Starks' Reality (2 page)

“You need some help?”

“Sure. You want to scale or gut?”

Heather sighed. “Scale.”

~~**~~**~~

The station sat alone at the north end of Main Street. With deliberate calm, Jake pushed open the front door and strode through the main room past desks for two patrolmen and a dispatcher,
all deserted at five-fifteen. He continued to his office at the far end that lay just past two small jail cells separated from the rest of the station by a concrete wall and a heavy metal door.

“Come in and have a seat,” Jake said, nodding to the chair in front of his desk. He moved aside files he’d been reviewing.

Red dropped into the chair and propped one booted foot on the opposite knee.

Jake leaned forward. With his arms on his desk, he studied the man in front of him. Red
was forty-six, probably weighed two-fifty, and grinned with the ease of someone used to having his way.

“I appreciate you showing me around,” Jake said.

“No problem.”

“What was the reason for the skirmish at Coop’s?”

The redhead shrugged. “Well, there’s been some tension over fishing territories for a while now. The Johnsons ain’t bad kids, just a little rough around the edges. When their daddy couldn’t make a living fishing no more, he started Johnson Charters. Then he drowned out in the Gulf a few years back. Now the boys run the business.”

Jake nodded.

“Anything else, Chief?”

“Yes, Red, a few things. First of all, don’t ever tell someone in my custody that he’s free to go. That’s my call.”

The man eased his foot to the floor and straightened in his chair.

“When we work the same call, your job is to back me up. You understand?”

“Sure, but—”

“And no officer in this town accepts free food or drink. From now on, you pay for your own coffee.”

Red clamped his mouth shut and frowned.

“Are you on this weekend?”

“No,” he said, “Kenny works weekends.”

“All of them?”

“Yeah, unless there’s a problem.”

Jake nodded. “I’ll draw up a new schedule and leave it on your desk for Monday.”

The man rose, fuming, his face nearly as red as his hair. Emanating anger but at least smart enough to hold his tongue, he stood for a moment glaring. Then he marched out and slammed the front door behind him.

Jake leaned back
in his chair. He’d seen cops like Red before. They thought they were above the law and indestructible. Someday, the man would find out that he was wrong on both counts. In the meantime, Jake didn’t need anyone behind him he couldn’t trust. Red would either get over the scolding or quit.

So much for
the first day in paradise.

A plain envelope on Jake’s desk held a key and a note with directions to his new home. He read the note twice, tucked it into his pocket with the key, and headed out.

According to a scribbled message on the whiteboard, the emergency phone had been forwarded to Kenny’s home. Jake would pull his share of on-call duty, but for now, he'd enjoy a few undisturbed evenings while he settled in. He turned out the lights, locked the front door, and then drove slowly through the quiet town.

His house turned out to be a small wood-frame structure that needed fresh paint and maybe a little roof work.
Tucked into the trees on the road to the bay, it provided solitude, which suited him perfectly.

Jake parked his Trans Am, rose, and stood in the sandy driveway. Small birds flitted in the trees
that formed a semicircle of protection around the house. Grass had been mowed recently, and the remnants of flowerbeds, sprouting little more than weeds, outlined a shell walkway. A breeze rattled oak leaves and branches, and crickets chirped.

The only place he could see at all was Coop’s, and it was far enough away to be nearly hidden by
brush. Beyond the backyard lay nothing but marshy space and then, a half-mile or so farther, the Gulf.

An ugly brown dog trotted up from the road, wagging the back part of its body where only half a tail remained.

Jake scratched the dog’s head. “Don’t tell me you come with the place.”

The dog whined in response and led the way to the steps. T
hen it ducked underneath the steps and disappeared.

Inside
, Jake found nothing that could possibly be less than thirty years old, but fancy furniture wasn’t a requirement. At least the place looked clean. The kitchen held a set of mismatched dishes and all the pots and pans a bachelor needed. Maybe more.

He strolled through the house,
his boots thudding on wooden floors and echoing off plaster walls. One bedroom held a double bed, a dresser, and a small desk. The other one—empty—he’d use as a workout room. At the bathroom doorway, he leaned in, pleasantly surprised by the size, and hoped like hell the ancient fixtures worked.

With the tour complete,
he returned to his car. He’d managed to get everything he needed into two suitcases and four boxes, except the weight bench, which he’d tucked into the trunk in pieces.

Home, sweet home.

He glanced over at Coop’s and noted an increase in the number of vehicles in the parking lot. It seemed to be the only place around that served alcohol. He hoped Red had been right about them serving decent food, too, because he hadn’t made it to the store before it closed. Gas station jerky didn’t sound appealing.

~~**~~**~~

Heather popped the tops on three Lone Stars and carried them to a table. “Anything else?”

The men shook their heads as they worked on bowls of gumbo with enthusiasm.

She moved to the next table where the Taylors had just taken seats. Mrs. Taylor’s blue hair and heavy makeup always reminded Heather of a clown, but the older couple—Friday night regulars—were nice enough.

“We’d like two bowls of gumbo and a half dozen oysters each,” Mr. Taylor said.

“Drinks?”

“My wife wants a Coke,” he said. “I’ll have a whiskey sour.”

Heather hurried to the kitchen and leaned inside. “I need two half-dozens and two bowls.”

Skeet nodded as he slipped on a reinforced rubber glove and
grabbed an oyster from a tub.

At the bar, Heather poured drinks. Although early, the place
was already jumping. Dolores Davies had picked a rotten night to have a cold, and Coop couldn’t be counted on to pitch in. Not after three or four in the afternoon. She and Skeet would just have to cover it, as they had many times before.

When the front door opened, she glanced up, surprised to find the new chief of police walking in. He
checked out the room as he crossed it.

She took her time delivering drinks, and
stopped at other tables before returning to the bar where she rinsed dirty glasses in the sink. The new chief would quickly learn that he’d get no special treatment from her because of his badge.

He waited patiently, or at least quietly.

“What will it be?” she finally asked.

Chief Starks, wearing jeans and an unbuttoned white cotton shirt over a gray T-shirt, flashed a killer smi
le. It caught her completely off guard. Heather dropped her gaze, pretending to be absorbed in the act of folding a bar towel.

“I was hoping for dinner,” he said. “What is it that smells so good?”

“Skeet’s gumbo.”

“I’ll take some.”

“What do you want to drink?”

“Water
, please.”

She glanced up again and met his gaze, embarrassed by the wave of heat that washed through her. The man was better looking than she’d realized, and he studied her intently. She filled a glass with ice and water, placed it in front of him, and then rushed to the kitchen, trying to ignore the bizarre flutter in her stomach.

“Another bowl,” she said, sliding trays of oysters from the counter. By the time she’d delivered the trays and returned, Skeet had three bowls of gumbo waiting. She carried out the Taylors’ gumbo, and then took the third bowl to Starks.

He nodded. “Thanks.”

She washed glasses and watched the man discreetly as he tasted his meal.

His eyes widened and he looked up. “This is
fantastic.”

Heather
tended to her other customers as the chief enjoyed his first and second bowls. She thought he might leave right away, but he ordered coffee and settled back as if he planned to stay for a while. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

“What have
you got against cops?” he asked as she opened Lone Stars.

She shrugged. “It’s the kind of guys your profession attracts, around here at least.”

“What kind is that?”

Heather checked the room before returning her attention to Starks. “The kind who think they can do whatever they want, whenever they want. The kind who think they can harass anyone and get away with it.”

He frowned at her. “It sounds to me like you’ve been dealing with the wrong cops.”

“Yeah? I’ve been
dealing
with the cops in Port Boyer.”

“
I’m sorry to hear that.” He sighed aloud. “I hope I can change your opinion.”

Filled with
rage at the memory of run-ins with the former chief, she met his gaze evenly this time, but the honesty that radiated from it dissolved her anger.

She
looked away, realizing she hoped he’d change her opinion, too.

“How much do I owe you?”

Heather scribbled out a ticket and placed it on the bar in front of him. Starks stood, extracted bills from his wallet, and left enough on top of the ticket to cover the food and a generous tip. “Thank you.”

He turned and
headed to the door. Until then, she hadn’t noticed the bulge on his left side where his cotton shirt covered a holstered gun.

One thing for sure, Starks seemed to be different
than the standard Port Boyer cop.

~~**~~**~~

Jake strolled along the edge of the road to his house, enjoying the cool night air—much nicer than Dallas would be at that moment. The stench of dead fish and seaweed blowing in from the Gulf might take some getting used to, though.

He
was pleasantly full. He hadn't had good gumbo in years, and the stuff he’d just consumed surpassed anything he could remember. It might command a few more dinners at Coop’s in the near future.

A tan Ford pulled out of the parking lot and rolled past. The occupants, an elderly man and woman, stared at Jake before the car picked up speed, kicking up a cloud of dust where it turned off the paved road. The two had been dinner customers at Coop’s. He’d watched the driver consume at least two drinks. Fortunately, it didn’t look like they had far to go.

As the Ford disappeared, it left behind peaceful silence.

He’d made it through the first full day. And he’d managed to put off seeing Tucker.
Talking on the phone to his former partner wasn’t as tough as seeing him in person would be.

He wouldn’t be able to delay the visit much longer, no matter
how much he wanted to.

Dog trotted out as Jake
crossed the yard.

“I
f you plan to stick around, you get a bath before the weekend’s out.”

The canine whined as it wagged and led the way to the door. Jake scratched the mutt’s head,
and then fished the house key out of his pocket. Inside, he locked the wooden door behind him.

People probably didn’t lock their doors in Port Boyer
, but a lifetime in Dallas and sixteen years on the force had left him with some habits he had no intention of kicking.

He stopped in the kitchen and filled a glass with water from the tap, downed it and filled it again
. He carried the glass to the dark living room and eased into a green vinyl armchair. Springs squeaked in protest, but nothing stuck into him. He crossed his feet on the coffee table, leaned back, and watched headlights dance across the marsh grass as cars pulled in and out of Coop’s parking lot.

Heather Cooper. There was a woman with strong opinions and the sexiest mouth he’d seen in ages. If he had even the slightest interest in getting involved with anyone, she could be the one. When she’d first looked up at him, he’d felt an instant attraction. Not a polite, boy-next-door kind, but something more base, something on an animal level that tightened his gut.
He’d pictured her looking up from under him, her golden eyes smoky with lust.

Jake shook his head. Where the hell had that come from?

To make matters worse, she was an innocent. Something had happened with the Port Boyer police force, but she didn’t feel the hatred she professed. It didn't burn in her soul. She hadn’t been tainted by life, at least not yet. She wasn’t one of the people he’d dealt with daily for so many years—the hookers and users and dealers and crazy drunks.

For a long time, he’d forgotten that there we
re others, people who didn’t know how screwed up the world really was. In one brief instant, when they’d placed the tiniest little body he’d ever seen in his hands, that fact had hit him with the force of a cannonball. He’d studied his daughter’s face, watched her little mouth open and close and her miniature fists wave in the air, and his eyes had filled with the first tears he’d shed in a dozen years. At that moment, the world had been cleansed for him, all the sins washed away by one six-pound newborn.