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Authors: P. J. Alderman
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to school with them. The question was whether she'd be up front with him about whom she recognized. Or whether she'd lie.
The knuckles on the hand that held her coffee mug whitened. She was staring at the photo on her far left.
"See something?" he asked.
She started, almost as if she'd forgotten he was there. He smothered a grin of self-deprecation—here he couldn't seem to keep his eyes off her, and she didn't even remember he was in the room. Not good for the ego.
"These guys are all fishermen," she said abruptly, pointing to another of the photos and reeling off several names that he managed to jot down on the back of the envelope. "You'll recognize some of them from the tavern last night."
"And none of them were at the mooring basin when you arrived," he clarified, forcing himself to concentrate on the business at hand.
"No, I told you, the marina was deserted."
He propped a boot on top of one of the claw-foot legs of the table, cocking his head while he studied her body language. She was holding back on him, dammit. "But you recognized someone else just now," he pushed. When she didn't respond, he rubbed a hand over his chin. He knew he had no right, at this point, to expect her to trust or confide in him, but it rankled, just the same. "Ms. Jorgensen—"
"I thought I might've recognized someone, but I was mistaken."
"Withholding information in a criminal investigation is a prosecutable offense."
Her jaw set. "There's no one in these photos that I consider capable of arson or murder."
He leaned forward, picked up the photo she'd been staring at and tossed it directly in front of her. "Leave the judgments up to the authorities—tell me who you saw."
Her soft brown eyes flashed at him. "I saw no one."
He waited her out, using the silence to try to unnerve her. The phone rang shrilly, startling both of them. She got up to answer it, but whoever it was must've hung up.
Michael picked up the photos and carefully stacked them. "I understand that you want to protect your brother," he said, giving her time to reconsider, "but it's unnecessary. If he didn't do it, I'll find out who did."
"Maybe, maybe not."
He started to snap at her, then sighed. "Look, if you're worried that I don't conduct thorough investigations, then let me set your mind at ease. I don't jump to false conclusions—I let the evidence tell the truth."
"I only have your word on that," she pointed out, sitting back down. "And frankly, I'm worried about your hidden agendas."
"I don't have any hidden agendas," he said, letting his voice reflect his irritation. "Although from what I've seen so far, everyone else in this town does. I'd say that you're engaging in a bit of psychological transference, wouldn't you?"
Kaz stiffened. Even as her temper spiked, a part of her—the part that had spent ten years in corporate political battles—was impressed. He knew when to bide his time and when to go for the jugular. His interrogation skills were excellent. She would be wise not to underestimate him.
"You could've had Lucy return the clothes," she parried. "The harbormaster could've answered any other questions you have. You just wanted another shot at me, didn't you?"
A muscle ticked in his jaw. "We're on the same side," he pointed out. "We both want to catch whoever did this."
"That remains to be seen."
His intense gaze never wavered. "Talk to me about the financial aspects of the fishing business."
Frowning, she got up to refill their mugs. And to stall. "What do you want to know? It's a tough business—it always has been."
"Are the marine stocks depleted out here the same way they are on the East Coast?"
"Yes." What was he getting at? "But the government just announced a buyout plan that, along with a reduction in fishing licenses, allows some fishermen to exit gracefully."
"Is your business profitable?"
She shrugged. "Historically, some years yes, some no." Then she clued in. "If you're trying to imply that Gary or I would set fire to
The knuckles on the hand that held her coffee mug whitened. She was staring at the photo on her far left.
"See something?" he asked.
She started, almost as if she'd forgotten he was there. He smothered a grin of self-deprecation—here he couldn't seem to keep his eyes off her, and she didn't even remember he was in the room. Not good for the ego.
"These guys are all fishermen," she said abruptly, pointing to another of the photos and reeling off several names that he managed to jot down on the back of the envelope. "You'll recognize some of them from the tavern last night."
"And none of them were at the mooring basin when you arrived," he clarified, forcing himself to concentrate on the business at hand.
"No, I told you, the marina was deserted."
He propped a boot on top of one of the claw-foot legs of the table, cocking his head while he studied her body language. She was holding back on him, dammit. "But you recognized someone else just now," he pushed. When she didn't respond, he rubbed a hand over his chin. He knew he had no right, at this point, to expect her to trust or confide in him, but it rankled, just the same. "Ms. Jorgensen—"
"I thought I might've recognized someone, but I was mistaken."
"Withholding information in a criminal investigation is a prosecutable offense."
Her jaw set. "There's no one in these photos that I consider capable of arson or murder."
He leaned forward, picked up the photo she'd been staring at and tossed it directly in front of her. "Leave the judgments up to the authorities—tell me who you saw."
Her soft brown eyes flashed at him. "I saw no one."
He waited her out, using the silence to try to unnerve her. The phone rang shrilly, startling both of them. She got up to answer it, but whoever it was must've hung up.
Michael picked up the photos and carefully stacked them. "I understand that you want to protect your brother," he said, giving her time to reconsider, "but it's unnecessary. If he didn't do it, I'll find out who did."
"Maybe, maybe not."
He started to snap at her, then sighed. "Look, if you're worried that I don't conduct thorough investigations, then let me set your mind at ease. I don't jump to false conclusions—I let the evidence tell the truth."
"I only have your word on that," she pointed out, sitting back down. "And frankly, I'm worried about your hidden agendas."
"I don't have any hidden agendas," he said, letting his voice reflect his irritation. "Although from what I've seen so far, everyone else in this town does. I'd say that you're engaging in a bit of psychological transference, wouldn't you?"
Kaz stiffened. Even as her temper spiked, a part of her—the part that had spent ten years in corporate political battles—was impressed. He knew when to bide his time and when to go for the jugular. His interrogation skills were excellent. She would be wise not to underestimate him.
"You could've had Lucy return the clothes," she parried. "The harbormaster could've answered any other questions you have. You just wanted another shot at me, didn't you?"
A muscle ticked in his jaw. "We're on the same side," he pointed out. "We both want to catch whoever did this."
"That remains to be seen."
His intense gaze never wavered. "Talk to me about the financial aspects of the fishing business."
Frowning, she got up to refill their mugs. And to stall. "What do you want to know? It's a tough business—it always has been."
"Are the marine stocks depleted out here the same way they are on the East Coast?"
"Yes." What was he getting at? "But the government just announced a buyout plan that, along with a reduction in fishing licenses, allows some fishermen to exit gracefully."
"Is your business profitable?"
She shrugged. "Historically, some years yes, some no." Then she clued in. "If you're trying to imply that Gary or I would set fire to
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