Partners In Crime. Alicia Scott

would you know?”

      “I overheard.”

      “What do you mean, you overheard? The sound doesn’t carry that easily to the reception area.”

      “It does if you put your ear against the door.”

      “You…you…eavesdropped on my conversation?” She didn’t know whether to be outraged, amazed or impressed. She settled on outraged, hotly stabbing her finger through the air. “You had no right to do that. Isn’t that illegal?”

      “I was just leaning against the door,” he said calmly. “There’s no law against leaning against a door.”

      Damn, now she was impressed. She fought the feeling vehemently. “I thought you were the one they called ‘Straight Arrow Stryker.’ You do everything by the book, that’s what I was told.”

      “I didn’t break any law.”

      “You invaded my privacy! Worse, you invaded Mr. Chouder’s privacy!”

      “Ms. Reynolds, I would never repeat anything I overheard about Mr. Chouder’s affairs. I was just trying to determine whether it would be appropriate for me to interrupt the conversation or not.”

      He said the words so steadily that she almost believed him. She caught herself immediately, of course. It was always a mistake to believe a cop. In their own way, they were as manipulative, conniving and Machiavellian as the people they were trying to catch.

      She drew herself up to her full five feet six inches. “Detective Stryker, if I ever hear gossip about Mr. Chouder’s financial affairs, I will personally hunt you down.”

      “And?”

      She smiled sweetly. “And announce your five-thousand-dollar donation to the Grand Springs Farm Bureau relief fund, of course. I’m sure you want to help out Mr. Chouder and the other farmers like him as much as possible.”

      Perhaps it was only her imagination, but Stryker’s clear-cut, voting Republican face seemed to ease into a small smile of appreciation. “You are good,” he murmured.

      “Hah, you haven’t seen anything yet.” Josie yanked open her center desk drawer and pulled out a bright yellow flyer.

      “Band, Bingo, Bake Sale next Friday night. Ten dollars to get in, great country music, a chance at cash prizes in bingo, and maybe you can pick up a blueberry pie for your lonely bachelor nights. All proceeds go to the relief fund. I think you should buy two tickets.”

      “How did you know I was a bachelor?”

      “Are you kidding? Ever since the day I moved here I have been regaled with stories of Mr. All-American, Jack Stryker. There are mothers with eligible daughters who do nothing but contemplate your future. Soon they’ll have set up a Web site for you—your favorite foods, hobbies, likes, dislikes. Oh, that’s right, no one’s supposed to mention the name of your ex-wife. Let’s see, Mary…Margaret…”

      “Marjorie.” His voice had become definitely tight.

      “Marjorie. Well, no one’s supposed to bring her up. So what do you say, two tickets?”

      Jack Stryker blinked his eyes several times, appearing speechless. Was it the mention of his ex-wife, the fact that she knew he was a bachelor or her persistent pushing of the fund-raiser? Josie didn’t care. In this preliminary battle of wills, she was finally winning. She liked winning, and these days, it didn’t happen often.

      “You’re either the rudest person I’ve ever met or the absolute best strategist,” Jack said at last.

      “Why, thank you.”

      Before she could break out the champagne and celebrate her victory, however, he abruptly leaned closer, those sharp blue eyes narrowing dangerously. “But your distraction ploy’s not going to work, Josie. We’re not here to talk about bake sales and we’re not here to talk about me. We’re here to talk about you. Where are you from, Josie?”

      “Hmm, now that I think about it, I’m sure your partner, Detective Richardson, and his new wife would love to go to the fund-raiser, as well. You should buy them two tickets while you’re at it.”

      “Why did you come to Grand Springs?”

      “The band is Sadie’s Sunshine. Have you ever heard them? A little too much banjo for my taste, but they get your feet stomping.”

      “You always keep to yourself. You’ve worked here two years, you go to all the appropriate functions, but no one really knows you. Why is that?”

      “I’m personally making lemon squares for the bake sale. They’re a specialty of mine. Better yet, Mrs. Simone is selling a pie-a-month club. For fifty bucks, she’ll deliver a fresh-baked pie to your house each month. She starts with her strawberry rhubarb pie in October. I’d buy that deal for myself, but I’m not sure I’m getting enough time at the gym for a pie a month.”

      “Is it men you don’t like? Or cops? Or both?” His blue eyes remained steady, his lips set. She could babble on till doomsday, his gaze told her, he would still get the information he required. As she watched him, the right corner of his lip curved dryly. “Come on, Josie,” he commanded firmly. “Speak to me.”

      She had to look away. The nervousness started in her belly and worked its way up to her throat. She had nothing to be nervous about, she told herself again and again but it wasn’t working. Her mouth had gone dry. Beneath the desk, her hands were trembling.

      Dammit, she wasn’t ready for this kind of interrogation. She was tired and overworked. She missed Olivia, she wanted to help Olivia, and yes, she did not like cops. Not even the one nicknamed “Straight Arrow Stryker,” who she always noticed, even in a crowded room.

      “Look,” Josie said, “as much fun as this has been, I still have a whole reception area filled with people who have much more important questions than what’s my sign. This meeting is over.”

      “I’m trying to solve a murder—”

      “And I hope you do.” Abruptly, her temper flared. She slapped her desk, startling them both. “Dammit, Olivia was my best friend! I want you to catch who killed her as much as anyone, you narrow-minded bureaucrat. And I’m telling you, I don’t have any more information for you!”

      “I think you’re lying,” he said bluntly.

      “I think you’ve inhaled too much red ink! I think you guys are desperate for answers over there. I bet Hal’s having a field day whipping your backs. Oh, and the police department’s budget is up for review. I should’ve known.”

      Stryker stood so fast, his chair tipped back. His jaw was tight enough to crack three walnuts, and his eyes seemed to blaze out of his head. He was angry, she realized with awe. Not just angry. The famous Straight Arrow Stryker was furious. And God, was he magnificent!

      “Don’t you ever, ever accuse me or my partner of manufacturing answers just to please a sniveling idiot like Hal Stuart. I don’t know how you do your job, lady, but I take mine very seriously!”

      “And so do I!”

      “You’re a suspect, Josie Reynolds.”

      “Because I was Olivia’s friend?”

      “Because you’re hiding something.” Jack Stryker planted his hands on her desk. He leaned all the way across until she could feel the whisper of his breath on her cheek, and said, “I’m going to come back to this office, Ms. Reynolds, and I’m going to keep coming back until I know everything about you. Where you were, what you’ve done. Why you don’t like cops. And if you killed Olivia Stuart, I’ll personally slap the handcuffs on your tender wrists.”

      Her mouth had gone dry. His determination was so pure, she could almost hear the cell doors clanging shut behind her. Again. Again. Again. Josie drew back slowly. She pulled herself together and pasted a smile on her pale face, because that’s what