Heir

Chapter 4-2

Luther adjusted the collar of his uniform before flipping the page on a crime scene report he’d read at least twice before. There had to be something he was missing. Whatever it was, no one else had found it, either. Or at least, no one had found the man who’d attacked Harlan Miller (and most likely killed Les), the man believed to be Daniel Carpenter. Nor had they found Adam’s father, Virgil Rutledge, or his great-uncle Teddy, believed to have helped him escape. Beyond that, Luther couldn’t say what anyone had found. There were multiple investigating agencies, most far afield of Beecham County, and they didn’t exactly make an effort to keep Luther in the loop.

It had been quiet at the Sheriff’s Department his whole shift. There weren’t many calls, and that was good. There weren’t many people passing by who felt compelled to talk at him, and that was even better. He figured most people just didn’t know what to say to him. Of course, he’d never been the most popular guy in town, and with some people still clinging to the rumors about his dead brother’s proclivities, Luther’s reputation certainly hadn’t improved.

Luther was supposed to have gone off shift a few minutes ago, but there was no one to send him home. Grant was long gone. The Sheriff knew what his deputy was doing: reviewing investigative files he had no business handling. He knew, and Luther knew he knew, but neither of them spoke of it. The way Luther saw it, Grant had enough boss-guy stress, what with Virgil’s escape and the shooting and Luther decking Officer Kiss-Ass. The Sheriff wasn’t about to volunteer for any more.

The sound of the front door brought Luther to attention. They didn’t have enough personnel—or serve a large enough community—to keep the doors open twenty-four hours. There was always a dispatcher to handle emergencies, but often not much more. In other words, anyone who opened the door had a key.

A small woman with wet hair hunched over the lock, trying to disengage said key. It was Beth. Funny that he hadn’t initially recognized her in civilian clothes. He couldn’t decide if she looked bigger or smaller without the hat, but her head did look better proportioned to her body, and not quite as wide.

“Luther,” she said, nodding as she helped the door on its way with her hip.

“Beth,” he acknowledged. “What brings you back this time of night?”

“Forgot my phone,” she said. “And you know how it is—it’s got my life on it.”

Luther didn’t know. His phone was just that—a phone. Reception was so spotty it barely accomplished that function on a good day, and he didn’t care for it to do anything else.

“What about you?” she asked. “Shouldn’t you be gone by now?”

He shrugged. “There’s nowhere else I need to be.”

Beth’s eyes went to the file in front of him, and he resisted the temptation to cover it with his arm. She might be the size of an eighth grader, but their newest deputy didn’t miss much. “Want to get a drink?” she asked.

Luther thought of his worn recliner, the only thing waiting for him. Except the bottle, and the one he’d planned on picking up on the way home. His brother had had a recliner too. He’d been lying a few feet from it when Luther and JJ found him.

“Sure, why not?” he said, shaking his head free of the image. “We could go by Harry’s.”

The bar was a total dive, but had the advantage of being right around the corner, and someplace they’d never run into another LEO. Unless somebody was raiding the place.

He’d driven a cruiser home last night and back this afternoon, so Beth waited for Luther while he changed clothes, then gave him a ride in her compact car. It was a little too compact for Luther’s tastes. He pushed the seat back far enough that his kneecaps didn’t grind against the dash, but he still felt like he couldn’t breathe, that there wasn’t enough room for his chest to expand. Fortunately, the drive to Harry’s took about as long as getting in and out of his seat belt.

Beth snickered as he struggled to get out. “I guess I don’t get too many burly men in my car.”

“Good thing,” Luther said, unsure whether “burly” was an adjective he wanted or not. “If you did, you might never get them out again. You ever been here before?”

“No,” she said. “Should I?”

“Not if you know what’s good for you.”

The nearest streetlight flashed against Beth’s pale face as she looked at him askance, then locked up her car. Her breath puffed in the cold, November air.

“Keep your head down and you’ll be fine. Besides,” he said, dropping his deep voice even lower, “you’re a trained poh-lice officer. What could go wrong?”

Light was apparently a valuable commodity not to be squandered at Harry’s, because not much of it escaped from the bar. The simple, wood-framed building was dwarfed by its surrounding parking lot, packed with pickups. Inside, the smell was what you’d expect from an establishment with the sole purpose of getting people shitfaced as cheaply as possible. There was no music, nothing but the murmuring rumble of conversations. The couple dozen people gathered around dim tables and on barstools wore a lot of flannel and denim and camouflage. In that sense, it wasn’t all that different from most businesses in Beecham County, except for some indefinable bad vibe.

Luther pulled his baseball cap down lower. He could swear they’d been clocked as “the law” as soon as they stepped through the door. Then he almost laughed. Who was he kidding? They hadn’t left Cold Springs, so undoubtedly they’d been recognized. But the ambient hostility was just as likely because he was Luther Beck as because he was a Sheriff’s Deputy.

The bar was shaped like a reverse L. Luther strode casually to a pair of stools on the short end, out of the way of traffic and most prying eyes and ears. It was cool enough that he didn’t bother removing his coat. If he did, he’d have to shove it under his ass anyway. There was no waitress, only a bartender with bushy, gray hair as dry as tinder. He didn’t exactly look swamped, but when Luther nodded, the man took his time responding. He acted put out when Luther asked for a couple of beers, as though they’d stumbled into his living room and insisted on hospitality.

Beth stared at Luther, but he didn’t know her well enough to interpret subtle expressions in the dim light. Had he already pissed her off by ordering for her?

“Sorry,” Luther said. “I figured you wouldn’t want to drink out of a glass, either.”

She smiled. “Perceptive. So how you been doing, Luther?”

“I been doing just fine,” he said, hoping that was the end of it. He gestured toward her wet hair. “I hope you didn’t shower on my account, planning to whisk me away somewhere fancy.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, you’re not exactly my type.”

The bartender returned with their beers, and they lightly clinked the bottles.

Beth continued, “I was at the gym. Showered after.”

“The one in Plattsville? How is that?” Luther asked, taking a big swig that half-emptied the bottle. He needed to pace himself.

Beth shrugged. “Mostly cardio. The pool reeks of chlorine, but somehow it’s still skank, when it’s open. But there is a decent little weight room.”

Luther laughed before he could help himself.

“What?” Beth challenged.

Luther had another long pull from his beer before holding it up for another. Who knew how long it would take to get a second drink? Then he looked at Beth, top to bottom—which didn’t take long—and let his eyes stop on her feet. Her toes stretched to rest on the stool’s crossbar, and the floor was a world away. He shook his head, but didn’t speak. There was nothing he could say that wouldn’t sink his ass in a mess of trouble. Instead he grinned at Beth and watched and waited, as her mouth slowly curled to match.

“I will admit,” she said, “the equipment is not always built for someone of my stature. But pound for pound, I can match anybody in there.”

He raised his hands defensively and said, “I have no doubt!”

He’d forgotten how good it felt to smile. The bartender brought him another beer and he smiled even more.

“Did you eat anything today?” Beth asked, when he drained most of the bottle.

“Sure,” he said, though he wasn’t. Did toothpaste count? “You trying to take care of me, Ms. Marshall?”

“I told you, you’re not my type,” she said, pausing for a sip. She’d barely breached the label. “You know who did ask about you today… that lawyer.”

Luther’s brow wrinkled. “What lawyer?”

“You know, the one that represented Virgil Rutledge. Apparently she’s helping JJ Tulley with her mess.”

“JJ had a hearing today?”

Beth nodded, and Luther tried to remember the last time he’d seen JJ. When he’d decked Kilbourne and released her from her cell? No, JJ must have been at Les’s funeral, but Luther didn’t much remember it. Except that his asshole father Rudy hadn’t shown. Not that he’d expected him to.

The bartender’s protuberant belly reminded him of Rudy.

Beth was watching Luther.

He signaled for another beer and asked, “How’d it go? For JJ, I mean?”

“I’d guess not great, considering how she and her lawyer looked rolling out of the courtroom. Then the ex started bothering her, and I had to run him off.”

Luther leaned in. “What do you mean, bothering her?”

“Nothing physical. Well, not while I was there, or I would’ve hauled his ass in. Maybe I should have anyway.”

“He threaten her?”

“He was arguing with her. Something about her and the Sheriff. Oh, and he said he didn’t poison her dog.” Beth’s brows raised, inviting him to comment.

Would the asswipe lie about that? Of course he would. He’d lie about anything. But not without a reason. And what would that be? Bearing in mind that he was an asswipe, so his reason might not make sense to a normal person.

“What did her attorney have to say?” Luther asked. Faith Callaway. Yes, Luther remembered the lovely Faith Callaway.

“About him or about you?” Beth grinned.

Luther pointed the next bottle at her as he asked, “You jealous, deputy?”

She snorted. “Hardly.”

Luther made an eh sound of skepticism, although there truly had never been any chemistry between them.

“You really don’t know, do you?” she asked.

He blinked. Maybe he’d gone through those first few bottles a little too fast. In fact, there was one more empty than he remembered ordering. “Know what?”

“I’m gay.”

“Huh,” was his eloquent reply. His facial muscles didn’t want to respond, but whether that was shock or alcohol, he couldn’t say. “I should’ve guessed.”

“Why—because I didn’t succumb to your charms? Or because I have short hair and lift weights? I play softball, too,” she noted, more amused than angry. “We’re not all butch, you know. Any more than all hetero females are delicate flowers.”

Luther was uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had taken, though he couldn’t have said why. He lowered his head, so he was almost speaking to his own shoulder. “Well, I know that.”

“Uh-huh. My first serious girlfriend was gorgeous.” She watched the remaining beer swirl as she rotated her nearly empty bottle. “Last one was damn attractive, too, if I do say so myself.”

Luther stared at her. He’d passed from discomfort into the realm of No Words and took refuge in his bottle.

“You want to know how someone that looks like me could land a supermodel. I’ll let you in on a little secret.” She leaned forward and whispered, “I’m hung like a horse.”

Luther jerked his head sideways to avoid her as he spewed his beer in a spit-take that would’ve made a teenager proud. Beth guffawed, and he alternately choked and heaved, joining her in a deep belly laugh that brought tears to his eyes.

Beth was still giggling, and he was wiping his eyes when the scowling bartender approached.

“Sorry about that,” Luther said, coughing into his sleeve. Then he pulled out his wallet and set enough cash on the bar to cover their tab, plus some. A few men from a nearby table had stood and approached the bar, and Luther had a sense that something was in the air. “Mrs. Ed, as much as I’m enjoying this, maybe we should move on.”

“Agreed,” Beth said.

Luther grinned as she hopped down from the stool (it was so far!). Distracted, giving Luther a dirty look, Beth accidentally bumped one of the men heading for the bar. Or more likely, Luther thought, the man “accidentally” bumped her.

“Excuse me,” she said, and tried to move around the man, who had a foot and a hundred pounds on her.

“No excuse for you,” he said, then added, “dyke.”

“Hey,” Luther said, hands up. “We’re leaving.”

“That’s right. And we don’t want any trouble,” Beth continued.

“A Beck that doesn’t want trouble? Seems unlikely,” said a second man who’d appeared next to Luther. About the same height but a little leaner. “A’ course, so does a Beck hanging out with a dyke.”

“Keep walking,” Luther told Beth. Even though every cell in his body screamed for a fight.

Luther had to hand it to her—she didn’t challenge anyone directly, but she didn’t cower, either. She pushed past the first man, then another, as they converged on Luther. One of the men put a hand on Luther’s arm. Luther twisted, and the man immediately released him.

“Not tonight,” Luther said, shoulder-bumping his way through.

“Makes sense, though. Him hanging out with a dyke,” said the man he’d just passed. “You know his brother was a pervert, too. I guess that’s better than diddling little kids.”

Luther closed his eyes briefly.

A smile, the kind his mother always said meant no good, crossed Luther’s face and lit up his eyes as he surrendered to the familiar, fiery buzz in his veins, opened his eyes, turned and threw the first punch.