Wrecked (Josie Gray Mysteries #3)(7)

“You realize, without filing charges, there isn’t much the police can do?”

When they reached her car, she stopped and placed her hand on her hip. “Look. Some men think if they lay the money down on the table, they’re entitled to something outside the bar. Usually all those men need is a wake-up call and they get the picture. The bartender at Mickey’s takes care of guys like that. Whistler’s though? Jimmy’s a hundred years old. He’s not scaring anybody into anything. So I came to you guys. This’ll probably do the trick. See what I mean?”

Josie nodded. “Understood. Just don’t let him get away with a crime just because he’s the mayor.”

Roxanne looked at her watch. “I gotta go before my old man has a coronary.”

*

Driving back to the office Josie thought about the mayor. He didn’t like her; he’d made that much clear over the years. When Otto had retired as chief and encouraged Josie to run, the mayor had stopped her one evening and told her to take her name out of the running. She’d been so shocked by his arrogance that she had not responded. She still remembered his exact words. “Don’t take it personal. A woman just isn’t suited for this job.”

The chief of police was jointly appointed by the city council and the mayor. After the mayor’s comment, Josie was surprised when the job had been offered to her. She had never learned which members of city council had voted against the mayor’s wishes, but she preferred to keep it that way. The mayor, however, conducted her performance evaluation each year, and with the support of the city council, could fire her at will. She didn’t allow it to cloud her judgment, but it was a fact the mayor waved around in front of her like a pocket knife: a minor threat, but still a threat.

*

By six that evening Josie was at Dell’s in jeans and an old T-shirt, dragging tree limbs away from his fence line. A massive oak had fallen directly across the fence, and it needed to be repaired before the cows figured out a way around the branches. As Dell worked the chain saw, the sweet smell of wood chips and sawdust filled the air.

Chester lay beside the cooler as if protecting their dinner. Dell had smoked a brisket all afternoon and made a citrus barbecue sauce for dipping. He had decided they would wait on supper until Dillon arrived, although Josie was starved. She thought about snatching a piece of the brisket while Dell had his back to her, but instead walked back to the pile of wood on the ground and grabbed another load. Between the two of them they had already made an impressive stack of wood.

She continued to stack the logs onto the flatbed wagon hooked to the back of Dell’s tractor and stopped to take in the evening. It was perfect in every way. Temperatures in the low seventies, a blue sky, no humidity, a soft breeze, and a relaxing night that would be spent with Dell and Dillon, two of the three men in her life that mattered most.

Dell stopped the chain saw and walked over to the wagon. His stained blue jeans were so old they looked as if they might disintegrate during their next trip through the washing machine. Wood chips stuck to his Carhartt sweatshirt and mixed in with his thin silvery hair.

She watched as he set the chain saw on the back of the wagon and opened a small container of bar and chain oil to fill the reservoir.

“This new blade cuts through that wood like butter,” he said, as much to himself as to her.

Josie smiled as she watched her friend wipe down the bar with a greasy old T-shirt. She realized it was the simplicity of his life that she appreciated. Life was black-and-white with Dell, and that’s how Josie preferred it.





THREE


Dillon logged off his computer and replayed the message Josie had left on his cell phone that morning. He grinned at her hesitation, and then her quick love you. He had quit trying to figure her out: she was the most complicated woman he had ever dated, and he loved her more than he thought possible. Josie was the woman he would spend the rest of his life with, but he knew she had to realize that on her own terms.

He slipped his phone into his breast pocket. He had a meeting at six, and Josie wanted him at Dell’s place at six thirty. That would give him twenty minutes to introduce himself to the potential client and schedule a proper meeting at the office.

Dillon took the new-client packet that Christina had left for him at the corner of her desk and walked out of the office. She had scheduled the appointment with the client’s secretary, who had told her that the client had just moved to the area from Argentina and asked if Dillon would mind meeting at his new home. Dillon had thought the request was a bit odd, but from what Christina had told him, there was potential for a lucrative business deal, as the man intended to set up a tax shelter in Texas for his American business holdings. He had found that he could learn quite a bit about a client from a home visit, but he typically only visited established clients, not strangers. He hoped the payoff would be worth it.

Dillon drove several miles on River Road before turning right onto Driftriver Drive, and into the small housing development west of town. He drove past several homes on the front side of the subdivision, and then around the oval-shaped road past a half-dozen empty lots. On the back side of the development, two houses sat side by side, exiled from the rest of the neighborhood. Slowing his convertible in front of the first house, he squinted at the address on the mailbox. He picked up the Post-it note off the passenger seat and glanced at the number again. 5657 Driftriver Drive. The numbers matched, but the windows had no curtains, revealing what looked to be an empty house.