Free Murder Take Two by Charlene Weir

perfectly relaxed, except for the little knot of muscle at the corner of his jaw.
    â€œGod damn it. I know this is awkward, but we have an investigation going on. You’re involved, simply by your relationship to what may be the intended victim. At this point I don’t even know which side of the fence you’re on. It doesn’t help any when you answer emotionally loaded questions with yes or no. I can see there’s all kinds of stuff here you’d rather not go into. I’d like to respect your wishes”—the hell, she would—“but that’s not possible. You will talk to me or I will put you on suspension until this case is cleared.” She kept her voice calm and low with no hint of challenge. Challenge would set him off like a rocket.
    â€œYou’re the boss.”
    Yes, and she didn’t like to hear that response. It meant he wasn’t going to cooperate, he was going to be combative, and that made her angry.
    He continued to look at her, then to her great surprise, he smiled. A quick, apologetic “you’re right and life’s a pie in the face” smile that disappeared fast, but nevertheless a smile. That was such a rare occurrence she immediately got nervous.
    â€œI’m sorry,” he said. “You don’t know what I’d give for this film company to be shooting their damn movie somewhere else.”
    She could make a good guess. “You didn’t leave town.”
    He gave her a sour look. “The thought crossed my mind. It seemed cowardly. Besides, they’re probably going to be here too long. And she had no idea where I was. With a little care, there was no reason our paths should cross.”
    â€œSometimes life is interesting that way.”
    â€œOh, yeah.” He studied the cola can as though he were memorizing it. “We were from different worlds. Me, slums and street gangs. She lived in a nice middle-class house with a nice middle-class family. Her father was an accountant. He used numbers and pencils. My father used curses and fists.”
    â€œHow did you meet?” If the question wasn’t strictly pertinent, it was one she wanted answered.
    â€œIt was a dark and stormy night.” He took a drink. “She was on the highway with a flat, drenched to the bone. I changed the tire.”
    Susan waited for him to go on. He didn’t, but she could imagine how it went. Laura damply grateful, intrigued by this dark man in uniform. It probably started with coffee somewhere first, moved up to a drink, and then dinner. From there everything took off.
    â€œI courted her,” Parkhurst said with mocking humor. “Flowers and chocolates. Very traditional. Very unoriginal. We were married two months later. Her father gave her away in the family church while her mother wept and her brother looked manly.”
    â€œDo you feel any bitterness?” Susan emptied her can and set it silently on the desk.
    â€œAfter twelve years?” He tipped up his can, drained it, and sailed it to the wastebasket with a little more spin than he intended. He picked up Susan’s—held it easy. Lots of other stuff maybe, but no bitterness. It clinked when it hit.
    *   *   *
    Laura had been swept away by the idea of marrying a cop, especially a hard-ass like him. She’d never known anybody like him, he smelled of danger and violence, she could pretend to dance close to the edge. He was crazy in love with her. Laura was all that was good and kind and warm and clean; everything he wanted and assumed he’d never have.
    She was a drama student, going to be a star someday. And so were all her friends. They liked classes, they liked each other, they liked to party. They didn’t like him. They thought he was a dead brain and they couldn’t understand why she had saddled herself with him. He was a rookie then, finding it difficult to play all night and function on the job. He kept going with