Suzanne Brockmann - Forever Blue

“What?”

Iris approached the table, carrying two enormous sandwiches and a basket of French fries. Lucy smiled her thanks at the waitress, but waited for her to leave before answering Sarah’s question.

“He was going out with Jenny Lee.”

“Beaumont…?” Sarah’s eyes lit up. “You mean the same Jenny Lee who’s marrying his brother on Saturday?” At Lucy’s nod, she chuckled. “This is getting too good.”

“You didn’t know?” Lucy asked. “I thought everyone in town knew. It seems it’s all anyone’s talking about—whether or not Blue McCoy will show up to the wedding of his stepbrother and his high-school sweetheart.”

“Apparently the answer to that question is yes,” Sarah said, glancing across the room at the man in uniform.

Lucy took a bite of her turkey sandwich, carefully not turning around to look at this man she found so fascinating. Sarah was right. The question about whether or not Blue would attend Gerry’s wedding had been answered. Now the town would be abuzz with speculation, wondering if Blue was going to create a disturbance or rise to his feet when the preacher said “speak now or forever hold your peace.”

The temptation proved too intense, and Lucy glanced over her shoulder. Blue was eating his lunch and reading the past week’s edition of the Hatboro Creek Gazette. His blond hair fell across his forehead, almost into his eyes, and he pushed it back with a smooth motion that caused the muscles in his right arm to ripple. As if he could feel her watching him, he looked up and directly into her eyes.

Lucy’s stomach did circus tricks as she quickly, guiltily, looked away. God, you would think she was fifteen again and sneaking around the marina where Blue worked, hoping for a peek at him. But he hadn’t noticed her then and he certainly wouldn’t notice her now. She was still decidedly not the Jenny Lee Beaumont type.

“What was his mother thinking when she named him Blue?” Sarah wondered aloud.

“His real name is Carter,” Lucy said. “Blue is a nickname—it’s short for ‘Blue Streak.”’

“Don’t tell me,” Sarah said. “He talks all the time.”

Lucy had to laugh at that. Blue McCoy was not known for running on at the mouth. “I don’t know when he first got the nickname,” she said, “but he’s a runner. He broke all kinds of speed records for sprinting and long-distance races back in junior high and high school.”

Sarah nodded, peering around Lucy to get another peek at Blue.

Lucy’s police walkie-talkie went off at nearly the exact instant the skies opened up with a crash of thunder.

“Report of a 415 in progress at the corner of Main and Willow,” Annabella’s voice squawked over the radio’s tinny speaker. “Possible 10-91A. Lucy, what’s your location?”

Main and Willow was less than a block and a half from the Grill, in the opposite direction of her patrol car. It would take her less time to jog over there than it would to get to her car and drive. Lucy quickly swallowed a half-chewed bite of her sandwich and thumbed the talk switch to her radio. “The Grill,” she said, already halfway out of the booth. “I’m on it. But unless you want me to stop at my car to check my code book, you better tell me what a 10-91A is.”

The police dispatcher, Annabella Sawyer, was overly fond of the California police ten code. Never mind that they were in South Carolina. Never mind the fact that Hatboro Creek was so small that they didn’t need half the codes most of the time. Never mind that the police officers weren’t required to memorize any kind of code. Annabella liked using them. She clearly had watched too many episodes of “Top Cops.”

Lucy knew what a 415 was, though. A disturbance. She’d heard that number enough times. Even a town as tiny as Hatboro Creek had plenty of those.

“A 10-91A is a report of a vicious animal,” Annabella’s voice squawked back.

Lucy swore under her breath. Leroy Hurley’s brute of a dog had no doubt gotten loose again.

“Be careful,” Sarah said.

“I’ll wrap your sandwich,” Iris called as Lucy pushed open the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

The rain soaked her instantly, as if someone had turned a fire hose on her from above. Her hat was back in her car, and Lucy wished for both of them—hat and car—as she headed toward Willow Street at a quick trot.

With any luck, this sudden skyburst had sent that 10-91A scurrying for shelter. With any luck, the 415 had ceased to exist. With any luck…

No such luck. Leroy Hurley’s snarling Doberman had treed Merle Groggin on Andy Hayes’s front lawn. Andy was shouting for Merle to get the hell out of his expensive Japanese maple. Merle was brandishing his hunting knife and shouting for Leroy to get his damned dog locked up or put down, and Leroy was laughing his size forty-six–waist pants off.

It was decidedly a bonafide 415.

As Lucy approached Leroy Hurley, his huge dog caught sight of her and turned. Her stomach tightened at the animal’s threatening growl. She liked dogs. Most dogs. But this one had one mean streak. Just like his master.

“Leroy,” Lucy said, nodding a greeting to the big man, as if they weren’t both standing in a torrential downpour. “What did I tell you last week about keeping your dog chained in your yard?”

The Doberman shifted its weight, glancing from Lucy to Merle Groggin, as if deciding who would make a tastier lunch.

Leroy shrugged and grinned. “Can’t help it if he breaks free.”

She could smell the unmistakable scent of whiskey on his breath. Damn, he got meaner than ever when he’d been drinking.

“Yes, you can,” Lucy said, taking her ticket pad from her pocket. It was instantly soaked. “He’s your dog. You’re responsible for him. And in fact, to help you remember that, I’m going to slap you with a fifty-dollar fine.”

The big man’s smile faded. “I’m the only thing standing between you walking away from here in one piece and you getting chewed,” he said, “and you’re gonna fine me?”

Lucy stared at Leroy. “Are you threatening me, Hurley?” she asked, her voice low and tight but carrying clearly over the sound of the rain. “Because if you’re threatening me, I’ll run both you and your dog in so fast your head will spin.”

Something in Leroy’s eyes shifted, and Lucy felt a surge of triumph. He believed her. She’d called his bluff, he believed her and was going to back down, despite the whiskey that was screwing up the very small amount of good judgment he had to begin with.

“Call your dog off,” Lucy said calmly.

But before Leroy could comply, all hell broke loose.

Andy Hayes fired a booming shot from his double-barrel shotgun, sending Merle plunging down from the tree. The Doberman leaped toward the fallen man, who struck at the dog with his big knife, drawing blood. With a howl, the animal dashed away down the street.

“Stay the hell away from my tree!” Andy shouted.

“You stabbed my dog!” Leroy Hurley roared at Merle.

“You coulda killed me,” Merle shouted at Andy as he hurried out of the man’s yard. “Why the hell didn’t you just shoot the damned dog?”

Leroy moved threateningly toward Merle. “If that dog dies, I’m gonna string you up by your—”

“Hold it right there!” Lucy planted herself firmly between Merle and Leroy. She raised her voice so it would carry to the house. “Andy, you know I’m going to have to bring you in—reckless endangerment and unlawful discharge of a firearm. And as for you two—”

“I hope that stupid animal does kick.” Merle spoke to Leroy Hurley right through Lucy, as if she wasn’t even there. “Because if it doesn’t, I’m gonna come after it one of these nights and finish it off.”