In Plain View

“Legal, totally legal,” I said. “Twelve stitches under there.”

Curzon had that cop way with his hands, momentum held in check that could suddenly turn physical. He took hold of my calf, and before I could think to stop him, he’d carefully extended the knee for closer inspection. “Hmm. Looks like what you need is somebody to kiss it better.”

His hands were a good five degrees warmer than my leg. When he leaned forward, the air around us moved and I caught a clear whiff of him, all boy and healthy sweat.

Perched on top of the wall where I was, it was obvious the rest of the Curzon clan had a good view of this exchange.

I know everybody has more than one reason for doing anything. But sometimes the best way to get along is to concentrate on one motive at a time. Maybe this little show was nothing personal. Maybe Jack Curzon was laying down a cover of suitable female interest. He might not wiggle all the way off the hook, but his nana would quit harassing him about his post-divorce solitude as long as he was busy elsewhere.

On those grounds, I could play along.

“Yeah, sure,” I agreed. “In fact, why don’t you start by sucking that foot clean? I had a little trouble reaching down so far in the shower this morning.”

It was my favorite type of man-eater reply, perfectly suited to discouraging barely legal soldier boys who hadn’t even learned to appreciate the taste of vegetables.

Curzon’s leer made it obvious real quick; I’d miscalculated. He skewered me with a look that offered a peek in his bedroom window. Toe sucking was only one of the activities on his menu.

It had been a long time since I’d had to deal with a guy like this. Out of practice and out of ammo, I faked a cough to cover the blood rushing to my face.

“Another time maybe,” he replied after due consideration. One hand slid up and down the underside of my calf. “Come to the station tomorrow. File a complaint.”

“Mmm.”

He let go. I sat up, jerked my pant leg back in place and picked up my near-empty glass of lemonade beer. He took a sip of his drink. I took a sip of mine. Just a couple of calm, collected characters having a polite discussion of probabilities.

“I hope I’m not interrupting?” Marcus Wilt smiled at me. No teeth, plenty of eyebrow.

“Marc. Have you met Maddy O’Hara?”

“I haven’t. Yet.”

Wilt’s hand came out and I shook it, even though it was awkward the way I was perched on the wall. He was the kind of good-looking man who puts a lot of effort into the first two and a half seconds he meets a woman: yes or no?

He read my no, loud and clear, and shifted his attention immediately to Curzon. “Heard you had to reprimand Nicky.”

There was a long silence.

Wilt leaned against the wall beside me, hands in his pockets. He wore beautifully tailored linen slacks, a dusty-blue silk shirt and Italian woven loafers without socks. Probably had the lifetime subscription to Esquire magazine. If Curzon was the basketball gladiator, Wilt was doing his best to rank as garden-party senator.

“Too bad about the suicide,” he said seriously. “Re-opens that whole can of worms, doesn’t it?”

Generations of controversy had time to be considered before Curzon finally answered, “No.”

Wilt nodded as if he’d heard paragraphs of rationale. “Hope you’re right,” he replied sincerely. Donna Curzon was waving frantically from across the patio. Wilt pushed off from the wall. “I’m being summoned. Nice meeting you, Ms. O’Hara.”

We watched him walk away and I asked, “Why’s he busting your ass?”

Curzon cracked a smile, then shook his finger at me. “No family business on the first date. It’s a rule.”

“This isn’t a date. This is work.”

He countered with a frown but his good humor didn’t fade. “In that case, I believe Marc is indicating that should Jost’s suicide become publicized, Nicky’s reprimand will be fair game in the race for sheriff.”

“All that from three sentences?”

“We’ve known each other a while.”

“And what do you want me to do about it?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why am I here?”

Green-eyed death glare. Before he could fire off another one of those scintillating one-word answers, Jenny obliged him by crashing into the conversation, red-faced and breathless. I’d never seen her so charged up.

“Hey kid, nice timing.”

“Why don’t you come see me at the station around lunchtime tomorrow?” Curzon threw out suddenly. “Leave your boy. Come hungry.”

“Did you see me?” Jenny asked. “Wasn’t that great? Come hungry where? What are you talking about?”

“You can’t be hungry, kid.” I slipped off the wall, careful of how my weight landed. “I saw that hamburger you ate.”

“Remind your aunt tomorrow morning, she’s having lunch with me, so she can tell me all about her incident,” Curzon said to Jenny, with a head nod toward my bad leg.

Jenny’s face squinched suspiciously. “What does he mean ‘incident’?”

He answered before I thought to stop him. “With the car, when she hurt her leg.”

“What car?” Jenny rounded on me with all the drama of a soap diva. “You said you fell.”

“I did fall.” I glared at Curzon, even though-technically-this wasn’t his fault. “A car made me fall.”

All the fun visible on Jenny’s face vanished.

Hit-and-run. It happens just that fast.

4:34:25 p.m.

“We need to make a stop, College.” I looked over my shoulder into the back seat. “That fine with you, Jen?”

She managed the effort of a single shoulder shrug while staring grimly out the window.

I really needed to work. We needed more material if we were going to squeeze out six decent minutes. The desire to be in the studio-in the dark and absorbed by my process-bubbled in my blood like a junkie’s addiction.

My hands even shook a little at the thought of going straight home, straight back to my sister’s empty house with Jenny. She had not said one word to me since Curzon dropped the bomb. Mistake after mistake, I was piling them on as fast as Tom Jost did in his last weeks.

For some reason my brain kept replaying Curzon’s comment that Jost must have stood on those boxes a while before he died.

What had he been doing? The Amish clothes and his choice of location suggested he was spitting in his father’s eye. But the fact that he wanted to marry Rachel in the Amish church also suggested the costume was for her benefit.

Is it date rape if the guy is trying to compel you to marry him?

Or is it kidnapping?

Ainsley glanced in his rearview mirror, monitoring Jenny’s mood. “Where’re we stopping?”

“Let’s try Tom Jost’s apartment building again. It’s Sunday afternoon. The neighbors should be home. Maybe we can talk to the super or something.”

“Tom’s apartment.” Ainsley hooked the turn that would put us closer to Jost’s apartment on the fringe of town. “I’m on it.”

Jenny said nothing. Every so often, I’d catch a snap of anger in her eyes right before everything stiffened into the child zombie routine.

“What’s the problem, Jenny? You’ve been sulking since we left the party.”

“No problem,” she mumbled.