Читать книгу My Only Vice - Elizabeth Bevarly - Страница 6

ONE THING ABOUT small-town Northaven that hadn’t surprised Sam was its police station. Nestled at the center of Main Street in what was called the town’s historic quarter, it was housed in a restored brick-front building that hosted several small businesses—one of which just happened to be Rosie Bliss’s flower shop, Kabloom, three doors down. The walkway outside was cobbled, of course; the windows were paned, naturally; and the interior could only be described as quaint, a word Sam normally, manfully, avoided.

But there was no other term to capture the mood of the hardwood floors and plaster walls painted what Vicky, their dispatcher, called Wedgwood blue. Whatever the hell that was. The desks—all three of them—were antique monstrosities that could comfortably serve dinner for twelve, and the chairs were spindled wooden numbers that creaked comfortably whenever anyone sat down. In fact, the creaking of chairs and floors made up the bulk of the sounds in the place, interrupted only by the soft strains of music from the radio, which Vicky kept tuned to a light jazz station.

It was nothing like the soulless cinder block and dented metal and cracked plastic of Sam’s Boston precinct. And the stench of too many unwashed perps and overworked cops had been replaced by freshly baked bread from Barb’s Bohemian Bakery next door. Also absent was the constant ringing of phones, the whining and jeering of the hookers and pushers in the cages, and the free-flowing profanity of his colleagues. Sam, like his two full-time deputies and the half-dozen volunteer deputies who visited the precinct from time to time, had learned to watch his language, because Vicky fined anyone who swore within her hearing a dollar for every inappropriate word used. Then she donated the money to the Northaven Free Public Library.

The new Maguire Browsing Collection was named after Sam, since the bulk of his first year’s paychecks had gone to Vicky.

As different as his life in Northaven was, however, he wouldn’t go back to Boston for a million bucks. He might never quite get used to living here, but he liked it. A lot. It appealed to that thing inside him that had made him become a cop to begin with—a belief that decency and goodness did exist in the world. In Boston, he’d begun to think that was only a fantasy. But it was true in places like Northaven, places that needed to be protected at all costs. So Sam would do his best to keep the small town and all its residents safe from outside corruption. Of course, now that he knew women like Alice Stuckey and Rosie Bliss—and the handful of other women in the morning aerobics class—were all vibrator enthusiasts….

He gave his head a hard shake as he pushed open the door to the precinct, in the hopes that doing so would chase away the image of Rosie, buck naked and flat on her back, legs spread wide and hips thrusting upward as she did things to herself with that vibrator he’d much rather be doing to her himself.

He bit back a groan as he strode into the precinct, hoping Vicky didn’t notice he had a woody at half-mast. But she had her dark blond head bent over a book, as she usually did during non-crime-spree times—which was pretty much always. To add a bit of color to her dispatcher’s uniform of white shirt and brown pants, she regularly added a sweater in a different color. Today’s was red. It matched the scrap of fabric she’d used to pull her curly hair back into a stubby ponytail.

“Any calls?” Sam asked as he hurried past her desk, trying to keep his back to her and his woody to himself.

“Only one for you specifically,” she told him. She turned in her chair to look at him as he seated himself at his desk. “From Ed Dinwiddie at campus security. Again.”

“The usual?” Sam asked.

“The usual,” Vicky confirmed. “He’s still sure there’s someone selling drugs at Northaven College, and he wants to coordinate with you on an investigation and possible stakeout.”

Sam didn’t bother to hide his groan this time, since it was one of regular frustration, and not the sexual kind. Ed Dinwiddie, the chief of security at Northaven College, had been sure someone was peddling drugs on campus since before Sam’s arrival in town. At first, Sam had taken the other man’s suspicions seriously, because he hadn’t had any reason not to. But a brief investigation had produced nothing but Ed’s overactive imagination to support the existence of anything narcotic going on at Northaven—save a lot of caffeine abuse and OD’ing on Green Day around midterm and finals time. Then, when Bruno and Dalton, Sam’s two full-time deputies, had assured Sam there was nothing out of the ordinary going on because they’d investigated it themselves a time or two, Sam had let the matter drop.

Ed, however, hadn’t.

He sent monthly reports to Sam describing in detail his suspicions and everything that made him suspicious. The problem was that Ed Dinwiddie found suspicious anything from what he considered incriminating dialogue between students—which consisted largely of slang words for coffee and oral sex—to what he was sure was drug paraphernalia—even though the last bit of “paraphernalia” Ed had found turned out to be a popcorn popper. He also made regular monthly calls to Sam to “coordinate” an investigation. Sam had tried to be polite, but he’d never been known for his patience, and what little he had was beginning to wear thin.

“Does Ed have any additional evidence this time to support his suspicions?” Sam asked Vicky wearily, already sure of the answer.

“It’s more paraphernalia this month,” she said.

“Though what he described to me sounds a lot like the rhinestone- and stud-setter I got for my twelfth birthday thirty years ago.”

Sam grunted in resignation. “Yeah, I hear those things are making a comeback.”

“There was one thing Ed had this time, though, that was a little out of the ordinary,” Vicky added, voicing the revelation with clear glee. Her green eyes fairly sparkled with mischief. “Something he’s for sure never mentioned having before.”

“What’s that?” Sam asked with much disinterest, reaching for the small stack of mail perched near the edge of his desk.

“Well, I don’t know where or how he came by the information,” Vicky said, “but this time, Ed told me he’s got himself a bona fide suspect who he’s absolutely positive is selling drugs to the Northaven students.” When Sam glanced up, she smiled and wiggled her eyebrows in way that was far more playful than it was concerned. “And, Sam, this time, Ed even gave me a name.”

“ROSIE, YOU HAVE TO help me. You have what he needs. And if he doesn’t get it soon, he’s going to die. And if he dies, I’ll die. I need for him to be at his best. And he can’t be at his best without it.”

Behind the counter of her flower shop, Rosie rolled her eyes at the young woman and sighed. College girls. Such drama. Such pathos. Everybody was always going to die over something. Shannon Eckert was no different. The dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty on the other side of the counter was relentlessly thin, her cropped purple sweater riding high above her low-slung blue jeans to reveal a dangling rhinestone palm tree that winked from her navel. Her hair was tucked behind ears that boasted another half-dozen piercings, and a wreath of roses was tattooed around one wrist.

Rosie’s own appearance paled by comparison—and not just because of her fairer features, either. The only body parts that were pierced on her own person these days were her eardrums—thanks in large part to Shannon’s shrieking just now—and she’d had the circled A tattoo above her ankle—the symbol for anarchy—surgically buffed away years ago. Her attire consisted of a crinkly emerald skirt shot through with threads of silver, and a loose-fitting white tunic she’d cinched with a macramé belt.

Had someone told her fifteen years ago that she would be dressing like a gypsy and selling flowers for a living, Rosie would have laughed in that person’s face. Back then, she’d worn all black, all the time, right down to the heavy kohl around her eyes and the polish on her fingernails. She’d even dyed her hair black. In fact, it wasn’t until she’d gone back to her natural color a few years ago that she’d realized she’d gone from the carrot orange of her childhood to a more sophisticated dark auburn.

She’d been one crazy, mixed-up kid when she was a teenager, no two ways about it. Mixed-up to a point that had earned her more trouble than any teenager deserved—or could handle. She’d come a long way since South Beach. And she never, ever, wanted to go back. Not even if it wouldn’t put her life in danger to do so.

“I’m serious,” Shannon continued, tugging Rosie back to the present, where she would much rather be. “He’s getting shaky, he’s gone so long without it.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Rosie said without concern. Somehow, she suspected Shannon was actually the shaky one. “And just how long has it been, Shannon? A day? Two?”

“Three!” the girl fairly screamed. “It’s been three days! You’ve got to help! You’ve got to give me more of that stuff!”

Rosie shook her head. “Three days, huh? Wow. Must be hell.”

“It is!” Shannon cried.

“Fine,” Rosie said, finally capitulating.

She went to the back of her shop and opened the cabinet where she kept her special orders. From the middle shelf, she withdrew an oversize basket that held an assortment of small fabric pouches. Each was filled with a substance that had become extremely popular among the upper classmen at little Northaven College, to the point where they had even developed a slang name for it—Rapture. Many even swore they were hooked on it for life. To Rosie, such monikers and claims were a little over-the-top. What the pouches held was simply a sideline to her business, one she was keeping under wraps for two reasons.

Number one, she honestly wasn’t sure what the reaction and reception to her products would be outside her clientele list. Aphrodisiacs weren’t exactly a commonplace commercial product, and anything that was even remotely sexual in nature was often viewed in a less than positive light. At best, her products might be snickered at if Rosie advertised them, and at worst, they might fall under suspicion. The citizens of Northaven—at least the ones who purchased her special orders—were surprisingly open-minded about the herbal aphrodisiac teas she blended for them. But it was still a small town in New England, with its Puritan sensibilities, and Rosie preferred to err on the side of caution.

Her second reason for not advertising her aphrodisiac teas was the same reason she didn’t much advertise the floral side of her business. Maintaining a low profile was essential to Rosie’s well-being. Hell, it was essential to her very life. Her aphrodisiacs were very effective, and they were the sort of thing that might even potentially achieve cult status popularity among the university or online crowd. Worst-case scenario, it was possible she could see some press for them. Even locally, that could be disastrous. The last thing she needed or wanted was to draw attention to herself. When she’d been in the spotlight before, she’d nearly ended up dead. So, like everything else in her world, Rosie kept the aphrodisiacs under wraps and relied on referrals and word of mouth to promote them.

So far, so good.

Now she fished a pouch bearing Shannon’s name out of the basket before replacing the rest of the assortment in the cabinet. Then she returned to the front of the store where her client stood fairly humming with anticipation. Rosie extended the fabric bag toward the young woman, who immediately made a grab for it. But she snatched it back before Shannon could claim it.

“Go easy on this stuff,” she cautioned the girl. “There’s more to college than partying, you know. You need to get an education in there somewhere.”

Shannon nodded impatiently. “It’s not for me,” she told Rosie. “It’s for Devin.”

“Sure it is,” Rosie said. She’d heard that one before. All the girls said they were buying it for their boyfriends, that the guys were the ones who really needed it. But Rosie knew the women enjoyed the results just as much as their menfolk—probably more.

Shannon dug into her pocket for a rumpled bill and handed it to Rosie, who then reluctantly handed over the pouch. “I mean it, Shannon,” she said as she released it. “I know classes just started up again a month ago, but you need to focus on your studies, not Devin.”

Shannon nodded again, more slowly this time, seeming to feel a little calmer now that she had what she’d come for. “I know,” she said. “I’m totally focused on my studies, honest. But Devin is so fine, and I want to be with him. I want him to be happy. And I want to be happy, too.” She smiled and leaned in a little, lowering her voice some as she added, “We’re getting married next summer after graduation, did I tell you?”

Rosie smiled back. “No, you didn’t,” she said, genuinely delighted to hear the news. “Congratulations. That’s great. How long have you two been together?”

“Since high school,” Shannon told her, sounding almost bashful now. She held up the fabric pouch Rosie had just handed her. “Maybe you can give me a lifetime supply of this for my wedding present, huh?”

Rosie shook her head. “Not a chance. You won’t need that once you’re married.”

Shannon expelled a dubious sound. “Are you kidding? That’s when I’ll need it the most.”

Rosie shook her head again. “I’m sure it’s just the pressures of college that are making Devin…you know.”

Shannon made a wistful sound now. “I hope you’re right,” she said. She fiddled with the pouch again. “I guess it would be pretty bad to have to rely on this stuff for the rest of our lives, wouldn’t it?”

“You won’t need it,” Rosie assured her. “You guys will be fine.”

Shannon eyed her thoughtfully for a moment. “As long as you’re here for now,” she said, “supplying us with what we need. Thanks, Rosie.” And with that, she spun on her heel and left the store.

Kids, Rosie thought, ignoring the fact that there was barely a decade between her and Shannon’s age. Some people grew up a lot faster than others. And Rosie should know. She hadn’t been a kid since… Well. She hadn’t even been a kid when she was a kid.

Before more thoughts of the past could put her into a less-than-cheerful mood, she pushed them to the very back of her brain, where she relegated all the things that threatened to stain the picture-perfect life she was trying to paint for herself in Northaven. She’d struggled through a lot to get where she was, dammit. She was a survivor in the strictest sense of the word. She’d worked hard to achieve a fragile kind of satisfaction—with her life and herself—that she wouldn’t mess with for anything. And she was still working hard, still trying to move forward. Even if Kabloom wasn’t a booming success, she was still turning a profit at the end of every month.

Okay, so maybe she hadn’t shown the best judgment, opening a florist and organic gardening shop in a town that catered to young, carefree students who didn’t give a second—or even first—thought to such things. But there were only a handful of florists in the entire county—and none in Northaven proper—so when someone did need flowers, they called Kabloom to order them.

Besides, her aphrodisiac business had begun to flourish over the past six months, even though she hadn’t gone out of her way to advertise it. And that was a direct result of living in a college town. Rosie hadn’t consciously considered the benefits of that, but the college atmosphere here did foster a culture of more tolerance—and even enthusiasm—about her products. She was grateful to the campus crowd for taking such an interest. Word of mouth alone had been phenomenal.

It had even traveled beyond campus. She had clients now who were scions of the community. You really couldn’t judge a book by its cover. Or even the mayor of Northaven, since she was one of Rosie’s biggest customers.

Rosie sighed as she looked around her shop. Her empty shop. Her empty shop that was empty most of the time—save those busy lunchtimes when so many Northaven students came in to pick up their special orders. Rosie hadn’t even had to hire another employee, since she kept only daytime hours. Save a handful of feminine holidays like Valentine’s Day and Mother’s Day, any traffic she saw in the shop was sporadic. When she’d come to Northaven two years ago after everything went to hell in Boulder, she’d had hopes for building her business a little faster, but at this rate… Well, thank goodness people here died on a regular basis, so at least she had the funeral orders.

And that, more than anything, told Rosie she couldn’t afford to skimp on the aphrodisiac side of the business. Because, call her crazy, being grateful for the death of one’s neighbors did not seem like a sound business plan. In fact, it seemed kinda ooky.

Her gaze strayed to the back of the shop and fell on the cabinet from which she had just pulled Shannon’s special order. Maybe, if she was very, very careful, she could expand a little bit on her aphrodisiacs. Start looking into other preparations that might have the same effect as the teas she blended for her customers. Incense, maybe. Massage oils. Candies. As long as Rosie stayed behind the scenes herself and never became a public persona, she shouldn’t have any problems. That had been what caused the trouble in Boulder. Putting a public face onto her work.

Yeah, maybe she should start focusing a little more of her professional efforts where they would turn the greatest profit, even if that profitable area wasn’t exactly—to some people’s way of thinking anyway—conventional. There had been a time in the nation’s history, after all, when a respectable woman couldn’t even buy a cocktail legally. These days, you’d be hard pressed to find a social gathering where someone wasn’t drinking. A few years from now, what Rosie was selling from that cabinet might very well be the centerpiece at every party. Why shouldn’t she be the front-runner as a supplier?

Hey, who was there in Northaven to say she couldn’t?

SAM CURBED HIS IMPULSE to flee as he folded himself into the chair before Ed Dinwiddie’s desk at the Northaven College Campus Security Office. Although the college could have been the poster child for New England Liberal Arts schools right down to its pillared entrances and ivy-encrusted brick walls, the decor of campus security was nowhere close to the quaintness of the Northaven police station. In fact, Ed’s office had a lot in common with Sam’s Boston precinct, and somehow Sam got the feeling it was because Ed wanted it that way to make himself feel more like a real, live cop.

His desk was a scarred, ugly gray metal thing, his chair a beat-up number upholstered with cheap soiled fabric and wheels that cried out in pain when Ed settled his ample frame into it. The only decorations on the grayish-white walls were framed awards of dubious origin with Ed’s name emblazoned on them, and a handful of eight-by-tens of Ed shaking hands with people, most of whom Sam recognized as members of the Northaven Chamber of Commerce. It was all Ed, all the time, and it was more than a little creepy.

“Vicky tells me you have a suspect in the campus narcotics traffic,” Sam said to open the conversation, wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible. He didn’t bother to point out that there was no actual proof of any campus narcotics traffic. Ed would have just taken ten minutes to insist otherwise.

“I do,” Ed told him. “Rosie Bliss.”

Wow. Sam hadn’t thought it could sound any more ridiculous a second time, but coming from Ed’s mouth, the suggestion that Rosie was peddling dope sounded even sillier than when Vicky had said it. And Vicky had been laughing hysterically at the time.

“Rosie Bliss,” Sam echoed, swallowing the hysterical laughter he felt threatening himself.

“Yep,” Ed said with complete confidence, running a hand over his graying crew cut.

Sam inhaled a deep breath and released it slowly. Only when he was certain he could continue with a straight face did he do so. “And what leads you to this conclusion, Ed?”

“Well, it makes perfect sense, doesn’t it?” the other man countered. “The drug traffic on campus started not long after she moved here. She owns a flower shop, for God’s sake, so she must know all about plants and how to grow them illicitly. Kids go into her shop on a regular basis but rarely come out with flowers or plants. At least none that I can see.”

Sam eyed the other man levelly, not much liking what he was hearing. “Are you telling me you’ve been staking out Rosie’s shop?”

“Not at all,” Ed assured him in a way that was in no way reassuring. “I eat lunch in the square when the weather’s nice, and I’ve just happened to notice that lunch hour is often a pretty busy time for Kabloom. Only the kids that go in there don’t seem to be coming out with anything.”

“Maybe they’re ordering flowers to be delivered,” Sam suggested.

“Maybe,” Ed conceded. “But I doubt it.”

“Maybe Rosie’s just popular with the college crowd,” Sam further posited. “She’s not that much older than they are. Maybe she’s just made a lot of friends since moving to town.”

“Oh, she’s popular, all right,” Ed agreed readily. “And she’s made lots of friends. Because she’s supplying them with drugs.”

Sam uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. This really had to stop. If Sam didn’t dissuade Ed from his belief in Rosie’s guilt, he could potentially start skirting harassment behavior. Maybe even stalking behavior. Ed did seem to have one of those borderline personalities. Of course, Sam thought further, just about everyone in Northaven was at least a little surreal.

“Look, Ed,” he began, “I appreciate all the hours you’ve put in on this thing, but—”

Ed started talking again before Sam had a chance to finish. “And then there’s the fact that no record of Rosie Bliss exists anywhere in the entire United States.”

Okay, that got Sam’s attention. Not so much the part about there being no evidence of Rosie Bliss’s existence, but that Ed had taken it upon himself to look into Rosie’s background and had possibly violated police procedure—not to mention Rosie’s basic human rights—to do it.

“Ed, seeing as how you’re head of campus security,” Sam said cautiously, “I’m not sure it’s within your jurisdiction to run a background check on a Northaven citizen.”

Ed seemed in no way perturbed by Sam’s suggestion that he may have overstepped the bounds of his position. On the contrary, looking quite calm and complacent, he turned around to face his computer, typed a few keys and then moved out of the way. “Switchboard-dot-com,” he said as his browser opened a page on the Internet. “It’s a matter of public record for any private citizen who might be interested in looking.”

Sam duly noted the other man’s emphasis on the phrase that indicated he hadn’t been snooping on Rosie’s private life while he was on the clock. Which, it went without saying, was a huge reassurance to Sam. Not.

“No Rosie Blisses are listed in the entire United States,” Ed continued. “Not even in Northaven.”

“Ed,” Sam said patiently, “Switchboard-dot-com is an online phone directory. If someone has an unlisted number, it won’t show up there. Obviously, Rosie’s kept her number unlisted, which is something a lot of women who live alone choose to do for the sake of security.”

Ed blinked at him, looking a little nonplussed now. But all he said in reply was, “Oh.”

“Besides, Rosie’s probably a nickname,” Sam pointed out. “Try Rose Bliss this time.” And he tried not to think about how he was just encouraging Ed. Okay, so maybe he was interested in Rosie, too. Just in a non-criminal way. Except for the fact that the way she made him feel sexually was actually pretty criminal.

Ed turned back to the computer and entered the altered information, and this time more than a dozen names appeared.

“See there?” Sam said.

“There’s not one listed for Northaven,” Ed pointed out, though with considerably less flair this time.

“Like I said, Ed. Unlisted.”

Sam thought the other man would just let it go at that, and started to rise to make his way out. But he halted when Ed reached for the gold-tone badge pinned to his blue uniform shirt and unpinned it, then unhitched the gun on his belt and set it on the desk.

“Oh, now, Ed, there’s no reason to go to that extreme,” Sam hastily reassured him, taking his seat once more. “You don’t have to resign over something like this. It’s no big deal, really. You and I can just keep your investigation of Rosie Bliss that may or may not be a violation of police procedure,” he inserted meaningfully, since it never hurt to emphasize a reminder like that, “between ourselves. No one else has to know. Now put your badge and gun back where they belong.”

Ed looked confused for a minute, then when he seemed to understand what Sam had said he looked shocked. “Resign?” he echoed indignantly. “I’m not resigning. I’m taking a break. As of this moment, I’m a private citizen, off the clock.” He pointed to his watch. “It’s lunch hour. Man’s gotta eat.” And with that, he pulled a paper sack out of the side desk drawer and unwrapped a sandwich, chips and can of soda.

Feeling a little confused himself now, Sam nevertheless said, “Well, then, I’ll be off.” Though he still wasn’t confident Ed had let the matter of Rosie Bliss go.

That was only reinforced when Ed said, “And maybe while I’m having lunch, I’ll just do a little surfing on the ’Net. I like to surf the ’Net to search for things. Search for people. You never know what’ll turn up. You ever surf the ’Net, Sam?”

Sam closed his eyes and counted slowly to ten. However, it was less because he was trying to manage his impatience with Ed and more because he was trying not to think about, ah, surfing the ’Net of someone whose net he very much wanted to, ah, surf. In fact, he was probably thinking about, ah, surfing the net of the same person Ed wanted to surf the ’Net for. Just, you know, not in any Internet sense of the word.

“Ed…” he began wearily.

But Ed had turned around to the computer again, and was punching more keys. This time, the Web site that popped up on the screen was for an online private investigative firm called WeFindEm.com. In big red letters at the top, it said, When You Can’t Find ’Em, We Can! And We Can Find Out Things About ’Em You Never Knew! In A Matter Of Minutes! In smaller letters, it said how much it would cost someone to have WeFindEm.com do just that. Very little, to Sam’s way of thinking. Amazing how people’s lives and secrets could be purchased so reasonably on the Internet.

“So since I’m on my lunch hour,” Ed said, “and since I’m not, technically, in uniform, I’m visiting this site as a private citizen. Which means I’m not violating police procedure.”

Maybe, Sam thought. It was a blurry line Ed was walking. Of course, it really didn’t matter, since the idea of Rosie Bliss being a drug pusher was still laughable, so any information Ed may uncover about her—or even purchase about her—was beside the point. If it was even reliable. Were those online investigators monitored? Hell, were they even licensed? Who knew what Ed would get for his $49.99? Other than the shaft? $99.99 if he wanted Rosie’s criminal records along with the shaft.

“Ed,” Sam began again.

He chose his words carefully, reminded himself to be gentle. It was common knowledge in Northaven that Ed Dinwiddie’s dream in life was to make a major bust that would gain him national acclaim. It was also common knowledge in Northaven that that wasn’t likely as long as he was head of security at the college. Hell, Ed being Ed, that wasn’t likely to happen even if he found a job with a metropolitan police department. Any force in their right minds—assuming they lost their minds long enough to hire Ed in the first place—would assign him to desk duty. Preferably in the fund-raising department where the most damage he could do would be to the decorating committee of the Policeman’s Ball.

“This’ll just take a few minutes,” Ed said as he turned to the computer, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket as he did.

“Ed,” Sam tried again.

But Ed started humming “Stairway to Heaven”—loudly—interspersing it with admonitions like, “I can’t hear you. I’m humming ‘Stairway to Heaven.’ La la la la la. I can’t hear you. Buying…the stair-way…to heaven. La la la.”

So Sam had no choice but to give up and accept the inevitable. The inevitable being that Ed wasn’t going to let this go until Sam had had a look at the report with him. Which actually might not be such a bad thing. Because once that report came through and showed that Rosie Bliss wasn’t the hardened criminal Ed was certain she was, he’d have no choice but to abandon his conviction and leave Rosie alone.

WeFindEm.com was as good as their word, and by the time Ed finished his lunch—and a few more fractured Led Zeppelin numbers—the computer was telling him he had mail. The report was attached, and Ed immediately printed up two copies, one for himself, and one for Sam, who accepted it grudgingly and gave it a perfunctory look.

The look became less perfunctory, however, as the information became more inculpatory. Because if WeFindEm.com was right, Rosie Bliss hadn’t existed anywhere in the entire United States before she moved to Northaven.

“There you go,” Ed said triumphantly, having obviously read to the end as Sam had. “No evidence of Rosie Bliss’s existence prior to her having moved here two years ago. No birth records, no work records, no addresses, no licenses for anything, nothing. She doesn’t show up anywhere until she moved here.” He glanced up at Sam, looking even more triumphant than he sounded. “Now how do you think she’s made her way as an adult without having a bank account, owning property or applying for a job? The first time her name shows up as having any of those things, it’s here in Northaven.” He pointed to the investigative report before adding, “And look at this. She doesn’t even have a mortgage on Kabloom. When she bought it two years ago, she paid for it in full, to the tune of a hundred and fifty-eight thousand dollars. Cash.”

“That doesn’t make her a criminal, Ed,” Sam pointed out. But even he was starting to feel a little niggle of suspicion at the back of his brain. What Ed had discovered about Rosie was a little odd.

“Maybe not,” the other man conceded with clear reluctance. He pointed to the investigative report. “But this sure isn’t the report of a person who has nothing to hide.”

“Maybe she’s an heiress,” Sam said. Not that he believed it for a minute. The last thing Rosie acted or seemed like was a person from a monied, privileged background. “She never had to work or live anywhere other than with Mommy and Daddy Warbucks, who took care of everything for her.”

“That still doesn’t explain why she doesn’t have any birth records,” Ed said. “Or why she never turned up anywhere before now.”

Sam sighed heavily. As much as he hated to admit it, the information in the report, if accurate, certainly roused his curiosity. It was odd that there was no record of Rosie’s existence anywhere prior to her coming to Northaven. But it certainly didn’t mean she was selling drugs. Or that she was committing any crimes, for that matter. There was still enough of the Boston vice cop lingering within him to think that maybe, just maybe, she deserved another look.

Maybe he should verify the information from WeFindEm.com himself, if for no other reason than to make sure the Web site wasn’t peddling erroneous background checks to people like Ed who might use them to feed their erroneous assumptions. There was a good chance WeFindEm.com had made a mistake in reporting Rosie’s vital statistics. And Rosie deserved to have any misinformation about herself that was floating around out there erased. She was part of what was good and decent in Northaven. She was part of what needed protecting. Sam wouldn’t be doing his job if he just let this thing go as it stood.

And damned if that wasn’t the finest bit of rationalizing he’d ever concocted for sticking his nose into someplace where it didn’t belong.

He gazed at Ed levelly as he folded the report in half, then quarters, and tucked it into his jacket pocket. “All right, Ed. I’ll look into it. Just promise me that, from here on out, you’ll stay out of it.”

“Until you need me to coordinate on an investigation,” the other man said.

Sam nodded reluctantly. “All right.”

With any luck at all, though, it would never get that far.