Hidden - Laura Griffin Page 0,27
him with a peeved look.
“Is there anything you can tell me that might be useful?” she asked.
“So far, no eyewitnesses. I’m hoping you’ll give me a heads-up if you come across anyone.”
“I will.”
“And no murder weapon.”
“You don’t really expect to find one with the lake right there, do you?”
“You never know.”
Bailey sighed. “This is frustrating. I mean, who was this woman? And what was this murder about? All I’ve got are bits and pieces, but no big picture.”
“Welcome to my world.”
Jacob felt guilty now for holding so much back. Which didn’t make sense. Of course he couldn’t tell a reporter everything he knew. But he wasn’t exactly helping her here. Everything he’d given her he was pretty sure she’d already known anyway.
He picked up his beer. “So, how’d you get into rowing?”
“Nice change of subject,” she said dryly.
“I’m interested.”
She smiled. “No, you’re not.”
“I am.”
She sighed and pushed her plate away, as if she was willing to play along. “I grew up in Corpus. My dad loves boats and he taught me and my sisters how to sail when we were kids. We had this big catamaran that he kept at a marina on Laguna Madre.” She smiled. “Actually, it wasn’t that big, but to me it seemed huge. He named it the Mary Alice after my mom.”
“Your family still there?”
“Not anymore. My parents retired to Padre Island.” She twisted her wineglass. “My dad’s got RA now. Rheumatoid arthritis. He doesn’t sail anymore, but they still love being on the coast. Wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”
He nodded. “I’ve spent some time on the island. Good fishing.”
“So I hear.” She shrugged. “I’ve never had the patience for fishing. The beaches are nice, though. I love the dunes.”
He watched her in the candlelight. Her cheeks looked pink and she seemed more relaxed now that they weren’t talking about work. He wished—again—that he’d met her under different circumstances. He could be on a date with her right now instead of sitting here trying to manipulate her into revealing her sources.
She smiled. “What’s that look?”
“Nothing.”
“You know, I used to go out with one of your colleagues.”
“Oh, yeah?” He’d heard, but he hadn’t expected her to bring it up.
“You know Skip Shepherd?”
“Not well.”
Jacob knew him well enough to question her tastes in men. Shepherd was closer to Bailey’s age—probably twenty-eight. He was smart and ambitious, but he was also an ass. Jacob couldn’t see Bailey putting up with him.
Jacob’s phone buzzed, and he pulled it from his pocket to check it. It was Kendra, so he let it go to voice mail. If it was urgent, she’d text him.
Bailey watched him put the phone away. “Anything important?”
“It can wait. What happened with Shepherd?” Jacob wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but she’d brought it up, so maybe she wanted to tell him.
“You know, the usual. Compatibility issues.”
“That covers a lot of ground.”
“Yep.”
Bailey gave him a long, steady look, and he wondered what she was thinking. Was she warning him off, in some way?
Jacob didn’t need to be here, and they both knew it. All of his questions about the case could have been asked over the phone, and yet here he was, seeking her out after work again. He liked being around her, liked talking to her. He liked looking at her across the scarred wooden table. He watched her trace the stem of her wineglass with her finger, and his pulse thrummed in a way he’d almost forgotten about. The candlelight flickered in her eyes as she looked at him, and he knew it wasn’t one-sided. She felt the attraction, too.
The waitress dropped off the check, breaking the mood, which was probably for the better.
“I should get home,” Bailey said.
She let him split the bill with her, and they walked out into the humid night air. The sidewalks were wet again, and he realized it had rained while they’d been inside. Jacob’s truck was parked right out front.
“You walk or drive?” he asked.
“I walked.”
“Can I give you a ride?” He popped the locks.
“It’s only four blocks.”
“And you’ve got a computer with you.”
She surprised him by not arguing. Instead, she reached for the passenger door and climbed into his truck. He closed the door for her and went around the front. As he slid behind the wheel, she was looking around with blatant curiosity.
“Pretty clean for a cop.”
He started the engine and pulled out. “What’d you expect?”
“Oh, I don’t know. All the stereotypes. Fast-food wrappers. Half-eaten doughnuts.” She picked up the APD hang tag from