Page 76 of Deathmarch

“Hey.” Harper patted him on the shoulder. “We signed up to serve and protect.”

Mike’s death glare promised retaliation, but his head was still in the current game. “Who do you have left?”

“Brody Cash and Dicky Poole. Interviews scheduled for tomorrow,” Harper told him as they walked to his cruiser.

“You think we could stop for pizza on the way back?”

“You just had doughnuts.”

Mike shrugged as he got in. “I thought it’d be enough, but now I’m thinking I need a real lunch.” He pulled the blue folder from the dashboard. “I’ll give you an update while we eat.”

“I have work to do. We stop, grab a pizza, and take it back to the station. You can give me your update on the way.”

Chapter Twenty

“Brittany,” Harper said as he jumped out of his pickup, accepting that he would be late for his Saturday morning shift. “You all right?”

“Just a flat.” She smiled at him as she stood on the side of the road, all blonde perfection. She was a beautiful woman, in designer riding boots, black pants, and a formfitting white coat that just about sparkled.

“Let me see.” He walked over to the back tire, and when he crouched, she crouched next to him, close enough so their knees touched. Considering how tight her pants were, he figured she wouldn’t be crouching long.

“You haven’t been texting me back,” she said.

“I’m investigating the Lamm case.”

She held out her hand. A four-inch bleeding slash glistened on her palm. “I tried to take off the tire, but I cut myself.”

“You have a first aid box in your car?”

She shook her head, all that silky, perfectly ironed hair swishing around her shoulders. Her perfume was a little strong but pleasant. She preferred Dior, and he used to like it. Now he found himself partial to the faint scent of boot leather.

Harper stood. “I have a kit in the pickup. Let’s take care of that cut first.”

She followed him, sat in the passenger seat sideways, with her feet dangling outside, while Harper stood in front of her. He disinfected the cut with peroxide, then smeared antibiotic ointment over it, before he wrapped up her hand.

She had her eyes on him the whole time. When she leaned forward, he stepped back.

“I don’t think you’re going to need stiches.”

“I miss you.”

“You got a spare?” He tossed the kit into the back of his pickup so he wouldn’t have to reach past her to the glove compartment, then walked to her car and popped the trunk.

Stared.

Sighed.

“You don’t have a spare.”

“Don’t I?” She stayed in his pickup. “I never had a flat before. I guess I never noticed.”

He closed the lid, walked to the front seat, grabbed the keys from the ignition and her purse from the passenger side. “I’ll take you home.”

“I don’t want to go there. I just had a fight with my mom.” She pouted and very nearly put tears in her eyes, but she wasn’t as good an actress as Allie. “Can’t you take me to your place?”

“No.” He locked her car.

“But when Allie Bianchi got hurt, you let her stay.”