by Robin Caroll
“Were they close? He and his team?”
She lifted a shoulder. “I suppose as close as one gets when working eight hours a day with someone, five days a week.”
“How long had they been a team?”
“The three of them, together. Let me think.” Again, the pink nail tapped against her chin. “At least fifteen or sixteen years.”
Why was she being so evasive? What wasn’t she saying? “Did they ever hang out together outside of the office?”
Her prissiness returned in full force. “Hang out, Commissioner? Matthew didn’t hang out. Not with Mack and Evan. Not with anyone.” She stood, none-too-discreetly looking at her watch. “If that’s all, I have a pressing engagement.”
Her husband just died and she had plans?
Hayden stood, slipping his notebook into his pocket, and passed her his business card. “My office and cell numbers are both listed. Please call me if you think of anything else that could help us solve your husband’s murder.”
She took the card, holding it with her nails, as if touching the card with her bare fingertips would soil her. “I certainly will.” She gestured toward the front door.
He gave her a curt nod before returning to his cruiser. At least he had his date with Riley to look forward to tonight.
But Mrs. Nichols . . . the woman was either hiding something she didn’t want him to know about her husband and his colleagues or she was scared of something. Either way, he intended to find out.
He’d start by looking up the details of Mack Thompson and Evan Coleman’s deaths.
Chapter Nine
“The LORD is known by his acts of justice; the wicked are ensnared by the work of their hands.”
PSALM 9:16
Everything about Hayden Simpson spoke of his proper upbringing. Riley ate it up—his manners stood in such contrast to the last couple of men she’d dated. Wait a minute. Where had that thought come from? This was just dinner. A thank-you for staying at his mom’s house. Still, she couldn’t help comparing Hayden’s politeness to Damon’s curt attitude. Or Garrison’s abusive tone.
From the moment he’d picked her up from Ardy’s, Hayden was the quintessential southern gentleman: opening both the car and the restaurant doors for her, asking what she wanted to eat and then ordering for her, and standing when she excused herself to the ladies’ room. She couldn’t remember the last time a date treated her with such . . . respect. Had anyone ever been so courteous before?
She didn’t think so. Certainly not Garrison, who’d hated Rafe so much that when she finally saw him for the abuser he was, he vandalized Rafe’s house. And not Damon, who was not only a liar, but a cheater.
The restaurant Hayden had taken her to sat nestled into the edge of the bayou with a long boardwalk lining the space between land and water. The chef boasted that his restaurant served some of the best jambalaya this side of the Mississippi. His claims hadn’t disappointed.
In keeping with the understated décor, the dim overhead lighting cast shadows on the fabric wallpapered walls while the flickering candle in the middle of the table radiated intimacy.
“So, you’ve already got the article sent for Monday’s magazine?” Hayden stirred his after-dinner coffee. No creamer, one sugar. She’d paid attention.
“Yep. And my editor told me it was one of my best pieces.” That was putting it mildly. Jeremy had been totally hyped over the article. And when she told him she planned to interview Armand for next week’s article, he’d been beside himself giddy. She’d already thought of ways to draw out his interview over two weeks, extending her series.
She’d done it. She created the boost her career needed.
“That’s really good.” Hayden set down the spoon. “After reading the trial transcript, do you think he could be innocent?”
She’d gone round and round with herself on that same question. “I just don’t know.” Riley ran a finger absently around the lip of her cup. “I can’t believe a man who loves his family so much would risk being separated from them. Not without a really good reason. And that’s what he doesn’t have in this robbery.”
“Financial difficulty is the number-one motive I find for robbery.”
“He didn’t have any financial problems. At least not on paper. No credit cards, a normal mortgage . . . he wasn’t behind on any payments.”
“Maybe a hidden addiction or gambling problem?” Hayden took a sip of his coffee and stared into her eyes with such intensity, she had to focus on what he said.
“Nothing like that. No indication of anything amiss.” She took a gulp of her coffee. It nearly scorched her throat. She blew out a puff of air. “He was in security, so he knew what the consequences would be.” That, above all else, was what didn’t make sense to her.
“So the motive is weak. What evidence was presented?”
“The pawnshop owner positively identified him as the man who pawned two of the stolen items. One was recovered.”
“That’s pretty damning.”
“I know.” She sighed. “But I just can’t see him being that stupid.” She shook her head. “He specialized in alarms. You can’t convince me he walks into a pawnshop with no disguise, nothing, and sells two items he supposedly stole without so much as a by-your-leave. That’s just crazy.”
“That does seem unlikely. Why did the police consider him a suspect?”
“He’d helped install the alarm system that was conveniently disabled for the robbery.”
“I see.” Hayden rubbed his chin.
“But that’s part of why I have such a problem with it all. His wife is an honest lady. She says her husband is smart. Until I can talk to him, I have to believe his wife.” She crossed her arms and rested them on the table. “If that’s true, then why would a smart man break into his own place of employment? Anyone with half a brain, especially in security, would know that employees and those with access would be vetted as suspects first.”
Hayden nodded. “Right.”
“If he figured it was worth the risk, why wouldn’t he establish an iron-clad alibi beforehand?”
“Because it’s hard to have an iron-clad alibi if you’re guilty.” Hayden chuckled.
She tented her hands in front of her. “Come on, you and I both know guilty people procure alibis that hold up in court.”
“True, although I hate to admit it.”
“So it doesn’t make sense. If he is even semi-intelligent, weighs the risks and still agrees, then surely he wasn’t stupid enough not to set a stronger alibi than his daughter.”
Hayden took another sip of his coffee. “You’d be surprised. I’ve seen a lot of really, really smart criminals who almost get away with their crimes. Almost. There is usually one detail they overlook. Might be big, might be small, but it kills the opportunity of a perfect crime.”
He had more experience, which was true, but still . . . “I just can’t see it. And then there’s the whole other issue of his partners.”
“Partners?” Hayden’s brows shot up. “You didn’t mention that before.”
“The man who was shot during the robbery testified there were at least three men involved, possibly a fourth.”
“Did the eyewitness identify your guy?”
She shook her head. “His testimony was it was dark and they were all wearing black. He got a look at the getaway vehicle, a dark van. No connection to Jasmine’s dad was even implied with regard to the van. He drove a light-colored sedan.”
The pert, pretty waitress appeared at their table, refilled their cups with the savory coffee, discreetly laid the leather pad with the check inside at Hayden’s elbow, then disappeared across the lush carpet.
Hayden’s gaze didn’t trail behind the attractive blonde but stayed focused entirely on Riley. Her chest warmed. Damon would’ve been c
hecking the girl out, would’ve probably excused himself to the men’s room only to get caught in the kitchen trying to get the girl’s number.
“What’s the deal with the partners?” He smoothly slipped a credit card into the pad, not even looking at the check, and slid it to the table’s edge.
“That’s the thing.” No matter how many ways she could get past the obvious trip ups, the fellow-robbers theory caught her. “He didn’t have two close friends. His wife said so. He had one friend he hung out with, Doug Adare, who has an airtight alibi for the night of the robbery: He was in the hospital having had his appendix removed at three o’clock that afternoon. Doctors testified there was no way Doug was out of bed by that evening, much less involved in a robbery.”
She took a sip of the fresh coffee. “Jasmine claims her father never had any friend over to the house except Doug. Even four of his coworkers gave statements that he only hung out with Doug.”
Ms. Pert-and-Pretty whisked by and grabbed the pad without even breaking her stride.
“On the other hand, and I’m just playing devil’s advocate here so don’t get upset, but if he did make some new, uh, acquaintances with the intent to commit a crime, do you think he’d bring them around his home with his wife and children? His job?”
“If that were true, why wouldn’t he bring them around his job, to case the place?” She smiled and snuggled back against the cushy chair. Sparring with Hayden was invigorating. Fun. A lot of fun.
“But he could have had them there, out of sight from his coworkers. He did, after all, work in security, yes?”
No wonder he was the commissioner.
The waitress returned, handed Hayden the leather pad, and smiled her full wattage at them. “Can I get y’all anything else?”
Hayden looked at Riley.
“Oh, nothing more for me.” She’d devoured a bowl of shrimp soup, a salad, the special jambalaya, and topped off everything with riz au lait and a latte. To say she was stuffed was an understatement.
“No, thank you.” Hayden gave the woman a smile, polite but not interested.
“Then y’all have a good night.” The waitress shuffled to the next table.
“How about a walk along the boardwalk?”
She stood. “Sounds lovely.” At least the evening wasn’t ending just yet. Something about Hayden made her feel safe . . . sheltered . . . cherished. Silly, really, but that’s how she felt.
He slipped his hand under her elbow and led her out the front door. Heat shot from the point of contact up her arm and into her chest. She shivered, which was odd since his touch blasted through her, but maybe she just reacted to the cool evening breeze.
The sun had nearly set across the April sky as they stepped down the stairs to the wood-plank boardwalk snuggling the bayou’s edge. The scent of freshly turned soil overpowered any fish scent. The breeze tickled Riley’s nose.
“Now, enough about your case.” Hayden took hold of her hand. Warmth branched out from her palm. “Tell me about you.”
Her pulse hiccupped. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything. About growing up. Favorite color. Favorite movie. What TV show do you watch? Everything.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze as they strolled along the creaking boards.
She laughed. “Okay. Here goes. I’m the baby of the family—adored, not spoiled—Rafe and Maddie saw to that. We were a close family who enjoyed doing things together. Our parents doted on all three of us.” Her humor slipped as she realized they could hear something this next week about Simon Lancaster’s parole determination. “I really miss Mom and Dad.”
“I’m sorry.” His thumb caressed hers. “I didn’t mean to bring all this up.”
“No, it’s fine.” Riley shoved off the melancholy mood. “Now, to answer your other questions, I don’t have one particular favorite color. I love pretty much all the primary colors equally. I have two favorite movies: Gone with the Wind and Casablanca. And the television shows I DVR are all documentaries from the National Geographic and True Crime channels.” She was speed talking, a sure sign of nervousness to any person trained in detecting body language.
She forced herself to slow down, grinning up at him. “And before you ask, my favorite books are the classics, but with a twist. I enjoy Hawthorne—really, and Shakespeare. I love classical music, Beethoven, specifically, and I’m a registered Democrat.”
He jerked his hand free and frowned. “A Democrat? That’s it. Date over.”
“Ha. Ha.”
He laughed and grabbed her hand again. She welcomed the return of the physical contact. His. “I like you, Hayden. I really like you.” Did she really just tell him that? She swallowed, not believing she’d just said that aloud. Flaming heat seared her cheeks and she ducked her head.
“Well. I like you too, Riley.”
She struggled to recover at least some of her composure. “So, tell me about you, Mr. Police Commissioner.”
“Short story, actually.”
“Really?”
“Yep, I—”
The musical notes from his cell phone interrupted.
“Sorry. Occupational hazard.” He pulled the phone from his hip. “Hayden Simpson.”
She glanced out over the bayou. The breeze caused the weeds at the bayou’s edge to sway in a graceful ballet of nature. Gentle ripples skimmed over the water’s surface.
“It’ll be okay. I’m on my way.” Hayden shoved the phone back to its holder on his hip. “I’m sorry, Riley, but I need to cut our date short.”
“Is everything okay?” Maybe there was another story to tell in Hopewell. She could be sitting on a goldmine of opportunities.
“That was Mom. It’s Emily.”
One less.
Why didn’t he feel more satisfied? He should.
One less enemy on this earth.
But he didn’t feel any satisfaction or accomplishment, and that stunk.
Oswald waited on the balcony, overlooking the darkened woods cozied against his property line. The moon sat high in the Louisiana sky, illuminating the low-lying clouds that teased of rain to come.
More than one storm simmered on the horizon.
The anger inside continued to brew, boiling in his gut. He fisted his hands into tight balls tensed against the railing. If only things had been different. It was all their fault.
Their fault he was in the condition he was. Their fault his father had left them with nothing more than a note that read: “I’m sorry, I can’t take it anymore.” Their fault his mother had taken up with the man she did and exposed them both to a world of drugs and decay of the human condition. That she’d dared to give birth to a product of her union, such an inhumane act on her part . . . it was unthinkable. But he’d taken care of that little problem. SIDS had become such a wonderful excuse for unexplained infant deaths.
One less problem.
He unclenched his fists and grasped the railing. A splinter stabbed under his skin, but he just gripped the wood harder, letting it embed deeper into his flesh.
It was nights like tonight that made him miss what he’d lost. What they’d stolen from him. Normalcy. Family. His future.
Taking over the family business, robbed.
College scholarship, robbed.
Marriage, robbed.
Future as a track star, robbed.
Every single milestone of his adult life, robbed. They’d stolen everything from him. The promise of a future. Generational support. All without an apology.
No remorse. No regret. No restitution.
If he’d ever believed in good and evil, heaven and hell, God and Satan, then they were truly the spawn of Satan. They destroyed families, eating the children and spitting them out into an unwelcome world where they could barely survive, much less thrive.
&nbs
p; Like thieves of the human spirit, they stole in under the guise of being helpful, of being concerned, and sucked the life out of people, leaving nothing but decayed and withered shells of broken promises.
They snatched the dreams of children and adults alike, tossing them into a fiery pit to be devoured and lost forever.
Like the burning hell they represented.
The splinter festered in his palm, burning the flesh and turning the skin red. Oswald left the balcony and headed to the bathroom for his tweezers and antibiotic cream. No sense getting an infection when it could be easily prevented.
That’s what angered him all the more: What they’d done to him could have been so easily prevented. A simple yes instead of an automated condition of repeated no’s.
He dug out the splinter, holding it up with the tweezers. No more than a sliver of wood, but left alone, it would have festered and become infected.
Like what they did. They festered his life with their vile lies and policies and infected him with anger and bitterness. Parasites.
His heartbeat raced faster. Blood pumped through his veins as if a dam had burst. He willed his heart to slow. His pulse to calm. His anxiety to still.
He returned his first-aid supplies to the medicine cabinet, then sat in front of his computer. He stared at the special-interest article still lit up on his monitor.
With the article, this reporter had picked at the scab covering his fragile control. She’d touched on his exposure. Left him raw.
And this was just the beginning? A start to a series?
His breathing came in pants. He closed his eyes, focusing on the oxygen moving in and out of his body.
She had opened the floodgates on his restraint. On his anger. On his pain. On his loss. She’d poured salt in the wounds he’d endured from them.
She had become one of them.
A problem. His problem.
She needed to be stopped. To be silenced. To become . . .
One less.
Chapter Ten
