Tarnished just enough, she suspected, to enhance his appeal.
* * *
DARCY had somehow managed to save her chair from the boisterous crowd. The pub was now standing room only, the roar of laughter and clink of glasses loud enough that Jordan had to strain to hear Darcy. As many people were simply listening to the music as were purchasing drinks, though Jase didn’t seem to mind. Tom had decamped to stand with friends at the opposite end of the bar.
“So Ted Rawlins lives most of the year in L.A.?” Darcy asked.
Jordan gave her a questioning look. “As far as I know. Why?”
“Just curious how well you know him.”
The light dawned. “Ah, you think maybe I had a relationship with him, and that’s what I’m keeping quiet about? That Ryland and I were both into kink with our patients? No way.”
“Then why is the actress sending you death rays?”
“She probably still feels threatened by my presence, given that she dated Ryland before the divorce was finalized,” Jordan replied. She cocked her head. “You have an overly suspicious mind.”
“Comes with the territory. I spent five years in the Minneapolis PD as a homicide detective, so I’m more jaded than most.”
That certainly explained Darcy’s fair coloring—the upper Midwest was heavily populated with Scandinavians. Still, Jordan was surprised. “I thought you were a local.”
“Nope. I’ve been here eight years, which in the locals’ eyes still makes me a newcomer. You’d be amazed by the number of folks in this town who have a past life.” Darcy cocked her head toward the bar. “Bill, for instance, used to be a Wall Street trader. And Tom was a tenured professor at the University of Washington; he taught chemistry.”
Jordan raised her eyebrows. “And he now paints for a living?”
Darcy shrugged. “People around here tend to value quality of life over money.”
Jordan wanted to ask whether Jase was one of them, but she didn’t want to reveal her curiosity.
“Lawyer.” Darcy read her mind with uncanny accuracy. “I’ll let him give you the lowdown, though.”
Jordan picked up a piece of bread and nibbled while she chewed on that new little tidbit of information. She never would’ve pegged Jase for a lawyer—he was far too laid back.
“Have you at least mentioned other possible suspects to Detective Drake?” Darcy asked, bringing the conversation back around.
“I gave him a few names.” Jordan had mentioned Didi’s, and she’d also supplied the names of ex-patients who had sued Ryland for sexual harassment.
“That so? I requested a copy of the case file, which arrived this afternoon, and from what I’ve read, Drake may not be investigating anyone else.”
Jordan refrained from comment, and Darcy shook her head, leaning over so that her voice wouldn’t carry. “Look, I know I’m just another cop in your eyes, but unless you really did kill the jerk, I’m not the enemy. Cutting the brake lines on a car takes knowledge and advance planning—in other words, it’s a premeditated act. I’ve spent enough time on the force to know a murderer when I see one, and you aren’t the type. Hell, even if you had lost your temper and felt like killing the son of a bitch, I figure you would’ve simply yelled at him to get counseling.” Darcy paused. “No offense.”
“None taken,” Jordan said faintly.
“So if you want my help with this, ask, dammit.”
“Thanks,” she said, surprised and touched, and also feeling more than a little guilty for continuing to withhold information from her.
Darcy nodded as if that settled it. “Now, are you gonna let me help solve Hattie’s murder or not?”
Jordan smiled. “How about nightly updates?”
* * *
FOR the next few hours, Jordan listened to music and helped Jase when needed. Twice, she asked the man up front whether he wanted a fresh drink, since he hadn’t touched his whiskey. Both times, he turned her down with only slightly more than a grunt. She’d been tempted to ask him to produce his badge, but in the end, she decided to leave him alone and ignore the itch he gave her between her shoulders.
By midnight, she was feeling the effects of the lack of sleep from the night before. She woke up the dog, collected the box of diaries, and headed out the door, yawning.
Half a block from the tavern, though, Stilwell suddenly materialized out of the shadows, blocking her path. The dog leapt between them, growling. Setting the box on the pavement, Jordan placed a hand on his collar, surreptitiously glancing around to see whether she could count on help from any passersby.
Stilwell caught her action and grinned, obviously enjoying her discomfort. He tossed her a book with a cracked binding held together with string. She fumbled, almost dropping it, scrambling to protect the fragile pages.
“That’s all I got from the family,” he said with a shrug. “I figure you owe me one now. I’ll decide how and when to collect.”
“Thanks,” she said, ignoring his innuendo. “This will be a great help.” She stepped back, pulling the dog with her.
He shifted to block her escape. “What do you want it for, anyway?”
“Just some research I’m doing about the town back when my house was built,” she replied, leaving out any specifics. “I’ll make sure this gets back to you in a few days or so. All right?”
He shrugged and turned to go. “Makes no difference to me whether I ever get it back.” With that, he disappeared into the night as quickly as he’d appeared.
Jordan stood on the sidewalk, frowning after him, willing her pulse to return to normal. He’d just tossed a rare document at her that might well be worth a significant sum of money. In her experience, only the strongest of emotions overrode greed in a man like Stilwell. So why had he been so cavalier about parting with the book? And she had the oddest feeling that he was overplaying a part, trying too hard to make everyone think he was the baddest of bad boys.
She shook her head. On the other hand, she was functioning on only a few hours of sleep, so she probably shouldn’t be willing to attribute altruistic motives to the man’s actions.
The small spurt of adrenaline caused by his appearance seeped away, leaving her even more exhausted. She took several deep breaths, then leaned down to place Stil-well’s packet on top of the box and pick both up. “Time to go home, boy.”
By the time she got the dog settled in the back of the car, her responses were so sluggish that she wondered whether she should drive the three blocks to her house. But even though every muscle in her body ached, the lingering uneasiness from the encounter with Stilwell had her eyes wide open.
Enough so that on the way home, she made a detour to an all-night grocery on the edge of downtown, to buy some groceries and the latest issue of Vanity Fair.
Chapter 9
BY seven the next morning, Jordan was wide awake and twitching inside her sleeping bag, her overactive brain no longer willing to let her linger in that pleasantly relaxed state between deep sleep and fully alert. She pushed her arms out of the sleeping bag—a feat, since the dog, who seemed to have gotten over his unwillingness to enter the bedroom, was plastered along her right side, pinning her. Luxuriating in a jaw-cracking yawn, she stretched to relieve the stiffness caused by two nights on a hard floor.
She paused, arms over her head, frowning. Actually, her sleep hadn’t been deep or relaxed. She’d dreamt of the incidents leading up to Hattie’s murder, one of those god-awful frustration dreams in which the more she’d learned, the further she’d been from discovering the killer’s identity. She’d watched herself pace through the deep gloom of the library, pausing to read excerpts from diaries and memoirs, then wearing new tracks in the Aubusson carpet as she puzzled over the clues to the writers’ psyches she found hidden in every line of text.