Lie Catchers Read Online Free Page B

eleven, an hour before Parker showed up. Jewelry. The turquoise and silver? She’d worn that set on July 1 st when she went dancing at Lito’s Landing, a clear night with a half moon and Tuck was out of town.
    Standing, she stretched out her arms and yawned, but the tension in her shoulders remained. Why did Browne make her so nervous? He’d steadied her when she stepped off the ladder and complimented her about the merchandise in the store. The man was sweet to his father, deferential to her brother and didn’t show one iota of tension about the task before him. Where Ivor was a coiled spring, the detective was laid-back and affable.
    Maybe he bugged her because he didn’t fit the portrait she’d trotted out in her e-zine satire about uptight detectives. Was he trying to fit in by wearing jeans and a denim shirt? Could he be faking a casual approach to investigating as a means to get close to the people he questioned? Every once in a while, he’d sweep his light brown hair off his forehead, messing it up instead of taming it. Was that a phony gesture?
    He looked her in the eye when he asked a question and listened intently to her answer, but could that be a reel-in strategy?
    He’d seen her clerking in the store, sort of eaten dinner with her, and watched her dancing, all in one day. And now she was considering jewelry that might please him. Crazy .
    The muscle tangle in her shoulders pounded with pain as if to remind her to be cautious. Men she dressed up for usually ended up lying to her.
    It was only a matter of time until Parker Browne did, as well.
    ****
    “The Feds get off easy on this junket,” Chet said as he and Parker hiked down the covered gangway to the marina and headed for the dock dedicated to small boat tie-ups. “You don’t need a car or taxi, the lodging and food is reasonable, and if I can hook some big salmon and halibut, we’ll have a year’s worth of fish to eat.”
    Parker smiled, understanding his father’s yearning to be a provider, to be useful instead of mope, to feel alive and involved instead of depressed and alone. “Go slay some fish, Dad,” Parker said, giving a wave to Matt Harkins.
    Chet grabbed the gunnel of Matt’s Grady-White and stepped down into the fishing boat, grinning like a kid. “You watch. Matt and I will find the big ones.”
    Matt gave a half nod, as if to add ‘if we’re lucky,’ and started up the big 250 Yamaha outboard.
    “Good luck on your own fishing expedition,” Chet shouted over the growling motor.
    Parker untied the bowline from the dock and handed it to Matt while Chet released the stern line. After Parker pushed the boat away from the dock, he stood, hands on his hips, following the boat’s progress out of the marina. Rain fell steadily on this windless day. White puffs of fog sat above the water, organized along a straight line over the dead-calm waters, as if to point the way from Wrangell Narrows to Frederick Sound.
    Fishing expedition. Parker turned to ascend the gangway, mentally preparing for the day’s interviews. He’d penned two pages of by-the-book prompts, but he still didn’t feel ready. Ten years of investigation by computer had left him uncertain about real-life interrogation. This was a fishing expedition conducted by a fish-out-of-water.
    Me . A cod caught in a tidal current. A Treasury agent more comfortable following the money on computer than in person. A Federal investigator mucking up his pretense as a Seattle detective.
    At the top of the gangplank, movement in the window of the marina office caught his attention. Candy Peterson. On watch. She sees everything from there.
    Parker opened the office door and strolled in, his attention caught by pictures of Petersburg’s past crowded on three walls of the reception area. Tired old buildings, planked streets and sidewalks, and serious, rough-hewn faces stared back at him. One frame exhibited a bunch of beans. The label said, ‘Boil. Eat. Result: Norwegian Bubble Bath.’