9
“I thought we were done with all this.” Planting his fists on his hips, Officer Jim Gleason surveyed the broken statue and crushed plantings in the meditation garden Father Murphy had created behind St. Francis church. “Instead, they’re targeting God.”
“Or St. Francis.” Lexie inspected the damaged statue of the monk. “More likely our vandal—or vandals—just picked a spot they knew wouldn’t be occupied on a Tuesday night after dark.”
“You think the Hutton kid was in on this?”
“My instincts say no. Both the juvenile counselor and I laid it on the line with him. He knows he’s getting off easy for a first offense, and that if he screws up, his case will escalate to a judge. I’m betting it’s the work of his partner in crime, acting alone or with a new accomplice.”
“Too bad the Hutton boy didn’t identify him.”
“That may be about to change.”
“You going to pay him another visit?”
“His case is in the counselor’s hands now, but this merits an in-person follow-up interview—and I intend to tag along.”
A car swung into the parking lot . . . started toward the rectory . . . then changed direction mid-course and barreled toward them. Reverend Baker waved through the open window, screeched to a stop, and hopped out.
“I just heard about this.” He called out the greeting while he hustled over, distress etched on his features as he scanned the damage. “My word. Who would commit such a senseless act? Kevin must be devastated. This little piece of heaven is his pride and joy.”
“I only had a couple of minutes to speak with him before the six-thirty Mass, but yeah, he’s upset. That’s why I called the chief. I thought she might want to poke around while we waited for the padre to finish.” Jim’s radio crackled to life, and he retreated to listen in.
“Such a waste.” Reverend Baker shook his head. “I was hoping we’d seen the end of our town’s little crime spree, now that you’ve identified one of the perpetrators, but it appears this isn’t over yet.”
“It may be, if we can convince the guilty teen to reveal the name of his accomplice.”
“I hope you succeed—but boys that age can have a warped sense of loyalty.”
“Maybe his self-preservation instincts will kick in if we exert some pressure.”
“I’ll pray for that outcome. We don’t need this kind of hooliganism in Hope Harbor. Kevin!” He lifted a hand in greeting as the priest exited the back door of the church and crossed the grass to join the group in the garden. “I’m so sorry about this.” Reverend Baker clasped the priest’s hand between both of his.
The other man managed a smile. “Thank you. It was a shock—but spending the past half hour with the Lord helped restore my perspective. Flowers can be replanted and statues replaced. It’s like my grandmother used to say whenever we complained about our tribulations—no one died, it could be worse, and it can be fixed, so stop bellyaching.”
“A sound philosophy.”
“She was a smart woman.” Father Murphy did another sweep of the garden. “Still . . . I pray for the soul of whoever did this. It must be sorely troubled.”
“I agree. But despite the mess, I think we can get this back into shape with a few hours of elbow grease, don’t you?”
“We?”
“Some extra physical activity beyond our Thursday golf games would be beneficial to my waistline.” The minister patted his stomach. “What’s on your agenda today?”
“Sick calls and homily prep for Sunday.”
“Do the sick calls this morning and I’ll help you with the homily prep while we work in the garden this afternoon. You might actually have some Bible citations in there for once.”
“Hey . . . I quote the Bible.”
“So you keep telling me. But at Grace Christian, we’ve taken to heart a very important passage from the Good Book: ‘All Scripture is given by inspiration of God, and is profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for instruction in righteousness.’”
“Catholics believe that too.”
“So you’re familiar with the quote?”
“I do have a passing acquaintance with the Bible.”
“Including that quote?”
Father Murphy huffed out a breath. “I’m not playing name that verse with you anymore.”
“I can understand that. It’s hard to catch up when you’re so far behind.” The corners of the minister’s mouth twitched.
“Fine. Second Timothy, chapter 3.”
“Incomplete . . . but not bad. You neglected to mention the verse. For future reference, it’s seventeen.”
Reverend Baker squinted at him. “I don’t think so.”
“Look it up. You can apologize tomorrow during our golf game. As for reading the Bible, I’ll have you know we—”
“Gentlemen . . .” Lexie tried to flatten the bow of her lips. The good-natured banter between the clerics was always a hoot. “Officer Gleason needs to get a more complete statement. I’ll pay our known vandal another visit today—and try again to convince him to give us the other boy’s name.”
“I’ll pray for that,” Revered Baker offered.
“As will I.” Father Murphy made the sign of the cross.
“All assistance—human and divine—is welcome.”
“I’ll include a special prayer for a quick resolution to this unfortunate situation during Sunday services too. You could join us if you like.” Reverend Baker touched her arm. “Where two or three and all that.”
“Or if you’d like a change of ecclesiastical scene, you’d be welcome at St. Francis. I’ll put a prayer in our petitions this weekend as well.” Father Murphy winked at her.
“Trying to steal my congregants again, I see.” The Grace Christian pastor gave a mock huff.
“Not at all. But we have taken a page from your playbook and are instituting a social after Mass once a month. With homemade doughnuts, not those store-bought belly bombers you serve.”
“You manage to find excuses often enough to stop by after our services to sample those belly bombers.”
“Pure coincidence. I never—”
Lexie cleared her throat, and both clerics angled toward her. “I need to run. Jim, keep me in the loop. Nothing jumped out at me, but do another walk-through. If you spot anything useful, give me a call.”
“Roger.”
Leaving the officer to deal with the statement—and fighting a yawn—Lexie returned to her car. After going to bed at ten, she shouldn’t be this tired, despite the early wake-up call from Jim.
On the other hand, she had spent half the night tossing while she relived her impromptu coffee date with Adam.
The man was an enigma for sure, busting one ex-con stereotype after another . . . except for his biker appearance. Every single thing she’d learned about him in the past nine days had been positive. One facet at a time, he was emerging as a diamond instead of a piece of coal.
And getting to know him better—off the job—was becoming more and more tempting.
It would be dangerous to follow that inclination, however. What would the people in town think about their police chief fraternizing with an ex-con?
Hard to say . . . but it might not be pretty.
Sighing, she slid behind the wheel and stuck the key in the ignition. Being attracted to a felon was a complication she did not need. She liked her life just as it was—simple, safe, predictable, uneventful. In other words, perfect.
The only negative was the loneliness that plagued her in the wee hours of the morning if sleep was elusive.
She could live with that, though. It was a small price to pay for all the benefits she’d gained by moving home.
Or that was what she’d believed until Adam Stone had crossed her path and reminded her she was more than a mom and a daughter and a police chief.
She was also a woman.
Releasing the brake, she put the car in gear and rolled forward through the dissipating morning fog. Soon the sun would banish the last of the obscuring wisps, and clear skies would emerge. Visibility would increase, giving drivers an unobstructed view as they navigated the twists and turns on 101.
Too bad she didn’t have as clear a view of the road that lay ahead of her.
Once upon a time, in a sticky situation like this, she’d have sought guidance from the Almighty. But he hadn’t been on her radar for more than five years. Not since anger at the injustice of life had pushed him off.
Strange how adversity could turn some people away from God yet lead others to him.
Like Adam.
The man’s faith appeared to be sincere . . . but where had God been during his childhood in an abusive home? Where had he been in her life, during those tragic days that had left her soul dry and her spirit broken?
I am with you always.
Fingers tightening on the wheel, she frowned. What in the world had prompted that? It was a quote from somewhere in the Bible—but she wouldn’t win any prizes in a game of name that verse, either. Her last brush with Scripture had been at Joe’s funeral, when the minister uttered some nonsense about the Lord being close to the brokenhearted.
Right.
If that was true, why hadn’t she ever felt his presence during those first traumatic months . . . or in all the years that followed?
And why were Bible verses suddenly popping into her head, anyway?
Mashing her lips together, she tapped a finger on the wheel. The friendly jibing between the clerics could have prompted the aberration. Or Adam’s confession last night about how his faith had changed his life.
But whatever the reason, she didn’t intend to dwell on God. The top item on her agenda today was contacting the juvenile counselor to set up a meeting with Brian and his mother.
If the boy was smart, he’d pass on the name of his fellow vandal and they could wrap up this case—assuming he hadn’t been involved in last night’s garden party at St. Francis.
Lexie braked at the main crossroads on Dockside Drive, the aroma of fresh-baked cinnamon rolls from Sweet Dreams Bakery setting off a rumble in her stomach. Go home and have a hot breakfast, or continue to the office?
Despite her hunger, the decision was a no-brainer.
The office.
She continued straight down the street. Her mom would be up by now, rested and ready to pick up the questioning where she’d left off last night after Lexie mentioned her stop at Adam’s place. Dodging the nonstop queries had almost given her a case of whiplash. Thank goodness she hadn’t shared anything about their impromptu coffee klatch on the beach. Based on the gleam in her mother’s eye whenever Adam’s name came up, she was already veering into matchmaking territory.
Better to swing by the Myrtle Café in an hour or two for takeout and avoid another interrogation until this evening. If fate was kind, by then her mom would be fixated on some issue other than the lack of romance in a certain police chief’s life.
Unfortunately, the odds of that could be summed up in two words.
Fat chance.
Adam maneuvered around another set of potholes and double-checked the address he’d scribbled down while talking to Brenda Hutton.
The decrepit mobile home coming up on the right was his destination.
As he slowed the car, a nauseating sense of déjà vu swept over him. Roll the clock back twenty years, this could have been his home. Half his early life had been spent in a rusted-out trailer that could be this one’s twin.
For a fleeting moment, the temptation to put the car in reverse and hightail it away from here as fast as he could overpowered him. This was the life he’d walked away from, and he wanted no part of it ever again.
Except he’d promised Lexie he’d work with Brian.
And it wasn’t as if he was going back to his old ways. He was trying to keep another young boy hovering on the brink from making the same mistakes he had. After he finished this lunch-hour meeting, he could return to the new life he’d created and leave this world behind.
Sucking in a lungful of air, he braked, killed the engine, and forced himself to walk to the front door.
The woman who answered on the second ring sent another shock wave rippling through him.
Brenda Hutton didn’t bear the least physical resemblance to his mother, but she had the same beaten-down, submissive demeanor. The same premature gray in her hair. The same victim-like aura.
All of which stirred up the simmering anger deep in his gut that he thought he’d put to rest long ago.
“You must be Adam Stone.” The woman gave him a quick, wary once-over, unease radiating from her as her gaze lingered on the longish hair and bandana.
It appeared the negative first impression went both ways.
“Yes.”
“I’m Brenda Hutton.” She held out her hand.
He gave her limp fingers a quick squeeze.
The instant he released them, she stepped back. “Please, come in.”
He crossed the threshold, into the living room. At least the interior didn’t stir up any unpleasant memories. The furniture was threadbare, the carpet worn, the paint faded—but there wasn’t any clutter and the place was clean. Nothing like the sty he’d called home.
“Thank you for meeting me on your lunch hour.” She followed him to the center of the room, twisting her hands together. “Working nights can be difficult, and with Brian only having half a day of school today, I thought it might be better to get together now rather than wait until I’m on days next week.”
“This is fine. Where’s Brian?”
“I’ll get him. Have a seat.” She gave a vague wave around the living room and disappeared down the hall.
He remained standing. It was always better to begin from a dominant position, and unless Brian was a basketball player, he’d have the height advantage.
In less than a minute, a door opened somewhere down the hall. Moments later, Brenda reappeared, Brian behind her. At the doorway to the living room, she moved aside, took his arm, and urged him forward.
“Brian, this is Adam Stone.”
The kid gave him the same head-to-toe his mother had.
Adam reciprocated.
The boy was about five-seven and skinny, hands in pockets in the typical slouch posture kids his age favored, sandy hair a tad too long, and the remnants of some serious bruises fading to yellow on his cheek and around his eye.
A slight, belligerent tilt to his chin was a warning flag, but he’d give the kid the benefit of the doubt.
“Hello, Brian.” Adam held out his hand.
The boy seemed surprised by the gesture but leaned forward and clasped his fingers. “Hi.”
“I understand you’re willing to help me repair the flower boxes on the wharf.”
“Yeah. I guess.”
His lack of enthusiasm wasn’t encouraging.
“I’m starting on Saturday. Are you available?”
“Yes.” Brenda answered for him. “What time?”
“I have a commitment later that day, so I want to be rolling by seven.”
“Seriously?” Brian grimaced. “I always sleep in on Saturday.”
“You can sleep in again after you finish the program the counselor laid out.” Brenda shot her son a stern look. “He’ll be there.”
“Aw, Mom, can’t I go later?”
“No, you can’t.” She faced him, hands clenched at her sides. “You’re lucky to get off as easy as you did. You will do exactly what everyone tells you and be grateful for this second chance. Is that understood?”
Adam raised an eyebrow.
When it came to her son, Brenda had some backbone after all.
Too bad his own mother hadn’t cared this much about his welfare.
“Yeah.” The kid hung his head.
“What time would you like me to drop him at the wharf?” Brenda swiveled away from Brian.
If the woman was working a late shift at the diner in Coos Bay, it wasn’t likely she’d get home until ten or eleven. No sense making her get up early too.
“I can pick him up. Six forty-five.”
“Oh, geez.” Brian rolled his eyes. “I’ll be dead by noon.”
“Do your homework and go to bed early Friday night. You’re grounded anyway. What else do you have to do?”
The kid gave her a mutinous stare.
“Okay . . . we need to get something straight here.” Adam waited until Brian looked at him. “I have a job to do on the wharf. This is not a babysitting gig. If you’re not committed to this plan, we can ask the counselor to come up with an alternative. I want a partner on this job who’s willing to learn and intends to work hard, not someone I have to prod every step of the way. If that doesn’t describe how you’re approaching this, I’m out of here. You decide.”
“He’s going to—”
Adam lifted his hand to cut Brenda off, never breaking eye contact with Brian. He appreciated the woman’s desire to help her son, but he needed buy-in from the boy too or the whole plan would be a bust.
Several seconds ticked by in the silent trailer, a parade of emotions passing through Brian’s eyes. Hostility . . . anger . . . frustration . . . capitulation . . . resolve . . . and the hint of respect Adam had been waiting for.
“I’m in.”
“Fine. Expect me at six forty-five. I plan to work until about—”
The doorbell rang.
Twin furrows creasing her brow, Brenda walked toward it. “Excuse me. I wasn’t expecting anyone else. Give me a minute and we can . . .” As she pulled open the door, her words died.
Lexie and some guy in a sport coat stood on the stoop.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Hutton.” The guy extended his hand. “The chief and I would like to talk with you and Brian for a few minutes. I understand school let out at noon today.”
“Yes. Sure. Come in.” She backed up.
As she entered, Lexie looked his direction. “Hi, Adam. We saw your car outside.”
“A noon meeting worked best for all of us.”
“Let me introduce you to Brian’s juvenile counselor.”
He shook hands with the guy as she did so. If the man found his biker appearance off-putting, he gave no indication of it.
“May we sit down?” The counselor indicated the couch.
“Yes. Of course.” Brenda was back to hand twisting. “Um . . . is there a problem?”
“I’m hoping Brian will tell us that.”
“I was just leaving . . .” Adam took a step toward the door.
“You might want to wait, if you have the time.” Lexie sat on the couch. “Depending on the outcome of this discussion, the arrangements could change.”
“I can spare five minutes.” He propped a shoulder against the wall and folded his arms, remaining in the background. Whatever was about to go down didn’t require his active participation.
The counselor sat beside Lexie while mother and son claimed side-by-side chairs.
“Chief, why don’t you give them the background?” The counselor opened a file as he deferred to Lexie.
She got straight to the heart of the matter.
“We had another vandalism incident in town last night, at St. Francis church. A statue was broken and flowers were uprooted. It’s similar in style to the previous incidents, which leads us to believe it was done by the same perpetrators.”
While she talked, Adam watched Brian. The boy lost a few shades of color, and his knuckles whitened on the arms of his chair.
“We need to know if you were involved, Brian.” The counselor’s posture remained relaxed, but his tone was somber.
“No! I had nothing to do with that! I was here all night.”
“Was anyone with you?”
“No. My mom was at work.” A hint of panic hiked the pitch of his voice. “But I was here. I’m not lying. I swear!”
Brenda leaned forward, posture taut, her own complexion pale. “If he says he was here, he was.”
“We’d like to believe that.” The counselor’s tone remained calm and nonjudgmental. “But it would help if you told us who else is involved in these vandalism incidents. Protecting lawbreakers isn’t in your best interest.”
Brian was shaking his head even before the man finished speaking. “I can’t do that. We made a pact.”
“Why would you honor a promise you made to a kid who beat you up?” Brenda gripped his arm.
A muscle clenched in his jaw, but he remained silent.
Adam checked his watch. The kid wasn’t going to budge, and he had to leave. Besides, after dealing with plenty of criminals, he’d already reached his own conclusions about Brian.
The boy hadn’t been involved in last night’s incidents.
As far as he was concerned, their arrangement stood.
“Excuse me . . .” All heads swiveled his direction. “I have to get back to work. If anyone needs to contact me, you all have my number. Brian, I’ll see you on Saturday. Wear old clothes. I’ll let myself out.”
Without waiting for a response, he slipped through the door.
Once behind the wheel of his car, he glanced back at the trailer. The meeting wasn’t going to last much longer . . . because Brian wasn’t going to talk. Not today. Not with people he didn’t know and trust.
If the two of them could develop some rapport while they worked on the planters, however, it was possible he might be able to convince the boy that revealing the name of his partner was the right thing to do.
Then again, he had zilch experience working with adolescents and no fatherly role model from his own youth to follow. For all he knew, the kid might decide to go the silent treatment route while they worked.
But he’d give their partnership his best shot—and with a little assist from above, maybe he’d find a way to connect with the troubled teen and save him from making any more mistakes he’d live to regret.