22

Tom took a seat in the back corner of A Cup or Two and waited for his dad. The place was surprisingly busy for midafternoon. He recognized most of the patrons as locals, but the table by the door boasted a group of bell-bottomed drifters with psychedelic orange-and-green tie-dyed T-shirts straight out of the seventies.

He stretched his neck left and then right in a vain attempt to work out the kinks. Without an active case to justify the use of surveillance teams, he’d handled the last two nights on his own. But no matter how many angles he looked at Daisy’s case from, he had nothing. Not on Brewster, not on Darryl, not on Edward. Nothing that would stand up in court anyway. And no leads on who’d posed as Gordon Laslo.

If Daisy’s killer hired a drifter to play the part of Laslo, Tom might never track him down, unless they got lucky with the fingerprints they lifted from his affidavit.

No, he needed more than luck. He needed divine intervention. Kate needed his protection more than ever, but she was still too furious at him for dragging her in for questioning to realize that the guy who tried to frame her for Daisy’s murder might try something worse.

At least she’d agreed to let Dad stay on as her bodyguard.

Hank sprawled into the seat opposite Tom and set down a frothy mug of some sort of specialty coffee.

“Since when do you drink froufrou drinks?” Tom quipped to cover his surprise that Hank had stopped the cold-shoulder treatment. The iceberg between them had gotten so frigid, Tom had debated wearing a hat and mittens to the office.

Hank took a sip of his drink, then circled his tongue over his lips, collecting the froth left behind. “Mmm, mmm. Carla got me hooked on this stuff. It’s really good.” He jutted his chin toward the counter laden with teas. “Better than tea that tastes like weeds.”

Tom chuckled and at the same time caught sight of Kate sitting with Julie at a table in the center of the shop. Kate’s gaze slid from Hank’s face to his coffee before veering back to Tom. She nodded when their eyes met, but her tight smile suggested she didn’t approve of the company he kept.

Not that he should be surprised. She’d already pegged him as Hank’s coconspirator once. The softening he’d seen in her attitude toward him, after his desperate search for a bomb in her car, had apparently been short-lived.

Hank must’ve sensed the direction of his thoughts. “Have you talked to her since you brought her in?”

Tom swallowed the last of his coffee and slapped the mug onto the table. “Yeah.”

“I take it she’s still mad?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Tom clenched his jaw and fought the urge to lash out at Hank.

“Hey, if you like her that much, I’ll have a talk with her. Let her know I—”

“No.” Tom lowered his voice. “Thanks. You’ve done enough.”

Hank let out a snort and dropped his gaze to the mug he was twisting in his hands. “I owe you an apology. Two, actually. First for messing with your, uh, love life. Carla overheard what I said about your last girlfriend.”

“Zoe wasn’t my girlfriend.”

“It doesn’t matter. The point is, Carla reminded me of all the times you stood by me in high school when . . . well, you know.”

“What’s the second apology for?”

“The night before last. I know you were trying to do right by me. I gotta admit that after Adams found the marijuana leaf, I scoured the woods around Dad’s place too. But it was clean. What I’m trying to say is, I didn’t act like much of a friend and I’m sorry. I know you’re true blue.”

Tom’s jaw slackened as he stared at Hank. Hank, his high school chum. Hank, his boss. Hank, the man he suspected of covering up his dad’s illegal activities. Was the admission a ploy to throw Tom off the scent? An appeal to his loyalty? Or a genuine gesture?

Questioning his friend’s motives left a bitter taste in his mouth. “That’s okay.”

Hank half smiled, a look Tom recalled from their teen years—whenever Hank thought he’d gotten away with something. For now, that was probably a good place for Hank to be.

Tom’s dad straddled the chair between Hank and Tom. “Can you believe how packed it is in here today?”

Tom winced at the sight of how many more people had poured in without him noticing. This business with Kate was making him sloppy. A detective couldn’t afford to let his personal life interfere with his job. Maybe Hank had done him a favor.

Kate’s gaze drifted to his table again, and the kick in his heart said he didn’t want Hank doing him any favors. Too bad she didn’t have a tea to cure stupidity. He could have used some of that. Tom followed the direction of her gaze as it tracked across the shop. Behind the counter, Darryl and his wife were engaged in a heated discussion. Dark circles shadowed Beth’s eyes, and she appeared to have lost some weight. Apparently, her claim that she’d been sick the night he’d spotted her following Kate hadn’t been entirely a lie.

Hank’s dad approached the two and made a T sign with his hands.

As Beth reached for the brown paper bag in Al’s hand, Tom gauged Hank’s reaction.

If he was wary of his dad’s actions, Hank didn’t show it. He downed the last of his coffee and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I gotta go. Dad and I are going fishing. Nice to see you again, Keith.”

“You too,” Dad nodded. “You should buy a box of Beth’s donuts to take with you.”

“Good idea.” Hank shifted his attention to Tom. “You on the night shift?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll bring you in a fresh grilled perch.” He winked. “See ya later.”

Dad hitched a thumb toward Hank’s departing back. “You two seem to be getting along again. Have you written him off as a suspect?”

“Nope.”

Edward stood at the counter chatting with Molly, who glowed under his attention. For her sake, Tom hoped Edward had been straight with him.

Hank interrupted the lovebirds’ tête à tête, apparently asking for donuts as Dad had suggested, because Molly folded a piece of cardboard into a box and picked up the tongs. Al Brewster joined Hank and pointed to the tray of jelly-filled donuts.

“Well . . .” Dad drummed the tabletop, a satisfied lilt in his voice. “Looks like all our suspects are here.”

Tom snorted, remembering Kate’s suggestion that they stage a sting. His gaze skittered past Al, Darryl, and Edward. “Only person missing is Gord.”

“You don’t seriously consider him a suspect in Daisy’s murder?”

“I have as much reason to suspect him as anyone else.”

“Then why haven’t you brought him in for the thefts at the research station?”

“Let’s just say I’m keeping my options open.”

Dad tipped his chin down, his gaze on Kate.

Julie’s fiancé, Ryan, now shared Julie and Kate’s table, and the volume of their discussion rose by the second. Julie’s face flushed as nearby patrons started to take notice. Kate, her red hair tied in a ponytail that bobbed with her animated gestures, seemed oblivious to the audience they’d attracted. She slapped her hands on the table. “I’m telling you, Daisy was murdered.”

The entire room hushed, and like one person everybody turned to look at Kate.

She surged to her feet, her attention fixed on Ryan. “And I know who did it. Do you hear me?”

Tom choked on his coffee. What was she doing?

At the counter, Darryl, Edward, and Al gaped at the spectacle. Not one of them looked uneasy about her declaration. But Hank . . .

Hank stormed toward her, his face streaked with rage.

Kate suddenly clutched her throat. Her mouth opened and closed in frantic, jerky movements. But no sound came out.