P. Alderman - Haunting Jordan

He advanced a step for every one she retreated. “And why not?” he asked lightly. “You might find me to be very … entertaining.”

She raised her chin. “Hardly. I find you distasteful.”

“That’s most unfortunate.” Her back met the side of the building, and he closed the remaining gap between them, reaching out to run a gloved finger lightly down her jawline, causing her to shiver. “I would treat you very, very well—I can guarantee you pleasure beyond anything you experienced with Charles. And Charlotte would no longer need to worry about Greeley’s advances.”

He knew how to tempt her, knew that Charlotte was her Achilles’ heel. Nonetheless, the idea sickened her. “Please step back, Mr. Seavey. Your behavior is outrageous.”

He smiled. “I hope so.” But he acquiesced, stepping back with an exaggerated sigh. “Very well. But know this, Hattie—your time as a widow in mourning will soon come to an end. And you need my protection, whether or not you’ll admit as much.”

“I find your suggestion disgusting.”

He nodded. “I understand you’d view it as such. Nonetheless, you’d do well to consider my offer.”

“Never.” With the small amount of poise she had remaining, she stepped around him and exited the alley, her head held high.

* * *

As soon as she was out of sight, Michael’s two bodyguards silently appeared at his side.

“Find out who is spreading rumors about me,” he ordered. All charm had vanished. “I want a name by nightfall.”

Chapter 12

A few minutes before eleven the next morning, Jordan parked her car on the main street running through the heart of downtown Port Chatham. After shutting down the power to the Prius, she sat for a moment, gazing out the window.

Since her arrival, she hadn’t had the time to walk around the picturesque downtown district. Many of the buildings were more than a century old—three-story, imposing Victorian structures built of granite or brick with ornately decorated moldings around their windows and doors. At the street level, galleries and boutiques catering to tourists displayed an array of handmade gifts and custom clothing, while the floors above housed offices and residential apartments.

Given the frigid wind coming off the water, Jordan was surprised by the number of people crowding the sidewalks. Tourists shivered in shorts and sandals, warming their hands around cups of coffee while they window-shopped. Locals, dressed more practically in denim and flannel, cut through the crowds, walking purposefully with some destination in mind. Between the beautiful old buildings, she caught a glimpse of the ferry departing, and of fishing trawlers coming and going in the bay. The overall effect should have been quaint and charming, but the fact that she was about to face interrogation for murder lent a surreal atmosphere to the scene. Then again, pretty much everything seemed surreal to her at the moment.

She’d parked across the street from the police station, which was housed in a small, one-story, distressed-brick building that blended well with the historical feel of the business district. Three antique divided-light windows at the front of the building were filled with posters advertising community watch groups and outreach programs. A hand-painted white sign saying Police hung above the glass door. Flowers overflowed planters and hanging baskets, trees shaded the sidewalk, and wooden benches had been provided for those who wanted to rest their feet.

Was this the same building in which Hattie had visited Chief Greeley the morning after Frank’s attack? Jordan thought it very possible. She noted the windowless annex on the right side of the building. Had the prisoners Hattie had been forced to walk past been housed there? Did Darcy use that same space now to detain people who obstructed justice by withholding key information during the course of a murder investigation? Or would she simply allow Drake to slap cuffs on her and haul her back to L.A.?

Rolling her shoulders to ease tense muscles, Jordan once again pondered the enigma that was LAPD Homicide Detective Arnold Drake. People generally liked her, and they instantly felt comfortable confiding in her, a talent she’d put to good use as a therapist. However, Detective Drake appeared to be the exception. Beginning with his questioning the night of the accident, his enmity toward her couldn’t have been more obvious.

When she’d mentioned his reaction to Carol, her friend had written it off as a cop’s knee-jerk suspicion of the spouse in a murder investigation. But Jordan suspected Drake’s feelings ran deeper. She sensed she’d somehow touched off a long-buried resentment, and that his feelings related to a personal incident in his past.

Knuckles rapped on her window, jerking her out of her reverie. Jase stood on the sidewalk, dressed in pressed jeans and a button-down shirt—evidently Port Chatham’s version of professional attire. She opened the window.

“Getting up your courage?”

“Something like that.”

He opened her door and hunkered down. “I suppose it will only make things worse to tell you that you need to appear relaxed and confident. Cops are trained to note changes in breathing. He’ll know whether you’re nervous, and if you are, he’ll assume the worst.”

“Yeah, that helps—I’m thinking about throwing up now. How do ordinary citizens do this?”

He smiled, his gaze sympathetic. “Ordinary citizens don’t, typically. Most of the populace is law-abiding and has very little interaction with cops. Those who do come into contact with the police in this context are usually guilty.”

She nodded glumly.

“Of course, most innocent people also don’t lie during a police investigation,” he said mildly. “I’d say that isn’t helping your stress level.”

Busted . She closed her eyes. “I didn’t kill Ryland,” she insisted.

“I never said I thought you did. But you have a pretty good idea why Drake thinks you did, don’t you?”

“Yes.” She met his gaze. “Why are you agreeing to represent me, when you know I’m holding back on you?”

“All clients lie to their lawyers, for all kinds of reasons.”

“That’s certainly a cynical outlook.”

He shrugged. “You’ll confide in me when you’re ready.”

She took a deep breath, then another. Straightening her shoulders, she nodded to Jase. “Let’s do this.”

“Attagirl.”

Climbing out, she hit the button to lock the car, then pulled her jean jacket close, chilled. He placed a hand on her arm, stopping her before she could step off the curb. “Just remember, I’m here to protect you from any strategies Drake may use to trap you into saying something you shouldn’t. Check with me before you answer his questions, got it?”

“Yeah. And Jase—don’t push this guy, okay? He’s passive-aggressive, and for some reason I don’t understand, he’s holding a grudge.”

Jase cocked his head for a moment, studying her, then nodded. “I’ll trust your judgment.”

They waited for a break in the traffic, then jogged across the street. Darcy stood waiting for them on the other side of the front door. The inside of the police station was utilitarian, furnished with standard-issue metal desks. Black file cabinets had been shoved against the walls at haphazard intervals. Rectangular fluorescent lights hung from the ceiling. No jail cells in sight, thank God.

“Drake’s already here and waiting.” Darcy directed them down a hallway to a room toward the back of the building. “I’ll be observing from the other side of that glass mirror.” Holding Jordan back for a moment, she said, “Simple answers, don’t volunteer information. And—”

“—check with Jase before I say anything,” Jordan finished for her. “I know.”