Maggie Shayne – Deadly Obsession (страница 8)
“If you didn’t set that fire, then who did?” said the reporter, who then thrust her microphone into his face and I was pretty sure bonked him on the nose with it.
“No comment.” He pushed the mike away with one hand and sidestepped the camera. He was an average-looking guy, beer belly that overhung his belt, typical blue work pants, plaid shirt tucked in nice and neat. He had a ruddy complexion, like he was outside a lot in rough weather, and a thick shock of black hair that looked as if he was wearing an animal pelt on his head.
“
“What evidence do the police have against you, Mr. Rouse?”
Yep, that was him all right. Rouse the Louse.
The man lowered his head, shook it slowly. I narrowed my eyes on him, but I couldn’t
“Mr. Rouse, again, if you didn’t set the fire that killed your wife, do you have any idea who did?”
His head came up fast and he opened his mouth, clearly about to blurt something. But then he clamped it closed again, and I could see he really regretted his almost-slip. “My lawyer says I can’t talk to you. I’m sorry. You’ll just have to wait for the trial.”
“But you want to tell your side of the story, don’t you, Mr. Rouse? I can see you do.”
He stopped walking, and I thought he was going to do it. Spill his guts. She was good, this reporter. What the hell was her name? I knew it. I’d seen her on the local news often enough. Trisha Knight. That was it.
She was holding her breath, and so was I. And then he pressed his lips tight, shook his head. “No comment. Now please let me go into my house.”
He pushed past her, not giving her much choice about “letting” him.
I located the remote, hit the back button and watched the entire story again, pausing it every few seconds to try to read the man visually. But visuals were not my strong point. I had to be near someone. I had to
Or, you know, dream about them. At least, it had happened that way a few times. I always tended to think that gift of dreaming about things was just going to vanish and never come back, but it hadn’t, not really. It had morphed instead, turning into some kind of a sixth sense that I didn’t like admitting I had.
Still, I had a feeling about that guy. I backed up the action and watched again, paying attention to the surroundings this time around. I noticed the house number: 117. Now if I could just get a glimpse of a street sign...
I probably watched that clip until my eyes bled, until Inner Bitch cuffed me upside the head (you know, figuratively) and said,
I rolled my eyes. It was another classic “duh, Rachel” moment. But at least no one was there to witness it.
Why the hell did I catch myself wishing that someone was? Three someones, to be exact.
* * *
I searched Peter Rouse, found his address, jotted it down, took my bulldog upstairs and went to bed. It was way too late at night to be paying impromptu visits to murder suspects. Besides, I had to figure out how to approach him. He was being hounded by reporters. He wasn’t going to just open the door and let me in. And also, I had to figure out how to keep myself from kneeing him in the balls the second I got within reach. There are pills to make you happy when you’re sad, pills to make you chill when you’re stressed. Why the hell hadn’t anyone invented a pill to make you less likely to assault a person who sorely deserved it?
Myrt followed me upstairs, but not into my bedroom. She went to Josh’s room instead. Sighing, I followed her, stood in the doorway and watched her sniff around the entire perimeter. The bed was still unmade. His pajamas and a used T-shirt lay on the floor, even though I’d bought each kid a big plastic hamper to put their laundry in. Myrtle found that pile of clothes, smelled them, pawed them into a perfect little bulldog nest, and then, sighing, collapsed on top of it. As always, she was snoring before she even hit the floor.
Broke my damn heart.
I tugged the blanket and pillow off Josh’s bed, tossed them down beside Myrt and curled up next to her. She snuggled a little closer. And that was where the two of us spent the night. She was missing her guy as much as I was missing mine.
Too late. Too late for all of the above. Except for the use of the L word, of course, but that was on my to-do list. I just needed the right moment. And it probably ought to be one when I wasn’t as pissed off at him as I was right now. Damn him for not being here with me.
Damn him for taking the boys back.
Wow. If you’d told me a year ago that
* * *
Saturday morning dawned bright and beautiful, and Mason was up, showered, dressed and halfway down the stairs before he smelled the coffee. His heart took a little leap in his chest. Was Rachel here? Had she come over bright and early to make them breakfast and assure herself that he wasn’t overdoing it?
By the time he entered the kitchen, his grin was a mile wide. But Rachel wasn’t there. Just the boys. Joshua was setting the table, and Jeremy was making French toast and a lot of smoke. The coffeepot was full and calling to him, though, so he grabbed a cup off the table.
“Morning, boys.”
They were so focused on their work they hadn’t seen him. “Morning, Uncle Mace! We’re making breakfast,” Joshua said.
“I see that.” He moseyed to the coffeepot and gave the burner a sneaky downward turn underneath Jeremy’s pan before filling his mug. “Mmm. Looks great.”
Jere shrugged. “You’re supposed to take it easy. We figured we’d help out.” He turned the burner back up, but not as high as it had been.
Josh ran behind his uncle to pull out a chair, and Mason sat down. “Don’t feel like you have to do this every morning, guys. I’m fine. I really am.”
He wasn’t. His lungs still felt as if they’d been scrubbed on the inside with steel wool. And his arm still hurt like hell. It was healing, but he was pretty sure there were going to be lasting scars.
Jeremy brought a plateful of charred bread to the table. Mason helped himself to a couple of slices, and applied liberal amounts of syrup to help it go down. “Nice job, Jere. Thank you.”
Jere shrugged. “It was no big deal.” He stabbed a slice for himself.
Josh looked at the stack. “Is it s’posed to be so black?”
“It’s fine, Josh. Try it—you’ll see,” Mason told him.
“Ooookay.” Josh speared a slice with his fork, looked at it doubtfully, then dropped it on his plate. Before he did anything else, he broke off a corner of the crust with his fingers, and looked down at the floor. And then he sighed. “I forgot. Myrt’s not here.”
“You miss her already, huh?”
“Yeah.”
Mason nodded slowly. “Well, maybe it’s about time we talk about getting you a dog of your own, Josh. We have the room here, and you’re old enough to handle the responsibility now.”
Josh nodded slowly. “I guess. It won’t be the same, though. I want Myrtle.” He looked up. “You think Rachel will bring her over today?”
“I’ll call her and ask.”
Josh’s answering smile was as bright as the June sunshine.
June. Gosh, it was June, Mason realized. “Jeremy, about your graduation...”
“Don’t worry about it. Misty and I have it all planned.”
“You mean Rachel and Misty’s mom, don’t you?” Joshua asked him.
Jere made a face. “All of us. It’s gonna be at Rachel’s. We’re renting a party barge, and a big tent for shade.”
“Or in case it rains,” Josh said.
“Rachel ordered a cake, and Misty’s mom is taking care of decorations. And I’m making a playlist for the DJ.”
“There’s going to be a DJ?”
“Rache asked if I wanted a DJ or a band. I said DJ.” He wiggled his eyebrows and grinned. “Saves more money for the present.”
Oh, God, Mason thought. He needed to do something about a present. “What about the rest of the food?”
Jeremy shrugged. “Rache said something about catering. I don’t know.” Then his smile faded. “Don’t be mad at her, Uncle Mace. You were in the hospital, and graduation is only a week away.”
“Mad at her? I think I’ll buy
There was a knock at the door, and Mason started to get up, but Jeremy sent him a “don’t you dare” look that reminded him of himself, so he sat back down and let his all-grown-up nephew open the door.
“Hello. I’m looking for Detective Mason Brown.”
It was a woman’s voice, and not one he knew.
“He’s here. Come on in.”
Mason did get up then, as Jeremy opened the door wider to admit a blonde who was within a year, one way or the other, of thirty. She had rivers of hair, all wavy, flowing halfway down her back, pretty blue eyes and an infectious smile.