Hope's Peak (Harper and Lane #1)(7)

Stu Raley offers her a cup of coffee in the staff kitchen.

“Not for me,” Harper says. “I think I’m gonna go home, put my head down.”

She watches as Stu stirs several packets of Sweet’N Low into his coffee, then adds a drop of milk.

“Not a bad idea,” he says. “Think I’ll do a few more hours, though. See what I can turn up.”

Harper hands him the file. “This ought to help.”

“What is it?” he asks, opening it.

“The captain gave it to me. It was all a bit . . . odd. You know what I mean?”

Stu shakes his head. “Sorry, but no.”

“I don’t know how to describe it,” Harper says, “just that it was out of the ordinary. He said the murder of Ruby Lane matches the two girls we’re investigating. But if that’s the case, why not hand me this file when we found Magnolia Remy?”

“Maybe he didn’t know about the file’s existence, or he was waiting to see if there was a pattern. Jesus, you’re really worked up over this, aren’t you?”

“I don’t mean to be. There’s just something off about it, that’s all,” Harper says. “Could be I’m being paranoid.”

Stu sips his coffee. “Sure I can’t get you one?”

“No, I’m off.” Harper reaches for the file but Stu hangs on to it.

“I’ll give it to you tomorrow. Let me read through it while I’m here.”

“Okay. If you’re sure.”

Stu smiles. “I am.”

Harper pats him on the arm. “Tomorrow, stud?”

“It’s a date.”



Morelli walks out of his office as Albie and Dudley exit the elevator accompanying a skinny white punk in a wifebeater, jeans, and black combat boots. Cuffs restrain his hands behind his back. He has two full sleeves of tattoos on his arms—the most prominent being the swastika on his right shoulder.

“What’s this?” Morelli asks. Dudley doesn’t answer. His face is bright red and he’s gritting his teeth. His fingers are white hard on the young man’s arm. The kid hasn’t stopped running his mouth while the two detectives physically maneuver him down the corridor, past Morelli’s office.

“You can’t arrest me! What for? I didn’t do nothin’,” he complains, eyeballing the captain as he does so. “Fuckin’ pigs!”

Stu ambles over as Albie and Dudley steer the guy into an interview room, despite his protestations. “Skinhead trash, sir.”

“Right.”

“We’re interviewing a few kids, known to be part of a white supremacist group. Don’t know what we’ll get out of it,” Stu tells him.

Morelli nods. “These little pricks hang themselves sometimes, they’re so stupid. It’s their breeding, Detective. Or shall I say, their inbreeding.”

Stu chuckles a little. “I hear you, sir.”

Albie emerges from the interview room, flustered.

Morelli calls him over. “Dudley looks wired up,” he says.

“The guy rubbed him the wrong way, sir,” Albie says.

Stu frowns. “How so?”

“We were talking to this one, just asking questions, when he starts mouthing off to Dudley. Dudley called him a walking cliché, and he called Dudley a filthy nigger-loving mick. Told him the only reason micks get badges is they’re too dumb to get real jobs.”

“Christ,” Stu says.

Morelli shifts on his feet. “What’d Dudley do then?”

“Didn’t get a chance to do anything,” Albie explains. “Next thing I know, I’m stopping that guy from throwing a punch with Dudley’s name on it. We both got on top of the guy and had to restrain him with the cuffs.”

“Well”—Morelli sucks his gums, peering down at the interview room door as if he can see straight through it—“just make sure Dudley doesn’t do anything stupid.”

“I will, sir,” Albie says, glancing at Stu, then heads back to the interview room.

The captain rubs the bridge of his nose and yawns.

“Coffee?” Stu offers.

Morelli looks at him, eyes heavy, and smiles. “You know why I like you, Raley? You’re a goddamn mind reader.”





3


Chalmer, a small hamlet with a population of 857, lies ten miles southwest of Hope’s Peak. It is a quiet place, as featureless as the endless, flat farmlands around it.

Bobby Cresswell’s sky-blue Lexus has seen better days. It’s got a gray fender, and one of the doors has a scratch from top to bottom, now turned a rusted-brown color. The car is all he needs; it runs okay, has never died on him, and goes fast. Nancy Flynn has a way of sitting in the passenger seat, window down, shades on, letting the air whip her hair back as if she’s a starlet in an old Hollywood picture. Red Hot Chili Peppers thunder from the stereo, and Bobby beats one hand against the top of the steering wheel, singing along.

He slows at the next turn, a dirt road that leads to a house that has also seen better days—paint flaking off the boards, roof looking like it’s about to either cave in or go flying off with the next strong breeze. It stands solitary against the rolling white clouds on the horizon. Bobby turns the stereo down as they approach, the wheels of the Lexus crunching on the hard dirt as he comes to a stop.