“I heard. She okay?”
Those green eyes landed on him and held. “Seems to be. Surprised us on the front porch yesterday morning. Got herself a broken arm from some fender bender. Looks tired, but who isn’t this far into winter?”
Brick grunted, swallowing the questions he had.
“That reminds me. Family dinner tonight. Seven o’clock. Be there.” Darlene started for the door. “And don’t bother telling me you’re too busy or you don’t want to intrude.”
Damn it. There went both his best excuses.
“I’ll be there,” he said.
“Good. Bring bourbon. Gil’s moved on to Manhattans,” she said over her shoulder. “And eat a damn pastry to wash down that shake. A man can only have so much discipline before it’s unhealthy.”
He settled in at his desk, a dented, green metal throwback that he’d grown attached to over the years. While his computer booted up, he downed half of his shake and fired off a text to Darius, knowing full well his partner at the bar wouldn’t be awake for a few hours yet.
Brick: Won’t be in tonight.
It wasn’t his night to work anyway. But he liked checking in. The more in tune he was with the bar, the fewer surprises there were.
Refusing to think about spending an entire evening across the table from Remi, Brick got to work. Wincing at the 10 a.m. slot on the department’s calendar, he logged Duncan’s accident, then perused the afternoon’s welfare checks. Community policing involved more “driving seniors to church on Sunday” tasks than chasing down criminals.
He enjoyed the adrenaline of the high-season with all the challenges one million tourists brought with them. But he preferred the winters when he felt he was doing his part, not just keeping the island safe, but making sure everyone had what they needed.
He plotted out a route for the welfare checks and found nothing pressing in his email inbox. By the time he hit the bottom of his shake, he’d run out of willpower.
With his gaze on the chief’s office, he typed the name he’d been trying his entire adult life to forget into the database and sat back while the engine populated results.
Remington Ford had five traffic violations. Not a surprise.
She’d also been arrested twice.
He’d known about the first. Hell, he’d been the one doing the arresting.
The second arrest was more recent. He skimmed the report. It stemmed from a protest in Philadelphia three years ago. The charges had been dropped. Also not surprising.
What did surprise him was the fact that there were zero motor vehicle accidents listed. An accident with injury warranted a report and a victim name.
He glanced toward the chief’s office again. Darlene was on the phone, boots propped on the desk as she shot the shit with a few members of the chamber of commerce on a Zoom call.
Since the boss was still busy and he was already looking, he decided to dig a little deeper. He expanded the search and skimmed the rest of the results.
Pay dirt.
Four days ago Remington Honeysuckle Ford, 30, was transported from an apartment in Chicago to the emergency department of St. Luke’s Hospital for a “severe asthma attack.” Edging closer to the screen, his elbow caught the empty shake bottle, sending it tumbling to the floor. Snatching it up, he shot a guilty look in Darlene’s direction then shifted his attention back to the monitor.
The emergency responder report ended there. Without a warrant, he wasn’t going to get anywhere with the hospital’s records department.
Had she passed out from the asthma attack and broken her arm in the fall? If so, who had been at her apartment to call 911? And why would she lie about a car accident?
The side door burst open, and Brick sent his shake bottle flying again.
God damn it. Less than two days on the island and the woman had already frayed his nerves.
“It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood,” sang Carlos Turk as he wandered into the bullpen, hands on his hips. The corporal was obnoxiously and permanently cheerful. Every day was beautiful. Every work shift was fun. Every burger was the best he’d ever eaten. It was hard to dislike a man for being happy all the time, but Brick still made the attempt.
“It’s fourteen degrees,” he countered.
“A beautiful fourteen degrees.” Carlos paused and gave Brick the once-over. “You look like shit, man.”
“Beautiful shit?”
“I wouldn’t go that far. Reasonably attractive shit?”
“Good enough. Pastries are in the break room,” Brick said, exiting out of his search. He’d worry on the problem later.
“You caffeinated enough for this morning?” Carlos asked, rubbing his palms together. “I believe it’s your turn to be the bad guy.”
The Styrofoam bat caught him mid-thigh as a six-year-old screeched for help.
“Nice work, Becky. Hit him again,” Carlos instructed cheerily from the sidelines.
Brick bit back a sigh as he monster-walked toward the little girl with lopsided pigtails.
She shrieked as she wound up then let the bat fly, hitting him in the gut.
He should have had that bear claw.
“Look, guys! He’s going down,” Carlos called, winking at the perky kindergarten teacher.
Taking his cue, Brick lumbered down to his knees and then slumped onto the floor, growling and moaning dramatically.
His partner blew the whistle as the rest of the dozen kindergarten and first graders erupted into cheers. “Now what do we do?” Carlos yelled over the din.
“Run away and go get help!” the kids shouted in delirium.
“Great job, kids,” the teacher said. “Now that we know how to handle stranger danger, who wants a snack?”
There was a small but terrifying stampede to the back of the room, where cookies and juice awaited.
Carlos helped Brick back on his feet. “Decent death scene. You’re really improving,” he said.
“Thanks,” Brick said dryly.
Becky skipped over to him and held up a napkin-wrapped cookie. “Thanks for letting me hit you real hard, Mr. Brick,” she said, showing off dueling dimples in her round cheeks.
He accepted the cookie. “Any time,” he said. “Thanks for the cookie.”
“You’re welcome,” she bellowed, beaming at him before sprinting back to the snacks.
Deciding he’d earned the sugar, he took a bite.
His cell phone rang in his pocket. He pulled it out and nearly dropped it and the cookie when he saw the screen.
Remi Ford.
“Yeah?” he answered gruffly.
“Brick, it’s Remi.”
“I know,” he said, sounding more exasperated than he’d intended. “What do you need?”
“Good morning to you, too, sunshine,” she said lightly. “I was wondering if you were using that room on the back of your place for anything?”
Once an accessible space for his wheelchair-bound grandfather, Brick now used the room to store horse and fishing gear.
“Not really,” he hedged.
“If you’re not using it, I was wondering if I could rent it from you.” Her words came out in a rush. Like bubbles in a glass of champagne. The cadence was so familiar it built an ache dead center in his chest.
“Uh.”