Hope's Peak (Harper and Lane #1)(12)

She sips beer straight from the icy-cold bottle, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. Sometimes she reads, or plays records—old stuff, on vinyl—and just watches the days go by. The world is a great canvas around her, the paint changing by subtle degrees on a daily basis.

Occasionally, she will head into town in her pickup for stores and supplies. There are a few people she will speak to. But for the most part, Ida Lane is a faceless being. A loner black woman living out in the sticks, seemingly content with her own company.

Sometimes it’s as if the house in which she spends her days is an axle, and the world turns around it. At night, this far out from the town’s illumination, she can see the stars in all their glory, their cold, hard light surrendered to the void. Sometimes it feels like there’s a great song she’s been listening for, all these years, barely audible at the edge of her hearing.

She lifts the beer and drains the bottle. Despite her taste for suds, she’s kept lean. She knows the smokes are a killer, but they’re her one true vice.

She thinks, Everyone’s got a vice.

Ida stretches and heads inside to fetch another beer. She has the thirst like always, and the day is hot.



“Hey hey hey,” Albie says as Harper plunks her bag down on her desk. “Lookin’ mighty fresh there, Harper.”

She throws him a look. “Sucking up to me will get you everywhere.”

“He knows it, too,” Stu says, patting their young apprentice on the back.

Albie turns to him, looks Stu up and down. “And might I say you’re looking pretty fine yourself, Mister Raley!”

A few of the men working at their desks look up at the sudden increase in volume of Albie’s voice. The blood rushes to Stu’s head and he removes his hand from Albie’s shoulder. Harper can’t help but chuckle at the way her partner is instantly uncomfortable around Albie when he does things like that—which, of course, is why he does it.

“I’ll, uh, go make some coffee,” Stu mumbles, excusing himself.

Harper looks over the scattered contents of her desk, lifting one file, dropping another on top of it. “That’s very naughty of you, Albie. You realize you’re practically the opposite of what your surname would suggest, right?”

“How can you say that?” Albie grins. “Goode by name, good by nature.”

“You wish . . . So where we at?”

“I’ve got a list of supremacists who were active up to five years ago,” Albie says, handing her a printout.

Harper scans the list. “These guys do time?”

“All of them. Aggravated assault, violence with intent, you name it.”

Harper nods. “Right. So just the kind of guys you wanna take home and introduce to mama.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, start looking into them. Each name on the list, in turn,” Harper says, handing back the printout. She looks at Albie’s face, and there’s something amiss. He’s about to deliver bad news—she can feel it. “What?”

“Well, you see, John Dudley booked most of these guys before he transferred over. That’s what made his name, so to speak. My best bet in getting this done quickly and efficiently is to enlist his help, but I wanted to check with you first. I know you’re not exactly simpatico.”

Harper sits on the edge of her desk, folds her arms. “Ask Dudley for assistance. Say that I told you to ask for his help, given his history with the KKK.”

“You think he’ll help?”

Harper shrugs. “If he won’t, then I’ll talk to him myself. If that fails, I can go to Morelli, but it’s best if that doesn’t have to happen. Dudley can be asinine if he’s not on our side.”

“Got it, boss,” Albie says, heading off.

Stu arrives at the desk, toting two cups of coffee from the kitchen. “Here you are.”

“Thanks, stud,” Harper says.

“I bumped into Kapersky. Her toxicology came back,” Stu says.

Harper’s eyebrows rise. “Yeah?”

“Guess what it was he injected her with . . .”

Harper sighs. “Our old friend, dextromethorphan.”

“Exactly.”

“I sent Albie off to ask Dudley for help.”

“Jeez, is there no other option?” Stu blows across his coffee, then takes a tentative sip. “Damn that’s hot . . .”

“Dudley got this far by busting the nutcases posing as the KKK. It’s his area. We’d be foolish not to get his help, much as I hate asking.”

Stu sighs. “Fuckin’ hurts.”

Harper looks across to the captain’s office. She realizes it’s no good putting any of it off. Best to just confront him, see if she can get to the truth.

“You goin’ in there?”

She nods.

“Want me to come, kiddo?” he asks.

Harper stands, straightening her shirt. “Nope. You can go check in with Albie, see how he’s making out with Dudley.”

Stu sags. “Can’t we swap?”

Harper is already walking away.



She drops the Ruby Lane file on the captain’s desk.

Morelli sits back in his chair, his hands on his stomach. “Hit me with it, Detective.”