Kitabı oku: «The Echo Killing: A gripping debut crime thriller you won’t be able to put down!», sayfa 3
Chapter Five
It was nearly one as Harper pulled her car into an empty spot beneath the wide-spreading branches of an oak tree in front of her house. Spanish moss hung so low it brushed the top of the car, soft as cat paws.
Miles wasn’t the only one who liked a muscle car. But while his was sleek and new, hers was a fifteen-year-old Camaro. It had 103,000 miles on the clock, but the engine purred. She wasn’t about to park it anywhere near a bar, especially in June. Summer tourists had begun pouring into town a few weeks ago, a river-over-the-banks flood of them, and they were all drunk on that intoxicating mixture of vacation, warm sun and three-for-one happy-hour specials.
She could walk from here.
She was preparing to climb out when she caught a good glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror. Her face was a freckled, shiny oval. Mascara had left a black smudge under one wide hazel eye. Her skin was blotchy beneath a tangle of auburn hair.
How long had she looked like that?
With a sigh, she slid back into her seat.
‘Great, Harper,’ she muttered, rummaging in her bag for a brush. ‘You fail at being a grown-up, again.’
She fixed her hair hurriedly and, in a burst of inspiration, applied a coating of the red MAC lipstick Bonnie had given to her for her birthday.
‘All I ask,’ Bonnie said at the time, ‘is that once in a while you actually wear it.’
When she was satisfied that she looked less of a mess, she got out of the car and stood for a moment, gazing up at the house across the street.
For the last five years she’d been renting the garden-level apartment in a converted two-story Victorian on East Jones Street not far from the art college. Her landlord was a jolly, self-made redneck named Billy Dupre. He mowed the lawn and fixed things when they broke and never raised her rent. In return, she kept an eye on the grad students who rented the upstairs apartment and did a bit of painting now and then.
It was a good arrangement.
The blue house had a high, peaked roof and a stained-glass attic window that glowed amber and green on a sunny day.
All the windows were dark tonight, save for one light which shone reassuringly in the entrance hall. The door was solid. She’d had the locks changed to a high-security brand shortly after moving in.
It was safe. She’d made sure of that.
Satisfied that all was well, she threw her bag over her shoulder and headed out on foot.
The houses lining Jones Street were not the grandest in town but they had their charms. During the day, their tall windows overlooked tourist buses and students carrying portfolio bags as they hustled to the art school. At night, though, it was a quiet lane, plucked from history. Cast-iron streetlights cast dancing shadows through the graceful arching oak tree branches.
The moon had disappeared now, and the clouds were thickening. It was still uncomfortably warm and the humidity hung in the air so thick she could almost see it.
As Harper turned left at the first corner the sky vibrated with a threatening, low rumble of thunder.
Nervously, she quickened her pace, casting a quick glance over her shoulder at the empty street behind her.
The shooting had thrown her off-kilter. A spiky remnant of adrenaline still coursed through her body. She kept having the same feeling she’d had at the shooting scene – the feeling she was being watched. But whenever she turned around, there was no one there.
By the time she reached busy Drayton Street she was glad of the lights.
Here, even at one in the morning, the atmosphere was buzzing. As usual, Eric’s 24-Hour Diner – with its vivid, 1950s neon sign promising: ‘Fresh burgers and frozen shakes’ – smelled tantalizingly of fried things.
As Harper threaded her way through the crowds, the first fat drops of what looked to be a fearsome storm began to fall.
Half-running, she turned off the main drag. She could hear The Library before she reached it – music and laughter poured out the open door through the crowd of smokers. Harper inhaled the spicy scent of clove cigarettes as she hurried inside.
‘Hey, Harper,’ the bouncer said. ‘Back from another successful night fighting crime?’
Well over six feet tall, he had a scraggly beard, a huge beer belly and the unlikely nickname of Junior. Harper had once seen him haul three men out of the bar at the same time, without breaking a sweat.
‘It’s a dirty job, but someone’s got to do it,’ she said, holding up her fist for him to bump.
When he smiled, Junior revealed an array of teeth so mismatched he might have stolen them from other people.
‘Bonnie’s waiting for you. Said something about a tequila sunrise.’
‘Mai-tai,’ she corrected him, raising her voice to be heard above the cacophony as she headed into the crowded, dimly lit bar.
As the name implied, the bar was tucked inside a former library. The space was all wrong for a bar – the old reading rooms were small and inevitably overcrowded, but somehow it worked.
Harper liked the place, not only because Bonnie was a bartender here, but also because there was almost no chance of running into anyone she worked with. It attracted a twenty-something crowd who sat around smoking fake cigarettes and arguing loudly about Nietzsche and politics. The cops wouldn’t be caught dead in here, while the reporters favored Rosie Malone’s, an Irish pub near the river where local politicians tended to hang out.
The Library was Harper’s place.
She liked that the walls still held the original built-in bookcases, stacked with paperbacks, and that there was a ‘take a book, leave a book’ policy. The only rule was displayed on a sign by the door, which read: ‘NO PORN PLEASE, WE’RE CHILDREN’.
The main bar had been placed where the librarian’s desk had once stood, in the middle of the largest room. Harper weaved through the crowd toward it.
The air was steamy and smelled of sweat and spilled beer and the rain blowing in through the open door.
Bonnie was easy enough to spot – she’d recently added magenta streaks to her long, blonde hair, and she glimmered in the dimness like a beacon.
The shocks of color perfectly suited her leopard-print miniskirt and cowboy boots. But then, with that figure, she could get away with wearing anything.
The two of them had been friends since childhood. Their relationship had always been more that of sisters than friends.
Like Harper’s mother, Bonnie was an artist. Since there was no money in that, she bartended four nights a week and also taught a few classes at the local art school – making, from all of her jobs, just about enough for rent on a cheap apartment in a dodgy neighborhood.
When Harper walked up, she was pouring five tequila shots at once and talking a mile a minute. A goateed guy in a neat, button-down shirt was waiting for his drinks and wistfully watching her every move.
When Bonnie finally paused for breath, Harper leaned over the bar and pointed at the shots.
‘Thanks, but I’m not that thirsty.’
Whooping, Bonnie shoved the shots at the startled goatee guy and launched herself over the bar, pulling Harper into a full-body hug.
‘I can’t believe you came. You hate going out in tourist season.’
‘The lure of a tropical cocktail never fails,’ Harper told her.
‘If that’s true, I’ll make you a mai tai every night.’ Bonnie’s eyes scanned her face. ‘How’s it going? Nice lipstick, by the way.’
‘It’s been a weird night.’ Harper shrugged off the question. ‘And this is your lipstick.’
‘Knew it. I have amazing taste. You should let me choose your shoes.’ Jumping back onto the bar, Bonnie swung her legs around and leapt down, landing neatly in front of a long row of glittering bottles. ‘Stay there. I’m going to get you that drink and you can tell me about your weirdness.’
Just then, though, a group of laughing drinkers shoved their way to the bar, credit cards clutched in their hands.
Bonnie shot Harper an exasperated look. ‘First, I have to get rid of all these fucking people.’
In no hurry, Harper pulled up a bar stool and settled in.
Despite the volume and the chaos, being here made her calmer. Bonnie was the only person in the world who knew everything about her, and Harper could never fool her about one damn thing. Tonight, she needed someone who could see through her.
The two of them had met on Bonnie’s sixth birthday. Bonnie’s family had been living on Harper’s street for a few weeks by then. She’d seen the new little girl next door many times, with her long, covetable blonde hair, roaring up and down the sidewalk on her tricycle, a handful of brothers in tow. It was impossible to miss her.
Although their modest, post-war bungalows were nearly identical, Bonnie’s noisy, crowded house was the opposite of Harper’s. Harper was an only child. Not in a tragic, poor me, lonely kid way. More in the indulged, loved way.
Her mother was a painter and art teacher. Her father was a lawyer who traveled a lot for work. Her memories of her childhood were a blurry watercolor blend of jazz flowing from the speakers, and color – color everywhere. The kitchen was lemon yellow, the sofa was cherry-red. Harper’s room was aquamarine, and her mother’s vibrant oil paintings covered the walls.
On sunny days, her mother set up her easel in the kitchen, where light poured in through wrap-around windows. When Harper was young, she’d often set up a tiny easel for her, too, so they could paint side by side.
The day of Bonnie’s birthday party, Harper was sitting quietly on the back porch with a coloring book when, on the other side of the fence, Bonnie appeared holding a can of Silly String.
Setting down her crayons, Harper watched as, with careful deliberation, Bonnie made her way across the grass to the wire fence. Her bright pink dress and white-blonde hair gave her a jaunty, elfish appearance. Harper expected her to say hello. To ask what she was coloring. Instead, without warning or provocation, she’d pointed the nozzle at Harper and covered her in sticky pink threads.
Harper had stared at her in disbelief.
‘Why did you do that?’
Scratching her shoulder, Bonnie considered this.
‘Because you look lonely,’ she pronounced after a second. ‘And because I thought it would be funny. Come to my party.’
Harper, who had already clocked the balloons tied to the front fence and the BONNIE IS SIX sign on the door, and who had watched other children arrive for the event, played it cool.
‘I didn’t know it was your birthday,’ she lied.
‘It is,’ Bonnie assured her. ‘But I hate my cousins. And my brothers are assholes. I want you to be there instead.’
Harper didn’t flinch at the obscenity.
‘Why? You don’t know me.’
Bonnie gazed at her with a look of beatific confidence.
‘I like your hair. Go ask your mom if you can come over and I promise I won’t spray you anymore.’
Inexplicably satisfied by this explanation, Harper had removed the Silly String from her clothes and gone into the kitchen to seek permission from her mother, who waved an approving paintbrush from behind her easel.
‘Have fun, honey,’ she’d said, eyes still on the canvas. She was painting a field of daisies in the sunshine – each petal so real you could almost touch the cool silk of it. ‘Be sure and say thank you to Mrs Larson.’
From that day forward, for reasons Harper never fully understood, she and Bonnie were inseparable.
Their friendship had endured the trials of primary school and the grim anarchy of middle school. It had survived first boyfriends, Bonnie’s parents’ divorce, the pain of the Larson family moving away from the house next door. And worse.
Much worse.
Bonnie was the one reminder of Harper’s childhood that she allowed in her life. The only one who’d known her before.
The only one who understood.
Harper waited patiently until the bar gradually emptied out. At around two o’clock, Bonnie handed her the third unfathomably pink cocktail of the night, topped with a tiny paper umbrella and four maraschino cherries impaled on a long toothpick.
‘Carlo’s taking over for a while,’ she said, waving a beer bottle at the muscular, dark-haired guy behind the bar. ‘Let’s go talk.’
Feeling much better about everything by now, Harper held her drink up to the light to admire its atomic shades.
‘This is my very favorite drink.’
‘There’s so much fruit juice and rum in that baby, it’s diabetes in a glass.’ Bonnie stretched her arms above her head with a groan. ‘Man, this has been a long night. I’ve got to get a real job.’
At this hour, only the most determined drinkers remained, wrestling their demons one glass at a time. The music had been turned down and the air felt cooler.
They found one of the side rooms completely empty. It was largely dominated by a pool table.
Motioning for Harper to join her, Bonnie lifted herself up onto the green felt top.
‘Get up here and tell me what’s going on.’
Harper climbed up next to her, less gracefully. Bonnie had put a lot of rum in those drinks.
‘Nothing’s going on,’ she said, stretching out her legs until her toes brushed the far edge of the table. ‘It’s all good.’
‘Harper.’ Bonnie shot her a look. ‘You’ve been sitting in my bar drinking pink drinks for over an hour without saying a word to anyone. In tourist season. Something’s going on.’
Harper smiled. Bonnie always could see right through her.
‘There was a shooting.’ Harper made a vague gesture with her drink. ‘I got a little too close.’
Bonnie took a sip of beer, studying her narrowly.
‘How close is too close?’
Thinking of the windows shattering above her head, Harper held up her hand, finger and thumb two inches apart.
‘That close, I think.’
Bonnie’s eyebrows winged up. ‘What the hell, Harper? You’re supposed to write about crime. Not get yourself shot.’
‘It was fine,’ Harper insisted. ‘I wasn’t in danger.’
‘Bullshit,’ Bonnie said bluntly. ‘It scared you. I heard it in your voice on the phone. I saw it on your face when you walked in the bar. Don’t lie to me.’
Pulling the tiny paper umbrella from her glass, Harper furled and unfurled it absently. While she’d been waiting for Bonnie, she’d had a lot of time to think about what had happened. And to question her own motives.
Through the protective haze of alcohol, she found herself asking a question she would normally never have said aloud.
‘Tell me the truth. Do you think I’m self-destructive?’
Bonnie hesitated too long.
‘Come on,’ she said, finally, her tone softening. ‘You know you have good reasons for what you do.’
It was true. But it also wasn’t a no.
Out of nowhere, Harper thought of Luke, standing on the street like the god of justice, looking at her in a way he never had before. Like he was worried about her.
She’d had some time to think about him, tonight, too.
‘By the way,’ she said, ‘I think I might have a crush on a cop.’
She could sense Bonnie relaxing as the serious moment passed.
‘Well, hell, honey.’ She nudged Harper’s shoulder. ‘Get yourself a piece of that law-and-order action.’
Harper shook her head. ‘I can’t. I write about cops. I’m not allowed to have crushes on them. It’s a …’ she sought the words from the drunken recesses of her mind, ‘… conflict of interference. No.’ She blinked. ‘Interest.’
‘Really?’ Bonnie looked doubtful. ‘Come on. What can they do?’
‘He could get demoted for it,’ she assured her. ‘Cops take this stuff seriously.’
Bonnie made a derisive sound.
‘Since when do you give a damn about rules, Harper? The police don’t have cameras in your bedroom. Actually, I’ve been thinking for a while now you needed to get laid. When was the last time you had any?’
Caught off guard, Harper found she wasn’t sure of the answer to that question.
‘Last year? That California guy, I guess?’
Bonnie stared at her as if she’d announced she liked doing it with cats.
‘Harper, that was nearly two years ago. This can’t be. I’m going to get Carlo to do you right this instant. Carlo!’
She half-turned toward the bar, raising her voice. Carlo, who was stacking glasses in the dishwasher, looked up enquiringly, muscles bulging through the sleeves of his black Library T-shirt.
‘Ignore her, Carlo!’ Harper yelled hastily. ‘It’s nothing.’
Laughing, she tugged Bonnie’s arm. ‘Behave yourself.’
‘He’d do it,’ Bonnie assured her. ‘I know he thinks you’re cute.’
‘I’m not cute.’ For some reason, Harper found the assertion outrageous. ‘I’m introverted and I never remember to wear makeup. I’ve seen the women Carlo hangs out with. I am definitely not his type.’
Bonnie waved her beer. ‘Everyone is Carlo’s type. But if he’s not yours …’ She looked around the mostly empty bar. ‘There’s always Junior.’
‘Will you stop?’ Harper pleaded. ‘Look. I promise, I’ll sex someone up. Soon.’
‘Do the cop,’ Bonnie ordered. ‘You like him. What’s he like? I’ll bet he’s all Texas Rangery. Tall with lots of muscles; not much of a man for words. Takes command of the situation.’
‘Shut up.’ Harper’s face heated.
‘Oh my God, I’m right.’ Bonnie’s laugh was delighted. ‘I want to meet this guy.’
Harper was starting to feel dizzy. She wasn’t sure whether it was the mai tais or the conversation.
‘We have got to stop talking about this,’ she moaned, lying down on the table. The felt top was soft and she turned to press her face against it. It smelled soothingly of chalk and dust.
‘Don’t fall asleep on the pool table, Harper. Junior might carry you home and have his wicked way with you.’
Bonnie leaned over her, the tips of her long hair tickling Harper’s face.
‘Anyway, it’s decided. You’ve got to get busy with this cop. And soon.’ She smoothed Harper’s hair gently away from her face. It felt nice. Harper closed her eyes.
‘It’ll fix all that ails you,’ Bonnie promised.
Harper thought of Luke Walker standing there holding that gun. And wondered if maybe she was right.
Chapter Six
The next afternoon, Harper arrived at the police station at four o’clock, feeling like a truck had run over her face during the night.
At the edge of downtown on a quiet street, the police headquarters looked like a nineteenth-century jail, which is exactly what it was. Neat rows of small, arched windows marched across the brick walls, all of them overlooking a sun-baked parking lot that was, at this moment, completely full.
Muttering under her breath, Harper found a parking place on the street around the corner and fed the meter before hurrying out of the bright sunlight to take a shortcut through the blessed shade of the Colonial Park Cemetery.
Sheltered by the long branches of ancient oak trees, the old burial ground behind the station was more park than cemetery. Ever since she was a child, she’d loved it. You could read the city’s history in its inscriptions:
James Wilde.
He fell in a duel on the 16th of January, 1815, by the hand of a man who, a short time ago, would have been friendless but for him.
At twelve, she’d been outraged for that man. Today, she would happily have been buried next to him.
Her gravestone could read: ‘Harper McClain, died of a hangover. What an idiot.’
She and Bonnie had stayed at the bar after closing, drinking with Carlo and Junior, and playing half-hearted, quickly abandoned games of pool. It must have been four in the morning by the time she got home.
She’d awoken at noon, cotton-mouthed and hammer-headed, to find her cat, Zuzu, lying on her chest like an eight-pound tumor.
‘Get off me, you evil fluffball,’ she’d murmured, shoving the tabby to one side.
The cat waited until she drifted off, then got back on her again, purring maliciously.
At that point, Harper had given up and climbed out of bed. Four ibuprofen and a gallon of water later, she’d felt able to go to work.
When she pushed open the heavy, bulletproof door and walked out of the heat into the police station’s icy air conditioning, she didn’t remove her sunglasses.
The front-desk clerk looked up as she approached.
‘Harper!’ she trilled. ‘You look mysterious today.’
Barely over five feet tall, with glossy black curls and a curvy figure that tested the buttons of her navy blue desk uniform, Darlene Wilson’s skin was so flawless it was impossible to determine her age, but Harper guessed she was in her mid-thirties.
‘Please, Darlene,’ Harper said pleadingly. ‘If you love me at all. Whisper.’
Darlene’s booming laugh threatened to split her skull.
‘All right, honey. I hear you,’ she said, lowering her voice a fraction. ‘Were you at a party last night or something?’
‘Let’s just say drinks with an old friend got out of hand.’
As she spoke, Harper flipped rapidly through the thick stack of overnight police reports.
Burglary, burglary, burglary, public nuisance, DUI, burglary, stabbing …
She paused, scanning the description of the last one.
At 0400 hours, a 34-year-old male did enter the address and proceed to utilize a sharp bladed instrument against a 32-year-old female identified as his former spouse …
‘Male friend or female friend?’ Darlene prodded.
Harper turned a page. ‘Not the kind of friend you’re thinking about.’
Darlene made a tutting sound. ‘That’s a shame.’
‘I would like to know,’ Harper said, without looking up, ‘why everyone is so fascinated by my love life all of a sudden.’
Arching one expressive eyebrow, Darlene turned to her computer.
‘No reason,’ she said.
It took Harper about ten seconds to decide against covering the stabbing. Baxter hated domestic violence stories. Today, she didn’t have the strength for an argument.
Returning that report to the stack, she flipped through the rest, making a couple of notes. She was nearly finished when Darlene held up her hand.
‘Oh, honey, I almost forgot.’
The hint of warning in her voice made Harper look up.
‘The lieutenant wants you to see him in his office.’
‘Now?’ Harper’s brow creased. ‘Did he say why?’
‘Not exactly.’ Darlene leaned closer. ‘All I know is, everyone’s talking about the shooting last night. They say you got involved.’
Her heart sinking, Harper slid the stack of paperwork back across the counter.
She should have known the lieutenant would hear about it.
‘How pissed off is he? Scale of one to ten.’
‘Oh, you know what he’s like.’ Darlene busied herself straightening papers. ‘He likes having something to complain about.’
For a tantalizing second, Harper contemplated slipping out the door and back to the newspaper, but she didn’t want the lieutenant tracking her down. He’d done it before. Once, when she’d ignored his summons, he’d sent motorcycle police to pull her over and escort her back, blue lights flashing.
‘Damn.’
Reluctantly, she trudged to the security door leading to the back offices. With a sympathetic smile, Darlene pushed the button releasing the lock.
The shrill buzz it emitted was a sound-blade in Harper’s hungover head, repeatedly stabbing her cerebellum. Wincing, she pulled the door open.
On the other side, a long corridor stretched the length of the building. Windowless and shadowy, it was lined on either side by offices. She passed the 911 dispatch room with its glowing bank of computers. Then several sergeants’ offices – each small and crowded, all of them empty at the moment.
She was halfway down the corridor when two detectives in lightweight summer suits approached her, talking quietly. Spotting her, one nudged the other.
Detective Ledbetter’s smile took up his whole, round face. Next to him, Detective Julie Daltrey was grinning mischievously. She was ten years younger and a head shorter than Ledbetter, with dark brown skin and endearing dimples.
When Harper reached them, the two stopped, blocking her way.
‘Oh hello, Officer McClain,’ Detective Daltrey said, as Ledbetter snickered. ‘I hear you’re joining the force.’
‘Oh, fuck me running.’ She glared at them. ‘Is this how it’s going to be?’
‘Do me a favor,’ Daltrey goaded her. ‘Say, “Stop or I’ll shoot.” I want to judge your technique.’
‘No, that’s not what she said,’ Ledbetter reminded her. ‘It was “You’re surrounded”.’
They guffawed. Daltrey bent over double, clutching her ribs.
Harper had heard enough.
‘Will you please get out of my way?’ Lowering her shoulder she shoved her way past them with such force they had to jump aside to avoid being knocked down. ‘Don’t you have murderers to catch?’
‘Yeah, but you can do that for us,’ Daltrey said. ‘We’re taking the rest of the day off.’
Their laughter followed her all the way down the hall.
Harper knew this was only the beginning. Nobody on the planet enjoys ridicule more than a cop. They never tired of it. Last night she’d basically pinned a bullseye on her back.
She was grateful when she reached the door at the end of the hall where the name ‘Lieutenant Robert Smith’ was written on the sign outside.
Taking off her sunglasses, Harper stuffed them in her bag. Then, letting out a deep breath, she tapped her knuckles against the door.
‘It’s Harper.’
‘Get in here.’ The voice was a low, baritone growl.
Steeling herself, she opened the door, already launching into her defense.
‘Look, Lieutenant, last night wasn’t my fault.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that.’
Lieutenant Robert Smith was about fifty years old, with thick, graying hair and a square jaw made to take a punch. He was six foot two and, even sitting at a desk, he dominated a room. His charcoal suit looked expensive, as did his dark blue silk tie.
He was one of those men who, even when no cigar was present, looked as if they ought to be holding one.
As she approached the desk, he listed the charges against her in an icy voice.
‘So you called out three armed men, while wearing no Kevlar and not carrying a weapon. You then impersonated a police officer when those three criminals threatened you. Am I summing this up correctly? And if I am, how is any of that not your fault?’
‘I was improvising.’ Dropping into one of the faux leather chairs in front of his desk, Harper pressed her fingertips against her pounding forehead. ‘I thought they were going to kill that stupid cop.’
‘That stupid cop is an experienced officer of the law.’ Smith’s voice rose. Harper winced. ‘He is trained to carry and use a standard, police-issue semi-automatic firearm, and to defend himself in dangerous situations. He was wearing a government-approved bulletproof vest. You were carrying a notebook.’
‘True,’ she conceded. ‘But they were about to blow your highly trained officer’s stupid head off.’ His face hardened, but she plowed ahead stubbornly. ‘Lieutenant, he was looking in the wrong direction. It is true that I could have yelled, “Hey, idiotic cop. They’re over here.” And they would have shot at me anyway. So I tried to buy time until your inexplicably delayed backup arrived on the scene to keep the residents of Thirty-Ninth Street safe from three wanted killers.’ She held up her notepad. ‘By the way, do you have any comment on the reason for that delay?’
The lieutenant opened his mouth and then shut it again.
‘Dammit, Harper. How do you always manage to turn everything around so I’m the bad guy?’
He still sounded a bit heated, but the edge had left his voice.
Harper flashed him an apologetic half-smile.
‘I learned from the best, Lieutenant.’
‘Flattery won’t help you today, young lady.’ He shook his finger at her. ‘In all seriousness, you could have got yourself killed. Walker told me everything.’
‘That narc,’ Harper muttered.
‘He is paid to narc,’ he reminded her tartly.
Before she could argue, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk.
‘Why’d you do it, Harper? I try to look out for you. But I can’t protect you if you walk into a bullet. You understand that, right?’
There was no more anger in his voice. Harper’s defensiveness slipped away.
‘I’m sorry, Lieutenant,’ she said. ‘It all happened so fast. Believe me, I know it was dangerous. I promise I’ll be more careful.’
Smith’s expression softened.
‘I don’t want you to get hurt.’
‘I know,’ Harper said, adding remorsefully. ‘And I didn’t mean what I said about Luke. He was great out there. He saved my life.’
‘Luke’s one of my best,’ Smith said. ‘And he didn’t come here to “narc”, as you say. He came here because he was concerned.’
Harper said nothing, but the idea of Luke worrying about her was curiously pleasing.
‘Well.’ Smith’s brow creased. ‘Were you injured? You look pale.’
‘I went out drinking with Bonnie last night.’ She rubbed her temples remorsefully. ‘Overdid it. I feel like crap.’
‘Ah.’ His expression changed to one of almost paternal indulgence. ‘Were you at that hippy bar where she works?’
‘It’s not a hippy bar,’ Harper said, although it kind of was.
‘I hope you didn’t drive home.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Of course not.’
It was always like this. He talked to her like she was a teenager and before long she started acting like one.
He picked up his pen from the leather desk blotter.
‘Before I forget, Pat’s after me to get you to come to dinner.’ He glanced at her. ‘You free on Sunday? It’d make her happy.’
Harper brightened. His wife was an amazing cook. ‘If there’s any chance she might make her chicken and dumplings, I think I can be free on Sunday.’
‘She’ll be happy to hear that,’ he said gruffly. ‘I always tell her you’re fine, but she likes to see you for herself.’
He grew serious again.
‘Now, look, Harper, can I tell the deputy chief that the crime reporter from our esteemed local newspaper has agreed to stop impersonating an officer at crime scenes for the foreseeable future? Will you at least give me that?’
