Content to drift from town to town just as she’d done years before when she’d been a vocalist for a country-western band. Growing up, Hart hadn’t had a choice but to accept his mother’s itinerant lifestyle.
Things had changed the day their car broke down in Mission Creek.
Tired of being on the move, sick of having nothing, he told Vonda they were settling down, and began a campaign of bullying her to go into rehab. He’d hired on at the Lone Star, determined to have some sort of normal life.
The day he first laid eyes on Joan Cooper dashing across a tennis court, he had forced himself to ignore the lust that punched through him. Forced himself to dismiss her sassy smile and the way she tossed back her dark hair. Told himself that a rich-girl, poor-boy romance had disaster written all over it. He had managed to keep most of his thoughts and his hands off Joan until that night she came to him. The curves that had driven him nuts for months had been covered only by skimpy shorts and a white halter top. Mad with desire, he had taken what she offered. And fallen in love in the process. He’d been fool enough to think that somehow, some way, he could keep her in his life.
Hours later he and Vonda had fled Mission Creek. If Zane Cooper’s phony accusation that Hart had stolen money had been the man’s sole threat, Hart would have dug in and defended himself. But Cooper had an ace in the hole—a hot check Vonda had written and a buddy on the sheriff’s department willing to haul her in. With his mother in trouble, Hart had to get her away from there. Later, after he got Vonda settled near her stepbrother in Chicago and attending AA meetings, he had tried to contact Joan. That’s when he found out she’d gotten married.
“Christ,” Hart muttered. Even after so long he felt a remnant of the anger and hurt pride that had burned away the last of his innocence. Knowing those events still had the power to reach out and grab him by the throat had his temper rumbling all over again. He had spent ten years making something of himself. He didn’t need reminders of a past that was best forgotten.
And he had to figure that was how Joan felt, too. After all, she’d heard her father’s claim that the man she’d given herself to was a no-good thief. The shame she’d probably felt back then would have been enough for one lifetime.
Shame, Hart thought, his eyes narrowing. Could he have been wrong about her reaction to him this afternoon? Was what he’d read as panic actually been shame? His cop’s instincts, honed over time, had always proved infallible. Still, emotion usually didn’t taint those instincts.
Biting back frustration, he unpacked, then stowed his field evidence kit in a walk-in closet the same size as the sparkling-tiled bathroom that boasted a round sunken tub. That done, he returned to his rental car and drove though the clear moonlit night to the address Spence Harrison had given him.
Ten minutes later Hart pulled up to the curb in front of a Victorian house with a wraparound porch.
“Nice digs,” he said as Spence headed into the kitchen for beer. Hart made himself comfortable on the leather couch that faced a dark fireplace with a burnished wood mantel and marble edging. On each side of the couch sat a matching leather wing chair. A thick-legged coffee table piled with neat stacks of file folders sat in front of the couch. The warmly lit room’s overall impression was of old polished oak and leather, a place of comfort to settle in and relax.
“Glad you like the place,” Spence commented when he strode back into view. Holding two long-necked beer bottles between the fingers of one hand, he loosened the knot on his crimson tie with the other. “The woman who owns this house is a widow. When I heard she wanted to rent out the entire top floor, I grabbed it.”
“Smart move,” Hart said, accepting the bottle Spence handed him.
“It’s a plus that this place is only a couple of blocks from the courthouse.” Spence set his bottle on the coffee table, stripped off his navy suit coat and draped it over the far arm of the sofa. Out of the corner of his eye, Hart caught a glint of reflected light. He noted the small gold pin in the shape of a lion affixed to the coat’s lapel. Yance Ingram had worn an identical pin.
“Sorry I couldn’t meet you at the Lone Star when you got in,” Spence said.
“No problem.” While Spence settled into a chair, Hart sipped his beer, letting the ice-cold brew slide down his throat. “You said you had some sort of dinner event tonight.”
“At which I gave a speech. The minute I wound things up my pager went off. I had to stop by my office on the way here to take care of a problem with a search warrant one of my assistants authorized. I got here five minutes before you drove up.”
“That kind of schedule doesn’t make for much of a social life.”
“What the hell is a social life?”
Hart chuckled. “Good question. I wouldn’t know one if it jumped up and bit me on the butt.”
Spence took a draw on his beer. “Hard to believe it’s been ten years since we slaved as groundskeepers at the Lone Star.”
“Yeah.” Spence Harrison hadn’t changed much over those years, Hart decided. His friend still had the lean, powerful build that complemented his six-foot frame. He wore his thick brown hair in the same style, although now it was cropped close on the sides. It was his eyes that seemed different. More than just fatigue shone in their dark depths. Ingrained anxiety had settled there. Which, Hart supposed, was the reason Spence had asked him to come to Mission Creek.
Setting his beer on the table beside the couch, Hart leaned forward. “I took a look at the bomb site after I checked in.”
“And?”
“Someone built a nitroglycerine-based dynamite bomb which they planted behind a closet filled with various accelerants. Since that’s all I’m sure of at this point, why don’t you fill me in on what you know?”
“It isn’t much. Two days after the bombing the police chief—Ben Stone—organized a task force. Ten weeks later they still have nothing. No firm motive. Or solid suspect. Right now the cops are a million miles away from closing the case.”
Hart wasn’t a homicide detective, but he knew the first rule of any homicide investigation: look for a link between the victim and the killer. “Bonnie Brannigan said the people who died in the blast were salt of the earth. Have the cops come up with a reason anyone might want to kill them?”
“No. The police searched Dan and Meg Anderson’s house and found nothing suspicious. The task force combed through their bank records, checked their safe deposit box, talked with co-workers, friends, the IRS and the state tax people. No red flags popped up. Nothing to make anyone think something nefarious was going on. No indication that either of the Andersons was being blackmailed or had a gambling problem. The way it looks, they’d be the last people anyone would have a reason to kill.”
“Did they have a reservation that day at the Men’s Grill?”
“No. One of the club members chatted with Dan outside the restaurant. He said he and Meg had decided to eat there on the spur of the moment. Even they didn’t know they’d be there.”
“Who was supposed to be there?”
“I was, for one.”
Hart arched a brow. “Did you make a reservation?”
“No, but it wouldn’t have been hard to figure out I
