“Good. Good. She can stick that up her federal ass.” She pushed him back when he came to her. “I don’t want to be coddled. Appreciate the alibi and all that. It looks like breaking my rule just keeps paying off. Whoopee.”
She pushed at him again, but this time he got his arms around her, hard and tight, and just held on while she struggled against him.
“I said I didn’t want to be coddled. I’ve got a right to blow off some steam after being questioned as a killer, an arsonist, as somebody who’d betray everything that matters to squash some little pissant—”
She broke off, broke down. “Oh, God, oh, God, they think it’s Dolly. They think Dolly’s dead and I killed her.”
“Listen to me.” His hands firm on her shoulders, he eased her back until he could see her eyes. “They don’t know who it is at this point. Maybe it is Dolly.”
“Oh, Jesus, Gull. Oh, God.”
“There’s nothing anybody can do about that if it is. If it is, nobody thinks you had anything to do with it.”
“DiCicco—”
“Was just informed you and I were together all night. There are plenty of people in the barracks who know we came in here together, and we came out together. So, if you’re a suspect, I’m one, too. I don’t think that’s going to play for DiCicco or anyone else. She had a job to do. She did it, and now that part’s over.”
He ran his hands down her arms until he could link them with hers. “You’re beat, you’re shaky. She wouldn’t have gotten to you like this if you’d been in top form.”
“Maybe not, but boy, did she.”
“Screw her.” He kissed Rowan’s forehead, then her lips. “Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to go get dinner. You can listen to the rest of the unit express their pithy and colorful opinions over the fed asking you for an alibi.”
“Pithy.” That nearly got a smirk out of her. “I guess that would feel good.”
“Nothing like solidarity. Then, we’re going to come back here so I can give you an alibi for tonight.”
Now the smirk formed, quick and cocky. “Maybe I’ll be the one giving you an alibi.”
“Either way works. Let’s go before those hogs suck down all the lasagna.” He gave her ass a light pat as they started out. “And, Ro? Don’t worry. If they arrest you, I’ll make your bail.”
The laugh surprised her. And smoothed out some of the jitters in her belly.
15
After her morning PT, Rowan made a point of going to the cookhouse kitchen. If there was one person who knew something about everything, and most everything about something, it was Marg.
“Lynn’s reloading the buffet now,” Marg told her. “Or are you looking for a handout?”
“I wouldn’t mind.”
With silver hoops dancing at the sides of her do-rag—yellow smiley faces over bright blue today—Marg reached for a pitcher. “You don’t want to have breakfast with your boyfriend?”
Rowan answered Marg’s smirk with an eye roll. “I don’t have boyfriends, I have lovers. And I take them and cast them off at my will.”
“Ha.” Marg poured a glass of juice. “That one won’t cast off so easy. Drink this.”
Obliging, Rowan pursed her lips. “Your carrot base, some cranberry, and...” She sipped again. “It’s not really orange. Tangerine?”
“Blood orange. Gotcha.”
“Sounds disgusting, and yet it’s not. Any word on Dolly?”
Marg shook her head as she whisked eggs. Not a negative gesture, Rowan recognized, but a pitying one.
“They found her car, down one of the service roads in the woods off of Twelve, with a flat tire.”
“Just her car?”
“What I heard is her keys were still in it, but not her purse. Like maybe she had some car trouble, pulled off.”
“Why would she pull off the main highway if she had a flat?”
“I’m just saying what I heard.” After pouring the eggs into an omelet pan, Marg added chunks of ham, cheese, tomatoes, some spinach. “Some of the thinking is maybe she walked on back to the highway, or somebody followed her onto the service road. And they took her.”
“They still don’t know if the remains in the fire... they can’t know that for sure.”
“Then there’s no point in worrying about it.”
Marg tried for brisk, but Rowan heard the hitch in her voice that told her Marg worried plenty.
“I wanted to hurt her, and seriously regretted not getting my fist in her face at least once. Now, knowing somebody might’ve hurt her, or worse? I don’t want to feel guilty about Dolly. I hate feeling guilty about anything, but I
“I’ve never known anybody better at bringing trouble and drama onto herself than Dolly Brakeman. And if L.B. hadn’t fired her, I’d have told him flat he’d have to choose between her and me. I don’t feel guilty about that. I can be sorry if something’s happened to her without feeling guilty I wanted to give her the back of my hand more than once.”
Marg set the omelet and the wheat toast with plum preserves she’d prepared in front of Rowan. “Eat. You’ve shed a few pounds, and it’s too early in the season for that.”
“It’s the first season I’ve needed an alibi for a murder investigation.”
“I wouldn’t mind having an alibi like yours.”
Rowan dug into the omelet. “Do you want him when I’m done with him? Ow.” Rowan laughed when Marg cuffed the side of her head. “And after I offer you such a studly guy.” She smiled, shooting for winsome.
“When do you think you’ll be done with him? In case I’m in the market for a stud.”
“Can’t say. So far he’s playing my tune, but I’ll let you know.”
When Marg set a Coke down by her plate, Rowan leaned into her just a little. “Thanks, Marg. Really.”
In acknowledgment, Marg gave her a hard one-armed hug. “Clean your plate,” she ordered.
After breakfast, she tracked down L.B. in the gym where he’d worked up a sweat with bench presses.
“I’m on the bottom of the jump list,” she said without preamble.
He sat up, wiped his face with his towel. His long braid trailed down his sweaty, sleeveless workout shirt. “That’s right.” He picked up a twenty-pound free weight and started smooth, two-count bicep curls.
“Why?”
“Because that’s where I put you. I’d have taken you off completely for a day or two, but they’ve caught one down in Payette, and Idaho might need some Zulies in there.”
“I’m fit and I’m fine. Move me up. Christ, L.B., you’ve got Stovic ahead of me, and he’s still limping a little.”
“You’ve been on nearly every jump we’ve had this month. You need a breather.”
“I don’t—”
“I say you do,” he interrupted, and switched the weight to his other arm while he studied her face. “It’s my job to decide that.”
“This is about what happened yesterday, and that’s not right. I need the work, I need the pay. I’m not injured, I’m not sick.”
“You need a breather,” he repeated. “Put some time in the loft. We’re still catching up there. I’ll take a look at the list tomorrow.”
“I find remains, which I dutifully report, and I get grounded.”
“You’re still on the list,” he reminded her. “And you know jumping fire’s not all we do here.”
She also knew that when Michael Little Bear used that mild, reasonable tone, she’d have better luck arguing
