he walked out of this room, she was going to launch a full-blown assault on Jack. She’d print fliers, start crusading, and the hounds of paranoia and sensationalism would take over Hopewell, just like they had in L.A.
Detective Mann, is it true that you became acquainted with Bertrand Yost two years ago when you arrested him for possession?
Detective Mann, what about reports that an LAPD psychologist has recommended your dismissal?
“Have you got a picture of John Huggins on that thing?” he asked, pointing at the laptop.
A lie stirred behind her eyes. “Of course,” she said, and Nick was surprised how relieved he felt that she chose the truth.
“And you brought your printer with you from Florida and a whole ream of bright paper.”
She shrugged and Nick closed the distance between them. Close enough to catch a whiff of spearmint on her breath.
“Let me give you a little warning about an ordinance in Hopewell that prohibits posters from being placed on public property.”
She grew an inch. “You mean like ‘Found: black Labrador’ or ‘Ice Cream Social, 3:00 Saturday’—you mean posters like that?”
“And things like ‘Jack Calloway is a murderer’ and ‘Save my brother’—posters like that.”
Her chin jutted out. “You said your parents lived here. Does that mean you’ve been here all your life?”
He almost chuckled. “You mean, have I spent my career breaking up barroom brawls and making sure the town’s dogs are on a leash, or have I ever dealt with
real
crimes?”
She had the grace to look embarrassed, even as she crossed her arms again.
“I grew up here,” he answered. “But you’ll be relieved to know I went to college in California and spent seventeen years on the LAPD.”
She looked impressed; he liked that.
“What brought you back?” she asked. “I mean, it seems like this is a totally different life than in L.A.”
Oh, yes. “You want the gory details, try Google. You won’t have any trouble finding dirt about me.” She looked surprised, but said nothing. “Suffice it to say Hopewell
isn’t
like L.A. and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let you make it that way.”
The threat hit its mark. “I didn’t come here to ruin your paradise,” she said. “I came here to free my brother.”
Nick’s heart took a twist. She tried to sound harsh but her eyes glittered with tears and dragged his mind places it didn’t often go. He didn’t mean to sex—like men everywhere, Nick’s mind wandered to sex about every six seconds. This was a different place. A place of compassion, admiration. For her chutzpah and doggedness and passion.
For the fact that she was alone and frightened and counting on him.
He stood thinking about that for five seconds. On the sixth, he thought about sex.
“I’ve gotta go,” he said. Christ, there was no time for an affair with this woman. “I’ll have someone driving by here this afternoon, keeping an eye out for our vandal.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Wait. Just for a little while until I can get some traction on the case. I’ll call you.”
She scoffed, a bitter sound. “I’ve heard that before.” She started to turn, and Nick snagged her arm.
“Not from me, you haven’t.”
She searched his eyes, probing them, he thought, for something she could dare to believe.
“I’ll call you,” Nick promised. “Be here when I do.”
Maggie Huggins had never gotten used to being called Margaret Calloway. She had accepted the change of names as a necessary fact of life, but never liked it. Calloway was nothing more than a dart thrown at a list of names in a phone book, and Margaret was the name her father had called her. It always sounded full of derision.
The names wouldn’t matter anymore, of course: No more secrets. Everybody knew about their former names and former lives. It had been on the local noon news andtrailers were already running for more stories on the six o’clock news. Tonight, it would headline the
Detective Mann, is it true that you became acquainted with Bertrand Yost two years ago when you arrested him for possession?
Detective Mann, what about reports that an LAPD psychologist has recommended your dismissal?
“Have you got a picture of John Huggins on that thing?” he asked, pointing at the laptop.
A lie stirred behind her eyes. “Of course,” she said, and Nick was surprised how relieved he felt that she chose the truth.
“And you brought your printer with you from Florida and a whole ream of bright paper.”
She shrugged and Nick closed the distance between them. Close enough to catch a whiff of spearmint on her breath.
“Let me give you a little warning about an ordinance in Hopewell that prohibits posters from being placed on public property.”
She grew an inch. “You mean like ‘Found: black Labrador’ or ‘Ice Cream Social, 3:00 Saturday’—you mean posters like that?”
“And things like ‘Jack Calloway is a murderer’ and ‘Save my brother’—posters like that.”
Her chin jutted out. “You said your parents lived here. Does that mean you’ve been here all your life?”
He almost chuckled. “You mean, have I spent my career breaking up barroom brawls and making sure the town’s dogs are on a leash, or have I ever dealt with
real
crimes?”
She had the grace to look embarrassed, even as she crossed her arms again.
“I grew up here,” he answered. “But you’ll be relieved to know I went to college in California and spent seventeen years on the LAPD.”
She looked impressed; he liked that.
“What brought you back?” she asked. “I mean, it seems like this is a totally different life than in L.A.”
Oh, yes. “You want the gory details, try Google. You won’t have any trouble finding dirt about me.” She looked surprised, but said nothing. “Suffice it to say Hopewell
isn’t
like L.A. and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let you make it that way.”
The threat hit its mark. “I didn’t come here to ruin your paradise,” she said. “I came here to free my brother.”
Nick’s heart took a twist. She tried to sound harsh but her eyes glittered with tears and dragged his mind places it didn’t often go. He didn’t mean to sex—like men everywhere, Nick’s mind wandered to sex about every six seconds. This was a different place. A place of compassion, admiration. For her chutzpah and doggedness and passion.
For the fact that she was alone and frightened and counting on him.
He stood thinking about that for five seconds. On the sixth, he thought about sex.
“I’ve gotta go,” he said. Christ, there was no time for an affair with this woman. “I’ll have someone driving by here this afternoon, keeping an eye out for our vandal.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Wait. Just for a little while until I can get some traction on the case. I’ll call you.”
She scoffed, a bitter sound. “I’ve heard that before.” She started to turn, and Nick snagged her arm.
“Not from me, you haven’t.”
She searched his eyes, probing them, he thought, for something she could dare to believe.
“I’ll call you,” Nick promised. “Be here when I do.”
Maggie Huggins had never gotten used to being called Margaret Calloway. She had accepted the change of names as a necessary fact of life, but never liked it. Calloway was nothing more than a dart thrown at a list of names in a phone book, and Margaret was the name her father had called her. It always sounded full of derision.
The names wouldn’t matter anymore, of course: No more secrets. Everybody knew about their former names and former lives. It had been on the local noon news andtrailers were already running for more stories on the six o’clock news. Tonight, it would headline the
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