Once he manages to collect himself, he sits at his laptop and starts composing a bland email to his human resources director, advising the woman of Ed’s decision to retire and the terms they’ve negotiated. He tells her of his desire to promote from within, quickly.
Then, time seems to turn liquid.
He’s staring out the plate glass wall at the glowing fringe of mansions lining the southern cliff faces along La Jolla Bay. Their lights seem to twinkle, but it’s probably just the curtain of eucalyptus branches brushing against the glass in the ocean breeze.
He’s thinking of how much time he and Ed have spent together since his father died. Imagines what it would mean to spend that much time with someone in possession of the same attributes Dylan—Noah!—used to cause his so-called error in judgment, again and again and again.
The email sits unsent on his computer.
He adds a line asking that all headshots and related photographs be removed from the applicants’ personnel files before they’re sent over.
The right candidate for this job will be picked on the basis of his accomplishments, of his résumé, and not, like Dylan, the inviting, wolfish look in his dark eyes.
25
Luke’s cell phone is making that skittering sound that tells him it’s moving across his nightstand. He ignores it anyway.
There are probably a few things in the world that would be harder for him right now than pulling away from Charlotte’s almost naked body.
Damn if he can think what they might be.
It’s his day off, a time to sleep in. But still, he’s startled when he sees how bright the fringe of sunlight is around the window shade. Is it already past ten?
Not that he should be surprised. Once they’d finished their shower, they ended up going several more rounds between the sheets. If memory serves, they didn’t nod out until after two. When sleep did come, it was the kind that crept up on you, knocking you out midsentence because you’d used everything short of caffeine pills to keep it at bay. Hell, he was so excited to have Charley back, he would have put on a pot of coffee and stayed up all night talking to her if she’d asked.
The phone stops vibrating, then starts up again.
Mona. It has to be.
He’s right.
“I know it’s your day off, but I need you down here for a bit,” she says.
“You need me to fill in?”
“No, something else.”
“Am I in trouble?” he asks, swinging his legs to the floor.
“I’ve been looking at videos of Lacey Shannon’s interview from the other night, and there’s some stuff I’m not getting. Can you come down?”
Not getting, Luke thinks. What does that mean?
“She walked. I thought we were letting it go.”
He spoke too quickly, with too much tension in his voice. The frosty silence from the other end tells him Mona feels the same way. She’s got no idea about the call from Cole Graydon. She’s probably only heard Cole’s name once or twice, if at all.
How do you tell your real boss that your girlfriend’s secret boss expects you to shut down a possible law enforcement investigation, especially when your real boss is a sheriff and your girlfriend’s boss isn’t even an elected official and does nine or ten possibly illegal things before breakfast? There isn’t an advice columnist on the planet who could help with this one.
“Maybe,” Mona answers, “but Henricks is a different matter.”
“What? He’s already making a stink?”
“Not yet, but he might. That’s why I need proof Lacey walked out because he threatened her.”
“Is there?”
“Do I have to send a limo, Luke? I said I need you at the station.”
“Sorry. Charley’s home.”
“That’s nice. Tell her you’ll be back in an hour or two.”
“On my way.”
A quick shower and some soft kisses on the back of Charlotte’s neck later, Luke is standing in Mona’s office staring at a familiar face that makes him nervous.
The last time he saw Dr. Marcia Brewerton was on the front steps of Marty’s trailer after she had examined Charley a few months before. Luke had still been reeling from his first exposure to Charlotte’s new drug-fueled power, but the good doctor had been clueless. Marty had wanted Charlotte to undergo some kind of examination to make sure her first three exposures to Zypraxon hadn’t messed with her heart rate or blood pressure, even if the exam was cursory and the doctor giving it had no idea what Charley had actually been through.
If Dr. Brewerton walked away from that strange afternoon with a bunch of questions, they’re not present in her expression now. But she’s a focused, stoic woman whose face doesn’t betray much emotion. Her pageboy cut looks the same, and while he’s not sure it’s the same color, he’s willing to bet the Ralph Lauren men’s dress shirt she’s got on is the same style.
Mona’s closed the venetian blinds over all her office windows. She’s also angled her laptop toward the front of her desk so all three of them can see it.
On screen is a paused image of Lacey Shannon, taken from the video footage of her visit to the station two nights before. The camera system in the interview room was upgraded a few weeks ago, a response to the room’s skyrocketing number of visitors. Lacey’s bruised and battered face assaults them in high-definition clarity.