“So I may be put on hold until next week, not knowing what’s going to happen?”
Ballantine nodded, then shrugged. “Possibly, possibly not. It all depends on how this case falls into the lineup. The chief of police calls the shots. If he feels this case demands immediate attention, Galloway may put in some overtime to compile evidence against you over the week end. If not, he may sleep in, go to the park with his grandkids, and have a barbecue tomorrow afternoon.”
Samantha didn’t like either of those options.
“On a bright note,” Ballantine added, “you may get a lot of information from me over the weekend. All I need to find is one piece of evidence to prove Steve Fisher was in this area on one of the dates in question to cast some suspicion on him. It will be particularly effective if Fisher denies being in the area, and we can prove he’s lying.”
“How can you learn Steve’s whereabouts on those dates by doing only computer searches?” she asked. “Don’t you need to interview people and ask questions?”
“I will certainly do that if it proves necessary, but good detective work begins on the Internet, and personal interviews are only follow-up work, which often isn’t necessary. The information I can find, via the computer, is not only compelling, but to a great extent inarguable.” He smiled benignly. “My work is nothing at all like it’s portrayed in popular fiction.”
He opened a leather-bound notebook on the desk. “The secret to my successful investigative work is specialized software. For me to do any searches on Fisher will take time, of course, so I can’t impress you with anything on him yet. I’ll have to dig up all of his personal statistics first. Fortunately your father was kind enough to supply me with his”—he glanced up at Samantha and then at her brothers—“and yours as well, enabling me to provide you with some examples of what I can do when I have the necessary information.”
He perused his notes. “Forgive me if the data I’ve gathered startles or embarrasses you. I’ve learned that this is often the only way I can convince people I’m worth my wages.” He looked up at her father. “A little over a month ago on Wednesday night, August second, you dined at Michael Angelo’s with Dee Dee Kirkpatrick, a lady whose name I learned only because she picked up a small portion of the tab. For appetizers, you selected tempura calamari. The wine you chose was a choice California merlot that I’m partial to myself. You tipped the waiter or waitress a generous seventy-five dollars. You also paid an extra fee for violin music during your meal. You settled your tab at seven forty-five. I estimate that you left the establishment at about eight. Later, you stopped for diesel at Farmers’ Co-op Fuel and Oil. Need I go on?”
Frank Coulter’s face had frozen into a dark, unreadable mask. For a long moment he said nothing. Then he ground out, “You can find out what I eat at a restaurant?”
“And when you eat it. Amazing, isn’t it?” Ballantine smiled, clearly enjoying himself. “On an even more personal note, Mr. Harrigan, you apparently have a partial denture plate. The next evening at Safeway at precisely six forty-three, you bought a new toothbrush, a tube of Crest toothpaste, and a box of Efferdent. Who needs all three, unless he has a partial plate?” He glanced up. “If I were seriously investigating you, I would discover which of your teeth are missing and exactly what kind of bridgework you have, but that hardly seems necessary merely to prove a point. You also love Benji films. You rented three the following Monday night at the Video Den and bought two giant popcorns. Unless you have a gargantuan appetite for popcorn, I can only assume you had company while you munched your way through the trio of films.” With a lift of one pale eyebrow, he added, “All of this transpired in Crystal Falls, of course, and I have the exact times of every transaction if you’d like to hear them.”
In that moment Samantha stopped seeing Ballantine as an enterprising squirrel and decided he was a genius.
Samantha’s father clearly wasn’t as impressed, or perhaps he merely resented the invasion of privacy. “The exact times won’t be necessary.” He scanned the room, meeting the startled gazes of his children. “Before Dee Dee left to go visit her daughter, I took her out to dinner, and we watched Benji movies at her place a few nights later. Big deal. You can stop looking at me as if I committed adultery.”
Dee Dee, the family housekeeper, was a plump, attractive redhead in her late fifties who’d been Samantha’s only mother figure growing up. Nowadays, she divided her time between the six Harrigan households, focusing primarily on Frank’s residence, but also mucking out his children’s homes once a week. She’d gone to California over a month ago to attend the birth of her first grandchild and had stayed to enjoy the baby for a few weeks. Everyone missed her, but now Samantha had cause to wonder if her father hadn’t been missing her most of all.
“You’re dating Dee Dee?” Clint inquired, his expression scandalized. “How long has that been going on?”
“How long has what been going on?” Frank sent Ballantine a searing glare that would have dropped less stalwart men in their tracks. “We’re friends, for God’s sake. Don’t try to make something sordid out of Benji and two cartons of popcorn.”
Ray Ballantine shifted on his seat and turned the page. “I don’t intend to unveil dark secrets, Mr. Harrigan, only to prove there is no such thing as privacy anymore. A certain individual in this room bought a case of Trojan condoms a little over a week ago. On last Tuesday evening, to be precise, at a little after eight o’clock, at Pay Right Pharmacy.”
A flush of scarlet crept up Quincy’s neck. He quickly dipped his head, but not before Samantha caught the mortified expression on his face. A whole case of condoms? She could scarcely believe her ears.
Ballantine closed the notebook and sat back on his chair. “If you do it, I can track it. Well, in most cases, anyway. I can’t see through the walls of your home—unless you rent videos through your satellite provider. Watch porn on dish, and I can tell you exactly what film you watched, and when you watched it.” He shrugged and grinned. “I ran a check on all of you last night in preparation for this meeting.” He glanced up at no one in particular and beamed a knowing smile. “The Internet never sleeps.”
Leaving his truck parked on the street, Tucker ambled across his parents’ front lawn, snapping his fingers to make sure Max stayed at his heels. A cute female poodle lived next door, and ever since first rubbing noses with her through the bushes along the drive, the rottweiler had been hot to take her for a romantic stroll. Tucker didn’t know if Cheri was spayed. With his luck she wasn’t, and his pedigreed, intact brute of a dog would knock her up. The results were too awful to contemplate, half-size rottweilers with topknots and pom-pom tails. Max was already the proud papa of six mixed rotties with long cocker ears. Thank God Lady’s owner had taken it all in good humor and assumed half the blame.
“No,” Tucker growled when Max tried to wander away. “Get it through your thick skull; she isn’t for you.”
Sounds from the backyard told Tucker his parents were spending their Saturday afternoon out in the garden. He circled around to the left of the garage and unlatched the side gate, ushering Max through the opening ahead of him. As always when he visited, Tucker thought how sad it was that his father had been reduced to owning a small city lot when he’d once had hundreds of acres of prime ranchland.
As Tucker rounded the back corner of the garage, Harv Coulter’s dark head appeared above a row of robust tomato plants laden with deep red fruit. “Well, now, just look what the cat dragged in.”
Tucker’s mother, who was much shorter than her husband, parted the vines to peer through at her son, her plump, pretty features lighting up with pleasure. “Hello, dear heart! And just look, you’ve brought our sweet Max, and I have no biscuits in my apron pockets.”
Snub tail wagging wildly, Max made a beeline for Mary Coulter, tromping over her world-class cabbages as he went. Tucker’s mother, now in grandmother mode, pushed through the tomatoes to crouch down and welcome the dog with a fierce hug.
“
Oh, you’re such a love,” Mary said. “Yes, you’re Grandma’s precious boy.” She laughed and almost toppled backward when Max pushed at her apron pockets with his broad nose. “There’s nothing for you, I’m afraid. Come with me to the kitchen, and Grandma will find you something.” To Tucker, she said, “We have iced tea in the fridge. Would you like a glass, sweetheart?”
More careful of the vegetables than his dog had been, Tucker sauntered toward the tomato patch. “No, thanks, Mom. I just dropped by to chat with Dad for a few minutes.”
“Oh. Well.” Mary went up on her tiptoes to give him a quick hug, ruffling his hair and tweaking his cheek. “I’ll leave you alone then. Max and I are on a mission.”
Harv resumed picking tomatoes as his wife headed for the house. “Zeke was the last one of you boys who cornered me in my tomato patch.”
Tucker’s curiosity was piqued. Of all his brothers, Jake and Zeke were the most squared-away. Tucker couldn’t imagine either of them ever needing advice. “What did Zeke need to talk to you about?”
“That’ll stay between me, Zeke, and the canned tomatoes in your mama’s pantry,” Harv replied. Then he frowned. “I think it was when I harvested last year’s tomatoes, anyhow. Could be it was the year before that. Gettin’ hard to keep track anymore, with everyone gettin’ married, pregnant, or christenin’a baby. Isn’t a week goes by that your mother’s not baking a birthday cake.”
That was a slight exaggeration, but not by much, and Tucker understood what his father meant. In the Coulter family, the calendar always seemed to be filled with special events. “Need some help picking?”
“Nope. Zeke offered to help pick, too, as I recall. Didn’t have his mind on my tomatoes and bruised half of ’em.” Harv gently placed a large piece of fruit in his gar den basket. “What’s the problem, son?”
“What makes you think I’ve got a problem?”
“Your hair’s not combed, your shirt’s wrinkled, and you look like you’ve been on a three-day drunk.”
Tucker tugged on his earlobe. “It’s been a rough month.”
“I can see that.”
“Actually, Dad, I just wanted to pick your brain, if you don’t mind.”
“Fine by me. Start pickin’.”
Tucker thought for a moment. “I’m not really sure where to start.”
“Well, now, that’s a pickle.” Harv left off picking tomatoes and removed his garden gloves. “It about a woman?”
“What makes you think that?”
Harv grinned. “You attended university for how many years? After all that schoolin’, you know most everything. I can’t think of much else you’d want to pick my brain about.”
Tucker sighed. “It is about a woman, actually. I’ve finally met someone really special.”
“Hmm.” Harv tucked his gloves over his belt, motioned for Tucker to follow him, and made his way toward the compost pile at the far back corner of the yard. He sat on the rim of the raised enclosure and motioned for Tucker to join him. “More private back here, just in case your mother comes back outside.”
Tucker took a seat, crossed his ankles, and folded his arms. “About this lady I’ve met. Last night, when we were alone, I kissed her. One thing led to another, and before I knew it, we were on her sofa and almost…well, you know.”
Harv grunted to let Tucker know he was following so far.
“Anyway, as much as I wanted her, it felt all wrong somehow. I’ve been in a lot of relationships.”
“You don’t say?”
Tucker decided to ignore that. His parents had never made a secret of the fact that they disapproved of his dating habits and apparent inability to stick with one woman for any length of time. “In the past, that’s how it’s always gone, straight into bed and nothing special to mark the moment. With this lady, that just doesn’t feel appropriate.”
Harv stared thoughtfully at the ground. “When you meet the right lady, son, hopping into bed with her immediately usually doesn’t feel appropriate. When you really care, it’s not just about the sex anymore. Everything you say and do suddenly becomes very important. An investment in the future, I reckon you might say.”
“Exactly.” Tucker was relieved to hear his father put his feelings into words. “I’ve been hung up on her since I first met her, and it’s not just a physical attraction, though that’s a big part of it.” He pressed his fist to his diaphragm. “I feel it in my gut. You know? That she’s the one, I mean.”
“Congratulations. I was startin’ to worry it might never happen for you.”
“Me, too,” Tucker confessed. “And now that it has, I don’t want to screw it up.”
“Can’t say I blame you there. It’s not every day you find a really special lady you think you can spend the rest of your life with. Only happened once for me, and I think it’s fair to say that’s how it is for most folks.”
“Only I did screw it up,” Tucker inserted. “Big-time, I’m afraid.”
“How in hell did you do that?”
“By calling a halt to everything last night.” Tucker gestured with one hand. “We were…well, you know…at the point of no return. Almost, anyway. And bang, like a fist between my eyes, I realized it wasn’t right, that I couldn’t let it go any farther. Not until I could make it more special somehow. Only that isn’t how she took it, and nothing I said changed her mind. I think she felt…I don’t know…like maybe I didn’t really want her or something. And that wasn’t it at all.”
“What makes you think she thought that?”
“She made a comment about my never stopping with other women, only with her. Since it was pretty much true, I couldn’t deny it. But she interpreted it all wrong. I stopped because I wanted her so much more than I’d ever wanted anyone else, not because I wanted her less.”
“Oh, boy.”
“I don’t know what to do, Dad. She’s still upset with me today. Every time I so much as look at her, she turns as red as one of your tomatoes, and she won’t talk to me unless she absolutely has to.” Tucker lifted his hands in helpless bewilderment. “I don’t know what the frigging hell to do.”
“Oh, boy.”
Tucker angled his father a sharp look. “Is that all you’ve got to say? ‘Oh, boy’? I need help here.”
“I can see you do.” Harv rested his hands on his spread knees. “But female feelings ain’t exactly my specialty.”
“They aren’t? After all these years with Mom, it seems to me you should be something of an expert.”
Harv snorted. “I love that woman so much it hurts, and I’d move heaven and earth to make her happy. The problem is, I’m never quite sure what it is she actually wants unless she decides to tell me, which most times she won’t.”
“Why not? Does she think you’re a mind reader?”
“That pretty much nails it on the head. She wants me to be, anyhow, and most of our troubles arise because I’m lousy at it.”
“That makes no sense at all.”
“Does to her. Women don’t think like we do, son. I’m supposed to understand how she feels without her drawin’ me a picture. Sooner you learn that, the better off you’ll be.”
“You’ve been a lot of help.”
Harv chuckled, pushed to his feet, and laid a big hand over Tucker’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. You dug your way into this hole. It’s for you to dig your way out.”
Tucker watched his father walk away. Then he re leased a taut breath and spent several thoughtful seconds observing an industrious ant that was trying to carry a mulch particle twice its size over uneven ground. Two steps forward, several back. Tucker felt as if he and the insect had a lot in common.
The sound of approaching footsteps brought him back to the present. He glanced up and saw his mother walking toward him, Max trudging adoringly at her heels.
“Your father says you need to talk to me?”
Well, now, isn’t this just fine. He’d have his father’s head for this piece of work. “Not really,” he said. “What mad
e him think that?”
Mary perched beside him on the edge of the compost enclosure. “He says you’ve met someone special and hurt her feelings. He thought I might be able to give you some advice.”
Tucker considered the possibility and mentally shuddered. No way. He went to his mom for hot pie à la mode on a winter afternoon, but never for advice about his love life.
“How did you hurt her feelings?” Mary asked, her blue eyes aching with motherly concern.
“It’s personal, Mom.”
“Ah,” she said. “Shall we play ten guesses? You said something incredibly stupid.” She thought for a moment. “She asked if her dress made her look fat, and you said another one looked better on her, unspoken message being that she did look fat, which isn’t what you meant but how she took it.”
Tucker gave his mother a horrified look. “Are you women really that sensitive?”
Mary laughed. “We call it being perceptive.”
“And put words in our mouths that we’d never think of saying?”
“Sometimes. Am I warm with my guess?”
“Totally off the mark,” he assured her, only in a crazy sort of way, she’d come awfully close. “It was a misunderstanding, though, and I’m pretty sure I hurt her feelings without meaning to, and nothing I say makes it better.”
Mary made another guess, Tucker shook his head, and the guessing game continued until Tucker tired of the nonsense and blurted out the details.
“Oh, my,” Mary whispered when she’d heard the tale.
“What’s that mean?” Tucker asked worriedly, not liking her tone.
“Just that it’s a very ticklish problem,” Mary replied. “You didn’t just hurt her feelings, sweetheart; you struck a terrible blow to her feminine pride.” At her son’s blank look, Mary sighed. “Dear heavens, you’re as inept at this sort of thing as your father is.”