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  John pulled out the last desk drawer, the left-hand one, and found a small black datebook. He flipped through it and smiled. She’d obviously started the year with good intentions. January and February had lists and dates filled in, March and April had tapered off, and by August the pages were blank. He turned back to the front page, where the owner had the option of filling in pertinent information. Turner had still been in her good-intentions stage when she’d done that page. All the spaces were filled in—including the one for her cell phone.

  Huh. John took out his own cell and punched in Turner Hastings’ number.

  Chapter Seven

  T he phone rang in the dark, and for a moment Turner was disorientated. Why wasn’t she in bed? Where was the bedside table? Then she remembered. She’d robbed Calvin’s safe deposit box, and she was in Tommy’s baby blue Chevy. She sat up and rubbed a kink in her back. Although the Chevy’s vinyl front seat was big, it was far from comfortable. She’d chosen a back lane to park in for the night, a little-used access road to one of the many small lakes that dotted the area around Winosha. It had the advantage of being remote and deserted, but at this time of night it was also pitch-black.

  The phone rang again.

  She pressed the button on her wristwatch to make it light up—2:34 a.m. Who could be calling her at this hour? She rummaged blindly in her purse and pulled out the hysterically ringing phone. The number displayed on the lit screen wasn’t familiar, and she hesitated a moment before answering.

  “Hello?”

  “Turner Hastings?” The voice was slow and deep and very, very male.

  She felt a shiver go down her spine even though the night was hot. The voice sounded official. “Yes?”

  “This is Special Agent John MacKinnon of the FBI. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  She’d been expecting something like this, but all the same, it came as a bit of a shock that they’d contacted her so soon. Turner didn’t let the shock enter her voice, however. She’d had many years to learn how to hide her mental state.

  “So, go ahead.” She’d read somewhere that they could trace cell-phone calls but that the trace wasn’t very accurate. Even so, she didn’t want to stay on the line too long.

  “I was kind of hoping you’d come back to Winosha and we could talk here.” The FBI agent sounded wry.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. MacKinnon,” she replied politely, as if she were turning down a telemarketer trying to sell her siding. “That’s just not possible.”

  “The thing is, ma’am, we have a bank surveillance tape here, and in it you appear to be stealing the contents of Calvin Hyman’s safe deposit box. Why don’t you come in so we can clear this up?”

  “I don’t think coming in will clear things up at all, Mr. MacKinnon. You see, you’re right. I did steal the contents of Calvin’s bank box.”

  And she hung up.

  Turner opened her suitcase and dug around for one of her jars of pickled herring. Waking up in the middle of the night always made her hungry. She was just unscrewing the lid when the phone went off again. She picked out a square of fish with her thumb and forefinger and delicately ate it while contemplating the ringing phone on the seat beside her. She probably shouldn’t answer it, but it was very hard to resist. Curiosity had always been a problem with her.

  “Yes?”

  “Three things, ma’am.” He really did have a sexy voice. Of course, he was most likely fifty and bald, with a paunch and bad breath.

  “Yes?”

  “One, we FBI guys prefer to be addressed as Special Agent so-and-so.”

  “I’ll try to remember that,” Turner replied, her voice grave. “Number two?”

  “I really do wish you’d come in.”

  “I’m so sorry, Special Agent MacKinnon, but being arrested just doesn’t fit into my plans for the night.”

  A moment’s pause as the good agent processed her frank response. “Really? What exactly were you planning to do?”

  She smiled in the dark. “I don’t think it’s in my best interest to answer that question.”

  “Ah. How about a cup of coffee?”

  Turner held the phone away from her ear and peered at it. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think . . . “Are you asking me for a date?”

  “Could be.”

  Intrigued, she asked, “And where would you buy me a cup of coffee at this time of night? The Kwik Trip?”

  “I’m sure the coffee is very good there.”

  “You obviously haven’t tried it.”

  “There’s that café in town—”

  “Doesn’t open until six a.m. This is a small town, Special Agent MacKinnon. And anyway, wouldn’t it spoil things a bit when you put the handcuffs on me?”

  “We could save that for later.”

  She ate another piece of herring, carefully juggling both fish and phone. “Isn’t asking for a date an odd way to go about capturing a fugitive?”

  “It’s not a technique I use too often.”

  “I should hope not.” Turner frowned. “I’d hate to think that was how my tax dollars were being spent.”

  “Everyone always worries about their tax dollars—”

  “With good reason!”

  He sighed into the phone. “I take it that’s a no?”

  “I’m afraid so.” Turner nibbled a piece of onion.

  “What are you eating?”

  “Pickled herring.”

  “Pickled what?”

  “Herring.” Turner rolled her eyes. Where was this guy from? “You know, the fish?”

  “Pickled fish.” His voice was deadpan, but she caught an undertone of horror.

  She smirked. “Yes. It’s very good.”

  “I’ll just have to take your word on that, ma’am.”

  “Well, you can,” she replied tartly. “Where are you from anyway, that you haven’t heard of pickled herring?”

  “Wyoming.”

  She had a sudden image of a cowboy in dusty boots and chaps, his hat pulled low over his eyes. Stop that! “You should try some local cuisine now that you’re in Wisconsin.”

  “I think I’ll stick to cheese curds.”

  “Chicken.”

  “Yes, ma’am. At least when it comes to pickled seafood. Not when it comes to other things, though.” His voice was so low it was almost a growl. “You want to tell me where you are?”

  She shivered. “Not really, no.”

  “Make this thing a whole lot easier.”

  “For you, maybe. Not for me.” She frowned. Why was he bantering with her like this? “Are you trying to keep me on the line so you can trace the call?”

  “That would be the smart thing to do.” He seemed to mutter it to himself.

  “Are you saying you’re not tracing me?” she asked suspiciously. This wasn’t how she would’ve imagined an FBI agent talked to a suspect.

  “Well—”

  “I didn’t fall off the turnip truck yesterday, you know.” People sometimes had such odd notions about small-town folk.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Are you laughing at me?”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Humph.” She gazed sightlessly at the black night outside her windows. “What was the third thing? You said you wanted to tell me three things.”

  A pause, then his voice came back, dead serious. “I always get my man. Or woman.”

  Turner’s eyes widened. She should laugh at him—the phrase was too melodramatic. But coming from him, with his deep, slightly drawling voice and that honest tone, she believed it. Panic gripped her. She punched the phone off and all but threw it onto the other seat. She hurriedly put the lid back on the jar of herring, started the Chevy, and tore down the back road in the dark with no idea where she was headed. She just needed to move.

  It had been far too long since she’d had someone to talk to. Really talk to. Someone who related to her as Turner-the-woman, not Turner-the-small-town-librarian. She’d spent so many years waiti
ng for one thing that she’d become vulnerable. The first time someone—a man—showed the slightest sympathy, seemed to know how to connect with her sense of humor, and she got all mushy. Mushy would land her in jail—or worse.

  Best not to be mushy.

  Chapter Eight

  A bout the time they parked outside Todd Frazer’s small real-estate office the next day, John began to worry that he’d made the wrong lunch choice. He and Larson had spent the morning talking to the redheaded bank cashier, a rather hostile young woman who hadn’t helped his blood pressure. She seemed to feel that Turner’s theft was a personal affront against her. Add to that her private relationship with the deputy—they had apparently just broken up—and the interview had been downright uncomfortable.

  After that, they’d looked around for a bite to eat. When it came to dining options, Winosha offered the café that he’d had breakfast at—unappetizingly named the Greasy Grill—and pizza from the local gas station. He and Larson had gone with a couple of slices of pepperoni pizza washed down by a tankard of Diet Coke. Now John felt a burning sensation in his chest. Wonderful. The way the day was progressing, either he was developing a bad case of heartburn or he was building up to a heart attack.

  Frazer’s real-estate office was in a white prefab house with pressure-treated wood steps and railing. They’d already tried Frazer’s house, but apparently the man was voluntarily working on a Sunday. John didn’t like him already. A sign in the yard read, “BIG WOODS REAL ESTATE.” He and Larson climbed the steps and entered the front door. Inside, the tiny room was so freezer-cold he could feel the sweat congealing on his back unpleasantly. The room was carpeted in industrial gray, a single desk positioned dead center. Two client chairs bracketed a suspiciously green plant against the outer wall. A young woman with long, straight black hair clipped on one side sat behind the desk. She looked startled to see them. Must not have too many walk-ins on a Sunday. Either that or Larson’s uniform spooked her.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Todd Frazer.” John showed her his identification.

  Her eyes widened. “He went home for lunch.” She looked past him to Larson, as if seeking a personal testimonial from the deputy that she wasn’t lying.

  “We must’ve passed him, then. Do you expect him back here after lunch?” John asked gently.

  The woman glanced around the room vaguely. “Um, I think so.”

  “Good. We’ll wait.” John sat in one of the molded plastic chairs, ignoring the receptionist’s look of alarm.

  Larson inquired where the restroom was and left the room when it was pointed out. The receptionist stared at John.

  He sighed. “Do you have any Tums?”

  She jumped and looked down at her desktop as if there might be a roll sitting there that she hadn’t noticed before. “No, I’m sorry. Do you want me to run out and get some for you?”

  “No, thanks. I’m okay.” Not.

  The receptionist continued to stare. John suppressed an urge to bare his teeth at her and closed his eyes instead.

  He and Torelli were booked into a local mom-and-pop motel because the two chain motels in town were full. Tourist season. He hadn’t been in his room long—they’d got to the motel around three a.m. and been up at the crack of dawn. The mattress had been thin and lumpy, and he suspected that the pillow under his head last night had been cut from a piece of old foam. Add to that the clanking air conditioner—which despite its noise didn’t produce much in the way of cold air—and he hadn’t slept all that well. Perhaps his lack of sleep accounted for the incipient heartburn and the beginnings of a headache.

  And then there’d been that phone call with Turner Hastings last night.

  He’d been surprised at how husky Turner’s voice had been. He must’ve subconsciously been expecting a higher, lighter tone since she was so small. Instead, she had the strained, low voice of a woman who’d been screaming. Or one who hadn’t talked at all for a very long time. One who’d only now begun to come awake. That thought intrigued him. What had kept her from speaking, from living? She’d not been alarmed by his phone call. They could’ve been talking about the summer heat instead of federal charges that might very well put her in prison. She was a smart woman, he had to believe that, so she knew just how much trouble she was in. Yet it didn’t faze her. That kind of reckless bravado shouldn’t turn him on.

  But it did.

  Someone opened the outer door and John looked up. The man who entered was midthirties, slim, about five-ten, and wearing wire-rim glasses. He stopped and glanced at the receptionist, who rolled her eyes exaggeratedly at John.

  The guy unconsciously repeated her earlier query. “Can I help you?”

  Larson chose that moment to emerge from the back. Frazer, if that’s who he was, looked at the deputy in confusion. “What’s going on?”

  John stood. “Special Agent John MacKinnon of the FBI, Mr. Frazer. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.” He phrased it as a request but figured the other man was smart enough to know it was a command.

  He was. “Well, sure.” The confusion didn’t leave Frazer’s face. “Uh, Sylvie, hold my calls, will you?”

  The realtor opened the door to an inner office. The space was mostly taken up by metal filing cabinets—three of them—and a big metal desk. Frazer went around the side of the desk and tried to reestablish authority in his own domain by settling into the swivel chair behind the massive metal furniture.

  John strolled to the filing cabinets. Several framed photos were grouped on the wall above them. “I understand that you and Turner Hastings used to date.”

  “Yes.” Frazer frowned, clearly puzzled. “We were engaged.”

  “For how long?” The photos were mostly of a petite blonde with an overbite. In several, she held a towheaded toddler.

  “Almost a year.” Frazer glanced at Larson. The deputy stared stonily back. Not bad for a kid. “But that was four years ago. I’ve married Debbie since then. We’ve been married almost three years. Why are you asking about Turner?”

  “Have you seen Ms. Hastings recently?”

  “I wouldn’t say recently.”

  John turned and looked at the man without replying.

  Frazer flushed. “We attend the same church. I probably saw her there in the last month.”

  “When?”

  “Four, six weeks ago?” Frazer looked at Larson again. “I don’t remember. My wife would’ve seen her more recently. She takes Colin to the story hour at the library.”

  “Your wife knows you were engaged to Ms. Hastings?”

  “The whole town knows.” Frazer snorted. “It’s hardly a secret.”

  “It doesn’t bother your wife?”

  “Debbie knows I love her,” the man said simply.

  John watched him a moment, then nodded. “Why did you and Ms. Hastings break up?”

  “Look, this was over four years ago. Why do you want to know?”

  Like the outer lobby, Frazer’s office had two chairs in front of the desk for visitors. John took one. “You don’t have any Tums, do you?”

  “Uh, I might.” Frazer pulled out a drawer in his desk, rummaged in it, and offered half a roll.

  “Thanks.” John took four and gave the rest of the packet back. “Ms. Hastings was at the bank when it was robbed.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Apparently in the confusion following the robbery, she took the opportunity to open Calvin Hyman’s safe deposit box and steal the contents.”

  Frazer cocked his head and then shook it as if checking his hearing. “What?”

  John was pretty sure the other man had heard him. He chewed fruit-flavored chalk while he waited for Frazer to digest the news.

  Finally, Frazer asked, “But why?”

  “Well, that’s sort of what we’re trying to figure out.”

  “Are you certain?” The other man was still shaking his head. “I mean, could it have been someone else?”

&
nbsp; “Nope.” John swallowed the chalk slurry in his mouth. “Caught her on the bank surveillance tape.”

  “It doesn’t make sense. I doubt she needs the money. And that thing with Calvin was over years ago.”

  “What thing?”

  “The stuff with her uncle, Rusty Turner.” Frazer glanced at Larson. “Surely you’ve heard about that?”

  “Why don’t you tell me your version.”

  “Well.” Frazer scratched his jaw and sat up straighter. “Rusty Turner used to work for the bank. He was the vice president, in fact. He was a nice guy, everyone liked him in this town, but it turned out he’d been embezzling from the bank for years.”

  John raised his eyebrows.

  “Calvin found out and”—Frazer shrugged—“he had to fire him. Calvin had no choice. Can’t have a guy embezzling from any company, especially not a bank.”

  “What did Turner do?”

  “Not much she could do, was there? Everyone knew Rusty had done it. I remember she was mad at Calvin. I suppose that was natural, but she got over it.”

  Did she? John stretched his legs and crossed them at the ankles. He folded his hands on his lower belly. “You said you broke up four years ago. Was it around the same time as the embezzlement?”

  “A little later.” Frazer frowned in thought. “After Rusty’s funeral. I remember that.”

  “How did Mr. Turner die?”

  “He had a heart attack.” Frazer’s eyes widened again behind his little glasses. “It wasn’t murder or anything like that, if that’s what you’re thinking. He was in his sixties, had a history of high blood pressure and high cholesterol, from what I understood, and he just died one day.”

  “Keeled over from a heart attack,” John murmured. He picked up a paper clip from Frazer’s desk and slowly unbent it.

  “Yes, if you want to put it like that,” Frazer said stiffly. He seemed offended.

  “So why did you and Turner break up?”

  “I guess we just grew apart. You know how it is. You see less and less of a woman until you realize one day that the relationship died while you weren’t paying attention.”