was the blinding influence of hormones overcoming good sense.”
“Yeah, I remember what it was like to be young instead of a cranky, old lady.”
“You aren’t old.”
“I’m old,” Vivian said, sounding far from her usual wisecracking self. “And I got nobody, same as that poor bum who died. Folks are more upset about Harvey’s murder than a homeless guy getting himself killed, but I can’t stop thinking about it. He died alone, and no relations have come forward to claim his body.”
Kelly shivered; she’d been haunted by the same thing. “I guess it’s closer to home with Harvey…a businessman with a family. You can put yourself in his shoes easier than with someone living on the streets.”
“I’ll buy that, but what was Harv doing on that part of the docks at night? Why wasn’t he asleep in bed?”
“I don’t know.” Kelly refused to repeat the talk she’d heard—about payoffs to the union or other unsavory dealings. Harvey’s wife and children were going through enough; they didn’t need wild rumors getting back to them. “I’m sure the police will figure it out.”
“The mayor keeps hinting that it wouldn’t have happened if his brother was still the police chief.” Viv seemed troubled, though she usually didn’t worry what anyone else thought. “And I remember you were awful quiet when the hiring committee discussed Ben Santoni’s application. That seemed odd, since you’re tight with Henry and Gina.”
“What was there to say?” Kelly asked carefully. “Henry thinks the world of Ben, and with the exception of the mayor and his brother, everyone agreed we were fortunate to have a candidate with his experience and credentials. End of story.”
Yet it wasn’t the end, because she still wasn’t sure that Ben was right for the job. The police chief should be a community leader, something he didn’t seem to understand. And she hated how distrustful he was of people—maybe distrust came in handy for a homicide detective, but how could anyone live that way?
“Mrs. Lawson!” Mayor Stone called from down the hall.
Viv stuck out her tongue and pointed her left thumb downward. She’d disliked Phillip Stone since the day he’d suggested it was time for her to retire.
“Yes?” Kelly called back.
“May I speak with you?”
He was in the “Media Center,” a small room with a computer, fax machine, photocopier and assorted other electronics. What it lacked was the internet. The mayor had cut it from the budget, claiming there was too much personal use by employees. Internet had been restored to the police station, though. Ben’s assertion it was an essential element of modern police work had convinced the City Council, so they’d overridden the mayor.
At least Ben knew the tools he needed to be effective. If Mayor Stone had gotten his way, his smarmy brother would have been permanently appointed police chief. While Ben might not be right for the job in some ways, he was better than Frank Stone.
“How can I help you, Mayor?”
He handed her a sheet of paper. “What do you think of it?”
“It” was a poorly designed campaign flyer, with tired catch phrases and little substance. Kelly politely read half, then returned it to him. He was probably nervous after getting into office in a special midterm election.
“I’m flattered you value my opinion, but I can’t comment as a city employee, the town charter prevents me from being involved in elections, the way it bans sitting candidates from using city equipment and supplies to support a campaign.” She glanced at the photocopier, lid up and ready for use.
Phillip’s face became wooden, yet there was a hint of alarm in his brown eyes. The same color as Ben’s, Kelly mused idly, except Ben’s were nearly impossible to read.
“We certainly can’t break the rules.” The mayor thrust the flyer in a pocket and then adjusted his tie and smoothed his silvered black hair. “I have to go. I have a press conference at three.”
He was milking the situation for all it was worth, but he shouldn’t stand too close to his new police chief while doing it. Phillip Stone had a receding chin and sloped shoulders, while Ben was tall, handsome and authoritative. His dark Italian looks had received a great deal of attention from the women in Sand Point.
From her, too, once.
Kelly shook her head. Despite how Ben had hurt her when they were eighteen, she’d let him affect her marriage. Nothing dramatic, but sometimes when Mitch had walked out of the house rather than confront a problem, she’d remember the way Ben had never missed an opportunity to argue, and how exciting that was.
It had happened the day Mitch was killed in the warehouse fire…she’d been upset about some silly thing and he had refused to discuss it with her, instead leaving early to report to the firehouse. Frustrated, she’d thought, Ben wouldn’t have done that.
She’d felt guilty, of course. It was Mitch who’d been there after her mother died. Mitch who’d proven himself. Mitch who’d respected and loved her and would never have hurt her.
Except he did hurt you, her heart whispered.
He’d died, too.
CHAPTER TWO
IT WAS PAST ELEVEN BEFORE Ben got through the final chapter of Deep Sea.
The book was a good read—fast paced, with a modern, sexy twist on old-fashioned, hard-boiled detective fiction.
The first novel, Deep Water, was nearly as good. He could see why the author was so popular; the guy knew how to put together a tidy suspense story.
As for any similarities to the dock murders, the homeless victims shared physical characteristics, but that could be coincidence. The real homeless victim had slept in a local shelter once in a while, and the rest of the time presumably under a bridge or in deserted buildings on the docks—they still hadn’t determined exactly where. The fictional “homeless” victim was a wealthy man who’d walked away from his former life, paralyzed with guilt over his wife’s suicide. Both spent their days on the waterfront as acute observers of the flow of life about them, but in the book the murderer used an organic poison that mimicked death from natural causes, while Simon had been stabbed.
It was the similarity to Harvey Bryant’s murder that intrigued Ben the most. The real and fictional businessmen were both found dead by an abandoned fish cannery, killed with a double-tap through the heart and a finishing shot behind the ear. Very neat and efficient.
He suspected that whoever fired the real shots was a pro, and damned good at their work. Ben had worried about copycat crimes; now he thought the books might have already been used as a blueprint for murder. One of the details they hadn’t released to the public was that the actual crime scene had been staged; the evidence showed Harvey Bryant had been killed somewhere else and his body moved to the docks.
But why?
Was it connected to the strike against H. Bryant Industries? Labor strikes were never pretty, and this one was particularly ugly. There’d been accusations of unfair labor practices, safety issues and substandard pay and benefits. The strike might have been settled, but the workers and their families felt they’d gotten a raw deal. It could also explain the mayor’s death threats—Phillip Stone was a personal friend of the Bryants, but apparently he’d done little, if anything, to help mediate in either a public or private capacity.
“Poppa?”
Toby stood in the doorway, rubbing his eyes. Ben threw the blankets back and patted the bed. “Hey, why are you awake?”
“I dunno.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Toby crawled up on the mattress and Ben tucked the covers around him. After a long minute