* * *
Cooper went home and took a cold shower. With everything going on, he could scarcely believe that Jamie Whelan had such an effect on him. Was it some kind of concoction of guilt and desire and regret that played on his senses, making him more susceptible? A memory of what could have been, playing out in front of his eyes? Or was it that he wanted her . . . Jamie . . . and his twenty-year-old crush on Emma was just an excuse?
He’d been off work for several hours, having crossed the line into overtime when he was dealing with Deke Girard and then spending the early evening at Jamie’s. He’d wanted to stay. He’d wanted to stop everything for a while and make love to her. He hadn’t felt that way in years. When Jamie had mentioned Vicky Stapleton and her friends, he could have told her that he’d been propositioned by nearly all of them, married or otherwise, along with Meghan Volker, who’d wanted to jump from her unhappy marriage to a relationship with him. He’d tried to let her down easy, but it hadn’t worked, and to this day she gave him the cold shoulder whenever they chanced to see each other, mostly at school functions. He steered clear of married women as a general rule, but even if they’d all been single, none of them had done it for him.
But Jamie . . .
He remembered that small moment in high school when he’d invited her to the party. She’d just reminded him so much of Emma. A coltish Emma. The brilliant smile of disbelief she’d given him at the invitation had been burned on his retinas. He’d walked away from that encounter with a smile on his face, thinking about her, but then he’d seen Emma by her locker, talking with Race, and he’d felt instantly competitive. He’d been glad Emma had turned away from him, slamming her locker, throwing some comment over her shoulder that had Race staring after her with frustration.
She’s dating an older guy.
Cooper dried off his hair with a towel, then slung it around his neck, walking naked to his closet. He dressed in clean jeans and a light blue shirt. He needed to do something. Something constructive.
He grabbed the binder of notes on Emma’s case and flipped through them blindly. He already had most of them memorized. There wasn’t that much there that he didn’t already know.
Thinking of Race, he called him up to talk. Race answered his cell with, “Cooper Haynes,” in a tone that was half amused, half . . . stoned, maybe?
“Mind if I stop by and talk with you and Deon?” Cooper asked. It was closing in on nine p.m.
“Sure, man. What’s up?”
“I’ll tell you when I see you.”
“This about Troy? Deon’s not really in the mood.”
“Partly. See you in twenty.”
Cooper grabbed his jacket, checked for his keys, and headed out. As he climbed into his SUV, he thought about Deke Girard. He called the hospital to check on him and was transferred several times before he was cut off. Rather than waste any more time, he decided he would stop at Glen Gen on the way and had turned in the direction of the hospital when his cell rang. He looked at the screen and saw it was the number he’d just called. Race. Pulling over to the side of the road, he answered, “Hey, Stillwell.”
“Look, um, I talked to Deon. He’s not going to talk to you. Your partner’s already been all over him about Troy. Leave it be, Haynes. Just kids being kids. You, of all people, know how it is.”
So, Howie was on to the boys, too. “I have some other things to talk over,” Cooper told him.
“I don’t know, man. Deon’s had some tough times since Mom and Dad died. I don’t know if you know about the business, but it went tits up.”
Stillwell Seed and Feed had been a huge operation at one time, selling products like grass seed across the nation and internationally as well. But with the death of the Stillwell parents, the sons, Race and Deon, had never seemed to be able to manage the company in the same manner. Sales had dropped precipitously, and they’d finally sold out and been swallowed up by a larger company. Word had it that they were burning through the money they’d made on the sale. Like a lot of people, Cooper had wondered how long they could live off the proceeds until there were no proceeds left.
“I heard you’re in a lawsuit,” he told Race.
“No shit. And it’s sucking up cash like you wouldn’t believe. Those fuckers stole our company from us. You want to investigate Troy? Go on ahead, but Deon’s out and so am I.”
“I’d like to talk about Emma Whelan.”
“Emma? Thought this was about your daughter.”
“Both.”
“Well, man. Good luck to ya,” he said in a voice that said Cooper was on a fool’s errand. And he clicked off.
Cooper exhaled. “Well . . . shit,” he muttered. That shot that.
He thought about Jamie. A part of him wanted to go back to her house so badly it felt like a tractor beam had caught him in its grip. He wrestled with himself for a while, then decided to go on to the hospital. He would catch up with Race and Deon during the day, maybe tomorrow, when he had some extra time. He couldn’t tell Howie about it. He didn’t want his digging to find its way to the chief’s ears. Bennihof ran the department by the book. He liked things neat and tidy, which wasn’t the way police work was. Everyone who worked beneath him understood this, however, and everyone tried to give him complete, neatly typed, and organized reports. Neither Cooper nor Howie was particularly proficient in the neatly typed and organized realm, but they cleared cases on a regular basis, so their basic hunt-and-peck
