Читать книгу Judging Joshua - Mary Wilson Anne - Страница 9

Going back to Silver Creek should have been a good thing. But going back to his hometown had been hard for Joshua Pierce.

He stepped out of the old stone-and-brick police station on a side street in the town and into the bitter cold of November. The brilliance of the sun glinting off the last snowfall made him narrow his eyes as he finished shrugging into the heavy, green uniform jacket over his jeans and white T-shirt. He didn’t bother doing it up as he headed for the closest squad car in the security parking lot at the side of the building.

Easing his six-foot-tall frame into the cruiser, he turned on the motor and flipped the heater on high. He sat there while the warmth gathered. Two months ago he’d been in Atlanta, in the humid heat of September, with no intention of coming home. Then his world shifted, the way it had more than a year earlier, but this time it was his father who’d needed him.

He was back in Silver Creek, without an idea what he’d do when he left here again. And he would leave.

This wasn’t home anymore. For now he worked, filling in for his father, while the old man recovered from a heart attack, and getting by day by day. It worked. He made it to the next day, time and time again. And that was enough for him.

He pushed the car into gear, hit the release for the security gate, then drove out onto the side street. Turning north on the main street, he looked off toward the rugged peaks of the Sierra Nevada soaring into the heavy gray sky. Silver Creek had some of the best skiing in the West.

The original section of town looked about the same, with old stone-and-brick buildings, some dating back to the silver strike in the 1800s. They looked like a time warp from the past, until you looked more closely and saw that the feed store was now a high-end ski equipment shop. The general store had been transformed into a trendy coffee bar and a specialty cookie store.

Some buildings were the same. Rusty’s Diner was still Rusty’s Diner, run by the red-haired man, and the hotel was still the Silver Creek Hotel. But everything else was changing, and even in Silver Creek, change was inevitable. You couldn’t fight it, he thought as he drove farther north into the newer section where the stores were unabashedly high-end. He’d tried to fight the changes in his life, but, in the end, he hadn’t been able to resist.

He slowed for the influx of traffic at the public skiing slopes to the west and headed away from the bustle of the visitors. Picking up his two-way radio handset, Joshua called in, told them where he was, then settled in for the drive north. He glanced to the west and observed the reason Silver Creek had changed so much in the past ten years. The Inn at Silver Creek.

At first all anyone could see was the high stone wall, partially covered by snow, that seemed to go on forever to the north. It actually ran for two miles before you reached the impressive main entrance. He’d clocked it once for something to do on one of his drives.

The Inn was pricey, fancy, ultraprivate and totally secluded on more than a hundred acres that just happened to encompass the best ski runs in the area. As if thinking of Jack Prescott, the developer and owner of most of Silver Creek, had made him materialize, Joshua approached the front of the inn and spotted Jack’s car on the cobbled entryway that led to massive wooden gates. The red Porsche, a horrible car to be driving up here in the snow, was idling by the guard station. Ryce, the guard on duty, glanced up from his conversation with Jack, who looked in Joshua’s direction, and both men waved.

Joshua beeped his horn and kept going. He’d see Jack later. They’d talk. They’d have a few drinks. Despite the fact that when they were kids they’d thought they could solve the world’s problems, they knew better now. Even if it looked as if the sheriff’s kid and the rich kid hadn’t had much in common, they had been, and still were, friends.

The boundaries of the town were far-reaching, and Joshua often used the time on his rounds to be alone. But as he drove past the last traces of the stone wall that marked the end of Jack’s land, he realized he wasn’t going to have the pleasure of peace and quiet, at least not now.

A black luxury car came toward him from the opposite direction, going too fast, sliding into the curve, then catching traction and heading south. It whizzed past him and Joshua knew he couldn’t let it go. Not on these roads. He swung a quick U-turn and took off after the car. He clocked it at sixty miles an hour, which was about twenty miles too fast for the road. Pulling up behind it, Joshua flipped on his lights and siren. It took a good ten seconds before the driver reacted and he saw the brake lights flash, noted the sudden slowing before it pulled over.

Joshua pulled in behind the car and called the station. He asked Deputy Wesley Gray to run the plates. He’d been used to better equipment in Atlanta, but things took longer in Silver Creek. Everything took longer in the town. Reaching for his uniform hat, Joshua got out and ducked into the chilled wind as he headed to the car.

As he approached, he noticed the car had heavily tinted windows. A BMW, he noted, Illinois plates, practically brand-new. He thought he could make out one person inside.

At the driver’s window, he tapped the glass, and it slid down silently. He bent to look inside. The driver was a woman, but she didn’t fit the type he’d expect to be handling such a car. He’d thought the luxury sedan had most likely been heading for the inn, or cutting through on its way to Las Vegas.

But the woman behind the wheel was pretty, even with the frown of annoyance on her face. Dark hair shot with auburn was pulled back severely in a ponytail from a makeup-free face dominated by deep blue eyes. Long lashes, defined eyebrows, small nose, full lips and an angry look on a slightly pale face. He could see the way her left hand gripped the top of the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles were bloodless. But she didn’t have the glitter of gold and diamonds at her fingers, ears or neck.

A plain chambray shirt and jeans weren’t even stylishly faded and worn. They were just faded and worn. She didn’t fit the car at all. “What’s the problem?” she asked abruptly in a breathy voice edged with that anger and annoyance he’d easily picked up on.

“Your license and your registration, ma’am?” He reached his hand through the window, palm up toward her.

“What did I do?”

“We’ll start with speeding,” he said.

He thought she muttered, “Great,” but he couldn’t be sure because she was leaning across the console to reach the glove compartment. Her hair flipped at his hand and he pulled back slightly, catching a hint of some flowery scent. He watched her hit the release button and this time he knew she said, “Well, damn it,” before sitting back and grabbing a purse she’d set on the passenger seat. She tore through the worn leather satchel, pulled out a wallet, then produced a driver’s license. “There you go,” she said, handing it to him through the window.

“The registration?”

“I can’t find it,” she said, stuffing things back into her purse.

“Keep looking,” he countered, then left to go back to the squad car. He opened the door, but stayed outside and reached in for the handset. Before he could put in the call, the radio was talking to him. He flipped a button and fell into the pattern of law enforcement in Silver Creek. No fancy codes, no “Roger” this or “Roger” that. “What’s going on?”

“Got your information,” Wes said. “Guess what? You got a hot BMW there. It’s on the sheet out of Chicago. Stolen eight days ago from one Barton Wise.”

Joshua knew criminals came in all shapes and sizes. Even with deep blue eyes. “Are you sure the numbers match?” he asked.

“Oh, they match. Checked them twice.”

“Okay,” Joshua said, raising the license the woman had given him. “Get whatever you can on one Riley Jane Shaw. She’s out of Chicago, twenty-six.”

“She?”

“Yeah, she, and she’s alone in the car. I’ll bring her in, but send Rollie out with his tow truck, one mile north of the far corner of Jack’s place.”

“Do you want backup?” Wes asked seriously.

He would have said, “Forget it,” but he’d seen it happen too often—a cop making a routine traffic stop, then being shot for his lack of caution. “Sure, come on out,” he said. “I’ll wait for you.”

“You got it.”

Joshua put the handset back, then stood by the squad car, reading and rereading the license in his hand. Auburn hair, blue eyes, five feet six inches tall. He stared at her picture, at a younger version of how she looked now, with dark, fairly short hair softly feathered around her face. No anger there, no impatience. Pretty. He glanced at the BMW and could see her watching him in the rearview mirror. Pretty, and driving a stolen car.

He didn’t make a move toward the BMW until he saw the other cruiser coming down the road toward them. He noticed the woman in the car shift, looking ahead of her, watching the cruiser cut across the road and come to a stop inches from her bumper, nose to nose. She twisted around to look back at him. The heavy window tinting hid any facial expressions, but her body language screamed nervousness.

He motioned to Wes to stop as he got out of the car, and stay where he was, with the cruiser door between him and the suspect. He pushed Riley Shaw’s license into the pocket of his jacket, then unsnapped his holster lock and headed back to the BMW. The window was gliding down as he looked in and met those deep blue eyes.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

Joshua didn’t miss the fact that her right hand was on the steering wheel and her left hand was out of sight.

“Hands in sight,” he said.

She quickly raised both her hands, palms toward him. “Hey, just a minute. I—”

“Please step out of the car,” he said, his right hand hovering by his holstered gun. He saw her eyes dart to the gun, then back to his face. Now she was scared and that could bring any action, from trying to run, striking out at him or collapsing into tears. He didn’t want any of that to happen. He just wanted her out of the car with her hands empty.

“Why?” she asked, not moving, her hands still in the air.

He reached for the door handle and pulled, but it was locked. “Please unlock the door, ma’am.”

“Sure, sure,” she said, hitting the automatic lock opener and it clicked.

He pulled the door open and stood back as far as he could from the woman. She squinted up at him, then stepped out into the frigid air. Her shirt looked as though it was made of thin cotton and her well-worn Levi’s showed a strategic rip at one knee. Somehow he thought the rip was accidental and not an intentional statement of fashion. She was wearing running shoes, no socks and even though her license had said she was twenty-six, she looked like a teenager.

“Step clear of the car, ma’am,” Joshua said as he let go of the door and moved back, motioning to her left.

She darted a look at the other squad car, then back at him. “Please, tell me what’s going on,” she said as she took a step toward him.

“Turn around and face the car. Place your hands on the top, palms down. This car was reported stolen from Chicago, and unless you’re Mrs. Barton Wise, you’re under arrest for suspicion of grand theft auto.”

“This is crazy!” she gasped. “I’m just driving this car for delivery to San Diego. I came around the long way. I got lost, then realized I had to cut back this way to get on the route to Las Vegas.” She spoke quickly in a breathless voice. “I’m just delivering it. It’s not stolen.”

He was willing to listen, if she could prove it. It would make his life simpler at the moment. “Okay, show me the paperwork.”

She frowned at him. “Paperwork?”

“The agreement you signed, the bond you put up, anything to prove that you have the right to be in this car.”

She swallowed hard. “Okay, sure, but I need to get it,” she said, holding her hands up, palms toward him. “I just need to get my bag.”

“Okay, slowly,” he said with a nod.

He watched her carefully as she reached inside the back of the car and pulled out a duffel bag. She held it up to him. “It’s in here,” she said.

“Okay, get it.”

She unzipped the bag, dug into it, and he found himself holding his breath until she pulled out an envelope. She opened it and held it out so he could see the contents. Inside, there was a stack of bills and a piece of paper.

“Take out the paper and put down the bag.”

She shivered as the wind gusted, but she did as she was told, pulling out the piece of paper, then dropping the duffel at her feet on the icy shoulder of the road. She held the paper out to him. “Here. This is all I have.”

He took it, glanced at Wes, then shook the paper to open it. It was mostly blank, but at the top was a San Diego phone number, the name Mindy Sullivan and a date, eight days from today. It looked as if it had been printed off of a computer. “What does this prove?”

“That’s the number I’m supposed to call when I get to San Diego. They’ll tell me where to take the car.”

“And the money in the envelope?”

“It’s the payment for my services, combined with my money that…that I put in with it.”

He didn’t realize until then how much he wanted her story to be true. But she hadn’t shown him anything that would prove it. “Sorry, that doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means I answered an ad in the paper to drive this car from Chicago to San Diego, and I’m doing that. Call Mindy Sullivan and ask her. Her attorney in Chicago hired me.” She looked relieved. “That’s it, the attorney. Call him. He’ll tell you this is all a big mistake.”

Wes was coming toward them now. “Everything okay?” he asked.

Joshua said “Fine” at the same time the woman said “No, it’s not.”

He ignored her statement and asked Wes, “Was there a Mindy Sullivan on the sheet for the BMW?”

“No, boss, the only name was Barton Wise.”

He looked back at Riley Shaw and realized she was close to tears. He didn’t want to deal with a hysterical female, even if she was a car thief. “You can’t do this,” she muttered.

He hesitated, something a cop should never do. “If you have anything to prove you didn’t steal this car, give it to me now. Otherwise I have no option but take you in.”

“The attorney in Chicago,” she said. “Just call him. You can check with him and find out this is a mistake.”

“I can’t do that from here, so we’ll go to the station,” he said. “Now, turn around and place both hands on the car.”

“Please, this is insane. I didn’t steal this car.”

He moved closer. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. It’s up to you,” he said as he looked down into her face. He could see she was shaking. Fear? She could just be cold. Her clothes were little protection against the gusting wind. “Let’s do this the easy way.”

RILEY CLOSED her eyes for a long moment to try to calm herself and shut out the sight of the man right in front of her. His clothing was heavy, but even so she could tell he was a lean man, maybe six feet tall, with roughly angled features. He was wearing reflective sunglasses, so she had no idea what his eyes were like, and a uniform cap covered most of his hair. All in all, there was no hint of softness in the man.

The hard way or the easy way? Maybe he didn’t care which way this played out. But she did. It was a mistake. A crazy mistake. A misstep on her way to San Diego. She’d call the attorney and wipe that smug look of control off the cop’s face. She looked at her own reflection in his glasses and thought she looked like a vagrant. She hadn’t dressed to impress for the trip.

“What about my money?” she asked, holding up the envelope. “It’s mine.”

“I’ll take it,” he said, and did. He put the paper back in the envelope, then shoved it into the pocket of his green uniform jacket. “I’ll give you a receipt at the station.”

“You bet you will,” she muttered.

“Miss Shaw, I’ll personally make sure you get every cent if your story checks out and we release you,” he said. “Now, turn around, hands on the car.”

Riley uttered a single word that she never used, then turned to slap both of her hands palms down on the cold top of the black car. She’d come so far, but at this moment, she felt as if she’d slipped back into a past she’d tried to bury for ten years.

She was startled when he touched her from behind, his hands on her shoulders, skimming over her, light but thorough. Down both of her arms, down her sides, to her waist, to her hips, then down and on both sides of her legs. She closed her eyes tightly, enduring the touch, praying for it to end.

Once the frisking was over, though, he snapped a handcuff on her wrist, then pulled her other hand down and back to secure it. “Okay, let’s go,” he said so close she felt the air vibrate with his words.

She turned slowly, taking time to focus, to build the anger that smoldered in her. There was no way she was going to dissolve into tears in front of a cop. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“Joshua Pierce.”

“Badge number?”

“The name’s enough,” he murmured.

“Okay, but you’re going to regret this.”

He shook his head. “Adding ‘threatening a police officer in the commission of his duties’ is not going to help anything.”

She shrugged, tugging at the handcuffs. “I think it’s illegal to let a prisoner freeze to death,” she muttered.

“We don’t want that to happen.” He caught her by her upper arm and led her to his squad car. Opening the back door, he put his hand on the top of her head to ease her down and in, then waited for her to scoot over on the hard seat. She shifted, settled and stared straight ahead.

He opened his door, then called to the other cop. “Wait for Rollie to get here, then come back to the station.”

“Are you cool with this?” he asked, motioning to her in the car.

This obviously wasn’t big city if a cop used the word cool.

“Very cool,” he said to the other man, then slipped in behind the wheel.

Riley felt him study her in the rearview mirror, through the wire mesh separation in the cruiser. “What about my things?” she asked.

“They’ll be secured,” he said, then asked, “Are you comfortable?”

She looked at him, those reflective glasses driving her crazy. She hated not being able to see his eyes. “Cool,” she muttered.

She thought she saw the hint of a smile shadow his lips for a moment before he pulled out around the BMW. He waved to the other officer, then headed south. He shifted and she knew he was looking at her in the mirror again.

“Nice clean car,” she said.

That smile was almost there again. “Thanks.”

She looked around the interior. “Dated, but dead-on clean.”

“Are you a connoisseur of police cruisers?”

She’d seen a few in her life, but this was not the first time she’d been in one and she wasn’t guilty of anything. She’d done everything to never ride in a cop car again, but here she was. The last time, she’d been guilty as heck, but not this time. The last time she’d gotten into the stolen car knowing it was stolen, and gone for a joyride with three kids she’d known she shouldn’t trust. The last time she’d been arrested, she’d thought she’d be in jail for the rest of her life. And she might have been, if she hadn’t been rescued.

Riley looked at the cop who said his name was Joshua Pierce, and knew that there wouldn’t be a rescue this time. He took off his uniform cap, tossed it on the front seat, exposing thick dark hair flecked with gray at the temples, and she finally looked away and out the side window. A stone fence ran along the road then stopped at an elaborate entrance to some sort of estate or resort. They even had a guard by massive wooden gates. The guard looked up, waved, then glanced in the back seat at her. His hand stilled in the air.

“You don’t get too many criminals around here, do you?” she asked.

“Not usually,” he murmured.

“I bet you’ll get some sort of medal for arresting a hardened criminal ready to take over this town.”

He looked at her in the rearview mirror and she saw her own image reflected in his glasses. “One can only hope so,” he murmured.

“That’s a joke, Officer, like this whole thing is a joke,” she muttered. One thing she’d learned as a teenager living on the streets was to keep things like fear to yourself. Never show weakness. And when she’d rebuilt her life, the same thing applied. When she’d had her interviews at the college with prospective employers once she’d earned her degree in physical therapy, she’d made very sure she didn’t let them know how scared she was or how desperate she was for a good job.

“This isn’t a joke, Miss Shaw,” he said.

She shrugged, but caught her handcuffs on the hard plastic of the seat. She looked out at the scenery, the rock fence gone as they slipped into what looked like a typical skiing community with shops and houses, ski lifts that were crowded with skiers, and more shops and restaurants. Everything looked determinedly “cute” and postcard-perfect.

Finally they arrived at a security fence that swung open as they approached. The squad car pulled in next to the other cars in the lot and the cop exited and came around to where she sat.

He pulled open her door and the cold air cut into the car. She shivered as she ducked to get out, her movements awkward without the use of her hands. He steadied her by holding her upper arm, and once she was on her feet they headed for the building.

Within a minute they were inside and she was grateful for the warmth. She looked around at the wide central room that held several desks, lines of filing cabinets, and fronted what was probably the entry to the jail. A long, dark-wood reception desk separated the entry from the main room. This jail was anything but cute, like the town. It had worn wooden floors, wainscotting done in what looked like fake cherrywood, off-white walls adorned with Wanted posters and a huge message board.

All police stations had that dull look to them, as if hope died in them. But she wasn’t going to let that happen to her. She’d prove her innocence and be back on the road in no time.