“What have you been smokin’?” Jessie mumbled as she took her first gulp of caffeine.
“What was that, darlin’?”
“Nothing.” Jessie set down her mug and grabbed a menu, giving it a quick eyeball. “Gimme two eggs over easy with bacon and toast.”
“You might as well take the hash browns that come with that. I hear they’re sublime.”
Jessie narrowed her eyes at the woman, who had polished her attitude to a fine sheen. And flinging it so early in the morning was a skill Jessie had come to respect.
“Fine.” She held out her coffee mug. “Top me off, will ya? And keep it coming.”
“You got it.”
After the waitress called out her order, Jessie saw her own face in the mirror behind the counter. Under the fluorescent lights, she looked tired. Dark circles under her eyes made the scar across her eyebrow more pronounced and ugly.
The words “sullen” and “unfriendly” came to mind, which was fine by her. Not everyone was a frickin’ ray of sunshine in the morning. When she gulped down more coffee, she noticed another pair of eyes staring back.
A uniformed cop with a newspaper under his arm was throwing bills on a booth table. She guessed that local law-enforcement officers kept an eye out for strangers sporting an attitude.
LEOs in small towns were like that. That was why she preferred the anonymity of getting lost in the masses of Chicago or New York City. She didn’t appreciate getting rousted by the local law, especially before she had finished her coffee.
“You Jessica Beckett?” the cop asked as he walked toward her.
Before she said anything, Jessie looked down at the name badge on the man’s uniform. Chief Cook, the man she’d come to see. She crooked her lips into a lazy grin, knowing from experience that the gesture would come off looking more like a sneer than hospitable. Even though she and the law seldom saw eye to eye, she reined back her usual cynicism to greet the man proper.
“Yes, that’d be me. How’s it goin’, Chief?”
The man ignored her attempt at small talk. With a stern face, he eyeballed her like the cops in Chicago usually did. And he got down to his agenda, the real reason he’d struck up a conversation in the first place.
“You have a permit to carry that concealed weapon under your sweatshirt?”
“Yeah, I do, but I guess you won’t take my word for it.” Jessie reached into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out a wallet. “I’m a licensed fugitive recovery agent out of Chicago. Carrying a gun is part of the job.”
“So you’re a . . . bounty hunter.”
“That’s not what I said,” she corrected.
For the police chief, her carrying a concealed weapon in his town had been like waving a red flag in front of a bull. And cops usually saw her former occupation the same way. The chief was no different. His disdain showed on his face and in the way he said, “bounty hunter.” No, Chief Cook didn’t bother to hide how he felt as he looked over her permit, but him seeing her as a bounty hunter was easier than concocting a lie to explain her current employer.
“Have a nice breakfast, Ms. Beckett. When you’re ready, you know where to find me.”
“Yes, sir. I do.”
“And when we’re done”—he leaned closer and lowered his voice—“I think it’s best that you leave town. Am I making myself clear?”
“Abundantly. Guess you’ve got your welcome wagon in the shop, out of commission.” Jessie raised her mug of coffee in mock salute.
Chief Cook gave her the stink eye and turned on his heels without saying another word. He left the diner, with Jessie watching him go. Even though her first encounter with the local police chief had been brief, she could tell already. Chief Cook had made a snap judgment about her. She saw it in his eyes because she’d seen it plenty before from other cops. He’d have no tolerance for any woman who would encroach on his territory and take up bounty hunting for a living. And a woman carrying a gun, legal or otherwise, got his testosterone all riled up.
“Great . . . just great.”
“You know the chief, honey?” the waitress asked as she set down Jessie’s breakfast and freshened up her coffee.
“Not yet, but that’s about to change, unfortunately.”
Before she’d finished her first cup of java, Jessie had been kicked out of town. That had to be a new record.
Chief Cook made Jessie wait while he pretended to take an important phone call. Like most cops she’d known, the man liked being in charge and made sure she got that point. Jessie was on her second cup of the swill he called coffee when the chief finally gestured her into his office, shutting the door behind her.
“So how do you know Detective Samantha Cooper in Chicago?” he asked.
The chief sat behind his desk and invited her to sit in one of his visitor chairs while he made small talk and pried.
“In my line of work, I meet a lot of cops.”
“It’s just that she seemed to know you . . . beyond the job.”
She could have offered him more, but the fact that she and Sam Cooper had been friends since childhood was none of his business, and her gal pal had nothing to do with why she’d come. Jessie had her secrets and had gotten really good at being evasive.
“Don’t know what to tell ya.” She shrugged. “Chicago PD told me you scored a hit on my DNA from an old murder case. I just came to check it out, see if I could help.”
“What makes you think I need your help? From what I can see, your attitude could use an overhaul.”
Something in his smug expression flipped a switch in her. And even though it would have been better for Jessie to keep her mouth shut and stifle her cynicism, she just wasn’t good at that. Diplomacy was a skill set she didn’t have.
“I’m a recovering smart-ass. Guess I’ve fallen off the wagon.” After she realized how she sounded, Jessie heaved a sigh and tried to reel it back a notch. “Look, I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. I’d appreciate seeing what you’ve got.”
“That’s not how it works around here.” The chief leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. Real defensive. “This is my case. I ask the questions.”
Jessie held up both hands, and said, “I didn’t mean to step on your toes, Chief. It’s just that I’m an investigator. And I thought that having another set of eyeballs on the murder book might help.”
Jessie had never called herself an investigator—until now—but if her argument swayed the stubborn man behind the desk, then she’d beef up her resume to include anything that would get her a foot in the door of his case.
“No offense, but that murder book is off-limits to civilians. Now I know you were only a kid at the time, so I won’t be needin’ your help. All I need is your cooperation. Big difference.” He narrowed his eyes. “Now what can you tell me about your blood evidence being found here in La Pointe?”
Jessie didn’t know squat about how her blood had wound up in Wisconsin. She knew less about her past than most people since she’d blocked out the trauma of her childhood. And forget about old family albums. She didn’t have relatives or the usual trappings that could help trigger a memory.
“When we got that hit on your DNA, I looked at your missing-persons file.” The chief pursed his lips, letting what he’d said sink in. “Terrible thing happened to you.”
Jessie saw the look of pity in his eyes, and she hated it. That look was the reason she never talked about what had happened to her.
“That Danny Ray Millstone case hit national news. I didn’t need to read your file to remember that sorry excuse for a human being. He got what was coming to him.”
Guess the chief thought that commiserating over the serial pedophile who had tortured her and so many other kids was a way of breaking the ice. Well, she didn’t need that.
What she
