Marge brought her coffee and two apple cider doughnuts.
“You’re the best.” Bree bit into a doughnut.
“I know.” Marge smiled. “Investigator Ash is in the conference room. He’s already talked to the deputies involved with the incident. I gave him coffee and a doughnut. He’ll keep until you’re ready.”
Bree washed the rest of the first doughnut down with coffee. “Would you send Morgan Dane back when she gets here?”
“I will.” Marge turned toward the door.
As she left, Matt walked in, holding Jim Rogers’s puppy in one arm.
“So, that’s where you’ve been.” Bree reached out and stroked the puppy.
“Until someone decides who gets her, she needs to be taken care of.”
Of course he would think of the dog.
“Have you talked to Ash yet?” Bree asked.
Matt nodded. “All done. I kept it basic.”
A minute later, someone knocked on Bree’s doorway. Morgan Dane peered inside.
Bree stood. “Let’s get this done.” Anxious to put the interview behind her, she led the way to the conference room.
“Stick to the facts,” Morgan said as they walked. “If a question isn’t relevant to the case or last night’s incident, don’t answer it.”
They entered the conference room. Phillip Ash was a big, bald man. His suit slacks and dress shirt showed the wrinkles of a long night. Rolled-up sleeves highlighted Popeye forearms.
Bree introduced herself and Morgan, and then they took seats facing Ash across the table.
Morgan folded her hands. “You have Sheriff Taggert’s written statement.”
Ash nodded. “This is a simple debriefing.”
Despite his words, Bree needed to be on her toes. Morgan clearly didn’t trust him. They had that in common.
“Describe the events leading up to last night’s boat chase.” Ash leaned on the table.
Bree listed the highlights. “My written statement is more detailed.”
“You’d passed the murder off to BCI,” Ash said. “Why didn’t you also hand off the search of Stephanie Crighton’s house?”
“My deputy’s life was in danger. Exigent circumstances.” Bree would be very happy never to utter those words again.
Ash narrowed his eyes. “Would you elaborate on that statement? Did you receive any indication that your deputy was in immediate danger?”
“My deputy had been beaten and kidnapped.” Bree kept her answers short, but it annoyed the hell out of her that she was being treated like anything short of a law enforcement officer. Ash’s ego was in a knot because she hadn’t reported to him before going after Todd.
Too bad.
A vein in Ash’s temple throbbed. “It didn’t occur to you that the kidnapping was tied to the double murder of Eugene Oscar and his mother?”
Bree said, “I was focused on finding my chief deputy.”
“But when you deduced that Stephanie Crighton was involved with both the murders and the abduction, you still didn’t see fit to notify BCI.” Ash’s dark brown eyes gleamed. What did he want? For her to admit she’d overstepped her authority? No fucking way. Ash wasn’t her boss.
She breathed and repeated, “I was focused on finding my chief deputy.” Then she added, “Alive.”
“You didn’t have time to make a single phone call?” Ash didn’t roll his eyes, but his voice was incredulous.
“No,” Bree said.
“What’s the point in this line of questioning?” Morgan asked. “The sheriff pursued and apprehended the people who beat and kidnapped her deputy. Because of her immediate response, Chief Deputy Harvey is still alive. That those same people also committed other crimes is irrelevant. Also”—Morgan gestured between Bree and Ash—“you’re both on the same side.”
Right? Then why did Bree feel like she was being interrogated?
“I’d like to discuss the actual case,” Bree said.
Ash drummed the table with his fingertips, frustration clamping his molars together. He rubbed two meaty hands down his face. Lifting his head, he sighed in resignation. “You’re right. We’re on the same side. Sometimes the politics of the department make us all forget that. I apologize.”
Bree sat back. She hadn’t expected him to own up to his missteps. “Apology accepted.”
“Thank you.” Ash opened his folder with a back to business vibe. “Some evidence came to light while you were sleeping.” He shuffled papers. “The blood on Bernard Crighton’s pants was his own.”