you okay in there?” Jerry called out from the other room.
“I’m fine,” she answered, her tone sharper than she had intended. She immediately regretted it. It wasn’t Jerry she was angry with, it was herself. She was simply going to have to get herself under control when it came to Mac Cordero. And she was going to have to take charge of this situation with Jerry. It wasn’t fair of her to lead him on.
Maybe it would be better if she simply concentrated on her brother and her business, at least for the next few weeks.
CHAPTER FOUR
MAC WAS in his motel room early Thursday evening when someone tapped on the door. He took another look at the photograph in his hand—a picture of a woman holding a tiny infant with Mac’s dark hair and eyes—and then slipped it back into its usual place in his wallet before moving toward the door. He had to take a couple of deep breaths to release the pain and anger looking at that photo always roused in him. Only then could he answer the knock.
From long habit, he checked the peephole before releasing the lock. Curious, he opened the door and leaned against it, shoving his disturbing memories to the back of his mind. “Well, hello, Chief. Paying a social call?”
“Partially,” Wade Davenport surprised him by answering. “Mind if I come in?”
Mac stepped out of the doorway and gestured toward the two chairs beside the window. “I would offer you a drink, but all I have is half a can of soda—and it’s probably flat.”
Glancing around the rather spartan motel room, Wade asked, “Are you going to be staying here long?”
Was the police chief just making friendly conversation, or keeping tabs on the stranger in town? Mac shrugged. “I’ve been looking for an apartment to rent for the duration of the renovation job. I talked to the manager of the complex on West Elm this afternoon. I’ll probably move there next week.”
Wade wandered to the window and glanced out. “Not much of a view. The McBride Law Firm’s parking lot. The McBrides are related to my wife, you know. Caleb’s her uncle, Trevor’s her cousin.”
“There usually are a lot of family connections in a small town like this one,” Mac observed, following Wade’s glance. He wondered if the police chief would be so cool if Mac told him about his own family connection to the chief’s wife.
Turning away from the window, Wade sat in one of the chairs. Mac settled in the other. “What can I do for you, Chief?”
“Call me Wade. Seems more appropriate between colleagues, don’t you think?”
“Colleagues?” Mac repeated carefully.
“One cop to another.”
Long experienced at concealing his emotions, Mac kept his posture relaxed. “Cop to ex-cop is more accurate.”
Wade nodded acknowledgment of the distinction.
“Any particular reason you’ve been checking up on me?”
“You’ve come to my town at the same time as what passes for a crime wave in these parts. Seemed appropriate.”
“You always keep this close an eye on things around here?”
“That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”
Because Mac knew how little small-town police chiefs typically earned, he chuckled dryly. “Careful. Start talking about big bucks and I’ll suspect you’re on the take.”
“Marvella Tucker slips me a dozen home-baked cookies about once a month. She’s ninety years old, likes to drive her big old car right down the middle of Main Street. She thinks I won’t ticket her if she keeps baking cookies for me.”
“Is she right?”
Wade grinned and patted his stomach. “What do you think?”
“I think I need to figure out a way to get on Mrs. Tucker’s cookie list.”
“So what’s a former vice cop doing remodeling an old house in this burg? How’d you choose the Garrett place?”
“Still checking up on me?”
“Making conversation,” Wade corrected him. “I used to be with Atlanta P.D. Burned out, came to Honoria for the slower pace and better working hours. What brought you here?”
Mac lifted a shoulder. “Mine’s a similar story. Got tired of working vice and decided I needed a change. Old houses have always interested me, so that’s the direction I took. It’s satisfying work.”
“My wife and I live in a house her father built more than forty years ago. There’s always something needing repairs, but I still prefer it to one of those new cut-and-paste houses. Emily says it has character.”
“Most old houses do,” Mac agreed.
“You never told me how you found the Garrett place.”
“I saw a photo in a real estate listing. It looked as if it had potential, so I came here to check it out. You know the rest.” The answer was only partially true, but close enough not to bother Mac’s conscience overly much.
“You’ve got the town all abuzz, you know. Nothing the folks around here like better than having someone new to talk about.”
“So I gather.”
“They’re good people, for the most part. The gossip only occasionally turns vicious.”
Mac thought Wade was being generous, considering how often the gossip had turned against his wife’s family. It hadn’t taken him long to figure out that the McBride name had been synonymous with scandal for several generations.
No one but Mac was aware that there was one scandal yet to be revealed. One in which he was intimately involved. One for which he deserved some sort of revenge—once he found out who to direct it toward.
“So what’s the buzz on me?” Mac asked casually. “What made you think you needed to run a check?”
Wade shrugged. “What would you have done in my position? The only stranger in town just happened in the vicinity of the very isolated Porter place when it was being robbed. No real reason for you to be out there. Last time you were in town, when you were buying the Garrett house, someone broke into Joe Baker’s storage shed and took an RV and some other expensive sporting goods. I make it a practice to be skeptical of coincidences.”
Through narrowed eyes, Mac studied the other man warily, having trouble reading Wade’s affable expression. He wasn’t sure why the chief was telling him all this. If the guy really suspected he was involved, would he be quite so open about it? Was Wade saying Mac’s law enforcement background cleared him of suspicion, or that circumstantial evidence still pointed his way? “I guess I’d have done the same in your position. But I’m not your thief.”
“That’s what my hunch tells me.”
“How accurate do your hunches generally turn
