92 Pacific Boulevard (24 page)

I
f he didn’t know that Faith’s tires had been slashed two weeks ago and that her home had been vandalized in January, Troy wouldn’t have guessed that anything untoward had happened at 204 Rosewood Lane. But the harassment had been intermittent from the moment she’d moved in. Troy was at a loss to explain why Faith had been singled out. She wasn’t the kind of person who made enemies; anyone who met Faith was immediately drawn to her. He hated the fact that neither he nor his deputies had been able to determine who was responsible.

He stood in front of the house, recalling the morning he’d come to talk to Grace Sherman.

Dan had disappeared and at that point no one knew the tragic truth—that his lifelong depression over an incident in Vietnam had driven him to suicide. Troy had vivid memories of that visit and the one a year later, when he’d come to bring Grace the news that Dan’s body had been found.

Sandy had been alive when Dan Sherman went missing. Troy had told her about the case. She’d lost much of
her ability to communicate verbally by then, but her expressive eyes had revealed her sympathy for Grace.

Troy sighed. He was surprised by how often he thought of Sandy. He wished he could talk to her now. She’d always been a good listener and while it might seem odd that he’d want to discuss his feelings for another woman with her, he sensed that if Sandy had known Faith, they would’ve been friends.

Catching him off guard, the front door opened and Faith stepped onto the porch, standing in the afternoon drizzle. Spring had officially begun a week ago, and as the old saying went, March showers brought April flowers. Or was it April showers that brought May flowers? In either case, it was still a winter sky, bleak and gray, although the days were noticeably longer.

“Troy,” Faith called, her arms crossed protectively over her chest, “what are you doing here?”

Grinning, Troy walked up the pathway to the house. “Just checking to make sure you’re safe and sound.”

“I have a feeling you check on me quite a bit.”

Troy didn’t deny it. It’d become habit to drive by at least once a day and sometimes more often, although he didn’t want Faith to know
how
often. “I keep turning up like a bad penny, right?”

Faith smiled, and her lovely face seemed even lovelier. “Do you feel like a cup of decaf coffee?”

One thing he wouldn’t do, and that was refuse to spend time with Faith. He loved her. He knew she loved him, too. For the most part they’d worked out their differences but the situation between them remained tentative. Although they’d known each other practically their entire lives, the setbacks of the past year had nearly destroyed any promise of a lasting relationship.

He followed Faith into the house and saw that she’d been knitting. The television was on the twenty-fourhour news channel, and the aroma of cooking wafted toward him. Whatever it was smelled delicious.

He took a seat and Faith brought him a mug. “There’s something on your mind,” she said matter-offactly. “But I know that whatever it is doesn’t have anything to do with me.“

She was right on both counts, and her ability to read him so easily reminded him of Sandy. Despite his lawman’s poker face, Sandy could always tell when he was disturbed by a case, and now it seemed Faith shared that trait.

She sat across from him. “Can you talk about it?” she asked.

He shook his head. This was information he couldn’t share. A visit from Charlotte Rhodes earlier that afternoon had most likely given him the solution to one of his most difficult outstanding cases. Even now, Troy wasn’t sure how to handle the situation, especially since it involved someone he knew well.

“I wish I could…but I can’t.“

“It doesn’t matter,” Faith said in that soothing way of hers.

He held his coffee with both hands, letting the heat chase away the chill of late afternoon. “How’d you know something was on my mind?” he asked curiously.

Faith picked up her knitting and gazed into the flickering light of the fireplace. “I’m not sure.“

Troy stared into his coffee. “That’s not true, Faith.“

She laughed. “How do
you
know?“

“Touché.” It would be so easy to sit with Faith for the rest of the evening. Who was he kidding? He’d like nothing better than to be with her for the rest of his
life.
A
contentment that had escaped him all afternoon settled over him.

“Okay, I’ll explain,” she said, her fingers nimbly working the yarn. “You have a ‘tell.’“

“A ‘tell’?“

“Yes,” she said, brightening. “I’ve been watching that poker show on TV. I don’t know how I got started, but now I’m hooked.“

“And a ‘tell’ is?” He knew very well what it meant, but he wanted to hear her definition of it—and, even more, what she felt his “tell” was.

Faith’s response was enthusiastic. “You’ve noticed that a lot of poker players wear dark glasses? The reason, according to the commentators, is that other players can read their eyes and know if they’re bluffing or not. I saw one player who shuffled his chips every time he was dealt a good hand. I could tell he had decent cards by his body language.”

“In other words, you can read me the same way you read that poker player?”

“Yes,” she answered smugly.

Troy was enjoying this. “Would it be divulging too much to ask what my ‘tell’ is?“

She smiled again and stopped knitting for a moment. Leaning forward slightly, she said, “You squint.“

“I most certainly do not,” Troy said.

“Oh, but, Troy, you do. Your eyes narrow and you frown. It’s like you’re trying to read tiny, tiny print.”

As if to prove the opposite, he widened his eyes, which made Faith laugh outright.

“When did you first see this ‘tell’ of mine?”

“Christmas.“

The only real interaction he could remember was at the Christmas tree farm, where Megan and Craig had dragged
him for their annual outing. Faith had been with her son and her grandchildren, and they’d met there.

“Can you be more precise?”

She lowered her eyes as though her knitting suddenly demanded her full attention. “The night I ran into you at the tree farm,” she said.

So he was right. “Ah, yes.”

“I knew the instant I saw you that you didn’t want to be there.”

That much was true. The only reason he’d gone was for Megan’s sake. The choosing and chopping down of the Christmas tree had long been a family tradition, and although he’d tried to beg off, his daughter had insisted.

“You were furious with me, as I recall.”

“Yes, I was,” she said.

“But you aren’t anymore, right?”

Faith shook her index finger at him. “You aren’t going to distract me. We were talking about your ‘tell,’ remember?”

He gestured toward her. “By all means, continue.”

“As I was saying,” she said, her mouth quivering with a smile. “You squint. You squinted that night when you saw me.”

“And you pretended you hadn’t noticed me.”

“Not as successfully as I’d hoped,” she said, amusement still evident on her face.

He grinned, too. “I guess this means I should never play poker,” he said lightly.

“Not with me, you shouldn’t,” she told him, as her fingers moved quickly, looping the yarn onto the needles.

Troy had never asked her what she was knitting. He thought of the socks she’d made him; he still wore them but never without a pang of nostalgia—and remorse.

He reluctantly set his coffee aside. “Nothing’s been going on around here, has it?”

Faith looked away. “Nothing of significance.”

“Faith…”

Sighing heavily, she stared down at her knitting. “Someone, probably a kid trying to make trouble, overturned my garbage can. No harm done.”

Troy rubbed his face. “I wish I knew why you’ve been targeted for this vandalism.”

“I wish I did, too.”

“If only we—”

“I’ve done everything you’ve suggested,” she broke in, a bit defensively. “Scott was over last week and set up motion detector lights over the garage. Don’t worry, Troy, nothing’s happened since my tires got slashed.”

“Good.” He stood and glanced at the door. “You’ll call if anything else comes up?”

“I will,” she promised.

“I mean it, Faith.”

She walked him to the door and wrapped her arms around him. Troy held her close, loath to release her. He wanted to kiss her, but needed a sign, an indication that she wanted his kiss. It came a few seconds later when she turned her lips to his. Their mouths met softly—sweet and comforting. They’d known passion, but this gentleness was different and in some ways better, although he wouldn’t have thought that possible.

When he ended the kiss, he pressed his chin against her hair and breathed in her perfume, wondering when he’d see her again. Or would he have to find another convenient excuse to visit?

Ten minutes later Troy pulled into his own driveway. He couldn’t remember a single detail of the ride between
Faith’s house on Rosewood Lane and his own place at 92 Pacific Boulevard. His conversation with Charlotte Rhodes that afternoon weighed heavily on his mind. He needed time to consider the information she’d given him, to think it through.

As Troy stepped out of his car, he realized there was a second vehicle parked outside his house. The doors opened and two men emerged. Because it was dark and the porch light dim, Troy couldn’t immediately identify them. Then he recognized one as the mayor; the other was his brother, the attorney.

“Louie,” Troy said, extending his hand to the mayor. “Otto.“

“I want you to know,” Otto said gruffly, “as my brother’s attorney, I advised him against this, but he insisted.“

Troy nodded. “Would you like to go down to the station?” he asked the mayor.

“No.”

Louie was pale, and sweat had broken out on his forehead.

“I want to talk to you,” Louie said. “Privately.“

Troy hesitated. “We’ve known each other a long time. If you’re asking me to—“

“My brother hasn’t admitted to any wrongdoing.”

“Otto,” Louie barked. “Just let me tell him. If he needs to arrest me, then so be it. I’m not asking for any personal favors.” He looked directly at Troy. “I’d prefer to talk here, if that’s all right. If you want me to repeat what I tell you over at the station, then I will.“

“Agreed.” Troy showed them into the chilly house, switched on the lights and turned up the heat, then gestured for the two men to sit down.

Louie perched on the edge of the sofa; Otto sat next to him, his back straight, his expression guarded.

“I’m not sure where to start,” the mayor said, glancing up at Troy. His hands dangled between his parted knees.

“You saw Charlotte Rhodes stop by my office earlier this afternoon, didn’t you?”

“No,” Louie said starkly. “She came to see me afterward and suggested I speak to you.” He gave a long sigh. “I figured it was either come to you and tell my story or wait for you to seek me out. I’d rather clear this up once and for all. I don’t want it hanging over my head anymore.”

“My brother can’t be held responsible—”

Louie raised a hand to silence his brother. “I’ll do the talking. I appreciate that you’re here, Otto, but I’m going to do it my own way.”

“I—”

Again Louie silenced his brother, this time with a look.

Troy settled back and waited.

“I married my first wife while I was in college,” Louie said.

Troy didn’t know the mayor had been married more than once. Donna had been Louie’s wife for as long as he could recall.

“My marriage to Beverly wasn’t good,” Louie told him. “My wife had…medical problems.”

“What my brother’s trying to say,” Otto cut in, “is that Beverly had
emotional
problems. Or, more accurately, psychiatric ones.”

“She was agoraphobic,” Louie said as if his brother hadn’t spoken. “In the beginning, everything seemed fine. Beverly was shy and she didn’t like being around a
lot of people but that didn’t bother me. After we were married I realized this tendency of hers was more than simple aversion. To be fair, we had a few good months together.” Louie paused, sighing, before he went on. “I was about to graduate from college and we decided it was time to start our family.”

“That’s when the trouble began,” Otto said. “And—”

Louie cast his brother another quelling look and Otto didn’t complete the sentence.

“As I was saying,” Louie continued, “Beverly got pregnant easily enough but miscarried in the third month. Losing the pregnancy devastated her.”

Troy remembered how hard Sandy’s miscarriage had been on both of them, and more recently, how painful the loss of Megan’s baby had been. He nodded sympathetically.

“Afterward she withdrew completely. I couldn’t get her to leave the house.”

Otto leaned forward and added, “Louie did everything he could for her—to no avail. He couldn’t persuade her to see a psychiatrist, and the problem got worse and worse.”

“By then Beverly and I had no relationship to speak of. Some days she didn’t get out of bed.” Louie rubbed his palms together as if to warm his hands. “It didn’t help that her younger sister—who wasn’t married—got pregnant. The father was some sailor she met during Seafair in Seattle. Here today and gone tomorrow. Apparently Amber didn’t bother to ask his name. She didn’t want the baby, but Beverly did. She told her we’d raise the child. I was willing to adopt Amber’s child,” Louie said, “hoping that a baby would give me back the woman I married.”

“Did you legally adopt the baby?”

“No,” he said, sighing once more. “That meant Beverly would have to leave the house—go to court, for one thing—and she refused to do that.”

Troy nodded, indicating that his friend should go on.

“When the child was born with Down syndrome, it made no difference to Beverly. She mothered him, gave him all her love and attention.”

“But nothing changed,” Otto said. “Beverly was still a recluse.”

“Her only joy was her sister’s son,” Louie said. “She doted on him, loved and pampered him and then—”

Troy interrupted with a question. “You stayed in the marriage?”

Louie looked away, then finally shook his head. “Eventually we divorced.”