Troublemaker by Linda Howard
Mayor Buddy came and patted her hand. “Quite a bit of excitement,” he said kindly as he pulled a chair around and sat down beside her, his pleasantly homely face caught in an expression halfway between concern and laughter.
Bo roused herself to reconnect. “I want to apologize for my language,” she said because she’d heard the phrase “tear your fucking head off” several times during the past half hour or so. The deputies had gotten a kick out of it, but she didn’t know how the town elders would feel. No one would care if she cussed like a sailor in private, but public perception was a different animal.
He chuckled. “Don’t worry about it. It makes such a good story most everyone in town will likely tell it themselves. The few that get puckered up about it will be outnumbered. I swear to you, I never thought this kind of thing would be in your job description.”
“I didn’t either.” She’d thought it was administrative, all the way. And it would have been; jumping in had been her choice, no one had told her to do it.
“Kyle’s daddy will likely kick up a fuss.”
“I know.” Warren Gooding owned a couple of prosperous sawmills in the area, which meant he employed some of the townspeople, and he liked to throw his weight around because of it. He’d always stepped in whenever his kids did anything wrong, blaming everything on someone else, so she expected him to follow pattern. Still, he didn’t live within the town limits, so he couldn’t even vote in elections, and considering the circumstances, she thought he’d concentrate his efforts on finding Kyle a good lawyer and maybe trying to get the prosecutor not to press charges.
If it were left up to her, she’d let bygones be bygones; she wasn’t really hurt and neither was Jesse. Hitting Emily, to her, was the big deal, but whether or not Emily pressed charges was up to her. But there would be charges because no one wanted people to get the idea they could get away with resisting arrest and assaulting officers of the law. This whole thing was going to get very messy before it was over; Miss Doris was beloved in the town and the Goodings weren’t, but the Goodings were influential, strident, and persistent.
She caught a glimpse of the big school clock on the wall behind the counter, and saw that almost an hour had elapsed. Aghast at her own negligence she said, “Tricks!” and surged to her feet. As cold as the day was, she knew overheating wasn’t a problem, but it was definitely time to get her out of the Jeep.
“Where is she?” That was one of the county deputies; she thought his name was Mayhew, or Mayfield, something like that. It didn’t surprise her that he knew who Tricks was.
“In the Jeep,” she said as she started to the door.
“You stay here, maybe drink some tea and get settled. I’ll get her.”
“Tea!” said Miss Doris, her eyes lighting. “That’s a good idea. All three of you need something to drink.” She dashed behind the counter and went to work.
Bo watched as the deputy crossed the street and opened the passenger door of the Jeep, then released Tricks from her harness. He wasn’t fast enough to catch her leash, though. Tricks jumped down and immediately trotted to the curb, her expression a little anxious as she searched for Bo. As always, she stopped at the curb and looked both right and left, a trick that delighted all the kids in town whenever they saw her do it, then she dashed across the street, leash trailing, and came straight to the door of the bakery, with the deputy in hot pursuit as he made repeated grabs for her leash.
Ignoring any health department regulations about animals in a food establishment, another deputy opened the door and let Tricks in. She darted to Bo, her whole body wagging with joy at being reunited. Bo received a thorough sniffing from her feet up, then a lick on the hand, then she was abandoned because the smells of food captured Tricks’s interest. Tricks made a beeline for the display cases and stood in front of them, her tail swishing back and forth as she seemed to peruse the baked goods.
“I’m going to take her out back,” Bo said to no one in particular and took Tricks out the door and around the side of the bakery to the patch of grass behind the building.
The brief period of solitude felt like an escape. She stood in the cold air, watching Tricks nose around and choose the optimal spot to pee, and relished the quiet and aloneness. She wasn’t a recluse by any means, but the whole slightly farcical situation was too chaotic and intense for her to quite get a handle on it. She needed time to regroup, just a little, to settle herself down.
When she and Tricks went back inside, Miss Doris was waiting with a cup of hot, sweet tea. Emily and Jesse also held cups, though Jesse looked a bit self-conscious at holding the dainty teacup. He’d probably have preferred coffee, but Miss Doris thought he needed tea, so he’d drink the tea and thank her for it.
Things began winding down. Statements were taken from all involved, the medics pronounced her good to go but with the warning that she should get a friend to stay with her overnight, just in case there were any delayed symptoms.
Despite Miss Doris’s rejuvenating tea—which had indeed helped settle the jittery feeling—Bo felt tired and drained. She’d had no idea brawling was such hard work. She was able to make her escape and go to the police station, where she could do normal things such as feed Tricks, give her some water, then kneel on the floor and bury her face in the dog’s plush golden fur as she hugged her and apologized for letting her stay in the Jeep for so long. Tricks didn’t care; she was happy to be hugged and doted on, regardless of the reason.
She didn’t have the police station to herself, of course; the dispatcher, Loretta Hobson, had to get the lowdown on what had happened, the phone rang, both off-duty officers came in just to check on things, Daina heard about what had happened and called to see if she was okay, a couple of the town’s nosy old men came by on trumped-up excuses so they could see what was what and make a report at the daily gathering of the Liar’s Club at the diner, where they sat and drank coffee and chewed the fat for hours at a time.
All of that felt somewhat normal, though she began to realize she’d never live down the tale.
Dutifully Bo made herself sit down and start on the never-ending paperwork generated by even a small-town police force. That was her job, after all. She’d been at it for maybe half an hour when Jesse came in and dropped into the visitor’s chair in front of her desk.
“Sorry about that,” he said gruffly. He looked chagrined that she’d been involved in a violent situation. Jesse loved being a cop, had never wanted to be anything else, but he despised paperwork and administration to an intense degree. It had been his idea to hire her as police chief to handle the administrative side while he handled the enforcement part of it, so he was feeling guilty that she’d been hurt, however slightly.
She shrugged and felt the soreness in her right shoulder. “No one made me jump in, I just did it. I’m okay.”
“I let him take me by surprise. I know how domestics can blow up on you, and I let my guard down anyway.” His cheekbones flushed with color. Failing to meet his own standards as a cop would eat at him, and he’d make sure he never made that mistake again. He looked like such a Boy Scout with his short dark-blond hair, blue eyes, and square jaw that if someone didn’t know him, it was easy to underestimate his dedication to the job. “Are you really okay? I know the medics told you to have someone stay with you tonight.”
With an inner start, Bo remembered her houseguest. His presence would be convenient tonight, and though she didn’t think there was any need, neither would she take any chances with her health.
“Someone is staying with me,” she said.
“Who?”
“An old friend. He showed up unexpectedly yesterday afternoon.”
“He?”
“Morgan Rees. He’s in bad shape and needed a place to stay.”
Pure cop flowed over Jesse, hardening his gaze as he considered what “bad shape” could mean, and the reasons behind it, such as drug addiction. “Bad shape how?”
“He’s had open-heart surgery, then pneumo
“He’s an old boyfriend?”
“Not even that.” She could see where it was unusual that she’d open her home to someone with whom she didn’t have any real links. “He was a friend of a friend, originally. We’ve never even dated. But we got along, and he’s desperate, so . . .” She let her voice trail off and shrugged. “At least I won’t be by myself tonight.”
“Do you mind if I meet him?” That was Jesse, direct and determined.
She smiled as he hit right on her prediction. “I told him you would. Sure, come out whenever you want.” Even if that wouldn’t be the surest way to allay any of Jesse’s suspicions, she’d have wanted him to meet anyone staying with her as a safety measure. She wasn’t a scaredy-cat, but she was definitely a cautious one. It struck her that she’d never before had an overnight visitor, of either sex, and it was seldom that anyone came out to her place. That was fine with her because she liked her own space and her privacy and wanted to be able to leave any situation and go home.
“I was planning on following you home anyway to make sure you got there okay. Head injuries can be tricky.”
“I appreciate it,” she said, and meant it.
CHAPTER 8
MORGAN WAS HALF-ASLEEP WHEN HE HEARD THE JEEP return; he’d already learned its sound, but there was a second car following close behind. He sat up, glad he’d made the effort to get dressed. He didn’t have on shoes, but at least he had on pants, socks, and a tee shirt. Through the windows he saw her and the dog, followed by a guy in a police uniform. This must be the famous Jesse, come to check him out.
Fine. He’d expected it, they’d prepared for it. He wasn’t worried about the cops; he knew his forged background would stand up to inspection. He’d play his part, though God knows acting weak and sick was reality, not acting—and it grated.
The door opened and the dog dashed in, straight to him. She gave him a lick on the hand, then turned her attention to the half-eaten sandwich on the coffee table. At least he’d slid it back into the sandwich bag, so she couldn’t wolf it down. He leaned over and retrieved the bag, zipped it up. If he let the dog have the sandwich, he imagined his hostess would tear him a new one.
She closed the door and turned around. “Jesse, this is Morgan Rees,” she said. “Morgan, Jesse Tucker.”
She kept the introduction tight and brief. Morgan glanced at her to see if he could read anything in her expression and immediately saw the swelling bruise on her cheekbone.
Alertness zinged through him, adrenaline sharpening his gaze, straightening his spine, tightening his muscles. He found himself on his feet, though the process of getting there was slow enough that it chafed. “What happened?” he demanded, his tone rough.
She looked briefly puzzled, then realized where he was looking and touched her cheekbone as if she’d forgotten about it. “Oh, that. There was a fracas in the bakery. Much fun was had by all.”
“Bo—I mean, the chief—helped me subdue a suspect,” Jesse supplied. Morgan had already made a swift appraisal; the cop looked like the prototype for “straight arrow,” in good shape, posture military-erect, eyes clear and direct. He’d just made a tiny slip, one that Morgan immediately caught. So she was called “Bo” instead of “Isabeau?” Good thing he hadn’t used Isabeau, or the cop might get the idea they didn’t know each other very well at all, and that could open up a can of worms. Why hadn’t she told him that? Because he hadn’t called her by name when they’d talked, after first asking if she was Isabeau Maran. She wasn’t accustomed to subterfuge, so the difference between her given name and the name she used simply hadn’t occurred to her.
“I hope the jerk paid for it,” he growled, directing a piercing look at Jesse.
“He paid, and he’ll pay some more.”
He gave a brief nod. His ire was reluctant but it was real. The bruise on her face wasn’t bad; he got worse on almost every mission. But he was trained for it, and he was built to take physical punishment. She wasn’t. She was an ectomorph, long arms and legs without much muscle mass, her bones thin. There was no extra weight on her and never would be. Her facial structure was faunlike, with big brown deer eyes and a delicate jaw; fracturing it would be easy, and his hands curled into fists at the idea of some jerk punching her.
“It’s just a bruise,” she said and looked at the sandwich in his hand. “Want me to take that? Jesse, you want something to drink?” Meaning the subject was closed, and she didn’t want to be fussed over.
“I’m good, thanks.”
Morgan gave her the sandwich bag and she went over to the kitchen, leaving the two men alone, though since it was all one big open space he guessed “alone” was stretching it a bit.
Jesse’s stare was unwavering. “The chief says you guys are old friends.”
That part could be a little sticky. He had to make it sound as if they’d known each other well enough that he could show up at her house and reasonably expect her to let him crash here while he healed, but not so close that they’d kept in touch or knew everything about each other.
“Yeah, we met years ago, had some mutual friends. No relationship or anything like that, just friends.”
“But you know each other pretty well.”
“If you’re asking were we close enough that I could just assume she’d take me in, the answer is no. I wanted out of the hospital and didn’t want to go into a rehab facility. Enough was enough.” He scowled. “After a month—God almighty. I’d have crawled out if I had to.”
“So you just decided to come here.”
In a flash Morgan saw the fabricated background wasn’t going to hold up under this cop’s nosiness. He’d dig deeper than most, and the logic wasn’t there. Other people might accept the glossed-over version, but Jesse Tucker wouldn’t. He gave Jesse a shrewd look, sizing him up. Maybe the best thing was to come clean—not completely clean, not his real name or the full circumstances, but enough to have the cop back off. That wasn’t what he and Axel had agreed on, but he’d always had autonomy in the field, so he could make any adjustments he thought were warranted.
“I got shot,” he said baldly.
From the kitchen Bo said, “I thought you weren’t going to tell that.” Her tone was both interested and absent, which was exactly the right note to hit. Maybe she was better at this than he’d assumed. Her little comment let Jesse know that she wasn’t being lied to, that her eyes were open and she didn’t need protecting.
“He needs to know,” Morgan replied. “So he doesn’t do any digging that might give me away.”
Jesse was standing ramrod straight, his gaze hard and level. His hand was resting on the butt of his service weapon, a completely automatic move he probably wasn’t aware of making. “Give you away to who?”
“Whoever did the shooting,” he said tersely, which wasn’t the truth but close enough. They knew who’d fired the shots; they just didn’t know who had aimed the shooter. “That’s why I couldn’t stay in my own place.”
Jesse mentally chewed on that a minute, then said, “Why don’t you tell me exactly what’s going on.”
“I’ll tell you as much as I can. Do you mind if I sit?” He hated to admit his weakness, but it was either do that or start wobbling on his feet. Without waiting for the answer—what did he care anyway?—he eased down on the sofa, using his right arm to brace himself so no sudden movement pulled on his chest muscles. “First, I’m government. That’s pretty much all I’m going to tell you. If you start digging and trip any electronic wires, you can get me killed.”
“But you brought your trouble here without thinking about the danger to my town?” There was fire in the cop’s eyes, fire that was justified. But Jesse also sat down, and that was progress. He was at least willing to listen and, because of Bo’s response, was already inclined to believe what he was told.
“You think I’m stupid?” Morgan shot back. “There are layers of
“I’ve already asked all those questions,” Bo added as she rejoined them. “Jesse, I wouldn’t have let him stay if I hadn’t satisfied myself it was safe. I talked to his . . . supervisor, I guess. The way this was handled, without any kind of electronic or paper trail, there’s no way he can be connected to us. His supervisor, him, me, and now you—we’re the only ones who know.”
Except that wasn’t quite true, Morgan thought, though he kept his expression veiled. The connection to her was going to be difficult to find, difficult enough that no one would think they were meant to find it, but the whole point of this was that he could eventually be located. Then the shit would hit the fan, for the guilty party at least, and afterward he’d get back to his real life kicking terrorist ass.
Jesse didn’t like it, didn’t like anything about it; that was plain. He looked back and forth between Morgan and Bo, weighing, considering, but finally his trust in Bo outweighed his reservations. “If you’re satisfied, boss,” he said.
She rocked her hand back and forth to indicate she hadn’t one hundred percent bought in. “I’m satisfied enough, for now. But I know for certain Morgan isn’t in any shape to leave, so that’s that.”