Starks' Reality (4 page)

“Where are the shells from last night?”

“
Outside behind the bar.”

“Have they been washed
yet?”

“I don’t think so
.”

He nodded. “If I were you, I’d p
ut the shells on ice. Then you’ll be able to hand them over for testing if it comes to that.”

Not a bad
idea. At least Coop’s wouldn’t get closed down without a reason.

“Yeah. Thanks.” Heather hurried back inside and
grabbed a pair of rubber gloves.

When she emerged from the house, s
he found Starks still standing in the yard.

“Is there something else?” she asked.

“I thought I’d help you.”

“I don’t need help.”

“I don’t mind.” He followed her down the path to the bar. The tone of his voice left no room for refusal. The man was definitely used to being in control, which was more than a little irritating.

~~**~~**~~

The pile of oyster shells wasn’t hard to find; a warm Gulf breeze carried the smell.

“Do you have another pair of gloves?” Jake asked.

Heather Cooper shot an annoyed glare at him before climbing the back stairs, unlocking a storage room, and stepping inside.

When she emerged, she tossed a handful of burlap sacks on the ground beside the shells, handed him a pair of rubber gloves, and then grabbed a shovel from under the edge of the porch.

“Do you have any plastic garbage bags?” he asked.

“Why?”

“If the shells are contaminated, you don’t want the juice all over the place, do you?”

She
definitely didn’t like it when he was right. Jake did his best not to grin.

Heather dropped the shovel, marched back into the storage room, and returned in a few minutes with a box of trash bags.

Jake pulled out a bag, opened it, and fitted it inside one of the burlap sacks. Then he knelt beside the shells and held the bag open. Heather filled it carefully.

As he tied the top of the plastic bag, he glanced up at the woman standing over him. She waited with one hand on the shovel handle and the other fisted on her hip. The cut-off shorts she wore frayed high on muscular, brown thighs. Her short white T-shirt revealed a sexy slice of stomach, and the worn fabric clung to her breasts. She hadn’t yet braided her hair; it hung in a long ponytail in front of her shoulder. He nearly fell over when his gaze made it up to her face and he found her studying him through narrowed eyes.

Mentally shaking himself, Jake returned his attention to his work. He used a piece of string to tie the top of the burlap sack, carefully wrapping it five times before tying a square knot, as he would all of them. If anyone opened the sacks, he’d know it.

Since the plastic bags were smaller than oyster sacks, the shells ended up in six bags. Carrying two at a time, Jake followed Heather into the storage room. They stacked the sacks in an empty half of a large, upright,
metal cooler. In two trips, they had the shells safely stashed.

“Deuce?”

Heather closed the steel door and walked out to the porch. “Yeah?”

“What are you doing over here so early?” Coop stood in a tie-dyed shirt and khaki shorts, his hair not brushed and his eyes blood-shot and swollen. Jake recognized the look; the man had been drunk when he went to bed.

“Ed Taylor’s sick. Chief Starks thinks it’s food poisoning.”

“Oh, shit,” Coop said, pushing his hair back from his forehead. “Is Ed all right?”

Jake removed the rubber gloves and stopped beside Heather. “We don’t know, yet. He was unconscious when the ambulance arrived.”

“Oh, man, that’s bad. He’s pretty old.” Coop shook his head. “Is it something we did?”

“We don’t know that yet, either,” he said. “So we thought we’d bag the oyster shells in case they need to be tested.”

“Good idea. Where did you put them?”

Heather motioned with her head. “In the cooler.”

Coop nodded.

Handing Heather the gloves, Jake turned and started down the steps. “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Coop said, extending his hand.

Jake accepted the handshake, and then glanced up at Heather. “Thanks for the coffee.”

She nodded slightly, her lips pursed tightly together.

Leaving father and daughter behind the building, he walked around the bar and across the parking lot, and followed the road to his own house.

He thought about Heather Cooper as he walked. For whatever reason, she worked at giving h
im a cold shoulder. Good thing. She could easily distract him.

As she was doing at that moment.

Refocusing, he considered calling the hospital again, but realized it was probably too early to get any questions answered. He had plenty of time to visit Tucker first.

Jake
swallowed hard.

~~**~~**~~

For the past half hour, guilt had burned like molten lava in Heather’s stomach. When Starks told her about Ed Taylor, her first response was to worry about herself and her father. When Coop heard the news, he asked about Ed.

She felt like a cold-hearted b
itch. But someone had to worry about Coop and he wouldn’t do it himself. The responsibility had always fallen to her. It had become a habit over the course of her life.

“The eggs are great,” he said, pointing with his fork. “You ought to try them.”

Heather glanced down at her plate. “I’m not hungry.”

“Don’t worry, Deuce, I’m sure Ed will be all right. He’s a strong old buzzard.”

She stared at her father. The man smiled at her with a sweet naiveté as he chewed.

“It’s not Ed Taylor I’m worried about,” she said. “If he got sick on our food, they’ll shut us down.”

“Aw
, don’t get worked up. I’m sure everything will be okay.”

She stiffened. “How can you say that?”

“It’s true. One way or the other, it’ll all work out. Life’s too short to worry.”

Heather huffed as exasperation replaced her guilt. The man was impossible.

Coop pushed his plate to hers and scooped her eggs onto it. “You sure you don’t want these?”

She
carried her plate to the sink. “What should I tell Tran?”

Coop shrugged. “I’ll tell him what’s going on when I see him at the dock.”

“You’re going fishing?” How could he even consider leaving at a time like this?

“
There’s a big one out there with my name on it.”

Heather shook her head as she washed her plate and silverware. No matter how hard she tried, she’d never figure out her father.

“I like the new chief,” Coop said. “What do you think of him?”

“I don’t,” she said.

“He seems like he’s on the ball. To me, that is.”

She spun around. “He’s a cop in Port Boyer. He’s no different than any other cop in this stupid place. Have you forgotten what happened last year?”

The childish joy disappeared from her father’s face. “I remember. But maybe Boudreaux was right.”

“About what? About you asking for broken ribs? Or about me begging him
for sex?”

He frowned. “N
ot about you. But he may have been right about me. I might have been out of control. I don’t remember anything about that afternoon.”

“You
really
think you started a fight with Tran?” The whole thing had been so absurd, she couldn’t believe he still doubted the truth.

Coop dropped his fork into his plate and rose quickly. “You don’t know,” he muttered, as he hurried from the kitchen. The screen door screeched and bounced against the doorframe.

Heather sighed as she picked up his plate and scraped it into the scrap bowl. She knew better than to discuss certain subjects with her father, like the episode a year earlier that had landed him in the hospital. She always got mad, and he always withdrew. When would she learn to keep quiet?

As she washed the plate, she gazed out the window. Starks drove by in a sporty black car and turned onto Main Street. He glanced in her direction as he passed.

~~**~~**~~

The only business open on Main Street at nine o’clock Saturday morning was the bakery. People walking toward the door stared at Jake as he drove by.
How long would it take for the novelty to wear off?

Probably longer than he’d be around.

North of town, a narrow paved road ran to the bay and then ringed it north and east. Several houses nudged the shore, forty or fifty yards from the road. Slowing at each driveway, Jake checked mailboxes until he found one stenciled
D. Tucker
. He turned in and drove the dirt road to the end.

Tucker’s house balanced atop numerous posts that could have
once been telephone poles. Dark wood siding, rows of trees, and a brown metal roof helped hide the place from prying eyes on the road. A long ramp ran back and forth in front of the house joining the front porch to the driveway where a dark blue Chevy van sat parked in the shade.

Opting for the stairs to the right of the ramp, Jake climbed slowly, his heart racing.
He hadn’t seen Dave Tucker in years—long enough to forget how to handle the guilt. When they’d ridden together, he’d been able to tell the man anything. In fact, he’d felt more comfortable with Tucker than with his own wife.

A single bullet had changed everything.

The front door, propped open, revealed a neat but sparse living room and no sign of life. Jake knocked. “Tucker?”

“Ace? Is that you?”

Dave Tucker rounded the corner into the room, pushing the large wheels of his chair with practiced ease. He’d grown a moustache that was just a shade darker than his blond hair, and he’d put on a few pounds. Otherwise, he looked the same as he had eight years earlier.

“Son of a bitch, it’s good to see you,” Tucker said.

Jake met him in the middle of the room and extended a hand.

Tucker grabbed it and yank
ed him into a hug, slapping his back hard enough to nearly knock the wind out of him. “Damn, I’m glad you’re here.”

Jake straightened. “You look good.”

“I feel good. It’s the salt in the air. Cleanses the soul.” Tucker nodded toward a glass door. “Come on out here. I want to show you what I do for fun these days.”

Before they made it across the room, a woman emerged from the back of the house. She was young, maybe
early twenties, with long black hair, warm brown eyes, and flawless skin. She smiled at Jake, and then turned to Tucker who had spun his wheelchair in her direction.

“Lydia, this is Jake Starks. He was
my partner for six years. Best damn cop in Dallas.” He looked up at Jake. “This is Lydia Gonzales. She helps me survive this heaven. You’ll have to come over when I talk her into making chicken tamales. They’re out of this world.”

The young woman dropped her gaze and blushed. “Is there anything else you need?” she asked quietly.

“No, thanks. I’ll be fine. See you this afternoon?”

She nodded and
hurried from the house.

As soon as she’d left, they continued their path toward the door. Tucker slid it open and rolled onto a large porch that faced the rising sun. Jake followed.

The house seemed poised on the edge of the bay, ready to dive in. Directly below, a pier extended twenty feet from the shore, and tied to it was a sleek fiberglass boat, white with blue and brown markings.

Jake leaned forward with his elbows on the handrail and peered down at the
vessel.

“That’s my baby,” Tucker said. “A
Glastron GX185. She’s eighteen feet, and runs on a Volvo Penta two-oh-five, four-point-three liter.”

“Nice.”

“Oh, she’s much more than nice. She’s hot. Want to go for a quick trip across the bay?”

“Sur
e, but I’ll have to take a rain check. Business.”

“Yeah?” Tucker turned his chair. “What kind?”

“Nothing big. We hauled a guy off to the hospital this morning. I have to call in for his status.”

“I thought I heard a siren.
Who was it?” A spark of excitement lit Tucker’s green eyes.

“Ed Taylor.”

“Heart attack?”

“Dunno.”

Jake pulled an iron patio chair forward and sat, more comfortable at eye level with his former partner. “Nice place you have here.”

Tucker nodded and smiled. “Yeah, it’s not bad. I can do what I want, don’t have to report to anyone. I’ve got the fastest boat in town, and a sweet young thing who comes in to cook and clean. What more can a man want?”

Two legs that work, that’s what.

Jake gazed out at the water. Several miles away, the far side of the bay looked mostly desolate. A single shack rose above tall grass on the shore, but it appeared to be deserted and falling down. The only discernible movement on the horizon was a windsurfer racing across the mouth of the bay on a Gulf breeze.