front of PPB officers, what would he do?”
“Get mad and let me have it when we were alone.” She relaxed her arms. “Okay, fine. I see your point.”
“So you’ll help me?”
She stared right through him. “In the morning. Right now, I have somewhere I have to be.”
He gaped at her. “Now? Dressed like that?”
“I really have to go, Connor.”
His failure to move elicited another sigh from her. “I have to get to the hospital.”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. It’s my foster mother, Elise. She called. One of her kids, Frankie, was murdered tonight. She needs me now , so I didn’t take the time to change.”
“Murdered.” He let her pronouncement settle in. “In the Portland city limits?”
Becca shrugged. “Elise lives in the city and the hospital’s within the city limits, so likely.”
He dug out his phone and thumbed through it. “I didn’t get notification of a homicide.”
“She just called from the hospital. Maybe the responding patrol officer hasn’t requested a detective yet.”
“Maybe,” Connor said, his mind running through the possibilities. “You think this is related to Van Gogh?”
She shrugged again, but her eyes gave away her fear.
He wasn’t leaving her alone when she was feeling this way. And if the murder was related to Van Gogh, he had to know as soon as possible. “I’ll go to the hospital with you.”
Becca shook her head. “Look, I appreciate your concern, but you’ve got enough on your plate right now. If this ends up being connected to Van Gogh, I’ll give you a call.”
“Not happening,” he said firmly. “I’ll come with you. If the murder occurred in my jurisdiction and it’s not related to Van Gogh, then I’ll take Elise’s statement, and we’ll go from there. Okay?”
“Fine,” she said, but her tone told him otherwise. Apparently, spending any time with him was unpalatable.
He jingled his keys. “I’ll drive.”
Her chin jutted out. “I’ll drive my own car, and we can meet up at the hospital.”
Everything between them was always such a struggle. At the moment, he was tired of it, but if he was honest, he also liked the sparring. His brothers had all married easy-going women, but he found the challenge Becca presented interesting.
Just right now, he wished she’d give it up so they could get going. “I was hoping to talk to you about Van Gogh on the drive over.”
“Fine,” she grumbled.
He was starting to hate hearing that one word from her, but he’d take it as long as she didn’t drive off alone into the night.
He gestured for her to precede him, and then followed her to his truck. He opened the door for her and stepped back. She gave him a look that told him she could get herself settled, so he took the hint and jogged around the front of the truck and got in.
Once on the road, he glanced at her. She’d taken a moist wipe from her backpack and was running it over her face and neck. Her eyes were narrowed in worry, it seemed, not in anger or frustration as they had been with him. She was probably thinking about her foster mother. He’d been so focused on Van Gogh and the way Becca made him feel, he’d completely forgotten that Becca had a connection to the murdered girl.
“Tell me about Elise,” he said gently. “And Frankie.”
Becca gnawed on her bottom lip. “I thought you wanted to talk about Van Gogh.”
“I do, but it’d be good to get some background on your foster mother before I arrive.”
Becca appeared lost in thought for a moment, but then a tremulous smile broke free. “Elise’s a mom, through and through. You know, the one you’d always imagine you would have. The type who stayed home and was waiting for you each day after school with fresh-baked cookies. Who was there for every event in your life, cheering you on.”
“Sounds like my stepmom. Except when all of us kids would fight, which was often. There were four boys in the family.”
“You have three
“Get mad and let me have it when we were alone.” She relaxed her arms. “Okay, fine. I see your point.”
“So you’ll help me?”
She stared right through him. “In the morning. Right now, I have somewhere I have to be.”
He gaped at her. “Now? Dressed like that?”
“I really have to go, Connor.”
His failure to move elicited another sigh from her. “I have to get to the hospital.”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. It’s my foster mother, Elise. She called. One of her kids, Frankie, was murdered tonight. She needs me now , so I didn’t take the time to change.”
“Murdered.” He let her pronouncement settle in. “In the Portland city limits?”
Becca shrugged. “Elise lives in the city and the hospital’s within the city limits, so likely.”
He dug out his phone and thumbed through it. “I didn’t get notification of a homicide.”
“She just called from the hospital. Maybe the responding patrol officer hasn’t requested a detective yet.”
“Maybe,” Connor said, his mind running through the possibilities. “You think this is related to Van Gogh?”
She shrugged again, but her eyes gave away her fear.
He wasn’t leaving her alone when she was feeling this way. And if the murder was related to Van Gogh, he had to know as soon as possible. “I’ll go to the hospital with you.”
Becca shook her head. “Look, I appreciate your concern, but you’ve got enough on your plate right now. If this ends up being connected to Van Gogh, I’ll give you a call.”
“Not happening,” he said firmly. “I’ll come with you. If the murder occurred in my jurisdiction and it’s not related to Van Gogh, then I’ll take Elise’s statement, and we’ll go from there. Okay?”
“Fine,” she said, but her tone told him otherwise. Apparently, spending any time with him was unpalatable.
He jingled his keys. “I’ll drive.”
Her chin jutted out. “I’ll drive my own car, and we can meet up at the hospital.”
Everything between them was always such a struggle. At the moment, he was tired of it, but if he was honest, he also liked the sparring. His brothers had all married easy-going women, but he found the challenge Becca presented interesting.
Just right now, he wished she’d give it up so they could get going. “I was hoping to talk to you about Van Gogh on the drive over.”
“Fine,” she grumbled.
He was starting to hate hearing that one word from her, but he’d take it as long as she didn’t drive off alone into the night.
He gestured for her to precede him, and then followed her to his truck. He opened the door for her and stepped back. She gave him a look that told him she could get herself settled, so he took the hint and jogged around the front of the truck and got in.
Once on the road, he glanced at her. She’d taken a moist wipe from her backpack and was running it over her face and neck. Her eyes were narrowed in worry, it seemed, not in anger or frustration as they had been with him. She was probably thinking about her foster mother. He’d been so focused on Van Gogh and the way Becca made him feel, he’d completely forgotten that Becca had a connection to the murdered girl.
“Tell me about Elise,” he said gently. “And Frankie.”
Becca gnawed on her bottom lip. “I thought you wanted to talk about Van Gogh.”
“I do, but it’d be good to get some background on your foster mother before I arrive.”
Becca appeared lost in thought for a moment, but then a tremulous smile broke free. “Elise’s a mom, through and through. You know, the one you’d always imagine you would have. The type who stayed home and was waiting for you each day after school with fresh-baked cookies. Who was there for every event in your life, cheering you on.”
“Sounds like my stepmom. Except when all of us kids would fight, which was often. There were four boys in the family.”
“You have three
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