Chapter Forty-One
Parker
My bank account doesn’t want me going to Alabaster’s this morning. Medical debt is a bitch. I finally paid off what I owed for my mom’s care, but the version of me who bought coffee without doing the math first is probably gone forever.
The line at the drive-through moves quickly, so I don’t have time to overthink my irrational need to lay eyes on Eliot this morning.
He asked for the night, and the logical part of my brain knows he’s a grown-ass man who can take care of himself.
The part of my brain that’s falling for him though…
that’s the part in control at the moment.
“Two hemp milk lattes and a large iced coffee,” I call to the tiny speaker.
“Any cream for the iced?” The voice is tinny, but clear.
“No—actually, hold up. Can you add a splash of hemp milk?”
“Sure thing, hon. That’ll be fourteen sixty-five at the window.”
The attendant at the window passes me the drink carrier with a practiced smile, and I swipe my phone over the card reader.
Once I’m back on the road, I take a cautious sip of my drink. Huh. It’s still coffee—same strength, same kick—but the hemp milk evens out the bitterness threatening to strip the enamel from my teeth. I’ll be damned.
The fire marshal’s office lot is only half full when I pull in. Eliot’s truck isn’t here yet. Serves me right for always being early.
I’m debating whether to leave the coffee on his desk or text him, when another SFMO truck eases into a parking spot across from me.
Eliot’s coworker—the one with the broken arm—gets out, moving carefully as he hitches his work bag over his right shoulder. “Hey. It’s…Parker, right?”
“Got it in one, Kurt. You doin’ okay this mornin’?”
He glances around the parking lot, and his entire body tenses.
I follow his gaze to the street where a dark gray sedan rolls past the lot entrance. The driver’s wearing a Stetson and sunglasses, and he only spares us a quick glance before he accelerates all the way to the corner.
Turning back to Kurt, I study him for a beat. Dark circles swell under his brown eyes. His cast isn’t pure white anymore, the gray smudges more obvious closer to the plaster wrapping around his hand.
“You okay?” I ask.
He jerks, then blows out a breath. “Yeah. That guy almost hit me on the freeway. I flipped him off, and he was on my ass the rest of the way here.” Something about Kurt’s voice doesn’t sit right with me. But he’s calmer now. “I should’ve known better.”
“Maybe. This is Texas, after all.”
Before Kurt can reply, Eliot’s truck rolls to a stop next to my Toyota.
“Nice to see you again, Captain,” Kurt says, and hustles for the office’s double doors.
I lean against my front bumper, Eliot’s hemp milk latte in one hand, my hat in the other. He sidles up to me, cups the back of my neck, and pulls me against him for a kiss I feel all the way down to my toes.
“Careful there,” I say against his lips. “You might give folks the impression we’re datin’ or somethin’.”
“Well, we are, so…” The second kiss goes on long enough, I’m breathless when he finally pulls away. “What did I do to deserve a coffee delivery?”
“You don’t have to earn coffee.” I shrug, pass him the latte, and hold his gaze. “Maybe I just wanted to start my morning by kissin’ you.”
“Well, I ain’t about to argue with that logic.” He runs his free hand through his hair, small lines tightening around his eyes. “I’ll have the preliminary report on yesterday’s fire this afternoon. But I could smell the naphthalene the second I got inside.”
“Can’t say I’m surprised.” I settle the Stetson back on my head and pull my keys from my pocket. “I better get to the station while there’s still ice in Nate’s latte.”
“I’ll let you know when I’m on my way over.” Eliot takes a long sip of the latte, and a smile curves his lips. “Parker?” he asks before I can shut my door.
“Yeah?”
The smile drops away, leaving exhaustion in its wake. “Last night wasn’t me leavin’ the room. Or…it wasn’t supposed to be.”
“I know.” I push the brim of my hat a little higher so he can see my eyes. “Shuttin’ me out and askin’ for space are two very different things. We’re good, Eliot. I promise.”
His shoulders drop, and he nods once. “We’ll talk tonight.”
“We will.” I wink at him. “Then, we’ll move on to activities that don’t require words.”
If you don’t get here soon, I’m going to have to drink the station coffee. I thought we were friends, Parker.
I chuckle as my phone reads Nate’s text aloud. “Voice Assist: Text Nate. Message reads: I’m literally at the stoplight on the corner, Captain Last Nerve. Send message.”
Nate’s pacing the conference room when I amble in, a coffee cup in each hand. The stacks of case files are starting to resemble the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and even his highlighters are out of order.
“You okay?” I pass him the latte, and he sucks down a quarter of it in a single swallow.
“I couldn’t find the inspection report you pulled yesterday,” Nate says, the words coming too fast for someone who only had his first sip of caffeine ten seconds ago. “I needed Kessler’s first name—”
“Charlie.” I reach into my bag and slide the folded piece of paper from its folder.
“Focus, Parker.” Nate takes me by the shoulders, his dark eyes more intense than I’ve ever seen them. “The name on the certificate I found this morning wasn’t Kessler. It was Todd Ferris.”
“You’re sure?” I don’t know why I’m asking. Nate never uses this particular tone unless he’s willing to bet his entire life on what he’s saying.
He rounds the table, taps a couple of keys on his laptop, and the wall monitor flickers to life. On screen, the ABC portal has Rutherford Lane’s fire safety inspection open. The permit numbers match. The timestamps match. But the inspector’s name on screen is Todd Ferris.
“Someone got into the system and changed it.” I smooth the piece of paper out on the table. “Which means we have to talk to Kessler. Now.”
“We’ve gotta find him first,” Nate says. “And give AJ an update. Did you notice if he was in yet?”
“His office was dark. Doesn’t he have a standing coffee thing with Vern on Tuesday mornings?” I set my bag on the floor and pull out my laptop. “He should be here by ten. Let me see what I can pull on Kessler. Did you finish verifying Todd’s alibi?”
Nate slides into his chair. “The airline needed a subpoena to release their manifest. Judge Nesbit signed off on it late last night, so I expect they’ll get back to me today. While we wait for AJ, I can dig into his socials if you want to run a background check on Kessler.”
“Sounds good. Let’s see if Kessler’s made any enemies…”
Coffee at my elbow, I run Kessler’s TDI license number in the state’s contractor database. He’s clean. Always renewed on time, no violations or complaints logged in the six years he’s been active.
“Got Mrs. Ferris’s SocialGram account,” Nate says.
“She posted half a dozen photos from their trip. The comments…God, the comments. Her mother posted, ‘I hope you brought sunscreen. Last year, Todd turned into a tomato by the second day.’ Her aunt went there with this gem. ‘Every year, I think about your wedding when the flower girl bit the ring bearer.’ And someone named Becca takes the cake. ‘Happy Anniversary. I can’t believe the hotel still lets you come back after the bed frame incident.’”
Nate clicks his mouse and the image of the entire Ferris family in swim attire fills the screen. Thankfully, Todd has a shirt on over his trunks. Becca’s comment has fifteen separate responses. “Please tell me you didn’t click to find out more.”
“I did.” Nate shakes his head. “I was gathering evidence to prove my point.”
“What point?”
“That some people should lose their internet privileges. There are details in there that should’ve stayed between two consenting adults and an extended warranty department somewhere.”
“So…he’s clean.” I’m relieved. Todd was so genuinely horrified that his name was anywhere near the Aldrich fire, that if he’d been guilty, I would have started to doubt every one of my instincts.
“Let’s not get carried away,” Nate says, closing the SocialGram page with a shudder. “Pretty sure the bed frame has a much different opinion of the man. But as far as our case goes? No one with relatives that embarrassing is going to orchestrate a fraud scheme like this. Todd’s not our guy.”
I send the information from the state’s contractor database over to Nate so he can catalog and color code it to his heart’s content, while I move on to the good stuff.
A clean contractor’s license only tells me who Kessler pretends to be on the clock.
I want the rest of him. Where he lives, what he drives, how many times he’s forgotten to feed a parking meter.
The little pieces of information people leave behind without knowing they’re building a map of their lives.
If Kessler doesn’t want to be found, he’s years too late.
Nate’s phone buzzes next to him. “It’s the airline.”
He keeps his voice low while I work, ending one call and starting another. I spend almost an hour researching our current suspect. By the time I’m done, Charlie’s so much more than a grainy ID photo and license number. And I know at least three places we might find him.
“Check to see if AJ’s in yet?” I ask when Nate finishes his call.
“Hold up. I didn’t just talk to the airline.
I put in a call to brYCER—they maintain the compliance database for fire safety inspections.
I was hoping they’d be able to tell me when Rutherford Lane’s inspection record changed, who changed it, their IP address, all the usual stuff…
You’d think they’d want to know if someone was fucking with their data. ”
“Let me guess. They were less than helpful?” I sit back in my chair, rolling my shoulders one at a time to loosen some of the tension gathered there.
“After twenty-three minutes on hold, two transfers, and a supervisor who sounded personally offended that I asked, they informed me they’d be happy to help,” he says.
I give him the side-eye, and he continues. “As soon as we serve them with a subpoena.”
“Of course. So, is that their standard policy? Or do they know exactly what we’ll find when they hand over the data?”
Nate blows out a long, slow breath. “My money’s on both.”
“Time to go see AJ?” I close my laptop, push back from the table, and toss my empty coffee cup in the trash.
Nate squares up the leaning stacks of case files, tapping each one against the table until the edges line up, then setting them back into place. “Yup. And on our way to find Kessler, we can stop by Judge Nesbit’s chambers and see if we can get lucky a second time in two days.”
“You think that’ll happen?” I hold the conference room door open for him, and he huffs out a short breath.
“It’d take a miracle.”