P. Alderman - Haunting Jordan

Jordan raised her eyebrows. “And he now paints for a living?”

Darcy shrugged. “People around here tend to value quality of life over money.”

Jordan wanted to ask whether Jase was one of them, but she didn’t want to reveal her curiosity.

“Lawyer.” Darcy read her mind with uncanny accuracy. “I’ll let him give you the lowdown, though.”

Jordan picked up a piece of bread and nibbled while she chewed on that new little tidbit of information. She never would’ve pegged Jase for a lawyer—he was far too laid back.

“Have you at least mentioned other possible suspects to Detective Drake?” Darcy asked, bringing the conversation back around.

“I gave him a few names.” Jordan had mentioned Didi’s, and she’d also supplied the names of ex-patients who had sued Ryland for sexual harassment.

“That so? I requested a copy of the case file, which arrived this afternoon, and from what I’ve read, Drake may not be investigating anyone else.”

Jordan refrained from comment, and Darcy shook her head, leaning over so that her voice wouldn’t carry. “Look, I know I’m just another cop in your eyes, but unless you really did kill the jerk, I’m not the enemy. Cutting the brake lines on a car takes knowledge and advance planning—in other words, it’s a premeditated act. I’ve spent enough time on the force to know a murderer when I see one, and you aren’t the type. Hell, even if you had lost your temper and felt like killing the son of a bitch, I figure you would’ve simply yelled at him to get counseling.” Darcy paused. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Jordan said faintly.

“So if you want my help with this, ask, dammit.”

“Thanks,” she said, surprised and touched, and also feeling more than a little guilty for continuing to withhold information from her.

Darcy nodded as if that settled it. “Now, are you gonna let me help solve Hattie’s murder or not?”

Jordan smiled. “How about nightly updates?”

* * *

FOR the next few hours, Jordan listened to music and helped Jase when needed. Twice, she asked the man up front whether he wanted a fresh drink, since he hadn’t touched his whiskey. Both times, he turned her down with only slightly more than a grunt. She’d been tempted to ask him to produce his badge, but in the end, she decided to leave him alone and ignore the itch he gave her between her shoulders.

By midnight, she was feeling the effects of the lack of sleep from the night before. She woke up the dog, collected the box of diaries, and headed out the door, yawning.

Half a block from the tavern, though, Stilwell suddenly materialized out of the shadows, blocking her path. The dog leapt between them, growling. Setting the box on the pavement, Jordan placed a hand on his collar, surreptitiously glancing around to see whether she could count on help from any passersby.

Stilwell caught her action and grinned, obviously enjoying her discomfort. He tossed her a book with a cracked binding held together with string. She fumbled, almost dropping it, scrambling to protect the fragile pages.

“That’s all I got from the family,” he said with a shrug. “I figure you owe me one now. I’ll decide how and when to collect.”

“Thanks,” she said, ignoring his innuendo. “This will be a great help.” She stepped back, pulling the dog with her.

He shifted to block her escape. “What do you want it for, anyway?”

“Just some research I’m doing about the town back when my house was built,” she replied, leaving out any specifics. “I’ll make sure this gets back to you in a few days or so. All right?”

He shrugged and turned to go. “Makes no difference to me whether I ever get it back.” With that, he disappeared into the night as quickly as he’d appeared.

Jordan stood on the sidewalk, frowning after him, willing her pulse to return to normal. He’d just tossed a rare document at her that might well be worth a significant sum of money. In her experience, only the strongest of emotions overrode greed in a man like Stilwell. So why had he been so cavalier about parting with the book? And she had the oddest feeling that he was overplaying a part, trying too hard to make everyone think he was the baddest of bad boys.

She shook her head. On the other hand, she was functioning on only a few hours of sleep, so she probably shouldn’t be willing to attribute altruistic motives to the man’s actions.

The small spurt of adrenaline caused by his appearance seeped away, leaving her even more exhausted. She took several deep breaths, then leaned down to place Stil-well’s packet on top of the box and pick both up. “Time to go home, boy.”

By the time she got the dog settled in the back of the car, her responses were so sluggish that she wondered whether she should drive the three blocks to her house. But even though every muscle in her body ached, the lingering uneasiness from the encounter with Stilwell had her eyes wide open.

Enough so that on the way home, she made a detour to an all-night grocery on the edge of downtown, to buy some groceries and the latest issue of Vanity Fair .

Chapter 9

BY seven the next morning, Jordan was wide awake and twitching inside her sleeping bag, her overactive brain no longer willing to let her linger in that pleasantly relaxed state between deep sleep and fully alert. She pushed her arms out of the sleeping bag—a feat, since the dog, who seemed to have gotten over his unwillingness to enter the bedroom, was plastered along her right side, pinning her. Luxuriating in a jaw-cracking yawn, she stretched to relieve the stiffness caused by two nights on a hard floor.

She paused, arms over her head, frowning. Actually, her sleep hadn’t been deep or relaxed. She’d dreamt of the incidents leading up to Hattie’s murder, one of those god-awful frustration dreams in which the more she’d learned, the further she’d been from discovering the killer’s identity. She’d watched herself pace through the deep gloom of the library, pausing to read excerpts from diaries and memoirs, then wearing new tracks in the Aubusson carpet as she puzzled over the clues to the writers’ psyches she found hidden in every line of text.

Sighing, she pushed back the edges of the sleeping bag. She had a busy day planned—the movers were due to arrive by midmorning, she’d made an appointment with the local vet to take the dog in for a wellness check and grooming, and Tom and Jase were dropping by to help her assess the work needed on the house.

And she couldn’t forget she’d promised Ted a tour. Though he was a distraction she didn’t need, she couldn’t beg off without upsetting him. He was still fragile and, when thwarted, prone to act inappropriately. As his ex-therapist, she had a responsibility to support his efforts to put his life back on track. She sincerely hoped, though, that he left Didi at home.

She tugged harder on the sleeping bag in an attempt to free herself. The dog took her struggles as a sign that it was time to get up. Rolling over, he slapped a paw across her midsection, almost knocking the breath from her lungs, and reached his head up to lick her face. She laughed and pulled the edge of the sleeping bag over her face, which he took as a sign that it was time to play.

The next thing she knew, she was being dragged—inside the sleeping bag—toward the bedroom door. She wrestled, and he growled and refused to let go, all the while wagging his tail. She managed to crawl out just before he pulled her down the stairs.

Heading for the bathroom, she splashed cold water on her face, then glanced out the window to gauge the weather. No rain, no clouds—a perfect day to escape for an hour before the rush began. Pulling on jeans, a sweatshirt, and high-tops, she ran a comb through her hair, securing the most unruly strands with clips, creating an overall effect that was vaguely—but not quite—stylish. Story of her life.