flashing. “Where can I find the sheriff?” she asked.
“He’ll be back Monday,” the young deputy said. His badge read C. J ENSEN . “Come on to headquarters and we’ll write up your complaint. Or, Jack’s complaint. Or…” He stopped. Confused.
Erin steeled her spine.
“This can’t wait until Monday. I need to see him now.”
“Ma’am, I’m sorry. He’s not here.” But he’d blinked. Weakening.
She stuck her hands on her hips. “And does he have a phone?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And do you know how to dial his number?”
“Well, yes.”
“Then do it.”
Somewhere in the distance, funky music played. Nick stirred, lying on the floor of the cabin. A tequila bottle lounged in his fingers, cigarette butts littered the hearth of the fireplace. His brain sloshed at the bottom of his skull.
A minute passed and the music stopped. He climbed to his feet and humped to a chair—a rickety wooden grab from a yard sale three years ago. There was a table, too, also with one leg shorter than the other. “A matched set,” the seller had said, right before Nick gave him ten dollars for all three pieces of junk. The third was an old mattress on the floor in front of the fireplace.
Otherwise, the cabin was empty. Nick had paid a guy to haul away the Italian leather sofa and chairs, the cherrydining room set, the king-size bed in the master bedroom and the princess furniture in the adjoining room. A salvage guy had even pulled out the carpet and molding.
The music came again and Nick frowned. It seemed to be coming from his ass. He shifted and it got louder. It
was
coming from his ass.
He pulled the phone from his hip pocket, cursed at the number. Chris Jensen. He opened the phone and snarled into it. “What the hell are you doing, calling me?”
“Sheriff—”
“It’s not Monday yet. Leave me alone.”
“Sheriff, we have a situation.”
“Is Hannah okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“My mom okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Has Hopewell been attacked by terrorists, burned down, or washed away in a flood?” That long of a speech actually left him dizzy.
“No, sir.”
Then Nick remembered, and an instant of sobriety threatened. “Did they find the son of a bitch who killed Carrie Sitton?”
“Uh, no. But there is one thing on that. Turns out she was a friend of Rebecca Engel’s.”
“Friend?”
“Carrie was on her way home from Rebecca’s house when she was murdered. Cleveland cops were down here interviewing Rebecca today.”
Aw, hell. Rebecca Engel lived in Hopewell. She was Nick’s. Too close, too close.
Jensen went on. “Rebecca didn’t know anything about Carrie’s plans after she left the house. They met doingsome barhopping up in Cleveland and had started hanging out a little. Sheriff Bell is putting two of his men with the Cleveland Robbery-Homicide team. They’ve got a pretty good group working it.”
Uneasiness roiled in Nick’s belly and that alone pissed him off. He shouldn’t be feeling it. At this advanced stage of this particular weekend, he shouldn’t be feeling anything. And yet, after two days of deliberate self-destruction, he’d identified the music in his ass as his phone, formulated coherent sentences, and felt something in his chest that bordered on true emotion.
Not acceptable. It was Saturday night. He still had thirty-six more hours before he was back on duty.
“Sheriff,” Jensen said, and a chair creaked in his ear. Nick recognized it as the one at the front desk at the station. “There’s a request here for you to check something for a case pending in Florida. It came in yesterday but you were gone already so Valeria left it on your desk. She was afraid to call you.”
“Smart woman.”
“And now there’s someone here insisting that you follow up on it. She says it’s urgent. It’s about Jack Calloway.”
A thread of interest threatened to unravel but Nick squelched it. There wasn’t one fucking thing that happened in Hopewell, Ohio that
“He’ll be back Monday,” the young deputy said. His badge read C. J ENSEN . “Come on to headquarters and we’ll write up your complaint. Or, Jack’s complaint. Or…” He stopped. Confused.
Erin steeled her spine.
“This can’t wait until Monday. I need to see him now.”
“Ma’am, I’m sorry. He’s not here.” But he’d blinked. Weakening.
She stuck her hands on her hips. “And does he have a phone?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And do you know how to dial his number?”
“Well, yes.”
“Then do it.”
Somewhere in the distance, funky music played. Nick stirred, lying on the floor of the cabin. A tequila bottle lounged in his fingers, cigarette butts littered the hearth of the fireplace. His brain sloshed at the bottom of his skull.
A minute passed and the music stopped. He climbed to his feet and humped to a chair—a rickety wooden grab from a yard sale three years ago. There was a table, too, also with one leg shorter than the other. “A matched set,” the seller had said, right before Nick gave him ten dollars for all three pieces of junk. The third was an old mattress on the floor in front of the fireplace.
Otherwise, the cabin was empty. Nick had paid a guy to haul away the Italian leather sofa and chairs, the cherrydining room set, the king-size bed in the master bedroom and the princess furniture in the adjoining room. A salvage guy had even pulled out the carpet and molding.
The music came again and Nick frowned. It seemed to be coming from his ass. He shifted and it got louder. It
was
coming from his ass.
He pulled the phone from his hip pocket, cursed at the number. Chris Jensen. He opened the phone and snarled into it. “What the hell are you doing, calling me?”
“Sheriff—”
“It’s not Monday yet. Leave me alone.”
“Sheriff, we have a situation.”
“Is Hannah okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“My mom okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Has Hopewell been attacked by terrorists, burned down, or washed away in a flood?” That long of a speech actually left him dizzy.
“No, sir.”
Then Nick remembered, and an instant of sobriety threatened. “Did they find the son of a bitch who killed Carrie Sitton?”
“Uh, no. But there is one thing on that. Turns out she was a friend of Rebecca Engel’s.”
“Friend?”
“Carrie was on her way home from Rebecca’s house when she was murdered. Cleveland cops were down here interviewing Rebecca today.”
Aw, hell. Rebecca Engel lived in Hopewell. She was Nick’s. Too close, too close.
Jensen went on. “Rebecca didn’t know anything about Carrie’s plans after she left the house. They met doingsome barhopping up in Cleveland and had started hanging out a little. Sheriff Bell is putting two of his men with the Cleveland Robbery-Homicide team. They’ve got a pretty good group working it.”
Uneasiness roiled in Nick’s belly and that alone pissed him off. He shouldn’t be feeling it. At this advanced stage of this particular weekend, he shouldn’t be feeling anything. And yet, after two days of deliberate self-destruction, he’d identified the music in his ass as his phone, formulated coherent sentences, and felt something in his chest that bordered on true emotion.
Not acceptable. It was Saturday night. He still had thirty-six more hours before he was back on duty.
“Sheriff,” Jensen said, and a chair creaked in his ear. Nick recognized it as the one at the front desk at the station. “There’s a request here for you to check something for a case pending in Florida. It came in yesterday but you were gone already so Valeria left it on your desk. She was afraid to call you.”
“Smart woman.”
“And now there’s someone here insisting that you follow up on it. She says it’s urgent. It’s about Jack Calloway.”
A thread of interest threatened to unravel but Nick squelched it. There wasn’t one fucking thing that happened in Hopewell, Ohio that