Tough Customer- Sandra Brown

[Dalyia]

shower, but the weapon didn't turn up, and, if there were any witnesses, they were too scared to come forward." Nodding somberly, Dodge said, "He's bad."

Gonzales frowned with concern. "Get the information from his old lady. Get the robber, get a medal, get detective. But don't get killed in the process, okay?"

"I'll do my best."

More than that Dodge couldn't say about his undercover work, not even to his trusted former partner. Gonzales understood that, of course, so when Dodge asked him about his new partner, he shifted subjects gracefully.

"He and I get along okay. Goes without saying, he's not you."

"Miss me?" Dodge teased.

"No. Hell no. When I said he wasn't you, I meant that he's better than you. But Doris at the 7-Eleven is pining. She's gone stingy with free doughnuts and ice cream bars."

They finished their meal and paid their tab. When they reached the parking lot, Gonzales paused and looked toward the freeway, where the rush-hour traffic was moving at a blistering five miles an hour. Then he studied the clouds scuttling in off the Gulf. He looked at just about everything except Dodge, who sensed Gonzales was struggling with indecision.

"What's on your mind, partner?"

"Nothing much." He glanced at Dodge, looked away again. "I just ... Look, this is none of my business, okay? And it probably doesn't matter to you anyway."

"But?"

Finally he looked at Dodge directly. "Night before last, my partner and me responded to another call for help on Shadydale." He watched Dodge warily, to see if the street name rang any bells.

It did, of course. A couple of months had gone by since he'd come to Caroline King's rescue, but it seemed like yesterday. Dodge's whole system started humming with wrath, with dread. "Did he hurt her?"

"No. Didn't amount to anything, really. In fact it was the neighbor next door who called. Said she heard loud noises, shouting, abusive language. Campton had split by the time we got there. I talked to Ms. King. She was embarrassed. Hated that her neighbor had been disturbed. But Campton hadn't hit her this time."

Gonzales hesitated before continuing. "I didn't know if you still ... you know." He bobbed his shoulders in a quick shrug. "The only reason I mentioned it is because ... That night you and I were there? Seemed to me you were especially interested in this lady's welfare."

Dodge clenched his jaw and didn't say anything.

"They're still engaged," Gonzales continued. "I asked. And anyway, it was hard to miss the diamond on her hand."

Dodge nodded.

Gonzales made a sound of regret. "Hell, I'm out of line here. I shouldn't have said anything."

"No, I'm glad you did, Jimmy. Thanks for telling me."

Then, worried for a different reason, Gonzales asked, "You're not gonna do something stupid, are you?"

Dodge forced himself to smile. "Me? Hell no. I gotta make detective. I wouldn't do anything to jeopardize my shot at that."

Half an hour later, he reported for work at the tire plant. During his lunch break, he saw Crystal in the commissary and made a point of smiling at her. She smiled back, then shyly averted her head and didn't look at him again.

When his shift ended, he clocked out, then went looking for Roger Campton, and, when he found him, he beat the shit out of him. At least he tried his best.

It was after dark, but Dodge would have done the same thing in broad daylight. He caught up with Campton in the parking lot of the exclusive health club where he was a member. His hair was damp from his recent shower, and he smelled of Irish Spring. Dodge came up behind him, caught him in a headlock, and punched him in the right kidney.

Campton dropped his gym bag. Because of the pressure Dodge's forearm was applying to his larynx, the only sounds he made were guttural and unintelligible. After Dodge delivered several more hard blows, Campton's knees gave out beneath him. Dodge spun him around, hit him in the face with the heel of his hand, and felt his nose collapse with a crunching noise and a gush of blood and mucus.

He backed Campton into his Mercedes and bent him backward over the shiny hood. Shoving his hand beneath Campton's chin in order to keep him upright, he repeatedly drove his fist into the millionaire's belly and ribs with the impetus of a pile driver.

When he finally let him go and stepped back, Campton slid down the side of his sleek car and crumpled like a pile of dirty laundry onto the pavement. Dodge kicked him in the ribs and, out of sheer spite, in the testicles. The man screamed, then passed out.

Dodge went down on one knee and grabbed a handful of his hair. He slapped his bloody face until he came to. "Can you hear me?"

"Don't kill me," Campton whimpered. Because of his smashed nose, his mewling sounded almost comical.

"Not tonight. But I want you to listen to me, you motherfucking turd. Because of your daddy's money, you might think you can do anything you damn well please and get away with it. So far you have. But I'm telling you now that if you hurt Caroline King again, even a little, you die. Do you understand me?"

He relaxed his grip on Campton's hair to allow his head to wobble a nod of comprehension.

"You're not gonna forget what I'm telling you, are you, Roger?"

Campton shook his head.

"Because if you do, if you raise a hand to her tomorrow, or next week, or ten years from now, I'll kill you. You got it?"

Roger Campton had passed out again, and this time when Dodge released him, he left him where he lay, deeply regretting that he couldn't quite justify killing the son of a bitch right then and there.

* * *

It was twilight, and the air was muggy. Sunset had done little to relieve Houston of the steamy heat. Dodge was seated on a shaded concrete bench in the outdoor courtyard of an office park formed by four square, glass buildings, each six stories tall. He was waiting as requested, nervous as a whore in church, wondering why she'd asked for this meeting, hoping like hell it meant something good for him.

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And right now she probably knew that he was aching to touch her hair, kiss her mouth, enfold her tiny body in his arms and hold her so close against him that he could feel her heartbeat. He willed her to comprehend the intensity of his feelings, but he must have gone too far, because she stood up quickly.

"You've overstepped your bounds, Mr. Hanley. You have nothing to do with my life. Your responsibility toward me ended when you performed your duties as a police officer that one night. I'm going to marry Roger."

Dodge stood up with her. "You'll regret it."

"If you insinuate yourself into our lives again, I'll have to report you. As for this violent attack, promise me that you'll never do anything like it again."

Dodge said nothing. He for sure as hell didn't make her a promise that would contradict the one he'd already made to Campton to kill him if he harmed her.

"All right. You've been warned." She gave him one last fulminating look, then turned away and started walking toward the building. But after covering only a short distance, she stopped and came back around. "Officer Gonzales told me you had been appointed to a special task force."

"That's right."

"Is it dangerous?"

"Not as dangerous as what you're getting yourself into."

She seemed on the verge of taking issue with that but must have thought better of it. "Take care of yourself."

Then she walked away from him.

When he got back to his car, he checked his pager, drove to the nearest pay phone, and placed a call to the task force hotline. It was answered brusquely. "This is Hanley. Somebody there page me?"

"Where the hell have you been? Captain's about to stroke out. He's paged you at least ten times."

"I've got a stomach bug. Came on this afternoon. Been in the crapper ever since I knocked off at the tire plant."

"Too bad. Get here. I'm talking sprout wings and fly."

"What's up?"

"Our guy waltzed into a bank just before closing, hit it for about thirty grand, and took out a guard."

"Took out as in a hostage?"

"No. Took out as in killed."

[Dalyia]

CHAPTER
8



MS. BUCKLAND?"
"Yes?"
The voice was so faint Ski could barely hear her on his cell phone. He plugged his other ear with his index finger. "Sally Buckland?"
"Yes. This is ... I'm Sally Buckland."
"My name's Ski Nyland. I'm a deputy sheriff in Merritt County." When she said nothing to that, he plowed on. "We had an incident here last night, Ms. Buckland, and some people you know were involved."
"Oren and Berry. I heard about it on the news."
Ski wasn't surprised that the Houston media had picked up the story of the shooting. Probably dozens of similar incidents had occurred last night, but Caroline King had been a large player in the Houston area real estate market before moving to Merritt. Her name was newsworthy. He was glad of it. Because of the news coverage, millions of people would be on the lookout for Oren Starks.
He confirmed with Ms. Buckland that Starks and Berry Malone had been her co-workers at Delray Marketing and that she was also acquainted with the shooting victim, Ben Lofland.
"They said Ben is in serious condition."
"That's been upgraded," Ski told her. "He's going to be fine."
Two deputies came into the squad room carrying Whataburger sacks. Others fell on the fast food like a pack of coyotes. Ski placed his hand over his phone and yelled at them to pipe down. His stomach rumbled, reminding him he hadn't had a proper meal today.
Back into the phone, he said, "I was wondering if you could answer some questions for me, Ms. Buckland."
"No."
Her abruptness took him aback. "I promise not to take up much of your time."
"Why did you call me?"
"Because I'm conducting an investigation, and you know the three principals involved. Oren Starks issued some serious threats, and he's still at large. Anything you can tell me would be greatly appreciated." She was silent for so long that Ski had to prod her. "Ms. Buckland?"
"I'm sorry, but I don't know anything."
Another deputy approached Ski, proffering a burger oozing melting cheese, but despite how mouthwatering it looked, Ski waved him off. "Ms. Malone has alleged that Oren Starks shot Mr. Lofland." Sally Buckland said nothing in response. "When you worked at Delray Marketing, were you aware of any hostility existing between Mr. Starks and Mr. Lofland?"
"No."
"No ill will of any kind, at any time?"
"No."
"Okay. What about--"
"This really is none of my business."
She sounded unreasonably upset. In Ski's experience, people--particularly people with nothing to hide--were flattered to have been contacted by the authorities. Typically they puffed up with self-importance and welcomed the chance to unload information even when it didn't pertain to the case.
"Please, Ms. Buckland, just a few more questions."
"But I don't know anything about this. I left Delray months ago and haven't seen these people since."
"Did you leave Delray on account of Oren Starks?"
"Who told you that?"
"Did you?"
"That's ridiculous."
"Starks didn't factor into your decision to leave the company?"
"Of course not."
Ski wanted to eliminate any confusion over this point. "Did Oren Starks persistently pursue a romantic relationship with you?"
"Heavens no."
"Did you quit your job in order to avoid his unwelcome advances?" She didn't respond, but he could hear her breathing. "Ms. Buckland?"
"None of that is true. If Berry led you to believe that Oren is a stalker, she's lying. Now I really must go."
She hung up before Ski could stop her.
"Very well done, Sally. Considering the disquieting circumstances and how nervous you are, you spoke exceptionally well and said exactly what I wanted the deputy to hear. Thank you."
Oren Starks covered her hand where it still gripped the landline telephone. "Let go, Sally," he said, laughing unctuously. "It's as though you're holding on to that phone for dear life."
She released the telephone and, without moving her head, cut her eyes far to the left so she could see him out of the corner of her eye--which had the barrel of a pistol pressed against it. "I did what you told me to, Oren."
"And I've said thank you."
"So you'll leave now?"
He smiled with feigned regret. "No, I'm afraid not."
"But you said--"
"What I said was that I would leave when you'd done what I asked you to."
"Which I did."
"But you're not finished yet, Sally." He stroked the pistol's barrel along her jawline, returning it to her temple. Her fearful whimper gave him enormous pleasure. "By throwing off that deputy sheriff, you made up for some of your meanness toward me. But not for all of it. You and I are still a long way from even."
"How did ... how did you know he would call me?"
"You don't have to be a whiz kid to figure that out, Sally. It's Criminal Investigation 101. The first thing an investigator--in this case the deputy sheriff--would want to know is why I shot Ben Lofland last night. Berry would have told him that I am a spurned suitor. He would have asked if anyone could corroborate that, and she ... would ... have ... named ... you."
He tapped the pistol against her head to emphasize each word. On the last, he pressed the barrel of it hard against her cheekbone. "Naturally the deputy would follow protocol and check out her story. What was his name again?"
"N-Nyland," Sally stammered. "I think that's what he said."
He shrugged with indifference. "Doesn't matter, really. What does matter is that you disputed Berry's allegations, leaving her with a lot to answer for."
"Despite what I said, this deputy might think she's telling the truth. Maybe I didn't throw him off track at all."
"Oh, I believe you did. You sounded very convincing to me, Sally."
"But law enforcement officers never take things at face value. He might have heard the nervousness in my voice. Even now, he could be--"
"Sally, Sally, you're getting your hopes up."
"My hopes up?"
"That you'll be rescued." He gave another sad smile. "Believe me, the Merritt County S.O. has more to do today than follow up with little, insignificant you."
Her lower lip began to tremble. He stroked it with the pad of his index finger. At his touch, she recoiled.
"Stop that!" He flicked his finger hard against her lip. Even though he had the upper hand, her rejection angered him. How dare she flinch when he touched her?
He was the one with the power now. Which she'd realized the instant she entered her house with a shopping bag of groceries. When she saw him standing in her kitchen, she'd given a startled cry, dropped the bag to the floor, and stumbled over it in her haste to escape.
He'd caught her and held on. To keep her quiet, he'd assured her that he meant her no harm. But of course she'd heard about what had happened in Merritt, so the implication of his ambush had been immediately clear. She'd struggled hysterically until he'd pressed the pistol to

[Dalyia]

her head. That had made her considerably more cooperative, although she'd continued to blubber, asking what he wanted of her.
He'd told her that they would wait for some peace officer or another either to telephone or to appear at her door with questions about him. While waiting for that inevitability, he'd coached her on how to answer when those questions were put to her.
He'd promised that, if she complied with his request, she would live. If not, he'd shoot her in the head. Apparently she had believed him, because she'd answered the deputy's questions as though reading from a script written by Oren himself.
But now that the expected call had taken place, she seemed even more terrified of him than before. Probably because the deputy's questions had reminded her of how horribly she'd treated Oren. She'd rejected his affections and, adding insult to injury, had contributed to his dismissal from the job he'd loved and had been so well suited for.
No wonder then, was it, that she was trembling with fright.
He tapped the muzzle of the pistol against her temple, reminding her again that her fate lay entirely with him.
"Wh-what else do you want me to do, Oren?"
"I don't recall you stuttering like that before, Sally. You surely didn't stutter when you turned down my repeated invitations to dinner. Or when you returned my Valentine roses. You were articulate enough when you told our co-workers how you couldn't stand to be around me."
"I never--"
He struck her hard on the side of her head with the barrel of the pistol. Her cry of shock and pain was better than whispered sweet nothings. "Don't compound your cruel rejection by lying about it, Sally. Don't insult my intelligence."
She was crying in earnest now. Her face, which he'd always thought to be pretty, looked ugly, the features crumpled with pain and fear, snot dripping from her nose, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Please, Oren."
"Please what, Sally?" he asked silkily.
"Please don't hurt me."
"But you hurt me. You damaged me personally and professionally."
"I never meant to hurt you." Her voice cracked on the last two words. She was shivering as though she had a palsy.
"Now, Sally," he said in a soothing voice. "No need to fall apart on me. Didn't I tell you that you would come to no harm if you did everything I asked you to?"
"Yes."
"Didn't I promise not to hurt you if you discredited Berry?"
"Yes."
"Well then. So far, I've kept my promises, haven't I?"
She nodded.
Holding the pistol hard against her temple, he wrapped his hand around her biceps and steered her about. "Unfortunately, one chat with a deputy sheriff doesn't reparation make. So, into the bedroom we go."
Her footsteps faltered. "What for?"
"Use your imagination."
She sobbed. "Please, Oren. I'm sorry. For everything, I'm sorry. Don't hurt me. I'll do anything."
He laughed. "Oh, I'm counting on that."
* * *
While Ski was redialing Sally Buckland, he heard his call waiting chirp. The incoming call took precedence. He clicked over. "Nyland."
"It's Andy."
"What's up?"
"The night attendant at the bait shop?"
"At the three-way stop on Lake Road?" Earlier that day, Ski had questioned the man, who claimed not to have seen or heard anything out of the ordinary last night. Impatiently he asked, "What about him?"
"He watches a lot of TV during his long shift. Seen every episode of Law & Order. Reruns on cable, too. You know how they play several episodes back to back every night?"
"Okay."
"He doesn't miss. He pays attention to how the cops crack the case. So he's been doing some amateur sleuthing today."
Oh, Christ. Ski ran his fingers through his hair and wished he hadn't turned down the cheeseburger. It felt like his stomach was gnawing on his spine. Andy was still talking.
"He got out last night's sales receipts--"
"I went through those. None of the credit cards belonged to Starks, and he didn't fit the description of anyone paying with cash."
"Yeah, but this guy went back through his receipts, to see if something might've been overlooked. It's a slow day, he said. Anyhow, he ran down a guy who charged some gas for his bass boat late last night near the time of the shooting. And that guy, the bass boat guy, remembers seeing another guy while he was filling his gas can. Said he went into the men's room and it looked to him like the guy had a busted leg."

[Dalyia]

CHAPTER
9



ALLOW ME." D ODGE CLICKED ON HIS DISPOSABLE LIGHTER.
"Thanks." The woman smiled around the cigarette held between her lips and leaned forward to touch the end of it to the flame. She took a few drags while Dodge was lighting his cigarette. She exhaled. "Things have come to a sad pass when you can't smoke in a bar."
Dodge sighed. "I hear ya."
He'd been flirting with her through one beer, which he'd drunk slowly in order to give himself time to assess the place and its clientele. After gauging all the customers who'd come in for happy hour, he'd decided that the woman pouring the drinks was probably his best prospect.
She was forty-something and looked every day of it. Her face had lived through some hard times and harsh disappointments, and in her eyes was a sad resignation. But she had a naturally warm smile, and she was generous with it. Everyone who came in, men and women alike, addressed her by name, and she seemed to know their preferred drinks and everything else about them. He'd overheard her asking about a new job, a fishing expedition, elderly parents, a child in crisis, and a lame horse.
When she'd turned the bar over to a younger man so she could take a break, Dodge had followed her past the restrooms, down a short hallway, and out a back exit.
Now that their cigarettes were smoldering, she lifted the hair off the back of her neck and held it up, creating a provocative pose and extending an open invitation for Dodge to enjoy the view, which wasn't bad.
"I'm Grace."
"Dodge."
"Hi, Dodge."
"Hi, Grace."
They smiled at each other. She lowered her arm and let her hair fall back into place. "If you lived in Merritt, I'd know it."
"Atlanta."
"Texas?"
"Georgia."
"No fooling? You're a long way from home then. What do you do there?"
"A little of this, little of that."
She gave him a smile that said, I've got your number. "A man of mystery."
"Me? Shucks, no, ma'am."
She laughed at his b.s. "What brings you to southeast Texas?"
He embroidered a story about possibly relocating to Houston. "My brother is pressuring me to partner with him on a business deal. It's a good opportunity, and there's nothing keeping me in Atlanta, so I'm giving it serious consideration. But I can't take the city--or my brother, for that matter--all the time. I figure if I make the move, I'll need a getaway. Nothing fancy. Just a place to escape to on the weekends. Get in some fishing. Commune with nature." His smile would have melted butter. "This town looks like a good place for kicking back."
"Well, you're right about that. The population triples just about every weekend, but particularly in the spring and summer."
"What's the second-home market like? Is it favoring sellers or buyers?"
"Hell if I'd know," she said around a smoker's laugh. She dropped her cigarette butt to the pavement and ground it out with the toe of her shoe. "I can't afford a first home, much less a second."
"I've seen a lot of For Sale signs around. Green. Little crown."
"Caroline King. She's the big-shot realtor around here."
He held a light to her second cigarette. "A big shot sounds too rich for my blood."
She exhaled, shaking her head. "She handles big, small, whatever. Nice lady, too."
"You've done business with her?"
"Maybe if I won the lottery." She guffawed. "I know her to speak to, though. She comes into the bar occasionally. Sometimes with clients to have a glass of wine while talking over a contract. A few weeks ago she had a younger woman with her that she introduced as her daughter. I'd heard her daughter was staying with her for the summer, but that's the first time I'd seen her in town. Ms. King's house is out at the lake. They had some trouble out there last night."
"Trouble?"
"A shooting."
He pretended to choke on his smoke. "Shooting?"
"Some guy the daughter works with. Love triangle kind of thing is what people are saying."
"Wow. I thought this was a sleepy little town."
"We've got our scandals, believe me," she said, rolling her eyes. "But you could've knocked me over with a feather when I heard about that business with Ms. King. Neither she nor her daughter looks the type."
"What type is that?"
"Man-trouble type. But I guess it goes to show you never know what goes on behind closed doors."
"Isn't that a song?"
She grinned up at him, pleased. "You like country?"
By the time Dodge had finished his first cigarette and lit another, they'd exhausted the subject of country music, at least to the extent that he knew something about it. Trying to steer the topic back to Caroline, he frowned. "I guess this realtor will be too busy to take on any new clients, considering the mess her kid is in."
"I don't know. You can try. Ms. King is a businesswoman right down the line. I heard she made a killing in residential real estate in Houston. She moved to Merritt to retire."
"When was this?"
"Few years ago. Two or three."
"Her retirement didn't take?"
She laughed. "Guess not. She no more had settled in than she linked up with a property developer and--"
"Linked up?" He bobbed his eyebrows. "One of those closed- doors things?"
Grace nudged his arm, and somehow in the process his elbow made contact with her full bosom. "Ms. King is at least twenty years older than the developer."
"That's in fashion, isn't it? Older woman, younger man?"
"Maybe. But he's got a gorgeous wife and three perfect children. His partnership with Ms. King was strictly business. He enlisted her to sell the houses in his development. She sold them all in record time." Grace shrugged and dropped her second cigarette butt to the asphalt. "She decided retirement wasn't for her. Not yet, anyway. She's got even richer off all the development going on around here."
"She must have savvy."
Grace nodded. "And she works at it. She's got my respect and everybody else's. At least, I've never heard a bad word said against her. Of course the gossips will be all over what happened out at her place last night." She glanced at her wristwatch. "They're gonna think you kidnapped me." There was a trace of hopefulness in the smile she cast over her shoulder as she reentered the bar.
Dodge took one final drag on his cigarette, then dropped the butt and followed her inside. She'd been so unwittingly generous with information, he felt obliged to buy one more beer, but he didn't finish it before signaling her to tally up his tab.
"How long will you be in town, Dodge?"
He told her the unvarnished truth. "I don't know."
"Drop back by."
"I will."
"Do you have a wife?"
"Not lately."
She laughed. "Are you lying?"

[Dalyia]

"No."
She slid a small white card across the bar. "While you're here, if you need anything--directions, restaurant recommendations, a place to smoke--give me a call."
Before going into the bar, Dodge had parked parallel on Bowie Street, choosing a metered slot that had a shade tree growing beside it. The shade had helped. Nevertheless, the interior of the rental car felt like an oven when he got in. He cranked the motor so he could turn on the air conditioner.
He lit a cigarette, then took from the pocket of his jacket a slender pink cell telephone. Amanda Lofland's cell telephone. The cell phone she'd been careless enough to leave on the table while they were deeply involved in their conversation. The cell phone Dodge had pilfered while she was blotting her tearful eyes with a soggy Kleenex.
Most criminal investigators followed the money first. Dodge Hanley went after the scorned woman.
He tapped the phone's icon that accessed the log of recent calls and scrolled through it. All her calls yesterday and last night had come from one number. He called it. It was answered with a cheerful, "Hi, this is Ben, leave a message."
So, the couple had stayed in close contact yesterday while Ben was with Berry. Which came as somewhat of a disappointment, since it virtually disproved Dodge's theory of looking first at jealous females for possible suspects.
Or maybe not. Maybe Lofland had made all those calls to his wife as overcompensation for cheating on her, in his heart if not with his dick.
In any case, Dodge still considered Amanda Lofland worth looking at.
Next, he scrolled through the cell phone's menu, landing on her directory of contacts.
Sticking with protocol, Dodge entered the house through the back door. Caroline was at the stove stirring the contents of a pot. "Good. You're back," she said. "Dinner's almost ready."
"What are we having?"
"Spaghetti and meat sauce."
"One of your specialities."
She directed a worried glance toward the interior door that led to the rest of the house. "Be careful not to say things like that. How would you know it's one of my specialities?"
"Like how would you know that I drink my tea unsweetened?"
She thought for a moment, then said with chagrin, "This afternoon."
"Hmm."
"Habits die hard."
"And get you into trouble." The white card with Grace's phone number on it suddenly felt like a live coal inside his breast pocket. "Need any help?"
"No, thanks."
"I could set the table. I think I remember which side the fork goes on."
"Already done. Would you like something to drink?"
He shook his head. "I had a beer in town." She was about to ask him about that, but before she could pose a question he might not want to answer, he asked, "Where's Berry?"
"Still sleeping, last I checked."
They still hadn't addressed what he'd learned from his conversation with Amanda Lofland in the hospital cafeteria. After having recounted it to Caroline and Berry, he'd gone out for a cigarette. When he'd come back inside, Caroline had suggested that Berry walk him through the events of last night, showing him where everything had taken place. Actually, he'd been about to suggest that himself.
For the next hour, they'd moved from room to room while Berry related chronologically and in detail exactly what had taken place. In the bathroom, the shower curtain had been reattached to the rod. The blood-soaked rug had been removed from the bedroom and replaced by another to cover the bloodstain that had seeped into the hardwood. Despite these concealing measures, the room retained the feel of a place where something traumatic had occurred.
Dodge had knelt where Berry indicated Ben Lofland had fallen. He'd flipped back the replacement rug to examine the bloodstain. Then he'd gone into the bathroom. When he reached the tub, he'd turned back and estimated the distance to the bloodstain. "Starks was standing here when he fired?"
Berry nodded.
"Five feet, six at most. Lofland's lucky to be alive."
"Oren must be a lousy shot."
"Must be."
Out on the gallery, Dodge had inspected the holes in the wall, left by the bullets that Nyland or someone from the S.O. had removed. Then Dodge had had Berry show him exactly where Starks had landed after his fall down the stairs and the position from which he'd been wildly firing the pistol.
He'd laid down on his back on the floor and acted it out while she'd crouched behind the railing on the gallery above as she'd done the night before. Caroline had stood by, watching all this, hugging her elbows and chafing her upper arms.
"I can't believe how close you came to being killed," she'd said, tears in her voice.
Dodge had been equally shaken by the thought of how narrowly Berry had escaped a bullet. If she hadn't, Caroline's call to him last night would have been altogether different. Or maybe she wouldn't have bothered to notify him. It didn't bear thinking about.
After talking through it, Berry had told them she was exhausted and asked if they could postpone their conversation about her and Lofland until after she'd rested. "It's the elephant in the room. I know it must be explained, but can it keep until I've had a nap?"
He and Caroline had watched as she wearily climbed the stairs. When she reached the gallery, she'd gone into the guest room, Dodge supposed because being in her bedroom made the horrible memories too vivid for comfort.
As soon as she was out of earshot, Caroline had turned to him, her posture defensive. "What Amanda Lofland told you has no bearing on what happened here last night."
"I didn't say it did."
"You implied it."
"I did no such thing."
"I know how your mind works, Dodge. You're skeptical by nature. Why would you tend to believe Amanda Lofland over your own flesh and blood?"
Afraid that his angry voice might carry upstairs and through the guest room door, he'd propelled Caroline across the living area and into the kitchen. As soon as they'd reached it and he'd shut the door, he leaned toward her.
"You march out that flesh-and-blood connection whenever you want to make a point or to remind me that I should have blind loyalty toward Berry now. But you weren't so keen on her being my flesh and blood the day she was born."
"Do you blame me?"
"No, Caroline, and I never did. You were in the right. I was wrong. I admitted I was."
"It wasn't enough."
"How well I know." She'd tried to stare him down but failed, and he'd derived some satisfaction from her being the first to turn away. After a moment, he'd said quietly, "I think you should prepare yourself."
"For what?"
"For just in case Berry hasn't been quite as up-front with you as you think." When she would have spoken, he'd sliced the air with his hand. "That's what scares you, too, isn't it, Caroline? You said as much at the tearoom."
"I said--"
"I asked you what the problem was, and in reply you said that Berry is a lot like me. You knew that would be the one reason I'd stay on. Because we both know that the genes she got from me might not be pretty when they manifest themselves. If she's got herself into a mess, I'll help her get out of it, but the process might be disagreeable, to say the least." With that, he'd headed for the door.
"Where are you going?"
"To town."
"What for?"
"I need a place to stay. Once I've got a room and dumped my stuff, I want to nose around, see if I can find a grapevine to tap into."
"How long will you be gone?"
"Can't say."
"Be back in time for dinner."
He'd stopped on his way through the door and looked at her. She'd looked anxious, as though afraid that, despite what he'd said, he might not return. He'd been tempted to ask her if she cared whether or not he came back, and if so, how much.
But all he'd said was "Anything happens, you've got my cell number." Now he was back, and she hadn't called him during his absence, so he assumed that there had been nothing new to report.
While he'd been gone, she'd changed into a pair of white pants cropped at her ankles and a yellow T-shirt, through which he could see the outline of her bra. She'd always thought her breasts were too small. He'd thought they were downright perfect, and perfectly sensitive.
"Did you find a room?"
He dragged his gaze off her chest and onto more neutral territory. "Uh ... yeah. Cypress Lodge."
"There's better available. I know of some houses that owners rent out when not in use. I should have thought of reserving you one before now, although I've been ... My mind's been scattered. But I could call the office and--"
"The lodge is fine. My standards aren't that high. This room has all the comforts of home. In fact, it's several notches above my place in Atlanta."
She dipped a wooden spoon into the spaghetti sauce, blew on it, sipped a sample, then laid the spoon in a ceramic holder near the burner and replaced the lid on the simmering pot. Going to the small breakfast table, she sat down and motioned Dodge into the chair across from her. He sat.
"Mr. Mitchell doesn't pay you well?"
"Very well. A hell of a lot more than I'm worth." He paused, then added, "But not nearly as much as you make selling houses."

[Dalyia]

"I've been fortunate."
"You work your butt off."
She conceded the point with a small smile. "I've put in some long days. But I love the work."
"It's made you rich. In Houston. Then here."
She folded her arms across her middle and eyed him shrewdly. "Who'd you talk to? No, wait. Where did you go for your beer?"
"A place on Bowie Street."
"Chat and Chill?"
He coughed behind his fist, saying evasively, "I think that was it."
"Grace. You got your information from Grace." She held his gaze and asked softly, "What did it cost you?"
"Two beers and two cigarettes."
She smiled again, but this time it was a sad expression. "Nothing's changed."
"Everything's changed, Caroline. Thirty years ago we were making love while the spaghetti sauce simmered."
He saw from her expression that she remembered it as well as he did. They'd decided to fool around and had forgotten all about what was on the stove until the smell of scorched tomatoes had alerted them to the potential hazard. He'd told her to hold on and somehow had got them off the bed while still joined. Then he'd carried her into the kitchen, and, as soon as he'd turned off the burner beneath the pot, they'd resumed right there.
Her face became flushed, and she couldn't look him in the eye. "We were young."
"And a little crazy. Crazy in love."
"Don't, Dodge." Her whisper had a desperately pleading undertone.
"Don't what? Don't talk about it? Don't remember? I can't help remembering. That day the spaghetti sauce burned was one of our more rollicking fucks." It had been a combination of laughter and lust. He got hard now just thinking about it.
For Caroline's part, she set her elbows on the table and covered her face with her hands. He didn't know if she was hiding her shame or her delight. Tears, maybe. But when she finally lowered her hands, there were no tears in her eyes and her expression was impassive, giving him no clue as to her emotions.
She said, "If this lawyer pays you so well, why do you live in a place less appealing than your room at the Cypress Lodge?"
"Because a rathole comes with no responsibilities, and because I've got expenses that keep me on a tight budget despite hefty paychecks and bonuses." She gave him a questioning look, and he felt his shirt pocket for his pack of cigarettes, wishing he dared light up. "Alimony. Times two."
"You were married twice?"
"The first time to prove to myself that I could."
"Could what?"
"Forget you. The second divorce proved I couldn't."
She held his gaze for a long moment, then got up quickly and crossed the room to the sink, where she turned on the faucet, then immediately turned it off. "Stop saying things like that."
"Sue me."
She spun around, anger flashing in her eyes. "Don't be cute, Dodge. You can't flip off this crisis with one of your catchphrases. This situation--"
"Sucks," he said, coming to his feet and advancing on her. "That's what this situation does. Are you ashamed?"
"Ashamed?"
"Why haven't you told Berry who I am?"
"Why haven't you?"
That stopped him in his tracks. For the life of him, he couldn't think of a comeback. "Shit."
A long, taut silence stretched between them. Eventually she said quietly, "I shouldn't have called you. You should never have sent me your phone number."
Several years ago, on a night when he was particularly drunk, lonely, remorseful, and maudlin, he'd written his cell phone number on a postcard along with two words. Sue me. His catchphrase, she'd called it. He supposed it was, because he'd known that, when she read those two words, she would know immediately whose phone number it was. The postcard had a picture of Margaret Mitchell's house on it, so she would also know that it had come from Atlanta.
It did his old, thudding heart good to know that she hadn't fed the postcard into the office shredder, or torn it into tiny bits and flung them to the four winds. "Nobody forced you to keep my phone number, Caroline. I didn't even know that you'd received it until you called last night. When I mailed you the card, I didn't know if you still worked at that company. I addressed it to Caroline King, but I didn't know if you went by your name or his."
"I kept mine."
"Why?"
"Professional reasons."
"What did he think about that?"
"He didn't object."
Dodge's heart felt like it was in a goddamn vise, but he had to ask, had to know. "Why'd you marry him?"
"Dodge--"
"Tell me. Why?"
"Because I wanted to!"
"To spite me?"
"Don't flatter yourself."
"Did you love him?"
"Yes."
"You loved him."
"Yes."

"After me, after us, was it that easy--"
He broke off when suddenly her eyes darted to a point behind him. He whipped around. Berry was standing in the open doorway, her gaze bouncing between them. "What's going on?"
Caroline was the first to speak. "As it turns out, our guest is very opinionated about how long spaghetti should boil." She smiled at Dodge, who forced a similar expression. Or tried. Caroline continued the charade. "In any case, it won't be long now. If you'd like to wash up, Dodge, there's a powder room, just..."
She motioned, and he mumbled, "Yeah, sure, thanks," and excused himself as he moved past Berry out of the steamy kitchen.
Through dinner, Caroline carried the conversation. He followed as well as he could,
trying not to stumble, mindful that Berry was quiet but keenly observant. She watched him even when she was pretending not to.
Physically, she looked like Caroline, thank God. But she was his kid, too. If she'd inherited any of his deduction skills, this charade wasn't going to last long. He thought that he and Caroline were probably trying too hard to act normal, and that the effort was transparent. Or maybe he was just being paranoid.
Caroline pressed him into talking about some of the interesting cases he had worked on. He gave them a more detailed account of Derek and Julie Mitchell's romance.
"Wasn't conventional," he said. "Not by a long shot. The stakes were high for both of them, but they fell hard for each other, and that was all she wrote. Now, with the baby on the way, they're positively nauseating. Derek, a former man-about-town, has gone domestic. Uses fringed cloth napkins, for godsake! I'd accuse Julie of emasculating him, but I think she's rather partial to his balls."
Berry blurted a laugh. Caroline blinked with shock, then she, too, laughed. The sound of their laughter made his throat grow tight with emotion.
But the specter of his conversation with Amanda Lofland served as a centerpiece on the dining table. It loomed large. He was glad when the meal finally came to an end and he could excuse himself to go outside and smoke.
On his way out, he said to Berry, "One cigarette. Then we gotta talk about you and Lofland."

[Dalyia]

CHAPTER
10



SKI WAS ALMOST UPON THE MAN WHEN HE SPUN AROUND, PISTOL in hand, aimed straight at Ski's head. "Whoa!"
"Son of a bitch!" Dodge dropped his gun hand and gave the deputy a baleful look. "I almost shot you."
"That would have been bad for both of us."
"Worse for you." Dodge returned his revolver to its holster at the small of his back.
Ski asked, "Do you have a concealed handgun license?"
"In Georgia."
"This is Texas."
Dodge shrugged. "Doesn't GA have reciprocity with the Lone Star State?"
"Didn't you bother to check?"
"No. Does it?"
"Yes."
"Then what's the problem?"
Ski brushed past a sapling and closed the distance between himself and the tree stump where Dodge had been sitting when he came up behind him. The woods were noisy with the soprano choir of insects and the bass tones of bullfrogs on the lakeshore, which had helped cover the sound of his approach through the woods.
The night was hot, there was no breeze. The surrounding trees were stolid and still. Light spilling from the windows of Caroline King's house provided an ambient glow. The two men could see each other but little else.
Dodge returned to his seat on the stump and lit a cigarette. As he fanned out his match, he eyed Ski up and down. "You an Indian, or what? One of those Coushatta from around here?"
"Do I look like an Indian?"
"I didn't hear you till you were only a few yards away from me. Barely had time to get my pistol."
Ski crouched down at the base of a pine, sitting on the heels of his boots and putting his back to the rough bark. "Army. Special Forces. Covert missions."
"You're good."
"If I was good, I'd have slit your throat before you knew I was here."
"Did you think I might be Starks returning to the scene of the crime?"
Ski shook his head. "I smelled your tobacco smoke. He isn't a smoker."
The older man considered him for a moment. "How come you left the Army?"
"I got wounded."
"Iraq?"
"Afghanistan. Before it became the place to be," he said drily. "I got shot. Spent months recovering. By the time I was released from the hospital, my stint was almost over. I didn't re-up."
Dodge kept smoking, saying nothing. For reasons Ski couldn't explain, he would like to win this man's approval. Short of that, he'd like to alleviate the contempt with which Dodge Hanley seemed to regard him.
"I already had my degree, but I went back to UT, took courses in criminology, then brought my advanced degree back here to my hometown."
"Why this pissant burg? Why not a metropolitan department?"
"I like to ski."
Dodge's expression went blank. "I don't follow."
"Waterski. Boat. Fish. Hike. Big cities don't allow for much of that."
Dodge harrumphed. "Or, could be you're lazy and lack ambition."
"That's been said." He stated it frankly, without apology or contradiction.
Dodge kept his eyes on the deputy as he ground out his cigarette against the stump. "You like to ski. Is that how you got your nickname?"
Ski picked a chunk of pine bark off the ground and bounced it in his palm. "One summer night--I think between ninth and tenth grades--me and some buddies got a few bottles of rotgut whiskey, sneaked out a motorboat belonging to one of the guys' dads. I took a dare. Broke my arm, a few ribs, and my collarbone. From then on I was called Ski."
"What was the dare?"
"To slalom a half mile barefoot and blindfolded."
Dodge gurgled a laugh. "Jesus."
"I might have been sober enough to pull it off, but the guy driving the boat was wasted. Pulled me right into the shallows and a grove of cypresses." He caught himself chuckling over the reckless stunt, then sobered and assumed his professional demeanor. "Now, if I catch somebody driving a boat while drinking, I haul him to jail. No leniency, no excuses."
Dodge lit another cigarette.
After a time, Ski said, "Who are you? And don't tell me a friend of the family, because you've got cop written all over you."
"Former cop. Currently, an investigator for a law firm in Atlanta."
"Okay."
"What?"
"What are you doing here?"
"Freelance work."
"You came to Ms. King's aid on real short notice."
"I'd done some work for one of her friends in Houston, years back. She recommended me."
"You just dropped everything and came flying down here?"
"I was told Caroline King has lots of money, and I need the extra income. I've got two greedy, bloodsucking ex-wives."
Ski wondered what he'd done to make Dodge Hanley think he was stupid enough to swallow that bullshit. He considered revealing what he'd learned after making some fact-finding calls today, but, for the time being, he decided to play along and pretend to be as ignorant as the stump Dodge was sitting on.
Ski said, "Besides smoking, what were you doing out here?"
Angling the smoke away from Ski, Dodge exhaled and pointed toward the lake. "I thought maybe Starks came by boat. But I nosed around the dock and shoreline and didn't see any evidence of that." He came back to Ski with an arch look. "Nothing as solid as those fresh tire tracks you found."
Ski smiled wryly. "Who'd you torture?"
"No waterboarding necessary. You hang out at a county courthouse long enough, you hear things. Never knew one of them that didn't leak like a rusty pipe."
Ski considered the older man for a long moment, then, making a decision, stood up and angled his head back toward the woods. "Want to take a walk?"
Dodge came to his feet. "Lead on."
"Put out the cigarette. I don't want you burning down our forest."
Dodge sucked in a lungful of smoke and muttered a string of grousing swearwords as he exhaled. He ground out the cigarette, then fell in behind as Ski plowed through the underbrush, pushing aside tree limbs and adroitly sidestepping natural obstacles, retracing the way he'd come but without worrying about how much noise he was making. "I left my flashlight up here a ways. Can you see okay?"
"Don't worry about me," Dodge grumbled.
Ski ducked under a tree branch and hoped Dodge saw it in time to do the same. He hadn't planned to share any aspects of the case but found himself inviting the former cop's input. "The three-way stop where Lake Road dead-ends? The bait shop?"
"Yeah?"
"I talked to a guy who was there about midnight last night, pumping gas." Pride prevented him from telling the veteran investigator that a civilian had actually tracked down the bass fisherman.
"Kinda late to be pumping gas."
"He was getting his boat ready to take out first thing this morning. Wanted to have that chore done so he could get on the lake by daylight."
"That's one of the reasons I never fished. It starts too early."

[Dalyia]

"So," Ski continued, "he's at the pump filling his gas can when this guy pulls a Toyota up to the side of the building. Time roughly coincides with Ms. Malone's 911 call."
"Did the vehicle come from this direction?"
"It did."
"The fisherman is sure it was a Toyota?"
"Positive. His daughter has one like it. He said the driver got out and stumbled into the men's room."
"Exterior entrance?"
"Right."
"Stumbled?"
"He demonstrated it to me. Looked like limping. When the gas can is full, the fisherman thinks maybe he ought to check on the guy. So he moseys over to the men's room, knocks on the door, and says to the guy inside that he couldn't help but notice that he was limping and asks if everything's all right, does he need some help. The guy hollers through the door--"
"He doesn't open it?"
"No. He tells the fisherman that he's fine. He just came in to 'take a piss.' Those words. The fisherman is a die-hard evangelical and wanted to hear no more of--I quote--'that kind of filthy language.'"
"He sounds like a barrel of laughs."
Ski stopped to retrieve his flashlight from the crotch of a tree where he'd left it. He clicked it on and turned to check on Dodge, who'd been keeping up, but barely. The older man was huffing. "Are you all right?"
"I've got on city shoes."
His shoes weren't to blame for his wheezing like a malfunctioning bagpipe. "You need to lose the cigarettes."
"Walk."
Ski directed the beam of light to the ground, which made the trekking much easier. "The fisherman went on his way and didn't think any more about it."
"Not even when he heard there'd been a shooting in the vicinity around that time of night?"
"He was out on the lake all day. Didn't learn about the incident until he got home this afternoon, and by then we were contacting him."
"Did he describe the guy?"
"He got a fairly good look because there's a light above the restroom door. Oren Starks's general height, weight, and age. Receding hairline. The guy was wearing khaki slacks and a dark golf shirt. Ms. Malone said Starks had on khaki slacks and a navy golf shirt."
"No one coached the fisherman? He hadn't heard that description on TV or from his wife when he got home from his fishing trip?"
"He says no, and I don't think this guy would lie."
Dodge hawked up a wad of phlegm and spat. "Fuck no. Not if he takes exception to the word piss."
Ski chuckled. "Plus, I showed him a faxed photo of Starks that I got from the marketing firm's employment records. Fisherman said he was ninety-five percent sure that was the guy."
"Not one hundred?"
"On account of it was dark and he was twenty or so yards away." Ski motioned forward. "It's just ahead."
The flashlight beam picked up the yellow tape that had been strung around a small area that appeared to be the cul-de-sac of an overgrown track. "My guess," Ski said, "is that when the house was being built, the construction crew pulled some of their vehicles off the road and parked them in here where it was shady, and to keep from cluttering up the area in front of the house.
"When the house was completed, the track and clearing became overgrown with disuse." He shone the light down on the tire tracks in the dirt. "Fresh. And they weren't made by heavy equipment. I discovered them just after daylight this morning, got a man out here pronto. He's no expert, mind you, but he made a pretty good cast."
"Lucky it didn't rain last night."
Ski nodded. "I'm rushing up the match, but I'm betting the tires will be standard-issue Toyota."
"Find anything besides the tracks?"
"Scuffed footprints." Ski shone the light onto the ground. "Unfortunately, nothing we could imprint."
"Candy wrapper, bottle cap, piece of cloth?"
"Nope. I've combed the area twice myself and had two other deputies do the same. Nothing. But, if you know what to look for, Starks left a clear trail to the house."
He showed Dodge a skinny branch that had recently been broken and was hanging limply from the trunk of the tree, also a patch of grass that had been trampled on. "Ms. Malone said he was no outdoorsman."
Dodge studied several broken limbs that Ski spotlighted. "He doesn't have your pathfinder skills, that's for sure."
The older man was thoughtfully gnawing the inside of his cheek, indicating to Ski there was more on his mind. He asked, "What are you thinking?"
"Why'd he stop at the bait shop and go to the men's room, risk being seen?"
"I hear ya. Sounds too careless for the controlled individual Ms. Malone described, doesn't it? But she also said that Starks was unhinged last night. He'd just shot somebody. He wasn't thinking straight. Or maybe he was being his orderly self and went into the restroom to assess the injury to his leg."
"In other words," Dodge said, "you don't have a clue."
Ski had the grace to smile. "I'm open to ideas."
"Who the hell knows why anybody does anything? I don't. The fact is, Starks made the stop. He was seen. What does that give you, Deputy?"
"Evidence that he was indeed here last night."
Dodge's eyes narrowed. "You doubted that?"
Ski gave a noncommittal shrug. "It confirms Ms. Malone's and Lofland's statements. It explains why neither heard the car either coming or going."
"Okay."
"Once we get a positive ID on these tire prints, we'll know the make and model of the car, and I can get an APB out on it. There's no Toyota registered to Oren Starks, but Ms. Malone said he would be too smart to drive his own car."
"But dumb enough to leave fresh tire tracks." Dodge had been musing out loud, but when Ski gave him the high sign to continue his thought, he said, "This guy's supposed to be a genius, right?"
Following his thought, Ski said, "Being smart doesn't necessarily make someone a good

[Dalyia]

criminal."
"No, but it helps." Dodge motioned down at the incriminating tire tracks. "This is just plain stupid."
"Stupid like fleeing the scene of the crime and going directly to a place where he'd be exposed."
"Yeah, stupid like that," Dodge said. "I don't suppose the pious fisherman got the license plate number on the Toyota."
"We're not that lucky. He wasn't definite on the color, either. 'Dark,' that's all he could tell me."
"You're gonna piss off a lot of innocent Toyota drivers who'll be stopped."
"Can't be helped." Ski waited a beat, then asked, "Have you seen enough?"
"I may come back, take a look around. If it's okay."
"You're asking permission?"
"Not really."
"What I thought."
Ski followed the outlining tape to the other side of the clearing and then walked along the overgrown track till they reached the road. His SUV was parked partially in the ditch. He opened the driver's door and reached in for a bottle of water. He passed it to Dodge, who thanked him, uncapped it, and took a drink.
"Do you need a minute to catch your breath?" Ski asked.
Dodge recapped the water bottle and tossed it back into the SUV. "Any day of the week, son, I could still whip your butt."
"Not in a fair fight."
"I never fight fair. Fair gets you killed. Didn't the Army teach you anything?"
The two men sized each other up as they had the first time they'd laid eyes on each other in the hospital corridor. Finally Dodge seemed to reach a decision. He dug into his pants pocket, withdrew something, and, reaching for Ski's hand, slapped the object into his palm.
"Amanda Lofland's cell phone."
Ski looked at the phone in his hand, then back into the private investigator's implacable eyes.
"I found it," he said. "In the hospital cafeteria."
"They don't have a lost and found at the hospital?" Ski asked.
"I checked around. Didn't see one. I was in a hurry."
"So you had to turn on the phone in order to discover who it belonged to."
Dodge gave a half shrug, a very unapologetic half shrug.
Ski said, "I'll see that Mrs. Lofland gets it back."
"I'm sure she'll appreciate it."
They exchanged another long, assessing stare, then Ski motioned for Dodge to climb into the SUV. He went around the hood, and Ski heard him cursing as his city shoes sought purchase on the steep bank of the ditch.
As they drove past the car parked at the end of the lane leading to the house, Dodge remarked on it. "I noticed him there this afternoon. Security guard?"
"Reserve deputy. We've got a dozen men and women we can't afford to keep on the payroll, but we use them in emergencies. There's another one watching the dock."
"Bumped into him earlier," Dodge said. "He looked me over good."
Ski smiled, thinking I'll bet he did. He said, "I don't want to take any chances that Starks will come back and carry out his threat to kill Ms. Malone."
"I'm sure you don't. Her mama is a town big shot. If something happened to Caroline King's daughter, your boss would have your ass."
Ski gave him a hard look. "That's a lousy thing to say."
"Sue me." Then, "Okay, okay, that was a potshot." After a moment, he asked, "What about the municipal police? Are they of any help to you?"
"Five-man operation. Mostly they break up fights at the high school football games and organize the Fourth of July parade."
"I figured."
"We of the sheriff's office are the main peace officers. It's up to us--"
"Up to you."
Ski shrugged. "Up to me to find Starks."
"Well, he's not at the Cypress Lodge. I've already checked."
"Thanks," Ski said drily. "I'll mark it off my list." Then after a short pause, "I thought you might be bunking out here at Ms. King's house."
Dodge stayed stubbornly silent, ignoring Ski's bait and saying nothing as they approached the house. The headlights swept the front door just as Caroline came through it and stepped onto the porch. She looked relieved when she saw Dodge in the passenger seat.
As he alighted, she said, "I was beginning to think you'd fallen into the lake or that a gator had got you."
"You've got gators?"
She looked back and forth between Dodge and Ski, who came up the steps along with him. Obviously she was wondering where and how they had joined up. "What's going on?"
"I don't have Starks in custody yet," Ski said, "but there are a couple of things to report, and I've got a few more questions for Ms. Malone."
"She's inside."
Caroline led the two men into the entryway and motioned them toward the living area. "I'll get Berry." But before she was out of earshot, Ski's stomach rumbled noisily, bringing her up short.
"Sorry, ma'am."
She smiled at him. "No apology necessary."
Berry was just finishing the dinner cleanup when her mother came into the kitchen. "Have you already put the leftover spaghetti away?"
"Just now."
Caroline opened the refrigerator and took out the sealed container, handing it to Berry. "Would you please warm a plate of it for Deputy Nyland?"
"Sorry?"
Caroline took utensils from the flatware drawer. "He and Dodge just came in together."
Berry glanced through the kitchen window toward the back of the property, where the investigator had disappeared almost an hour ago, saying for her to be ready to discuss her relationship with Ben when he returned after having one cigarette. "How'd that happen?"
"I have no idea. But they're here, and Deputy Nyland admitted that he hasn't eaten all day. The least we can do is offer him some supper."
"The least we can do? Mother, he hates me."
"Don't be silly. And when you come, bring the tea pitcher, please."
Her mother left the kitchen, taking the flatware, a place mat, and a napkin with her.
Berry stared at the food container that had been thrust into her hand, and it felt as alien as all the other disruptive elements that had been thrust at her over the past twenty-four hours.
A violent act, something totally beyond her realm of experience.