by Dana Marton
“Where’s the silver?”
“Lost something already?” Chase yawned into the phone. “What silver?”
He’d probably slept in. Lucky bastard.
“Lamm told my father to invest in silver coins for small daily purchases once the dollar crashed. So where is his own stash? He had to have some silver hidden somewhere, right?”
Chase’s voice sounded a notch more awake as he said, “Judging by the volume of goods stockpiled at his house, I’d say he had to have more than some. Doesn’t seem like he skimped on anything.”
“The gold bullion I found in Allie’s car wouldn’t have taken up more than a fifth of the safe. Rest could have been filled with silver coins. How carefully did you check the house?”
“What the hell kind of question is that?” Chase bristled.
“Pull up vent covers?”
“Not my first rodeo, bro. Tapped the hardwood floors too. No secret compartments. Checked the chimney. Attic. Garage.”
“Lamm’s car?”
“Driveway and garage were empty when we got there. His car might be at the shop for an oil change or inspection. Too early to have the winter tires taken off, I guess. But who the hell knows? Nobody expected this late storm.”
“I’ll call around and check.” Harper rotated slowly around, taking it all in. “He was laying up too many supplies.”
“Probably figured the apocalypse will last a while. Myself, I personally think it’ll be a flash in the pan. Flash everywhere, actually. Nuclear bomb. Boom. Everything gone. Can’t prepare for something like that, so why bother worrying about it?”
“There’s a cheerful thought.” Harper scanned the six bunkbeds, all made up with military precision. “Who was going to sleep over? I talked to the next of kin last night, a nephew in San Diego. Only family Lamm had.”
“He didn’t really hang with anyone that I know of.”
No. Not even when he went into Finnegan’s for a meal now and then. Liked to sit at the end of the bar, eat his food, drink his beer, leave. Might have talked to Harper’s father behind the bar, but that was that.
“People called him the town recluse for a reason. And another thing… He retired from the paper mill, right?” The company had long since gone out of business, their work outsourced overseas. “How much could his pension be?”
“You mean how could he afford all that gold?”
“And the rest.” Harper scanned the crowded shelves that covered nearly every inch of wall space. “Somebody could open a Costco down here.”
“Maybe he had old money.”
“Family money?” Maybe. “I’ll ask my father. We keep missing each other, but I need to catch him, tomorrow morning at the latest, before he leaves for Louisiana for his annual hog hunting trip.”
“I wouldn’t mind trying that someday, but Luanne and the girls would never talk to me again if I shot a piggy. Hell, the other day I was commenting to Luanne as I was going out that nothing beats leather boots in this weather, and then the girls asked me where leather came from.” Chase made a choking noise as if the memory pained him. “You know that look women have, like when they’re trying to warn you that you’re about to put your head in a noose and there’ll be serious consequences? Well, it didn’t register with me until after the words were out of my mouth. I might have to get plastic boots. I’m being pressured on yellow rubber boots with duck faces, like the girls have.”
“And that’s why you’ll never see me enter the deadly maze of matrimony. One wrong turn, and you’re toast.” Harper kept looking at the shelves. “What if Lamm was in a secret prepper club?”
“Would make sense,” Chase said after a couple of seconds. “Several people pooling their resources. But why secret?”
“So nobody steals their shit from their headquarters. This was their bolt-hole. The rancher is reinforced. Beds in the basement. This is where they were going to live through the apocalypse.”
“Who was in the club with him?”
“I’ll ask my father that too.” Sean Finnegan ran an Irish pub, the exact kind of place where people liked to talk.
Since Harper wanted to talk to his father in person and that visit would have to wait, he called Billy Picket on his way back to his cruiser.
“Hey, Harper Finnegan here. Is Old Man Lamm’s car in with you by any chance?”
“No, man. He has his Camry serviced at the dealership. Damn shame about him. Kept to himself, but he was all right, you know? Now my mother is worried about living alone. Told her you already have the killer zipped up at the station.”
“Suspect,” Harper corrected.
“Yeah, man.”
“Hey, unrelated question. Do you know what happened to Dicky Poole? Used to rent out one of his mobile homes down the street from you guys, the one on the corner.”
Harper hadn’t forgotten what Allie had told him about the landlord. Not something he was going to let go if the guy was still in town. And maybe not even if he’d left now and lived in a different police jurisdiction.
“Sold his rent-a-dumps and bought himself a fancy-ass rancher. Out in that development by the KarpetMart.” Sounded like Billy spat on the other end. “I was happy to see him go. My daughters used to bring me lunch, walk past his place, and he’d always be saying shit to them.”
“Should have told me.”
“What would anyone have done to him on the word of two teenagers?”
“I’d like to think Broslin PD would have taken it seriously.” But since Harper was investigating a murder at the moment, he dropped the subject.
He thanked Billy for the help, and as he headed to West Chester to talk to the coroner, he called the Toyota dealership next. Lamm’s 4WD Camry—2007, white, a little over 40,000 miles, according to their records—wasn’t there either. Neither was it at any of the other garages in town. Harper called them all.
Had someone taken the car, and if so, who?
Harper had a pretty good guess. What were the chances that Lamm was killed, and at around the same time, his car was stolen in an unrelated incident?
Slim.
If the car was stolen, it was stolen by the killer.
Chapter Ten
Allie looked up as Harper walked in carrying a pair of sneakers and a pale-blue winter coat. She was so freaking mad at him. And yet, at the same time, she was relieved to see him, which confused the living daylights out of her.
“The charges have been amended,” he said. “You’re being charged with robbery and accessory to murder instead of armed robbery and murder. You tested negative for gunshot residue. And the coroner says Lamm was shot by someone at least a foot taller than you are. Wrong angle.”
He sounded happy, like “accessory to murder” was an improvement over “murder,” but since Allie was innocent, she failed to find the news thrilling.
She shoved off the bed. “I shouldn’t be charged at all.”
“The victim’s stolen property, and his blood, were found in your car. If I didn’t arrest you, the captain would have taken the case from me.” He unlocked the door to her cell and held out the shoes and coat. “We’ll work on it. Let’s get you to the hearing.”
We?
She marched up to him and snatched away the shoes first, stepped into them. They fit. For a second, she wondered how he’d known her shoe size, then she realized he had her boots.
She shrugged into the coat he held out for her, shoved her hands into the pockets, and pulled out a pair of gloves.
“Figured you needed a pair anyway.” He shrugged. “Since you lost yours.”
She wasn’t sure what to do with the random act of kindness right there, in that moment. She shoved the gloves back into her pockets, then she waited, expecting him to step aside to let her out.
Instead, he pulled the handcuffs from his belt.
“Screw you, Harper. Really?”
“Standard procedure.” And when she didn’t offer up her wrists, he added, “It’s not like I want to do it. All ri
ght? I’m sorry.”
He looked sorry—head slightly tilted, a slight wince at the corner of his eyes—which was damn confusing.
She lifted her chin. “Then don’t do it.”
“I do my job. Killer gets caught. You go free.”
After a moment of consideration, that you go free had Allie reluctantly lifting her hands. Not that she trusted him. He was on her side now all of a sudden? Hard to believe. Maybe he was playing good cop today.
“Don’t think I’ll fall at your feet in gratitude and confess to the killing,” she snapped, flinching as the cold metal clicked onto her wrists.
The long-suffering look he flashed her made her feel childish.
Maybe she was. She was tired. And irritated. And scared, dammit. So as they got into his cruiser and Harper drove through town, she kept her mouth shut.
“I let Ginny at the Historical Society know that you won’t be able to perform tonight,” he said as he stopped for a red light.
They probably wouldn’t want a murder suspect, anyway.
“Ginny sounded worried about you. She remembers you.”
Allie doubted they’d realized who she was when they’d booked her.
People changed between the ages of eighteen and twenty-eight, and the pictures on Allie’s website were all photos of her in costume. The Broslin Historical Society wouldn’t have hired her if they’d known she was that Allie Bianchi. She’d decided not to care when she’d accepted the booking. Money was money.
“I always thought you’d end up on Broadway. With all the school shows you did,” Harper said. “I bet you didn’t expect me to end up with the police.”
The understatement of the year. She wanted to ask how that happened, but didn’t want to talk to him.
He told her anyway. “Growing up with a houseful of brothers, I was always part of a team. Then they went off, serving overseas. I missed the brotherhood, I guess. And with Broslin PD, I got a sister too. Gabi. She came out here from Philly for the job, then ended up marrying Captain Bing’s brother.”
Hunter got married? Allie was dying to ask for the details, but she bit her tongue.
“We keep the town safe,” Harper said. “Gives me a reason to get up in the morning. You’d think with a small town like Broslin, the job would be boring, but we have our share of crazies. Although murder is damn rare. I won’t lie, it’s mostly parking tickets and some petty theft.”
To his credit, he didn’t mention that the crime rate had dropped once Tony Bianchi had left town. Allie appreciated that.
He looked at her in the rearview mirror before he refocused on the road. “Couple of us took the test to become detective. We could get a job in West Chester or Philly, but the thing is, none of us wants to leave. I don’t care if our biggest event of the year is securing the Mushroom Festival.”
She didn’t comment.
He went on, catching her up on their old friends and what had happened in town over the past decade. The biggest excitement was Hope Hill, the rehab center for veterans.
“Maybe you could do a show there,” Harper said, then added, “I can’t believe you’re not in musical theater. You were so good at that.” He glanced at her in the mirror again. “I hated going to school in the first place. They couldn’t have signed me up for an afterschool activity if they paid me. But you were always going to rehearsals. You never seemed to mind all the time the shows required.”
“The time required is why I went.”
He glanced at her over his shoulder with his eyebrows raised.
“So I wouldn’t have to be home.” She shrugged. “It’s not like my father was a monster. He had good days. But the bad days outweighed them. The drinking got out of hand a lot. With the drama club, there were rehearsals, then I could sign up to work on the set. Or stay late to help others learn their lines—all time I didn’t have to spend at home. Then there were the shows, where I could pretend I was someone else.”
On the stage, she was spunky Rizzo in Grease instead of Tony Bianchi’s daughter. Or Christine in Phantom of the Opera. Or Belle in Beauty and the Beast. She got to wear fancy costumes, and nobody would make fun of her clothes for being too small or too threadbare or stained.
She waited for Harper to comment, but he’d fallen silent, and he stayed that way all the way to West Chester.
Her lawyer ran down the steps of the courthouse when he spotted them.
“I have some good news.” Devon Abram waved a manila folder. “Reduced charges.”
The words to thank him were on the tip of Allie’s tongue. Then she realized that he looked surprised at her turn of luck. But if he hadn’t argued the charges down, as she’d originally assumed, then who did?
She didn’t have time to ponder. They were going in.
“Ever been inside?” Abram asked.
“First time in court on my own behalf.” She’d only ever come before to support her father.
Harper glanced at her with an unfathomable expression. Maybe he didn’t believe her.
Allie gritted her teeth. “I’m a good person, all right? This is not supposed to happen to good people.”
She’d lived her entire life on the right side of the line, to make sure she ended up nothing like her father. The whole flipping unfairness of it made her want to scream.
She shot a surly look at Harper. “You boosted stuff for my father all the flipping time. In what universe am I going in front of a judge, and you’re the cop standing behind me?”
He gave her nothing, just more of that inscrutable look, although his mouth was tight around the corners. When he finally deigned to address her, all he said was, “Say as little as possible. Let Devon do the talking.”
“I’ll say what I want to say.”
But, as it turned out, she didn’t.
The hearing went by startlingly fast, leaving her dazed. The only thing she was sure of at the end was the bail. The judge said twenty thousand. Dollars. Real money.
Her head swum. “I would have to rob someone to get that kind of dough.”
Devon Abram flashed her a pointed look and cleared his throat.
Right, don’t joke about committing a crime, while in court.
“You only have to come up with ten percent for a bail bond,” her lawyer said.
She dropped her gaze, humiliation burning through her. “I don’t have two thousand cash at the moment either.”
Then they were filing out of the judge’s chambers, and as Abram left, promising to call later to set up a strategy meeting, Harper took Allie by the elbow and escorted her back to his cruiser. He said something, but she was still too frazzled to pay attention. All she could think of was that he was returning her to jail.
He locked her in the back then slipped behind the wheel in the front and turned to her. “Listen, Allie—”
“No.” She looked him straight in the eye. “I don’t want to hear anything you have to say. I don’t want to talk to you.” She swallowed, hard. “I need a minute here, okay?”
Her eyes burned. The last thing she wanted to do was cry in front of Harper Flipping Finnegan who was ruining her life. She was choking on despair, and she hated the taste, so she called up fury and let its cold fire fill her instead. And she let him see that anger in her eyes. Let him see that if the bars weren’t between them, she would be choking him with her cuffed hands.
“Okay.” He turned back to the front, sent off a text, then drove her back to Broslin in silence.
The whole way there, as Allie watched the fields and trees zoom by, she kept feeling as if she was stuck in a weird nightmare snow globe, banging on the glass, trapped.
Except in this case, the snow was outside. Frigid cold. Empty fields. Dead-looking trees. A perfect reflection of what she felt like inside.
Then when they arrived at the PD and Harper helped her out of the cruiser, hot fury filled her again. When they walked inside and she saw Kennan Finnegan waiting at the front desk, she snapped at him. “Here to gloat?”
He leaned casually against the counter, exchanging a glance with Harper. “Here to pay your bail.”
She blinked at him. Dear God, or Goddess, or spirits, or freaking sugarplum fairies, or whoever is listening—please let life make sense again.
“Sorry about Brittany the other day, by the way,” Kennan said. “She was drunk. If she kept on with it, I would have stopped her.”
While Harper took the cuffs off Allie, Robin produced the paperwork with a smile. “Everything will be all right.”
Except she didn’t say it in a platitude-y kind of way that people said everyday niceties. She said it in a spooky tone and all googly eyed. And it actually made Allie feel better, because Robin moonlighted as Broslin’s resident psychic.
“You think?”
“I do.” Robin’s smile didn’t waver. “You hang in there, honey.”
Kennan paid, then shot Harper a why are we doing this? look before heading toward the door.
“Thank you?” Allie called after him, rubbing her wrists.
What is happening?
Kennan sauntered out with an odd grin at Harper, and a wink at her.
“What was he talking about?” Harper asked as he turned to her. “When did you see Brittany?”
“After you dropped me off at Finnegan’s last night.”
“You didn’t say anything about it. Hang on for a sec.” Harper headed over to his desk. “Need to grab some files, then I’ll give you a ride to the B and B. What did Brittany say?”
Allie trailed reluctantly behind him. “Wasn’t a big deal. She came in with her posse. Asked if I was looking for another bike. Made fun of me. A flashback to the good old times.”
“What bike?”
She wasn’t in a sharing mood, but he had, for some unfathomable reason, arranged for her bond and was taking her to her room instead of a jail cell in the back, so she forced herself to be civil.
“Middle school bullshit.” She shrugged. “My father gave me a fancy new bike for my birthday. He said he got paid for a job, but in hindsight, who knows? Could just as easily have stolen it. Then he needed money a couple of months later, so he sold the bike.”
“And?” Harper asked.
