The Witness (18 page)

“Could you?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know if you never have?”

“Protect and serve.” He looked at her, those changeable eyes sober now. “Protect comes first. I’ve got no business having a badge if I can’t protect. But I’d be happy if it never came to putting a bullet into anyone.” He, too, picked up his brass. “Have you?”

“Shot anyone? No. But then, I’d say that even if I had, to say I had would only lead to more questions.”

“You’re not wrong. Could you?”

“Yes. I could.” She waited a moment. “You don’t ask how I know.”

“I don’t have to. Have you got any of that pie left? And before you ask why, I’ll tell you. Now that we’ve shown each other what good shots we are, I thought we could crack that bottle open, have a glass of wine and a piece of pie.”

“The wine was a ploy.”

“In part, but it’s still a pretty good wine.”

He had his mother’s charm, she decided, and very likely the same skill in getting his way. There was no point denying she found him physically attractive. Her hormonal reaction to his looks, his build, his demeanor, even his voice? Completely natural.

“I can’t eat all the pie. It’s too much for one person.”

“Shame to waste it, too.”

She stowed the protective gear in the seat of the bench. “All right. You can have the pie and the wine. But I won’t have sex with you.”

“Now you hurt my feelings.”

“No, I haven’t.” Deciding to make her position clear, she started for the house. “I like sex.”

“See there, we just keep finding common ground. If this keeps up, we’ll be best friends inside a week.”

“If I wanted friends, I’d join a book club.”

Loosening up, he thought, delighted with the sarcasm. “I like to read, which is another check mark on common ground. But we were talking about sex.”

“The act of sex is a normal physical function, and a pleasant experience.”

“So far, we’re on the same page.”

She took out her keys, unlocked the door. Once inside, she reset the alarm. “It may be you find me physically attractive on some level.”

“All of them, actually.”

“And that may be the reason you came here, with wine. I’ll have a glass of wine with you, but I won’t have sex with you.”

“Okay.” Absolutely delighted with her, he followed her to the kitchen. “Any particular reason why not, other than the fact we haven’t even shared huckleberry pie yet?”

“You ask too many questions. Answering them is annoying and tiresome.”

“Damn that curiosity. Jesus, Abigail, did you smile?”

“It was probably a grimace.”

“Now you made a joke. Any minute you’re going to put on a party hat and dance on the table.”

“You’re funny. I’m not, so I can appreciate someone with natural humor.” She took off the jacket, opened a door to what he assumed was a small utility room and hung it on a peg. “And you’re physically attractive and fit. I prefer having sex with someone who keeps physically fit.”

She got out a corkscrew, and though he would have taken it, opened the wine for her, she set about doing so briskly and efficiently.

What the hell, he thought, and sat. “So far the only strike against me is curiosity?”

“There are others. Proximity, for one, which would make it awkward and problematic when I no longer want to have sex with you.”

“What makes you think you’re going to want to stop having sex with me?”

She got out two glasses, two small plates, two forks. “The law of averages.”

“Oh, that. I defy the law of averages.”

“A lot of people believe they do. They don’t.” She poured the wine, studying him as she offered a glass. “I like your nose.”

“Abigail, you fucking fascinate me. Why do you like my nose?”

“It’s been broken at some point. The lack of symmetry adds character and interest to your face. I like character.”

“And still, no sex for me.”

She smiled again, fully this time. “I’m sure you have other options.”

“That’s true. I make them take numbers, like at a deli.” He waited until she got out the pie, uncovered it. “Do you want to know why I’m not going to have sex with you?”

He’d surprised her, he noted. Stirred her curiosity. “Yes, I would.”

“You’re attractive, and you look pretty … physically fit to me. You’ve got a way of looking at me that feels like you’re looking right through to the back of my brain. I don’t know why that’s sexy, but it is. You need help.”

“I don’t want any help.”

“I didn’t say anything about want. You need help, and I’ve got a weakness for people who need help. I like your dog even though I figure he’s as dangerous, or damn near, as that Glock on your hip. I like the way you talk, like you’re just a little rusty at it. I’d like to feel the shape of your mouth under mine. I’d like that more than I’d considered. But.”

On an exaggerated sigh, he lifted his hands, let them fall. “I’m always going to have questions. So that’s a problem. And while I’m a man, so I’m fairly up for sex if a woman sneezes in my direction, I generally like to get to know her first. Dinner, conversation, that sort of thing.”

“A date. I don’t go on dates.”

“You know, hearing you say that doesn’t surprise me. Now, we’ve shared an activity, shooting at targets. We’ve shared conversations and viewpoints. Now we’re sharing wine and pie. If I stretch that, I could ease it over the line into a date.”

The look she gave him was the definition of flustered. “It’s not a date.”

“By your gauge.” He gestured at her with a forkful of huckleberry pie. “I’ve got my own. That means the only thing stopping me from having sex with you is my naturally curious nature. I can work around that. I can decide it’s not a problem for me; then the only thing stopping me from having sex with you is you being willing.”

“I’m not, so if we’re going to talk, it should be about something else. That wasn’t a challenge,” she added, when it occurred to her. “I didn’t mean to pose a sexual challenge.”

“No, I got you didn’t mean to, but it sure has that flavor. And it’s tasty. Like the pie.”

He scooped up a bite. “Did you design the security system here?”

She looked wary again. “Yes.”

“Cameras, too?”

“Yes. Obviously, I don’t actually manufacture the hardware.”

“Obviously.” He angled to study her computer station. “It’s quite a setup.”

“It’s my work.”

“I’m okay on a computer. I can get done what I need to get done, usually find what I need to find. My father, now, he’s amazing. I get a glitch, he’s my man. It must be the math nerd in him. Were you a math nerd?”

At one time, she remembered, she was an everything nerd. Perhaps she still was. “I enjoy math. Its logic.”

“I coulda figured.” He angled back to her, drank some wine. “I like your place. My mother wants your kitchen.”

“You should get her a dog.”

“What?”

“She says she isn’t ready, but it was clear by the way she behaved and reacted to Bert she is. She misses having a dog in her life. She—I’m sorry.” Color rose up to her cheeks. “It’s not my place.”

“We don’t stand on place so much around here. She loved that dog. We all did. It just about flattened us when we had to have him put down.”

He looked down at Bert, resisted—because he liked having his hand—reaching out to pet the dog. “You really think she’s ready to start with another?”

“I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“You did. I’m asking your opinion.”

“Then yes. It seemed to me she felt it would be disloyal if she herself got another dog. But a gift, from one of her children. That’s different, isn’t it?”

“It is. Thanks. She liked you, my mother.”

“I liked her. You should take the rest of the pie, and her dish.” Abigail rose to cover the remaining pie.

“Here’s your hat; what’s your hurry?”

“You weren’t wearing a hat.”

“It’s an expression. Like, say, don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.”

“Oh. Then yes, you have to go. I need to feed my dog, and I have work waiting. Please tell your mother I enjoyed the pie.”

“I will.” He rose, picked up the dish.

“And thank you for the wine. I’ll let you out.”

At the front door he waited for her to unlock, turn off the alarm. Then he set the pie on the little table.

“Tell your dog to relax.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to put my hands on you, and I’m going to need them to drive after I do. I don’t want him biting one off at the wrist.”

“I don’t like to be touched.”

“You like sex. A kiss is somewhere between being touched and having sex. Aren’t you curious, Abigail?”

“A little.” She studied his face in that X-ray manner, then looked to the dog.
“Ami,”
she said, laying a hand lightly on Brooks’s arm. “
Ami,
Bert.”

Still, she stiffened when Brooks took her hand—her gun hand.

“Ami,”
he murmured. “That one stuck with me. So let’s be friendly.”

He laid his other hand on her cheek, eased his way in. And she watched him. That ready, steady look in her eye just hit some chord in him. He kept it light, maybe a little over the friendly line, but light and soft. Lips meeting, eyes locked.

He pressed, just a bit more, body to body, until her hand came to his shoulder. Until it slid around to the back of his neck, up into his hair. Until her tongue teased his, and those watchful eyes went a deeper green.

As he stepped back, he released her hand. With a shake of his head, he picked up the pie. “You know I’m going to have to come back.”

“It’s a mistake.”

“For who?”

“For both of us.”

“Different points of view, remember.” He leaned in, quick—and this time friendly—touched his lips to hers. “I’ll be coming back. See you, Bert,” he added as he walked out and to his car.

Abigail closed the door, locked it before she heard his engine turn over. She let out a huff of breath, looked down at the dog.

“It’s a mistake,” she repeated.

B
ROOKS SPENT MOST OF HIS DAY PUTTING RIGHTEOUS FEAR
in a trio of preadolescent shoplifters, dealing with a traffic accident—which primarily involved preventing the two drivers from coming to blows—handling the resulting paperwork, and listening to Sid Firehawk whine when Brooks finally cited him for the blown-out muffler.

To reward himself, he opted to make a quick run to the bakery for some fancy coffee and a snickerdoodle, but Alma stuck her head in his office. Rainbow peace signs the size of babies’ fists dangled from her ears.

“Grover called in. There’s a dispute over at Ozark Art.”

“What kind of dispute?”

“He just said things were getting a little hot, and asked for you to go by.”

“All right. I’ll walk over. I could stop at the bakery on the way back if you want anything.”

“Get away from me, Satan.”

“Just saying.” Brooks got up from his desk, grabbed his jacket.

“If a chocolate macadamia cookie and a skinny latte found their way onto my desk, it wouldn’t be my fault.”

“No one could blame you.” As Brooks headed out, he wondered why she’d put the skinny in a latte when she was having a cookie. But that was one of the female mysteries he didn’t worry himself into a headache over.

He glanced at the sky as he walked. The temperatures refused to settle, shooting up, diving down and clashing in the middle as a welcome mat for tornados. But the sky held to a harmless faded denim.

He crossed over to Shop Street, pleased to see the Saturday-afternoon bustle of locals and tourists. He passed the gourmet market, thought of Abigail, and walked down another block to Ozark Art.

He didn’t see any signs of a dispute through the display window. In fact, he didn’t see Grover or a customer or anyone else. The little bell jingled as he stepped in, scanned the main showroom and its walls of paintings, the stands displaying sculptures, shelves of handblown glass and local pottery.

The air carried the fragrance of a spring woodland from one of those reed diffusers. Grover’s work, he thought absently. The guy looked like a storybook gnome, and was a wizard with scents.

He started back toward the storeroom and office, saw no one at the checkout counter.

And heard the click of heels on wood.

Sylbie, hair tumbled, eyes slumberous, slipped out of the back room.

“Well, there you are … Chief.”

“What’s the problem, Sylbie?”

“I’ll tell you.” She crooked a finger, tossed her hair and her own personal scent as she opened the back-room door. “In here.”

“Where’s Grover?”

“He’ll be back in a few minutes. Somebody has to watch the shop.”

Brooks felt the trapdoor creak under his feet. “Sylbie, Grover called the station, said there was a dispute that needed police involvement.”

“There is a dispute, but there doesn’t have to be. Come on into the back, and we’ll settle it.”

“We’ll settle it here.”

“All right, then.” She wore a dress swirled with black and white. And then she didn’t.

“Jesus Christ, Sylbie.”

She laughed, again tossing her hair and perfume before she leaned against the doorjamb, naked but for a pair of high red heels that showed a peek of toenails painted the same shade.

“You didn’t come see me the other night, Brooks. I had to drink that wine all by myself.”

“I told you I was busy. Put your clothes back on.”

“Now, that’s something I don’t recall you saying in the past.”

He kept his eyes on hers, surprised and a little disconcerted that it took little effort to keep them from roaming down. “I’m saying it now. Put your dress on, Sylbie.”

“Come on over here and make me.”

“What’s wrong with you?” he demanded. “You talk Grover into calling the station, requesting an officer.”

“Not just any officer, honey.” She pursed her lips in a kiss. “I wanted you.”

“Shut up.” Temper he rarely lost strained against the leash. “If you’re not back in that dress inside ten seconds, I’m arresting you.”

“Oh … you want to play that way.”

“Look at me, God damn it. Am I playing?”

His tone, his face, finally got through. Temper lit her eyes in turn as she bent down, pulled the dress back up.