Page 7 of Blood Moon

He’d spent the past three and a half years since the Mellin case walking a razor’s edge, trying to avoid embroilment of any kind. If he gave an ounce of credence to what Beth Collins had said and pursued it by even one baby step, it could easily tip the scales of the balancing act he had going with Thomas P. Barker, his boss and nemesis. Their antagonistic relationship was none of her business, and filling her in on it could stimulate further conversation, which he would avoid as fervently as he would avoid leprosy. But despite what he’d said about his disregard for the opinion of others, he didn’t want her to leave remembering John Bowie as a complete and utter asshole.

He shifted his weight, crunching the gravel beneath his boots. “Listen, Ms. Collins—”

Rather than listen, she interrupted. “The upcoming episode establishes that Crissy Mellin’s abductor is dead.”

“He fuckingis. I cut his body down.”

“What if that young man wasn’t the culprit?”

“Oh. I see where you’re going. We got the wrong guy.” He scoffed. “The one we found hanging in his jail cell.”

“Yes, that one.”

“And the real bogeyman is still out there?”

“It’s possible.”

“Uh-huh.”

Agitated, she said, “How can you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Be so blasé. I just told you something that should rattle you. You’ve dismissed it out of hand. Like this isn’t extraordinary. Like it happens to you on a daily basis.”

“It does. We and every law enforcement agency in the world get dozens of crank calls every day. Crazies call with conspiracy theories or to report—”

“Never mind.” She turned her back to him and climbed into the car. “I began with you because you were quoted in one article as saying that the investigation was handled ‘hastily.’ Apparently, during the years since, you’ve had a change of heart. I’m sorry to have bothered you.” She reached out to pull the door closed.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute.” Knowing that he would probably kick himself later for what he was about to do, he grabbed the door above the window and held on. They played tug-of-war with it. He outlasted her and continued to hold the door open while she glared up at him from the driver’s seat.

She placed the heel of her hand over the horn icon on the steering wheel. “Let go of the door or I’ll lay down on this.”

He hitched his head toward the building behind him. “The scumbags come to your rescue, and after they vanquish me, what then? You’re left alone with them to have their wicked way with you? I don’t think so.”

She expelled a breath. “Please let go.”

“Why the subterfuge?” Asked out of context, the question got her attention. She stopped trying to close the door.

“What?”

“When you called yesterday, why didn’t you tell me straight off you were from that show?”

“You would have hung up on me.”

Correct answer. But as she’d said it, her gaze had shifted from looking directly at him to the third snap of his shirt. He spotted a lie. At least a half lie. “And?”

She didn’t say anything.

He lowered his pitch and volume. “And?”

She opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it. Her shoulders slumped, her head dropped forward. The baseball cap fell off, and handfuls of streaky blond hair tumbled down around her head. With irritation, she tossed the cap onto the passenger seat and raked her hair back off her face using all ten fingers.

“I’m not representing the network or the show,” she said. “I came of my own accord and at my own expense.” She gave a soft laugh of chagrin as she looked up at him. “Please forgive me for wasting your time. Enjoy what’s left of your day off.” She tugged on the car door again.

He was about to release it, walk away, go home, turn on ESPN, crack a beer, and do exactly as she had suggested: enjoy what was left of his day off.

But in a split second of remarkably messed-up judgment, he changed his mind and held on to the door. “What makes you think he’s out there waiting to strike again?”

---