Page 46 of Mile High Mystery

“What say do they have over your personal life?”

“You’re part of a case I’m working on.”

“I’m not a witness or a victim,” he said. “And I’m not a criminal.” He didn’t know why he was arguing with her. He wasn’t in the habit of trying to persuade women who didn’t want to be with him. Except that her reluctance didn’t seem to be about him at all, but about some ideal she was holding herself to, or thought her bosses were holding her to. And that kiss had been pretty spectacular. He was reluctant to let go of the chance to repeat it, and take it further.

“We should go,” she said, and turned her back on him and walked to the door.

He debated not going after her. She wasn’t going to get very far without him. Then again, he wouldn’t put it past her to walk all the way back to town. It wasn’t an impossible distance, but the walk probably wouldn’t endear her to him. So he pulled out his keys and followed her out.

He drove toward town but was reluctant to end the night this way. And he didn’t necessarily want to be alone with his thoughts, either. He told himself having his apartment broken into and Shelby’s tires shot out were only nuisances that should be ignored. No one had been hurt. But he couldn’t make himself believe it. Sure, no one had been hurtyet. Tonight, some unknown assailant had shot out Shelby’s tires. How much of a stretch was it for them to shoot a person instead of a car?

He smoothed his hands down the steering wheel. “I’m too wired to sleep,” he said. “Do you want to get some coffee?”

She shifted in her seat. “Where?”

“The only place is the gas station.” He glanced at her. Streetlights bathed half her face in a golden glow. “I don’t promise it’s good coffee.”

“All right.”

He drove to the station at the intersection leading into town and left the engine running while he ran inside and bought two cups of coffee from the machine at the back of the store. He grabbed a handful of sugar and creamer packets, paid, returned to the car and handed her everything. “Hold this until I find a place we can sit and talk.”

He ended up parking on the street a block from the motel. It was after ten, and all the businesses in this part of town were closed, the sidewalks empty. The only streetlight was at the end of the block, so he and Shelby sat in deep shadow. He sipped his coffee and was reminded of the night he had sat on that Houston street, waiting for Camille to emerge from Britannia Pub.

“What are you thinking?” Shelby asked.

He could have lied and said he was thinking about her and the kiss they had shared. Or he might have tried to make a joke about how small towns really did roll up the sidewalks after dark. Instead, he opted for the truth. “I’m thinking about that night at the Britannia. The night Judge Hennessey was shot.”

“Tell me about it,” she said.

So many times over the years he had relived that evening, running through the events minute by minute, by turns berating himself for keeping silent and telling himself he had no choice. The words to describe what had happened ought to come easily, but he found himself faltering.

“Like you said, Camille’s car was in the shop,” he said. “She planned to ride the bus home, but I was free and decided to surprise her by picking her up. I parked across the street and waited for her.”

“Could you see the pub from where you were parked?” Shelby asked.

“I could see the side of the building and the door that opened onto the alley that Camille would come out of. I couldn’t see the front door or into the restaurant.”

“Okay. Go on. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Camille came out and said good-night to her coworkers. They left and she locked up, then started walking toward the bus stop. I pulled alongside her and said hello, and she got in the truck, and I drove away. But we hadn’t gone very far before she remembered she had left her wallet behind. I circled back, parked in the same spot and she went back into the restaurant. I noticed she was taking a while, but thought maybe the wallet wasn’t where she thought she had left it and she was looking around. Then I heard a loud popping—like firecrackers or a car backfiring. I thought that was what it was—someone shooting off firecrackers on the next street over. Then Camille came running out, dove into the truck and told me to get out of there. I drove away, and she told me what had happened—that Judge Hennessey had been killed, and the Chalk brothers did it. She had me drive her to the police station. She said she would go in and tell them what she had seen and I should go home and not tell anyone I had been there.”

He set the half-full cup of bitter coffee in the cup holder and swiveled toward her. “I didn’t want to leave her,” he said. “I tried to convince her that we should go to the police together, but the suggestion made her frantic. She insisted there was no reason for me to risk coming to the Chalk brothers’ attention. She had all the information the police would need. I needed to go home and be with our parents.”

“So that’s what you did.”

He slid down in the seat. “That’s what I did. The next day, police arrested the Chalk brothers, Camille went into protective custody and FBI agents showed up at my apartment and my parents’ house.”

“And you never said anything about being there that night?”

He blew out a breath. “Maybe I should have, but no one ever asked. Camille had it all under control. All the focus was on her, and I guess everyone believed her when she said she was at the restaurant by herself.”

“But you were there,” Shelby said. Clearly, she wasn’t going to cut him any slack.

“Yes. I told you I was in my truck, parked across the street. I wasn’t inside the restaurant.”

“You heard the gunshot.”

“Yes. Though I didn’t know it was a gunshot.”

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