BOYD FITZWATER, GRIZZLE-HAIRED AND PAUNCHY, MANNED the desk. He stopped chicken-pecking at the computer keyboard when Brooks walked by.
“Missy Crew came around. Like you’d expect, last night’s black eye was an accident. She got creative this time. Said she tripped on the rug and Ty tried to catch her.”
“She fell into his fist?”
“That’s just what she said. And him being a little drunk, he miscalculated when he tried to catch her.”
“And the neighbor calling us in because she ran out of the house half-naked and screaming?”
“That?” With a tight smile, Boyd shook his head. “She saw a mouse, and not the one on her eye. Overreacted, and the neighbor shouldn’t have bothered us. And before you ask, the reason she said Ty socked her last night is she was all confused. Because technically he did, but only trying to save her from a fall.”
“You let him go?”
“Couldn’t much do otherwise.”
“No, but this crap is going to stop. The next call we get on them, I want whoever’s on duty to call me. I want to handle it.”
“You’re welcome to it. I tried, Brooks. Even had Alma talk to her, figuring she might listen to another woman.”
“Well, she didn’t.” Alma Slope walked in from the break room. Her fingernails were painted electric blue today and matched the chunky beads around her neck. Her frizzy mop of guinea-gold hair had been clamped back with a blue silk flower.
She took a swig of the coffee in her hand, left a clear imprint of bold red lipstick on the rim. Pale green eyes, the only thing pale about Alma, peered out behind glasses with cat’s-eye frames studded with rhinestones.
Her face, with its network of fine lines, registered annoyance as she fisted a hand on the hip of her faded Levis.
Alma admitted to sixty, but as she’d admitted to sixty before Brooks had left for Little Rock, he couldn’t begin to guess the real age of his dispatcher.
He wasn’t sure Alma knew anymore.
“I took her in the break room, sat her down and talked to her like a Dutch uncle, whatever the hell that means. She started crying, so I thought I was getting somewhere. But she said how she loved Tybal, and he only gets mean when he’s drinking. And here’s the kicker. How it’s all going to be all right if she can just get pregnant.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“She says she’s trying real hard. Once they have a baby, Ty’s going to settle right down.”
“I want the call when it comes,” Brooks repeated. “Thanks for trying, Alma. You can take the patrol, Boyd. I’ve got some paperwork to see to.”
“I’ll get on it.”
“You want some coffee, Chief?” Alma asked him.
“Wouldn’t mind it.”
“I’ll get it for you. Nothing much to do. It’s quiet today.”
He went into his office, booted up his computer, picked up the ancient Slinky on his desk. Walking to the window, he moved his hands up and down to set the coils whispering. He liked the sound of it, found it soothing, like an old blanket or bare feet in warm grass.
He considered himself—and was considered by those who knew him—to be an even-tempered sort of man. Some would say a little on the low side of temper. So it surprised him just how much the incident with Abigail Lowery had pissed him off.
Take the dog. A beautiful son of a bitch, but there’d been no doubt if he’d made the wrong move, or she’d just had a fucking whim, that beautiful son of a bitch would have sunk his teeth into him.
Brooks didn’t mind unsettled situations, because he liked to settle them, find the answer or solution. Do the job, make the peace. But he damn well didn’t like being at such a slippery disadvantage against an armed woman and her big-ass guard dog.
No laws broken, he thought. Not one. And yet.
Some people were unfriendly by nature. He’d never understood the type, but he knew them, had dealt with them. It was more than that with this woman. A whole basketful of more.
He’d found her a strange and interesting mix of nerves and confidence, straightforward and secretive. Northern accent, he considered. Still shy of thirty, if he was any judge, and—barring Alma—he generally was.
On the slim side, but there was a coiled spring in there. Pretty, though she’d worn no makeup, and her clothes had been simple. Good boots, well broken in. No jewelry, no nail polish, no bright colors.
Don’t look at me—that’s what she was saying, in his opinion. Don’t notice me.
“What’s got you worked up?” Alma stepped in, set his coffee on his desk. “You’ve got your toy going,” she added when he turned.
“Just thinking.”
“Anything to do with the woman who bought the old Skeeter place?”
“Are you doing psychic readings these days?”
“I leave that to my girl.”
“How’s Caliope doing?” Alma’s daughter read tarot, palms and auras—and was one of his mother’s tight circle of friends.
“She worked an engagement party the other night. Picked up three more bookings out of it.”
“Good for her.”
“It’s a living. I heard you had what passes for a conversation with the Lowery girl over at the gourmet place.”
“She ain’t no chatterbox.” He sat, picked up his coffee, put his boots on the desk. An invitation for Alma to sit. “What do you know?”
“Not much, which bugs the hell out of me. What I got out of Dean McQueen, as he handled the property sale, is she contacted him by e-mail. Saw the sale online, asked some questions, thanked him politely. Few days later, she e-mailed again with an offer. Wasn’t the asking price, but Dean told me it was a little above what he hoped he’d get, and she offered a cash deal.”
“Cash.”
“That’s right. On the barrelhead. The Skeeters jumped on it. Well, you know Dean, he’s a salesman, and he likes to talk it up. He says he couldn’t get much more out of her than yes and no. She wired the earnest money from a bank in Kansas City. Drove in with that dog of hers for the settlement, pulling a U-Haul trailer. Signed the papers, handed over the cashier’s check, from a bank in Fairbanks, Alaska, this time. Dean wants to take her to lunch to celebrate, but she shuts that down. Wants to take her to the property, walk her through and shut down again. She takes the papers, the keys, thanks everyone and that’s that.”
“It’s a puzzle,” Brooks murmured.
“People who say live and let live? They’re not doing a lot of living, as far as I’m concerned.” She got up as the radio in the dispatch area squawked. “It’d be interesting to find out what her deal is.”
“It would,” Brooks agreed. As Alma went out to answer the radio, his phone rang. “Bickford Police Department, Chief Gleason.” For now, he put Abigail Lowery on his back burner.
He handled the paperwork, the phone calls, took a turn at foot patrol, where he listened to the owner of a pottery shop complain about the owner of the neighboring candle shop once again blocking his delivery entrance with his car.
And once again talked to the offender.
He picked up a ham-and-cheese panini, and while taking a late lunch at his desk, started puzzle solving.
He ran her tags, crunched into the chips he’d gotten with the sandwich. He read her date of birth, noted that she was twenty-eight, so he’d been on the mark there. Her license carried no restrictions. She was an organ donor with a clean driving record.
He accessed the database and ran her criminal.
No criminal record.
That should be enough, he told himself. She was, according to the data, a law-abiding citizen without so much as a single speeding ticket.
But …
Out of curiosity, he Googled her. He got several hits on the name, but none of them were his Abigail Lowery.
Caught up now, he continued to dig. He had her name, address, tag number, driver’s license data. Since he knew she had a license to carry, he started with gun registration.
As the data came up, he sat back.
“Now, that’s an arsenal,” he murmured.
In addition to the Glock 19, she had licenses for a Glock 36, one for a Glock 26, a nine-millimeter Beretta, a long-range Sig, a nine-millimeter Colt Defender and a Smith & Wesson 1911, and a pair of Walther P22s.
Just what did the woman need with that many handguns? He was a cop, for God’s sake, and other than his service weapon, he had only two others.
“Hey, Brooks.”
The bombshell blonde stood kind of posed in his doorway. Sylbie’s hair fell in gleaming waves over the shoulders of a white lace shirt loosely belted over jeans that were a thin coat of paint over long legs. She had eyes that reminded him of a tiger, tawny and just a little feral.
In high school he’d wanted her more than his next breath. And when he’d had her, his life had been a seesaw of bliss and misery.
Automatically, he toggled over to screen saver. “How you doing, Sylbie?”
“Oh, I’m just fine. I’ve been working since dawn, so I’m giving myself a little break.” She glided into the room on those long legs, perched on the corner of his desk in a provocative cloud of fragrance. “I thought I’d just drop in and see you, and see if you wanted to get together tonight.”
“I’ve got a lot going on here.”
“If the chief of police can’t take the night off, who can?”
“The law’s ever vigilant.”
She laughed, tossed that glorious mane of hair. “Come on, Brooks. I thought I’d pick up a nice bottle of wine.” She leaned in. “And you can take advantage of me.”
It didn’t make him feel manly, but he had to admit the few times they’d gotten together since he’d come home, he’d felt like the one being taken advantage of.
Not that he’d minded at the time. But afterward …
“That’s a nice invitation, Sylbie, but I’ve got to work tonight.”
“Come on by after.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You’re hurting my feelings.”
“I don’t want to do that.” But neither did he want to get caught up again. They’d come a long way since high school, when she’d captured his heart, then demolished it—and were a lot closer to her two divorces.
“If you want to play hard to get,” she began, sliding off the desk.
“I’m not playing.” She would have slithered right into his lap if he hadn’t pushed to his feet. “Look, Sylbie.”
As he was facing the door, he saw Abigail step into the opening, saw her immediate jolt of embarrassment.
“Ms. Lowery,” he said, before she could back away.
“I’m sorry to interrupt. I’ll come back.”
“No, that’s fine. I’ll talk to you later, Sylbie.”
“I’m buying that wine,” she murmured, shot him her slow smile. She turned, angled her head as she studied Abigail.
“You’re that woman who lives out at the Skeeter place.”
“Yes.”
“Everybody wonders what in the world you do out there all by yourself.”
“They shouldn’t.”
“People have a curiosity. That’s a natural thing. I’m Sylbie MacKenna.”
“One of the local potters. You do very good work. I bought one of your bowls.” Abigail looked at Brooks again. “I can speak to you later, Chief Gleason.”
“You’re here now. Sylbie’s got to get on.”
“So official. He didn’t used to be.” She gave Abigail a knowing smile. “I’ll see you later, Brooks.”
“She’s very attractive,” Abigail commented.
“Always has been.”
“I’m sorry I interrupted. The woman, your …”
“Dispatcher?”
“Yes. She said I should just come back.”
“That’s fine. Have a seat.”
“May I close the door?”
“Sure.”
After she’d done so, and taken a seat in his visitor’s chair, silence ran for several beats.
“Something on your mind?” he asked her.
“Yes. I realize I mishandled our … business this morning. In the market, and when you came to my house. I wasn’t prepared.”
“Do you have to prepare to have a conversation?”
“I’m not a social person, so I don’t have many conversations, particularly with people I don’t know. In the market, I felt uncomfortable with your interest in what I was buying.”
“My interest in what you were buying was a ploy for conversation.”
“Yes.”
Everything about her was cool, he thought, and still. He considered how she served as polar opposite to Sylbie, who always ran hot, always seemed to be moving.
“We’re a small town, Abigail. A small resort town, full of New Agers and old hippies, second-generation hippies, artists. We’re friendly.”
“I’m not. I’m sorry if that’s rude, but it’s fact. I’m not a friendly person, and I moved here for the quiet, the solitude. When you came to the house so soon after the market, it made me nervous, and angry. I have my reasons for carrying the pistol. I’m not obligated to share those reasons. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“That’s good to know.”
“I like my property, and the land around it. I like this town. I feel comfortable here. I just want to be left alone.”
“What Sylbie said about curiosity’s true. It’s a natural thing. The more mysterious you are, the more people wonder.”
“I’m not mysterious.”
“You’re a walking mystery.” He rose, came around the desk. As he did, he saw her brace, stay on alert, even when he leaned back against the front of the desk.
He wanted to ask her who’d hurt her, who she was afraid of. But he’d lose her if he did.
“You’re a really attractive woman who lives alone—with a big, muscular dog—outside of the town proper. Nobody knows for sure where you came from, why you came here, what you do for a living. And since this is the South, nobody knows who your people are. You’re a Yankee, so people will give you a certain latitude. We like eccentrics around here, it fits right in with the community. If people decide you’re eccentric, they’ll stop wondering.”
“By certain standards I am eccentric. I can be more so if that would satisfy everyone.”
He grinned at her, just couldn’t help it. “You’re definitely different. What do you do for a living, Abigail? If it’s not a mystery, or a matter of national security, you should be able to tell me. And that would be a simple conversation.”
“I’m a freelance computer programmer and software designer. I also design security systems, and improve or redesign existing systems, primarily for corporations.”
“Interesting. And not so hard to talk about.”
“Much of my work is highly sensitive. All of it is confidential.”
“Understood. You must be pretty smart.”
“I’m very smart.”
“Where’d you study?”
She stared at him, cool, calm, contained. “You see, when you ask all these questions, it doesn’t feel like conversation. It feels like interrogation.”
“Fair enough. Ask me a question.”
She frowned at him, eyes level. “I don’t have a question.”
“If you’re so smart, you can think of one.” He pushed off the desk, went to a dorm-sized refrigerator and took out two Cokes. He handed her one, popped the top on the second. “Something wrong?” he asked, when she just stared at the can in her hand.
“No. No. All right, a question. Why did you go into law enforcement?”
“See, that’s a good one.” He pointed at her in approval, then leaned against the desk again, the hills at his back in view out the window. “I like to solve problems. I believe in a lot of things. Don’t believe in a lot, too, but one of the things I believe in is there’s right and there’s wrong. Now, not everybody figures right and wrong exactly the same. It can be a subjective sort of thing. When you’re a cop, sometimes it is black and white, and sometimes you have to decide—in this situation, with these people, is it wrong, or just something that needs handling?”
“That seems very confusing.”
“Not really. It’s solving problems, and the only real way to solve them is to use your head. And your gut.”
“The intellect is a more accurate gauge than emotion. The intellect deals with facts. Emotions are variable and unreliable.”
“And human. What good are laws if they’re not human?”
He set his Coke down to take hers. He opened it for her, handed it back. “You need a glass?”
“Oh. No. Thank you.” She took a small sip. “Chief Gleason.”
“Brooks. Aren’t you going to ask me how I got a name like Brooks?”
“I assume it’s a family name.”
He pointed at her again. “You’d assume wrong. Now, aren’t you curious?”
“I … Yes, a little.”
“Brooks Robinson.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I was afraid of that. Baseball, Abigail. Brooks was one of the best third basemen to ever guard the hot corner. My mother came from Baltimore, where he played. My mama, she’s a fiend for baseball. Even when she drifted here, back toward the tail end of the seventies, she followed baseball, and worshipped the Baltimore Orioles. According to her, when she watched Brooks win MVP in the 1970 World Series against the Cincinnati Reds, she vowed when she had a son, she’d name him Brooks.”
“She must be very serious about baseball.”
“Oh, she is. Where’d Abigail come from?”
“It’s just a name.”
“I like Abigail. Old-fashioned class.”
“Thank you.” She rose. “I need to go. I still have work to finish today. I apologize if I seemed rude this morning, and I hope I’ve cleared things up.”
“I appreciate you coming in. What I said this morning stands. If you need anything, call.”
“I won’t, but thank you for the Coke and the conversation.” She handed the can back to him. “Good-bye.”
When she left, he studied the can. What did it say about him, he wondered, that he was actively thinking of sending it off for DNA and prints?
Didn’t seem right, on several levels, he decided. But he took the can to the restroom, poured the contents down the sink. Back in his office, he slipped the empty can into an evidence bag, and stored it in his bottom drawer.
Just in case.
The entire day left Brooks feeling restless, and it wasn’t his usual state of mind. He didn’t want his own company, and since he’d told Sylbie he had to work instead of just saying no, thanks, he couldn’t justify dropping by McGrew’s Pub for a beer, a game of pool, some conversation.
Instead of heading home, he drove to the end of Shop Street, hung a left and pulled into the rambling, never-quite-finished house behind his mother’s Prius.
Scaffolding clung to the side, where he could follow the progress on her current mural. Sexy fairies, he noted, with flowing hair, delicate wings. Under the roofline on the front, burnished-skinned, leanly muscled men and women rode dragons with iridescent scales of ruby or emerald or sapphire.
It was impressive work, he thought. Maybe a little strange for house and home, but no one could miss the O’Hara-Gleason place.
He stepped onto the cherry-red porch to the door flanked by pointy-eared elves.
And stepped inside music and scent and color. Clutter and comfort reigned, dominated by his mother’s art, cheered by the flowers his father brought home at least twice a week.
Tulips to celebrate the coming spring, Brooks decided. Every color of the rainbow and tucked into vases, bowls, pots scattered around the room. The black cat his father named Chuck curled on the sofa and barely slitted his eyes open to acknowledge Brooks.
“No, don’t get up,” Brooks said under the blast of Fergie filling the house.
He wandered back, past his father’s office, the tiny, crowded library, and into the hub—the kitchen.
The biggest room in the house, it mixed the thoroughly modern in sleek appliances—the cooktop with indoor grill, the glass-fronted wine cabinet—with the charm of lush pots of herbs, a thriving Meyer lemon tree blooming away. Crystal drops in varying shapes winked in the windows, catching the sun. More sun poured through the skylight in the lofted ceiling, over the bounty of flowers and vines and fruit his mother had painted over the soft yellow.
He could smell fresh bread, and the allure of whatever she stirred on the stove while she sang along with Fergie. She gave Fergie a run for her money, Brooks thought.
As far as he was concerned, his mother could do damn near anything, and everything.
She had her hair, a gold-streaked brown, braided down her back, with silver beads dangling from her ears. Her bare feet tapped to the beat.
A peace symbol tattoo on her right ankle announced her sixties sensibilities.
She gasped, then turned around with a laugh, eyes warm and brown. “Hi, handsome. I didn’t hear you come in.”
“You can’t hear anything. How many times do I have to tell you kids to keep the music down?”
“It helps the creative process.” But she picked up a remote and muffled Fergie. “What’s up with you?”
“This and that. Where’s Dad?”
“He had a meeting with parents. He’ll be home soon. Stay for dinner?”
“Whatcha got?”
“Minestrone, rosemary bread and a field-greens salad.”
“I’m in.” He opened the fridge, got out a beer, waggled it.
“Well, if you insist.”
“I do.” He got out a second beer, opened them both.
“Now.” She gave him a little poke in the belly. “What’s up? I know your face.”
“You gave it to me.”
“And a fine job I did. You got troubles, sweetie?”
“Not really. Sylbie came by the station this afternoon.”
She took a swallow of beer. “Mmmm.”
“And I know your mmmms. She wanted to hook up tonight.”
“Yet here you are in your mother’s kitchen, opting for minestrone over sex.”
“You make really good minestrone. I lied to her.”
“And you are that rare creature, an honest cop.”
Now he poked her. “You’re just holding on to your flower child’s disdain for authority. Anyway, it’s one thing to lie to a suspect, that’s the job. It’s another just to lie. I don’t like it.”
“I know. Why did you?”
“To avoid a scene, I guess, which is just stupid, as it’s just postponing it. I don’t want to go back to high school. Been there, done that, got the letter jacket. And she doesn’t want me; she wants somebody. The sex is really good, but nothing else is.”
“So you’re looking for more than sex.” Sunny wiped an imaginary tear away. “My boy’s growing up.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. But I do know I don’t want it with Sylbie. I’m hoping for the easy way. Somebody else catches her eye and she loses interest.”
“I thought you didn’t want to go back to high school.”
“Yeah. I know I’ve got to fix it, and I should have when she came in today. Pisses me off that I didn’t. So I will.”
“Good. She’s not a happy woman, Brooks. She equates her worth with her looks and sexuality, and she won’t be happy until she doesn’t. I think she could be happy, and make someone happy, once she realizes she has more to offer. You just remember you can fix the problem, but you can’t fix her.”
“You’re right. I’ll work on it.”
“Now, what else. Something else in there.” She tapped his temple.
“I met, officially, Abigail Lowery today.”
“Oh, now, this is good. This is sit-down-and-relate-every-detail good.” She settled down at the breakfast counter, patted the next stool. “I’ve been dying to pin that one down. What’s she like?”
“At first I’d’ve said rude, abrupt and downright unfriendly, but with a little more exposure, I have to put it down to socially awkward.”
“Poor thing.”
“The poor thing carries a Glock on her hip to the fancy market.”
“A gun? When are people going to realize that going around armed is just asking for—”
She broke off when he tapped a finger to her lips.
“I know how you feel about guns, gun control and what you see as a perversion of the Second Amendment, Sunshine.”
She huffed, shrugged. “It can never be too often repeated. But go on.”
He told her about the market, going out to her place, the dog, the locks. By the time he got to his digging into her licenses, and the number of registered handguns she owned, Sunny decided the story called for a second beer.
“What’s she afraid of?”
“See that? Exactly. That’s what I want to know. And as chief of police around these parts, that’s what I need to know. But to finish up, then Sylbie came in.”
Once he’d told her the rest, her outrage over the guns had subsided, and her focus shifted. “That just breaks my heart.”
“What?”
“Honey, she’s so alone. Of course she’s socially awkward when she’s got herself barricaded up by herself, and against God knows what. She’s not sounding like one of those survivalists or those crazies thinking they’ve gotta load up on the guns and locks for the revolution or the Rapture. You said she does programming, and security business. Maybe she found something or invented something. Now the government’s after her.”
“Why is it always the government, Ma?”
“Because I find it often is, that’s why. She could’ve been a cyber spy or something like that.”
“I love you.”
She slitted her eyes, kicked him lightly in the shin. “Now you’re using those fine words to be amused and patronizing.”
He couldn’t quite disguise the smirk. “Let’s just say she didn’t strike me as the espionage type.”
“Well, they’re not supposed to, are they? They’re supposed to blend.”
“In that case, she’s a crappy spy, because she doesn’t blend.”
“All right, maybe she’s on the run from an abusive boyfriend.”
“I didn’t find anything in her record about filing charges.”
“Some women don’t go to the police. Some just run.”
He thought of Missy and her latest black eye. “And some stay. One thing I know, the way she’s loaded up and barricaded, whatever she’s hiding from—if that is the case—it’s bad. And if the bad finds her, it finds her here. I’m responsible for here, and whether she likes it or not, for her.”
“I love you.”
“Was that amusement and patronizing?”
“No.” She cupped his face. “That’s just fact.”