CHAPTER SEVEN
Grant couldn’t sleep at all. He tossed and turned. He dreamed another variation of the same dream. The nightmare, he called it. He got up, sat on the side of the bed, and then paced from room to room. He ended up in the kitchen where he always ended up when he just couldn’t lay in bed any longer. He grabbed a beer from his frig, and went out onto his front porch.
It was nearly midnight. He could go to the station if he wanted to, but that didn’t bring him much comfort either. He could call one of his female friends if he wanted to, and they’d happily agree to meet him at one of the hotels, but he didn’t want to be bothered with all that extra either. He didn’t want to do or think about anything. It was bedtime for crying out loud! Why couldn’t he just take his ass to sleep?
And why, he wondered, was he constantly thinking about that consultant.
About Markita Nash.
She’d been on his mind ever since she steered them away from their usual half-baked, leaping to conclusions police work. He studied her the entire time they were at the crime scene. Couldn’t take his eyes off of her. Was she a plant the way the mayor seemed to think she was, somebody to stir the pot toward the downfall of the mayor? Grant doubted it. He could tell a mile away that she wasn’t the kind of lady that would allow anybody to use her that way.
But that didn’t mean she wasn’t a problem. She was. One bad report could see his department under the auspices of the state, and him out the door.
He drank his beer and rubbed his eyes. He was tired. He was drained. But he wasn’t sleepy.
And that was the problem.
The fact that he couldn’t stop thinking about the very woman that could bring his entire department down, and him along with it, was the other problem.