Chapter 10
Pine Bluff’s finest had cruised by Clint’s place at seven that morning, but he hadn’t expected to find the same sort of welcoming committee at Higgins Auto Repair Shop as well. Guess that made him a celebrity.
As he pulled into a slot in the parking lot next to the shop, he recognized the uniform at the scene.
Ray Hale. So the chief of police himself had come to make sure Clint went to work like a good, law-abiding citizen.
Would the chief be following him to the bank when he cashed his paycheck?
Stocked up at the Piggly Wiggly? Took a piss?
Nothing should surprise Clint at this point. Having Emily Wallace stay parked outside his house until almost midnight despite his show of force had been surprising enough.
The idea that she’d sat out there watching him had made him madder than hell.
He knew what she was up to; he just hadn’t realized how deeply it would get under his skin.
His every move had been watched and dictated in prison.
He’d had to learn to live with that constant surveillance; he didn’t like putting up with it now.
Part of him had wanted to scare the hell out of her so she’d go away and leave him alone.
But he couldn’t do that. He needed her—she just didn’t know it yet.
So he’d stormed right up to her SUV with the intention of rattling her cage, of making her think twice about what she’d always believed happened that night.
And what had he done? He’d gotten caught up in looking at her.
Big brown eyes and a wide, lush mouth that she had tried to hide with her long, silky hair back in high school.
He’d dreamed of kissing that mouth long before he’d taken the liberty, even though she’d used it a million times to tell him to get lost.
Just hearing her voice again had damaged him somehow.
He had planned for ten damned years what he would do and say when he had the chance, and he’d gotten that close and most of the things he’d intended to say had vanished from his stupid brain.
When she’d dared to get in his face to tell him off just like she used to, his gaze had ignored his objections and roamed every inch of her.
The long skirt that only served to make him want to hike up the hem far enough to see those smooth thighs .
. . to maybe get a glimpse of lacy panties.
She had a nicely curved bottom and high, full breasts that wouldn’t be disguised behind a buttoned-to-the-throat blouse.
That was the part that burned him the worst. Going into trial he’d been guilty of just one thing: lusting after Emily Wallace. That was it! And look what it had cost him.
Evidently she’d experienced a delayed flight reaction to his aggressive move.
He’d seen neither hide nor hair of her this morning.
He climbed out of his car and headed toward where Ray and Higgins stood talking.
The conversation no doubt had to do with Clint, since both men looked less than happy. Welcome to my life.
Clint hadn’t worked on a car in a hell of a long time, not since he’d tinkered with his first heap back in high school. But he didn’t mind getting his hands greasy. He had to support himself; this was as good a way to do it as any.
As he neared the front of the shop he heard the tension in the two men’s voices before the clipped conversation came to an abrupt stop.
Then Clint saw the reason why. Big letters spray painted on one of the garage doors read Hiring Killers Is a Sin.
“Clint.” Ray acknowledged his arrival with a nod.
Higgins glanced nervously at him and muttered, “Morning.”
“What’s going on?” Asking was a mere technicality, a way to enter the conversation. It didn’t take a detective’s shield to figure it out.
“A little vandalism. Nothing we can’t handle, right, Higgins?”
The shop owner shot a look at his defaced door and then at Ray. “Sure, no problem.” The empathetic expression Higgins pasted on his face was not a good fit.
Life was a bitch sometimes. Even when a man tried to do the right thing.
“You know,” Clint suggested in retrospect, “maybe we should forget this whole thing.” He didn’t need the old man’s reluctant charity any more than he did Ray’s. “I appreciate your offer, Mr. Higgins, but let’s leave it at that.”
The relief that claimed the older man’s face confirmed that he desperately wanted off the hook. Ray must have had something on Higgins to prod him into going for this.
“Don’t be too hasty, Clint,” Ray contended. “The job is yours. Mr. Higgins has offered it to you. You can’t let this nonsense put you off.” He gestured to the defaced door. “If you walk away, then they’ve won.”
Clint looked past Higgins and the chief to the others congregated inside the shop beyond one of the open overhead doors.
They wouldn’t welcome Clint any more than the vandals had.
When he would have shifted his attention back to Ray, he recognized one of the other employees.
Marvin Cook. He’d run with Troy Baker and his crew.
Maybe working here would provide an opportunity for Clint to use this guy.
Any connection to the friends of the woman he supposedly murdered was better than none at all.
“Maybe you’re right,” he said to Ray. “If Higgins is still willing.”
The shop owner looked none too happy, but he stuck by his word. Gave a nod.
“I’ll get this vandalism report turned in,” Ray assured him. “Let me know if you have any more trouble.”
When Clint would have followed Higgins into the shop, Ray waylaid him. “Everything quiet around your place last night?”
Clint considered telling him about the truck that had run him off the road.
He’d gotten a pretty good look at both the truck and the car involved, but not the drivers.
Both vehicles had been older models. But what was the point in mentioning it?
The people who didn’t want him back here and who had the balls to take steps to show it would just have to do what they would.
Having the chief of police knock on their doors wouldn’t put them off.
The damage to his Firebird was minimal. So what was the point?
No need to mention the confrontation with Emily Wallace either. The less said the better.
“Everything’s just dandy, chief.” Clint crooked his lips into a mock smile, then turned his back on Ray and headed inside.
A few minutes later Higgins introduced Clint to the other employees. Four mechanics, all with years of experience, and one receptionist, cute in a slutty sort of way.
And shop manager Marvin Cook, a hotshot back in high school, gone to seed, with his beer belly hanging over his jeans. Cook didn’t let on that he remembered Clint. Knowing Clint Austin carried a stigma in this town, then and now.
Some things never changed.
5:30 p.m.
As the day progressed Clint had learned that Marvin Cook was the same jerk he’d been in high school.
Star quarterback for the Pine Bluff Panthers.
Teacher’s pet. Old Marv had been voted the guy mostly likely to succeed senior year.
He’d laid claim to the all-important most valuable player trophy, much to the dismay of Granville Turner, who had expected his son, Keith, to win that treasured prize for his role as the team’s tight end.
Scouts from numerous universities had come to watch those two carry the team through a winning season.
Apparently Marvin’s fifteen minutes of fame had come and gone in high school. Otherwise, just over a decade later he wouldn’t be bossing around a handful of grease monkeys in a small-town auto repair shop.
Clint waited until the others had washed up before he headed to the big utility sink next to the parts room.
He rotated first one shoulder and then the other.
He hadn’t worked this hard in a while. It beat the hell out of solitary confinement.
The fact that none of the other employees spoke to him didn’t bother him one way or the other.
He’d gotten used to the silent treatment in prison.
If these jokers thought they were giving him a hard time, they should think again.
“Hey, Austin.”
Clint pulled off a paper towel to dry his hands and turned to face Cook. “Yeah.”
“Since you’re low man on the totem pole, you can clean up the shop.” Cook angled his head and eyed Clint as if he expected an argument. “We like starting the day with a clean workplace.”
Clint was reasonably sure they hadn’t started off the day with a clean workplace since the garage had been built, but he didn’t argue. He was used to taking orders. He gave a half-hearted shrug. “Whatever.”
“Use the side exit when you’re finished.
” Two steps from the door Cook hesitated and swiveled his head to send one last injustice in Clint’s direction.
“Oh yeah, don’t forget the toilet.” Cook puckered his face into one of those expressions that said he was trying hard to remember something before he added, “It’s been a while since the bathroom got a cleaning, but I’m sure you can handle it considering the years of practice you probably got in prison. ”
Clint dropped the paper towel he’d wadded into the trash can, didn’t bother responding.
He’d come to understand that clever comebacks could cost a hell of a lot more than he wanted to pay.
If he ended up in jail it would be for something more important than whether or not he was willing to clean a toilet.
Though there was one thing he’d waited to say until Cook was ready to call it a day. Until it was just the two of them. “Hold up, Cook.”
The other man paused, one hand on the door. He looked back at Clint with a blatant mixture of disdain and impatience, maybe even a hint of apprehension. “What?”
“Wonder why the police didn’t consider you a suspect during the Baker investigation? You and Heather Baker dated a few times, didn’t you? What were you doing the night she was murdered?”
Cook’s face went gauzy white before going bloodred. “Go fuck yourself, Austin.” He slammed the door on his way out.
Clint hadn’t planned to start with Marvin Cook.
Hell, Clint hadn’t even known he would run into Cook at his new job, but he’d certainly seized the opportunity fate had tossed his way.
Too much of his life had been squandered already.
He wasn’t about to take for granted another minute, much less a day.
He walked to the door through which Cook had exited and watched beyond the grimy window as the pissed-off guy climbed into his truck. Within the hour word would get around that Clint Austin was asking questions. The natives would grow restless in a hurry, especially those who had something to hide.
Burning rubber, Cook spun out onto the street.
Clint had to smile. It was about time someone else felt the pressure of the past. The entire investigation into Heather Baker’s murder had centered around the idea that Emily Wallace was the intended victim.
What if the killer had been after Heather instead?
No one had even considered that scenario.
Not once. It was past time someone did. And rattling Marvin Cook’s cage was only the beginning.
When Clint would have turned back to the menial tasks Cook had dumped on him just because he could, his gaze snagged on another vehicle in the parking lot. Dark blue. SUV.
Though he couldn’t see the occupant, he knew it was her.
What do you know? She’d shown up after all. Emily Wallace had come to see him home. He hoped she was a fan of the waiting game.
This, he thought as he surveyed the shop that looked as if it hadn’t been swept, much less mopped, in years, was going to take a while.