Robert B. Parker’s Buried Secrets

Forty-Nine

Daisy finished wiping the counter where Jordyn had missed a spot. He was doing better. Another six or seven months and he might actually be competent to lock up on his own.

Not for the first time, she missed Cole, Jesse’s son. Law enforcement’s gain was a loss to the world of fine dining. Say what you will about that kid, but he could really bus a table.

She was on her way to the back door to the alley where she parked her car, pleasantly tired.

She took one last look around the café before leaving. She’d be back here in six hours, doing it all again, baking and cooking and serving and cleaning.

Then her eyes snagged on the sign she’d put in the window when she was so enraged. No Paradise Cops Allowed. Jesus. What a shit show that had turned into. She’d heard they’d suspended Tate because he’d shot someone. She’d resisted the urge to call Jesse and shout “I TOLD YOU SO” at the top of her lungs.

Probably not what he needed to hear right now, honestly. But she was still so damn mad at him.

They’d work it out. She knew it. Whenever they got the time. Until then, he could eat at the Gray Gull. He wouldn’t starve.

She turned to go then. And heard something. A scraping noise.

Daisy walked carefully toward the back door. It was locked, but she hadn’t set the alarm yet.

There was the scratching noise again. Then the deadbolt began to turn on its own.

For a moment, it was so strange, she could think only of a haunted-house movie. But her mind put it together even while she stood there, staring.

Someone was breaking into the café.

Daisy had a baseball bat under the front counter, a souvenir of the bad old days when someone from Hasty Hathaway’s idiot militia liked to throw rocks through her plate-glass window or tear down her pride flag. Now she mostly kept it for sentimental reasons, and anyway, it was too far away for her to do any good.

But she was right in the kitchen, surrounded by dozens of expertly sharpened knives.

She wasn’t moving fast enough, she knew. She couldn’t take her eyes off the lock as it slowly turned.

But Daisy forced herself into gear, ran over to the nearest prep station, and grabbed the closest knife. By all bad luck, it was a short paring knife, the one she had Jordyn use.

She’d just gotten it when it occurred to her that the smarter thing to do was run out the front door. Escape was a hell of a lot better plan than a knife fight.

Again, her mind and body seemed to be weighed down by quicksand. She’d heard Jesse talk about this, how when the adrenaline hits, when you’re in danger, everything slows down. Including your reaction time, sometimes. You freeze.

Daisy had been in fights before, but this was different. Then she had her anger on her side. It erased any fear.

Now all she could think about was someone coming into her place for God knows what reason.

In the time it took her to decide to run, the lock snapped open. The door slammed wide and a man rushed through, seeming impossibly quick to her, his movements sure and unhesitating. He made her feel slow and stupid by comparison.

She just had time to shove the knife away under the sleeve of her sweater.

He was across the kitchen in two big steps, one hand coming up and shoving her down to the floor.

Daisy landed hard on the tile. It hurt.

When she looked up again, an older man with graying hair stared down the barrel of a very big gun pointed at her.

“This is not how I wanted this to go,” he told her.

Elliott pressed a button on his phone, activating the three-way call that Raney had set up earlier.

He kept the gun on the woman without looking at her.

“I’m here,” he said into the mic connected to his own phone in his pocket. The call was not actually going through his phone, but through an app Raney swore was “end-to-end encrypted” so no one else could listen in like they would on a cell. Elliott had only just figured out how to work the earbuds his wife had gotten him for Christmas so that he could make calls and listen to music while out golfing, so he had to take Raney’s word for it. One more sign he was too old for all of this shit.

“Copy that,” Tate replied, too loud in his ear. “We’re holding here.”

Idiot, Elliott thought. He hated people using military jargon like they were in some kind of action movie. You’re not James Bond, he wanted to say.

But he needed to talk to the café owner instead.

“Daisy Dyke, right?” Elliott said. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Daisy remained silent, glaring at him.

Elliot reached down, gun in her face, and searched her pockets until he found her phone. He put it in her hand and stepped back.

“Call your friend Jesse Stone,” he said.

Daisy gave him a look that wasn’t sufficiently frightened for a woman facing a bullet. “Why should I?” she said.

Oh, this goddamn town, Elliott thought. He would be happy to have it in his rearview mirror. Did everyone here have to make everything so difficult?

He pulled back the hammer on his Ruger .357, which was one reason he always loved revolvers. The sound of the gun being cocked clarified so many arguments.

“You’re going to shoot me?” she said. “Like you’re not planning on doing that anyway.”

Her voice trembled. He could tell she was frightened. But she didn’t make any move to dial the phone.

Elliott crouched down to get closer to Daisy, keeping the gun in her general direction. He spoke softly so she’d have to listen.

“I don’t want to shoot you,” he said. He meant it.

“But I can shoot you without killing you. And then you’ll be in more pain than you’ve ever felt in your life, and I’ll ask you to make the call again. So. It’s up to you at this point.”

He meant that, too.

He saw her shake. Involuntary fear. He’d seen it so many times. The body betraying people even when they were trying to be brave. He’d seen hardened killers shudder like that, just before he put one into them. He’d seen it in cops. The body knew when death and pain were close, no matter how the brain tried to deny it.

“Then I guess you better quit screwing around and shoot me,” she said.

Her voice was almost inaudible by the end of the sentence. Her mouth had gone dry and he could tell she was having a little trouble breathing.

But he gave her credit for saying it.

He sighed and cocked the hammer back again so the gun didn’t go off accidentally. Then he whipped the revolver across her face, knocking her flat on her back.

A Ruger .357 weighs almost twenty ounces fully loaded, which is about the same weight as a claw hammer. It feels exactly the same when getting hit with one in the face. Elliott knew from experience on both ends.

He picked up Daisy’s phone from the floor where she’d dropped it and stood over her. She was not unconscious, but she was stunned. He held the phone in front of her face, hoping the blood would not mess up the face ID too much.

It didn’t. The phone opened and he had access to her apps and contacts.

He frowned, momentarily confused. How could he possibly have the wrong phone? He’d just taken it off her.

“Who the hell is Flora Patterson?” he demanded, shoving her a little, showing her the name on the owner’s contact card.

“That’s me,” Daisy said. “Flora Patterson. Always hated it. Sounds like a housewife from Jersey.”

Elliott looked at her.

“What, you didn’t think my real name was Daisy Dyke, did you?”

“Shut up,” Elliott said. This goddamn town.

He scrolled through the directory, looking for the right name. He found it. Then he hit the button on the screen and waited as the phone rang.