by Rachel Grant
“After Internal Affairs investigated, with inconclusive results, Aaron became even worse. In addition to being followed, I started getting crank calls at all times of the day and night. Of course, I got a trace on my line. One call came from a pay phone located in front of a convenience store. I had read the police blotter in the newspaper and knew that a convenience store had been robbed that night. I checked with the manager. He confirmed that Aaron Brady had been one of the officers to respond to his call. Aaron did that two more times—called me from a phone that was near a call he’d answered while on duty.
“I documented everything. My neighbors helped. They were sick of being spied on by a cop. We got pictures of Aaron parked in his car in various places in my neighborhood. With a date and time stamp. I took pictures of him when he followed me, and friends got shots of him at my destination, all with date and time stamped on them. I had witnesses. Then I got lucky. The judge at the hearing was sympathetic. She said the evidence showed adequately that he’d engaged in a ‘course of conduct that alarmed, annoyed, and harassed me which served no lawful purpose and was likely to cause me substantial emotional distress.’” Knowing they described the threshold she needed to meet to get her life back, she’d memorized those words long before the final hearing. “In King County, the Anti-Harassment Order allows some leeway—meaning I didn’t have to show bruises, thank God.”
“Then Aaron left you alone?”
“Yeah, but there were other repercussions. Aaron’s brother said I was a psycho bitch who harassed his little brother, and when Aaron wouldn’t have anything to do with me, I tried to ruin his career. He pulled his project. This was nearly a year after the first time Aaron and I went out, and we were done with the fieldwork by then. The report was nearly complete. He turned all the lab and field notes over to a competitor—one I can’t stand, by the way—and had them write a lousy report that in no way resembled our findings. He refused to honor our contract and I spent two years in court trying to get him to pay the thirty thousand he owed me.”
“Did you get it?”
“No. Why do you think I drive such a crappy old truck?”
His eyes softened and his lips twitched, but his cop face returned before a second passed. “Have you seen Brady since?”
“No. It’s been three years.”
“Four months ago, you requested a new Anti-Harassment Order. Why?”
“Same reason I did twice before. It’s only a yearlong order, and the third one was due to expire in June. I wanted to make sure he stays away.”
“Why wasn’t the order reinstated?”
“The complaint was old; the new judge didn’t believe Aaron was still a threat to me.”
“How did you feel when it was denied?”
“Disappointed.”
“Disappointed enough to stage a few incidents, so the order would be reinstated?”
It took a moment for his words to register. Her face heated as acid filled her belly. “I see the blue brotherhood is alive and well.”
“This is called investigating, Libby. You may not like every path my investigation takes, but I’ve got to examine them all.” He stepped toward her.
She instinctively retreated, her back brushing up against the counter. “You should be investigating Aaron Brady, not me.”
“Funny. He said the same thing about you.”
Her throat seized. He’d talked to Aaron. He’d sided with the cop before he even arrived at the site with sirens blaring. She finally managed to speak. “Get out!” She pointed to the back door.
“We’re not done yet. There are differences between your story and Brady’s. I can think of one major detail you’ve left out.”
Her blood simmered as she stared at him. She knew exactly what he waited for. She had no choice but to say the words. “Aaron told you some of the photos—my evidence against him—had been doctored.”
“Did you doctor them yourself?”
“A friend who was trying to protect me edited some of the date and time stamps. I didn’t know anything about it.”
“You admit the photos were altered.”
“I didn’t find out about it until a few months ago—when I read Aaron’s statement demanding the renewal of the order be denied. I questioned my friend and she admitted it. But those photos weren’t the only evidence. There were several that hadn’t been altered. Plus I had the calls and witnesses.”
“He had witnesses, too. Witnesses ready to testify that you were stalking him.”
“His buddies who didn’t care about what was really going on.” She swallowed a frustrated groan. How could she ever have thought Mark Colby handsome? She’d known he wouldn’t be any different from the cops in Seattle, but his pretense of investigating had triggered a smidgen of hope. “Someone put a nail in my tire and hid in the bushes to scare me, and instead of getting help, I’m being treated like a criminal because a jerk cop harassed me four years ago.”
“I have to ask these questions, Libby.”
The doorbell rang and she realized it must be seven already. “Jason. Crap. I forgot about dinner.” She wasn’t ready for a business dinner. Could this day get any worse?
“Jason Caruthers?”
Of course he knew Jason. You couldn’t live in Coho without knowing about the four owners of Thorpe Log & Lumber. “Yes,” she said, heading toward the front door.
“Your client’s son.”
She stopped dead. Oh shit. The day had just gotten worse. She whipped around and faced him. “It’s not what you think.”
He took a slow step toward her. “You almost had me. I was starting to believe your story about being afraid, losing your client and a lot of money. Then who do you have dinner plans with on a Friday night? Jason Caruthers. First a client’s brother, now a client’s son. We’re done here.” He walked to the front of the house where Jason waited, which had to be deliberate, because he’d parked in the back.
Jason was clearly visible through the long windowpane inset in the antique door. Mark reached for the doorknob and then turned and faced her again. “Don’t think you’re going to screw over my department or my officers with your games. I will find out what’s going on.” He brushed past Jason as he left the house. “Caruthers,” he said in acknowledgement and kept walking.
“Colby,” Jason said and then looked at her questioningly.
She swallowed hard and battled mortification. “Come in,” she said.
Jason stepped into the living room. “Is this a bad time?”
“No. No. I just need a few minutes.” She glanced around the room, trying to figure out what to do, still reeling from the police chief’s reaction. Her brain wasn’t working properly.
“Do you need help, Libby? Legal help, I mean?”
“No. No. It’s nothing like that.” She had to get herself together, or Jason was going to think she was a bigger fruit loop than the police chief did. “I’ll be right back,” she said and then headed to the bathroom.
She splashed cold water on her face and stared into the mirror. Seconds became minutes. She didn’t know what to say to Jason, or how to deal with the mess she was in with the Coho police. All she knew was that at some point, she had to leave the bathroom and face Jason Caruthers. How could she possibly sit through dinner with him tonight?
Quite simply, she couldn’t.
She blotted her face on the towel and opened the bathroom door, and then squared her shoulders as she marched into the living room.
He stood by the fireplace, cool, composed, and handsome, staring at a wooden mask carved in a Coast Salish motif, which was mounted in a place of honor above the mantel. “If I remember correctly,” he said, “my mom bought this mask while we traveled in British Columbia. The carver gave us a tour of his workshop and showed me how he mixed the pigments in the old style. No modern paints or tools were used to make this mask.”
He wanted to talk about his mother, and she needed his assistance with the background research, but at the moment, s
he didn’t care. “Jason. Tonight isn’t good for me. Can we do this another time?”
He paused. “Sure,” he said finally. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” He turned, started for the door, and then stopped. “Libby, do you want to talk about what’s going on?”
“No, it’s nothing,” she lied.
“Call me if you change your mind.”
She closed the door behind him and flopped down on the couch. A surge of anger and frustration ran through her. She twisted a silk throw pillow and then stared in horror at the creases she’d created in the fabric. Nothing in this room belonged to her. The furnishings belonged to Jack and Jason, who’d given her the use of this house for the duration of the project.
She smoothed the wrinkled cloth in a pathetic attempt to undo the damage. She wanted to blame Aaron. He was the psycho. He was the one who’d victimized her. But deep down she knew that if she’d handled things differently almost four years ago, then Aaron wouldn’t be a problem for her now. Like the crumpled pillow, the police chief’s suspicion was all her fault.
She couldn’t count on the police for protection. From here on out, she could only depend on herself. She couldn’t make any more foolish mistakes. Only one thing would make her feel safe. Tomorrow she’d buy a gun.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE BELL ABOVE THE DOOR JINGLED as Mark stepped into the Coho Diner, the only restaurant in town that served breakfast. He scanned the room, seeing the usual Saturday morning crowd. He ate breakfast at the diner several times a week and more often than not ended up dining with a resident who was anxious over something. The meals provided a casual forum for people to talk about their concerns with the police chief. He was never truly off the job in this small town.
He nodded to Chuck Nalley, the mayor of Coho, and then realized Chuck was having breakfast with none other than Libby Maitland, who sat with her back to the door. The woman had a history of filing charges against cops. If she was dining with the mayor to complain about him, she was in for disappointment. Mark had good reason for the way he’d handled her and the mayor wasn’t one to second-guess police matters. He strode to the table and stood directly behind Libby. “Morning, Chuck.”
Her posture shifted subtly, a slight stiffening of her spine. On the table, the pen in her hand stopped moving and the word she’d been writing became an indecipherable blot of ink on the page. Still, she didn’t turn around, and he had to admire her poise. A small audio recorder sat on the table; the power light glowed bright red. Why was she recording her conversation with Chuck?
“Mornin’, Mark. Have you met Libby Maitland? She’s the archaeologist who’s excavating that site for Jack.” Chuck’s introduction answered one question; they weren’t discussing yesterday’s incident—or lack thereof.
She turned to acknowledge him, offering a wry smile that held an unexpected appeal. “Good morning, Mark.”
“Libby.” He nodded to her. “Looks like you two are busy. I’ll chat with you later, Chuck.” He sat at a table that faced Libby and ordered coffee.
He could tell from her posture she was aware he watched her, but slowly she relaxed. He picked up snippets of their conversation, and Chuck did most of the talking. She laughed at something he said, releasing a warm, natural peal that didn’t mesh with Aaron Brady’s characterization of her. Mark didn’t know Aaron Brady, but he knew and trusted Chuck Nalley.
In a relaxed moment, she glanced his way. He took a sip of coffee and held her gaze, caught by the confusion in her wide green eyes. She stiffened and reached for her water but her hand hit the glass, knocking it over. She snatched up her notebook and recorder. Mark was by her side instantly, throwing his napkin over the spreading water.
“You seem rattled, Libby. Is something wrong?”
Her lips tightened. “Everything’s just peachy. Nothing I can’t handle myself.”
He couldn’t resist needling her. “I’ve seen no evidence of that.”
“That’s because you don’t see evidence, period.”
He smiled. She was quick. “It’s hard to see something that isn’t there.” Mark ignored Chuck’s curious gaze and resumed his seat. He continued to stare at her. She avoided him, turning her seat a few degrees so his view was of her back more than her profile. Interview completed, she packed up her recorder and notebook, thanked Chuck, and left the restaurant without another glance Mark’s way.
He moved to her vacated chair. “Looked like Libby was interviewing you. What about?”
“She’s working on a history of Coho. She needs to interview a lot of locals—especially lifetime residents, like me—so don’t feel bad if she doesn’t interview you. I take it you’ve met her already?”
“We’ve crossed paths.”
A speculative gleam entered Chuck’s eyes. “You know, she’s single. I can tell she’s whip-smart. Attractive, too, I think.”
“You sound like your wife. I can find my own dates, thank you.”
“You wouldn’t believe what she’s working on—instead of a boring history of the town, she’s trying to find out all of Lyle Montgomery’s nasty little secrets.”
“That sounds more tabloid than professional archaeologist. Why is she doing it?”
“A government agency is playing politics with Jack’s construction permit. They won’t give it to him if she doesn’t write a history that a tribal elder has demanded. Jack is in a panic. He must have called me six times yesterday. He’s invested too much money in the Cultural Center to lose it all over one small permit. He’s pulling all sorts of strings to help Libby set up interviews. Jason, too.”
A slow burn began in Mark’s stomach. Was it possible he’d misjudged her? “Jason is helping her?”
Chuck nodded. “She needs to interview Lyle’s family. Jason set it up. Listen, I gotta run. We’re babysitting my grandson today. The missus or I will call you about dinner, okay?”
“That’s not necessary.”
Chuck waved off his protests and left the restaurant. Mark paid his bill. He’d planned to go home, but nagging doubt sent him to the police station. There, he nodded to the desk sergeant on duty. “Anything I need to know about?”
“Just a barking dog and stolen trash can.”
“Sounds like you have things under control.” He continued through the security door and down the drab hallway to the squad room. The station was quiet, a typical Saturday.
At his desk, he flipped through the stack of messages that waited on his blotter until he found one from his ex-partner on the Seattle police force. He picked up the phone and dialed. “What’d you find out for me, Bobby?”
“Not much on Libby Maitland. Far as I can tell, she’s no groupie. No one but Brady claims to have seen her at any cop hangouts. She doesn’t have a history of staking out police stations at shift change. Haven’t met anyone who’s tapped her. If she’s into cops, then she might be looking for a Mrs., not a quickie.”
“I’ll consider that fair warning.”
“I’d consider you lucky. I’ve seen photos.”
“She could be a whack job, Bobby.”
“I’ve dated whack jobs who weren’t half so good-looking.”
“You’ve married whack jobs who weren’t half so good-looking,” Mark said.
“Ouch.”
“How’s the divorce going, anyway?”
“Same old. She’s getting everything but my dick.”
“Well, considering that’s what’s caused the divorce, I’d say you’re lucky to keep that.”
“You ever consider taking my side?” Bobby asked.
“No.”
He laughed. “You want me to look into Brady some more?”
“I’d like to know if he’s in Seattle right now, and where he was Thursday night and yesterday evening.”
“You thinkin’ she might be on the level?”
“Just covering the bases.”
“Okay. I’ll go to Brady’s favorite bar tonight and see what I can find out. You’re buying, by the way.”
/> “I owe you.” He hung up. Last night the evidence seemed to support Brady’s claim Libby was a nutjob groupie, but today Mark wasn’t so sure.
His first impression of her had been positive. Hell, more than positive, if the slight rush he’d felt when she told him she was single were any indication. And he couldn’t deny the spark that flared when he’d questioned her at the site yesterday.
Right now, there was no proof a crime had been committed. He could write a report, file it away, and be done. But he’d never been one to take the easy out with a case. It was possible—even probable—Aaron Brady had stalked her in the past. And now that the restraining order had expired, Mark had to consider the possibility Brady had picked up where he’d left off.
LIBBY SAT IN HER HOME OFFICE going over the notes she’d made during the three interviews she’d conducted over the course of the day. The doorbell rang. Hallelujah, the pizza had arrived, a welcome and very late lunch. She looked at her watch. Make that early dinner. She grabbed her purse and headed down the stairs.
She paused when she saw Mark Colby at the door. The main drawback to living in a gorgeous old Queen Anne house with antique doors inset with long panels of cut glass had to be that the police chief could see her just as clearly as she could see him. She sighed and opened the door. “This is a surprise,” she said without warmth.
He glanced at her purse. “You on your way somewhere?”
“No. I thought you were the pizza guy.”
“I need to ask you a few questions.”
She stepped outside and shut the door, and then crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the doorframe.
“I jumped to the wrong conclusion last night,” he said.
That was not what she expected him to say. She cocked her head to the side and uncrossed her arms, studying him. Finally she said, “Yes, you did. Jason asked me to dinner so he could tell me about his mother’s research.”
His brow furrowed. “You’ve lost me. Why would he want to tell you about his mother’s research?”
