The next day, Tara sat in her office, staring at the files that needed reviewing and clients that needed to be seen. When she had returned from the morgue and her impromptu lunch, Bethany had immediately rushed in, full of questions as her hands fluttered nervously about her head. It seemed as though Bethany cared more about the excitement of having been presented with the picture of a deceased person than she actually cared about Rocky. Giving short answers, Tara had left work early, wanting to have time alone before Colleen got home.
Now, utterly lethargic, she felt as though molasses ran through her veins. Growling under her breath, she stood. This isn’t helping anyone. She stalked down the hall to the nearest classroom, sitting in on Michael’s class on employment skills. Throwing herself into the discussions, she assisted with mock interviews, finding the tight band around her chest easing slightly.
When the session was over, she walked out of the classroom, her arms full of files and books. Looking up, she observed Detective Fiske walking toward her. He was handsome, no doubt about it. She should not have been surprised that Bethany could not stop talking about him after she gathered her wits. Tall, thick blonde hair, and blue eyes. If he ever needed to give up police work, he could be a model for Ralph Lauren—their mature line. She shook her head, frustrated at the trail her mind had taken. She had not had this strong a reaction to a man since Calvin. And look how that turned out.
Instead of smiling in recognition, she stopped and sighed heavily. “Detective Fiske, to what do I owe the pleasure of another visit?”
“I needed to ask you more questions.”
She knew he had a job to do but felt the weight settle on her shoulders once again. Her lips pinched together, and she looked toward the other social worker. “Michael, would you handle the next class while I take the detective back to my office?” Barely giving Carter a second glance, she said, “Follow me.”
Once inside, she divested the load in her arms onto a table pushed to the corner, then sat at her desk. As he sat in the other chair, she remained quiet, waiting for him to speak.
“I want to thank you for your identification yesterday,” he began, his gaze intense. “I know that was difficult for you. The information that he had been an Army veteran was incredibly helpful. We were able to ascertain that he was indeed Richard Stallone.” Before she had a chance to respond, he continued. “He was wearing worn clothing, except for a new WinterPole coat—”
“He didn’t steal it. We received a shipment to give out, and he was given one.” Her voice was harsher than she meant, but the idea that Richard would be accused of stealing irritated her.
“I didn’t say he stole it.”
Pursing her lips, she inclined her head in agreement. “That’s true, you didn’t.” Sighing again, she said, “I’m glad that you’re concerned about him, but I don’t understand. If smoke inhalation killed him, what else is there to investigate?”
“Richard is the third death of a homeless person in the last few weeks. My partner came by to ask about the other two.”
Tara’s brows lowered. “They didn’t speak to me, but then if I’m unavailable, someone else would have checked.”
He flipped through his small notebook, and she observed just enough to see that his handwriting was chicken-scratch. He appeared to understand his notations as he flipped through several pages, landing on the one he was searching for.
“Yes, she spoke to Michael Gorney. She had him check on Carl Brumley and Jonathan Rothberg.” He lifted his head and met her gaze.
She nodded. “Michael fills in for me when I’m out or in a meeting. That was the man who was taking the class for me just now.”
“Would you mind taking a look?”
Tara shook her head slowly, reaching her hand out.
He pulled a photograph from his pocket and slid it across her desk toward her. “This is Carl Burnley. We have no known address for him, but we know he was a veteran. The picture you’re looking at was from his driver’s license and is several years old.”
She let out a long sigh of relief, her breath shaky, her tension peaking as she feared she would be staring at another photograph of a corpse. She picked up the photograph and studied it. Shaking her head, she lifted her gaze and said, “I don’t recognize him.”
6
Carter was not sure what he’d expected when he walked into Ever Hope Homeless Shelter yesterday but had hoped that Sean and Kyle’s sister worked there and would be able to help him. The idea of a detective’s sibling being more efficient with the police had settled in his mind. But since there was no McBride at the center, he had to admit the intrepid Tara Wilson handled herself with professional efficiency. Her composure at the morgue impressed him. And now, if it wasn’t for the slight shaking of her hands, he would never know that she was stressed.
Earlier, as he walked behind her down the long, tiled hall, his gaze was drawn to her ass even though there was nothing overtly sexual about her clothes. Plain, pale-yellow blouse paired with black slacks. Her feet tapped along the tiles, encased in low heeled pumps. Even her office was professionally efficient, both neat and cluttered at the same time. Files and papers were stacked on her desk, but as she sat in her chair and directed her gaze toward him, he had the feeling she could lay her hand on any report needed.
After she viewed the photograph of Carl, he pulled out a second picture and slid it toward her. “This is another young man found dead. Jonathan Rothberg. As far as we can tell, he also had no address, leading us to believe he may be homeless. Unlike Carl, he wasn’t a veteran. I’m hoping to see if there’s anything you
