again.
He realized she might be trying to get in touch with him, and the brief moment of contentment passed. His damn phone. He twisted his head around, checking the clock on the wall for the time. Nine-thirty. With the pre-dawn hours Angie had to keep for Daily Bread, she ’d be in bed already.
Metcalf guzzled his cocoa and started in on the whiskey, taking his glass to the sofa. Gordon ’s lids grew heavy, and he knew he’d never outlast Metcalf. What little caffeine was in the chocolate was counteracted by the soporific effects of the hot milk—not to mention the exertions of the day. He stifled a yawn. “I’m going to call it a night myself.”
Raffi Yardumian merely nodded. Had Mrs. Yardumian imagined he ’d sent a text? Gordon stood and carried his mug to the kitchen, where she was wiping down counters.
“ You can set it in the sink,” she said.
He did, then approached her. “What was the text about? Your husband hasn’t mentioned it at all.”
“ I don’t know. Raffi took a call from the State Patrol, and I heard him say he’d text you.”
“ Me, specifically?” Gordon asked. “Or did he just say he’d send a text?”
She rinsed the sponge in the sink. “You know, I might have jumped to conclusions. We were all worried about you and Nick, and everything else that’s going on. Raffi’s exact words, as I recall, were, ‘Thank you. I’ll text him.’ Oh, dear. Because it was the State Patrol calling, I assumed it meant you, but it could have been anyone. And now I’ve worried you unnecessarily.” She dried her hands. “Let me go ask him.”
“ Please, don’t bother. I thought maybe it was something he didn’t want anyone else to hear. If it was urgent, I’m sure he would have figured out how to tell me.” Although curiosity buzzed in his brain, it was too quiet to overpower the mounting return of his headache. “Thanks for the cocoa. I’ll see you in the morning.”
In the living room, Metcalf sat alone by the fire nursing his whiskey. Gordon nodded a good night and offered one more thanks for the rescue. Metcalf lifted his glass. Gordon nodded in his direction and dragged himself up the stairs. He let himself into his room, already shedding clothes in anticipation of a hot shower. He closed the door behind him, fumbling for the light switch. The lamp beside the sofa went on, revealing a backlit silhouette in the easy chair.
Chapter 17
Gordon grabbed for his Beretta. The shadowy figure rose.
“ I hope I didn’t startle you.” Raffi Yardumian’s voice. “I wanted to talk privately.”
Gordon slipped the pistol into its holster and tugged his thermal shirt down to hide it. Sweater over his arm, he crossed the sitting room. “Is this about the text your wife said you sent? I lost my phone, so I never got it. She said the State Patrol called.”
“ I never sent it,” Yardumian said. He obviously wanted to say something, but didn’t seem to know where to begin. Yardumian lowered himself into the chair again, and Gordon took a seat on the sofa. Gordon waited, allowing the man to collect his thoughts, wishing he could yank the words from Yardumian’s throat and get on with that hot shower he craved.
After what seemed like enough time for three hot showers, the man spoke.
“You never said you were the Chief of Police in Mapleton.”
All right. He hadn ’t expected to keep his job a secret forever. “No, I didn’t. I’m here on vacation, and when people know you’re a cop—well, it’s more of a vacation when they don’t.”
“ Kind of like being a doctor, everyone describing their symptoms?”
“ Yeah. They always want you to run background checks on their shifty neighbors,” Gordon said.
Yardumian ducked his head. “I didn’t tell anyone. Not even Tamara. Yet.”
“ Appreciate that.” Gordon waited, eyeing the bathroom, hoping Yardumian would cut to the chase. When no response was forthcoming, Gordon tried again. “That message—?”
“ Yeah.
He realized she might be trying to get in touch with him, and the brief moment of contentment passed. His damn phone. He twisted his head around, checking the clock on the wall for the time. Nine-thirty. With the pre-dawn hours Angie had to keep for Daily Bread, she ’d be in bed already.
Metcalf guzzled his cocoa and started in on the whiskey, taking his glass to the sofa. Gordon ’s lids grew heavy, and he knew he’d never outlast Metcalf. What little caffeine was in the chocolate was counteracted by the soporific effects of the hot milk—not to mention the exertions of the day. He stifled a yawn. “I’m going to call it a night myself.”
Raffi Yardumian merely nodded. Had Mrs. Yardumian imagined he ’d sent a text? Gordon stood and carried his mug to the kitchen, where she was wiping down counters.
“ You can set it in the sink,” she said.
He did, then approached her. “What was the text about? Your husband hasn’t mentioned it at all.”
“ I don’t know. Raffi took a call from the State Patrol, and I heard him say he’d text you.”
“ Me, specifically?” Gordon asked. “Or did he just say he’d send a text?”
She rinsed the sponge in the sink. “You know, I might have jumped to conclusions. We were all worried about you and Nick, and everything else that’s going on. Raffi’s exact words, as I recall, were, ‘Thank you. I’ll text him.’ Oh, dear. Because it was the State Patrol calling, I assumed it meant you, but it could have been anyone. And now I’ve worried you unnecessarily.” She dried her hands. “Let me go ask him.”
“ Please, don’t bother. I thought maybe it was something he didn’t want anyone else to hear. If it was urgent, I’m sure he would have figured out how to tell me.” Although curiosity buzzed in his brain, it was too quiet to overpower the mounting return of his headache. “Thanks for the cocoa. I’ll see you in the morning.”
In the living room, Metcalf sat alone by the fire nursing his whiskey. Gordon nodded a good night and offered one more thanks for the rescue. Metcalf lifted his glass. Gordon nodded in his direction and dragged himself up the stairs. He let himself into his room, already shedding clothes in anticipation of a hot shower. He closed the door behind him, fumbling for the light switch. The lamp beside the sofa went on, revealing a backlit silhouette in the easy chair.
Chapter 17
Gordon grabbed for his Beretta. The shadowy figure rose.
“ I hope I didn’t startle you.” Raffi Yardumian’s voice. “I wanted to talk privately.”
Gordon slipped the pistol into its holster and tugged his thermal shirt down to hide it. Sweater over his arm, he crossed the sitting room. “Is this about the text your wife said you sent? I lost my phone, so I never got it. She said the State Patrol called.”
“ I never sent it,” Yardumian said. He obviously wanted to say something, but didn’t seem to know where to begin. Yardumian lowered himself into the chair again, and Gordon took a seat on the sofa. Gordon waited, allowing the man to collect his thoughts, wishing he could yank the words from Yardumian’s throat and get on with that hot shower he craved.
After what seemed like enough time for three hot showers, the man spoke.
“You never said you were the Chief of Police in Mapleton.”
All right. He hadn ’t expected to keep his job a secret forever. “No, I didn’t. I’m here on vacation, and when people know you’re a cop—well, it’s more of a vacation when they don’t.”
“ Kind of like being a doctor, everyone describing their symptoms?”
“ Yeah. They always want you to run background checks on their shifty neighbors,” Gordon said.
Yardumian ducked his head. “I didn’t tell anyone. Not even Tamara. Yet.”
“ Appreciate that.” Gordon waited, eyeing the bathroom, hoping Yardumian would cut to the chase. When no response was forthcoming, Gordon tried again. “That message—?”
“ Yeah.
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