Web of Lies (Page 49)

Donovan didn’t say anything, but the corners of his lips lifted into a half smile. "You’re not the only one. I’m sure my back will be screaming at me tomorrow. Not to mention the burns I have on my knees."

"Worth it?"

He cocked one black eyebrow. "Do you even have to ask?"

No, I didn’t. Because I’d been moaning just as loud as he had.

After we caught our breath, Donovan eased up into a sitting position. I followed suit. He reached into the front seat and handed me some clean clothes – a pair of khakis several sizes too big and a T-shirt that hung almost to my knees. The detective was a bit taller than I was. Donovan pulled on a matching set of clothes. When that was done, we turned and faced each other in the back seat.

"So here we are again," I said.

"Yeah," Donovan replied. "Here we are again."

He didn’t look happy at the thought. The detective let out a long breath and ran his hands through his black hair – lean, strong hands that had just done marvelous things to my body. I hesitated, then reached over, put my hand on top of his, and gave a gentle squeeze with my fingers. I wasn’t sure what prompted the reaction, other than this warmth in my chest I felt for the detective. Or maybe it was the simple fact I didn’t want things to end between us like they had the last time we’d slept together.

Which had been altogether badly.

Donovan flinched at my touch and slid his hand out from under mine. "We should get back."

I stared at his rugged features. Black hair, bronze skin, golden eyes. But heat and desire no longer brightened his gaze. Instead, the detective looked tired, weary, heartsick.

As though all the pleasure he’d just experienced came with a weight that was just too much to bear, even for him.

"All right," I said in a quiet voice, not wanting to push him anymore tonight.

It was after ten by the time we returned to Country Daze. The traffic of the day had long since ceased, and the stop sign at the crossroads looked like a dull red ghost in the drizzling rain. Donovan didn’t have an extra pair of the shoes in the trunk, so I had to stick my feet back into my muddy boots. First though, I wiped as much of the grime off them as I could with a towel.

Sometime while we’d been gone, Sophia’s black convertible had been pulled off to one side of the store so that the classic car rested in the grass. So had Finn’s Cadillac.

The store itself was dark, the front doors closed and locked.

"Come on," I said. "Finn said they were in the house around back."

The detective and I walked through the gap between Sophia’s convertible and the store. Warren T. Fox’s house lay about five hundred feet behind the store in back of a copse of maple and oak trees. A creek ribboned around one side of the house. The rain had made it fat and swollen, like a snake that had swallowed more than it could comfortably hold. The rush of water drowned out the sound of the rain slapping against the tin roof.

I’d come back here this afternoon to check out the structure, but I was once again struck by how much the clapboard building resembled Fletcher Lane’s house.

Both featured the same white boards, the same kind of shutters, the same sloping tin roof. And it wasn’t just the house that reminded me of Fletcher – it was everything about Warren T. Fox. The blue work clothes he wore, his grumpy nature, the old-fashioned store he ran. It was almost like Fletcher and Warren were identical twins separated at birth. The kind you read about who built separate, but almost identical, lives for themselves. Once again, I felt that faint softness stir in my chest. Because everything about Warren made me remember Fletcher and the love I’d had for him.

Lights blazed in several of the first-floor windows. I stepped up onto the porch and knocked on the front door.

"Hmph?" Sophia grunted through the heavy wood.

"It’s Gin."

A lock clicked, and the Goth dwarf opened the door.

Sophia clenched an aluminum baseball bat in one hand.

Her black eyes flicked over my oversize clothes, and she stepped back to let us inside. Sophia crooked her finger at us, and we followed her deeper into the house. For a moment, I felt like I was coming home to Fletcher’s after a long day at the Pork Pit. Because the inside of Warren T. Fox’s house could have been an exact duplicate of Fletcher Lane’s. Same sort of well-worn, overstuffed furniture, same clutter of knickknacks, same piles of odds and ends that made a house a home. I blinked, and the illusion vanished.

The others were in a large den. Violet huddled on the sofa, a heavy textbook in her lap, a notepad and pen by her side. Studying. Jo-Jo perched on the other end of the sofa and flipped through a beauty magazine. Several more sat stacked at her bare feet. The dwarf had come prepared.

Warren rocked back and forth in an oversize recliner that made him seem older and more frail than he really was. The television was tuned to the Weather Channel.

Warren’s brown eyes focused intently on the storm-front graphics on the flickering screen. Finn relaxed in a similar chair, which he’d reclined all the way back. His laptop drowsed on his lap. Finn was doing the same in the chair itself. Soft snores drifted out of his open mouth.

I went over, put my hand into Finn’s broad shoulder, and shook him awake.

"What? What?" he mumbled in a sleepy voice. "I didn’t touch her, I swear."

"Relax, Casanova," I said.

Finn blinked a few times before his green eyes focused on me. "Oh, Gin, it’s you." He frowned. "Why are you wearing a T-shirt that says Ashland Police Department on it?"

I sighed. "It’s a long story."

Once Finn was more or less awake, I filled the others in on what Donovan Caine and I had found in Tobias Dawson’s office. The detective e-mailed the cell phone photos he’d taken to Finn, who started pulling them up on his laptop and going through them.

"Anything happen on this end?" I asked Sophia.

"Quiet," she rasped.

"A couple of folks came in for sodas and cigarettes, but that was it," Jo-Jo agreed.

"Usual customers," Warren cut in. "Even Dawson can’t scare off folks when they need their tobacco."

"Those papers you found inside the safe," Jo-Jo said.

"What did they say? Anything interesting?"

I shrugged. "Ask Donovan. It was dark. I didn’t really see them."

All eyes turned to the detective, who also shrugged.

"Like Gin said, it was dark. We only used flashlights inside. They mostly looked like schematics to me. We’ll have to wait and see what Finn says."

"You’re going to have to give me a few minutes," Finn said, typing on his laptop. "I’ve got to sort through and read some of this. It doesn’t make much sense to me either. Not to mention that the photo quality isn’t the best I’ve ever seen."