North Country(28)

I’ve taken my first bite of an apple spice muffin from the Landry Market when my admin clerk Jackie’s name shows up on my call display.

“Morning. What’s up?”

“Hi. There is a gentleman here to see you.”

I check the clock. My meeting starts in exactly eleven minutes. “Okay, take his information and tell him I’ll call him when I’m free—”

“It’s Brad Whitley.”

I sigh heavily. If I’d taken bets on this man showing up here within days of Logan’s release, I could have won some much-needed cash. “I thought you said ‘gentleman.’”

“He is insisting.” I can almost see Jackie’s owlish blue eyes. The crispness behind that single word means he’s being rude.

Normally I wouldn’t cater to this behavior, but the sooner I get him out of here, the better for all parties involved.

I pick at my breakfast and Jackie waits patiently for my response. “Bring him here but tell him he has five minutes.”

Thirty seconds later, Jackie’s curly bob appears at my door, gesturing the white-haired man in.

“Officer.” Brad shuts the door behind him before facing me.

My mouth is full of muffin, stopping me from correcting him. Not that there’s any point—the prick knows my rank and chooses to minimize it.

Brad drags out the vacant chair and settles his solid six-foot frame into it. He may be nearing eighty, but there is nothing frail or elderly about him. He still exudes the same strength and confidence that I remember shrinking away from inside the courtroom at Logan’s sentencing. “Good turnout at the fair this year, wouldn’t you agree?”

I swallow, my appetite lost. “It was. The weather helped.” Cold River hosts one of the oldest fall fairs in Northern Ontario every September and, as detachment commander, I’m required to stroll the grounds and greet people with a smile. It’s not a hardship. “Congrats to your granddaughter.” At sixteen, Hannah’s the youngest Harvest Queen crowned in forty years. Given she’s a direct descendant of George Whitley—for which the nearby town of Whitley is named after—she was all but guaranteed the win.

“Thank you. She worked hard for it.” His nod is resolute—no hint of doubt there. “Isla’s of age now, isn’t she? She should put her name in next year.”

“That’s an idea.” Isla wouldn’t be caught dead on that stage.

Brad smooths a palm over his cobalt blue button-down shirt. The man may have more wealth than anyone I’ve ever met, a lucky bastard twice over. His grandfather George opened one of the first mines in the area’s early-1900s silver rush and reaped handsome rewards until the industry dried up. When he passed, he left his vast fortune to his only son John, Brad’s father, with the expectation that he would provide adequately for his three sisters and their offspring.

Not one to sit idle, John founded Whitley Aggregates in the 1940s, employing his many nephews and nieces and his son Brad once he was old enough. Eventually, Brad took over, growing it to what it is today—a multimillion-dollar company with five pit and quarry locations and a topsoil farm. He’s earned himself several lucrative municipal tenders over the years.

Yet, with all that money, Brad’s wardrobe is a walking advertisement for Denver Hayes. There’s charm in that.

Unfortunately, it’s the only charm I’ve ever found in him.

“Big plans for Thanksgiving?” he asks, scratching at the fine layer of white bristle coating his chin, the sound cutting into my quiet office.

“Nothing big. It’s just Isla and me.” Which he knows, and he can probably guess that I usually join the Landrys for dinner. Annie extended the invitation again this year, but I’ve been too much of a coward to accept it yet. “What can I do for you today?” Because he sure as hell didn’t come here to talk about fall fairs and turkey, and it doesn’t take a genius to guess his motivation.

“Logan Landry is home.”

Good. No more wasting time on small talk. “He is.”

He picks at a piece of lint on his sleeve. “You don’t sound concerned.”

“You think I should be?” Has he heard about the window-smashing event yet? I spoke to Jenny yesterday, and it went as well as I expected, with no accountability, a whiff of accusation for my parenting or lack thereof, and a suggestion that perhaps it isn’t safe for Holly to visit our house anymore.

“You tell me. He went to jail for killing two of your father’s officers.”

I bite my tongue against the urge to correct him. Defending Logan won’t do me any favors. Besides, Brad knows the case file as well as anyone else.

“Jessica is beside herself. Can’t sleep at night, knowing the violent criminal who helped kill her husband—my son—is in our community, free as a bird.”

I lean back in my chair. “I don’t know that I would use that description.”

“What? Violent?” Brad’s bushy gray eyebrows arch. “Don’t you know what he did to that other inmate?”

“After the guy stabbed him? Yes, I’m well aware, and I don’t think Jessica has anything to worry about.” Unless she plans on trying to kill him. “Besides, Logan Landry is on parole, with restrictions. He’s checking in regularly. I imagine he’ll be on his best behavior.”