Catherine Cade
0700 Monday
Another week passed, and I still had no idea who I truly was. I stared at patient charts and their familiar name tags with a pang of regret. I knew their names, but I didn’t know
mine. There it was.
If only I knew mine.

 

Whiskey River, my new home, was tucked in the moun-
tains. Cherry trees and pine surrounded my office, scattering leaves and cones like fast-food trash. The pine trees, baking in the August heat, smelled like Christmas in the middle of
summer. I was thankful to be working in an air-conditioned office on such a day.
In the back office, my medical assistant, Teresa, swung around, a green lollipop bobbing in her mouth. She spoke in a mumble. “Miss Catherine, check those charts. The city
commissioner, Mr. Thompson, ditched his annual physical, and his file isn’t digitized. Want him to come to the clinic?”

For the past few years, I’d been Catherine Cade, nurse practitioner. I was all for joking around, but this was serious, and I adopted a stern tone. “Yes. Can’t have our good politicians
fall ill. I’ll call him.”
“Got it.” She clicked her pen and disappeared into the hall. I should’ve mentioned the lollipop still in her mouth. She’d figure it out.
In the meantime, I turned the retro Star Trek chair toward an old x-ray light box, now antiquated, checked a couple of digital
images, and pressed the smartphone to call Thompson’s home number. While on my third “please give him the message” to
Thompson’s home, I saw another patient’s emergent x-ray result. I swore under my breath, thumbed the phone off and
called the ER.
Twenty minutes after my frenzied morning routines, my eyes drifted shut as I breathed out the anxiety I lived daily.
Whatever my name was, my license and my life—all things Catherine Cade—were fake. Pulling off a PhD and working as a
nurse practitioner in Whiskey River was the scam of scams. If the cops found out about my recent felonies, well, they would land this identity thief in prison.

 

Rick Calhoun
0700 Monday
Homicide Detective Rick Calhoun stepped under the crime scene tape, pushed up his ball cap, and asked God for wisdom as he glanced at the wall.

 

It was difficult to tell blood from brain matter.
He stood in Thompson’s home and figured the body belonged to City Commissioner Stephen Thompson, or at least someone wearing the victim’s pajamas. Surveying the spatter, it could be anyone.

Other than the body and blood and the crime scene unit, the house appeared lavish with massive wood doors, high ceilings, and vases filled with flowers in the spacious living room. The body lay on a Persian-style rug near a large leather armchair, and tables topped with black Egyptian marble dotted the room. Not a home appropriate for a poor rural town. Calhoun turned his attention to the ordinary busyness attending death.

The rookie ride-along, Tristan Phillips, vomited in the bushes, and Calhoun shut his eyes. If the kid kept it up, he’d have to bust
him back to work Vice—not Homicide—for the kid’s health. He moved to the door and howled at him. “Hey, Phillips, when you’re done there, don’t use the garbage. Could be brains in there, too.”
Aw, maybe egging him on was a bad idea. Time to tuck away the bout of sarcasm.
As he had a migraine dogging him, Calhoun itched to do the walk-through, file the paperwork, and go home. He tipped
a finger salute to Kim Pierson, the crime tech working the scene, then reminded himself silently to be polite before he
spoke to the medical examiner. “McCloud, what’ve we got?”
“What have we got? Let’s see. We got a nightmare for the cleanup crew. We’ll need lunch bags to get him to the morgue. City Commissioner Thompson most likely, and half his head is on the wall.”
Calhoun ground his teeth. Seeing McCloud was never on his list of Things I Want To Do Today.

“Who found the body?”
“Victim’s wife.”
Calhoun turned a half-circle. “She call 9-1-1? Is she here?”
“Yeah, she did. No, she’s not. You were late, so Mike picked her up and drove her to the station. You got a hangover or something?”
“No.” Calhoun crossed his arms. “Cause of death?”
Then McCloud grunted. “Did you leave your brains at home? ’Cause this guy sure did. Over there, and some over here. Watch your step. Gunshot wound, most likely. Won’t
know more ’til we get the parts back to the forensic lab.”
“Weapon?”
Dr. McCloud grunted again and pointed to a .45 caliber pistol with a spent casing, while Kim, the CS tech, busied herself photographing the evidence.

Calhoun examined bottles on the kitchen counter. “What are these bottles for?”
“Insulin.”
“Huh. Isn’t insulin quick-acting?”
McCloud leaned an elbow on his knee, turned his head, and yelled, “Pack it up, people, Sherlock’s solved the case. Don’t worry about the finger painting and bone fragments on
the wall.”
Calhoun fought the urge to roll his eyes and ignored McCloud, directing his gaze toward the tech.

“It’s a wonderful day, Kim.” He grasped her shoulders and grinned. “Even

a dead body. Did you find evidence of forced entry?”
“No, sir, and I might add you have an unusual notion of wonderful.”
“Homicide is very boring in Whiskey River.”
“Well, when you live here long enough, you’ll see we really are dull as toast.” She tipped her pencil toward Calhoun and whispered. “Detective, I know it’s none of my business, but the last time you and Dr. McCloud had a fight—”
Calhoun held a hand up. “I know, I know. Making him cry like a little girl is not my job.”
Kim pressed her lips together and hesitated. Finally she asked, “What happened between you two?”

“It’s ancient history.”
“The Hatfield and McCoy families are getting a run for their money.”
He spoke a low, stern, “Kim ...”
“Yessir.” She cleared her throat. “Back to your questions. I found no unusual marks on the lock.” She checked her notes.
“I didn’t find broken glass or forced windows. The alarm didn’t go off, so no break-in.” She leaned toward him and whispered.
“Think it’s an inside job?”
Stroking an imaginary beard, he sighed. “Someone has exceptional lock-picking skills. Or a housekeeper with keys
and codes.”
“Spoilsport.”
“Who has access to the alarms? Has someone tampered with the alarm or switched off the device? Give me that, and I’ll buy you lunch.”
Kim’s professional camaraderie gave way to smiles. “Thank you, Detective. However, Groucho is picking up the tab today.
Want to join us?”
“Not a chance.”
“A rain check, then.”
Calhoun studied the room. “Do they have a safe?”
“Yes, unopened.” She lifted her pen in the air. “Oh, there were three phone calls to the house, Detective. Same woman
each time.”
Calhoun pivoted. “Did you answer?”
“Yes. I kept her on the line, and it’s evident something irritated her. Said she needed to see him today, and with each
call, she became more agitated.”
“What time was this? Did she leave a name?”
“Yes, and a number. The first call was around seven this morning. Catherine Cade, that was her name.” Kim handed
over her notes.  

He read them. “Outstanding. You’re a godsend, Kim.” Calhoun kissed her forehead. He moved about to assess the blood loss, the
position of the body, and the arc of brain matter along the wall.
He saw a void in the splatter where someone else had stood, a phantom outline. The medical examiner had checked, but Calhoun dug into his pocket, gloved, and grabbed his measuring tape. He scribbled and measured.
Interesting.
Calhoun stepped outside in time to watch a familiar banged-up silver Honda Accord as it pulled away from the curb toward town, one that belonged to journalist Leo Smart,
ambulance chaser. Calhoun eyed the car as Leo pulled away.
The news was quick to find the dead.

​

CHAPTER 2

Calhoun arrived back at the Police Department and moved through the bullpen past the vice detective and the dispatch

officer. He rapped on Chief Greg Dumont’s door, keen on start-
ing the interview with the wife of the deceased.

“Commissioner Thompson was murdered—what hap-
pened here?” He goggled at the sight. The Chief fidgeted

with paperwork, and his dark skin glistened with sweat. No
coffee. National Institute of Justice Journal tossed on the floor.
Something odd was going on. The Chief didn’t fidget or sweat
under pressure.
“Nothing.” Dumont handed over a packet. “I need you
to—” He coughed. “Run an errand for me as a favor. Take this to
the doctor at Whiskey River Family Practice. Dr. Jonah Riley.”
“You gonna tell me what’s got your knickers in a knot?”
“Nope.”
“So, running dry cleaning across town?”
Greg’s head snapped up, and he lapsed into his Louisiana
accent. “Listen, Rick, when I tell you to get my dry cleaning,
I ’spect you’ll be driving across town. Hear?”
Now was not the time to figure out the Chief’s state of
mind, nor was this a battle worth fighting. “Yup. Will do.”
“Make sure you bring it back signed. Dr.—”
“Riley. Later, Greg.”
Time to interview Thompson’s widow. Calhoun stepped
into the observation room and checked the note from Detective
Mike Tanaka. She had not yet lawyered up.
He read the notes on the spouse. Sarah Thompson, the
dead man’s wife, had an age difference worth taking a gander
at, as the dead man was seventy, and she forty. Calhoun stood
behind the two-way mirror. She didn’t appear to be a day over

Romance Under Wraps

8

thirty ... or grieving. She was a platinum blonde, but on closer
scrutiny, she had darkened roots. He rubbed his right thumb
against his forefinger. History of plastic surgery? He poured a
paper cup of coffee from the office pot, ambled into the sparse
room furnished with two metal chairs and a white table, and
presented his badge.
“Mrs. Thompson, I’m Detective Calhoun. Horribly sorry
for your loss, ma’am. This is a difficult time, I understand,
especially for questions, but I have to ask. Thought you could
use a cup of coffee, unless you prefer something else.” He sat
down. “Can you tell me if anything in the home was disturbed,
or the safe tampered with?”
She reached for the cup and hesitated. “I didn’t look. I
wasn’t thinking, I guess.”
“I understand, Mrs. Thompson. We’ll need the combination
to the safe. Do you know of anyone who might have held a
grudge against your husband, or wished to cause him harm?”
Sarah scribbled the combination on a napkin and leaned
back in the chair. “The editor of the Whiskey River Medallion,
Marcus Stewart, shared words, unkind words with my
husband. He promised to end him. I don’t know if the editor
meant to destroy his political career—or worse.” She stopped
and pressed a tissue to her eyes.
Calhoun noted her lack of tears. “Did your husband appear
depressed? Changes in his behavior?”
“No.” She wrapped her hands around the cup and peered
into the coffee. “Sometimes he mentioned vague issues with
board members. I was not encouraged to pursue answers.”
“Do you know the names of any of the board members?”
“Yes.”
Calhoun scratched the names of committee members on
his pad as she listed them. Maybe he could catch them before
lunch.
“Tell me about his diabetes.”
Thompson’s voice was tremulous. “He kept it controlled.
That was him, always in control.”
He placed paperwork on the table, faced her, and leaned
forward with elbows on his knees. “Did you have any marital
troubles?”

Claire O’Sullivan

9

“No negatives in our marriage except his snoring. I wore
miners’ earplugs.” The widow wiped non-existent lint from
the table. “Funny, I used to joke with him about it. I said the
earplugs kept our marriage together.” She twisted her fingers.
“Not funny—not anymore.”
“You’re certain you didn’t hear the gunshot?”

Sarah shook her head again. “People who work with explo-
sives wear this brand of earplugs. I grew up near Hibbing,

Minnesota. Mining country.”
“Forensics will pick them up, you understand that,
correct?”
“Of course.”
“Any idea what might have happened?”
Thompson’s leg bounced. She picked at her jacket. “No.”
“Tell me about the gun we found. It’s registered to him.”
“What’s to tell? He owned the pistol. He took potshots at
obnoxious birds sometimes.”
He scribbled a note. with a .45 caliber. “Big caliber for
birds.”
She pulled her coat close around her. “I know nothing
about guns.”
“What time did you set the house alarm?”
She blinked rapidly. “Oh. My husband always did that. He
stayed up late, and midnight was his usual bedtime.”
“Does anyone else have the alarm code? Service workers,
family?”
“No. We don’t, well, we don’t have family, and I supervise
help in the home.”
“We saw CCTV cameras. Do they work?”
“Yes. The setup is terrible, and the pictures are grainy.”
“We’ll check those, too. What about the alarm’s code?”
“Oh,” she said, slipping an errant strand of hair behind
her ear. “It’s his birthday.”
“Were you home all night?”
She glowered. “If you’re suggesting I’m having an affair,
you’re wrong.”
“I wasn’t, but interesting you brought it up. You’re an
attractive woman, and he was elderly.”
“He wasn’t old. His brain was sharp. Loving.” Mrs.

Romance Under Wraps

10

Thompson pushed her chair away from the table and crossed
her arms. She slipped her jacket over her shoulders.
“Worried about something, Mrs. Thompson?”
“No.” She bit her lip. “It’s obvious. You think I did it.”
“Did what?” He kept his eyes on her.
“Killed him. You think I killed him.”
“Did you?”
“No.” Her eyes flashed. “I loved him. Am I a suspect? Do
I need an attorney?”

“Mrs. Thompson, I know you want to find out what hap-
pened. An attorney advocating for you is your choice.”

She swallowed. “I think I’ll make that call.”
He scratched a note: Crosses arms and leans away. No direct
eye contact. Leg bouncing. Nervous or ready to run?
Sarah Thompson’s eyes flashed. “I loved him.” Almost in
a whisper, she repeated it. “I loved him.”
He scrawled a note: She talked about him in past tense.
She’s already transitioned from present to past within an hour.
Grief takes different forms. Not incriminating, but curious.
Put together, Sarah Thompson’s defensive posture, vague
answers, hiding her face, and questionable profession of love
led Calhoun to sum up the interview in two words: Suspect
One.

Plugging in names on his computer, Rick obtained informa-
tion on each member from the council website. He grabbed a pad

and tucked it into his back pocket. Standing, he left the ringing
phones of the bullpen and walked two blocks to A Street. It was
Coffee with City Council day. He hoped he’d catch them all there.
Calhoun stepped to the counter and ordered black coffee to
go. He watched the group huddle around tables. Five minutes left
according to his watch.
Several people joined them. Some were old-timers, others

in their mid-thirties. Each sported attire which seemed a state-
ment of their political stance. A tall, underweight man with

blond dreads, jeans, and sandals spoke animatedly about the

Claire O’Sullivan

11

marijuana restrictions on dispensaries in the city limits.
Brian Jackson. The first commissioner on his list. His picture
had changed from the past two years, now hitting for somewhere
between generation Y and Z. Considering that he was born in the
early 1960s, Calhoun wondered if it fooled or offended anyone.
His coffee break ended at the conclusion of the meeting,
and he walked out to meet Jackson and slow-jogged the cracked
sidewalk to him. “May I have a moment of your time?” Jackson
turned, and his face soured. “Nah, man, I gotta get to work.
Shoulda spoke up in the coffeehouse.”
Calhoun presented his badge. “Then let me put it this
way. This isn’t a request.

This has to do with Stephen Thompson.”
Jackson chortled. “Why, what’s he done now?”
“Sir, he’s dead. I have some routine questions.”
He stopped, and a flip-flop came off his foot. “Dead?
When?”
“Early this morning. Can you tell me anything about the
relationship between the members and Thompson?”
“Hard to believe. The man was a machine.” He laced his
fingers behind his head and gazed at the sky, showing off
sweat that had already soaked his shirt’s underarms. “If you
read the paper, he and Marcus Stewart went at it all the time.”
Brian hee-hawed. “Man, Marcus got so mad at him he even
said he’d end Thompson’s career.”
Calhoun turned a page on his notepad. “Were you on
friendly terms with Commissioner Thompson?”

Jackson closed an eye. “I’ve never much cared for the life-
styles of the rich and famous, if you know what I mean. Plus,

we have kids, and they don’t.” He winked. “With demograph-
ics changing, I’ve reinvented myself.”

Rick pointed to his dreadlocks. “I don’t remember those
before.”
“Election year, man. Gotta stay ahead of the curve, grab
those kids just voting.” He placed a hand on Rick’s shoulder.
Calhoun glared at Jackson, and Jackson removed his hand.
“Anyway, once I get home, off comes the wig.”
“Uh-huh. Did you two ever argue?”
“We’re politicians.” Brian guffawed donkey-like again.

Romance Under Wraps

12

“Outside the ring.”
“Not me. You might talk to Andy Denmark. Then again, he’s
impatient with everyone. Say,” he pointed a finger, “reminds
me, Thompson and John Murray clashed, but ...” Brian said.
“You’d have to ask.”
“Thanks, Mr. Jackson, for taking time out of your schedule.”
“Anytime.”
Calhoun walked away with few answers, other than Brian
Jackson was an ex-car salesman still up to his slick ways, and
who never even asked why he was being questioned or how
Thompson died. And the only board member at the coffee
klatch. Maybe everyone else was working.

CHAPTER 3

Catherine Cade
Same day, 1130
Early and throughout each day, the radio supplied faint background chatter in the back office I shared with Teresa.
After lunch, I slid ChapStick across my lips. I peeked at the clock. I wanted to see the commissioner before he could make
an excuse, but my phone calls were diverted with a “we’ll get back to you.”
On the radio, the sultry voice of a woman reporter said, “Whiskey River Board of Commissioner Stephen Thompson
was found dead in his home this morning. No foul play is suspected.”
The ChapStick fell from my hand. I did not see that coming. And I’d left messages with the family. Oh, no.
He was my patient. Nurse Practitioner Catherine Cade’s patient. Death certificates normally landed on the doctor’s desk, but Jonah Riley, MD, wasn’t here. If he didn’t come in tomorrow, I might have to deal with officials, since the dead man was a VIP.
I breathed a prayer to a God I wasn’t sure I believed in. No answer. Maybe God ran in the same social circles as Santa
Claus.
The quietus of a VIP in this hamlet could throw a huge monkey wrench into my life.
Stephen Thompson, dead. Seventy years old and the cops declined to state a simple deduction. Why? I mean, he wasn’t fos-
silized, but if he died from natural causes, an announcer would say, “So-and-so died in his home this morning from an apparent heart
attack,” or some other malady chosen from a menu of more-or-less natural causes. So, “declining to speculate” meant someone did

 speculate, and officials weren’t talking.

One had but to read between the lines. I suddenly had a
million questions about his past, his larger-than-life presence
in the district.
Paranoia, my constant friend, found me, and the thought

threw me back in time. How did his death affect my think-
ing? Did I miss the con? Did I lose the mark? Would I catch a

beating? Should I run? It always took me three shakes to rid
myself of the dread of my old life. I still ran from him—Jerry,
the ex-husband and criminal partner. He’d proved his specialty
of grifting not to be exclusive.
But with Thompson, the medical examiner would have
to do the autopsy and determine the cause of death, and it
wouldn’t pop up on the paperwork radar for at least a day. I
could pass the job on to Dr. Riley. Scrambled nerves that had
laced through my muscles at last disentangled.
Just to be safe, I threw another prayer into the cosmos.

Not quite five minutes after my impromptu prayer, Teresa
appeared again. I ate lunch at my desk. My sandwich shed
crumbs, and I brushed them into my hand and tossed them
into the trash before stuffing the rest of my PB&J in my mouth.
“Hey, can you listen?”
Unaware she’d returned, I focused. I held up a finger and
swallowed the last bite of the PB&J. “What? Didn’t catch what
you said.”
“Someone’s in room two. He came to talk with Dr. Riley,
but since he’s out—”
“He’s stuck with me. What does he want?”
She straightened her ponytail. “He’s a cop. Here about
Thompson’s death.”
Oh, no. How could you, God? I even prayed. C’mon. The
peanut butter stuck to the roof of my mouth as I zeroed in on
her face.
“I think he has a hangover. He’s a looker, though.”
“Is he blond? Young? Accent?” A quick peep at the back

Claire O’Sullivan

15

door might give my concern away, but if Jerry or his goon
showed up, how fast could I outrun him? I’d grab my keys,
knock Teresa off her feet, and make it to my car with my go-bag
already packed and in the trunk.
“Southern accent, darker hair than yours, maybe a foot
taller, five years older than you, give or take. Forty-ish. Easy
on the eyes. Looks like a defensive linebacker. Unlike your
muddy ole eyeballs, he’s got serious blue.”
“Muddy?”
She smirked. “Okay, brown. Why?”

“No reason.” I stacked prescription requests with a ven-
geance. Jerry, a malicious con, became the Feds’ paid informant

in a convenient twist of fate. They made a sweet deal for him
but left me out. Funny how that worked. He pocketed cops
everywhere. Now one waited for me in an exam room.
I stood in the hall in front of the exam room door. Steeled
myself. Checked my pistol, a SIG Sauer I carried under my lab
coat. Donned my reading glasses. Gulped water to ease the
cottonmouth.
Thompson’s chart showed nothing of interest. Without
his information in the electronic medical records, reviewing
his loose papers took longer than expected before I went into
the exam room.
I wrapped my hand around the knob. Instead, the door
opened and yanked me in. I yelped as my forward motion
caused a collision, and the documents flew. He caught me
and apologized.
“Ah ... ah ...” I noted an angled jaw, salt-and-pepper hair,
and grizzled stubble. “... I’m Catherine Cade.”
“Apologies, ma’am, but I’m in a hurry.” He helped gather
the papers. “I’m Detective Rick Calhoun with Whiskey River
PD.” He presented his ID, thrust out a big hand, yet grasped
mine gently. “Needed to bring you this.” He closed the door and
rested his back against it. “Got questions about Thompson.”
Big man, armed, leaning against the doorframe and my
one way out. Jerry had sent him. My internal freak-out meter
shot straight to nuclear.

CHAPTER 4

“M—move away from the door.”
A wrinkle creased his forehead. He ambled to the counter
where he plopped a manila envelope. I resisted the urge
to flinch. He leaned against the stand. “The mayor’s office
wanted this delivered. You new here?”
“No.” Still nervous, I steadied my hand on the counter,

monitored him for movement toward me, and removed paper-
work from the envelope.

“Jonah’s out for the day?”

“Yes. Hospital rounds.” I lifted my head. Well, what a sur-
prise. He knew Dr. Riley.

“Okay.” He rubbed his face. “Tell me why you called
Stephen Thompson’s home three times this morning and swore
at the woman who answered.”
I hesitated, surprised. “Skipping appointments is a no-no.

Swear? Oh, I was looking at an x-ray and had to drop every-
thing to call the ER.” I stopped. “Thompson’s dead.”

He straightened. “How did you know?”
Here was the exact ballgame I wanted to avoid. “I heard it
on the radio. If you don’t believe me, ask Teresa.”
“Uh-huh. I’ll check with her. You arrived at the clinic at
what time?”
Was he accusing me of murder? “I suppose I got here around
six-thirty. Jonah was making early rounds at the hospital, a
patient emergency. He called me. I can give you his number
if you need it.” Even if I could reach the door, he was bigger,
faster, stronger. Being stuck in a room alone with a cop asking
me pejorative questions was worrisome.
“Okay, you’re fine. You’re looking a little nerve-wracked,
and I just want you to deal with the stuff in this envelope.”

Romance Under Wraps

18

“Not nervous. I just don’t understand. His healthcare was
my responsibility, and it makes me testy when folks skip
exams. Also, Jonah drops patients who don’t show up, and
when mine do show, he takes my scheduled patients, and it
shortens my hours, thus my paycheck.”
An understanding nod followed. “Like budget cuts. I think
we started off wrong. I apologize for rattling you.” He stuck
out his hand. “Friends?”
I grasped his. “Friends.” I glanced over the paperwork.
“Hold it. You’d better wait on that concept. You can’t bring me
this paperwork and expect me to do anything with it.”
“Excuse me?”
“This is a death certificate. Thompson died this morning,
and it’s still morning. I can’t sign this.”
“Death certificate? What?” He paused. “You’re a doctor.
Can’t you sign it?”
“Nurse practitioner, and in Oregon, yes, I can, but not this
one. Did you read its contents?”
“No, ma’am.”

A contemptuous snort escaped me while my feel-good atti-
tude melted. “The note attached says ‘natural causes’ and

a list of disorders he didn’t have. Must have been one fast
autopsy. Not signing.”
He fished in his shirt pocket and out came a pair of reading
glasses. He snatched the papers from me and put his hand
over his mouth. A burst of hot-whisper words escaped him.
A diamond-bit wet saw couldn’t slice through the concrete
silence which followed. Speechless. Surprised.
Good. I scanned his blue eyes as they flicked my way.
“You read my mind, didn’t you, Officer? No one attaches
a note to an unsigned death certificate, and he died at home.
So, Officer—”
“Detective Calhoun.” He looked away.
He needed time to process the information, and I gave it
to him. His plight was unmistakable. Cops.
“Thompson was healthy for his age. Why would a cop bring
me the certificate when it should come from the funeral home?”
He put a hand to his head. “I don’t know why this is
buggin’ me today, but I’m a detective, not a cop. Detective

Claire O’Sullivan

19
Rick Calhoun. Please try to remember that.”
Jerk. Yeah, dirty cop, and here I almost liked him. “Are you with
Vice? Sure, ’cause this has corruption written all over it.”
“Homicide.”
Homicide. I held up a hand. “Wait. A homicide detective comes
to my clinic as a delivery boy the same day the commissioner dies,
and someone wants me to sign off on natural causes. So somehow
Thompson overdosed on lead? You were at the scene. You hadn’t
read the contents of the envelope, and it was a beat too long when
you saw it, meaning homicide.”
He rubbed his forehead.
Information he didn’t want to share?
He pushed away from the counter. “Interesting answers.”
“Death certificates list the manner of death as natural,
accidental, suicide, homicide, undetermined, and pending.
After observing you, there’s only one option. Homicide. I can’t
sign this. Let me explain how the death certificate process
works in Oregon. Keep up.” I launched into the regulations.
His eyes glazed over, and the muscles in his jaw tensed. I
finished with, “Clear?”
“Huh? Sure, if you can remember I’m a detective, I’ll
remember whatever you said.”
A tsk came from my mouth. “These circumstances say
something is worth looking into. A cryptic note, officer.
Someone pulled one over on you. Imagine my shock. Well,
Mr. Tall and Handsome, you must think you’re all that. Guess
what? Someone did a number on you, and you tried to play
me with the whole ‘let’s be friends’ business.”
I didn’t want to add, you can’t play a player.
His behavior gave him away. I had lived with a lying thief.

Well, to be honest, I was one too—but only for self-preserva-
tion. Cop, Detective—whatever his name was—tugged on his

earlobe, touched his mouth, and stared at the counter. His
small movements were a drunken man’s poker tells and more,
his obvious anger shouted in silence.
“Lady, I could do without your attitude.” He grasped the
death certificate and pushed it into his jacket pocket. “Not
asking you to sign—”

Romance Under Wraps

20

“You don’t seem ... well. Want me to call an ambulance?
I see all the signs of Dengue fever.” A slow walk around him
allowed me a clinical assessment of his jeans, tee shirt, and
how he filled them out. Great shape for a forty-ish man. Almost
lost my train of thought.
Beyond the malfeasance, something about him bugged me.
Couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but I stopped assessing his
physique. There. Better. Focused.
“I’m not bleeding from my eyes or anywhere else. Lady,
he took insulin. I found bottles and needles at the scene. He
might have injected the wrong dose. Maybe you missed critical
info because your reading skills are dulled.” He managed a
disarming half-grin.
I gaped. “He didn’t receive insulin from me, and I read just
fine, thank you.” He tried to throw me, and how did he know

about Dengue fever? More importantly, how did the commis-
sioner die? Who wanted his death muzzled?

Calhoun circled around me and moved to the door, his
hand close to the butt of the service gun at his hip. Still, this
guy might be another one of Jerry’s moonlight requisitions,
and I slid my palm to the small of my back and my SIG Sauer.
He took a step forward and cocked his head to one side.
“Miss Cade, you’re aggravating my headache, and you’re more
stubborn than I—than—” He stopped, pressed a thumb to his
temple, and finished the sentence. “More stubborn than I
expected.”
“Don’t.” I raised my empty palm. “I’m not stubborn. I’m right.”
“I promise, you will see me again.” He punctuated his
words in a growl.
“The anticipation is overwhelming.” I narrowed my eyes.
“You look familiar.”
“I probably arrested you.” He tucked his reading glasses
into a shirt pocket.
Anger heated my chest, and my teeth clenched. But it was
my practice never to let a good insult go unslung. “Now I know
you. I found a brain tumor on your prostate exam.”
My phone camera would’ve snapped a great picture of
his face. Brows raised, eyes wide, and mouth open. Classic
expression of shock.

Claire O’Sullivan

21

He didn’t say a word. I studied his hardened face as he 
I followed him to the lobby. The bell above the glass door
rang as it closed behind him, and he glimpsed back. Mystified,
I stood there and gawped.