up.”
“I was on my way to talk to you. Were you getting a prescription filled?”
“Mmm. I know things are cheaper at the Super Kmart in Fort Henry, but shop local and all that. What did you need me for?”
He saw a break in the traffic and took it. “What? Oh. Quentan Nichols.”
“You’ve found him?”
“Nope. Although I found out how he’s been able to do his little appearing acts here. He’s still posted to Fort Gillem, but he’s TDY to Fort Drum.”
“Ah.”
He swung into the wide curve of Church Street. The single spot on the flagpole was the only light in the park now; the bandstand was a pale outline in the shadow of the maples. “Tell me what he said about Seelye.”
“I already told you everything I heard. He applied to her office for the original shipping manifests, and she showed up in person a couple weeks later and took him off the case.”
He turned onto Elm. They passed the stone bulk of St. Alban’s. “How did he seem when he was talking about her? Emotionally?”
“A little frustrated, maybe.”
“Did he seem angry? Make any threats against Seelye?”
She turned to him as he rolled his truck up her drive and put it into park. “Oh, my God. You don’t think she disappeared because he killed her, do you?” She frowned. “No, that couldn’t be it. Ron Handler at the inn saw her check out.”
“I’m just trying to sort out the possibilities. Could she be after the million for herself? Or is she just an ambitious officer who doesn’t want to share the limelight when she gets it back? Is Nichols trying to stop Seelye, or is he trying to screw her out of the money?”
“One doesn’t preclude the other.”
“No.” He unbuckled and slung his arm over the back of the seat. It was familiar, talking to her like this, sitting in the cab of his truck in her driveway. There was a time-a long time-when it was the only safe and private place for them. “I want to find that cash.”
“Get to the back of the line.”
“We should be able to figure it out. There has to be some evidence of what happened stateside in her house, or her mother’s house or her bank. If we had Nichols to tell us what went down at Balad Air Base, we could do it. It’s an equation. Millers Kill plus Iraq equals one million dollars. Which means he ought to be somewhere around here, looking for that evidence.” His chain of thought unlinked at the sight of her smile. “What?”
“Just you. I like watching your mind work. It’s sexy.”
“It is, is it?”
“Mmm-hmm.” She smiled again.
He mentally tossed the missing million aside. “You know, I just happen to have a box full of quilts in the back. Feel like taking a ride?”
She laughed. “When I suggested the truck bed, it was a sunny afternoon. Not nighttime, thirty-eight degrees and falling.”
“Chicken. What happened to army tough?”
“You’re the one who always knows when the snowbirds have flown. Don’t you have some friend or acquaintance with an empty house and a working furnace?”
The answer hit him hard enough to snap him upright in his seat.
“What?” Clare sounded alarmed.
“I know where Nichols is.”
“You do?”
He buckled up and threw the truck into reverse. “He has a friend with an empty house and a working furnace.”
Clare looked up from fastening her own seat belt. “Tally McNabb’s place.” Russ nodded. He threaded through the Friday evening traffic, surprising her when he turned off onto the Cossayuharie Road and began the twisting drive through the hilly farmland. He pulled into the driveway of a large, well-lit home and disappeared inside, returning five minutes later with a key and an expression of grim satisfaction. He dropped the key into her hand. “We have Evonne Walters’s permission to enter her daughter’s residence.”
“Oh. Does this mean you can legally search the place?”
“Hell, no.” He peeled out of the drive. “Anything I found would be tossed out before it reached trial. I don’t want to search the house tonight. I want Nichols.”
“Are you going to arrest him?”
“No. I want his cooperation.” The truck jounced down the road. “Which is why you’re coming along. He trusted you enough to talk to you. I want you to get him to trust me.”
“He might not believe me. I’m a little biased.”
“You? Darlin’, if you thought he was right and I was wrong, you’d not only refuse to give him up, you’d hand over half your paycheck and drive him up to Canada personally.”
She laughed.
“Which is why, if you say he can trust me, he’ll believe it.”
They left the truck on Saber Drive. Russ retrieved his Glock from the truck’s gun locker and slipped it into a flat holster he hung from the back of his belt. She frowned at it. “Just in case I’ve misjudged him,” Russ said.
They walked through the neighbor’s yard silently. Past the tangle of brush between the properties it became much harder to stay quiet; no one had raked in a long time, and the ground was littered with dead leaves. “Don’t walk. Shuffle,” Russ whispered. He demonstrated. It looked like he was ice-skating beneath the leaves, and all she could hear was a rustle, as if the wind were passing by. Her attempts were less successful. She swish-crunch, swish-crunched past the pool fence to the far side of the garage, where Russ was waiting.
“Sorry,” she whispered.
“It’s okay,” he said in her ear. “He probably thought you were a three-legged dog.”
She stifled a snort of laughter.
“You got the key?”
She handed it to him.
“I’m going to turn the lights on as soon as we go in. Be ready. You do the talking, but stay behind me.”
She nodded again. Followed him along the garage wall to the door. He unlocked it and swung it open without a sound. Clare tensed as his footsteps creaked on the wooden steps leading to the kitchen door. He slipped the key into the lock. Opened the door.
The lights coming on blinded her. She kept her eyes fixed on Russ’s back as he strode through the kitchen, into the living room, turning on the overheads. “Quentan,” she called. “Quentan Nichols! It’s me, Clare Fergusson. We spoke in my church.” She heard a faint thump overhead. Her heart thumped hard in response. He was here. A part of her hadn’t believed it. Russ snapped on the stair light and mounted the steps. She kept close to his heels. He had his sidearm out.
The bathroom was at the top of the stairs. Russ flicked that light switch, too, and silently pointed at the razor and toothbrush by the sink, the damp towel on the floor.
Two bedrooms. Left and right. “Quentan. Please.” She cast about for the right words. Was he thinking like a lover? A guilty man? A cop? “You can’t break this case yourself. The Millers Kill police can’t break this case by themselves. We have to work together.” God, that sounded trite.
Russ pushed her against the wall on the far side of one door. “Stay here until I clear the room.” He positioned himself on the other side and shoved the door open. Nothing happened. He reached around the jamb blindly until he hit the light switch. He turned the lights on in the same instant he stepped into the doorway, crouched low, his gun tracking left-right-left. He stood up. “Okay.”
Clare peeked around him.
