Trusting The Sheriff. Janice Kay JohnsonЧитать онлайн книгу.
coffee and raspberry pie topped with fresh cream proved irresistible to him, however, and although he stood strong enough to repeat several times that he couldn’t stay for dinner, he did accept containers of food that would probably feed him for several days.
His mouth quirked as he said goodbye to Abby. “Don’t put on too much weight while you’re here. Wouldn’t want you to get slow on your feet.”
She laughed and said, “Thank you. For bringing me home. It can’t be what you wanted to do on your day off.” Assuming, her cynical side reminded her, that this hadn’t actually been a working day for him. Good cop, remember?
“I was glad to do it,” he said, and left.
Abby sat at the kitchen table, inhaling the smell of good things cooking, very aware of Rose reaching out to clasp her hand, her aunt fussing at the stove and Onkel Eli smiling gently at her from his place at the head of the table.
Home.
Phone to his ear, Caleb Tanner leaned back in his large desk chair and stacked his booted feet on his desk. He thought it unlikely Mike Donahue had called in the middle of a working day for no reason but to catch up, but so far, all they’d done was chitchat—his mother’s description for meaningless talk. Fortunately, he was a patient man. He didn’t have anywhere he needed to be.
He and Donahue had known each other as Kansas City PD officers, partnering together in the drug-enforcement unit for a couple of years. Undercover work was hell on marriage or having a family—or even meeting a girlfriend or buddies at a bar to watch football games. Caleb, for one, had decided he wasn’t made for a high-adrenaline lifestyle. He didn’t know what motivated Donahue, but both had ultimately made the move to Homicide, where they’d stayed friends of a sort despite the twenty-year difference between them. They hadn’t been close enough to really stay in touch after Caleb left KCPD and took the job as sheriff of this rural northeast-Missouri county.
Which made today’s phone call a puzzle.
“You’re not bored out of your skull yet?” Donahue asked him.
Thinking of his last few wildly busy days, Caleb laughed. “Don’t have time to get bored. Do you have any idea how shorthanded a department like mine is? When I’m not juggling too few officers to cover shifts, I’m riding patrol to fill a gap, or giving talks to community organizations. I respond to accidents. My two detectives need guidance. When we have anything halfway serious happen, I usually take lead. I give press conferences, deal with the county commissioners, unhappy citizens. Come to think of it, it’s not all that different from heading a homicide squad, except you can keep out of the public eye.”
“Good thing, considering my general lack of tact.”
With a grin, Caleb said, “Won’t disagree.” When Donahue didn’t make an immediate comeback, Caleb remarked, “Saw on the news that you had a couple of detectives shot a week or so ago. They yours?”
The sergeant gusted a sigh. “Yeah, and that’s really why I called. I’m hoping you’ll do something for me.”
Caleb’s eyebrows climbed. Now, this was unexpected. “And what would that be?” he asked, trying to hide his caution.
“Has to do with the shooting.” Donahue gave him more detail about the ugly scene in the alley than news outlets had reported. Two young detectives—partners—who’d to all appearances shot each other. One dead, one badly injured but surviving.
“The survivor is a woman,” Donahue said grimly. “She came up from patrol not quite a year ago. Seemed to be catching on fine. Detective Walker said he was happy with the pairing. Still, I had a lot of faith in him, and she’s new. I think she’s corrupt, and murdered him when he found out she was involved in something bad.”
“You’re thinking drugs?”
“We both know that’s the likely answer. They were in the Prospect corridor, behind a bar where we’ve made more than a few arrests for drugs and prostitution. So far as I can determine, there was no reason they should have been there. I can’t find a connection between the bar or nearby businesses and any of the investigations they were conducting.”
Caleb frowned. The neighborhood surrounding the intersection of Prospect and Independence ranked as one of the most dangerous areas in Kansas City.
He asked questions; Donahue answered them with seeming frankness. No, he had no concrete evidence that Detective Baker had gone bad.
“I’m going with my gut here,” he admitted.
“What’s she say?”
“She claims amnesia. Can’t remember a damn thing. I don’t buy it.”
“I’ve seen people with post-traumatic amnesia,” Caleb said neutrally.
“This is just too convenient for me.”
Inclined to agree with that assessment, Caleb still reserved judgment. It happened, in particular after a head injury, which he understood the woman detective had suffered. He had no trouble understanding Mike Donahue’s frustration, though.
He took his feet off the desk so that he could rock forward and reach for his coffee cup. After a swallow, he asked, “So what’s this favor?”
“Baker left the hospital yesterday to stay with family to recuperate. Aunt and uncle have a farm in your county. Sam Kirk drove her up there. You remember him, don’t you?”
“Mostly by reputation,” he said. The guy was a little older than Caleb, solid at his job so far as he knew.
“It’s a strange setup, way I hear it. This family is Amish.”
Stunned, he said, “What?”
“You heard me. I don’t know how Baker is connected to these people. They don’t usually want anything to do with law enforcement, from what I understood.”
“You understand right. For the most part, they’re law-abiding people. They keep to themselves and avoid mixing with government or police authority as much as possible. I’ve never heard of an Amishman—” and a woman was even more unlikely “—becoming a cop.” Caleb shook his head in bemusement. There had to be a story here.
“Not sure she ever was Amish, just somehow related.” Donahue cleared his throat. “I’m hoping you’d be willing to stop by, express concern and sympathy. Be good if you could get to know her, sound her out.”
“Earn her trust.”
“You got it.”
The role sounded distasteful to Caleb, but if this woman had really shot her partner in cold blood because she’d taken payoffs to protect drug traffickers, he had no sympathy for her. He couldn’t quite see her spilling to him, but people made mistakes. She might forget some detail of whatever story she’d given Donahue, tell Caleb something different. Anything was possible.
“I’ll give it a shot,” he said, then winced at his choice of words. “Email me everything you’ve got on the incident. Name and address of this aunt and uncle, too.”
His day stayed busy. It wasn’t until after dinner at home that he was able to open his laptop and read the police reports and autopsy report Donahue had sent, as promised. Crime scene photos were included. Caleb studied those carefully, but nothing jumped out at him.
Then he saw where Abigail Baker had taken refuge.
Caleb knew Eli and Nancy Kemp. They were good people, Eli a farmer who also worked in leather, making and repairing horse tack, essential to a people whose principal mode of transportation was horse and buggy. Frowning, Caleb tried to find an explanation of why this female cop would have been taken in by an Amishman who also happened to be a minister in his church district.