He couldn’t see making it his base, as Naomi was. He liked the city, where anything and everything could and did happen. He needed a quick pace, one that kept up with his own.
But then she preferred the quiet, prized her solitude. He needed movement, conversation, needed to be part of a team. Work drove them both—hers in art and imagery, capturing moments and making them speak. His in behavior, in rules, in an endless quest to find out why.
Compensations, he knew very well, for both of them, constantly on some level trying to weigh the scale against what they’d come from.
She tried, often too hard in his opinion, to erase it, to shove it away. And he couldn’t stop studying it, aiming his life toward the pursuit of those, like his father, who lived to destroy, and found their only real pleasure in that destruction.
He didn’t know what to think about Xander Keaton or Naomi’s relationship with him. Yet. He’d study that as well.
The fact she’d told Keaton about Bowes indicated she’d formed a serious and he wanted to believe healthy attachment—something she’d avoided and denied herself all her life outside of their tight little family.
As for Keaton . . . on first impression Mason would tag him with one of Harry’s terms. A cool customer. But he’d already observed a number of tells. The way he’d ranged himself in front of the house—with Naomi inside—before Mason had identified himself, the firm but casual order for her to “simmer down,” and the fact that he’d told Mason to talk to Naomi when Mason had asked about sex.
Initial analysis? Mason thought as he parked in the tiny lot beside the station house. A confident man, and one who’d protect his sister. He could and would be grateful for that, for now.
And like any self-respecting brother who was also a federal agent, he’d run him.
Mason rounded to the front, noted the station had a small front porch, recently painted and swept clean as a parlor.
When he stepped inside, he had that instant déjà vu he experienced any time he went into a small-town cop shop.
Had Naomi been in here? he wondered. Would she see the similarities to Pine Meadows? Of course she would. Not the same, of course, not a mirror image, and the basic tools and equipment had advanced in the seventeen years since his father’s arrest.
But the setup struck so similar, the tone. The smell of coffee and baked goods, plastic chairs, a trio of desks in what served as both a kind of lobby and the bull pen.
A uniformed deputy sat at one of the desks, gave Mason the eye.
“Help you?”
You already know who I am, why I’m here, Mason calculated. And don’t like the idea of an outsider, especially a federal one, horning into town business.
The reaction was nothing new.
“Yes. Special Agent Mason Carson. I have a meeting with Chief Winston.”
The deputy leaned back in his chair, sized Mason up with a faint sneer that clearly read fuck you. “Have you got identification?”
Even as Mason reached for it, a man came out of the back holding a big blue mug that read CHIEF. “Mike, you climb up any higher on that horse, you’re going to get a nosebleed.” Sam stepped forward, hand extended. “Sam Winston. Pleased to meet you, Agent Carson.”
“I appreciate the time, Chief.”
“Come on back. You want some coffee? It’s not half-bad coffee.”
“I just had some at my sister’s, but thanks.”
They stepped into an office with a window at the back. The wide sill held a scatter of trophies, some framed photos, and a wildly thriving philodendron.
The desk sat on the side wall, giving the Cove’s chief views out the window and to the door. Two visitor’s chairs—straight backs, no-nonsense—angled toward it.
“Have a seat.”
Sam took the chair behind the desk that looked as though it had stood in that spot for a couple generations.
“I’m going to tell you straight off, we haven’t got line one on Donna Lanier. Her sister, her daughter, and her cousin are all on their way here. No stopping them. Her car was locked, and we found the keys on the ground, just under it. It’s clear whatever happened to her started in that parking lot.”
Mason only nodded. “I’d like to see the lot, and her residence, if possible.”
“We’ll do that.”
“You indicated Ms. Lanier lives alone, and is—to your knowledge—not in a relationship.”
“That’s right. Donna’s been divorced and single for a lot of years. Now she and Frank Peters have a drink or dinner now and then, and I do believe a bit more than that. But it’s a friendly sort of thing, and nothing serious on either side. And Frank was down at Loo’s when Donna closed up Friday. He was with a couple of friends, didn’t head out until nearly one.”
Nodding again, Mason decided to keep his notes mental for the time being. “Is that usual?”
“More like clockwork. Frank and his buddies tend to hit Loo’s on Friday nights, blow off the workweek steam.”
“Would you object if I speak to him?”
“No, and neither would he. He and Donna have been friends a long time. He’s scared for her, and I’ll admit I am, too. She’s not one to go off like this. She’s a responsible woman with a daughter she loves, a job she loves. She’s got friends. And let’s cut through this, Agent Carson. She sure as hell didn’t go willing out of that lot, without her car, keys on the ground, when she’d planned this get-together with her sister and her cousin for months now. All she could talk about was her trip, how they were getting hot-stone massages.”
“I don’t disagree, and I realize it seems as though I’m asking to cover ground you’ve already covered, and ground you know better than I ever could. Sometimes an outside perspective, a fresh eye, sees something overlooked.”
Sam looked into his mug, grimaced a little, drank. “I’m not going to argue that, and you can cover the ground all you want. But I don’t just know the ground, I know the people who live on it. And I know there’s no one in this town who could do what was done to Marla. And I know we’ve got people who come here for a few hours, a few days, maybe longer, to use the marina, the shops and bars and restaurants, the hiking trails. They rent boats and kayaks and Sea-Doos.” Sam set his mug down. “I don’t know them.”
“You believe an outsider abducted and killed Marla Roth.”
“With every bone in my body.”
“Tell me more about her.”
“Marla?” Sam puffed out his cheeks, let the air out in a half sigh. “As different from Donna as they come—and I know that’s not usual if this is the same person. Marla was thirty-one, on the wild side of things, and always has been. She divorced a good man who loved her, and still does. Who’s grieving for her. You can talk to him, too, but Chip Peters would’ve cut off both arms before laying a hand on Marla.”
“Peters.” He already knew, of course, had already looked at the connections.
“That’s right. Frank’s Chip’s uncle. Frank and Darren Peters—that’s Chip’s dad—have run the Sea to Sea Tours and Rentals for about sixteen years now. Chip’s part of that. I’m telling you he’s no part of this, and neither is Frank.”
Sam seemed to pull himself back, took another sip from his mug. “But you need to look, see for yourself.”
“Was the divorce acrimonious?”
“Ever had one?”
“No.”
“Me either, but I don’t know any that are pleasant activities.”
“My information indicates Chip—that’s Darren Peters, Junior—has a temper, often a violent one.”
“Your information’s wrong,” Sam said flatly. “What Chip has is a code, and God knows a weakness where Marla was concerned. Yes, he had what you could call a confrontation with the dickhead Marla was hooked up with some years back. I’ve got a report, I’ll get you a copy. This individual tuned Marla up, a couple times. Chip got word of it—from Marla—and gave the dickhead a taste of his own. Only took one punch to lay him out, and plenty of witnesses to that. Chip didn’t keep at him, and he could have. He used his fists once or twice otherwise—over Marla. He’s a big man, Agent Carson. One punch usually did the trick. A man prone to violence doesn’t stop at one.”