Clean Lines (Cedar Tree #4)

by Freya Barker

  "I'm sorry..." I start.

  "Nothing to be sorry for, and just so you know, whatever trouble you think he's in, it's not that bad."

  Of course that sets off another round of tears and a few more minutes before I have those under control.

  "Tell me what happened?"

  "I was following up on some reports of vandalism at Crow Canyon; the Archeological Center? He was one of four kids partying at one of the digs. The fire they built tipped me off from a distance. I had no idea it was him. He saw me first and started running and I took off after him. He ended up falling right into another excavation. Tried to stop his fall with his hands I imagine, because by the time I got to him, he was sitting at the bottom cradling his arm. That's when I recognized him. Got him out and brought him straight here."

  I'm sick to my stomach but I have to ask the next question, both as a mother and a physician.

  "Alcohol and drugs? I thought I smelled some booze on him now that I think about it."

  "Yeah well, you might want to take some blood and get a lab work-up done. I'll need it for my report too."

  I just nod. I haven't looked Joe in the eyes yet, but when his hand slides down my back I turn to face him.

  "What will happen?"

  The genuine concern and warmth in his clear blue eyes is unmistakable and for a minute I wonder if I should just tell him all my worries, but just then Stacy walks in looking around.

  "Dr. Waters? Your patient is back in his room and I took the liberty to have security stand guard when I couldn't find the Sheriff. The radiology report is at the nurse's station."

  "Thanks Stacy, I'll be right there. Oh, and could you, or get the lab to come and draw some blood for a tox screen on him?"

  "Sure thing."

  With a curious glance at Joe after seeing what I'm sure is my tear-blotched face, she is off again.

  "Well, I'd better get back and see what the damage is," I sigh, pushing back my chair, and forcing Joe to do the same.

  "I'll stick around here to wait for results. We'll take it from there. He didn't have anything on him, so for now trespassing and mischief are his only issues. Maybe we can ask him some questions together later?"

  I know Joe is being gentle with me, or rather for me, and I'm grateful, so I take the plunge.

  "Yes. There are things I need to know too; things he hasn't told me. Stuff that may be important. There is so much I've tried to manage by myself but I think I might need your advice. But first let me look after him."

  He's surprised, I can tell that much from the slight lift of his eyebrows. And no matter how much I want to stay angry with him, right now my son is in trouble and I am not above using my fucked up connection with Joe to get answers if I can.

  I walk straight into the room and pull up Fox’s scans on the computer, while Joe stays to chat with the security guard. Fox is lying on the bed, his good arm covering his eyes.

  "How are you doing?" I ask him softly.

  "I'm okay," he mumbles, but he doesn't move his arm.

  "Hey Bub? They're gonna come take some blood in a minute to take to the lab; anything you wanna tell me before they do that?"

  Slowly he drags his arm down his face and his eyes are brimming with tears. My baby is crying and it breaks my fucking heart. Swallowing the lump in my throat and blinking furiously I smile at him, letting go of all the anger and frustration I'm feeling. I carefully reach out and place my hand on his cheek. Instead of shrugging me off, he presses his face into my palm and another little tear cracks my heart.

  "Just tell me, babe—like ripping off a Band-Aid—then we'll deal with it, and with that messed up wrist of yours. Come on, be brave."

  I can hear Joe has entered behind me and a quick look over my shoulder finds him once again leaning against the wall. Fox looks at him too and then at me.

  "It was stupid. Just hanging out. At first it was a few beers and some laughs. Then one of them started bringing hard liquor and weed. Last night this new guy came and he brought meth. I told them I didn't want it." He focuses his eyes down on the floor as he continues, no longer willing to look either of us in the eye. "But they gave me a hard time, so I inhaled some to try it anyway. The stuff made me sick and when I went in the trees to throw up, that's when Sheriff Morris saw me."

  I have to swallow hard and take a minute. Fear and anger threaten to make me lose my cool but in the end I manage to maintain my composure. I need to keep him talking and continue in a moderate tone. "Okay. Okay... I guess it's good it made ya sick. But Bub, we're gonna have to sit down and talk about why at some point. Why you stick your neck out and do stupid shit you are too smart for. Now I know Sheriff Morris will have some questions for you, but first we're gonna have a look at these scans of your wrist and see what's what. That okay with you, Joe?"

  I turn around to Joe, who simply nods in response.

  The news is not so good for Fox. He has a complex fracture of his distal radius, the end of the larger of the bones in his forearm, and will likely need surgery. I've put a call in to the orthopedic surgeon, but he won't be in until tomorrow and with the alcohol and the meth in his system, I'm going to have to admit Fox. He won't be happy, but I'm hesitant to give him any pain medication without very close supervision. The end of a fucking perfect day.

  Joe managed to get a little bit of information out of him and left a short while ago, telling me he was sorry he had to leave, but that he had another one of the boys at the station he wanted to have a talk with. I don't know whether it's fatigue or what, but I can't quite figure out what he has to be sorry about.

  It’s after midnight already and well past the end of my shift. I manage to snag one of those fancy sleeper chairs and pull it into the room next to Fox's bed. Might as well crash here.

  I must've fallen asleep myself at some point, watching the rise and fall of my child's chest, still seeing the little boy in the lanky almost-man crowding the hospital bed. A noise behind me startles me awake and I turn to find Joe standing in the doorway.

  "Sorry, Doc. Didn't mean to wake you. I was just backing out," he whispers.

  "S'okay. I just dozed off."

  I watch him make his way in the room and pull a stool up beside me.

  "What are you doing here so late?"

  "Just on my way home from the station. Decided to see how he was. How you are."

  I take my time scanning his face, the day's growth of beard, the hair curling up at his ears, his straight nose and firm jaw, before those expressive blue eyes drawing me in.

  "Doing alright. The surgeon will be in in the morning to assess him and we'll take it from there. I'm still waiting on the lab work to come back, but he already confirmed what he took, so it's almost a moot point. I'm just at a loss where to go from here."

  "Wanna tell me what you were referring to earlier? The advice you were talking about?"

  I peek over at Fox, who appears to be sleeping deeply and pull my legs under my body, settling deeper in the chair.

  "Fox went to live with his dad when he didn't like the rules I expected him to follow. James was a shit husband but hadn't been a bad father, and I knew any judge would've given a fifteen year old kid the option.”

  I continue giving Joe as much background as I can before outlining the events since Fox has been back. When I tell him about my conversation with James’ partner, Joe interrupts. "Did you tell him where you were?”

  I shake my head. "No, something felt off so I told him I would get in touch with the Phoenix PD, but they are writing it off; saying he appears to have left voluntarily and the break-in looked to have occurred after. I've called them a few times since, but am getting nowhere. Then last week, Fox asked about his dad and wanted to try and contact a buddy in the neighborhood. I finally told him what his dad had said to say; that he had been heard...whatever the hell that means. He turned white as a ghost and if he wasn’t speaking to me before, he surely isn't speaking to me now. I can’t get a damn thing out of him. Now this. I'm at a loss.
I know something is going on, something that started in Phoenix and has to do with James, but I can't get to the bottom of it."

  I'm surprised to find Joe handing a box of tissues over, and only now discover tears falling down my chin. Great. Second time in one day I let my emotions show in front of this man. Almost angry, though mostly with myself, I snatch a handful and wipe my face.

  "What's your husband's full name," he asks curtly.

  My eyes shoot up at the short tone and I instantly bristle. "It's James Thomas Miller and he's my ex-husband. We've been divorced for nearly four and a half years now."

  "Point taken," he says, lowering his eyes for a moment, before refocusing on mine. "And I will have a look if I can find out anything, but you and I, we really need to have a long overdue talk about some persistent misunderstandings. Ones that I have been trying to clear up for years, but have never been given a chance to. If nothing else, I want us to be able to work together, be real and straight with each other, and not hide behind snide innuendos and bitter retorts. All based on false impressions and misinformation."

  Now it's my turn to lower my eyes, embarrassed, because I'm the one who refused to listen to any explanations for years. I haven't wanted to listen to anyone, too hurt by what seemed so obvious to me at the time. It’s clear to me from the edge to Joe’s voice and the hurt evident in his eyes that I’ve been unfair to him.

  "You're right. Long overdue and I'm sorry for my part in that."

  Joe blows out a puff of air before making a valiant attempt to smile at me.

  "Get some sleep. We're both exhausted. I'll be in touch, okay?"

  I simply nod as he returns the stool, and gives my shoulder a squeeze on his way out the door.

  Damn.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  "Drew! Can you come in here?"

  "Sheriff?"

  As one of my youngest deputies, Drew Carmel for some reason hasn't been able to bring himself to call me by my first name yet, even though I make a point of it every time he calls me 'sir' or 'Sheriff.' I'm not big on adhering to the strict and out-dated hierarchical protocols, especially since we have a small crew and work closely together both outside and within the confines of our offices.

  "Joe please, Drew," I remind him once again. "Have you had a chance to run that name through the system again? James Thomas Miller?"

  "This morning, Sir." He blushes when he sees me flinch at the 'Sir.' "Sorry"

  "No problem. Hard habit to break, I know."

  "Anything?"

  "Nothing. No flags, no tags, no call outs, nothing."

  "Damn. 'Kay, thanks."

  Since leaving Naomi sitting by her son's hospital bed in the dark a few days ago, I've been trying to get some information for her on the boy's father, but so far I've come up empty. From what I can tell there is no active missing person's case, and the only thing open is a breaking and entering at his address in Phoenix. Not something that generally has particularly high priority in the busy Phoenix police district. This morning I put in a search with the Maricopa County Court Docket for any cases that list Miller as the representing attorney for the last year. Not sure what I'm hoping to find, but there may be something that sends up a flag. Being a criminal attorney is sure to have ruffled some feathers over the years, and it won't hurt to see if anything bears looking into.

  I was back in the hospital the day after I picked up Fox and brought him in to check in, but when I popped my head in, the surgeon was with them discussing the surgery Fox apparently was going to need, so I couldn’t go in. Not my business. Instead I picked up a copy of the lab results at the nurse's station, left a message for Naomi that I'd been by and headed out.

  The toxicology report shows only minute traces of meth in his system, meaning he likely barely took a hit. Just like he said. Thank God for that. But his alcohol levels had been far above the legal limit. I'm torn. Part of me wants to back off and call it lesson learned, given that the kid likely will have a lengthy reminder of his fuck up, and if it wasn't for the chat I had with Michael Vincent, the second boy we picked up that night, I might let it go at that.

  Michael's involvement makes the whole thing a bit more complicated, though. Not only was he the one who brought the kid with the meth, but before I'd even gotten back to the station that night, his father was already raising a stink in my office. Young Michael turns out to be the son of Les Vincent, chairman of the Montezuma County Board and technically my boss.

  When Frank left mid-term last year, the board appointed me Sheriff on an interim basis, to serve out his term until the next election. A local business man, Les has many years on the board and a fair amount of clout in the community, and I have no doubt he could make things difficult for me. Something he doesn't hesitate to point out the moment I walk in.

  I fucking hate politics and I don’t waste any time letting Les know I’m doing the job he appointed me to do—no more—no less—and that he’s welcome to sit in while I ask his son a few questions.

  Unfortunately, Michael isn't very forthcoming with information. Claims he didn't know the kid's name, only that he met him at the arcade earlier in the week and they struck up a conversation. It stinks to high heaven, but with Les looming in the room, there’s little I can do to push for more, and I end up releasing the boy to his father's care, letting him know I'll be in touch to follow up. Something I aim to do soon.

  Sick of being cooped up inside, I grab my hat and make for the door, when Carol stops me.

  "Sheriff, call on line two."

  Instead of walking back to my office, I grab the phone on the front desk.

  "Morris."

  "Sheriff Morris, this is Deb Blake. I'm a clerk at the Maricopa County Court. I understand you were interested in the listings of attorney James Miller on our docket?"

  "Yes, I am."

  "Sir, he was recently replaced on all active docket listings by one of his associates. A Mr. Frank Bancroft is now acting defense attorney on all open cases."

  I take a minute to process before asking, "Can you tell me what the last case was Miller saw through trial?" I figure perhaps not a current case, but a prior one that hadn't worked out so well and left a disgruntled defendant, could have put Miller in the situation he appears to be in now.

  I realize I'm grasping at straws until I hear the clerk's sharp intake of breath.

  "Oh my, I didn't realize that was his."

  "What's that?" I prompt.

  "Sorry... A month and a half ago a key witness for the DA's office was found dead. He was scheduled to testify in court the next day in the murder trial of Tad Jackson. James Miller is Mr. Jackson's defense attorney. It caused a lot of unrest in the community, especially since just a week or two after that, following numerous attempts to delay by the District Attorney, Mr. Jackson was acquitted by a jury of his peers. What should have been an ironclad case became nothing but a collection of circumstantial evidence without the witness account to tie it all together. I can't believe I didn't place Mr. Miller's name sooner."

  The clerk's chatty personality supplies me with some very interesting information. Judging by the timeline and the events, this may well have something to do with James' disappearance; voluntary or not.

  I ask Deb if she can send over summaries of the court transcripts and thank her for the call, noting her name for future reference. It never hurts to make new friends in useful places.

  "Carol, keep an eye out for a package from Maricopa County. It's personal. Just plop it in my office, will you?"

  "Sure thing, Joe."

  On my way out the door I wave at the almost seventy-year-old woman who's been running this office and the dispatch since I was in diapers. Carol has survived eight sheriffs and will most likely survive me as well. Her coffee is like engine oil, and will strip your eyelids off your eyes in a heartbeat thus serving its purpose, or so she says, and her grit and wisdom is unequalled. I love that woman. She makes coming into work every day that much better.

  Dean Edwards offere
d me to scrub in on Fox's surgery, but I declined. In hindsight, the OR might've been less unnerving than the waiting room was. A humbling experience to say the least, to experience events on this side of the fence.

  Half an hour into what was supposed to be at least a two-hour wait, I find myself too restless to stick around any longer and wander off to find some action in the ER, letting the nurse know where I'm off too and leaving my pager number.

  It's been three days since Joe brought Fox in and the poor kid has been in agony the whole time. Dean showed up early the next morning and confirmed my suspicions that surgery would be necessary to stabilize his wrist, which appears to be broken in two different places, but was hesitant to schedule him any sooner than today because of his tox screens. With the residual effects of alcohol and meth in his system, he didn't want to subject him to anesthesia to soon, and opted to instead keep him hospitalized, and his system flushed with fluids before taking him to the OR this morning. Fox hasn't said much, except to apologize once again; this time I let him. He still won't open up about Phoenix, stubbornly turning his head whenever I bring it up, which is about every time he asks whether I've heard any news on his dad. Whatever happened is eating at him. Big time.

  No word from Joe either, other than a message that he'd been by to pick up the lab report on Fox. I have to admit, I'm disappointed. I thought for sure we'd maybe turned a corner. Friendship sounded better than the cold war we'd been waging the past few years. Although it would be difficult keeping this damn persistent attraction to him under wraps, which had not waned one bit, not even when I hated his guts.

  I swallow down the bitter edge of disappointment just as I turn the corner into the Emergency Room and bump right into the object of my musings.

  "Joe..." escapes me, rather breathlessly, followed immediately by a betraying blush I can feel burning on my cheeks.

  Joe holds me steady by the shoulders as he takes in my flushed face with a hint of a smile.