Chapter 4 Shawn
With my coffee in hand, I leave the parking lot and start the short walk toward the precinct. It’s nearly eight in the morning, and after a night of very little sleep, I’d had to fight the urge to call in today and stay home. It’s been a long time since I took a vacation.
Maybe I could take Ma somewhere. Someplace she’s always wanted to go but has never been.
Could be fun.
As I shove one hand into my pocket, I head down the street, my thoughts on what I’ve got going on today.
Which, hopefully, will remain nothing but paperwork.
As much as I hate doing it, not getting called out means no one died.
I’ll deal with the boring over having to deliver horrible news to loved ones any day.
The doors to the precinct open as I climb the stairs, so I rush forward to grab one of them. As I’m pulling it open, a man stumbles out and slams into me, knocking my hot coffee right into my chest.
“Hey!” I yell as scalding hot coffee dumps all over me, courtesy of the drinking spout I’d left open while walking. It stings against my skin, and I grip the front of my shirt to tug it away from my chest.
“Oh, man! I’m sorry!” The kid is probably no older than nineteen, but the panic on his face when he sees the badge hanging around my neck means he’s likely been in some trouble lately.
“My bad! It was an accident. Here.” He offers me a handkerchief from his pocket—who carries those anymore? —but I shake my head.
“No, thanks. It’s fine. Have a nice day.” I growl the words because what I want to do is rip the kid a new one for not looking where he was going.
That won’t do anyone any good, though. And since it’s my fault for not closing the lid, I continue forward, my now-empty mug in hand.
What. A. Waste.
Lord, help me through this day. I’m trying—I really am.
“You look delightful, partner,” Anderson comments as he falls into step beside me.
“Feeling delightful,” I snap. “Anything new cross the desk this morning?”
“Nope. Been a quiet day so far.”
“Good.”
“You want some coffee?” he asks as I shrug out of my leather jacket and hang it on the back of my chair.
I gesture to the huge stain on the front of my white shirt. “Do I not look like I’ve already had it?”
He chuckles. “I mean, it doesn’t look like any of it got into your mouth.”
Pulling open the bottom drawer of my desk, I pull out a clean T-shirt and straighten.
“Coffee would be good. Thanks.” Without waiting for him to crack another joke, I head straight for the conference room.
After pulling open the door and ensuring no one is inside, I toss the clean shirt down on the table, remove my shoulder holster and badge, set them on the table, then unbutton the now-ruined shirt I’d been wearing.
Since the undershirt that was beneath it is also soaking wet, I strip out of it too, then use the dry portion to wipe the front of my still-damp chest before tossing it onto the table. Right as I’m lifting the fresh shirt, the door opens.
“Occupi—” I start as I turn. But before I can finish the word, I’m struck with a jolt of recognition so powerful, it renders me completely immobile. Is she really here?
Standing in the doorway is a gorgeous brunette, lips painted a bright, bold red that will forever be burned into my brain.
Beckett Wallace is unmistakable, even though she’s traded out her signature pencil skirt for a pair of jeans and a green sweatshirt, her heels for a pair of boots that climb to her knees.
Beautiful.
Stunning.
Am I imagining her?
And then I realize I’m staring like an idiot, still shirtless. Swallowing down the rush I get from seeing her again, I do my best to erase the surprise in my expression. “Beckett Wallace,” I say as I shrug into my shirt, suddenly feeling a lot more vulnerable than I care for.
She’s still staring at me, her gaze wide, cheeks flushed with a deep pink.
It makes me grin.
My smile must rip her back to reality, though, because those gorgeous brown eyes re-focus on my face, and she shakes her head slightly as if to clear it. “Detective Sampson. I was hoping we could speak?”
I slip back into my shoulder holster and hang my badge back around my neck, then cross my arms. “About? I’m afraid I have none of your brothers locked up, so I don’t see how a conversation between us is relevant.”
Except for the fact that I’ve been dreaming of seeing you again since the moment you left town.
Her cheeks flush with color again. It’s one of the things that fascinates me about her.
Every emotion is always present on her face.
The woman couldn’t play poker to save her life.
Is it possible that her transparency is what makes her such a good lawyer?
Because the jury never believes she’s hiding anything?
“She’s respected for her tactical precision and unwavering code of honor, no matter the obstacles she faces.” The article comes rushing back to me. That’s absolutely why.
Beckett Wallace is as honest as they come. And with lawyers? That’s a rare thing to find.
“First of all, the Hunts are not my brothers. Second, you shouldn’t have arrested an innocent man. Then I wouldn’t have had to fly out here to handle it.”
I arch a brow. “I didn’t know he was innocent.”
Those dark eyes narrow. “Yes, you did. Because, as much as I would like to claim otherwise, you’re not an idiot, Detective.”
Amused by the anger on her face, I lean back against the table. “You asked if we could speak? What about?”
She takes a deep breath. “I...” Beckett trails off, piquing my curiosity. For a woman who always has something to say, she’s certainly choosing her words carefully. “I need help.”
A bite of anger sings through my veins. Help? It’s been two years without so much as an “Are you alive?” text, and now she wants my help?
“So, let me get this straight. You came all the way to Seattle, barged in on me while I was changing, insulted me, and now you’re asking for a favor?
” I click my tongue. “My-my, Counselor, what confidence you have.” I push off the table and move around her out the door.
I’m frustrated at myself for my response to her, and for the fact that, for a moment there, I thought she was here because she genuinely wanted to see me.
“Please?”
That one word stops me in my tracks. I turn to face her, noting now the redness of her eyes and the dark circles around them.
“What happened?” All joking aside, I focus solely on her. Did someone hurt her? Is she in danger? She goes head-to-head with monsters on a daily basis. Is she being threatened?
“Can we talk in private, please?” she asks, gesturing back toward the room.
I nod and head back inside, shutting the door as she takes a seat. “What is it?” All of my earlier frustrations have melted away, leaving me entirely focused on whatever it is she needs.
“I don’t know how much you know about me, Detective, but ten years ago, I lost my husband in a plane crash. It was ruled an accident. A catastrophic engine failure due to a failure in his routine pre-flight check.”
I study the way her gaze darts around the room. The way she fidgets with her hands when she talks. I hadn’t even known she’d been married before, but I don’t bring that up because it has no merit in this conversation. “Based on your tone, I’m assuming you don’t agree?”
She shakes her head. “Something just doesn’t add up. He was an excellent pilot, Detective. He never would have made a mistake on his pre-flight checklist.”
Detective. Didn’t our terrible first date at least put us past formalities?
I did call her Counselor, I remind myself.
“People get busy,” I reply. “They get so caught up in the routine that they don’t think about what it is they’re doing as they’re doing it.
” God knows I’ve been that way with my faith nearly my entire adult life.
Getting so caught up in repeating the same words over and over again that I didn’t stop to think about what they meant.
It’s something I’ve been working on.
“Not Paul. He considered his checklists to be non-negotiable. He’d push a flight time before he’d skip anything. He’d done it before, even lost clients over it. But it wasn’t something he’d ever falter on.”
She’s desperate; I can see it all over her face. And desperation makes smart people do stupid things. Such as dragging out a closed and sealed case just to ease one’s own grief. Besides, it’s been ten years. Why start looking into it now?
“If you’re so sure, why not have the Hunts look into things for you? Isn’t that what they do? Get answers when no one else can?”
She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, frustration clearly setting in. “Look, I could ask them, but I don’t want to. I need your help because you’re here. I don’t want to interrupt their lives when there might not be anything there.”
But you’ll crash mine. The bit of joy I get from knowing she came to me first is short-lived when I watch her work to compose herself. Something has Beckett rattled. And from what I know of her, that doesn’t come easily.
“You said you need my help because I’m here. I’m assuming his accident was in Seattle?” I run through my memories, trying to recall a plane crash in this area, but the only one I remember from around a decade ago was, in fact, in Mount Rainier National Park.
Was that him?
“Yes. In Mount Rainier National Park.” She rips open her purse and withdraws a manila envelope.
After removing a photograph, she slams both onto the table and stands.
“That is my husband.” She points to a smiling man wearing dark sunglasses.
“Paul Jameson.” It’s the first time she’s said his name since walking in here, and I can hear the ache in her tone.
Ten years or not, this man was her husband. That kind of grief never really leaves you. Or, so I’ve heard.
“And who is this?” I ask, gesturing to a man with his back to the camera.
“I have no idea.”
“Hmm.” Beneath the photograph are the words The truth starts in Seattle. “Where did you get this?”
“It was slid under my apartment door back in Boston two nights ago.”
“Boston?”
She nods.
“If this was given to you in Boston, do you not think it’s possible that someone is trying to rile you up? That this is a photograph from a normal trip, and they’re using it to get to you?”
“Like you are now?” she snaps, then pinches the bridge of her nose.
“Look, I’m sorry. This has been haunting me for a decade.
I know it doesn’t make sense, but I know something is off, and this is the first bit of evidence I have that I’m right.
If you won’t help me, then I’ll find someone else.
” She grips the photograph, but I grab her wrist to still her hand.
The contact sends a shock shooting straight through my arm, so I let her go.
It’s always been that way between us, ever since we met.
But as the one single date we went on once the Riley Hunt/Jules Landers case was wrapped up proved, there’s nothing here but attraction.
And that’s not nearly enough to build a future on.
“I’ll look into it, okay? See if I can dig anything up. But I want you to prepare yourself for the fact that there likely isn’t anything to find.”
Her gaze softens ever so slightly. “You won’t find any fingerprints aside from mine on the photograph or the envelope it came in. I had a friend check for me.”
“Noted.”
“Thank you, Detective. Seriously.”
“Yeah.” I shove my hands into my pockets. “How long are you staying in town for?”
“I don’t know. Until I get some answers, I guess. I’m hoping to be home for Christmas, but since it’s only two weeks away, I understand that might be a hard timeline to hit.”
“No cases you’re currently working on?”
She shakes her head. “Vacation.”
“Some vacation.”
“You’re telling me.” She shoulders her purse but leaves the photo on the table. “So where do we start?”
I stare at her. “We?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you came here for my help.” We? I can’t work with Beckett as a “we.” She’s too distracting. My mind will be on her the entire time, rather than the case files I’ll need to go over.
“I did. But I’m not leaving. I’m perfectly capable of helping, Detective, and I would really rather not go sit in my hotel room while I wait for answers.”
I should argue with her, but given everything I know about Beckett, that argument would fall flat. Still, how am I supposed to focus when the one woman I can’t stop thinking about is sitting only a few feet away?
“Fine. But we do this my way, understand?”
She holds up both hands. “Understood. Where do we start?”