Chapter 13 #2
“Tight as a nun’s backside. He was with his parents at a careers information evening thing.
They were there from around three in the afternoon till well after dinnertime.
He and Josey had texted a little earlier in the day: it was polite and came with the slight detachment of no longer being an official couple, but the familiarity of having been a couple for their entire teenage years.
He mentioned where he was going and that he probably wouldn’t be able to chat for the rest of the day.
They quickly touched on how she was due at the Carpenters at five-thirty, then she wished him luck with the careers thing, and that was that.
It was friendly, but not chitchatty. We’ll pull CCTV from the careers expo to make sure he was where he says he was, but it’s a pretty ballsy alibi to claim if he can’t back it up. ”
“Right.” Considering, I drop my chin and nibble on my bottom lip. “That clears his parents, too.”
“Mmhm. And since we’re going, Josey’s father is a violent offender with a rap sheet and a possible grudge to settle against his daughter.”
“Really? Why?”
“Because the last time he saw her, she humiliated him in public and told him to beat it.”
“Ouch.” As Harrison brings us to a stop in front of Justin’s house, I remain exactly where I am and consider it apt that we discuss Josey’s dad in the same moment I think of the paternal figures in my life.
Steve: the comfort. Justin: the disciplinarian.
Even Harrison, although he can’t be much older than me: the protector and slightly intolerant. “What happened?”
“He beat it, as far as we can tell. He’s a deadbeat who dropped in and out of her life over the years. Lots of promises, never delivered. Last time he tried to swing through again, she told him to fuck off.”
“And he has a violent history?” I grit my teeth. “How’s his alibi looking?”
“Watertight. He’s spending time at Folsom, and the warden’s got ears and eyes on his communications. It’s not impossible that he paid someone to hurt her, but I’m not feeling it. This was closer to home.”
“It was personal. Her killer went looking for her, came prepared, avoided confrontation, and had no qualms about dumping her body. Twice. First, by pushing her from the driver’s seat, and again when they left the car and walked away.”
“Right. So we’re looking for a coward. They didn’t wanna duke it out with her.
They didn’t even wanna look her in the eyes when it went down, and they sure as shit didn’t value her as a human being, considering the way they treated her once it was done.
Josey went and pissed someone off. It could’ve been unintentional.
Maybe she didn’t even realize she’d done it.
It has a lover’s quarrel written all over it. Or rejected guy at a bar.”
“Or ‘that bitch stole my boyfriend’,” I murmur. “Women can be killers too, Archer.”
He exhales a pained chuckle, while right here in front of me, Harrison shakes his head and climbs out of the car. He comes to my door, but he doesn’t open it yet. It would be in poor taste to discuss such matters where the mayor can hear me.
“You’re still acting out,” Archer grumbles unhappily. “Saying these things because you don’t wanna go to dinner. Are you at Justin’s yet?”
“Yes. But I’m procrastinating by staying in the car and discussing work with my husband. What else did you find out today?”
“That you’d spend the next three hours on the phone if you could, not because you want to speak to me, but because you especially don’t want to go inside.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Skedaddle. Banks is coming out now, so I’m just ten minutes behind you.”
“But Archer—”
“I’ll drop Detective Dipshit off, then I’ll run inside and have a fast shower at home. Ten minutes, babe, then I’ll be right ther—”
“No shower!” I snatch up the dumb bottle of wine and hug it exactly where I hugged my shoe, and because Harrison is sooo good at his job, he opens my door and pretends his smirk has nothing to do with my hardships or the dinners I don’t want to attend.
“I expect you here in ten minutes, Detective. Not at our house. Not in our shower. Not trudging up the stairs because you’re tired, and not sneaking into the kitchen because whatever Steve and Mary cooked smells better. Here.”
“Let’s go,” Drake barks on the other side of the line, followed by the heavy slam of a car door. “Stop wasting my time. I’ve got places to be.”
“There,” Archer rumbles his agreement. “Ten minutes. I promise.”
“Good.” And since I’m not done pouting, I lower my voice, “I love you.”
He exhales a laughing breath while, at the same time, he starts his car. “Love you too. Be good, don’t kill the mayor, say nice things.”
“I literally can’t promise any of those things. But I promise to be super mad if you leave me hanging a single second longer than necessary. Scoot-scoot, Detective. I’m watching the clock.”
“Yeah.” I feel the smile in his words, and picture in my mind the way he drags the phone from his ear. Before he disconnects the line, I catch Detective Banks’ “Stop making personal calls while we’re working, fuckface.”
And then he’s gone.
“Everything good, Doctor Mayet?”
Dread settles low in my belly now that I’m here… alone… so as I bring my gaze across to the mayor’s closed front door, I gulp and cling to the icy chill of the wine bottle settled against my ribs. “Are you dating someone, Mr. Harrison?”
“Am I—” And just like that, I fist my dread and lob it straight into someone else’s hands. “I-I’m sorry, what?”
Grinning, I peel my eyes away from the house and stop on his horrified expression. “You’re about my age, I think.” I make a point of dropping my gaze. “No wedding ring. Though I don’t wear mine on my hand either, so the absence of one is hardly indicative of your marital status.”
He takes a wary step back. “This line of questioning is inappropriate, Doctor Mayet.”
Why? We’re pals, aren’t we? “You insist on hanging around, Mr. Harrison. Your employment, your home, in fact, your family, are all back in New York. Yet, here you are, driving me places long after standard business hours have ended when I literally could’ve walked.
” And since it’s all so ridiculous, I gesture to the house we came from.
I can see the roof! “If you refuse to leave, even after I’ve given you permission to do so, then I’d like to know more about you.
So?” I flash a wide smile. “Married? Kids? Divorces?”
“Chief Mayet?”
“Argh!” I startle at Justin’s barking tone and spin toward his stomping footsteps on the ornate stone staircase leading to his front door. “Jesus! You scared me.”
“I’d like to offer you the benefit of the doubt, Chief. For all I know, the conversations you hold in my driveway could be extremely important.”
“Yes, it—”
“But I know you better, which means history and common sense assure me this was nothing more than your unwillingness to come inside my home.”
Right you are, Watson!
“Let’s go.” He stands in a three-piece suit, shaded by the house as the sun goes down behind it.
Setting his hands in his pockets and raising a single, challenging brow, he summons me with a look he’s perfected over thirty-ish years as a dad to daughters.
“It’s hot out here, and procrastinating in a man’s driveway is rude. ”
“Not bringing wine is rude,” I grumble. Sparing a pithy look for Harrison, I trudge toward the house and try not to look too much like an overindulged child with each step.
“Not turning up on time is rude. Declining the invitation in the first place is rude.” I stomp up each concrete step, smarting my knees, but finding small relief in the icy air conditioning pumping from inside the house.
Reaching the top, I extend my wine-holding hand and absolutely do not lean forward for a weird huggy-kissy greeting.
That’s probably rude, too. “Do you wanna know what I consider rude, Mayor?”
“I’m certain you’ll tell me, regardless of my answer.” He takes the bottle and scoops his free hand around my arm. Leading me into the house, he closes the door behind us and stops… releases me… swallows. “Ah… welcome to my home, Chief.”
“I think it’s rude to insist someone leave their home for the evening when all they really want to do is climb into their jammies and binge-watch something dumb on the TV.
” I study the front entryway, the elegant staircase that leads up, and the doors on either side of where we stand.
One leads to his home office, I believe.
The other, to the family spaces. “And thank you.” Like him, I’m both cranky and nervous.
Short-tempered and infuriatingly awkward.
“Whatever you’re cooking smells delicious.
” I press my hand to my belly and look everywhere but into his eyes.
“I’m starving. Is, uh…” Jen? Soph? Somebody? Anybody? “Am I the first to arrive?”
Please God, say it ain’t so.
“You are.”
Dammit!
“But we still have a minute or two until seven, so no one is technically late yet. Come on.” He sets his fingers on the back of my arm and leads me through to the living room, where a massive fireplace takes up one wall, unused tonight, and atop the mantle, dozens of framed photographs that boast a happy family.
Beyond happy. They’re blissful.
A large L-shaped couch takes up three-quarters of the room, and though I know Justin Lawrence is an independently wealthy man and could afford a sleeker, sexier couch, I guess he prioritized comfort and cushions and the sinking-in-to-the-frame kind of pleasure over aesthetics.
Honestly, I’d choose the same.
One wall is decorated with uniform black and white pictures, each frame fifteen inches wide and fifteen inches high. By my fast count, there are fifteen of them across, and perhaps twenty up and down.
Bet they needed a ladder for those at the top.