Beverly Long - Urgent Pursuit

She sighed. “He’s been a cop in the same community for more than fifteen years. I imagine there are any number of people who aren’t fond of him. The speed trap out by the high school is particularly irritating and probably hasn’t endeared him to many.”

“Anybody with a complaint more serious than a moving violation?”

“You’d know better about that than me,” she said.

“I may want to talk to your children.”

“Not without me, and not until I’ve talked to them first,” she said, her voice stern. She didn’t care if he was the police chief.

“I’ll be in touch,” he said. He took a step. Stopped. “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep this conversation between us,” he said. “You know how gossip spreads in Ravesville.”

She did. And it would make people uneasy if they thought that something had happened to one of their police officers.

She nodded, and Chief Poole pushed open the swinging door, walked the length of the café and left through the front entrance. Thirty seconds later, Summer followed him out of the kitchen, smiling, greeting customers, putting on the show of her life. But her head was whirling. So much so that she delivered eggs instead of French toast to one of her favorite customers. Apologizing profusely, she ran back to the kitchen to get the order replaced.

“What’s going on?” Milo asked.

“I’ll tell you later,” Summer promised.

She took another quick minute to pull her cell phone from her pocket. She pressed the button for Gary’s number. It went straight to voice mail. She waited for the beep. “Gary, it’s Summer. Listen, please call me. It’s important.” She pressed End.

Maybe she should call Trish, too. She knew Gary pretty well. Maybe she would have some ideas.

No. It wasn’t the type of news a person delivered over the phone.

Was the chief serious that he intended to talk to her kids? Would he wait and give Gary time to show himself?

For the first time in a very long time, she wished she could suddenly make Gary appear. What the hell was he up to now? Was it possible that he was really in trouble? Did this have anything to do with the absolutely horrible mood he’d been in?

She had lots of questions and no answers. She went back to the dining area and cleared two dirty tables.

She heard the soft tinkle of a bell and looked to the front door. Bray Hollister, his expression giving nothing away, walked in and took a seat at the counter. He wore blue jeans, a blue-and-gray flannel shirt, a dark gray insulated vest and cowboy boots. Every woman’s eyes in the place followed him, whether they were twenty years old or sixty. He positively oozed sex appeal.

She contemplated going back to the kitchen for the rest of her life. “Morning,” she said, mindful that just three stools away were other customers. “Coffee?” she asked, holding up the pot.

Bray nodded.

She poured the cup and slid it in his direction. He took a sip. “Busy day?” he asked.

“Busy enough,” she said.

“Had a visit from the chief yet?” His voice was pitched low.

“Yeah. You?”

He nodded. “Are you doing okay?” he asked.

No. She was a mess. “I think so.”

“Got anything you need to tell me?” he asked.

“I was about to ask you the same thing.”

He shook his head. “I didn’t touch your ex.”

She believed him. Relief flooded her system. “I didn’t, either.”

He studied her. Then nodded. “Okay, then. What now?”

“Now I figure out what the hell happened to Gary before it bleeds over and affects me or our children.”

Chapter Four

Wednesday, 11:00 a.m.

“But before I do that,” she said, “I have to talk to my kids. Chief Poole said he might need to question them.”

Bray picked up a sugar packet. Set it down. “He’s doing his job. A man is missing. A cop. He needs to turn over every rock that he can.”

“But they’re my rocks. My baby rocks,” she said.

She would be the kind of mother who would protect her children with her last breath. “They might know something and not even realize it. You might, too,” he said, his tone suggestive. “Tell me about your ex.”

“I’ve got customers to wait on,” she said, clearly not interested in his suggestion. He understood. He really didn’t want to talk about the son of a bitch, either. There weren’t many that could make the claim, but Gary Blake had bested Bray, in all the ways it counted. Reason enough to hate him.

If Blake was screwing around somewhere, oblivious to the concern he’d left behind, dismissive of the blow his children would bear when they heard he was missing, well, Bray was going to hand him his lunch, and the guy would need a blender and a straw to eat it. “What time does Trish come in to relieve you?”

“Normally at two and works until nine. But it’s Thanksgiving eve, so we’re not open tonight. The café will close at two today and reopen at six on Friday morning. And with any luck, Gary will come in for his coffee to go at eight thirty, just like every other day.”

“You’re still going to talk to your kids today?”

She nodded. “I have to pick them up at Trish’s. She’s babysitting. I know I need to do this but I’m not sure what to tell them.”

“The truth. But maybe not the whole truth.”

She let out a huff. “That’s my specialty,” she said in a disgusted tone. Then she walked away.

What the hell did she mean by that? Bray contemplated that question for the next three hours as he sat on the stool. Summer stopped filling his coffee cup and generally ignored him until he flagged her down and ordered a grilled ham-and-cheese sandwich for lunch. She hadn’t said a word when she’d slid the plate in his direction, but it didn’t escape his notice that she’d remembered to add a side of mayonnaise so that he could dip his French fries.

Finally, ten minutes after she’d put the closed sign in the window, all the other customers were gone except him. “I’m going with you when you talk to your children,” he said.

“They don’t know you.”

“I’m not going for them. I’m going for you.”

That shut her up. She got out the vacuum and plugged it in. He grabbed it out of her hand. “Let me help,” he said. “You can get out of here faster.”

It had been driving him crazy for the past three hours watching her literally fly around the room. Taking orders, clearing tables, making pot after pot of coffee, taking cash at the register up front. He’d wanted to jump in and help but had known that would spread like wildfire through the small town. The fact that he’d been sitting at the counter for an extended period probably already had tongues wagging. He’d recognized a few people from his high school days. Had nodded at one or two, but nobody had approached to engage in conversation.

After the floor had been vacuumed and the counters wiped down, and she’d rolled a tray of clean silverware into white napkins, Summer excused herself to use the restroom. Seconds later, the cook pushed through the swinging door.

“Who are you?” he asked, his voice flat.

“Bray Hollister.” He’d been gone a long time, but he was pretty good with faces. He didn’t think he’d ever met this man. He was probably midfifties, slight build but wiry, with hair pulled back into a ponytail like Bray. However, his was much longer and almost black. His face had several scars, none of which he’d got from working behind a grill. “Who are you?” Bray asked.

“That’s not important. What’s important is that you understand that Summer and Trish Wright are special to me. If you mess with them, you mess with me. And that would be a mistake on your part.”

Most people wouldn’t even attempt to intimidate Bray. But this guy was a natural. Bray appreciated his intensity and willingness to take him on.