Now, that was a bit of information they hadn’t had before, Cat thought. It seemed Duke still thought the book might be an investigation. As far as she knew, no one else had thought that to be relevant. Writing a book sounded like an innocuous thing to do.
But considering how angry Duke had been about a story that hadn’t even been about him, she could imagine a whole lot of reasons that others might have been even more furious. Or might think they had something to fear.
The fear idea nearly made her jump up, but she held on to her cool, not wanting to halt the growing conversational flow between the two men. After all, it had so far yielded one potentially useful nugget, maybe two, and nuggets were rare in this case thus far.
Matt spoke first. “I gotta admit, the idea of Larry being killed during a burglary bothers me. It has from the time I first heard. It’s kind of random, you know? I’ll be the first to admit I never really got close to Larry. I mean, it was only a couple of months, and we didn’t get to the confessional stage, just the level of being friendly and having a good time. I never got the sense that anyone hated him. And I never got the sense that he was trying to get information from someone, like he was working on a story. If he was, it wasn’t one from around here.”
Cat caught herself. “Okay, that almost made me laugh.”
Duke jerked around to look at her. “Why?”
“Imagine an investigative reporter from a big daily newspaper actually spending his time investigating anything around here. I mean, man. Our paltry scandals would probably bore him to tears.”
One corner of Duke’s mouth lifted, and Matt smiled widely.
“Yeah,” Matt said. “And since there are hardly any secrets in this town, nobody’d want to read the story anyway. A city council member was inebriated and had to be assisted to his front door? Joe XYZ, a teacher, is having an affair? Great gossip.”
“And not worth wasting ink on.” Cat nodded.
“Definitely not the stuff of headlines,” Matt agreed. Then he sighed, and his face drooped. “Larry became a headline.” He shook his head. “I’m still having trouble grasping it. And for you, Duke, it has to be a whole lot harder.”
Duke spoke slowly, as if dealing with his feelings was tough. “Larry and I hadn’t lived in each other’s pockets for a very long time. We’d get together once or twice a year. He wasn’t part of my daily life, is what I’m saying, but he was always there. Now I can’t even pick up a phone to call him.”
Cat understood completely. She still ached from wanting to be able to talk with her mother about most everything.
Matt left shortly, having offered nothing more about Larry’s murder, but Duke seemed satisfied with the conversation.
Then Duke left a few minutes later, explaining that he needed to go for a run. He didn’t look dressed for it, but Cat didn’t argue. Maybe Matt had stirred up some of his memories and he needed to run off sorrow.
She had some other things to think about now, possibly useful things.
And she also needed more details on the second break-in. Was it related in any way to Larry’s?
She was tired of being left in the dark.
Chapter Six
Duke hit the pavement, his booted feet pounding. No stealth there, but no reason to care about it. He’d get to the motel, change into his running gear and do his miles.
Maybe hit the truck stop diner for a late-night breakfast. He didn’t figure Mahoney’s BLTs were going to hold him all night. His calorie consumption had sometimes caused Larry’s eyes to widen.
Well, hell, when you kept yourself in prime condition, worked out like a lunatic and had a lot of muscle mass to support, you ate a lot. More than average, anyway.
He’d also learned a long time ago that he lost weight while on a mission, so it didn’t pay to start off too lean. Everyone lost weight in a war zone. Maybe it was the lousy food. Maybe it was the tension. Maybe it was as simple as troops not wanting to eat. He didn’t know. He just saw the results.
Carrying a couple of extra pounds never hurt. But just a couple. If he ever stopped working out like a demon, he’d have to watch it.
Random thoughts, a meaningless diversion produced by his own brain. He was aware of it, the times his mind wanted to take a vacation from something. It could be dangerous under some circumstances, so he was usually good about stopping it.
But what did it really matter, right then? His grief over Larry was growing, not easing, and he felt like he had a crushing weight on his chest, as if his heart didn’t want to beat again.
He jumped into his running clothes quickly: navy blue fleece workout pants—not shorts, because it was chilly out there. A long-sleeved white sweatshirt. Running shoes, which were at least a decent brand that fit.
The point of this was to heat up, not cool down.
The last thing he grabbed was a flashlight with an orange translucent cone on it. Because this time he was running toward the mountains, hoping to get some uphill work, and he needed to be sure cars could see him.
While he didn’t much care about his own life right then, he did care about a motorist who might hit him. Why give someone nightmares for the rest of his life?
At first he jogged slowly to warm up his muscles, but, at the outskirts of town, with the mountains a dark silhouette against a sky dusted with stars, he hit his full pace, an all-out run.
He might have recalled nights spent in hostile mountains where he had to be alert for every little thing, nights when he’d slept sitting up with his
