Page 43 of The Harborer
He invited her to have a seat and scooted out a chair for himself.
She crossed her arms instead and leaned her back against the counter top. “That bad?”
In her eyes, he could see that the day had taken its toll. Usually her expressions were so open, so guileless, but a wariness lurked there instead, and it stirred up an unsettled sensation in his gut that he shoved back down.
Pushing the empty chair back under the table, he filled her in on most of what Chesterton had told him, leaving out details about the packet’s contents. Instead, he referred to it vaguely as “suspected contraband.”
“What kind of ‘contraband’? Are we talking unmarked bags of coffee beans? Bootlegged CDs? Black-market cigarettes?” The caution from moments ago was replaced by amusement that flickered in her espresso depths. She wasn’t taking this seriously.
“Not that tame.”
She shot to fully standing, her arms swinging free at her sides, her eyes saucer-sized. “Drugs?”
Was it suspicious that her next guess had jumped straight to drugs? He braced his palms on the counter behind him, going for a casual stance as he redirected the conversation. “A witness reported the person leaving your parking lot drove a beige pickup. Do you have any idea who might have a vehicle fitting that description?”
She shook her head, surprise clearly etched in her features. “No. Did they actually come out of my store?”
“Don’t know. All we know is that the vehicle was parked in your lot, and it left from there. Engine could have been off while it sat, or it could have been idling.”
“So it could have beenanybodypulling over. Maybe they stopped to check a text or rearrange stuff in their car. They could have picked a totally rando place to park.” Her voice had slid up to a higher pitch. “They could have pulled intothisparking lot to do whatever they were doing.” She pointed toward her kitchen window, which looked out on the Vogue Vault’s back lot, the dirt alleyway, and the park beyond, though right now the view was shrouded by the night’s jet-black blanket.
If she’d had security cameras set up at her place and tape he could review, he might have been able to answer these questions swirling between them. He and Charlie had spec’ed out her place today—for real this time—and Charlie had put in a rush order for the gear. He’d been told it would arrive in Durango sometime tomorrow. Shane had taken the opportunity to look for the map in her office, but he didn’t find it in its hiding place behind the bookshelf.
He gave her a nod. “True, anyone could have.” What had Chesterton said?“I’m not a big believer in coincidences.”Neither was Shane.
Amy stalked from the kitchen without a word and yanked a coat off a peg hanging beside the front door.
He was right on her heels. “Where are you going?”
“I need to get into the store right now and make sure nothing’s been disturbed.” Her movements were jerky, a manifestation of the adrenaline no doubt flooding her bloodstream, yet determination blazed in her eyes.
“I’m coming with you. We’ll take my truck.”
Minutes later, they stood outside the back door to Mountain Coffee. She hesitated, her head tilting this way and that. He pulled out his penlight and shone it on the lock, thinking she couldn’t see to insert the key.
“I don’t think the deadbolt’s engaged,” she said. “I don’t see that silver bar that’s usually in place.”
“Hang on. Don’t touch anything.” He trotted over to his truck, pulled out his last pair of nitrile gloves, and snapped them on. Then he was back at the door, gently squeezing the knob. It didn’t move. “It’s locked. Hand me your key.” He slid in the key she gave him and, using his free hand, slowly turned the knob. The door drew open easily. No deadbolt. “Are you sure you—”
“Yes,” she snapped. “I’m positive I locked the deadbolt. With everything going on around here lately, I make sure to check it at least three times before I walk away.”
“I believe you, but I had to ask.” He offered her a sympathetic smile, but it did nothing to thaw the icy set of her face. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going in first, and you’re going to tell me which light switches to turn on. You’re going to stick close behind me, and you’re not going to touch anything. Got it?”
“Got it, Mr. Deputy.”
He crept through the shop, flicking on switches as she gave him instructions. They prowled the space together, her eyes sweeping for anything out of place while he scanned for other oddities.
When their search was complete, her shoulders seemed to sag with relief. “It looks the same as the way I left it.”
“Except the deadbolt.”
She nodded. “Except the—Wait. I forgot to check one other area.” She approached the back of the counter, where she dipped down, carefully pinning her hands to her sides so she didn’t touch anything. She glanced over her shoulder. “Do you still have that flashlight?” He handed it to her, and she moved the beam over a row of bins arranged beneath.
Bringing herself upright, she handed him the light. “Remember me telling you about my bins getting rearranged?” He nodded. “Shine your flashlight over them. What do you see?”
He did as she instructed. “I see … lidless white bins. Some hold little packets of sugar, some have fake sugar, some hold plastic utensils. They’re all in a neat row, except for maybe this one on the end.” He waved the beam up and down over the bin in question.
“Exactly. It’s not in line with the rest.” When he didn’t respond, she continued. “They hook together, so that one shouldn’t be skewed like that. And another thing. I arrange them in alphabetical order. They’re out of order.”
