Page 23 of The Last Close Call

He reached around her and opened the passenger door.

“This is me being sensitive,” he said. “I didn’t think she would appreciate me rolling up to her house in a police ride.”

Rowan stepped onto the running board, and Jack touched her elbow to help her into the seat. She nestled her purse at her feet, and he closed the door.

She glanced around curiously as he walked to the driver’s side. The Jeep was low-tech but clean, with a pair of aviator sunglasses tucked into the cup holder. On the back seat was a blue mountain-biking helmet and a pair of rubber boots with grass clinging to the soles.

Jack hitched himself behind the wheel and started the engine. Once again, he was wearing slacks and a dress shirt—no tie today—with his badge and gun on his hip. Despite the businesslike clothes, the old Jeep seemed to suit him.

“You mountain bike?” she asked.

“Yeah. You?” He glanced at her.

“Not lately. What are the boots for?”

He turned around. “Outdoor crime scene.”

He reached back and tossed the boots behind the seat into the cargo area.

“Sorry for the last-minute notice.” He checked over his shoulder and pulled into traffic.

“No problem. I was done for the day.”

She didn’t mention that she’d had to rearrange her evening. She hadn’t even hesitated when he’d called less than an hour ago.

So, does your offer still stand?

His low-key question had prompted her to cancel her plans. She’d told herself it was because he needed help with his case, and he was man enough to admit it. But that wasn’t the only reason.

He ran a yellow light and checked the mirror.

“By the way, where’d you park?” He glanced at her.

“The garage by the police station.”

“Visitor space?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“They tow.”

They neared the courthouse, and he lifted his fingers off the wheel in greeting as they passed a couple of uniformed officers. He downshifted as they turned and cut through a neighborhood where the streets were lined with old houses that had been converted into law offices and accounting firms.

Butterflies filled Rowan’s stomach as she looked out the window. She liked the way his car smelled. Something earthy—probably the boots—but with a hint of aftershave. Was there any chance he’d primped before meeting her? This was work. Period. But she’d felt a flutter of excitement when she’d heard his voice over the phone.

He turned north onto Lamar Boulevard.

“So.” She glanced at him. “Where does Joy Kendall live, exactly?”

“Pemberton Heights. Shouldn’t take us long, assuming traffic’s not crazy.”

“Nice neighborhood,” Rowan said. “What’s she do for a living?”

Jack’s phone buzzed and he pulled it from his pocket.

“One sec,” he said, and then connected the call. “Bruner.”

He paused, and Rowan looked out the window at the sidewalks busy with people headed home or going out after work. It was a Thursday, and everyone seemed to be getting a jump on their weekend. She would be, too, but she’d ditched her best friends and dropped everything to help this detective she barely knew. Was this a mistake? Maybe. She could have simply sent him the report he’d paid for and wished him good luck.

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