In This Town. Beth Andrews
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more?” Sullivan asked incredulously.
“I just want to state for the record that I fully expect Detective Bertrand’s investigation to discover the allegations against you both to be completely unfounded.”
“They will be,” Taylor said as if anything less was not only unacceptable but unfathomable.
Sullivan shoved away from the wall, offended and irritated. Then again, that seemed to be her standard expression. “Since we’re going on record, I’d like to say that this is a complete waste of time. Chief Taylor and I have done nothing wrong.”
Taylor pinched the bridge of his nose. “Captain Sullivan—”
“No. I will not stand here with my thumbs up my ass while our reputations are dragged through the mud and our ethics questioned.” She began to pace, her long legs eating up the short distance of the office, her ponytail swinging behind her. “We did everything by the book. Everything. And now, months after we reported our personal relationship—as per MPPD’s regulations—there are suddenly questions about how we conduct ourselves and do our jobs? It’s bullshit.”
“Just because there are no departmental rules forbidding relationships within the Mystic Point police department,” Walker said, “doesn’t mean that getting…personal…with your superior officer was a good idea.”
She stepped toward him. “You are seriously starting to piss me off.”
Walker held her gaze. “Careful. Wouldn’t want to add an assault charge to that list of allegations.”
Her grin was cocky with a healthy dose of mean tossed in. “Want to bet? And the next time you address me, make sure you do so properly. Do you understand me, Detective?”
She was pulling rank on him. He couldn’t help but admire her for it.
“Oh, I understand perfectly.” He paused long enough to let her know he couldn’t be intimidated. “Captain.”
Taylor stood. “We’ll leave our badges and service weapons with Lieutenant Meade.”
Pomeroy grunted as he got to his feet. “Before you do, there’s one more thing....”
He nodded at Walker, who reached for the envelope pressed between the arm of the chair and his side, and handed it to Taylor. The chief’s hesitation was so slight, most people probably wouldn’t have noticed it.
Walker wasn’t most people.
Taylor read the report, his expression darkening, the first sign of emotion he’d shown since being told his professional life was under scrutiny.
Sullivan crossed over to him. “What is it?”
He handed the paperwork to her. Walker had to give her credit, she didn’t give anything away. No shock crossed her face.
No guilt.
“How did you get a hold of this?” Taylor asked, his voice gruff. Demanding. “This report should’ve been sent directly to me.”
“Considering the accusations against you and Captain Sullivan,” Pomeroy said, “I thought it best to have it sent to my office first. And, due to the findings of those reports, the district attorney’s office, along with the state attorney general, think it’d be best if the investigation into Dale York’s death was handled by someone outside the Mystic Point police department.”
“That’s right,” Walker said, in response to the way Taylor’s mouth flattened, the horror in Sullivan’s eyes. He grinned. “I’m taking over.”
* * *
FUNNY TO THINK that once upon a time, Tori Mott had actually believed in fairy tales. Oh, not the ones about glass slippers or mermaids who longed to be human. And don’t even try to tell her that when a beautiful girl shows up at the house of seven miniature men all they want from her is to cook and clean while she sings to a bunch of woodland animals.
Please. Men, no matter their height, all wanted the same thing and there was nothing G-rated about it.
She also never bought into the idea that some handsome prince would ride up and carry her off, far from a mundane life of endless toil. No, Tori used to believe something much more dangerous, much more insidious than poisoned apples and ravenous, transvestite wolves who liked girls in red hoods.
She’d actually bought into the idea that she could escape her small hometown, could go somewhere far away from the rumors, the envy and resentment and, worst of all, the pity she’d lived with her entire life. That she could make her dreams, all her big plans, come true. And that finally, she’d achieve the greatest lie of them all.
A happy ending.
Talk about delusional, Tori thought as she wove her way between tables in the Ludlow Street Café’s dining room. Nothing like life coming along and giving some poor fool dreamer a sharp smack upside the head to knock some much needed sense into her. Getting pregnant at eighteen did that for her. Made her realize that sure, sometimes dreams did come true.
Just not for her.
So she’d stopped wishing and hoping for spectacular and had settled for average. Which had turned out to be a good life.
If good didn’t quite live up to the expectations she’d built for her future when she’d been a teenager, she had no one to blame but herself.
“Here you go,” she said to Mr. Jeffries as she set his usual breakfast—two eggs over easy, white toast and three slices of bacon—in front of him. “Can I get you anything else?”
“More coffee when you get a chance, dear,” he said, smiling at her as innocently as a baby.
The smile, combined with the fact that he looked like a harmless grandfather with his round cheeks, ill-advised comb-over and a seemingly endless supply of blindingly bright bow ties, hid that he was a groper.
Tori wouldn’t have minded if he’d been a better tipper. Or if he had roaming hands with some of the other above-legal-age waitresses at the café. But nope. She, and only she, was lucky enough to get what he deemed a love tap—but was actually more of a hopeful squeeze.
So when she caught sight of his age-spotted hand heading her way, she neatly sidestepped. “No problem. I’ll be back in a second with that coffee,” she said, making sure to sound pleasant and courteous.
Then, because for all his faults, Mr. Jeffries was a regular customer and only a minor nuisance, she amped up the usual amount of wiggle to her hips as she walked away. Just to give him something to look at.
Young, old or in between, men all liked to look. But only she decided who got to touch.
She grabbed the coffeepot and refilled Mr. Jeffries’s cup, leaving another handful of creamers at his table since he always pocketed several before he went home. Half the café’s tables and booths were filled, voices and the occasional laugh mixing with the sounds of silverware scraping plates, of dishes being cleared. The air smelled of strong coffee, toasted bread, bacon and deep fried potatoes, the odors clinging to her hair, the tiny particles of grease permeating her clothes, her skin. By the end of her nine-hour shift, she’d smell like a walking, talking French fry.
The joys of working in the food industry. Smelly clothes, greasy hair and tired, aching feet. But it was the only thing she’d ever known, as she’d been waiting tables here for the past fifteen years. Fifteen years. Literally half her life.
She wasn’t sure whether to be proud she’d stuck with something for so long…
Or depressed as hell.
She exhaled heavily as if she could blow away the tension that question caused. No sense being either. This was her job, her life.
But…God…what if? What if something more, something different was possible?
The thought, the mere idea of leaving Mystic Point, of finally going after the life she’d