Licensed for Trouble (25 page)

PJ dug into her bag for the picture of Bekka and Max they'd unearthed in the box of Lyle Fisher's possessions. She handed it over. “We found this in Owen's belongings. Can you identify the people in it for us? It's just a formality.”

Flora took it. Her hands shook. “Well, that's Bekka and Lyle. And his friend of course. I remember him from the funeral. His hair was much shorter then, but still so blond.”

“So Lyle is the one with the dark hair?”

“Of course.”

“We thought it might be Lyle; we just wanted to confirm,” Jeremy said, unfazed.

“Oh, that's Lyle, for sure. Bekka told me how they went to Valleyfair together.” She pointed to the rides behind them. “Some photographer took their picture—you know, for money. Bekka sent for it later, after he left. And I recognize Lyle's dimples. He did have such a nice smile.” She handed back the picture with a sigh. “Lyle visited Bekka for a couple weeks, maybe six months before she died. Tyler was about seven months old.”

“How did Bekka know Lyle?” PJ asked.

“Lyle was Owen's cousin. He served with him, and Owen sent him home with gifts and letters for Bekka—sort of like proxy, I think.” She leaned in. “Personally, I think he was checking up on her, if you know what I mean.”

PJ took the picture again. Stared hard. If Max was Lyle Fisher, then who was Owen? Who exactly ended up in the lake, minus his memory, and emerged as Max Smith?

And who had been arrested as Lyle Fisher that night?

“Do you know the man with the blond hair? the one who came to the funeral?”

“Yes . . . he told me that if I ever needed anything, I could call him.” She stood and went to the kitchen, where she opened a drawer and fished around. PJ watched as she whisked a hand over her cheek. “Oh, I can't find his number. But I remember he used to skydive at an airport around here. St. Cloud, or . . . oh, I can't remember. He called himself a . . . sky bum.”

“A sky bum?”

Jeremy leaned toward her. “Like a ski bum. Only instead of ski resorts, they hang around jump schools.”

“Do you remember this guy's name?”

“Something like
snow
or
breeze
. . . Wait, I remember . . .
chill
. That's it—Windchill.”

“I'm sorry for your loss, Mrs. Layton. It's so good of you to take in Tyler.”

“Oh, I love my grandson. He's my entire life. I just hope they get the man who killed Bekka.”

“Do the police have any leads?”

Flora's eyes hardened. “No, but
I
do. I talked to her neighbor, and she told me it was that soldier with the nasty tattoo. I remember Bekka telling me to look out for him. Owen was always paranoid—even made Bekka scared. This soldier showed up a few hours before the fire and had a terrible fight with my Bekka, right there in the street. Bekka was scared, and she packed up Tyler and came right over. I told her not to go back, but she said she had to—that he was waiting. Of course he was waiting—to kill her!”

Everything emptied inside PJ as she listened to Flora's story. “Did Bekka tell you the man's name?”

Flora shook her head. “No. I'm sorry. Maybe that Windchill fella can help you.”

PJ stood. “Thank you, Mrs. Layton. If you find those pictures, could you give me a call?” She rattled off her number.

“You don't have a card?” Flora wrote it down.

“Not today,” Jeremy said.

“You're not with an insurance agency, are you?” Flora tacked the paper to the fridge, then turned and gave them a narrow-eyed look.

PJ put her hand on Jeremy's arm, holding him in place. “No.” He frowned at her, but she ignored him. “But we're better than insurance agents. We're PIs and we're going to find your daughter's killer.”

A beat pulsed as Flora considered them, and Jeremy tried to incinerate PJ with a glare out of his peripheral vision.

“Well, why didn't you say so in the first place?” Flora came forward and took PJ's hands in her own. “I just knew that God would send someone to uncover the truth. Thank you.” She pancaked PJ's cheeks between her hands. “What's your real name, honey?”

“Oh, I'm PJ Sugar. And this—” she patted Jeremy's arm—“is my assistant, Jeremy Kane.”

* * *

“You enjoyed that, didn't you?”

Jeremy had stalked straight out to the car, to the driver's side, and held out his hand.

Just this once, PJ dropped her keys into it and slid into the passenger seat. “I did, ever so much.” She leaned back, put on her sunglasses. “Okay, so what do we have?”

“A mess,” Jeremy said, working the gear into place and pulling away from the curb. “Who is this Max guy—Owen or Lyle?”

“Bekka's mom says he's Lyle . . . and I agree; the guy in the picture looked just like Max. But if Owen is Tyler's dad . . . well, that little boy looks a lot like Max too.”

“She said Owen and Lyle were cousins—it could be a family resemblance. But what I want to know is how Max, as Lyle, could be getting arrested right around the same time that Max, formerly Owen, was washing up onshore. He can't be in two places at the same time.”

PJ pulled on her seat belt. “I want to check out this Windchill guy, see if he knows anything about Max.”

“Over my cold, dead body. What if he was the guy that dumped Max off the Maximilian Bay Bridge? No way. Forget it. If anyone is checking him out, it'll be me, thanks.”

“Now who has the vivid imagination? What's he going to do—push me out of a plane?”

Jeremy glanced at her, his expression suggesting that very thought. “I'm getting a headache from the entire thing. I'm telling you, PJ, we should drop this case and run away.”

“Why?”

“It's not going to be a pretty ending. I can feel it in my gut. Either Max killed this woman, or he was involved in some way. Maybe Bekka was even killed
because
of him. Any way it turns out, it's going to destroy him.”

PJ shook her head. “I know Max is innocent, and if he is, he is going to want to know who did this.”

“No, he's not! Trust me on this. Leave it, PJ.”

The thought nudged PJ that perhaps they weren't talking about Max anymore.

They turned onto the freeway, on their way back to the city.

She schooled her voice, not looking at him. “What do you mean, Jeremy?”

He pulled a long breath, then another. Finally, “Knowing means you have to live with it. Live with your own imagination running like a movie in your head, including the sound track of her screams. You have to live with the anger like a hot coal—just like Max said—inside your chest. And you have to live with what you do about that.”

He didn't look at her with those last words. Just inhaled, then reached out and turned on the stereo.

PJ listened for a moment before turning it off. “‘Do about that'?” she said softly.

“I'm just saying that sometimes
not
knowing is better, okay? You can forgive easier that way. You don't have a face to put your hatred toward, and maybe, someday it dissipates. I wish . . .” He shook his head, something tortured in his expression.

Jeremy had known the identity of his fiancée's killer. She could see it on his face as clearly as if he had tattooed it.

And just maybe, he'd let his hatred spiral in, take control. She touched his arm, and he sucked in a breath, as if, for a moment, he'd been someplace else, and her touch brought him back.

“What happened?” she asked.

He glanced at her, then shook his head again, quick, short.

Oh, Jeremy.
She sighed, then leaned over and touched her forehead to his arm. “You can trust me, you know.”

He put his hand on her head, weaving his fingers into her hair. She barely heard him when he said, “You have no idea how much I want to believe that.”

She sat up. “You don't have to be alone in this. I'm your fresh start, remember?”

“I remember. There are just some places I can't take you.”

“Is that why you won't let me in on your field trips?”

Oh, there went the poker face.

“Because my eyes do work, and I'm not blind to the fresh scrape on your chin. Is that where you went this morning after you left my house at the crack of dawn? taking out bad guys?”

Jeremy drove without speaking.

“You know, you could invite me along when you apprehend your dangerous bail skippers. I might learn something.”

“You're not going to learn anything from these guys.”

“I was thinking I might learn something from
you
, Rocky. After all, you
are
the pro.”

A muscle pulsed in Jeremy's jaw. “I don't want you to learn this. I especially don't want you to see it.”

There he went again, receding into the enigma of his dark side. And for a second there, she'd seen a glimmer of light.
Don't run, Jeremy!

“I'm not so easily spooked. You should know that by now.”

His breath rose and fell in his chest as he drove, all humor gone from his expression.

“If you want us to be partners, Jer—really partners—then you don't get to make all the rules. You can't just come out and play when you want to. It goes both ways. You're going to have to learn to trust me.”

“I do trust you.”

“No, you trust me with what you want me to know. Not with all of you.”

“Why do you have to know it all? Isn't what I give you enough?”

“Because it's who you are—”

“No it's not.” He turned to her, his eyes hot. “It's the furthest thing from who I am.”

She could hear the sirens, the warning bells pinging, but his heat had ignited her own. “Maybe it's not who you want to be, but it
is
you. We all have dark places, and the fact is, it's part of the Jeremy package. I know it, and I'm
not
scared of it.”

He hit the brakes, shifting down a little too quickly as he took their exit from the highway. “Maybe you should be. Maybe you shouldn't be so drawn to people like Max . . . and me. People who have a place inside them that is ugly, and . . .” He took a deep breath, blew it out. “Where can I drop you?”

“Are you serious? That's it? Conversation over? Cha-
ching
, the wall goes up?”

“What do you want from me, a full confession? a list of my crimes?” He looked away from her as if hiding.

“No, I don't need that.” In fact, suddenly she didn't want that at all. “The last thing I want you to do is relive your pain. But I wouldn't mind understanding why it's so difficult for you to let me close, to let me know that shadowy part of you.”

“Because I don't want you to see that part of me!” he roared. “There's a reason I don't talk about my life as a SEAL. I know that I'll always be that man, but I don't have to like it. And I especially don't want you to know that man.”

PJ stared at him, at his reddened eyes, at his fast breathing, and she didn't recognize him. The Jeremy she knew was full of teasing, controlled, always had an answer. Her Jeremy could make her laugh and turn her to liquid with a smile. This Jeremy appeared unraveled . . . broken, even.

And it made everything inside her shatter, tiny pieces of her heart embedding in her lungs, her soul. She couldn't breathe without a spear of pain.

She took her hand off his arm. “I want to be your partner, Jer. But I can't be unless you trust me. You say I make my own prison, that I call myself trouble to protect myself. But you do the same thing. You've separated yourself into two parts—the pretty part and the part you don't think I can love.”

Jeremy's hand whitened on the steering wheel.

“That's why you don't like Max, isn't it? Because he reminds you of that part of yourself. And you're furious with the thought of him not paying the consequences for his crimes.”

He refused to look at her, and her eyes burned. “By the way, you're driving my car, so feel free to let yourself off anytime.” PJ looked away, wiping her cheeks, shaking.

They rode in silence all the way to the office, and when he finally pulled up, he left the motor running and got out, saying nothing as he slammed the door behind him.

Halfway down the sidewalk, though, he turned and stalked back to where she still sat in the passenger seat. She rolled the window down.

But he didn't have apology on his mind. “The consequence of my crimes is that I know who I really am. What I'm capable of. Unlike you, I know where I came from. I can't break free of it, and it terrifies me, just like Max said. The only difference is, unlike Max, I know my past; I
know
why I need to be afraid.”

He backed away, hands up in surrender. “You can psychoanalyze me all you want, PJ, but the bottom line is, you can't fix me. And I can only offer you the good part of me. The part that wants to start fresh. The other part—there's nothing for you there. Take it or leave it.” He closed his mouth, his eyes daring her to speak.

She willed herself not to cry. But any words she had were glued to her throat.

“Fine,” he said to her silence and stalked away.

Chapter Fifteen

“I'm a total idiot, Connie. I just let a perfectly good man—one I think I could even love—walk out of my life.” PJ walked the length of the sidewalk and back again, the wind chapping her cheeks, herding leaves down the gutter. The sub shop pumped out the heady fragrance of baking bread, and not far-off, a radio hip-hopped out the hood.

She just wanted to get into her car and drive. She didn't care where. Just anywhere to fill the thrumming ache inside.
“Take it or leave it.”

“He didn't mean it.” Connie had resurrected her lawyer tone, and PJ pictured her in her high-rise office, just over the river, downtown, staring out on Nicollet Avenue, even though she was probably sitting on her enclosed porch in a pair of yoga pants.