Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(56)

Dalton sips his coffee and absently takes a cookie. He still says nothing. Anyone else might raise a finger or murmur “Just a sec.” For Dalton, that is implied by the fact he’s not acknowledging my presence. Sheer efficiency.

I sit on the edge of the desk and wait. When he finishes, he pushes the pages aside and tugs me into a kiss. After that, I hop from the desk and pick up my coffee and the box of cookies. I want to talk to him about Diana, and that means going out back. Not for privacy but because that’s where he’s more comfortable. He’ll write his notes indoors. Otherwise, though, he’s out on that deck, if the weather’s halfway decent. And his version of “halfway decent” only means “temperature above freezing.”

He grabs his mug and a hide blanket, and we go out. There are two Muskoka chairs, where there used to be one. He tossed the blanket onto mine, for cushioning. Storm lies between us as Dalton settles in. There’s an oversized tin can below his chair, almost filled with beer caps. I remember the first time I saw that, how my hackles rose, fearing it meant I’d walked into the kind of police station where officers drank on the job. It’s true. Dalton has no problem cracking open a beer midday. If we weren’t both in need of caffeine, that’s exactly what he’d be having now. But if Dalton didn’t drink while on duty, then he’d never crack open a beer. He’s always working, and he never drinks more than one. If I pick up that can of caps, I’ll see that beyond a layer or two, they’re old and rusted.

We sit and sip our coffee for a few minutes. He’s in no rush to get my report, and I’m in no rush to give it. He knows what that means—I didn’t come away from Diana with any hot leads.

“She didn’t tell anyone,” I say. “She didn’t mention that she’d even met Garcia.”

Dalton just nods. He doesn’t ask whether I believe her—he won’t—but I still add, “She isn’t lying. I pretended her alibi was in question, and she was our main suspect. She’d have given up names if she could. She didn’t.”

Dalton nods and takes a bite of his cookie.

“I don’t know what to make of that,” I say. “We didn’t tell anyone. Diana didn’t tell anyone. Yet someone knew there was a gun in that house.”

“People knew,” he says.

I look over. “I know Diana is a lying bitch, but I really do believe her here, Eric. Yes, that probably means I still don’t want to think the worst of her—”

“Nah. If anything, you’re the first to think the worst of her.”

“I—”

“I don’t mean that how it sounds,” he says, shifting in his seat. “You have every reason for not trusting Diana. She earned that. What she did to you is unforgivable. The problem is that you don’t want to cut yourself slack. If you don’t suspect the worst of her, then you feel like you’re making excuses for yourself. Making excuses for why you were friends with her. You don’t need excuses, Casey. You were good to her. You were a friend. She repaid you by being a backstabbing bitch. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t care about you. I might have no fucking clue how you can care about a person and do that to them, but I can see that she cares. She’s proven it. Over and over. She is on your side. She wants you back, as a friend. So she’s sure as hell not going to protect a potential suspect. I suspect the only person she gives a damn about is you.”

“But you just said—”

“I don’t mean Diana’s lying. I mean people figured it out. They knew Garcia claimed to be a marshal. A federal agent. If the guy’s a cop, he’s got a gun. So where was it? Why didn’t he pull it on me? Why’d no one see it? They’ll presume we took it from him earlier.”

“But I never announced that we had an encounter with him earlier.”

“Doesn’t matter. He’s missing his gun, and he sure as hell didn’t drop it in the forest. Hell, whoever took it might not have even gone looking for the gun. They only needed to suspect we’d spoken to him and search our house for clues. Trying to figure out if we knew who he came for. The gun was right there in a drawer.”

“Next step, see if our neighbors noticed anyone coming around our house.”

He pushes to his feet. “I’ll handle that. Got something else for you.”

He heads into the station and returns with a paper bag. “Murder weapon. Straight from the locker.”

“Murder weapon?” a voice says. We turn as Mathias appears, with Raoul on a makeshift lead. Mathias looks at the bag. “Please tell me it is not a gun in that bag.”

“That’d be the murder weapon,” I say.

He sighs. “How terribly pedestrian.”

“The guy was shot, Mathias. What else do you think killed him?”

“I simply hoped that was not the cause of death. Perhaps you discovered that the bullet was coated in a rare poison.”

“Gun would still be the murder weapon,” Dalton says.

“Yes, it’s a boring homicide,” I say. “So unless you’re here to confess, I’m sure you have more exciting ways to spend your afternoon.”

“I have brought Raoul for a playdate.”

I look back at Storm. She’s on her feet, Dalton’s hand hooked in her collar as she strains for the wolf-cub . . . who hides around the corner of the building.