Saving Scott (Kobo) (2 page)

Maggie
thrust the plate of scones toward Ashley. “Like I said, there can’t be a
connection. Sarah’s ex-boyfriend was sabotaging her shop. But that was
personal, and he’s in prison now, so there’s no reason to think he could
possibly be involved.” She smiled and patted Ashley’s hand. “Like you said,
Carl probably hired too many klutzes. False economy, of course. They might work
cheaper, but he’s paying the price.”

“This
ex-boyfriend. You said he’s in prison?”

Maggie
grinned. “In New Jersey. Randy put him away but good.”

“On the off
chance there might actually be a connection, what’s his name?”

“Christopher
Westmoreland. Do you know him?”

Ashley tried
to think. Could he have been someone connected to her ex-fiancé? Nothing
registered. “Never heard of him. I guess you’re right about the Klutz Brigade.
I hope Carl gets everything together for the grand opening.”

Maggie
leaned forward. “Well, maybe I can help. I’ve got an idea.”

Scott Whelan
bit back a curse as pain shot through his leg, sending black spots dancing
through his field of vision. He sucked in a breath. The woman paying more attention
to her cell phone than to where she was going hadn’t hit him hard, just enough
to throw him off balance, and his injured leg protested when he’d tried to
compensate.

“No problem,”
Mr. Spencer had said to the woman.

Yeah,
right. Not for you.

The manager
continued his monologue as he led Scott to an apartment down the hall. Scott
forced a polite smile and tried to focus on the man’s interminable chatter
while he gave the place a quick once-over. The furnished unit was standard
motel issue, but Scott didn’t expect to be doing any formal entertaining. And
the complex boasted—actually, Spencer did all the boasting—a fitness complex
with a Jacuzzi. Scott was already looking forward to a long, hot dip in the
whirlpool. Plus, he could rent here month to month. No commitment.

Scott had
planned to wait at least a week or two before deciding whether to pick up and
move to Pine Hills, but this morning had convinced him sooner was better than
later. Since his injuries, it took him a good hour to get moving in the
morning. A painful hour. Add that to an hour commute—no way.

“Thanks, Mr.
Spencer. How soon can I move in?”

It took the
man a full two sentences of his pre-packaged spiel for Scott’s words to
register. His eyes widened behind his glasses.

“I have to
be at work soon,” Scott said. “I’d like to get this done.”

Spencer
recovered quickly enough. “Sure thing. Come on to my office and we’ll take care
of everything. This is the model, you understand. But I’ve got one ready to go
on the third floor.”

“I’d prefer
a ground floor unit, if you’ve got one.”

Spencer
glanced at Scott’s leg. “Sorry, nothing down here. But there are two elevators.
And there’s a laundry room on that floor. We can take a look if you’d like.”

“It’s the
same as this one?” Scott said.

Spencer smiled.
“Identical. Maybe a bit nicer. Only one tenant, and everything’s been
repainted. New carpet, too.”

Scott gave
the man his cop stare. The one that said if things didn’t live up to the
description, there would be hell to pay. Spencer didn’t flinch.

Scott
nodded. “Then let’s sign the papers.”

After
dealing with the inevitable paperwork, Scott took his keys upstairs and entered
his new, if temporary, home. Mr. Spencer hadn’t exaggerated. The fresh paint
smell still lingered. Vacuum tracks patterned the neutral
brownish-grayish-bluish carpet. The only sound was the hum of the refrigerator.
The empty refrigerator.

His stomach
rumbled. He needed to grab something to eat before his appointment with Chief
Laughlin.

Inside the
elevator, Scott leaned against the rear wall of the car—his new, normal
posture—and cursed his weaknesses.

Suck it
up. You’re alive.

Scott made a
quick pass through town, getting the lay of the land. A bank, an insurance
company, a hardware store. No fast food joints. So much for a quick lunch.

He turned
down the next street, where redbrick was replaced by what appeared to be old,
converted homes. Something like his grandmother had lived in. What the hell was
Felicitea? He slowed. A tea shop. A bit frou-frou for his taste, judging from
the delicate cups and flowery china teapots. Gold Needle. Sewing stuff. Another
one he wouldn’t be frequenting. A bookstore held some promise. That Special
Something? Some kind of gift shop, it looked like. Next to that one, he saw a
construction project underway. No telling what that would be; the window was
boarded up. Still, growth was good.

He found the
one chain supermarket in town and hurried inside, trying to ignore his
protesting leg. He ordered a roast beef sandwich from the deli counter and
started eating as he went back to his car.

Scott found
a slot in the public lot behind the redbrick Pine Hills Municipal Building. A
cluster of marked patrol cars and a van marked “Criminal Investigations” sat at
the west end of the building. He assumed that’s where the police department
was. A department too small to have its own building. He sighed.

He pulled
open the door and stepped inside. And back in time about thirty years. Memories
smacked him like a blow from a patrolman’s baton.

Although he
was due in Laughlin’s office in minutes, he paused long enough to take in the
polished tile floors, the worn wooden benches, and the faint smell of
disinfectant in the lobby. In the far corner, a man in blue coveralls wielded a
string mop over a patch of floor, wrung the mop out in a bucket on wheels, then
placed a yellow plastic sign warning the public to be careful. His father had
worked in a building not unlike this one, scraping gum off the floors, waxing
the benches, and scrubbing the bathrooms. Scott recalled too many Saturdays
when he’d sat on one of those benches, waiting for his father to finish,
wishing he could be at the playground with the other kids.

Walking past
signs for the DMV, Traffic Court, and assorted legal offices, he headed for the
entrance to the police department, pausing at a drinking fountain to pop
another pain pill.

He wiped his
mouth with the back of his hand and covered the last few feet to the door. He
did a quick personal inventory. Slacks pressed. Clean shirt. Neatly knotted
tie. Sport coat. He ran a finger along his freshly shaved jaw.
See, LT. I’m
not being stupid. Proud of me?

Taking a
deep breath, he pulled his body erect and twisted the knob.
Pine Hills, get
ready for your newest civilian employee.

The desk
clerk motioned Scott inside. “This way, sir,” she said.

Scott
followed her to a door with an old-fashioned frosted glass window and gilt
lettering proclaiming it the office of the Chief of Police. Passing through an
ante-room, empty except for an unused desk, she tapped twice on an inner office
door, opened it and gave the man inside a brief nod before heading back the way
she came.

Scott
stepped inside. The man behind the desk rose. He wore a three-piece suit, tie,
and matching pocket square. Scott wondered if he’d come from a press conference.
No, he’d probably have been in uniform for that kind of occasion. Buzz-cut
hair. Not a large man, but the aura of authority added to his stature. Piercing
steel gray eyes. Eyes of a cop, not a politician.

“I’m Preston
Laughlin. Sorry to keep you waiting. Welcome aboard.” Scott gritted his teeth
as he returned the proffered handshake. Laughlin gestured toward the chair.

Scott
nodded, gripped the armrests, and lowered himself onto the wooden seat.

Laughlin
sat. “I hope we’re not too much of a letdown after working homicide for the
county.”

No way
Laughlin wasn’t aware of Scott’s history. He was skirting the issue, making
polite small talk.

“I
appreciate the opportunity to serve,” Scott said. “Even in a civilian capacity.”
And for the first time, he regretted not doing his homework. He’d accepted LT’s
word that Pine Hills would be a smart move, but in the back of his mind, Scott
had considered it busywork. Something to fill his days. A paycheck to
supplement his pension. Nothing worth taking seriously.

“Let’s get
the formalities over with,” Laughlin said. “You’ll start on the morning shift.
Seven to three.”

“Not a
problem.” Aside from the fact he’d have to get up by five to get his body
moving. But that shouldn’t be permanent. At least that’s what the rehab
therapist had said. Scott was still waiting.

Laughlin
shoved a folder across the desk. “If you’ll fill these out, Doranna will get
you into the system.” He smiled. “Paperwork’s a bitch, but it generates those
paychecks.”

Laughlin
continued talking while Scott filled out the endless forms. “We’re even more
short-handed with Detective Detweiler on his honeymoon.” He frowned. “Town
council has cut our sworn officer budget. Had to cut hours. Two on half-time,
and our civilian staff is down to two per shift. He tilted his chin toward the
empty ante-room. “My secretary was one of the casualties.”

Was he
supposed to play secretary to Laughlin? “I’ll do what I can.”

“Afraid it’ll
include a lot of paperwork.”

Scott looked
up from the forms. “I accepted the position, sir. I do what I’m told.”

Laughlin
gave him a level stare. “I’ll expect nothing less.” He picked up his phone,
punched a few buttons, then spoke. “My office.”

Laughlin’s
tone was civil, but Scott had the feeling he didn’t want to be on the receiving
end of a summons when the man was in a bad mood.

Seconds
later, there were two raps on the outer door, which opened without an
invitation to enter. A man in khakis, a polo, and a badge on a chain around his
neck entered. Under six feet, blonde, with a pale complexion Scott could
empathize with. At least Oregon was a good place to live if you were prone to
sunburn.

The man
nodded at Laughlin, then went through the handshake thing with Scott. By now,
Scott’s arm made it clear it missed its sling, and he promised it a rubdown
later.

“Kovak,” the
man said. “Proud to be working with you.”

Scott gave
the tiniest of nods and kept his expression neutral. The coddling was bad
enough. Hero worship—especially since he didn’t consider himself anything
remotely approaching a hero—was worse.

“I’ll turn
you over to Detective Kovak,” Laughlin said. “He’ll show you around. Once you
cut through all the red tape, you’re free to go. You can report at
oh-seven-hundred tomorrow.” His gaze lingered on Scott long enough to make him
feel uncomfortable. Then Laughlin smiled. “And unless you’re stuck with my job,
we tend to dress more casually here. No need for the tie. Be comfortable.”

Once again,
Scott brought up the rear as Kovak showed him through the various departments
of the station, carrying out introductions. Scott found himself recalling
Laughlin’s words and feeling … comfortable. This was an environment he
recognized, one he felt at home in.

“That’s
about it,” Kovak continued, opening one last door to a room barely large enough
for three desks and a bank of file cabinets. “These are the detective digs. We’re
alternating three and four day shifts, but with the big guy on his honeymoon,
we’re a man short.

“We don’t
have anything like what you’re used to,” Kovak was saying. “Generic detectives.
No homicide squad like where you come from. We had a homicide here last
year—the biggest case this town has seen in decades. Diamond smuggling. Maybe
you remember. County did most of the work.”

Scott gave a
noncommittal shrug. What was big time in Pine Hills was another day at the
office at County. Kovak paused, as if he wanted to say something. Scott
recognized the look.

“Ask it,”
Scott said. “What was it like, right?”

Kovak held
up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Hey, we all wonder what we’d do if we’re
caught in the middle of a clusterfuck.”

“You pray,”
Scott said.

***

“Can you
believe it, Lily?” Ashley tipped her watering can and gave the potted peace
lily on her windowsill a drink. “I don’t know why that didn’t occur to me.” She
moved down the row of plants. “Pretty cool, right, Violet? A brownie bakeoff,
with the winner’s dish showcased on the menu.”

She moved on
to the hanging plants, each sitting in its own intricately knotted web. Tempted
to hurry through her ritual watering process, she forced herself to give each
plant a moment of her undivided attention. Maybe not so undivided, because her
mind spun through a swirl of questions. Would there be time? Or should she
consider a soft opening, and have the bakeoff a week later?

Maggie had
promised to recruit volunteers from her contacts at the Women’s Center. Ashley
hadn’t been aware there
was
a Women’s Center in Pine Hills, much less
what they did, but if Maggie said they could be counted on, that was good
enough for her.

She set the
empty watering can under the sink, then put on a pot of coffee. Sitting at her
kitchen table, she started making notes.

As Ashley
created a to-do list, Maggie’s comments about someone sabotaging Sarah’s shop
insisted on intruding. Maggie had dismissed it as an impossibility, and she was
probably right. But
probably
wasn’t letting Ashley concentrate on her
task. Even if that guy—what was his name?—was still in jail, didn’t they have
ways of communicating with people on the outside?

You’ve
been watching way too many movies. If he was going to do anything, he’d mess
with Sarah’s shop, not yours.

The phone
provided a welcome interruption.