Long Time Gone (16 page)

Hilton sighed. Linklatter might be a moron, but he followed orders just fine. Toleffson didn’t appear to take orders from anybody. Hilton had to figure out some way to get rid of him, preferably without waiting through the entire two-month probationary period. Preferably, in fact, before the Wine and Food Festival. Firing Erik Toleffson within the next couple of weeks would definitely make Hilton’s summer.

The office door swung open, and Hilton frowned. His secretary, Doralee, really needed to learn how to knock. Somebody else who didn’t follow orders.

“Mr. Pittman, Mr. Powell wants to see you.”

Hilton frowned harder, trying to remember if Powell had contributed to his campaign. Before he could check the contributors list that Brinkman had prepared for quick reference, Powell barreled past Doralee.

“Goddamn it, Pittman, you got to do something about that pissant Toleffson!”

Hilton sat up straight, instantly giving Powell his full attention and his most dazzling smile. “Come on in, Joe. Tell me all about it.”

At noon, Erik snuck home and changed his uniform. Clara DeWitt at the laundry told him she could sew the button back on his shirt, which meant he’d at least have a change of clothes later in the week. He probably needed a third uniform, but he hated to spend the money until he had the job for real.

In two months. More like one, when you considered time served.

For a few moments, Erik allowed himself to wonder what it might be like to be the full-fledged chief of police in Konigsburg. He could buy a house, settle down. Or something.

He shook his head. Two months. No telling if they’d keep him on after that. And if they didn’t, he’d have to move on to someplace else. Because there was no way in hell he was serving under Ham Linklatter.

Someplace else. The chief in Davenport had told him he could come back anytime. Back to Iowa. Back to what he used to be. He shook his head.
One problem at a time.

He checked over the paperwork for the Konigsburg First Crush Wine and Food Festival. At least the winery association was paying for private security in the wine tent. He and his men would have to keep an eye on the rest of the park and the downtown traffic, but the rent-a-cops could take care of any drunks at the source.

Erik stared down at the permits, wondering if he could make up an excuse to go out to Cedar Creek. He’d left Morgan early in the morning, when both of them were still half-asleep. Maybe he could take her to dinner at Brenner’s or something.

Loud voices from the outer office snapped him out of it. He stepped through the door to see Joe Powell and Helen, more or less nose-to-nose.

“And I say I gotta see the chief now,” Powell was snarling. “You tell him to get on out here.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Powell?” Erik kept his voice quiet. It usually made people drop their own voices down an octave so that they could hear him.

Powell’s face was the color of a wicked sunburn. His jaw looked like granite. “Nothing you can do for me, goddamn it! You already done it!”

Erik took a breath. He had a feeling Helen would have been using her baton if he’d ever given her one. “Let’s step into my office, please.”

Powell strode into the office and stood facing him. Erik closed the door. “What’s the problem, Mr. Powell?”

“The problem? I’ll tell you the problem.” Powell’s voice began to rise again. “You told the people at Cedar Creek Winery my water was poisoned. You probably lost me a long-term lease on my pasture! Now they want me to get the goddamn water tested.”

Powell’s voice apparently had two settings—loud and deafening. Right now he was on deafening.

Erik sighed. “Mr. Powell, I didn’t tell anybody your water was poisoned. Ms. Barrett had an accident at the pasture when I was up looking at your stock tank—at your request. When I took her down to her winery, she wanted to know how I came to be there, and I told her.”

Powell’s face had gotten significantly redder. Erik began to wonder if he’d have an attack of something, and if he did, whether he could get Helen to do the mouth-to-mouth. No way was he doing it himself.

“You had no call telling anybody anything about my property,” Powell bellowed. “Bad enough you sent them TCEQ people up there. Now I got to get my stock tank cleaned and I can’t even dump the water out of it!”

Erik’s patience began to wear thin, not that it had been all that thick to start with. Powell’s voice could give anybody a headache. “Powell, the situation with your stock tank isn’t exactly a secret in town. And you’ve got another dump site up there now.”

“Another one? What the hell?” Powell’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly, as if his outrage was too great to express.

Erik sighed. “Instead of yelling at me, why don’t you help me figure out who’s dumping chemicals on your land?”

Powell flexed his jaw, his eyes flashing. “Why should I figure it out? That’s your job, ain’t it?”

Erik nodded. “It is. But I don’t know who uses the roads back there, and you do. You and your hands could help me find this SOB before he comes back and dumps more poison on your land. Or on other ranches out there. If we all get together on this maybe we can do something about it.”

Powell stared at him a minute longer, then sat heavily in the chair opposite Erik’s desk. He looked like a man who’d had a very rough month. “What do you want to know?”

By the time Powell left a half hour later, Erik had a list of people who regularly drove heavy trucks around his land. Erik glanced at the clock—five thirty. Time for the Dew Drop.

On his way out, he dropped some letters off at Helen’s desk. She glanced at him. “You know Powell went to Pittman before he came here?”

Erik raised an eyebrow. “Did he now?”

“Yep.” Helen gave him a sour grin. “Powell was down there when he was still mad as a bee-stung rattler, before you calmed him down. You better figure old Hilton’s gonna be on your back by tomorrow at the latest.”

Definitely time for the Dew Drop.

Chapter Fifteen

The Dew Drop was full of shadowy bodies, Biedermeier and the other drinkers all bellied up to the bar. The usual suspects were gathered at their table at the side—Allie and Wonder, Cal and Docia, Pete and Janie.

Correction. One suspect was missing. Erik felt a quick pang of disappointment. He should have gone out to Cedar Creek to get Morgan after all.

She showed up five minutes later, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. Her T-shirt hung loose around her shoulders, and there were shadows under her eyes. Erik had a momentary pinch of guilt for making her lose sleep—even if it was in a good cause.

“Sorry,” she muttered, sliding in beside him.

He cocked an eyebrow. “What for?”

Morgan stared at him for a moment. “I don’t know exactly. I guess I’m just used to saying ‘I’m sorry’ before I say anything else. It’s been that kind of day.”

“Get this woman a drink, immediately!” Wonder waved at the barmaid. “Wine?”

She shook her head. “Not after the afternoon I’ve had. Margarita. Straight up.”

Erik was suddenly very aware of the heat of her hip next to his on the seat and the faint scent of lavender and roses. “What’s happening at Cedar Creek?”

“What isn’t? TCEQ is testing the dump site, but it looks like the grapes are probably okay, and Dad’s coming to check things out later this week.”

Allie leaned forward, frowning. “Dump site? What dump site?”

Morgan sighed. “Oh gather round, children, it’s a fun tale for the whole family.”

Pete shook his head after Morgan had given them a brief outline. “Who the hell is doing this? First Powell and now you? And how do they get there?”

“Drive, most likely. All three sites are close to a road.” Erik took a swallow of Dr. Pepper, glancing around to see if anyone at the bar was listening to their conversation.

Cal grimaced. “I wouldn’t call that goat track at Powell’s a road, exactly, but I guess anything with four-wheel drive could get up there. What kind of truck do you think it was?”

Erik watched him silently for a moment, the corners of his mouth edging up. “Privileged information.”

“Sorry. It’s easy to forget you’re a cop sometimes.”

Wonder shook his head. “No it’s not. Erik looks more like a lawman than anybody else in the room.”

Erik took another swallow of Dr. Pepper. He thought of Ozzie Friesenhahn, his paunch hanging over his belt buckle, his uniform pants straining every time he sat. “What exactly does a lawman look like, Wonder?”

Wonder grinned at him. “Check the mirror.”

Erik glanced up at the mirror behind the bar. He looked pretty much like he always did—his hair was a little mussed from his hat, and his eyes were tired from not having slept a lot the night before. Your basic-model Toleffson, sort of a domesticated missing link.

Compared to him, Morgan looked a lot better even if she was exhausted. Her brown hair hung in soft curls over her forehead and the deep purple of her T-shirt made her eyes seem even darker than usual. Their gazes met for a moment in the mirror, and Erik felt a shot of heat to his groin.

Another sleepless night was definitely called for.

“Why do policemen wear hats?” Janie’s voice interrupted the beginning of a really hot daydream.

Erik turned to look at her. “Is that a straight line?”

“No, it’s a real question. All the cops in town always wear Stetsons—so do the sheriff’s deputies. Why?”

Erik took a moment to regroup, then he took a deep breath. “To protect us from ice storms.”

The crease deepened between Janie’s eyes, then slowly her mouth spread in a grin. “So now I’m supposed to say we have no ice storms in summer. And then you say…”

“See, it’s working.” Erik grinned back.

“Jokes are my department, Toleffson,” Wonder growled. “And you didn’t answer her question.”

“I don’t know the answer to her question. Tradition?”

Erik sensed a movement to his left and caught a glimpse of Terrell Biedermeier’s face in the mirror. Biedermeier was staring at him. As he saw Erik glance his way, he dropped his gaze and hunched back over the bar. Erik tried to remember if he’d ever said more than three words to Biedermeier in the past.

“So is it a special hat?” Docia leaned back against the booth. “Lead lined, say?”

“Lead lined?” Wonder raised an eyebrow. “To protect him from cosmic rays? Or is that aluminum foil?”

“Would you like to see my hat, Docia?” Erik picked up his hat from the bench and handed it to her.

Docia squinted at the crown in the dim light of the Dew Drop. “Darn! Looks normal.”

Erik smiled again, trying to pay attention to the conversation while he glanced carefully into the mirror. Biedermeier was still staring into his beer.

“At least it doesn’t smell like goats. Unlike Calthorpe’s hat.” Wonder grimaced in Cal’s direction.

Erik couldn’t quite see Biedermeier’s face in the mirror anymore. Too bad. He wanted to check the expression.

Cal shook his head. “I’m a goat doctor, Wonder—part of the time anyway. At least it gets me outside. I will never have to spend the morning gazing at Rhonda Ruckelshaus’s tonsils.”

Wonder shuddered. “I avoid tonsil-viewing. Molars are bad enough.”

Janie giggled and poured herself more wine. Docia said something about the Wine and Food festival. Erik tried to listen while he watched the mirror.

He concentrated on the segment of Biedermeier’s face he could see, willing him to look up again. After a moment, Biedermeier tossed down the contents of his shot glass and headed toward the men’s room, turning his back on the booth.

Erik frowned. He still hadn’t been able to see Biedermeier’s face clearly. He might have been mistaken, but he was pretty sure he wasn’t. From the one brief glimpse he’d had earlier, he’d swear Terrell Biedermeier was a very nervous man. Or a frightened one.

Arthur was not a house cat. Morgan had known that when Erik had offered to take him in, but she hadn’t thought to mention it. Now she wondered if she should have. Erik’s living room looked as if it had been hit by a very focused hurricane. Every tabletop had been cleaned off. Books, magazines, pencils, and the assorted detritus of life were tossed around into corners and under furniture where Arthur had seen fit to chase them. A couple of sofa cushions trailed threads, marked by Arthur’s claws.

Arthur himself sat in the middle of the kitchen table, glaring at them both.

“Evening, cat.” Erik’s tone was mild.

“Arthur, what have you done?” She shook her head in disbelief. Arthur squinted at her, then dropped his chin back on his paws.

Erik began picking things off the floor, putting them back on the surfaces Arthur had cleared. “Don’t worry about it. He does this every day. Very efficient. Lets me know how bored he is until I get home.”

“What happens when you get home?” She considered pushing Arthur off the table, but he looked like he wouldn’t go quietly.

“He eats dinner and we negotiate where he’s going to sleep.”

Arthur’s head shot up as Erik opened a can of cat food. He rose majestically to his feet and jumped to the floor with a significant thump.

“Here you go,” Erik grunted. “Bon appetit, you old bandito.”

“Oh, man.” Morgan sank down in a kitchen chair. “I had no idea what a pain he’d be. I’m sorry I got you into this.”

Erik turned to face her, resting his hip against the edge of the kitchen counter. He looked long, lean, and very dangerous. “First of all, you didn’t get me into this, I volunteered. Second of all, why are you apologizing again?”

“I guess…I just…” she stuttered to a halt. “I don’t know exactly.”

He stepped beside her, running his fingers lightly through her hair. “Ease up, Morg. Not everything is your fault. And you can’t fix it all. Trust me, ol’ Arthur and I get along just fine. He hasn’t done anything I haven’t seen a cat do before.”

She closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of his fingertips rubbing against her scalp. Warmth spread through her body, as if her muscles and bones were liquefying. In another minute, she’d fall asleep.

“Don’t you dare fall asleep on me, Miss Morgan.” His voice whispered against her ear. “I have plans.”

Her eyes popped open. “Do these plans involve ice cream?”

One corner of his mouth inched up in his half smile. “Maybe. But I thought we’d start with dinner first.” He walked back toward the counter.

She rose to follow him. “You cook, too?”

He pulled open the refrigerator door. “Nope. I defrost. There’s lasagna. And I can manage to put a salad together.”

She considered volunteering to whip something up out of whatever he had around but decided not to be the perfect guest for once. “Lasagna’s great.”

She watched him move through the kitchen, every gesture measured and precise. He seemed to concentrate totally on whatever he was doing, whether it was chopping lettuce or making her moan in ecstasy.

Her body began to warm at the memory of what that concentration had been like in bed.

Oh, Morgan, watch it. He’s absolutely not the long-term type.

If he had been a long-term type, would she be interested in something long-term herself? Her chest tightened.

Don’t go there, Morgan.

He slid the frozen lasagna pan into the microwave, then set the timer. “Should be ready in ten minutes or so. Can you last?”

Can we last?

“Sure.” She worked on keeping her voice level. The tightness in her chest was almost painful.

He stepped beside her, running his fingers through her hair again. “I’ve been wanting to do this ever since you walked into the Dew Drop tonight.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Hair fetish, Chief?”

“Curl fetish.” He grinned, leaning against the table beside her. “Soft corkscrews are my favorite. Hard to keep my hands off them.”

She turned her head so that her cheek rested against his palm, rubbing along the roughness of his calluses. “Mmmm.”

Erik cupped her face in both hands, then leaned down to press his lips to hers, a soft whispering brush that began to ignite almost as soon as she felt his touch. Morgan opened her mouth slightly, nibbling at his lower lip, then felt his tongue slide in, rubbing against hers. Closing her eyes, she ran the tip of her tongue along his teeth, tasting a faint reminder of the soda he’d had at the Dew Drop.

His hands slid down her sides to her waist, circling her, then pulling her to her feet. He moved to cup her buttocks, dragging her hips against him so that she felt the hardness at the front of his pants.

She draped her arms around his neck and pushed her body against his, riding the electric charge that seemed to play between them.

At which point, the microwave timer went off.

Erik raised his head. “Damn! That was a short ten minutes.”

Morgan tried to speak, then settled for nodding. Her throat had closed up again.

He stood looking down at her, ignoring the
ding
of the timer behind him. “Goddamn, woman, you are really something else! If I weren’t so hungry, I think I’d let that lasagna turn to dust.”

She swallowed, letting out a shaky breath. “Thanks. I do give rain checks, though.”

He leaned down and kissed her nose, running the tip of his tongue across it. “Count on it, Bambi. This may be the world’s fastest dinner.”

The next morning, Erik leaned against the counter in the main room of the station, inhaling his third cup of coffee. A few more nights with Morgan and he’d be a zombie. A highly satisfied zombie, of course.

Nando had worked the night shift and wasn’t due in until noon. Helen was doing something mysterious with her computer that involved multiple backups to an external hard drive. Linklatter sat at his desk looking…just looking like Linklatter.

Erik sighed. Technically, Linklatter should be on patrol and Erik needed to prod him into it. But these days Linklatter seemed to be going out of his way to exasperate him, and he didn’t feel like playing games with him right then. He took another sip of coffee and wondered if there was any way to get Ham to be less of an asshole.

His lank hair drifted across the front of his head, revealing a small bald spot. He was writing something on a yellow legal pad, his ballpoint moving furiously across the page.

Erik pushed himself to his feet and ambled in his direction, giving him lots of time to hide whatever the hell he was writing. He watched Ham glance up and color the usual unhealthy shade of pink, then shove the legal pad into his middle desk drawer.

Probably a report to Pittman. Somebody in the office was obviously Pittman’s snitch, and Linklatter sure seemed like the best candidate.

Erik leaned his hip against the desk next to him, allowing one side of his mouth to drift into a faintly sour grin. “Morning, Ham.”

Linklatter nodded stiffly. “Chief.”

Erik folded his arms. “What can you tell me about Terrell Biedermeier?”

Linklatter blinked. Clearly not the question he’d been expecting. “Terrell? Why?”

“Just curious.” Erik half-smiled again. “You’ve lived here a long time, right?”

Linklatter gave another stiff nod, but his eyes were no longer narrowed. “All my life.”

“So tell my about Biedermeier. Is he a local?”

“Terrell?” Linklatter paused to think. “Nah, he moved here about the time I finished school, ten years or so ago.”

“Businessman?”

“Owns his own business—pest control. Does that make him a businessman?” Linklatter looked confused.

“Sort of. So how’s he doing?”

“Okay, I guess. Don’t know much about it.”

“He’s fighting with the big guys.” Helen had stopped tapping at her keyboard. “Big chain of exterminators moved in a couple years ago. Biedermeier’s trying to compete. Not doing too well at it from what I hear.”

Erik nodded. Business troubles. That could account for Biedermeier’s expression in the Dew Drop. Except that it had been directed at him, and he had no connection with Biedermeier’s business that he knew of.

“Does he spray for bugs here at the station?”

Helen snorted. “Pittman won’t authorize any money for an exterminator. You see anything moving, stamp on it!”