P. Alderman - A Killing Tide

She knew more than she was letting on—she'd seen something in one of the photos. And if McGuire had seen what Kaz had, she wasn't letting on. He'd gone over and over the snapshots, but he couldn't figure out what—or who—had caught Kaz's attention. Dammit, he didn't trust her. And what had him truly worried was that he wasn't sure his libido cared.

He sighed, leaning back in his chair. What was it about moving to a new town that made a person think about new possibilities? Possibilities that he'd never let himself consider in recent years? Ever since Jessica's death, he'd avoided long-term relationships. Anyone close to him could become a target, and that was reason enough, to his way of thinking, to steer clear of commitment. If his actions on this investigation ended up putting Kaz at risk, he'd never be able to live with himself.

He knew his buddies back East thought he'd crossed the line the night he'd finally run to ground his fiancée's killer. Michael would never be able to prove that he'd acted honorably. Going into the warehouse alone had been a mistake, because there'd been no witness to corroborate his version of what had really gone down inside that burning building. The guy had had a death wish—he'd had no intention of going back to jail. Michael would have to live with the rumors for the rest of his life.

He scrubbed a hand over his face and picked up his cell phone, speed-dialing, then waiting for the pick-up on the other end. "Hey, Mac. Still playing politics?"

His long-time friend and police captain in Boston snorted. "Every chance I get. You know how I love kissing ass. Especially your surrogate papa's."

David Waltham, Boston's Police Commissioner, hadn't been happy when Michael had informed him of his plans to move to Astoria. After trying unsuccessfully to change Michael's mind, he'd started targeting Mac, his theory evidently being that Mac could convince Michael to come back home.

"So when are you moving back, pal?" Mac asked, breaking into Michael's thoughts. "We've got a pool going on how long you're gonna last out there in the boonies, and I need some insider information here—I could use the cash."

Michael smiled. The guys hadn't changed—if nothing else came to mind, they'd bet on when the first raindrop hit the sidewalk outside. "You're gonna lose this one, Mac. I'm not coming back."

"Oh, man, do not tell me that. I'll have to quit my job or else get myself fired."

"You want me to tell him to lay off?"

"Hell, no. I'm getting a kick out of it. For once, the commissioner isn't getting his way. It's about damn time."

Michael couldn't argue with that. He'd be forever grateful that David had stepped into the void left by his parents' deaths, but that didn't mean that the years he'd lived in David's house had been easy ones. Waltham was smart and powerful, and he had one of the most forceful personalities Michael had ever come up against. It wouldn't hurt David to lose a few battles now and again.

"I need a favor, Mac."

He heard his friend sit up in his chair, probably taking his feet off the jumble of papers that always littered his desk. Michael envisioned the serious, all-business expression that had transformed Mac's easy-going looks. When Mac took notice, no one could beat his laser-like concentration. "Name it."

"I need you to check around quietly, see if you can find out who's been checking into my background."

Mac let out a low whistle. "What the hell's going on, buddy?"

"Just a little arson and murder, timed a little too conveniently." He waited while Mac swore, then continued. "It could be nothing—I'm just being cautious."

Mac harrumphed. "Like your instincts on this crap are ever wrong." There was a moment of silence. "You all right?"

"Yeah."

"Maybe the commissioner is right—maybe you should come home."

"Quit worrying," he reassured his friend. "I'm up against someone who's clever, that's all. Just get me that info, and I'll be fine."

"If you say so." Mac sounded dubious. "Hey. Maybe I should take a trip out there, check the place out."

"And here I was thinking the commissioner was the only one acting over-protective."

"Okay, okay, I can take a hint." Mac sighed. "You got a name you want me to run through the computers?"

"Not yet. But send me some coffee beans."

"You're shitting me."

"Two pounds of my special blend, from the shop in Faneuil Hall."

"Christ. Do I need to send them by overnight messenger?"

"I'm not made of money. Send it priority mail—I can wait that long." Just. Michael already planned to dip into Kaz's stash whenever he could until his own arrived. But he didn't mention that to Mac—he didn't want his friend getting curious. The next thing he'd hear was that they were betting back in Boston on how soon he'd be getting laid.

He talked to Mac for a few more minutes, catching up on some of the gossip back home, then ended the call with a promise to check back in a day or two.

He leaned back in his chair, thinking about how badly he needed the break he'd counted on but wasn't getting because of this case. When it was over, he promised himself, he'd use some power tools. Knock out a wall or three. Then he'd be back to normal. That is, if he could figure out what constituted 'normal' these days.

He heard a car door slam outside. The chief of police, Jim Sykes, loomed on the other side of the glass door. Michael waved him in, and the police chief opened the door, walking into Michael's office.

"Working late only a few days into the job, eh?" he asked Michael.

"No choice in the matter." Michael gestured to an empty chair beside his desk. "Have a seat." Zeke lifted his head and moaned low in his throat, and Michael gave him a soft command. The dog subsided but didn't go back to sleep.

While Sykes settled in, Michael examined his reaction to the man. The way he'd felt last night hadn't been a fluke—he didn't like the guy, but he couldn't put his finger on why. On the surface, Sykes seemed okay. A little overzealous, maybe, but dedicated to his job. And Michael understood overzealous—he'd seen a lot of colleagues in Boston act the same way.

The police chief drew out a slim cigar. He raised his eyebrows, and Michael kept his expression even while he unearthed a used coffee cup to serve as an ashtray.

He had a real hatred of smoke in any of its forms. Most arson investigators didn't feel that way—they actually liked the smell of smoke. And many of them were three-pack-a-day addicts, feeling a genuine affection for anything that burned.

"Came by to welcome you to the community," Sykes said after lighting up. "It's great to have someone with your background in town."

"Thanks." Despite his tailored suit and expensive haircut, Sykes had the look of a man who drank too much. The flesh around his eyes was puffy and his cheeks were webbed with numerous small, red blood vessels. Then again, a lot of cops drank.

Sykes settled more comfortably in his chair. "I have to admit, I had an agenda for stopping by tonight. I'm hoping to convince you to join the Big Brothers here in Astoria. The program has a special place in my heart, and I make a point of asking all my officers to spend some time with the more disadvantaged kids in the community, to let them see that we're more than just a uniform, that we're human beings, too."

His request took Michael a little by surprise, though now that he thought about it, it made sense. Given his childhood struggles, Sykes would be particularly sensitive to the problems of children who grew up without good role models at home.

"I don't know." Michael hesitated. "I was an only child—I'm not sure I know how to be a Big Brother."

"Not a problem. I want these kids to start a dialogue with us now, before they get started down the wrong path."