’t want to ruin your appetite.” Nor did he want to make a rash decision. Better to mull this over while he ate.
Hazel bustled up to their booth. “Here you go.” She slid a brimming platter in front of each of them. “Dig in. I’ll wait till you put a dent in that before I warm up your cinnamon rolls. You two need anything else right now?”
“I think we’re set.” Finn picked up his fork.
“Enjoy.” She set a bottle of Tabasco sauce on the table and returned to her conversation with the police chief.
Dana waited to speak until the woman was out of earshot. “If that’s a brush-off, no problem. I get that some topics are personal and off-limits. But if you need a friendly ear while you’re here, I’ve been told I’m a good listener.” She speared a bite of her omelet and motioned to his. “Go ahead and eat. Egg dishes are best consumed hot. Likewise for cinnamon rolls.”
She dived in, and he followed her lead. No way would he enjoy his food if he launched into his story while they were chowing down. Better to keep the conversation light during the meal.
Twenty-five minutes later, Finn tried not to let his jaw drop as Dana washed down the last bite of a huge cinnamon roll . . . after scarfing up every morsel of her omelet and hash browns.
