Page 183 of It Happened on the Lake

Gunn had the decency to frown and nod. “Yeah, I guess, but that reporter? Rhonda? I knew her dad. We were on the same softball team back in the day, and she was just this awkward little kid who hung out. You know the kind I mean? She didn’t seem to have any friends. Anyway, when she saw me at the auto parts store a couple of days ago and offered to buy me coffee, I thought, what the heck? She said she wanted to talk about Chase Hunt, and I didn’t think that would hurt anything.”

“No?”

“No.” Gunn scowled. “I know he was your friend and all, but that case is colder than a witch’s tit.”

“Geez, Gunderson,” his partner said, walking into the room and heading straight for the vending machines. “Do you always have to be so crass? Can’t you just say ‘cold as hell’ like a normal human being?”

“Hell isn’t cold! And fine.” He rolled his eyes. “And the case is cold as hell. Anyway, she asked questions and I was glad to answer. I mean, it wouldn’t hurt to have some public interest in the case.”

“Cases.” Rand thumped his finger on the paper. “She asked about Olivia Dixon.”

“Well, yeah, it all happened on the same night.” He lifted his shoulders in a what’re-ya-gonna-do expression.

Rand felt the cords in his neck tighten as he thought about Harper and what would happen once she read the article. But he was overreacting. Something he seemed prone to do lately. “What you’re gonna do, Gunn, is keep your mouth shut.”

“And what you should do, Watkins, is look at the case like a real cop.” Gunn glared up at him, the folds of his face growing taut.

“Meaning?”

“You’re just like your old man.”

That cut a little too close to the bone.

“I remember he didn’t want anyone else involved in his cases.” Gunderson shoved his plate aside as Brady fed change into the soda machine and the coins rattled down the slot.

She looked over her shoulder, took one glance at the situation, and snorted. “Put your foot into it again, didn’t you, Gunn?” She withdrew a can of Diet Pepsi and walked to the table where she read the headline. “Oh. Geez.”

Rand got out of his chair. “Occupational hazard.”

“Hey, can you leave the paper?” she asked as she popped the top of her can. “Someone took the office copy.”

Rand nodded. “Yeah, fine.” He didn’t need it. He’d seen enough.

“Suki,” Gunn said.

“Suki?” Brady snapped up the copy with her free hand. “Suki took the paper?”

“Yep.” Gunn dabbed at the last crumbs and bits of icing on his plate. “I think she takes copies of recipes or something.”

“Well, it’s the office copy. Meant for everyone.”

“Except for the crossword,” he suggested with a sly wink. “That’s yours. You think you own it and go ballistic if anyone starts filling it in before you.”

“Oh, give me a break.”

Rand left them arguing as he tried to shake off his irritation about the article and Gunn’s remarks about his father. He considered calling Rhonda Simms at the newspaper’s offices and reading her the riot act but decided against any conversation with her until he cooled off.

Because the truth was, whether he wanted to admit it or not, what most concerned him about the article wasn’t the department’s reaction so much as Harper’s. Simms couldn’t compromise a case that was stone cold, at least he didn’t think so. Well, unless she had Gunn’s help.

He remembered Chase’s plea the last night he’d seen his friend. “Just tell me you’ll take care of her. Of Harper.”

Which Rand hadn’t. Despite his promise.

And now wasn’t the time to start. Not that she would allow it, as evidenced by her response during her interview here at the station and how angry she’d become. Hell, she’d shut off his recorder and dared him to arrest her. And then there was last night, when he couldn’t sleep and had taken the boat out, steering close to the island, circling it, and remembering how many times he’d done the same as a teenager. Maybe he should have docked and gone up and pounded on the door, had a real conversation with her. But he hadn’t. He’d hoped that getting on the water, being close to the island and the nexus of all that had happened, would make things clearer. He’d been wrong. He should’ve gone for a run. A long run.

“Fuck it,” he said under his breath, then made his way downstairs to the windowless evidence room where he double-checked the records on the missing gun in the Evan Reed suicide case. He ended up spinning his wheels. Just as Chelle had said, there were no records, no card indicating who had last handled the evidence or ever looked through the locker.

Another dead end.

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