Читать книгу The Lover - BEVERLY BARTON, Beverly Barton - Страница 7
ОглавлениеDespite living in a new place, sleeping in a different bed, Jim had rested soundly. Thanks to prescription pain medication. It would have been easy to get addicted to the stuff years ago, and God knew he’d come shamefully close a couple of times. But if he’d fallen prey to drug addiction, he might as well have kissed his life good-bye. He was forty, with a couple of bad knees, unmarried, unattached, could barely make ends meet and had to struggle to sustain his father/son relationship with his only child. And here he was on this sunny, clear-blue-sky Thursday morning dreading starting a new job, one that anybody would see as a demotion for a guy who’d been a detective on the Memphis police force.
He parked his seen-better-days Chevy pickup truck in the area of the courthouse parking lot designated for the Adams County Sheriff’s Department. After getting out and locking the doors, he glanced around at the other vehicles and grunted. Then he chuckled to himself. Figures, he thought. There wasn’t another vehicle as old and dilapidated as his. One particular car caught his eye as did one SUV. The car was a late-model white Mustang convertible with the top down. Whoever owned the sporty little ride must have felt confident that it wasn’t going to rain today and that nobody would dare mess with his car. He figured the owner to be young—possibly thirty or less—and single. A guy who liked the way he felt when he was behind the wheel of a car other men envied. His guess was that a guy like that usually had a pretty, bosomy gal with him, a looker he could show off the way he did his car.
When Jim passed by the SUV, he’d noticed it because it was clean as a whistle, as if it had just been washed. He knew for a fact that it had rained in Adams Landing very recently, because of the mud puddles he’d seen driving in yesterday. Pausing for a couple of seconds, he looked inside the neat-as-a-pin black Jeep Cherokee. The carpet was clean; the seats and floorboards were void of any clutter, except for a closed black umbrella. Whoever owned this SUV was probably a neat freak, somebody who needed to control every aspect of his life, saw things in a linear way, needed his ducks in a row.
Admitting to himself that he was stalling, Jim ended his vehicle inspections and headed toward the side entrance that led into the north wing of the two-story building. Like so many other towns across America, especially in the South, the Adams County courthouse stood in the middle of town, like the center of a box, with streets crisscrossing in the four corners. The white columned entrance faced Main Street. Two large, age-worn statues of Alabama Civil War generals presided over the green lawn on either side of the brick walkway leading from the city sidewalk to the front veranda. The back of the courthouse faced Adams Street, directly across from the post office, which was flanked by Long’s Hardware and Adams Landing Dry Cleaners. The side-porch entrance to the sheriff’s department faced Washington, a tree-lined street boasting the local library on the corner of Main and Washington and the county jail on the corner of Washington and Adams. An antique shop and a radio station, both housed in old Victorian painted ladies, sat side by side between the library and the jail.
Taking a deep breath of fresh morning air, Jim squared his shoulders, opened the door and walked into a long, wood-floored hallway. The minute he entered the building, he saw the sign protruding sideways from atop the door frame of the first door on the right: SHERIFF. As he approached the office, he noted that the door stood open, as if inviting people to come inside and make themselves at home. He had no more than stepped over the threshold than an attractive young woman, in the typical brown and tan Alabama deputy uniform, walked toward him, a smile on her face and a cup of coffee in her hand. Slender and blonde. Not pretty, but cute. With short, bright pink fingernails.
“Hi, I’m Deputy Holly Burcham.” She transferred her coffee cup from her right to her left hand and held out her right hand to Jim.
He took her hand, shook it, and replied, “I’m Jim Norton.”
She smiled warmly. “Thought you were.” She glanced at the wall clock. Seven-forty-two. “You’re early.”
“I wanted to make a good impression,” he said, only halfway joking. “First day on the job and all.” He offered her a closed-mouth smile.
“Well, come on in and get a cup of coffee and meet a few people.”
Holly issued him not only a verbal invitation, but a physical one as well. She took his arm, smiled at him flirtatiously and hauled him over to the coffeemaker placed in a corner across from a large desk Jim assumed belonged to the sheriff’s secretary.
After Jim untangled himself from Holly, he removed a Styrofoam cup from a stack on the table, poured the coffee almost to the rim and took a sip. The brew was amazingly good.
“Lisa makes great coffee,” Holly said.
Jim’s gaze followed Holly’s as she looked directly at the small, attractive black woman who had just sat down behind the desk. She glanced up at Jim and smiled.
“Lisa, meet Jim Norton, our new chief deputy for the criminal investigative division,” Holly said. “Jim, this is Lisa Wiley, Bernie’s administrative assistant.”
When Lisa smiled, Jim noted how pretty she was. Probably close to forty. Ultrashort bronze red hair. Slender, small boned, with large black eyes and flawless tan skin.
“Welcome to Adams County,” Lisa said. “I hope you’ll like it here. I’m sure you’ll enjoy working with Bernie. She’s the best.”
“Thanks.” Jim took another sip of coffee. “Has the sheriff come in yet?” He glanced around at the workstation where the “road deputies” did their paperwork for their shifts. There were four deputies already here, and to a man they were sizing him up. He didn’t get any specific type of vibes from the officers, neither negative nor positive. He figured most of them would wait and see if the hotshot from Memphis turned out to be a regular guy or a smart-ass.
“Of course she’s here,” Lisa replied. “Bernie’s usually the first one in and the last one to leave. Let me tell her you’re here.”
Lisa rose from her desk, walked to the closed half-frosted glass door and knocked, then opened the door and announced, “Sheriff Granger, Captain Norton is here.”
Jim waited to be invited in, wanting to make sure he started this job off on the right foot. Working for a woman was a first for him, and since he wasn’t the most politically correct guy around, he wasn’t sure what would or wouldn’t offend a lady sheriff.
“Please send him in,” a feminine voice replied. He liked the sound of her voice. It wasn’t a little girl coo or a nasal whine or a deep, throaty warble. It was strong and commanding, yet Southern soft.
“Go right on in, Captain Norton.” Still smiling, Lisa stepped out of the doorway to allow him entrance.
The rank of captain wasn’t necessarily the norm for the position he’d taken here in Adams County, but for a lawman with fifteen years’ experience, it wasn’t unheard of by any means. Getting the rank and the pay that came with it had been one of Jim’s stipulations for taking this job. What no one knew was that he’d have taken the job regardless.
“Call me Jim,” he told the secretary as he headed for the open door of the sheriff’s office.
“Call me Lisa,” she said quietly as he passed by her.
When he entered the room, the woman behind the massive old wooden desk stood tall and straight, her gaze directed toward him.
“Please close the door and come on in,” she said.
He followed her instructions, then stood about four feet away from her, catercorner to her desk, and waited for her to proceed. They stared at each other for at least a minute.
So this was Sheriff Bernadette Granger. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. Maybe someone older and tougher looking. Of course, he hadn’t expected a gorgeous babe, which Sheriff Granger definitely wasn’t. The lady was tall—he’d guess around five-nine or -ten—big boned and sturdy. His mama would have called her rawboned. She wore brown lace-up leather flats; brown, department-issue slacks; and a white button-down shirt. An acrylic ID badge was clipped to her shirt pocket. She wore her medium brown hair pulled back into a neat ponytail, the tip even with her shoulders, which meant she had really long hair. A pair of small gold hoops dangled from her ears, and her only makeup consisted of a peachy lipstick and blush. Not exactly pretty, but the features were good, the face appealing. And the lady was above all else as neat as a pin.
The black Jeep Cherokee is hers.
“Have a seat.” She motioned to one of the two chairs flanking the front of her desk.
Jim took the one on the right. After he sat, she sat.
“First, let me tell you how pleased I am to have you as part of our team. You come highly recommended, and we feel fortunate that you’ve chosen to join the Adams County Sheriff’s Department.” She paused, as if waiting for a response, and when he remained silent, she continued, “Our criminal investigative division is staffed with five investigators. A couple of the men on the team applied for the chief deputy position, but I can assure you that neither man will be a problem for you. Both Ron Hensley and John Downs are true professionals.”
Jim knew that most sheriffs were equal parts politician and lawman, some more politician than anything else. Sheriff Granger certainly knew how to be diplomatic, a chief tool in any politician’s arsenal of weapons. But he would reserve judgment until he got to know the lady better. As for Deputies Hensley and Downs, Jim’s guess was that one or both of them would hate his guts on sight. Nobody liked to be passed over for a promotion.
“I’m sure I’ll have no problem with any of the deputies,” Jim said. It was a bold-faced lie and they both knew it.
Sheriff Granger smiled. He liked her smile. It was genuine. His gut instincts told him that the lady was the same—a no-nonsense, no-frills, what-you-see-is-what-you-get woman. “After you take care of the necessary paperwork and we issue you all the usual paraphernalia, I’ll go with you over to the jail and show you your office and introduce you to the others in your department.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“After that, I’ll show you around Adams Landing, and then take you to lunch. Our District Attorney, Jerry Dale Simms, will be joining us. He’s looking forward to meeting you. You’ll like Jerry Dale. Everyone does.”
“It’s very nice of you, Sheriff Granger, to take the time to escort me around personally. I appreciate it.” Okay, why were the sheriff and DA taking him to lunch? Not that he minded, but it puzzled him.
As if reading his mind, she said, “You’re wondering why the sheriff and DA would take a new chief deputy to lunch, aren’t you?” She laughed. “To be honest, Jerry Dale is eager to meet former UT running back Jimmy Norton.”
Jim grunted, then chuckled. “Hmm …”
She stood and held out her hand across the desk. “Welcome to Adams Landing.”
He reached out and took her hand in his and exchanged a cordial shake. Her handshake was strong and self-confident, and the entire time she looked him right in the eyes. Man-to-man, so to speak. Yet there was nothing masculine about Bernadette Granger.
“Holly will show you around the office, introduce you to others and once you’re squared away, we’ll head over to your office.”
Understanding that he had been dismissed, Jim nodded, got up and headed for the door. Just before grasping the doorknob, he paused, glanced over his shoulder and said, “I’m a pretty straight shooter. I’m not a game player and I’ve made my share of mistakes. I’m not always the most diplomatic guy or the most politically correct. So if I ever say or do anything you consider out of line, just let me know.”
Her expression changed. The smile vanished. “You can be sure that I will. I tend to be straightforward and somewhat outspoken, so you’ll never wonder where you stand with me.”
He nodded again, then opened the door and left her office. He had no more than closed the door behind himself than Deputy Holly Burcham sashayed over to him, all smiles and fluttering eyelashes.
“Come on, handsome. I’ve been designated as your tour guide.”
Any man would find Holly attractive. And he was, after all, a man. But the last thing he wanted was to get involved with a fellow officer, especially right off the bat. He needed time to feel his way around, to get the lay of the land, before even thinking about a personal relationship of any kind. All he wanted was to make a success of this job and strengthen the ties to his son. Only two goals. And he suspected neither would be easy to accomplish.
Bernie sat quietly behind her desk, mulling over her brief conversation with her new chief deputy. Twenty years ago, when Jimmy Norton and Griff Powell had been the golden boys of UT football, she’d been just a kid, but being a tomboy and doing anything to gain her father’s attention, she’d watched all the college and pro games with her dad. She remembered Jimmy Norton more than any other player, probably because she’d had a silly schoolgirl crush on him. Yeah, she and how many hundreds of other pubescent and teenage girls in the South? She’d kept a picture of him on her bulletin board alongside one of Tom Selleck as Magnum PI, a TV show she and her dad had never missed. So, truth be told, she was almost as starstruck as Jerry Dale was over Jimmy Norton.
But she had to remind herself that she was no longer a kid with a crush on a guy she’d never met in person, and Jim Norton hadn’t been a superstar athlete in nearly two decades. Okay, so the guy was still panty-creaming good looking; actually, maturity sat well on his broad shoulders. He was still tall and lean, and she suspected that his body was muscular and toned beneath his clothes. She had to admit that for a couple of minutes while she’d been looking him over, she had pictured him stark naked.
From what she’d learned about him, she hadn’t been surprised that he had that rode-hard-and-put-away-wet appearance, but somehow that roughness only made him all the more appealing.
Good grief, girl, get over it, will you? You’re thirty-two, not twelve. You’ve been married, divorced, had your heart broken, and learned the hard way that few men are what they seem. Besides that, you’re Jim Norton’s superior.
And if those facts weren’t enough to throw cold water on her fantasies, the fact that she hadn’t felt any reciprocal I’m-attracted-to-you vibes from him should be. Odd that she could so easily admit to herself that she found Jim Norton attractive—very attractive—when she couldn’t remember the last time a guy turned her on. It had been such a long time since she’d had sex that she was practically a born-again virgin.
Lost in her thoughts, she barely heard when Lisa buzzed her. “Sheriff Mays on line one.”
Dragging herself out of her teenage-crush memories, Bernie punched line one as she picked up the phone. “Hello, Ed.”
“Bernie, I don’t suppose you have anything new to report on Stephanie, do you?”
“I’m sorry, but no, I don’t.”
“God, things are bad at my house. My wife’s doing what she can to keep her sister calm. Judy keeps telling Emmy not to give up hope, but we’re all half out of our minds worrying about Stephanie. She’s been missing for two weeks, and between your people and mine, we’ve scoured most of Jackson and Adams counties.”
“Ed, are you sure there’s no possibility that her husband killed her?” Bernie wasn’t usually so blunt with a family member, but Ed wasn’t just Stephanie Preston’s uncle-by-marriage, he was the sheriff of nearby Jackson County. He knew how often in a missing person’s case it turned out that the spouse had murdered their unaccounted-for mate.
“God, no. Kyle’s a basket case. The doctor has put him on medication and we’re making sure someone is with him twenty-four/seven. If Stephanie is dead, that boy’s liable to kill himself.” Ed paused for a minute. Checking his emotions, Bernie thought. “You know they’ve only been married for five months. He proposed this past Christmas and they had a Valentine’s Day wedding.”
“I wish I could do more. Just tell me if there’s anything, absolutely anything, you want me to do.”
“I don’t understand how she could have disappeared the way she did, without a trace. The last anybody saw of her, she was heading toward her car after her class that night. But y’all found her car, stilled locked, parked at Adams County Junior College.”
“We’ve gone over the car with a fine-tooth comb,” Bernie said. “There was no evidence of foul play. No blood. No semen. Nothing to indicate a struggle. It’s as if she headed toward her car and never made it there. Either she decided to go back inside the building or somebody came along and nabbed her. Or she got in her car and back out again for some reason.”
“If she got in the car with somebody, then why didn’t a single solitary soul see it happen? There were other students going to their cars that night. Why didn’t any of them see something?”
“Stephanie’s car was not near one of the security lights and it was going on ten when she was last seen. In the darkness—”
“Has that new hotshot detective from Memphis shown up?” Ed asked abruptly.
“He’s here now.”
“Are you turning Stephanie’s case over to him?”
“He’s my new chief investigator, so technically that puts him in charge, but I plan to stay involved, to keep close tabs on the case.”
“We aren’t going to find her alive,” Ed said. “And you and I both know it.”
“I’m afraid you’re probably right,” Bernie agreed. But what if they never found Stephanie—dead or alive? Her family would continue to suffer for weeks, months, even years, always hoping beyond hope that out there somewhere she might still be alive. The odds of that were slim to none.
“I don’t suppose there’s much point in manning another search, is there?”
“I don’t think so. If I thought it would do any good, we’d do it, but …”
“If anything turns up, you’ll let me know immediately.”
“Yeah, if it does, you’ll be the first person I contact.”
“Thanks, Bernie. And say hello to your dad.”
“Sure will.”
The dial tone hummed in her ear. Bernie placed the receiver down on the telephone base and stared off into space for several minutes. The most difficult part of her job was dealing with her very feminine emotions. Just because she’d been elected sheriff didn’t mean she could simply turn off her nurturing, maternal, caretaker-to-the-world instincts. Yes, she was as smart as any man, as good a shot as any deputy on the force, knew the law better than most, and worked diligently to be half as good a sheriff as her dad had been. And although she’d been accepted by the male deputies from day one and she thought she had earned their respect, she knew that because she was a woman, her every action was scrutinized.
A knock on the door gained her attention. “Yes?”
The door opened a fraction and Jim Norton peered into her office.
She motioned for him to come in, but he simply shoved the door open wider to show her that he had his arms filled with the items he’d been issued. Uniforms, “campaign” hat, a Glock 22, Sam Browne belt, holster and cuff case, a retractable baton, radio, pepper spray, badge, and ID card.
“I’m taking these out to my truck,” he told her. “After that, I’m ready whenever you are.”
As he stood there, she surveyed him quickly from head to toe. He stood six-three. Weighed two-twenty-five. Was forty years old. All info she’d read about him in his file. But nothing in his file described the man’s rugged good looks. He wore his dark brown hair cut short and neat. His attire was casual—old jeans, a plaid shirt, and boots. But the one aspect of his physical appearance that Bernie found the most interesting was his eyes. Blue blue. Sky blue. And quite a contrast to his dark hair and tanned skin. “Where are you parked?”
“My truck’s in the designated parking lot.”
“Okay, you go on ahead. I’ll meet you out there in a few minutes. The jail is across the street, at the end of the block. We’ll walk.”
Upon arrival at the Adams County jail, an updated building that Sheriff Granger told Jim had housed the jail for the past half century, she introduced him to forty-something Lieutenant Hoyt Moses, a burly six-foot redhead with a boisterous laugh and seemingly good-natured disposition.
“Hoyt’s in charge here,” Bernie said. “He has three sergeants and eighteen deputies working under him.”
When they reached the area that housed the investigators’ offices, both the criminal and narcotics divisions, she paused in the hallway. “Look, these guys have worked together for years and some of them even went to high school together. They’re good men, all of them. They might have some preconceived ideas about you because of who you are. You know, the Jimmy Norton. Plus, you were a Memphis detective. But they won’t give you any trouble. You treat them fairly and they’ll do the same.”
“So who’s the one the most pissed about being passed over for the promotion?” Jim didn’t see any point in pussyfooting around, trying to be diplomatic. Diplomacy was part of the sheriff’s job, not his.
The lady frowned. “Brutal honesty isn’t always the best course of action.”
He shrugged. “It’s how I work. It’s who I am. Is that going to be a problem?”
She huffed. “I don’t know. Guess we’ll have to wait and see.”
“So, who is he? The guy who already hates my guts for getting the job he wanted.”
“Nobody here hates your guts,” she said. “The front-runner for the chief deputy position was Ron Hensley, and yes, he was disappointed when I looked outside the department to fill the position. But Ron’s a professional and he understands my reasons for hiring you. He’s not going to give you any trouble.”
Yeah, sure. “That’s good to know.”
Jim knew that he would have to prove himself to the other deputies, especially to Lieutenant Hensley. He was willing to do his part to get along with the guy, as long as Hensley didn’t give him any shit. From the get-go, he needed to make it clear that he was the chief deputy, the man in charge. And he needed to do this in a way that didn’t alienate any of his deputies.
“Ron and John are both here this morning, at my request. I wanted you to meet both of your lieutenants.”
Sheriff Granger opened the door and breezed into the central office. A couple of uniformed deputies stood talking, each holding a cup of coffee. Jim sized up the two quickly and decided that the short, stocky, slightly balding guy was probably John Downs. He had that easygoing, old-shoes-comfortable look about him. Jim guessed the guy was married, with a couple of kids, went to church every Sunday and liked his life the way it was. The energy he emitted was calm and low-key. The other guy was a different matter. A tad under six feet, slim and fit, with military, short black hair and pensive brown eyes. He presented a flawless appearance—from his handsome, clean-shaven face to his spit-polished shoes. This was, without a doubt, Ron Hensley.
“Morning,” the sheriff said. “Ron. John.”
Both men turned and greeted her.
“Jim, I’d like to introduce you to Lieutenants Ron Hensley and John Downs.” With their gazes fixed on Jim, they both nodded. Downs smiled. Hensley did not. “Gentlemen, this is Captain James Norton.”
Downs came forward, shook Jim’s hand, and welcomed him cordially. Then reluctantly, after glancing at the sheriff as if to tell her he would do what he had to do, Hensley held out his hand to Jim, but he didn’t say anything.
Hensley had a strong, firm grip, but he didn’t use the handshake as a pissing contest to prove he was as strong or stronger than Jim. And Jim respected that type of reserve and control in any man. His estimation of Hensley improved because of that one simple gesture.
“Y’all will get a chance to become better acquainted later,” Sheriff Granger told the deputies. “I’m taking the morning to show Jim the layout of the department and to give him a tour of the town. Then we’re meeting Jerry Dale for lunch. If either of you would care to join us—”
“I’d love to,” John Downs said, “but this is Friday, and Cathy, my wife, and I have a standing lunch date every Friday.”
“Oh, that’s right,” the sheriff said. “I’d forgotten.” She looked at Hensley. “What about you, Ron?”
“Sure, I’ll tag along. Are you taking him to Methel’s?”
“Where else?” She turned to Jim. “Methel’s is practically an institution in Adams Landing. The current owner is the great-granddaughter of the lady, Methel, who opened the restaurant in the late thirties. It’s the best food in town. Down home country cooking like your grandma used to fix.”
“You make me wish it was lunchtime already.” Jim grinned.
“If you ever want great barbeque, the only place to go is The Pig Pen over on Second Street,” Downs told him.
“And if you’re ever in the mood for a stiff drink and some loud music, check out the Firecracker on Carney Road,” Hensley said.
Jim and Hensley shared a hard look. Not a hostile look, just an understanding that each would reserve judgment of the other until they were better acquainted. Fair enough. Jim’s gut told him that he and Hensley might have a few things in common.
“Meet us at Methel’s around twelve-thirty.” The sheriff headed toward the door, but paused halfway there and said, “Ed Mays called me a little while ago.”
Downs shook his head sadly.
Hensley glanced at Jim. “We’ve been working a missing person’s case for the past couple of weeks. The missing woman’s uncle is Ed Mays, the Sheriff of Jackson County.”
“Do y’all suspect foul play?” Jim asked.
“Possibly,” Hensley replied. “The problem is, we really don’t have a clue as to what happened to her. It’s as if she just disappeared off the face of the earth.”
“What about the husband?” Jim looked directly at Hensley.
Hensley shrugged. “Doubtful he had anything to do with it.”
“No clues, huh? I’d like to take a look at your files on that case this afternoon.”
The edges of Hensley’s mouth curved into a tentative smile. “I’ll be glad to show them to you. Maybe you can catch something we’ve missed.”
“Maybe.”
Sheriff Granger cleared her throat. “Captain Norton, are you ready to go?”
“Ready whenever you are, Sheriff.”
