Shelter in Place (Page 69)

“That’s how it should be. What are you doing, Simone? You’re creating a memorial. You’re working on the heart and the soul, honoring the dead, comforting those they left behind. That’s a job, too, but it’s not just a job. That’s your mission.”

“I’m pretty late in getting to it.”

“So what?”

“You’re awfully good for me,” she stated. “That scares the crap out of me.”

“I’m going to get even better for you, so you’ll either get used to it or live scared.” He picked up their plates, took them to the sink.

“Will you talk to me about your work? Like, how you believe Patricia Hobart’s going to try to kill one of the survivors who’s moved south. The two in Florida are top of your list.”

“It’s what I think, and mostly a hunch. The problem is hundreds of people survived. She’s got a lot to choose from. I will talk to you about it, and you’ll talk to me about your work. But not tonight.

“Did you check in with CiCi?”

“I did. You got a woo and a hoo.”

“She’ll probably never make hot, sweet love with me now.” He turned around. “I guess I have to settle for you.”

She cocked her head. “There’s a gorgeous Italian cellist in Florence named Dante with whom I made hot, sweet love many times. And could again. But since I’m not in Florence, I guess I have to settle for you.”

“That’s a solid snap back. I did promise you more sex.”

“You did.”

“I’m a man of my word.”

He held out a hand. She took it.

Reed managed a couple hours of sleep before a bright, blustery dawn. He told Simone to sleep and stay as long as she wanted before he headed out with a to-go cup of coffee and an I-had-a-lot-of-sex spring to his step.

He walked, despite the icy patches and slick mud, because he wanted to survey storm damage. He saw plenty of downed branches and hefty limbs—but no trees as unlucky as Curt’s.

Needed some cleanup, he decided. He’d have to buy a chain saw, and be careful not to kill himself or others with it. The water might have been bright blue, but it rolled with some violence, white horses galloping.

He spotted a crew of three surveying damage on some of the rentals, stopped to check.

Shingles blown off here and there, plenty of storm debris, and as one of the crew told him, a muddy, bitching hell of a mess, since rain poured in again after the ice.

He found a crumbled bike on the road, but no blood or sign of the passenger. He hauled it up to take with him. Somebody’s flag—pink with a flying white horse—lay tattered and soaked in a puddle. That he left behind.

Some, already out clearing their yards, paused to call out to him, asked how he’d fared in his first nor’easter on the island.

He didn’t say he’d spent most of it in bed with a beautiful woman.

But he thought it.

He left the crumpled bike outside the Sunrise when he went in to get a refill for his coffee, and caught up with the news there.

Branches and limbs, a collapsed dock, some low-lying flooding. But the big news centered on the Wagman/Seabold incident. Though pressed for details, Reed demurred.

Gossiping about arrests in a café set a bad tone.

He carted the bike to the station, found Donna and Leon already doing some gossiping of their own.

“Where’d you find young Quentin Hobbs’s bike?” Donna demanded.

“About a mile out of the village. How do you know it’s Quentin Hobbs’s bike?”

“I’ve got eyes. And his mother, who’s as ditzy as a drunk cancan dancer, just called in saying how somebody stole her boy’s bike during the storm.”

“A drunk cancan dancer?”

“Have you ever seen one?”

“Not drunk or sober.”

“Take my word. And I said back to her, Did your boy secure that bike in the shed, did he chain it, which he did not, as he takes after his mother and never does either. That bike took flight, that’s what happened.”

“I’m with Donna,” Leon said. “Nobody’s going to steal the kid’s bike. And nobody’s going out in the teeth of a storm to steal it for certain.”

“It’s trash now. You can tell her we recovered it.”

“She’ll probably demand you dust it for fingerprints and launch an investigation.”

“She’ll be disappointed. Leon, I’d appreciate it if you’d go over to the clinic, where I have Rick Wagman handcuffed to a bed, check on his condition. If he’s cleared, you can bring him back, lock him up. He’s already been charged and read his rights.”

“I heard some about that. Did he slap Prissy around?”

“No, he did not, or he’d be charged with that, too. He’s charged with OWI, reckless driving, assault—on Curt Seabold—destruction of private property, and resisting, as he tried to take me on when I got there.”

“He swing at you?” Donna said, eyes narrowed.

“Half-assed. He was drunk, concussed, and stupid. I charged Curt with assault, as the two of them tried beating the hell out of each other. I let him stay home, and don’t see any cause to lock him up.”

Frowning, Leon rubbed at his chin. “It seems to me Curt was defending himself.”

“He took the first swing, Leon, and said so himself. He’d had a few drinks, but he wasn’t driving—and he won’t be driving his truck ever again from the looks of it. I expect we’ll end up dropping the charge against him, but it has to stand for now. How would he take it if I asked Cecil to go over there with a chain saw and help him cut up the tree on his truck?”

“I’d say he’d take that as good.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do. Nick and Matty are on second shift, but I’ll pull them in if we need them. I want Wagman in a cell as soon as he’s medically cleared, Leon. I filed the paperwork on him last night. He can get a lawyer, try for bail, but he’s in a cell or cuffed to his bed at the clinic. Nobody’s going to drive while intoxicated on the island under my watch and shrug it off.”

“Yes, sir, Chief.”

“You look pretty perky and bright-eyed for somebody who was up half the night dealing with drunks.”

Reed smiled at Donna. “Do I? It must just be my sunny disposition. I’m in my office. Send Cecil in when he gets here. And if he isn’t here in ten, Donna, you call him and tell him to get moving.”

He went in, sat down, booted up his computer. Then contacted the prosecutor who served the island when they needed one.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Rick Wagman got sixty days, a revoked driver’s license (not his first drinking and driving rodeo), and mandatory rehab. Since adultery wasn’t a crime, Reed decided it was a suitable punishment for being a drunk asshole.

April arrived with a two-day snow. Plows plowed, shovels shoveled while the dawn of spring took the island back to midwinter. Then the sun burst out, popping the temperature toward fifty degrees. The rapid snowmelt gurgled its way into forming streams, chewing potholes into asphalt, swamping the beaches.

Reed spent the lion’s share of his first three weeks on the job dealing with weather-related incidents. Off-hours he made himself visible in the village, walking or biking around the island, often with CiCi, Simone, or both. He spent as many nights as he could manage with Simone in his bed.