by Dana Marton
But when darkness fell, Officer Joe Kessler showed up instead. He looked like those cop strippers that went to bachelorette parties in chick-flick movies. There had to be something in the water at the Broslin police station. He flashed her a blinding smile, but it didn’t affect her like Bing’s wry grins.
He explained that Bing was out with a hit-and-run, documenting the scene of the accident and interviewing the witnesses. Kessler told her he’d be out in his cruiser by the curb and gave her a cell phone number to call if she heard any strange noises in the night.
She acknowledged the twinge of disappointment that Bing couldn’t come. But this was what it would be like to be in love with a cop. His time wasn’t his own. An inconvenience, yes, but Bing was definitely worth it. They had something good between them, something worth the trouble and the wait, something she wanted to hold on to.
She thought of him and went to sleep with a smile on her face.
* * *
Bing was at her place first thing in the morning, bringing his pickup instead of his cruiser.
“Sorry I couldn’t come last night,” he said when she opened the door, peering at him through the steam of her decaf, trying hard to pretend it was real and the caffeine kick would be coming.
He patted Peaches, who pushed by her. “I’d like to make it up to you.”
“Not necessary. This is what being police captain means. I’m okay with it. Really.”
He reached for her and pulled her to him, closing his eyes as he bent his head and rested his forehead against hers. Then he smiled as he kissed her.
She’d never thought she’d ever say this about anything, but being held in Bing’s arms was better than coffee. Oh man. Way better.
The tingles started where their lips met, the soft heat of his mouth fit perfectly against hers. Then those tingles ran down in a straight line directly to the tips of her nipples that were pressed against his hard chest. Then other parts came alive, farther south.
Every part of her screamed in protest when he pulled away. It was some consolation that he seemed as reluctant to put some distance between them as she was.
“How about, before I have to go into work, I take you and Peaches someplace where he can have a good run?”
Right, because he had to go in. Life could be unfair to the extreme. “I need to change.” She really wished she had makeup on. Or that she wore something other than sweatpants with an old cotton shirt.
“You’re perfect as you are. Just toss on a light coat and bring your coffee.” He turned toward his truck, and Peaches followed him.
“Do we need a leash?” she called after them.
“Not where we’re going.”
She grabbed her coat, slipped into sneakers, and locked up behind her, the key turning smoothly in her new lock. Peaches was in the back by the time she reached the passenger side and climbed into the cab.
“I hope you’ll like the place.” Bing started up the truck, then drove out past the reservoir, up the hillside that overlooked the water and the town, to some kind of a horse farm with brand-new stables, dozens of horses in the far pastures, and an ancient log cabin at the top of the hill.
“Hey, riding a horse is on my IFIL list,” she told him, watching the animals frolic in the sunshine.
“What’s an IFIL list?”
“If I Live.” She pressed her lips together for a second. “When I was younger, I used to make up elaborate lists of what I’d do if I lived through the next surgery. It’s silly. It was a trick to give myself lots of good reasons to make it. Like making a promise that if I live, I’ll someday go and visit Disneyland. Or learn to ride a horse. Ride in a hot air balloon. Silly stuff.”
Then, as she grew older, new items got added to the list. True love. A happily ever after. Hot sex on the kitchen counter… She bit back a grin.
“Not silly. It’s called coping skills. It kept you going.” He parked in front of the log cabin, which had serious holes in the roof, then got out and let Peaches loose.
She stood next to the pickup, slowly taking in the storybook surroundings. Pretty enough to be painted. There was such a sense of space, of pure and unadulterated nature, of peace. You could live on top of this hill, she thought, and die happy.
She turned to Bing and found him watching her. “Isn’t this private property?” Although it didn’t look like anyone lived in the log cabin and nobody came from the stables to protest their intrusion.
“It’s mine.” He gave a modest smile. “You like it?”
“Love it. So you’re a rancher on the side?”
“Not with my schedule. I rent out the stables and the fields. Someday, if the house in town sells, I’d like to rebuild the cabin here, add some modern conveniences, a wraparound porch. I think it’d be a nice place to live.”
She could certainly see the attraction. And she could picture him here. He had a rugged edge that fit the land. It’d be a clean start for him. Living day-in, day-out in the house where he’d found his wife murdered couldn’t be easy. She didn’t think she could do it. But this was nice. This was right. This was for him.
“Family land?” she asked as she drew in the crisp spring air, turning her face to the soft breeze.
He nodded. “Great-grandfather established it. Grandfather doubled it. Father drank it away. I’ve been buying it back piece by piece over the years.”
“Police work pays that good?” She caught herself and winced with embarrassment. “Sorry. That’s really none of my business.”
“I own some rental properties in town. At one point, I decided not to get any more. So now I’m putting the profits into making the old Bing homestead into something.” He shrugged. “I give work to a couple of locals who wouldn’t have it otherwise. And when Hunter gets out of the army, he’ll have somewhere to go.”
Policeman, businessman, landowner, amazing lover. The man had layers. She smiled at him. “It’s beautiful. And impressive.”
He puffed out his chest as he winked at her. “Now that’s what men like to hear.”
Peaches tore around like crazy in the open field nearby, chasing butterflies and birds, barking at the horses in the distance, who paid no attention to him.
“Thank you for bringing us here,” she said as the tension of the last couple of days ebbed away from her.
He took her hands and pulled her close, wiggling his eyebrows. “Any chance of showing me some of that gratitude?”
She bit back a smile. “Maybe.” And then she rose to the tips of her toes so she could brush her lips over his.
He took it from there and blew her mind with the kiss that followed, full of hunger and promises as they stood there in the sunshine, in the spring breeze at the top of the hill.
Life could be this wonderful, she thought, dazed. Who knew? Then he did something with his tongue, and she could no longer think.
* * *
After dropping Sophie off at home, Bing switched to his cruiser and drove to work. He had thirteen calls waiting to be returned. He set those aside when he saw Joe bringing Mark Villon in. The man’s alibi had fallen apart once again.
Bing followed them into interrogation.
Joe threw the facts at the man right off the bat. “The client doesn’t remember your meeting. He was with someone else that morning. Want to try again?”
Villon shrugged. He had his chin down, his hands on his lap. Somewhere along the way, he’d lost his overconfident ways. Even his hair was flatter.
“You had opportunity,” Bing said. “You weren’t at work that morning. You’ve lied twice to the police about that now. It’s not going to look good in court, I can tell you that. If you and Kristine did have an affair, and she threatened to tell her husband, that’s motive. The means…” He watched Villon. “We’ll see about that. We should have a warrant momentarily. I’m particularly interested in your knife drawer.”
The man’s face hardened, anger lighting up his eyes. “If I give you my alibi, I’ll lose my job.”
“Should have th
ought of that before you did whatever it is you did.”
Silence stretched in the room.
Bing put some steel into his voice when he said, “You wouldn’t want to lie to me a third time.”
Villon swore. “I was with the intern at the Hampton Inn down the road from work.”
“She’ll verify that?”
The man rattled off a phone number. “You can call her right now. That’s her cell. And I paid with my credit card at the hotel. They can verify that.”
And the security cameras would show the exact time of his arrival and departure.
Joe glanced at Bing then walked out to take care of all that, make the calls, get the warrant for the hotel’s security tapes.
Bing pushed to his feet.
Villon shifted on his chair. “Can I leave now?”
“You’ll stay until you’re cleared. If you’re cleared,” Bing told him before he closed the door on the man.
He headed to his office and returned some calls at last, then had to deal with a mother turning her kid in for shoplifting. Age ten, first-time offender. No father in the picture. The kid had been getting into trouble at school too, fighting. And smoking behind the gym.
Bing gave him a tour of the holding cells and had a man-to-man talk with the kid. Then he asked him what he knew about horses.
Luke shrugged, trying to play it cool, but he couldn’t keep the interest from his eyes. “I rode one at a friend’s place once.”
He had short-cropped blond hair, blue eyes, his chin scarred. Bing had a feeling the kid got into his share of scrapes. His ripped jeans certainly told a story.
“How would you like to learn to ride better? I happen to know some horses that need daily exercise. After school. If your mom agrees.” The best way to keep a kid out of trouble was to keep him busy.
The mom agreed, so Bing gave her the phone number of the guy who rented his stables and fields and told her to let Jason know Bing had sent her.
And that brief interlude was the best part of his day. Joe came back to tell him Villon’s alibi checked out this time, so they had to let him go. Then Bing had to deal with two teenagers who caught a disabled student behind the library and touched her inappropriately. In between dealing with that, he was going through his files on the Haynes case and Stacy’s murder, trying to put the puzzle together.
He could almost see a picture emerging, but he kept feeling he was missing a big piece somewhere. He needed new information, but information wasn’t forthcoming. He was stiff with frustration by quitting time. He planned on going home to take care of Mango, then heading over to Sophie’s place. Until he figured out who had been inside her house, he wasn’t going to leave her alone at night.
But her safety wasn’t the only reason he wanted to spend the night. He’d missed her the night before. Whether it was right or wrong, he wanted her in his arms again.
He had his hand on the mouse to turn his computer off when a new e-mail pinged onto his screen—the fingerprint analysis on the bullet from the gun that killed Stacy.
He forgot about everything else as he opened it.
Greg Bruckner. Age thirty-nine. Petty criminal. Professional scam artist.
His gut tightened so fast, so hard, he thought for a second he might throw up. He drew a long, slow breath. Then he stared into the face of the man he’d been hunting for the past two years. He was pretty sure he hadn’t seen or heard the name before. What in hell connection did Greg Bruckner have to Stacy?
The registered address had been in one of Bing’s own apartment buildings, on the other side of Broslin. His blood raced with adrenaline. Would that be the connection? Was Bruckner mad at him for some reason, rent, whatever, and had come to his home, and spent his anger on the landlord’s wife?
He was rising from his chair, ready to go out and pick up the bastard when he caught the next line on the screen.
DOD. Date of death.
He had to read it again to be able to accept it. The bastard was dead. And then the date registered fully. Greg Bruckner had died the same day he’d murdered Stacy.
He blinked hard at the screen, read the date over and over again. No mistake. Exact same day.
A car accident, right here in Broslin, the scene processed by Officer Mike McMorris. Bing brought up the record in a separate window and started reading it even as he punched Mike’s extension and put him on the speaker.
“I need the circumstances of death for Greg Bruckner, dead in a car accident two years ago.” He gave the date. April 27th.
“Hang on for a second, Captain.” The keyboard clicked on the other end. Mike too would be bringing the screen up to jog his memory.
Barely a minute passed before he found what he was looking for. “Traffic accident, head-on collision. Hit-and-run. His skull was busted. I remember it. I swear I saw the guy’s brain. And he was still alive. He died in the hospital, later. Damn nasty business. Witnesses described a black sedan speeding away from the accident. Driver, white male. Generic description, not even enough for a police sketch. We put the word out to body shops, but nothing ever turned up.”
His jaw tightened. “Anything else you remember?”
“Being frustrated. Knew from the beginning the case wasn’t going to go anywhere. You know how I feel about hit-and-runs.”
The same as they all did. “Thanks.” Bing hung up and stared at Greg Bruckner on his screen, the mug shot taken three years before his death when he’d been picked up for petty larceny. The bastard was grinning into the camera, cocky as anything.
Bing ran down the arrest record, reading every line carefully, hoping something would jump out at him. Nothing did. Bruckner had made a living from temporary jobs, never missing a chance to swindle someone. A real winner.
The idea that the man had been dead these past two years, had died in a stupid car accident on his way home from killing Stacy, that Bing had been chasing a ghost all this time and would never get answers, was unacceptable. He couldn’t process it.
His hands clenched into fists. This was not how it was supposed to happen. He was supposed to catch the bastard, get his answers, get the man convicted. He was supposed to be in the room behind the glass when Bruckner received his lethal injection. He was supposed to hear the last beep of his heart on the monitor and see as the line went flat.
He was due that. It was his right, dammit.
Part of him wanted to go straight to the apartment building, Creek Corner, and search the place. He was part owner. The super would do whatever he asked.
The place was run by a property management company. So were the other three properties that he’d bought on his own. Working a full-time job, working shifts, didn’t leave him much time to run around fixing leaky pipes and track down late checks, so he left that to professionals. He still managed to turn a profit.
He could have driven over to Creek Corner and gotten into the place. But he wanted to do everything right, dot every i, cross every t. So he put in for a warrant. Time was not a factor at this stage. Bruckner had died two years ago, his apartment rented to others since. And Bing had other things to do. He wanted to learn everything there was to learn about the man. He wanted the damn motive.
He printed all the reports on Bruckner, tossed them into an empty manila folder, then into his bag, next to Stacy’s case file. He didn’t expect to get much sleep tonight.
He almost asked Joe to watch Sophie’s house—he wasn’t fit for company—but then changed his mind on his way out. Seeing her, just looking at her and all her sunny optimism, might do him good. He wanted to lose himself in the softness of her body. He wanted to talk to her. Because he trusted her. Because she was smart and caring and brave. She could be the voice of reason, because at the moment he sure couldn’t. He needed her, and that truth shook him. What they had between them was moving toward something pretty big, perhaps way too fast.
He drove thinking about Bruckner, rage and disappointment swirling inside him. And something else…
If
Bruckner had gone to the house because he was mad at Bing over something that had to do with the apartment, then he didn’t go there for other reasons—like an affair with Stacy. Bing didn’t want to believe that about his wife, not even if their marriage hadn’t been the best toward the end.
The thought of an affair had occupied a dark, hidden corner of his mind these past two years. He’d pushed it aside, but it was always there. The coroner recorded signs of intercourse before the death but couldn’t be sure whether it was rape. She’d been shot through the heart—which could be consistent with a crime of passion.
He didn’t want to believe that, but neither could he rule it out. He’d been telling himself all this time that it’d been a burglary. The burglar was caught by Stacy, and he raped her, then shot her. Then he had to run in case the shot had been heard. Not an unreasonable theory.
Bing had worked too much overtime. And maybe things weren’t as good between them as they had been at the beginning. But he didn’t want to think that Stacy might have had a lover.
Greg Bruckner was young and, all right, good-looking in a swarthy kind of way. But he was also Bing’s tenant and a petty criminal who was used to taking what he wanted. A more likely connection. Bing drove, his mind cycling through a jumble of questions.
Bruckner had a criminal record. Why in hell hadn’t the property management company run a check? He’d have to have a talk with his partners about that. Maybe they needed to hire a new outfit.
His head was hurting from trying to figure it all out. By the time he rang Sophie’s doorbell, he was ready for a break, ready for the sight of her, for that smile that could light up the room.
And she brought it too. The sheer excitement and exuberance on her face when she opened the door couldn’t have been in starker contrast to the way he felt. She was practically floating above the floor, vibrating with cheer.
He stood there for a moment and soaked it all in. “Hey.”
“I have it!” She squealed like a teenager and threw her arms around him.
He held on to her, needing this, needing her. He breathed in her fresh, soapy scent and let her cheerful presence seep into all his dark and miserable places.
