No, yesterday. This was a new day, no matter how early it was.
And no matter what Thomas and she had or hadn’t been to one another at the end, Holly mourned him.
Maybe it would help to keep busy. But she didn’t feel particularly creative right now. Perhaps what she could do was to start going through Thomas’s things.
Not his clothes. Not now, in the middle of the night when she felt so sad. But paperwork. That would keep her mind occupied without devastating her.
She rose, put a light cotton robe over her short nylon gown, and went down the stairs to the small room that had been Thomas’s office. She flicked on the light and sighed, “Oh, Thomas.” He hadn’t liked her to come in here, so she hadn’t, for months. Thomas hadn’t liked to pick up after himself, either, and this room, furnished with desk, chair, small tables for computer and TV, and junk, reflected it. Now, she would have to sort through all the piles, figure out what to save and what to toss.
“Not tonight,” she told herself. She nevertheless picked her way through the debris on the floor and sat down on the desk chair. The room smelled musty. She’d air it out tomorrow.
For now, feeling overwhelmed by the magnitude of the task, she decided just to tackle the smallest piles on the desk. One contained mostly magazines. That was easy. Those about police she would donate to the station, if anyone wanted them. The risqué ones she would toss out. The few dealing with investments…well, those were probably disposable, too.
She wondered suddenly if Gabe McLaren read investment magazines, girly magazines or just ones sent to cops. She laughed at herself and went to work on another pile.
This one was more problematic. It contained files, mostly unlabeled. The ones that were labeled were primarily credit card bills—what credit card was this? It referenced a company different from the one that issued their shared card. It had been sent to Thomas at the address of the N.B.P.D. station.
She glanced at the charges: firing range practice, gasoline, a local department store. Nothing unusual. But why were these charges on a separate credit card? She hadn’t seen anything recorded in their checkbook indicating payments on this card.
She put that file down and tried another. It contained a list of all the shops along Pacific Way, the traffic-free street perpendicular to the beach where Sheldon, Evangeline and a multitude of other local trendy tourist establishments had their stores. Nothing too exciting about that.
There were a few other files, some with familiar financial information, others with photographs, mostly of Tommy.
Not her, of course. Or of all of them together.
Still, this folder caused tears to flow down Holly’s cheeks. No matter what else Thomas had been, no matter how estranged she and he had felt from one another, her husband had loved their child in his own way. And Tommy had certainly adored his daddy.
Who had killed Thomas? Was the money stolen from Sheldon’s worth a human life? Or had there been another reason…?
Shuddering, Holly arranged the stacks on the desk into neater piles, then headed back to her bedroom.
“YOU WANTED to see me, Chief?” Al Sharp’s posture seemed relaxed, with one hip leaning against Gabe’s desk and his arms loosely crossed, but Gabe saw a wariness glinting from eyes too insolent and set a little too close together. He was clad in his police patrol uniform, complete with Sam Browne about his waist containing his .35 Beretta and ammunition, but his hat was nowhere to be seen.
“Yeah. Sit down, Al.” Gabe motioned to one of the chairs facing him. It was late morning. He hadn’t slept much the night before, thinking about the Thomas Poston murder.
About his cute little son, Tommy.
And about beautiful, sad—sexy—Holly Poston.
Mostly about Holly Poston. About grieving Holly Poston, who was absolutely off-limits.
Still, he was going to get answers. Fast. For her sake and Tommy’s, as well as his own.
He’d come into the office full of determination. He’d reviewed the file again. And again.
And now he felt as frustrated as hell.
Al settled in and leaned back. His eyes left Gabe for the first time, taking in the rest of the office.
Gabe had left a lot as it had been when his predecessor, Mal Kensington, was chief of police, but he’d added his own touches to the décor. On the wall now hung a detailed satellite map of the area, some congratulatory plaques and medals Gabe had earned while with the Sacramento Police Department and, for his amusement and the possible discomfiture of those who came to visit, a photograph of himself shaking hands with Evangeline Sevvers, mayor of Naranja Beach—and Aunt Evangeline to him.
He’d also heard that he was a heck of a lot more organized than Mal had ever been. The top of his desk was nearly empty. He was a great believer in keeping things filed for easier access when he needed them.
“What’s up?” Al was clearly growing uncomfortable at the delay. With his extra chin and nearly shaved head, he resembled a tall and skinny bulldog. But he’d proven to be much less than a bulldog on the investigation.
“Thomas Poston’s murder. You know—”
“Chief. Sharp.” Jimmy Hernandez strode into the room and sat in the chair next to Al’s.
Detective James Hernandez’s Hispanic facial features were broad and sharply geometric, his body lean and trim beneath his khaki shirt and dark slacks. No uniform for him, as a detective. And usually no suit coat, either.
He had been hired by Gabe first thing when Gabe had been hired to run the Naranja Beach P.D. Jimmy had been one of the best damn detectives Gabe had ever met when they’d worked together with the Sacramento Police Department.
He was one of the few people who knew why Gabe had really been hired for this job. He’d come along to assist Gabe—as well as to head the local detective unit.
“Glad you’re here, Jimmy. I was just beginning to tell Al that I haven’t been happy about the progress we’ve made on the Poston case.”
“Yeah?” Jimmy glared at him. They might be friends and cohorts, but Jimmy made his own opinions known. Very known.
“Yeah,” Gabe replied. His cool gaze was on Jimmy, who barely hid a grin. They both knew the criticism was leveled at Al Sharp, not the chief detective. Most likely, Al knew it, too.
Al was a patrolman as his partner Thomas had been, and not a detective. Still, because of the special circumstances of this death, Al had taken a leading role in the investigation. He’d known Thomas well. He knew a lot of the same people Thomas had known. And he, maybe more than anyone else, was motivated to solve his partner’s murder.
“I’ve consulted with Jimmy every step of the way,” Al said, “just like you told me, chief. Right, Jimmy?” He glanced over at the detective beside him.
“You tell me, Al,” Jimmy replied.
“I’ve talked to everyone you suggested,” Al said defensively, “asked the questions you insisted
