Dead on the Delta (26 page)

“Yes, sir.” The sarcasm is so thick you could cut it with a plastic spoon, proving once again that I am a Mature Adult.

Hitch shakes his head, and smiles an ugly smile. “I should have known this was a dumb idea.”

“Yes, you should have. I don’t need to be saved. Not by you or anyone else.”

“Glad we cleared that up,” he says. “Just keep your mouth shut about what we discussed. If I find out you gave anyone on the DPD a heads-up about the pending internal affairs review or compromised either of our investigations, I’ll—”

“Don’t threaten me. Don’t you dare.” I swallow, torn between the urge to cry and punch Hitch in the gut. Instead I glare my best, skin-melting glare. “I want to find the man who killed Grace, I want to shut down those Breeze houses, and I want my friend out of jail. I want to help. I’ve been trying to help all fucking morning.”

“Good. Then I’ll contact you this afternoon. I’ll suit up and we’ll go have another look at the Breeze house you found and the other three in the area. It will go faster with two people, and there may be places I can’t get to easily in the suit.” He looks as thrilled by the idea of spending the afternoon with me as I feel. “We’ll leave after your review.”

“I can’t. I have … a meeting.”

“Cancel it.”

“I can’t. I have to give Dicker my statement about last night,” I lie, determined to get to the Beauchamps and assure Libby they have the wrong man in custody for her sister’s murder. She should be on the lookout, careful and watchful for bad guys prowling around. Not to mention that I still want to get another look at those footprints under Grace’s window myself.

“Can’t it wait?”

“I’ve already put it off too long. I don’t think he’ll be happy if I tell him I can’t get around to it until tomorrow.” Which is why I’m planning to avoid Dicker or going home to check the messages he’s left on my machine until he’s off duty and it’s too late to call him back.

Hitch sighs. “Then we’ll go right after. If we leave by three there should still be enough time to make it through all the houses before dark. Bring your gun and your camera.”

“I can’t bring the gun.” I cast another longing look at the door. Why hasn’t
someone
come outside? Probably because half the town is watching me argue with the FBI agent through the glass. Damn sunlight. I can’t see anything in the window except a reflection of the street. “My license is expired. I’m not supposed to carry until I get it renewed.”

“Then why are you wearing it?”

“I just found out.”

“You just found out it was expired?” he asks, his expression achieving new levels of disdain.

“I just found out I’d be
arrested
if I keep carrying it with an expired license.”

“Your boyfriend is going to arrest you?” There’s something in Hitch’s voice, the barest hint of jealousy that makes me feel better about my “screw Stephanie” comment.

“He’s not my boyfriend … not anymore.” Is he? Is it really over? The thought makes my throat tight. “I don’t think so, anyway.”

“Oh.” Hitch looks down, as uncomfortable as I am. “Is that because of … ”

“There was a camera in the squad car.” I do my best not to squirm. “He saw what happened.”

“Oh … ” The word hangs in the air, strangling the life out of both of us.

“It’s fine. We’ll work it out.” I grab for the door. I reached my awkward limit ten minutes ago. “So I’ll talk to you la—”

“I can talk to him if you want,” Hitch cuts in. “Last night was a mistake, just a response to stress. We both know there’s nothing between us anymore.”

We do? I loathe this new Hitch as much as I ever loved the old one, but still … There was something in that kiss last night, and there’s something in the way he’s looking at me this morning. Surely this energy between us is more than “nothing?”

“I’m in a relationship; you’re in a relationship. We don’t even like each other,” he says, the confirmation that he can’t stand me hurting more than I expect. “It seems like you two are close. It would be a shame for
you to lose something good because of one little … lapse.”

The irony of his statement is clearly lost on him, and it would be pointless and painful to remind him that one “lapse” was all it took to destroy everything we built in three years of loving each other.

“So, your girlfriend understands?”

“My fiancée,” Hitch says, twisting the knife another quarter-turn. He never asked me to marry him. We talked about “forever,” but he never went down on one knee. Maybe he always considered me a loser on some level, even before what happened with Anton, before I gave him a reason to cut me out of his life. “Stephanie knew before we got here that you and I had a past.”

Oh God. It’s Stephanie. It really is. He’s
engaged
to Stephanie. It makes me physically ill. I’ll probably yarf if I order that cappuccino I’ve been craving all morning.

“She knows life-and-death situations can make people do crazy things.”

“Crazy,” I echo, trying to laugh and failing.

“Crazy and stupid. Things they don’t even want to do.” His expression couldn’t be more serious if he was talking about shooting Breeze. I am a trashy, shameful habit he can’t believe he ever indulged. “Nothing like that will ever happen again. Ever.”

It feels like I’ve been slapped in the face. Worse, even. Amity’s wallop hurt, but it didn’t make me feel so small and misunderstood, so pathetic and exposed.
Hitch hates himself for loving me and considers what happened last night a moment of insanity that was thankfully forgiven by the woman he really loves. Stephanie. Tall, beautiful, has-her-shit-together, FBI agent Stephanie with the dimples and the soft brown eyes. She’s the one he goes home to, laughs with, makes love to.

“I’ll see you this afternoon.” I pull the door open, but Hitch stops me from opening it all the way.

“I mean it. Assuming he isn’t charged with misconduct, if you want me to talk to Cane for you, I—”

“Close the door!” Theresa shouts from inside. “I’m not paying to air-condition the fucking street.”

I slam the door, nearly catching Hitch’s fingers in the process. “I don’t want anything from you. I just want you out of town as fast as possible.”

“Then we’re on the same page.” He steps back with a businesslike nod. “Meet me at the gate near where the body was found at three. We can knock one more thing off the list before we go out to the houses.”

“See you at three.” I open the door and flee into the cool Swallows air, stalking past the usual stool at the front, needing more distance between me and the table full of men at the door. Judging from the harsh whispers that cease the second I step inside, Patrick and his cronies have seen—and maybe even heard—everything.

The backs of my eyes sting and my fingers itch. I can’t remember the last time I felt so embarrassed, so cracked open and leaky. Everything I’ve tried to
become is crumbling all around me. The drama of the past few days has chipped away at my amiable apathy, making me care too much, worry too much, and feel, feel,
feeeeel
more than I ever want to feel again. My muscles ache from all the feeling as much as from my various scuffles.

I slide into a booth at the back and toss my glasses onto the table. I bury my face in my hands and struggle to draw long, smooth breaths. How am I going to make it through this day? How am I going to survive a review conducted by my ex-lover’s new fiancée? Let alone an afternoon with a family that just lost a child and an early evening spent hunting for serial killer mementos and crawling through Breeze houses with a man whose biggest mistake in life was giving a shit if I live or die?

The twin
thunks
of two glasses landing near my elbow make me jump and suck in a breath. I look up to see a glass of water, a gently sweating, thick and spicy Bloody Mary with extra celery, and a grim-faced Theresa.

“Looks like you could use one of these,” she says, wiping her hands on her apron. “It’s Saturday, right?”

I glance at the frosty glass with the liquid calm inside and think about my giant pupils and my review in less than two hours and the big day ahead and all the reasons I should tell Theresa to take the drink away and bring me a cup of coffee and a stack of pancakes. Instead, I wrap my fingers around the Bloody and pull it close.

“Make it two. And a plate of spicy sausage and toast.” Vodka doesn’t tell on the breath and the spicy sausage will finish the job of keeping my adult breakfast between me, Theresa, and the darkest corner of Swallows.

“Got it, honey. Out in ten.” Theresa bustles away, narrow hips twitching, as I tip the glass back and pour a little peace down my throat.

Fuck Hitch and his judgment and labels and holier-than-thou attitude. I don’t have a problem; I have a habit. A habit that holds the fear and sadness at a distance, a habit that keeps me from turning into one of the crazy folks who yell at invisible people on the street corner.

Invisible people.
Shit.

I down the rest of my drink so fast my brain freezes, temples exploding with cold, agony flowing down into my neck. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I growl beneath my breath as I dig my fingers into my eyes, hunching my shoulders as I wait for the spell to pass.

The moment is so intense that I nearly miss the soft cry and the scuff of shoes on the tile floor. By the time I open my eyes, all I see is a flash of blue dress and tangled black braids disappearing out the back door. The girl’s moving too fast for a one hundred percent positive ID, but I can guess who was watching me wince and curse. There’s only one kid who comes looking for me and Marcy on Saturday mornings.

It’s Deedee. Percy’s daughter, Grace’s friend, and
one of the only people who might have seen something that could lead the police to the real killer.

I bolt out of the booth and run, following the sound of dress shoes pounding on the pavement in the alley behind Swallows, ignoring the spinning in my head as the vodka and tomato juice hit my empty stomach and rush straight to my brain and the pain that jabs at my eyes as I realize I’ve rushed outside without my sunglasses.

None of that matters. Deedee matters.

She stops in the shadows a few feet away, eyes wide and shining, damp trails marking her cheeks with rivers of sadness.

H
ey.” I stop, giving Deedee some space.

She’s a cornered animal ready to bolt, and I really don’t want her to run away. Everything in me is screaming that those tears aren’t just for the friend she’s lost. They’re for herself, inspired by real and present danger. Deedee is terrified. She saw something, and has information that will lead to Grace’s killer, I’m sure of it.

Now I just have to figure out how to make her feel that she can trust me … the cussing, crazy woman squinting like a mole ripped from its hole.

“I’m sorry, Deedee. I didn’t see you or I wouldn’t have said that word. Especially not three times.” Or four times? How many times did I drop the f-bomb?

My short-term memory is getting cloudy as the vodka swims through my bloodstream, taking me from zero to intoxicated in a startlingly short amount of time. It’s just like last night. The alcohol hits me in a way it normally wouldn’t, impairing
and aggravating instead of soothing. I have to fight to focus on Deedee, to keep from swaying on my feet.

“I … I’m sorry.”

“You already said that,” Deedee says, leaning back against the brick wall behind her and curling her chin to her chest. Her body language tells me to leave her alone, but her eyes peek at me through the braids that have slipped into her face. All isn’t lost, not if I can manage to act like a normal human being for a few more minutes.

I stand up straighter, willing away the clouds.

“Yeah, well it was worth saying twice. Marcy would kill me if she knew I was using swear words in public.” I figure reminding her that Marcy and I are tight can only help my case.

“She would not.” Some of the tension eases from Deedee’s shoulders though she stays glued to the wall. “She knows you swear. You swear all the time.”

From the mouths of babes … Time to shift gears. “Maybe, but I don’t think that’s what made you cry. Is it?”

Deedee doesn’t say a word, only shrinks back into herself.

“You can talk to me,” I say, voice as gentle as I can manage. “I promise. You can tell me what’s wrong and I’ll do my best to make it right.”

More silence, but, finally, she speaks in a whisper so soft I can barely hear her over the hum of the air conditioner kicking on behind us. “You can’t. Nobody
can.” Barely heard or not, the words send a chill through me, lifting the hairs on my arms.

“Is this about Grace?” I ask. “About what happened to her?”

Deedee nods, once, twice, before her face crumples. “I took Grace’s necklace.” Her words end in a sob and fresh tears roll along the pathways already laid on her cheeks.

“You took her necklace?”

“The one with the unicorn.” Deedee holds out her hand, revealing a delicate silver chain with a charm dangling from the end. “I took it. I thought she was sleeping. And I
stole
the necklace right off of her.”

I can feel her shame echo along my skin, and it makes my heart melt for the kid. “Oh man, Deedee, come here.” I open my arms and, surprisingly, she comes to me, flinging her arms around my waist, pressing her tear-streaked face to my stomach. I hug her tight, amazed at how …
okay
it feels to hold this little person while she cries, relieved that this seems to be a child-sized hurt instead of something more sinister. “It’s okay. We all do things like that, things that we shouldn’t and we feel so bad about later. It’s okay.”

“I just … I just wanted it so bad, and Mama said we couldn’t afford one like Grace’s ’cause it was from Tiffany’s in New York, and Grace said it would look ugly on me anyway, ’cause I could never look like a princess like she did,” Deedee sobs. “I thought she was sleeping and wouldn’t know it was me. But she
wasn’t, I shoulda known she wasn’t. She wouldn’t sleep in the barn.”

Relief bleeds back into foreboding as the full meaning of “thought she was sleeping” penetrates. Grace must have been dead when Deedee found her. But why was she in the barn? Her body unattended long enough for Deedee to find her and take the necklace? Why would the man with the big shoes leave the body in the barn only to move it outside the gate at a later date?