Quint used to have his own office. Now, in the event he needed a desk, he used one of the two unclaimed ones against the back wall. One had two uneven legs, and the other was so scarred on top that it was impossible to write legibly without borrowing a solid surface from elsewhere.
The chief’s secretary, Cheryl, looked up and over the top of her glasses. “Sam’s in his office.”
Quint acknowledged her with a nod, seeing that everyone else was looking at them, too: Daniel Harper and Ben Little Bear, two of the detectives who’d once answered to him; Morwenna Armstrong, dispatcher and coqueen of local gossip along with Lois Gideon, their first female and first turquoise-haired officer; and three other patrol officers checking in for something or other. Quint knew they were interested in the visiting detective, not him, but bitterness stirred in his gut anyway. That sourness—regret or, more likely, shame—made its presence known damn near every time he came into the station.
He gestured to the hallway this side of the staircase. Too narrow to be called a corridor, it had been chopped out of other spaces and just barely allowed two people to pass without bumping shoulders, and that was only if one of them wasn’t Ben Little Bear. It was lighted by cheap ceiling fixtures circa the ’70s, and two of the four had burned out. Waiting for someone else to do something about them hadn’t worked, so maybe Quint would drag out the ladder before he went home today and change the bulbs. It was something to do.
Something to put off that moment of pulling into the driveway of his and Linny’s house. Of climbing the steps knowing the house was empty. Of opening the front door and walking into a space where her fragrance didn’t sweeten the air, where her laughter didn’t ring, where her presence was insubstantial.
The first door down the hall opened into Sam’s office. Quint rapped a little sharper than necessary, feeling the sting in his knuckles, then opened the door. He’d radioed in when he parked outside, so Sam was expecting them. This time, Quint stepped back and let JJ enter first. “Chief Douglas, Detective Jennifer—”
She cleared her throat.
“Detective JJ Logan,” he finished. “I’m headed back out—”
“Come on in, Quint. You should probably hear this.” Sam rose from his desk and shook hands with JJ, then directed her to one of two chairs in front of his desk.
Quint stiffened. No, he shouldn’t probably hear this. Whatever JJ was doing in Cedar Creek couldn’t have anything to do with him. Sam—he needed to know. Little Bear, Harper, the other detectives—they might need to know. But Quint was just a patrol officer. He wrote tickets, broke up brawls, handled domestic disputes. He didn’t need to be in the loop on the important stuff any more than the newest rookie out there did.
But he wasn’t about to argue with Sam, especially in front of a stranger. Reluctantly, he pivoted back into the room, closed the door and, ignoring the empty chair, leaned against the edge of the table butted up to one wall. It gave him a good head-on look at his boss, with only a peripheral view of JJ.
“I bet you got a call this morning from South Carolina,” she said pleasantly.
“I did,” Sam agreed.
“From Chief Chadwick?”
“It was.”
Though JJ’s tone hadn’t changed when she spoke her boss’s name, something about it, or about her, reminded Quint of the question she’d asked out front. Is your chief good, bad or indifferent? Not idle conversation, then. His intuition was willing to bet that she put Chadwick as squarely in the second category as Quint put Sam in the first. Personality conflict? Professional differences? Was Chadwick a bad chief, was JJ a bad cop or did the truth fall somewhere in the middle?
That feeling rousing in his gut felt vaguely like curiosity, maybe even plain old interest. How long had it been since he’d been interested in anything?
Maybe he’d been wrong outside. Maybe he did want to know more about JJ Logan.
JJ tried to not let her nose wrinkle with distaste at Chief Douglas’s last answer. She’d known Chadwick couldn’t be trusted. If she told Douglas—and the handsome Officer Foster—that Chadwick had specifically told her to not touch base with them, she would seem petty or defensive. Besides, no cop bad-mouthed her chief to cops she’d just met. That would be a big step toward giving Dipstick the reason he needed to fire her.
So she put on her best trust-me face—a smile that was neither over-nor underwhelming, her gaze clear and steady—and added a bit of sheepishness to it. “I really did intend to come by later today. I was just eager to get to work.”
“Work,” Chief Douglas repeated. “What’s your interest in Maura Evans?”
Had Chadwick told him the truth about that or tried to screw her there, too? Was she going to tell her story only to find his had been totally different and thereby look like an idiot—worse, an untrustworthy idiot—in front of these fellow officers?
Nothing she could do but be honest herself. If the boss had muddied things between her and the local department, she would just have to make the best of it.
“Maura’s a local girl. She left town a few years ago after her parents’ deaths. She’s twenty-five, single, still grieving…and very wealthy. She settled here in Cedar Creek about six months ago and, three months later, cut off contact with everyone back home—friends, relatives, the family attorney who also happens to be her godfather. He wants to know what’s going on with her.”
She saw a flicker of expression—negative—cross Officer Foster’s face, making it easy to guess what he was thinking. Spoiled rich girl, selfish, entitled, the center of her own universe—her influential lawyer godfather taking advantage of the system, the chief giving in to political pressure to treat Maura as if she were special.
It was harder to tell with his chief, though. Douglas’s expression gave away nothing, and neither did his tone. “Your department must be blessed with detectives—and funds—if they can send one halfway across the country to do a welfare check on one of our residents.” Then came a faint whiff of disapproval. “A check that we would have happily handled for you if you’d just called.”
Her smile thinned. Hey, she wasn’t onboard with this, either. She had much more important cases she could be working on, cases where there was actually a police interest. “Did I mention that the town Maura Evans left is named Evanston? The Evans family have been rich and powerful since they founded the town in 1804. They donated land, set up charities, ran businesses, built schools and libraries and churches and hospitals. The men were war heroes, and the women were social workers ahead of their time. They are one ridiculously wealthy family that everyone in town respects and cares about.”
She hesitated, then corrected herself. “They were. Maura has distant relatives, but she’s the last one in the direct line.” People would have treated her like their greatest, most fragile treasure if she hadn’t fled town after the funerals. But no one blamed her for that. How could she have stayed in that town with its all memories, in that house knowing…?
With a suppressed shudder, JJ shifted her gaze to Officer Foster. Quint, the chief had called him. She liked the name. It was neither overly common nor trendy nor so unusual as to be unspellable, unpronounceable or unmemorable. “I really was just having a look around out there this morning.”
His only response was the smallest of shrugs. The chief, on the other hand, raised one brow. “That’s what you call surveillance back in South Carolina? Having a look around?”
“All right, yes, I parked down the street from her house this morning for fifteen minutes…maybe thirty…maybe an hour.” She couldn’t resist a rueful grin, the one her sisters called her mischief grin.