Free The Watchman by V. B. Tenery Page A

“I’m the new star in the D.A.’s starting lineup.” She laughed. “Of course there are only three of us. This is my second week.”
    Lunch turned into dinner, which turned into a daily habit. The summer passed, and the infatuation deepened. After four months, we shifted into another phase. We talked of marriage and a future together. Her intelligence, kindness, and ever-present sense of humor made me overlook the minor flaws of ambition and pride. The relationship progressed without a blip until the Saturday night she invited me to meet her parents.
    Wearing a fresh haircut and a new dark suit bought for the occasion, I picked up McKenna at her apartment. On the way to her parents, she chatted about a new libel case the D.A. handed her. Her touch clued me into the importance of this introduction. Meeting her parents was a significant step for her.
    Until the moment we drove though the gate, I hadn’t realized McKenna’s father was the Robert Thornton, mayor of our fair city, and the name on the bottom of my list as a future father-in-law. His identity never came up, and McKenna’s touch only revealed her love for him. She probably assumed I knew.
    Only a guardian angel with a sense of humor would have placed me in that scenario––in love with a woman whose father belonged to the local wing of the mafia.
    Mind in turmoil, I drove slowly up the drive toward the mayor’s home. Sitting at the end of the winding road stood a three-story mansion paid for with mob blood money.
    McKenna also failed to mention this wasn’t just a meet-the-family gathering. A full-blown social event was in progress.
    Not bothering to ring the bell, McKenna stepped ahead of me and opened the door. She led me through a wide vestibule and down steps into the great room.
    “McKenna, Noah, over here.” Robert Thornton waved us toward a group near the entrance. He hurried forward, one arm outstretched. Thornton wore an expensive Italian suit, a two hundred dollar tie, and a Florida tan. According to the Hebron Herald , he’d just returned from a National Association of Mayors convention in Miami. He pumped my hand and then took my elbow. “I want you to meet some of our guests.”
    It saddened me that his handshake didn’t show a reformed man―quite the contrary. If anything, the corruption ran deeper than at our first meeting two years before.
    Thornton maneuvered us around the room like a couple of champion show dogs on parade, placing emphasis on my police and war medals. By the end of the evening, a number of guests promised to send their investigative work my way.
    Their offers had one big drawback.
    Most of the guys in the room were tight with the mob.
    At the party’s end, McKenna’s mother grabbed a magnum of champagne and motioned us to follow her into the library.
    Angie Thornton looked young enough to be McKenna’s sister until I gazed into her eyes. They were brittle, cold, and tired. She wore good taste like a beauty queen’s banner, as one would expect of the mayor’s wife accustomed to a life of privilege.
    Angie closed the door and pulled me into a faux hug. At our contact, flashes of a disillusioned life slammed into my psyche, revealing two fatal flaws―arrogance and alcoholism.
    I didn’t stand a chance with this woman.
    She crossed to the bar and took three crystal flutes from the shelf, filled them with champagne, gave one to McKenna, then offered one to me. I declined. With a shrug, she took a long drink and released a breath of satisfaction.
    She sat on the arm of a sofa across from us. “Tell me about your family, Noah. Do they live here?”
    I took a deep breath. She was checking my pedigree. “I don’t have any living relatives. Both of my parents died when I was young, and my grandmother passed away a few years ago.”
    Angie’s hand trembled as she took another long sip of the sparkling liquid. She emptied the flute and leaned against the sofa’s back.
    “Have you and McKenna known each other for a