“You got more out of her than I did.”
“She’s an easy read, and she’s a very nice girl—still a girl, but not a mean one. Neither she nor Liam will give each other a second thought when she moves to Chicago next month.”
“No, they won’t.”
“You and Jake, on the other hand, give each other a lot of thoughts.”
“More than I wanted to, until I did. For a cop, his edges are pretty damn smooth, and end up smoothing mine.”
“Plus, if you’ll excuse me for noticing, he’s got a great ass.”
“He does. It’s hard not to notice. Okay,” she said when Morgan pulled the cobbler out of the warming oven, “that looks great. Just like my mother’s.”
“She step-by-stepped me. Yours looks great. What is it?”
“Cherry Dump Cake—don’t be put off by the name. You dump cake mix over cherries, add a little this and that. Bake it, and done.”
“I could do that. I could actually do that.”
“I’ll text it to you. Are those … those are coffee ice cubes? That’s brilliant. Give me one.”
Morgan obliged her, and Nell sucked it like a popsicle. “God, I could mainline these. Why didn’t I ever think of doing this? I’ll get the desserts. You deal with the coffee.”
Successful desserts led to lingering before the good-nights. Stars swept across the sky when Morgan sat out with Miles.
“How’s that hump?” he asked her.
“Smooth and level, thanks. It was fun. Was it fun?”
“It was. Even the new and soon-to-be-forgotten girl had fun. You could have squashed that for her. You didn’t.”
“She didn’t mean to be critical. She was surprised. It never occurred to her a grown woman—several years older than she is—would choose to live with her mother, much less her grandmother. Liam obviously didn’t fill her in.”
“It’s your business, not hers, so no, he wouldn’t.”
“I appreciate that. And I appreciate you putting up with me today. I know I was a pain in the ass.”
“Yeah, you were.” He liked her quick, easy laugh. “You should make it up to me.”
“I can try. What did you have in mind?”
“What I had in mind this morning when you were too busy being a pain in my ass.”
“I see.” She rose, then straddled him on the chair. “I guess it’s the least I can do.”
“It won’t be the least when we’re finished.”
He rose with her so she linked her long legs around his waist. “We should call the dog in.”
“He has to finish his last patrol. He knows how to get in when he’s ready.”
“Can we do this again sometime?”
“Absolutely not,” he said as he carried her inside, “if I have to fold napkins.”
“You can be excused from that duty.”
“In that case, I’ll give you a chance to persuade me.”
“Miles.” She nuzzled at the side of his neck, sparked little fires in his blood. “You’re so good to me.”
He intended to be.
Chapter Twenty-six
Ten days after Gavin Rozwell left a crappy motel room to drive into the rain-soaked dark, Beck and Morrison worked in a less crappy motel room while rain pounded the night.
They’d pinned maps on the walls, marked trails they’d followed, trails local PDs and staties had followed. They’d highlighted confirmed sightings in red, possibles in yellow.
Along with the maps, they had photos and descriptions of stolen vehicles they’d traced to Rozwell, separated them into recovered and not recovered.
They had photos of the last motel room in Oregon, statements from the not-very-interested desk clerk, statements from the goggling-with-interest waitress who’d served him the fried chicken special in the rinky-dink diner squatting beside the motel.
They had the statement of the clerk at the Quick Mart—who’d smelled of pot and despair—where Rozwell had bought a six-pack of Coke Zero, a family-size bag of salt-and-vinegar potato chips, and half a dozen Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.
They had the rattletrap Ford pickup, flat tire, no spare—with his prints all over it—abandoned on a back road outside of Fall City, Washington. And the description of a Dodge Ram reported stolen from a driveway less than half a mile from the Ford.
All leads pointed north.
“We tracked him back to the motel outside of Alpine in Oregon because of the mini-mart stop. Got him on camera there.”