don’t let me keep you.” Their beers had arrived. She took a long cold sip before he could tip his mug to her bottle—something he’d done with each and every drink they’d shared that long-ago night. Their toasts had grown more and more ridiculous as the night had worn on. If she was remembering right, they’d tipped their glasses to see-through bras and boxers at one point.
He opened his pad before he took a sip. Got out a pen. Asked a series of questions that she knew were designed to put her at ease. Did she and Bruce purchase their house together? Had she liked it? Did she help choose the furniture? Yes, to all of the above. He wanted to know how she liked Santa Raquel. She liked it fine. Did she miss Albina? Not really.
She missed being closer to her parents, but since he didn’t ask, she didn’t reveal that piece of information.
It dawned on her, as she sipped twice as fast as he did, that he’d been driving for the past couple of hours. “Did you have dinner? They have great bar food here.”
His weakness. She knew that from Bruce.
Funny that she’d only ever seen the guy a handful of times in her life and yet knew so much about him.
Knew him intimately...
She took another sip. Her limit was three. He’d better be done with his questions by then because that was when she was leaving.
“I made a sandwich and ate it on the road.” He glanced at the tables around them, presumably to see what others were consuming, and she reached for a menu, placing it in front of him.
Her tentative theory was that if he was busy eating, he couldn’t be worrying about getting information for that pad he’d yet to write on. She really had nothing to give him that could in any way prove that Bruce had hurt Miriam. She had proof of him not keeping his word. Proof of unexplained absences. She’d caught him looking at normal adult porn on the internet once in the year they’d been married.
None of that added up to anything worthy of an investigation. Or anything criminal, either.
It just added up to a man she couldn’t accept as her partner in life. And one she tried to keep from disappointing her daughter.
“I think I’ll have this combination platter,” Mason said, looking up from the menu. “Will you share it with me?” He was getting fried green beans, onion rings and barbecued chicken niblets.
“I’ll have an onion ring or two. If you don’t eat them all.” She’d shared an appetizer platter with him once before. Really late at night, when she’d been too drunk to be aware of what was on it.
Or so she’d told herself.
In actual fact, she’d been tipsy enough not to care, enough to deaden the pain, but she hadn’t been too drunk to know about the choice she’d been making. She’d known, when she went to bed with him, exactly what she was doing. She simply hadn’t cared how wrong it had been.
Not until she woke in the bright light of day and found herself naked in his bed.
Mason ordered and tacked on another round of beers to be delivered with his dinner.
“Everyone has some kind of temper. Everyone gets angry.” His gaze met hers with total focus now.
“Yeah.”
“What did Bruce do when he got mad?”
She wanted the truth as badly as he did, so she met his eyes. Tried to recall a time when her husband had been in a bad mood, or upset about something. Other than when she’d told him she was leaving, of course. That had been a once-in-a-lifetime bad morning for both of them—inarguably the worst of her life. She’d said things, called him a loser, with colorful language attached. Her only comfort in the whole situation was that at three months old, Brianna had been too young to understand her words. Or remember them.
“You know Bruce,” she finally said. “He’s always so self-assured, so confident. If something doesn’t go his way, he looks for the bright side, sure he’ll find one, and then convinces everyone else that the darkness is gone, too.”
“I asked about his anger.”
She had a flash of the time a prosecutor had refused to press charges after Bruce had worked six months to make an arrest. She explained the circumstances, then said, “He sat for over an hour with this...chiseled look on his face, staring at a blank television screen. His jaw was clenched. Whenever I walked by the room, he’d still be sitting there, staring. Eventually he got up, told me he was going out for a while, and he left. When he came back, he was more subdued than normal, but still easy to get along with. He helped me make dinner.”
Mason’s expression was intent. “Do you have any idea where he went? What he did when he was gone?”
She shook her head. “I assumed he went in to work. That’s what he normally did when he had something to sort out. He’d talk to Clark or other people at the precinct.”
“But you don’t know if he did that day?”
“Like I said, it was my day off, so no, I wasn’t there to witness his presence or conversations.”
“Do you remember anyone ever mentioning that he’d been there? Or hearing anything about the conversation?”
She shook her head again.
“What about the case? The prosecutor? Did anything change? Were charges eventually pressed?”
“Not for dealing. He got him on possession, though—with enough drugs to put him in prison for a while.” That was how Bruce worked. He found a way. “If something prevented an outcome he needed, he came at it from another direction.”
Shouldn’t be news to Mason.
“What about at work? Did he have a reputation for getting physical with his perps?” He frowned. “Roughing them up, I mean.”
“No. He’s tough, you know that. He’s not afraid to stand up to anyone if he believes the action is warranted. He doesn’t shy away from danger or back down. He’d blast a guy with words. But I never heard of a single instance of him doing anything more than not putting cuffs on gently. You know, maybe lift a guy’s arm a little high on his back, or put the cuffs on tight. But nothing compared to some other cops. He never shoved or struck anyone that I ever heard of.”
His food arrived and she sat back, figuring they’d relax now. She really wasn’t aware of anything that would help him. If she’d had any concerns about Bruce having anger or violence issues, she’d never have left Brianna with her father overnight. Or unsupervised.
“And at home? When he got angry at home, what did he do?”
“He didn’t mince words in letting me know I’d pissed him off. He raised his voice sometimes. Then he’d usually leave for a while and when he got back, he’d have calmed down enough for rational conversation. We’d talk about it, and things would be fine.”
“Where did he go when he left? Did you ever ask?”
Harper shrugged. “Not really. I wanted to give him his space.” She paused. “I got the impression that he drove around for a while. Or, if it was evening,
