Page 40 of Risk of a Lifetime
Sure, he’d been right to stay away once they’d parted. And he’d go again as soon as there was no more danger to her. He couldn’t be the safe nine-to-five man she longed for, whose biggest excitement was scratching off a lottery ticket. That kind of life would kill him one second at a time. So he’d let go again, leave town, and never come back to Crayton.
She deserved better than him. All these years, he’d wondered if he was the best choice for her. Was he good enough? Had his dad been right that he wasn’t worth the price of a ticket? Gazing at her right now as she slept, he didn’t believe anyone was good enough for her. But he’d do anything within his power to keep her alive.
Anything.
He closed the door behind him as survival mode kicked into gear. Survival for him and Marcy meant using his skills and keeping a clear head. He knew how to stay in control. To do what he’d been trained to do in evaluating a case. In protecting the victim. In taking the criminal down. He had to think of this like every other case he’d ever had. Look for clues and meet the objective.
Only one thing hadn’t been in the manual. How to handle your emotions when someone you cared about was the target.
Chapter Thirteen
JB joined Sheriff Davis and Kennett as they walked out the front door of the police station, each with their own look of determination.
“No one goes in my office,” the sheriff shouted over his shoulder to the patrolman guarding his office doorway. “And I mean. No. One.”
“Where we headed?” JB jogged around to the passenger side of the sheriff’s patrol car. Kennett slid into his own cruiser and shadowed along behind.
Sheriff Davis’ hand rested firmly on the wheel. “Joanie’s. Evans will catch us up with his findings before he heads home.”
“I’ve got a few questions for the restaurant workers myself.” JB had more than a few, and there’d better be answers. His brain shouted for him to respect the position he was in. This wasn’t his case, his turf, or even his town anymore. Technically, he wasn’t even a lawman at the moment. What he needed to do was follow the lead of the man who trained him years ago. “That is, if you don’t mind, sir.”
“Figured as much. Don’t overstep your non-position though.” The sheriff grinned as he pulled to a stop in front of Joanie’s Pizza, Pub, and Pool Hall. “Ever sorry you left town? Joined the FBI?”
“In case you hadn’t heard, I quit the FBI the day Marcy got shot. Turned in my service revolver to the deputy. And just handed my shield to Truman.” He eased out the passenger door before he had to answer the real question. “He’ll get it to the right person if something happens.”
The sheriff nodded. He knew Truman’s connection to the FBI. Then he glanced at the gun holstered on JB’s shoulder. “You got a permit to carry that one?”
“Yep. I’ve got a permit for everything I’m carrying.” Of course, improvisation didn’t need a permit. And he’d learned the art of making do with what you’ve got when your life was in the balance.
As his and the sheriff’s breath fogged in the air, JB surveyed everything along the street, mentally shucking the unnecessary back out into the air. When he first started out, the sheriff had taught him the look-and-discard routine on this same street years ago. The system served him well through his undercover work.
Something was there. Something he was missing. Something to start a trail. What? He drew in a deep breath. Where? He looked again.
Joanie’s sat on the end of the 500 block of Main Street, right next door to a family-owned furniture store and across the street from Dee’s Morning Diner. Not much help there. The diner closed at 2 p.m., but maybe the insurance office on the right held an answer. Used to be a receptionist at the front desk by the window. He’d check them later.
Kennett parked his patrol car and sighted in on the same surroundings.
“Well, what do you men see?” Sheriff Davis donned his hat and rested his hand for a brief moment on the butt of his gun holstered at his waist, an assurance check the man was known for, before heading to the front door of Joanie’s restaurant.
JB’s shoulder-holstered Glock was in plain view today. Putting on a Crayton Police jacket would have been misleading, and he’d left his own jacket in his truck at the impound lot. His backup, a .38 Special, was holstered on his inner, left ankle. Hidden under his jeans on the outside of his right calf was a quick-release knife and holder. “Depends on what the workers say?”
The rookie nodded, following behind the sheriff and JB as they entered Joanie’s. Evans met them at the rear of the restaurant, his expression serious and frustrated. The report covered the happenings—food cooked, food bagged, food waiting by register. There had to be more.
Sheriff Davis pulled out his pen and notepad. “Evans. Kennett. One of you check the alley trash cans.”
“Trash cans?” the deputy asked.
“See if our artist dumped the markers in the trash on his way out.” The sheriff glared at the men. “And, one of you get out front. See what you can find out from the customers.”
The two policemen lowered their eyes and scattered in opposite directions.
JB forced a casual tone to his voice. “Evans seems the same as before I left.”
Sheriff Davis glanced at the swinging doorway. “Yep. Still questions anything he hasn’t thought of. Otherwise, he’s one hell of a good deputy. Good man, too.”
“What about Kennett? How long’s he been here?” JB remembered to slip into his conversational stance.
“Rookie’s been here close to a year.”
