Home Before Midnight

by Virginia Kantra

  She shivered. Fear? Or attraction? Either one put her at a disadvantage.

  “Nervous?” he asked in his deep twang.

  “Cold,” she lied. “It’s the air-conditioning. I mean, it’s not like you’re escorting me down death row.”

  “Not yet, anyway,” he agreed blandly.

  She gaped at him.

  Humor gleamed in his dark eyes, but his expression never wavered. “My office,” he said, nodding down the hall.

  She hurried ahead toward another open door.

  Three gray metal desks occupied the center of a room lined with shelves and corkboard. A fourth, aloof from the others, jammed in the corner behind a barricade of filing cabinets. The office looked like the computer lab of a financially strapped middle school. Stacks of books and papers jostled for space on the shelves. Fluorescent lights hummed and flickered overhead.

  Burke prowled to the far desk and pulled up a chair for Bailey.

  Cautiously, she sat, wary of the unfamiliar courtesy. Paul respected her too much as a colleague to open her door or hold her chair. “Thank you.”

  Burke propped against the edge of the desk, his knee by her shoulder. Too close. Again. The man had no concept of personal space. Or else he was deliberately intimidating her.

  “How did you sleep last night?” he asked.

  She didn’t think he really cared. Unless he wanted to know if guilt had kept her tossing and turning all night.

  Well, forget him. She’d already endured her mother’s interrogation and her father’s unspoken concern this morning. No way was she embarking on another round of explanations and excuses with a suspicious detective.

  “Fine.” Politeness prompted her to add, “And you?”

  “I haven’t been to bed yet.” From his perch on the desk, he loomed over her. “I hear the Do Drop’s comfortable.”

  Bailey’s stomach sank. At least now she understood his interest in how she slept. Last night, one of the uniformed officers had driven Paul to the Do Drop Inn, a bed-and-breakfast in the center of town. Burke wanted to know if she had spent the night with her boss.

  “I didn’t stay at the inn,” she said stiffly. “I was at my parents’ house.”

  Burke regarded her without expression. The silence sucked at her like quicksand.

  “Frank and Dorothy Wells, eight hundred and eleven Cardinal Street. I got in about three.” Bailey stuck out her chin. “Way past curfew.”

  He regarded her, that gleam still in his eyes. “I’m not going to charge you.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.”

  “Not for being out late, anyway.”

  Resentment smoldered, a welcome, warming lump under her ribs. “Look, I didn’t come here to play games. Do you want me to sign a statement or not?”

  Wordlessly, he handed her two closely typed pages of plain office paper.

  “It’s short,” she said, surprised.

  “You got anything you want to add? Any details you left out?”

  Was he kidding? She couldn’t tell.

  “I won’t know until I read it,” she said.

  Despite the lightness in her head, the twisting in her gut, Bailey forced herself to read critically, carefully, searching for inaccuracies or bias. She was used to organizing and summarizing facts. She was good at it.

  So was he.

  When she finished reading the statement through the second time, she looked up and found Burke watching her with heavy-lidded eyes.

  “Well?” he asked.

  She wet her lips, struggling to be objective. “It’s very thorough,” she said. “Concise. A little dry.”

  Like Burke himself, she realized.

  His lips curled. “I wasn’t asking for a critique of my writing skills. Not that I don’t appreciate it, given your line of work. Was there anything you wanted to add?”

  “Oh.” She flushed furiously. He was almost good-looking when he smiled. If you liked that ex-football player, muscle-bound type. Which she, thankfully, did not. “No.”

  He leaned forward. “Then if you’ll just sign and date this here . . .”

  She snatched the pen from him and signed, stabbing the pen at the paper.

  “You sure there wasn’t something else?” he asked almost gently.

  She squared her shoulders. “There was, actually.”

  Burke didn’t stir from his perch on the desk. But his attention sharpened on her like a hound dog’s spotting a squirrel. “What’s that?”

  She met his gaze straight-on. “I have to plan a funeral today, and I don’t have a body.”

  He nodded. “Autopsy’s scheduled for this afternoon. The body should be released then. Give me the name of the funeral home, and we’ll see it gets there.”

  Well. That had gone better than she expected.

  “And I need to get into the house,” she added.

  He rubbed his jaw. “That’s going to take a little longer. I can’t let you all in until we’ve completely processed the scene.”

  “I understand you have a job to do,” Bailey said carefully. “But so do I.”

  “Unfortunately for your boss, my job comes first. I won’t compromise this investigation for his convenience.”

  Frustration bubbled inside her. She couldn’t fault him for being conscientious, but it was all so unnecessary. “What investigation? This was an accident. Even your chief says so.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You talked to the chief?”

  “Well . . . yes. That is, Paul did. This morning.”

  He didn’t say anything, but she felt the tension roll off him in waves like cold from a refrigerator.

  She shivered. It was stupid to feel nervous. Even more stupid to feel guilty. Paul had been perfectly within his rights to talk with Chief Clegg. And if that made problems for the chief ’s lead investigator . . . Well, too bad.

  She offered him a conciliatory smile anyway. “So, you see, there’s really no reason to delay. And it would make my job a lot easier if I could count on the house being available. Helen’s daughter will be here. She shouldn’t have to stay in a hotel. Not to mention everyone who attends the funeral will stop by the house afterward, and I have to feed them. People are already coming by with food, and there’s no one to accept it and no place to store it.”

  “I hear they do a nice brunch buffet at the Town Diner,” Burke said, straight-faced.

  He was joking. He had to be joking. She must have imagined that instant of stillness when he tensed and collected himself like an old dog who knows the limits of his chain.

  “Unless Charlene is serving pecan tassies and tomato aspic, I’m afraid the Saint Andrew’s Ladies Guild won’t consider brunch at the diner an acceptable send-off,” Bailey said. “But thank you for that thought.”

  This time she was almost sure he smiled.

  Relieved, she stood, bringing herself to the same level, careful not to bump his knee or brush his thigh. “You’ll be in touch? After the autopsy, I mean.”

  “Count on it,” Burke said.

  Her smile faltered. It was the assurance she came for.

  So why did it feel like a threat?

  FOUR

  WALTER Clegg propped his regulation size elevens on his desk.

  The chief’s shoes and collar brass were polished and his uniform neatly pressed. After seventeen years managing the resources of his understaffed and underfunded department, Walt believed in the importance of police presence . . . and the appearance of his police. On days when tourists swelled the town—Founders Day, the Fourth of July—even the detectives turned out in uniform.

  Steve understood the chief’s reasoning, but buttoning on that blue uniform made him feel like he’d been busted back to traffic cop.

  Which, in a sense, he had.

  “Steve, you ever wonder why our jail is so small?” the police chief asked.

  Steve raised both eyebrows. “Because county lockup is only five miles down the road?”

  Walt ignored him. He was good at ignoring
things that didn’t suit his purpose. “It’s not that we don’t have crime in this town. We just don’t have as much of it as maybe you’re used to. You’ve got to understand how things work here.”

  Steve’s headache tightened its grip on his neck. “I know how things work here. I was born here.”

  “And your mother is a lovely woman,” Walt said smoothly. “We’ll never need to pay police informants as long as your mama is around. But you’ve been gone awhile. You need to remember folks count on us to preserve the peace, not stir up trouble.”

  Steve inhaled. He wasn’t stirring up trouble, damn it. All he wanted was to put in his hours and go home. But . . .

  “You said when you hired me that there’s no such thing as small town crime,” he reminded Walt.

  “Well, that’s true. Human nature is human nature wherever you are. We’ve got our share of bad apples. Bad asses, too, what with the gangs moving in from Durham and Raleigh and all. That’s why I thought somebody with your experience would be such an asset to the department. But you know as well as I do that in a community this size, half the job is public relations. We’ve all got to get along.”

  Steve knew all about the importance of getting along. He had almost five months left of his six-month review period before his hiring became permanent. The last thing he wanted was to argue with his boss. But he’d be damned before he’d let concern for his job keep him from doing it.

  “Somebody wasn’t getting along with Helen Ellis,” he pointed out.

  Walt eyed him reproachfully. “Now, you don’t know that.”

  “I haven’t proved it.” Yet. “But it’s my job to keep an open mind.”

  “And it’s my job to keep things from getting out of hand.”

  Steve waited. The thin stream of air from the vent overhead spent itself in the thickness of the room. Sweat dampened the back of his shirt.

  “I heard from Paul Ellis this morning,” Walt said.

  Here it comes, Steve thought. “Did he retract consent?”

  “Not yet. But he should. What were you thinking, placing the house in lockdown?”

  “I was searching for signs of an intruder,” Steve said evenly.

  “That’s bullshit. You know it, I know it, and if Ellis hasn’t figured it out yet, he’s dumber than I thought.”

  “Has he lawyered up?”

  “Naw, he’s just shooting off his mouth about how we’re all against him on account of he’s questioning our handling of the old Dawler case.”

  “Not me,” Steve said. “The Dawler case was before my time.”

  “Yeah, I guess it would be. We only had seven officers back then. Biggest case we ever saw. I was lead detective. You must have been, what, in high school?”

  It was an attempt to put him in his place.

  “Just out,” Steve said. “And in the army.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter. Point is, Ellis is threatening to talk to the press.”

  “What’s he going to tell them? His wife died. We’re investigating.”

  “He doesn’t think we should be.”

  Steve didn’t give a damn what Paul Ellis thought. “The ME doesn’t agree with him.”

  “But the media might. He’s one of them—a writer. Police Bungle Death of True Crime Writer’s Wife makes a mighty interesting headline.”

  “I don’t bungle,” Steve said. “He signed a written consent to search.”

  “Which he can withdraw at any time.”

  “Then I’ll get a warrant.”

  “Not without probable cause, you won’t.”

  Steve’s jaw clenched. “Which is why I haven’t gone to the judge yet. I’m waiting on the autopsy.”

  Walt frowned and switched lines of attack.

  “Ellis claims the responding officers contaminated the crime scene.”

  “Why would he say that if he doesn’t think a crime has been committed?”

  But Walt wasn’t interested in speculating on Paul Ellis’s motives. “Did they?”

  Steve barely knew Wayne Lewis. But he wasn’t sacrificing the earnest rookie to some egotistical writer.

  “Look, the EMTs were already there. Lewis called me, and I took appropriate steps to preserve the scene.” After it had been tromped through by a team of paramedics and all four officers on duty that night. “I don’t need Ellis or anybody else to tell me how to conduct an investigation.”

  “Except me,” Walt said.

  Shit.

  “Yeah,” Steve said slowly. “Except you.”

  “As long as we both understand that.” Walt held his gaze a moment longer before he sighed and shifted a folder on his desk. “Autopsy’s this afternoon?”

  Steve nodded.

  “Good. Wrap this up as quick as you can. The media is already circling. Let’s not give the buzzards anything to feed on.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Just do your job,” Walt said.

  Easy enough for him to say, Steve thought as he got into his truck to make the forty-minute drive to the Medical Examiner’s office.

  Do the job.

  Get through the day.

  Go through the motions.

  Easy enough to do. Hell, he’d been operating on autopilot for almost three years. He ought to be relieved the chief didn’t want any more from him than the standard minimum requirement.

  But he wasn’t. Dissatisfaction rode with him all the way to Chapel Hill like a sullen drunk in the back seat.

  REGAN Poole had thought her day couldn’t possibly get worse. How could it get worse? It started with a fucking phone call at fucking four o’clock in the morning that shattered her sleep and her psyche.

  It wasn’t fair. Children weren’t supposed to have to deal with bolt-out-of-bed calls in the night. That was a parent’s job. She remembering fumbling with her cell phone, heart pounding as she waited for her father’s tired voice on the other end of the line.

  Can you come pick me up?

  ... bail me out?

  ... send me money?

  ... tell me everything will be all right?

  But it wouldn’t be all right, Regan thought with a sting at her heart, whatever Paul said. He wasn’t really her father. Her real father was dead.

  And now her mother was, too.

  Regan’s hand tightened on the receiver. Count on Helen to make it all about her, even if she had to die to do it.

  The telephone on the other end of the line rang mindlessly. Endlessly. Pick up, pick up, damn you, pick up . . .

  Paul hadn’t been able to get hold of Richard. That’s what he’d said. Maybe it was even true. Maybe Richard had caller ID. God knew her brother was smart enough, selfish enough, to ignore a call in the middle of the night from their drunk and incoherent mother or the stepfather they both despised.

  She jiggled the phone. More likely Richard had been out last night. Or he was wasted. Or stoned. Son of a bitch.

  Which was why she was stuck calling him now.

  Grievance built under her breastbone, pushing out the pain. She didn’t like to make personal calls at work. Someone might see and feel they had to make allowances for her. Regan never made allowances for herself. At twenty-three years old, she was the youngest account manager at the Buckhead bank branch, and she had to be better than any of them.

  She jabbed her brother’s number into the phone again. Pick up, please pick up . . .

  “ ’Lo?” Richard’s voice slurred.

  Relief, grief, and worry flooded her eyes and spilled out. Not in tears. She would not let herself cry. In anger.

  “Christ, Richard, it’s two in the afternoon. Did you just wake up?”

  “Regan?” She pictured him blinking and unshaven, trying to focus. To cope. “What’s up?”

  She pulled herself together. She could do this, she assured herself, shaking. She could do a better job of breaking the news than Paul had done.

  “It’s Mom,” she said, reduced to mouthing her stepfather’s words after all. Because in th
e end, what else was there to say? “There’s been an accident.”