The Secret of Cherokee Cove. Paula Graves

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СКАЧАТЬ what I’m here for,” Nix said.

      Her eyes narrowed. “And to keep an eye on Laney while he’s unconscious?”

      He should have known she’d figure it out. “That’s my guess.”

      She pushed out of her slump. “I haven’t said ‘thanks.’”

      “For what? Putting on the brakes in time to keep from smashing into the wreck?”

      “For taking the initiative to go look for him in the first place.”

      “If I hadn’t, someone else would have.” He nodded toward her. “You were already thinking about it, weren’t you?”

      “Just say ‘you’re welcome.’”

      He felt a smile crack his face. “You’re welcome.”

      The smile she shot back at him came complete with shiny white teeth and a set of dimples that took ten years off her age. “I don’t suppose you could give me directions back to Bitterwood?”

      He pulled out his notebook and sketched a quick map for her. “Where are you staying?”

      “I told Doyle I’d stay at his place. It’s closer than my hotel.”

      He wondered if that was a good idea. If someone had gone after Doyle’s truck, they might have booby-trapped his house, too.

      “I’ll be careful,” she said, correctly interpreting his expression. She was better at reading him than she had a right to be. He’d often prided himself on being inscrutable.

      “Okay.” He pointed at the map. “This is Old Purgatory Road. Here’s the bridge. Cross the bridge and go about a mile past Smoky Joe’s Saloon, then take a right on Laurel Road. The chief’s house is at the end of the road. Can’t miss it.”

      She waved the sketch at him. “Nice map. Thanks again.”

      He almost shrugged off her thanks, but remembering her earlier admonition, he put on his best “plays well with others” face and said, “You’re welcome. Again.”

      Ah, there came the dimples. Worth the price of admission.

      She passed a pair of new arrivals on the way out, speaking to them quietly before she left. It took Nix a second to place them—Natalie and J. D. Cooper, the chief’s friends from Alabama. The redhead nodded a greeting and sat across from Nix in the seat Dana had just vacated. Her husband settled in the chair beside her.

      “Detective Nix, right?” Natalie asked by way of a greeting.

      Nix nodded.

      “Have you seen Doyle since he arrived here?”

      “Just briefly when he came in.”

      “Any idea what caused the accident?”

      Nix wasn’t sure he was authorized to comment on what was now an ongoing investigation.

      Apparently his poker face needed more work than he realized, for Natalie’s brow furrowed. “It wasn’t an accident, was it?”

      Nix cleared his throat. “I can’t really comment.”

      Natalie and her husband exchanged looks. “We’ll just ask Doyle and he’ll tell us.”

      “That may be,” Nix agreed. “But that’s between the chief and you.”

      Natalie’s eyes flashed with irritation, but her husband put a hand on her arm. His touch seemed to settle her. “Fair enough,” she said finally. “How did he look when you saw him?”

      “Kind of a bloody mess,” Nix admitted. “Had a gash on the side of his head that needed stitches, but Doyle said he hadn’t lost consciousness, so it looks like the worst of his injuries will be a broken leg.” The chief’s condition was really more than Nix should have shared with the Coopers, but given his reticence on the nature of the accident, he decided it wouldn’t hurt to share a little news that they could get with a phone call to Dana Massey. She hadn’t told them about the brake tampering on her way out, however, so he’d keep that information to himself.

      “He’s a good guy. A good cop,” Natalie said, her tone a little defensive.

      “Yes, ma’am,” Nix agreed.

      Her eyes narrowed at his polite tone, but if she thought he was patronizing her, she didn’t say so. He wasn’t, really. The chief was a good guy and, despite his jovial, laid-back management style, he’d already proved himself to be a good cop.

      Whether being a good guy and a good cop would be enough to unravel decades of bad practices, indifference and systematic corruption at the Bitterwood P.D. was a question that had yet to be answered.

      * * *

      DOYLE’S NEW HOME turned out to be a two-story log cabin nestled in a small, wooded hollow at the end of Laurel Road. It looked like one of those fancy tourists’ cabins you could find a dime a dozen in the Smokies, with names like Eagle’s Nest, Black Bear Lodge and Creekview. A large gravel parking area in front of the house suggested that at one time, at least, the cabin had been used for that very purpose.

      A wide wooden porch with rustic log rails spanned the front of the house. After retrieving her suitcase and overnight bag from the trunk of her Chevy, she climbed the three shallow steps to the porch and pulled the keys Doyle had given her from the pocket of her jacket.

      Seconds from sliding the key into the lock, she heard a noise from inside the cabin.

      She fumbled behind her back for her Glock 17 and remembered, with frustration, that she’d packed it in her overnight bag, not wanting to be armed at her brother’s engagement party. Setting the bag down as quietly as she could, she crouched and worked open the side zipper, where she’d put her empty Glock and a pair of loaded magazines. Sliding the magazine into the Glock, she chambered a round and tried the door.

      Unlocked.

      Suddenly, the door flew open. With her hand still on the knob, she overbalanced and staggered through the opening, slamming face-first into something hard and alive.

      Whoever hit her kept moving, shoving backward. Wheeling her arms to regain her balance bought her only enough time to hit the log rail with her shoulders instead of the back of her head, not that it saved her much in the way of pain. The crack of bone against wood sent painful tingles shooting down both arms, and the Glock bounced away from her suddenly nerveless fingers, skittering across the porch. The back of her head scraped against the second rail as she hit her tailbone with a jarring thud.

      She scrambled for the dropped weapon, but by the time she closed her hands around the grip, the two dark figures running away across the front yard entered the woods and disappeared almost immediately into the gloom.

      Grimacing with pain, she sat up and assessed her condition. She’d have a big bruise across her shoulders in the morning and a lump on the back of her head. Plus, she’d broken a heel on a brand-new pair of shoes. But it could have been much worse.

      She could СКАЧАТЬ