Before I Wake (3 page)

He added it to his clipboard. “Washington, D.C. You’re a long way from home.”

“Yes.”

Explaining everything was in storage or in transport, her house was with a Realtor, and her friend was picking up her mail, seemed like more information than was warranted. She’d also lost twenty pounds since that license was printed. She wanted to mention that too but didn’t.

She slid off her sunglasses being used to block the sun’s glare off the snow and read the officer’s name tag.
Sheriff Nathan Justice.
The town of Justice was just ahead. That was too much of a coincidence not to be connected. It had to be so strange to live and work in a town your family founded. “I don’t suppose there’s any way you can not write that.”

“Sorry. You were speeding.”

“Just checking.”

“No problem with checking,” he agreed easily. His face wasn’t pretty, too prominent cheekbones and chin, his skin weathered by too many days in the sun and wind, but his smile was nice and the brown eyes kind.

He wasn’t missing details; the pause when he had seen the scar on her arm had narrowed his gaze, and the stack of coffee cups piled together in her cup holder had brought a smile. Altogether the man who led the Justice Police Department left a nice impression. He finished the registration card and handed it back but held on to the license. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Rae watched him in her rearview mirror as he walked back to the patrol car. She would be working with the man in the coming days or at least trying to get information out of his department. Why was a sheriff out making traffic stops? The Justice jurisdiction was that small?

The sheriff reached inside his squad car for the radio and stood leaning against the car as he talked with dispatch. The way he leaned to shift his weight—maybe it was just projection on her part—but the man looked like he was, like her, also ending a very long week.

He must live around here somewhere, eat at the local restaurants, shop at the local mall—running into the man under less awkward circumstances shouldn’t be that hard to arrange. She needed to make a better impression than this before she asked for her first favor.

He signed off the radio and leaned into the car to replace it, then walked back to join her. A semi rolled past and the wind rocked her car.

The sheriff offered her the clipboard. “Sign at the
X
and I can return your license. If you wish to contest the ticket or raise any mitigating points with the court, you have ten days to do so, by mail if you wish. The address is on the back of the form.”

She nodded, read his neat handwriting listing her name and information, and signed where indicated.

She handed back the clipboard. He gave her a copy of the ticket and returned her license. She wrestled with her purse zipper pocket again to put away her license. “Could you by any chance give me directions to the Chapel Detective Agency?”

Her question surprised him; he took his time putting his pen back into his pocket before he responded. “As you head into town, the third stop light is Tremont Road. Turn right. You’ll find Bruce’s office between the pharmacy and the bank. If you pass the Fine Chocolates Shop you’ve gone too far. If he’s not at the office, at this time of day you’ll likely find him at Della’s Café.”

“Thanks.”

“You have business for Bruce?”

“Possibly.”

“He’s a good guy. Just for reference, the speed limit in town is twenty-five.”

She smiled.

He smiled back. “The road might appear clear, but it’s deceptive; there are still patches of smooth ice under the underpasses around here. Drive safely, Ms. Gabriella.”

He stepped away and she lifted her hand, then closed the window.

She’d planned to drop her things at her uncle’s home and get some sleep, then see Bruce tomorrow. She hadn’t realized Justice was so close to the interstate that she actually entered the town’s jurisdiction for a brief stretch of highway. Her uncle was not expecting her until Monday and it would be easier to talk schedules with him once she had details with Bruce worked out.

She put the ticket into the glove box to deal with later. “Sixty-five dollars. We’re going to have to talk to Bruce about an expense account that covers speeding tickets.” She put the car back in gear. “Welcome back to Illinois.”

* * *

Nathan watched from his squad car as the older-model Lexus reentered the flow of traffic. He knew just about everyone in town and Gabriella wasn’t a family name he recognized.

What trouble did she have that needed Bruce’s attention? Or was she one of Bruce’s friends from days past? He was still meeting them. Something specific had her coming to Justice. Nathan couldn’t remember the last time someone from Washington, D.C., had intentionally come to visit their town.

He put away the paperwork and glanced at his watch. He was hoping to meet up with the union steward to see if they would limit the number of men walking the picket lines over the weekend. A reasonable request, asked in a reasonable way . . . as his dad said often, you couldn’t get a yes if you weren’t willing to risk hearing a no. It would let him give one more officer an afternoon off.

Another car sped past. Nathan groaned. He punched on the lights and pulled out into traffic. The Porsche was red and in a hurry.

I’m going to take away the car keys. Get his license revoked. Slice the car tires. . . .
His grandfather was eighty, his wife had died last year, and he liked to drive fast. If his grandfather didn’t voluntarily slow down this was going to be a long chase and he’d be arresting his grandfather. That Porsche could accelerate.

Nathan passed Rae Gabriella now doing the speed limit and wondered what she’d think about his town after she met some of its residents.

* * *

Rae found the building easy enough and a parking place just a space off the front door. She stretched, studied the quiet street, and nodded to herself. It fit.

Rae pushed open the door to the Chapel Detective Agency II and stepped into the receptionist area. The room was empty. She tugged off her gloves. The thermostat must be cranked toward eighty degrees; the heat in the room was oppressive.

The receptionist desk was clear but for a phone, a day-calendar, and a paperback book (Sam Whitmere’s
Murder at Midnight
) left resting facedown to mark the page. Salt tracked in by snow-covered shoes had left a white trail on the low-pile, blue-and-gray carpet. Three fabric-backed chairs along the wall looked nice if uncomfortable, and the magazines on the table were current.

Rae shoved her gloves into her coat pocket and turned to look at the window where an Open/Closed sign was turned to Open. Saturday hours were listed as nine to two.

She walked through the receptionist area with no interest in waiting there to the hallway that disappeared toward the back of the building. It was brightly lit, the fluorescent bulbs making a soft electrical hum.

She headed down the hall, listening to the quiet sounds of her own footfalls on the carpet, checking doorknobs on either side as she passed them. The doors were locked. Framed photographs of the Chicago skyline, the White Sox ballpark, pedestrian-packed sidewalks lined the walls in an unexpected display of nostalgia.

Bruce wouldn’t have an office with windows near the front of the building when he could have one with windows facing the alley where he could safely park his precious restored Jaguar. The odds were solid that he still had the car.

The hallway ended with a closed door. Rae tugged the yellow phone slip from the door crack.
Bruce, call Heather.
Heather’s name was written in caps and underscored. Rae pocketed the slip and tried the doorknob. She wasn’t surprised to find it locked.

She slid a case from her handbag, selected a pick, and several seconds later turned the doorknob.
Bruce, Bruce, the things you teach your friends.
She pushed open the door and found the light switch.

Nice. Bruce had himself an extra-large office, twenty by eighteen, done in a rich cherry paneling and deep blue painted trim. She cluttered up the desk by adding the call slip.

Rae crossed to the windows and moved aside the blinds. The alley was empty but for a gray painted industrial-size Dumpster, but someone did park out there regularly; the snow had a clear spot and the area around it had been square-cornered by someone with a snow shovel.

Rae let the blind fall back in place and turned to study the office. He’d brought in stereo equipment and a guy-size leather chair. She ran a finger along the black leather of the couch. Back when he worked for the Chicago PD she’d helped move this couch into his first undercover apartment. She’d promised him the leather would wear well and it had.

She read the list of cases written on the whiteboard in Bruce’s neat handwriting—
Heather Teal’s husband, Larry Broderick store robbery, Tretton Insurance claim, Karen Elan’s sister, Laura’s ex-husband, Nathan’s inquiry.
It was a pretty sparse work list.

He said he needed her help, but it looked more like he was offering her a graceful way out of her own troubles.

What do I know about being a private detective, Bruce? And why do you really want to hire me?
Knowing Bruce, his reasons would be layered and shared only when he thought them relevant. She just hoped she learned to like the job.

The small refrigerator had nothing decaffeinated. Rae closed it. She could wait for Bruce to come back, but nothing indicated what case he was working on or how long he would be gone. She found a piece of paper.

I arrived early. I’m going to get a room at the Sunburst Hotel and take a nap. I’ll find you in the next 24 hours.

She didn’t bother to sign it; the man had received hundreds of notes from her over the years, most from when they were dating, and he would know her handwriting on sight. She relocked the office door behind her.

3

Nathan walked toward his grandfather’s car, breathing deep and watching the horizon where a hawk was circling in the sky, doing his best to get control of his temper before he reached the driver’s-side door. He pulled his pen from his pocket and opened the ticket book, slipping a blank form onto the clipboard. The back of the Porsche was spotted white as the salt and snow streaked the red panels.

Nathan stopped beside the driver’s door and gestured for his grandfather to lower his window. It was grudgingly lowered. “Henry, you know the speed limit; you know how dangerous this road can be. Do you have a death wish to go along with the new car?”

“If I’m going to get the lecture every time I pull over to let you catch me, I’m not going to stop next time. Just write the ticket.”

There were roses wrapped in cellophane in the passenger seat. It was likely Henry was going to the cemetery, but Nathan didn’t have the courage to ask. He accepted the driver’s license and registration offered and wrote the ticket, keeping part of his attention on his grandfather. Arthritis had stiffened Henry’s knuckles and fingers, the glasses had thickened, and his hearing had become selective. The man grew noticeably older with each passing month.

The days they had played ball together, trekked through the family land deciding what trees to clear, gone out at dawn to fish in the river—they were good memories now swallowed up by years of back and forth irritations within the family and this latest round of pushing the limits of the law. Nathan missed what they once had. He handed over the ticket. “Are you still coming over for lunch Sunday?”

“I invited myself, didn’t I?” His grandfather folded up the ticket and pushed it in his pocket. “Are we done? I’ve got things to do.”

“We’re done. Just please, slow down.”

His grandfather pulled smoothly away from the side of the road. Nathan sighed and turned back to his squad car. Maybe his father could reason with Henry. The two men had both been sheriffs before him and until the last couple years Henry hadn’t been acting this way. The radio interrupted his thoughts. Nathan listened to the tones and picked up his pace back to the car to a jog.

* * *

Bruce Chapel watched the flow of people in and out of the bus depot. A mom with two kids struggled to pass their luggage to the baggage handler while keeping the boys close. They danced around the others in line, and the youngest tugged against her jeans. “You said I could have a window seat.”

The voice already had the petulance in it of a tired little boy. Bruce read the signs on the bus they were moving to board. Milwaukee, a good four-hour drive if the roads were clear and today the roads were not clear; snow already in the air was growing and accumulating.

He drank his coffee and kept scanning. The car didn’t allow him room to stretch out his legs and surveillance without a partner to talk to felt like prison time for its pace at flowing by. He watched an old man get passed by younger folks and keep going on his slow journey inside to the ticket counter.

The work didn’t change, just the signature on the paycheck. Most of his life as a cop had been waiting, watching, followed by moments of too much adrenaline. He pulled an apple from the paper bag and bit into it.

Rae was going to need a place to stay. The odds she’d last in the small town of Justice were maybe ten to one. It was a quiet place and she was big city. But the idea of her working for her uncle doing crime-scene cleanup—she needed a break and that job bent the will of even strong cops. One problem at a time. At least in a place like Justice no one could easily slip into town to make trouble for her without him getting early word of it. He should have married her when he had the chance and avoided the last decade of wondering about her.

Bruce sat up. He punched in the speed dial on his phone and on the second ring the dispatcher for the Justice Police Department picked up the line. “Eileen, get me the sheriff.”

“He’s on a pursuit, Bruce.”

“If he’s chasing his grandfather again, tell him to break it off and get on this channel. I’ve got my eyes on Kyle.”

“Oh! Yes, hold on. I’ll patch you through.”

She’d drop him more likely, connecting a call to a radio frequency was still too many switches on the new console for her to remember, but he waited while she tried.