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‘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 (#ulink_795fbdcc-9bc1-502e-82f1-1ef640c87c78)
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.’
