Identity

“Not to mention the kid and the dog.”

“Not to mention. The one’s claiming Gigi doesn’t leave the yard unleashed since the one time last fall the dog slipped through and dug in the neighbor’s chrysanthemums. And the other’s going off about barking and pooping when out comes Charlie, holding the suspect.

“Grab the buns and that bag of chips.”

He gestured to the sliders and the deck before carrying the plate of patties outside to the already smoking grill.

“Now, while I do consider myself well versed in bullshit—you can’t rise to chief of police otherwise—I don’t claim to be an expert on dog shit. But it only takes one look at the size of that dog and the size of the shit to conclude Gigi’s innocence.”

The patties hit the grill and sizzled.

“Did you point this out?”

“I did, in more civilized and professional language. Further investigation—Charlie assists with some insight—reveals there are several larger dogs in the neighborhood, including, Charlie states, a big golden retriever named Stu just down the way who often escapes his yard and enjoys pooping elsewhere.”

Jake flipped the burgers.

“In conclusion I tell Anne Vincent I’ll remove the poop if she agrees to pay for the cost of having the evidence analyzed to identify the breed of the dog it came from. Which is, of course, bullshit. Otherwise, she’ll remove it and clean the step, and Kate Potter will agree not to press charges. I advise her against taking similar action anytime in the future.

“She squawks—a lot—then says she’s going to shoot the next dog that comes on her property.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah, avoid if possible. I tell her if she does that, she’ll land in one of my cells in a half a quick minute. I put my hard-ass face on for that because I felt like one, and she backed right off.”

He flipped the burgers back on the plate.

Since he knew his friend, Miles had already gotten the condiments and paper plates from the cabinet under the grill.

They sat at the table Jake had built in high school woodshop, doctored their burgers, opened the chips.

“So how was your day?”

“Not as gripping as yours.”

“How’s Morgan doing?”

“Handling it. The day you came in to tell me about Rozwell I walked into Grand’s office, and she’s in there. Crying.”

“Well, it’s a lot.”

“It’s a lot. Then I decide to go into the fitness center for a workout, and I see her on one of the treadmills. Strolling. What’s the point of getting on one if you’re going to stroll?”

He shrugged, ate.

“Then I find out she’s working with Jen—self-defense, personal training.”

“Jen the Destroyer?”

Miles grinned at that, shrugged again. “I stopped into the bar that night. She was feeling it. Anyway, she bought a decent car.”

“Make, model, year, color? We want to keep an eye.”

When Miles told him, Jake filed it away. Watching Miles, he crunched into a chip. “Sounds like you’re keeping an eye.”

“Security’s on it,” Miles began.

“No doubt there. I meant you. Personally.”

“She works for us.”

“So does a good portion of Westridge. I know when you’re getting a thing.”

“I’m not getting a thing. And she’s got enough to deal with.”

“Can’t argue with the last part. Want another beer?”

“No, thanks. I brought home some work, and I’ve got to get there and feed the dog.” But he sat another moment, nursing the rest of his beer. “Things are complicated.”

“Tell me about it.”



* * *



The gym didn’t make Morgan happy, but she stuck with it. Maybe, she admitted as she ground her way through triceps kickbacks, because Jen intimidated her. And maybe, a little, because she felt a tiny bit stronger.

And a lot, she knew, because the three hours a week provided something to do, something active and productive.

Plus, sweaty.

Now, the self-defense portion did make her happy. It made her feel stronger and smarter and more self-aware. She had to admit she’d thoroughly enjoyed busting on Richie the bellman in the padded suit.

But she did not enjoy the lifting, the lunging, the mean machines, or any of the tortures Jen outlined for her. Still, knowing Jen’s hawk gaze could zero in on her at any moment, Morgan squatted down into what her formidable instructor called the goddess position—screw that!—and began the biceps-burning series of curls.

“I’ve been texting you.”

Morgan didn’t quite defeat the snarl as she glanced up and saw Nell. Nell with her perfect sweep of glossy hair and makeup. Nell in her non-sweat-stained spring dress and pretty pink slingbacks.

“I’m working out. My hands are busy.”

“So I see. Tracie said she saw you in here.” As smoothly as a catcher behind the plate, Nell squatted down. “I need a favor.”

“You need a favor?” Determined to see it through, Morgan shifted the weight to her other hand and began the second half. “If I say yes, will you do the core work I’ve got coming after this?”

“That wouldn’t do you any good. I had Loren from the Lodge and Tricia from Après working the Janson wedding tonight.”

“I know this. Can thighs split open?” Morgan panted out. “I think mine are going to split open. Why does Jen want to kill me?”

“Loren dislocated his finger.”

“Working out?”

“Playing basketball. Right hand, ring finger. It’s not broken, but it’s in a splint, and will be for a while.”

“I’m sorry. That had to hurt. Maybe as much as thighs splitting open. Maybe even more. Obviously, he can’t tend bar at the Janson wedding tonight. You need another of my team?”

“I need you.”

“I lost count, but I know that had to be fifteen.” Morgan straightened slowly. “I finished the set. I finished, and I’m still alive. Everything burns, everything.”

“It’s supposed to. Listen—”

“Easy for you to say. You’ve got arms like Linda Hamilton in Terminator Two.”

“Thanks. Morgan—”

“Yeah, yeah.” She dropped down on a bench. “Even with the wedding—that’s around two hundred—Friday’s one of our busiest nights.”

“It won’t be as busy from seven to midnight, as the Janson wedding is fully thirty-five percent of our occupancy this weekend. Nick agreed to work a double. I couldn’t reach you,” Nell said when Morgan swiped at sweat and stared at her. “I asked if he’d cover if you took the event, and he agreed.”

“He could work the event.”

“He could, but. Tricia’s on weekend days at Après because she’s one of the best. Loren’s the most experienced bartender in the Lodge. Nick’s excellent, but I don’t want him covering this after working a full shift, unless I have to.

“Ariel Jenson,” she went on. “She’s the bride. She’s Mrs. Fisk—remember Mrs. Fisk? She’s Mrs. Fisk on steroids. She puts the ‘zilla’ in ‘bridezilla.’ I need this perfect. My mother’s also asking for this favor.”

“You pay me. You could just tell me to do it.”

“But that’s not what we’re doing. We’re asking.”

Morgan picked up the gym towel on her bench, mopped her face. “Do you know when I’ve sweat this much before?”

“No.”