Hidden Fire, Kobo (7 page)

"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.

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.