Czytaj książkę: «In This Town»

CHAPTER ONE

MASSACHUSETTS STATE POLICE detective Walker Bertrand shifted in the hard seat and drummed his fingers on his thigh. He’d been in the small, coastal tourist trap of Mystic Point for all of forty minutes, the past thirty of those spent in this chair while the district attorney and mayor did their best to tactfully explain to the police chief and his assistant chief why they were in a shitload of trouble.

Though Walker was certain explanations weren’t necessary. Ross Taylor and Layne Sullivan had to know that sleeping together would cause them problems. If not, they deserved to have their badges taken away from them.

Walker leaned forward, let his hands dangle loosely between his knees while silently urging Jack Pomeroy, the long-winded D.A., to wind things the hell up so Walker could get to work. Finally, and with a great deal of reluctance and regret on his puffy face, Pomeroy handed Chief Taylor a paper.

Taylor’s expression remained impassive as he read the allegations against him and Sullivan. To Walker’s right, Mayor Seagren looked as if he’d rather perform dental surgery on himself—minus Novocain—than be the bearer of bad news to his two highest ranking police officers.

Walker let his gaze slide over Assistant Chief Layne Sullivan.

Women were a mystery, one of life’s greatest. But being the only son in a family with four daughters gave Walker a certain edge. He’d been surrounded by females since birth, after all. He understood them. Knew how they worked and could easily read their moods, gauge their thoughts.

Not that he needed a PhD in the psychology of women to know Sullivan’s mood was hostile, her thoughts contemplating murder.

His murder.

Waves of animosity rolled off her, battered Walker with resentment and anger. She didn’t want him here. Not in her town. Not sitting across from the chief in her police department. Not sticking his nose into her professional life and career.

Life was tough that way.

Being a cop meant he often went where he wasn’t wanted.

He didn’t take it personally.

Walker stretched his legs out in front of him and met Sullivan’s heated gaze with a bland one of his own—which only seemed to piss her off more.

“If you fire Chief Taylor,” she said to the mayor, her long, lean body practically vibrating with outrage, her fisted hands on her hips, “then I quit.”

A passionate response, though a bit predictable for his tastes. Had it been brought on by respect for her boss, the man who—from all accounts—had won the position she’d wanted for herself? Devotion to the man she was sleeping with? Or loyalty to her partner in crime?

Taylor set down the paper. “They’re not firing me.”

Not yet.

Maybe not at all. But everyone in the room knew it was a distinct possibility.

“Any matters regarding termination of employment are up to Mystic Point’s city council and mayor,” Pomeroy pointed out. “Not me or Detective Bertrand.”

Sullivan jerked her head in Walker’s direction. “Then why is he here?”

“I’m here to help,” he said easily.

He was there to get to the truth.

Working for the state attorney general’s office, Walker was often tasked with investigating alleged wrongdoings in local government. City council members and mayors and police chiefs who abused their power or took bribes. Police departments accused of everything from cover-ups and mishandled cases to illegally obtaining evidence.

Most cops considered him the enemy. A traitor to the brotherhood, one who tore through the Blue Line and turned his back on his comrades in arms so he’d get promoted, maybe receive a few accolades as he climbed higher and higher in his career.

They could think whatever they wanted. Walker knew he was part of the system, a valuable part that helped maintain a balance. That rid the ranks of dirty cops and politicians. He dug for the truth, a messy, time-consuming, often thankless job.

He was damned good at it.

Sullivan bared her teeth and he wouldn’t be surprised if she leaped at him and took a big chunk out of his hide. “We don’t need your help.”

“The D.A. thinks you do,” William Seagren said, the bald spot on his crown shiny with sweat.

“This is ridiculous,” Sullivan snapped. “Ross didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then he has nothing to worry about,” Walker said before Seagren could respond.

Sullivan snorted. “Nothing except the fact that an investigation like this could ruin his reputation, not to mention have an adverse effect on how he’s viewed by the officers under his command and the community. They’ll question his capabilities, his ethics and morals.”

She was passionate, Walker would give her that. And, if he was being honest, he could see what had tempted Taylor into pursuing a sexual relationship with her. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail that reached the middle of her back, her features sharp. The uniform she wore accentuated the curves of her hips, her breasts.

Yeah, she was a looker. But Taylor should’ve had more restraint. More control.

Walker would have.

“Maybe Chief Taylor should’ve considered the consequences before he became personally involved with one of those officers under his command,” Walker said, then casually touched the top of his head, just in case the laserlike glare she shot his way had ignited his hair on fire.

Mayor Seagren cleared his throat. “Now, Layne, surely you can understand why we have to look into this matter.”

“Understand that you’re accusing us of—” she grabbed the paper Chief Taylor had set down and skimmed it “—neglect of duty and ethical violations and…corruption?” Her eyes wide, she crumpled the edge of the paper in her fist. “God, Billy, that’s a felony.”

“So is conspiracy to obstruct justice,” Walker pointed out, tired of the bullshit. Of how Pomeroy and Seagren coddled these two. This was why he’d been brought in, because no one in the county could be trusted to do the job. To remain impartial. To not get personally involved with these people, with this town.

“I’m here,” Walker told Sullivan in what he thought was a highly reasonable tone. “There’s going to be an investigation—nothing will change that so you might as well accept it. And you might want to start worrying less about your supervisor and more about how this investigation is going to affect you and your career.”

She growled at him. The woman actually growled.

“Captain,” the chief said mildly. Admonishingly.

Her expression didn’t soften and there was no sign his quiet censure affected her in the least but after sending Walker one more of her “Burn in hell!” looks, Sullivan walked to the wall next to the desk, leaned back and stared straight ahead.

Interesting. Not just her acquiescence, but the entire interaction between her and Taylor. Nothing in their body language gave away the fact that they were lovers. There were no touches, no fleeting, longing glances. Taylor had even addressed her by rank, instead of her name. The smart choice given the circumstances and Walker’s presence.

Then again, maybe the chief and captain always maintained a certain propriety while at work, foolishly believing they could keep their professional and personal lives separate.

They couldn’t. No one could. Sex changed things. Emotions clouded good judgment. Private fights, hurt feelings, even the rush of the good times and the pull of desire eventually leaked out of the bedroom and into the office. Tensions built, resentment simmered within the ranks of the department, causing low morale, bitterness and accusations.

Walker would determine whether those accusations were based on fact, fiction or something in between.

“How does this work?” Taylor asked in his Boston accent. There was no visible anger, no worry in his eyes. His tone was calm, his shoulders relaxed. As if he had nothing to hide, had done nothing wrong despite the evidence to the contrary.

If Walker had been the type of cop to go with his gut, he might believe Taylor was sincere. As honest and honorable as his record with the Boston P.D. indicated.

Instincts were all well and good, and Walker didn’t discount his, but neither did he put all his faith in them, either. He trusted his head, not some nebulous feeling. He gathered the facts, saw his cases from every angle, analyzed everyone and everything and then, and only then, did he come to a conclusion.

Pomeroy shifted forward, his tie caught on the shelf of his round stomach. “Detective Bertrand is in charge of seeing if the accusations against you both have merit.”

“Until he completes that investigation,” Mayor Seagren said, “you will be placed on administrative leave—”

Sullivan muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Nazi witch hunt” but Walker couldn’t be sure.

“With pay,” the mayor continued. “Meade will take over in the interim.”

“Meade’s a good choice.” Taylor faced Walker. “You can expect our full cooperation. Isn’t that right, Captain?”

“Of course,” she said as if that never should have even been in doubt despite her obviously wanting to rip out his still-beating heart and chuck it out the window.

Mayor Seagren stood. “Before we get to the rest—”

“There’s more?” Sullivan asked incredulously.

“I just want to state for the record that I fully expect Detective Bertrand’s investigation to discover the allegations against you both to be completely unfounded.”

“They will be,” Taylor said as if anything less was not only unacceptable but unfathomable.

Sullivan shoved away from the wall, offended and irritated. Then again, that seemed to be her standard expression. “Since we’re going on record, I’d like to say that this is a complete waste of time. Chief Taylor and I have done nothing wrong.”

Taylor pinched the bridge of his nose. “Captain Sullivan—”

“No. I will not stand here with my thumbs up my ass while our reputations are dragged through the mud and our ethics questioned.” She began to pace, her long legs eating up the short distance of the office, her ponytail swinging behind her. “We did everything by the book. Everything. And now, months after we reported our personal relationship—as per MPPD’s regulations—there are suddenly questions about how we conduct ourselves and do our jobs? It’s bullshit.”

“Just because there are no departmental rules forbidding relationships within the Mystic Point police department,” Walker said, “doesn’t mean that getting…personal…with your superior officer was a good idea.”

She stepped toward him. “You are seriously starting to piss me off.”

Walker held her gaze. “Careful. Wouldn’t want to add an assault charge to that list of allegations.”

Her grin was cocky with a healthy dose of mean tossed in. “Want to bet? And the next time you address me, make sure you do so properly. Do you understand me, Detective?”

She was pulling rank on him. He couldn’t help but admire her for it.

“Oh, I understand perfectly.” He paused long enough to let her know he couldn’t be intimidated. “Captain.”

Taylor stood. “We’ll leave our badges and service weapons with Lieutenant Meade.”

Pomeroy grunted as he got to his feet. “Before you do, there’s one more thing....”

He nodded at Walker, who reached for the envelope pressed between the arm of the chair and his side, and handed it to Taylor. The chief’s hesitation was so slight, most people probably wouldn’t have noticed it.

Walker wasn’t most people.

Taylor read the report, his expression darkening, the first sign of emotion he’d shown since being told his professional life was under scrutiny.

Sullivan crossed over to him. “What is it?”

He handed the paperwork to her. Walker had to give her credit, she didn’t give anything away. No shock crossed her face.

No guilt.

“How did you get a hold of this?” Taylor asked, his voice gruff. Demanding. “This report should’ve been sent directly to me.”

“Considering the accusations against you and Captain Sullivan,” Pomeroy said, “I thought it best to have it sent to my office first. And, due to the findings of those reports, the district attorney’s office, along with the state attorney general, think it’d be best if the investigation into Dale York’s death was handled by someone outside the Mystic Point police department.”

“That’s right,” Walker said, in response to the way Taylor’s mouth flattened, the horror in Sullivan’s eyes. He grinned. “I’m taking over.”

* * *

FUNNY TO THINK that once upon a time, Tori Mott had actually believed in fairy tales. Oh, not the ones about glass slippers or mermaids who longed to be human. And don’t even try to tell her that when a beautiful girl shows up at the house of seven miniature men all they want from her is to cook and clean while she sings to a bunch of woodland animals.

Please. Men, no matter their height, all wanted the same thing and there was nothing G-rated about it.

She also never bought into the idea that some handsome prince would ride up and carry her off, far from a mundane life of endless toil. No, Tori used to believe something much more dangerous, much more insidious than poisoned apples and ravenous, transvestite wolves who liked girls in red hoods.

She’d actually bought into the idea that she could escape her small hometown, could go somewhere far away from the rumors, the envy and resentment and, worst of all, the pity she’d lived with her entire life. That she could make her dreams, all her big plans, come true. And that finally, she’d achieve the greatest lie of them all.

A happy ending.

Talk about delusional, Tori thought as she wove her way between tables in the Ludlow Street Café’s dining room. Nothing like life coming along and giving some poor fool dreamer a sharp smack upside the head to knock some much needed sense into her. Getting pregnant at eighteen did that for her. Made her realize that sure, sometimes dreams did come true.

Just not for her.

So she’d stopped wishing and hoping for spectacular and had settled for average. Which had turned out to be a good life.

If good didn’t quite live up to the expectations she’d built for her future when she’d been a teenager, she had no one to blame but herself.

“Here you go,” she said to Mr. Jeffries as she set his usual breakfast—two eggs over easy, white toast and three slices of bacon—in front of him. “Can I get you anything else?”

“More coffee when you get a chance, dear,” he said, smiling at her as innocently as a baby.

The smile, combined with the fact that he looked like a harmless grandfather with his round cheeks, ill-advised comb-over and a seemingly endless supply of blindingly bright bow ties, hid that he was a groper.

Tori wouldn’t have minded if he’d been a better tipper. Or if he had roaming hands with some of the other above-legal-age waitresses at the café. But nope. She, and only she, was lucky enough to get what he deemed a love tap—but was actually more of a hopeful squeeze.

So when she caught sight of his age-spotted hand heading her way, she neatly sidestepped. “No problem. I’ll be back in a second with that coffee,” she said, making sure to sound pleasant and courteous.

Then, because for all his faults, Mr. Jeffries was a regular customer and only a minor nuisance, she amped up the usual amount of wiggle to her hips as she walked away. Just to give him something to look at.

Young, old or in between, men all liked to look. But only she decided who got to touch.

She grabbed the coffeepot and refilled Mr. Jeffries’s cup, leaving another handful of creamers at his table since he always pocketed several before he went home. Half the café’s tables and booths were filled, voices and the occasional laugh mixing with the sounds of silverware scraping plates, of dishes being cleared. The air smelled of strong coffee, toasted bread, bacon and deep fried potatoes, the odors clinging to her hair, the tiny particles of grease permeating her clothes, her skin. By the end of her nine-hour shift, she’d smell like a walking, talking French fry.

The joys of working in the food industry. Smelly clothes, greasy hair and tired, aching feet. But it was the only thing she’d ever known, as she’d been waiting tables here for the past fifteen years. Fifteen years. Literally half her life.

She wasn’t sure whether to be proud she’d stuck with something for so long…

Or depressed as hell.

She exhaled heavily as if she could blow away the tension that question caused. No sense being either. This was her job, her life.

But…God…what if? What if something more, something different was possible?

The thought, the mere idea of leaving Mystic Point, of finally going after the life she’d always wanted, was exhilarating. Empowering.

Scary as hell.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, snapping her out of the crazy fantasy of ever leaving Mystic Point. The back door to the café opened and Nora Sullivan stepped into the narrow hallway as Tori checked her phone. Great. Layne was calling. Again. She glanced at Nora.

Stuck between her sisters. The curse of being the middle child.

She clicked Ignore©on her phone and faced Nora. “Well, hello there, stranger,” Tori said, her own black skirt feeling too short, too tight compared to her sister’s orange dress, the hem of which skimmed just above Nora’s knees. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

If Nora noted the censure in Tori’s tone, the light accusation, it didn’t show in her easy smile or blue eyes.

When had her baby sister become so adept at camouflaging her feelings? Or maybe Tori had just lost her ability to read her? Neither thought sat well.

“Good morning,” Nora said cheerfully, as if they’d last seen each other yesterday instead of two weeks ago. As if nothing was wrong.

Tori knew better.

She tossed the old grounds from the coffeepot into the garbage. “It’s a little early to be so chipper. Even for you.”

That was Nora’s thing. Being bright and sunny and optimistic. Hey, whatever got her gears grinding, but honestly, just the thought of being that freaking merry all the time gave Tori a headache.

“Did Layne get a hold of you?” Nora asked, smoothing a hand over her blond hair.

God forbid even a single strand try to escape the tight twist she insisted was professional-looking but was really an affront to stylish hairstyles everywhere.

“She wants us to meet her at the station.”

“I know, she told me. Three times.”

Waving at someone in the dining room, Nora scrunched up her nose. “She called me twice and sent four text messages. She’s nothing if not persistent.”

“Yeah, persistent. Demanding. Bossy. Annoying—my personal favorite. And for the love of God, don’t do that thing with your nose,” Tori continued, adding fresh grounds to the pot. “You look like a rabid bunny ready to tear the heads off innocent children.”

“Please, I’m adorable and you know it.”

“True. But the problem is that you know it. Layne and I shouldn’t have told you you were pretty so often when you were little. We created a monster.”

Nora waved that away. “You created a self-assured, confident, independent woman, but that’s neither here nor there,” she said, sounding like the attorney she was. “What is here and there is that we need to get going or we’ll be late. You can ride with me and Griffin.”

“I won’t be anything,” Tori said, rinsing the coffeepot before filling it with chilled, distilled water, “because I’m not going.”

Nora stared at her as if she’d suddenly declared she was going to shave off her eyebrows. “Of course you’re going.”

“Why? Because Layne wants me to? In case you haven’t noticed, I’m working and I will continue to work until my shift ends at two. I’m not about to drop what I’m doing, leave Celeste in a bind and abandon my customers and coworkers just because my older sister decrees it.”

Layne wasn’t the boss of her. A fact her older sister didn’t seem to be aware of.

Tori hated that Layne demanded she drop everything whenever the whim hit her. Tori may not be the assistant chief of police like Layne or an attorney like Nora, but she had a job, one she took seriously. One she couldn’t afford to be away from—literally. Ever since her divorce, she’d barely been able to make ends meet.

No one told her the price of freedom would be so damn high.

“I don’t think Layne would’ve asked you to leave work if she didn’t feel it was important,” Nora said, proving that, despite her angelic face, she could be as stubborn as her sisters. “So, come on.” She clapped her hands lightly, her tone high-pitched as if she was calling a hesitant puppy. If she whistled, Tori might have to hurt her. “Let’s go.”

Tori turned on the machine. “Look, don’t think you can avoid me for weeks—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Nora said, her arms crossed, her cheeks pink.

“—and then waltz in here and make demands. I’m not going. Deal with it.”

“First of all,” Nora said, hurrying after Tori as she walked toward the other side of the restaurant, “I haven’t been avoiding you.”

Tori stepped into the large alcove separating the dining room from the kitchen. “Ever since you started sleeping with Griffin York you’ve barely been around. Does he keep you chained to the bed?”

Sharon Cameron’s booming laugh drowned out whatever Nora had been about to say. “He could chain me to the bed,” Sharon said. “I’d even bring my own restraints.”

“Not helping,” Tori called to her coworker as Sharon took several place settings back into the dining room.

Patty Tarcher, a rotund, gray-haired, sixty-year-old grandmother of ten set food-laden plates from the order window onto a tray. “I say enjoy it while you can,” Patty told Nora. “Once they hit fifty, men’s libidos drop like a rock in the ocean. Never to be seen again.” Balancing the tray with one hand, she snagged an extra set of silverware off the long table behind them and peered over the top of her glasses at the sisters. “That’s why God invented those little blue pills. Things are magic, I tell you. Pure magic.”

“Way more information than anyone ever needed to know,” Tori said.

“Thanks, Patty, but Griffin’s and my relationship isn’t based solely on sex,” Nora said, humor underlying her prim tone.

Patty frowned. “Now that’s a shame. Those are the best kind.”

Tori and Nora watched Patty leave. “Oh, my God,” Tori breathed. “I’m going to need to scrub my brain to get rid of the image of Patty and Stan putting that little blue pill to use.”

Nora’s lips twitched. “Isn’t Stan the guy who plays Santa at the annual Christmas party?”

“Ugh. Stop. Now I’m imagining him dressed as a jolly old elf.” At Nora’s laugh, Tori grinned. “I miss you, baby girl.”

For some reason, that comment made Nora look guilty. Tori’s eyes narrowed. No doubt about it, something was going on—she just had no idea what. But she was sure whatever it was, Griffin was to blame.

“I miss you, too,” Nora said, rearranging the stack of wrapped silverware. “I’ve just been busy—”

“Tori,” Celeste Vitello, the café’s owner, called from the other side of the window. “Order up.”

“Busy,” Tori repeated, placing plates onto a tray. “Right. Too busy for your family.”

Nora sighed. “You know it’s not that way between me and Griffin, right?”

“Not what way?”

“Just sex.”

That was Nora’s first problem. She should keep whatever was between her and Griffin purely physical. Keep her heart out of it. “Does it matter?” she asked, lifting the tray and walking into the dining room.

Never one to give up anything easily, Nora caught up with Tori as she set omelets in front of a twenty-something couple.

“Of course it matters,” Nora said when Tori returned the tray to the alcove. “You’re my sister.”

“And yet you continue to ignore my sage advice about Griffin.”

“Because you’re wrong about him.” Her tone gentled. “He’s a good man. I lo—”

“Oh, no. No, no, no.” Tori covered her ears. “Do not start spouting off about your great love for him. Let me keep believing it’s only physical between you two and will someday soon come to an end. It’s the only way I’ll be able to sleep at night.”

Nora crossed her arms. “You know, instead of blaming me for this perceived distance between us lately, you might want to start considering how you’re partly to blame.”

Tori’s eyes widened. “Because I don’t like your boyfriend?”

“Because you don’t respect my ability to make decisions for myself. Most women would be happy to hear their baby sister is in a serious, committed relationship with a man who loves her.”

Tori couldn’t help it. She laughed. “Honey, I’m not most women.”

She may not have Nora’s brains or Layne’s ability to frighten the masses with one scowl—and legally carry a gun—but she did know men. It was one of her greatest strengths. And Griffin York was trouble.

Okay, so he was the best kind of trouble, the kind that came wrapped in a brooding, darkly handsome, super sexy package.

A pretty exterior for sure, but underneath? A cynical, bitter person who only hurt those who tried to get close to him. Who tried to love him.

Took one to know one, after all.

“Speak of the devil,” she murmured as she stepped out to check her customers’ drinks and noticed Griffin come in through the front door. The man looked like the poster child for the Bad Boy Club in his work boots, faded jeans and battered leather jacket.