Danger on the river, p.25
Danger on the River,
p.25
“All right.” Because he knew those in recovery needed to get used to being in a world of temptation, he nodded and pulled his drink back in front of him. He did take a long drink, but it was more to get rid of it than to prove any type of point.
“When I stopped by the FBI field office in San Francisco, they said you were working a case up here. Special Agent Sarah Nelson told me about the Brass Eagle.” Lana glanced around the bar, lips curving at the sight of meticulously polished and maintained wood, shiny vinyl-padded seats and the large brass-cast emblem of the Marines hanging over the bar. “She said you crash here when you’re in town. The owner sounds like he’s a good friend.”
“He is. Both Vince and his wife. They’re two of many, as it turns out.” Eamon tried to ignore the fact he was still holding Lana’s hand. More to the point, that she was still holding his. Clinging to his, her fingers tensing as if he were some kind of life preserver. He could feel the slight chill from the glass on her skin, but also a tremor he was unaccustomed to.
“That’s nice,” she murmured. “I don’t remember you having many friends.”
“I’ve put many ghosts to rest. A lot’s happened since we last spoke.”
“Yes,” she practically whispered to herself as she glanced out the window. “It certainly has.” Before he could press for elaboration, she turned her attention back to him. “I take it since you’re back here your case is over? Good result?”
“Mixed.” He knew when someone was making small talk, even if that talk revolved around work. “Repeat sex offender broke probation and lured a teenager across state lines a few weeks back. We managed to track him down through his activity on the dark web. Girl’s been returned to her parents, but he’s—”
“Dead,” Lana finished for him, as the “mixed” was understood. “One of the lessons you taught me,” she said in a tone far too light for the topic. “Offenders like that should be taken alive if at all possible. It’s the only way you find out about their previous victims. If there were any.”
In this case there was no “if” about it. But Eamon’s opportunity to bear witness and get confessions on the record was flat-out gone. “True as that might be, I’m not going to cry in my beer over him. On the bright side, the girl won’t have to testify and her parents won’t have to sit through a trial.” And hear firsthand what had been done to their child. Therapy, on the other hand, was a different story. The family was going to need a lot of it.
“Answers have always been important to you,” Lana murmured.
“They have.” Eamon inclined his head. Was it his imagination or had this conversation suddenly turned into some kind of test?
“Because of Chloe.” She was watching him now, with that pinpoint assessing stare she’d honed as a cop. It was the first time since he’d sat down that he saw a hint of the woman he’d worked with. “Because of your sister. You knew what it was like to have questions. To not have closure.”
“Closure’s a myth.” He didn’t particularly like the harsh Eden-like tone in the statement, but the declaration was one of his friend’s familiar mantras. He lifted his beer again, almost in a mock toast to Eden St. Claire and her life lessons. “Took me until we finally solved Chloe’s case and found her killer that I finally accepted that.”
“But the answers, they had to have helped you a little at least. Didn’t they?” Was that hope in Lana’s voice?
“I stopped spiraling, if that’s what you mean. I didn’t feel caught up in the vortex of what-ifs and if-onlys.” He took another drink. “I don’t dream about my sister as often,” he admitted. “At least now when I do, she’s not pleading with me to find her killer.” Or accusing him of not doing enough. “She’s at peace now. That’s something.” Instead, he heard the ghostly sounds of her laughter on the air or in the wind chime hanging on the balcony of his San Francisco apartment. No, Chloe had been able to move on.
Now, instead of being driven by anger, he found himself amused by having earned himself a mischievous guardian angel who continuously attempted to remind him there was more to life than work. He could remember her with fondness and affection now, rather than guilt and grief. “Answers are great, but Chloe’s still dead, Lana. Nothing is ever going to bring her back.” His sister was eternally nine years old, with crooked pigtails and mismatched sneakers. A brief life but one that had impacted so many of those she’d loved. Was that a legacy? Eamon blinked slowly. He liked to think it was.
“So, what’s going on with you, Lana? You’re a ways from Seattle. Once upon a time you told me it would take something close to a truckload of C-4 to blast you out of the station house for anything remotely resembling a vacation.”
“Seattle PD finally made me take all that time off I had stored up.” Her smile flickered as if her own nerves were attacking. She pulled her hand free from his and tucked a loose tendril of hair behind her ear before she sat back. “You look good, Eamon. Whatever else you say, I can see putting those ghosts of yours to rest has helped. I’m hoping maybe you can help me do the same. If you have the time.”
“I’ve got a few days while the internal affairs board clears me for active duty.” Eamon’s response was tempered by the knowledge Vince had been right about her sad eyes. He remembered her spark, Lana’s zest for life that seemed superhuman and brought out the best in everyone around her. “What’s going on, Lana?”
“I’ve been working on a special case. A closed case. For a while now. Months.” She ducked her head but not before he saw her flinch. “Almost a year, actually.”
“A year?” Eamon’s eyes widened. What special case could she be talking about? “You’re sniffing around someone else’s work?” Didn’t matter which law enforcement agency one worked for; cases were sacrosanct even after they were put to bed.
Agents, cops, they knew to stay on their side of the fence or risk ruffling more than feathers. He’d meant to tease her, to coax something close to that amazing smile of hers that he used to dream about. But no hint of a smile emerged; only a stoic hanging on to hope by a spider’s-web-thin thread shone in her eyes. “Lana?”
“They didn’t leave me any choice.” Both her hands fisted and she knocked them against the table. The defiance in her whisper sent a chill down his spine. “I didn’t remember at first. Everything was so...loud in my head after Marcus died. But I know what I heard, Eamon. I’ve had so much time to think now. Before, I was too caught up in having lost him, but...they’ve tried to convince me otherwise, the investigating officers, my superiors. My partner. Make that former partner,” she added with another wince, filling Eamon’s head with even more questions.
“But I know, I know I’m right,” she said, her voice low. “If I tell you...” She broke off, her brow furrowing as if in a silent argument with herself. “I don’t think I have anyone left I can talk to about this. If you say no—”
“Hey.” He grabbed her hand again so he could surrender to temptation and slip his fingers through hers. “I made you a promise after we first worked together, what was it, three, four years ago? I said then that if you needed me for anything, anything, all you had to do was ask.” It had been an easy promise to make to a woman he had no business caring for.
“I know. I kept telling myself that on the flight down.” Her lips twitched as if he’d triggered a spark of humor. “The truth is I can’t keep doing this on my own. I’m out of ideas. Out of leads. Out of anyone who will talk to me. If I don’t get to the bottom of this, I’m really scared I’m going to lose my mind.”
“That isn’t going to happen.” Especially if he could do anything to stop it. “Whatever it is, you’ve got my help.” He refrained from mentioning that if she’d burned as many bridges as she was alluding to, chances were he wouldn’t be able to rebuild them.
“You say that now,” she hedged with a disbelieving shake of her head.
“There’s nothing you can say that’ll change my mind.” He squeezed her hand to help her focus. “When I make a promise, I keep it. Let’s have it, Lana.”
She let out a long, controlled breath. “I need you to help me find out who murdered my husband.”
Copyright © 2023 by Anna J. Stewart
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ISBN-13: 9780369743015
Danger on the River
Copyright © 2023 by TTQ Books LLC
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Tara Taylor Quinn, Danger on the River
