“I’ll have it out in a jiffy.” She started to turn away and noticed the flyer lying on top of his newspaper. The missing girl, Lila VanBuran, smiled up from the tattered poster.
Miranda felt a sharp twist in her belly, as she always did when she saw one of those flyers kicking around. The girl was dead. No proof, but everyone knew something bad had befallen her.
Mischa followed her gaze to the flyer. Tight-lipped, he folded it into fours before sliding it into the pocket of his coat.
“I’m sorry,” Miranda said and averted her eyes. “Are you a relative?” Police had called off the search a long time ago, but Lila’s relatives had never stopped looking. Every few weeks, a cousin or uncle would pop into town hoping for new information.
“No,” Mischa said and his tone sent a chill down her spine. “I’m someone who, God willing, wants to see justice done.”
O-kay. Major creeper vibes.
Miranda excused herself and hurried back to the kitchen, aware of his gaze tracking her movements. Not so handsome anymore, she thought. He had a feral look in his eyes that set off alarm bells in her mind. If anyone had killed Wade—she knew nobody had; it was an accident—but still, if someone had, she’d point the finger at Mischa long before Alex.
Mischa felt like a killer.
“You okay?” Gail asked as Miranda barreled into the prep area. She was loading plates of food onto a tray, but stopped and studied Miranda’s expression with a frown. “You’re awful pale, sweetie.”
“I’m good. It’s crazy out there.”
“Bunch of vultures,” Gail muttered and hoisted the tray to her shoulder. “Why don’t you take a few minutes? You look beat.”
A break sounded like heaven. She’d normally jumped on the chance, but with Pru out and Jones pulling another no-call, no-show, they were already severely understaffed. “You sure?”
“Don’t you worry. Me and our angel Jenny got things covered, huh? Go ahead and take your break.”
No need to tell her twice. She placed Creepy Mischa’s order with Jen, the high schooler who worked as a part-time cook and saved them loads of trouble this morning by coming in on her day off. “Angel” was not a kind enough word for the girl.
Miranda snagged her coat from the employee lounge, a storage closet with a few battered lockers off the prep area, and hesitated again at the back door. “Um, Gail, keep an eye on the guy at table ten. It’s probably nothing, but I’m getting weirdo vibes from him.”
“Sure, honey.”
Miranda stepped outside and the day slapped her with a cold hand. Snow wasn’t imminent yet, but the threat of it hung in the steel gray sky.
Silly to say anything about Creepy Mischa, she thought and turned her collar up to ward off the chill. But, hey, at least nobody could say she didn’t warn them if he turned out to be a crazed mass murderer.
She lit a cigarette, drew in a deep lungful of nicotine, and started walking. She didn’t know what drew her down Penobscot Street, hadn’t even realized her surroundings until she found herself standing in front of John Putnam Jr.’s Victorian. Years ago, the house had been a rundown, abandoned dump that all the local kids claimed was haunted. It wasn’t—unlike the lighthouse—but its state of dilapidation and looming turret made it look like it should have been.
Miranda smiled as she remembered it. J.J., Rhett, David Faraday, Kevin Mallory, and Wade—collectively known in those days as The Crew—had scared her silly one time in high school by hiding out and rattling the windows when she, Pru, and a group of other girls crept up to the house on a dare.
Now cheerful blue paint coated the house, with pretty gingerbread detailing in white. Elegant and charming, a cobblestone walkway led to the wraparound porch. Pru mentioned once J.J. restored the entire house on his own time between construction jobs. That must have taken crazy skills, Miranda thought.
And so had the Halloween decorations. Fluffy, store-bought cobwebs draped the porch and jack-o-lanterns lined the front steps. Plywood gravestones turned the yard into a cemetery, with a ghoulish hand clawing out of the ground in front of one. J.J. had painted each gravestone with a funny epitaph. Her favorite: “See, I told you I was sick!”
The curtain in the front bay window twitched and she froze, shame filling her cheeks with heat. He had to be hurting and here she was rubbernecking like the rest of town. Just as bad as Azalea Wingate.
Disgusted, she turned away and heard the house’s front door pop open.
“Miranda?” John Jr.’s voice was rusty and slightly baffled.
Caught red-handed. She spun and forced a smile that was probably too bright, considering the circumstances. “Hi.”
“Miranda?” he said again. He padded onto the porch in corduroy slippers that flopped against his heels and stared at her like he thought he might be hallucinating. His blond hair stuck up at angles and the flesh around his bloodshot eyes looked bruised. He wore sleep pants patterned with Animal from the Muppets. A threadbare sweatshirt from the local community college bagged from his lean, rugged frame.
God, he was adorable in his slippers and pjs. In a goofy, yet oddly masculine sort of way.
Huh. How had he stayed so far off her sex radar all these years?
“Miranda?” he said a third time.
“Yes, it’s me.” She gave a little wave, nerves quivering around in her belly. “I had a break from the diner and thought to …”
What? To check up on him? Sure, they had been friends, but they weren’t close and hadn’t run in the same social circles since middle school. What gave her the right to check on him? He’d probably tell her to get the hell off his property.
She bit down on her lower lip as he continued to stare. “Um.” She cast around for an excuse and lightning struck. “Pru’s worried about you. She stayed at my house last night after Wade—”
She saw his eyes cloud as his brother’s name left her lips and wished to God she could take it back. A lump swelled in her throat. “I’m sorry. Oh, J.J., I’m so sorry. Is there anything you need?”
His gaze slid away and his Adam’s apple bobbed. He backed toward his front door like a man trying to escape a wild animal. “No, I’m fine. Thanks.”
“I could bring you something from the diner after work.” Heat rushed into her cheeks when he looked at her in wide-eyed surprise. She babbled on, “Our soup today is chicken noodle. It will make you feel—” No, she refused to finish the trite condolence. His brother just died and nothing was going to make him feel better for a long time.
“Ah, that was stupid.” She fluttered a hand over her hair. “Forget I said that. I know a bowl of chicken soup won’t take the hurt away but—well, dammit, it’ll make me feel better to do something. I—” Her voice cracked and for the first time since she heard the news of Wade’s death, she let the tears spill over. “I really liked Wade. He always remembered my birthday, every year.”
“He was good with dates,” John Jr. whispered.
She nodded and dug into the pocket of her apron for the handful of lollypops that had felt like lead weights all morning. “I bring these to work every day for him. This morning, I put them in my pocket without thinking and when I got to work—he wasn’t there.”
Tears eased from John Jr.’s eyes. He walked down the porch steps and folded her hand, still holding the lollypops, up in both of his. Big hands, rough with calluses like her father’s. Hands that could cause a woman a world of pain, but John Jr. had the softest touch of any man she’d ever met.
She blinked in amazement, more tears spilling out. Was he…attracted to her? Maybe she was imagining it, but she was usually good at picking up the signals. Under the layers of grief, he definitely seemed to be broadcasting.
How had she never noticed that before?
John Jr. held on a moment too long, then pried the lollypops out of her grip. “I’ll put these with him. When we bury him. He’ll like that.”
Miranda stared as he backed away. A nice, respectable man—a man like she wanted—that
she’d known her whole life, and she’d never really seen him before.
“John.” His name came out a whisper.
He stopped moving. “Miranda.”
They stared at each other. Words and emotions tangled inside her mind. She struggled for a coherent thought, something sweet or sexy to say.
Nothing.
A little smile flitted over his lips. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Chicken soup would be good.”
CHAPTER 11
Languishing in a jail cell for a day—yeah, not Alex’s idea of a relaxing vacation. He paced the cell, feeling slime smeared over his soul.
Murder.
Jesus Christ.
Panic seethed just under the surface of his conscious. Never did like being cooped up. The defenselessness of it made him edgy. He sat on the squeaky cot for a moment, then popped to his feet and continued pacing.
Alex knew how the system functioned, knew the sheriff was sweating him, and damn if it wasn’t working. They’d had one quick interview, during which the sheriff had read his rights and again laid out the charges.
“So Pru tells me you had a little altercation with Wade,” Forbes had said. He leaned against his desk and faced Alex in the visitor’s chair of the tiny office, arms crossed in front of him.
Alex had said nothing.
“You see, I find that interesting. You show up, have a fight with Wade, and now he’s lying at the bottom of a hole in Pru’s backyard with a snapped neck.”
Bile scorched his throat, but he forced it down. “Maybe he fell.”
The lines around Forbes’s lips went white. He opened his mouth to relax his clenched jaw, breathed deeply for a moment, and then continued, his voice still calm.
“It’s just too bad Pru called in that fake fire. That hole was going to be filled first thing this morning. John Jr. might have buried his own brother without realizing it. Our Pru’s a smart girl. Think she was on to you?”
“I didn’t kill anyone,” Alex said. Today, his inner cynic had chimed in.
“See, that I find hard to believe. Got some interesting information on you.” Forbes picked up a thin file folder and flipped it open. “Alexander Locke, 34, resident of Boston. You own a security company that’s done some consultant work on housing projects and…” He sucked on his teeth. “It looks like you have a bit of an anger management problem. Four assault arrests in the past three years.”
“All dropped.”
“Yes, I see that. I also see a military background.” His heavy salt-and-pepper brows popped up as if he was impressed. “Says here most of that’s classified. Special ops? Bet you have some nifty fighting skills. Any martial arts training?”
Alex felt the manipulation. Forbes was good at his job, appealing to Locke’s overinflated ego to get an admission, and for a moment Alex considered dropping the act and confiding in the sheriff. It seemed like the smart thing to do considering the circumstances—but, dammit, he didn’t know who he could trust. That sick-dread feeling was still sucking at his gut, like he was the sole swimmer in a pond full of sharks. Was Forbes one of those sharks? He couldn’t tell. Better to keep playing Locke until he felt solid ground under his feet again.
“Bet you’d know how to snap a neck,” Forbes said, his tone reflective with just a hint of admiration. Oh yeah, he was good. “They teach you that sort of thing in the military. Bet it’d be easy for you, like popping the head off a dandelion.”
“Could be.”
“Even on a guy as big as Wade?”
Alex ran his tongue over his teeth and sat back in his chair. “You’re not gonna get anything outta me, old man.”
Forbes leaned in, his face inches from Alex’s, his breath stinking of tobacco juice and mint gum. “You think you’re smarter than me, don’t you? That I’m some podunk townie cop not worth your time. Think again. I have not had one murder on my watch in thirty years so it really pisses me off that I have the body of a good kid at the morgue and a smart-ass city punk handcuffed to my chair.”
“It pisses me off too. I didn’t do it.”
“Someone did. Someone twisted the kid’s head around until his spine snapped then shoved him into that hole, and you are the only one on scene with those kind of abilities.” He straightened, swiping a hand over his thinning gray hair as his comb-over tumbled out of place. “The charge for now is assaulting a police officer, but it will be murder. You’ll want to call a lawyer.”
After that, Forbes had him tossed back into his cell.
The case was shaky, at best. More of a grudge, really, because he was the outsider in a town that didn’t like outsiders. Alex had noticed that hole out his bedroom window last night. It was deep enough that someone wandering in the dark could stumble into it and break his neck. Reasonable doubt right there.
But his necklace…
How the hell did that get out there?
A key clicked in the lock of his cell door. One of the deputies, no doubt. He hoped to hell it wasn’t Rhett Swithin. Exhausted, cold to the bone, and hungry, he didn’t feel up to dealing with that asswipe.
The door opened, a shadow filling the frame. Alex’s jeans landed against his chest, his boots with a thump on the floor at his feet.
“Get dressed,” the shadow said.
He squinted, his eyes slow to adjust to the flood of florescent light from the hallway. Then he blinked and squinted again. “Kai?”
Kaikane Alameida stepped back and held the cell door. Alex hadn’t seen him in years—the Hawaiian man was like Pru’s ghost, slipping around unseen, which was why his nickname in the military had been “Spooky”.
But Alex would know that shit-eating grin anywhere. “Jesus Christ.”
“I prefer Kai, but that works too.”
Alex laughed as they embraced. A quick, backslapping hug. “What the hell are you doing here, Alameida?”
“Rescuing the damsel in distress. Duh.” Kai’s voice held the faintest hint of a tropical accent, calling up images of white sand beaches and palm trees. He wore a slate-gray suit, a pale blue shirt that set off the blue of his eyes even more than his copper skin usually did, and a hideous navy tie patterned with pale gray swirls—very unlike his typical frat boy style. He had slicked his black hair back so recently that it still held teeth marks from the comb he’d used. In one hand, he held a briefcase. With his other, he fished around in the pocket of his suit coat for his cell phone.
“Say cheese.” He snapped a picture of Alex with the phone and grinned again. “Ah, priceless. You in a prison jumpsuit. Never thought I’d see the day.” He saved the photo and pocketed the phone. “You’ve really put your foot in it this time, Range.”
Questions whirled in Alex’s head, but he knew better than to waste time asking them now. He stripped out of the jumpsuit, yanked on his jeans and muddy boots, and joined Kai in the hallway. Since he was shirtless when Forbes arrested him, his chest was still bare. Kai handed him a black hoodie that said “Nathanson Consulting” on it in white lettering and some of the puzzle pieces clicked into place. No wonder he suddenly had a get out of jail free card. Money made things happen, made unpleasant things go away, and Sullivan Nathanson, his old C.O., had enough to share.
“How’d Sully find out about it?” he asked once they were outside in the parking lot, beyond the glowering stares of the sheriff and his deputies.
“Sully knows all and sees all,” Kai said and handed over an evidence bag that contained Alex’s necklace.
“Bullshit.”
“Not entirely,” Kai muttered.
Alex slipped the chain over his head, thumbed the bullet, then tucked it and the small, cool cross against his chest. “Seriously, who called him?”
“Nick.”
“So who called Nick?”
“Some woman named Pru Maddox.”
Alex’s heart did a little two-step. He stopped walking. “How’d she know to call him?”
Kai gave him an odd look, a lifted eyebrow. “She went thro
ugh your phone after the cops took you. Smart lady. Sully, being the suspicious asshole that he is, had a dossier put together on her and I read it on the flight over. Photos included. Nice ass.” His grin returned. “She available?”
Even though he knew Kai was kidding—maybe—Alex felt his jaw tighten, a hot surge of possessive testosterone spilling into his blood. Kai was a playboy. He’d fuck anything with a vagina and a nice set of tits as long as she didn’t say no. When he turned on his charms and flashed his smile, women melted like ice on a summer day. Very rarely did he hear the word no.
“Hands off, Spook,” Alex warned.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. That’s okay. My flight’s waiting anyway. I don’t have time to worship that luscious body properly.” A dreamy smile spread over his lips as if he was imaging doing just that. “Mm. But that won’t stop me from thinking about it.”
“Kai,” Alex said through his teeth, “don’t make me hurt you.”
“Hah. I’d kick your Irish ass into next month.” He laughed and slapped Alex on the back hard enough to rattle teeth. “So like I said, your woman’s a smart cookie. Nick was the last person you called, so she redialed and explained what was up. He called Sully, and here I am. Your lawyer.”
“Yeah right. Since when do you have a law degree?”
“Since Sully forged the documents.” He wiggled his brows. “I passed the bar exam in Maine about an hour ago too.”
“Says the mercenary to the fed. I don’t want to hear this.”
Kai ignored him. “Nick wanted to play the part, but we didn’t think he looked lawyer-y enough. It’s that whole Cowboys and Indians look he has goin’. Jacob—hah, can you image Jacob as a lawyer? And Mal—well, he still needs to work on his people skills before we let him out in public alone.”
“No kidding.” Alex loved the guy like a brother, but Malcolm Cole was about as trustworthy as a starving pit bull trained to fight. About as brutal too. “So that left you.”
“That left me,” Kai agreed. “I shine up nice when the sitch calls for it.” He tugged the knot of his tie, loosening it, and reached for the driver’s side door of a rented SUV. “Don’t worry, these cops have nothing on ya. A monkey could poke holes in their case.”
Vision of Darkness (D.I.E. Squadron Book 1) Page 11
