Page 14 of The Last Close Call

Jack made the U-turn and hooked a right onto the private driveway beside the sculpture. He passed through an open gate and followed a narrow gravel road. Jack checked Rowan’s text again as he bumped over the ruts.

Green house on the left after wall.

Jack curved around, and his headlights swept over a tall limestone wall. He spied a clump of oak trees beside a red barn. Tucked beneath one of the oaks was a small green structure that looked more like a shed than a house. A silver Corolla that Jack recognized from the Lucky Duck was parked right out front.

He pulled in next to the Corolla and cut the engine as he looked around.

This place wasn’t what he’d pictured. But then, nothing about Rowan Healy was what he’d expected after talking to Ric. His friend had described her as brainy and introverted. Not exactly the type to show up at police headquarters and dictate her conditions for taking Jack’s project.

Ric had warned him he was going to have to do some convincing to get her to work for him. That part had been right on.

She’s best in her field, and laser-focused—but only if you can get her attention. She’s not taking many new cases.

Jack shoved open his door, letting in a waft of cold air. He grabbed his file and got out, and his boots sank into the sodden grass. It had been drizzling all afternoon, finally letting up during his drive over here.

He looked at the big red barn again, noting the foggy glass doors with a white glow behind them. Glass doors on a barn. That was a new one. A high-pitched buzz, like maybe a Skil saw, emanated from inside the building.

Jack turned his attention to the little green cottage. Blinds covered the windows, and thin strips of light seeped through the slats. He crossed the weedy lawn, checking out Rowan’s car. Her inspection sticker was three months overdue.

The porch light was out, but he could still make out a brass door knocker in the shape of a disembodied fist. He stared at the fist for a moment before rapping his knuckles on the door.

Jack waited in the wet chill, eyeing the sagging gutters and chipping green paint. The place clearly needed work, but the welcome mat looked new, and the steps were lined with pots of purple and yellow pansies.

The door swung open, and Rowan looked him over. She wore jeans again, along with a gray tank top that left her arms bare. Her hair was damp, as though she’d just gotten out of the shower.

“You made it,” she said.

“Yep.”

“Damn, it’s cold.” She stepped back. “Come in, come in.”

Jack wiped his boots on the mat before entering. Tonight he wore jeans and an APD golf shirt, and Rowan’s gaze went to his holster as she ushered him inside.

Her warm living room smelled like pepperoni. A gray cat was curled up on a red velvet sofa that looked like it belonged to someone’s grandmother.

“Who’s in your barn?” he asked, nodding over his shoulder.

“You mean the studio? That’s Skyler. She’s the artist in residence.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Well, sculptor, to be precise. That’s what she’s known for. She did the iron cactus you saw by the gate. This ranch belongs to her stepdad.”

Rowan turned and locked the door. “Any trouble finding it?”

“Nope.”

He gazed down at her, marveling again at her deep blue eyes. It was the first thing he’d noticed at the bar the other night. That and the fact that she was clearly pissed off that he’d tracked her down after she’d spent days dodging his phone calls.

She turned away. “I’m just finishing dinner. You hungry?”

“No,” he lied, following her into a tiny kitchen with checkered linoleum flooring. There was a drop-leaf table in the middle and mismatched chairs.

“You sure? I’ve got extra.” She nodded at the old white stove where a pepperoni pizza sat on a baking sheet.

“I’m good,” he said.

“How about a drink? I have Coke, Snapple, water.”

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