Luke drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He couldn’t see how that would turn into a money-making scheme, and unless there was another, darker side to Scott Quade, he would bet his own last dollar that money was the man’s prime motivation.
You don’t have enough information yet to draw any conclusions.
But it was something to know Mimi Quade was faking her pregnancy.
He picked up his cell phone to call Andi.
*
Tracy was standing outside her apartment, waiting. She’d driven back home and placed her call. “I’ve got it,” she’d said, hearing how miffed she sounded. She was still in a bad mood from seeing Heidi sitting in her chair.
“Meet me outside. I’ll pick you up in a few minutes.”
“I’m at home,” she told him, though he’d already hung up on her, so obviously he already had that information.
Now she saw a blue Buick sedan pull up to the curb. She peered inside the passenger window as it rolled down.
“What’s this car?” she asked.
“It’s my other one. Get in.”
His high-handedness kind of pissed her off, but she complied, and he raced away with more speed than she’d expected. “Where’s the fire?” she asked.
“I want to take you somewhere.”
“This is new,” she said, not bothering to hide the pout in her voice. Their relationship to date, if that’s what it was, had been a quick meal here and there, nothing fancy, nothing expensive, almost like he thought he was obligated to be nice to her.
“Where’s the key?” he asked, as they headed west on Highway 26, away from Laurelton.
“I’ve got it in my little lockbox.” She patted her purse, which sat on her lap. She knew he wanted her to open it up, but she didn’t feel like it. Let him beg her for it. She liked the idea of that.
They didn’t talk for several miles and she finally said, “You’re not taking me all the way to the beach, are you?”
“What if I am?”
“Don’t be a dick. I’m not going.” Actually, she had nothing to do and the idea of heading out on a lark appealed to her, but for reasons she didn’t fully understand, she didn’t want him to know that . . . yet.
“What’re you gonna do?” he asked, amused. “How’re you gonna stop me?”
“I don’t know. I’ll think of something.” He was jollying her out of her bad mood and it was working, and that kind of pissed her off, but it also made her smile.
“So, those policemen who showed up at Sirocco. Who were they? Do you remember their names?”
He was a little too casual and Tracy’s radar antennae rose up. “No. They were two women . . . one of ’em had reddish brown hair, like it was streaked, but it was natural, I’m pretty sure. The other had kinky dark hair.”
He was frowning. “Women?”
“Yeah, women. Both of ’em.”
“Was one of ’em black?”
“No . . . maybe sorta. She looked more Hispanic, maybe? I don’t know. She didn’t talk as much.”
“The auburn-haired one was the one talking?”
“Auburn-haired?”
“Reddish-brown? You don’t know auburn?” He shot her a pitying look, which brought back her bad mood in a rush.
“Well, excuse me for living.”
They were on the outskirts of Quarry, Oregon, which was kind of a podunk town, with one main street and a lot of little rural shacks. Tracy had once dated a guy from there and after meeting his family had thought, no way. They were all hicks. To her consternation, he took the turn off to nowheresville.
She groaned. “What’re we doing here?”
“Seeing the sights.”
“There are no sights to see in Quarry,” she grumbled. “Take me home, for the love of God.”
He drove down the main street. Small town USA in spades. Tracy leaned her head against the window and looked out. All she could really see was Heidi’s big blue eyes and her butt slapped onto her chair.
“You’ve caused me some trouble,” he said conversationally.
“Huh?”
“You said the policewomen were there to see an agent about the cabin.”
“Yeah, Kitsy.”
“Who?” That seemed to surprise him. “I thought Edie Tindel was the agent.”
“She was the buyer’s agent. Kitsy had the listing. But I don’t think they were there about the cabin. They were detectives, not policewomen. It was something else.”
They’d passed through town and were on the road that led toward the old quarry, the landmark the town was named for. She’d learned way more than anyone should know about the place from her ex-boyfriend, who’d taken her to the plateau above the quarry for a make-out session because it was some kind of lover’s lane. Figured.
“What was it?” His voice was cold.
“I don’t know. Kitsy doesn’t confide in me. I just overheard her talking to some other agents. Something about the street she used to live on.”
“What’s Kitsy’s real name?”
“I don’t know. She goes by Kitsy. What is this, the third degree?”
“What’s her last name?” he asked with extreme patience.
“Hasseldorn.”
“Shit.”