She sat up a little straighter, even more on guard. "Why don't you show them to the harbormaster?"
"I'm headed there next. But this is your community—you've known the fishermen for a couple of decades, at least."
"I only spend a couple of weeks here each year—I haven't lived here for the last ten years."
He waved a hand, overriding her objection. "You might notice something or someone that the harbor master wouldn't." Pulling the photos from the envelope, he spread them across the table. "Arsonists are pretty messed up in the head. Whoever did this might've hung around to watch."
So this was what he'd had Clint Jackson doing last night during the fire. Although still wary, Kaz was curious in spite of herself. She propped both elbows on the table and leaned forward.
Each photo had been taken to show a section of the crowd, and he'd arranged them on the table, from left to right, as she would've seen the crowd from where she'd been standing on the wharf. Sipping her coffee, she studied them one by one.
Michael leaned back, taking the opportunity to observe her. She looked exhausted, wrung out. Her hair hung in long, golden ropes down her back, still damp from her shower, and her face, stripped clean of any makeup, was still unnaturally pale. She wore a royal blue football jersey that was three sizes too large for her, jeans worn thin enough at the pressure points to have his imagination working overtime, and fluffy red wool socks.
She looked sexy as hell.
Don't go there. Focus on the job. Yeah, right.
He frowned. There were shadows under her eyes, and hollows beneath her cheekbones. Anxiety had stamped deep creases on either side of her mouth. She'd finally bandaged the burn on her hand—the stark whiteness of the gauze stood out in contrast to the angry, reddened skin. It bothered him more than he wanted to admit that she might be hurting.
She studied each photo, moving methodically from left to right, her concentration absolute. She might not have lived in town in recent years, but she had to know most of the people in the pictures. Odds were she'd grown up with them, gone to school with them. The question was whether she'd be up front with him about whom she recognized. Or whether she'd lie.
The knuckles on the hand that held her coffee mug whitened. She was staring at the photo on her far left.
"See something?" he asked.
She started, almost as if she'd forgotten he was there. He smothered a grin of self-deprecation—here he couldn't seem to keep his eyes off her, and she didn't even remember he was in the room. Not good for the ego.
"These guys are all fishermen," she said abruptly, pointing to another of the photos and reeling off several names that he managed to jot down on the back of the envelope. "You'll recognize some of them from the tavern last night."
"And none of them were at the mooring basin when you arrived," he clarified, forcing himself to concentrate on the business at hand.
"No, I told you, the marina was deserted."
He propped a boot on top of one of the claw-foot legs of the table, cocking his head while he studied her body language. She was holding back on him, dammit. "But you recognized someone else just now," he pushed. When she didn't respond, he rubbed a hand over his chin. He knew he had no right, at this point, to expect her to trust or confide in him, but it rankled, just the same. "Ms. Jorgensen—"
"I thought I might've recognized someone, but I was mistaken."
"Withholding information in a criminal investigation is a prosecutable offense."
Her jaw set. "There's no one in these photos that I consider capable of arson or murder."
He leaned forward, picked up the photo she'd been staring at and tossed it directly in front of her. "Leave the judgments up to the authorities—tell me who you saw."
Her soft brown eyes flashed at him. "I saw no one."
He waited her out, using the silence to try to unnerve her. The phone rang shrilly, startling both of them. She got up to answer it, but whoever it was must've hung up.
Michael picked up the photos and carefully stacked them. "I understand that you want to protect your brother," he said, giving her time to reconsider, "but it's unnecessary. If he didn't do it, I'll find out who did."
"Maybe, maybe not."
He started to snap at her, then sighed. "Look, if you're worried that I don't conduct thorough investigations, then let me set your mind at ease. I don't jump to false conclusions—I let the evidence tell the truth."
"I only have your word on that," she pointed out, sitting back down. "And frankly, I'm worried about your hidden agendas."
"I don't have any hidden agendas," he said, letting his voice reflect his irritation. "Although from what I've seen so far, everyone else in this town does. I'd say that you're engaging in a bit of psychological transference, wouldn't you?"
Kaz stiffened. Even as her temper spiked, a part of her—the part that had spent ten years in corporate political battles—was impressed. He knew when to bide his time and when to go for the jugular. His interrogation skills were excellent. She would be wise not to underestimate him.
"You could've had Lucy return the clothes," she parried. "The harbormaster could've answered any other questions you have. You just wanted another shot at me, didn't you?"
A muscle ticked in his jaw. "We're on the same side," he pointed out. "We both want to catch whoever did this."
"That remains to be seen."
His intense gaze never wavered. "Talk to me about the financial aspects of the fishing business."
Frowning, she got up to refill their mugs. And to stall. "What do you want to know? It's a tough business—it always has been."
"Are the marine stocks depleted out here the same way they are on the East Coast?"
"Yes." What was he getting at? "But the government just announced a buyout plan that, along with a reduction in fishing licenses, allows some fishermen to exit gracefully."
"Is your business profitable?"
She shrugged. "Historically, some years yes, some no." Then she clued in. "If you're trying to imply that Gary or I would set fire to the boat to collect the insurance, you're way off base. Our boats represent a way of life to us—neither of us would ever burn our legacy. Besides, the insurance would never cover the total cost of replacement."
"Maybe. Then again, maybe your brother had an immediate need for cash."
"Gary's needs are simple, he lives on very little," she retorted. "And he could've opted to be bought out, which would've given him plenty of cash. He didn't—he chose to stay in. Those who do can look forward to double the catches they've had in recent years."
"As long as the government doesn't change its quotas," Chapman pointed out. "And the government never moves that fast—Gary might've needed cash faster than he could get it from them."
"He could always ask me for a loan if he needed it."
"I know." Chapman was implying that he had already checked out her finances. She hated knowing someone was poking around in her life. "But would he?"
She shifted uneasily, not admitting how perceptive the question was. When she'd suggested to Gary a week ago that she fund the worst of the repairs on the boats, he'd pitched a fit.
"You'd be throwing good money after bad," he'd told her.
When she didn't answer, Chapman got up to put his coffee mug in the sink. Then he walked back to the table and leaned across it, both hands braced on the surface so that she had to look up into his hard gaze. "You know where your brother is. I want to talk to him."
She shoved her chair back abruptly and stood. Keeping her back to him, she made a production out of assembling the ingredients for a protein shake. "You're wrong—I don't have a clue where he is."
"I find that hard to believe."
"And even if I did know," she continued, turning to face him, her arms crossed, "I wouldn't tell you. You're not going to use me to get to him. Gary doesn't deal well with figures of authority. My guess is that he's trying to find Ken's killer, not running from the law."