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  He groaned, sat up and yanked off his shirt. He stumbled into the locker room where he swapped it for a clean t-shirt, then peeled off his slacks and yanked on his cotton workout shorts. In lieu of blanket and pillow, he grabbed a few towels and trudged to his corner in the gym. Much as he'd like to stay unconscious for the next day and a half, for now, he'd have to settle for the minimum battery-charge allowance. He set his watch alarm for an hour and repositioned his cell where he'd hear it. At the far end of the room, someone was running on a treadmill and the whirr of the belt and the slap of feet set a hypnotic background rhythm. Settling onto the mat, he took deep breaths to clear his mind.

  The morgue disappeared with the second breath. Sarah appeared on the third. He closed his eyes and joined her. Instead of death and disinfectant, he smelled the peach fragrance of her shampoo. Her eyes, blue as the stone in his grandmother's brooch. Her cheeks, sprinkled with freckles. Her lips, lush and full. Her nimble fingers tracing his jaw down his neck to his shoulders. Along his chest, stopping at his nipples. Then lower, lower, along the center line of hair on his torso, teasing his navel, moving lower still. Stroking his cock. Taking it in her hand. In her mouth.

  She whispered his name. "Detective. Sir. Detective Detweiler."

  "Don't be so formal," he mumbled. "Call me Randy."

  "Um, sir. It's me. Greg. Officer Brody."

  Randy drifted upward. "Mmph." His surroundings snapped into focus. A red-faced Greg Brody stood above him, looking pointedly at a spot on the wall beyond.

  "You got a call, sir. They said it was important."

  Given his shorts were sticking up like a pup tent, Randy figured it was a little too late to hide his woody. He sat up, scrubbing his fingers through his hair. "Thanks, Brody."

  "Yes, sir." The man stood there as if he had roots.

  "Brody?"

  "Sir?"

  "You can go now. I'm awake."

  "Oh, right. Yes, sir. I'm going back upstairs." The poor kid practically ran out of the gym.

  Randy gathered up the towels, holding them casually in front of him as he walked—very carefully—to his locker. Damn, he hadn't asked Brody who had called. He conjured thoughts of the autopsy again. He needed his blood supply above his neck.

  * * * * *

  Shortly before closing, the shop emptied out. Sarah took a deep breath. "I'll go find those fall decorations in the storeroom, Jennifer. Holler if you need me."

  She'd barely wrestled the carton off the shelf when Jennifer poked her head into the room. "There's someone here asking about Hugh Garrigue's pottery. He wants to talk to you."

  Sarah grabbed a paper towel to wipe the dust from her hands, then finger-combed her hair. She stepped into the front of the store where a portly gentleman with a thick shock of silver-white hair stood, perusing an assortment of handmade paper and bound journals. His dark business suit looked out of place for Pine Hills. He raised his head at her approach, his steel-blue eyes meeting hers from behind wire-rimmed spectacles. "Mrs. Tucker, I presume." Harcourt Pemberton. He handed her a business card. The accent was delightfully British. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger along a thin gray moustache. Diamonds glistened from rings on his pinkies and ring fingers.

  His regal bearing had her instinctively sliding into deferential shopkeeper mode. "Yes, I'm Sarah Tucker. You wanted to speak with me about Hugh Garrigue's pottery, I understand."

  "That's quite right. I was led to believe you would be showcasing his work beginning on Saturday. I wonder if there might be the slightest possibility you would make an exception to your opening date and let me purchase several pieces. Mrs. Pemberton, my wife, dotes on his pottery. Rustic elegance, she calls it. She's been collecting for years. Mr. Garrigue and I have been in communication and he informed me that he would be offering some pieces in a remarkable shade of cobalt blue. I would be prepared to offer a small bonus for your indulgence."

  Sarah ran her finger over the heavyweight rectangle with its embossed lettering. Harcourt Permberton. A meaningless address with one of those quaint house names instead of a street somewhere in England. The Laurels, Ludlam, Shropshire. She gave him her most sympathetic smile.

  "I'm so sorry, Mr. Pemberton. Mr. Garrigue's shipment was delayed due to a personal emergency and I don't have his pottery yet." She gave a confident smile, making a mental note to call and get the UPS tracking number. "His associate assures me it's on its way."

  Mr. Pemberton's face fell. "Oh, dear, that is too bad. I'm passing through this part of the country and I had my heart set on filling out my wife's collection." He lowered his head and peered up at her and paused, as if it embarrassed him to continue. "It's our anniversary, you see. Forty-five years come September."

  Sarah's heart tugged. This was certainly a day for anniversary gifts. "Congratulations. Let me see what I can do. Is there a local address? If you'll describe the pieces you're looking for, I would be happy to ship them as soon as they arrive."

  "Now that does sound like a wonderful idea. I happen to have a sketch of the piece, one provided by Mr. Garrigue." He reached into his inner coat pocket and drew out a folded piece of paper. He carried it to the glass counter and smoothed it out. "I'm looking for a set of pedestal-based coffee mugs. There's a distinctive pattern on them." He tapped the sheet. "A swirl with four stars."

  "May I keep this?" Sarah asked. "I promise as soon as the pieces come in, I'll inventory them and set these aside."

  "Delightful. Mrs. Pemberton will be pleased. I'll be in Seattle in three days' time, on business. You can send them to me in care of the Bellevue Hilton." He patted his pocket. "Oh, dear me. I don't have the address. I take a cab from the airport, you know, and never pay attention to the details."

  "I can look it up," Sarah said. "Don't worry about a thing."

  He peeled a number of bills from a thick stack held in a gold money clip, including more than enough to cover shipping. All he needed was a silver-handled walking stick, Sarah thought, as he spun around and left the shop.

  When the door closed behind him, Jennifer giggled. She snatched the man's card from the counter where Sarah had laid it. "Wow. Right out of the movies, don't you think? I can see him in some stately manor, sipping tea while servants wheel in a cart full of pastries."

  "He's not our typical tourist, I'll give you that," Sarah agreed. "But I think he's kind of cute. Calls his wife Mrs. Pemberton." She could hear Randy referring to her as Mrs. Detweiler.

  God, where had that thought come from?

  She shoved it away. Running her boutique was much less stressful than dealing with a relationship she didn't understand.

  "All right, Jen. Let's get started."

  They worked side by side, arranging and rearranging. Finally, Sarah stood, hands on hips and surveyed the effect. "Perfect," she proclaimed. "Can I treat you to dinner at Sadie's?"

  Jennifer glanced at her wrist. "Wow. Eight-thirty? I had no idea it was so late." She shook her head. "I'd better get home and feed the cats. And Eddie might call. I wish I was working tomorrow. I'd love to see the customers' reactions. I'll bet sales are through the roof."

  Eight months ago, Sarah would have been happy with sales, period. "I'll bet they are. Thanks. See you Saturday."

  The door chimes jingled behind Jennifer's departure. Sarah weighed her options. Dinner alone at home, or dinner alone but with people around at Sadie's Café? No cooking, no dishes. But at home, she could get out of her work clothes and into her comfy sweats. Eat with her feet on the coffee table and watch television. The news.

  The news. Working with Jennifer, she'd forgotten all about Randy's case. Home it would be. She'd find something to nuke and use paper plates, the best of both worlds. But first she gave her answering machine another look and checked her cell phone for missed messages. She swallowed her disappointment that Randy hadn't found time to call.

  Stop it, idiot. He's dealing with murder.

  Murder meant murderers. What if Randy had found the killer? Killers killed people, didn't
they? Not the sort of thing Randy should be mixed up with. But that was his job.

  As she drove home, she glared at her cell phone lying within easy reach beside her, but it remained annoyingly quiet. Her frustration turned to worry when there were no messages on her home phone, either. She tried to tell herself no news was good news. Maggie would have called if she'd heard anything.

  Her appetite gone, she forced herself to eat some soup as she flipped through the television channels. Relief flooded her as one broadcast gave her a glimpse of Randy standing on the top of the steps of the red brick Municipal Building. Judging from the light, it had been taped earlier in the day. He stood, staring into the distance, behind the Chief of Police who was fielding questions from reporters.

  When the segment ended, all she'd learned was the police chief could say nothing in a lot of different ways and Randy looked exhausted. Her stomach clenched. Is this what it would be like if she continued her relationship with Randy? Worry, relief, more worry? Wondering if he didn't call because he couldn't and what might be the reason behind it? Or if he didn't call because he didn't think she needed to know? Or thought she couldn't handle it?

  Then again, Pine Hills was a small town. Not a lot of violent crime. If she was going to hook up with a cop, this might be the safest place to be.

  But was anyone really safe? Look what had happened to David. And to her. There were nutcases everywhere and no guarantees. She would definitely call Janie and arrange a get-together. Someone living the life had to have better advice than Maggie's "love conquers all" attitude.

  Besides, Janie had injected her with a massive dose of the curiosities with her revelation of Kovak's nickname. And maybe if they talked, she could help Janie with whatever was bothering her, too. The tight bands in her stomach eased.

  When the phone rang while she brushed her teeth, she turned from the sink. Randy? No matter. It was late and this couldn't possibly be the first chance he'd had to call to say he was all right. She let the machine pick up.

  Chapter Five

  Randy sat on the edge of his bed, phone to his ear, listening to Sarah's voice from her answering machine. Polite, almost formal, but the sound quickened his pulse. He waited until her message played out, then gently set the receiver in the cradle before the beep.

  Was she asleep? It was almost eleven. She should be in bed. As should he. With her curled up beside him, in his arms. Which was about all he'd be able to manage. He'd been out for all of thirty minutes before Brody had awakened him from his embarrassing dream and now he didn't think even Sarah in the flesh could get a rise out of him. He tugged off his slacks and lay back, trying to clear his mind. Nothing else could be done. They had no clue who their victim was and virtually no leads. Every possible avenue was being explored and until the planet opened for business in the morning, sleep was his priority. He closed his eyes and ran through the afternoon, knowing he wouldn't sleep until he could check everything off his mental list.

  Serial killer was the biggie, but until the ViCAP reports were back, they were spinning their wheels. He drew a big red check in his mind.

  The key from the crime scene. Connor had taken it to Pine Hills' hardware store where Charlie MacGregor proclaimed it belonged to a safe deposit box. Charlie had been around since the discovery of dirt and knew his stuff. What Charlie didn't know was where the box might be. He suggested a bank. The wheels were turning and Connor had accepted the challenge of finding out which banks used that kind of key. Another big red check.

  Stomach contents. Charlotte had reported the stomach contents analysis, but there was nothing unusual enough to give them a lead. Why hadn't the guy dined on some exotic dish that was the special in only one restaurant in the county? No, the vic had eaten an iceberg lettuce salad and spaghetti with meatballs. About as generic a meal as one could find. Check.

  He sighed and pictured the next items on his list. Tox screen. Tire treads. Shoe prints. Trace from under the victim's fingernails. His body sank deeper into the mattress. Bloody Xs and red check marks danced through his dreams and then even the dreams receded into an all-encompassing nothingness.

  * * * * *

  Randy's stride carried him through the doors of the Municipal Building at six fifty-five the next morning, in time for the seven a.m. meeting. Kovak met him in the lobby, two large lattes in hand. He extended one in Randy's general direction, then joined him as they made their way to the staff entrance of the police department.

  "I know black is your thing, but I figured you'd want the extra sugar, and the milk should kill the acid. Besides, I'm willing to bet you didn't have breakfast." Kovak held the door for him.

  Randy lifted his eyebrows, but accepted the cup. "I'm beginning to think we've been working together too long."

  "You trained me, big guy."

  "After eight years I think we're equals. Two years' seniority is meaningless at this point."

  They arrived at Laughlin's outer office. His secretary motioned them to sit. "He's on the phone."

  Randy sank into a chair and eyed his partner. "You're looking well-rested. I trust you got some sleep."

  "Crashed when I got home. Janie woke me for dinner, then…well, she does have a way of relieving stress. I slept like a baby the rest of the night."

  Chief Laughlin called them in. "Sit."

  Kovak flipped one of the wooden chairs around and straddled it. Randy took the second, perching on the edge.

  "Report," Laughlin said.

  After they related what they had learned—or hadn't learned—yesterday, Laughlin leaned forward. "I don't mean this as a slight. I trust your work and I know you two have skills to match any detective on any force in the country. What we don't have in Pine Hills are the resources. The county has the lab, the equipment and a hell of a lot more financial support." He paused.

  An icicle stabbed Randy in the gut. "Are you pulling us from the case?"

  Laughlin searched the ceiling. "Not in so many words."

  "Damn it, Chief, what's that supposed to mean?" Randy said. "How many words does it take? Are we on the case or not? The body was found in our jurisdiction."

  "Cool your jets, Detweiler. You were glad for county's help yesterday."

  "For their help, yes. But it sounds to me as if you're saying now we're helping them. Unless I'm mistaken, the sheriff is up for election and he's going to want to take the limelight on this one. We'll be cut out."

  Laughlin's eyes narrowed to ice-blue slits. "I thought our goal was to solve crimes and apprehend criminals. Stand for the victims. Or is getting credit for the collar all that matters? Don't tell me you're still stewing about the Gracious Gertie case."

  Randy curled his fingers in to fists and took a slow, steadying breath. "You know I didn't give a damn about who got Gertie. And, if you'll remember, I didn't attach my name to the Westmoreland case when he was brought up on murder charges, either here or in Jersey. I'm not in this for the glory and if you don't know that after ten years, maybe I'm in the wrong job."

  "You're tired, Detweiler and I'm going to pretend you didn't use that tone with me." He sat back in his chair and folded his hands on his desk. "Kovak, you have anything to say?"

  Kovak's gaze moved from the chief to Randy and back. "I agree with Randy, sir, although I do understand that county has a lot more resources, and we're used to outsourcing the sophisticated forensics. I don't think either one of us wants to catch this perp for the glory. But we're concerned our citizens might lose some faith in our ability to protect them if we back down when things get complicated and we most certainly don't want this case to become a pawn in any political games."

  Laughlin's eyebrows rose to inverted Vs as he turned his eyes to Randy. "You might take a lesson from your colleague. A little tact goes a long way." He shifted his gaze to Kovak. "You're dismissed. Start pulling together everything we have."

  "On it, sir." He got to his feet, reversed the chair and moved toward the door.

  Randy rose.

  "Not
you, Detweiler."

  Shit. He'd pushed too far. Kovak gave him a look that said, "Glad it's not me," and hurried out of the office, closing the door behind him.

  Randy remained standing, eyes fixed on the wall behind Laughlin, shoulders thrust back. "I apologize, sir. You're right. I haven't had much sleep the last few days and I'm afraid it's affecting my temper. You have my word it won't happen again."

  The chief tapped a piece of paper on his desk. "This is for your ears only right now. Our fiscal year is almost over. The bean counters at City Hall are pushing to dissolve the force. Contract out to the sheriffs for all our law enforcement needs, not just the high-tech stuff."

  "What?" Stunned, Randy dropped into his chair.

  "It's still at the rumor phase. I've got my sources. But they're examining every bean. As of the end of the week, we are officially over budget and I'm going to have to cancel unauthorized overtime. What we can't do is spend our money on things the county can do cheaper and faster."

  Randy let that one roll around in his head. Why had the chief ordered Kovak out of the room? "They're going to want to downsize, aren't they? With no overtime and less manpower, we're not going to be able to do our jobs, which will prove to the council we're not worth the budget. That's a Catch-22."

  "I agree, but there's talk along those lines, yes."

  "Have they run the figures? How much it will cost to hire out the county cops?"

  Laughlin held his hands up. "Hey, don't preach to the choir here." He tapped the paper again. "It's early, but every now and again you have to fix something before it's broken. Preventive maintenance."

  "Well I'd like to see the town council when our guys have used up their quota of hours. Like the creeps stop at five p.m. and don't commit crimes on weekends? What happens when the county's dealing with its crime load and we're on the back burner? You think they're going to come out when Mrs. Malloy thinks someone's peeking in her bathroom window, or Fred Colfax's mini-mart is vandalized? Find Lizzie Greenbaum when she wanders away from the Senior Center? Is it worth what little they might save?"