Taking her arm, he led her around the side of the building and into the alley. His bodyguards followed at a discreet distance, though they did little to ease her sudden nervousness. It was hardly safe to enter an alley with him, but then again, her thirst for answers overrode her sense of caution.
“Now tell me, Mrs. Longren, why you are asking about this?” Seavey asked once they were well away from passersby.
She debated how much to reveal. Seavey couldn’t be trusted, but she suspected he had knowledge of Charles’s affairs that no others were privy to. “Do you know whether Charles was involved in smuggling contraband on his ships?”
Seavey stared at her, his expression unreadable. “I suppose it’s possible. Precisely what do you know of smuggling activities concerned with Longren Shipping?”
“I’ll only say that I have in my possession evidence that leads me to believe Charles was involved in something illegal. You’re denying any personal involvement?”
He regarded her in silence, then shrugged. “I might bring in the odd box of cigars now and then, but I have no stomach for trafficking in humans.”
She frowned, unsure whether to believe him. “But human trafficking is occurring, is it not? Was Charles involved? Did he use your tunnels for that purpose?”
Seavey’s expression remained bland. “The tunnels run all along the waterfront, Mrs. Longren. I control only a small portion of them. Whoever is telling you this is either lying or has a personal reason to spread such rumors.”
“You’re prevaricating, Mr. Seavey. I strongly suspect you know more than you’re admitting.”
He merely shrugged. “I suggest you cease this avenue of inquiry. It’s an extremely dangerous one.”
“I can take care of myself,” she retorted, though she had no such confidence.
“I doubt that very much.” Seavey moved closer. “I have a proposition for you, Hattie. Protection in return for certain, shall we say, pleasurable ‘favors.’”
She took a step back, in the direction of the boardwalk, casting a glance behind her. “You must be mad—I would never agree to such an arrangement.”
He advanced a step for every one she retreated. “And why not?” he asked lightly. “You might find me to be very … entertaining.”
She raised her chin. “Hardly. I find you distasteful.”
“That’s most unfortunate.” Her back met the side of the building, and he closed the remaining gap between them, reaching out to run a gloved finger lightly down her jawline, causing her to shiver. “I would treat you very, very well—I can guarantee you pleasure beyond anything you experienced with Charles. And Charlotte would no longer need to worry about Greeley’s advances.”
He knew how to tempt her, knew that Charlotte was her Achilles’ heel. Nonetheless, the idea sickened her. “Please step back, Mr. Seavey. Your behavior is outrageous.”
He smiled. “I hope so.” But he acquiesced, stepping back with an exaggerated sigh. “Very well. But know this, Hattie—your time as a widow in mourning will soon come to an end. And you need my protection, whether or not you’ll admit as much.”
“I find your suggestion disgusting.”
He nodded. “I understand you’d view it as such. Nonetheless, you’d do well to consider my offer.”
“Never.” With the small amount of poise she had remaining, she stepped around him and exited the alley, her head held high.
* * *
As soon as she was out of sight, Michael’s two bodyguards silently appeared at his side.
“Find out who is spreading rumors about me,” he ordered. All charm had vanished. “I want a name by nightfall.”
Chapter 12
A few minutes before eleven the next morning, Jordan parked her car on the main street running through the heart of downtown Port Chatham. After shutting down the power to the Prius, she sat for a moment, gazing out the window.
Since her arrival, she hadn’t had the time to walk around the picturesque downtown district. Many of the buildings were more than a century old—three-story, imposing Victorian structures built of granite or brick with ornately decorated moldings around their windows and doors. At the street level, galleries and boutiques catering to tourists displayed an array of handmade gifts and custom clothing, while the floors above housed offices and residential apartments.
Given the frigid wind coming off the water, Jordan was surprised by the number of people crowding the sidewalks. Tourists shivered in shorts and sandals, warming their hands around cups of coffee while they window-shopped. Locals, dressed more practically in denim and flannel, cut through the crowds, walking purposefully with some destination in mind. Between the beautiful old buildings, she caught a glimpse of the ferry departing, and of fishing trawlers coming and going in the bay. The overall effect should have been quaint and charming, but the fact that she was about to face interrogation for murder lent a surreal atmosphere to the scene. Then again, pretty much everything seemed surreal to her at the moment.
She’d parked across the street from the police station, which was housed in a small, one-story, distressed-brick building that blended well with the historical feel of the business district. Three antique divided-light windows at the front of the building were filled with posters advertising community watch groups and outreach programs. A hand-painted white sign saying Police hung above the glass door. Flowers overflowed planters and hanging baskets, trees shaded the sidewalk, and wooden benches had been provided for those who wanted to rest their feet.
Was this the same building in which Hattie had visited Chief Greeley the morning after Frank’s attack? Jordan thought it very possible. She noted the windowless annex on the right side of the building. Had the prisoners Hattie had been forced to walk past been housed there? Did Darcy use that same space now to detain people who obstructed justice by withholding key information during the course of a murder investigation? Or would she simply allow Drake to slap cuffs on her and haul her back to L.A.?
Rolling her shoulders to ease tense muscles, Jordan once again pondered the enigma that was LAPD Homicide Detective Arnold Drake. People generally liked her, and they instantly felt comfortable confiding in her, a talent she’d put to good use as a therapist. However, Detective Drake appeared to be the exception. Beginning with his questioning the night of the accident, his enmity toward her couldn’t have been more obvious.
When she’d mentioned his reaction to Carol, her friend had written it off as a cop’s knee-jerk suspicion of the spouse in a murder investigation. But Jordan suspected Drake’s feelings ran deeper. She sensed she’d somehow touched off a long-buried resentment, and that his feelings related to a personal incident in his past.
Knuckles rapped on her window, jerking her out of her reverie. Jase stood on the sidewalk, dressed in pressed jeans and a button-down shirt—evidently Port Chatham’s version of professional attire. She opened the window.
“Getting up your courage?”
“Something like that.”
He opened her door and hunkered down. “I suppose it will only make things worse to tell you that you need to appear relaxed and confident. Cops are trained to note changes in breathing. He’ll know whether you’re nervous, and if you are, he’ll assume the worst.”
“Yeah, that helps—I’m thinking about throwing up now. How do ordinary citizens do this?”
He smiled, his gaze sympathetic. “Ordinary citizens don’t, typically. Most of the populace is law-abiding and has very little interaction with cops. Those who do come into contact with the police in this context are usually guilty.”