passed, and we don’t even have a suspect. That’s too long. Way too long.”
Gabe rose behind his desk and leaned forward as if he were going to get right in Al’s face. The patrolman had insisted on participating in the investigation. Thomas had been his partner. His friend.
But he was going to learn that wanting was not the same as succeeding. And if he took something on while part of Gabe’s force, he’d damned well better produce.
Gabe had been attempting to be a good guy since arriving in Naranja Beach and taking over the position as police chief. He’d figured he was more likely to get the information he needed for his covert investigation if he fit in, became part of the furniture. So far that hadn’t worked.
And Jimmy hadn’t been any more successful than Gabe so far.
Gabe was about to change his strategy. Especially since he believed the two deaths could be related.
“We’re going to know who killed Poston and why within the next week, or heads are going to roll. Got it, both of you?”
Jimmy nodded, but Al’s tone was curt, his expression surly as he said, “Yeah.”
“That’s ‘yeah, sir,’ Sharp.”
“Yeah, sir.” Al stood and gave a mock salute.
“What’s your plan, Jimmy?” Gabe asked. “Al knows people around here. Who do you want him to question?”
“Concentrate on the people who heard little Tommy Poston crying on Pacific Way that morning,” Jimmy said. He remained seated, one leg crossed casually over the other as he looked up at the patrol cop. “Did he tell them anything?”
“You know the kid’s not talking.” Al’s attempt to hide his annoyance came across as a sneer he turned into a cough.
“Yes, I know,” Jimmy said. “But he might have been then, in his fear and excitement. In any event, talk to those people.”
“I have.”
“I know,” Gabe told him.
Al’s glance signaled a hint of relief, as if he believed Gabe was about to support him. Wrong.
“I read your report,” Gabe continued. “But there’s a lot that isn’t in it. Talk to them again. Did they see anything else? Hear anything besides Tommy? I want to know everything from exactly what each of them was eating for breakfast at Naranja Diner that morning when they heard Tommy scream, to how many times it made them belch. How foggy did the marine layer make the air, or could they see anything or anyone along Pacific Way? Got it?”
“Yeah—er, yeah, sir,” he amended as he met Gabe’s eye.
Only then did Gabe let the patrol cop escape his office.
“You figure he’ll get those answers?” Jimmy asked dryly.
“What do you think?”
Jimmy grinned as he stood and walked toward the door. He turned back to Gabe. “I think I’ll do some follow-up myself.”
“You got it,” Gabe said. “And while you’re at it—”
“Yeah, yeah. If I can be subtle enough, I’ll see if anyone knows anything about the other situation.” Jimmy left the office.
What next? Gabe wondered.
He decided to call Holly, and ask her…what? Something to do with the case, like… Nothing. He was merely looking for an excuse to call her this morning, fool that he was.
Forget the call.
Shaking his head, he went to the file cabinet. Extracting a folder labeled Poston, he thumbed through it.
The physical evidence was minimal and inconclusive. The murder weapon was something sharp, like a knife, but hadn’t been found at the scene. Sheldon Sperling had said a decorative letter opener, part of his artsy stock, seemed to be missing. His shop had been dusted for fingerprints, scoured for hairs and other clues, but it was open to the public. Even if everything could be identified, it still might not point to the perpetrator.
Sperling. He’d been hit on the head and didn’t remember much. But he was a person Gabe wanted to question himself, a lot more than he’d been able to at Holly’s after Poston’s funeral.
And if he just happened, in Sperling’s shop, to see some of the needlework created by Holly Poston…
He was becoming obsessed with the woman, damn it, and he’d only just met her.
No. He was obsessed with the case. She was an integral part of it. Thomas Poston’s murder was his first big challenge as the head of the N.B.P.D.—his first big official challenge. He would solve it, and quickly. And, hopefully, the unofficial assignment, too.
But as soon as the Poston case was solved, he would let the others on his force play guardian angel to the Postons.
GABE DIDN’T MAKE it to Sheldon’s shop as anticipated. While driving his department-issued brown sedan along Naranja Avenue toward Pacific Way, he saw a familiar vehicle. Holly Poston’s bright red minivan was parked at a meter along the street.
Where was she? He pulled over at a yellow line—one of the perks of his job—and looked around. City Hall, where the N.B.P.D. offices were located, was a mile behind him. In this area, Naranja Avenue contained rows of low-rise stucco office buildings and a few retail shops—much less trendy than those along Pacific Way. Two blocks down was Naranja Community Hospital.
Gabe wasn’t able to guess where, around here, Holly had gone. But then he spotted her, hand in hand with Tommy, emerging from the nearest building. It contained mostly medical offices.
His insides compressed as if in a vise. Was one of them ill?
He exited his car and approached them.
Holly looked tired. Her lovely dark eyes drooped, and the dark circles beneath them had grown larger.
But somehow the sight of her spurred not only his sympathy but sexual stirrings, too. Again. The heat he felt looking at her wasn’t only from the strong California sun that beat down on the avenue on this midsummer afternoon. Not at all.
Holly was dressed in jeans and a form-fitting short-sleeved T-shirt that showed off every soft curve. Curves that just begged to be touched….
Idiot, he berated himself. Or was it pervert?
Holly watched her cute little son, who was clinging to her hand but lagging behind. He was in bright red shorts, a navy T-shirt and sandals.
“Holly?”
She looked up quickly, a startled expression on her face.
“Sorry,” Gabe said. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I was just driving by and saw your van.” He glanced behind her toward the medical building. “Is everything okay?”
“Sure,” she said, her tone a shade too bright. “We just came to see the doctor.”
