Read Online A Killing Tide by P. J. Alderman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: P. J. Alderman
Ads: Link
showered on that trip home. But he hadn't taken the time to shave. A day's growth of beard darkened his strong jaw line, making his pale gaze seem even more piercing by contrast.
Zeke collapsed at his feet with a moan, resting his chin on his paws. They both looked disgustingly relaxed and comfortable with their surroundings—a couple of confident males. Chapman's gaze was sharp, though, as was his dog's. The laid-back attitudes were a pose, meant to encourage her to relax her guard. She frowned and turned away to deal with the coffee.
Carrying the steaming mugs over to the table, she came to the point. "So why are you here?"
"I brought your clothes back. They're clean of accelerant."
"You didn't have them long enough to send them to a lab," she pointed out, taking a chair across from him and sipping from her mug.
"Zeke sniffed them. His nose is as good as any gas chromatograph, and he didn't find anything. I didn't see any reason to send them to the lab."
"So I'm no longer a suspect?"
One corner of Chapman's mouth quirked, drawing her gaze there. He had a very nice mouth, one that encouraged fantasies. And okay, she might need to revisit the whole Freudian dream-scenario issue. Then she realized the direction her thoughts were taking, and froze. My God. She wasn't actually attracted to the man, was she? How insane was that?
If he noticed her momentary distraction, he didn't comment on it, saying only, "It means I don't think you set the fire while you were wearing those clothes."
She barely managed to refrain from letting her impatience show.
He pulled a large manila envelope out of his jacket. "I'd like you to look at some pictures of the crowd from last night and tell me who you recognize. Whether you see anything out of the ordinary, like a boat moored in the wrong location, a car that isn't usually there—that sort of thing."
She sat up a little straighter, even more on guard. "Why don't you show them to the harbormaster?"
"I'm headed there next. But this is your community—you've known the fishermen for a couple of decades, at least."
"I only spend a couple of weeks here each year—I haven't lived here for the last ten years."
He waved a hand, overriding her objection. "You might notice something or someone that the harbor master wouldn't." Pulling the photos from the envelope, he spread them across the table. "Arsonists are pretty messed up in the head. Whoever did this might've hung around to watch."
So this was what he'd had Clint Jackson doing last night during the fire. Although still wary, Kaz was curious in spite of herself. She propped both elbows on the table and leaned forward.
Each photo had been taken to show a section of the crowd, and he'd arranged them on the table, from left to right, as she would've seen the crowd from where she'd been standing on the wharf. Sipping her coffee, she studied them one by one.
Michael leaned back, taking the opportunity to observe her. She looked exhausted, wrung out. Her hair hung in long, golden ropes down her back, still damp from her shower, and her face, stripped clean of any makeup, was still unnaturally pale. She wore a royal blue football jersey that was three sizes too large for her, jeans worn thin enough at the pressure points to have his imagination working overtime, and fluffy red wool socks.
She looked sexy as hell.
Don't go there. Focus on the job. Yeah, right.
He frowned. There were shadows under her eyes, and hollows beneath her cheekbones. Anxiety had stamped deep creases on either side of her mouth. She'd finally bandaged the burn on her hand—the stark whiteness of the gauze stood out in contrast to the angry, reddened skin. It bothered him more than he wanted to admit that she might be hurting.
She studied each photo, moving methodically from left to right, her concentration absolute. She might not have lived in town in recent years, but she had to know most of the people in the pictures. Odds were she'd grown up with them, gone
Zeke collapsed at his feet with a moan, resting his chin on his paws. They both looked disgustingly relaxed and comfortable with their surroundings—a couple of confident males. Chapman's gaze was sharp, though, as was his dog's. The laid-back attitudes were a pose, meant to encourage her to relax her guard. She frowned and turned away to deal with the coffee.
Carrying the steaming mugs over to the table, she came to the point. "So why are you here?"
"I brought your clothes back. They're clean of accelerant."
"You didn't have them long enough to send them to a lab," she pointed out, taking a chair across from him and sipping from her mug.
"Zeke sniffed them. His nose is as good as any gas chromatograph, and he didn't find anything. I didn't see any reason to send them to the lab."
"So I'm no longer a suspect?"
One corner of Chapman's mouth quirked, drawing her gaze there. He had a very nice mouth, one that encouraged fantasies. And okay, she might need to revisit the whole Freudian dream-scenario issue. Then she realized the direction her thoughts were taking, and froze. My God. She wasn't actually attracted to the man, was she? How insane was that?
If he noticed her momentary distraction, he didn't comment on it, saying only, "It means I don't think you set the fire while you were wearing those clothes."
She barely managed to refrain from letting her impatience show.
He pulled a large manila envelope out of his jacket. "I'd like you to look at some pictures of the crowd from last night and tell me who you recognize. Whether you see anything out of the ordinary, like a boat moored in the wrong location, a car that isn't usually there—that sort of thing."
She sat up a little straighter, even more on guard. "Why don't you show them to the harbormaster?"
"I'm headed there next. But this is your community—you've known the fishermen for a couple of decades, at least."
"I only spend a couple of weeks here each year—I haven't lived here for the last ten years."
He waved a hand, overriding her objection. "You might notice something or someone that the harbor master wouldn't." Pulling the photos from the envelope, he spread them across the table. "Arsonists are pretty messed up in the head. Whoever did this might've hung around to watch."
So this was what he'd had Clint Jackson doing last night during the fire. Although still wary, Kaz was curious in spite of herself. She propped both elbows on the table and leaned forward.
Each photo had been taken to show a section of the crowd, and he'd arranged them on the table, from left to right, as she would've seen the crowd from where she'd been standing on the wharf. Sipping her coffee, she studied them one by one.
Michael leaned back, taking the opportunity to observe her. She looked exhausted, wrung out. Her hair hung in long, golden ropes down her back, still damp from her shower, and her face, stripped clean of any makeup, was still unnaturally pale. She wore a royal blue football jersey that was three sizes too large for her, jeans worn thin enough at the pressure points to have his imagination working overtime, and fluffy red wool socks.
She looked sexy as hell.
Don't go there. Focus on the job. Yeah, right.
He frowned. There were shadows under her eyes, and hollows beneath her cheekbones. Anxiety had stamped deep creases on either side of her mouth. She'd finally bandaged the burn on her hand—the stark whiteness of the gauze stood out in contrast to the angry, reddened skin. It bothered him more than he wanted to admit that she might be hurting.
She studied each photo, moving methodically from left to right, her concentration absolute. She might not have lived in town in recent years, but she had to know most of the people in the pictures. Odds were she'd grown up with them, gone
Similar Books
