Ryan’s mouth flattened. “You’re going to have to come back later,” he said firmly. “Maybe with a warrant.”
Paul sighed, pulling out his phone. He dialed a number, raising the phone to his ear. “Hi, Sheriff,” he said, when Alan picked up. “It’s Paul Harrison.”
“Paul!” Sheriff Alan, who’d been the sheriff ever since Baker retired after Cass’s murder, was a jovial man who looked like he belonged in a Santa suit more than with a sheriff’s badge. He was also a dedicated, loyal public servant with a keen mind. “Son of a gun, I heard you were in town for your daddy’s memorial. I’m so sorry I wasn’t able to make it, but Nancy said she had a nice talk with your momma. How are you?”
“I’m good, Alan,” Paul said. “Listen, I’m actually at the department right now. I need access to the records room. There’s a cold case I’m looking into.”
There was a pause, a weighted one, as Alan absorbed this information. “You looking into what I think you are?” he asked.
Paul owed Alan a lot. When he graduated college, his grades were just barely enough to get him into Quantico. He’d never been good at tests, and that hurt him in the long run. But Alan had not only written him a recommendation, he’d gotten several of his high-connected law enforcement friends—and a politician—in Sacramento to write ones as well. Paul was pretty sure those letters were the reason he got into Quantico, where he was able to flourish and show what he was truly capable of.
“Some new details have come to light,” Paul said. “I need to investigate.”
Alan sighed. “I respect you too much to tell you no,” he said. “Plus, you could just make a few calls and get them yourself. Is it Clay who’s giving you a problem?”
“That’s right,” Paul said.
“Put me on speaker,” Alan said.
Paul hit the button on his phone. “There you go, Alan.”
“Clay!” Sheriff Alan barked, his voice changing from jovial to drill sergeant in one syllable. “Pull your head out of your ass and give Harrison access to the records room. The man’s FBI, for God’s sake!”
A humiliated flush rose on Ryan’s cheeks. “Yes sir,” he ground out.
“Thanks, Alan,” Paul said, turning the speaker off. “Hope to see you before I leave town.”
“Keep me in the loop if you find something,” Alan said. “My boys are at your disposal once they catch this firebug.”
“Good luck with that. I’ll let you go,” Paul said. “‘Bye now.”
“See ya, Harrison,” Alan replied, hanging up.
As soon as his boss wasn’t on the line, Ryan snarled, “You think you’re some big deal, don’t you, Harrison?”
Paul raised an eyebrow. “Ryan, I just want access to the case files. If you haven’t left the petty shit behind in high school like I did, that’s your problem. Records room still in the same place?”
Ryan nodded brusquely. “Access code is 5432.”
“Thanks,” Paul said. “I’ll be leaving you to your very important work now.” The sarcasm dripped off his voice as he turned to leave the office and head up to the records room.
“Tell Abby I said hi,” Ryan said pointedly.
Paul stopped, knowing he was giving the guy the exact reaction he wanted. But then he turned, a wolfish smile on his face, all teeth and edge and warning. “I’m betting Abby wouldn’t like that,” he said.
“Abby doesn’t like a lot of things that are good for her,” Ryan said. “It’s the way women are.”
“How’s that misogynistic worldview working for you?” Paul asked, disgusted, and Ryan’s lips curled in a sneer as he shifted from foot to foot like a boxer prepping for a match.
The tension in the room made Paul feel like he was walking on a razor wire. Guys like Ryan were pretty predictable—unless they snapped.
And he remembered all too well the one time he witnessed Ryan snapping. Because when he was still playing baseball, he’d been the one to restrain Ryan from nearly killing some kid on the rival team. Paul had come on the field just as Ryan had started kicking the guy’s head in with his cleats—if Paul hadn’t dragged him away, there would’ve been permanent damage. After that, Paul had watched him like a hawk whenever Ryan was with Abby, worried that his explosive temper would someday be directed at her.
When they broke up, Paul had been relieved, even though Abby had seemed heartbroken. But just a month later, Cass was killed, and all thoughts about Ryan Clay and the possible threat he posed had fled Paul’s mind.
He wasn’t intimidated by this guy even though he knew what his type was capable of. Because he knew exactly what he was capable of, and Ryan wasn’t even on the same stratosphere.
Paul wasn’t the type to throw his power around. Why would he? People looked at him and saw a tall, affable guy who they wanted to trust. It came in damn useful in his line of work.
But he’d spent almost twenty years training in various martial arts. It was one of the reasons it still killed him that Mancuso had gotten the better of him in the Thebes case. He should’ve been able to adapt in that moment, but he hadn’t, because his concern for his team had distracted him.
It was a hard lesson to learn. But he was man enough to learn it.
Without another word, Paul just turned and left the office, heading upstairs. He was halfway up to the third floor when he heard footsteps behind him.
God, was the asshole really following him? Paul didn’t turn back, he just reached the top floor and walked over to the records room door, punching in the code and opening it. File cabinets lined the walls, with evidence boxes on free-standing shelves in the middle of the room. Paul flipped on the lights, and they flickered a few times before finally beaming bright.
“What are you looking for, anyway?” Ryan asked, coming up behind him.
“It’s need-to-know,” Paul said, heading over to the filing cabinet marked M. He turned to look at Ryan. “I’m good on my own.”
Ryan folded his arms across his chest, his chin tilting up. “I’ve got more right to be here than you, Harrison.”
Paul rolled his eyes, jerking open the filing cabinet. “Fine. Stand there like an ass.” He leafed through the files in the cabinet, pulling out the thick one labeled MARTIN, CASSANDRA. He set it on top of the cabinet, noting the case number, and then going over to the shelf, where the evidence boxes were. But the box with Cass’s case number on it wasn’t there.
“Where do you guys store the evidence for closed cases?” Paul asked.
“Basement,” Ryan said.
Paul checked the time on his phone. It was too late to grub through the basement today and make it to dinner on time. He’d already canceled lunch on his mom, so there’d be hell to pay if he didn’t show for dinner with Abby and Zooey in tow.
“Okay. I guess I’ll be back tomorrow, then.” He grabbed the case file, tucking it under his arm, and walked past Ryan, who was still standing there like he thought he was some sort of guard of the records room.
God, that guy was a piece of work, Paul thought as he made his way out of the sheriff’s station and back to his mother’s house. The sun was starting to dip in the sky, and the wind chimes on the porch tinkled and danced in the breeze as he parked Abby’s truck and got out.
“Hey, stranger,” called Rose, his youngest sister, from the porch swing. “You keep disappearing on us.”
“Abby wanted me to do something for her,” he said, smiling and walking up to sit next to her.
“Oh, really, now?” Rose asked.
“It’s not like that,” he said. Were all his sisters going to give him a hard time about Abby tonight? Probably. They clearly were gearing up for their torture-our-only-brother time.
Rose was the daughter most like their mother. She had eschewed traditional college and instead had thrown herself full tilt into orchard management, a farm girl through and through. Paul didn’t think Rose would ever want to leave Castella Rock.