Back Where She Belongs

chapter SIX



UNEASY ABOUT HOW Bill Fallon might respond to Tara’s questions, Dylan had headed over to the police chief’s office just to take the temperature of the room. He’d arrived in time for the mercury to spike.

“Can you believe that?” Fallon seethed. “She rolls into town and starts throwing her weight around. Typical Wharton.”

“I’m sure she’s trying to make sense of what happened.”

“You don’t think I know that, boss? You forget I was doing this job when your mom was still cutting your meat for you.”

Fallon resented having to answer to a man young enough to be his son. It hadn’t helped that Dylan had questioned the padding in Fallon’s recent budget request. “I tried to reason with her, but she had a tantrum.” He gave Dylan a wily smile. “But then I guess you know all about her tantrums.”

Tara was right about one downside to small towns—people knew your history. Normally that didn’t faze him, but he’d always been sensitive about Tara, and Bill Fallon could be an ass. Dylan thought the lead officer in the department, Russell Gibbs, would make a great police chief. Bill was close to retirement and talked a lot about moving to Sun City when he did.

“Why not give her the report, Bill?”

“She doesn’t want my report. She wants someone to blame. She’s asking me what I saw, did I take pictures, was there a hit-and-run.”

“A hit-and-run?” Where had that come from?

“What she needs is someone to hand her tissues and say there, there, you poor, poor thing. That’s not my job. I’m the peacekeeper. I smooth the waters, keep the ship afloat. That’s what you pay me for.” He tapped his skull. “If people knew half the stuff I keep in here for their own good...”

Dylan fought the urge to roll his eyes. Fallon bent the rules when he saw fit. He’d likely traded a screaming deal on his own pool for tipping off the contractor to the other bids for the town swimming pool. By the same token, he had patrols drive Mrs. Johnson’s neighborhood whenever her husband was out of town, ran a Scared Straight program for the high school and coached Little League, all on his own time.

The I’ll-scratch-yours-if-you’ll-scratch-mine stuff bothered Dylan at times, but it was human nature to want favors. It happened everywhere—big city or small town. That didn’t mean he had to engage in it. Once he was working for the town full-time he’d do some housecleaning and make sure everything was aboveboard. People expected no less from him.

“She won’t let this go, Bill. I promise you that, and this town can’t afford a lawsuit. Figure out what you can give her—your notes, photos, the report, something. In the meantime I’ll talk to her.”

“You do that. Go hold her hand, or whatever else you want to do with her.” He smirked.

It took everything in Dylan to keep from cold-cocking the guy, but he knew that would only fuel the man’s speculation about Dylan’s involvement with Tara. Besides that, no one—least of all Tara—would benefit from a fistfight in town hall.

Still fuming, Dylan left and drove toward the Wharton place. As he rounded the highway curve, he noticed a white sedan parked at a sharp angle on the shoulder, as if the driver had stopped abruptly. He recognized it as Tara’s rental car, but she wasn’t inside. Where the hell was she?

Then he noticed the orange cones and dangling caution tape. This was the accident site. She must have gone down the embankment. That would be like her. If she couldn’t get Fallon to tell her what she wanted to know, she’d find it out herself, by God.

With a sigh, he parked and jogged across the highway to the caved-in guardrail. Looking down the slope, he caught a flash of Tara’s red shirt, so he stepped over the barrier and headed after her, passing crushed bushes, broken branches of mesquite and palo verde, and gouged trunks—damage the tow truck had likely contributed to.

“Tara? It’s Dylan,” he called so he wouldn’t startle her. She got up from the boulder she’d been sitting on, and turned to him. She was breathing hard and chewing on her lip, trying not to cry. She looked small, beaten down and sad. Beyond her, a tree had been nearly snapped in half. Had to be where the car ended its fall.

What a terrible thing for her to see.

He started closer, but she stepped back, as if afraid he might hold her and she might lose control. He saw she gripped a cell phone in both hands.

She swallowed hard. “Look at all this.” She motioned at the ground, covered with glittering pieces of safety glass, chunks of plastic, twisted strips of metal, broken bulbs, torn padding and wires. “This is all evidence. It should have been collected.”

“This is a lot to take in, Tara,” he started, wanting to get her away from this horror.

She held up one of the phones. “This has to be my father’s. It’s the old flip style. He held on to things forever. Faye had an iPhone, I think, but I can’t find it. This one’s mine,” she said, lifting the phone in her other hand. “I’ve been taking pictures with it.” She swallowed hard.

“So where is Faye’s?”

“I’ve been looking.” She walked forward, staring at the ground.

“Maybe you’ve seen enough for now,” he said, joining her.

She stopped dead and sucked in a breath, staring at the ground, where there was a large rust-colored spot—blood—and a woman’s pump on its side. “Faye’s other shoe,” she said. “And all that blood.” She shot him a look of pure horror, then lurched away to throw up in the weeds.

He went to steady her, an arm at her waist, then offered his shirttail to wipe her mouth.

Gasping, she shook her head. “Not another of your shirts.”

It gave him a pang that she’d joked as a way to get herself back in control. She went to sit on the boulder. Setting the two phones on the ground, she used the hem of her silk top on her face. He sat beside her, resting his hand lightly on her back.

An old habit. It made him a little sad to remember all the tender touches they’d shared, their bodies in tune, their moods in sync. She leaned into his hand, and he was glad.

“Fallon said they were found together on the ground,” she said shakily. “He couldn’t tell who was driving. He said he smelled alcohol. I’d bet anything he was the one who started the rumor that Faye was drunk.”

“Faye was drunk?” This was the first he’d heard of that.

“Faye’s assistant, Carol, said there was a rumor, but it could have been Dad, for all I know. And that was why Faye was driving. I tried to get the nurse to find out from Faye’s chart, but no luck.” She shook her head. “Fallon’s lying, but I don’t know how much. He’s just a patronizing ass.”

“Why would he lie?”

Tara jerked her gaze to him. “Excuse me? Are you siding with him?”

“Hang on,” he said softly. “I’m asking a question. That doesn’t make me your enemy.” She’d always been that way. If you disagreed with her, she assumed you were against her. She had to reject you first. The defense mechanism reminded him of his father and he was pretty tired of handling his father’s defensiveness.

She blew out a breath. “Okay. Sorry. Fallon made it sound like he was going to falsify his report to protect my family’s name. Would he do that?”

“He considers himself the town’s guardian, that’s for sure.”

“I don’t want his protection. I want the truth.” She grabbed one of the phones from the ground. “Look at this picture.” Clicking a button, she extended the display to him. “It’s blurry, but see the swerve marks? They’re way back from the crash spot. The brakes must have failed or someone plowed into the car from behind.”

That seemed an extreme conclusion to him.

“He won’t even say where the car is now so we can check the brakes. He was the first on the scene. What a coincidence. He missed poker that night...supposedly he was going for flu medicine for his sick wife when his cop instincts kicked in and he saw the bent rail. Do you believe that?”

Her eyes were frantic, her words spilling out. “Plus, he’s been hitting on my mom, sending her gift baskets. She’s grateful to him, like he’s her hero. It’s so creepy. I can’t believe she would cheat on my dad. But Fallon’s hanging around, whispering in her ear.”

She stiffened suddenly, shifted to look at him full-on. “Maybe Fallon hit the car! No wonder he’s covering up.”

“Hang on, Tara. Let’s back up some.”

“Back up? You don’t believe me?”

“You just accused the chief of police of a hit-and-run or, hell, murder. You don’t think that’s extreme?”

She opened her mouth to argue, but then she seemed to pull herself together. “You think this sounds crazy, huh? Maybe it does.”

He was impressed that she’d backed off, thought it through. That was new.

“I need to tell you everything, I guess.” She held out a palm. “Mint, please?”

He pulled out the tin and shook three onto her palm.

“Three? I have three-mint breath?” She smiled faintly and sucked on the candies, her lips and tongue moving in a way that distracted him. He looked away.

“So, here’s what I know so far...”

She told him about Joseph Banes, his odd reactions to the accident, the arguments the man had had with Faye and Abbott, the dispute between Faye and her father, possible financial troubles at Wharton, the violent actions of the former factory manager, as well as why it had been strange for Faye to be at Vito’s and driving her father’s car. She finished with a blow-by-blow of her conversation with Fallon, including a quickie lecture on the theory of microexpressions.

“Something’s not right,” she said finally. “Can you see that?”

“There are odd aspects to this, yes. But just because you don’t know the explanation doesn’t mean there isn’t one. What is it doctors say about diagnosis? When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras. Mostly what you’re telling me is that it feels wrong to you.”

“For your information, I get paid a lot of money for my feelings. My instincts are what my clients value most.”

“I don’t doubt that, Tara. I know you want to make sense of this tragedy, but—”

“You think I’m wrong. You’re placating me. Tell me this. If Bill Fallon is so innocent, why isn’t he asking the questions I am? Why isn’t he doing his job? That’s required, isn’t it, even in this corrupt little town?”

The insult irked him. “Bill Fallon is lazy and he’s got a big ego, but I doubt calling him incompetent, corrupt and a liar did much to advance your cause.”

She winced. “No. That was bad. I lost my temper. But Wharton P.D. is not the only law enforcement agency that can look into this. If he won’t do his job, I’ll contact the state police or the county sheriff’s office.”

“And they’ll likely defer to Fallon. Law enforcement entities are territorial. They have to coexist with each other.”

“So I have to find proof that he bungled the case. That means I need to do some preliminary work myself. Take pictures, gather the broken car parts, find out where the car is, get a mechanic to test the brakes and look over the engine.” Her eyes still gleamed with emotion, but her voice steadied as she outlined her plan.

“Tara, I don’t know if—”

“I’m not done,” she said. “Fallon mentioned accident reconstruction engineers. If I have to, I’ll pay for one of them to look at the crash. I’ll do whatever it takes to get the truth. You know I mean that.”

“I do.” Hearing her talk, feeling her pain and frustration, he knew he couldn’t let her fight this fight alone. “So, how can I help?”

She stared at him, clearly surprised. “You’ll help me?”

“Before you call out the cavalry or spend a fortune on experts, let’s see what you and I can find on our own.”

“Yeah?”

“I told Bill to cooperate with you. I am his boss. He won’t bend over backward, but he’ll give you something—his notes, his report, answers to your questions. When you locate the car, I can ask my mechanic to examine the engine for you if you’d like.”

“Will he know what to look for?”

“He should. Tony Carmichael is the best in town for hybrids and electrics. Auto Angels is his shop. The place just past the skating rink? I think he works on your dad’s vehicles, too.”

“That’d be great, Dylan. Really.” She sighed. “It means a lot to have some help.” Relief softened her features and erased some of her despair, and he realized he’d do all he could to help her. Her pain was his pain. Still.

“So will you do me a favor?” Dylan asked. “Next time, bring me in before you start swinging?”

She winced. “I know. I shouldn’t have blown up at him. Being back in Wharton is not good for me. I slide back into how I was...my old habits.”

“I think I know what you mean,” he said, thinking that she’d had something like that effect on him.

“You’re doing it, too? Sliding back?”

He nodded.

“Yeah. We do go back, don’t we?” She smiled, a flicker of the heat from that moment on the terrace. “We have history.”

Again he had the urge to put his arms around her, pull her close, breathe her in and go from there. But that wouldn’t help either of them. “Ancient history,” he said. The best they could manage would be to be friends. He and Candee had managed that, after all.

“Yeah,” she said, but he thought she looked sad about that.

“You have all you need here?”

“For now. I’ll come back with a camera and a tape measure to record the distance from the swerve and how far the car traveled.”

“How about I do that?” He wanted to save her another visit to this terrible place. “I’ll get Bill to send someone out to collect the broken car parts that seem relevant, as well.”

“That would be great,” Tara said. “Ask to see the photos he took. They’d be better because they’d be before the tow truck tore up the scene.”

“I’ll ask.” Did Dylan think anything would come of this? Probably not, but Tara had a point about small-town shortcuts. Fallon had clearly been lax. He doubted there were photos. One of Fallon’s budget requests had been for a new camera.

He followed her up the slope to the highway and they stood together, catching their breath from the climb.

“Can I buy you lunch?” she said. “We could go to Ruby’s.” They’d spent a lot of time at the bar and grill when they were in high school.

“I can’t today. Town council meets over lunch.”

“Oh. Sure.” She looked so disappointed, he had to offer an alternative.

“How about you come to my place tomorrow night for supper? Say seven? I’ve got a recipe for beer-butt chicken I want to try.”

“Beer...butt? Sounds gross.” She scrunched her nose, but he could tell the invitation had pleased her.

“It’s not. You prop a chicken over an open can of beer on the grill. Comes out savory and moist, I promise.” Candee had served it to him and given him the recipe the last time they’d slipped.

“Sounds fun. I’d love to come,” she said, her smile wide and open. “Thanks again.” She lurched forward, as if to hug him, then thought better of it and gave him an awkward wave before turning to her car.

They seemed to have agreed to leave the past in the past. That was good. Mature. Sensible. Still, watching her walk to her car, he realized he looked forward to having her in his house, just the two of them, at night.

What the hell was he up to?

Maybe he hadn’t grown up much, after all.