The Marine's Last Defence

“Do you need something, Detective?”

“I was...” The pen had been with the notepad earlier. He patted every pocket on his coat. “Can I borrow your pen?”

She didn’t turn away, just slid her larger spiral notebook in front of her and handed over the pen from between its pages.

“Thanks.”

“If you need one for the crime scene, I’m sure Carl has an extra. That ink’s actually pink.”

The old saying of a smile lighting up a room popped into his head. He would swear the entire diner had brightened when the corners of her mouth rose, silently amused that he’d be writing with her girlie-colored pen. He shook himself and wrote Carl’s name and then Bree.

“Ma’am, sorry to disturb you. Carl mentioned you walked here. Did you come through the park?”

“No, not last night. Was someone really murdered?” She visibly relaxed when she answered.

“Unfortunately, yes.” Sort of an odd physical reaction to the word murder. Don’t read anything into it.

“That’s so sad.”

“Yes, ma’am. Did you see anything unusual? Anyone running from the park or a car speeding away?”

“No. But I slept some after midnight.”

“I’d like your name and phone number, just in case we have new information and need to pursue it with you. You never know what detail might help.”

“It’s really hard to see out of these windows at night, Detective. I really don’t think there’s a need to put me in a report.”

He looked up to see the reflection of a man covered in mud—even on his face. He looked like an extra in a disaster movie. He agreed that from the booth you couldn’t really see much outside.

“Not for the report. It’s only in case I need to get in touch again. I’d prefer your cell number, if possible. Carl said your name was Bree?” He concentrated on the tip of the pen where it met the paper. Not on the disconcerted twitch that occurred at the corner of her eye when he said he wanted information about her.

“Yes. Bree Bowman. And I don’t have a phone, but you can reach me at 214-964-79— Well, shoot, I always get those last numbers confused.” She opened the spiral and removed a yellow flyer. “Here.”

“Jerome’s Pet Sitters. You work here?” He stuffed the paper in his pocket.

“I fill in when I have time. Jerome takes messages.”

“Is Bree short for something?”

“No.”

She shifted on the bench, looking as uncomfortable as he felt awkward. He knew cops who used the addresses and numbers of pretty girls. That wasn’t his style. He couldn’t legitimize pushing for her address. He’d get it if he really needed to get in touch.

“That should be enough for now.” He set her pen on the table, watching it roll to the edge of the spiral. “Thanks for your cooperation.”

“No problemo,” she said, imitating Carl.

“Right. Thanks again.” He scooped up the coffees, including his own, and headed for the door.

“Wait. Let me help.” Bree’s voice came from just behind him. “I can get the door so you don’t have a disaster with those cups.” She darted around him, pushed the door and kept it open while he passed through.

“Thanks for the help.”

“You’re very welcome.”

Like an idiot he stopped and took another look at her. And like someone who hadn’t flirted in a decade—which he hadn’t—he said, “You know you have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.”

She inhaled sharply and pressed her lips together. Maybe embarrassed. Maybe flattered. Maybe like she received that compliment a lot. “Thanks, Detective. But it’s really cold out.”

“Yeah, sorry. Have a nice day.”

“You, too.”

Just before the door closed, he heard another sweet giggle.

You’re such an idiot.

* * *

DAWN CAME AND WENT along with the ambulance and dead woman’s body. She’d had no identification, no keys, and to their knowledge, no one had reported her missing. Dallas howled endlessly as her owner was removed by the medical examiner.

The obvious assumption was that the victim had been mugged while walking her dog. Locate where the dog lived and they’d discover the identity of the owner.

Simple.

No one was pursuing it. They’d wait on Animal Control to call with the chip’s registered address.

After contaminating the scene, Jake had been told he was lucky to be holding the dog. Coffee run completed, he’d waited in the car. Warmed the dog. Fed the dog his sandwich from home. Watered the dog. Pacified the dog. Everyone else finished up, the crime scene had been released, and he was now letting the dog do his business near a tree.

“Hey, Craig,” his partner called to him from across the lot, laughing and slapping the back of another longtime detective. “Make sure you wait around for Animal Control to get that mutt. They’re expecting you to be right here, so you should probably walk the dog in circles until they show.” He laughed some more and threw the car keys. “I’m catching a ride back to the station.”

Jake caught the keys and didn’t have a chance to ask his partner what they all found so hilarious before the car pulled away. He stood there holding the pup’s makeshift leash, fearing the joke was on him. Yeah, he was darn certain that around the station he’d graduated from the position of rookie to leash holder.

The last patrolman headed to his car, pointing at the ground. “You got a bag to clean that up, man?”

Jake shrugged, then shook his head.

“Seriously, man. You can’t leave that on the ground like that.”

He shot him a look, hoping the patrolman would back off. “I’ll get something from Animal Control.”

“You gotta set a good example for the kids over there. Leaving it in a park’s against city ordinances. You’re a cop now.”

“Sure. I got it.” And he did...get it. The marines were behind him and he was on his own, alone in a city where he barely knew anyone. He’d wanted that after the divorce. No one around to remind him of the six years of humiliation.

Jake sat in his car and started the engine, thinking of amethyst eyes. A better memory than the wasted time he’d invested with his ex. Should he call Bree Bowman?

And then what? Say what? Do what? Ask her to meet for coffee? Maybe he’d make it a habit to have breakfast at the diner and try to catch her there again. And breakfast to boot. It wasn’t too far out of his way. Then he might be able to offer a ride sometime. That was a plan he could live with. Slow. No commitment.