by Pamela Fryer
Dolores had craggy lines from a century’s worth of smoking and her atrocious red lipstick accentuated the ashy pallor to her skin, but her smile was genuine and friendly. This was one of the things Brooke truly missed about Ridgemont: small town warmth. In New York, she was lucky to get a grunt of thanks for giving a waitress or cabbie a big tip.
She smiled back. “Make it black, like my mood.”
Dolores laughed. “You’re that rescuer, aren’t you?”
So she’d heard about her, and had the decency not to call her a PI. Brooke liked to know the difference was recognized by some people.
“That’s me.” She slid onto a stool at the counter and took a sip from the cup Dolores poured her. Her taste buds jumped to attention. Sweet, magnificent coffee. “Damn, that’s good.”
“We grind our own. Always have, always will. None of that canned crap here.”
Brooke nearly snorted coffee through her nose. She was unusually tired. It wasn’t the first time she’d gone without sleep for more than twenty-four hours, yet this time she felt like she’d been beaten with a broom handle on top of it. A thick, heavy, industrial-sized broom handle.
“Those burritos are going to be a few minutes.”
Brooke was content to let the caffeine slide through her veins. She said a private thank-you to the first person to roast a coffee bean.
Dolores slipped a meal tag onto the cook’s wheel and turned back to Brooke. “I remember you back when you went to Woodrow. Was Michael Doolittle the reason you went into this line of work?”
Ah, the endless questions. Leave it to someone from her hometown to find the connection between the tragedy at Woodrow Wilson High and Brooke’s chosen career.
Brooke had only been a sophomore at the time, but like the rest of this town, she’d suffered a tremendous shock. Cynthia Bower hadn’t gone missing, but her murder at the hands of Michael Doolittle, the older man she’d been secretly dating, threw their small town into a tailspin. That kind of thing just didn’t happen up here. It had been a dreadful and unforgettable tragedy that people would never stop talking about.
“It was one of the things that sent me that way, yes.” One of the terrible, appalling things that had made her choose a police career so she could make a difference. Then the terrible, appalling things in police work that she could make absolutely no difference about had kicked her ass with steel-toed biker boots.
Dolores snapped a plastic lid onto the tea for Esther. “You back in town to stay?”
Before she could answer, Madeline Farnsworth emerged from the back room.
She stopped when she saw Brooke, and Brooke’s world stopped as well. It had been Madeline’s face that haunted her all these years, not Amy’s. Madeline’s sorrow-etched eyes, and the tremor in her voice during their last conversation before Brooke set out on the case. Madeline’s anguish, not yet knowing Amy was dead. Madeline’s tears at the tragic news Brooke had to deliver. Those memories were the makings of her nightmares.
“Brooke. Hi. I thought I recognized your voice.” A thin smile managed its way to Madeline’s lips. It was one of those polite, I’m miserable and don’t know how I survive each day, but somehow I do, smiles. It tore into Brooke’s soul and left her insides in tatters.
At close to fifty, she was still a beautiful woman, but it wasn’t time that had cut lines around her eyes and mouth. It was the agony of a pain no one could possibly understand without living it themselves.
Brooke had made it her job to see that no one ever had to. An impossible job, but one she set out to do nonetheless.
“Madeline.” Brooke’s ears filled with a high-pitched hiss. “Hello. I, um...” She drew a few bills from her pocket and fumbled as she unfolded them.
Madeline’s smile grew, but sadness still filled her eyes. “Put that away, dear. Your money is no good here.”
“No really, I have food coming too.” She felt like crawling into a hole. They’d had a discussion like this on Brooke’s last visit to Ridgemont, over a lot more money. And that time it had been the other way around. Brooke had refused to accept payment for her time.
“I’m glad you stopped in. I’ve been wanting to see you again.”
Brooke froze, the proverbial deer-in-headlights.
“I never got a chance to thank you properly.”
Oh God.
“You did something wonderful for me. There was no one else to help me. There is no one else like you.”
But I failed.
“I’ve been watching you on the Internet.” Madeline’s eyes had gotten misty. She blinked several times. “I have my computer set up to search the news bulletins for your name. You’ve done so well for yourself. It’s wonderful.”
Brooke’s tongue suddenly felt too big for her mouth. What could she say? I’ve been one hundred percent successful since the one case I blew.
The air in the coffee shop had gotten thick and cottony, and Brooke felt trapped like a grape in a Jell-O mold.
A sneering male voice behind her jarred Brooke back into reality. “Hey, this coffee shop has rats!”
Chapter Eight
A cacophony of chimpanzee laughter erupted.
Brooke snapped out of it. Her spine stiffened. She knew that voice. Madeline’s smile vanished and her gaze slid over Brooke’s shoulder.
“Somebody call for a babysitter?” another voice said with a snicker.
Brooke gritted her teeth. Peter Yelton was as nasty as dried piss on skunk’s fur. She turned around and found him sitting in a booth with three other men; one she knew, two she didn’t.
Every step deeper into her past had brought her closer to the part of her life she’d never wanted to see again. I shouldn’t have taken this case. At least Richard wasn’t with them. Thank God for small miracles.
“Officer Yelton and Officer Christy. What brings you to Ridgemont? Do we have drug dealers to roll over here now?”
“That’s Detective Yelton.” Yelton’s face washed over with instant anger. “Saw you chasing ambulances at the raid yesterday.”
“I should have known you’d be there. How could the FBI possibly get along without your help?”
“I thought you quit this racket when that girl died. What was her name?” he asked wickedly.
“Amy,” said Alex Christy, the other Portland PD officer Brooke had testified against. Alex had grown a spare tire and now cropped his remaining hair short to hide the fact that it was silver. Prison could do that to a guy, she guessed. Especially a police officer.
“I wouldn’t have thought being a glorified babysitter would be enough for a wild woman like you,” Yelton continued in that snide voice.
“Why not? It pays almost as much as being a dirty cop, and I can sleep at night.”
Neither man so much as cracked a smile.
“Why don’t you go rescue drug addicts somewhere else, Weaver?”
Brooke sighed. This was childish. Having been on the Portland PD for four years, she was used to the stench of testosterone. But right now, she didn’t have the inclination to get into a shit-slinging contest with these cavemen.
“Oregon is awfully quiet for a man of your caliber,” she said, glancing over all four of them. “I would have taken you for a south central LA guy. There are a lot more drug dealers for you to blackmail, and I’ll bet down there nobody cares if you kill a few.”
Alex was surprisingly quiet. Peter had gotten off on a technicality, but Alex had served a year and a half of a six-year sentence. If anyone had a reason to ride her ass, it was Alex. All the Hollywood cop-drama malarkey was true when it came to officers behind bars.
His sentence had been surprisingly light considering three alleged drug dealers were dead, but she’d learned the judge sympathized with the police, having lost his son in the line of duty.
Brooke walked over to their booth. Their chuckles died down as she approached. They probably thought she was going to throw her coffee into one of their faces, but hadn’t yet decided which.
“It doesn’t bother me one bit to see you’re still as shitty as ever,” she said evenly. “But that girl’s mother is standing right over there.”
The sarcastic grins faded, and a few uneasy glances flicked in Madeline Farnsworth’s direction.
“You know, one of those citizens you’ve sworn to protect and serve, being a dignified officer of the law and everything? Show some respect.”
“She shoulda hired someone else,” Peter muttered.
“What she should have done was be able to depend on the police department. Too bad half of it was behind bars.” Heart hammering, Brooke turned and stalked back to the counter where a bag was waiting next to a cardboard holder with two cups wedged into it. Madeline was gone.
Brooke slotted her cup in with the others, dropped her twenty on the counter, and strode to the door. Acid churned in her gut, and it was all she could do not to throw up.
Thankfully, Madeline was refreshing coffee for customers at a booth on the other side of the restaurant and Brooke didn’t have to say goodbye.
Even though they’d been close when Brooke lived in Ridgemont, she’d hoped never to see Madeline again. She’d rather have root canal than be forced to try to exchange pleasantries. “How have you been since I failed to save your daughter?” “Oh, you know. Alone. And you?” “Well, pretty good, I haven’t lost another, since Amy.”
Brooke backed through the café’s vestibule doors and took a deep breath. Instantly her heart calmed. She would swear Oregon’s fresh air had healing properties. She started past the café’s windows and looked up in time to see Madeline spill coffee on Yelton.
She ducked her head and hurried on, smothering her grin.
“Brooke?”
She stopped at the sound of her name. A man leaned on a garbage can in the alley beside the diner, having a smoke. He wore a blood-stained butcher’s smock. Her stomach rolled at the sight of the blood, and then rolled again when she realized who was wearing it.
Richard.
He grinned. “I knew that was you. I’d recognize that bod anywhere. Everyone in town is shitting their pants.” He waved his hands in the air with mock excitement. “Brooke’s back. Brooke’s back.”
She squared her shoulders, feeling her hackles rise. He’d lost twenty pounds and most of his hair. He face was gaunt and he looked like he smoked a carton a day.
Prison had clearly not been any kinder to him than it had to Alex Christy.
He threw the cigarette down and stepped on it, and then approached her. “God, hot stuff, you look great.”
She glanced up at the old-fashioned letters fading from the side of the brick building. Riley & Son Meats. She’d never expected to find him here. The “Son” had been there since Richard was born, but he’d always sworn he would never work there, let alone take it over. He hadn’t gotten along with his father, and his choice to go into law enforcement instead had sealed their relationship in hate.
“How long have you been out?” She didn’t know why she asked. She didn’t care.
“Almost a year. Portland PD wouldn’t have me back, so I run my father’s shop now.” He opened his arms. “How do you like the new me?”
She stared at him, unsure what to say. He was another person she’d hoped never to see again. Damn James Carey for planting Preservation Earth Spirit next door to her hometown. It seemed no matter what corner she turned, there was a ghost from her past waiting to pounce on her.
“What, no hello for your ex? No, ‘I’ve missed you, sweetie’?”
“I didn’t know you were here,” was all she managed to say. Or I would have parked on the other side of Maxine’s.
“The old man died last year. My mom needed me.”
“It’s good of you to come home.”
“Yeah, I’m a regular saint. You know I hate this shit. Never wanted to be a vegetarian so bad in my life.” He gave a sarcastic chuckle. “I’ll never be a cop again. What else was I going to do?”
She took a wary step back. Richard was smiling, but she knew what blackness lurked beneath. She’d learned the hard way.
But instead of anger, his expression turned sad. “Don’t worry, Brooke. I don’t blame you for what you did.”
“What I did?” Did I hear that correctly?
Richard’s expression hardly moved, but Brooke saw a change come over his eyes. He was like nitroglycerine, and the slightest shake could make him explode.
“You went against your own, Brooke.”
Fuck him. The part of her that still owed its honor to the police department wouldn’t listen to this bullshit. “Richard, you shot a man in cold blood. Over money.”
“You know what he was. A pusher. How many kids died because of him? He was vermin. We exterminated him.”
A shudder rolled through her shoulders. They’d damn near exterminated her as well.
“What was I? You and your dirty friends hunted me through the streets like sportsmen on safari. You would have killed me, you piece of shit.”
“Jesus!” he barked. “You never believed me about that. Goddammit, Brooke, I wouldn’t have let them hurt you. If it came down to it, I woulda shot Yelton and Christy both.” He turned away and ran his hand across his thinning hair, smoothing a horrific comb-over back into place.
“I wouldn’t say that too loud if I were you,” she returned, unable to believe the B.S. he was trying to feed her. “They’re both right next door.”
He glanced uneasily at the side of Maxine’s.
Her stomach wouldn’t stop swooping. She felt like she was on a boat in rough seas. She supposed this conversation was overdue. They hadn’t spoken since he was indicted. Knowing she’d have to testify against him, she returned her engagement ring to his mother before the trial had started.
They didn’t speak directly and Brooke avoided eye contact through the entire trial. The minute the guilty verdict came in, Richard had been escorted through the bailiff’s hall in handcuffs. Brooke went through the courtroom doors in the other direction and never looked back.
Richard’s brow crinkled with exaggerated emotion. “Do you think that was easy for me? I loved you.”
“I loved you too, Richard.” She had to force the words through her lips. They tasted foul, but at least it wasn’t a lie. She had loved him. She sighed, loathe to admit it, even to herself.
“I never got over you, Brooke. There’s never been any one else in my life.”
Don’t believe the false regret , an inner voice whispered. How sadly ironic there had never been anyone else in hers either. They’d ruined each other.
A hot spike in her gut reminded her that the pain had only faded, not vanished. Damn. She had to get the hell out of this town before it killed her.
“You threw away our future, Richard. How do you think that made me feel? It wasn’t just you who suffered. Only you deserved it, I didn’t.”
His forced sadness vanished and the first hints of the true darkness lurking in him floated to the surface.
“Nobody deserves what I got. That shit-bag Christy gets an easy break from some decrepit old judge with a soft spot for cops, but I get tried by that right-wing, self-righteous bitch? You call that fair?” He lunged forward and grabbed the soft part of her arm just above her elbow, knowing just how to inflict pain with little effort. “Do you have any idea what prison is like for a cop?”
“A jury of your peers convicted you. Not the judge, not me.” She would have jerked out of his grip if she hadn’t been holding the coffee cups, even though she knew he would probably strike her if she did. Instead, she looked down at his hand on her arm, and then lifted her eyes to his.
“You don’t have permission to touch me.”
His fingers dug deeper. A zing shot up her arm, followed by instant numbness in her fingers. She kept her expression stoic, refusing to let him know it hurt.
“Brooke?”
Richard’s bloodshot eyes flicked over her shoulder. Jager.
Oh no. The last thing she wanted was a pissing co
ntest in a narrow alleyway. She had no doubt Jager was stronger and more capable, but did he know how to fight dirty?
Richard yanked his hand away, as if he’d realized he’d just lost any chance of convincing her of his sincerity. He held both up in a gesture of surrender and mumbled, “Sorry.”
“Time runs short, Brooke.”
Richard straightened his spine and puffed out his chest, like a cat raising its hackles. His eyes narrowed. “Who’s your new boyfriend?”
She looked over her shoulder. Jager’s massive frame all but blocked the sunlight from the mouth of the alley. He stood rigid, on full alert, fists balled. Tight sinew corded in his arms. Those magically pale eyes pierced with a silent threat.
Brooke faced Richard. She tried to convey with her expression that she, and every part of her life, was off-limits.
“I have to go, Richard. Say hello to your mom for me.”
“Yeah, sure. Suck my dick.”
Apparently prison had improved his vocabulary. She turned to leave but stopped and glanced back. “You have no honor, Richard. You don’t deserve to be a cop.”
Jager waited for her to pass before stepping out behind her. He looked back at Richard as they walked away. Men. Apparently even the ones from other planets knew how to throw a dirty look.
“Did he hurt you?”
“Years ago.”
She handed him the bag and the coffee holder and then opened the door for him. She climbed in on the driver’s side and started the car, resisting the urge to rub at her arm where Richard had manhandled her.
A headache had formed in the front of her skull at the sight of Yelton and Christy, and the encounter with Richard only exacerbated it. To make matters worse, her stomach was still doing flip-flops. She never should have come back to Ridgemont. For the hundredth time, she wished she’d told Senator Brown to find someone else.
If she hadn’t taken this case, she never would have had to face the demons of her past. God, how many more of them were there? She did a mental count in her head: Madeline, Yelton, Christy, Richard. She expected the bully who had tormented her in the sixth grade to step out from behind a corner and throw a rock at her windshield.
