A Killing Tide (8 page)

Michael Chapman stood on the other side of the glass, his gaze watchful. Zeke stood on his hind legs beside Chapman, both paws on the window ledge, looking in. The dog grinned, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. Chapman wasn't nearly so cheerful, but neither did he look as ghoulish as he had in her nightmare.

Rubbing damp hands against her jeans, she walked over and flipped the lock. Zeke pushed against her leg, wagging his tail, and she leaned down to let him sniff her hand. "Don't you two have a home of your own to go to?" she asked Chapman. It was the first time she'd said something out loud since she'd awakened, and the words came out raspy. Obviously, the abuse her throat had gotten the night before hadn't helped her vocal chords.

"I went home after I left you for a change of clothes." Chapman handed her the morning paper that she had yet to retrieve off the lawn and sniffed the air appreciatively. "You going to share some of that coffee?"

His Bostonian accent was stronger this morning than it had been last night, and he looked as tired as she felt—he probably hadn't gotten any sleep at all. Although she didn't need the diversion of having him underfoot, she simply didn't have it in her to refuse him the coffee. As far as she was concerned, coffee was one of the major food groups and should be featured prominently in international human rights laws. She pointed to a chair and then opened a cupboard door to retrieve a second mug.

He sat down at her oak pedestal table, slouching comfortably, his long, jeans-clad legs stretched out in front of him. His hair was damp and casually disheveled—he'd evidently showered on that trip home. But he hadn't taken the time to shave. A day's growth of beard darkened his strong jaw line, making his pale gaze seem even more piercing by contrast.

Zeke collapsed at his feet with a moan, resting his chin on his paws. They both looked disgustingly relaxed and comfortable with their surroundings—a couple of confident males. Chapman's gaze was sharp, though, as was his dog's. The laid-back attitudes were a pose, meant to encourage her to relax her guard. She frowned and turned away to deal with the coffee.

Carrying the steaming mugs over to the table, she came to the point. "So why are you here?"

"I brought your clothes back. They're clean of accelerant."

"You didn't have them long enough to send them to a lab," she pointed out, taking a chair across from him and sipping from her mug.

"Zeke sniffed them. His nose is as good as any gas chromatograph, and he didn't find anything. I didn't see any reason to send them to the lab."

"So I'm no longer a suspect?"

One corner of Chapman's mouth quirked, drawing her gaze there. He had a very nice mouth, one that encouraged fantasies. And okay, she might need to revisit the whole Freudian dream-scenario issue. Then she realized the direction her thoughts were taking, and froze.
My God.
She wasn't actually
attracted
to the man, was she? How insane was
that?

If he noticed her momentary distraction, he didn't comment on it, saying only, "It means I don't think you set the fire while you were wearing those clothes."

She barely managed to refrain from letting her impatience show.

He pulled a large manila envelope out of his jacket. "I'd like you to look at some pictures of the crowd from last night and tell me who you recognize. Whether you see anything out of the ordinary, like a boat moored in the wrong location, a car that isn't usually there—that sort of thing."

She sat up a little straighter, even more on guard. "Why don't you show them to the harbormaster?"

"I'm headed there next. But this is your community—you've known the fishermen for a couple of decades, at least."

"I only spend a couple of weeks here each year—I haven't lived here for the last ten years."

He waved a hand, overriding her objection. "You might notice something or someone that the harbor master wouldn't." Pulling the photos from the envelope, he spread them across the table. "Arsonists are pretty messed up in the head. Whoever did this might've hung around to watch."

So this was what he'd had Clint Jackson doing last night during the fire. Although still wary, Kaz was curious in spite of herself. She propped both elbows on the table and leaned forward.

Each photo had been taken to show a section of the crowd, and he'd arranged them on the table, from left to right, as she would've seen the crowd from where she'd been standing on the wharf. Sipping her coffee, she studied them one by one.

Michael leaned back, taking the opportunity to observe her. She looked exhausted, wrung out. Her hair hung in long, golden ropes down her back, still damp from her shower, and her face, stripped clean of any makeup, was still unnaturally pale. She wore a royal blue football jersey that was three sizes too large for her, jeans worn thin enough at the pressure points to have his imagination working overtime, and fluffy red wool socks.

She looked sexy as hell.

Don't go there. Focus on the job.
Yeah, right.

He frowned. There were shadows under her eyes, and hollows beneath her cheekbones. Anxiety had stamped deep creases on either side of her mouth. She'd finally bandaged the burn on her hand—the stark whiteness of the gauze stood out in contrast to the angry, reddened skin. It bothered him more than he wanted to admit that she might be hurting.

She studied each photo, moving methodically from left to right, her concentration absolute. She might not have lived in town in recent years, but she had to know most of the people in the pictures. Odds were she'd grown up with them, gone to school with them. The question was whether she'd be up front with him about whom she recognized. Or whether she'd lie.

The knuckles on the hand that held her coffee mug whitened. She was staring at the photo on her far left.

"See something?" he asked.

She started, almost as if she'd forgotten he was there. He smothered a grin of self-deprecation—here he couldn't seem to keep his eyes off her, and she didn't even remember he was in the room. Not good for the ego.

"These guys are all fishermen," she said abruptly, pointing to another of the photos and reeling off several names that he managed to jot down on the back of the envelope. "You'll recognize some of them from the tavern last night."

"And none of them were at the mooring basin when you arrived," he clarified, forcing himself to concentrate on the business at hand.

"No, I told you, the marina was deserted."

He propped a boot on top of one of the claw-foot legs of the table, cocking his head while he studied her body language. She was holding back on him, dammit. "But you recognized someone else just now," he pushed. When she didn't respond, he rubbed a hand over his chin. He knew he had no right, at this point, to expect her to trust or confide in him, but it rankled, just the same. "Ms. Jorgensen—"

"I thought I might've recognized someone, but I was mistaken."

"Withholding information in a criminal investigation is a prosecutable offense."

Her jaw set. "There's no one in these photos that I consider capable of arson or murder."

He leaned forward, picked up the photo she'd been staring at and tossed it directly in front of her. "Leave the judgments up to the authorities—tell me who you saw."

Her soft brown eyes flashed at him. "I saw no one."

He waited her out, using the silence to try to unnerve her. The phone rang shrilly, startling both of them. She got up to answer it, but whoever it was must've hung up.

Michael picked up the photos and carefully stacked them. "I understand that you want to protect your brother," he said, giving her time to reconsider, "but it's unnecessary. If he didn't do it, I'll find out who did."

"Maybe, maybe not."

He started to snap at her, then sighed. "Look, if you're worried that I don't conduct thorough investigations, then let me set your mind at ease. I don't jump to false conclusions—I let the evidence tell the truth."

"I only have your word on that," she pointed out, sitting back down. "And frankly, I'm worried about your hidden agendas."

"I don't have any hidden agendas," he said, letting his voice reflect his irritation. "Although from what I've seen so far, everyone else in this town does. I'd say that you're engaging in a bit of psychological transference, wouldn't you?"

Kaz stiffened. Even as her temper spiked, a part of her—the part that had spent ten years in corporate political battles—was impressed. He knew when to bide his time and when to go for the jugular. His interrogation skills were excellent. She would be wise not to underestimate him.

"You could've had Lucy return the clothes," she parried. "The harbormaster could've answered any other questions you have. You just wanted another shot at me, didn't you?"

A muscle ticked in his jaw. "We're on the same side," he pointed out. "We both want to catch whoever did this."

"That remains to be seen."

His intense gaze never wavered. "Talk to me about the financial aspects of the fishing business."

Frowning, she got up to refill their mugs. And to stall. "What do you want to know? It's a tough business—it always has been."

"Are the marine stocks depleted out here the same way they are on the East Coast?"

"Yes." What was he getting at? "But the government just announced a buyout plan that, along with a reduction in fishing licenses, allows some fishermen to exit gracefully."

"Is your business profitable?"

She shrugged. "Historically, some years yes, some no." Then she clued in. "If you're trying to imply that Gary or I would set fire to the boat to collect the insurance, you're way off base. Our boats represent a way of life to us—neither of us would ever burn our legacy. Besides, the insurance would never cover the total cost of replacement."

"Maybe. Then again, maybe your brother had an immediate need for cash."

"Gary's needs are simple, he lives on very little," she retorted. "And he could've opted to be bought out, which would've given him plenty of cash. He didn't—he chose to stay in. Those who do can look forward to double the catches they've had in recent years."

"As long as the government doesn't change its quotas," Chapman pointed out. "And the government never moves that fast—Gary might've needed cash faster than he could get it from them."

"He could always ask me for a loan if he needed it."

"I know." Chapman was implying that he had already checked out her finances. She hated knowing someone was poking around in her life. "But would he?"

She shifted uneasily, not admitting how perceptive the question was. When she'd suggested to Gary a week ago that she fund the worst of the repairs on the boats, he'd pitched a fit.

"You'd be throwing good money after bad," he'd told her.

When she didn't answer, Chapman got up to put his coffee mug in the sink. Then he walked back to the table and leaned across it, both hands braced on the surface so that she had to look up into his hard gaze. "You know where your brother is. I want to talk to him."

She shoved her chair back abruptly and stood. Keeping her back to him, she made a production out of assembling the ingredients for a protein shake. "You're wrong—I don't have a clue where he is."

"I find that hard to believe."

"And even if I did know," she continued, turning to face him, her arms crossed, "I wouldn't tell you. You're not going to use me to get to him. Gary doesn't deal well with figures of authority. My guess is that he's trying to find Ken's killer, not running from the law."

"If you believe he has nothing to hide, then convince him to come in and talk to me, tell me what he knows."

She was shaking her head before he finished. "Gary wouldn't trust a stranger."

Chapman had come over to stand beside her at the counter, purposely invading her personal space. Trying to rattle her. "I can have you arrested for obstructing justice. If you know something you're not telling me, I won't hesitate."

She sent a cool look his way while she measured out protein powder and put it into the blender. "You don't frighten me, Mr. Chapman."

"Yeah, but I sure as hell bother you," he said softly, leaning closer. Close enough that she could smell the spicy fragrance of the soap he'd used in his shower. "Now, why is that, I wonder?"

"Don't flatter yourself." She added yogurt to the blender, mixing the two ingredients together, then tossed in a couple of handfuls of frozen fruit. She leveled a steady look at him, tapped the lid on, and flipped the switch. The blender started making a loud, grinding racket.

After a second, Chapman reached out, hit the Off switch, and slanting an amused glance her way, fished out the spoon she'd left in.

She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the heat creep into her cheeks. Then she busied herself pouring the shake into two glasses, holding one of them out to him. With any luck, his portion had some metal shavings in it.

He rinsed the spoon off in the sink, using the towel lying on the counter between them to dry his hands. Taking the glass from her, he set it on the counter, then removed a long tube containing a cotton swab from his jacket pocket.