Hold on to Me (22 page)

“Great.” Tick rubbed a hand over his face.

“And dispatch is calling, Sheriff. Bubba Bostick wants to see you before you go in this morning.”

“Thanks, Jeff.” Stanton waited until the younger man was gone. He fixed Tick with a steady look. “Just be careful.”

Once he had all of them gone, he shut off the coffee maker, rinsed the carafe and mugs and started gathering together the investigative material Caitlin hadn’t taken with her.

Her presence hovered around him in the quiet room, her voice echoing in his head, snatches of conversation.

How would you react in the same situation?

Yesterday, she’d tossed the casual question at him while they talked about Kimberly Johnson’s inability to have children. That conversation had been anything but hypothetical. Cold certainty nailed him like an unexpected fist to the jaw. She’d been gauging his reaction, even then, worried that her possible infertility would change the way he saw her.

The odds are against it.

His muscles tightened like someone had kicked him, hard. When he’d seen that broken condom, he’d worried. In the back of his mind, he’d been laying out a future with her, but he hadn’t wanted to start with the stress of an unplanned pregnancy. But if Caitlin couldn’t have children, there would be no pregnancy, planned or unplanned, in their future.

The reality still didn’t want to sink in. He stared at the shelf by his television, which held a small collection of snapshots featuring his nieces and nephews, among them one of him holding Charlie when she was just hours old, another of his sister Ruthie’s youngest at six months, the newest a Polaroid of Carter in the hospital. Everyone kept commenting on how much Carter looked like him, but the truth was all Calvert babies looked alike.

The sense of loss took another punch at him. Caitlin couldn’t have children. For them, there wouldn’t be a Calvert baby who looked like all the others. He would never know what it felt like to make love to her, knowing he might make her pregnant. Her body wouldn’t swell with his unborn child.

He speared his fingers through his hair, struggling with the confused jumble of emotions rushing through him. This was why she kept pulling away from him.

Maybe she didn’t want to cheat him.

The scary thing was it made a weird kind of sense. In her position, he’d be tempted to do the same, to attempt to protect her from loss and disappointment by giving her up. Her sense of self-preservation had to be at work as well. She was afraid his feelings for her would change.

He didn’t want that to happen. He didn’t want it to matter this much. He wanted to say, “I’m falling in love with you, and nothing can change that.” But he wasn’t sure it didn’t and he couldn’t hurt her with his doubts. What he needed was time and distance to put his confused feelings into perspective.

What he had was a job to do and two funerals to attend.

So much for perspective.

She could only think of one person who might do that on purpose. Having his interest left her feeling sickly nervous.

“Not having a clue who this guy is?” Cookie lounged in a chair, eyes closed.

“That, too.” She drummed her fingers on the table’s edge. “Sharon Ingler’s car.”

With a rough sigh, he sat up. “You know, that gets me. Always has.”

“How far can you drive a vehicle once it slings a rod? Is it immediately out of operation?”

“It could go a couple of miles, but once you’d shut it off, you wouldn’t get it started again.”

“So when, how and why was that car moved?” She swiveled, sorting through the stack of reports beside her. “Did we get any prints off the car?”

“Yeah. Tick’s and Jeff’s. Oh, and Bobby Gene Butler, which is to be expected, since he towed it.”

She blew out an exasperated breath. Tick, at least, should know better. “Don’t they know what gloves are? What about Amy’s car?”

He unwrapped a piece of gum and popped it in his mouth. “Remembered the gloves that time. Only prints belonged to Amy’s family.”

“All right, tell me this. There had to be other traffic on the highway the night Sharon disappeared. Did you check in any way to see who would have been out there?”

“We set up a roadblock, talked to all the locals who use the road regularly.” He folded the foil wrapper into an intricate pyramid and flicked it into the trashcan.

“Did you keep a list?”

“What do you think?” He flipped through the file in front of him and pulled out a single sheet of paper. “There you go.”

“This is great.” She ran a finger down the page of typed names and addresses. A few had notes beside them, written in Tick’s slashing handwriting. “Want to go out and knock on some doors?”

“I’m game.” With a teasing leer, he slumped in the chair, his gaze roving over her. “But I’m up for just about anything.”

She glowered at him, suppressing a grin. He was hopeless. “Everything boils down to sex with you, doesn’t it?”

“Hate to break it to you, Falconetti, but everything between a woman and a man boils down to sex.”

“Really?” She lifted an eyebrow at him. Sure, sex was an important component, but it wasn’t everything. “Somehow I get the feeling you’re going to try to enlighten me.”

“I don’t care how smart or ‘enlightened’ a guy might be—sooner or later, he’s going to do his thinking with his dick.”

“That’s an old cliché, Cook.”

“Sure it is. But it’s true—why do you think it’s a cliché? Look at Calvert. He’s got a brain quicker than a greyhound, but that’s not what he’s thinking with lately.”

“We’re not going there.”

“Oh, face it, Falconetti. The poor guy’s so hot for you his brain is fried. His focus is not on this case—it’s on you. If working this case gets him close to you, he’ll do it.”

“You—”

“Now, one of two things can happen—either you give him a little and that’ll break the tension, or you don’t, you leave, and the tension goes away. He’ll get back those lightning-quick thought processes we all love so much because either way that dog’s been collared, if you know what I mean.”

“Unfortunately, I do.” Ice dripped from each word. And Calvert’s brain should be in perfect working order this morning, but damned if she wanted Cookie to know that. “No self-respecting woman would ever get involved with you.”

“Who said I wanted a self-respecting woman? They’re no fun.”

“Neanderthal.”

He chuckled. “Yeah. But I’m also a damn good cop.”

Another smile tugged at her mouth, but she firmed her lips. She hated to admit it, but he was right. She tapped a fingernail on the list of interviewees. “Who would you start with?”

“Nate Holton. Get him out of the way while he’s still sober.”

“Did you get much out of him when you interviewed him before?”

“Yeah, Tick almost got shot. Jeff ended up doing the interview, but he didn’t get a lot of information.”

“Dislikes cops, does he?”

Contempt twisted Cookie’s mouth. “Nate dislikes pretty much everybody, but he’s jealous of Tick.”

“Why?”

“Tick’s daddy and Virgil Holton were big buddies. Virgil tends to treat Tick like the son he never had, if you get my meaning.”

“I do.”

Cookie shifted in his chair, hands folded behind his head. “And then there was Helen.”

She darted a look at him. “Helen?”

“Nate’s wife. She took off a few weeks ago, took the kids with her. She was a good mother, too.” He tilted the chair back. “Tried to be a good wife. Nate can be a mean drunk, and we answered a lot of domestic calls at their place.”

“That’s not the entire story.”

“Nate swears Tick helped Helen get away—gave her money, moved her stuff. I don’t know for sure if he did or not, but yeah, he probably helped her. He has a soft spot for kids. And pretty young blondes, which Helen definitely was.”

“Oh, please, Cookie. He’s not the type to date another man’s wife, and you know it.”

“Yeah, I know, but it’s fun to push your buttons. You’re awful cute when you’re jealous, Falconetti. Makes those Irish-green eyes of yours glitter like crazy. I’ll bet you can turn on the mean real quick.”

“Keep it up and I’ll give you an example of turning on the mean.”

“Just for me?”

“Yes, and you won’t like it.”

“Wanna bet? You don’t know me that well. I
like
mean women.”

“Shut up, Cookie.” He was irrepressible, a lot like General Beauregard, her grandfather’s favorite beagle—always nipping at her ankles. “Do you want to drive, or shall I?”

“Hmmm. Putting you in the driver’s seat could be fun, but I thought you were going to Amy Gillabeaux’s funeral.”

“I am.” She checked her watch, frowning. Ten twenty already. Scheduled for eleven, the funeral was sure to draw a massive crowd.

“If we’re going, we need to leave.” Tick spoke from the doorway and she glanced over her shoulder at him. He couldn’t have heard much of the conversation. At least she hoped not. Heat flushed her face, but his impassive expression revealed nothing.

Exactly as it had all morning. He’d been quiet and reserved, seemed uncomfortable in her presence. Everything between them had shifted, changed, and she didn’t think it was because of the lovemaking. She’d told him she might be incapable of having his child, and already he was pulling away. Hold on to him, he’d said. Sure. And what was she supposed to do when he decided to let her go?

“You have a phone call at the front desk.” Tick pointed at the multiline phone sitting in the middle of the table. “I told Lydia to transfer it in here. You need to make it quick, though.”

“Thanks.” The phone buzzed and she lifted the receiver as Tick and Cookie made themselves scarce. “Falconetti.”

“Hey, it’s me,” Gina said. “God, where are you? I’ve been calling your cell all morning. It’s going directly to voice mail.”

“I can’t find it. What’s up?”

“I’ve started on your background checks. Began with Reed and Calvert. They’re both clean. Running the ones with Georgia law enforcement records now. I can’t believe I let you talk me into running this many checks. Cook, Schaefer, Monroe and two of the others…can’t remember the names…may take a little longer. They worked in Florida, and some virus has taken down their entire database.”

“Thanks. I owe you. You’re the best, Gina.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I want to borrow your Blahniks tonight.”

“They’re not even your size.”

“Who cares? I’m just wearing them to dinner and maybe a little dancing, and it’s not like I plan to keep ’em on all night. My roommate is in Georgia chasing a serial killer. I can bring Sergeant Spence home and be as loud as I want.”

“You’re crazy.” Caitlin laughed. “And it’s not you being loud that bothers me. It’s hearing Spence wheezing in the throes of passion through those thin damn walls of ours. Fine, wear the shoes. And let me know when you have anything else.”

“Sure thing, partner.”

She dropped the receiver in the cradle and reached for her portfolio. With Tick already tense, she didn’t want to keep him waiting.

The latch on the leather binder wasn’t secure and the contents spilled across the floor.

“Damn it,” she muttered and bent to retrieve the reports and notes scattered over the dingy tile.

“Jesus H. Christ, what’s up with Calvert this morning? Shit, he just bit my head off.” A young male voice carried through from the hallway beyond the squad room. “You’d think if he was finally getting laid that he’d be in a better mood—”

“Shut up, Troy Lee.” Cookie’s tone brooked no argument. “Clock out and go home.”

Damn, damn, damn. She finished gathering her papers. So their involvement was all over the department. She shouldn’t be surprised; they’d been less than discreet. Was that the reason for Tick’s terse distraction?

Or was it the possible infertility after all? God, she hated not knowing where she stood with him. And if it was the infertility that had him pulling back, what would happen when she told him about their baby?

With everything shoved haphazardly in her portfolio, she hurried from the building. Her attention trained on trying to straighten out the painstaking notes she’d taken on Amy’s diary, she collided with a deputy jogging up the steps.

“Excuse me.”

“I’m sorry.”

Firm hands steadied her and she looked up. Dark hair, a chiseled face, the iciest blue eyes she’d ever seen. She dropped her gaze to his nametag.

C. Parker.

“Agent Falconetti, right? The FBI profiler?” He let his hands fall and tilted his chin, expression not softening. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

She bet he had. She stepped away. “Excuse me, Deputy. I have somewhere to be.”

“Cait, come on. This traffic is going to be a bitch.” Annoyance sharpened Tick’s drawl. At the bottom of the steps, he jingled his keys.

Not sparing Parker a glance, she moved down the steps to Tick’s side. He lifted a finger in acknowledgement to Parker’s “Later, Tick”. Her nape prickled with awareness as they walked to Tick’s truck, her intuition whispering that if she turned, she would find Parker still standing on the steps, watching them.

He could be the one. Hell, any of them could. She hated this, too, not knowing where the threat lay.

“How well do you know him?” At the truck, she shifted as Tick opened the passenger door, placing his tall body between her and Parker.

“Parker? He’s a good cop.”

“That’s not what I asked.” She latched her seat belt. “I asked how well you knew him.”

“Not very. He’s new to us and he’s a private guy. I like what I have seen though, which is more than I can say for Troy Lee.” He moved to shut the door. “We’ve got to get going or we’ll be late.”

Tick remained withdrawn during the drive to the church, silence and tension coating the air in his truck. Cars spilled out of the parking lot, lining both sides of the country road. A few trucks and SUVs were parked in an adjacent field. Tick swung into a space between a Camaro and an Expedition.

Caitlin held him back, watching the last few straggling mourners enter the church. His jaw tightening, he glanced down at her hand on his arm, but didn’t move. They were among the last to slip inside. Mourners packed every pew, and several people stood along the outer aisles. No one looked their way.

She tilted her head, peering at him from beneath her lashes. “Is the whole town here?”

“Looks that way.” The words were short and clipped, his breath stirring the hair at her temple. A middle-aged woman squeezed by them on her way to a pew, forcing Caitlin into closer contact with him.

She turned toward the front where the immediate family sat and then let her gaze travel back along the rows, pausing if she saw a familiar face or something that nudged at her intuition. When the congregation stood for the opening prayer, she didn’t lower her head, but continued tracking the crowd, aware Tick was doing the same behind her.

Near the middle of the church, Stanton Reed stood beside a woman, her sun-streaked chestnut head barely reaching his shoulder. An older woman was next to her, a distinguished gray-haired man at her side. One pew behind them stood Tori, dark head bent in reverence, with her mother to her left and Jeff Schaefer to her right.

A young man hovering inside the door caught Caitlin’s attention. Unlike the other mourners wearing their Sunday best, he wore jeans and a pullover shirt and kept running his hands down his legs. Long hair that didn’t appear to have seen shampoo in weeks brushed his collar, kicking up in greasy wisps. Keith Lawson, the boy from Vontressa’s picture album.