“You better hope none of them speak the language,” Owen said.
“As if.”
“Señora Mueller taught Spanish when I was here, and she was pretty fluent.” Though no one in her class ever turned out to be. Señora had mostly handed out worksheets and sent them to the language lab to listen to others speak Spanish, rather than insisting they speak it themselves.
“She’s still teaching,” the boy said.
He did live in Three Harbors. Maybe things had changed. Except … Owen let his gaze wander over the people still hanging around.
The kid had the only tan in town.
“And I bet no one speaks decent Spanish but you and her.”
The boy shrugged, which Owen took as a yes.
Owen had always figured Señora hadn’t actively taught her classes because talking seemed to make her cough. As he recalled, breathing had made her cough.
“She still have ‘allergies’?” Owen made quotation marks in the air with his forefingers.
“She coughs like it’s her last day on earth,” the kid said. “Considering she smells like Marlboros, I’m not sure if she’s allergic to smoke or fresh air.” He contemplated Reggie with interest. “Your dog is a…”
“Malinois,” Owen supplied.
“Belgian.” That was Billy, who continued to stare straight ahead as if guarding the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier rather than frayed crime scene tape hung across a sidewalk.
“I know what breed he is.” The boy sounded as if he wanted to roll his eyes again. Owen had never felt so old. “He’s a working dog.” The kid’s gaze lifted to Owen’s Marines-style hair. “A military working dog.”
“You know a lot about dogs.”
“I work for Becca.” He held out his hand. “I’m Joaquin.”
Owen shook. A couple of tourists jaywalked, weaving in between the cruisers and the pickups parked willy-nilly at the curb, then strolling up the sidewalk in front of the clinic. Billy hurried over to shoo them away, then began to string yellow tape from sign to sign to prevent such a breach from occurring again.
Owen considered making a break for the back door, but Billy glanced over his shoulder as if he’d heard the thought. His glower was as threatening as it had ever been. It had never occurred to Owen that a lineman would make a great cop, but it should have. Billy’s protect-and-defend instinct was well honed, and his ability to read minds, or at least eyes and faces, even better.
“Joaquin,” Owen repeated. “How many people have called you Joe Quinn?”
Joaquin laughed. “You’ve been here before.”
“I lived here once. I’m Owen—”
“McAllister?”
“Yeah.” Owen considered the kid again. Maybe someone he knew had gone away and married someone who’d named their kid Joaquin. But he doubted it.
“I know you. I mean…” His quick grin made him appear younger than Owen had first thought. “I’ve heard of you.”
Had Becca mentioned him to her employee? Hope fluttered.
“People talk.” Joaquin’s grin faded, and he shrugged.
The hope died. If Becca had mentioned him, it couldn’t have been anything good for the boy to go all twitchy like that.
“I was a dumb kid,” he said.
“No. Well, maybe. Aren’t all kids dumb?”
Joaquin got smarter by the second.
“You’re a big deal now. People call you a hero.”
“They do? Since when?”
Confusion flickered. “Since forever.”
“Not,” Owen muttered.
“I’ve never heard anything but how great you are.”
Owen opened his mouth, shut it again, glanced at the waning crowd. Someone called his name, another waved.
“This is Three Harbors, right?”
Looked like Three Harbors, but it wasn’t acting like Three Harbors.
“All day,” the kid said. “Lucky us.”
“Not a fan?”
“I won’t complain.”
“Just because you won’t doesn’t mean you shouldn’t.”
“Sir?”
“Let me guess. You’re different. You don’t fit in. No one wants to play with you.”
“I don’t wanna play with them either,” Joaquin said.
“Sure you do.”
“From what I heard you didn’t play with anyone except—”
The kid broke off. Good choice.
However, Joaquin was frowning at Reggie and not at him.
The dog’s ruff had gone razorback then he blew air through his nose, an indication that Reggie had caught the scent of something he didn’t like. Not explosives. That tell was ears up, sit down, stare at the place where the bomb was situated with the attention usually given to a five-pound steak. Razorback was for—
He took off, yanking the leash from Owen’s hand. Owen stared at his empty palm for an instant before he took off too. Unfortunately Owen’s version of “taking off” these days was a hop, skip, and a gimp.
Someone in the gathering behind the police tape drew in a loud, shocked breath.