He accessed the database and ran her criminal.
No criminal record.
That should be enough, he told himself. She was, according to the data, a law-abiding citizen without so much as a single speeding ticket.
But …
Out of curiosity, he Googled her. He got several hits on the name, but none of them were his Abigail Lowery.
Caught up now, he continued to dig. He had her name, address, tag number, driver’s license data. Since he knew she had a license to carry, he started with gun registration.
As the data came up, he sat back.
“Now, that’s an arsenal,” he murmured.
In addition to the Glock 19, she had licenses for a Glock 36, one for a Glock 26, a nine-millimeter Beretta, a long-range Sig, a nine-millimeter Colt Defender and a Smith & Wesson 1911, and a pair of Walther P22s.
Just what did the woman need with that many handguns? He was a cop, for God’s sake, and other than his service weapon, he had only two others.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Hey, Brooks.”
The bombshell blonde stood kind of posed in his doorway. Sylbie’s hair fell in gleaming waves over the shoulders of a white lace shirt loosely belted over jeans that were a thin coat of paint over long legs. She had eyes that reminded him of a tiger, tawny and just a little feral.
In high school he’d wanted her more than his next breath. And when he’d had her, his life had been a seesaw of bliss and misery.
Automatically, he toggled over to screen saver. “How you doing, Sylbie?”
“Oh, I’m just fine. I’ve been working since dawn, so I’m giving myself a little break.” She glided into the room on those long legs, perched on the corner of his desk in a provocative cloud of fragrance. “I thought I’d just drop in and see you, and see if you wanted to get together tonight.”
“I’ve got a lot going on here.”
“If the chief of police can’t take the night off, who can?”
“The law’s ever vigilant.”
She laughed, tossed that glorious mane of hair. “Come on, Brooks. I thought I’d pick up a nice bottle of wine.” She leaned in. “And you can take advantage of me.”
It didn’t make him feel manly, but he had to admit the few times they’d gotten together since he’d come home, he’d felt like the one being taken advantage of.
Not that he’d minded at the time. But afterward …
“That’s a nice invitation, Sylbie, but I’ve got to work tonight.”
“Come on by after.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You’re hurting my feelings.”
“I don’t want to do that.” But neither did he want to get caught up again. They’d come a long way since high school, when she’d captured his heart, then demolished it—and were a lot closer to her two divorces.
“If you want to play hard to get,” she began, sliding off the desk.
“I’m not playing.” She would have slithered right into his lap if he hadn’t pushed to his feet. “Look, Sylbie.”
As he was facing the door, he saw Abigail step into the opening, saw her immediate jolt of embarrassment.
“Ms. Lowery,” he said, before she could back away.
“I’m sorry to interrupt. I’ll come back.”
“No, that’s fine. I’ll talk to you later, Sylbie.”
“I’m buying that wine,” she murmured, shot him her slow smile. She turned, angled her head as she studied Abigail.
“You’re that woman who lives out at the Skeeter place.”
“Yes.”
“Everybody wonders what in the world you do out there all by yourself.”
“They shouldn’t.”
“People have a curiosity. That’s a natural thing. I’m Sylbie MacKenna.”
“One of the local potters. You do very good work. I bought one of your bowls.” Abigail looked at Brooks again. “I can speak to you later, Chief Gleason.”
“You’re here now. Sylbie’s got to get on.”
“So official. He didn’t used to be.” She gave Abigail a knowing smile. “I’ll see you later, Brooks.”
“She’s very attractive,” Abigail commented.
“Always has been.”
“I’m sorry I interrupted. The woman, your …”
“Dispatcher?”
“Yes. She said I should just come back.”
“That’s fine. Have a seat.”
“May I close the door?”
“Sure.”
After she’d done so, and taken a seat in his visitor’s chair, silence ran for several beats.
“Something on your mind?” he asked her.
“Yes. I realize I mishandled our … business this morning. In the market, and when you came to my house. I wasn’t prepared.”
“Do you have to prepare to have a conversation?”
“I’m not a social person, so I don’t have many conversations, particularly with people I don’t know. In the market, I felt uncomfortable with your interest in what I was buying.”
“My interest in what you were buying was a ploy for conversation.”
“Yes.”
Everything about her was cool, he thought, and still. He considered how she served as polar opposite to Sylbie, who always ran hot, always seemed to be moving.
“We’re a small town, Abigail. A small resort town, full of New Agers and old hippies, second-generation hippies, artists. We’re friendly.”
“I’m not. I’m sorry if that’s rude, but it’s fact. I’m not a friendly person, and I moved here for the quiet, the solitude. When you came to the house so soon after the market, it made me nervous, and angry. I have my reasons for carrying the pistol. I’m not obligated to share those reasons. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“That’s good to know.”
“I like my property, and the land around it. I like this town. I feel comfortable here. I just want to be left alone.”
“What Sylbie said about curiosity’s true. It’s a natural thing. The more mysterious you are, the more people wonder.”
“I’m not mysterious.”
“You’re a walking mystery.” He rose, came around the desk. As he did, he saw her brace, stay on alert, even when he leaned back against the front of the desk.
He wanted to ask her who’d hurt her, who she was afraid of. But he’d lose her if he did.
“You’re a really attractive woman who lives alone—with a big, muscular dog—outside of the town proper. Nobody knows for sure where you came from, why you came here, what you do for a living. And since this is the South, nobody knows who your people are. You’re a Yankee, so people will give you a certain latitude. We like eccentrics around here, it fits right in with the community. If people decide you’re eccentric, they’ll stop wondering.”
“By certain standards I am eccentric. I can be more so if that would satisfy everyone.”
He grinned at her, just couldn’t help it. “You’re definitely different. What do you do for a living, Abigail? If it’s not a mystery, or a matter of national security, you should be able to tell me. And that would be a simple conversation.”
“I’m a freelance computer programmer and software designer. I also design security systems, and improve or redesign existing systems, primarily for corporations.”
“Interesting. And not so hard to talk about.”
“Much of my work is highly sensitive. All of it is confidential.”
“Understood. You must be pretty smart.”
“I’m very smart.”
“Where’d you study?”
She stared at him, cool, calm, contained. “You see, when you ask all these questions, it doesn’t feel like conversation. It feels like interrogation.”
“Fair enough. Ask me a question.”
She frowned at him, eyes level. “I don’t have a question.”
“If you’re so smart, you can think of one.” He pushed off the desk, went to a dorm-sized refrigerator and took out two Cokes. He handed her one, popped the top on the second. “Something wrong?” he asked, when she just stared at the can in her hand.
“No. No. All right, a question. Why did you go into law enforcement?”
“See, that’s a good one.” He pointed at her in approval, then leaned against the desk again, the hills at his back in view out the window. “I like to solve problems. I believe in a lot of things. Don’t believe in a lot, too, but one of the things I believe in is there’s right and there’s wrong. Now, not everybody figures right and wrong exactly the same. It can be a subjective sort of thing. When you’re a cop, sometimes it is black and white, and sometimes you have to decide—in this situation, with these people, is it wrong, or just something that needs handling?”