Page 515 of Cold Case, Warm Hearts

It made it difficult for a girl to slide out from under his massive shadow. His legacy had followed her right into her recent job opportunity, working for one of her father’s best friends.

Chief John Booker, commander of the 5th Precinct.

And with everything inside her, she didn’t want to let Booker—or her father—down.

“How’s my Evie Bear,” her father said, holding his arms open. At six foot, her father wasn’t physically big, but he had a presence, a confidence that filled up the room. His auburn hair thinned on top, but at fifty-eight he was still lean, broad-shouldered and in shape. Nobody messed with Danny Mulligan.

“Dad, I’m twenty-six, I have a master’s degree and I own my own home. It’s just plain Eve.”

“Not to me.” He hopped up on the steps and pulled her into an embrace. “But I’ll keep it Eve on the job.”

“Dad—” She leaned away.

He grinned, his pale hazel-green eyes shiny with pride. “I was talking to Booker—he said you were one of his favorite crime scene rats. Can’t wait to have you work for him”

“I’m a full Crime Scene Investigator now, not a rat. I’m leaving the bagging of evidence to Silas.”

Her father opened the door, shooing her inside. “When are you going to date that young man? He’s got a clean record—I’ve done my homework.”

She shook her head. “He’s just a friend, Dad. It would be like dating my brother.”

“Evie!” Her mother came from the kitchen, wearing an apron, a pair of jeans, her dark red hair tumbling out from a headband. “I was hoping you’d stop by!” She kissed her daughter, then headed for Dad, who pulled her close. “Thank God, you’re home.”

Her father kissed her forehead. “Always, Bets.”

Eve stepped away, into the kitchen. A year ago, her mother had declared war on the wall between the kitchen and their family room in the 1920s farmhouse—one of the original homesteads on Lake Minnetonka—and taken a sledge to the wall. To which her father and younger brother, Samson, finished demolishing, then took out the entire kitchen for a remodel.

Now, Eve grabbed a mug from the cupboard, poured herself a cup of coffee, black, then turned and stole a muffin from the plate on the long island that overlooked the family room and dining area. She paused, gazing through the massive wall of windows to the rippling blue of Lake Minnetonka. A beautiful morning, uncluttered by clouds. Not a hint of trouble on the horizon.

If her mother hadn’t been a Hubbard by birth, they wouldn’t have had a hope of this view, the legacy property valued into the multi-digit millions. But Eve had only figured that out recently, during her house hunt.

She’d scored a bungalow fixer-upper in St. Louis Park with a view of the back alleyway.

But soon to have a new kitchen, starting with the tile and hopefully, running water. “Bro!” Eve directed her words toward Samson, sitting at the table nursing a cup of coffee. He wore a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt, a baseball cap on backwards, his golden brown hair poking out the back, clearly on his way to work.

“Could you please explain to me why I found a strange man in my kitchen this morning?”

Samson raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know what you did last night?—”

“Samson!” This from her mother. “That’s not appropriate.”

Samson grinned and Eve wanted to throw her muffin at him. “A plumber, okay? He shut off the water. I was in the shower.”

He made a face, wrinkled his nose. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize Chuck would be there that soon.”

“Well he was, and frankly he’s lucky I didn’t shoot him.”

“Shoot who?” her father said, coming into the room. He’d locked up his gun, toed off his shoes, and now reached for a cup of coffee.

The blood drained, just a little, from Sam’s face.

“Nothing, Dad,” Eve said, but walked over to the table. “However, I also found this at the scene of the crime.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a sample of the tiny square sea-blue glass tiles she’d found last night in boxes on her counter. “I thought we’d talked about installing subway tile.”

Samson, the inconsiderate jerk, had inherited the blue eyes of her mother, the build of their father, and enough charm thatcame from being the middle child to make him dangerous to her girlfriends, despite being five years younger than her. His smile contained a sort of homing beacon for trouble—hence his inability to stay in college. But he could swing a hammer, lay tile and frankly, he might have found his calling as a re-modeler.

If he could explain the tile.

“It looks better with your white cupboards, sis. All that dark wood on the island and the floor, you want something that pops, and I’m sorry, the subway tile sucks.”

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